Oh See Eye: On Word Games and Interview Season

First things first. I promised myself when I started this blog that I would never, ever apologize for not writing. I always hated tuning into a blogs and read something along these lines: “Sorry I haven’t written for a while, but . . .” What am I, your editor?

Stop with the apologies and write something.

Or don’t. What do I care?

The point of having a blog at all is that you don’t have deadlines, nobody forces you to write, and for the most part, nobody reads it. That being said, this particular period of textual drought was particularly egregious, so I figured I would at least acknowledge it.

Consider it acknowledged (Jon).

And yes, I have been a little bit busy for the last few weeks. Why? OCI.

There is this crazy thing at the end of the summer (and fall and spring) called “On Campus Interviews.” It’s where law firms visit the campus in search of the students they believe would make a good fit for their firm. For around 5 days you and your peers will interview, schmooze, drink, eat, and charm your way to positions in firms from around the nation.

So, in the last three weeks I’ve spent around 27 hours speaking to approximately 52 lawyers in several cities from about 15 different firms. I also went to the State Fair. Twice. (Hi Katie!)

And the great part about this whole OCI thing was that I actually found the vast majority of it to be quite enjoyable. Nearly everyone I met was collegial, chatty, and had a good deal of helpful things to teach me about the practice of law. Plus the food was excellent and the drinks plentiful.

Here’s a breakdown of what to expect should you ever go through a similar situation.

The interviews on campus

A lot of people don’t like the endless interviewing because they find it tedious and superficial. I don’t mind it one bit. Honestly. And it’s not just that I’m a desperately lonely and love-deprived hermit who craves eye contact and probing questions (although that’s obviously part of it).

It’s that I don’t mind small talk. I don’t mind engaging complete strangers in conversation and seeing where it leads. I’ve never minded striking up conversations in a bar, waiting in line, or sitting on a plane or bus.

True, this can backfire. There’s nothing worth than starting a lengthy conversation with a voluble dullard whilst a stellar book sits neglected in your backpack.

Or there was that one time I was seated next to a soul-saving-proselytizer.

Shoot. Me. Now.

Of course, interviews don’t have this problem. Even if you don’t absolutely hit it off, the interview’s only scheduled for 20 minutes, so you have an easy out. One interviewer and I compared the whole process to speed dating: an opportunity to get to know as many people as quickly as possible in the hopes of finding that cosmic match along the way.

The interviewer noted that she would have liked to have had more time to ask her questions. I actually thought that 20 minutes was too much. Which makes sense because my history indicates that I tend to say something inappropriate after right around 17 minutes of uninterrupted conversation.

I actually think that they could probably do the same thing in about 5 minutes. For me, it tends to be about warmth, tone, and effort, all of which can be determined shortly after the personality leaves the gate. (The downside to this foreshortened approach is what speed-datalogists call the Hans Solo/Princess Leah conundrum: when a relationship begins with outward hostility but ends with a galaxy-saving/empire-destroying union of two perfectly matched souls).

So I guess it’s a trade-off. You might miss out on your Hans Solo, but you can certainly weed out the Chewbaccas. (Hint: they hit people and scream incomprehensibly a lot).

In my opinion the best interviews were the ones that for some reason or other were unique. The interviewer was exceptionally candid or the discussion was particularly lively and interesting. That sort of thing.

For example, in one of the best interviews I had, both interviewers told me stories about how, at one point they had left their firms, only to eventually come back. The reason for their triumphant returns? They missed their friends.

AAHHH.

At the time, it was the most endearing endorsement for the intangibles of a law firm that I had heard all week.

Then there was the interviewer who continuously assured me that his firm had one of the lowest “Asshole Quotients” ( AQ’s) he’d ever seen. He was incredibly excited about the whole thing. Obviously, he explained, you’re never going to find an asshole quotient of zero, but his firm comes pretty close. Since he seemed to be about the farthest thing from an asshole I could conceive of, I believed him.

Then there was the interview outside in the sun on a bench. Nice touch.

So those are my thoughts on the interviews. Largely positive. True, there are a few downsides: you’re nervous and it’s kind of an artificial situation that and sort of thing. But if you don’t mind small talk you should be just fine. Besides, from what I found, the AQ at these kinds of things is incredibly low.

The Receptions

If the interviews weren’t really your style-- too stuffy and formal—then there’s a good chance that you were at the receptions that the different firms were hosting. These receptions were very valuable because they offered the employers and employees a chance to get to know each other in a more informal setting. And they also had booze.

During OCI Orientation we were encouraged, like always, to drink responsibly. I think the laughably low figure of one drink was thrown around as being a prudent amount.

But who really gains if we all stick to one drink? For those of you interested in politics, you are probably familiar with the term “kick the tires.”

These receptions are the hiring partners way (and ours as well) of “kicking the tires.” Sure he’s tolerable in an interview for twenty minutes or so, but what happens when we expose him to a free bar?

Does he begin dropping plates? Is his nametag on upside down? If we give out large bouncy balls as a party favor, will he begin to bounce it before leaving the function? (He will).

The basic idea is that you will have the opportunity to socialize with the person that either a) has already interviewed you for a job, or b) will be interviewing you for a job the following day. Since the students tend to far outnumber the interviewers the whole enterprise has a kind of ingratiating and ass-kissing feel to it.

That’s not a dig at the event. In fact, given everyone’s unusually pleasant and polite disposition, I think it’s an endorsement. Every joke is well received and every smile freely given as the students try to make a favorable impression on their fondest firms. And if you’re having trouble catching the attention of your latest crush/firm, you can hang out and have a couple of drinks with your friends. It’s an absolute ball.

Usually these kinds of receptions were hosted at a local bar, but the most bizarre and post-modern, (and surely the one most open to interpretation) was hosted at the Englert Theater in downtown Iowa City. At the theater, students smiled, mingled and drank expensive drinks on a lighted stage while decisions concerning their fate were being conducted by mysterious and powerful entities behind the scenes. I almost felt like I was watching my own personal version of Mulholland Drive. Of course, consistent with Lynchian tone and sense of humor, the seats of the theater remained dark and empty.

Make of that what you will.

The Errors

If I was giving myself a rating for the last few weeks, I would say that I batted .289 with a couple of homers and maybe 5 errors. This means that I will not win a golden glove award for flawlessness, but I feel like I can contribute on someone’s roster.

Error #1

Of these errors, the weirdest and most notable by far was putting the word “Scabble” on my résumé instead of the more commonly used “Scrabble.” For those of you unfamiliar, Scrabble is a popular household word game. (Note: though I contemplated listing Scrabble under the “skills” section, I eventually included it under the “interests” section or my résumé).

To begin, this is quite possibly the most ironic typographical error in the history of résumés. Ever.

To paraphrase Churchill (or somebody), it is a layer of irony wrapped in a nougat of unexpectedness and stuffed in a riotously funny Russian doll of humor.

First, the word Scrabble is itself a sort of made up word. As far as I know, it doesn’t exist in dictionaries nor is it a playable Scrabble word. So technically I misspelled a fake, made-up word. Funny stuff.

Second, and most glaring of course, was that Scrabble is a word game in which one must correctly spell a word to be successful. Thus, my claim that I have both an interest in and aptitude for the game instantly becomes unconvincing.

Let me repeat: I MISPELLED THE NAME OF A WORD GAME ON MY RESUME !

Of course, when it was brought to my attention I immediately uploaded a revised edition of my résumé for potential employers. Apparently though, all the employers had all downloaded the original version and had it lying out in front of them before the interview even began. The damage had been done.

The funny thing about this? It might have been colossally stupid, but it might also have been unintentionally brilliant. The first three minutes of every interview were spent dissecting the implications of such a bizarre typo. Several people “challenged” my spelling. One wondered if I was really as good a “scabble” player as I claimed to be and followed it with a hearty chuckle. Everyone seemed to be at least mildly amused at the novel and unconventional nature of the faux-pas.

At this point I've convinced myself that the error was at the very least a wash and moved on with my life.

Error #2

Though it wasn’t nearly as grave as the Scabble situation, I was also bit directly in the face by my friend’s bulldog just two days before several call-back interviews. She was just playing, but there was a noticeable half-inch gash between my eyes. A friend of mine suggested make-up, but he works in broadcasting so that’s his solution to everything. In the end I sucked it up and finished out my week.

Conclusion

In executive summary form, here are my suggestions for completing a successful OCI:

· Enjoy the food
· Enjoy the drink
· Enjoy the conversation
· Learn something
· Spell check
· Avoid bulldogs

Puppy Love: New Dog Inpsires Woman to End Human Relationship

After several days of nonstop attention and slavish obedience, local Yorkshire Terrier “Terry” finally convinced his beautiful owner Julia Larson to dump her chronically under-performing boyfriend Doug Schroeder.

Though she had been contemplating the split for months, it wasn’t until discovering the sense of companionship and intimacy offered by dog ownership that she ultimately decided to become a single woman.

“You know, I just thought, I’ve really been enjoying these last couple days with Terry. I feel like he makes me happy. And every time I start talking his ears perk up really high like this,” explained Julia, placing her index fingers, doglike, next to her temples. “That’s when I know he’s listening to me.” Julia added that such perkiness has been noticeably absent in Doug’s flaccid, cartilaginous ears “for at least the last couple of months.”

“Plus every time I leave Terry for even a second he gets all scared and sad looking and I think it’s so cute. When I leave my boyfriend though he’s like ‘Bye’ and I’m like, ‘Bye.’ He doesn’t even whimper or run to the door or anything. Whatever. Dick.”

Before deciding to let go of the man whom she had once referred to quite openly as her life partner, Julia undertook an exhaustive comparative analysis of the two males. According to Julia, Terry won in the majority of categories, including: affection, obedience, listening, cuteness, cuddling, and loyalty.

By contrast, Julia’s boyfriend Doug Schroeder was able to secure victories in only two categories: “usually able to poo in the appropriate place” and “as tall as me.”

Doug, whom sources revealed has been a constant disobedience problems in the past, from staying out late, to playing video games, to failing to heed when called, found the news to be shocking.

“At first I thought the dog was kind of cute,” said Doug. “But then I started sensing something sinister, like Terry was consciously creating a wedge between Julia and I. Like everything I could possibly bring to the relationship Terry could do it even better.”

“Like for example,” Doug continued, “the other day I remember saying something that I thought was really funny and Julia kind of politely nodded, you know, like she was going through the motions. Then like three seconds later that stupid dog fell off the couch and Julia laughed her ass off for like, I’m not exaggerating, 5 straight minutes.”

Though Julia described the two males as having “similar senses of humor”, she later conceded that Terry is probably the funnier of the two. “The other day you should have seen cutey wooty little Terry fall off the big bad couchy wouchy,” said Julia, clutching her sides in laughter, obviously taking a moment to savor the event anew. “I think it’s really important to have something in your life that knows how to make you laugh.”

Though Doug concedes that the split is a setback, he insists that the event will not deter him from pursuing other positive projects as soon as he is able. Among potential projects, Doug lists “returning to school,” “feeling sorry for himself” and “continuing to play the victim” as activities that he is likely to pursue in the near future.

Tips For Playing Scrabble in Guanajuato

The Basics

Here’s the setup. The only board we have was found at a rental house, so we have to make do. It’s a Spanish board with Spanish tiles, so all English and Spanish words are acceptable. If there is a challenge of an English word, we will search in the official scrabble tournament word list online. If there is a challenge of a Spanish word, we will use the nearest Spanish/English dictionary that’s handy.

After challenges have been made, it is requisite that all players at the table sound off on how arbitrary/stupid/ridiculous it is that the disputed word is/isn’t a playable word. If you’ve been drinking heavily (which you will have been) please act especially outraged at the injustice of it all.

Choosing a teammate

If you are playing on teams, plan ahead when picking your teammate. In a sense, this is a bit like picking a vice presidential candidate; you should have someone that shores up your weaknesses and complements the ticket. If you are not a Spanish speaker, make absolute sure that you have someone who speaks (or more importantly, writes) it well; if you’re completely drunk, select someone who voluntarily refrains from the bottle; if you’re illiterate, choose someone who has experience with letters and words. You get the idea.

If you have failed to complement your inadequacies with superior talent, don’t fear. Played at a rather European pace, games in Guanajuato can last upwards of three hours, meaning that either you or your teammate will probably have lost interest and left the table long before the game’s completion.

Point values

Be careful of the point values on the tiles. While q may be an extremely potent letter in English Scrabble, due to the relative ubiquity of q’s in common Spanish words (que, querer, queso, etc), its influence in this game has been halved. It is now worth only 5 points.

On the other hand, get an “ll” and you’re in for a treat. It’s worth 8 points and may be used as simply two l’s in English.

A final note on tile usage, the ñ may be used simply as an “n.” This rule, though established by ample precedent in previous matches, will also surely be disputed a number of times throughout the game.

Bonus Points, First Category

The basic rule is that any sex-related word is automatically doubled. Of course, what constitutes a sex-related word is a perpetual bone (sex related word?) of contention.

In order for a word to be considered a “sex-related” there must be an official table roll call. Though there is no hard and fast rule on this, at a table with 8 players, 4 votes is usually the de minimis standard that one must reach in order to be awarded double points. A rule concerning the quorum necessary for a vote to take place has never been officially established.

If at all possible, avoid dual-usage words such as “date” or “bed.” Usually, someone will say something like “Feb. 17th is a date, that’s not sexual.” This will be followed by a dispute and various lobbying efforts in an effort to secure votes. Instead, try to stick with words like “coitus” (the opening word for one of our games) or “whore,” which generally do not allow for more than one legitimate meaning.

Before you play your word, make sure you have thoroughly formulated your argument for why it should be considered “sex-related.”

I ran into this problem playing the word “roadies,” which I claimed was both a seven-letter and sexual word. Though I won over several votes quickly, I ran into a stiff resistance from people familiar with the distinction between groupies and roadies, and ultimately lost the case. "Anus" was also shot down after a lengthy discourse on the fine differences between its nominal (anus) and adjectival (anal) forms.

Note to the world: this is what happens when you get a bunch of lawyers together to play an otherwise civil board game.

Remember, though the match may seem good-natured and friendly, at its heart it is an example of board-game-realpolitik at its most vicious and unforgiving. In all likelihood, the “goodwill” of your opponents is probably based on shady political alliances or some sort of long-term, self-serving strategy.

Thus, even if you feel like you have a word that is unquestionably “sex-related,” it might not fly. This is especially ture if the game is tight. This means that your opponents are more willing to sacrifice good sportsmanship and the respect of their peers for their sweaty quest for victory.

Be aware of this and form alliances early on.

Bonus points, Second Category

In addition to sex-related words, one other category of words will be selected as having double point value. This category will be chosen according to the night the game is played on. If it is the night before your academic finals and you should be studying, double points will be awarded for words concerning international transactions. If it is the last night of the NBA Finals, sports words will be awarded double points.

For example, playing the word “pathetic” would be sports-related because it aptly describes the performance of the L.A. Lakers and, especially, Kobe Bryant (sorry Ryan) in their final match against the Celtics. "Rejoice" and "smug" would also be acceptable words because they were illustrative of my reaction to that lopsided victory.

And yes, if you can play a word that is both sex-related and sports-related, (“balls” for instance) you will be awarded quadruple points.

Of course, the holy grail of point combinations would be playing a seven letter word (+50 points) that is sex-related (x2), sports-related (x2), and falls on a triple word score (x3). I think a strong argument could be made that the word “ballers,” if appropriately played, would fall into this category.

Parting Thoughts

That should give you a pretty good start. And don’t be afraid of all the rules changes. Equipped with these tips and just a little bit of self-confidence, you’ll be able to go out there and show all those lawyers how the game is played. Just remember, you’re a baller.

Basic Economics of Flying 101

I feel like some of my greatest contributions to civil society are made on the airplane.

During boarding, the typical passenger is unpacking his things or distractedly reading through a People Magazine and doing his best to relax. I, on the other hand, am anything but relaxed. I know that something is wrong. I can sense it. And I'll be damned if I'm going to just sit back and do nothing.

I am perfectly still in my seat and my senses have kicked into high gear. Like an unseen tiger stalking his prey from the dark jungle, I am watching and waiting for my opportunity.

Suddenly I see it. A man 3 rows up is making motions to a woman seated next to me. His voice is barely audible, but he begins to mouth some words. "Do you think we can find someone to switch with us?" he says. I see fear in his eyes. He is weak-willed and confused. Perhaps he and his significant other are wearing matching outfits. I've seen enough.

I heroically jump into action, nearly tripping over myself to be the first to the rescue. "I will be the man to make that sacrifice," I say in a booming voice, rising from my seat, basking in the awe of my fellow passengers. We make the switch, exchanging pleasantries, and I accept the couple's gushing gratitude with a quick, self-deprecating wave of my hand. The Iowan in me has diverted disaster once again.

Do I ask for the same selflessness out of others? Never. Nor would I expect others to offer it up gratuitously. Not only do I feel perfectly comfortable spending two hours on my own in the big, bad airplane, but the risk of awkward rejection usually prevents me from acting.

That being said, my flight to Phoenix was a real eye opener. Let me set the scene.

I am seated about 5 rows ahead of my girlfriend. There are three people in my row. In fact, there appear to be three people in every row on the plane except one: my girlfriend's row. She is seated next to the window and another woman is seated in an aisle seat, leaving an open seat in between them.

Perfect, I think. I won't even have to ask anyone to move in order to take the open seat. As it becomes clear that no one else will be boarding, I rise and begin to make my way back to the open seat. Emily, out of courtesy, says to the woman in the aisle seat, "Do you mind if my boyfriend sits here?" The woman, who, it should be emphasized, has not been asked to sacrifice her seat, simply rolls her eyes and looks the other direction. Though this is done without my knowledge, Emily whispers it into my ear during the flight.

Part of me wishes she hadn't told me this en route. It made the rest of the flight vaguely awkward and it forced me to spend a significant amount of time thinking about the ethics behind our behavior. Does this woman have a claim? Surely she didn't purchase the seat in between her and Emily did she? Was there a husband (perhaps tired of her standoffishness) who failed to show? Possible, but unlikely. And if that was the case, why not say something?

For a moment, I try to empathize with her. She had something of value, a buffer seat in between her and a stranger. Now she does not. So in a sense, she has a right to be a little indignant. This is assuming of course that we think of the buffer seat as being "her's" to begin with. Regardless, I think her behavior is extremely short-sighted. She would do well to look at the big picture.

Though she may have lost something of value, someone else further up the plane has gained something of equal value when I got up. In fact, since I was also in a middle seat, the open seat that I left actually conferred a benefit upon two people. So already we have a net gain of 1 unit of happiness/comfort.

But of course, the equation doesn't stop there. The happiness that I will derive from being next to my girlfriend who is super awesome and makes me laugh a lot also has value. There's another unit of happiness. Emily, will also derive happiness from the transaction, but the quantity of happiness will be less than me for two reasons: 1) I am not as cool as her 2) She had a buffer seat and now does not have a buffer seat. Let's say she gets 1/2 of what I get out of the deal. In all 5 people are affected by the transaction. Here's the rough calculus:

Happiness of woman who lost buffer seat: -1
Happiness of woman who gained buffer seat: +1
Happiness of woman 2 who gained a buffer seat: +1
Nick's happiness: +1
Emily's happiness: +1/2

Net gain of happiness: 2 1/2

Invisible hand anyone? Sure my initial act was selfish, but look at all the excess happiness that one act of selfishness generated. Invisible or not, does this woman sitting next to me really not see this equation?

And in reality, my estimate of a simple 2.5 u/h gain is, if anything, conservative. For example, with all that surplus happiness floating around in the fuselage, it's pretty likely to cheer up the flight attendants. A couple extra smiles here, a couple extra thank yous there. You get the picture. The flight attendants interact with the captain (I think), which means he/she might be happier too. A happier captain means a less depressed captain, which means less chance of the captain flying off the handle and dive-bombing into a Kansas cornfield.

As is clearly illustrated above, I simply cannot overstate the amount of people that could stand to gain from this move.

Like I said, I empathize with her plight. Without the proper safety nets in place to ease her suffering (passenger subsidized pillows, on board nurse, entertainment, food, a place to sit), the invisible hand stops being just invisible and begins to disappear altogether. But in my situation, when the happiness of the entire plane is taken into account, and the safety nets are in place, switching seats is undeniably the best way to go.

I think about explaining these numbers to her but don't want the rest of the flight to be more awkward than it already is. As a concession to my own ego, I resolve to make my calculations known to her in the event that we begin plummeting to our deaths.

Though part of me is quietly hoping for a mid-flight disaster, so that I can give this woman a pre-death lecture on civility and collective happiness, we land without incident. And I think of how sad it is that she will think it was a horrible flight. She might even start lobbying her local carrier to prohibit this type of activity, ultimately affecting all flight passengers, possibly even herself, in all sorts of adverse ways in the future.

And if you just listened to her side of the story, you'd never believe that from the time that flight took off to the time it landed, that very same flight she thought was so horrible had actually experienced a huge 2.5 unit surge in happiness. And what's more? It was all due to the selfish, happiness-generating acts of one humble person.

Is there any flight I can't make happy?

I ALWAYS Miss the Apocalypse

Anyone who’s spoken to me for any length of time is probably aware of my fascination with natural disasters. Especially tornadoes. The mystery, the power, the purple skies and levitating livestock, what’s not to like? It’s like a backstage pass to the Apocalypse every time the sirens start sounding.

The problem is, I’ve never actually seen any natural disaster live. Nothing. No hurricanes, no tornadoes, no mudslides or volcano eruptions, and I absolutely refuse to count the floods of ‘93. And to be honest, I’ve always felt this odd sense of inadequacy at having lived in Iowa for roughly my entire life and never, ever laid eyes on a tornado. Every night, as my friends congregate at the bar to exchange the week’s crazy tornado anecdotes, I always find myself embarrassed and trying to change the topic. Sure, if we were having a conversation in the abstract about tornadoes, I’d be all for it. But people with the experience can always one up you. Nobody wants to listen to you drone on about some lame Discovery show you were watching, when the guy next to you is talking about how his dog was freakishly lanced through a tree and still lived to fetch another ball.

Just once I‘d like the opportunity, when talking to non-tornado-alley outsiders, to boast about my close encounter with Earth’s most impressive natural disaster. “Have YOU ever seen a tornado?” They would ask me, mouth agape, eyes expectant. “Yes,” I would reply bravely, “but I don’t want to talk about it.” Then I’d start to walk away, only to stop briefly, shake my head, look at the ground and say “You’d better pray to God you don’t see one in your neighborhood.”

Which brings me to my main point.

Yesterday morning, a natural disaster that was literally IN MY HOUSE. . . and I failed to appreciate it. How fucking hard is it to miss an Earthquake? It’s not even something you can go out to chase, you just have to sit back and EXPERIENCE IT. The only thing required to take part is consciousness, and I failed.

And now I know everyone’s going to be sitting around hashing and rehashing their crazy experiences with the great earthquake of naught 8, and I’m going to be sitting there bleeding from my ears out from boredom. Every once in a while I’ll say something about how similar that must have been to the Great Floods of ’93. People will nod politely and then go back to their crazy earthquake having stories. And there’s nothing I can do. It’s always going to be like that until I experience my first natural disaster.

Until then, if anyone wants to talk about routine flash flooding, you know where to find to me.

A Fantasy I've Been Having of Late. Or, What I Think About When I've Accomplished Nothing on a Sunday Morning

There's a particularly optimistic saying that goes something like this: everyone is the best in the world at something. Though I may never realize this dream, I think I know what I would be best in the world at. I would make an awesome patient at a mental health facility.

Hear me out.

I think what go me started thinking about the idea was several years ago when I was talking to a good friend of mine. That good friend had recently spent several days in jail on account of an unfortunate drinking/driving decision. When we showed up to pick him up (or, as we called it at the time "spring him") from jail, he detailed his several days of captivity. The majority of his time he spent reading and working out and laying in bed. He explained that he found it to be incredibly boring, but the entire time he was thinking "you know who would like this? Nick Gregory."

And it's true. His description of jail almost made me a bit envious. One week to spend away from work, away from the world, to read and write and think and have all of your meals prepared and served to you. There was certainly something appealing about the rigid daily structure and the odd sort of freedom that jail had to offer.

And so, in theory, I'm pretty sure that I make a perfect inmate. There's just one hitch, the prospect of jail/prison is terrifying. I've seen those "inside the slammer" shows on A&E, and I'm not sure that's the kind of nurturing, life-affirming environment that I'm looking for.

So, if I were to create a list of the benefits and drawbacks of penitentiary life it would look something like this:

Benefits: structure, food, reading time.

Drawbacks: shankings, gang violence, race wars, feces throwing and perpetual fear.

If, god forbid, I was ever sent to prison, I would request to be placed in a room by myself and have zero contact with the other inmates. Though the reading time would be great, I still need interpersonal contact with other humans. Despite the obvious upsides of the institutional life, I just don't think I'd be able to thrive in that kind of environment.

Luckily penitentiaries aren't the only heavily structured institutional settings that America has to offer. I quickly ran through the list: the Army? Too much yelling and hierarchy. The monastery? Too much assigned reading from one source. And that's when it hit me: I would make an excellent patient at a mental health facility.

In my mind, I would take to this kind of environment like a fish in water. It's the perfect fit. I was thinking about this fantasy the other day while studying, and I'm pretty sure that if I ever lived in a mental health facility my life would look a little bit like this:

I wake up at the crack of dawn. On the "outside" I had always been a late-riser, but on the inside, with no late night distractions, I finally become that child of the morning I always knew I could be. The sun is just peeking into my locked-from-the-outside room. It takes little time to dress because I have chosen to wear the scrubs that are provided to all the patients. I like the simple garment because it takes the guessing work and st res out of part of my morning. No longer must I hand-wring in deciding whether to go with the sweater or the button up-shirt. The choice is made FOR me. I love it. For some reason it seems like a very democratic way to go about things. I remember in high school writing a persuasive paper in favor of school uniforms. I still believe that, in institutional settings, a uniform dress code is the best way to go.

Next I knock lightly on the locked stainless steel door that leads to my room. I like this stainless steel. It makes me feel protected and special. A man's home is his castle. And my castle is impenetrable. Or at least inescapable. Which for me, is probably better. I remember on the outside, sometimes someone would call up and say "Hey you want to go have some beer?" I would have loads of homework and a paper due, but setting aside my better judgment, would agree. Now, if I get that same call, it's easy to do the right thing because, once again, the decision is made FOR me. I've finally found a way to protect prudent, far-sighted Nick, from impulsive, short-sighted Nick.

Gary, the morning guard, opens my door. As is our morning ritual, I say "Howdy captain," and give him a high five. He responds in kind and shoots me a grin from ear to ear. I know I am his favorite because I have never once tried to urinate on him.

And even when people do try to urinate on Gary, Gary does not, like a penitentiary guard, get angry or vindictive. Instead, he is understanding. That's the kind of place we're in: a nurturing, helpful, gentle place. We're here to help each other out. And that's why I love it.

I proceed to the cafeteria, where, like every morning, I am the first to arrive. The food smells incredible, and what's more. . .it's ALL FREE. Throughout my life, I have been an ardent defender of high school cafeteria food and those who prepare it. This is no different. I shamelessly praise the quality of the food and watch as the cooks pile extra hashed browns onto my plate and wink at me.

I read the morning papers from cover to cover as I eat and watch my friends shuffle in for another day of self-development and evolution. Throughout the day I read and work out at the physical therapy center. There is a gym there, and I am one of the best basketball players at the facility. I play enough every day to be in excellent physical condition.

I have successfully lobbied the board of supervisors, through an elaborate power point presentation, to purchase a ping pong and a billiards table. There are a number of patients who spend a great deal of their time doing nothing but playing ping pong. The tournaments are intense and like everything else, accompanied by inappropriate yelling. My overall record at the ping pong table is 563-94. I collect statistics and publish monthly data on records and have created a complex formula for deciding power rankings within the institution. Each month's winner of the power ranking wins a gold trimmed certificate, also paid for ($2 a piece) by the board of supervisors. Many of the psychiatrists have attributed the progress of their patients to their newly-acquired obsession with ping pong.

For those patients who have difficulty with the game, I help teach them the basics and spend hours mastering the simple, zen-like back and forth of the game. I experience all of the fun and camaraderie that Jack Nicholason found in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest," but without incurring the ire of those in charge of the facility. In fact, I actively try to ingratiate myself into their good graces. I think that currying their favor will give me the best drugs and most smiles in the hallway. They treat me gently and encourage my various pursuits and over-rejoice in my triumphs.

I usually meet with my psychiatrist once a day. My psychiatrist is a bit like Robin Williams from Awakenings, or if you prefer, Robin Williams from Patch Adams. The cinematic reference is fitting, because, as it happens, these therapeutic meetings play out a bit like clips from Woody Allen's most beloved films. I explain my deepest thoughts, and obsessions, and my psychiatrist often encourages me to superimpose my own psycho-analysis onto his. It is this kind of productive partnership that produces the most successful and rewarding sessions. I honestly believe that the psychiatrist enjoys these sessions and, though he would never admit it, considers me something of a friend. He has to fight the urge to invite me to dinner with him and his family because that would be a gross violation of the doctor patient relationship.

The bill for these cathartic analytic sessions? Zero dollars and zero cents. While Woody is paying hundreds of dollars an hour for his outlet, I get my own personal, daily psychiatrist to help me work through the perpetually mysterious and confounding pathways of the human mind. No thought goes unspoken, no behavior unanalyzed, no feeling undissected. In fact, I am as fit mentally fit as I am physically. During the day, basketball for my body, in the evenings, therapy for my mind. My entire existence has been nurtured and encouraged and I am finally approaching something akin to a Nirvana on earth.

And, having finally reached that Nirvana, having climbed to the top of Mt. Nicholas and looked at the view, I feel as if I am ready to face the world. I decide to be discharged (I have voluntarily committed myself) and a huge party is thrown in my honor. People messily eat cake and dance awkwardly to the chicken-dance song. My friends, the staff and the patients offer me hugs and cards and drawings for the road. Gary unlocks the door to the outside world and bids me farewell. A single tear can be seen dramatically rolling down his cheek. "Good bye" captain, I say. And he smiles and gives me one last high five for the road.

That Saturday night, February 24th, for the first time in years, I stay up all night watching movies. Specifically, I watch High Art and I, Robot. I get up at around noon and begin writing a blog post. At 1:15 I still haven't finished the damn post as it begins to take on a life of its own. I think: "It's nearly 1:30 pm on a Sunday morning and I haven't accomplished anything today." And then I realize what my life is missing:

Just a little bit of institutional structure.

A Futile Attempt to Break the Language Barrier

I met with my language buddy today to speak for 1/2 hour before enslaving myself to an essay for the remainder of the evening.

Here is an exchange that we had in English at the end of our meeting which I thought was kind of humorous:

Me: "Thanks for speaking with me today."

Buddy: "Thank you too."

Me: "Next week I'll be sure to bring my A-game."

Buddy: "What does that mean?"

Me: "Um, I wasn't too alert today, I was making all sorts of mistakes. Next time I'll do better."

Buddy: "Oh, I see."

We had just spent 1/2 hour speaking in Spanish. Sure we made all sorts of mistakes and pauses and searched around for very basic words, but there was very little miscommnication between us. Then, in switching back to English, which we have both spoken since birth, I immediately say something that is totally incomprehensible to her.

Go figure.

Paying It Backwards: A Horrible Miscarriage of Charity

So, I'm standing in line at Kum and Go. I have two items in my hands: a gallon of 1% milk and a twix candy bar that I impulsively picked- up after seeing it displayed attractively near the check-out counter. There is a man in front of me, maybe 25 years old, who is holding around four 20 ounces of Pepsi-Cola. As a supporter of Coca-Cola, I instinctively distrust him.

Despite our manifest differences, I politely take my place in line behind him. Just as he is about to move forward to purchase his shitty Pepsi products, a woman approaches, sees the line that has formed, and stops. He looks at her and says with a warm smile "You can go ahead."

Please note that this offer is made with neither my input nor consent.

Now, I'm all for paying it forward. If this man was the only one in line, I would have no problem with his action because he would be the only person adversely affected by his own act of chairty. If I had just completed my purchase and then saw him do it, I might even respect him for it . But the fact that he decided to assist one stranger at the expense of another I find completely unacceptable.

Imagine this, I see Old Lady 1 robbed at gunpoint. I arm myself, find Old Lady 2, rob her and then give the proceeds to Old Lady 1. Have I done something good or admirable or respectable? No, I've acted like a moron and conferred a net benefit of zero on those whom I have interacted with.

Someone needs to tell this guy that being first in line doesn't make you the KING of the line. It does not vest you with any special powers or permit you to decide who goes first, second, or third.

I guess I could have been the one to explain this to him, but unfortunately, I didn't act when I had the opportunity. I could have objected, I could have said somethign like this: "I don't agree with what is happening right now." Or "Sir, I think you're misunderstanding what it means to pay it forward." But I didn't. To be honest, I was just too dumbfounded by his gall, his confidence in the pure selflessness of his actions, that I didn't know how to react. And the worst part about this whole thing? That smug asshole is going to go to sleep tonight thinking about what a great thing he did today by letting that woman go ahead of him.

God I hate Pepsi.

Short Film Apology

So I just went and watched some of the short film. I don't think I realized how jumpy the clips became when I uploaded them. It's kind of a pain to watch. The original clips are smooth as silk. I'll try uploading them to a different program soon and see if that works better. Stay tuned.

A Complete Video Weekend: A Short Film by Nick Gregory

After the Robert Wilson show, I decided to do a little video work myself. Yesterday I created a 9 minute short film that's entitled "Wine Tasting with Nick Gregory." I can't seem to post it because I worked with jumpcut instead of youtube, so follow this link to enjoy the fruits of my labor:

http://www.jumpcut.com/fullscreen?id=13ED22F2D77511DC9C00000423CEF5F6&type=movie

That Law Dic is a Bit Wordy

One of the things I don't like about law school is the way it restricts the way I express myself. Given, these restrictions are self-imposed, and probably due mostly to a certain degree of neuroses, but they exist nonetheless.

Allow me to explain. As a non-law student, I think I typically peppered my speech, as many people do, with law related terms and phrases.

For example, two years ago I might have been involved in a conversation like this with a friend:

Friend: Yeah, so the old lady was on my case again.

Nick: Really? What was it this time?

Friend: I forgot to pick up some garlic salt at the grocery store like two months ago and she's finally getting around to pointing out my admitted failure.

Nick: That's a shame. You'd think some kind of statute of limitations had run on that.

Friend: I wish.

HA! And that would be a perfectly acceptable conversation for pre-law school Nick Gregory to have because a phrase like "statute of limitations" is widely used and has made its way into the social vernacular of America.

But fast forward to now. Now, I would feel incredibly uncomfortable saying that exact same thing in a similar social context. In fact, if one of my law school friends said something like that, I'd probably think something like this: "Does everything you say or do have to be about law? Is that it? Have you no other means in which to express yourself? Experiences from which to draw from? Insights with which to convey your wisdom?"

And then I'd walk away thinking "what a prick."

And that's basically the problem I have. The use of law related terms by people uninvolved in the study of law is all fun and games and can often be quite appropriate. But the use by people actively studying the law lends an obsessive quality to those same terms, as if every minute of their waking life must be dedicated to legal-speak.

Today, here's what a similar scenario would look like (dramatization, not based on real events):

Friend: The old lady is accusing me of flying to Nicaragua every week to use drugs and be promiscuous.

Nick: What kind of evidence has she offered in support of this claim?

Friend: Evidence? Oh, I see, you're going all lawyer on me now.

Nick: What word would you want me to use? I think it's quite appropriate and a word that I've probably used freely since about the age of 11. Plus, you used the word accuse, that could probably be considered a law word too.

Friend: Whatever. Prick. Thanks a lot for the help.


Because I fear disapproval and hostility, I'm going to avoid this certain-to-happen scenario. And, in an odd counterintuitive twist to immersing myself in the law, I'll actually be using commonly uttered legal terminology less than I would before law school. Because I don't want to be a prick.

And, as we all know, being a prick, well, that would just be criminal.

Procrastination: A Legitimate Pleasure Maximizing Philosophy

As part of my shadow yesterday, I showed up at the Johnson County Courthouse to watch arraignments.

There were several DUI type cases, a domestic abuse case and a possession of marijuana case. The majority of the people there pleaded not guilty.

After they pleaded not guilty, the judge rushed them through a few formalities, most notably, the "do you wish to exercise or waive your right to a speedy trial?" formality.

As far as I could tell, everyone being arraigned responded that they would like to exercise their right to a speedy trial.

Being a life-long procrastinator, I found this peculiar. Why expedite pain and suffering if you could push it off for a few more days?

Sure, there are many out there who subscribe to the "let's get it over with" philosophy. In fact, I know a few people who can't take homework home with them. They prefer to get everything done at school. Which is great. If they find that the most psychologically satisfying method in which to approach their lives, then I commend them for postponing gratification until their work has been completed.

I however, subscribe to the Harry Burns "perpetual anticipation of death" theory. Many of you will remember Harry Burns as Billy Crystal's character in When Harry Met Sally. Harry, you will also remember, used to read the last page of a book first so that, if he died, he knew how it ended. Pretty morbid huh?

This is the kind of philosophy I'd apply to any speedy trial issue I was presented with. Assuming I'm not stuck in jail and couldn't pay bail or whatever, if the county attorney wants to wait a few more days to make his case against me, I've got absolutely no problem with that. In fact, I would probably encourage him to take a couple years. No rush buddy. I'll just spend those next two years not paying fines or serving jail time. No skin off my back.

Why? Because I might be dead in two years. I don't know what the exact chances are (and have no desire to consult the actuarial tables on this), but any chance at all justifies postponing your punishment as long as you can. Let's say for some reason you've been arraigned and it does take two years to begin your trial. Let's say the county attorney is just overworked and every time your case comes to her desk she says, "we'll just pass on that because we've got to get this other case to trial in 6 days or it gets dismissed." So your case sits there for 2 years. That's 730 days that you might mistakenly walk out in front of a truck, or be struck by lightning, or be diagnosed with an incurable disease.

It's the ultimate bet-hedging maneuver. If you want to maximize the amount of earthly pleasure that you experience within the finite amount of days you'll be here on earth, then postponing that trial is the rational thing to do. Sure you don't want to die in the next two years, but if you should die in the next two years, your former self (the one that was alive) will be incredibly happy that he was playing Mario Kart instead of raking lawns for community service.

But let's not get carried away, obviously there are limitations to the effectiveness of this philosophy. One, if you are in jail and can't post bail, you'll probably want the trial to take place as quickly as possible. Two, if you really think that the trial might not happen for whatever reason within the mandated time period, then if you've exercised your right to a speedy trial, the charges will usually be dismissed.

To make the procrastination argument a real argument instead of a jokey reflection (which it undoubtedly is) you would need all sorts of data, for example: the % of defendant's who, having exercised their right to a speedy trial, get a speedy trial; % of defendant's who, having waived their right to a speedy trial, have trials that fall outside the accepted time limit had they exercised their right; the difference in days waited for trial between someone who exercised this right and someone who waived this right in similar jurisdictions for similar offenses; % of time county attorneys will prioritize one case over another based on the speedy trial designation. All sorts of data like that would surely help you decide if you want to use the "Get it over NOW approach," or the "Harry Burns/Procrastination/take your time approach."

Other than that, feel free to keep playing Mario Kart until you get that letter in the mail.

For those interested, here are the basic Iowa rules on speedy trial as far as I could tell in five minutes of internet searching. These are culled from the Iowa Court Rules, and I assume, are not even close to exhaustive:

1. A person arrested for a public offense must be indicted within 45 days or the case will be dismissed (unless good cause to the contrary is shown or the person has waived his right to speedy trial.)

2. A person indicted for a public offense must be brought to trial within 90 days or the charges will be dismissed (unless good cause to the contrary is shown or the person has waived his right to a speedy trial.)

3. A person charged with a criminal offense must be brought to trial within 1 year from that person's initial arraignment (unless good cause to the contrary is shown or the person has waived his right to a speedy trial).

And now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a bunch of awesome stuff to go do. And seeing as I have a .00000000011 % chance of dying within the next one hour, I better get a move on.

What Good is Having Super-Huge Lung Capacity if Nobody Notices?

Every time the doctor puts the stethoscope on my back and says "Now take a deep breath," I take it seriously. I take the longest, deepest breath I can take. I can't imagine what it sounds like in her ears; probably like standing in the middle of a hurricane. I wonder if she's ever heard such a deep breath in her life.

Just once I wish the doctor would look at me and say "You have an impressive amount of lung capacity sir." And then I would nod my head and smile modestly and then we would continue the check-up.

Is that so much to ask?