Gentle Reader -- You are welcome to peruse my web-based journal. I assure you that my contributions to this medium will be both infrequent and inconsequential. Read on!

So I'm back. It's been a long week or so, of work. I think that I am becoming, like Jack, an extremely dull boy. Was I a lightning bolt of excitement before? Perhaps not, but I had a bit more fun.

There's talk of people getting laid off at my work. The educated guess is that it is not just talk. I am led to believe that I myself am not in too much jeopardy, but it makes for a very tense work environment. What would I do if I got laid off? I really couldn't say. I'm sure I'd think of something. I don't worry for myself so much, because I've had a number of different jobs in my life and there is usually one to be had when needed. I worry about some of my very young colleagues, for whom this may be their first "real" job. You've aimed yourself at working at the big law firm for you whole life, you get the job and lose it . . . it can be shattering. I don't worry that they can't rebound, of course, but it is very traumatizing to lose a job.

And I am worried for myself, of course. posted by Carlton at 8:04 PM

I'm posting from work again. I work at the Hutch. It's in Boston.Let's see if this linking thing works. posted by Carlton at 5:53 PM

Another cryptic dose of pessimism: I am a big loser. Just thought I'd share.

THIS IS YOUR LIFE

So it is. Lately, I've been pondering the infinite variety of possibilities missed: "The saddest words of tongue and pen/The worst are these: what might have been."
That's not a direct quote, since I can't even remember where those lines come from. Emily Dickinson? Milton? I'm just guessing (It doesn't sound much like Milton.)

So, if I weren't here in Boston practicing law (practice makes perfect, after all . . . ), where would I be? There are a number of different possibilities.
1. I could have remained in Hattiesburg, where I had a promising career ahead of me teaching high school French (or English, or social studies -- if I could teach French, I could teach brain surgery). I would have been close to my parents, my brother. I never would have made it to Washington, to Indiana, to Hungary, to anywhere. Nothing against the 'burg, but it's nowhere.
2. I could have followed my then-girlfriend Marcia, the best and truest love of my life. After my year in Washinton State driving a forklift (to be close to her) we parted ways. We weren't communicating well -- I wanted her to come with me to Indiana, while she wanted me to ask her to come or to volunteer to come with her wherever she went. We both followed our visions of ourselves: me as grad student, her as tireless campaigner for the public interest. She was right about her calling, as it turned out. I was wrong. She lives in Santa Barbara now -- If I had gone with her, I would probably be there. I don't know what I would be doing. Who knows if Marcia and I would have lasted, anyway? You can't count on love, I've learned.
3. I could have stayed in Bloomington, Indiana. I couldn't have continued as a grad student, but I thought about hanging around, getting some kind of a job (other than feeding kids through a tube in the middle of the night). It was a nice little town, a bit like Hattiesburg except cooler (the nephew of the Dalai Llama owns a Tibetan restaurant there). I had friends there, and a church (that was the last time I attended church regularly -- five years ago). But there was really no work -- the place was saturated with overeducated saps like me who came to study and just hung on . . . I didn't really want to be one of those people.
4. I could have stayed in Hungary, teaching at my little college. Maybe I would have met some nice Budapesti girl, learned to beszel a little Magyarul, bought myself a little flat and a Trabant to tool around in. That might have happened, although my time in Hungary, as great as it was, had some of the loneliest moments in it that I can remember. I was ready to go when I left.

Looking back, I understand why I've made the decisions I have, and I can't say that I would make them any differently with the same information that I had at the time. If I'd known I would hate grad school, of course, I wouldn't have gone. But I didn't know . . . how could I know?
So I've made a zigzag course through life to end up where I am, not that where I am is an end at all.

Does any one else out there have these feelings? Does it have anything to do with the fact that I'm turning 30 in a few months? posted by Carlton at 10:18 PM

Just a quick comment (from work): I didn't realize that there was limited space on this Blog -- my early posts have disappeared! That is profoundly disturbing, both in that the world is a poorer place for the loss of my brilliant words, and that the time I put into writing them is gone! Wasted! posted by Carlton at 8:36 AM

SNOW
It snowed like a mother today. Not like MY mother, of course -- Bettye King does many things, but snowing is not one of them.

So it decided to snow today. Out of my 30th floor window, I see the flakes not as they hit the ground, but as they are buffetted about by the wind in between the tall buildings. From my window, it often looks as though it is snowing sideways, or even straight up. That's pretty neat.

Consider, Dear Reader, that your humble correspondant came into this world the grandson of Southern farm folk, and that he lived until age 21 in the bosom of the more temperate states of the Union. It was not until an uncontrollable flight of fancy sent him hurtling up the eastern seaboard in a Greyhound bus as a college student that he did see snow accumulated on the ground so that one might take up a handful. And today, your humble correspondant looks out of his window to see a snowstorm he could not have imagined in his youth, the icy flakes billowing uncontrollably in all directions hundreds of feet above the streets below, and says, "Hm!" Then, he turns back to his books to read more about the Section 2013 credit for tax paid on prior transfers.

Crazy, huh? posted by Carlton at 8:27 PM

LIKE SOME CHOPPED LIVER ON THAT SANDWICH?

I just got back from a show at Johnny D's, in Somerville. It was Luther "Guitar Jr." Johnson, a bluesman of some renown, evidently. It was a good show. My favorite song was Mr. Johnson's signature tune, entitled "She Wants To Sell My Monkey (But That Will Never Do)."

I went with my friend Ms. Berks, and her roommate Dalmau (male, Cuban). For most of the show, we stood at the edge of the dance floor, occasionally elbowed backwards by awkward yankee dancers or pushed forwards by the throng of irritable yankee spectators. For most of the show, there were these two women on the dance floor who were macking on any men who came within their reach. One was older than the other, maybe in her forties, very skinny and wearing very tight clothes. The other was younger, shorter and rounder. Both were blondes. They were really working the crowd, grabbing asses, touching, grinding with whomever: sixty year old man in sweater with wife in tow? Grabbed his ass. Twenty year-old man with baseball cap? Wrapped leg around his waist and rode him for thirty seconds or so (stole baseball cap). Et cetera.

At some point, these women became aware of Dalmau. He's a good looking guy, well dressed, etc, and they went after him, grabbing him from the front and from behind. He went along, but clearly thought these women were too skanky for words. Dalmau sidled over to Ms. Berks and, with body language, implied that they were together. Not daunted, the older woman approached Ms. Berks and said, jerking a thumb at Dalmau, "Is this your man?" Ms. Berks replied, "No." The two women renewed their attack., making a nice Dalmau sandwich for a couple of songs, which is really a pretty long time. Dalmau reported later that between the two women, very few of his stones remained unturned, so to speak. Then they left.

What do you ask? Did these skanky, unattractive women hit on ME? Why no, they didn't. posted by Carlton at 1:51 AM

TECH-SPEAK

I bought a new computer, which I will describe you you all: it's white. I'd love to give you all the hot numbers and gizmo stats, but I just can't. I don't know them. Even if I did know them, I probably wouldn't say, because I didn't buy a fancy-pants, top of the line computer. Really, I just didn't like my laptop, because I found it hard to type on the little keyboard. My laptop is black, by the way.

So even if I dug out all the fiddly numbers etc about this computer, it wouldn't be anything to brag about. It would be like Suburban Dad talking about the zero-to-sixty rating of his new minivan. But sometimes you need a minivan, and I needed this new computer. It had a CD burner, which I've wanted for some time.
So, yes, I have a new computer.

I still don't have a PDA, or a "peripheral brain" as a friend calls them. I go around with little scraps of paper in my pocket wth bits of info on them. I love my life! posted by Carlton at 12:41 PM

Praise! I just got some praise! About some work I did! Unvarnished, "nice job" pat-on-the-head type praise! Yay!
(Can you tell that this doesn't happen very often?)

I rule the world! posted by Carlton at 4:57 PM

THE GREEN SHEET Part II

Just to answer some questions:

1. Evidently, the time taken in marking the sheet in considered "working" on whatever matter you are marking. Paradox neatly avoided!
2. I don't look at the thing every six minutes (although I should look at it more often). You make a mark at the time when you start a task, and then you note when you finish or are interrupted (by a phone call about another matter, perhaps!). at the end of the day you total it all up (or you have your secretary do it -- God bless Kathy!).
3. Yes, it is humbling to realize exactly how much time you spend doing . . . well, nothing.

Got to go. Time is money! posted by Carlton at 4:54 PM

THE GREEN SHEET

Yes, I'm posting from work. Yes, I had promised myself that I wouldn't post from work, as the time that I spend writing for the Blog (which is seductively LIKE work) is time I have to mark with an 'X' on the green sheet. Ah, the green sheet. You keep track of what you do ALL DAY in little six-minute increments on the green sheet. For example, I started my day off with about 20 minutes of "Office Administration", which is basically getting set up for the day, from 8:25 to 8:45. I have been drafting a Third Amendment to this here trust since about 8:55 this morning, with a little break now at 10:30. What happened from 8:45 to 8:55? I wish I knew.

My plan is not to post from work. Just too many X's on the green sheet. Do I seem obsessed about the green sheet? I realized that if I waited to post from home, I might not do so for some time, however. The green sheet is consuming me. posted by Carlton at 10:48 AM

I apologize to my loyal readership for not publishing for a while. That's a joke in so many ways . . . . posted by Carlton at 9:16 PM

THE BOOGEYMAN (Part two)
You might want to read Part I of this, if you haven’t . . .

The fourteen year-old girl with the scar on her face suffered from a condition called sleep apnea. The day aide who overlapped with my shift for about forty minutes explained what that meant: the girl stopped breathing while she was asleep. A lot of people have a mild form of this -- most people start breathing again after a few seconds. The children in this house did not have mild forms of anything. This girl could stop breathing in the night and never start again.

They had a machine that monitored her breathing in the night. There were two sensors taped to her chest; apparently they had to move a certain distance relative to each other every so often (with the girl's breathing) or else an alarm would sound, a high-pitched shriek very similar to a smoke alarm. It was partly to alert the night attendant, partly just to wake the girl up, to stimulate her into drawing a breath on her own. .

I had given my notice at the Stone Belt Center -- I was quitting after the summer and moving to Hungary. I received a call from the nice lady at the central office: could I substitute just one more night at the children's home? I said yes, but I would be a few minutes late.

The day aide was a hispanic man named John. When I arrived at the group home, he picked up his bag and went for the door. "Everything's just like normal," he said. "The sleep apnea monitor is acting weird."

It was acting weird. An hour after John left, I was mopping the kitchen floor. The sleep apnea alarm went off. I went into the girl's room, and put my face down next to hers. She was breathing. I turned off the alarm, and went back into the kitchen. Within ten minutes the alarm went off again. Again, I went into the girl's room. She was breathing; I turned off the alarm.

For an hour the alarm went off every few minutes, and dutifully I made sure the girl was still alive. Still, it was driving me crazy. I couldn't do any work, I couldn't sit down and watch television, I couldn't do anything but wait for the alarm and go in and turn it off.
Finally, I decided to do what I had been so reluctant to do: check the sensors. Sure enough, they had come loose, or she had torn them off in her sleep. The tape had become twisted and stuck on itself. I turned off the machine.

There was a number I could call, of a woman who was an overnight at another house. She was an overnight sleeper, and I woke her up.

"The sleep apnea machine isn’t working,” I said.
“Don’t turn it off,” she said. “It has to be on all the time.”
“But it isn’t working,” I said. “The alarm keeps going off.”
“If she stops breathing, call an ambulance,” said the aide, and hung up.

I had the telephone in one hand, the wires with the tape around them in another.

I turned the machine back on. The alarm went off immediately, and I reset it. I got some tape out of the office – not medical tape, just regular invisible tape. When I came back to the girl’s bedside, I again made sure she was breathing. I lifted up her shirt and taped the wires to the girl’s chest, although I didn’t know where they were supposed to go. One on each breast? Higher, lower? I didn't want to touch her at all -- but I Scotch-taped the wires to her skin.

I turned on the machine.The alarm went off immediately. I turned off the machine.

I sat with the girl all night, in a folding chair by her bed, making sure that she didn’t stop breathing. I would get up every now and then, to try to perform my other duties – feed the other children, for example, or just walk around in order to keep awake. Every few minutes, however I returned to the bedside of the mentally handicapped girl with the scar on her face, the one who smelled like sweat and the food mixture that I poured into her, and I made sure that she hadn't died while I watched over her.

She didn’t stop breathing, and she didn’t die. In the morning, the day aide asked me to put the girl in her wheelchair and brush her teeth. I did so, and left the house.

I never went back. I never saw the girl again. I don’t remember her name.

Moral to the story? No.
posted by Carlton at 9:11 PM

I just wanted to pause and make a cryptic and vaguely pessimistic statement: I am doing something wrong. There is something about how I am going about this that is not working. I don't know what it is, however. But something is wrong. posted by Carlton at 10:06 PM

THE BOOGEYMAN

The worst night of my life came in the summer after I quit grad school, when I was still living in Bloomington, waiting for my lease to run out so I could leave and go to Budapest. I got a job working as an overnight aide at the Stone Belt Center (the Stone Belt is to Indiana what the Pine Belt is to Mississippi). It was a set of very nice group homes for the mentally and physically handicapped. I worked from ten at night to eight in the morning, four days a week. Most of the time I worked at this home for teenage boys, where I was primarily a janitor. I'd get the place spic and span for the next day, keeping an ear out for one of the boys who liked to get up at night and assault one of his sleeping housemates.

Occasionally, I subbed at this other home, one that had children up to about age twelve -- boys and girls, all of whom were severely mentally retarded. None could speak; very few of them could even eat normally. There were three or four kids there that I had to feed at night -- through a tube in their stomachs, naturally. Every night, I got a pitcher of this liquid food out of the refrigerator, fished their individual G-tubes (so they are called) out of the dishwasher, and walked through a house of sleeping children, feeding them -- kind of a reverse Boogeyman.

I'd come into the room where the child was sleeping, lift up the child's shirt and find the aperture -- it had a plastic cap, just like the air hose on a swimming pool raft. Then, I'd plug the tube into the child's stomach. The tubes were individually sized; using the wrong one could be like trying the wrong key in the door. The other end of the tube had a funnel on it; I'd measure the food solution and just pour it in.

Sometimes a child would wake up during the feeding, and stare at me. One boy of about five had very clear blue eyes. One girl was almost fourteen, and too old for the house. She had the body of a young woman, and it disturbed me to look at her when I had to feed her -- it seemed indecent. She had a scar on her face from when she had chewed through an elecrical cord as a young child.

When I first began to do this job, I noticed that my feedings seemed to agitate the children -- they almost always woke up, and while they wouldn't cry, some would squirm. I discovered later that it was because I had neglected to heat the food in the microwave -- I was pouring icy cold liquid directly into these children's stomachs.

To Be Continued . . . posted by Carlton at 9:46 PM

Why we have to have taxes: What, you think Iraq is going to bomb itself?

Penalties of filing your taxes incorrectly: They run the gamut from "get off scot-free" to "they take everything you have and send you to jail forever." The severity is determined at random.


posted by Carlton at 9:16 PM

I was worried about posting things that were too boring. Then I read Scott's last few posts about his upload speed. My fear is gone.

LET'S TALK ABOUT TAX, BABY

At my new job as an attorney, I spend a lot of time thinking about taxes. Tax, in fact, is not a tax -- it's a subject. No one would say, "You have to pay tax on that transaction." You'd say, "You have to pay gift tax on that transaction." There are lots and lots of different kinds of taxes that I've learned about -- I made a list. Everyone knows something about personal income tax, for example. Well, there's also fiduciary income tax -- tax paid on income by trustees and executors. The federal estate tax is a political football these days; once it's gone (if that happens) just wait until we have 50 separate state estate taxes to make up the difference! Or maybe state inheritance taxes -- not the same! Then, there's always the Generation Skipping Transfer Tax -- watch out for that one! Let's not for get the aforementioned gift tax! And those are just the taxes that apply to individuals! There are all kinds of taxes that apply to corporate entities, to partnerships, to private foundations and charities.

Question is, why don't any of us know about these taxes? People give each other gifts --- when's the last time that you, Gentle Reader, filed a gift tax return? You think Mom reported the value of that sweater she gave you last Christmas to the IRS? No! The reason is pretty simple: these taxes, by and large, only apply to people who are VERY WEALTHY. Donald Trump pays gift tax. Puff Daddy pays gift tax. Sam Walton had to worry about Generation Skipping Transfer Tax when he kicked off. But you know what? These people hire ACCOUNTANTS AND LAWYERS (like me) to pay their taxes -- so these wealthy people DON'T KNOW ABOUT THESE TAXES EITHER! Ask Puff Daddy about how much of his unified credit against gift and estate tax he has left, next time you see him. See if he knows posted by Carlton at 5:23 PM

I need to figure out how to put those groovy links on the side like everyone else has. I could link to "Greg's Blog" and "Scott's Blog" and "irs.gov" and all kinds of other groovy sites. Man! I dream about the day when I make that happen. What a day that will be! posted by Carlton at 1:00 PM

I put that commission as a notary to work today, boy. Notarized my fat hiney off. Just one small step towards my control of the planet.

posted by Carlton at 12:56 PM

Greg: "I can't imagine being a lawyer."

Me: I couldn't either, for a long time. I never wanted to go to law school, and it never occurred to me until that second year of grad school (after I had decided to leave). I felt I wanted to study more; I wanted to be a professional person of some sort. I made a list of things I thought I could do -- it included seminary, film school, medical school and law school. I gave all of those line items some consideration. You can imagine that some fell out more quickly than others. I was very interested in med school, maybe because it was so different from what I was doing. I investigated -- it just seemed like it would take too long to do, what with the undergrad science classes I'd have to take.

I'm not crazy about all the people I met in law school, but I wasn't crazy about my colleagues in grad school either. They were certainly different crowds -- law students tend to be much more highly-strung, more concerned about heirarchy among students. Of course, it's all about the benjamins in law school.

I think I'm done writing about this for a while. posted by Carlton at 5:50 PM

I went to the movies alone some time ago, as I occasionally do (I saw *Wonder Boys" if that lets you know when this was). Walking out of the cinema with a crowd of other moviegoers, the woman in front of me reached back without looking and grasped the front of my jacket. She turned to say something, and realized with a start that I wasn't the man that she was with. Her eyes got wide, and she let out a sound ("Yeep!") somewhere between a giggle and a cry of fear, and then ran away. It was pretty funny, although it did remind me that men alone in the world are always somewhat suspect and potentially dangerous.

This woman reached out in the darkness and expected to find her lover and companion (instead she found me). Did she do this from a feeling of safety, a sense that even without looking she might always find the one she wanted, that wherever she turned would be someone who cared for her -- that she never had to be alone?

Or was it something else? Was she reaching out in fear, blindly grasping in the dark out of need, deperately hoping that the hand she found would be the one she could hold? posted by Carlton at 11:45 AM

To clarify the previous post: the factors I listed were just that, factors. The real reason I left grad school was that it simply wasn't for me. God bless all those out there who are struggling through those long, desperate degree programs. I couldn't do it. Law school was much more satisfying -- and shorter! posted by Carlton at 11:34 AM

Greg asked me to explain why I stopped being a grad student. Actually, in typical Greggy fashion, he asked me why I "turned my back on the academy." I wrote a very long and cogent answer to that question, but I was timed out on Blogger AND my laptop crashed. The world will never read that version of my answer.

So here's a short version -- it's much more "lawyerly".:
1. I was doing very badly -- I don't think I would have been allowed to continue in my program.
2. I hated almost every aspect of the graduate study of English, except teaching. I was told in no uncertain terms that teaching was to be of no more than tertiary importance in my career as an academic (after publishing and politicking).
3. I met too many grad students who had burnt out, had been in grad school for up to 10 years (ABD for 5) and who had no hope of ever finishing. I saw how easily I could become one of those people.
4. IU's advertised rate of placing people in academic positions was 50% -- after three years of searching. That was too depressing for words.
5. I didn't see anyone with such a job who was doing anything that I would want to do.
6. My car broke down, and I couldn't afford to fix it. I asked my parents for money - and realized that I would be asking them for money for the rest of my life if I continued as a grad student.

There are other reasons, important ones, but I'm tired and want to sleep. These should do you for now.
posted by Carlton at 1:26 AM

Anybody know any songs with the number "five" in the title? posted by Carlton at 11:41 AM

Eh, so I removed that last post and then put it back up. I removed it because it was a little embarassing to be grousing about my ex-girlfriends in the middle of the night after a few drinks, and I put it back up out of some kind of weird principle -- once something is published, you can't get it back, even by attacking the original source. And I don't really like the "strikeout" technique (that Scott suggested) although I see others using it to good effect. I don't like the tone: "I said it but I took it back but I still said it."

As I said: whatever, man. posted by Carlton at 11:39 AM

Don't drink and post. Friends don't let friends post drunk.

Come June, I will have 6 ex-girlfriends who are married. The last three have been ill-tempered enough to invite me to their weddings. That's smugness taken to it's extreme, I think. Up till now, I have declined to attend any of these ceremonies. I might go to the next one -- mutual friends and all.

My theory -- I have this aura of being a very sincere, settled guy -- responsible, etc. The kind of guy that's a good candidate to be someone's husband. (As one put it, "an entree, rather than an appetizer" -- what is it with the food metaphors?) For that reason, I attract women who are looking for a husband -- who invariably think I am "the one." Then they find out I am nothing of the sort, and drama ensues. These women, still in mate-seeking mode and feeling like they have wasted the past few months of ovulating time on yours truly, go out and get engaged at the first available opportnity. That is undoubtedly not the proper explanation.


Whatever, man
posted by Carlton at 11:32 AM