College was hilarious.
College was hilarious.
See, in law school Saturdays are off the chain. Behold:
How do I contain myself? Someone call Lindsay…
I heard banging for the past few hours and noticed that the apartment’s lights were on when I went outside with Gertrude, my Rottweiler.
I called the cops and requested to remain anonymous. The cops were already in the building when I got back inside.
I am upstairs. The Rottweiler hears the cops knock on the downstairs apartment as I unlock my door, so the Rottweiler DARTS DOWN THE STAIRS, RUNS PAST THE POLICE OFFICERS, AND RUNS INTO THE JUNKIES’ APARTMENT.
I am horrified.
So I run downstairs, Officer McDreamy is rolling his eyes like “What the fuck, where is this random Rottweiler coming from?!” and my Rottweiler has the pleasure of participating in a police raid.
I am then on the phone with my landlord when the officers shoo the dog back in the hallway. The Rottweiler is terrified because she doesn’t understand why everyone is screaming.
At least I was out of the hallway by the time they started bringing the former-neighbors out of the apartment.
The police officer said that the former-tenants are going to be brought to detox and held there for a few days. There are only a few problems:
I think I’m screwed.
Judd and I went to Davanni’s Pizzeria in Uptown Minneapolis last night.
We walk into the pizzeria and there is a busty, middle-aged woman standing in front of the ordering counter near the door.
Busty looks upset and a little crazy, so of course she comes up and talks to us:
I just had a long, amusing day.
Last night Matt, Judd, and I celebrated our team’s Trivia win at the Lowertown Bulldog. We are walking back to my car when I announce my plans to drop out of law school:
I obviously when camera-happy on last year’s Bemidji trip… here are the rest of the pictures.
Around this time last year Jamie and I took a road trip to Bemidji, in Northern Minnesota. Here are some pictures.
Alibi. The night starts at the video bar. A tiny man with bug glasses and a messenger bag hits on Carlos. Carlos isn’t feeling it, so the tiny-tot finds a senior citizen.
Boom. We perform for a crowd on the moonwalk stage. The house music gets repetitive so Carlos does hydraulics while I walk it out. Later, Video Phone comes on in the video bar. Carlos stands and laughs while I bust out with the boomkats.
On the way back to the car we come across a pimptastic pair of shoes in the window of Bottoms & Tops, but it was 12:10am and the store closed at midnight. Shucks.
We then head to Ramrod. The bar is so crowded that we have to circle the neighborhood to park. Bartender is morbidly obese, shirtless, and rancid-smelling, but the music is good. I also run into a college crush, who was no longer as charming, but much friendlier.
The next bar is The Manor, a new sprawling club-restaurant-lounge. The club is so big that it is billed as a “complex.” The Manor is beautiful, multi-storied, and sprinkled with thrones and bodybuilders. The main dance floor has blaring 20-minute remixes, and there is also a salsa fest going on in the side bar.
Afterwards we head to Torpedo, which is open later than all of the other clubs in the county. Torpedo is dead until at least 3am, and then it’s suddenly packed. At that point we are just mischievous, doing ridiculous dances, and taunting people.
The night ended at Lester’s, a 24-hour diner near the old Coliseum. Grease, gossip, and decaf coffee.
It was a hilarious, intense night. Although I have no idea how we managed to do the Broward circuit so often in college…maybe I’m getting old?
It was only around 75 degrees when I walked my dog this morning, but I still felt gross and sticky. I thought “Why can’t winter just get here already?!” and then I remembered:
And of course: The day I bought a face mask.
I figure I shouldn’t complain about 75 degrees when I have a good five months coming up where I don’t have to worry about being “too warm.”
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I’m reliving orientation as an orientation assistant. The law school is really responsive to student feedback, so a lot of the boring and useless things from last year’s orientation were axed. Some of the 1Ls were still bored, but they have no idea how much better their orientation is.
Besides an awkward, overlong vegetable analogy, orientation has gone well. None of the speakers said anything crazy and none of the 1Ls irreparably embarrassed themselves. I think asking for anything more is unrealistic.
We even did a quick etiquette session in my orientation group where the other orientation leaders and I told the 1Ls how not to be obnoxious.
I figure if my 1Ls can avoid doing those five things, they’ll be fine.
I thought about writing a grand “1L summer retrospective” post, but that would be duplicative of my “one year in Minnesota” post and way too exhausting to do right now, so, quickly, the highlights of summer:
The summer was hilarious, but I’m ready to start the school year.
These are pictures of the area around the Kitty Kat Club.
The Kitty Kat Club is on the edge of Dinkytown, which is the college village where UMN’s legal fraternity (Gamma Eta Gamma) is located. I lived in the neighborhood most of 1L year.
I’ve officially been in Minnesota for a year. There are already extensive summaries of fall semester and spring semester, so I’ve decided to pick a picture/memory to represent each month.
Here it goes:
August: Exploring Twin Cities
September: school starts, law students riverdance.
October: Let’s talk about the weave
November: Outlining…oh, and Fedde Le Grand/Moon Goons!
This has been the week of random celebrity deaths.
Ed McMahon died on Tuesday, Farrah and Michael Jackson died on Thursday, and Billy Mays died on Sunday.
I was at work when Michael Jackson died. It was incredibly interesting to watch the major news outlets catch up to TMZ – who reported everything, including his death, an hour before everyone else.
By the time I left work, every news agency had finally caught up to TMZ and Michael Jackson was officially dead. Michael’s greatest hits were on most radio stations.
I turned on the car radio, rolled down my windows, and joined the collective Michael jam session blasting from every car in Minneapolis.
I started bawling when “Don’t stop till you get enough” came on.1 I was crying not because I was sad, but because I was disappointed and pissed off that someone who had so much talent turned out to be so weird and creepy despite himself.
Michael’s death made it clear that he could never turn himself around, and it was a shame.
What distinguished Michael from the typical pop culture disasters2 is that Michael was actually talented, and his strangeness was probably a mental illness issue instead of the usual drug and alcohol combo.
I couldn’t blame Michael for his crazy so I just had one good cry for him while driving home.
Later that night, I left my apartment building with Harley. As I led my dog down the apartment steps, a young-ish black woman with a small child approached on the sidewalk. She saw the dog and said,
Woman: “Woah, that’s a big dog!”
Me: “Yep.”
Woman (passing me): “He’s big and bad! He’s bad! He’s really really bad!”
Yes. He’s bad…and kid friendly!
1 My favorite MJ song.
2 Those scenes are from Factory Girl, the biopic about Edie Sedgwick.
This is my view 20 minutes before my Professional Responsibility class starts:
I am on the off-ramp of 35W1 when this random blond lady passes my car on the grass of the off-ramp.
Actually, yesterday I decided that there was no way that my 9am vet visit was going to happen because I was out late at Jack’s b-day extravaganza and Gib’s afterparty.
But for whatever reason I wake up at 8am and decide that I probably should drag myself out of bed and take the dog to the vet.
So, an hour later I’m standing in an examination room listening to a chipper veterinary assistant run down a list of extensive care plans for the dog.
I was quietly calculating how many hours worth of wages I was going to burn on this visit when the young-ish vet comes in.
The vet looks freaked out.
Vet: “ Oh my god, your dog’s heartworm test is positive!”
The assistant (gasping): “Oh my god!”
Me: “…um, okay, what does that mean?”
Vet: “Oh my god, I can’t believe he tested positive! I mean, I haven’t had a positive case in two years!”
The assistant gasps again. We all look at the dog as if we expected him to drop dead right there. Cue the ominous music.
Me: “Well is he going to die or…?”
The vet then adopted that tone that TV doctors use when they tell parents just how painful their child’s cancer death is going to be.
Vet: “No, well, I mean, probably not. We don’t know how serious it is because if he has had the worms for a while then they may cause heart failure. See what happens is that the heart enlarges…lungs filled with fluid…then horribly painful death… gory details… But I need to do some x-rays to be sure they are about $200. Sign this paper.”
While the vet left to re-check the test results, I called madre.
Me: “I’m at the vet’s. Harley has heartworms.1 It’s going to be like $700.”
Madre: “Hm. Well, how good is the prognosis? Because that’s a lot of money to spend on a dead dog…”
The vet did not take my mother’s practical question very well – although the vet explained the three levels of heartworm (and the fact that the third level was basically untreatable) he seemed aghast at the notion of putting a dog down.
Vet: “Well, we will talk about our, uh, options, when we get there. We need to keep him here today to observe him just in case he has an adverse reaction to the medicine and faints or dies or something…”
Me: “Dandy. I’ll be at work.”
Vet: “Great. See you at 5. You have to go to the reception desk and put down a down payment. That’s our policy for all of our costly procedures.”
Dandy.
So I drive off to the suburbs and worke for 5 hours before heading back to the animal hospital.
Apparently Harley did not take his stay very well.
Assistant: “So I took him out but he didn’t go. But when I put him in the kennel he just looked at me and started peeing a lake!”
Me: “Oh my.”
Assistant: “Oh, and you were right about the flatulence.”
Me: “I wouldn’t joke about such things.”
Assistant: “Oh, and he also pooped in the kennel as well. It was soft just like you said it would be!”
Me: “I wouldn’t joke about such things either!”
They brought the dog out. He looked tired, unamused, and like he just got beaten up.
Vet: “He’s going to be a little sore, but that’s to be expected. Here’s his medicine. And remember he cannot get excited or exercised for the next few months OR HE WILL DIE. Okay? Short walks are fine, but nothing strenuous.”
Well, gee.
Brought Harley home and went back to work for another 5 hours.
When I back home Harley and I are going on a brief, non-strenuous non-death-enducing walk.
1 So about this heartworm business…according to the assistant it takes 6 months for heartworms to show up in test results. I got the dog in March, so he had heartworm when I bought him. I call the animal rescue where he came from and the rescue manager says, “Oh, that’s a surprise! But yeah, we don’t test the dogs for heartworm. That costs extra. You gotta tell me first if you wanted that done.”
I usually don’t do memes as a rule, but this one is from Molly.
“You have to tell your readers 10 things about you they may not know, but that are true.”
My 10 things after the jump.
I finished my last exam today so of course I sped home – windows down, bass up, dancing in my car…
I skidded onto my block and was parallel parking when this old Somali man1 crossed the street and waved his cane at my car.
Gramps: “WHY IS YOUR MUSIC SO LOUD?”
Me: “Que what now?”
Gramps: “Why do you have to play your music so loud?!”
Me: “Oh, I just finished my last final so I’m going to be obnoxious for the rest of the day.”
Gramps sizes he up, determines that I’m quite serious2 and then says,
Gramps: “Okay. But if I catch you blasting your music tomorrow I will beat you with my cane.”
Me: “Deal!”
1 In full cultural costume too. We keep it authentic in Minnesota…
2 And nuts…
It’s easier to write a post about this once rather than relive the “how I got shot” story for everyone who asks about it. It was a freak accident, and I was lucky not to be paralyzed or killed. I’m really just down one Hollister shirt and a blazer…and one day of studying I suppose. We’ll see how bad moving around is going to be when I wake up…
Eric wanted to go to the Gay 90’s because Sunday is that club’s busiest night. I spent most of the weekend working and moving to the new apartment, so I figured a random Sunday night at the club was warranted.
Our night started at the Minneapolis homeless shelter where we met up with Tee, who was just getting off work. (Eric volunteers at the shelter, and Tee works there full time.)
Tee insisted that she could not go to the clubhouse wearing jeans, so we took a long detour to Tee’s house where she threw on her House of Dereon dress…
I thought the night was over when we left the club, but I was wrong.
I’m walking across Hennepin Avenue with what felt like the entire hiphop room of the Gay 90’s, when I hear popping sounds.
People scream and start running.
I feel something hit my back.
I stop on the curb and call over to T.
Me: “I think I got hit.”
Tee: “Shut up, where?”
(I lift up the back of my shirt and point.)
Tee: “OH MY GOD, they got you! They shot you!”
Me: “It’s a gunshot?”
Tee: “YES! THEY GOT YOU! (then to the street) HE GOT SHOT!”
I think, “Well that’s a new one...Okay, I’m not paralyzed, so I better get to a police officer before I pass out.”
I run back across Hennepin to the cops standing on the corner.
Me: “Hey Officer,”
(Officers look at me like I’m nuts)
Me: “I think I got shot.”
(I turn around and pull up my shirt.)
Officer: “Yep. Sit down. We’ll call the ambulance.”
Tee crosses the street and starts prodding my wound for the bullet. She keeps repeating that she thinks it just grazed me. I call mom.
Mom: “Huh?”
Me: “Hey, I just got shot.”
Mom: “You just got what?”
Me: “I just got shot.”
Mom: Where?”
Me: “In front of a club.”
Mom: “Why are you out on a Sunday?”
More police come. A stranger brings me a bottle of water.
Stranger: “You are shaking because you’re losing blood. That’s why you have to drink a lot of water.”
So it’s around 2:30 a.m. on a Monday and I’m sitting downtown bleeding on the side of the street. Random people coming from clubs stop as they see the blood coming from my back. This isn’t cute. I had a pretty good idea that I was going to miss this morning’s civil procedure class…
The ambulance comes and the paramedics spend time stabbing me with needles and tubes, and ask if I have any allergies every five minutes.
I arrive at the E.R. and meet a team of people who will stab me with more tubes and ask whether I have allergies 10 more times.
A nurse then tells me that they are going to have to take off all my clothes. Do I have a problem with that?
Me: “I have a bullet in my back. It’s not the time for modesty.”
A homicide detective comes in and asks me a few questions.
I remind him that I’m not a homicide case yet, and that it was probably stray bullet. No, I didn’t get into a fight with anyone. No, I’m not a drug dealer or shady character. It’s not my fault, I swear.
I then get put into a room, get more tubes, and explain that I don’t have allergies a few more times.
Nurse: “We can’t tell through tests whether your lung was popped. Lung deflation is the biggest concern right now… so we are just going to have you wait for four hours and see what happens! Also, pee in this cup. We need to check if you have blood in your urine…”
Dandy.
I just hoped that I would get out of the hospital in time to walk Harley and that this wouldn’t interfere with finals.
I also said that I didn’t mind the number they did on my shirt because I would have never gotten the blood off anyway:
She finally decided to leave the bullet be, so yes I’m attending Crimlaw tomorrow with a bullet lodged in my back…
What did hurt however was when the doctor put new dressings on:
Getting shot in Minneapolis.
Oh, and when the doctor rinsed the gunshot wound it was awful. That “oh my god, why?” pain. We’ll see how I do tomorrow…
Tee has two tweens at home, so she had to leave around 4 a.m. Eric stayed with me the rest of the night. We were both cranky when I was finally let out around 9am.
I felt so trashy leaving the hospital.
The doctors cut through my shirt and undershirt at the E.R., so I was only wearing my blazer and still sporting the test/scan stickers across my chest. And yes, the blazer has a bullet hole in it.
It was not one my classier moments.
The first thing I did when I got back to the apartment was take Harley on a walk. I had been gone for almost 11 hours and fully expected to find a mastiff-sized crap in the middle of my bed…but Harley was in front of the door wagging his tail. No crap in site.
Best dog ever.
I was on the phone for most of the walk. I talked to the police, the law school, family in Germany, classmates.
I’m going to pick up my books from school whenever I get up (I’ve been awake for about 29 hours)…and I should be in class tomorrow!
Just don’t pat me on the back. Thanks.
