Geeky Chic

This evening was my first late night at work. I’m thankful that there were kind 3rd year associates who told me to go home at 11:00. The big change now with my assignments is that there is no one to whom I can direct the question, “Can I go home? I’m tired.” It’s my second week, so I was let off easy. But I am well aware, that in the future, If it’s 10:30, and there is a pile of documents in front of me, I’ll just have to tough through it.

And the clock time on this thing is wrong — it’s 11:54.

Warning, I mention numbers here.

I am now convinced that there is a breed of shady folks out there who
make members of my profession  look downright saintly.  I
dealt with a realtor this weekend who didn’t understand the idea that
she shouldn’t alienate renters that don’t blink at paying $2300/month in rent
because these are the very same people who can potentially bring in
some extra business a year later when they decide to put down some
serious cash to buy.  I am just insulted that the realtor upped
the original move in cost of $5,750 to $6,250 because of the cat. 
The $500 is a minor difference, but $3,950 (the deposit amount) is an
unreasonably estimate of the amount of damage a housecat can do.

When initial move-in costs are this high, one might as well buy.

I’m three days into my return to law geekdom, but I’m not getting my first assignment to this afternoon. Then, it’ll be time to return to thinking in terms of the billeable hour.

They’re giving me a Blackberry this week — welcome to the 24-hour economy!

As Finch deals with Crumcast, I’d like to report that today has been reminiscent of my days at Rowerr. First, Sketchward shows up at my door wearing his high school track sweatshirt. Parked outside is the dying, faded Corolla that he chauffered me around in during high school. Next, another friend announces over the phone that he/she has lost his/her virginity. I might as well put on my dress for homecoming.

It looks as though I spoke too soon in my last post. I am still jetlagged, as evidenced by my 5:15 a.m. wake up time this morning. And SF is enjoying one of its classic Indian summers, so the sun and iced tea have improved my spirits.

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On another note, I really like today’s Jon Carroll column in the Chronic.

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I also find it bizarre that I am turning against Kerry because of the dirty way that the Democratic party is trying to keep Nader off state ballots. This is making the Democrats look like big bullies to me, and it reinforces my old belief that both parties are in bed with the devil.

It takes about three nights for my body to adjust from time zone
changes, so I am nearly over my jetlag, but I am a little out of sync
with the city right now.  The climate is responsible; when I left
SF it was summer, and upon my return I was greeted with a persistent
nip in the air.  The light yesterday morning had the weakness of
the winter sun.  All so strange, following my Mediterrean travels.

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I wish that I had a few extra days in pricey London.  The
London-bookends to my travel were the highlight of my trip; I think
that I am more about catching up with old friends than about seeing new
sights.  Plus, it was a shame that I didn’t catch the stage
production of Murakami’s The Elephant Vanishes (I don’t normally care for the theatre, but it’s Murakami!).

I am on an Internet cafe timer in Dubrovnik, so I shall keep this brief.  My impressions of Dalmatia are as follows:

• Split is beautiful and old.  Dubrovnik is even more beautiful.  Clear blue water framed by mountains, etc, etc.  Trouble is that beauty doesn’t have a huge effect on me.  It’s there; that’s all.  I think that I am going through large scale withdrawal from urbanity, or getting bored with the local food.
  
• Split is the L.A. of Croatia.  There aren’t enough jobs to go around there, but the youth fritter their afternoons away wearing stylish clothes and save up for new cars.  But beneath the surface, they live at home with their parents, eat black bread for dinner, and even though they hang out at trendy bars and cafes, they make one beer last for hours.  As one of our bar waiters in Split explained, he goes to Zagreb where the people are more real (he indicated this by repeatedly pointing at his head).
  
• One knows how fortunate one is in the States when one begins to chaff from rough European toilet paper.
  
• I can see why this is one of the best places in the world to sail.

Gone.

For a two-week spell.

Then, it’s off to the galleys for me.

I am midway through my post-Bar / pre-firm break, and these may be my best days. I feel blessed every day that I essentially get to choose my own adventure. I am not using my free time efficiently, but I am basking in the freedom to mentally wander through interesting conversations and books (a good deal of thought has been put into semiotics lately, but more on that later). Though I typically like autumn, I have regarded the “Back to School” and “Fall Arts Preview” announcements with dread because they are loud reminders that I will soon be suited up for work, without respite in sight.

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My A.P. English lit teacher once mournfully announced that there exists a class of people who read The New Yorker from cover to cover each week, ignoring the two to three poems within its covers. I am usually among this class; I almost always bypass the poems. But the announcement that Czeslaw Milosz passed away two weeks ago brought to my attention his poem, “If There is No God,” published in this week’s issue:

If there is no God,

Not everything is permitted to man.

He is still his brother’s keeper

And he is not permitted to sadden his brother,

 By saying that there is no God.

(Trans. by Milosz and Robert Haas)

At a dinner party last night, I learned from a couple of very well-connected Vietnamese nationals that French-Vietnamese food is more Vietnamese than Chinese-Vietnamese food.  Soy sauce is the non-indigenous ingredient that corrupts Chinese-Vietnamese food; it is never found in true Vietnamese cooking.  Fish sauce and lime, fish sauce and lime.

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I am done with pretentious food for the weekend, or rather, for a long while.  I just want simple, unadorned food now.  I lunched on the prix fixe meal at Bouley Bakery yesterday, and a parade of desserts followed the boring entrees (I had some sort of poached chicken over over anise-tinged barley risotto).  Even though there was only was one dessert listing on the menu, we received five desserts (excluding the petit four plate): a white chocolate pot au creme top with green tea (second best), a blueberry parfait, a warm valrona chocalate cake mislabeled on the menu as a souffle (it was better than the one that I can achieve at home), a raspberry meringue with a two egg-based lace cookies (the frontrunner), and a rich Madagascan creme brulee (I presume that they called it “Madagascan” because that’s where vanilla is cultivated).  When the waiter brought out the creme brulee, our reaction was, “Oof, not another dessert.”  I haven’t felt so sick on sugar since my last visit to the chocolate buffet at the Le Meridien in Boston.