My only mission in doing law is to get the hell of Oz. At least for a little while, anyway.
I hadn't really considered New York before, but I'm as shallow and as mercenary as anyone else. All I would have to do is pass the hardest bar exam in the world. Still, in the context, it makes sense that a person living in a city that actually attracts lawyers would respond in a fairly direct fashion.

We went and hung out at an Administrative law tribunal this afternoon. Man, I am wasted now. They just threw the drug bowls on to the table, their car keys into the fish bowl and then we all just got down and freaky to Rick James and Wild Cherry. Shit, I may even have told one of the strippers I loved her. Administrative law will do that, though, and old timers in the scene say it used to be even cooler. If that's true, I'm glad I wasn't there; I can barely hold up under the strain of that many kegstands as it is.
Also, in possibly the craziest moment of all, we all wound up in the lift together making the awkward smalltalk that invariably follows a drug-soaked, Admin scene happening where clothes are just unnecessary encumbrances holding back the connection of minds. Once you've seen the senior member naked, smoking a joint in a corduroy beanbag, it's hard to make eye contact.
Anyway, we're all there, and there's no elevator music and that gets mentioned. At that moment, all six people in the elevator began to sing Girl From Ipanema. Synchronicity. I freaked out. Or possibly the past tense should be "frooked". You think? Tribunals can really open your mind to possibilities. You know?
I have to go now. There's a 38 year old man sitting across from me talking to schoolchildren about World Of Warcraft. Apparently he has a "shammy" and a "tiger of durotar" and is ready for a "raid". You know how people sometimes don't know whether to laugh or cry? Never been a problem for me. Laughter is the best medicine. Also, good luck on the airplanes. Is there a common theme here?

Part of the charm of being a judgmental asshole is the ability to instantly dismiss the valid concerns of others and their chosen methods of achieving their ends. For example, some guy asked me to sign his petition the other day. It was titled "End Israeli Aggression In Lebanon". Sure, I'll sign your petition. But won't you feel bad when my magic signature isn't available to Stop Breast Cancer, Stamp Out AIDS In Crack Babies or Grant A Jacuzzi And Personal Stripper To Every Person Above Eighteen Living On Earth? Or are people on the street finally hip to the idea that I have some personal pull with the military establishment of Israel? We go to the same shiatsu masseur. He's the best.
I had really only managed to say the "Sure" part, teamed with smugly supercilious smirking, when he gave up on me. Hey, if he's going to give up that easily, how would he do when he charges the Israeli tanks with my petition strapped to himself? Quitters never win.
Unlike this guy. He's swum an awfully long way, more than once. As he says, "I just hope that my swim has brought home the message that we have to do all we can to tackle climate change." It's just barely possible that's a little too abstract a message to convey by swimming somewhere. In fact, if he hadn't said so, I would probably never have known. Which is why I suppose I should let you all know now: I'm living a life of gluttonous self-indulgence and alcoholic excess in order to save bears from circuses. Later, I'm planning on having a good long dance about modern architecture, relaxing by having a fantastic bath designed to eliminate sweatshops in Indonesia and finally snooze peacefully to draw attention to the genocide in the Sudan.
Here's a radical idea: instead of doing bullshit designed to make yourself feel better about yourself and how wonderfully ethical you are, why don't you do something about what you're interested in? Swimming and petitions don't count.
Now, to have an ice-cream for freedom.

Apparently the way to counter criticism that Guantanamo Bay is an affront to everything I learned about the US from that Daily Show book (Sample: "If con is the opposite of pro, is congress the opposite of progress? Or did I just blow your fucking mind?") is to allege that the heavily sedated, strapped, head-bagged, confined, sleep-deprived inmates are picking on the guards and making them cry. Apparently, they grab them from the "beanholes". That's the little slot where they slide the gruel. It must really sting.
Again, I only seem to be able to concentrate on things I find silly. In this case, the fact that the spork is finally getting the respect it is due.
"Look out!", screamed Bruce Willis, diving across the table, double Glocks blaring an unremitting tattoo of death "He's packing spork!"
You may think this is a kind of pissweak attempt to spin illegality into a mission for democracy, but perhaps you weren't aware those Gitmo psychopaths also carry iguana tails. And have been known to spank guards with flip-flops. Those fucking war criminals.