I'm a little slow today. I just switched to Sanka. So...have a heart?

Monday, July 11, 2005


I just found this, when flipping through old emails of mine. I wrote it to Jess and Julie two years ago (almost to the day) about this guy I went on a date with sight unseen, which turned out to be THE worst date EVER. Except for probably one or two nights with Stephen, but I love him, and so they're excusable.

Background to this story: I was home the summer after 1L year, and I got a call from 98 Rock in Baltimore, for a radio listener survey. I had nothing better to do, so I took the survey. Me and the guy on the other end of the line, who was an intern for 98 Rock, chatted a bit. At the end of the survey, the guy on the other end of the line asked me, "Are you family?" I said, "I have a family...," not necessarily understanding what he was asking, but I had a hunch in the back of my mind what he was getting at.

Turns out family = gay. We chatted for a few more minutes and hung up. I tell my parents about this exchange, ha-ha-ha, everyone's becoming comfortable with me being openly gay, la la la. The phone rings again. My mom says, "I'll bet that's him, calling to ask you out!"

It was. I figured, "Hey, could be fun, and he's a radio guy, so maybe he's cool!" (He wasn't.) We exchanged numbers, emails whatever, and he suckered me into buying tickets for one of his lame-ass concerts. One night after work I was to swing by 98 Rock on Television Hill in Baltimore, and get the tix from him, and we'd go grab a drink.

Here's the email I wrote after this debaucle went down:

"Hi. I had this email half written, and it deleted. Now I'm pissed. Here goes.

So last night, the Radioboy Debaucle went down. We all know the Radioboysaga from the beginning, so here's the fruition, the blossoming if youwill, of this ridiculous story.

Radio boy had a show, that he asked me to. I figured sure. Why not, I'd go. [not anymore]. So, last night he calls me in for tix. Also, we figured we'd grab a drink afterward. There are caveats, however, which SHOULD have raised red flags, but did not. I'm a retard. Here goes:

1) He had no car (it was broken) so I'd have to drive to him, take him out, and drive him home. Bleah, he lives in Cockeysville/Timmonium, which is on the OTHER side of Baltimore..the North Side...
2) He had no keys (he lost them) so he'd have to be home by 12 so his roomies could let him him.
3) He had no money, so if he had drank anything [thank god he didn't] I'd have to pay for it.

Nevertheless, I go. I'm a retard. I get there, to 98 Rock, where he works, and a HUUUUGE radio station in Baltimore, and get buzzed in... la la la, I'm up in the Station. It's really cool there, autographs everywhere from Ozzy Osbourne, to Kiss, to Guns n' Roses, the Red Hot Chili Peppers... it's cool. I get a tour of the Studio, meet a D.J I had just been listening to (They all are GROSS! Now I know why they're on Radio -- b/c no one can see them! Amelia was wearing fatgirl overalls and white keds. Bleah -- and she had just been offering on the radio to come to your house, install a bar, and throw you a party. NOOOO THANK YOUUUU, not if she's coming. I could just see her spilling beer on my walls and puking on the floor. She was one of those - the nasty dumblooking cow-faced girls...) But I digress...

So me n' Justin evenutally split to go on our date. Let's describe Justin, shall we?

Justin is about 5'11, but VERRRRRRRRRY skinny. VERRRRRRRRRRRRY pale. VERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRY bugged out blue eyes, that are sort of red. He's got icky looking hair, nasty looking skin, a cluster of cheek zits (I hate that), and a frog's mouth. He looked like some kid I knew from a looooong time ago, and I had always hoped that **** would get better looking with age. Judging from this kid, he didn't. Just very wide, froglike features. Icky.

MOre later : P

Look for installment II...

Okay. I'm not done describing him. SO, froglike face, pale, bloodshot bug eyes. He's got a ring through the skin under his lower lip. He's wearing a spiky dog collar bracelet, and a necklace that is a gay rainbow made up of colored hardware nuts on a chain. Ick. He's also wearing some sad,
faded black t-shirt, some black jacket, wtih like metal shiny studs in the lapels, and zip-off pants-cargoshorts. And some form of ratty sneakers. Bleahhh. He's also a slob. He's a punky dirty-looking slob.

So, after making friends with the 98 Rock Security Guard who let me in, we leave. He calls her honey, flames a bit, waves his gangly arms... it's not pretty. We go outside where it officially ends in my eyes.

He does not stop spitting.

I'm not even talking like "ooh, I have a big loogie, and I have to spit it out now, but I'll do it in a forceful one loogie pop, and be done with it." This kid was like Hansel and Gretl, leaving a trail of little spittlings behind him. Every second, he spat. I'm not kidding. He spat SO MUCH within the first 10 seconds of being outside (ten times) that I said to him, half joking, half hoping he'd get the hint "There's no spitting in my car, you know that, right?" ubhghghg. He didn't get the hint. He kept spittling all the way to the car. "Peh. Peh. Peh. Peh. Peh." Does this kid even SWALLOW any of his saliva when he's not enclosed by 4 walls?! By this point I'm thinking "I should just drive you home. You're not cute at all, I'm weirded out by you, and you've got DISGUSTING habits." We get in the car, and drive to Central Station, a gay bar in Mt. Vernon in Balt. He's got his little case (looks like a drill case) full of CDs. We kibbitz, he tells me that Miami is the most crime infested city in America. I inform him that I've never brushed w/ crime, except driving down Grand Ave.

We get to Central Station. We go inside. I buy a beer, he gets nothing. Thank god. He kisses a bartender on the cheek, and other assorted freaklings through the bar. On my way to throw out the napkin under my beer, I have my back turned to him, and give a GREAT eyeroll. Other people see me, I believe, and smirk.

We go upstairs, where there's another little bar. He runs into some older guy that talks like Isaiah, and doesn't introduce me. We sit down. Enter the next two characters to our little Saga -

[Edited for Content #1] and [Edited for Content #2], from Oklahoma

They join us. Fabulous. He, again, doesn't introduce me. So Introduce myself. #1 and #2 pull up chairs, and flame. It's about this point, that I realize that I think I hate gay people, when #2 says
"Hey #1, drag your asshole over here!"

MWHHHHHAAAAAAT!?!??!?! Inappropriate. I'm shocked. My jaw would be on the floor, if not for the fact that I'm guzzling beer. THey all sit around, and talk about stuff I don't care about. I stare out a window at my car, wishing I wasn't there anymore. I try to interject conversation sometimes, but overall, it's unsuccessful. I did learn, however to my chagrin, that the lead singer to La Bouche and Le Click is dead in a plane crash. SO sad. I really liked her.

#2 Leaves, thank god, with little to no fanfare. He slides out of the bar. I'm looking around, the other patrons of the bar look like me, well dressed, groomed, cute. I'm at the freakshow table. I'm off to a bad start in the Balt. gay community.

#1's memorable line, as he slurs and smokes through the 40 minutes I
was there, in silent, akward hell regards Kylie Minogue: "An' I wuzz like
'dat da Locomotion Bitch?! She be OFF DA HOOK!!!'"


Evenutally, I figure, Enough. I have to drive fuckup home, and so I'm like "well, we'er both tired, let's go home." I close my tab, and FLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE FROM THE BAR.

More Later :) Not over yet.


Where was I? Oh yes. I had just run out of the bar.

I'm about to run out of the bar, but flashback to when we're at the table. In between stretches of mindnumbing silence... you guys have seen national Lampoon's European Vacation, right? Know when they're in the train car, and everyone is pissing each other off, Clark is rattling his paper, Audrey snapping gum, and Rusty banging on his walkman? Well... at times, Justin
was hammering out a techno-beat on the table top. I sat there, hating him.

Anyway, I've finally left -- He comes behind me, frothing all the way. Then we meet one of his friends. Again. [Previously in the bar, I had asked him how he knew everyone. He told me he was a "Central Station Whore" at one time... I was and was not surprised. I was surprised because...who would want to sleep with him!? I wasn't, because, he seemed dirty] Anyway his
friend.. He's a big guy, but for the first time, cute. I, once again, introduce myself, because Justin doens't introduce me. AGAIN. He's like "Oh, I'm so rude for not doing that!" and I was like "Yeah. You are. I used to be like that, then I realized how rude it was." Eek.

Suffice it to say, things have been going TERRIBLY and I just want him to be OUT OF MY SIGHT, FOREVER. We get in the car. He asks to put in a CD. Not wanting to fight, I say sure. He puts in some yelling garbage, and turns it up.

I'm speeding toward sweet relief, when it starts to P O U R. RAIN RAIN RAIN RAIN RAIN. I'm cruizing through my old neighborhoods, can't see the goddamn lines on the streets, am slightly freaked out because it looks like 1988 all around me (the last time I was in this particular part of Baltimore), and want this kid to GO.

I drop him off near where his house is, he jumps out of the car and is like "I'll see you at the showwwwwwwww!" I'm like "Uh. Yeah."

Bottom line? I"M NOT GOING. I threw out 20 bucks... but whatever. It's fine. I don't care.

On the way home, I hear a "BAM!" I'm like "what the fuck was that?!" I go to a gas station. I am now, plus one bad date, and MINUS ONE HUBCAP. GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. So... that was my night last night. I don't know if I left anything out, but you get the drift.

It was a night that need not EVERRRRRRRRRRR be repeated."

Oh, whatever.

I need to stop being such a whiny baby. After I do these 50 con law questions, I'm going to go on a bike ride. I have no reason to bitch and moan. I have a job that will teach me a lot and pay me decently (VERY decently for one person to live off of...) and won't require that I spend my mid 20s in an office, while all my friends are always out playing. Yes, I'll have to work, but I'll get a fair amount of time off, too.

Billing 1500 hours per year doesn't seem that out of line. I'm certain I can do that. :)

So what if I won't have a huge office of friends to play with? I can make more. And strengthen bonds with existing ones.

I can throw dinner parties again.

I can have an 8:30-5:30 day, every day. I think. Billing 30 hours per week doesn't sound that stressful. AT ALL.

This will be good. This is more my speed. I have no attention span, so if I get sacked with meaningless assignments, I won't do them. Here, all my assignments will be meaningful, I'll hit the ground running and figure out what I'm doing. I'll have insurance, and an IRA. So what if I only get 10 vacation days...

I will be fine. This is a great start, and it doesn't have to be forever. At least I'm employed. Hooray. OCI works, I guess.

Risks. Never good.

Potential. Hah.

Dreams. Hah.

Rejection...beans...the bar.

I have accepted a job. It's not THE job, but it's A job. It'll probably be the best thing for me, anyway... I guess. And it means eventually, my parents can stop paying for everything. I'm sure happy that's coming soon.

I guess this is the best thing that could have happened. I didn't have to make a hard decision, it was made for me. So it must be the best thing. Either that, or it seals my fate as looking around at Miami, saying, "Why the hell am I still here," and fleeing back to D.C.

Who knows.

I start work on August 22nd. That's a scary thought. It's good, though, because it means I'll get to work for like a month and a half until I find out I have to quit because I failed the bar.

That big firm rejected me. I'm not surprised. I don't know what I was thinking when I let them schedule me for a callback in July. I can't speak English any more, so I don't know WHAT I was thinking when they asked if I could come in and I said yes. Regardless, I'm also fairly certain I figured out which partner had sealed the deal for me...he was an asshole. He gave me shit because I couldn't remember my pretrial teacher's name for Lit Skills, a class I took over a year ago... eh. I didn't write them thank-you letters. I'm sure as hell not going to now. Whatever. I'm truly not bitter. I don't have it in me to be bitter anymore. I simply don't care. I'll go, I'll work, I'll have no clue what I'm doing, and eventually, I'll get a new job. Hopefully a year from now, I'll be writing this blog from Silver Spring in the condo my parents bought up there. It's not built yet, but when it is... whoo! By the way, I went through Silver Spring in June... it's getting nice there! What the hell?!? It used to be a crack-den! Best case scenario, I'd live in Cleveland Park or Woodley Park or Dupont Circle or I hear U-Street is making a comeback...

God. I'm so tired, and I don't want to study Florida Con Law. Ugh. I don't want to do much of anything. I can't believe I'm going to have close client contact soon after I start working, and I'll probably have to argue motions in court. I'm going to screw so much up, so badly, so quickly. This is going to be a fiasco. That's why I wanted to work in a big firm. Oh, sure, I'd be writing memos and doing document review, and sure I'd never see the light of day, and want to kill myself all the time, but at least I wouldn't have responsibility or client contact. I'd stay in my small office, churning out paper for nameless, faceless clients.

It's really petrifying to think that within a year or two, I may have tried a civil case. I lie and say that I want to do litigation. HA! It's like the last thing I want to do. Maybe I'll grow to love it, but I don't like arguing, or...responsibility, really.

Nope. That's why I'd much rather answer to 80 middle-aged cranky white guys, asking me to research impossible tasks and criticizing all my work. It'd beat down my spirit, but I wouldn't have to answer anyone's questions... a task I am, and forever will be entirely unqualified to do.

On that note, I guess I really have to do some studying. Meh. My brain is full. And even if it's not, this numbing routine has gotten so painful, I really don't care whether I pass this test or not, anymore. I just want it to be overwith.

I look jealously at the managers of McDonald's and Target and Sports Authority. They have their keys, and they have to count the drawer at the end of the night, and remember to lock the doors, and interivew people that can hardly communicate, but their lives must be so easy. No thought involved, make the fries, fire someone, direct someone else to mop up a bathroom. No tests, no stress, no angry clients, and no rules of professional conduct to break...and breaking them is VERY easy. I could do it fifteen times without thinking, or meaning to!

I just want to put on comfortable sneakers, and a polyester short-sleeved shirt, and go into work every day, knowing which buttons to push on the cash register, to whom I should submit the biweekly punch cards, and when to order next week's supply of hamburger patties. After two months, I could just be on automatic pilot the entire time. I could show up dead, and still do those jobs...and win employee of the month every month.

This job will be a very good experience. I will have a good salary and a life. I will get experience, and I will grow. (Not physically.) I'm going to be fine. Rejection just stings a bit, especially after a call-back.