I passed, on the first attempt, and despite working full time for most of the time until the test, and despite, frankly, not taking the test seriously enough. I had thought that passing the Ohio bar, in 2002, and the eight years of practice since then, would make this more of a breeze for me. I was sorely mistaken in that respect, and I might put up a longer, more serious (and therefore boring) post on the particulars of the California Bar Exam, including why it is so difficult to prepare and study for. Needless to say, I am elated that I passed and can finally get back into a courtroom. I would be remiss if I did not send a major shout out to Lindsey, who has been nothing less than phenomenal and supportive the past few months, dealing with my moods and assuring me that if I failed she wouldn't ball me up and kick me to the curb.
What I want to share with you is, of course, a fantastic story that dealt with the bar exam. I first moved to California in March 2009. I originally planned to stay for a few months and then decide what to do from there - move back to Ohio, or maybe to New York, or maybe Chicago, or maybe somewhere else, or maybe spend a year in Europe getting an advanced law degree. Once I landed a job in the early part of the summer, and then saw the job market plunge deeper into despair, I decided to stay put at least for the time being. Then I met Lindsey, and that assured that I would be here for as long as she would have.
Despite this, I never got around to registering my car or getting a California license. To make matters worse, i forgot to re-register my car in Ohio before I left for California. In other words, I had neither a valid California nor a valid Ohio registration. I did not view this as a problem, though, because I had driven like this for almost a year.
First day of the Bar Exam, I got up early and went to leave for the exam site. I left my place at 8:00 a.m. to make the 15 minute drive (as I've noted, EVERYTHING here is 15 min away) to the test center. No one in San Diego gets up before about noon, especially around the beach. They sleep in til then, slip on their Vans, and head to a coffee shop for some caffeine in preparation for an afternoon of Wii, "surf seshes," and pot.
Every day when I left my place at the beach to go somewhere, i would go down the alley behind our place, turn left down a narrower alley, and turn right onto the main street in Mission Beach, which is Mission Boulevard. The reason: it is easier to make a left turn onto the other main road from Mission. For whatever reason, that day I decided to go all the way down the alley, take a left, and wait at the stoplight to cross OVER Mission Boulevard. This is where my trouble started.
Of course there were no pedestrians, skateboarders, or, really, other cars at this hour. I pull up to the stoplight, just missing the yellow light. So I stop. I glance in my rearview mirror and see a cop car pulling onto the road from the alley. i try to smoothly get in the right turn lane so I can go down a bit and then turn around, thereby avoiding the cop. I get in the right turn lane...and so does the cop. I drive down the road a bit and get into the right turn lane to pull into a parking lot. So does the cop. I get back into the middle lane and the cop puts his lights on. Dammit. It is about 8:10 and I need to be at the test center in time to fire up my laptop, start the software program on which I need to type my answers, reboot the computer, have it restart, and be in my seat for instructions that began around 8:45.
Keep in mind that my car is an absolute pig stye. There are papers everywhere, empty fountain drinks, and probably dead animals for all I know. Both cops get out, because this was a BFD and all, and I roll down my window. The cop tells me I got pulled over because my tail light was out. He asks for my license, registration, and proof of insurance. I give over my license, but I have no idea where my (expired) registration is, nor did I remember to grab my new insurance cards. I tell him that I live about 2 blocks away and can get the insurance cards. I am not sure if I appeared to be a menace or otherwise prone to running, but this was not an option, he said. The cops go back to their car for what seems like an eternity.
Finally, around 8:25, I get out of my car and approach them. In the meantime, as is apparently the custom in San Diego, another cop car shows up with two more cops, because, you know, this was a BFD and all. The two new cops intercept me and ask me what I am doing. I tell them that I do not care if they tow my car, but I have to leave and find a cab or else I am going to miss this bar exam and will be royally effed (not to mention 3K lighter in the wallet for nothing). They say I cannot leave until they write the ticket. The original cop comes back to me and says that he has no discretion - he has to tow it because my registration had been expired for 6+ months.
I say, again, fine, whatever, but can you hurry and write me the ticket so I can leave? I say that I do not have to be here for them to tow it. He says, again, as soon as the ticket is written. He finally finishes writing the ticket and I bolt down Mission Boulevard, laptop in my arms. Yes, me, running down the road in a sweater and nice shoes (big believer in look good, feel good, do well on exams) with my laptop clutched to my chest. They stay behind to wait for the tow truck and commit God knows how many unconstitutional searches and seizures on my car.
I get down to the original stoplight where they first followed me, pretty much out of breath. I need a cab, and quickly. Usually this spot is filled with cabs, transporting people schnookered on sunshine, Pacifico, and bad hair cuts, but not this morning. It's too early. I finally see one and flag him down from across the intersection. Problem is, he is already turning right, so I yell for him to stop. Then I realize that I have no cash. I put up a finger to signal him to wait, and I dash across the street to an ATM. I make my transaction, look back, and see that the cabbie....has vanished. It is 8:35. FML.
I see another cabbie a few minutes later, sprint to his cab, and tell him that I will give him $40 if he gets me to the test center in 8 minutes. He agrees to take on the challenge, and proceeds to drive about 350 mph. We get to the test center, which is a hotel, I practically throw the $40 to him, and jump out. I go into the hotel, and ask at the front desk where the bar exam is. They tell me it is in the conference hall. Where is that, I ask? All the eff around the corner of this complex. Jesuscristo.
So I sprint out of the hotel main entrance, and run around the corner. This is a huge complex and there is also some conference going on in another conference hall. I finally find the right doors, and learn that I cannot take my phone into the test center. So I dump it into this box, certain that Johnny Robber is going to steal my phone and dump it into a burrito, with avocado of course, after calling 1-900-SURF-SEX a few hundred times. I don't have a choice, though.
There are hundreds of people in the conference hall. And of course my "number" dictates that I have to go all the way across and to the front of the room. I finally get into my seat while instructions are being given. I don't have a clock or even a pen or pencil. The girl sitting next to me gives me one, with this annoyed, "oh my gawd, you totally must have gone to Dumbass Law School and have no prayer of passing this thing, ... but cool sweater, dork."
i finally get through all the computer steps and by the time it is ready the exam is already a good five to ten minutes in.
I only had to take the Tuesday and Thursday portions of the exam, because I was an "Attorney Applicant." I learned that this actually made me LESS likely to pass. Ugh. Rather than spending the middle day studying, or, more importantly, spending the day with Lindsey since it was her BIRTHDAY, I was at the DMV and the impound all freaking day. (More on the wonderful DMV in another post).
But I passed. In your face.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Update and Go Cavs
I am proud to say that the blog's "followers" have increased by 100% in the last week. Clearly word is getting around. With this increased viewership, no doubt, comes a growing hunger for more blog posts. Tomorrow I shall bless the masses with one that will either be a massive sigh of relief, or a massive temper tantrum (I will tell you why tomorrow - I don't want to jinx it).
In the meantime, busy yourselves tonight with watching the Cavs dismantle the Celtics in Boston. I watched the game the other night and was just as stunned as the rest of you to see a meek, best player on Earth as involved in the game as I am in not being awesome. I caught the second half after I got home from work, thanks to East Coast-centric sports television scheduling that fails to take into account that some in California watch programs other than the X-games and Jackass. Lindsey was very unimpressed with the "dirty mouth" that infects me when I watch sports about which I care. Nevertheless, I am optimistic that the Cavs ain't goin out like dat and will pummel the beejesus out of annoying Rondo.
In the meantime, busy yourselves tonight with watching the Cavs dismantle the Celtics in Boston. I watched the game the other night and was just as stunned as the rest of you to see a meek, best player on Earth as involved in the game as I am in not being awesome. I caught the second half after I got home from work, thanks to East Coast-centric sports television scheduling that fails to take into account that some in California watch programs other than the X-games and Jackass. Lindsey was very unimpressed with the "dirty mouth" that infects me when I watch sports about which I care. Nevertheless, I am optimistic that the Cavs ain't goin out like dat and will pummel the beejesus out of annoying Rondo.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
The Bizarro World of Southern California - Part Two, the People
In Part One of The Bizarro World of Southern California, which was picked up by news wire services globally, we discussed driving. Now let's talk about the people.
My San Diego friends, especially those born here, would fracture my face if I did not draw a distinction up front. The people of San Diego are not like the people of Orange County or LA. In general, the people to our north are a bit more artificial and a bit more materialistic. Indeed, there can be no place on Earth like the one that can claim as their own the denizens of the Hills and Snoop Dogg at the same time.
In LA, nearly everyone, maybe in addition to a more normal job, is an actor, actress, or model. The Hollywood dream, so to speak. This applies even to Dave. Dave and I played tennis together in college, and since then he has coached the sport at the college level. Currently he is a teaching pro at some swanky club in Palos Verdes.
But when he isn't attempting to inject talent into mostly untalented players, Dave is an actor. Had you told me this in college, I would have never believed it. He spent an inordinate amount of time in the library, dressed like the homeless guy on the corner, and sometimes went days without really speaking that much. But Dave now is not like Dave then. He still dresses like a weirdo, but that's pretty normal out here, and he is much more outgoing.
His acting career has not quite taken off yet, but he has appeared in several short films, like this one, in which he plays a married doctor who struggles to inform his wife that he is gay, and has been having an affair with her male doctor. I like to say it is the role he was born to play.
Anway, the people of San Diego are much more relaxed, laid back. It is known more as a surfer's town (or a military town). The laid back nature of the people here is, I suppose at its core, not unlike the Midwest. People in the Midwest are generally affable, approachable, and polite types who know all their neighbors and are quick with a smile. People out here, and on the East Coast to be fair, have this distorted vision of Ohio, as if we are all farmers decked out in straw hats, flannels, and homemade jeans, terrified of city slickers and aliens alike. This is, of course, not true. Ohio is one of the most populated states in the country, and at one time was the only state that had 8 cities with populations of 100,000 or more.
When I first moved here, I lived on the boardwalk in Mission Beach. The boardwalk is this narrow "road" that separates the houses from the beach. You cannot drive a car on the boardwalk - it is for walkers, bicyclers, runners, and the dreaded skateboarders. It has some colorful characters, like this guy, and is quite busy during the spring, summer, and fall (to the extent we can define "seasons" out here by the time of the year).
When I was on the boardwalk, I would, as I would have in Ohio, smile and say hello to people that passed by. Almost never was the hello returned and never was the smile reciprocated. If the person to whom I extended the normal American greeting was a female, she would often conspicuously draw more distance between us and give me this uncomfortable, awkward look, as if I was four seconds and an opportune moment away from dragging her into the alley and tossing her in the back of a paneled van bound for some human trafficking to Mexico. It is not that the people here are unfriendly - they are just indifferent to those around them.
Speaking of Mexico, there is no question that San Diego, being so close to the border, is home to a very high Mexican population. The "Old Town" section, where the City traces its roots, has a distinctly Mexican flavor, even if it is dominated by tourists who just want to be able to tell their friends back home that they had an authentic "enchilada" and bought a t-shirt that says something stupid like, "Mexicans do it caliente."
Needless to say, I am not used to such diversity. My high school, college, and law school was mostly white, and when I say "mostly," I mean mor than 99%. Of the tiny few at all three who were not white, maybe a total of 6 (people, not percent) were Mexican. That's six out of about 20,000. In short, prior to moving to San Diego, my knowledge of Mexican people and their culture was derived entirely from Taco Bell commercials, movies, and the legend of Montezuma's revenge.
This is not to say that I have an issue with Mexican people. I most definitely do not. I generally find them to be kind and friendly, even if, when they speak to each other in my presence, they are calling me an idiot gringo. Also, many of the cities and towns have Mexican names, like Chula Vista, Encinitas, and Escondido, which allows me to pronounce things with an accent. Love it.
The non-Mexicans here also speak differently. They freely use such terms as "rad," "bro," "dude," and "stoked." They call going surfing a "surf sesh" and use "no worries" to downplay something which is otherwise adverse.
These same group of people also usually "skateboard." This is the only place I know of in America where skateboarding is both mainstream and cool beyond 7th grade. A typical skateboarder on the boardwalk grew up in southern California, is named "Shale" or something weird like that, wears a flat-brimmed hat, has at least 2 tattoos, one of which is some sort of calligraphy, and either has pants that hang two inches below the boxers with no shirt or a tank top, or ones that are colored other than denim blue and hug the ankles right at the top of some vintage Chuck Taylors. While this population segment in Ohio would have been relegated to hidden skate parks or high school parking lot corners where they could smoke and listen to Green Day, here they are sizable in number.
I just don't understand skateboarding, really. If my goal is to get from one place to the other, I will drive (though, noting my awful driving record, not sure this is all that bright), perhaps ride a bike, or, lastly, just walk. Whatever my choice, though, I have to say that I do not have a problem with someone using a "longboard" to, say, get up and down the boardwalk. I wouldn't choose that, and I certainly wouldn't choose to dress like that, but ok, I get it.
My confusion is more in the skateboarders who do "tricks" up and down the boardwalk. Attempt to do tricks is more accurate. Nary a moment passed on the boardwalk when I wouldn't hear a "board" rocket across the boardwalk and hear a skater say, "awww, man, dude, s*it, haha, totally, like, unstoked." If you are going to do tricks, fine, but practice first to a point where you are proficient. I feel badly when you come down to the boardwalk and fail so publicly and so often.
In any event, where I am from football is king, and skateboarding is what you do if you suck at football or hate your parents. High school football is huge, college football is even more huge, and professional football was actually born in my hometown. The Pro Football Hall of Fame is there, and Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays in the fall and early winter are dominated with whoever your HS team is, Ohio State, and the Browns (or Bengals, if you want to like football but still suck).
Even though California produces an enormous number of amazing football players, high school football is just not that important to the people here. There is no college football team (well, none that is any good) in the city, and going to the Chargers' game is more a social event than anything else. Instead, "board" sports and X-games activities dominate the landscape here. It isn't my job or desire to change it. Revolutions take time and long-range planning. I'm just pointing it out.
I am sure there are many other unique attributes of the people of southern California, and I am equally sure that the comments to this post will be voluminous and informative in that regard. But that's what I got for now.
My San Diego friends, especially those born here, would fracture my face if I did not draw a distinction up front. The people of San Diego are not like the people of Orange County or LA. In general, the people to our north are a bit more artificial and a bit more materialistic. Indeed, there can be no place on Earth like the one that can claim as their own the denizens of the Hills and Snoop Dogg at the same time.
In LA, nearly everyone, maybe in addition to a more normal job, is an actor, actress, or model. The Hollywood dream, so to speak. This applies even to Dave. Dave and I played tennis together in college, and since then he has coached the sport at the college level. Currently he is a teaching pro at some swanky club in Palos Verdes.
But when he isn't attempting to inject talent into mostly untalented players, Dave is an actor. Had you told me this in college, I would have never believed it. He spent an inordinate amount of time in the library, dressed like the homeless guy on the corner, and sometimes went days without really speaking that much. But Dave now is not like Dave then. He still dresses like a weirdo, but that's pretty normal out here, and he is much more outgoing.
His acting career has not quite taken off yet, but he has appeared in several short films, like this one, in which he plays a married doctor who struggles to inform his wife that he is gay, and has been having an affair with her male doctor. I like to say it is the role he was born to play.
Anway, the people of San Diego are much more relaxed, laid back. It is known more as a surfer's town (or a military town). The laid back nature of the people here is, I suppose at its core, not unlike the Midwest. People in the Midwest are generally affable, approachable, and polite types who know all their neighbors and are quick with a smile. People out here, and on the East Coast to be fair, have this distorted vision of Ohio, as if we are all farmers decked out in straw hats, flannels, and homemade jeans, terrified of city slickers and aliens alike. This is, of course, not true. Ohio is one of the most populated states in the country, and at one time was the only state that had 8 cities with populations of 100,000 or more.
When I first moved here, I lived on the boardwalk in Mission Beach. The boardwalk is this narrow "road" that separates the houses from the beach. You cannot drive a car on the boardwalk - it is for walkers, bicyclers, runners, and the dreaded skateboarders. It has some colorful characters, like this guy, and is quite busy during the spring, summer, and fall (to the extent we can define "seasons" out here by the time of the year).
When I was on the boardwalk, I would, as I would have in Ohio, smile and say hello to people that passed by. Almost never was the hello returned and never was the smile reciprocated. If the person to whom I extended the normal American greeting was a female, she would often conspicuously draw more distance between us and give me this uncomfortable, awkward look, as if I was four seconds and an opportune moment away from dragging her into the alley and tossing her in the back of a paneled van bound for some human trafficking to Mexico. It is not that the people here are unfriendly - they are just indifferent to those around them.
Speaking of Mexico, there is no question that San Diego, being so close to the border, is home to a very high Mexican population. The "Old Town" section, where the City traces its roots, has a distinctly Mexican flavor, even if it is dominated by tourists who just want to be able to tell their friends back home that they had an authentic "enchilada" and bought a t-shirt that says something stupid like, "Mexicans do it caliente."
Needless to say, I am not used to such diversity. My high school, college, and law school was mostly white, and when I say "mostly," I mean mor than 99%. Of the tiny few at all three who were not white, maybe a total of 6 (people, not percent) were Mexican. That's six out of about 20,000. In short, prior to moving to San Diego, my knowledge of Mexican people and their culture was derived entirely from Taco Bell commercials, movies, and the legend of Montezuma's revenge.
This is not to say that I have an issue with Mexican people. I most definitely do not. I generally find them to be kind and friendly, even if, when they speak to each other in my presence, they are calling me an idiot gringo. Also, many of the cities and towns have Mexican names, like Chula Vista, Encinitas, and Escondido, which allows me to pronounce things with an accent. Love it.
The non-Mexicans here also speak differently. They freely use such terms as "rad," "bro," "dude," and "stoked." They call going surfing a "surf sesh" and use "no worries" to downplay something which is otherwise adverse.
These same group of people also usually "skateboard." This is the only place I know of in America where skateboarding is both mainstream and cool beyond 7th grade. A typical skateboarder on the boardwalk grew up in southern California, is named "Shale" or something weird like that, wears a flat-brimmed hat, has at least 2 tattoos, one of which is some sort of calligraphy, and either has pants that hang two inches below the boxers with no shirt or a tank top, or ones that are colored other than denim blue and hug the ankles right at the top of some vintage Chuck Taylors. While this population segment in Ohio would have been relegated to hidden skate parks or high school parking lot corners where they could smoke and listen to Green Day, here they are sizable in number.
I just don't understand skateboarding, really. If my goal is to get from one place to the other, I will drive (though, noting my awful driving record, not sure this is all that bright), perhaps ride a bike, or, lastly, just walk. Whatever my choice, though, I have to say that I do not have a problem with someone using a "longboard" to, say, get up and down the boardwalk. I wouldn't choose that, and I certainly wouldn't choose to dress like that, but ok, I get it.
My confusion is more in the skateboarders who do "tricks" up and down the boardwalk. Attempt to do tricks is more accurate. Nary a moment passed on the boardwalk when I wouldn't hear a "board" rocket across the boardwalk and hear a skater say, "awww, man, dude, s*it, haha, totally, like, unstoked." If you are going to do tricks, fine, but practice first to a point where you are proficient. I feel badly when you come down to the boardwalk and fail so publicly and so often.
In any event, where I am from football is king, and skateboarding is what you do if you suck at football or hate your parents. High school football is huge, college football is even more huge, and professional football was actually born in my hometown. The Pro Football Hall of Fame is there, and Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays in the fall and early winter are dominated with whoever your HS team is, Ohio State, and the Browns (or Bengals, if you want to like football but still suck).
Even though California produces an enormous number of amazing football players, high school football is just not that important to the people here. There is no college football team (well, none that is any good) in the city, and going to the Chargers' game is more a social event than anything else. Instead, "board" sports and X-games activities dominate the landscape here. It isn't my job or desire to change it. Revolutions take time and long-range planning. I'm just pointing it out.
I am sure there are many other unique attributes of the people of southern California, and I am equally sure that the comments to this post will be voluminous and informative in that regard. But that's what I got for now.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Battling Facebook and an Update
I'm sick. Not serious sick or diseased, just worn down I think. I woke up this morning with a raging headache, and it never really went away. Lindsey is threatening to make me go to the doctor, because I get headaches a lot, but I prefer to think of it as my brainpower being too much for a mere mortal's skull.
As you know from prior posts, me at my sharpest, uninhibited by any ailments, still does not produce much more than barely coherent, often non-sensical garbage. Me under the weather promises nothing short of mental and writing chaos. So I won't even try today.
The blog has been an unmitigated success so far. I have followers from Chicago (1) to San Diego (1) and all points in between (0). I can barely keep up with the comments, much less the frequent interview requests from online, print, and broadcast media. But some conquering begets a desire for more conquering, so I continue to try and elicit readers.
Both Lindsey and I have linked to the blog on our respective Facebook accounts. I have a love-hate relationship with Facebook. I loved it when I first moved to San Diego. I was on an extended vacation, Kyle and Dave both had stupid work a lot of days, and I was bored. It was nice to have some contact with the world, outside of "bro dudes" cruising the boardwalk on their boards and taco stand proprietors mesmerizing me with rapid-fire foreign language.
Sometimes I hate it, though. This happens most frequently when my "news feed" is inundated with Farmville and Mafia updates and an hour-by-hour account, complete with photos, of the activities and foibles of people's kids. I also never quite know what to do when I get a friend request from someone I barely - or sometimes do not at all - know. I feel badly ignoring the request, but I dislike enabling someone's quest to gather 1000 friends to make up for the fact that everyone made fun of him in high school for peeing his pants.
It's also inconsistent with my forward-looking perspective. Let's be honest. You are Facebook friends with some people you have not seen for a decade or more, and probably will not see again. Yet you still "like" their "I love Real Housewives" post and you still exchange those awkward, "what are you up to these days" messages. For someone always looking forward, Facebook is the antithesis of life - it holds onto the past. But still, it is nice to reconnect with people on there, especially when they are funny.
So anyway, Lindsey and I both advertised the blog on our facebook pages. The idea behind that was for people to actually visit the blog, make comments or "follow" it if they choose, and generally move to the blog, from Facebook, the discussion on the stupid crap about which I write. The result? People are actually visiting the blog and, if they can stomach it, reading my nonsense. And then they are commenting or messaging me...through Facebook.
I am an idealist at heart, but I do realize that I am waging an unwinnable war. Me taking on Facebook is the equivalent of Angola challenging the United States to a war, the Office not being hilarious, or, these days, Michigan beating Ohio State or Notre Dame fans not complaining about something. So I am resigned to the fact that Facebook exposure will not a followed blog make. And I am OK with that - not because I like losing (I hate it), but because I can continue to carry the mantle of the downtrodden against the corporate, mainstream Man.
Til tomorrow...
As you know from prior posts, me at my sharpest, uninhibited by any ailments, still does not produce much more than barely coherent, often non-sensical garbage. Me under the weather promises nothing short of mental and writing chaos. So I won't even try today.
The blog has been an unmitigated success so far. I have followers from Chicago (1) to San Diego (1) and all points in between (0). I can barely keep up with the comments, much less the frequent interview requests from online, print, and broadcast media. But some conquering begets a desire for more conquering, so I continue to try and elicit readers.
Both Lindsey and I have linked to the blog on our respective Facebook accounts. I have a love-hate relationship with Facebook. I loved it when I first moved to San Diego. I was on an extended vacation, Kyle and Dave both had stupid work a lot of days, and I was bored. It was nice to have some contact with the world, outside of "bro dudes" cruising the boardwalk on their boards and taco stand proprietors mesmerizing me with rapid-fire foreign language.
Sometimes I hate it, though. This happens most frequently when my "news feed" is inundated with Farmville and Mafia updates and an hour-by-hour account, complete with photos, of the activities and foibles of people's kids. I also never quite know what to do when I get a friend request from someone I barely - or sometimes do not at all - know. I feel badly ignoring the request, but I dislike enabling someone's quest to gather 1000 friends to make up for the fact that everyone made fun of him in high school for peeing his pants.
It's also inconsistent with my forward-looking perspective. Let's be honest. You are Facebook friends with some people you have not seen for a decade or more, and probably will not see again. Yet you still "like" their "I love Real Housewives" post and you still exchange those awkward, "what are you up to these days" messages. For someone always looking forward, Facebook is the antithesis of life - it holds onto the past. But still, it is nice to reconnect with people on there, especially when they are funny.
So anyway, Lindsey and I both advertised the blog on our facebook pages. The idea behind that was for people to actually visit the blog, make comments or "follow" it if they choose, and generally move to the blog, from Facebook, the discussion on the stupid crap about which I write. The result? People are actually visiting the blog and, if they can stomach it, reading my nonsense. And then they are commenting or messaging me...through Facebook.
I am an idealist at heart, but I do realize that I am waging an unwinnable war. Me taking on Facebook is the equivalent of Angola challenging the United States to a war, the Office not being hilarious, or, these days, Michigan beating Ohio State or Notre Dame fans not complaining about something. So I am resigned to the fact that Facebook exposure will not a followed blog make. And I am OK with that - not because I like losing (I hate it), but because I can continue to carry the mantle of the downtrodden against the corporate, mainstream Man.
Til tomorrow...
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Patience
I have been deluged with emails (zero) and comments (zero) on the blog regarding the lack of new posts the last few days. I understand that the fans are hungry for more, that each passing hour without a new post threatens to spiral them into a depressive abyss, and that widescale violence has erupted because the masses have not recently had the benefit of my insight. I get it.
Work has been remarkably busy lately, and Lindsey has not had to work many nights. That is how the whole idea of starting a blog was born. She is a sales manager at anthropologie, but because that is still retail, her hours are often crazy. A "closing shift" is 2-11 during the week and 3-12 on weekends. It was during those shifts that this brainchild, this idea of ideas, this 2010 version of the light bulb invention, took shape. But this week she has worked more "opening shifts," which are 6 am to 3 pm, so she has been home at night. So my gain - being able to spend time with Lindsey - has been my loyal, devout readers' loss.
Fear not, though, readers, for my quality time with Lindsey is about to be sharply reduced. Tomorrow night she works 3 to midnight, and Saturday she works throughout the day. I will be updating the blog then with more deep thoughts, as I continue my quest to stir ever more the quality of awesome, constructive dialogue in this country. Until then...
Work has been remarkably busy lately, and Lindsey has not had to work many nights. That is how the whole idea of starting a blog was born. She is a sales manager at anthropologie, but because that is still retail, her hours are often crazy. A "closing shift" is 2-11 during the week and 3-12 on weekends. It was during those shifts that this brainchild, this idea of ideas, this 2010 version of the light bulb invention, took shape. But this week she has worked more "opening shifts," which are 6 am to 3 pm, so she has been home at night. So my gain - being able to spend time with Lindsey - has been my loyal, devout readers' loss.
Fear not, though, readers, for my quality time with Lindsey is about to be sharply reduced. Tomorrow night she works 3 to midnight, and Saturday she works throughout the day. I will be updating the blog then with more deep thoughts, as I continue my quest to stir ever more the quality of awesome, constructive dialogue in this country. Until then...
Monday, May 3, 2010
Changes to the Blog...possibly
While the blog has had, without question, tremendous success and viewership (see massive number of "followers" and "comments" to posts), I feel guilty about neglecting certain segments of potential viewers. So it is that I have extended an invitation to my wonderful girlfriend, Lindsey, to be a guest blogger. Yes, I know exactly what is going to happen. Her posts will be read more, and by a wider audience, and we'll end up changing the title to reflect her newfound celebrity status, both of which will relegate me to the status of the crazy person in the corner ranting and raving to, in essence, the wall. That's ok, though - according to my mom, I was perfectly content as a kid playing with matchbox cars for hours on end all by myself, and I have no doubt that same pathetic existence will be just as attractive to me as an adult.
She is pretty busy, so I do not know exactly when her first post (the beginning of my demise) will be, but in the meantime I will entertain you with more of my Unabomber-like drivel. That is all.
She is pretty busy, so I do not know exactly when her first post (the beginning of my demise) will be, but in the meantime I will entertain you with more of my Unabomber-like drivel. That is all.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
The Bizarro World of Southern California - Part 1, Driving
There are certain invariable truths about driving in San Diego. For one, there are four kinds of vehicles around here: (1) Lexus, (2) BMW, (3) Mercedes, and (4) everything else. People really care about cars. I don't, never have. As evidence, my car often goes months without getting cleaned, inside or outside, and I am no stranger to wrecking it, either. Before I moved here, I got the front fender apparatus caught on a parking block and it tore off. Well, actually, it just hung there for a while. I would get it tied up periodically before finally getting it fixed. Once here, I hit a pedestrian and then later rammed into a car bearing "Baja California" (i.e., Mexico) plates. When I was 16, within weeks of getting my license, I caused two accidents in the span of three days, losing my driving privileges for two months. I don't know what it is - I feel like I am pretty cautious, but for some reason on occasion I turn into this guy and just wreck my car.
Anyway, back to California driving. It takes at least 15 minutes to get anywhere, even if it is just down the street, and you are required to take "the freeway" to get to just about any destination. It does not matter if it is an interstate or a state highway - they are all "freeways." Finding a "freeway" is another issue. Often an on-ramp is shoved right in the middle of a neighborhood and you usually have about 9 seconds advance notice.
Asking directions to a freeway is not a good option. "Locals" will sometimes omit one to three major roads or turns that you must take, as they merely assume you generally know where you are going, even though you have asked them how to get there. The other thing they assume that you know is the direction of the freeway. Freeways are generally called "freeways," but specific freeways are known only by their number and always, always with an oddly placed article in front of it. So what would be "Interstate 5 north/Interstate 5 south" or "I-5 north/I-5 south" in Ohio is known simply as "the 5" out here.
Perhaps "the" makes sense because it is the only freeway with the number 5. If that is the case, though, then maybe I should be known as "the Matt" or, given our geography, "el Matt."
Now, locals might say that saying "the 5," rather than giving a direction for "the 5," is perfectly permissible because only a moron would not know which direction to take the freeway. LA, North County, and Orange County are north and Mexico is south, and that is pretty much it. Because pointing this out provides the Californian with such self-satisfaction, I will accept that argument for purposes of this post only - see, no one can ever accuse me of damaging the self esteem of those whose self-esteem SHOULD be low. But, California is home to a billion "freeways." In and around San Diego alone, there is the 15 (both the interstate AND the state highway), the 5, the 163, the 54, the 805, the 94, the 78, the 52, and the 8. So a directional cue is not, it seems, beyond the bounds of decency.
Let's say you manage to decipher the Chinese that is the local's directions, and you find the freeway. Home free, right? Nope. You have to merge onto the freeway. There are usually two lanes on the on-ramp. Then when those two lanes come up onto the freeway, you sometimes see to your right two other lanes, from another on-ramp, that are also trying to merge onto the freeway. Sometimes these four lanes, without warning, go down to three, two, or even one lanes.
Californians are not the most polite drivers. Whether you put on your blinker or not, they usually will just ignore your attempts to merge onto the freeway if they are already on it. Part of the reason for this could be that, once you merge onto the freeway, you are often required to traverse 2-4 lanes of traffic in order to stay ON the freeway. So those people who did not let you in could be just getting off the freeway onto another freeway. Or not. Maybe they are just inhuman automatons without a speck of decency. One of the two. Oh, and by the way, you usually have about 200 feet or so to cross all those lanes in order to stay on the freeway onto which you just worked so hard to enter.
This brings us, lastly, to California drivers. There are two types of drivers out here, and there is no in between. You have the driver, like my girlfriend Lindsey, who goes no less than Mach-3 on any and all freeways, and who regards with utter contempt all those who have the gall to drive less than 125 mph. Then there is the slow driver. This person drives 10-20 mph under the posted speed limit, and usually in one of the left lanes, just to twist the knife. This person causes steam to erupt from the fast driver's ears, as well as a stream of expletives suitable only at NASCAR events and seedy pool halls. Within the category of slow driver you have elderly folks, tourists (who, understandably, feel as though they are on Mars on California freeways), and the "rollers," whose wax jobs, spinning rims, and bass all convey a desire to be seen rather than to actually get somewhere.
On the positive side, though, in California u-turns are legal at nearly all intersections. :)
Saturday, May 1, 2010
The Day I Hit a Pedestrian With My Car
My first full day in California I realized that I needed to open a bank account. A gullible idiot walking around with a hunk of cash and a huge check was a recipe for disaster. i pictured myself waking up in a dirty Tijuana hotel room with my organs harvested. So I ask Kyle and Dave where I can find a bank. I am given the thoroughly unimpressive response, "just go down Garnet, there are tons of them there." Garnet is a main drag in Pacific Beach, which itself is a very touristy, very busy part of the San Diego beach scene. With no other options, I head down to "PB," as it is known here.
Speaking of "PB"... San Diego has a few beach areas that actually have the word "beach" in their names. There is Pacific Beach, known as "PB," Ocean Beach, known as "OB," and, a bit further away, Imperial Beach, which is known as, everybody now, "IB." When I first moved here, I lived in Mission Beach, which is known as...Mission Beach. I have quizzed several people as to why Mission Beach is not known as "MB." I have never gotten a good answer to the question, instead faced usually with the typical California shrug and "dude, I dunno, man, hahahaha."
So anyway, I turn right onto Garnet, which is pretty much the main street in Pacific Beach (not calling it PB until they call Mission Beach MB). I drive about three blocks and realize that there is a Bank of America on the left side of the road. So I turn at the next available left and try to circle back to Garnet and find parking. I am at the intersection waiting to turn left back onto Garnet. My eyes are scanning the sides of the street for a parking spot, while I am slowly turning the car.
Next thing I know I hear and feel this slight bump. I take my eyes off of the sides of the road and look out my driver's side window to see my mirror hanging there. Oops. I then see this woman, who is probably about 55 or so, holding onto her elbow or arm. I immediately pull over to the side of the road and get out. The woman is now on the sidewalk, laying down, with what looks like her daughter attending to her. I walk straight over to her, fall over myself apologizing, and ask if she is ok. She cowers lower as if I am going to finish her off or something. I am not an intimidating figure. I am of average height and size, and generally convey the happy face of a polite, approachable midwesterner. The only living organisms I am capable of intimidating are infants strapped into a stroller and small puppies in elevators, and only then because they are confined in some way.
So i walk away from this woman. A really great, super effin samaritan was on the corner and had called the cops. Thank you, sir. But he was telling the woman that I obviously did not mean to hit her and that it was a mistake. Then the cops show up.
It is safe to say that there must not have been a single crime occurring in San Diego at this time. The first cop to show up gets out and, after talking to the woman, comes over to me and asks me what happened. I explained that I took my eyes off the road as I was looking for a parking spot, that I just got here, and that it was completely my fault. He absolutely does not care. He asks for my license, registration, and proof of insurance, the latter two of which are buried somewhere in my still full car.
I bring back my license and older copies of the registration and insurance. He is ok with this, but then he stops writing, looks at me, and says, "sir, have you been drinking today?" It is about noon. Every bone in my body wants to respond, "define 'today,'" but i bite my tongue and say, simply, "no." He walks away.
In the meantime, two more cops, a fire truck, and an ambulance have shown up. Yes, I am serious. Another cop comes up and we go through the whole story again. This guy, like the last guy, is all business, never cracks a smile, and totally looks "cop." It was as if I had knocked off the damn bank.
Now this woman, had a red mark on her arm. This did not prevent her, of course, from laying down in the ambulance as if I had hit her square in the torso with a bulldozer. She was fine.
So another cop shows up and this is the guy who is going to write the report. He comes over. I explain it to him also, and this guy is actually nice. He says to be careful, because Pacific Beach has a lot of pedestrians crossing the road all the time and it is understandable how this could happen. He tells me I am free to go. This puzzles me. I hit someone with my damn car. I ask him if he is sure. He says he is. I tell him that I kinda feel as though I should get a ticket, because I hit a pedestrian with my car. He says he is just writing it up as a traffic incident. I ask him if he is sure again. He is getting annoyed and tells me to go.
So I go up to this woman one last time and ask if she is ok. She says, "well, I hope that I am." I see the now not so red part of her arm that struck my mirror and grit my teeth at her drama. But i say, "well, I'm sorry again, I really am" and walk off.
Then I go open a bank account. Second. Day. In. California.
Speaking of "PB"... San Diego has a few beach areas that actually have the word "beach" in their names. There is Pacific Beach, known as "PB," Ocean Beach, known as "OB," and, a bit further away, Imperial Beach, which is known as, everybody now, "IB." When I first moved here, I lived in Mission Beach, which is known as...Mission Beach. I have quizzed several people as to why Mission Beach is not known as "MB." I have never gotten a good answer to the question, instead faced usually with the typical California shrug and "dude, I dunno, man, hahahaha."
So anyway, I turn right onto Garnet, which is pretty much the main street in Pacific Beach (not calling it PB until they call Mission Beach MB). I drive about three blocks and realize that there is a Bank of America on the left side of the road. So I turn at the next available left and try to circle back to Garnet and find parking. I am at the intersection waiting to turn left back onto Garnet. My eyes are scanning the sides of the street for a parking spot, while I am slowly turning the car.
Next thing I know I hear and feel this slight bump. I take my eyes off of the sides of the road and look out my driver's side window to see my mirror hanging there. Oops. I then see this woman, who is probably about 55 or so, holding onto her elbow or arm. I immediately pull over to the side of the road and get out. The woman is now on the sidewalk, laying down, with what looks like her daughter attending to her. I walk straight over to her, fall over myself apologizing, and ask if she is ok. She cowers lower as if I am going to finish her off or something. I am not an intimidating figure. I am of average height and size, and generally convey the happy face of a polite, approachable midwesterner. The only living organisms I am capable of intimidating are infants strapped into a stroller and small puppies in elevators, and only then because they are confined in some way.
So i walk away from this woman. A really great, super effin samaritan was on the corner and had called the cops. Thank you, sir. But he was telling the woman that I obviously did not mean to hit her and that it was a mistake. Then the cops show up.
It is safe to say that there must not have been a single crime occurring in San Diego at this time. The first cop to show up gets out and, after talking to the woman, comes over to me and asks me what happened. I explained that I took my eyes off the road as I was looking for a parking spot, that I just got here, and that it was completely my fault. He absolutely does not care. He asks for my license, registration, and proof of insurance, the latter two of which are buried somewhere in my still full car.
I bring back my license and older copies of the registration and insurance. He is ok with this, but then he stops writing, looks at me, and says, "sir, have you been drinking today?" It is about noon. Every bone in my body wants to respond, "define 'today,'" but i bite my tongue and say, simply, "no." He walks away.
In the meantime, two more cops, a fire truck, and an ambulance have shown up. Yes, I am serious. Another cop comes up and we go through the whole story again. This guy, like the last guy, is all business, never cracks a smile, and totally looks "cop." It was as if I had knocked off the damn bank.
Now this woman, had a red mark on her arm. This did not prevent her, of course, from laying down in the ambulance as if I had hit her square in the torso with a bulldozer. She was fine.
So another cop shows up and this is the guy who is going to write the report. He comes over. I explain it to him also, and this guy is actually nice. He says to be careful, because Pacific Beach has a lot of pedestrians crossing the road all the time and it is understandable how this could happen. He tells me I am free to go. This puzzles me. I hit someone with my damn car. I ask him if he is sure. He says he is. I tell him that I kinda feel as though I should get a ticket, because I hit a pedestrian with my car. He says he is just writing it up as a traffic incident. I ask him if he is sure again. He is getting annoyed and tells me to go.
So I go up to this woman one last time and ask if she is ok. She says, "well, I hope that I am." I see the now not so red part of her arm that struck my mirror and grit my teeth at her drama. But i say, "well, I'm sorry again, I really am" and walk off.
Then I go open a bank account. Second. Day. In. California.
Questionable Decisions, Trusting Dave, and On the Road
I am sure that those of you who read my first post - yes, all zero of you - have been waiting with baited breath to hear how some Ohio guy, who had lived in cautious, suburban environs his whole life, ended up in that bastion of progressive thinking and fake ta tas, southern California.
I had been slaving as a lawyer at one of those obnoxiously huge law firms for about 5 years. Once that ended, around the beginning of March 2009, I decided that I was going to just take some time and visit friends around the country. Figure out what I wanted to do with my life, so to speak. My first visit was to California, where I had never in my life been, to visit some friends. While in San Diego visiting my buddies Dave and Kyle, it was bandied about, during fairly heavy drinking sessions, why I don't just move to SD. I had not thought about that, but did then, and decided that I would move. So I flew back to Ohio, and started searching online for places to live in SD. It really was that simple. Impulsive? Yes. Reckless? Arguably. But eff it, why not, I thought.
For the living quarters issue, I decided to rely heavily upon my buddy Dave. In hindsight, this was taking a real chance. Dave is a friend from college. During college he used to wear this hideous Park City coat that was gray and bright, super bright, fluorescent yellow. The mere sight of it would make me laugh my face off, so much so that when I graduated he gave it to me as a gift. It was the most awful coat ever. Dave and I lived together with one of my other buddies, Brian (a/k/a "Face" - don't ask), in this crappy little house one summer in between semesters.
Dave was weird. There is no other way to say it. He would disappear for hours, sometimes days, at a time, and whenever Brian or I would ask where he had been, we were greeted with the same response: "Don't worry about it." He would often cook up some pasta and disappear into the bathroom. I have no idea what the guy did all summer. I really don't.
Dave's room in our house was nothing short of amazing. Despite having lived (at the time) 22 years on this Earth, he had nearly no possessions. His bed was some cushion apparatus that he fished out of a garbage bin. He had a few t-shirts stacked in the corner, about 6 or 7 hawaiian shirts in the closet, and a guitar. And that's it. Maybe he was on the lam or something.
So, obviously, I decided to follow one impulsive decision with a questionable one - I trusted Dave to go check out a place on the boardwalk for me. He reported back that the place was "solid" and that, apparently, was good enough for me. I cut a check the next day and sent it off, and started preparing to make the move across country at the end of March.
I went home to visit my parents and my brother and sister in northeast Ohio just before I left. I think they thought I was utterly insane. I had no job to which I was going, in a sweet economy no less, and no real plan at all except to go there and just "figure it out." California offered no "reciprocity" to lawyers from other states (i.e., you don't have to take the bar exam). So, naturally, off I went.
My original plan for the trip was to buy a handheld camcorder, stop in a small town every so often, and try to convince local citizens to do this (specifically, at the 1:59 mark) across the road. I decided, though, NOT to do this because I had a huge hunk of money from my closed bank account and did not want to risk some Deliverance-type experience that would end with me married to a wolf or something and decked out day-to-day in excessive denim.
I did, however, try to take pictures of every notable or funny sign I encountered, and I did in fact buy t-shirts at crappy rest stops in every state. The trip went well for the most part. The first day I drove from Ohio to Oklahoma, and the second day I drove from Oklahoma to Flagstaff, Arizona. Let's keep in mind that it was near the end of March. Sunny skies and good weather all the way as I made my way into New Mexico.
Then, out of nowhere, snow and a ton of it. I was on a narrow-ish road in the New Mexico mountains, with two lanes of traffic going both ways. I was no stranger to driving in the snow. Ohio has a good amount of it, and for two years I lived in upstate New York, which has a sh*t-ton of it. So I turn my wipers on as semi-trucks whiz by in the other lane, each time launching mounds of slush and snow and ice onto my car. This or something else resulted in my wipers sticking. Now I'm in trouble. So I slow down and start to make my way to the side of the road. I was not sure if there were rumble strips or a guardrail, but I had to find out. Turns out there were rumble strips, and I stopped on the side of the road.
Problem was, I was in a t shirt and jeans and all of my heavier clothes were either in my parents' basement (I was moving to California) or buried somewhere in my car. I did not like the idea of sitting on the side of a mountain road in a snowstorm, so I got out and was literally slamming my wiper down on the windshield trying to break the ice. It worked. I got off at the next rest stop and asked the cashier at the convenience store if this happens a lot (the snowstorm). She said, "sometimes." What the...
After that, I eventually made it to California. Mapquest (yes, for my cross country trip, I used effing mapquest - sweet decision number 200 in less than a month) decided to forego major highways once I got into California in favor of desert-like one lane roads with no commerce in sight. See Deliverance fears above. But eventually I made it and crashed at Dave and Kyle's the first night.
My next post will be about the first significant event that happened to me in California, exactly one day after I got there.
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