Another Good Reason to Read the Casebook

Here’s another gem that was buried in the “Notes and Questions” section after a principal case in Prosser, Wade and Schwartz’s Torts:

Plaintiff, an eccentric elderly woman, believed that a pot of gold had been buried in her back yard, and was constantly digging for it. Defendant buried a pot with other contents where she would dig it up. When she did so, he caused her to be escorted by a procession in triumph to the city hall, where she opened the pot under circumstances of extreme public humiliation. She suffered acute mental distress, with resulting serious illness, which apparently further unsettled her reason and contributed to her early death. The “pot of gold” came in the form of a judgment, but only to her heirs.

I just love that clever last sentence. Plus, it’s such a colorful little story! I’m thinking writers in Hollywood need to get their sorry, uncreative butts down to the local law library and read a few of these things, instead of gleaning their “inspiration” from old TV shows.

Why Reading Cases is Fun

So far, all my reading for law school, except for assigned excerpts from the California Manual of Style, has been fascinating. Sometimes it is even entertaining. For instance, take this excerpt from the case of Western Union Telegraph Co. v. Hill, which came to the Court of Appeals of Alabama in 1933:

The action in this case is based upon an alleged assault on the person of plaintiff’s wife by one Sapp, an agent of defendant [Western Union Telegraph Co.] in charge of its office in Huntsville, Ala. The assault complained of consisted of an attempt on the part of Sapp to put his hand on the person of plaintiff’s wife coupled with a request that she come behind the counter in defendant’s office, and that, if she would come and allow Sapp to love and pet her, he “would fix her clock.”

Need I say more?

Things that Make Me Crazy

Today I am working 14 hours in the bookstore while my boss is away at an offsite event, hawking books to aspiring writers.

Generally, I enjoy working the bookstore. Not today. Today I am in one of those moods where if you play your cards right you’ll never know anything is wrong, but if you do one stupid thing you’ll suddenly remember that humans and pit bulls share a considerable percentage of DNA.

Unfortunately, a couple annoying, stupid things have happened. For instance, the employees are all making snide remarks whenever I tell them to do things like, say, sweep the floor. It’s not that I’m asking them to do anything unreasonable. I’m just asking them to fulfill their freaking job descriptions. Not a real tall order. But they resisting.

In particular, one of them was visited by her toddler nephew a while ago. The boy is a hellion. Pulled books off shelves, jumped on chairs, opened doors he wasn’t supposed to, ran around screaming, and, what really set me off, decided to join his aunt (our employee) behind the cafe counter. Now, lots of kids run behind the counter. They think it’s fun. In reality, it’s dangerous and it’s a liability and it drives me crazy when they do it. Usually, though, their mothers are about six inches behind them grabbing them by the arm. Not this kid. Nope. He sees auntie employee back there and decides to have an impromptu meet-and-greet. Does she say, “No, don’t come back here!” in a loud firm voice? Does she extend her arms palms forward in the universal signal for “Stay where you are”? Nope. It’s, “Oh, hey there, so-and-so.” Then the irresponsible and ineffective mother buys him a bag of Doritos and he promptly drops two on the carpet, and manages to step on one of them. Does mom pick them up or apologize or act like a civilized human being? Nope, she acts like Ms. Invisible and just moseys out with hellion in tow.

So then I go and talk to the lame employee and explain to her that kids are not allowed back there, and that she has to be especially careful when they know her, because they’ll be more likely to make a run for it. If she doesn’t signal to them that it’s improper, she’s not doing her job, either as an employee or as an adult role model who needs to help children establish normal rules of civilized life, like “That area is out-of-bounds for me.” Does she nod and say, “Yes, I’m sorry, you’re right, I’ll do that next time”? Not on your life! She gets offended and tells me that kids run back there all the time and that she can’t do anything about it and that she was waiting for the mom to grab the kid and she can’t believe I’m being so mean to her nephew and on and on. Idiot. You can’t tell me on the one hand that you’re close enough to your nephew that he wants to run up to you and make bodily contact, but on the other hand that you’re not in a relationship sufficient to give the authority or right to make sure he stays out of areas where the little brat is not supposed to be. This means that I’m mad because (1) yet another kid without any concept of how to behave like a human being is about to be foisted on the public education system, where stupid, ineffectual mother will no doubt blame all the kid’s problems on teachers who are nevertheless not allowed to teach the kid how to be civilized, because that’s cultural imperialism or something, (2) there is a smashed Dorito on the carpet in my store, (3) one of the employees under my supervision is practically worthless, and (4) the worthless employee has the gall to be offended when I tell her to do her job.

Oh, and if you’re still wondering why I used the phrase “cultural imperialism,” let’s just say that all the people involved thus far adhere to a particularly strong racist ideology that says all English-speaking white people (e.g., me) are out to get them, smash them, ruin their lives, or whatever. For instance, the same lame, offended employee once engaged in a foreign-language conversation with another employee in the presence of customers, which tends to make customers, oh, livid. When I told her that was unacceptable, she complained to my boss that I was being a racist. Fortunately, my boss understands how to be a civilized person and explained to this employee the rationale behind the rule. Have the foreign-language conversations stopped? Nope. Now they just do it around me, when there are no customers present, because they can get away with it and they know it drives me crazy. (The best part is that they don’t seem to realize how well I understand this particular language, so their rudeness is even more annoying.)

So anyway, a while after the hellion incident, a lady comes into the bookstore and starts browsing among the shelves. I go to her and say cheerfully, as I do to all customers, “Can I help you find anything?” She looks at me like I just suggested we take her firstborn child, put it on a spit, roast it, and serve it up to company. Seriously. It was one of the most horrid looks a customer has ever given me. Finally, she comes out of her apparently angry stupor and quietly mutters, “No.”

Fine, okay, whatever. I go back to shelving pulp romance novels and let her be. Then, a few minutes later, I hear something very interesting. The angry lady is having a friendly conversation with one of the employees. Cheerful even. In a foreign language. Yes, that foreign language. Turns out the lady does not speak English. She’s looking for a book in her language. We can do that, but it’s sometimes hard. Still, the lady will not look at me, will not speak to me, and acts like I’m not there. She only talks to the employee who speaks the foreign language. This is great. She doesn’t know the name of the book she wants, she doesn’t know the name of the author, she barely knows what it’s about, but she knows it’s blue. (This kind of thing happens quite a bit, actually, and it’s hard even when we’re all speaking English. So you can imagine.)

Anyway, turns out we can’t find the book, can’t get the book, and the lady leaves after a cheerful goodbye to the foreign-language-speaking employee. By now I am ready to strangle somebody. Why couldn’t the lady have just indicated to me that she didn’t speak English? Why did she have to look offended that I even spoke to her? Why did she refuse to even acknowledge my presence after being so offended? This drives me crazy.

And worse, whenever this kind of thing happens, I’m the one who gets accused of being a racist. Never mind that I have interviewed and hired people of several different races. Never mind that most of our employees are non-white. Never mind that I try to help every customer who comes in the store, even the ones who are looking for racist propaganda books (yes, it does happen). Never mind that I actually work at understanding the particular foreign language in question here, that I took several years of it in school and that I try to practice it still. Never mind any of that. Because I’m a white guy, I get painted as a racist.

So if I chastise an employee who happens to have brown skin, I’m a racist. If I’m working in a classroom and I mark a brown-skinned student tardy (who is actually tardy), I’m a racist. If I mispronounce someone’s name (even though I’m better at foreign pronunciation than most people), I’m a racist. This happens day in and day out in my life, and I’m sick and tired of it.

There is another employee at the bookstore who is even more blatant about his racism. Several times now I’ve said things or stated opinions to which he’s replied, “That’s because you’re white,” or “That’s because you’re not _______.” Huh? What is that, but racism, pure and simple? When you make a judgment about someone’s thoughts or ideas or “qualities” based on that person’s race, you are committing an act of racism. But, to top it all, I’ve been told by several non-white people that only white people can be racist. This, to me, is about as offensive a statement as I’ve ever encountered. Offensive to me, at least.

And what the hell does it mean to be “white” anyway? I’m not “white.” I’m just a person.

Anyway, these are things that make me crazy, and I needed to rant.

A Staggering 1.2 Customers

From the Miami Herald: “Power is out to 1.2 electricity customers across four counties, state officials said, 72 percent of all customers in Miami-Dade County and 56 percent in Broward County.”

So there are, what, three people in Miami-Dade and Broward Counties who have electricity? See, this is what happens when your copy editor got a D- in high school algebra.

[Update: Darn. They fixed it.]

Technology is Cool

Oh dear, now I’m really being bad. I’ve actually given T-Mobile my credit card number so I can access the internet from Starbucks. Granted, yes, it’s allegedly because I forgot to bring my book with the Uniform Commercial Code and needed to look it up on the web. But still, notice that I’ve also gone straight to my blog and begun wasting time, mostly because I just wanted to post and say, “Look! I’m posting from a table at Starbucks!” Yes, I can be a show-off sometimes.

Okay, now I really do need to consult the UCC.

That’s Professor Theomorph to You

So, real quick, here’s my first cute law school anecdote.

Last night I showed up for the first night of real classes. (Last week was just the namby-pamby introductory stuff. And to tell you the truth, it still seems pretty laid back; the hard stuff hasn’t hit yet.) Anyway, so there I was coming up the stairs to my torts class . . .

As I come up the stairs, I notice a guy at the top who is talking to somebody else, but he keeps glancing down at me, like he recognizes me or something. I’ve never seen the guy in my life. So I get to the top of the stairs and I’m going around him and his conversation partner, and he stops me and says, “Are you a professor here?”

Ha! I laugh and say, “No! I’m just a student!” (And it’s the first day!) Ha!

So this is kind of strange because just last week a friend of mine, who happens to be a dentist (and very cute) said to me after I told her I was going to law school that I should be a professor so I don’t have to deal with clients. (Also, I think she doesn’t want to see me on the other end of a malpractice suit.) She said, “You look like a professor of law.”

Okay, what’s the conspiracy? Is the universe trying to lay out my career path for me or something? That’s two people in two weeks who seemed to think I look like a law professor. Weird. Or funny. Or whatever.

But then this afternoon I went to lunch with some family members at the local IHOP. My 13-year-old stepbrother and I arrived first to reserve a table and whatnot, then my grandparents and my mother came along a few minutes later. When they came to the hostess’ desk, she asked if they were with our party, which she described as, “The boy and the older gentleman.”

Um, okay, so now I’m not just a professor of law, but I’m an “older gentleman.” Listen, I’m not going to disclose my age directly, because I’m weird that way, but let’s just say it’s a factor of a square of a square, and also a cubic number. (I.e., “Age * x = (a^2)^2″ and “Age = b^3″. And x, a, and b are all positive integers. That’s right. Four variables and two equations! Actually, no, it’s just obfuscation. The problem is quite simple.) You do the math. I am not an “older gentleman.”

Anyway, I have class notes to type. God is dead, Christianity is bankrupt, libertarianism rules, and whatever else I’m always harping on.

Wasting Time with Personal Reflection

I’m writing this post from my Windows laptop, which is bad news. It means I’m supposed to be briefing a case right now (State Farm Mutual Automobile Insurance Co. v. Campbell (2003) 123 S.Ct. 1513) but clearly I’m goofing off. Bad, bad, bad.

I didn’t intend to goof off, though. Here’s how it went down: I pulled out my Civil Procedure book and cracked open the evil black Dell to start preparing for Tuesday’s class. But before I began, I decided to run iTunes and take a quick listen to William Shatner’s “You’ll Have Time” from the album Has Been, a collaboration between Shatner and Ben Folds. If you haven’t heard this track, go find it right now and listen. Here’s a sample of the lyrics that Shatner, uh, recites, or whatever he does:

Live life! Live life like you’re gonna die . . . because you’re gonna. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you’re gonna die. Maybe not today or even next year, but before you know it you’ll be saying, “Is this all there was? What was all the fuss? Why did I bother?” Now, maybe you won’t suffer, maybe it’s quick, but you’ll have time to think “Why did I waste it? Why didn’t I taste it?” You’ll have time. Cause you’re gonna die.

Yes, it’s gonna happen because it’s happened to a lot of people I know—my mother, my father, my loves; the president, the kings, and the Pope—they all had hope, and they muttered just before they went, “Maybe I won’t go.” Live life like you’re gonna die . . . because you are.

Maybe you won’t suffer, maybe it’s quick, but you’ll have time to think “Why did I waste it? Why didn’t I taste it?” You’ll have time. Cause you’re gonna die.

Et cetera.

Good stuff. In my opinion, it’s a great way to start the day. Sort of a secular humanist prayer, or something.

Anyway, while I was thoroughly enjoying my coffee and Shatner’s quasi-musical philosophizing, I decided to see what I could get for free at the iTunes Music Store this week. There was a song from the Robbie Seay Band, which is apparently a Houston-based Christian “worship” band, or something. Anyway, the song is called “Better Days” from their album of the same name. I downloaded it and gave it a listen. Boy, that took me back. Suddenly I had returned to my university days, sitting in the required weekly chapel services, feeling all sorts of bizarre emotions at the same time. Here are a sample of lyrics from “Better Days”:

First of all, thanks for listenin’ to our song
We hope this finds you driving in your car
Or wherever you are
Breathe out and breathe again
And know that life is hard but it’s worth breathin’

Listen to me now, for love, oh, love is waiting for you
Just to say:

Here come better days, here come better days
Better days and a better place, I know

Secondly I’m all messed up so royally
Grace has found me, shaken up my soul
Grace will follow wherever you go
Listen to me now, for grace, oh, grace is calling for you
Just to say:

Here come better days, here come better days
Better days and a better place, I know

Green grass and [something something] in the sunlight of You
and the wind is moving through the trees
ushering You and the better days You bring
[something something]
feasting at your table I am overwhelmed
lift my glass, drink to love that never gave up
clouds pass, fading into memories gone
and all [something something] life is like [something something]
what else could there be?

Et cetera. Even with my “something something” interpolations, you get the idea. Here’s a song that’s fantasizing about some future paradise. Which, at first glance, is pretty cool. Harmless. Inspirational. Whatever.

Then I suddenly realized how that song made me feel, as opposed to Shatner’s “You’ll Have Time.” See, although Shatner is going on and on about how everybody is gonna die, and that seems sort of pessimistic, I find it uplifting and inspiring and encouraging. That’s why I wanted to listen to it before I started my Civil Procedure studying this morning. I wanted a better perspective on life. What am I doing here? Why am I doing this? Why am I going to law school? Because I want to get into life and muck around, use my abilities as best I can.

But “Better Days,” this Christian “inspirational” stuff, suddenly made me feel like crap. Life seemed flat and pointless compared to some fantasy paradise where there’s green grass and soft breezes and grace and love and everlasting bliss or whatever. Why bother mucking around and using your abilities as best you can? Besides, what’s the real context here? What’s the point of “Better Days”? Who needs to listen to a song that’s saying, essentially, “something better is coming”? Answer: People who aren’t getting much out of the life they’re living right now.

And suddenly I had one of those epiphanies where everything just clicked into place. That’s why I always felt so strange sitting in those university-mandated chapel services engulfed in “worship” music. Because that stuff is designed for people who are looking for something else, some imagined paradise beyond our own. And worse, for people who aren’t looking for something else, it starts to put them into the mindset that they should be, and that just feels lousy.

So give me “Live life like you’re gonna die . . . because you’re gonna” any day, but keep that “here come better days” stuff out of my ears.

Okay, enough o’ dat. Back to State Farm v. Campbell.

One Down

Okay, now I’m really scared. The first week of law school is over. Monday is torts. “In earnest,” as the professor told us three nights ago. There are only ten cases to brief, and I’ve done five of them. But tonight in Legal Analysis my briefing skills were revealed to be, well, pretty poor so far. On the upside, I know my briefing skills are poor because I volunteered answers knowing full well I’d get clobbered, which means I’m still participating at least. (Getting clobbered isn’t so bad. Once you’ve been in a few blog debates about stuff like intelligent design, the meaning of life, the existence of God, the basis for morality, and so on, it almost seems like the day never happened unless you get clobbered at some point during it. C’mon. Raise your hand. Get humiliated. You’ll learn better that way! Like me . . . learning how badly I did . . .)

Anyway, since I’m pretty well up to speed on my work (poor though it may be, and I’m sure it is) and since I still have the whole weekend to do the rest (not counting 20 hours at work) and since I’m pretty much dead right now, I’m going to bed.

And the Peasant Rejoiced

Okay, I can breathe again. Cable guy came and hooked up my high-speed internet. Had a little trouble getting my wireless router to talk to the cable modem, but the tech support guy from D-Link was quite helpful. How lovely to be out of dial-up again. I hate that stuff. Okay, gotta study. Civil procedure and torts. Could life get any better? (Yes. Where are you, woman of my dreams?)

Checking In

Not dead yet. Law school started on Monday. Still excited. Terrified and exhilarated. Not behind on my work yet. Yet. Lovin’ it so far. Joining a law fraternity. Getting a mentor. Last night the prof went up to the board and scribbled a dense block with his marker. “That’s black,” he said. Then he drew an empty square next to it. “That’s white,” he said. “You won’t be seeing much of those for the next three years.” And I’m thinking to myself, “Sweet.” Ah, the law. Gotta go.