Moving In

I've spent the last couple of weeks moving in to my new home in North Arlington (about a mile from the Ballston Metro, for those of you who know the area). The house is really nice, and I share it with a couple of great people. I have been putting everything together -- setting it up just the way I like it. I always hate the logistical nightmare of moving OUT of an old place, but I love the POSSIBILITIES of moving into a new place. I am definitely of the mindset that My Home Is My Castle -- but, more accurately, I would say that My Home Is My Sanctuary. I love to feel peaceful, comfortable, safe, relaxed. That is what I am trying to set up.

Because it is late and I am tired and I have to get to work in the morning (yay being a real live communications lawyer!), I will leave you with this candid shot (artfully edited in post) showing Yours Truly preparing to rehearse the 1812 Overture for last week's July 4th concert on the Mall. It was a blast!


(Photo credit: Nathan Mitchell, CASW Bass)

Hoaxes, Performance Art, and Crazy Liberals

A news article was recently making the rounds on the Internet. The news article concerned a senior undergraduate at Yale University who majored in art and who apparently has a penchant for causing a scene. You see, my friend Jacob forwarded the article from the Yale Daily News to myself and to a few other college friends with the following disclaimer: "I'm really embarrassed that she is one of my peeps, and possibly a distant relation to [ Matt ]."

By that, Jacob meant that this woman was Jewish, and that her last name was an iteration of my last name, [ last name deleted for Google purposes ]. I read the following article with disgust. The headline: "For Senior, Abortion a Medium for Art, Political Discourse." The article went on to discuss a girl whose senior art project was "a documentation of a nine-month process during which she artificially inseminated herself 'as often as possible' while periodically taking abortifacient drugs to induce miscarriages. Her exhibition will feature video recordings of these of forced miscarriages as well as preserved collections of the blood from the process."

Of course, I was absolutely disgusted and mortified that anyone would do this. I remembered from my undergraduate days that there are some fairly crazy, wacky liberals out there, but this absolutely took the cake. My friend Ryan fired back a reply: "I don't know what to say. That may well be one of the worst things I've ever heard. I think she's a vile human being, unfit for -- and undeserving of -- that title."

I responded as well: "I almost cried when I read that article. I cannot believe such a person exists -- and I hesitate to even dignify her with classification as a person."

I forwarded the article around to other friends, and the expression of disgust was universal. Liberal or conservative, nobody could believe that she would do this, or that Yale University would allow a public exhibition of the project, as the newspaper article stated.

The Drudge Report picked up the student newspaper article, and from there it spread like wildfire. The Washington Post, CNN, the London Times, every major news outlet throughout the world picked it up. And so the shock and outrage spread internationally.

But something didn't quite sit right with me. After my initial emotion fueled sadness and shock and anger, my rational side kicked in, and I sent the following e-mail to my friends:

I was thinking, and I cannot imagine this is real. This has to be a hoax. I cannot believe even Yale would okay a public installation of her blood and videos of her miscarriages. And I find it very hard to believe that she could successfully pull off these miscarriages (come on, let's call them what they are, abortion) multiple times with herbs, without either being unable to abort the child, or without causing major damage to herself.

"The to pull off a hoax, all she really had to do was trick the Yale student paper. From there all the other media would pick it up and it would take off with very little additional verification. She'd simply get some cohorts to corroborate it via e-mail, and Yale would be silent for a while as they tried to figure out what the truth was. If you look at the original Yale article, they weren't even able to talk to her adviser.

"She will probably justify the whole thing as performance art, or ' hoax art in cyberspace' or something.

"Then again I could just be rationalizing all this because I don't want to believe anyone is that evil."

Well, my friends, it appears my Bullshit Detector is functioning properly. Yale University later released a statement:

"Ms. Shvarts is engaged in performance art. Her art project includes visual representations, a press release and other narrative materials. She stated to three senior Yale University officials today, including two deans, that she did not impregnate herself and that she did not induce any miscarriages. the entire project is an art piece, a creative fiction designed to draw attention to the ambiguities surrounding form and function of a woman's body. She is an artist and has the right to express herself through performance art. Had these acts been a real, they would have violated basic ethical standards and raised serious mental and physical health concerns."

I am glad that I was right. It brings some level of satisfaction and even some vindication among friends who claimed that as much as they wished it were a hoax, they feared it was real. It also makes me feel relieved that such a horrible, heinous person does not exist in reality.

That said, Ms. Shvarts is still a vile human being. Not quite as vile as she was, but anyone who would purposely try to mislead the world about such a sensitive and delicate matter, and be so cavalier about the whole thing, all in the name of "her art," deserves only marginally more respect than one who would purposely and repeatedly impregnate and abort.

Moreover, I am dismayed that the Yale University office of public affairs is so quick to defend this woman, under the flimsy rationale that "she is an artist" and she has "the right to express herself through performance art." Calling oneself an artist does not give a free pass to act as irresponsibly and insensitively as one desires, all in the name of art. It does not free one from the bounds of civility and decency that characterize a healthy society.

I am all for artistic expression, but pulling a massive hoax and calling it "performance art" meant to "draw attention" to the function of a woman's body is disgusting, and reminds me why I joined the conservative student newspaper while at college. Academia is a crazy place, and they believe some messed up things inside those ivory towers. I am glad to no longer be a part of that, but dismayed that the insanity continues.

The Deadening of One's Soul: an Epiphany

I wanted to document review until 9 pm tonight but I simply cannot work anymore. My brain is completely fried. This is without a doubt the most mind-numbing work I have ever done in my life (and that includes the data entry I did for my uncle when I was 12). I cannot describe how tedious and boring this is. It literally deadens my soul.

I am a creative person. I like to write, to sing. To think. I loved the first year of law school because it presented me with an entirely new way of thinking about the world. It took philosophy -- a subject I had enjoyed in college but found to have no practical effects -- and applied it to the world. Criminal law taught me about theories of punishment. Contract law taught me how to analyze the agreements people make with each other. Torts showed me the system that we as a society use to determine who is responsible when one person accidentally causes another to be injured.

And I loved communications law because it pitted the law -- a slow moving beast -- against technology, which literally moves at the speed of light.

Document review is the antithesis of what I am interested in. It is legal purgatory, a job doled out to those who didn't get an offer from their summer firms. It pays well but I want to drown myself in my water bottle every day.

I'm going to keep looking for communications law jobs, but I am also going to expand my search to clerkships for any level judge, and also criminal defense and prosecution. And I am going to continue to submit freelance ideas, and work on honing my fiction writing, and take voice lessons and audition for the opera chorus.

All I know for sure right now is that I don't see how I can keep doing this job through the end of January. I have to do something else, anything else.

I don't care if it pays half as much.

No reward is worth this.

Why I Hate Traveling

Most girls I know LOVE to travel. My sister hops around the world with abandon, working multiple jobs to be able to afford such adventures, and sometimes taking a job in her destination city of choice. It seems every girl on match.com absolutely loves traveling, so much so that they list it along with shopping as their favorite things to do.

I can't stand traveling.

This Thanksgiving our family decided to meet up in Vegas for shows, gambling and turkey day buffet debauchery. A wonderful reprieve from document reviewing. My flight was supposed to leave Reagan National at 11:45 am, I'd get a connecting flight in Minneapolis at 3, and I'd arrive in Vegas at 4:30 Vegas-time.

Notice I said "supposed to."

So, the first leg of my flight -- the one heading to a connecting flight in Minneapolis -- was delayed by two hours because of storms in Memphis, which delayed the plane's arrival in DC.

Once I finally got on the plane, there were two young toddlers in the row right behind me. THEY WERE ALREADY CRYING, and we hadn't even gotten into the air yet. Once in the airn, the one directly behind my head was screaming and screeching and crying for easily two-thirds of the journey. It was at least two years old and really should have known better.

The second leg was supposed to be quite grand. I had checked in the previous night via the Internet, and secured a wonderful exit row seat right in front of the large entrance area to the plane. I would have had five feet of legroom and gotten to watch as everybody shuffled onto the plane. The last time I had that seat, a couple years ago, I ended up flirting with a very cute brunette when she engaged me in a playful discussion about the Cinnabon I was making love to. Alas, I did not capitalize on her IOIs. Now armed with Mystery's glorious tips, I was looking forward to picking a target and trying my luck.

But it was not to be! Because the first flight was delayed, I missed my exit row flirting seat that would have gotten me to Vegas by 4:30, and had to be crammed into *fucking 12-E* -- the middle seat in between a guy and an upper-middle-aged woman who smelled strongly of adult diapers. Adding insult to injury, our plane was delayed on the tarmac for half an hour because, in the words of the pilot, "the de-icing platform is just a mess." He told us we'd be hear for another 30 minutes to an hour. Hearing that, the biatch in front of me decided to break all protocol and recline her goddamn seat back! I wanted to shout, "You have to keep your seat back and tray table up until the captain turns off the fasten seatbelt sign!" But since I was illegally using a communications device to text message people and inform them of my plight, I decided not to call the kettle African American.

Long story short, I got up early for nothing, wasted several hours wandering about two airports, and didn't get in to Vegas until after 7 -- missing the Cirque du Soleil show for which I had a non-refundable ticket.

I enjoy exploring strange new worlds. I like seeking out new life and new civilizations. I am a fan of boldly going where no Matt has gone before. But until The Powers That Be invent and commercialize transporter technology and/or warp speed, I'm staying at home on my couch and exploring strange new worlds the way God intended: by watching DVR'd Star Trek episodes.

Apologies and Old Thoughts

I want to take this opportunity to apologize to all of my regular visitors for failing to update my Web site as much as I ought to. You see, I m a busy man. Every now and then I come up with a fantastic idea for the blog, but by the time I have an opportunity to write about it, it is several days or weeks later and my enthusiasm has waned. For instance, two weeks ago I was going to write a very detailed entry about my hour and a half adventure collecting free burritos all over the city. In 2006, I was only able to get two free burritos, but this year, using my Segway, I was able to make it to four Chipotles in the course of just 90 minutes. The power of free food compelled me. It was glorious!

Around the same time, someone asked me to tell her what my first impression of her was when I first met her. No one had ever asked me that before, and so I never realized how personal a question that really is. If you think about it, a first impression is either negative, positive, or neutral. Either way, someone's feelings could be stepped on. If my first impression was that this woman was ugly and annoying, what would be the purpose of telling her that? If my first impression was that she barely registered in my mind, then she would assume she was boring and forgettable. If my first impression was very positive - like, oh my God, she is so beautiful! - then I am simply setting myself up for some sort of embarrassment. Or rejection, as she makes a scared face and mumbles something about "Creeepy."

But I told her what my first impression was, which was that she was pretty and skinny and, once I started talking to her, she seemed nice enough. She was pleased with my first reaction. I asked her what hers was of me. She told me, "I thought you had really red hair. You reminded me of my father, who also has red hair. When you spoke, I got the impression that you were very intelligent. "

Huh. Maybe we should start telling others our first impressions more often!

Anyway, that is what I was going to write about. Unfortunately, I was too busy or lazy to put my ideas into words. Fortunately, my voice recognition software is playing along nicely tonight, and it isn't taking that long to get my thoughts onto the screen.

But I can tell you right now what the next long entry will be: Matt's 500-Mile Segway Report! Get the popcorn: this one will be entertaining.

Rumors of my death...

Several people have asked me, Where have I gone? I cannot blame them. According to my Web site, I have not updated in about two weeks now. For that, I apologize. Where have I been? Why have I not updated? the simple truth is that I have been busy with life and work. It is the new choir season, And I have been attempting to develop a worthwhile routine, and as anyone who is familiar with me knows, any routines that I develop will not have a lot of time built in for messing around. (The whole point of a routine for me, is to be the most productive I can in the fewest hours available. Unfortunately for all my loyal before I sleep visitors, updating my Web site is not the most worthwhile use of my time.)

Last week I realized that attitude is everything. I came to this conclusion while riding my Segway. I was going to write a very long and detailed post discussing my newfound take on life.I still may write the post. (The long and short of it is that I had been looking for all of the negative reactions that I got when riding the Segway, instead of looking for all the positive reactions. It turns out that there are ten times more openly positive reactions than openly negative reactions. The shift in view point has profoundly affected the way in which I go about my daily existence.)

However, that is an important post. As with most important things that I desire to write, they tend to get put on the back burner because I want to give them as much time as possible to make them worthwhile. That time usually never comes. So my most worthwhile posts, ironically, never get written.

Perhaps there is a pattern to my silence. Let me look at my archives and see when I have traditionally gone the most silent. (Checks archives.) Aha! Exactly as I had predicted. It turns out that last year I was also silent for a period of approximately two weeks at the end of September 2006. I wonder if this holds true for the year prior to that... indeed! In September 2005, I posted only one time. Admittedly, during the last two years I was attending classes in September of each year. It was the new academic year, and as such, I was understandably preoccupied. This year I
do not have the same excuse, and yet, I am still the process of going through a rebirth of sorts.(Looking for a job, trying to get my new routine all settled in, trying to come to grips with the gym monster that lives two blocks away, etc.)

Although the responsibilities that I have in real life are mounting, I continue to feel a responsibility to you, the reader. To that end, I am going to give you a wonderful little treat right now. It is a video that was taken just yesterday, pitting my two friends Gweepay and Rudy against each other in a battle of wills. Who will be able to force the other to sing for him? The answer shall soon be clear.

Emerging from my cocoon after ten years

Everyone goes into their high school reunions with the goal of making a positive impression on former classmates. (Well, assuming one goes to the reunion at all.) "Positive" means different things to different people. Some demonstrate their generosity, buying drinks for everyone in the house. Some play up their status as a family man (or woman), pulling out pictures of their adorable children. (Children? Wha? We ARE children, for Chrissake!)

Still others go to the reunion with the goal of proving, once and for all, that all that high school awkwardness and insecurity was just a phase. The larval phase, if you will. And in the ten years since we walked across the stage in our ugly green robes, we have been metamorphosing -- growing and maturing and working out the kinks -- in our own little cocoon that I will dub "the early 2000's."

Well, my friends, I was one of those larvas. Larvae. Whatever, it doesn't matter how you spell it, because I am not a larva anymore. I am a freakin' butterfly. I went to my reunion with the sole purpose of proving to myself that I didn't need to surround myself with familiar faces and close friends to have a good time. I cared about proving to myself that even though I score a 95% "Introvert" on the Myers-Briggs scale -- think Milton from Office Space -- I do indeed have a wellspring of charm buried somewhere inside me that I can turn on when I need to. I wanted to shed the shy, socially-awkward Matt of years past, and just let loose and have fun with all the people I didn't get to know well enough ten years ago.

Well, as the banner on GWB's aircraft carrier put it four years ago, "MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!" The difference now, of course, is that I actually did accomplish the mission. The Osama bin Ladens of my past have officially been captured or killed, and I'm claiming the $25 million bounty, baby.

As it turns out, it really isn't very hard to be a Fun Guy at parties. Put together a fine outfit (as you can see from the picture at right, I chose to go as a Jewish Gangster, complete with a golden chai hanging from my neck), smile at everyone you meet, and don't take anything too seriously. (A few drinks and a recent refresher course in the Mystery Method don't hurt either.)

Most importantly, take lots of photos with beautiful women, and post the photos on your Web site along with video showing what a stud you are. ;-) (It helps if you fail to mention that almost every attractive woman was married or engaged.)

Seriously though, I don't know if I have gotten more social in the last ten years, or if everyone has just gotten a lot friendlier -- it's probably a bit of both. All I do know is that all the old cliques and barriers of yesteryear seem to have melted away. As I mentioned to a few people on Saturday night, "This is so much better than high school!"

From an organizational standpoint, it wasn't a very elaborate affair; the reunion committee had taken our $25 entry fee and used it to rent out an atrium and patio, and provide us with some fairly tasty hor dourves. Apparently there was a projector set up showing pictures from high school, but most people ignored it. The highlight of the evening was the cash bar that served very very strong and tasty drinks, and pretty much everyone was tipsy or drunk by the end of the night. Of course, this was the first time everyone had gotten drunk together, because my peers didn't have any parties back in high school.*

The turnout was surprisingly low. There were 252 people in my graduating class, but only around 75 showed up. But from what I could tell, the 25% who were there had done fairly well for themselves. Some financial analysts, a nurse, a dentist, and some bearded legal types whom I quickly gravitated toward. But I'd say the most impressive of all was Jeff K., whose business card says he is a Vice President of Production at a major movie studio out in L.A. I am at once proud, in awe, jealous, and pissed off. It's okay though, because ten years ago I was chosen over him to give the high school graduation speech. So there! Cry about THAT, Jeff! Cry all the way to the bank! To your private vault where you no doubt wile away the hours diving naked into stacks of gold coins! (That is what rich people do, isn't it? All I have to go on is the popular perception of Scrooge McDuck, but I think I've got the picture.)

In the end, though, no one really seemed to care what we "do" for a living. Law, medicine, business, or movie producing, that's just a job. Frankly, I didn't even remember what most peoples' day job turned out to be. You know what stood out? How happy they seemed to be. And, on the whole, the class of 1997 seemed to be fairly content.

A recurring theme in my life is the desire to go back and do things differently, knowing then what I know now. Were I to go back and do high school over again, I'm sure I would have a much better time, and gotten a lot more out of it. But you know what? I could say that about most periods of my life. And I think that's a good thing: It means I'm getting better at This Thing Called Life. And it makes me excited for the future.

A lot of people don't plan to go to their high school reunion, because (as one friend put it in an e-mail recently), "My philosophy is that I already keep in touch with all of the people from high school that I have any desire in seeing." I used to think that too, but it turns out there are a lot of friends from high school who I simply lost track of over the last ten years, and it was great to see them again. Plus, in addition to reconnecting with people, it is great to get to know others who I never really got to know the first time around.

A few choice quotes (Click here for a brief audio snippet!)

Random girl to me: "You look a lot different -- you look great!"

Guy: "How many companies do you own?"
Matt: "I've got partial stakes in seven, I've got --"
Jeff: "NOT counting the adult entertainment companies."
Matt: "Zero then."

Drunk Girl: "What's your name?"
Matt: "Matt [redacted], nice to meet you."
Girl: "Maaaatt? For reeeeal?"
Matt: "Were you at Groves?"
Girl: "Holy God dammit -- you look sooooooo different!"
Molly (to the girl, matter-of-factly): "Facial hair and smaller glasses."

Matt to a girl he doesn't know: "I did so many drugs over the last ten years, I don't remember anybody."
Guy: "That's bullshit."
Matt: "Okay, I've never done any drugs."
Guy: "You didn't fool me for a second."
Matt: "I wanted to do drugs. I almost did marijuana once. I think I got a contact high."
*laughter*
Jeff: "I think I almost didn't do marijuana once."

Almost five hours after I arrived, I got into my car and drove home with the biggest smile on my face. My 10-year reunion had been a rousing success. I'm already looking forward to the 20th -- not just because the current committee asked if I want to be involved in planning the 20th, but also because some of the married hotties might be divorced by then. ;-)

---

*Yes, I know of the rumor that if one THINKS there were no big parties back in high school, it actually means one was not invited to the big parties back in high school. I firmly believe in the falsehood of this rumor. Nothing to see here. Carry on.

How many pizzas does it take to fill my existential void?

Every now and then something I do reminds me that I am, without a doubt, the biggest fatty on the planet. That "something I do "is almost always binge eating. It happens when I don't have a lot of structure, and I wander through the day, with no routine to guide me, and I am bored, and my friends are out of town, and I have nothing to do, and before I know it, I have eaten an entire medium meat lovers pizza.

The extremely bad part is that yesterday I did essentially the same thing. It wasn't meat lovers, but it was half ground beef and have pepperoni, and that makes me a whole pig.

Today wasn't entirely lost. I did go to the gym earlier today, and work my muscles almost to failure... and I hardly ate anything else the rest of the day. Ultimately, though, that is the problem. When I go the entire day with out eating every two or three hours, like I am supposed to, like body for life tells me to, then I have pretty much guaranteed that I will lose the eating war for the day. My body, not having received nourishment for eight or 10 hours, will rebel. "I need a pizza! " It will tell me. Why do you needed ate pizza, I will ask. "Because I am bored and I want a pizza!" Okay, body, you win.

The really you really bad part is that I was not even hungry. That's right to, I ate an entire meat lovers pizza with out any appetite. My appetite was in a state of non existence. And when I started eating the pizza, I wasn't hungry, but I wasn't full; when I finished eating the pizza, I wasn't hungry, but I wasn't full either. I consumed at least 2000 calories of fat-laden goodness, and my appetite level did not change: it was simply there, ever present, like the wind.

The only way to prevent myself from going on destructive rampages like this is to have a plan. And not just have a plan, but stick to it too. It would not have been hard today. Had I planned things out before hand, I would have known that I would have several free hours, and I would have planned my meals accordingly. Instead, though, I simply woke up around 10:00a.m., spent a couple of hours in front of the computer, had a few diet pink lemonades, headed off to Starbucks, where I had an iced chai tea... and then ate nothing for the next several hours. And had no plans, for friends or for meals. I had nothing to do. I wasn't even hungry. And yet, I decided to call pizza hut. Why? For the love God, why?!

My sister, Katherine, says that she also goes on these kinds of destructive binges. I think it probably runs in our family. It probably runs in a lot of families. Katherine says it means that I am missing something. I am eating to fill a void. Now, I don't want to give a lot of credence to Dr. Phil, but I think Katherine might be onto something. My best friends are all out of town, it seems indefinitely. I am currently between full-time jobs. I have nothing to do. I am wandering. There is a void. There is a void and I am filling it with pizza. admittedly, it is very tasty pizza, don't get me wrong. But I wonder, how much pizza it does it take to fill a big, giant hole? A big giant existential hole.

Hmmm...... I really don't know why I bare my soul like this on the Internet. It has gotten me into trouble before. It is this damn voice recognition software. I spent a billion dollars on it, and I am determined to get my money's worth. so you, dear reader, get to read three exciting blog entries in one day. And I, dear blogger, get to reveal my innermost thoughts, all because I am in love with the sound of my own voice and can't stop speaking.

Well, enjoy it while it lasts!

Turning Down the Virgin Islands

Tell your standard work-a-day drone that you just got offered a yearlong job in the Virgin Islands, and the response is immediate.

"Awesome! A year in paradise! Congratulations!"

Tell him that you are not sure whether or not to take it, and he will look at you with a mixture of shock and confusion.

"Are you kidding me? You even have to think about this? It's the Virgin Islands, man! Have you ever seen the place? It's heaven! What do you have to think about? You don't have a full time gig lined up here... this would be a full-time job, partying on the beach every night... Why are you even hesitating? TAKE IT!"

Tell him that you've decided to turn it down, and his look of shock and confusion becomes tinged with resentment.

"I can't believe you're going to turn it down. If someone offered me a job in the Virgin Islands, I'd take it in a heartbeat! The average temperature in the winter there is 73 degrees. In the summer the average is 84! Beaches and deep blue water and glorious sunshine! How DARE you turn that down? What is wrong with you? Are you mad???!"

The answer, of course, is no. I am not mad. Perhaps you would be mad if you turned down this offer. The Virgin Islands, to many, are paradise. But for me, the idea of going to the Virgin Islands for an entire year - possibly two - is simply not paradise. I have been to the islands twice. Each time, for no more than a week. It was great! I had people waiting on me hand and foot, I had fresh water delivered to my doorstep daily, and don't forget the rum that was placed in my hotel room every day. Yes, living in a luxury resort on the fabulous island of St. Thomas was an amazing experience.

That is not what I would be doing.

Contrary to popular belief, the Virgin Islands are not as heavenly as they first appear. The crime rate is unbelievable. People are poorly educated. Customer service is an absolute joke. It's basically a third-world country with a nice view: the only thing that's really nice about the Virgin Islands are the beaches. And I sunburn! Seriously, I am not the kind of person who takes pleasure in spending every night, beach with a beer in my hand I am sure many of you are. There is nothing wrong with that. It is not for me.

Oh, sure, the work would be interesting. With such a high crime rate, the criminal cases alone would be worth the experience. Further, due to the general lackadaisical nature of the workers in the Virgin Islands, there is a tremendous backlog of cases - almost 300 civil cases have not yet been decided. People have been waiting for years. The current judge told me that he works every day from approximately 8a.m. to 7p.m. He is in desperate need of a clerk - someone to give all of the work to. I am sure he would love to have me. And I would learn a lot too.

But a working environment in which I would be doing something interesting and helpful to my future career is not the only consideration when taking a new job. The fact is, I love Washington DC. I love it because of the vibrant culture. I love it because of all the singing opportunities. I love it because of all the educated young people here. I love it because of all the Starbucks.

Yes, I said it. I have learned from experience that my general level of contentment with a place will be directly proportional to the number of Starbucks. Starbucks and big bookstores with coffee shops. No, I am not insane. I just recognize that these kinds of establishments are emblematic of the level of civilization that a society has developed. No Starbucks means no higher civilization, to which I am so accustomed. St. Thomas has no Starbucks. The Virgin Islands have no Starbucks. I would not be happy.

I have built the last several months around the idea of returning to Washington DC to pursue a career in telecommunications law. A trip to the Virgin Islands would be, at best, an interesting experience that would not help with my chosen career path, or at worst, an unnecessary detour that leaves me sunburned and bug-bitten. I don't need to be in the islands trying to stem the tide of crime. I need to be here in D.C., where my life is. I need to be making professional contacts. I need to be attending communications bar events. I need to be publicizing my indecency article. I can do none of that from the Virgin Islands.

And, more than that, there is the fact that my primary form of leisure here is singing with various choirs. From September through May, the Choral Arts Society of Washington is my main form of release. I get paid to sing tenor at a church in Maryland. I am in the process of auditioning for the holy day services at various synagogues around the area. And my voice coach recently told me that she thinks I'm ready to audition for the Washington National Opera. How could I leave now? What would I do in the Virgin Islands? Join a steel drum band?

Relaxing on the beach with an alcoholic beverage in my hand is a fantastic way to spend a week or two. It may be a fantastic way for many - if not most - readers of this blog to spend not just a week, but a year. Or two. Or the rest of their lives. But it's not for me. I am a Washingtonian, through and through. I love it here, and I would not give it up. Even for a year in the Virgin Islands.

Answering Our Own Questions

(This is a joint blog entry, composed by Matt and Sweetie.)

Most people know Matthew Lesko as Question Mark Guy (or some derivation), the man who screams about free money on infomercials late at night. But for my Sweetie and I, he has long been a metaphor for our sometimes uncertain relationship. The first time we saw him, Sweetie and I were just starting out. It was September 2005, just a few weeks into our nascent relationship, and we were taking in a movie in Chinatown. At the time, I was uncertain whether Sweetie, a Latin teacher, was playful and quirky enough for me, or whether her "magistra" tendencies (magistra is Latin for "teacher") would dominate. A question mark lay before us. That night, for the first time in our lives, we saw Matthew Lesko.

Fast forward to December of 2006. We had already broken up, but Sweetie came to my Christmas Concert with the Choral Arts Society anyway. During the concert, she sat alone, wondering what would become of us. At intermission, from the balcony, she saw him: a man decorated head to toe in question marks -- dress question marks, no less!

After the concert, Sweetie brought the sighting to this tenor's attention, feeling it was a terrible omen. Sweetie was distraught, because she saw Question Mark Man as symbolizing the end of our relationship. It had now come full circle -- questions in the beginning, when Matt wasn't sure if she was right for him -- and questions in the end, when Sweetie didn't know if they would ever really spend time together again. We spotted his question-mark-adorned car in the parking garage, and decided to wait for him, intent on questioning the man ourselves. What do you mean?? we wanted to ask. Why are you always here during times of discernment? Do you have any answers for all your questions? We would not get the chance to ask. After waiting in an empty parking lot for half an hour, we realized the Question Mark Man would remain a mystery that night. As we drove out of the parking garage, we noticed yet another question-mark-adorned vehicle, and realized that the man had decoys, likely to prevent insane people like ourselves from stalking him down and trying to squeeze out of him answers to the greatest mysteries of existence.

The third time, Sweetie saw the Question Mark car through tears. I had just returned from London, and we decided to go to dinner and the theatre together. It was Sweetie's favorite kind of evening, full of feelings of love and affection. This night was an experiment: We wanted to see if we could still go out and enjoy a nice evening together whilst remaining single. The experiment failed. As we sat in my car at the end of the night, Sweetie consumed by emotion, we looked across the street and our jaws dropped as we saw the Question Mark Car yet again. It was parked right in front of Sweetie's building. It was definitely a sign. But a sign of what? Alas, there would be no answers to these incessant question marks.

Fast forward yet again. Although the future remains unclear, the Sweeties find themselves in a place of relative calm, having made plans to take an educational road trip next weekend and teach Matt a little bit about our nation's history. Today, just after Sweetie dropped off Matt's lunch at his place of employ, she happened to glance into the Starbucks across the street. She left a frantic voice mail on Matt's phone.

"Sweetie. I just happened to pass Starbucks, and -- Guess. Who. I. Saw. Question Mark Man." Her voice didn't sound surprised. In fact, it sounded like she completed expected to see him. "I swear, every time something exciting happens for us... there he is. This would be a great time to talk to him. Call me back."

I bolted through the stairwell door, confident I could run six stories down faster than it would take to wait for the elevator. I couldn't let this chance to talk to Question Mark Man -- to get some ANSWERS -- pass us by.

I ran across the street to find Sweetie pacing outside the door of Starbucks. "He's right in there!" she shouted breathlessly. "What should we do?"

"We should go in and talk to him, of course!" I said, calmly.

"Sweetie, I can't go in!" she said. "What would I say? I'm scared!"

I laughed and rolled my eyes. Sweetie was scared of everything. Now, at the prospect of finally getting answers, she was scared to find out the truth. I told her to Wait Here, and I walked inside.

Question Mark Man was on the phone. I beckoned Sweetie in, and had her grab a table just across from him, as I waited in line for a perfunctory iced chai with which to wait him out. I returned to the table where Sweetie was conducting not-so-covert surveillance, and there we waited.

"Sweetie," I said, "stop staring!"
"I want to make sure he doesn't leave."
"Sweetie, we don't want him to think we are stalkers."
"But we ARE stalkers! We need to know the truth!"

I sipped my chai and glanced at the newspaper as I waited for Question Mark Man to get off the phone. He had the handset pressed to his ear, doing so little talking that Sweetie wondered aloud if perhaps he wasn't really on the phone, but was just holding it up "to look busy." I responded that if he wasn't really on the phone, he was holding it up so that he could avoid being accosted by people like us.

"Maybe we should leave," Sweetie said.
"WHAT?! We get so close and then you would have us leave?"
"He could be on the phone for a long time."
"He's RIGHT THERE! All our questions, waiting to be answered!"

She looked a bit sheepish and agreed that, as usual, I was right. [EDITOR'S NOTE: Sweetie disagrees with that line, calling it "revisionist history."] After a few more minutes, Question Mark Man ended his conversation. Sweetie and I looked at each other excitedly, and then, after quickly arguing about who would speak first, we approached him.

"Excuse me, Mr. Lesko?" she said.
The bequestioned man looked up and smiled, knowing a fan when he saw one. He stood to greet us, shaking our hands.
"We have been wanting to talk to you for a long time," Sweetie said.
"Really?" Question Mark man looked surprised.
"You have been present at every important stage in our relationship."
His eyes widened as he realized he was going to be here a while. Boldly, pulling up a chair, Sweetie told him, "Take a seat."
I chimed in. "Do we have a story for you."

Several minutes later, after recounting his fortuitous appearances throughout our entire relationship, and offering him sound business advice ("You should ride around on a question-marked Segway!"), it became apparent that he had no answers for us. In telling him the story, we had answered our own questions. Instead of him telling us what his purpose was, we told him what he meant to us.

He looked a bit overwhelmed. In person, this friendly man was not wild and crazy at all, but rather soft-spoken and contemplative. He paused, as though taking it all in. Then he smiled.

"Gee," he said, "usually people just want to tell me how I helped save them a lot of money!"

(Under my breath) "Sweeeetie.... why aren't you waaaaaviiing...."

Top Five Zombie Presidents

Neil the Intern recently asked me who would be my top 5 zombie presidents. He elaborated: "Who, if they returned from the dead, would make the best president?"

What an interesting prompt! I quickly took up the challenge, and came up with the list below. Note: My Zombie president list may or may not be the same as my “best presidents” list.

1. Ronald Reagan. I’m not sure if his aggressive Cold War style strategies would work in today’s world (it’s a lot harder to intimidate Gorbachev – who was, ultimately, rational – than to intimidate thousands (millions?) of people driven by religious fervor), but it sure would be fun to see Reagan try. “Mister bin Laden, tear down this cave!”
2. John F. Kennedy. Once the nation gets over the disgusting hole in the side of his head, I think Zombie JFK would still be able to inspire us all with his rhetorical abilities. His quotes are my favorite of any modern president. Particularly poignant: "Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and the success of liberty." Also, he’s a supporter of Israel. (“Israel was not created in order to disappear - Israel will endure and flourish. It is the child of hope and the home of the brave. It can neither be broken by adversity nor demoralized by success. It carries the shield of democracy and it honors the sword of freedom.”)
3. Abraham Lincoln. Granted, Lincoln was one of the ugliest presidents, and he would not do well in a televised world. This would go doubly so today: I highly doubt Zombie Lincoln would be more photogenic. That said, I think he would appreciate the enormity of sending our boys to die in Iraq, and be able to convey that gravitas to the world while still likely convincing a majority of Americans to go along with it. (As opposed to just pissing everybody off with a smirk and a few trite lines about freedom.) Also, we could install 21st century defensive technologies in his Top Hat, protecting him from any assassin’s bullet. “I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just. TESLA COIL ACTIVATE!”
4. Thomas Jefferson. I love this man, and I think it would be reassuring for the country to know that a Founding Zombie is watching over us. I’d also be curious to see if he drops his whole Agrarian vision today, in the age of commercialized factory farming. Finally, I think it is about time our country has another redheaded president.
5. Teddy Roosevelt. For no other reason than how cool it would be to see a fat Zombie Roughrider running around shouting, “Bully!”
   

Matt Inaction Day

A proposal by one of our interns (yes, that intern). Although he has known me but a few short months, he understands me better than many who have known me for years.

The following e-mail was forwarded throughout the legal department:

The day will be