BuffaloWings&Vodka

Tough Call

Got my summer info packet from my firm this weekend, and among the requested info on the clerkship questionnaire was the following:

What is you favorite candy?

How do I decide that? Is this going to be a one-time welcoming gift, in which case I'd go with something dense and chocolaty, or something that they'll keep my office permanently supplied with, in which case I'd have to go Jolly Ranchers or Junior Mints? Is this some sort of test? Like, do they only make offers to clerks choosing candies that show up on some predetermined list? Or is this a chance to test my firm's willingness to go the extra mile for me? Should I request something out-of-production, like Cherry Clan? Or something they can only get me in Australia, like Cherry Ripe? And what's this fixation on cherry stuff about, anyway? 

Is the entire summer going to be full of questions like this?

(In other news, though the auction failed, BuffaloWings&Vodka may have secured corporate sponsorhip after all. Stay tuned. )

The Votes Are Finally In

In a contest that was previously labeled as "Too Close To Call," Dallas, Texas finally triumphed over Northern California in the months-long battle for the legal services of Mike "Buffalo Wings" Andvodka.

In the end, the struggle came down to an intense bidding war involving seven law firms, three government agencies, and the Subway located in the basement of the UT law school. Precedent-shattering bonuses, astronomical summer stipends, shortened partnership tracks, and whores were among the countless perquisites offered by desperate employers in their quest to hire the man that Legal Affairs nominated as One of the Seven People Most Likely to Have Slept With Your Sister in 2004.
But the final decision was made based on an 11th-hour offer that guaranteed a lifetime supply of Ben & Jerry's Karamel Sutra ice cream and a good faith effort to assassinate MTV's Gideon Yago. (Though he could not be reached for comment, sources close to Mr. Yago confirm that he is a fucking tool.)

When asked about reports that at least one partner at his future firm was among the thousands of adoring fans of his world-famous weblog, Mr. Andvodka replied calmly that "everything will be fine, as long as they don't read the calfskin journals I keep in my basement. Hi, Mom."

In a related story, three new Whataburger franchises are expected to open in the Dallas Metroplex in anticipation of this move. And Gideon Yago is still a tool. A big one.

Problem Solved

I've been bellyaching recently about how to deal with the rampant sending of handwritten thankyou notes to interviewers, but I think I've got a solution. I have this great digital photo of me and George Wendt at the 42nd Annual Emmy Awards (I'd been nominated for an unaired Cheers episode I'd written called "Normie's Choice"), and I was thinking that I could get it silkscreened onto a t-shirt. How cool would it be if each one of my interviewers got a t-shirt with my picture on it, reading:

I Had to Spend Twenty Minutes Interviewing a Complete Imbecile, and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt and Fifty Bucks in Ones and An Awesome Foot Massage

Smells like a guaranteed partnership to me.

I'll not comment on the results of flybacks until they're all done--which is in eleven days or so--but I can say with a fairly high degree of certainty that at least half of my summer will be spent in a state whose name rhymes with "Schmalifornia."

AFK

Off to SF in search of job. Probably about to miss plane. Edwards kinda sucked last night.

Back on Sunday.

Whoops

Today I got a thin envelope from a firm that I interviewed with two weeks ago, and still hadn't gotten word from. Naturally, I assumed that they'd heard about my seventy-four other offers and decided to reject me to save face. But because I was curious as to how many paragraphs they'd use to get to the rejection line (longest I've seen so far is three, which is a lot) I stopped short of throwing the envelope away. Much to my surprise, it contained a callback offer. My hope is that most of my compatriots actually did throw it away, so that when I show up as the only person that accepted their callback offer, they'll be forced to declare me Senior Partner in Charge of Intellectual Property Litigation and Hookers.

Another Hallmark Conspiracy?

So...this handout I'm looking at says that our career services office recommends sending handwritten--and never, ever e-mailed--thank you notes to every attorney we've interviewed with. Now, assuming that I could remember the name of everyone I've interviewed with (which is a long shot, since I have the short-term memory of an alcoholic puppy), what exactly is a handwritten note going to accomplish? And what the hell do I send it on? I don't have monogrammed stationery or scented greeting cards just lying around, you know. And what if they take one look at my hideous, first-grade scrawl and decide that I'm completely unfit for employment? If students are all automatically doing this in some mass-mailed, large-scale way, does it really tell employers anything about their enthusiasm for their firm? Am I going to be blacklisted if I don't start calligraphicationalizing immediately?

I'm serious about this. Is everyone else out there writing these things? Let me know. I'm about to start a movement.

EDIT: After more consideration, I still feel like it's a silly custom. But no sillier than, say, paying law students more than $2000 a week during the summer, so I should probably shut up.

This is My Confession

So...I'm totally cool with the fact that I "wrote on" to Law Review, meaning, I don't actually have "great grades", but got on instead because of my "fucking incredible essay" which absolutely "blew the silk panties off of" the editorial board, a group of "fabulous people" who don't actually "read my blog" because they are “rat bastards”.

But I've come to realize that for most firms, interviewing me is sort of like…going on a blind date with an ugly girl from a generally hot sorority—and they feel somewhat cheated. Which is fine. But it would be great if they’d work just a little harder at concealing their disappointment when they finally meet me. It seems like every interview starts with some sort of trick question designed to make me break down and admit that, no, I am not a smart man. So, with that in mind:

Top 10 Answers to the Question "Uh...So...How Exactly Are They Determining Law Review Membership These Days?"

10. “It’s a combination of grades, an essay, and the fact that I make the world’s greatest cupcakes.”
9. “They’ll pretty much take anyone willing to castrate themselves and kill their parents.”
8. “I got in on a softball scholarship.”
7. “The Lord chose me.”
6. “Corndog eating contest.”
5. “Penis size. Biatch.”
4. “I turned in the most scabs.”
3. “Whoever sleeps with your mom the most times.”
2. “There’s this thing called The Crucible where we’re locked in a small interview room with two middle-aged attorneys, and we have to kill them using nothing but our bare hands and a highlighter. Wanna see my highlighter?”
1. “Clarence Thomas is my biological dad.”

OCI Update

No offers yet, unless you count the one from the tax attorney who invited me back to her hotel room, which, though flattering, I had to turn down immediately due to a disturbing resemblance to my fourth grade teacher. But still, my hopes are high.

I did have the singularly odd experience of interviewing with someone who’s read my blog. I’m used to being recognized in Germany, and I don’t mind being cornered by photographers at car dealership ribbon-cutting ceremonies, but to walk into an interview room and find two guys wearing “We ♥ W&V” t-shirts was more than a little disconcerting. (It was my understanding that Hanes had stopped shipping the shirts after certain “flammability” issues were discovered, but apparently you can still get your hands on a few at used clothing stores in the Dallas Metroplex. Who knew?)

It went well, though. We compared workout regimens, talked about my upcoming Letterman appearance, made plans to see Shark Tale when it comes out in a few weeks. I let them take a look at my sketch portfolio, and while they were distracted by a piece called “Ruth Bader Ginsburg Descending a Staircase and Looking All Badass and Stuff” I managed to bug both of their cell phones. I’m actually hoping that they’ll offer me a flyback, but if they don’t I might still consider taking an open mailroom job there. Or a janitorial internship. I’ll keep you updated.

Tips for On-Campus Interviewing

1. Research Your Interviewers

Nothing’s more embarrassing in an interview than thinking that you’re talking to a fourth-year securities litigation associate when you’re actually talking to a fifth-year insurance litigation associate—so do your homework. Google is a nice place to start, but for a couple hundred dollars any decent PI can turn up a whole bucket load of useful information. I’m also a fan of the Dig Thru the Guys Trash method, as well as a method I like to call Dating the Hiring Partner’s Daughter, But Only If You’re in a State With Progressive Age-of-Consent Laws. Individual results may vary.

2. Dress Appropriately

Coming from the advertising industry, where having jeans without the ass cut out is the sign of a real conservative, I was caught a bit by surprise when confronted with the dress code of Law World. But I’ve learned my lesson. A good suit is a must, and the brighter the better. I tend to sport an outfit that more or less conforms to the Terror Alert Color of the day, so my classic orange three-piece and trendy yellow four-button see a lot of work these days. Granted, I look great in orange and yellow, but I long for the day that I’ll be able to pull out the lime-green leopard print number I won off of Paul Begala at last year’s Third Annual Overrated UT Alumni Poker Tournament. It really sets off my chin implant.

3. Own the Space

Most on-campus interviews take place in fairly cramped quarters, but don’t let this cramp your style. Be creative. Is there a chalkboard? Write on it. A table? Dance on it. An overhead projector? Bust out the naughty Victorian shadow puppetry. Firms want to know that whatever shitty office they decide to throw you in, you’re still going to be able to make things happen. So make them. Make them happen.

4. Think Before You Speak

Know this from the beginning: There is no such thing as a smart question coming from a law student. The much sought-after neutral zone between Completely Retarded and Annoyingly Presumptuous is non-existent. You won’t land there, and neither will your fellow students. So instead of trying to seem impressive and motivated, why not settle for memorable? Think about it: This guy is doing forty interviews at your school alone. Which candidate is he going to remember? The one who asks about billable requirements and pro bono opportunities, or the one who confesses to “accidentally sleeping with [his] mother-in-law’s dog”? You decide.

5. Bring Gifts

Showing that you care with some fine Belgian chocolates or one-of-a-kind handicrafts can really put you over the top during the interview process. I went with ITunes Gift Certificates in the spring, but this time I’m thinking either (tasteful) lingerie or framed nine-by-twelves of me and the President kicking the twins’ asses at spades. I’m not sure yet. What ever you do, put some time into it. You won't be sorry.

* * *

I suppose that a sixth rule would be something like “Don’t Break Your Toe on the Previous Wednesday and Hobble into Your Interview on Crutches,” but that sort of goes without saying. Sigh.

Brilliantly Brilliant Brilliance

Number of employers to which Mike has e-mailed an
updated résumé in the last 24 hours: 37

Percent chance that at least half of those employers
did not, in fact, receive Mike's résumé, but were instead
sent a similarly-titled Word document containing a draft of
a letter intended for his auto insurance provider: 98.4

Number of times a Sony VAIO latop can be slammed against
a wall before its display cracks: 3

Insomnia

It's a recurring dream.

It starts out with me in front of my computer, sipping a Fresca, blissing out to Ashlee's Autobiography, and logging on to see which interviews I've been awarded for Fall OCI. I open my e-mail and get no fewer than forty interview awards, netting offers from all of my top choices. I've got interviews with big firms, little firms, public interest firms, government agencies, non-profits, consulting boutiques, and Oprah. I'm golden.

I walk into most of my interviews reeking of alcohol and blitzed on Benzedrine, but I'm such a hot commodity that nobody cares: they all want a piece of The Mike. They offer me money, cars, their daughters--whatever it takes. I end up splitting my summer an unprecedented four ways, don't show up to a single day of work, spend all three months in Tahiti, and still end up with eight permanent job offers come September. I spend my 3L year finishing two novels and moonlighting as the pianist at a local gentlemen's club. I'm chosen to be my own commencement speaker. I make partner within 18 months of joining my firm.

And I have rock-hard abs.

But then it all disappears, and I'm back at my computer again. Only this time it's a Yoo-Hoo in my hand, Amy Grant's Heart in Motion in my ears...and only three interviews from OCI. I panic.

"SIXTY BIDS!!!" I scream. "SIXTY SHEEPFUCKING BIDS...and all I can get are three lousy interviews?"

And lousy interviews they are: a maritime firm in Tonopah, NV; a defense outfit in Lordsburg, NM, that specializes in drunk drivers and "truckers charged with unique sexual offenses"; and a solo practitioner in Timpson, TX, whose only listed requirements are "nice teeth." Despite my disappointment, I overprepare for all three interviews. I've got canned answers to every Common Question listed in our OCI Handbook ("What are your weaknesses?", "What motivates you?", "Can I be your Sun and Stars?"), and I absolutely freak when their questions drag me off-script. My brain does wheelies trying to apply my rehearsed responses to the unexpected queries, and I end up answering innocent questions about my 1L summer with set pieces about transsexuals in the Olympics and prephrased explanations for my criminal record. It does not fly. I leave the interviewers unimpressed, and I'm blanked when callback time rolls around. I try interviewing as a 3L, but I've been blacklisted--no legal employer within 6000 miles will even touch me.

Forced to hang out my own shingle, I work out of the corner booth in a Whataburger. My only clients are a homeless flower peddler who wants to file a patent infringement suit against Boeing for ripping off his design for a diesel-powered time machine, and the Whataburger late-shift manager who, despite being involuntarily celibate--a condition that is most likely attributable to an aversion to baths and a penchant for spandex--has me on a monthly retainer to act as his defense counsel in the event of a paternity suit.

I go on this way until about nine months after graduation, at which point, deciding that I can no longer subsist solely on Ramen and Cutty Sark, I concede defeat. I return to my pre-law career, harvesting corn in Argentina for the next twenty years in order to make good on my student loan debt. I die in my late forties, alone, broke, and cursing the day that I decided to take the LSAT. I do, however, retain the rock-hard abs.

* * *

And that's when I wake up. Shaking, drenched in sweat, looking just like Axl at the end of the "November Rain" video(only with better hair and more tattoos), I walk into the kitchen. The hum of the freezer seems to taunt me as I stare at the calendar, slowly counting the days until employers return their picks. I feed the cats, drink a glass of warm milk, and then return to bed where, huddled underneath my Winnie the Pooh comforter, I cry myself back to sleep, hoping that, at least for tonight, the worst of the nightmare has passed.

Requested Materials: Transcript, References...and Writing Sample

My least favorite part of the interview process is the submission of a writing sample to employers that are rude enough to request one. For most rising 2L's, supplying the writing sample is an awful task because the only thing they have to offer is their weak-ass excuse for a first-year memo. But for an internationally recognized author of my caliber, the problem is quite the opposite: How does one select a single short sample from a catalog that boasts literally thousands of possibilities?

The obvious answer, and the one most often suggested by my agent, is that my name alone should suffice as a writing sample. If they haven't seen my work in Le Monde or Hustler, then prospective employers have probably read at least one of my pieces featured in Policy, Policy Review, or The Review of Policy, and even if they missed all of that, they surely got a chance read my essay for Newsweek's "My Turn" section, in which I reflected on my career as a male stripper (Stage Name: Paul Wolfowitz) and how it interfered with my charity work. But what if they're not widely read?

During Spring OCI I went what I thought was the safe route and submitted mostly poetry. To Baker Botts, for example, I submitted a sheaf of poems I'd originally put together with the intention of applying to the Iowa Writers' Workshop; the poems gravitated toward a central theme of incest and copy machine repair, and were not well received. Skadden, on the other hand, was sent a handwritten copy of my adpation of Allen Ginsberg's "Howl: For Carl Solomon" that dealt mainly with the Utah Jazz and was titled "Foul: For Karl Malone." I didn't get that job either, but I hear that a few stanzas from the poem have made their way into the company's recruiting material (and I'd love to get some confirmation on that from any Skaddenites out there).

So, yeah. No poetry this time around. Though I've seriously considered just sending this, I'll probably end up copying something out of a third-tier journal and calling it a day. After all: Good writers borrow from other writers, and great writers are smart enough not to go to law school.

OCI:

I finally finished placing all of my bids for Fall On-Campus Interviews, and I’m wasted. We’re allowed to bid for interviews from 60 firms, and it takes a lot of time and energy to make sure that the 60 firms I’m giving a chance to reject me are the types of firms I really want to be rejected by.

My first decisions were based on the numbers. Though not all firms list class rank requirements, most do, and I fall short of a significant portion of those marks. A firm that says they’re only looking for Top 5% (a really odd request, by the way, coming from a firm that I’ve never heard of, but whatever) is obviously going to be able to reject me right out, which is no fun. My goal is 60 rejections, but a rejection that is destined to be a rejection from the beginning just doesn’t carry the same force as a ding coming from someone that, according to the numbers, should have at least been a little interested in meeting me. For the misery to really take hold, there needs to be an initial glimmer of hope.

Secondly, there were geographic considerations. Does it hurt more to get turned down by a firm from Portland, ME, or Portland, OR? Do rejections from overseas sting a little worse, since they had to pay extra postage? Should I avoid bidding for crappy firms back in Vegas, since they’d be more likely to accept me, or should I bid on them anyway, betting that a rejection from my hometown would hurt twice as much? There are a lot of factors to weigh.

My final list is mostly Austin and Dallas, with a dozen or so west coast firms (one of which I’d give all three of my testicles to work for, so hopefully nobody else from UT wants to head out that way) thrown in for the sake of diversity. I’ve actually already nabbed a ton of interviews from NYC firms whose Texas offices won’t want anything to do with me, but a quick perusal of COL disparities (along with the utter failure of Operation: Convince Spouse That Living in Manhattan Would be Fun) forced the abandonment of that particular plan. So, most of my hopes will rest on OCI. And when that fails, I’ll start knocking on doors. Look for my brochure to show up in the mailbox of a law firm near you. I’m thinking about a tri-fold affair with a holiday theme--perhaps with one of those little electronic thingies playing a two-note polyphonic version of “Come, All Ye Faithful”?

The key, as I see it, is volume. To cite David Cross and his assessment of a sanitation worker’s dating philosophy: “Whatever, man, I’ll ask [out] a hundred chicks…maybe I get ninety-nine no’s…That’s fine…slide it on, slide it on. But maybe…that hundredth chick…likes to fuck on a pile of trash. See what I’m sayin’?”

Just gotta find a firm that’s, uh, into that. Know any?

Scene From a Firm Reception

Mike approaches a group of friends, having just gotten an attorney’s business card. He's excited.
Also, he looks devastatingly handsome in his suit.

ThreeL: See, man. It’s not that hard. It’s what they’re here for.
Mike: I know. I was just nervous. This is my first reception. She seemed interested, though.
TwoL: So…litigation?
Mike: Nope. IP.
Everyone reacts favorably to this department.
Mike: So, how long do I wait to call her secretary and try to set up an interview?
ThreeL: A week.
Mike: Next week?
ThreeL: No...
Other ThreeL: ... Next week, then a week.
ThreeL: ... Yeah.
Mike: So, two weeks?
ThreeL: Yeah. I guess you could call it that.
Other ThreeL: Definitely. Two weeks. That's the industry standard...
ThreeL: See, I used to wait two weeks. Now everyone waits two weeks. Three weeks is kinda first-tier now, don't you think?
Other ThreeL: ... Yeah. But two's enough not to look anxious...
ThreeL: Yeah, but three weeks is kinda Order of the Coif--
Mike: --Why don't I just wait four weeks and tell her that I was cleaning out my Torts book and I found her card...
TwoL: ... then ask where you met her…
Mike: Yeah, I'll tell her I don't remember and then I'll ask what firm she works at. (pause) Then I'll ask if we shagged. How's that? Is that first-tier? Is that Order of the Coif?
ThreeL: Laugh all you want, but if you call too soon you can scare off a nice firm that’s ready to make an offer.
Other ThreeL: Don't listen to him. You call whenever it feels right to you.
Mike: How long did you guys wait to call your firms?
Beat.
ThreeL & Other ThreeL: Six weeks.

Truth in Interviewing

WV: (After knocking.) Sorry I‘m late. I forgot that I even had this interview. I was totally sure that I’d declined it.

Partner: No worries. We’ve already seen thirty other students today, and we stopped caring after number three. I’m Bill, and this is Sherry. Please, have a seat.

Associate: It‘s great to meet you. Also, run away while you still have the chance.

WV: I would, but I just bought this suit yesterday, and I’d like to get some more use out of it.

Partner: No doubt. Sale at JC Penny?

WV: Mervyn’s. Two for 99 bucks. Including shoes.

Partner: Good man. Anyway, after looking at your transcript, it’s obvious that grade inflation is still rampant.

WV: I’d point out that even grade inflation wouldn’t have been enough to save you from landing at this third-rate firm, but since I paid 2L’s to take most of my exams, I’m going to shut up and settle for a nervous laugh.

Associate: It says here that you did some work for the ACLU, which clearly indicates that you’re a homosexual vegan bent on selling marijuana to school children. I’d take this opportunity to tout the firm’s pro bono work, except that it doesn‘t do any. Unless you count getting Bill’s girlfriend out of jail last year. I lead a life of quiet desperation.

WV: That’s not a problem for me. I’d like to avoid helping people at all costs.

Partner: Stellar. Let me tell you a little about our summer program. We strive to maintain a healthy balance between blatantly misrepresenting the amount of work expected of you and totally overselling the two or three perks that we offer.

Associate: Free drip coffee. Yay.

WV: I don’t actually care, but how would you estimate the chances of your firm actually hiring a 1L this summer?

Partner: Oh, roughly the same as Sherry’s chances of making partner before she’s 50.

WV: That bad?

Partner: ‘Fraid so. Any other questions you feel like asking while I try to remember whether or not I set the VCR to record Trading Spaces?

WV: Well, this is probably where I ask a question that makes me seem concerned about the amount of responsibility I'll be given as a starting associate, even though I'd be perfectly content doing nothing but playing Minesweeper and looking at animal porn all day.

Associate: I'm really glad you asked that, because it allows me to make a half-hearted attempt at claiming that I'm given real, meaningful work, when, in all actuality, I'm just a glorified file clerk for whom the long hours of soul-crushing tedium are interrupted only by the occasional suicidal daydream. But the pay is pretty nice.

WV: Nodding to show my thoughtful appreciation of your candor would probably be appropriate here, but I'm much too busy guessing the color of your underwear.

Partner: It's purple.

WV: Sweet.

Partner: Well, I guess that about wraps things up. You'll be receiving a patronizing form letter from us within a week or so. But don't hesitate to resend your résumé in the fall. We’d love to ignore it again.

WV: Great. Thanks for your time. It was utterly forgettable.

Associate: I look forward to sleeping with you.

Partner: We’ll be in touch.