The Holiday Season amidst

Ramblings Post #78
Life is like a cookie. Or like a cheese log. Or like an oyster. Or a box of chocolates. Or maybe even like a ice cream sundae with caramel and whipped creme. Well, not really, life is like life...and that about sums it up. There you go, reality for Christmas. And I didn't even wrap it.

I've calculated that over the years, since I've been working at my present job, I've not used upwards of 90 vacation days allotted to me, out of the possible around 120 or so I should have had. To put that in context, if the days rolled over - which they do not - and took them all starting in January, I would have to come back to work until the second week in May. It maybe for this reason, people think of me an a workaholic. Or at least Sporty used to.

These holidays are no different. The, for lack of a better term, gentleman who fills in for me when I'm out is off and so I'm stuck. In the office, watching the hours flit by I wonder how soon it will be before my brain turns to mush. They've unblocked Youtube, so when it gets really boring I watch British comedies I would much rather buy on DVD, but that they don't sell in this country. Right now it's Hyperdrive with Nick Frost of Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz. It's Star Trek if the Kirk were an idiot, Spock an psychopath, and Star Fleet were run like a real government agency. Really a good show.


The holidays went well. Family is all well, and life is well, lifing right along.

My time with Sporty was short, but lovely. Sunday, my RP hollers at me that right after Christmas he's having a Sunday drop in, a little food, a little drink and some folks through to watch the Falcons game...or rather, let the Falcons game play in the background while we play cards (spades, bid whist, whatever). A little earlier that morning however, Sporty hit me that we'd get together as soon as she is out of church, so I'm planning on doing two great things - seeing her AND having brunch, my favorite meal. But she hasn't hit me by eleven, so I figure I'll run over and show my face at my RPs, and then roll out to see her when she calls.

The drop in doesn't drop, but rather avalanches. People just keep showing up, and instead of the 10 or so folks I thought would be dropping through, it's 35 or so people. But I'm a romantic (or sucker, your call) and although there are plenty of women there, I hit up Sporty around 2pm and tell her to "remind the Reverend that she is going to church again next week, so he doesn't have to explain the whole God thing today". I thought it was funny.

So she invites me over to where she is right then. And in the midst of a party, a nice little set where the ratio of men to woman is heavy in my favor and everyone is festive...I get my coat and walk out the door.

Life is about Priorities.

Over there me and her talked and talked and hung out and watched the game and got accosted by small child and, well at least for me, basked in the personal warmth of seeing someone you wanted to see. She liked to little book I bought her for Christmas, and the little book that I made and it was as an enjoyable a two hours as I've ever spent. As we hugged in the street saying our good byes it was like we didn't want to let go. And she told me love me...or rather she shouted she loved me from the curb as I got into my car, as though she'd forgot to say it and was making sure to get it in. I shouted it back. We're out of sync...but apparently both want to get back. So it was a Merry Christmas.

I rolled back out to my RPs spot where the party was still in full swing. A head or two missed me, but most hadn't realized I'd slipped out. Spanky noticed and because she didn't know where I'd been, Serve was non-committal (for the record, Serve does not like even the idea of Sporty). Then the day just kept getting better, as the Cowboys beat the dogsnot out of the Redskins! Oh, how I need the Cowboys to end up with a No. 2 seed to end the hate, er...piss off the Cowboy haters. *insert snide cackle here*

Soon school will start again - one of my professors was nice enough to send the reading assignment the day before Christmas Eve - and work will continue as, well, work has a tendency to do. It's the end of the year, start of a new decade, a start of new...something.

By the way, I'm not really a workaholic, I'm quite the hedonist. Well, maybe I used to be quite the hedonist, but I'm hedonism semi-retirement. Or so I like to think. Maybe. But that's not important right now.

Barkeep, that really was rambling...wow. Something strong, I stop drinking on Thursday and I need to get my last licks in!

Christmas in the City/Country

Ramblings Post #77
It's Christmas time, oh, sing the joy of the holiday and let us rejoice in the company of men as we celebrate the birth of Jesus. Or...it's Christmas time and there is a sale at the mall, my list is long, my money short and let us come together to shake our booties, get bent on good liquor and get one last shot of freaky sneaky before NEXT year, when we'll never do something like that again...again.

It's Christmas Eve, and I'm broke. I spent my last few pennies on my Grandmother, my mother and Sporty. The last one of these had an emergency and I came through for her, but that means as one of my facebook friends put it..."due to the recession, the period for Christmas gift giving has been extended to Easter." I cut it close, but not so close as I forgot family. You gotta take care of family.

In a few hours I'll gas up the Pacer, pack up the gifts and head down to South Carolina for two days of holiday cheer. My mother is gearing up for her hip surgery, so other than the one trip to see my Grandmother, I might not have to spend the holiday in the car! Yay, me!

And if I'm really lucky, when I get back all my stuff will still be here. As I've mentioned several times before, I live in a neighborhood in "transition"...with no real neighbors. Which seemed like a brilliant concept when the transition was actually in progress, but now with it stalled, it just makes the house a tempting target. Oh well, you roll the dice.

I hollered at Sporty, and when I asked if her schedule while in town would permit any hang out time with yours truly (I'm fairly certain her girls have got her booked up trying to catch up) she said she would make time. Which means to some degree she thinks I'm important. Which felt good. And it will give me a chance to give her the book I made for her as her Christmas present, although she says I've already done too much for her already.

We'll see.

But the next week is looking right, come payday I'll be straight, I got a NYE party already lined up thanks to my RP, and I might have to start throwing out food I've got so much.

Barkeep. Give me some of that Eggnog Alizè!

Just like riding a bicycle

Ramblings Post #76
If you've been doing something for a while, you tend to get good at it. I've been at the current job for seven years and at this point, I can condense five or six hours of work into two intense hours. You do learn it and know it. But I've been hanging out since I was ...well, let's just say I've closed out my second decade. I've had my good time, some of your good time, and I'm borrowing against someone else's good time. And so though I've been away from the "game" for a minute with school, when we lace'em up and hit the hardwoods, I'm still hitting three's from the top of the arc. Rebounding still not so hot.

I hadn't been out and about in a long time. With work, school, studying for school, sleeping and the occasional bathroom trip, I really haven't had the time. I'm guessing Sporty and I would have been Monday night or Sunday night regulars had she still been in town. But with three weeks of the kicking it until I head back to the legal gulag, it was amazing how fast it all came back to me.

Friday night at 5:30, I'm still at the office messing around when my RP calls from 5 years ago. By that I mean: There is a party happening somewhere in Atlanta right now or in the next hour, this is the host, here is the address or some directions and... go! We hadn't saddled up and rode like that in a while.

So I run by the house and spiff up a touch then roll out to the Christmas party for an Atlanta law firm being held in the event space on the 50th floor of 191 Peachtree Tower. Which means things haven't changed all that much. Back in the day the invite would be a mansion somewhere or an invitation only spot where my name would somehow end up on the guest list, so the only thing that has happened is that we've gotten older.

The spot is nice, the usual crowd is in attendance and apparently women can smell the legal on you. I wasn't there 10 minutes before I'm chatting with a few chicks and getting the look from a few more. I want to say I worked it like the smooth player that I am, but the reality is I'm so out of the game I put myself on the bench a few times that evening, not sliding in like I know I can when confronted with a possibility.

Saturday Sporty hits me and surprise, she's going to be in town the week of Christmas. Which is like WOW. I'm not sure what's going on. But I do know it means I have to clean up the house like for real. And just when I was going to break out and do the little bit of shopping (I'm a college student, and I'm broke so the operative word was little) .

Saturday night was....how can I describe this? Long? Tiring? Interesting? Saturday night we had the annual "Come as you are" Cocktail party. We invite our folk, we gather some toys for children and have a nog to celebrate the passing of another year. Okay, we gather up as much alcohol as we can, crank up the beat and let it all hang out until we can't take it no more. We're closing in a decade with this party, and it just keeps getting bigger. Then the Cowboys beat the Saints and the night is just looking all spectacular! I also broke a personal rule and went out for the third night in a row. I'm getting too old to keep doing this, and a while back I said that three nights in a row was just showing off...but here I was again.

Out at the "Mansion", we set up the DJ booth, iced down the drinks and got started around 8pm. I was still serving at 3am. I know we don't do it as often as we used to, but I need to talk to RP about the good ole days when we'd shut it down around 1am just because.

At this point I'd like to ask God why he sends them all at once.

So I'm at the party and who should pop up by...let's call her Swift. I've known Swift for a while, about my age, from NY with a noticeable accent, and apparently...really into me. I ran into her last summer but we were just passing ships in the night. So she pops up a Christmas time. She and her buddies stayed until long after the set was over, hanging out and dancing and all the other after party futzing around that happens when the party's over but you want to play that one more song, or do that dance you hadn't done in a while. Swift seemed like suddenly she was interested instead of our normal flirting and then "see ya" we normally do.

So like, what's going on? I mean really going on...

I think I'm reading way too much into anything right now. I'm suddenly missing the mindless intensity and attention to detail of law school, and that's saying something.

Barkeep...Tall glass of Ice Water. Make it a double.

The Record Report

Ramblings Post #75
The year 2009 draws to a close, and I'm slowly coming to grips with not being a kid anymore. Don't get me wrong, even in my lumpy form in ill fitting clothes driving my Road Hazard Turbo 05' I still am the recipient of the occasional glance of the young chippie. That or they've mistaken me for their father. In either case, it means age is just a number. A big number, but just a number.

One of the many signs of old age is when you think the current music is horrible, and that they they don't like they used to "back when I was growing up" . And this may be the case for me, as lately music...well, the more popular rap music of today, seems to have taken the term "quality control" to new heights, or lows depending on your point of view. This little tirade was prompted when listening to the radio this morning on the way to work, Jay Z's new single, the one about New York, came on....so I changed the station...and then Jay Z's new single came on...so I changed the station, again....and then Jay Z's new single came on...so I changed the station, again again....and then Jay Z's new single came on...so I turned to the gospel station.

As you may or may not have guessed, I'm not a big Jay Z fan. I think the last song of his that I liked was "I Just Wanna Love Ya" in 2000.

Don't even get me started on the mess that is Lil Wayne.

And if I as a consumer have no interest in the two "hottest" rappers in the game, then maybe it's just that I'm getting old and this is just a sign of the times.

And you would be wrong.

I like a lot of "new" rap. Atlanta's own Gucci Mane's "Wasted" I found catchy before they played into oblivion. Kanye's "Big Ego" was quirky but likable, I just got turned on to Fred the Godson (though he is a little gangsta for my usual tastes) and Blitz the Ambassador , so I do like some of the new stuff. Even Officer Ricky (Rick Ross) is okay. But these guys? Well....

Jay Z lucked out, then I guess worked that good fortune to his benefit. That good fortune being that the rap game was bereft of any talent or heat in the late 90's. And Wayne gets by on image and inertia. He has the prototypical "rapper" look that makes us mad when suburban white kids emulate it, yet "we" celebrate it. The thing about these two "rappers" that bothers me the most is that according to them neither can be bothered to put pen to paper prior to walking into the studio. And their songs sound like it.

Jigga is at least practiced at freestyle to some degree, but his rhymes have a Flavor-aid feel to them, as opposed to authentic Kool-aid. Instead of the complex construction that is the NY norm, this Rockafella original comes across as light in the cookies, but with good production. In a subgenre that places heavy emphasis on wordplay, Jay to me appears to be a really popular middleweight, and not a heavyweight.

Wayne on the other hand, just needs to stop. That latest thing currently in heavy rotation for no reason in which he laughs between lines is so bad, it's gone on through back around to good and then back to bad again. At least that Jay Z song I don't like has a loose theme - very loose - but Wayne just appears to be in the studio messing around. The single is almost like one of those old time skits rappers used to put on the albums to deflect all the gunplay and being black angst they displayed. Not that I'm hating that you can just throw something together and get paid, but as the theoretical consumer, I don't appreciate being insulted either. And that's what that is...insulting.

For the record, the last Lil Wayne song I liked was "Stuntin' Like My Daddy", although his wordplay is horrible there as well, the beat is killer.

The occasional one off that is nonsensical or just pure braggadocio is okay, even expected in the rap game. A continuing series of them quickly becomes tiring. Over several years it becomes wearisome. In a four minute song we're talking about roughly two minutes of rap...or three scores of sixteen bars, not including chants and general screaming into the microphone... not a whole lot of writing. And it's not like either one of them are "battle rapping", so I don't really see the big thrill.

Maybe I'm just getting old. But more likely, I'm not.

Barkeep. For old times sake, a Schlitiz Malt Liquor Bull and bag of pork skins...

Nights out in SPACE...

Ramblings Post #74
They don't miss you until you're gone, and you don't realize how much you had until you've wasted it. None of that applies here. After a long semester, and a longer final (Ha!) I'm back on the scene with a gangsta lean...temporarily. Until January I'm back in the game, just hoping to get in a few reps and maybe score a TD or two without having to resort to the trick plays. We'll see. Until then...here we go!

So, for the first Friday in three months that I don't have anything to do, I put on my spiffy and head out to Serve's birthday party. She's holding it with S-to be-named at a little spot on the Southwest side of Atlanta called SPACE.

It's the Space in SPACE...which isn't all that much.

SPACE is one of those spots that frequently pop up in Atlanta. I'd been to Rathbuns and Krog bar and a host of other spots that 125 years ago, or 5 years ago, used to be something industrial and so it has lots of raw space. And if you polish the concrete floor, seal the windows and put in some heat and A/C, then stick in a kitchen and bar and you turn around and you've got a restaurant/lounge. SPACE is exactly that. All that's missing is the "authentic" Atlanta Heritage Building concept, in that it "used to be" this specific historical spot. That and it's missing decent parking.

The evening starts off funny. I'm picking up Slim, who suddenly no longer is. We spend fifteen minutes at her house because suddenly nothing fits anymore. Then because the eVite says the party starts at 7pm, we breeze in at 8pm...and are an hour early because the party doesn't really start until 9pm. No worries, the spot has food and bar so I figure we can amuse ourselves for an hour. So I ask the waitress if the bar has any whiskey worth talking about. She doesn't know but goes to check. There selection is piss poor, so I order the basic with some Sprite. Then, she looks me dead in my eye and asks seriously: "Do you want them in separate glasses?"

That became the joke of the evening.

Slim and I argued over her bad instructions until S-to-be-named showed up and went over what the evite was supposed to have said. We then all decided that somewhere else in Atlanta there was a birthday party happening that Slim had agreed to be at, and that they probably were very salty with her for not showing up.

Then came the next great joke of the evening. SPACE was hosting three seperate events that evening, the birthday party I was attending, a second birthday party in the back room and what I guess was a third birthday party. There may have been a fourth event, I really wasn't paying attention. But what are the odds, as it turns out the party in the back room: I know those guys. And the chicks with the third birthday party: I know them too!

I go to one spot and run into three events where I know someone? The term Atlanta is too small quickly comes to mind. That or I know entirely too many people. So I spent the evening bouncing back and forth from party to party, seeing a great deal of folks I hadn't seen in ages. The space, as most spaces are, was laid out improperly to maximize the crowd flow, but then that's great for meeting people. It was a pretty fun night.

I almost got my swagger back. Then i remembered I hate that term, so I decided to get something else back.

Barkeep...first, I want the liquor and the soda in the same glass....okay? Now....

The Office Moguls...the continuing saga

Ramblings Post #73
There are some people who, when you think about it, don't really know. You know? I mean they really don't have a clue about how the world works outside of that insular little bubble they've somehow managed to construct. Sometimes it's because of money, sometimes it's ideals, and other times it's just they're completely oblivious. And then sometimes, it's because you're a Mogul...even though you work with the rest of us.

Naive Mogul is back at the stocks. Apparently his father has given him a few more dollars to play with. He asked one of the actual learned and disciplined investors for advice, and because neither of them do any real work I half listened to them discuss strategies for like Chatty Mogul was there (thank God he wasn't). It's funny because the actual investor, who has dedicated money from each check going to an investment account he manages using tools he actually paid professional investors is being talked down to by Naive Mogul, who uses USA Today and Yahoo to guess at investments.

Daddy Mogul is experiencing the joys of contracting. He getting some work done on the house and his contractor, like every other contractor who doesn't have his own television show, hasn't shown up. He's spending more time "working from home" waiting for the contactor to show up than seems logical.

Chatty Mogul is...indecipherable. Chatty Mogul spent the last 24 months as the, hum...er.... "Head of Chicken Plucking Knowledge", the job he wasn't doing when he was doing everything else. Recently, at his own requests because the one monthly reports were just too much pressure, he was moved back to plain ole' "Chicken Plucking", something he did for two years before his promotion. Now of course, he's forgotten how to hold a chicken, how to pluck a chicken, and how to tell if a chicken has been plucked. A few days ago he spent the better part of hour avoiding his job arguing how he doesn't avoid doing his job.

And just when I thought it was over, because to do the regular "Chicken Plucking" your desk has to be much further away from mine and you actually have to pay attention to what you are doing and so where I thought I wouldn't be inundated with updates of the dear boy's life, management wants me to train Chatty Mogul on my job as a third tier backup person.

Oh joy.

If you see a news article "Man beats coworker after repeated dumb questions", that will be me.

Pray for me.

Barkeep, something to numb the pain.

And With A Gurgle of Frustration, It is Done. For now.

Ramblings Post #72
I'm trying to remember the exact moment I decided to go to law school. I haven't always wanted to be a lawyer. I remember the convincing argument that if I went in X amount of time I would be a lawyer, and if I didn't go in X amount of time I'd be the same age, but not a lawyer. It sounds a lot more convincing when you're tired of talking. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy law school, as it's nice to talk with people as smart as I or smarter - unlike the chikin' plucking job - but sometimes, I ask why did I do this to myself. And that sometimes is usually right around finals. Go figure.

A fast recap of my week of finals, for which I took an unprecedented week off from work to get ready for.

The first exam, a three hour lovefest which was open book, seems almost quaint looking back. When I got to a question on a case and I wasn't quite sure what the reading said, I actually looked the case up and reviewed it quickly for the answer! I felt confident leaving the room, taking time at the end to review my answers. A this point the test feels remarkably pedestrian for such an involved and in-depth subject.

The second exam I could still be working on right now. Three hours, no notes, you just had to know the material. Essentially one long fact pattern from which we had to discern the arguments and counter arguments - like say - actual lawyers who have to consider what the other side will say and be ready with a response. Because I'm part time, and just now finishing my first year, my class was split between actual first time law students and we semi-second year kids. I felt better about my response when I found out that most of the first year folks didn't bother to take the practice exam the prof was nice enough to give us, so I'm certain their responses weren't as crisp as they could have been. And in law school they grade on the curve.

Then, flush from my imagined success on two exams, mind still burbling with responses to the exam questions I could given, that Friday night right after the second exam I opened up the email from my last professor regarding his exam, my last. And, obviously a bit woozy and delirious from exam taking, I figured I had read it wrong and needed a quick lie down. In the morning it would all be clearer. And it the morning it was. Or wasn't depending on your point of view.

Now my first year of law school my profs would tell us about the test, but having never seen one I had no idea how to approach them. Then having seen them, it took a minute (a semester) to get my skills right. So looking at the instructions for this exam, and knowing how the prof phrased his questions I was - well, stunned.

The usual law exam is a few questions to check fact knowledge and a great deal of essay. Acres of essay. The second exam this semester was all essay. Lawyers are by in large storytellers, who weave a narrative of the facts into something persuasive for the best representation for their client. This semester, I had one professor that during class insisted our spoken answers have "a beginning, a middle, and an end" so that we get used to speaking in a narrative. A lot of our professors tell us they don't care what our final answer is as long as we can logically and persuasively defend it using the law, i.e, create a narrative.

I say all that to say that this was not that test.

This test had clear right and wrong answers. This final exam was black and white in field that specializes in shades of gray. I come from a small country town, and this exam when handed out was thicker than my hometown phone book. The questions just kept coming and coming. Page after page. And then essay questions that didn't really ask for a persuasive defense, but for specific terms and concepts. We had four hours to work on it, and I took three hours and fifty minutes.

Hopefully, I did okay. I hope.

Barkeep, the stuff you been keeping for a special occasion. Four semesters down, six to go.

Tiger by (well, after) some tail

Ramblings Post #71
There is an old country song that fits perfectly with this post. Written by the now wholly artificial Kenny Rogers, the opening strains of "The Gambler" used to be known to a generation. And today, facing a media onslaught and quite possibly an attack on the homefront, the words: "Know when to hold them, know when to fold them, know when to walk away, and know when to run" have rarely had greater resonance.

I'm not sure who is advising Tiger Woods right now. But whoever it is needs to give that young man the following advice : Get out your checkbook and proceed directly to divorce court.

Had he cheated with one girl or two, it might have been palatable to the wife and we could have had the "stand by your man" story of redemption that turns into a Lifetime movie and an Oprah Winfrey Book Club selection someday. But the Becky's kept falling out of the woodwork, each one a little cheaper than the last. And for a self described "boring guy" and family man, finding out you like'em "cheap and blond with it going on" and that you fly women around the world to hookup looks like hypocrisy. And if it ain't the cover up that gets you, it's the hypocrisy.

Now trailing only Wilt Chamberlain in scoring....

Tiger Woods is poised to enter the pantheon of the great rogues of history but he seems reluctant to embrace his new status. If he were single and trailing a string of women - ala Derek Jeter, or Tom Brady - we wouldn't have batted an eye. Rich and famous and taking advantage of women throwing themselves at you? Er, that's how it's SUPPOSED to work! But the married with kids, and acting as though you don't do this type of thing is the problem.

Which is why you need to: Get out your checkbook and proceed directly to divorce court.

I'm not sure what the media's fascination is with the destruction of the successful black male. Especially one married to the angelic blonde haired and blue eyed model type. Tiger hit OJ and Micheal Jackson saturation at times in the past few days. And while the media was busy digging into, forgive my odd allusion, Tiger's dirty drawers, it seems that Congress still hasn't passed a Health Care Reform Bill AND we announced we're shipping 30,000 more troops off to war. The vaunted fourth estate was dominated however with reports of a male golfer being sorry after he go caught doing what reportedly 60% of all married men do. Repeatedly. And with fairly attractive women.

Why is this news?

And since his "transgressions" have hit double digits, and his wife probably has some self respect left, the odds of her sticking around are right up there with the Detroit Lions making the playoffs. The reality is, what you're really waiting on is the season to end. My advice is just let it go.

With the right PR folks, this will all be old news in 18 months, and you can go back to picking up waitresses in Vegas or wherever and NOBODY will care. So, I reiterate: Get out your checkbook and proceed directly to divorce court.

Barkeep, a little burbon for me, and keep the waitress away from friend.

They got room for one more?

Ramblings Post #70
I've been Joe Social. I've been to more house parties and social events than I can count. I've kicked at mansions and at little hovels, with models and with people grandmas, eaten the finger food and gotten a plate, but even I never figured that if they were throwin' a party at the White House, I could just go. Even if the President is black.

At president Obama's first state dinner, two people put on some nice clothes, showed up at the White House and not only got in, but got up close and personal with the most protected man on the planet. I mean like hug me close.

As a person who has on more than one occasion shown up at a party dressed appropriately with no idea whose home it is and been welcomed. And eaten and drank heartily. And have been mistaken for the host (it's a aura I give off). And occasionally received a gift bag for coming. Well, let's just say I can understand where they're coming from.

Then today I read they are convening a panel in the House of Representatives to look into what happened.

Why?

Did we elect security specialists to the House? Do house reps understand security zones, checkpoint layout, all access passes and dignitary indigence? Has even one of these reps "worked" the door at an event? Worked as a roadie? Then this is just about a useless exercise. I understand bringing this to light and all, but you can take this two ways. One, you can fire everyone involved and make an example out of them, or Two, you can look into procedures, make some adjustments and keep the people who let the couple in on staff because I guarantee you that they'll never make that mistake again. And since the reps aren't in charge of hiring and firing, why are they involved? They need to keep this brief.

Then I read that the wife, Michaele Salahi, is a Reality TV hopeful.

Which brings me to the point of my post.


Do you see, television? Do you see what you've done to us? The infection that is The Hills, Real Housewifes of wherever we can find some suckers, Rock of Love and STDs, Jon and Kate plus his girlfriend and whoever else has spread to a National Security issue. It was bad enough when the balloon boy's parents sucked in the national media trying to get famous enough to get recognized at the Shoney's, now to get famous for doing nothing, people are doing something! And that something is risk prison time, threaten national security. Somewhere in Hollywood a producer was trying to track down the guy who shot four cops in Seattle and ....

..you know what, that's one's just too tasteless to even tell.

I admit it, I'd like to famous too. But I like to believe it's because I have a skill or talent that makes me different, and use that skill to get some notoriety. But famous for audacity...or in this case, sheer bravado? Famous for being famous. How long before someone does something really stupid just to get on television. Wait, somebody just did. How long before someone does something ridiculously stupid...and accidentally destructive...to get on television? I'm a little scared to find out.

We banned cigarette ads from television. We just lifted the ban on Liquor ads. I think there is precedent. What we need is a ban on Reality Television.

And I won't miss any of it. How could I? I stopped watching TV when I went to law school!

Barkeep. Vodka with pineapple and cranberry.