the daily snivel
Rob the Apprentice, Part II -- or: Toronto Ho
Today was the day Toronto law firms call prospective articling students for interviews, in keeping with strict guidelines set by the Law Society of Upper Canada. Like many of the people I know at the University of Ottawa, I applied to a good many Toronto law firms after the interview process in Ottawa yielded no fruit. Twenty-one firms, in fact, ranging from the provincial Ministry of the Attorney General to community legal clinics and private human rights firms and criminal law firms. They could call no earlier than this morning at 8:00 am, and can only schedule interviews between August 9 and August 11. Hiring decisions will be made August 11 and we'll be contacted that afternoon if we actually get a job.
While Ottawa firms tended to be more laid back, more spread out in their calls, and were free to leave messages with the students they selected, Toronto firms actually wanted us to be waiting by the phone. As my sister, and those who have gone through this before warned us, the firms can actually call, not get an answer, and simply hang up, cross you off the list and move on. It is evil, but though the rules of the game may be evil, the rules they remain. So I took the day off to wait by the phone like a wallflower waiting for a phone call on a Saturday night (which I have also done, by the way, so it wasn't hard to deal with).
I woke up reasonably bright and early (at 8:00 am) in anticipation of a long day of waiting for the phone to ring, and decided to have a shower so that I would feel refreshed and less bleary. However, when I got into the bathroom I could hear through the pipes that someone else in my building was having a shower, and since we have such lousy water pressure I decided to pass and simply begin staring at the telephone instead. No sooner did I walk back into my bedroom than the phone rang. I answered it and scheduled an interview with the Ministry of the Attorney General for Monday, August 9. Five minutes later, the phone rang again and I set another interview with a firm that practices criminal, civil, and labour law for the morning of the 9th as well. Five minutes after that, the phone rang again and I scheduled another interview with a firm that solely practices criminal law for the 11th.
All three calls came before 8:30 am. I would have missed all three if I'd gotten into the shower. There's a disturbing moral in there somewhere, which roughly boils down to: jobs are for people who don't take showers.
I spent the rest of the day waiting by the phone, albeit some of it actually involved me napping by the phone in the good company of my cat, George. My good friend Mélanie also came to visit with a welcome pot of coffee and a loaf of bread, since I had neither coffee nor bread of my own, and we had breakfast together and watched silly daytime television.
All told, I got three interviews in Toronto. I was initially a little disappointed, thinking that I sure would have loved to have scored a few more to increase my odds of actually getting an articling position at the end of this, but one of my friends at the Clinic got only one interview, and another (who decided at the last minute that he didn't want to go to Toronto at all -- a decision I greatly admire since he loves Ottawa as much as I do and his long-time girlfriend and the house they just bought would have remained here while he was gone for a year) would have gotten one or two, an uncertain figure since turned down one and the phone rang later in the morning but he didn't answer it. So apparently I made out quite well. I'm excited, though I have to admit, if I do land an articling position in Toronto, that legal land of opportunity, I'm sure going to miss Ottawa in the year I'm gone between September 2005 and July 2006.
I'll keep you posted on what happens during my interviews which, at just over a week away, are now fast approaching.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004 While Ottawa firms tended to be more laid back, more spread out in their calls, and were free to leave messages with the students they selected, Toronto firms actually wanted us to be waiting by the phone. As my sister, and those who have gone through this before warned us, the firms can actually call, not get an answer, and simply hang up, cross you off the list and move on. It is evil, but though the rules of the game may be evil, the rules they remain. So I took the day off to wait by the phone like a wallflower waiting for a phone call on a Saturday night (which I have also done, by the way, so it wasn't hard to deal with).
I woke up reasonably bright and early (at 8:00 am) in anticipation of a long day of waiting for the phone to ring, and decided to have a shower so that I would feel refreshed and less bleary. However, when I got into the bathroom I could hear through the pipes that someone else in my building was having a shower, and since we have such lousy water pressure I decided to pass and simply begin staring at the telephone instead. No sooner did I walk back into my bedroom than the phone rang. I answered it and scheduled an interview with the Ministry of the Attorney General for Monday, August 9. Five minutes later, the phone rang again and I set another interview with a firm that practices criminal, civil, and labour law for the morning of the 9th as well. Five minutes after that, the phone rang again and I scheduled another interview with a firm that solely practices criminal law for the 11th.
All three calls came before 8:30 am. I would have missed all three if I'd gotten into the shower. There's a disturbing moral in there somewhere, which roughly boils down to: jobs are for people who don't take showers.
I spent the rest of the day waiting by the phone, albeit some of it actually involved me napping by the phone in the good company of my cat, George. My good friend Mélanie also came to visit with a welcome pot of coffee and a loaf of bread, since I had neither coffee nor bread of my own, and we had breakfast together and watched silly daytime television.
All told, I got three interviews in Toronto. I was initially a little disappointed, thinking that I sure would have loved to have scored a few more to increase my odds of actually getting an articling position at the end of this, but one of my friends at the Clinic got only one interview, and another (who decided at the last minute that he didn't want to go to Toronto at all -- a decision I greatly admire since he loves Ottawa as much as I do and his long-time girlfriend and the house they just bought would have remained here while he was gone for a year) would have gotten one or two, an uncertain figure since turned down one and the phone rang later in the morning but he didn't answer it. So apparently I made out quite well. I'm excited, though I have to admit, if I do land an articling position in Toronto, that legal land of opportunity, I'm sure going to miss Ottawa in the year I'm gone between September 2005 and July 2006.
I'll keep you posted on what happens during my interviews which, at just over a week away, are now fast approaching.
From today's Globe and Mail:
I think this is an encouraging trend, and one that fits well with criminological data. Although violent crimes are generally heavily publicized and repeated throughout television, radio, and print media, and thus may seem like a prevalent and growing threat, the incidence of violent crime has generally been on the decrease each year. Canadians should be proud of the low level of violence we experience in this country. While it's fair to say that demographics play a role (as people age they commit less crime in general and less violent crime in particular, and age demographics are particularly top-heavy these days), I think we also have to credit fairly moderate policies on crime prevention and punishment, as well as a higher standard of social justice, for this kind of success. I mean, I don't think poverty causes crime, but relative deprivation can. A society without safety nets leaves little to buy into, and little opportunity or incentive to do so. For all of the conservative talk about "getting tough" on crime and increasing sentences and making criminals "accountable," we've seen the failure of these policies in the United States, from which so many of these ideas hail.
I worry about crime as much as anyone else, I'm sure. I don't have a lot of nice stuff, but I do like what I own. I'd be lost without my cat, my Mac, my music, and my camera. If someone broke into my apartment I'd be mad as hell. On the other hand, the conception that our neighbourhoods are full of crooks is surely a myth. And beyond a doubt there are more sensible ways to make ourselves and our families (and yes, our property) safer than by trying to make life hell for criminals after they've already done harm. You have to reduce crime by preventing it from happening, or at least by constructively preventing it from happening again.
Some means of achieving this:
I think in every respect, we surpass our neighbours to the south in implementing ways to reduce the occurrence of crime. We may not consciously think of these things as such, but surely they have an impact. How else do we explain the comparative peace and safety of Canada?
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
Ottawa — Driven by a rise in counterfeiting, the national crime rate climbed 6 per cent in 2003 over the previous year — the first substantial increase in a decade, Statistics Canada said Wednesday.
A jump in counterfeiting across the country, as well as more property crimes and minor offences such as mischief and disturbing the peace, were blamed for most of last year's increase.
But the violent crime rate remained virtually unchanged in 2003, Statscan added.
And Canada's homicide rate actually fell by 7 per cent last year to its lowest level since 1967, the agency said.
I think this is an encouraging trend, and one that fits well with criminological data. Although violent crimes are generally heavily publicized and repeated throughout television, radio, and print media, and thus may seem like a prevalent and growing threat, the incidence of violent crime has generally been on the decrease each year. Canadians should be proud of the low level of violence we experience in this country. While it's fair to say that demographics play a role (as people age they commit less crime in general and less violent crime in particular, and age demographics are particularly top-heavy these days), I think we also have to credit fairly moderate policies on crime prevention and punishment, as well as a higher standard of social justice, for this kind of success. I mean, I don't think poverty causes crime, but relative deprivation can. A society without safety nets leaves little to buy into, and little opportunity or incentive to do so. For all of the conservative talk about "getting tough" on crime and increasing sentences and making criminals "accountable," we've seen the failure of these policies in the United States, from which so many of these ideas hail.
I worry about crime as much as anyone else, I'm sure. I don't have a lot of nice stuff, but I do like what I own. I'd be lost without my cat, my Mac, my music, and my camera. If someone broke into my apartment I'd be mad as hell. On the other hand, the conception that our neighbourhoods are full of crooks is surely a myth. And beyond a doubt there are more sensible ways to make ourselves and our families (and yes, our property) safer than by trying to make life hell for criminals after they've already done harm. You have to reduce crime by preventing it from happening, or at least by constructively preventing it from happening again.
Some means of achieving this:
- Certainty of being caught (not severity of punishment). That may mean more police, but it also means allocating police resources wisely. Going after the 'bigger fish' is probably a more realistic way to go.
- Rehabilitation and diversion programs, such as restitution and community service. This is true accountability, in the sense of making offenders own up to their actions and make amends to their victims or the community.
- Education -- it does make a difference
- Social welfare programs -- not strictly "welfare," but some sort of last resort financial aid, and more importantly, a realistic way out beyond a kick in the ass or a cut-off. See: education.
- Substance abuse treatment
- ... and on and on.
I think in every respect, we surpass our neighbours to the south in implementing ways to reduce the occurrence of crime. We may not consciously think of these things as such, but surely they have an impact. How else do we explain the comparative peace and safety of Canada?
I made it to the Legal Clinic fairly early this morning, namely 8:00 am, as I needed to be in court for 8:45 am, and this necessitated making it to work with sufficient time to change into my suit and assemble my files. One of my clients was entering a plea of guilt to a Criminal Code offence and I had prepared sentencing submissions to be made on the client's behalf. Making sentencing submissions is always interesting, because they're done before a Judge (as opposed to a Justice of the Peace, who we encounter more frequently in our day-to-day court matters as law students), and because there's a lot riding on how good a job you do. It's an area where good advocacy skills will carry the day, and oral advocacy is something I really enjoy.
I'd spent quite a lot of time drafting and revising these submissions, which are a statement of the client's background, personal circumstances, their admission of responsibility, their plans for the future, the steps they've taken to show contrition and a desire to learn from the incident, and an overarching argument about why a more lenient sentence would be preferable and not contrary to the interests of justice.
We were seeking an absolute discharge for my client, which is the least severe sentence that can be imposed, as it imposes no criminal record, fine, or probation order. It is essentially a second chance in recognition of the low severity of the offence, lack of harm done, and the remorse and willingness to change expressed by the offender.
After a few hiccups (including the lack of a translator for my client and the fact that my client was late) I briefly spoke to the Crown Attorney working in courtroom number seven this morning, and confirmed their position on the matter. After letting a few senior counsel speak to their matters ahead of me (since it never hurts to be polite), it was my turn to address the Court.
My client received the absolute discharge we had sought.
A former Criminal Division caseworker (who has since graduated and is now working for the Crown) sat in on my submissions, and he told me that had anyone else gotten up and made the usual sort of submissions, a harsher sentence would have been imposed. I was very flattered. He told me that I'd performed extremely well as an advocate and encouraged me to pursue advocacy in the future, and I told him that was precisely what I intended to do.
It was a nice feeling to get my client such a good result. I showed up prepared, I was clear, emphatic, knowledgeable, and articulate, and made an impression. Even the Crown shook my hand when I finished.
Aside:
Another nice feeling is that I've lost over two pounds since last week. I'm hitting the gym three times a week now, and it's really starting to pay off. Physical beauty, here I come!
Monday, July 26, 2004 I'd spent quite a lot of time drafting and revising these submissions, which are a statement of the client's background, personal circumstances, their admission of responsibility, their plans for the future, the steps they've taken to show contrition and a desire to learn from the incident, and an overarching argument about why a more lenient sentence would be preferable and not contrary to the interests of justice.
We were seeking an absolute discharge for my client, which is the least severe sentence that can be imposed, as it imposes no criminal record, fine, or probation order. It is essentially a second chance in recognition of the low severity of the offence, lack of harm done, and the remorse and willingness to change expressed by the offender.
After a few hiccups (including the lack of a translator for my client and the fact that my client was late) I briefly spoke to the Crown Attorney working in courtroom number seven this morning, and confirmed their position on the matter. After letting a few senior counsel speak to their matters ahead of me (since it never hurts to be polite), it was my turn to address the Court.
My client received the absolute discharge we had sought.
A former Criminal Division caseworker (who has since graduated and is now working for the Crown) sat in on my submissions, and he told me that had anyone else gotten up and made the usual sort of submissions, a harsher sentence would have been imposed. I was very flattered. He told me that I'd performed extremely well as an advocate and encouraged me to pursue advocacy in the future, and I told him that was precisely what I intended to do.
It was a nice feeling to get my client such a good result. I showed up prepared, I was clear, emphatic, knowledgeable, and articulate, and made an impression. Even the Crown shook my hand when I finished.
Aside:
Another nice feeling is that I've lost over two pounds since last week. I'm hitting the gym three times a week now, and it's really starting to pay off. Physical beauty, here I come!
Dinner with Celeste
It had been entirely too long since I'd had the pleasure of spending time with my good friend Celeste, so we made plans to go out for dinner last Thursday and finally catch up. I'd last seen her on Canada Day, when she'd joined us for the festivities and alcohol consumption and fireworks at a friend's place. That night, I lent her my rear bicycle light so that she could have a safe ride home amongst the drunks (see her tale of what happened on the way home that night, below), but also because I knew I'd want my light back someday and this would oblige me to make plans to see her again (instead of just being my usual neglectful self. Nevertheless, it still took me two weeks to have enough time to see her again, what with my ridiculous work ethic and many, many hours of unpaid overtime put in at the Legal Clinic.
Celeste is a tremendously fun person to spend time with, as she is full of amazing stories and prone to unexpected twists and adventures. I've known her for ten years now, since I was 18 and she was 14, actually, and we both had funny coloured hair and mooched around downtown like the cute little misfits we were. Throughout the years her intellect and worldliness have been surprising -- she's been out to get Noam Chomsky for as long as I can remember, but is also well-traveled and knowledgeable about world politics, computers, technology, and indie music. She's beautiful and clever and always makes me laugh. We don't often get to spend time together, since we're both on the go and throw ourselves into work and school, but she's loyal and thoughtful all the same.
Like many single people, we ended up talking about our frustrations with the dating scene and how long it had been since either of us had had sex. I thought I would have anyone beat in terms of imposed abstinence, but Celeste was way ahead of me. We're both kind of picky (despite both professing not to be), and Ottawa is a strange town to meet new people in since people who are at all interesting seem to hook up quickly and for long durations here, leaving outsiders to their own devices.
One of the great stories Celeste told me happened last weekend, during the Ottawa Bluesfest. She wound up as a lone girl in a hotel room with five band members and, instead of what one might think would happen, she charmed the (figurative) pants off the lead singer by talking about Linux, which the whole band then breathlessly joined into because they were all huge nerds who love girls who can talk about computers. Then they all pulled out their Powerbooks and played around on iMovie all night. I swear, that should be a Letter to Penthouse just because everything points to it turning out sleazy, and instead it just makes you think.
After our relaxing dinner on a patio, Celeste and I wandered to her house so that we could pick up her new iBook and to allow her to change. Celeste just bought her Mac this spring, and I offered to install some software for her since she hadn't gotten very far with that yet. I was thoroughly enamoured with the design of her computer -- it is one or two revisions ahead of my beloved 600 mhz iBook, and seemed very solidly put together and looked even more elegant than my own beauty. I envied its speed, amount of storage and RAM, and the fact that it came with a CD-burner (I cheaped out of that option, back when it was even an option, when I bought my laptop, and never stopped regretting it). So, once back at my place, we played around on her computer, installed Microsoft Office, and discussed our mutual discovery that you have to install a whole lot of extra Microsoft software if you want to really watch all those celebrity sex tapes from the internet on your Mac, because those cursed Windows Media Files aren't going to play themselves.
As we talked and relaxed, Celeste commented that I had the most dreadful bed, since this was where we were sitting. I was forced to agree. My bed frame is new and attractive (it's a metal IKEA Tromnsnes bed in black lacquer with brass bedknobs at its four corners), but my mattress is well over ten years old and the box spring isn't much younger. Together, they are a creaky, saggy, lumpy mess. The springs in the mattress have started to poke through the top of the mattress, it sags under its own weight in the middle, and it guarantees a night of tossing and turning and waking up stiff. Flipping it over just makes it sag the other way. One of the many, many reasons I'm not tempted to go out and meet interesting people who'd like to see me naked is that I'd simply be too embarassed to have them in that nasty old bed of mine. Only my cat finds the bed comfy, and frankly he finds shoeboxes that are in fact too small for him to fully squeeze into comfortable, so his opinion has little weight.
Nevertheless, Celeste asked me if I would caress her arms and lightly scratch them with my fingernails, just because she missed being touched by people who weren't solely seeking to make out with her. I was happy to oblige, since I don't get to touch people affectionately very often, and it was indeed very nice to feel the goosebumps on her skin as I gently dragged my nails across her soft arms and ran my fingers along her. She made happy noises and closed her eyes to relax and enjoy the experience more. It was at no point a sexual feeling, just sensual. I think non-sexual touch is a very soothing and necessary component of mental well-being, since it conveys safety and affection and reassurance. I also gave her a small backrub, and we chatted about things that need to be changed about my bedroom, which I admit is a little too loud and busy and full of knick-knacks and posters I don't entirely identify with anymore -- and the whole scheme conspires to make it look like an 18-year-old lives there, rather than a 28-year-old who is a year away from graduating from law school.
When Celeste got too sleepy to hang out much longer, I offered to walk her home and we packed up and made our way back to her place. We talked about the fact that I'd had a crush on her for years, and she reminded me that there was a time when she was ready and willing to have me, but I'd said to her in a cab one night that I didn't think it would be a good idea for us to be romantically involved. I know I'd thought that in the past, though I'd actually forgotten I'd said that to her. But, you know, it probably is for the best. As beautiful and funny as Celeste is, and as lonesome as we can be, we'd probably end up hurting each other. I still have a huge crush on my friend in New York, and anyway I'm still working out and working on my body and not physically or emotionally ready to be dating. And you never know but that it wouldn't work out, and then we might be in the unhappy position of just being awkward around each other.
But I did tell her that I remembered telling her that to be a very difficult thing to have to do.
Update: Let it be known that I actually bought a new twin set this weekend for my bed. I went to the Bay and picked up a magical Sealey Posturepedic (sp. ?) mattress and box spring. I can't wait for them to be delivered. Even the demo model in the store was insanely comfortable. I flopped down and stretched out on the set they had in the store and just imagined what it would be like to sleep in something so comfortable. It was the cheapest set they had and it still felt like heaven. Happy nights, here I come!
Additionally, I started seriously auditing and cleaning up my room, with a view to making it a little more grown-up, even though it will always be funky and filled with objects that have meaning to me. But maybe that's the point -- a lot of the things in it ceased to have meaning, or ceased to reflect my personality, and just made it look adolescent. I took down my Christmas tree lights from the ceiling, and the jack-o-lantern lights from my doorway, I took down the Crow poster and recycled the Jolt Cola can tower, threw out old bits and pieces that no longer had much relevance in my life, and tucked some others away. I mean, my walls are still purple and I still have my vintage Star Wars toys, and my tree frog and many knick-knacks and candle holders and photos and pieces of art on the walls, but it no longer looks quite like the bedroom of a teenager. There's still work to do, but I could totally bring someone home now and not be embarrassed.
Lastly, I'm losing between 1-2 pounds per week right now, and have been for at least a month and a half. I won't say what I weigh, but given that I'm 6'2" and increasingly muscular, I'm really only 50 pounds from my ideal weight. This is a lot, but not as much as it used to be, and really quite attainable. I'm hitting the gym three times a week, I'm bicycling every day, and I'm eating really well. At the gym, I'm doing 30 minutes of cardio, plus bench presses, plus free weights, plus a number of those crazy weight machines targeting upper body muscles (as my legs couldn't get much better or denser with muscle mass). I can flex my arm and really show a number of muscle groups off. It's a wonderful feeling and I'm really encouraged.
Friday, July 23, 2004 Celeste is a tremendously fun person to spend time with, as she is full of amazing stories and prone to unexpected twists and adventures. I've known her for ten years now, since I was 18 and she was 14, actually, and we both had funny coloured hair and mooched around downtown like the cute little misfits we were. Throughout the years her intellect and worldliness have been surprising -- she's been out to get Noam Chomsky for as long as I can remember, but is also well-traveled and knowledgeable about world politics, computers, technology, and indie music. She's beautiful and clever and always makes me laugh. We don't often get to spend time together, since we're both on the go and throw ourselves into work and school, but she's loyal and thoughtful all the same.
Like many single people, we ended up talking about our frustrations with the dating scene and how long it had been since either of us had had sex. I thought I would have anyone beat in terms of imposed abstinence, but Celeste was way ahead of me. We're both kind of picky (despite both professing not to be), and Ottawa is a strange town to meet new people in since people who are at all interesting seem to hook up quickly and for long durations here, leaving outsiders to their own devices.
One of the great stories Celeste told me happened last weekend, during the Ottawa Bluesfest. She wound up as a lone girl in a hotel room with five band members and, instead of what one might think would happen, she charmed the (figurative) pants off the lead singer by talking about Linux, which the whole band then breathlessly joined into because they were all huge nerds who love girls who can talk about computers. Then they all pulled out their Powerbooks and played around on iMovie all night. I swear, that should be a Letter to Penthouse just because everything points to it turning out sleazy, and instead it just makes you think.
After our relaxing dinner on a patio, Celeste and I wandered to her house so that we could pick up her new iBook and to allow her to change. Celeste just bought her Mac this spring, and I offered to install some software for her since she hadn't gotten very far with that yet. I was thoroughly enamoured with the design of her computer -- it is one or two revisions ahead of my beloved 600 mhz iBook, and seemed very solidly put together and looked even more elegant than my own beauty. I envied its speed, amount of storage and RAM, and the fact that it came with a CD-burner (I cheaped out of that option, back when it was even an option, when I bought my laptop, and never stopped regretting it). So, once back at my place, we played around on her computer, installed Microsoft Office, and discussed our mutual discovery that you have to install a whole lot of extra Microsoft software if you want to really watch all those celebrity sex tapes from the internet on your Mac, because those cursed Windows Media Files aren't going to play themselves.
As we talked and relaxed, Celeste commented that I had the most dreadful bed, since this was where we were sitting. I was forced to agree. My bed frame is new and attractive (it's a metal IKEA Tromnsnes bed in black lacquer with brass bedknobs at its four corners), but my mattress is well over ten years old and the box spring isn't much younger. Together, they are a creaky, saggy, lumpy mess. The springs in the mattress have started to poke through the top of the mattress, it sags under its own weight in the middle, and it guarantees a night of tossing and turning and waking up stiff. Flipping it over just makes it sag the other way. One of the many, many reasons I'm not tempted to go out and meet interesting people who'd like to see me naked is that I'd simply be too embarassed to have them in that nasty old bed of mine. Only my cat finds the bed comfy, and frankly he finds shoeboxes that are in fact too small for him to fully squeeze into comfortable, so his opinion has little weight.
Nevertheless, Celeste asked me if I would caress her arms and lightly scratch them with my fingernails, just because she missed being touched by people who weren't solely seeking to make out with her. I was happy to oblige, since I don't get to touch people affectionately very often, and it was indeed very nice to feel the goosebumps on her skin as I gently dragged my nails across her soft arms and ran my fingers along her. She made happy noises and closed her eyes to relax and enjoy the experience more. It was at no point a sexual feeling, just sensual. I think non-sexual touch is a very soothing and necessary component of mental well-being, since it conveys safety and affection and reassurance. I also gave her a small backrub, and we chatted about things that need to be changed about my bedroom, which I admit is a little too loud and busy and full of knick-knacks and posters I don't entirely identify with anymore -- and the whole scheme conspires to make it look like an 18-year-old lives there, rather than a 28-year-old who is a year away from graduating from law school.
When Celeste got too sleepy to hang out much longer, I offered to walk her home and we packed up and made our way back to her place. We talked about the fact that I'd had a crush on her for years, and she reminded me that there was a time when she was ready and willing to have me, but I'd said to her in a cab one night that I didn't think it would be a good idea for us to be romantically involved. I know I'd thought that in the past, though I'd actually forgotten I'd said that to her. But, you know, it probably is for the best. As beautiful and funny as Celeste is, and as lonesome as we can be, we'd probably end up hurting each other. I still have a huge crush on my friend in New York, and anyway I'm still working out and working on my body and not physically or emotionally ready to be dating. And you never know but that it wouldn't work out, and then we might be in the unhappy position of just being awkward around each other.
But I did tell her that I remembered telling her that to be a very difficult thing to have to do.
Update: Let it be known that I actually bought a new twin set this weekend for my bed. I went to the Bay and picked up a magical Sealey Posturepedic (sp. ?) mattress and box spring. I can't wait for them to be delivered. Even the demo model in the store was insanely comfortable. I flopped down and stretched out on the set they had in the store and just imagined what it would be like to sleep in something so comfortable. It was the cheapest set they had and it still felt like heaven. Happy nights, here I come!
Additionally, I started seriously auditing and cleaning up my room, with a view to making it a little more grown-up, even though it will always be funky and filled with objects that have meaning to me. But maybe that's the point -- a lot of the things in it ceased to have meaning, or ceased to reflect my personality, and just made it look adolescent. I took down my Christmas tree lights from the ceiling, and the jack-o-lantern lights from my doorway, I took down the Crow poster and recycled the Jolt Cola can tower, threw out old bits and pieces that no longer had much relevance in my life, and tucked some others away. I mean, my walls are still purple and I still have my vintage Star Wars toys, and my tree frog and many knick-knacks and candle holders and photos and pieces of art on the walls, but it no longer looks quite like the bedroom of a teenager. There's still work to do, but I could totally bring someone home now and not be embarrassed.
Lastly, I'm losing between 1-2 pounds per week right now, and have been for at least a month and a half. I won't say what I weigh, but given that I'm 6'2" and increasingly muscular, I'm really only 50 pounds from my ideal weight. This is a lot, but not as much as it used to be, and really quite attainable. I'm hitting the gym three times a week, I'm bicycling every day, and I'm eating really well. At the gym, I'm doing 30 minutes of cardio, plus bench presses, plus free weights, plus a number of those crazy weight machines targeting upper body muscles (as my legs couldn't get much better or denser with muscle mass). I can flex my arm and really show a number of muscle groups off. It's a wonderful feeling and I'm really encouraged.
What you don't see in beer commercials
On Canada Day this year, my good friend Celeste was riding her bicycle home through the University of Ottawa campus. She was on a cycle path that cut through the campus, and was merrily on her way when a group of drunk "beer commercial guys" (the kind that wear Canada flags as capes) who were playing frisbee ran across her path. Like a reasonable and safety-conscious cyclist, she rang the bell on her bicycle to let them know she was coming through.
They yelled at her, telling her to stay out of their game. One of them threw the frisbee at her, hitting her in the back.
It was late and wet. Celeste stopped her bike, causing the wheels to screech dramatically.
The frisbee boys, drunk on booze, testosterone, and the muddling safety of numbers, taunted her. "What are you going to do?" they sneered, "Citizen's arrest?"
"No," Celeste replied, "I'm going to take your frisbee."
And with that, she grabbed the frisbee and started riding away. One of the guys complained, "C'mon, give it back! That's a $17 dollar frisbee! We'll call the cops on you!" But she kept going, even as they vainly chased after her. As she explained to me afterwards, there's really not much they can say about that.
Celeste still has the $17 frisbee, and plans to mount it on her wall like a trophy deer head.
I love that girl.
Sunday, July 18, 2004 They yelled at her, telling her to stay out of their game. One of them threw the frisbee at her, hitting her in the back.
It was late and wet. Celeste stopped her bike, causing the wheels to screech dramatically.
The frisbee boys, drunk on booze, testosterone, and the muddling safety of numbers, taunted her. "What are you going to do?" they sneered, "Citizen's arrest?"
"No," Celeste replied, "I'm going to take your frisbee."
And with that, she grabbed the frisbee and started riding away. One of the guys complained, "C'mon, give it back! That's a $17 dollar frisbee! We'll call the cops on you!" But she kept going, even as they vainly chased after her. As she explained to me afterwards, there's really not much they can say about that.
Celeste still has the $17 frisbee, and plans to mount it on her wall like a trophy deer head.
I love that girl.
It's time to get tough on crime
As I'm sure nearly everyone in North America now knows, Martha Stewart has been sentenced to five months imprisonment after she was convicted of of conspiracy for "willfully and knowingly" working with her broker to make false statements, and guilty of obstructing justice by lying to the Securities and Exchange Commission. That is, she was not convicted of insider trading. That charge was dismissed. Instead, she was convicted for lying when she said she had previously arranged with her broker to sell her shares of ImClone when they dropped below $60. In allegedly selling her shares with insider information (that the FDA had rejected ImClone's cancer drug), she saved herself approximately $51,000.
I'm definitely not saying that this is undue, but I am still marveling at the attention Martha Stewart has attracted for her relatively minor offences compared to the obscene plunder of California's energy system, employee pension funds, and shareholders' investments, that occurred while Kenneth Lay was CEO of Enron. I doubt very much that Martha Stewart's actions have inflicted any loss of public confidence in the economy, leastwise not nearly so much as the creative financial looting that occurred at Enron. So while I am pleased to see that white collar and corporate criminals are facing penalties for their actions, I am very concerned about proportionality. Now that Kenneth Lay has finally been indicted, I actually want to be assured that his prosecution will be every bit as vigorous as Martha's. I don't think accused persons should be publicly tarred before they are fairly convicted, but the axe has been extended for Martha and, really, for doing so very little that it leaves me smacking for justice now that a real corporate crook (I mean, alleged corporate crook) has been nabbed.
Enron founder Kenneth Lay was indicted last week on 11 criminal counts, including wire fraud, securities fraud and making false statements to banks. As someone with a great interest in criminal law (and as someone just a little more learned on the subject than your average bear), I do feel that those who call for tough sentences for offenders -- who feel that we need to get "tough" on crime and stop coddling offenders" as the only sane way to reduce offence rates -- focus much more on street crime and think very little of the crimes that are committed in boardrooms and by people in positions of great power, great trust, and great responsibility, who ought to know better and have no excuse for their actions other than greed. These crimes are carefully and meticulously planned (that is to say, premeditated), heavily rationalized, denied vehemently when detected, and radically change the lives of hundreds if not thousands of people. How many workers and investors lost their savings when Enron imploded? How many peoples are now without pension plans for their retirements? Is this not a great, or greater crime than murder?
If you hold up a bank (and don't kill anyone), you're still looking at years in prison if caught and convicted. Without going farther than your local news headlines or Google, you can see how sternly the courts deal with those who steal from others. The public demands this. In Georgia, for example, the minimum for armed robbery is 10 years. In Massechusets, you're roughly looking at a minimum of 5 years. In Canada, robbery (with a firearm) has a minimum penalty of four years.
What I'm getting at is that plundering billions of dollars from states, from investors, and from workers, is at least as violent (I would say far worse) than armed robbery. In contrast with losing the contents of wallet, or a bank losing funds that are federally insured, victims may walk away from such a crime with almost nothing, and have little recourse.
If Martha Stewart gets five months, then Kenneth Lay had better get the chair.
Saturday, July 17, 2004 I'm definitely not saying that this is undue, but I am still marveling at the attention Martha Stewart has attracted for her relatively minor offences compared to the obscene plunder of California's energy system, employee pension funds, and shareholders' investments, that occurred while Kenneth Lay was CEO of Enron. I doubt very much that Martha Stewart's actions have inflicted any loss of public confidence in the economy, leastwise not nearly so much as the creative financial looting that occurred at Enron. So while I am pleased to see that white collar and corporate criminals are facing penalties for their actions, I am very concerned about proportionality. Now that Kenneth Lay has finally been indicted, I actually want to be assured that his prosecution will be every bit as vigorous as Martha's. I don't think accused persons should be publicly tarred before they are fairly convicted, but the axe has been extended for Martha and, really, for doing so very little that it leaves me smacking for justice now that a real corporate crook (I mean, alleged corporate crook) has been nabbed.
Enron founder Kenneth Lay was indicted last week on 11 criminal counts, including wire fraud, securities fraud and making false statements to banks. As someone with a great interest in criminal law (and as someone just a little more learned on the subject than your average bear), I do feel that those who call for tough sentences for offenders -- who feel that we need to get "tough" on crime and stop coddling offenders" as the only sane way to reduce offence rates -- focus much more on street crime and think very little of the crimes that are committed in boardrooms and by people in positions of great power, great trust, and great responsibility, who ought to know better and have no excuse for their actions other than greed. These crimes are carefully and meticulously planned (that is to say, premeditated), heavily rationalized, denied vehemently when detected, and radically change the lives of hundreds if not thousands of people. How many workers and investors lost their savings when Enron imploded? How many peoples are now without pension plans for their retirements? Is this not a great, or greater crime than murder?
If you hold up a bank (and don't kill anyone), you're still looking at years in prison if caught and convicted. Without going farther than your local news headlines or Google, you can see how sternly the courts deal with those who steal from others. The public demands this. In Georgia, for example, the minimum for armed robbery is 10 years. In Massechusets, you're roughly looking at a minimum of 5 years. In Canada, robbery (with a firearm) has a minimum penalty of four years.
What I'm getting at is that plundering billions of dollars from states, from investors, and from workers, is at least as violent (I would say far worse) than armed robbery. In contrast with losing the contents of wallet, or a bank losing funds that are federally insured, victims may walk away from such a crime with almost nothing, and have little recourse.
If Martha Stewart gets five months, then Kenneth Lay had better get the chair.
While on the way home...
While bicycling home just a few minutes ago, I was leaving the University of Ottawa Community Legal Clinic after a particularly tiresome and frustrating day. I'd just managed to pack up my things and begin heading home, turned onto Laurier Avenue and cycled up to the intersection at King Edward, and what do you think happened next?
From a shiny red sportscar in the intersection came voices.
"Hey, you fat bicyclist!"
"Fuck you, you fucking fat bicyclist!"
"Lose some weight!"
"Get off that bicycle, you're too fat!!"
"Go on a diet!"
It goes without saying that people like that just want a reaction, or at least want to know they can hurt you (which they did), and all I could do was just start riding once the light turned green and turn a deaf ear to it, trying to keep some dignity while people standing at the corner looked on at me and the guys in the car. A more self-assured person would have yelled back, maybe pointing out the stupidity of telling someone on a bicycle to lose some weight but not by bicycling. And maybe if it hadn't been one of those trying weeks for me, I could look at all the times I've gone to the gym and cut out things like french fries from my diet and point to the silly "Special K" pedometer that shows I walked over 17,000 steps (nine miles) on a single day when I wore it for a test, and finally the fact that when I get on the scale it is showing that I'm losing weight.
But anyway, that's not the way I'm thinking tonight. I just feel fat and ugly.
Sunday, July 04, 2004 From a shiny red sportscar in the intersection came voices.
"Hey, you fat bicyclist!"
"Fuck you, you fucking fat bicyclist!"
"Lose some weight!"
"Get off that bicycle, you're too fat!!"
"Go on a diet!"
It goes without saying that people like that just want a reaction, or at least want to know they can hurt you (which they did), and all I could do was just start riding once the light turned green and turn a deaf ear to it, trying to keep some dignity while people standing at the corner looked on at me and the guys in the car. A more self-assured person would have yelled back, maybe pointing out the stupidity of telling someone on a bicycle to lose some weight but not by bicycling. And maybe if it hadn't been one of those trying weeks for me, I could look at all the times I've gone to the gym and cut out things like french fries from my diet and point to the silly "Special K" pedometer that shows I walked over 17,000 steps (nine miles) on a single day when I wore it for a test, and finally the fact that when I get on the scale it is showing that I'm losing weight.
But anyway, that's not the way I'm thinking tonight. I just feel fat and ugly.
Imagine a world where everyone loved The United States...
I wanted to wish a happy Independence Day to all the American readers out there, especially Angela, who I know is currently trapped in Toronto and far from the beer and fireworks in Canada's self-proclaimed centre of the universe (though I may soon be interned there myself). I think it's important to reflect on the things that have made America a great and respected nation in the past, in the hope that the jingoistic level of patriotism summoned by the current administration to deflect criticism from its policies can be turned aside. I think what upsets so many of us outsiders is that America is a nation that seems to have turned its back on the notions of democracy, equality, liberty and justice for all that made her a beacon in the past. Now it seems that aggressive wars, suspension of civil liberties and procedural justice for terror suspects, and a hostility to unions and social safety nets and fair wages carries the day. I was so pleased that Canadian voters turned their backs on the one party who promised a Republican style reform of Canada's legal, social and military systems (and a much closer relationship to the current U.S. Administration) this past week, and I have a lot of hope that the progressives will also carry the day in the U.S. in November.
Anyway, here's a great article about taking American patriotism back to the left, where it belongs.
Friday, July 02, 2004 Anyway, here's a great article about taking American patriotism back to the left, where it belongs.
Happy Annual Public Urination Day!
Yesterday was Canada Day, our national holiday that celebrates the anniversary of Confederation, when a collection of provinces and territories variously colonized and conquered by the British formed a sovereign nation with its own constitution and laws. Canada, as a federated country, is now 137 years old.
As I live in the Nation's Capital, Canada Day is an especially big to-do here. Over 75,000 people will fill the downtown area. We get a fabulous fireworks display, we can see the changing of the guards at Parliament Hill, the Prime Minister gives a speech, and there are all manner of free concerts and outdoor events all day long. I like the common friendliness that people exhibit -- no one is in a hurry and everyone is your friend, emblazoned as they are in red and white clothes, face paint, and temporary tattoos. One young woman I saw had even painted a Canada flag across her bared breasts and was walking about and flying it proudly. I'm not sure I'd have done that (for one thing, no one wants to see me with my shirt off -- they'd be blinded by my pale Irish skin) but it is legal in this fabulous province of ours, and it's certainly brave and festive. Meanwhile, it's a treat to see so many children who are excited to have festive colours on, eat ice cream, wave a noisemaker or a sparkler, and watch the fireworks. I remember being that young and I remember marveling at the spectacle every year.
But as the evening wears on, the alcohol and mob-mentality do take a toll. Once the fireworks are over, those tens of thousands of people start to head to bars, and others make no secret of openly drinking the booze they've been carrying with them. People smash bottles, urinate against buildings, statues, and trees, light up joints, get into fights, yell, and push. Someone was stabbed on Elgin Street in a fight in the wee hours of this morning (in a city where you can otherwise count the yearly number of homicides on your fingers). That's the part of Canada Day that depresses me. Most people do behave themselves marvelously, but in crowds so large, even a small fraction behaving like idiots can have a small and contagious effect.
Myself, I went out to a fondue party at a friend's house, and we went out in a group to watch the fireworks from a beautiful vantage point on the Ottawa River. I got to spend time with my friend Celeste, who I'd unfortunately been neglecting since the school year ended, which was swell. I didn't see everyone I hoped to see, but I made the most of a day off and didn't think about my clients, my case work, or anything related to work or school for more than a few minutes (which is pretty remarkable for me). We had some very nice Canadian beer (Steamwhistle Pilsner and Alexander Keith's India Pale Ale), got nibbled by some Canadian mosquitos, and watched the fireworks terrorize Canadian geese, which were resting in the water along with ducks and seagulls not far from the explosions.
On the other hand, I got the vantage point of the unruly crowds as I tried to make my way home, squished into a crowded bus of noisy, singing drunks who draped Canada flags over their shoulders like capes, and yelled and swore at each other as they stumbled around crowded city streets. I had to remind myself they were really in the minority, loud and obnoxious as their beer-fueled bravado was. People do like to have a good time, and I was among them, and there really wasn't much mayhem -- certainly not as much as there could have been.
I think at the end I'm of two minds. My old friend Jennifer (not to be confused with my law school friend Jenn who is in New York for the summer, and managed to celebrate in the East Village with beer and poutine with a fellow Canadian) wrote a rather grumpy entry in her blog about loathing the Canada Day events in Ottawa, which I tend to disagree with, even though I saw plenty of stuff that made me sad and grouchy myself yesterday. I guess the moral is that at least the trouble people get up to washes up fairly well and sobers up fairly well and there are no lasting scars or disgraces to the city that a little paint, sleep, and underwear couldn't quickly cover up.
As I live in the Nation's Capital, Canada Day is an especially big to-do here. Over 75,000 people will fill the downtown area. We get a fabulous fireworks display, we can see the changing of the guards at Parliament Hill, the Prime Minister gives a speech, and there are all manner of free concerts and outdoor events all day long. I like the common friendliness that people exhibit -- no one is in a hurry and everyone is your friend, emblazoned as they are in red and white clothes, face paint, and temporary tattoos. One young woman I saw had even painted a Canada flag across her bared breasts and was walking about and flying it proudly. I'm not sure I'd have done that (for one thing, no one wants to see me with my shirt off -- they'd be blinded by my pale Irish skin) but it is legal in this fabulous province of ours, and it's certainly brave and festive. Meanwhile, it's a treat to see so many children who are excited to have festive colours on, eat ice cream, wave a noisemaker or a sparkler, and watch the fireworks. I remember being that young and I remember marveling at the spectacle every year.
But as the evening wears on, the alcohol and mob-mentality do take a toll. Once the fireworks are over, those tens of thousands of people start to head to bars, and others make no secret of openly drinking the booze they've been carrying with them. People smash bottles, urinate against buildings, statues, and trees, light up joints, get into fights, yell, and push. Someone was stabbed on Elgin Street in a fight in the wee hours of this morning (in a city where you can otherwise count the yearly number of homicides on your fingers). That's the part of Canada Day that depresses me. Most people do behave themselves marvelously, but in crowds so large, even a small fraction behaving like idiots can have a small and contagious effect.
Myself, I went out to a fondue party at a friend's house, and we went out in a group to watch the fireworks from a beautiful vantage point on the Ottawa River. I got to spend time with my friend Celeste, who I'd unfortunately been neglecting since the school year ended, which was swell. I didn't see everyone I hoped to see, but I made the most of a day off and didn't think about my clients, my case work, or anything related to work or school for more than a few minutes (which is pretty remarkable for me). We had some very nice Canadian beer (Steamwhistle Pilsner and Alexander Keith's India Pale Ale), got nibbled by some Canadian mosquitos, and watched the fireworks terrorize Canadian geese, which were resting in the water along with ducks and seagulls not far from the explosions.
On the other hand, I got the vantage point of the unruly crowds as I tried to make my way home, squished into a crowded bus of noisy, singing drunks who draped Canada flags over their shoulders like capes, and yelled and swore at each other as they stumbled around crowded city streets. I had to remind myself they were really in the minority, loud and obnoxious as their beer-fueled bravado was. People do like to have a good time, and I was among them, and there really wasn't much mayhem -- certainly not as much as there could have been.
I think at the end I'm of two minds. My old friend Jennifer (not to be confused with my law school friend Jenn who is in New York for the summer, and managed to celebrate in the East Village with beer and poutine with a fellow Canadian) wrote a rather grumpy entry in her blog about loathing the Canada Day events in Ottawa, which I tend to disagree with, even though I saw plenty of stuff that made me sad and grouchy myself yesterday. I guess the moral is that at least the trouble people get up to washes up fairly well and sobers up fairly well and there are no lasting scars or disgraces to the city that a little paint, sleep, and underwear couldn't quickly cover up.
