Adventures of The Yellow Peril

MAILING IT IN

So, you've probably figured it out.  I'm done with this blog, although the Yellow Peril and the adventuring will probably continue on somehow, sometime, somewhere.

I've had a great time writing for the past three years.  Looking back, I'm glad I wrote about the ridiculous, hilarious things that my friends said and did.  I'm sure that whenever one of you turns out to be a very powerful politician, you'll probably come knocking on my door, offering me huge sums of money under the table to kill this blog.  If you do, I'll pour you a beer and we can sit on my back porch with my Labrador while negotiating the terms and conditions of my surrender.  My Lab's name will be Manchego, by the way, as predetermined by my five-year plan.

Just in case you're wondering how I'll fill the empty hole in my day that I used to spend brain-farting on this blog, here are some other aspects of the five-year plan: 1) find a lobster, name him Pinchy, make him my friend; 2) try not to change jobs more than twice; 3) come to terms with being a lawyer; 4) learn how to make fresh mozzarella; 5) turn 30; 5a) stop the crying; and 6) visit Africa.  I'll let you know how all that goes.

Anyway, it's been fun.  See y'all soon.

THIS IS HOW I FEEL

My right elbow has the tingles because, I've discovered, I have a tendency to place more weight on my right elbow than my left when I type.  Since I've been continuously typing (and when not typing, weeping softly or surfing the internet looking at pretty pictures of food or apartments) for almost 3 weeks now, the tingles are always there.  Always. 

Starting next Thursday, when the bar exam ends, I'm going to put some serious time into looking into alternate professions, as I'm pretty sure I have not improved at all and will, in fact, fail the bar.  Some ideas I've had so far include doing infomercials for ProActiv or the Magic Bullet, replacing Star Jones on "The View" (I'm hungry, like she is, or at least looks), or taking a job with the National Weather Service naming hurricanes (thanks, Bun, for that suggestion).  Of course, this serious undertaking does not begin until I awake from a steak-induced coma and put my thinking pants on (which I am, perhaps stupidly, not wearing right now.  Or any pants, for that matter.  Believe me?  You don't have to believe anything when it's the facts, sir.)

Lastly, let me just remind you of three details that, for my fellow law school grads suffering right now, should take comfort in.  First of all, while you're schlubbing into the airplane hangar/gymnasium/auditorium to take this cursed exam next Tuesday wearing oatmeal-crusted sweatpants and your lucky Texas bandana, I will be dressed in a suit.  And sneakers.  Because apparently, I have to look like Ferris Bueller in order to be even allowed into the Virginia exam.  Secondly, while my friends in Texas know exactly which subjects they'll be tested on, the VA bar examiners let us try to guess which of the panoply of topics we might have to know.  And that panoply constitutes, by my count, 29 subjects.  Yes, 29.  Thirdly, I have to take the exam in the only city where the bar is offered: Roanoke.  Roanoke, which is 4 hours away by car.  Roanoke, which is where I ate passable ribs and mediocre smoked salmon on my way to this city.  Roanoke, which will forever be ingrained in my head for the rest of my life as the place where I failed the bar exam.

I miss freedom.

DONE AND DONE

So I graduated.  And I'm here now, after driving 1500+ miles.  Here are some highlights:

- I sped through all of Arkansas with promises from my dad of being able to eat Rendezvous barbecue in Memphis, TN.  We pulled into Memphis around 6, found our way to the best dry-rub ribs in the world, only to discover that Rendezvous is closed on Sundays.  And Mondays, thus killing Plan B (staying overnight in Memphis and eating ribs for breakfast).  The Peabody Hotel concierge recommended Blues City Cafe as an acceptable substitute.  The preparation of the ribs -- meat falling off the bone, piping hot -- was fine.  The sauce was, in a word, terrible.  Sticky sweet.  I came to eat ribs, not dessert.

- I fell.  Outside the Metro.  Hard.  So hard, in fact, that I bloodied my left knee, my right shoulder, tore my thumbnail, and scratched my face.  So hard that I stopped two cars full of people, asking the dreaded question, "Are you okay?"  So hard that a woman in her early 60s helped me up, telling me I should be more careful. To answer your question, no.  I'm so not okay.  I'm covered in blood and scratches, and the last vestiges of my dignity left when you decided to stop your car.  Thank you.

- I made friends with some kids from Iowa.  I like hearty Midwestern folk, and they were sitting behind me in my bar review class.  It's not sexy, but it works. 

- I've discovered that this city may be too serious for me.  Case in point: I went to the Memorial Day concert last night, hoping for hoopla about how awesome the USA is.  I was all ready to get my pom on cheering for all things America.  Apparently, Memorial Day here is not that kind of rodeo.  First of all, we couldn't even get to the Iowa friends because security blocked people off walking from one side of grassy knoll to the other.  Therefore, in order to reach our new friends, we had to leave the concert, go around behind the stage, and then re-enter (and get re-cleared through security) in order to get to get where we were going.  Then, once we were in, I found that I had to whisper to speak.  At an outdoor concert.  Why?  Because the jumbotron was showing a video montage about fallen heroes in Iraq.  In all honesty, it was moving.  However, there was one, fleeting, totally insensitive, Seinfeldian part of me that thought, "I left the Laguna Beach marathon on MTV for this?"

- I overheard two people arguing outside the Metro and couldn't decide whether to linger around to hear how the argument would play out or to run for my bloody life.  Here's a snippet: "I'LL TELL YOU SOMETHING ABOUT CRACK.  HE DIDN'T GET KILLED FOR NO CRACK, HE DONE GOT HIMSELF SHOT FOR SOMETHING ELSE."  Two thoughts.  First of all, if you can tell someone else about crack, and someone you know got shot over something besides that, why are you yelling about it in a public place?  Sir, I think you need to get thee to a safe house.  Secondly, is it unsafe, or just inappropriate, for me to be pretending to read this map and texting on my Razr?  Am I a target or an innocent, curious bystander?

- Went to have Moroccan food with Pooky, Pooky's roommate, and my dad.  Throughout dinner, I couldn't decide what was more surreal: my father having dinner with two gay men after dropping "Brokeback" references all weekend ("You know what X's family situation is like?  That scene in Brokeback when the dad takes Ennis to see the guys who'd been beaten up.") or the belly dancer who kept on making uncomfortable suggestive eye contact with our entire table. 

- I keep setting aside things as I unpack them, saying, "Oh, I'll put this here, where I won't forget where it is."  Then I forget where it is.  Right now, I'm looking for copies of my driving records in GA and SC and also the cable that connects my digital camera to my computer.  I have three years' worth of photos to upload, people! 

- I met JH's sweet little grandmother, who is appropriately titled.  A one hour lunch with JH, his brother, and grandmother was probably among the cutest interactions I've seen ever between  people.  The ten-minute conversation about who likes tomatoes was the highlight ("Do you like tomatoes?"  "He likes tomatoes."  "Why won't he eat my tomatoes then?"  "He likes tomatoes, he just doesn't want to eat your tomatoes."  "Eat the tomatoes.").

Okay, I think that's it.  I promise to update more, mainly because underlying all of the things that have been happening to me is bar review, which is just so horrific to even think about that I'm going to procrastinate by posting.  And also cooking.  Maybe I'll even learn how to make cheese.

NOTE TO SELF

Never, ever drink Jager bombs and $1 Tecate and then make my friends drive me to the 'Bana and then pass out while eating beef quesadillas on my bed.

Also, do not wave arms wildly while screaming T's name in the street, causing alarm to other friends who then search the sreets for her.

K?  Thanks.

WHY MY LIFE IS WEIRD

Text message conversation, 1:45 AM:

Sender (JH): HEB is sold out of good yeast. :-(

Me: Excuses, excuses, excuses.

Sender (JH): That hurts.

Me: No it doesn't.

Sender (JH): I am staring at the shelf like it's a website waiting to refresh.  Alas, I guess that's not how grocery stores work.

Me: Did you ask someone to look in the back?

And scene.

THINGS GOT WEIRD

I'm out of this now. 

SHOUT OUT

It turns out that the Dean will say whatever we want him to at graduation in order to acknowledge those people who have supported us through our legal education.  There's a strict 25-word limit.

Here's the deal.  Whoever comes up with the funniest 25 words, I will write down, word for word, on my graduation form.  Out of compassion for my mom, I'd like for it to include her.  Also, please pretend like the entire audience will not be not wearing their earmuffs* that day.

Comment away.

* From "Old School" --

Mitch: I've had a hell of a day and even worse week. And all I want to do is get some fucking sleep.
Beanie: Whoa. Whoa. Why the F-ing? Why in front of the kid? All ya gotta do is say "earmuffs" to him, and you can say "Fuck, shit, bitch."
Frank: Cock. Balls.
Beanie: I'm just trying to make a point, Frank. You don't have to celebrate it.

PROM DATE

Later on, Chuff and the Peril went on to commit mountains of destruction.

AND SO IT BEGINS

Chuff's here.  We're getting fierce.

YOU'D NEVER KNOW OTHERWISE

I've been through two marathons today.

This morning, ES ran something like a 2 hour, 58 minute marathon, which is basically incredible, considering it was her first and there were like, only 15 or 20 women who finished ahead of her.  I stood with J in the freezing cold for an hour waiting for her, and afterwards, my thighs felt like frozen torture, so I can't even imagine what she must've been going through. 

Later on, I did a Costco run with fellow SBA'er CG for tomorrow's impending Law Week maelstrom, and then we came back to the house to fold and bundle 500 Law Week t-shirts and programs with four other SBA'ers.  Every single t-shirt is wrapped in a pretty ribbon with a program attached to it.  The ribbons are color-coordinated according to size: silver for small, black for medium, blue for large, and gold for extra-large.

Why am I telling you this?  Well, I'm telling you this because, for those of you who go to UT Law, you'll probably want one of these FREE t-shirts when you drop by the Atrium tomorrow morning starting at 10:00 AM.  Knowing you, you'll amble by, pretending to be better than all the hoopla but extending your grubby little paws all the same.  I hope to holy grasshopper that, when we hand you a bundle of t-shirt + program, you look carefully at the handiwork, the attention to detail, the love that went into that little bundle. 

If you don't, I might be inclined to take it back, because six SBA'ers spent SIX HOURS tonight turning 500 t-shirts and programs into the attractive bundle that now lays in your hands.  If I so much as seen ONE of you tear into this little package to size up your t-shirt, letting your program fall onto the floor before marching back up to the SBA table and demanding a larger size while spouting off some bullhonky about size misrepresentation, why, I may take it back.  Yes, I would do that.  I wouldn't even feel bad.  Because my little fingers are raw to the nubbin from tying these bundles, and I'm tired.  And when I'm tired, I get grumpy.  And when I get grumpy, people lose their free Law Week t-shirts.

The end.