Friday, August 27, 2004

It's all back to nothing happening, apparently. Or maybe I haven't been opening my eyes. B bought a Subaru wagon this week. We took it to the shop on Wednesday, and I picked it up yesterday. Taking it to the shop gave me a good excuse to get the bike out. I biked from the shop (at N 80th) down to Fremont, took in a disgraceful game of football by the shite in black and white, then biked home after stopping off to get a new brake. Yesterday I took Old Mario back up the Fremont hill, which nearly killed me. I'm almost 30, I look in reasonably good shape, but that hill was ferocious. I'll have to get up it more often. Note to readers, because my bike is a Bianchi, and because it's pretty old, I call it "Old Mario."

Riding by two wheels gave me a further appreciation for the scenic beauty of this city. And for the crap condition of most of the streets. Jesus, I thought Portland's roads were bad. I'm going to need a new bike even sooner now, which forget about it financially.

Finally some good news, though. I'm going to be in a three-month tutorial on trial advocacy run by the state bar's young lawyer's division. Hopefully this add some spice to my cover letters and resume, and for sure it will get me some contacts and CLE credits.

B is in a bit of tooth pain right now, since she had some dental work done earlier this week. O is better and is a much happier dog in the wagon than he ever was in the little truck. Oh god, you know your blogging sucks when you resort to life-reports on the SO and the pet. Why did I pick this up again??
An interesting quote by an Iraqi from an article in The Guardian, following their loss to Italy in the bronze medal game of the Olympics:

"Iraq was representing the Arab world and we are very proud of Iraq. This team has brought joy to out hearts. It's the only joy we've had since the end of the war," said Ahmed Naash, 21.

I think this quote is interesting because it came from Reuters news agency, which has consistently portrayed the occupation in Iraq as an on-going disaster. In fact, by reading most Reuters stories, you would get the impression that the occupation of Iraq has been nothing but an abject failure. I don't subscribe to that point of view, based on the reading I've done on various blogs, both from America and Iraq. That's not to say that there aren't still areas of intense fighting (Najaf, for one), but clearly there are sections of Iraq where the people (or at least some people) consider the war to have ended.

What that says to me is, at least for these areas, the occupation has been a success and the isolated areas of fighting are just that: isolated. It's possible I'm extrapolating too much based on this one quote, but at the very least it gives me reason for hope.

Tuesday, August 17, 2004

I used to love the Olympics. Even now, soaked in commercials and soft-biographies with too-loud crap music, some parts of some Olympians are remarkably easy to watch. I quit blogging (twice) for a while. I felt like I ran out of things to write. Actually, I hit a rut in the road of life, and I'm happy to write that I'm out of the rut, and even happier to write that this rut was extremely short-lived, all things considered.

A change of scenery has done me a world of good: as you know I'm on the 8th floor. Actually, 8 has played a big part of my life. My favorite Olympics: Seoul '88. Best year of my life: I was 8. Number I like to wear when playing soccer: 8. In high school I was tangentially in a clique of ne'er-do-wells who all had the number 8 in their phone numbers. It was mystifying to me that the nominal leader of the pack would point out such an uncool mundanity (because he was nothing if not cool), but nevertheless... You couldn't be in the clique unless you had an 8 in your phone number. My phone number's suffix was 5371. So it follows I was only tangentially in, and I ne'er ne'er did well. My two (soon to be three) best friends in all of North America and Jurisprudence (though we may not always agree on either) live at 888 8th ave., apartment 8T. Before you try looking for them, remember that North America is a pretty damn big place, and these people love to shoot guns and throw ninja stars. And they have not one, not two, but eight feral cats in their apartment. The number of lovers I've had is 8. Or thereabouts. I had two skateboards with four wheels each, for a total of 8 skateboard wheels. I get up around 8. It seems like 8 years since I started looking for a job. I can eat about 8 ribs before I have to take a breather, 8 minutes is about as long as I can run without getting tired.

Like I said I quit blogging for a while because I thought I'd run out of things to write. I was foolish for thinking that. In the time I stopped blogging: I learned how to do some house-framing. Somebody at my mom's work died of the flesh-eating bacteria. I moved to a new city (how's that for "nothing to write about?"). My dog began this weird habit of whining for no particular reason, which gives me some pause given the unreported seismic activity around here. I sold my little truck. I bought a DeWalt 18V cordless drill (not the XRP) and started building treehouses for a part-time living. I got over my dread of impending biological warfare, but substituted for it a dread of perpetual unemployment.

I'll be carrying on this blog for a while, I hope. I may get bored with it, but it won't be nearly as serious as I've tried to make the other blogs. No point in it, really. I'll post again later.

I look out the 8th floor window, and I see the 8th floor of the opposite building. Living here is easy, when you can go indoors, when you've got a girlfriend who puts up with a lot and a dog who loves you. I went out with my friend D tonight. She knows she's passed the California state bar. She knows it so well she can afford to be fatalistic, and she can afford to say "I'll just take it again" without having to say "If if have to..."

B says the nice thing about having separate bedrooms would be that nobody would have to wait for anybody to come to bed. But she'd miss me. I love B with all my heart. She says it's ok.

D and I went out, had a couple of beers, and talked about law school. We talked about why she was so busy, why I finished 12th bottom from the class, and what it means for me finding a job in a saturated market. We talked about her mom, her dad, her Frankie Sinatra, and then she left. I bought a slice of pizza for a homeless guy. I heard him ask the guy behind me for a cigarette right after.

B and I talk about if there's a rank thing in our building. Like if the 12th floor people feel superior to the 3rd floor people. I don't think so... I think it comes down to corner apartments. And views of the sound. The 3rd floor probably doesn't have much of a view. Neither does this 8th floor apartment, unless you stick your neck out. But then, you often have to stick your neck out before you'll be rewarded with much of anything. Including, it seems, a view.

That's why I dig W, because he's stuck his neck out.

I love our new p lace, but it's going to suck in January when I have to take the dog out to pee in the middle of a storm.

Horns honk, sirens blail, sometimes we hear gunshots. The fountain spits its water on the walk and our lives keep pushing forward.