See me read a book. See me get addicted to watching QVC.

In a fit of impulse shopping the other day, I went to Sunset Place. Afterwards, I complained about kids.

While I was at Barnes & Noble, I picked up up Sellevision, by one of my favorite authors, Augusten Burroughs.

I don't love the book -- this one is more fiction-y than his other books which were more semi-autobiographical. I still sort of like the book, but, like I said... eh. I'm setting myself up to be dissapointed with the David Sedaris edited compilation that I have lined up after Sellevision.

Anyway, Sellevision is about the goings-on behind a Television Home Shopping Network.

Through the book, he peppers descriptions of people with accessories from the Sellevision network. In the beginning, I didn't like it. As the book wears on, though, I'm liking it more: Then, they cut back to Peggy Jean who was smiling and holding a wooden ruler, the earrings displayed on a black velvet stand before her. 'This is item J-0415 and they are our trillion-cut amethyst lever-back earrings, priced at a very affordable forty-nine-ninety five. I just want to give you a measurement here,' Peggy Jean said while she continued to smile broadly, placing the ruler against one of the gemstone earrings.
Cut to a macro shot, Camera One. On the monitor, Peggy Jean's fingers were each larger than a loaf of Wonder Bread as she positioned the ruler, displaying for the viewers at home that, 'This is gonna measure about, well, a little more than eight-sixteenths of an inch across and...' She measured the vertical. '...about one inch from top to bottom.' Her manicure was absolutely flawless.

Or:

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TELLING ME, HOWARD? HMMM?" Leigh was blinking back tears, arms folded tightly across her chest, bold Stampato bracelet layered on her arm with a sterling-Greek Key two-inch-wide cuff.

I'm watching QVC right now... Item J-45238, Terling Turqouise heart, with a toggle loop, circular loop chain, 18 1/4", Lariat Necklace, Retail Value $100.00 and QVC Price 69.00.

They keep cutting back and forth to Sheila, a South-Asian (Possibly Polynesian) model, wearing a brown dress with a turquoise pashmina shawl, draped with turquoise jewelery.

As I watch the show, the lady I'm watching, Lisa, is like Peggy Jean from the show. A plump, intolerant Christian lady, with a nice manicure on her fat sausage fingers. It's fascinating listening to these sad people calling in to QVC, and hearing Lisa pretend like she's paying attention to the callers. And it's even more fascinating watching Lisa obviously listen to her hidden earpiece, and watching her take visual cues from a director behind the cameras. I've already seen two wooden rulers come out in the course of watching this blog. Lisa loves her Faber-Castell ruler.

Everyone calling in, sounds heavily medicated, heavily smoked out, very lonely, and very southern. Sort of like Miz Ruth in Fried Green Tomatoes when she's laying on her death bed, asking Idgie Threadgood to tell her the story about the lake over there in Alabama. If you ever want me to tell you the story, I'd be happy to. I've only seen the movie, oh, about eighty three times.

Idgie:  "ONE TIME...THERE WAS THIS LAKE. AND, UH, IT WAS
RIGHT OUTSIDE OF TOWN. WE USED TO GO FISHIN' AND SWIMMIN'
AND CANOEIN' IN IT. AND SEE, ONE NOVEMBER... THIS BIG
FLOCK OF DUCKS...CAME IN AND LANDED ON THAT LAKE AND,
UH...AND THEN THE TEMPERATURE DROPPED SO FAST THAT
THE LAKE JUST FROZE RIGHT THERE.

AND THE, UH...THE DUCKS, THEY...FLEW OFF, YOU
SEE, AND TOOK THAT LAKE WITH 'EM.

AND, (Ruth dies.) UH...NOW THEY SAY THAT LAKE
IS SOMEWHERE OVER IN GEORGIA.  CAN YOU IMAGINE ?

Sipsy:  IT'S ALL RIGHT, HONEY. LET HER GO.
LET HER GO. YOU KNOW, MISS RUTH WAS A LADY.
AND A LADY ALWAYS KNOWS...WHEN TO LEAVE.

The moral of that particular story, is that lake ended up clear over in Georgia. Or that a lady always knows when to leave. I'm not really sure - I'm always fascinated by that scene because then Sipsy stops the clocks. I'm not sure whether she covers the mirrors right now, maybe I'm imagining that because that's what Jews do when someone dies. Oh, incidentally, it's my grandmother's 6- year Yahrtzeit today. Time certainly flies - But I digress...

I'm concerned. There's something so... sad about watching the home shopping channel. And I can see how the "sadness factor" might really suck me in. Sort of like how I started watching Rachel Ray distainfully, and now I love her.

So. Although I sometimes have the propensity to turn into a weekend hermit, especially after a rough Friday night out, if I start turning down plans, because I have to watch QVC, I really want you to stage an intervention.

Oh NO! I might have to get this! The Nick Chavez Beverly Hills Hairspray kit. He has managed to take flat, boring, Northern Hair, and by making the ladies spray their hair with their heads upside down, he's turned their hair from flat, drab and boring, to Mayonnaise-based-salad, fans in Church and sweet-tea-riffic hair that Delta Burke, Dixie Carter and Paula Deen would all be proud of!

The bottom line is, I would urge all of you to turn on the Home Shopping Channel. You will not be disappointed.

Don't call me "Counselor."

I've only come across this twice so far, but each time someone refers to me as "Counselor," my left eye starts twitching.

I have no explanation for this. I don't know why it bothers me so much. Maybe, because right now, I'm in no position to "counsel" anyone. I still don't know what the fuck I'm doing, a point driven home by my boss's leaving me as "Sole Office Lawyer," and the resulting shitstain on my chair. Being a lawyer is hard and annoying, and it's even harder and more annoying when you're supposed to be getting things done, but have no real authority to get said things done, or negotiate said deals, and when you're suspicious that every other lawyer on the opposing side is pushing for something that will, by the very minutest detail, will my ass slapped with a malpractice suit.

But I digress --

Don't call me counselor. It's condescending, and, as a fresh-faced 25-year-old, I'm not your counselor. I'm your attorney, or I'm your opposing side's attorney. I can research the law for you and I can draft agreements and complaints and responses and requests for production, and other assorted pleadings for you. I can evict you, or your tenants. I can write nasty letters. I cannot, however, counsel you.

I can't give you advice -- well I could but it would be none that you'd want, anyway. Especially when you're 40 and I'm 25. Or older. Or slightly younger. I don't have a clue of what's going on! Know what I did? I grew up in an upper-middle class household, I went on vacations to Europe, and I, at times, blew an ex-roommate's entire semester's worth of rent money on liquor and Diesel Jeans when Diesel Jeans were the only designer jeans out there. Afterwards, I sulked that I couldn't go to Cozumel, because I had to work over spring break to make back the money I spent! I went directly from a high-school filled with privileged children, to a large state university, where, once again, I lived with extremely privileged children, and we all sulked and whined about how hard everything was when we couldn't buy a new TV set because we had spent all of our money at the Angelic Brewing Company or Magnus, or on lots and lots of pot. From there, I went directly to a mediocre law school in a vapid, sprawling, and cultureless city, where a ripped stomach is valued more than higher education. Oh, sure I lived in Spain for six months, and oh, sure I took a couple art history classes in College. But other than that, most of the jobs I've ever had have been internships through connections, or have been internships where I can spin them to sound like I did something important or interesting, but mainly, I bullshitted with other people and surfed on the internet.

You can call me Mr. [Last name here], or you can call me Sir, or you can call me "That Attorney" or "That Young Man" or "That Lawyer" or "Counsel for the Plaintiff" or you can call me Esquire McEsquireyson. Don't call me Attorney [Last name here] or Lawyer [Last name here] or Counselor. Because for as smart as I am, and as many experiences as I've had, none of them translate into any business acumen or credibility for me.

Mentally, I'm a 20-year-old with an advanced degree and the same sour, spoiled disposition I had when I was 19, and when something got hard, the easiest thing was to as my parents to do it for me.

Now that I've finished venting, I'll get back to drafting your Mortgage and Promissory Note for Millions of dollars. And thanks for having confidence in me!