Walking down the plank

When you aren't on top of your game, going to a big test should feel like walking down the plank. You know: in your shimmies, inching forward to a sea of doom and despair and those little cartoon sharks with knives and forks drooling at the thought of your carcass.

So when I walked from my house on Capitol Hill toward the Georgetown Law Center to take an LSAT that I was clearly unprepared for, you would think I would be suffering a spell of the knock-knees and "oh shit"s. But I wasn't.

Perhaps it was the fact that the morning was beautiful, the sky was clear and the birds were singing. Or, more poetically, that my route was plotted to purposefully take me in front of the Supreme Court and behind the Capitol buildings of these United States. What better way to throw off the chagrin by trying to soak in some of the collective 'awesomeness' feeling that these institutions inspire in me More likely, however, my trepidation was quashed because I had an ace up my sleeve: the option to cancel the test by filling in two little ovals on the back of the LSAT scan-tron and attesting to the fact that I understood I was paying $132 (the most expensive practice exam EVER) for the racketeering scheme known as Law School Admissions Council to not report my score.

Most definitely the latter. Sometimes sunk costs just have to be forgotten like ships in the bottom of the ocean. Take the money.

So what to do now? Well - I have no full-time job, just finished an awesome internship on "The Hill" and therefore have lots of time on my hands.

So now I've got to avoid truly walking the plank. I'm going to get-up and write every day. I am going to study early and late for this blazzin' test. I am going to offer my hallelujahs to God, and shoot out job applications and emails to people who might recognize what talent and values I can offer.

And if that doesn't work in the next month or so... I guess its shiver-me-timbers: I'm coming home, mom!

The "California Defense"

Apparently its not a good thing to tell non-Californians you are from California – especially when you are pleading your case before a Judge. To all of my Californicated folks: if you did not already know it, seems a lot of folks are drinking way too much haterade when it comes to us "left coasters".

In traffic court today, I asked the Judge to dismiss my case, arguing that the government (the Common Wealth of Virginia) did not execute due diligence in posting proper warnings that an ENTIRE freeway became “High Occupancy Vehicle” (HOV) lanes during certain time periods. I made what I thought was a solid case: I am new to the D.C. Metro area, there is no way I could have known I was breaking a law. In California, the “carpool” or HOV signs posted on top of the freeway designate particular lanes as HOV. I brought pictures and plotted my entire trip on Google Maps and showed definitively that there were about 5 seconds of time for me to have read the single sign saying that from 4pm to 6:30pm an entire section of Route 66 mandated 2 or more persons in a vehicle for you to legally drive. The fine for a first time offense is higher than the first time offense for driving 30 miles over the speed limit.

After listening to me speak, the Judge looked up and said “Saying you are from California is just about the worst defense you could use. Let me give you a little tip: do not tell people you are from California.” He then proceeded, saying that he could not show leniency to me because he showed no leniency to other people who driving in the HOV lanes. While this was not the case – he had made exceptions for others that very day – I felt that I had made the grave and intractable error of mentioning I was new to the area, that I was from California. Figuring my case was hopeless, I nonetheless felt the need to let him know that I was proud to be Californian, and that it wasn't a defense, merely germane to the facts of the case. I was new to town and did not woefully break the law. Speaking so clearly and with my Californian accent must have further agitated the Judge. He stared blankly at me before telling me to go pay the fine.

In retrospect, I probably should have come up with my own outlandish story to get the case dismissed on a technicality. I should have used some sort of cheap trick to get off the hook. In stead, I told the truth, and I told it as a saw it. I have to wonder if the “C” bomb hadn’t dropped, whether or not I would have walked out of court with my $125. I guess we will never know.

I did learn one important lesson though: Californians are a hated bunch. I think we might even be worse than “Yankees.” It makes sense. California has it all: the Beach Boys. Cultural hegemony over the the U.S., the most diverse and most productive agriculture in the States, the smartest and brightest engineers (even if we import a lot of them), and the largest range of climate and natural resources in these here United State. We started hyphy, made crunk and organic popular, speak the most languages and have the most sensible marijuana policies. We drive the best cars, have the coolest Governator, the best higher education public school system, and the best Mexican food this side of the border.

Now I am not naive enough to think know everything is gravy. We Californians need to get our act together with the budget, need to actually do a better job preparing for wild fires, need to step it up on issues such as marriage equality and we could probably use a few less plastic surgeons and lawyers. But all in all, I have a lot of <3>