Bosnian Parfum Update

Once, I joked a friend, when she had finished touching up her makeup and asked "How do I look?", by saying "Great...if you were going for Kabuki Clown Whore." I was joking with her, but if Kabuki Clown Whore were a smell, THAT'S what the Bosnian's Parfum smells like.

Oh. My. Dear. Sweet. Jesus.

So...I kinda sorta forgot to do my continuing legal education.  That whole "I really don't want to be a lawyer" thing I have going for me bites me in the butt when I'm too successful at not being a lawyer and forget that I am.  The loud cracks you hear are my spine breaking as I bend over backwards to avoid reality.  It turns out that the Bar Association of the Great State of South Carolina doesn't really care about my mental gymnastics.  They want money. 

Thus, I woke up to an email, subtly titled

"URGENT MATTER: IMPENDING SUSPENSION FROM THE PRACTICE OF LAW"

Suffice to say, somehow I managed to take stock of the notice. I scoured the SC Bar website for whatever online course I could take that would knock out the requirement. Then I cross-referenced it by which courses were the cheapest. I cared not one itty, bitty, teensy, weensy, tiny little bit if it were interesting. 

Thus, I now am listening/watching the "2010 Government Law Update" for $130.
 
It's 5 hours and 45 minutes long. 

It has all the beauty of being at one of the interminable conferences (lame in-jokes between presenters, awkward applause, people in the audience asking questions that are less about getting information and more about hearing the sound of their own voices, etc).

The highlight for me, so far, was when I didn't screw the lid on my water bottle well enough and it leaked all over my pants and everyone in the office has decided that I'm incontinent. 

Actually, I'm joking. 

That did happen but the highlight has been that because I'm watching it on the internet, I can do research to further my continuing legal education to give it proper perpective, which I'm sure I'd be doing were I actually in the audience. 

Thus, they've discussed the impeachment proceedings against the former governor. I couldn't grasp finer points because I simply couldn't identify. They weren't adequately drawing me in with "the human perspective." To rectify this, I googled "Hot Argentinian Models" (on moderate safe search...I'm a professional). 

 

 

 

 

Now, I am proud to say that I am fully compliant with my requirements and certified as ethical, and, as a bonus, I'm well-versed in hot Argentinian models.
 
This "law" thing isn't so bad after all. 

But only so long as I can look at half-naked stunningly attractive women.

(Side note, for people who wish to rat me out...a) just because I write something on here that doesn't mean it's necessarily true and b) the damn online viewer requires me to repeatedly click on it to affirm I'm watching it so it's not as if I'm pressing play and walking away)

Daddy Issues

My father's father, David Hopkins Carpenter, "Big Dave" to most, "Grandpa Dave" to me, passed on when I was eleven.  He had either Alzheimer's or advanced elderly dementia; six of one...half dozen of another.  By the time I could have known much about him, he wasn't there, even though he was. 

I remember mostly that he would take me on walks around his neighborhood when I was a very little boy and would visit.  My cousins, all older, recall that he called all of them "Big Boy" or "Daughter" and never by their names; they weren't sure if he knew their names (even though two were named after him).  I know him mostly through the bits and pieces I got from my father.  Pop described Big Dave as having the soul of a poet.  That must have been difficult, considering that he owned an industrial supply company.

Big Dave's father died when he was very, very young and he and his siblings were farmed out as "poor relations".  He went through the Great Depression and then went to war, serving in the Navy in World War II.  Pop said the soul of a poet; I suspect it was of a philosopher. 

One of my father's enduring memories of my grandfather, who was a distant and enigmatic man to his children (thus making him all the more beloved), was Pop's daily duty as a boy to bring Big Dave a glass of beer after he'd come home from work for the day and sit out in the back yard, listening to the birds sing as the late afternoon lengthened.  Big Dave would take the glass and off-handedly recite Robert Service to his younger, adoring son:

When the long, long day is over, and the Big Boss gives me my pay,

I hope that it won't be hell-fire, as some of the parsons say.

And I hope that it won't be heaven, with some of the parsons I've met --

All I want is just quiet, just to rest and forget.

That's the opening salvo to "Song of the Wage Slave." I had that calligraphied all pretty-like and framed for Pop. Two of them.  One for his house; one for his mountain place, so that now he's an old man, he can drink a beer and reflect.  Someday, one will no doubt pass to my older brother.  One will pass to me.  That's the family legacy.

My father went on to get two PhDs in English.  I can't help but suspect why.

I did not major in English.  I am not a poet.  I'm not a philosopher.

I may not have known Big Dave, but as I age, I think understand him more.

I Am Jack's Lost Sense of Time and Space

You wake up and it's March 2010 and you're in Bagram, looking out at snow-capped mountains rising up miles away above the banks of dust.  An age passes and it's two days later and you're being buffeted by wind (carrying dirt and dust) and it considers raining.

You wake up and it's April 2010 and you're in Kabul.  The sun shines.  Two months go by and it's only the next day.  You try to figure out ways to pass the time.  You stay glued to the computer, watching friendly lives move on at a startling pace.

You wake up and somehow it's June; you're in Dubai; you're in South Carolina; you're in Chicago; you're drunk; you're eating more deep dish pizza; you're watching more Cubs baseball at Wrigley cathedral; you're in Dubai; you're in Bagram; you're in Kabul; it all took place in 20 seconds.

Time stops again.

You wake up and it's July; your boss has gone insane. You take a deep breath.  You look up and it's three minutes later but it might have been three months.  You look up and it IS three months later.

You're in Kabul; you're in Bagram; you're in Dubai; you're in Beijing; you're in Tokyo; you're in Kyoto; you're in Nara; you're in Osaka; you're drunk on a roller coaster in the rain; you're in Kobe; you're in Himeji; you're railing along at approaching 200mph; you're in the mountains; you're in Kamikochi; you're in Yokohama; you're bellowing Karaoke with four women; you're in Yudanaka; there are snow monkeys in a hot spring; you're in a hot spring with Japanese men; you're in Tokyo; you're in Dubai; you're in Bagram; you're in Kabul; it all took place in 20 seconds.

You wake up and it's whatever day. You look at your watch and it's seconds since the last time you looked but somehow feels like hours or days or months; you switched departments; you look at your watch and it's time for your next vacation.

You wake up and you're in Dubai; Scotch; Cairo; Alexandria; Aswan; Abu Simbel; Kom Ombo; Edfu; Scotch; Luxor; Cairo; Scotch; Dubai; Bagram; Kabul. Wait. What?

You wake up and you can't get used to being back at work.

You wake up and it's been a year.  It's been a blink of an eye and an eternity. 

You wake up and it's the same day it's always been; it's cold; it's hot; it's clear; it's dusty.

Today there's an earthquake.  That's different. 

Tomorrow there's not.  Tomorrow you'll be in Mexico; tomorrow will be July and you'll be in the same chair in the same clothes wearing the same hat but you'll be 32, but then you'll be in Moscow or Sidney;

or it will be October and you'll be in Charleston or Rio de Janiero or maybe one or the other or maybe both; hell, why not Buenos Aires;

or it'll be December and you'll be in the same chair in the same clothes wearing the same hat having the same conversations with the same people; or you'll be 35 and hit your fiftieth country and your seventh continent;

or you'll wonder why you're wasting your life;

or you'll wonder how you got so lucky;

or all your friends will be married and you feel tinges of regret;

or you'll be free;

or you won't have the slightest idea.

You wake up and it is as it is and couldn't be any other way.

You wake up.

Does Not Compute

When it comes to the finer points of portraiture, I surely know little, if not nothing.  I freely admit to not understanding how to pose seriously for a photograph.  I can't fake smile (not without being blatantly fake, at least).  Despite that, I get that some folks have a "good side" and will angle themselves thusly.  Personally, I tend to think like the immortal Yogi Berra, who stopped a photographer from taking a head-on shot of him: "Oh, I can't do that.  That's my bad side."

My portraits are so bad they make me shut my own eyes.

At any rate, in this age of social media, portraits/profile pictures are common place.  And yet, so many have incorporated a tactic that is, frankly bewildering to me, and, I suspect, them as well.

So, I must ask:

What the hell is with women tilting/canting their heads to in between 25-45 degrees?

Are they trying to appear earnest?

I.  Cannot.  Figure.  This.  Out.

The closest I can figure, having seen puppies do the same head cock, 

is that these women who do this are perplexed.

But it can't be that, because they're clearly, purposely posing.  Perhaps they're trying to convey mystery or coyness?  Perhaps they're suggesting they have vertigo?  Perhaps they're inquisitive? 

People say that rouge is supposed to mimic the flush of a woman's cheeks when she's sexually aroused, thus attracting male attention.  Maybe, like that, these women are trying to convey being off-balance/tipsy/drunk and open to sexual suggestion?

Nope. 

Can't figure it out.

Why I Am Not a Lawyer (Even Though I'm a Lawyer)

So, I'm a lawyer.  I don't mention that nearly as much as my having been in the military.  I find that people over here who find out I am mention it way more than I do...like they're impressed for me.  I'm a lawyer in that I went to law school, passed the bar exam, was sworn in to the SC Bar, and pay bar dues.  I've never had a client.  I've never worked or interned at a firm.  I'm a "lawyer", but not really.

People are often quite confused by that.  "Why go through all that trouble and expense if you're not going to practice?"  Well, to be forthright, had I managed to get a clerkship during my summers during school and had I found a legal job when I graduated, I'd be a practicing attorney.  I didn't, so I'm not.  At the same time, I wasn't remotely driven to do so like some of my classmates.  Bully for them.

You see, I didn't get that big driving passion to be a lawyer.  I've pretty much always wanted to be a writer, but that doesn't pay bills. I got out of the Army, needed to find a profession where I could feed myself and afford to have a family if the opportunity presented, and I was smart enough to do just about any graduate degree program.  Going into the corporate world was not even a consideration at the time.  I don't relish the idea of being around sick or aggressively dying people ("aggressively dying" because we're all headed that way no matter how healthy), plus the few requirements I'd need to get ruled out Med School.  I may come from professors, but that just means I understand what a fantastic waste of time getting grad degrees, publishing to publish, and competing with colleagues for tenure is.  No thank you.  That pretty much left law school.

Now, "This'll do..." is not the most inspiring way to make a career decision, but I figured that if it turned out I didn't want to do it, having a law degree wouldn't be useless.  At the very least, if someone messed with me, I could put the screws to him.  Never underestimate my drive to defend myself against theoretical antagonism.

At any rate, I went to law school.  I come from intellectuals.  Legal thinking is the exact opposite of intellectualism.  Instead of thinking for yourself, you're supposed to throw out original thought and find precedent.  Once every couple of generations, a slight majority of the Supreme Court will push forward a new thought ("Hey, it turns out black people do deserve truly equal treatment!") that gives the nation of lawyers something new to depend on.  Law seems mostly to be a battle between opponents who are trying to push forward why the thinking they're following is more derivative.  Brilliant.  (At the same time, I understand why it has to be that way, but that just ain't for me.)

Aside from law school though, I like to look at the big picture.  Running up $100k in debt for school was a mistake, perhaps (hey, I got to find drinking buddies for only $33k a year!), but I saw no reason to compound that mistake by doing something that looked to me to be miserable.  Some of my friends truly enjoy what they do.  They feel challenged and motivated and satisfied by legal work.  Many more, though, have discovered that being a lawyer kind of sucks.  There's a small cache of prestige (dwindling, I feel) to being an attorney, but not so much to outweigh the debt, stress, and long hours.  

I took a look at that while I was in school and said "Um, Dear Jesus! Only if I have to!"

To me, the easiest way to explain it is that law school is like a gaggle of people who are all fighting amongst themselves to get the opportunity to get punched in the genitals repeatedly.  Just because your groin is getting "action" that doesn't mean the action is good.  Thirty five years of that before I wander off to die ("retirement" the spin-doctors call it) and realize that it wasn't worth it?  No thank you.

I'd like to thank The Onion Movie for summing up my USC Law experience

in one classy graphic

So, I now do a job I didn't necessarily need law school for.  Being a lawyer looks like it will provide me with the ability to promote faster and higher, but the plan is to do this for the minimum amount of time necessary to not have to do this anymore either.  The difference between this and being a lawyer is that I'm under no illusions that I'm not taking brass knuckles to the juevos.  My jaded outlook is if it's gotta happen, let it happen quickly (at least I know I'll be ready should I ever go to prison).

At the same time, someone here asked me to be his corporate attorney for his helicopter company so he'd have the ability to say his company has a corporate attorney.  So, I'm an attorney who isn't an attorney even while being an attorney who isn't really one.  Got it?

And You Thought Dorm Rooms Were Bad

I lived in a dorm room my freshman year of college.  It was perhaps 10' x 15' and had two plastic-wrapped mattresses (to protect from various bodily emissions no doubt, be they gastrointestinal or venereal) on opposite walls and separated by perhaps 2 feet.  There were also two tiny desks crammed in there.  Other than that it had very little space.  I am, by admission, a filthy pig.  My roommate Bryan was not.  Bryan was a good guy.  He was quirky, but an acceptable roommate.  He had a penchant for smoking pipes (not in the room...though I do fondly recall the smell of his tobacco), listening to Soul Coughing and Ben Folds Five, and playing Final Fantasy VII.  I was, as I stated, a filthy pig.  He got to put up with my piles of dirty laundry that I'd refuse to wash until they were capable of ending OR spawning life.  He surely got the worse end of the deal.  

Well, he also got to admire my bad-ass Carmen Electra poster, so I'd call it Even Steven.

Living in a dorm room sucks no matter whom the roommate.  Cramped conditions and little-to-no-privacy.  Things that ordinarily would not be a major issue, like someone muttering in their sleep, snoring and/or flatulence, come to be, not even aggravations or frustrations, but justifications for plotting intricately detailed and exceedingly painful murder.  Bryan was fine.  I was worse.  Even so, I only lived in the dorm my freshman year.  After that, I got an apartment, where, even though I had roommates, I could shut my bedroom door and be left the hell alone so that my frustration and aggravation didn't get to homicidal levels.  


Out here, I started out in a tent.  Great.  I was in the army before.  It was like the old-fashioned "open bay" barracks.  It sucked, but I was under no illusions that it would be otherwise.  It was March of last year.  During the day it was in the fifties (at best) but at night it was around freezing.  As I was the New Guy, I got a top bunk.  There were probably 80+ people in there.  The tents have a central air tube that the heater pumps the air down.  It was set to be a balmy 80 degrees for the people on the bottom bunks.  Up on the top bunk, I had the heat hitting me from 18" away.  It approached 90 degrees.  Then also, regardless of whether it was 80 or 90 degrees, there were lots of people in the tent from countries where hygiene is a novel concept.  Heat=nasty body funk.  Gross.  Still, I was under no illusions.  Snoring? No illusions.


When I transferred from there, I went to another open bay, but this time I got my own bunk to myself.  I was able to block off the sides with blankets and flags (I don't leave home without my SC flag and my SC Battle Flag, "Big Red").  It didn't stink as bad.  It was still noisy.  Nonetheless, I was still under no illusions of privacy.


However, in June of last year, I moved into a B-hut.  A B-hut is a 32' x 20' plywood hut.  On the inside there is a central walkway and on either side it is divided into 4 living spaces, each of which are approximately 8'x 8'.  The floor plan looks like this:

The B-hut is a huge improvement, except for one very crucial part: it helps you lie to yourself.  Now, 8'x8' is not much space at all, but compared to living in a tent with 80+ smelly foreigners, it's heaven.  I can shut my plywood door and be surrounded by my plywood walls, and I feel like I'm almost normal.  Almost.


The first few days I was in my B-hut cell, I was working hard on lying to myself, that I finally had privacy.  When that door shut, I wasn't necessarily in Afghanistan anymore.  I could be anywhere...so long as "anywhere" had 7' tall plywood walls and my bed took up virtually half the space.  Unfortunately, reality kept intruding.  

Sound.


The B-Hut ceiling is about 10' tall, but the walls of each cell are only 7'.  In between the top of the wall and the ceiling is open, that way the light that runs along the center band of the ceiling shines on all of us.  Yay.  The problem with sound, though, wasn't that my fellow tenants were noisy; not specifically; it was that it was too quiet.  There was zero ambient noise.  That meant any noise I heard or produced was amplified.  If I rolled over, the springs sounded like banshees wailing.  Bob's snores sounded like a symphony of chainsaws.  Malik's scratching himself sounded like...him scratching himself.  It was too much.  I quickly went and bought a fan and left it on so it would give some cover sound.


Smell.


I can handle noise.  I don't like it, but I can get used to it.  I was an artillery officer.  I got to the point where I was sleeping when cannons were going off.  I'm not as good with smells, but I've been in the Army.  I can handle some funk.  Not preferred, but okay.  The problem in my B-hut is that I have someone in the Balkans directly across the hallway from me.  The problem, surprisingly, is not funk.  It's virtually the opposite of it.


You see, every morning, like clockwork, I'm woken up.  I'm not woken up by sounds.  Those I can ignore.  I'm not woken up by funk.  That, I can ignore.  No, I'm woken up by the blasts of perfume that the ONE GODDAM BOSNIAN WHO ACTUALLY CARES ABOUT HIS PERSONAL HYGIENE AND I JUST HAD TO HAVE LIVE ACROSS FROM ME showers himself with each morning.  

I have sleeping problems.  I have for a decade.  I struggle to get to sleep and often wake up in the middle of the night.  The one time where I actually manage some sleep is just before dawn, right when this Balkan Bastard is taking his Christian Dior bath.

Actually, that's not right at all. It's not Christian Dior.  Whatever he puts on I can only describe as Old Lady Perfume, the garish, super-bright kind that old ladies wear not because it's subtle or sexy or even pleasant, but because their sense of smell is gone and it can jackhammer into their deadened olfactory receptors and therefore they can be sure it overpowers whatever strange smells might be emanating from their hard-to-reach panes (fat-folds). 

Sadly, now that you've seen this picture, you know the smell I'm talking about.

There I am, finally in the arms of Morpheus (God of Dreams, not Laurence Fishburne -Ed), when this horrifying stench hits me.  I'm immediately awake and furious.  Instead of being able to lie to myself that I'm "anywhere", I'm immediately aware of the fact that I'm in a goddam hut in Afghanistan across from a dam Bosnian.  The worst part is, I can't complain.  "Hey, stop being one of the only people from your area of the planet who is at least aware enough to try to mask his b.o."  No way I can do that.   Even if I did, he wouldn't have to listen to me.  There's no way Human Resources backs me up on that one.  Really, all I can do is resort to my old standby of plotting intricate and exceedingly painful murder.


The only good news is that someday, should I ever have a lazy-ass teenager of my own who won't get out of bed, I'll know how to get the little bastard moving.