Life as a law student sorta sucks. How could anyone dislike the warm and friendly atmosphere, light workload, sunny Chicago days, and brilliant, yet modest classmates (and not to mention the great price)? I don't know. Let's just say that I do. Sure, the mimosas-for-memos program helps, but cheap alcohol and free coffee just isn't it cutting it anymore. After 6 months of being in a constant cycle of caffeinated alertness and intoxicated semi-consciousness, patience has begun to dissipate. It takes a lot to get this disgruntled 23-year-old with mild carpal tunnel to smile these days.
So when I grinned widely and even gave a gentle applause in my morning criminal law class, I knew it was going to be a good day. It might have been because, for the first time in a long time, I got more than 3 hours of sleep. Indeed, it was probably that. But another reason had to do with the law school musical and a couple of awesome professors.
Every year, the law students put on a musical. I was not in it for obvious reasons, but my friend, B, was and gave me the inside scoop on the goings-on behind the curtain. Apparently, it's written each year by 2Ls and 3Ls, but anyone can be in it and I think many of the major parts went to 1Ls. The script is very clever and involved law-related spoofs of Bad Romance by Lady Gaga (Bad Students), Bohemian Rhapsody, and other songs. The bulk of the play went toward making fun of professors and deans. Two of the professors at our school, McAdams, my criminal law professor, and Ginsburg, an international law professor, are perhaps the only two professors who are difficult to make fun of. Unlike most of the faculty, they have no visible neuroses, they seem perfectly comfortable standing in front of large classes, and I've heard that they even have law experience (imagine that!) The musical decided to poke fun at their lack of defining characteristics by pointing out that they looked similar and were just normal guys. In the musical, they switched classes and their students didn't notice. (Ginsburg has a goatee which he 'took off' and handed to McAdams.)
It was a mildly funny joke, but sort of forgettable compared to the rest of the musical, so when my classmates and I were sitting in criminal law awaiting Professor McAdams, none of us had any idea what we were in store for. Over the weekend, Professor Ginsburg shaved his goatee and when he stepped in to teach the class, it took everyone a few minutes to realize he wasn't our professor. He even called on a student, acting as if everything were normal. After the student struggled to answer the question over justifiable puzzlement, Ginsburg said, "And how does that relate to international law?" It was pretty good and McAdams arrived a few minutes later.
All right, back to work.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Story of the Week
D and P sat outside of a cafe eating stale bread and drinking tea. The waiter was nowhere to be seen.
"D," said P, "you and I agree on a lot of things." D knew this meant P was about to disagree with him about something. "But I cannot agree that they are right for us right now." D sipped his tea and looked inside the cafe, where a few patrons sat at wooden tables, cracked and rotting. Broken table legs and chairs were propped up against the windows like weapons. They waited there patiently in case they needed to be used as such again.
"I don't think they are the best," said D, slowly. "But I think right now they're the best we've got."
"We should not rush into this or we'll just have again what we've always had," responded P quickly, as if he already knew what D would say. "No. Now is the time to restart." He thrust his index finger down on the table and it wobbled dumbly, appearing to nod in agreement. "We must do this right." D looked down at his bread and peeled off the parts that were too tough to eat. His stomach grumbled angrily, perhaps wondering how he could possibly waste food when he had barely eaten for days.
"Maybe you are right," D whispered. He was feeling very tired and hadn't the energy for an argument. One week ago, he would have stood and spoken passionately about the need for compromise. About the need for radical change. Now instead, he felt at his arm, and peeled back the bandage. It was not healing well. Instead of seeking treatment for the cut, he'd gone on fighting. Two days after sustaining the wound, it had been crudely bandaged without a thorough cleaning. Now it was infected. D felt ambivalence about it. It no longer hurt, at least not in comparison to his head and his stomach. "P, what is the next step?"
"If they get their way, sham meetings followed by sham elections followed by another sham government."
"I don't believe the elections will be a sham. People will vote for them...because they'll be the only ones on the ballot," said D sarcastically. P smirked and shook his head. Five teenage boys walked by, laughing and telling jokes. Their bodies were covered in bandages. One boy was still bleeding from his head. It was a calm day, but D did not feel calm inside. He felt more anxiety now than he'd felt in the last week. The violence had quelled and now it was time to see if it had all been worth it.
"D," said P, "you and I agree on a lot of things." D knew this meant P was about to disagree with him about something. "But I cannot agree that they are right for us right now." D sipped his tea and looked inside the cafe, where a few patrons sat at wooden tables, cracked and rotting. Broken table legs and chairs were propped up against the windows like weapons. They waited there patiently in case they needed to be used as such again.
"I don't think they are the best," said D, slowly. "But I think right now they're the best we've got."
"We should not rush into this or we'll just have again what we've always had," responded P quickly, as if he already knew what D would say. "No. Now is the time to restart." He thrust his index finger down on the table and it wobbled dumbly, appearing to nod in agreement. "We must do this right." D looked down at his bread and peeled off the parts that were too tough to eat. His stomach grumbled angrily, perhaps wondering how he could possibly waste food when he had barely eaten for days.
"Maybe you are right," D whispered. He was feeling very tired and hadn't the energy for an argument. One week ago, he would have stood and spoken passionately about the need for compromise. About the need for radical change. Now instead, he felt at his arm, and peeled back the bandage. It was not healing well. Instead of seeking treatment for the cut, he'd gone on fighting. Two days after sustaining the wound, it had been crudely bandaged without a thorough cleaning. Now it was infected. D felt ambivalence about it. It no longer hurt, at least not in comparison to his head and his stomach. "P, what is the next step?"
"If they get their way, sham meetings followed by sham elections followed by another sham government."
"I don't believe the elections will be a sham. People will vote for them...because they'll be the only ones on the ballot," said D sarcastically. P smirked and shook his head. Five teenage boys walked by, laughing and telling jokes. Their bodies were covered in bandages. One boy was still bleeding from his head. It was a calm day, but D did not feel calm inside. He felt more anxiety now than he'd felt in the last week. The violence had quelled and now it was time to see if it had all been worth it.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
It's been a week
Last Thursday I said I'd write one short story per week until mid-February. So it's been a week and I didn't really write anything, so I thought I'd show you what I do when I can't think of anything to write. It's sort of a post-modernist meta-story...yeah, that's what it is.
Enjoy!
SD* trudged through the snow because she liked the way it felt under her boots. It felt like sand. She also liked the sound it made. Crunch. She walked through the snow even though the sidewalks were clear. Stomping parallel to everyone else, sometimes she saw them glance at her briefly before passing. She took her time because she had nowhere to go.
No, maybe I'll go farther away. I want to go somewhere else, somewhere where it is calm all around, where stimuli are hard to come by. A garden with a lake, where I can describe things**.
Maybe SD is trudging but there are none to see her trudge. She is alone in a garden in a city. That city could be Tokyo. Maybe there are cats. Where do they go in the winter?
When SD first came to this park, it was covered in cats. The cat were not doing anything special. Cats lounge very well***. It was a warm day and the cat lay in the shelter of shade. She joined them and they gave her little more than a stare and a whisker spasm.
What if I wrote about Timbuktu. A woman who used to have a bustling life in Timbuktu****.
Now I shall distract you with pictures of snow.
*The vast majority of the time I spent writing this "story" went to deciding the main character's initials. I thought about "MD" but those are the initials of a doctor. "MS" is a debilitating disease and a master of science degree. "PS" means post script...
**Note that I wrote this and then went on to talk about cats.
***Indeed.
****Maybe I have ADD?
Enjoy!
SD* trudged through the snow because she liked the way it felt under her boots. It felt like sand. She also liked the sound it made. Crunch. She walked through the snow even though the sidewalks were clear. Stomping parallel to everyone else, sometimes she saw them glance at her briefly before passing. She took her time because she had nowhere to go.
No, maybe I'll go farther away. I want to go somewhere else, somewhere where it is calm all around, where stimuli are hard to come by. A garden with a lake, where I can describe things**.
Maybe SD is trudging but there are none to see her trudge. She is alone in a garden in a city. That city could be Tokyo. Maybe there are cats. Where do they go in the winter?
When SD first came to this park, it was covered in cats. The cat were not doing anything special. Cats lounge very well***. It was a warm day and the cat lay in the shelter of shade. She joined them and they gave her little more than a stare and a whisker spasm.
What if I wrote about Timbuktu. A woman who used to have a bustling life in Timbuktu****.
Now I shall distract you with pictures of snow.
*The vast majority of the time I spent writing this "story" went to deciding the main character's initials. I thought about "MD" but those are the initials of a doctor. "MS" is a debilitating disease and a master of science degree. "PS" means post script...
**Note that I wrote this and then went on to talk about cats.
***Indeed.
****Maybe I have ADD?
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