The Next Stop Is. . .

I hope, anyway.

Lots of fun things this weekend. Lots of drinking and eating and laughing. I am fortunate. I'll give a more full report soon but the most interesting thing I ate this weekend was bruschetta with white anchovies, soft-cooked egg, and braised leeks at Craftbar. It was the perfect combination of salty, aromatic, tangy, and muted. The warm pecorino fondue with acacia honey, hazelnuts, and pepperoncini (also at Craftbar) I think was the most delicious thing I ate. The most offensive thing I ate was a grilled chicken skewer from the halal cart outside of our hotel at 4 a.m. It tasted good at the time, but I mean. . . .The best thing I drank was a treacle (sp?) posing as an Old-Fashioned at Flatiron Lounge. I'm really digging this old-fashioned cocktail/speakeasy atmosphere revival thing.

Liberation

Be forewarned, this is going to sound just pathetic, fatalistic, and steeped in martyrdom. Every once in a while it becomes quite clear to me that no one really cares about me but me. The older I get (I know, I sound like I'm fucking 60) the more I realize that no one really cares about you but you. Yes, I know MP and BP do, and I have great friends who love me, and I am so very lucky and blessed to have those people. I am. But life is a constant realization and reminder that you really have to think about yourself first, because who else will? No one. People ultimately care about themselves over everything and everyone else (exception for parents), and can you blame them? No. That is life, and that is reality. In some ways it's quite freeing because you really stop caring what other people think when you know they don't give a shit about you. Even your friends who care about you don't really care about you. But such a realization also requires you to be tougher on yourself and more thoughtful because you really have to be sure about the decisions you make, the way you live your life, your reasons for doing things, and you have to be aware of the risks and consequences of everything that you do. Because ultimately, you have to justify all of your decisions to yourself, and you and you alone are the only person who will suffer the consequences of those decisions.

Sigh.

This week has just sucked. Yesterday I figuratively took it in the ass by a federal judge for a painful, fucking 30-minute hearing. Fucking flabbergasting. Thought we were on the cusp of victory, but instead, I was the one fucking defending our client the whole fucking time. I even prepared myself for the worse as I do, and it still was much, much worse than I ever would have expected. And the clock was and is just in full swing. Heard "I'm disappointed, horribly frustrated, etc." from client for the umpteenth time. Then today, in reporting yet more bad news, we made the client cry. CRY. I already have too many issues with trying to make people happy and feeling guilt, but nothing feels worse than knowing that your failures have caused such emotional strain and stress on another person, who trusts you, believes in you, and fucking pays you hundreds of thousands of dollars in the hope that you will win their case for them. Motherfucker. Was it our fault? NO, it was not (see, I'm growing). But as someone very wise told me, the one thing that sucks so badly about this profession, among the asshole opp counsel, the asshole clients, the asshole co-workers, having to get business and all of that shit, is that no matter how good of a brief you write, how good your arguments are, how well-prepared you are, how good a lawyer you are, and even how good your facts are, if your judge sucks, there is nothing you can do about it. Instead, you have to disappoint your clients and lose your case and there is absolutely nothing to be done. All is not lost, and I don't even know why I care and why I take it so personally, but it just sucks. Sucks.

But, on the bright side I'm going to NYC this weekend. That should be lots of fun. Will there be drinking? Yes, there will. Going to try Norma's and Craftbar and a new soup dumpling place. There is just too much fucking shit to see there.

Rest in Peace, Luciano Pavarotti

Luciano Pavarotti died today at age 71.



The only reason I bring this up is because hearing him always, always reminds me of my dad. My dad used to listen to records of Pavarotti singing arias, and I always remember the record of Pavarotti with the Vienna Boys Choir, singing Christmas songs. Specifically Adeste Fideles and O Holy Night. Also, and more memorably, I remember dad banging away at the piano, singing at the top of his lungs various arias (or, walking around in the basement holding a songbook and singing various arias at the top of his lungs). It wasn't quite the same, but Dad really wanted to sing like Pavarotti. Who wouldn't?

As the years pass, more and more people who were contemporaries or heroes or important people during the time dad was alive are dying. I read recently something to the effect of, "You forget what you want to remember and remember what you want to forget." At least with people like Pavarotti and Peter Jennings and Richard Nixon around there was still a sense that dad was real, that there was a time when he was alive and part of my life. That sense, along with my memories of him, is steadily disappearing.