-Jack Black (Tenacious D)

Patience is a virtue that I’ve never been able to wrap my head around.  On occasion, such a reminder isn’t bad.  I mean, counting to ten instead of immediately punching some asshole when he spills a drink on you is helpful for leading a long and fulfilling life, but what if you just met some girl?  Is patience always the best route?

There’s the

“I’ll get to know the girl first and maybe through my sweetness, sensitivity, subtle yet easily explainable hints, and patiently listening to her issues with boyfriends…we’ll somehow end up dating” approach or you could go with the “Hey, you seem cool and I fucking rule, so you wanna hang out” approach.

Guess which one will be crying into his pillow and posting three-year-old pictures on plentyoffish.com?

So with the ‘go-with-it-and-figure-out-the-consequences-later’ attitude riding my brain, I downed three beers in about ten minutes waiting for the Wife to get ready for the Australian Pink Floyd concert.  Since most of the original members of Pink Floyd are now playing the Great Gig in the Sky, they have licensed the Aussies to represent them around the world.  I wanted to make sure I was comfortably numb for this gig (see what I did there?).

Five minutes later, another two domestic beers were swirling around my gut.  They were going down too quickly, I had to make a squinty-eyed, bitter face because my piehole couldn’t handle all of the burning carbonation.  By the time the Wife was ready I’d poured down another two, but didn’t feel a thing.  I’m invincible, this being half-English bit is finally starting to pay off. Now would be a good time to make obvious foreshadowing even more obvious.  This would not end well.

In addition to the Wife and I, our group had another couple, “Dexter” and “Morgan,” and a friend from law school, “Alan”.  We decided to warm-up at one of the few places in this muggy, angry city that doesn’t charge you your first-born child for a Keystone Light.  Though not at the same self-hating rate, I kept drinking aggressively because the previous seven beers had seemingly no effect.  Awesome, my alcoholic ancestry has basically built me for drinking, I’m invincible.

At a certain point in the consumption, the talkative side of me crawls out first.  Slowly letting the world know that, hey I’m feeling great. Now usually I try to go through life speaking as little as possible because…well, I think it’s kind of a waste of time and think don’t particularly enjoy it that much, which may be a shock to some.  But when the drinks hit the system, the blood thins, my hearing seems filtered, and my vision starts to blur lines, I become all smiles and witty fucking one-liners.

“Time for another one,” Dexter asked as he pointed his empty bottle at my sweaty one.

Mine was still half full, but I’m not only impatient, I’m proactive, “Yeah dude, thanks” I said and raised my glass.  The condensation started dripping down my arm, which was a nice counter to the oppressive heat.

Comfort didn’t last too long, as the familiar sting in the bladder was rearing its inconvenient head, already?  This doesn’t bode well. Dexter was back far too soon, a third of my beer was still sitting in the bottle, mocking me.  The beer wasn’t the only one.

“You’re not done yet?  When’d you grow a vagina?”

“Whatever dude, I’m like nine beers ahead of you AND I’ve eaten nothing.  Plus, this shit tastes like a combination of Nyquil and death.”

“What does that have to do with you letting your beer get warm.  It’s free drink it.”

“Touche,” I replied and strained to swallow the last third, “I’ve got to use the facilities.”

Standing up, the folly in pushing my system was apparent.  Fuck me, I thought as a slalomed off the wall and the bar’s patient customers to the poorly lit bathroom in the back.  Oh god, I should’ve paced myself, my brain screamed at me as I washed my hands.  Fuck it, I’m too far gone now…I might as well push this night as far as it’ll go and see what happens.  And with that I took a deep breath, shook my head, and pushed myself, as steadily as possible back to my wet, warm beer and the (from my perspective) mocking smiles of our group.

This will definitely not go well, I smiled to myself as I took three long, painful gulps of the beer with an unpronounceable name.

To be continued…

-Disturbed (Torn)

I walked into a relatively (for Brighton, England) fashionable barbershop and asked the barber how much it costs to get my head shaved.

“Six quid,” he said from behind the register.

Six pounds?  Are you kidding me?  That’s like twelve bucks!  I’m not paying that.  Fuck it, I’ll do it myself. So in order to save a few bucks, I grabbed a shiny new Mach 3 razor and started the hatchet job.  I hadn’t shaved my head for two weeks and it was starting to grow, so the process took a bit of time, but I eventually had my spherical head bald.

It felt disgusting, so disgusting that I actually shuddered after running my hand over it, which was like rubbing a ball of still-moist mozzarella the size of your head.  In my case, it was a bigass piece of cheese.

I’m never doing this again, sick.

From that day on, I decided to never again shave anything razor-bald.  Being hairless is for cats that anyone who doesn’t take anti-psychotic drugs own and Bruno.  I could only assume the mom standing next to her son had made the same decision when I saw that her armpit hair sneaking through her sleeveless shirt was longer than mine.  She had on an old-school sleeveless shirt, the kind where you just rip them bitches off and hit the streets.  She also had that old-school street attitude, if I don’t wanna listen, I ain’t gonna listen bitch.

Now a few years ago, I was pretty comfortable with the idea of being a dad in my pre-30s.  I figured that having kids at a young age meant I could run around with them while they’re growing up and the chances of me being dead before they graduate high school are slightly lower (I figure if I make it past fifty, I’ll be pretty golden).  But then I stopped thinking in a self-defeating fashion, having kids at a young age is retarded, why make life so much harder than it already is?  Life’s already a “bitch goddess lover” and I can barely take care of myself, never mind another living, breathing person unleashed upon this world by me.

Although we may have agreed on shaving habits, this lady and I clearly had different thoughts on when and how to raise kids.  She was older than me, but her son was seventeen.  If I had to guess, she was at most twice her son’s age.  During that short time, her son had caused her a lot of headaches.  He’d been in trouble every couple of months since his pre-teens and apparently she’d reached her breaking point.  Today, my first week in court and the only time I’d ever met them.  The prosecutor offered a plea that was virtually the exact same punishment (sorry, “rehabilitation recommendation”) as losing at trial.  I tried to convince them that since there was virtually no downside to trying the case and the upside was making this whole issue disappear, we should say “fuck it” and go to trial.  Mom did not agree.

“I’m sick o’ this boy.  I ain’t stayin’ here all mother-fuckin’ day.  This boy’s takin’ that plea,” the mom announced and then turned her back to both of us with her chin taking a regal angle.  I guess she’s done talking.

I looked up at her son, who was running his tongue over his removable gold grills, and held up my arms with my palms out, so is that it, I wanted to ask.  He shrugged his shoulders,

“Shiiiit, she ain’t gonna change her mind, I guess I’ll take the plea.”  I guess that means “yes.”

During our first week of training, I asked whether it was smart to use humor (well, in my case, sarcasm) in court.  The attorney replied, “It’s better to focus on being indignant.”

That’s a really good point, I thought, I’m fucking terrible at being shocked or appalled by anything. Overall, I like looking ‘cool’ under pressure; I might want to puke my guts out, cry, or show a million other emotions, but I rarely look nervous or agitated.  The downside is that it’s hard for me to react in any way other than “meh.”  I blame the internet.  The internet’s shown me beheadings, 2 girls 1 cup, lemon party, and tubgirl.  If you value your sanity, don’t google any of those subjects.

But the scenario in the hallway was easy.  Let me get this straight: You chose to either have a kid or be irresponsible enough while fucking some dude to get knocked up, then You alternate between yelling at your kid and ignoring him, he “shockingly” turns out to not give a fuck when someone else tells him what to do and now that he inconveniences You, You’re leaving him for someone else to look after?

Without a doubt I’m a judgmental person, but my first impression of the mom was on the previous day when I’d called to see if I could talk to the son.  He was in the house, but she said something along the lines of, “He’s up in his room and this phone ain’t cordless.”

“Can you call him down?”

“Nah, he won’t come.”

Really? I know you’re not the one in trouble, but a little bit of effort might help here.  I’d actually like to talk to your kid before the day of trial.  Being in this position sucks, no one is envious of you or your son right now, but when your response is ‘I’m not dealing with him no more’ You then expect a magic wand to be waved that’ll make him respectable?  Granted, my only experience with kids is having younger siblings and coaching a group of fifteen twelve-year-olds four times a week, but I’m pretty sure I’ve put in more effort than Your yelling/threatening.

The kid’s day in court didn’t go ideally; the worst-case scenario was never confronted, but it sure as shit could’ve gone better.  I wish we all could’ve worked more as a team, but some people just don’t want to play.  Of course, there’s the other spectrum of issues; where someone wants to be a little too involved…

To be continued…

-Gorillaz (El Manana)

Growing up, I loved the rain.  Southern California rarely gets any, so it was a novelty when the clouds grew gray and the liquid pellets started barraging the windows.  Moving to the northwest was even better.  Nine months out of the year you could expect rain a few times a month.  There was nothing better than playing soccer in 60 degree weather for a couple of hours and then coming home damp and just a little cold.  Jump in the shower to warm up a bit and then throw on some comfortable clothes to watch TV, read a book, or play videogames.  Anything, as long as it included sliding under crisply cool sheets.  Fucking heaven.

My love of the rain has evolved into a mild distaste since the move to an urban rainforest.  I still like listening to the rain and pressing the air conditioner’s setting down to an unreasonably low level.  If you avoid the bed for long enough, the sheets will get coolly crisp.  The problem is away from home.  The clouds will be gray and rain will sprinkle pleasantly (or horrifically depending on the time of day), but the atmosphere is a sauna fully-clothed: fucking miserable.

So The Wife and I decided to take advantage of one of the few dry days during this current rainy season to go to the beach.  As we were getting in the car, I heard a faint “meow.”  That sounds like our cat, but she’s inside, most likely on the counter where I’ve yelled at her to “stop being such an asshole and get down” three times a day since she grew tall enough to climb shelves like a monkey.  I looked towards the sounds and saw a tiny kitten that I doubt weighed more than two pounds.  I’ll just walk towards it and it’ll run away like all the other outdoor cats around here, I thought.  Wrong.  This tiny, dirty creature walked right towards me.

By this time, The Wife had gotten out of the car to see what I was doing.  “Oh,” she said looking at the cat that should’ve been white, but was more of a grayish color because of all of the dirt and soot.

“Can you go grab him some food and I’ll see if he’ll follow me,” I asked.

I turned back to the helpless little animal and said, “C’mere kitty” and he followed.

Later, as he crunched through the cat food, The Wife turned her gaze from him to me with big pleading eyes.  I knew exactly what she was asking.  Sentiment isn’t something I have much tolerance for, but at that moment I couldn’t say, “No, we’re not keeping some random feral cat, fuck him,” but the logical side knew there was no way we could keep him either.  We already have two.  ‘Fox in the henhouse’ came to mind when considering the consequence of introducing an animal with no shots that was dirty and possibly had multiple parasites.  All I could think to say is, “We could probably keep him as an outdoor cat, but maybe taking him to a shelter is better.”

The Wife was keener on the shelter idea and it was her turn to drive, which meant I was holding “Bino” as we called him (since he’s white).  That whole day would’ve been much easier if he’d run away when I approached.  Or didn’t follow me when I called to him.  Or didn’t sleep comfortably in the little towel we wrapped him in for our trip.  He’d meow, look me in the eyes, and then stretch out to sleep; dammit you rule.

The first shelter we went to said they couldn’t take him because they were full.  We’ve been there numerous times looking for The Wife’s ‘birthday cat,’ this place is 85% full of fat, lazy, ugly cats that just stare from their stupid perches 23 ½ hours a day.  What do you mean you have no room?  I’ll fucking euthanize half your population right now.  Get me a hammer.  Who the fuck’s going to adopt a 110-pound cat?  Look at this little motherfucker we’re bringing in; who wouldn’t want to adopt this asskicker?

They directed us to a second place, which was not close to anywhere we wanted to be, but looking at the little guy, we agreed, there’s no way we can’t get Bino some help. The second shelter was simple: fill out a form, wait your turn, and leave.  While I was waiting in line to turn in our paperwork, The Wife held Bino.  Even with the barking dogs and utter chaos around him, Bino fell asleep in her lap after quietly nursing on the blanket.  After half an hour or so, it was our turn and The Wife had to wake Bino up as she put him into a shitty, rusted cage that only had old newspaper as a covering.

Even now, the temptation to go back to that shelter and seek out Bino’s strong and I’d spent a total of like two hours around the fucker and would really prefer he was hanging out with us…but such is life.  I’d like to think that by now he’s cleaned up and received his shots.  That soon a loving family will come by, see this awesome, friendly little dude, and adopt him on the spot.  But who really knows?  Through no fault of their own, places like these shelters are fucked up.  The need to service such large quantities of animals is bound to cripple any quality of treatment.

That experience helped me realize what the band Brand New meant by “The Devil and God are Raging Inside Me” because when I see parents come into court bitching about their own flesh and blood, an actual human being that’s far more developed than any other creature on this planet, a flash of red clouds my vision for a bit.  I don’t say anything because it’s being recorded, but the urge is there.  This is your kid.  The one you’re supposed to raise and nurture into a respectable human being.  Now that he or she can’t be threatened with violence or yelling and TV’s no longer a sufficient distraction for them, you want to dump them on the government?  Fuck you, take some responsibility for this young person You created.

To be continued…

To see if I still feel

I focus on the pain

The only thing that’s real

The needle tears a hole

The old familiar sting

Try to kill it all away

But I remember everything”

Hurt (Nine Inch Nails)

I wonder if I’d die or just shatter both my legs? I asked myself as I sat staring out the second-story window of my classroom. Could I even break through that glass? It has to be hurricane-proof. If hundred-plus mile an hour winds can’t shatter it, what hope do I have? Would it be a glorious conclusion near the end of this strange trip through school or would I hit the window, make a thunderous clap and lay there writhing in pain, as everyone stares at me, dumbfounded, as I lay in the fetal position right next to the window that bested me? I’m not suicidal, but over the last two years, the thought of doing something, anything, other than sitting in class has made me reevaluate the pros and cons of going out in memorable (albeit traumatizing) style. But there was that voice of reason constantly repeating, “Endure, endure, endure,” in the back of my head. Damn it, voice of reason, why do you have to lead by example?

The girl to my left probably thought I was strange to continually look in her direction, but I was looking past her. I was looking out of the closest window, which framed the picturesque green grass, swaying trees in the background, and the front of some other academic building on the right, which seemed to house a lot of Middle-Eastern kids. It’s probably a 75-foot drop; would I crush more than just my shins? Would my back compress like a Slinky? Would I be even shorter than I am now? Would my knees explode like that South Park episode, even though there are no transvestite’s balls anywhere in my body? There were so many questions unanswered, but I had time to contemplate them all as the professor, in an effort to either be really helpful or really spiteful to the class, was going through a statute dealing with contracts. Line-by-line. Statutes are boring. Contracts are boring. Statutes governing contracts are soul-crushingly boring. It’s a beautiful day, my car has a half-tank of gas, I could at least get Somewhere on that much and it would have to better than this.

Though it may not seem like it at first glance, there’s a huge gulf in the definitions of a litigator and a trial attorney. In the window-breaking-contract-statute class, they’re preparing us to be the former, which primarily requires meeting deadlines, following proper citation formats and font size, and writing a concise (but not necessarily short) paper to the court. Ninety-nine percent of a litigator’s time is spent in an office, drafting these papers, double-checking the forms and deadlines, and then sending them to a courthouse where the title will be read and filed by a well-educated, but barely functional clerk. All of that work is the dance that leads to settlement. But during those rare times when the posturing fails, trial lawyers are the ones who go to court, they argue, they ‘work’ the room, they’re the faces involved.

I want to be part of the latter group because it’s a million metric-tons more interesting and I didn’t leave a job sitting in an office looking at papers and a computer screen for forty hours a week to go back to school, rack up debt, and then return to sitting in an office staring at repetitive papers and screens all over again, but for eighty hours a week. Some of the paperwork’s mildly interesting on occasion, but if my life were to consist of The Process for the next few decades, sprinting through a hurricane-proof window might be the right idea.

Strangely, not that many people want to work in criminal law. I either cannot or subconsciously refuse to understand the interest in civil work. Unless it’s my contract we’re arguing over, who cares who owes money? There’s nothing physically at stake. Criminal law’s different; you’re making decisions that could affect someone’s life for a long time, even if the potential sentence doesn’t seem that harsh on its surface. For example, getting your first DUI is an automatic license suspension of six months (I think), which doesn’t seem like a big deal. But in a backwards city like Miami where public transportation is non-existent even though the city’s huge and spread across far too much space, how do you get to work? If someone can’t afford a cab for five days a week for six months (and most of us can’t), they’re in trouble. And if you’re in that situation, your job usually isn’t the most demanding, which means you’re replaceable (and most of us are). If you’re replaceable, showing up late one day may be enough to get you fired. Since you still don’t have a license and you have less money to spend on cabs, you can’t make it to job interviews. Without successful job interviews, you have no income, so your bills start piling up. Now there’s a warrant for your arrest because you haven’t paid your court costs, so you spend at least a night in jail because you can’t afford bond. When you do finally get your license back, guess what box you have to check on the job application sheet?

With stakes that high in even relatively minor infractions, and don’t argue, every one of you reading this has driven while technically over the legal limit, there is something important on the line. This means that all of your decision-making must be clear, concise, and well thought-out. You can’t make an objection because the prosecutor’s a dick and you can’t argue with the 79-year-old alleged victim on cross-examination. If you come across as angry or careless, you’ll have lost before saying, “Good afternoon.”

That’s why my next tattoo will contain a quote from one of the most dangerous men on the planet,

“I go into every fight with no emotion. Neither anger nor compassion.”

It’ll be a reminder that for those hours, days, or weeks that a trial takes place, you must shut everything else down. Block out every distraction, but the question, “Is this best for _____?” as you enter this artificial arena to fight, a display muddled by lots of procedure and legalese. Remove the hate for the other guy’s obnoxious tone, remove the sympathy you have for your client’s situation because it rarely works on a judge or jury, unless your client is a YMCA employee who volunteers at his church and helps raise doe-eyed puppies that he gives to blind orphans. It’ll be us vs. them.

Now I just have to save some money.

Yeah – cut right into me
Yeah – because I am made of scars
Yes, I am made of scars”

-Slipknot (Made of Scars)

The first inkling that profound meaning might not be necessary to getting a tattoo you think is super-kickass was while discussing the size, coloring, and placement of my first tattoo with “Jason” the artist. If you spend that much time shirtless, close enough that you can feel their breath, you better find something to talk about.

“So what made you get that one?” I asked as I nodded my head towards his neck, where he had a green and blue monster, which kind of looked like a ‘ponaturi,’ peaking up over his shirt.

“I don’t know man…it was just, like, you know, I wanted something to symbolize that I’m not going back. You know? That this is my life now,” he shrugged.

I guess he has no idea why, I thought. But that thought continued, who cares if he had no thirty minute story for getting a tattoo, if he likes it, who am I to be condescending? I need to see the big picture. And the big picture is that this is art. I have a hard enough time drawing Pac Man on a piece of paper, let alone something more complex…like Ms. Pac Man. Drawing anything other than a semi-straight line on skin is fucking hard. Jason’s were multi-colored with thick winding into thin lines, some of his tattoos were as big as a laptop, and some as small as a cellphone, but all of them were colorful. And all of them were seemingly random drawings.

Jason did my first four tattoos, while I was living in the Mile High city. After the first one, I couldn’t understand how people could get multiple tattoos or worse, become addicted to them. They’re a pain in the ass. Not only does it hurt getting one, but then you have the aftercare rehab to stop it from looking shitty a couple of weeks later:

wash gently, always keep it moist, cover it up so it doesn’t leak onto your clothes, let it breath, apply this salve.

It is a lot of work. For the first two weeks. Then you can let it be and actually enjoy a creation. A creation that’ll now be with you until you turn to ash or get torn apart by ravenous wolves. Cool.

So with each subsequent tattoo I put less worry into it having all sorts of meaning and instead simply asked, “Will this reflect me during [insert time in life]?” which still takes some thought because I don’t want to end up like a friend who has full sleeves on both arms.

When I asked, “why’d you get that one?”

He looked down at the creepy old man face (which looked like a pissed off Zeus) and sighed, “I don’t know man. I was young and dumb. I wish I could get it taken off.”

I didn’t want to find myself in that situation. I assume I’ll get bored of looking at most of them, but I’m not one for taking pictures or keeping a journal. My method is more like that dude in Memento, only with a slightly better memory. For good or ill, this ink will stick with me, turn green as I wrinkle, and forever remind me of That time in life.

Now my fourth tattoo I knew I wanted to get some kind of dedication to the Wife, but I figured her name in cursive on my neck was slightly played out. By the time I went back to Jason, I had a vivid picture in my mind of what I wanted, but given that my drawings all look like a seismograph from San Francisco in ‘89, I relied on Jason to take the idea out of my head, scrawl it on paper, and stab it onto my back. The word “crux” is the biggest of the five I have so far, framed right in the middle of my shoulders, just below the neck. Jason managed to design it so that it looks like the skin is ripping and the word is emerging from underneath.

After a few hours, it was finally finished. I was weak-kneed and tired from, what I assume was the blood loss, but happy with the result.

“So what do you think woman?”

“It’s pretty freaking cool.”

“Well, I’m glad you like it. I wanted to get Something for you, but just getting your name would probably doom our relationship and getting someone’s face drawn on your body just seems…odd. Kat Von D’s awesome at drawing that shit, but it still looks so unnatural.”

“Ahh, that’s so sweet,” she replied and then made me a steak.[1]

With each visit, my tattoos have less deep and personal meaning, but there is some thought behind them because they are a reflection of life thus far. My most recent was Prometheus[2]. Originally, I wanted to do a heaven and hell theme on each arm, but then I realized a “heaven” theme would be difficult to do seriously. If I was trying to be funny, it would be kittens chasing puppies underneath the light of rainbows and large-breasted women in the background holding Chipotle burritos. I’m not sure I want that on my arm though.

I’m a stubborn and defiant person. Reverse psychology works wonders on me. You’re telling me I can’t do something? Fuck you and watch this. My stubbornness is to a fault though; because while learning from your own mistakes is good, learning from others’ is Smart. So instead, besides it looking cool, I got Prometheus on my left arm as a reminder that stubbornness for its own sake only ends one way, badly. But it also reminds me that if you stand up for what you believe in, that conviction to do what you believe is Right will be remembered long after you are gone.

Now that I’m two time zones away from Jason, I researched and found a guy that not only had talent, but was enthusiastic about combining the ideas jostling through my head into one focused vision. That guy’s name is “Robert” and this summer, I plan on going back to him for my next tattoo.

To be continued…

This one found a vein
This one was an accident, but never gave me pain
This one was my father’s and this one you can’t see
This one had me scared to death,

But I guess I should be glad I’m not dead”

-Slipknot (Made of Scars)

Squealing tires were the first sound. The sickening crunch of metal and the cracking of plastic came next. Then silence followed, like God himself had sucked the air out of the atmosphere, out of my head, there was no crunching, no yelling, nothing familiar.

Ohhh…was the only thought that came to mind as my legs felt like they were being slide-tackled in soccer. I was in my car. An off-duty cop had just (“allegedly”) run a red light and hit my top-heavy vehicle on the passenger side, sending it flipping upside down, which is how it landed in between his vehicle and the hood of another. The glass that hit the street and other cars sounded like rain on a tin roof. Suspended, I could’ve crawled underneath the hood of my car because it was two feet in air when the ambulance arrived. Strangely, no one was hurt and my first thought after getting out of the car was, that was kind of…cool, but now my car’s fucked. I assume the adrenaline was numbing me to anything because the next three or four days felt like my shoulders and neck had just suffered through twelve rounds with Mike Tyson at his peak. I could barely move.

The shock of what happened wore off much quicker. I stood on the side of the road, waiting for someone to come pick me up as one-third of my car was now crippled. My dad’s the one who came by; he looked at the car, looked at me, and gave me a hug.

“Well that worked out well,” was all I could think to say.

“Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital,” the paramedic said as he followed the same staring format as my dad, but without a hug.

“I think I’m alright, I mean, nothing hurts and I can still walk and stuff.”

That statement was only true for another ten minutes. Once my dad and I got home, I walked to my room and started crying. What the fuck is going on? I asked myself because I had no real reason to be emotional and I wasn’t in any physical pain yet. It was like my body had gone into conservation mode and was now letting everything out. I’m surprised I didn’t have the sudden urge to take a dump. Once I’d recovered, I sat there and thought, you know that did work out well; the paramedics and the cops thought I should’ve been killed…maybe I’m invincible. Awesome. There was no great epiphany that sprang forth from the accident, just a small reminder that, all things considered, even though I’m not the smartest, fastest, or best looking dude around, life’s pretty damn unterrible. What did result from the accident were the ideas for my first two tattoos.

I debated the style, content, and size of my first tattoo, though not daily, for at least a year. I was convinced that if I was going to get a tattoo, it has to mean something important because it’ll be on my body for the rest of my life. Permanency also happens to be the biggest criticism of tattoos. Almost every person I’ve discussed tattoos with has cited the ravages of age as the reason not to get one.

“But just think about how it’ll look when you’re all old and wrinkly. It’s gonna look so gross.”

My response has always been, “If what my tattoos look like when I’m seventy is my biggest concern in life, I’ll be happy. I’m pretty sure I’ll be dead by that point.”

But the whole Meaning of the piece of work was the constant roadblock to me taking the plunge. Well, that and the pain. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, though the needle isn’t the most painful experience ever, it certainly feels shitty. The best comparison I can describe is that feeling you get when you have really bad sunburn (think USSR red) and then you scratch it with one nail over and over and over. Annoyance bordering on teeth-clenching pain, you’re always on that cusp.

My first tattoo was simple, straightforward, and right in the ‘tramp-stamp’ spot of my lower back. The word ‘blessed’ in all capital, old English letters, solid black. I looked at the accident, the suspended, upside-down vehicle with glass sprinkled all over the floor resulted in one tiny scratch on my right hand. I couldn’t really call it karma because I’ve pushed the limits of retribution on occasion, so someone must’ve been looking out for me and figured, “this guy probably shouldn’t be decapitated right now.”

The second one was slightly more complicated. It didn’t come strictly from the accident, but the potential lawsuit that was going to follow. I got the ticket because it was me versus a cop and only one witness would blame the cop (although none said it was me). He apologized right after it happened, but none of the officers on the scene seemed to care. But fuck it, I was ready to go to trial (not knowing anything about the law, but believing I’d done nothing wrong) with my one witness who agreed that the off-duty cop had run a red light. As it looked more likely that indeed the liability would be tried, my grandpa sent me a Bible verse. He’s a big fan of those.

The tattoo itself is the Godsmack sun because, even though they’re not the most revolutionary band ever, they’re still pretty cool and it had a little bit of color (red) in it. In the middle is “Isaiah 54:17,” which basically means “let the haters hate, brush them off your shoulder.”[1] I take it as a command that you should do what you think is right, to “piss in the wind” occasionally. The next couple didn’t take as much thought and arguably aren’t as meaningful, whatever that may mean, but I still like them.

To be continued…

-Mr. Wiggles (Rehabilitating Mr. Wiggles)

In the middle of the week a friend and I walk across three-quarters of the campus to the bookstore for coffee and a snack. We avoid the much closer Starbucks in the library because the lines in the bookstore are shorter and the cookies have meth or ecstasy in them. That’s the only reasonable explanation for why they taste better than the tears of minority orphans (and those taste good).

He’s a former member of the military and thus has a ton of life experience, so talking to him is always interesting. One night, while nursing an especially hot Americano and sucking down a teary-orphaned cookie, he mentioned a guy he’d met a couple of years earlier who wanted to help him expand his (at the time) recently opened business.

“Now this guy’s been in the country for like two years, but he already has a Mercedes and a house that’s a lot nicer than mine. So I’m thinking, man, this guy’s doing well for himself, maybe we can work together,” my friend explained as he gingerly removed the lid, sipped his coffee, and put it back on. That’s a strange way to drink.

He continued, “So the guy starts explaining what he does…kind of…and asks me if maybe we can do some kind of deal together. But as we kept talking, I found out he has no experience or qualifications. He just ‘knows some guys’. I thought, fuck this, I’m not getting involved. This is some sketchy shit.”

“Yeah, the phrase ‘I know a guy’ is usually bad news 90% of the time,” I said, disappointed that my divine cookie was already gone.

“But he kept trying to convince me that everyone in this business does deals. I told him about one guy I know that refuses anything even remotely questionable and he actually tried to argue that there’s no way someone wouldn’t do something illegal if it’s easy.”

I could picture this guy. I’ve met a lot of them recently. Middle-aged or rapidly approaching; they like gold: jewelry, shirts, key rings, etc. The key rings usually hold the key to an expensive German sedan, one with GPS and heated seats. They speak English about as well as I speak Spanish, which is horrifically. They use Spanish while barking into their Blackberries to guys that know other guys. I could picture him because I’d been helping the Attorney try to keep one of them out of/minimize the time in jail.

Having the ability to wheel-and-deal is awesome, except when it comes to the government. Allegedly stealing craters of money doesn’t put you in its good graces and considering most of its (non-elected) representatives are cantankerous on a good day, this was a bad situation to be in. He was no longer dealing with like-minded individuals, he was now facing the kid that sat at the front of the class and finished his homework early, only now that kid has the support and ability to exact vengeance for all the spitballs and wedgies endured.

Trying to explain this to a relatively recent immigrant from one of the less -civilized- countries south of the US was difficult. In the same way an Ecuadorian kid who’d knocked up his much younger girlfriend couldn’t understand why it was bad that he tried to get a witness to “stay quiet,” our guy couldn’t understand why the government wasn’t interested in working out a deal. This is when he started explaining the situation from his perspective. I guess he didn’t know or care that we had access to his personal information anyway, but according to him, this was all a misunderstanding, he was a good guy, and he didn’t do anything that bad.

I assumed he was lying because that’s what people do when it’s in their best interest, but mirrored his movements to give the impression that We all knew this was a misunderstanding as well. Sure, you have all the signs of a sketchy asshole…but your house really isn’t that great and you’re only driving the C class [much more expensive than my car, but not exactly big-pimpin’], how well could you really be living off the government? If he’d actually saved his money, the answer would be, very well. But he burned through it like the gunpowder through Rambo’s side in Rambo III, so his bank account statements were modest at best. That doesn’t really matter because it’s basically just another charge (“money laundering”) when your family each owns multiple businesses, homes, and vehicles.

Now instead of owning up to the self-inflicted damage so we could properly prepare a defense or, worst-case, plea arguments, he evaded, distracted, and denied to the point that we had to start confronting him with the actual calculations on physical paper. These calculations were based primarily on paperwork he’d given us. Then he’d feign surprise. Motherfucker, why are you making this so difficult? Why are you fighting us? Do you want to go to jail? The only person that can really help you[1] is restraining himself from reaching across his desk and pummeling your temple with the sticky-note dispenser.

And as litigation generally goes in the legal world, mostly due to the need for billable hours in any form ‘legally’ possible, the build up to trial moved at a glacial pace. The expenses traveled at Veyron speed: heavy and fast. The evading, distracting, and denying resurfaced when the bills came. Not getting paid was the breaking point, where the Attorney stopped caring about whether the guy stayed out of jail. On the surface, all signs pointed to this guy being shady and selfish. So I can’t say I was shocked that after his trial was over, but before the jury had returned a verdict, he removed the government’s tracking device on his ankle and *poof* disappeared. I felt sorry for his wife and kids, especially now that she was considered a flight-risk and was being held in prison until a verdict was reached. The kids went from having a mom and dad to being virtual orphans within twenty-four hours. The aftermath also reminded me that I’m not that apathetic compared to more seasoned attorneys, one of whom remarked,

“I knew that guy had a nest-egg somewhere. Fuck him, I hope they [the government] find him and throw his ass in jail; he was falling behind on his payments anyway.”

-Tool (Sober)

“Dude, this guy is my favorite client for two reasons: he pays on time and he doesn’t fucking bullshit with me,” the Attorney said as I slid into a loud leather chair across the desk from him.

“Well I understand the paying part being awesome, but you get a lot of people coming to you and lying? That doesn’t make any sense,” I replied.

“Yeah, I don’t get it either. They paying me to help them out, but then they act like they’re paying me to cause them pain, like I’m the enemy. That’s why I like this guy, he trusts that I’m here to help him out, he pays, and he’s been upfront about the whole fucked up scenario.”

That fucked up scenario involved scary, yet intriguing (to certain minds) words like “assault,” “deadly weapon,” “mistress,” and “attempted murder.” Some wives are cool with their husbands having some loving on the side, which is cool in theory, but in reality, it seems like too much of a pain in the ass, even without having to be sneaky. In this case, the wife knew “this guy” (TG) had a side-woman he visited, which is where the need use scary words was born out of a situation like a retarded three-headed behemoth from the womb of immorality (and more retardation). TG had just pulled into her apartment complex when he saw two guys leaving her apartment, presumably after some kind of ill-fated threesome. No one’s really figured out why there were two guys leaving, but at least one of them was boning TG’s side-woman. This did not please TG, which is surprising to me, considering non-wife’s willingness be a girl on the side for him, why wouldn’t she have others in her stable? Who’s he to demand monogamy? But as per any confrontation between two verbally handicapped and unaware males, all three were in each others’ faces, flailing out arms, puffing chests, and making vague threats/comments regarding their own and each other’s ass-kicking prowess. I’m sure “bro” and “puta” were used liberally.

TG went one step beyond the typical posturing. He pulled out a gun. Guns change everything. Time slows down, flashbacks occurs, and suddenly life is put into context; how the fuck did I get here? I’m arguing with a guy over this girl, any girl, in the middle of the street? Now the two other guys were much quieter, trying to sooth the rage in TG. Somehow they took the gun out of his hands, but TG’s rage was still seething. As if he’d just realized “what the fuck? I had a gun and all the power two minutes ago,” TG grabbed a trowel spade from the back of his truck and again threatened the other two. He pushed the guy who was holding the gun with his left arm and then swung the spade at the other (incidentally, this one was the guy who was definitely boning the girl) with his right, giving him an impressive gash just below the eye that needed stitches. My mental picture of this event seems awkward, mainly because gun with bullets>the sharpest knife known for stabbing.

TG didn’t approach the girlfriend, in a sudden realization that he’d just fucked up this situation to the point of disrepair, he took off home. Instead of using her own stabby weapon, like I’d assume my own significant other would, the wife let him in the house. When the cops came by their home to question TG, instead of taking them to the bedroom and screaming “there’s that motherfucker,” she covered for him; evading, distracting, and ignoring, that’s some commitment. Instead of deservedly hanging TG out to try, she supported him through the whole process. The whole process didn’t last long because the guys that were threatened with a gun and a fucking gardening trowel had their own issues to deal with, avoiding court was a higher priority than sending TG to jail.

TG, the man who’d pulled a gun on his mistress’ other humper, the man who sliced a guy’s face with a gardening tool, the man who hid behind his wife for protection, and the man who only avoided jail because the other fuckers pussed out. That man is the preferred client. Looking at the situation, I thought, these are the people I have to deal with. I’m not defending the innocent or upholding justice, I’m a bag man. People come in, “I need this cleaned up. Oh and sorry I didn’t come sooner, I have a lot going on.” What’ve I gotten myself into?

But at that time, I hadn’t been involved with a liar; someone who makes the process of investigation and creating a case as hard as possible and makes your life repetitive, frustrating, and yet still, somehow shocking. Soon I’d know what the Attorney was talking about.

To be continued…

-Michael Clayton

As hard as it can be in a society teeming with selfishness and entitlement, I try to live by the Golden Rule. This means that I don’t only hold the door open or otherwise act politely for attractive females, I do it for everyone. If someone says, “Thanks,” I immediately assume that person doesn’t suck. If someone doesn’t say anything I assume they were dropped repeatedly as a child. A severe mental defect is the only reason I can think of to cause someone not to acknowledge an unwarranted (in hindsight) act of decency.

Miami is very much a networking city, which has provided me opportunities to meet some private investigators who do boring shit like sit outside people’s houses for hours, but also do cooler work like threaten people with guns and “tail” people. Most of them are former detectives and their life experiences have created a lot of awesome stories. I was riding with one on the way back from lunch, he was discussing his ability to translate any well-known language despite only speaking English and Spanish. His story was leading into the time he had to translate for a Russian in prison, but I got sidetracked on the journey. Was it a hot girl? A grisly car accident? Midget with hoola-hoops? Nope. A Panda Express had just opened only minutes from both work and school. Fucking awesome, I forgot how much I love that place.

Since its opening a month or two ago, I’ve been to Panda approximately (and conservatively speaking) twenty-five times. I’ve tried authentic Chinese food once and didn’t care for it, but put some orange chicken and Beijing beef in front of me and I wouldn’t realize my hair’s on fire until my skin started melting over my mouth. Though the service isn’t as clinically efficient as I would like, the staff is friendly and generous with their scoops. The problem is that this usually means I’m in a hurry to leave because, well, I’ve got motherfucking orange chicken and Beijing beef two feet from my piehole.

I still hold the door open for people near me, which one particular woman couldn’t have known. She also couldn’t have known that I was ready to punch her in the head as she walked through the door first and tried to drag her baby stroller behind her, but from the front of the cart like she was pulling her kid in by his legs. Her stubby arms weren’t strong enough to hold the door open and squeeze the cart through, it was now wedged in between both doors. This didn’t seem to faze the new mom as, in between spastic grunts, she continued her conversation (or bitching session depending on where you’re from) with a second new mom following her into Panda. And as I stood there with my chicken and beef becoming more gelatinous, I wondered if this woman had even thought about how much easier this could’ve been and how much jiggling and grunting she could’ve saved herself and head-shaking she could’ve saved me: dammit woman, if you’d let me out I could hold the door open for you guys (this happened with the second mom…and she said “thanks” because I saved her about ten minutes of twisting like a coyote in a…coyote trap), although I guess she can’t assume that I’d would do such a thing. But even if she assumed I was a dick, surely she could’ve opened the door and then pushed her kid from the back (where the handles are) into the restaurant and followed in. Worst case scenario, she could’ve held the door while the other mom pushed the two kids inside. Jesus woman, outside of trying to carry the stroller in while opening the door with your foot, and balance a can of acid on your face, you picked the worst possible option.

And this quick breakdown of what could’ve been a much easier solution pulled me right back into law school orientation. We’re not lawyers, nor, as the majority of the world knows us, are we assholes, we’re esteemed and privileged men and women who practice law because according to lawyers, we’re right on par with doctors. We save lives and change the world. This may be true for a tiny subset of a subset of a class of lawyers, but for the vast majority, all we’re looking for is a decent-sized paycheck, the anonymity and isolation of proof-reading and research, and to be considered part of an esteemed community at our kids’ parent-teacher conferences and soccer practices. Fuck yeah, this guy’s a lawyer, I’m going to talk to him instead of Jamie’s dad, he’s just a mechanic.

I think the approach our community has taken is kind of lame and, in the long run, counter-productive, but then you’d have a lot of difficulty justifying the cost of law school if the message was really, “some of you might end up being judges, some of you might go to trial, but most of you will end up either researching archaic statements or proof-reading current ones for the next forty years under the unrelenting gaze of a closet sociopath with a drinking problem.” So I’ve accepted that what we learn on day one has nothing to do with the actual practice of law, in the end most of us will end up being spell-checkers, historians, or garbage men and women. That doesn’t mean that others won’t make it as hard as possible to do your job properly.

To be continued…

-Disturbed (Voices)

One of the biggest threats criminal attorneys level against each other is giving client’s an attorney’s personal number. A lot of the people that spend time in the judicial system may be fucked up, dumb, or crazy, but they’re also very resourceful. Whether it’s incessant phone calls from a meth addict’s ‘business hours’ or seeing your allegedly “stalking” client at the end of your driveway, giving a personal phone number to a client is like strapping on a bomb, a random number generator, and setting the bomb to go off when a certain number is reached. It might happen immediately or it might never happen while it’s strapped to your back, but either way, it’s a grenade you don’t want to deal with.

I first found this out when I was walking from the courthouse back to the office with the Attorneys. The sidewalk is really narrow and since people in Miami don’t believe in being even remotely considerate to each other, you’re bound to brush people during the walk. Halfway back a haggard, grotesquely skinny black man with at least four missing teeth stopped us with, “Yo…ain’t you my lawyuh?”

The Attorneys looked at each other, then back at Skinny McSkinnerson and shrugged. One spoke up,

“Maybe, we have a lot of clients and some of them never come to meet with us.”

“Yeah man, you was my lawyuh fo’ some bowl-shit weed charge. Man, I don’t do that shit. Shiiiiit.” Skinny shook his head, “’Sides, I member you cause that first attorney di’int do shit fo’ me.”

“Alright…well, glad we could help. Take care of yourself.”

“Yo, you too man.”

As we continued our walk, one of the Attorneys remarked, “Oh NOW I remember that guy. He’s the one that kept calling __________ and refused to come in the office or courthouse. That one time _________ stole my pen I threatened to give her cell number to that guy. But I was never his attorney.”

“Oh yeah, then who was?” The other Attorney and I wanted to know.

“_________.”

“How’d he confuse you two? He’s like a foot taller and blonde.”

“Crazier things have happened.”

*********

Another time, almost the exact same scenario took place, but with different attorneys. One was “Carlos,” who’s white and the other, “James,” who’s black. We were walking the exact same path and a guy that looked a lot like Skinny pointed at James and shouted,

“Yo man, you my lawyuh!”

Skinny’s twin, “McMurphy,” was wearing a distressed and misshapen black hat, crooked sunglasses, and headphones. I once owned a pair of noise-canceling headphones, the big, bulky ones that put unreasonable strain on your neck and wallet that can’t be stored anywhere other than your travel luggage. I activate the noise-canceling, but everything stayed the same, motherfucker, I can still hear ‘Roseanne Barr’ talking about her daughter’s most recent pregnancy. From that point on, I’ve only purchased ear buds. By default, they keep other noise out and they’re 1/10^th of the price. McMurphy was old school. He had the ones that you used to get for free with a portable cassette player. Cheap metal with plastic headphones that are covered in that thin foam; if the volume’s above ‘3’, you can make out the beat. If it’s on ‘7’ you know what song’s playing. If you’re McMurphy, you have the volume set at ’23’, which means the mini-speakers are overwhelmed to the point where it’s basically white noise. That’s why he’s yelling.

“Hey buddy, I’m not sure if I was your lawyer, do you need some help?” James asked.

“Oh man, George Bush and that muthafucka’ Rumsfeld,” he screamed while shaking his head, “Man they’re in my head. GET OUT MY HEAD MUTHAFUCKAS!” We looked at each other, this guy needs some serious help.

“I tell you what, come with us over to the office and we’ll get you taken care of,” James said while flicking his head in the direction we’d been walking. The plan was to get him to the office, sit him down and try to keep him calm until we could get a health services rep to come pick him up. How does someone like this get thrown on the street?

“Aight man. Man, SHUT THE FUCK UP, you bitches! SHUT. UP.” McMurphy screamed behind himself, space he’d emptied from his earlier yelling. We now had a five foot radius around the four of us.

“Man, they got their voices in my brain and they keep talkin’ shit, man. They won’t leave me alone.” He kept swatting at his ears. Clearly he’d had practice with this because he came extremely close to his headphones, but didn’t once clip them off his ears. Jesus, he’s clearly had issues for a long ass time and yet he’s still wondering the streets?

“First them niggas stole my dog, now they trying to steal my thoughts, this shit is fucked. Yo bitch, LEAVE ME ALONE,” he screamed at the still-empty sidewalk behind him, “You bitches ain’t stealing no mo’ shit outta my head. Y’all can’t keep takin’ pictures of me, you fuckin’ bitches!”

The yelling, swatting, and head-shaking continued, even as we took him into the lobby. McMurphy was starting to worry the receptionists and other waiting clients, so we moved him to the lunchroom and bought him some Sun Chips and a Coke. He quieted a bit, but the constant chatter with voices unheard was incessant, as was the head-shaking. One of the receptionists told “John,” another black attorney that one of his most memorable clients was back, so John punched in the lunch room code and smiled to McMurphy,

“McMurphy my man, what’s going on?”

McMurphy stopped shaking his head and for the first time in at least an hour, he said nothing; he was in complete shock. His mouth was opened, you could still see a yellowish-brown mush, the soda was stuck in limbo between his lap and his face, and his eyes were at least the same size as Ed’s (the guy that beat up immigrants); McMurphy was freaked out. His eyes started ping-ponging between John and James. Faster, faster, and faster, as his brow started to make a ‘V’ on his shiny, narrow forehead. All of his worries regarding George Bush, theft, and satellite conspiracies vanished. He only had one question now,

“Which one you muthafuckas is my lawyuh?”

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