Friday, September 27, 2013

Bridges and Gaps

Poor you.  I am a lot like you.  I presume I am anyway.  And presuming I am correct I feel sorry for you.  There is no coin or cache in being like me.  I assure you.  Yet here we are.  Peas in search of a pod. 

I have practiced law for two decades.  I am a man of markedly limited talents.  I can read.  I can write.  I have a very good memory (I used to have an excellent memory but the longer I have lived the harder I have strived to forget things).  I like to argue - albeit not as much now as I did as a much younger, far more heavily-intoxicated man.  Those factors coupled with the fact that I have the same full range of mechanical skills and abilities as my father did, which is to say none at all, and a face only a radio could love, pointed me to the law as a career.  There is money to be made in the misery of others.  Trust me.  Then again, I am a lawyer.  You may not want to trust me too quickly.  Better safe than the alternative; right? 

Truth be told, far more days than not I f*cking hate what I do for a living.  I enjoy - as a general rule - the people with whom I work.  I like the Firm.  I just find the whole endeavor - the "Who" and "What" of my day-to-day - to be utterly inane.  Not only is it so - at least from my point of view - but there are far too many of us in the State of Concrete Gardens who earn a living doing it.  The last figures I saw put the number of licensed attorneys in New Jersey in the neighborhood of 90,000. 

This has been a week in which I have been reminded over and over and over and over of the sheer stupidity and silliness of how I earn my daily bread on simply too many occasions to count.  I have endured conversations, both within the four walls of the Firm and outside of them that have made me wonder (including one time aloud in what turned almost immediately thereafter into a rather awkward, yet necessary conversation) just how many men of a certain age in this profession in this state reached adulthood without their testicle fully descending.  By Wednesday afternoon, I thought that I had missed my exit on 287 and had ended up at a Ramada Inn crashing the 2013 Conference of the Perpetual Douchebag Society.  Unfucking real. 

Last night, I experienced a most welcome reality check.  After depositions in Edison I hopped over to New York City's "Ready to Secede" Borough, Staten Island, to pick up my Tunnel To Towers Packet as well as Margaret's, Jeff's and Gidg's.  Although this is the fourth consecutive year I have taken part in this event, this year marked the first time that I handled packet pick-up.  The actual process of picking up our gear took considerably less time than it took me to get from Edison to Staten Island.  The good folks who were on-site ensuring that race participants such as Yours truly received the assistance we needed could not have been nicer or more helpful. 

As I was driving home, our gear beside me on the front seat of my car I kept thinking back to how great an experience this simple task had been.  And I was reminded of the fact that this remarkable event has as its genesis a singularly horrific event:  the murder of FDNY Firefighter Stephen Siller, 342 of his FDNY brothers and thousands of others.  I was reminded that some people just get it.  They comprehend the difference between fluff and substance.  And I was happy that again this weekend the Missus, Gidg, Jeff and I will be spending some quality time in the company of such people. 

A B-12 shot for my soul.  Just in time.


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