[Editor's Note: This is the first in what I expect to be an ongoing series with several recurring core themes. Chronology will be random. Some thoughts will be posted as they come to me, some will be posted with more planning and purpose (in theory, at least).]

May 27, 1999, 2:00 AM (-ish)

Of all of the feelings in the world, I do not know if I have ever felt anything worse than walking--stumbling--in through the door of our apartment that night/morning, fully expecing her to be in bed, only to find her there on the couch. Waiting. The look of utter and sheer disappointment, astonishment, anger and fear (I am sure there were other emotions being expressed, but I was pretty drunk at the time) told me immediately that she was not bluffing when she told me not to get completely wasted and that I had taken my game to new levels of fucked up. It was akin to developing a new hybrid chili pepper that blew away all current known Scoville thresholds. 

Perhaps taking advantage of the open bar at the firm golf outing was not the best way to keep my promise that "I won't get wasted," especially after a few weeks on the Atkins Diet. Black Russians, no less. I always preferred Black to White because they took less time to make--purely an efficiency decision. Getting them 24 ounces at a time was likely a poor decision as well. But I was shooting well, for me, anyway. Under 110, I think. (I suck at golf, in case my score did not convey the message.) So the drinks kept flowing. IT WAS AN OPEN BAR FOR CHRISSAKES!

I did think switching to beer for the dinner and awards ceremony would help mellow things out. The plan was great in theory. In practice, staying in the hospitality tent until 11 PM was not the way to go. The fact that the clubhouse was locked on the last attempt to use the indoor restroom should have been a sign. Then again, the world is your urinal when properly pickled, eh? Especially when outside anyway.

Unfortunately, I was a little miffed at the evening coming to an end prematurely (1 AM was the closing time for area bars back then). I mean, it was WEDNESDAY--practically the fucking weekend! So, I agreed to meet a couple coworkers at some new bar that just opened. To be honest, I barely remember driving there, though I think I may have laid down some fresh tracks on one of the parkways in the parking lot at the golf course on my way out. 

Editor's Note: Yes, drinking and driving is completely wrong. Yes, I am extremely lucky for not having suffered any negative consequences--or afflicted others with any of the same--for all of the times I was behind the wheel when I should not have been. Yes, I agree with whatever other chastising you may deem necessary to illustrate that I was an extremely selfish and horrible person.

So, at le bar, we are just pounding bottled beers like water (they were Bud Light--same difference). We were being loud and raucous, going into far too much detail about how we envisioned the sexual proclivities of various female attorneys and staff in the office. Then I thought it would be a good idea for--what else?--shots. For the record, shots are never a "good idea" once you are past college. But I may never have graduated from college mentally. 

I think we did Cuervo. Or Patron. Or both. And maybe a Three Wise Men. And a Four Horsemen. I am sure we would have been doing Jager Bombs if Red Bull had been invented back then. I don't think I paid for much of anything, not that I would have known until the credit card bill came the following month anyway. So this all went on for a good 90 minutes, right up to closing time. Being the poseur high rollers that we were (well, at least the "cool" wealthy partner that was with us--the rest of us were poseur hangers-on), we finished with Louis Napoleon cognac and cigars. While I have previously described a 5 out of 10 on the "Obliterated" scale in http://darksidelawyer.posterous.com/comment-the-ghost-of-ice-storms-past, I am fairly certain that, on this night, I went all Spinal Tap and took it up to 11.

I assume everyone else was at least in the same fucked up ballpark as me, because no quasi-sober person would have let any of us drive, but we all poured ourselves into our cars and sloshed on to our respective homes. Actually, upon arriving and knowing that I MIGHT have screwed the proverbial pooch that night, I was surprised that she did not put the chain on the door. Then again, she probably figured my drunk ass would just break the chain or the door or would make so much noise trying to get in that everyone in the building would wake up. Plus, I am sure there was a slight degree of self-satisfaction in getting to lay that one icy stare on me as I walked--stumbled--through the door before silently getting up and going to bed. I know that would have been part of MY motivation.

As I settled into the couch to pass out, I actually felt bad. I mean genuinely bad, like I had failed as a person, much less as a husband and a partner. And as much as I hated the thought, as abhorrent the concept and prospect seemed, I knew for the first time that I had to stop. At least I was quitting with Louis fucking Napoleon as my last shot, so I had that going for me, which was nice. And though it took me a while to come to grips with cretain truths and to say certain words, it did not make the realization any less tangible then than it is now.

Yes, it is cliche, but my name is Mr. Dark Side, and I am an alcoholic.

 

Lyrics:

I wish I knew your face so I could look for you on the street
I wish I knew where you worked so I could leave my number on the receipt 
I wish I knew your name so I could call for you and hope you turn around
I wish I knew your voice so I could fall in love with the sound

One month, 14 into the new year and I've
Only got a song full of corny rhymes 
Instead of you, as my Valentine

Oh oh oh oh I want more of 
The butterflies, the late nights, arms held tight, lookin' at the sky
Oh oh oh what I had before was
Just a glimpse, just a taste, just a piece of what could be so
Hurry up and find me, hurry up and find me

I wish I knew your favorite song so I could learn the chords that would get your attention
I wish I could talk to you about the stupid things I don't usually mention
I wish you could hold my hand and keep it safe and warm from all this snow
I wish I could use your arm tonight as my pillow

One month, 14 into the new year and I've
Only got a song full of corny rhymes 
Instead of you, as my Valentine

Oh oh oh oh I want more of 
The butterflies, the late nights, arms held tight, lookin' at the sky
Oh oh oh what I had before was
Just a glimpse, just a taste, just a piece of what could be so

What it I walk right past you without even turning my head?
Oh I could miss you completely if I look the wrong way instead
And maybe when I'm busy looking the wrong way, convince that I just blew my chance
I'll run straight into you, oh... straight into you

Oh oh oh oh I want more of 
The butterflies, the late nights, arms held tight, lookin' at the sky
Oh oh oh what I had before was
Just a glimpse, just a taste, just a piece of what could be 

Oh oh oh oh I want more of 
The butterflies, the late nights, arms held tight, lookin' at the sky
Oh oh oh what I had before was
Just a glimpse, just a taste, just a piece of what could be so\

Hurry up and find me
Hurry up and find me hey-ey
Hurry up and find me
Or it's just another, single Valentine's Day

We are currently enjoying a little warm spell (enough to have the windows down when driving and to wear fewer than four layers of clothing). However, some thawing takes longer than a day of sunshine. Here are two magnificent pieces from Live8. Unfortunately, this was the last performance by the band.

Today my thoughts are turned toward those who could not be here as well.

This was the first song I ever heard (my father gave me the album on cassette back in 1984) where someone made a guitar "sing". And this is definitely one of the five or ten greatest songs ever. Period. No argument necessary or possible.

Fridays are perfect for big helping of retro relish. And when I think retro glam, Sweet is definitely among the tops on that list. 

Let's kick off the weekend with five of Sweet's sweetest sweetness.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

I am not what you might call a "meddler" by nature (unless we are talking about someone who fucking loves a certain album by a certain band). The evil uses to which Adam Smith's philosophy has been put of late notwithstanding, I would like to think of myself as laissez-faire in most aspects of life. Remember my brief romance with the Libertarian Party? Some of those tenents are still dear to me (though I disagree on capital punishment and health care and, to a certain extent, responding to economic crises, but this is not a political soliloquy).

Anyway, at work, I am unofficially known as the head of the legal S.W.A.T. team (at least in my areas of practice). Due to a fortunate (or unfortunate, if you have a more traditional sense of a sane existence) confluence of skills, personality traits and luck, I perform better under more adverse circumstances. For example, when a massive deal was teetering on going to hell in a bucket at Warp Factor 9, I was put on a plane and shipped to a satellite office for three days so I could go run shit (it is what I do). Deal got fixed. Deal got closed. Ooodles of money got made by all the lawyers. Yay. Next deal.

I could drone on with other examples, but this is not a (totally) self-aggrandizing post (for once). No, here I must invoke the words of Uncle Ben. "With great power comes great responsibility." I have the ability to fix things, and not just commercial transactions. I have rather good insight and intuition, especially on matters not directly involving me. I guess law school did a good job of cultivating the "counsellor" aspect of my professional pedagogy. However, as I have learned, sometimes not fixing things--even where that means letting them break, sometimes irrevocably--is the only correct course of action.

Enter the caterpillar paradox. Maybe a better title would be the butterfly paradox. But butterflies are beautiful, while caterpillars can be quite grotesque, so I tend to identify more with the wingless pupa. Anyway, a few years back, the firm had a work-life options consultant come in and give a presentation about childhood development and education. It looked interesting, and the free Jimmy John's was a plus. The presentation was pretty good from the outset. The speaker had kids of his own; he spoke with energy but not at a Billy Mays fever pitch; and the examples he used along the way were on point. Ever since my PSAT/SAT days, I have been a sucker/whore for good analogies.

The speaker was telling us a story about when his kids (12 and 10, I think) wanted to cook family dinner all on their own. Now, he knew this would go badly. The undertaking was just too adventureous for their age and experience. However, he let them try knowing full well they would likely fail. Smartly, he had the local pizza joint on standby, but he still let the kids go through the effort and struggle where failure was almost a certain inevitability. Now, why would he do this? Why allow your own flesh and blood to struggle and suffer?

As he pointed out, if you ever watch a butterfly emerge from its chrysalis phase, the process can be almost unbearable, especially in real time. The butterfly may take days or even a week to finally break out of the cocoon. Anyone watching this process would be more than tempted to gently slice open the cocoon and help the butterfly emerge much more quickly. However, by "helping" the butterfly in this manner, the only thing you would accomplish would be to kill the creature.

Being an insect, the butterfly has no internal skeleton. Rather, the butterfly is supported by its exoskeleton. However, the butterfly does not come with this feature as a stock floor-model option. The exoskeleton must be developed. I am sure that, by now, you have figured out HOW the exoskeleton is developed: by fighting and struggling and tearing and pushing and squeezing out of the cocoon. 

Some clients have an extremely difficult time with the concept of doing nothing as the most beneficial option. Sales reps are the worst. They just want to see action, regardless of how productive (or unproductive) such action may be ultimately. Some literally want to hear papers being shuffled on a desk. They think that if you are doing something--anything--you are de facto advancing the ball toward the goal. Bzzzt! Thank you for playing. You will get a complimetary at-home version of our game.

The same thing goes for parents. They are so concerned about things looking good that they would rather take over a project than permit their child to do a less-than-perfect job. Think the asshole dad who builds the pine wood derby cars for his kids. All the kids learn is that mom or dad will end up doing it for them if they wait long enough. And we wonder why the work ethic in this country (and others) has gone to shit.

So, sometimes, when it looks like I am doing nothing, I am actually doing more than ytou could possibly imagine. Don't worry; I do not bill for doing nothing. There's always some other deal on which something needs to be done, so I'll be okay. Just chill the fuck out and be cool like Fonzie, okay? And you parents out there, please let your kids fail early and often ("when the stakes are low", as a good friend said the other night when we were discussing the same). Don't do their homework for them. Don't build the science fair exhibit. Don't do all the work for that fucking merit badge. You do them a great disservice by "protecting" them from failure.

"I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work." --Thomas Edison