Virtual Flaneurism

WHY DO I LOVE THIS SO MUCH?

Earlier

I made it through today listening to his song. Somewhat embarrassing...

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I'm coming towards a bit of a crossroads right now, and I am going to unfairly subject you to having to read about it. I've been having a bit of a lousy week, compounded by the fact that my summer externship is coming to the end and I'm becoming convinced I might not return to law school in the fall. The law has not turned out to be what I imagined it was - not the avenue towards effecting change I was looking for - and I've found myself lamenting my exit from teaching more and more as the year and the summer goes on. Just this morning I was swarmed by a mass of Aryan-looking preschoolers on the Metro and felt my heart leap from my chest, wishing I was on the way to a field trip with my gaggle of four year olds rather than off to the office. There are a half dozen tabs open on my work browser at this very moment outlining admissions requirements to M.S. of Education programs; after a year of doing "something else", the thought of going back to school (as a teacher and as a student) is like the promise of a cold shower in August.

I dated someone a few months ago who loathed his job (a lawyer) but couldn't seem to think of an alternative to this career that he disliked. We actually spent a good amount of time picking through the issue, trying to figure out what, if anything, he could do with his life. I pushed him to think of crazy things, irresponsible things, absolutely impossible things; what would he do if he had the time, the money, and the ability. After several dates of the same complaints and the same suggestions, I found that the most I'd dragged out of him was a lukewarm desire to move to Paris and maybe purchase a bike. Soon after he became a guy that I dated, rather than one I was dating, and this was likely part of why. His discontent over his job didn't faze me - I find my favorite people are those who are introspective enough to be constantly questioning and changing what they're doing - but I couldn't get a handle around his dearth of personal ambition, his lack of any aspiration. Part of me just cannot believe that someone could not have any dream: I personal have so many things I would do with my life that I find myself constantly mourning the ones I've left behind, lamenting that I can't horcrux myself into seven bodies who can teach and write and act and play and all those wonderful things I keep tucked away in my back pocket. I find myself viewing a lack of some dream - even if it's just a pipe dream - as a sort of self-defeat, a retreat away from yourself. It is easy to stay unhappy; it is terrifying to jump into change.

I've been surprised by the number of discontent people I've found since moving to D.C. I adore the District, and feel like my puzzle piece fits more snugly here than it ever did in New York. Still, I can't shake the realization that so many people here (and, to be fair, New York was no different) are unhappy with what they're doing. The District and New York seems to be overflowing with people on the verge of leaving or dreaming about changing their scenery. I imagine escape (or thoughts of it) is the human reaction to discontentment, and I behave no differently: whenever I was feeling upset and friendless in New York, I'd go for a run past the factory ruins on the Brooklyn side of the East River and daydream about taking an unannounced and unexpected trip to Egypt. In my daydream I'd vanish inside a sandy, mahogany-walled bar and sip beer from a stein while my friends and family wracked the globe for any trace of my whereabouts. I've revisited that particular escape dream a couple times since crash landing in the District, a dream that is less about my desire to visit Northeast Africa and more a yearning to vanish into my unconscious mind's idea of ultimate anonymity. But I never do take this escape, never have gone to Egypt, and these daydreams are just a detour to my actually reckoning with the issue. I worry that someday I'm going to find it easier to live in the dream of escape, and let my real dreams fade around me.

As I said, it's been a lousy week, and I've been searching around for someone and something to distract me. Fittingly, I find the friends who have helped me the most seem to be the ones who appear most content. In turn, I've been surprised by the number of people whose company has provided less of a distraction, getting me out of my funk, and become more of a mirror reflecting back my present feelings of uncertainty.

A disjointed reflection: Back in February, or May, or some abstract point after our January grades arrived, I found myself so disillusioned by my law school classes that I checked out and started posting to this blog. To my friends' (vocalized) chagrin, this often occurred during classtime, where those in neighboring seats wanting to pay attention were blssed with an endless stream of knights riding narwhals flashing across my laptop screen (surpringly - or perhaps unsurprisingly, considering the absolute fickleness of law school marks - my grades appear to have been completely unaffected by my choice to ignore class lectures and roam the blogosphere).

My tuning out was coupled with unpredictable rants to these same friends about what I felt was the arbitrary nature of law school. In retrospect, I was a large pain in the patoot for the majority of the spring semester and shouldapologize to most of these friends for not dropping me like two bits at a Kansas auction. One instance in particular, I remember raving about something - undoubtedly a competition of some kind that unnecessarily pitted me and my classmates for some meager board membership - and getting snapped at by a friend.

"Just because you don't like law school," he said, "doesn't mean that it isn't important to a lot of US."

This is absolutely true, and again, I fully regret making my friends the victims of my personal crisis for a several month long block. However, my response (bitter and spiteful and overly righteous as it was at the time) I believe was equally on target:

"I was just saying how I feel," I said. "If it bothers you, then maybe you have doubts about law school yourself. If you were convinced that what you were doing is right, then my opinion would mean jack shit."

Edison said that restlessness and discontent are the first necessities of progress. I think that is true, as long as you don't roost there. Discontent is only useful if it gets you to change. So many people have told me that law schools is atrocious, that law internships are mind-rending, that the first years of working as a lawyer are exhausting and often lack a meaningful return investment (besides the cash). However, they say, on the horizon there is a better job. I just don't believe that anymore. I am not willing to risk wasting my life, which I know could be happy, on a promise that could be little more than an adult version of the telephone game. And I wish more people would talk - talk to anyone, talk to me, talk to themselves - about why they're discontent, because I know the only way I get through this crap is by flapping my gums at anyone and everyone who will listen. So many people around this place seem unhappy, but everyone seems so unwilling to really do anything about it.

Today is my nephew Lou's third birthday, and in his honor, I feel the urge to post a short section from a piece I wrote while in college about his birth. Feel free to ignore/skip/leave me a bitchy comment about how this blog ain't for self-promotion or nephew-egrandizing/offer me a swanky book deal/dance the dance en fuego/do the Freddie.

I spent the spring of my sister’s pregnancy listening to James Taylor’s “Sweet Baby James” on repeat on my iPod. The song was a lullaby that Taylor had written for a nephew who had been born and named after him while he was on the road. I had always loved Taylor’s music, but it wasn’t until my sister became pregnant that I came across this song. The story behind the music spoke to me. Having just started guitar lessons, I worked out the chords and began practicing a rendition of the song in my apartment. Part of me hoped I could play the song for the baby, or that my sister would be equally inspired by the story and name the kid James or even better Michael, after me. My affection for this unborn baby was matched only by my embarrassingly self-serving desire for him to bear my name.

Unfortunately, my sister and her husband did not choose to give the name James or Michael to their baby. Part of that was my fault: ever lazy, I stopped practicing the song and never gave them a chance to be touched (as surely they would have been) by my playing. But the two future parents also insisted on cycling through a battery of odd and awkward names. My brother in-law’s personal favorite, Jebediah, conjured up the image of a polygamist lumberjack living in the woods of Montana, while my sister had gotten her pick, Gabriella, from a dog whose owner she’d once babysat for. Family members regularly vetoed these names, but to no avail. Taking an alternate approach, I plagued them with numerous superior over-Americanized names.

“What about, say, Henry or Thomas or Michael? Those are good names. Michael is a good name. What about Michael? I really like the name Michael. Michael Michael Michael Michael. I don't know any dogs named Michael.”

They were not open to persuasion. The decision came down from above: the unborn boy – and a boy it was to be – would be named Lucian.

“Lucian?” I asked when my mother told me over the phone. I jotted it down: LEUTIAN. “Like the islands? In Alaska?” I was familiar with the Aleutian Islands. My grandfather had been stationed there during World War II working radios.

My mother sighed. “No, not like the islands. It’s Irish. Lucian.” She spelled it out letter by letter. I scribbled out my mistake and rewrote it correctly, still wondering where they had discovered this unusual name. My mother added, “They’ll call him Luc.”

I frowned. “Like Jean-Luc Picard?”

“Yes. With a C. But they’re calling him Lukie.” A nickname for a nickname. I was as impressed by the name’s flexibility as I was with my sister’s stubbornness for naming her child something utterly obscure. I had to admit that Lucian was definitely better than Jebediah or borrowed pet names.

“Lukie is cute.” I said, jotting that down too.

“But that’s not with a K,” she said, somehow guessing at my second spelling mistake.

I narrowed my eyes. “Then how is she spelling it?”

“With the C.”

“A C?”

“Yes.”

I was confused. “But that would be Lucy.”

My mother did not correct me, but continued in a low, serious tone. “I already tried to tell her that.”

I reeled with outrage at the future pummeling to which my sister was subjecting her son. I finished the conversation with my mother and dialed my sister’s phone. I thank God that she was home and there was no passage of time to dull my bewildered rage.

“Hello Mikey!” she said cheerfully into the receiver, but this was no time for phone courtesies.

“You cannot name your baby Lucy,” I blurted out. There was a short silence as she considered what I’d said.

“His name is Luc, not Lucy. I’m just spelling it with a C because Luc has a C. I can’t put a K in his name if there isn’t a K. There’s no K.”

I scoffed. It was apparent that she had used up all her creativity in naming the boy Lucian and saved none for nicknames.

“What is my name?” I asked her. It was an easy question.

“Michael.”

“And what is my nickname?”

“Your nickname is Mike.”

She paused.

“Oh.”

I hung up the phone content that I had saved my nephew from a lifetime of wet willies and Indian burns.

Baby Lucian, as he was called for the first few weeks of his life, was born on Friday the 13^th in July. Born in the seventh month of the (two thousandth and) seventh year, his birth date was riddled with superstition. It was no surprise to me that his birth weight came in at seven pounds, seven ounces. This, I told my friends, was only a small taste of how special this baby was going to be.

I was working in New York for the summer, so my first glimpse of Lukie was through photographs my father had taken at the hospital. I eagerly showed shots of my nephew to all of my friends. They all remarked on how similar he and I looked – and as a proud uncle, I had to agree – and there was a general consensus among men, women and pets that he was the most adorable baby ever born on planet Earth, bar none.

One photograph stuck out as the group favorite; ever the proud grandpa, my father had taken a shot of a nude Lukie spread eagle on the hospital changing table.

“Dear god,” my roommate cried, looking at the photo. “That baby’s testicles are enormous!”

Surprised and eager to see what he meant, my friends and I all huddled around the computer. I don’t know how I’d missed it: they were gargantuan. Concerned, I searched the internet for information about proper baby testicle size. It was one of the less acceptable phrases I77’d ever typed into a search engine, but for Lukie I risked the pedophilia charges. My search yielded good results: it turned out that massive baby testicles were normal, or at least that they occurred often. Lukie was an average baby.

Still, I was as proud as my father. “That baby has bigger testicles than you do,” I told my roommate. Though offended, he did not have the balls to disagree.

Old Spice guy responds to user comments

"Now this is the Law of the Jungle—as old and as true as the sky;
And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die.
As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back—For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.
Wash daily from nose-tip to tail-tip; drink deeply, but never too deep; And remember the night is for hunting, and forget not the day is for sleep.
The jackal may follow the Tiger, but, Cub, when thy whiskers are grown, Remember the Wolf is a hunter—go forth and get food of thine own.
Keep peace with the Lords of the Jungle—the Tiger, the Panther, the Bear; And trouble not Hathi the Silent, and mock not the Boar in his lair.
When Pack meets with Pack in the Jungle, and neither will go from the trail, Lie down till the leaders have spoken—it may be fair words shall prevail.
When ye fight with a Wolf of the Pack, ye must fight him alone and afar, Lest others take part in the quarrel, and the Pack be diminished by war.
The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, and where he has made him his home, Not even the Head Wolf may enter, not even the Council may come.
The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, but where he has digged it too plain, The Council shall send him a message, and so he shall change it again.
If ye kill before midnight, be silent, and wake not the woods with your bay, Lest ye frighten the deer from the crops, and the brothers go empty away.
Ye may kill for yourselves, and your mates, and your cubs as they need, and ye can; But kill not for pleasure of killing, and SEVEN TIMES NEVER KILL MAN.
If ye plunder his Kill from a weaker, devour not all in thy pride; Pack-Right is the right of the meanest; so leave him the head and the hide.
The Kill of the Pack is the meat of the Pack. Ye must eat where it lies; And no one may carry away of that meat to his lair, or he dies.
The Kill of the Wolf is the meat of the Wolf. He may do what he will, But, till he has given permission, the Pack may not eat of that Kill.
Cub-Right is the right of the Yearling. From all of his Pack he may claim Full-gorge when the killer has eaten; and none may refuse him the same.
Lair-Right is the right of the Mother. From all of her year she may claim One haunch of each kill for her litter, and none may deny her the same.
Cave-Right is the right of the Father—to hunt by himself for his own. He is freed of all calls to the Pack; he is judged by the Council alone.
Because of his age and his cunning, because of his gripe and his paw, In all that the Law leaveth open, the word of the Head Wolf is Law.
Now these are the Laws of the Jungle, and many and mighty are they; But the head and the hoof of the Law and the haunch and the hump is—Obey!"

- Rudyard Kipling

Important Documents in Comic Sans

"It’s about time Comic Sans earned some respect. When Cleveland Cavs owner Dan Gilbert authored a scathing letter of hate directed at LeBron James after his decision to leave C-Town, there were apparently no other fonts that illustrated his anger quite as well as Comic Sans. And it’s a good thing too, because I feared that Sans would never get the credit it deserved, and from a respected member of the community at that.

If other important documents had been issued in Comic Sans, I truly believe the world would be a different place. Who knows? We might even have let Nixon stay in office if we saw his resignation letter written in the type of the gods. Hit the jump for a few more examples."