Lawyers dwell on small details.

So, I spent much of yesterday at the courthouse waiting, Estragon-ishly, for a hearing that was to take place. For the armchair antropologist, the courthouse is a truly fascinating place to observe lawyers. One will see, if one is there for any significant period of time, lawyers from every alleged caste that you have read about in the American Lawyer or a John Grisham novel -- there's the storefront law office solo, over there is the polyester-jacketed government drone. The TV advertising gal with her practiced air of empathy is arguing over there with the preening peacock from the silk-stocking firm and his practiced air of superiority.

At any rate, since I have delusions that I am an informed observer of such things, and since there were a lot of lawyers milling about the Bench of Waiting I occupied, the time went by without too much trouble. And the clerks working this particular docket were pleasant and helpful. All in all, it wasn't horrible. And I picked up a few tips as well -- for example, a proposed order needs to go to Vern on the 4th floor before the docket clerk can file it. Make a note.

Don't tell anybody the secrets I told you.

"Car Wheels on a Gravel Road" by Lucinda Williams is an amazing album, filled with songs that move and touch and inspire and provoke. But I think that one song stands above the others -- "Metal Firecracker." See and listen via YouTube

There's just something raw and striking about her plea in the lyrics, as she recounts how she has gone from from being in her lover's blood, from being the object of obsession, to being, well, nothing -- she doesn't ask to have him come back to her, or for him to reconsider, or for the keys to her house, or for the gifts she's given. Nope. She just wants her secrets to remain, well, secret.

Who could argue with that? We all have those secrets, those bits of our intimate self that we share with others. Lucinda's singing about secrets shared with a lover (and, oh, what imagery she uses in her lyrics to describe the relationship -- who here hasn't driven fast with a lovah in the passenger seat while "La Grange" was blasting?), but we do the same thing with friends, too. And there is something about the supposed anonymity of the internet that leads us into sharing maybe even more with our Imaginary Friends than we share with our real life friends, or our spouses/significant others.

(Translation -- please, Imaginary Friend, don't reveal that I cried at the end of "Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle." Thanks.)

Kissing Jessica Stein

Well, I have not exactly been keeping up with the blogging. I am sure that my one commenter, who apparently no longer exists on Blogger, has been quite disappointed in the lack of posts.

Anyway, Kissing Jessica Stein.

I watched most of it last night after seeing the Mets give up a bunch of runs. I have seen it a couple of times, and I really like it.

Why? Well, I find Jennifer Westfeldt, who plays Jessica and who co-wrote the movie with Heather Juergensen, who plays the person who actually, for much of the movie, is kissing Jessica Stein, to be utterly endearing in it. Her voice (and her verbal mannerisms, too, sorta) reminds me of Dar Williams. Maybe that is part of it. Anyway, there is something about seeing an intelligent, somewhat neurotic but self-aware about the somewhat neurotic part, witty, well-read woman that is just so damn appealing.