BuffaloWings&Vodka

Note Idea

By 5 p.m. tommorrow we have to hand in an outline and source list for our law review notes. My most promising idea so far:

A 50-page essay arguing that the Dred Scott decision was in fact a parody, and that, if read with an ear for the sarcasm that was surely intended by Chief Justice Taney, the much maligned decision is in fact a scorching indictment of the institution of slavery and the Constitution itself. A close reading of the text would suggest that a greater use of italics (along with a few sarcastic footnotes, such as "And if you believe that, I've got some Low-Carb Ginger Beer I'd like to sell you") could have more effectively communicated Taney's true feelings in the case, and perhaps saved a bit of trouble on the part of, well, everybody. And though it would not be within the scope of this particular piece, I would suggest that the same irony detector could be used to salvage the likes of Korematsu, Lochner, and Gigli.

I don't know if the editorial board will go for it, but it's worth a try.

Plug

Here's the audition poster for this year's production of Assault & Flattery, UT Law's official musical comedy extravaganza. The show is called Issuespotting, and auditions will be the 19th thru the 21st of October. So warm up your singing pants and put on your acting hat. With a little luck, I just might finish the script before Christmas.

If You Post It, They Will Come

I come to you now as a member of the World Champion UT Law Co-Ed Intramural Softball Team. We won the champiosnship in extra innings tonight, and it has changed my life forever. This much I know is true.

It's not the fact that we are now Winners and everyone else Losers that makes me happy. I've been winning pageants and cook-offs all my life, so the title of Champion is certainly nothing new. And the notion of physically dominating someone else is similiarly unappealing. Now, maybe if that someone were a Russian gymnast covered in Crisco, it would become slightly more appealing...but Russian gymnasts are pretty scarce at UT Law. I think most of them ended up at Michigan.

Me, I'm celebrating for one reason and one reason only: We Got Intramural Champion T-Shirts. They are grey, and they are wonderful.

I will wear this shirt to class tommorrow, and the next day, and the next. When called on, I will simply point to the shirt and say "Champions Don't Get Called On." I'll wear the shirt to exams, and after exams I will wear the shirt---and only the shirt--to all of the post-exam parties. People will say stuff like "Hey, that guy's not wearing anything but an Intramural Champion Shirt!" and "Hey! Put on some pants before you sing karaoke!" But I won't care.

I'll wear the shirt to my next LSAT class, skipping the session on Matching Games to talk about how well I draw a walk. I'll wear it to my interviews in the fall, refusing to answer questions about anything but my on-base average. And, goddam it, I will wear it to graduation. I may not graduate with honors. I may not even graduate at all. But I will be there. And I will have the shirt. And it will be grey.

God Bless the Team.

"Stet This, Biatch."

The journal I’m working for this summer had a training session for incoming staff today. I hate to admit it, but the cite checking and editing we did awakened a part of myself that I’d forgotten about. I could give a lengthy blow-by-blow of how much I enjoyed inserting em-dashes and obliterating unnecessary commas, but I'll spare you the details and just admit that I stood up and cheered upon finding that a non-blocked quotation had fifty-one words. Fifty-one.

I was so stoked. If I’d had war paint, or finger paint, or perhaps some melty crayons, I would have stripped naked, slapped the Sign of Eternal Cite Accuracy on my chest, and run laps around the library.
But all I had was the BlueBook, so I had to settle for sitting in my chair quietly and pretending that none of it had happened. But man…I was joyful. You could totally see it on my face. The joy. There was just so much of it.

32 Oz. of Freedom

Last week (at least I think it was last week) they had the big MultiJournal Write-On meeting, where the heads of all 93 student-run journals put us in a room and tell us why we should preference their journal when the write-on comes around. Though this was all pretty pointless for me, as I intend to skip the write-on and concentrate on founding the American Journal of Avril Lavigne Law, I did learn some interesting things.

First and foremost was the fact that the write-on packet weighs 32 oz..

Second and secondforemost was the enthusiastic race to the bottom engaged in by most of the lesser journals. Since the only real prestige comes from the Law Review and possibly a few others, the specialty journals generally have to market a little more aggressively:

"We are the seventh most-cited specialty journal at UT, and we do not have a Note requirement, which is awesome."

"We solicit the majority of our material from precocious 4th graders in and around the Austin area, and as of this semester, we don't charge any membership dues. We also get to use the copy machines for free."

"Though some might look at membership on our journal as a liability come interview time, we take pride in the fact that even though our acronym is vowel-less and unpronounceable, we'd rather die than spell it out like the initialism it actually is. Say "TRJPLXQFTR" with pride!"

I was also confused by the title of the Texas Hispanic Journal of Law and Policy (TXHPCJRNLWPY for short). Specifically, I was confused by the placement of the modifier, “Hispanic.” Is it actually the journal itself that’s Hispanic, or are the issues it covers Hispanic? One time I was behind a truck that said “Italian Marble Specialists,” and I wasn’t sure if it meant that its occupants were specialists in Italian marble (possible), specialists in marble that just happen to be Italian themselves (also possible), or specialists whose specialty was unknown, but who happened to be made out of Italian marble (admittedly, a more remote possibility). I just wasn’t sure, and it left me unsettled for days. And now TXHPCJRNLWPY has made me feel that way again.

The only other notable part of the presentation was the half-hearted attempt made by Law Review members to make the Review membership seem at least a little cool. There were some puns and some goofy photos that almost got it done, but it was all washed away by:

“The other day another Review member and I were proofreading in a coffee shop, and we actually high-fived across the table when we found a mistake. We were like ‘There TOTALLY should have been a period there!’”

Actually, I found that to be the most endearing and honest part of the presentation. But, like I said, I’m starting my own journal. Look for AJALL’s symposium entitled, Did You Think That I Was Gonna Give it Up to You?: Avril and the 4th Amendment, to come out some time in November.

My Day In Court

Though I’m obviously quite busy, on Monday I was pressed into service as a mock trial witness. Ever since my appearance on The OC (you may have missed me, but I was the guy on the beach benching an impossibly heavy amount while chatting up like six girls at once), this has been a pretty common occurrence. It can be taxing, but I hate to turn down a fan. My only requirement was that I play the defendant. If I’m going to be slumming, I’d best be getting top billing.

I should start by explaining that I take a more serious approach to mock trial witness duty than most. I’ve backed off a little from my early days when, in order to understand the motivations of, say, a gambling addict, I would spend two weeks in Vegas drowning myself in Maker’s Mark and hookers. Or like the time that, in order to get inside the head of a New England school teacher accused of forging a check, I spent two weeks in Vegas drowning myself in Maker’s Mark and hookers. I just don’t have the energy for that kind of dedication anymore. But this time I would be playing a rich doctor accused of murdering his wife, so I knew what I had to do: one weekend, locked up in the Rodeway Inn with nothing but a blow-up doll and a hairdryer. I was ready.

“Sir, could you please state your full name for the court?”
“I am Doctor Stephen Phillip Reginald Horatio Bettie Davis Cohen, the Third.”
“And what is it that you do for a living, Dr. Cohen?”
“I’m a plastic surgeon.”
“I see. And you’re quite a successful plastic surgeon, are you not?”
“Yes. I patented a process for forehead enlargement that avoids the usual side effects and results in greatly improved endocrine function.”
“And is that your real name, Doctor?”
“Yes it is.”
“Doctor, You Are a Fucking Liar!!!!”
“Objection, Your Honor!”
“Your Honor, I can tell, defense counsel can tell, and the ladies and gentlemen of the jury can tell that the Doctor is none other than Alan Thicke, and that he uses this absurdly long pseudonym to avoid stalkers, even though all they want to know is what it was like to work with Joanne Guest.”
“Objection overruled. You may continue.”
“Doctor Cohen, in your sworn deposition you were asked to describe the events that took place on the morning of September 17th, 2003. You testified, and I quote: ‘I was a self-loathing Jew with a penchant for cashmere. It was particularly lovely outside that morning, and I rolled over to say as much to my wife when I discovered that she’d been fatally punctured with a Papermate Flexgrip Ultra.’ Is that account still accurate to the best of your recollection?”
“Yes. Yes it is.”
“And would it be accurate to say that you use--almost exclusively--the Papermate Flexgrip Ultra when penning rough drafts of your semi-popular novels featuring Sukko the End-of-the-Week Robot?”
“Yes, I’d say that’s accurate.”
“Doctor Cohen, I just find it strange that when asked to describe the events of a particular morning on a particular day, you would state that you were ‘a self-loathing Jew with a penchant for cashmere.’ Are we meant to understand that you were only a self-loathing Jew with a penchant for cashmere on that particular morning, the morning of September 17th?”
“Objection! You Honor, this kind of semantic hairsplitting is clearly harassment. The district attorney knows full well that the defendant was a self-loathing Jew with a penchant for cashmere before September 17th, a self-loathing Jew with a penchant for cashmere on September 17th, and that he continues to be a self-loathing Jew with a penchant for cashmere after September 17th.”
“Sustained.”
“Doctor Cohen, just one final question. Do you have any tattoos?”
“Yes.”
“Could you please tell the jury of what, and where?”
“I have B < P * L (Judge Learned Hand’s Formula for the Determination of Negligence) tattooed on my left buttock.”
“Doctor, you are a pathological fucking liar!!”
“Objection!”
“Sustained!”
“Doctor Cohen, would you please look now at your left buttock?”
“Objection!”
“Doctor Cohen, just look at you left buttock. What does it say?”
“It says…c² = a² + b² - 2ab·cos(µ)…?”
“And what is the significance of c² = a² + b² - 2ab·cos(µ), if you please, Doctor?”
“I think…I think it’s the Law of Cosines.”
“Thank you. I have no further questions, Your Honor.”
“The witness is excused.”

Moot

I'd actually thought about dropping out of the 1L moot court competition at the last minute, because Sean Penn called me on Wednesday night, nervous as hell and wondering if I'd go to L.A. with him for support. (I'd already turned down Charlize at that point, and Marcia Gay Harden had left me like 300 voice mails, so I was getting pretty tired of being whined at by movie stars.) But in the end I decided that if I had spend one more Oscar night listening to Ben Kingsley drone on about the virtues of Taebo, I was going to hurl all over the back of somebody's limo. And I didn't want that. So I stayed in the competition.

Big mistake.

I waltzed thru my prelim rounds without any real problems, generally preferring to answer the judge's questions with more questions, and at one point improvising a sonnet that explained the Court's three-part test for disproportionality of sentencing in Solum v. Helm, but I could sense that I was headed for trouble down the road. The prelim judging pool was made up mostly of recent grads, and both of mine were women; I doubt that any of my arguments really got any penetration with either, since they were both understandably preoccupied with the aggressive cut of my trousers. In later rounds, though, I knew the judges would be less susceptible to crotch-borne distractions and more likely to have read the bench memos. So I resolved to spend Friday night boning up on cases. That was, until the phone rang.

Wil Wheaton: Dude, you absolutely have to come out tonight.
Me: Sorry, Wesley. Gotta prep for my Octofinals round.
Wil Wheaton: Don't fucking call me Wesley. And whadya mean prep? I thought you were just going to do the sonnet thing?
Me: No can do. These are outrounds. Stuff gets serious.
Wil Wheaton: Whatever. Both Cories are going to be there--Haim just got out of rehab--and I think they got Candice Cameron to come along. She's single now.
Me: Candice? Really.
Wil Wheaton: Really.
Me: And she's single?
Wil Wheaton: Yup.
Me: Do you swear?
Wil Wheaton: I swear.
Me: But do you pinky swear, Gordie?
Wil Wheaton: Screw you, man. -click-

So I went out. And though I'm not at liberty to disclose the details of the evening (since Wheaton had sold an option on the screenplay rights by the time I'd woken up Saturday morning), just let it be said that if any tabloid articles happen to come out linking me with a certain 50-something , one-woman media empire whose had a few legal problems as of late, well, you won't be hearing any denials from me. But as great as it was to be snorting lines with the Cories again, I had to pay the price come Saturday morning.

Since I'd been relying mostly on charm and O. W. Holmes quotes, I hadn't actually read any of the cases mentioned in the packet, and my judge picked up on that fairly quickly. He'd say, "Well, counselor, what do you think about Suchandsuch?" or "How is this any different from Whatshisname?" and I'd be stuck responding with "Do I look fat to you?" or "Haven't I slept with your daughter?" Clearly, he wasn't amused. If I had to guess, I'd say that he was having marital problems and was jealous of my virility, but whatever. He had it in for me.

Not surprisingly, I ended up losing. The comments on my side of the ballot read simply: "Counsel for the petitioner made me wish I'd never been given the gift of hearing." Poetic, sure. But a little harsh.

Anyway, the girl that beat me ended up making it to the finals, and I'm having sushi with one of my prelim judges on Friday, so not all was lost. But I probably would have been better off at the Oscars. Oh well.

Win a Date with Thad Hutcheson

Unlike a lot of people, who came to law school dreading the obligatory 1L moot court competition, I was actually looking forward to it. I was pressed into service as a timekeeper a few times in the spring, and I liked what I saw, and I'm a fan of oral advocacy in general because it's a chance for my smoky voice and stunning good looks to make up for an alarmingly unimpressive brain. So I was excited about this year's Hutcheson 1L Moot Court Competition. It was to be my moment in the sun. A return to my glory days as a competitive debater. My one chance to say "May it please the court" to someone other than a stripper.

But then administration decided not to make it mandatory, presumably in an effort to reduce the size of the competition and use fewer resources. But they also eliminated the brief writing portion of the competition, which, I believe, resulted in a lot more people signing up for the tourney than otherwise might have.

The Result: Far more interested students than the 64 available slots can accommodate.

The Solution: 128 Students will be given a chance to try out for the tourney. A five-minute oral presentation will be the basis for determining which 64 students get to go on and actually compete in the intramural tournament.

Another Problem: A lot more than 128 students want to try out for the tourney.

An Even Dumber Solution: 118 students will be chosen at random from the interested applicants and given tryout slots outright. An additional ten slots will be filled by students who petition for entry. The first 25 petitions will be considered, and of those, the ten most convincing petitioners will be given slots.

Guess who didn't get one of the 118 slots.

I just turned in my petition, so I'm pretty sure that it was one of the first 25, but I'm not sure that they'll find it convincing enough. Here are some of the highlights:

"...and I should also point out that I'm very good at washing cars. And regrouting bathrooms. And giving backrubs. Sensual ones. I'll do anything, really. Just give me a chance."

"Now I'm not saying that if I don't get a slot, I'll drop out of law school. But there is a definite chance that, if denied a slot, I might show up in the advocacy office wearing nothing but a tie, a pair of flip-flops, and a smile. And you don't want that."

"You know what? Screw your moot court competition. I'll host my own. It'll be called the Jonathan Brandis Memorial Moot Court Tourney, and all of the fact patterns will be drawn from the plots of Ladybugs, Sidekicks, and The NeverEnding Story II, and it'll be on the same weekend as your competition, and everyone will come to it, and you'll be left all alone to eat a bunch of crappy cold cuts that you bought for the attorneys who decided to judge at my tourney instead because I'll offer them burritos and beer. Yeah."

So, we'll see what happens. I did get an interview for an ACLU position this summer, so maybe they can back me up on this.