Got the legal writing grade.

Got an A.

Very happy. Also got an explanation from the Contracts prof on my grade. She gave quite a bit of detail, which, while not making things better, at least made them understandable.

I am now off to Sorrento. Have a nice weekend, y'all. And Miguel, get back to your desk!

Under blue moon I saw you
So soon you'll take me
Up in your arms, too late to beg you
Or cancel it, though I know it must be
The killing time
Unwillingly mine

Fate
Up against your will
Through the thick and thin
He will wait until
You give yourself to him

In starlit nights I saw you
So cruelly you kissed me
Your lips a magic world
Your sky all hung with jewels
The killing moon
Will come too soon

How not to do things, Part I

Tuesday night was, according to Dean Jean, "The most formal night we'll have here." Accordingly, we were expected to wear suit and tie as we were to visit the Attorney General's office. But because Ryan Air had such strict weight requirements, John and I had both scotched the idea of bringing a suit (and more than five shirts each). Therefore, we didn't have the 'formal attire' expected. Fortunately, DJ allowed us dispensation, and told us a shirt and tie would be sufficient. Good thing, too. Imagine our surprise when we found that we would all be taking public transportation to (and from) the AG's office. Imagine as well the surprise of the ten or so Italians on the bus when 75 American law students piled in, filling the bus to capacity in only its third or fourth stop. It was a sweltering day, and jamming all of us on the bus only made it worse. By the time the bus pulled into Piazza Cavour, not a one of us was dry. My shirt was soaked through with sweat, and most of the women's hair had flopped.

We then walked across the Tiber and through a winding maze of streets until we reached the AG's building. Once inside, we were ushered into a large, white room, with a resplendant fresco on one end, and the undeniably pungent odor of fresh paint throughout. There were at least twenty, if not more, tables arranged in rows of two facing the fresco, and seating three people each in plush red-velvet-and-wood chairs. Beneath the fresco was an extended bench, with nine high-backed chairs, and a microphone in front of each chair. The ceiling of the room was a good twenty feet above, and pitched. The walls were white, save for the wall of the fresco, and the side walls had speakers placed about six feet high at regular intervals. The floor was white tile, the only interruption being some kind of design in the very center of the floor, the purpose or meaning of which was never explained. The tables, chairs, and floor, we soon found out, were all covered in paint dust.

Presently, the members of the AG's office who were going to speak to us came out and seated themselves to our right, while the instructors for our classes, and DJ, were seated to our left. DJ started the presentation off with a little speech welcoming us, and pointing out that there was a bit of an echo. And that's the last thing anyone in the room understood for the next hour. Supposedly, the members of the AG's office spoke on Criminal Law in Italy, Civil Law, Administrative Law, and the makeup of the legal professions, but the acoustics were so bad, the echo so horrendous and the accents so thick, no one could understand a word of what was being said.

We had been told originally that this would be followed by a reception, and then we'd be able to watch the sun set over Rome from the roof of the building. But, like something out of a bad comedy, things kept turning out differently. The reception was cancelled; the horrible 'world economy' was to blame for the tight budgets. (Somehow, we all figured that the AG would actually like to blame the crappy economy in Italy on us, but decided against doing that.) The rooftop excursion was worse. The first elevator only fit eight people at a time, so, concluding that it would be a while before 75 of us all got up there, they decided some of us should take a different elevator - which fit four people. To make matters worse, all of the people who knew the way to the roof went up on the first elevator, and none of them waited for us once there. So, of course, we wandered through offices before someone figured out that we might have gotten lost, and found us. It didn't matter. It was raining.

For their efforts in attempting to educate and inform us, DJ gave each of the AG's staff a gift. A nice CD holder, courtesy of Loyola Law School. Holds 12 CDs. Even has our name embossed on it. DJ made a big deal about how nice a gift it was, while at least two members of the staff stared blankly at it, wondering (we guessed) what the hell it was. They flipped through it, looked at each other, shrugged, smiled and waved a thanks to DJ. And secretly thought we were incredibly cheap. Not one of the students wasn't embarrassed by the cheap gift. One commented, "for all the money we're paying this school, couldn't they have given them a Mont Blanc pen?"

Afterward, a group of us made our way to Piazza Novrona, where we had easily the worst meal of the trip. Not only was the food bad, but the service was terrible, and poor Lisa didn't get her food until we were all nearly done with our meals. Fortunately Liz, who speaks excellent Italian and has been nominated our official guide, was there, and was able to at least get Lisa a meal. Of course we first had to go through lots of gyration and argument, but we did get it - eventually.

.....and the home.....of the.....pope.....

Yesterday morning was the 'papal audience.' I skipped it, having went two years ago, when I was here with the MBA school. So for me, yesterday was a day to sleep in ('til 10), go for a run, do some reading, and generally relax. I was one of a handful of students in all the schools that are here (Loyola-Chicago, Xavier, and Loyola-Marymount) who didn't go.

Another reason I didn't go was because it's not what you think it is. You don't go into a room, meet the pope, shake his hand, and tell him what a great job he's doing unless you're named Clinton, Blair or Bush. This papal audience occurs in St. Peter's square, where you're one of thousands. The pope arrives in the Popemobile, leaning heavily on the roll bar which encircles it, waving weakly to the crowd. He's driven up the stairs leading to the basilica, where a canopied seat awaits him. Two assistants help him to his seat, where he flops down and is handed a long list. First he does a general blessing on the crowd, and any items (crosses, rosaries, etc) that they've brought with them. Then he welcomes groups in their native language (at least the ones he knows) - French, German, Polish, English, and so on - with each group cheering loudly as they're mentioned. After reading the list of groups for that language, he says a blessing for those groups and their families. Then he moves on to the next language. All in all, pretty anticlimatic, except for the thrill of seeing the pope, even if it is at a great distance.

Since the audience was in the morning, classes were held in the afternoon, with a 'picnic/barbeque' afterward. Of course, as has been typical so far, things went wrong - they ran out of food before they ran out of people.

This morning, we were told that there would be another 'picnic' after our Supreme Court (Court of Cassation) visit next week. And they promised to have more food. I hope so.

I need to go pack. I leave for Sorrento in two hours. And I do have a picture of me with the goatee. I just need to get Tim to post it.

A long, long, time ago, as a high school freshman, I was selected to be a teacher's aide by an English teacher named Frank Della. Mr. Della was an interesting person, whom I never really felt comfortable around. But he had some influence at old ABS, and his student aides were able to pretty much do whatever we wanted. I don't know whatever became of Mr. Della, but I do remember one cliche he taught me: Familiarity breeds contempt. I didn't know what he meant back then, but I do now. All too well in some cases.

When you're in law school, you spend an inordinate amount of time with the same people, day in, day out. Some are arrogant mothers, who you just want to bitch-slap until they cry like babies. Others are wonderful people whom you can't wait to see. Most fall somewhere in between. Another thing they'll tell you is that "Law School X" (fill in the name of your school) is not competitive. This is complete and utter bullshit. Ok, so there are people who are willing to help each other out. But then there are those who live for grades.

Take Heather and John, for example. Heather is a former flight attendant, who is now going to law school full-time. There were four write on opportunities for law journals this past month, and Heather did them all. She also tried out for Moot Court, and spends her time mostly studying. She seems nice at first, but get to know her, and you won't like what you see. She's all about the grades. Case in point: last night, I was in Scott & Patrick's room when Heather came in. First comment out of her mouth? "I checked the website, and no new grades have been posted yet." Hello!!! We're in FUCKING ROME!!! Why do you care what the grades are? Moreover, why do you think I care?

John's no better. When I told him Contracts grades were in, he immediately got up from his chair and went to the computer lab to check. And he's become friends with Willis, arguably the most arrogant asshole I've met here (or in Chicago, for that matter). John would like the three of us to go to Interlachen between classes, and maybe have Willis' roommate join us. Now, God forgive me for saying this, but I don't think I could find three more boring people to spend time with on this planet. I'd much rather pay for Moxie and Joanie to fly to Zurich than spend a weekend with these three. Hell, I'd rather spend a weekend being tortured by Hitler. How arrogant is Willis? Well, it's hard to say, but I've yet to meet anyone here with kind words for him. And he uttered my favorite line last week: "I've already begun formulating my answer to the final exam question." THAT was on Day 3 of class. We still have 3 weeks to go, for chrissake, how the hell can you even.....oh, never mind.

And John-boy pissed me off by asking if I was still chasing Elise. Now, I do like Elise, and if given the opportunity, I'd date her in a New York minute. But 1.) she started seeing someone right before she left for Rome whom she seriously likes, 2.) She told me she'd like to fix me up with a friend of hers, which is a pretty good indication she's not interested in keeping me for herself, 3.) New Boyfriend is attempting to make arrangements to meet her here in Europe. So my guess is, I'm not on her radar screen. But I've learned how fast rumors spread, and my guess is the Loyola rumor mill now has Elise and I as an item. Especially since we are both going to Sorrento together, and since John specifically commented that "I [John] don't know what the room arrangements are." I quickly mentioned she was staying in a room with two other women. Thank God he wasn't at dinner with us last night, when Elise and I both ordered the same dinner, and split a salad. Egads! Even worse - we both had the same gelato!!! Never mind that, outside of asking if I'd like to share a salad with her, Elise didn't consult me on any meal choices, and it was pure coincidence that we got the same food. Nope, that means there's more there. If Elise is attracted to me, she hasn't done anything outward to show it. Either that, or I'm seriously blind. Which isn't out of the question. Either way, I'd much rather have anything that may develop between us do so without interference from miserable, meddling people.

Oh, and I should mention that a hot rumor around school has Heather and John as a couple, something they've continuously denied, even in face of evidence that they're more than friends. Interesting, huh?

The wheel just keeps spinning, no matter where it is.

And so she woke up
Woke up from where she was lyin' still.
Said I gotta do something
About where we're goin'.

Step on a fast train
Step out of the driving rain, maybe
Run from the darkness in the night.
Singing ah, ah la la la de day
Ah la la la de day.

One thing I've learned about national holidays: when they're you're own, they're an event, because you've learned to plan accordingly, or someone has, and you find a nice way to spend the day. When they're someone else's, it can be a long day.

Yesterday was the Italian Unification holiday. Unlike the United States, which was already united colonies which broke away from Britain, Italy was a series of independant nation-states, which were joined together by Victor Emmanuelle II in the late 1800's. Oh, sure, at one time Rome ruled most of the known world, and Italy was one country, but this wasn't always the case. Italy went through several different versions before what we now know as Italy came to be. In his honor, the government of Italy spent 30 years building a monument to Victor Emmanuele II. Immense, white, and illuminated at night, the monument got the nickname "the wedding cake" from the Romans. Most don't like it, finding it gaudy and pretentious. Others just deal with it. It's size and characteristics make it easily the most recognizable of all of Rome's sights, which helps when you're on the hills trying to point out the Vatican, the Colliseum, and other landmarks. You just start with the wedding cake, and move left or right as needed. Another notable point about the monument is that it is where the tomb of the unknown soldier resides in Italy. Closed for a number of years (25 or more) to the general public, it was recently re-opened. We visited it last week, and several of my classmates were admonished by the military guard for running up the stairs (I declined to join them, and so escaped admonishment).

Anyway, I digress. Yesterday was a national holiday. And, like national holidays in the US, everything was pretty much closed. Only restaurants, cafes and the occasional store was open. So, like Sunday, it was a good chance to catch up on homework, and I took full advantage to get up to speed on class reading.

In the evening, Brian, Elise, Lisa, Bridget, Scott, Laura and I headed up to the Zodiac Cafe, one of two restaurants (the Il Bagat that John, Jeanne and I visited last week being the other) on the hills of Monte Mario. It's an up-and-down kind of deal. A nice, sloping downhill walk to the the driveway's entrance, followed by one killer uphill climb. When I was in Rome two years ago, several of us went for a jog. Even the best runners had a hard time making the hill climb.

Anyway, it's a nice, elegant restaurant with a killer view, and indoor and outdoor dining. Unfortunately, with our group of seven (G7?), the restaurant seated us inside. For the first time in two weeks, we felt the coolness of true air conditioning. We sat down, and quickly ordered two bottles of wine - una vino rosso (red) e una vino bianco (white). Now, for the uninitiated, there are three types of restaurant in Italy: the Pizzeria, which is the bottom rung, is often cheap and carries a limited menu - mostly pizzas, salads, and appetizers, though some may have sandwiches; the Trattoria, which serves multiple courses, and is a bit pricer; and the Ristorante, the nicest, and priciest of them all, which traditionally serves a 5-course meal - antipasto, first course, second course, insalate (in-sa-latte, or salad) and dolci (dol-chay, or sweets). The Zodiac is of the latter type. Rule 1 is that when you dine at a Ristorante, you don't just order one course and leave - that's an insult to the cook and the restaurant. Unfortunately, I'd had done that in previous days with others, and was not inclined to do so again last night. So as I declared my intent to do the full meal (or what I could of it), Brian was asking, "are we doing the whole meal, or are we insulting these people?"

Fortunately, my dinner companions were all of the same mind. We got the wine, then we ordered the antipasto. The antipasto came, and we ordered more wine, and the first and second courses. The first course came, and we got some wine. The second course came, and we got some wine. Then we talked for a bit. Then we got more wine. And the dolci. The food was wonderful. we ordered calimari, ham and cheese, and salmon for appetizer (antipasto). Scott, Lisa and I all got the same first course, a seabass/mussel mix which was quite delicious. Brian got the gnocchi, which he thoroughly enjoyed (he also got a nosebleed, which left me to order for him). Brian and I both got the veal scallapini for dinner. (Just thinking about all this is making me hungry again, and I just had lunch.) For dessert, we split Tiramisu, Panna Cotta, and Gelato. Our waiter loved us, and he should have. When the bill came, I grabbed it looked at it, and made everyone guess as to how much they thought it was. Estimates ranged from 550 to 700 euro, so I knew no one would be floored by the total bill - 398 euro. Over half was attributable to the seven or eight bottles of wine that we consumed. We divvied up the total (62 euro each), ignored the unfavorable exchange rate (about $1.20 to each euro, according to someone), polished off the rest of the wine, bid our waiter adieu, and stepped out into the Roman evening.

Halfway up/down (depends which way you're going which one you'll use) the hill, there's a spot where you can stop and take some captivating pictures of Rome. We'd stopped on the way up to do just that, but now, as we were going down, Scott lamented that the gate was locked, and we couldn't take anymore pictures. But then I noticed a whole in the gate that another couple was using, and we made our way through it. Bridget and Brian walked on, but Laura, Lisa, Elise, Scott and I took more pictures of Rome at night.

On the way back to the Rome Center, we passed one of those little photo booths, out in the middle of nothingness. We all piled in, and spent our last loose coin trying to get a picture of the five of us together. It didn't come out as planned. We continued walking back, and the girls peppered Scott with questions about his relationships, who he dated, etc. etc. (Scott's a New Yorker living in San Diego, on the trip with Loyola). I walked about twenty feet behind, clearly out of the conversation, just watching the two single women and one married one battle for the attention of the lone single guy in their age range.

And we all agreed it was the best night we've had in Rome so far.

Sweet the sin, bitter the taste in my mouth.
I see seven towers, but I only see one way out.
You gotta cry without weeping, talk without speaking
Scream without raising your voice.
You know I took the poison, from the poison stream
Then I floated out of here, singing
Ah la la la de day
Ah la la la de day.

She walks through the streets
With her eyes painted red
Under black belly of cloud in the rain.
In through a doorway
She brings me white golden pearls
Stolen from the sea.

She is ragin'
She is ragin'
And the storm blows up in her eyes.
She will suffer the needle chill
She's running to stand still.

Question of the day:

Do I keep the goatee I grew just for fun last week, or ditch it? It's not totally filled in; I don't have a lot of hair around the lower side of my mouth, and it itches like crazy. But a few of the women have commented they like it.......problem is, they're all 'taken'. Maybe I should post a picture, and take a vote...

You only see what your eyes want to see
How can life be what you want it to be
You're frozen
When your heart's not open

You're so consumed with how much you get
You waste your time with hate and regret
You're broken
When your heart's not open

Mmmmmm, if I could melt your heart
Mmmmmm, we'd never be apart
Mmmmmm, give yourself to me
Mmmmmm, you hold the key

Not every day is an adventure; some days are just mundane. Some days you travel, and sit three hours on a train ride home; others you sit two hours in a courtyard, reading about comparative civil procedure, while Madonna floats faintly on the wind.

It's amazing how some parts of life can easily be left behind, yet they seem so essential to us when they're available. Television's a good example. It's not like we're in the boondocks here - there is a TV in the lounge. But save for the first night here, when I couldn't really get to sleep and was wide awake at five in the morning, I haven't watched it. I know - how could I, when it's all in Italian. But there is CNN, and there is a VCR, and English-language movies can be rented from the Blockbuster Video (you read that right) a short walk from the Rome Center.

Music's another matter. I miss having it around, because I almost always have the radio on at home. To me, music defines my life. I remember what song was on the radio the last time I walked out of a job I really hated, even though it was just over nine years ago this past month (Heartbreak Beat by the Psychedelic Furs, if you must know). Certain songs bring back memories every time I hear them. I don't think I'm alone in this regard.

So it was with yesterday. It was a slow day, with the morning spent doing laundry, and a good chunk of the afternoon spent blogging and blog-surfing. I finally decided to enjoy the weather and do some reading outside around 2 or so. Someone with the graduate school, newly arrived from Chicago, brought not only a CD player, but speakers (or maybe it was a boom box). Thoughts of "why did you bring that" aside, it was nice to hear some music for a change, for if there's not a cacophony of voices in the courtyard, there is silence.

Hello darkness my old friend
I've come to talk to you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision
That was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

Presently, the pseudo-DJ was visited by friends, and declarations of welcome and happiness overrode the soft music. Eventually, it was shut off, and silence once again returned to the courtyard. I finished my reading, and went off to lift weights. A while later, I went for a run.

One interesting thing about the meaning of words is that they have different meanings for different people. Your idea of 'dry' is obviously not the same as an Italian's. Or maybe it's your idea of the function of a dryer. Either way, after washing and 'drying' my clothes, I still had most of them scattered about the dorm room, in an attempt to finish what the dryer started, for a good portion of the afternoon. Fortunately, I went for my run around 5:30, and by the time I came back, at least one shirt was dry enough for me to wear.

Around 9:00, I met up with Nicole and Anna, and they introduced me to Paul, one of the undergrad instructors for Xavier University, which is also offering a class here. The four of us trekked to Elliot's, a pseudo-English pub, where we enjoyed the pleasures of Bass Ale, and good American-like steaks. After the usual three-hour dinner, we came back around midnight, and I went to bed.

Not every day is an adventure, but even the mundane ones have their hidden moments.

Firenze

I waited 'til I saw the sun
I don't know why I didn't come
Left you by the house of fun
I don't know why I didn't come
I don't know why I didn't come

When I saw the break of day
I wished that I could fly away
Instead of kneeling in the sand
Catching teardrops in my hand

My heart is drenched in wine
But you'll be on my mind
Forever

Out across the endless sea
I would die in ecstacy
But I'll be a bag of bones
Driving down the road alone

Saturday morning came with a bang. And a thump. And the incessant buzzing of a drill. The workmen were back, working on the bathroom. Didn't they know it was 8:00a.m.? Didn't they know we didn't have class today? DIDN'T THEY KNOW WE WERE ALL HUNG OVER?

Well, not all of us. Just those of us who were left behind, with no weekend plans. I was one; my roommate another. I was going to go with Lisa and Mary and Erin and company to Firenze early in the morning, so I could maximize shopping time. But the alarm found me in a dreamy mood, and I decided to sleep in my comfortable bed. I got up, showered, lazed around for a bit, and finally, after grabbing a quick mushroom omlette panini (note to self: next time, tell Rinaldo to leave the ketchup out of it), I began my journey. Marilyn, who I didn't particularly care for on my last trip here, seemed to be more pleasant this time around. She even gave me a tip on how to get to the Metro quickly. It was surreal, standing in the Italian Metro station. listening to Norah Jones.

I got to Termini station just before noon. I went up to an automated ticket booth to find and buy a ticket on the next train to Firenze (Florence). To my delight, a Eurostar train left in just over half an hour. I punched in my order for a second-class ticket. Alas, I wasn't able to get one. At first, I thought it was a problem with the method(s) of payment I'd chosen, but it soon dawned on me that it might be that second class was sold out. That turned out to be an accurate guess. First class was open though, so I got on.

Eurostar trains are generally nice, clean and very quiet, especially first class. Seating is 4-and-2, with an aisle between the 4 and the 2, so I picked one of the "2" seats. Since I was traveling alone, I figured it would be the better choice. As it were, in the section of four seats across the aisle from we were two young (about 15-16) Italian girls, very pretty, and quite fashionably (if casually dressed). They were joined by a older (mid-40's) woman who arrived breathless from running for the train. Quite generously, one of the girls offered the woman a cup of water, which made me wonder if that was because a.) she was a woman, b.) she was older (that's important here in Italy) or c.) they were always that nice. The last seat in the group remained empty. Across from me sat an early-thirties Italian gentleman, who alternatively read the paper or talked on the phone. The only thing noticeable about him, aside from the fact that the hands-free headset never left his ear, was that he had quite the lisp. I noticed, because at one point I'd had one, and after a couple years of therapy, no longer do. Anyway, the ironic thing about the trip was the topic of conversation between the two girls. One had a binder with her, with a drawing of the US on it, and words that appeared to proclaim it as a study manual about the United States. She spent a considerable amount of time reading from her manual to the other one, complete with commentary, not one word of which I could understand. I SO wanted to ask what they were discussing, particularly when they appeared shocked at something the book told them about Americans. I wound up falling asleep midway through the trip instead, dreaming that I could speak better Italian.

Firenze is a compact city. It's easily walked in a day. Filled with shops, outdoor markets, and outdoor cafes, you hear more American accents there than in Rome. It's sort of a tourist Mecca. There's plenty to see - the Uffizi museum, the Academe (home of Michelangelo's sixteen-foot-high David), Ponte Vecchio, the Boboli Gardens, and of course, the markets. People come from all over the world to shop Firenze's markets, where shoes, leather goods and jewelry rule the day. As Jeanne said later in the day, "every five booths this stuff repeats." And it does. Want a leather jacket? There's hundreds to choose from. But be careful - the prices are cheap (a hundred euro for a jacket, or about $117) but the quality may be as well. And the salespeople can be shifty. In one booth, a vendor with beer-soaked breath pointed out to me the different kind of jackets he had, all for a hundred euro and up. "These are lambskin, these are COW. If you want sommating different, I have dose (as he pointed to ugly suede jackets), or if you want sommating warm, for da cold, I have buffalo, over dere." Now, I'd never seen a buffalo coat before, so of course, I looked. And it seemed to be quite the heavy coat. But since I was looking for a nice, date-appropriate leather jacket, I passed on the buffalo.

Just before I'd met beer-soaked guy, I'd met Carmen. Tall, with big, captivating, brown eyes and long dark hair, her accent was like warm butter on toast, but her English was outstanding. She'd come over when one of the street guys had coaxed me into the off-street store to show me more men's jackets, and was trying to pick my size. She took one look, and guessed right. It was a deep burgundy colored jacket, which looked very nice with the grey Haggar pants I was wearing. She showed me all of the highlights of the jacket - the reinforcing button on the inside of the coat, the two interior pockets, and the lining. She talked about how the leather would give over time, and that's why the one I was wearing was good enough (that, and the fact that the already-long sleeves would be a bit longer in the bigger size). She talked about how the leather was made, and how to properly care for it. And she told me that if I didn't like the color, it also came in black. We spent a bit of time looking at different types (the burgundy was made of lambskin), but she wasn't pushy in the least. In fact, when I told her I wanted to think about it, she graciously wrote down the style, size and price, and her name and told me they'd be open until seven.

Then I went and looked some more. I used my cell phone to call my parents back home, and asked about prices there, to make sure I wasn't overpaying for what I could possibly get back home. They were happy to hear from me, especially Mom (Dad and I had discussed business-stuff the night before, but when Mom came on, I had to cut her short, as I was at a Pizzeria, and dinner was arriving). Eventually, I wandered to the end of the market, where another store was. I went inside, and nearly didn't get out. The salespeople combined efforts. If I didn't jump for joy at a jacket (or even said I didn't like it) I quickly got another.

"Is nice, no?"
"Umm. Well, no."
"You no like? Wait. Mario, (unitelligible Italian, spoken at rapid-fire speed)." Mario ran off. "I send him to other stores. We have lots of styles. You find one you like."

I found one there that was marginally decent. "Quonta costa (how much)?" I asked.

"One hundred forty euro." Carmen wanted one hundred seventy for hers.

This continued on for a good thirty minutes. She'd give me a jacket, I'd put it on, look less than enthused, get another. All the while, the one I'd initially shown interest in kept dropping in price - first one forty, then one twenty-five, then one ten, finally, one hundred even. But the closer I looked, the more flaws I saw. The mariginal interest one gathered when I buttoned the buttons ("that's from the cell phone you're wearing," she said), and it was kind of, well, wrinkled, at the bottom. Another had loose threads. Finally, at five after six, I thought of a way out of this Hotel California-ish situation.

"Oh, my," I said, looking at my watch. "I'm late. Can I come back? I'm supposed to be meeting my wife." No, I'm not married, and don't even have a girlfriend, but desperate times.....

"You wife? Where you meeting her?"
"By the Duomo." This, I knew, was a considerable walk from where we were.
The saleslady spoke with another woman, whom I'll call tailor lady, even though saleslady told me tailor-lady was the owner. "She'll go with you."
"Uh, I don't think that would be a good idea." Clearly, they had no intent of letting me get away without buying a jacket.
"No, no. It's okay, she help you find your wife."
"Well, that's very nice, but my wife might not see it that way."
Quick Italian conversation. "You mean, she'd fight with you, eh?"
"Right. She's a bitch that way. Very possessive."
"Ok. You bring her back." Quick Italian conversation. "One hundred euro. You get nice jacket."
"Right. I'll be back soon."


Carmen was very happy to see me. She brought out a black jacket in my size, and I tried it on. When I pointed out that the little thingy sewn into the collar and the label (ostensibly for hanging the jacket from a hook) was fraying, she looked for another. Failing to find one, she immediately repaired the damage, double stitching to make it fast. "There," she said when finished, "I fixed it. My sewing is not so pretty, but it will hold. And it is inside, so only you will see, anyway."

We made some small talk, and I found out she was from Mexico originally and had come to Europe three years before to travel. "And then I came to Firenze, and I thought it was beautiful, so I stayed for a little while. And then I knew a man.......and I stay longer." I looked at her finger. It must have been some man - she was wearing the Rock of Gibraltar. I wondered if the Brits knew it was missing. Eventually, I left with my purchase, and went to meet John, Heather and Jeanne for dinner.

It's 1:40 a.m. and I just dragged in from a three-plus hour train ride back from Firenze. I'm going to bed now, but when I wake up, I'll tell you all about it....while I do laundry. I did get a nice leather jacket, though. And a postcard for a lovely friend in San Diego...

Screen door slams
Mary's dress waves
Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays

Roy Orbison singin' for the lonely
Hey, that's me and I want you only
Don't turn me home again I just can't face myself alone again

Don't run back inside darlin' you know just what I'm here for
So you're sad and you're thinkin' you ain't that young anymore
Show a little faith, there's magic in the night
You ain't a beauty but hey, you're alright
And that's all right
Tonight

The days have developed into a routine. Wake up, and try to wipe the sleep from your eyes. Stand up and marvel that all the wine you had the night before hasn't given you a tremendous headache. Walk outside and check the line for the shower (there's a nearly equal number of men and women, but the men's bathroom only has two stalls, compared to the women's three). If it's short, make the dash. If it's long, opt for doing it later.

After getting dressed, head down to Rinaldi's, where his wife will attempt to engage you in small talk. Wonder if she's insane, or if she truly believes you understand everything she's prattling on about (ignore the fact that she's speaking in a dilect, and that most of what little Italian you know is worthless). Get a drink - iced cappucino, please - and maybe, if you have the time, breakfast. Afterward, go back up a floor to the class room. The smart people get water beforehand. The rest swelter through a ninety-minute class.

The classrooms are small, and are nearly filled to capacity. The only airflow is provided by two ceiling fans which spin at such speeds you expect them to fly away at any minute. The seats are tiny, and cramped, and interlocked, so when the guy two chairs away from you crosses his legs, you have to stop writing lest you scribble something unintelligent. The desks, if they can be called that, are of a type you haven't seen since high school - and even those were bigger writing surfaces. You have a standard casebook, a 3-subject spiral binder, one red, one black and one blue gel pen, your water, and room enough to set maybe one of them on the 'desk'/writing surface. And it angles down toward your legs. The room is lit by three lights, two fluorescent and one luminescent. The walls are a pale green, and in bad need of painting, and the blackboard at the front of the room is the 'old fashioned' chalk kind. There are maps of Italy in various political climates scattered about the room, and the only natural light streams in through windows high upon the wall across from the split door which neatly bisects the its wall. But since the sunlight's heat outweights the breeze created by keeping the window open, the windows are closed, and the wooden shades are nearly shut. No air circulates through the room, so that after ninety minutes, most of the students are near passing out, and the sweat is beading up on the instructors forehead. In the back of the room is a clock which is one hour and five minutes slow, so that classes start on time but end late. This is because the instructor looks at his watch as he enters, but not again during class.

On sunny days (which is a description of most days here), those lucky enough to have Comparative Criminal Procedure get to sit outside for their class. Class is held in the center courtyard, with students sitting on a concrete wall surrounding what was, ostensibly, a fountain at one time, though now it is just an overgrowing bush badly in need of a trim. Since the wall isn't big enough for everyone, some students take to sitting on the fountain's edge, while others purchased small folding chairs, and still others pulled the benches which were located elsewhere to spots outside the circle. Shade is provided by a large tree, which delights in dropping sap on the students as they attempt to write. The uninitiated at first think it's raining, but they're soon corrected by those who know better.

At noon, after second class has ended, most people trudge upstairs to sleep off the previous nights debauchery. Others stay outside to add a nice tan to the list of things they picked up in Italy. Still others head to the lab to check email, and others head down to Rinaldi's for lunch.

That little routine gets repeated every day. But today, workmen appeared on our floor, and began ripping up the bathrooms. Well, actually, only one bathroom - the men's. And at five o'clock, when it was time to go home, they stuck a sign on the door: "Do not use. Aut. Broken."

This is not good news for the women. Fortunately, it won't have it's biggest impact until Monday morning, as many people have left for the weekend. Some went to Florence, some to Venice. Others headed out to the cute haven of Cinqueterre, and still others slipped off to other hideaways. One went to Bern, Switzerland, to meet a friend. I am one of the few who elected to enjoy the peace and quiet of Rome. Hopefully, I'll be able to catch up on homework.

The first week hasn't been bad; most nights, we've enjoyed a nice dinner, some wine, and good conversation. Most nights, we haven't strolled in before 1:00a.m., which makes getting up at 7:15 kind of difficult. People are beginning to learn the same lessons I learned when I was here with the MBA group: going out with 10 or more people overwhelms restaurants, and draws attention from everyone else. You never get to talk to everyone, so why bother? Instead, it's much better to pick four or five people, and enjoy a nice meal. Same goes for sightseeing.

Last night I took J and JW to dinner at the Ristorante where the MBA group had their going-away dinner. J and JW enjoyed the atmosphere (the view overlooking Rome kicks ass), but they had no idea they were being insulting by only ordering a 'first course' at an establishment used to serving four or more courses. I didn't have the heart to tell them. Instead, I enjoyed my swordfish steak, pinot grigio, and the good conversation. We watched as a group of mostly women spoke with an older gentleman in Italian, and tried to discern what exactly was going on. Our best guess is he was retiring, and they were taking him out.

No sightseeing yesterday. Wednesday had more than made up for it, with the tour that took us through St. Paul's, the Catacombs of St. Benedict, the Forum, and the Pantheon, before dropping us in Piazza Navrona. All that walking, combined with my run in the early afternoon, was enough sightseeing for a while. Besides, if I see it all this week, what will I do the next three?

Time for some coffee. I didn't get that nap this afternoon, and I'm starting to get sleepy.

I want to run
I want to hide
I want to tear down the walls
that hold me inside
I wanna reach out
and touch the flame
Where the streets have no name....

Rome is a challenging city in a number of ways. The most obvious, of course, is the language. I'm slowly remembering more, but I never spoke it well to begin with. Italian has a lyrical quality about it. Kind of a sing-song rhythm which sounds like music to your ears, even if you have no idea of what's being said. Actually, that's better, because if you do, it's likely a mundane conversation.

Everyone here is getting used to being abroad. This trip is markedly different from my two trips to Europe with the MBA program. For both of those, people had managed to travel pretty extensively (except me, of course, who didn't have that kind of vacation time). By the time they arrived in Athens or Rome, they were veterans, and able to get around. Here, they're still getting used to the idea of a language and custom they've never experienced before. Not that they're all wet behind the ears. There's J, of course, who's been to Germany. And S and L, who've both lived here for extended periods of time. Not surprisingly, people have clung to them like small children to their mothers at a mall. And there's a smattering of others who've been abroad and can competently handle themselves.

But there are others who have a lot to learn. There are three divisions of students here - the law students, who stay for a month; the MBA students, who get a two week blow-through; and the undergrads, who stay all summer. Some of the undergrads have been here all year. Unfortunately, I'd like to say that the undergrads are the worst-behaved, but I can't. They're immature, sure, and loud (especially at night, when it's quiet), but there are some MBA, and, unfortunately, law students, who rival them. Rome has great food and great wine, and despite the efforts of the staff to ensure that we are all 'cultured' Americans, we lapse into stupidity almost nightly. Not the same people, but different people every night who come in drunk, make lots of noise, and wake somebody up, who'll spend the next day whining about it.

And the intrigue. Take seventy people, put them together, and watch what happens. Le Grande Grande Fratello - the Big, Big Brother. There's T who likes Gr, and J who says "nothing" is going on with H, and all the guys who are scamming on all the girls. And yes, I admit, I like someone here, too. E is her name, at least to you it is, and she's absolutely adorable. And twenty-five, outgoing, nice, intelligent......and I have absolutely no chance here. But what an enjoyable way to spend a summer.....

Right now, the scramble is on. The most popular question here is "what are you doing this weekend?" as everyone lines up their weekend trips. I'm hoping to head to Florence, Firenze here, and get the leather jacket I wanted two years ago, but didn't have the cojones to buy. Now I have the cojones, but not the dinero. I just don't know who I'm going with - the Firenze-only group, or the Firenze-Venezio(Venice) group. I've heard the canals stink to high heaven, but....it's Venice, how can I not go? And then there's the trip to Interlachen. And Paris. And.....oh, man, so many side trips.

There's good news, and bad news as well. The bad news first. I didn't do very well in Contracts. C-plus. Not what I'd expected, but then what did I expect, with all I'd juggled this semester. I've sent an email to the professor, requesting an accounting on my grade. We'll see when (if) she responds. The good news is Professor Civ Pro is now Professor Bus Ops. This made me very happy, as it opened up my entire morning, and made it possible for me to do some clerking work part-time. It also gave me Fridays off......

Well, it's 8:45. Dinner time here in Roma. I think I'll get the pasta.

London calling-and I don't wanna shout
But when we were talking-I saw you nodding out
London calling, see we ain't got no highs
Except for that one with the yellowy eyes

"Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of American Airlines, I'd like to welcome you to London, England."

With those words, I started the full-time chapter of my law school career. It had already been a long day, and it wasn't over yet.

I woke up about nine, thinking of all the things I seemingly had to do before my parents came to take me to the airport. My parents wound up coming at one-thirty, a full hour and a half earlier than originally planned, and half an hour earlier than they'd told me only hours before. Fortunately, although I'd gone out to lunch, I'd gotten home sooner than expected (which turned out to be good, although admitting to going out to lunch when your parents think they're taking you to lunch is a bad thing).

Despite it being a Holiday Friday, there was hardly any traffic, and we made it to the airport in record time. The flight from Chicago to London was uneventful, and although J had told me we were seated across the aisle from each other, it turned out we were next to each other (and I was the lucky one on the aisle). J was supremely disappointed that American was charging for alcoholic drinks, since he'd hoped to get plastered on the plane (a policy I've come to appreciate more in recent days). I was disappointed in the movie selections. While I'd read that the airlines, in a cost-cutting mood, were getting away from first-run features, I didn't realize that it meant that far away. Evelyn, starring Pierce Brosnan, was the only one I was familiar with, save Doctor Who, but that film little resembled the TV show I'd watched in high school with some fascination (and a healthy dose of detachment from reality, since the special effects were often lacking). Thank God for multiple Spin City episodes and a good book. I even tried to sleep, but found I still can't sleep on an airplane.

The time I like is the rush hour
'cause I like the rush
The pushing of the people
I like it oh so much
Such a mass of motion
Do not know where it goes
I move with the movement and
I have the touch

I love London - the smells, the sights, the sounds - the whole city has a cosmopolitan character unlike any other. Walk through Leicester Square on any given evening, and you'll think the whole world has stopped by. Pass by the Official Half Price Ticket Booth and listen to a woman from Germany babble on to her girlfriend while animatedly gesturing. Whatever she's talking about, it's certainly worked her up. Keep walking, passing the All-One bar, and marvel at the lengths and types of skirts (mostly short & leather) on the myriad of women waiting to get in. Close by, there's a couple arguing in French, and even though you don't understand one word of what's being said, he's losing. Ahead is a building marked 'Switzerland', and you tell your companion that when you first came to London, it was a glockenspiel store, with a gigantic glockenspiel outside which chimed on the hour. Leave out your disappointment when you'd noticed on a later trip that it had closed. Turn right, and two Americans debate whether or not they should see a movie, or head to a play. Further along, the Muslim couple walks - she covered head-to-toe in burka, and walking dutifully behind him - neither of them speaking, just looking around. You wonder what they think of the hustle & bustle. Around, in front and behind you are all sorts of hucksters, from the various buskers to the robot-man, from the shills handing out concert leaflets, to the guy informing everyone in a loud voice "Returns! Returns! We've just had some returns for this evening. We've just had some returns for this evening!" In between all this is a cacophony of languages of every kind, and manner of dress to match, from the formal right down to the informal. From rich to poor, everyone seems to have come out to Leicester Square.

And so it was this evening, as I dragged J out for dinner. We'd managed to waste the day shopping for SIM cards on Oxford street, and even though it was early by European standards for dinner (7 pm), we still had to wait at the pseudo-Mexican restaurant we chose. Forty-five minutes of standing around, beer in hand led J to conclude that no pretty women existed in London, save foreigners. I noticed two women near us, one cute, the other average, and just as I did, two blokes made a lame pickup attempt using the old "it's my mate's birthday, don't you 'ave a kiss for him, love?" line. It got them conversation, but no kiss. Later, after we'd been seated, the same two girls were seated next to us. I managed to strike up a conversation, and an unexciting evening turned out very enjoyable. As we went back to the hotel, I looked forward to finally getting some sleep.

Little did I know the fire alarm would go off three hours later.

So much to do, so little time....

Ever notice how things don't seem all that daunting until half an hour before you're supposed to leave? I thought I'd done a decent job cleaning up. Turns out I should have taken all week to do it.......

Well, let's hope the flight across the pond is uneventful. Next stop: London.

Arrggghhh...

If this is the "new" blogger, I'm not impressed.....

I live on a chain
and you had the same last name
As a joke I sent a bottle of whiskey
As you choked, you said it made you feel dirty....

Bought two Pete Yorn CDs today. What a day. My first true day of being unemployed, though I have yet to talk to HR. Every time I call, I get voice mail. I am starting to get very annoyed.

The general consensus about the Civ Pro exam was that our professor was able, in only 11 questions, to be more comprehensive than our Contracts professor was in 23 questions. Amazing. I wrote like a banshee, winding up writing 16 double-spaced pages. Compare that with a mere five for Contracts, and you get what I meant. I was better organized for this exam, so hopefully I did better.

The exam mentioned 11 items, but I had written about four motions, and was about to start the fifth when I looked at the clock. It was 7:30, and I hadn't even written about half the questions. I panicked, and looked again at the test - and that's when things looked odd. I could only readily identify nine motions. So where were the other two? When I broke things down again, I realized my motion four was actually three items, so instead of being on number five, I was really on number seven. I was ahead of schedule. I relaxed - a bit.

My classroom normally holds about 110 people, but because of the every-other spacing of the finals, there was only about fifty people in the classroom, and, unlike last semester, the first person didn't leave until 8:50. In fact, a good ninety percent of us were still writing at nine. But the cool thing is that we got the honor of having our prof in the class as our proctor for both exams - fall and spring. Now if I could only swindle my way into his Business Org class.

After the exam we again went out. This time we only managed to close two bars, and never made the third. But I did have the honor of piling seven people into the Bravada, and chauffering them to bar number two (and no, I was not drunk). A good time was had by all, even though M and I didn't get to eat until 2am. I drove M, JM, and C home after bar number two, and when JM found M lived by one of his favorite burrito stands, he began incessantly cajoling me to stop. Personally, I didn't care, but I was wondering about C, and whether he wanted to stop. Eventually, we all went inside and ate, and I drove everyone home. Somehow, we managed to avoid all the heavy rain - every time we needed to go outside, the rain stopped. I finally crawled in at 3am.

Today was spent inside, cleaning up three months of mess. Most of the papers are gone, I've made headway into the shirts, and all that remains is some dusting, tax extensions, and packing. The highlight was when I went to the post office to have my mail forwarded while I'm gone. Most of the post offices I've been in have little stantions, and you know where the line is. Not in this place - they had a take-a-number. Even better, the couple at the front desk had brought six months of mail, loads of questions...and their dog. Who brings their terrier into the post office? Sheesh. Forty minutes later, I finally was able to mail my two envelopes, and turn in my change-of-address. Three more days, 'til we hop the pond.....

I was just 34 years old
and I was still wandering in haze
I was wondering why everyone I met
seemed like they were lost in a maze

I don’t know why it seemed like I should have
some kind of divine right to the blues
It’s sympathy not tears people need
when they’re the front page sad news…

There is always a wind outside my apartment. All around me could be still, and there would still be a wind. It’s from the tollway. The movement of the passing cars pushes the air up and over the noise barrier fence (which should be fired for failing at its only purpose in life). The moving air then gets forced between the two apartment buildings, creating a wind vortex that is non-stop.

It’s always ten degrees colder, too. It could be 90 degrees on my balcony, but out the front door it’s 80. And windy.

Such were the conditions this morning when I stepped outside for my first outdoor run since March. And that run had been a disaster. Seeking to take advantage of a fifty-degree day in a string of below-thirty weather, I’d decided to run along the sidewalks on Washington Street instead of in Herrick Lake Forest Preserve, my usual outdoor running path. Mistake. Big mistake. I’d assumed that the sidewalks would be clear of snow, but they weren’t. And the warm weather just turned what snow was there to slush. The low sections of the sidewalk were either deep piles of slush, or deep puddles. Before long, my feet were soaked.

And then it happened. Tired of running through slush and puddles, I had seen what I thought was dry ground below me at street level. The only problem was navigating down a steep slope to get there. But since the ground on the slope seemed dry as well, it wouldn’t be a problem. You should take note of the word ‘seemed’ in that sentence – because although it seemed dry, it wasn’t, and I took a nice, public tumble down the slope. Covered in mud, I walked the rest of the way home, and spent a good hour trying to clean the mud out of the Sports Walkman and the stopwatch.

Wake up, stop dreaming
The sun is in the sky again
There’s a hole in the ocean
The water’s pouring through

Wake up, stop dreaming
Wipe the sleep from your eyes
Are you frightened of heights?
Are you falling?

Today, however, was different. Although it was cloudy, it hadn’t rained in a few days, so the ground was dry. The wind was still there, and still cool, but not as frigid as that day in March. I walked to the Herrick Lake entrance, and WXRT did me a favor by playing Pete Townshend’s Slit Skirts, a nice start to an early-morning run. It was followed up by Bruce Springsteen’s Brilliant Disguise, and when XRT went to commercial, I went to tape.

When I got to the entrance of the Herrick Lake Forest Preserve, I clicked the stopwatch and started running. My best time ever was around twenty-four minutes, but since I really had done little running the last five months, I had no illusion that I’d be approaching my personal best. Still, I hoped to clock in under thirty minutes.

I ran the short distance to where the entry path t-intersects the main path, and turned left. To me, this route is harder, since it requires you to climb three hills – one at the beginning, one near the middle, and one smaller one at the end – all of which are fairly steep. Go the other way, and the hills are more gentle and sloping. By going left, you also have to endure the tenth of a mile that is nothing but uncovered open space at the end of your run, instead of the beginning. This makes it harder, because there is no shade, and usually no breeze, depending on the time of day you choose to run. Or, conversely, there could be quite a stiff breeze. Today was a no-breeze day.

It’s also nice to run early; the trail can be heavily used by runners, walkers, bikers and horseback riders. Running early means that the only scenery you’re likely to see is that provided by nature, but it’s an even trade.

Wake up stop dreaming
There’s more than just two steps to heaven
Oh, if you want to go to heaven
You’d better wake up

I clocked in today at twenty-six minutes and twenty-eight seconds. After cooling down, I went to church, then to Bob Evans for breakfast. I sat where all the single people sit – at the counter – and read the Chicago Sun-Times. Rain clouds threatened to the south as I entered church, but by the time I left Bob Evans, they’d all but gone, replaced by a late morning sun. All around me, people were getting into the summer mood, driving with windows open and tops down, even though, at sixty-five degrees, it was still a bit cool. I thought briefly of hopping on the motorcycle for a ride, but decided to wait until I could actually get the license plates renewed, which is likely Tuesday or Wednesday. And that lingering thought of those tax returns on extension, my pig-sty of an apartment, and getting ready to leave for Europe means that this week is going to be one busy week.

I’d better get started.

Pretty little hairdo
Don’t look what it used to
Can’t disguise the living
All the miles you’ve been through

Looking like a train wreck
Wearing too much makeup
The burden that you carry
Is more than one soul could ever bear

So sad
Don’t look so sad Marina
There’s another part to play
Don’t look so sad Marina
Save it for a rainy day

I am now unemployed.

That just sounds weird. Actually, I don't think I am officially unemployed yet. I tried to quit, but no one was around to quit to. I felt like a general who wanted to surrender his army, but didn't know just who to surrender to. Part of this is my own fault - I wasn't really desirous of packing up my things with everyone watching, so I deliberately waited until the end of the day to take care of business. Of course, by this time, it was after 3:15, and the timekeeper had left for the day (she leaves promptly at 3:15 - the benefit of being union, I guess). Then I went upstairs to see the HR rep, only to find she'd been (and still was) in a meeting all afternoon, and not available. I certainly wasn't going to security or IT unless I'd been properly checked out, so I left her a note to call or come see me when she got out of her meeting. At 6:00, she still hadn't, and I'd heard zip by the time I left at 7:00.

So I don't think my resignation is effective yet. I'll have to call Monday, and try and track down some answers. All I know is, I'm not surrendering anything until I've gotten all my paperwork, including COBRA. And I don't think I need to point out the obvious flaws in our outprocessing system - I have to go to HR, Security, IT, and our department timekeeper before I'm out of the system. Forget (or deliberately ignore) to do something, and I still have access to building, network...and maybe even, like Milton in Office Space, still get paid.

Either way, it still doesn't change the fact that I have a Civ Pro exam on Monday to study for. Then I'll really be able to let all this sink in.

Observation:

When you show up at 9:15 instead of 7:30 on your second-to-last day, no one notices. Except for your coworker, who politely thanks you for ‘dropping by.’

This doesn’t normally happen:

Part of my agreement to hang around for an extra week was that I got yesterday off for my Contracts final. I went downtown early, getting to school at 11. I had some administrative stuff to take care of, so I did that, and finished around 11:30. My choice at that point was to just eat, or study for a bit and then eat. Rather than have to pack up once I’d unpacked, I chose to eat.

So there I was sitting in Grillers at a long table, (which really was three tables for two put together) studying for my Contracts final. When I first got there, it was fairly empty, but then the crowd started to show up. There was a woman seated at a single table for two against the window to my left, her back to me. Presently, she asked if she could share, because she was right by a heater, and she was hot. Being the nice guy I am, I said sure. Within minutes, she’d engaged me in conversation. An hour later, she left, and I had a phone number in my notebook. This will be interesting.

The rest of the day was not nearly as interesting. The Contracts final was not as comprehensive or terrible as it could have been, and I was glad I’d devoted so much time to studying. The downside to sitting for six hours, though, is that my back is still killing me today. I feel…forty.

Afterward, we went out for a few drinks, which led to us closing one bar, then another, and we were well on our way to a third when I pulled the ripcord and bailed. It was 2 am, and I had to be at work in five hours to train my replacements. When I finally crawled into bed an hour and fifteen minutes later, I was wondering how or if I’d hear the alarm at 6:30. I didn’t.

I jumped out of bed, called M. and apologized for being late. I swore I’d be there shortly, and fell like crap for being late. As it turned out, it was all for naught, as M. didn’t make it in, and I spent the day just futzing around.

Tomorrow is my last day, and I’m not really up for packing up the desk. Maybe I’ll go in real early and do it.

It's 3:30am. I just got home. Went out for a few after Contracts final. All I can say is - Contracts is over! Yay!

We'll see how I feel in four hours.

Responding to others blogs, part deux

First, read this. Then read this. Then read what follows.


"This is what happens when you let a bean counter run a creative company."

First of all, as a Certified Public Accountant, I hate, HATE, the term 'bean counter.' Nothing grates on my nerves more. But that's beside the point.

Michael Eisner is NOT a 'bean counter'. He graduated in 1964 from Denison University where he majored in theatre and literature.

Prior to joining Disney, he worked in the programming departments of CBS (1964?-66?) and ABC (1968-1976) in 1976, he became chairman of Paramount, and in 1984 he took over at Disney. When he took over, Disney was financially unhealthy, and mired in a creative slump.

I will agree that Eisner is an arrogant a-hole, whose best achievements have resulted in his ability to hire the brightest creative minds (Barry Diller at Paramount, Jeff Katzenberg at Disney). Of course, he, like Jerry Krause of the Chicago Bulls, believes that it is HIS genius that's responsible for the success of Disney the last 20 years, but it's not.

The reason that Disney is in a down period is simple - it's all about the money. And who do we blame for that? Eisner? Ok, to some extent. But what about Disney shareholders? I have worked for several large companies, and some good ideas have been flushed simply because they didn't offer the short-term, 'quick hit' to the bottom line that shareholders and stockbrokers love. What you can say, creatively, about Disney, you can say about Universal, Paramount, Columbia, and even MGM. Movies and TV today is profit driven, and until the movie-going public votes with ticket sales for quality movies, it always will be.

Like Moxie said, it's corporate hedging. What Disney is engaging in may be reprehensible to some, but it's financially smart - it wins either way, and actually, can win on both fronts. Chicken shit? Maybe. Two-faced? Definitely. Possible ramifications? Few, as most people wouldn't understand the complexity of it all, and a good spinmeister could make it work fairly well. Besides, other companies engage in seemingly contradictory behaviour, and we, the general public tolerate that, so why not this?

Please understand - I'm NOT condoning what Disney is doing. I'm just trying to balance out the discussion here. As a Chicagoan (read: Democrat) I'm not overly fond of a lot of George Bush's policies, but I don't believe Moore has a leg to stand on, either. His speech at the Academy Awards was inappropriate and incendiary, and made without factual basis. His film, Bowling for Columbine, has come under criticism for factual misrepresentations. And September 11th is a poor choice upon which to base critical analysis, since it was so unusual that it's hard to determine if Al Gore would have acted any differently in the same situation. Personally, Disney should stick to handing out the passes, and leave the asses elsewhere.

Resignation

I’ve come to the conclusion that Internet dating sites are a waste of time and money. At least for me they are. I’ve belonged, at various times, to kiss.com, match.com, matchmaker.com, udate, and lavalife. Now, I’m not desperate. Far from it. And for most of these, I’ve only belonged during the free period, ditching it as soon as I had to start paying. Only if I’d gotten some positive feedback (read: dates) did I stick around long enough to shell out money.

My dating experience hasn’t been the best. Over the years (I think it’s been about 5 years since I joined the first dating site, matchmaker.com), I’ve had about 40 dates. Of those, about 5 have seemed promising, and only one really sticks out as having relationship potential. Unfortunately for her, I had my first date with Laura the very next day. Other than that, only about two or three made it past the first date – some my choice, some theirs.

Of the women I dated on the Internet, some were truly nice, but not attractive (to me, at least). Some had serious issues, some outright lied about what they looked like, some were obviously not serious, one actually had a boyfriend, and, (lucky for me) none were psycho. There was Julie in Evanston, who I liked, but who wasn’t attracted to me (a common theme). And there was Debbie the Teacher, who kept addressing me by name every time I asked her a question:

“How’s the food?”
“Good, Greg.”
“Were you able to find parking?”
“Yes, Greg, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”

This made for an odd dinner conversation. And no, there was no date two. But she’s still on match.com, if you’d like to give her a shot. She was pretty.

And that’s just it – nobody gets off of these sites. I tried to cancel my match.com account, and they told me I had to call them to do it. Why? Because I pay less - $16.95 a month – than you do. And I’m sure I’d get some pitch to stick around. After all, what’s $16.95 a month? Right? Well, when you get to live on $16,000 for the next year, it’s a lot. And if I’m spending money, it’s going to be on someone who has a genuine interest in me, and not on a gamble that maybe – just maybe – she’ll like me.

My guess (and it’s been shown in a number of articles) is that women are far outnumbered by men on these sites – and a large percentage of men on these sites are married or otherwise attached. Some of the women I’ve talked to, have told me that they’re bombarded by emails as soon as they sign up, while I can count on two hands the number of unsolicited emails I’ve gotten from women, in total, on all of the sites I’ve belonged to – combined.

It also seems like people on these sites are searching for the perfect mate – physically, emotionally, educationally, and on and on. But anyone who is or has been married knows that such a person doesn’t exist. At best, you get 60-70% of the attributes you seek, and many people fall in love with someone who doesn’t meet any of their so-called ‘criteria.’ Ok, I’ll admit to being picky. And I’ll allow you the right to ignore my email introducing myself. And I’ll even allow you to exchange emails with me, and then stop, for no apparent reason and without warning. But please – please – don’t insult my intelligence by telling me that I’m a nice guy, blah, blah, blah, but you’ve met someone that you’d like to see more of, and see where it goes, yada, yada, yada, and then sign on to the service the very next day. Because that means you are either a sleazebag of the first order, or thinking that I’m dumb enough to believe that bullshit. And I’m not.