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.

The content of her character

I was feeling a bit sorry for myself today. Not because I had to work on a national holiday (it's the nature of the gig -- client needs aren't necessarily put on hold to fit the calendar). In fact, I'm not sure why I am gloomy. Seasonal affective disorder, perhaps? Anyway, a it was a blue Monday for Jackson.

Whatever. That is not the point -- the point is, while I was on hold waiting for a client, I decided to google the names of various people. (Yeah, I know. Again, whatever.) For some reason, I decided to google the name of a high school classmate. I didn't know her all that well, and, no, I did not have the hots for her. (Not that she was unattractive; it's just that there were others at the time that I lusted after instead.) I recall reading in the paper a few years ago that she was an artist, and was in the process of recovering from this horrible thing that had happened to her. She was getting back into art and had also started a charity to help children -- a very uplifting story. (I am trying to keep the details relatively vague.)

I learned today that while she was recovering from Horrible Event One, Horrible Event Two happened to her. She slowly recovered from this, too. She rebuilt herself, physically and mentally, and her current art is simply amazing. She has taken these awful events -- events that had either of them happened to me, would have been proof that The Universe hated me -- and has instead incorporated them into her life and her art.

To me, this is literally awe-inspiring. In high school, I considered her a typical princess. I probably would have thought that, having been born on third base, she would have crumbled at the first sign that Bad Things can happen. I'd like to think that I have handled the curveballs that Life has thrown at me in a reasonably good fashion. But the grace shown by my high school classmate -- in dealing with two blows that almost killed her -- is something on a far different level. I hope that I never have to find out, but I like to think that my character is capable of such grace.

I try to shut my eyes, but I can't get her out of my sight.

As I delve deeper into this whole blog thing (apropos of nothing, I am already behind the curve, since Tumblr is reportedly now the place to be), I will share more of what gives rise to my own little screams and strangled cries.

Today's item On The List Of Things That Show How Fucked Up Jackson Is? Ah, The Inappropriate Crush Girl. (Cue John Lennon: "A girl . . . [inward sigh]")

I had a dream about her recently, which sort of triggered this post. She was standing on the corner near my apartment wearing a floral, very spring-ish dress. (Which didn't strike me as odd in the dream, but would in real life -- she's not really a floral, spring-ish dress kinda chick. But I digress.) She was standing with her back to me, and turned her head as I walked up. I don't remember the details of the conversation (dammit, dammit, dammit!), but she smiled at the end, and gave me the friendly hug/cheek kiss.

I call her the ICG because, well, I have an IC on her (I am, after all, married to someone other than her) and have had one on her since, oh 1998 or so. Short version -- she was a new-ish lawyer at my then firm, and we worked together on a couple of cases and some charitable projects that the firm was invovled in. She was and is, to my eye, utterly beautiful -- in looks and personality. I swear to God, the first time I really noticed her, a line of a poem I hadn't thought of since high school lept into my mind (thanks, Lord Byron):

And all that's best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes.

Anyway, one day early on, she makes some comment to me about my birthplace listed in the Martindale Hubbell directory, and how she went to high school in the Ancestral Homeland (her father's job took the family to all sorts of fun places for 3-4 years at a time). We exchanged emails, hung out in the same group, shared books, etc. I fell. Badly.

She, apparently, did not fall. I made the mistake of making my feelings known after 2 years, and she was horrified. We eventually got to the point where we were friends again, but it was obviously never the same. I left that firm a little while later, and she did, too. Then I moved a year or so ago.

It used to be so hard not to email her when I saw or heard things that reminded me of her. A mention in the press of the company with the unusual product that was the subject of a trade secrets case we handled for them a few years ago. The results of the Harvard/Yale game (she is an Ivy League grad). Who am I kidding? It is still difficult.

Anyway, I try not to obssess about her too much, but (duh) am not always successful. (As hard as it is to believe, though, I am much better at it now.) And every so often, I will see someone who reminds me of her -- a event, for better or worse, which is more common in the new place than the old -- and I will wallow in the memories.

Reading is fundamental

I like to read. In fact, one could say that I like to read too much -- I use books as an escape from real life and responsibilities, and find myself much more wrapped up in the problems of fictional people (or dead people -- I like history and biography) than is probably healthy for a non-trust fund baby with a taste for upper middle class comforts.

Anyway, what has Jackson been reading lately? Currently, it's Schulz and Peanuts: A Biography.

I have been a huge fan of Peanuts my entire life. I can't remember not reading it, and I used to spend my allowance on paperback collections. One of my favorite presents as a lad was a hard-cover collection, and I read and re-read it constantly.

Why? Who knows? I think that Charlie Brown spoke to me in a way. Filled with self-doubt about some things, with optimism about others, a fan of the underdog (who can forget his favorite baseball player, Joe Shlabotnik?), usually kind -- we could all do worse than modeling ourselves on the round-headed kid.

General Francisco Franco is still dead.

So, in the nearly six months since my last post, there have been many changes in Your Author's life. And many non-changes. Rather than boring you with everything that has happened, I will mention one -- I passed the bar exam that I took in July.

And I will start a-fresh with this whole blogging thingy. I make no promises, but I will try to post more than twice a year. So, on with it, then.