vacay like a lawyer

in

Insofar as it’s been evinced by the lawyers I've worked with over the last two years, one of the primary reasons to become a lawyer is to take vacations.

Evidence: the week my mother died, her lawyer was on vacation; the week my grandfather died, his was on vacation; this week, I emailed same for an update on estate / probate, and guess what? Again on vacation (as was the person handling the probate part of it). Clearly I went into the wrong field as I haven't taken a vacation in 20 years and wouldn't have the slightest clue of how to do so.

Must be a law school class?

focus

in

Figured out a likely root cause of my focus problem post-run the last week or so: while listening to the audiobook will be financially beneficial (Graham's THE INTELLIGENT INVESTOR – I sort of get this stuff now; and hey, if Warren Buffett considers it the best book on investing, who am I to argue), it was not creatively so: the morning run is my walking (running) meditation and, for better or for worse, I need that time to be alone with my brain, my breath, and the sounds of the AC. Filling my brain with the words and notions of others, no matter how beneficial (and surprisingly refreshing, in its way) is not at all worth the frazzled, unfocused husk that returns. Duly noted.

garden

in

In my more morose moments, I wonder why I bother posting here - or, hell, even why I continue to write; in my more lucid ones, I can tell you that, having given up the ambition of ever having a "writing career" and leaving behind the attendant trappings that either bored me or drove me insane (read: the performative cesspit of social media), I feel more free than ever to follow and process my interests and curiosities wherever they may lead and share the results of that processing - or, sometimes, the process of that processing, weeds and all - in this, my tiny little patch of internet garden. This is my home.

notes on a restaurant i want to love but yeah

in

  • Food solid but lacks flavor (solution: fucking add salt) except the sweet potato fries which are wonderful but still fucking add salt – and not that umbrella lady iodized shit: I'm talking real, grainy, melt sidewalk ice kosher salt – to meat I mean come on.

  • Claustrophobic on Sunday brunches, especially when half of their plates are the same size as some of the smallest tables (solution: use smaller plates: a lox bagel does not need to be served on a serving platter brimming with capers and half-past avocado FFS).

  • Breathtakingly slow service – I try not to be annoyed, and I know the wait staff is doing the best they can but damn it, the hanger is real – from being woefully understaffed (and underprepared) for the amount of brunchers and accompanying half-assed and ill-followed reservation policy (solution: Sunday brunch is reservation only, smaller menu, remove center tables; if you don't have a reservation, see you after 12:30).

  • An atmosphere that tries to be something to everyone (chic and trendy with family-friendly downhome comfort and childless Guinness and eggs benedict alcoholic 🤗 bruncher mimosa college crowd college professor crowd blah blah blah) and ends up being utterly forgettable (solution: fucking pick one and roll with it I mean I don’t love Bob Evans but at least they have their schtick and stick with it).

  • Question for myself: would I be more forgiving of the above if they fucking added salt? Perhaps. It’d be a start.