10/31/2003
I like to think of myself as a scientist at heart. I need to lay my hands on something to fully accept it. That said, I do believe in life on other planets. How can you say there's no life anywhere but earth when the universe is boundless? I tend to think fortune tellers are scam artists, except for the tarot card reader at the QVB in Sydney who told me I was going to go home and hook up with the most perfect love of my life (married 14 months later). And I've gotta say there is something to biorhythms.
I first started looking into biorhythms after having one of those days where everything I touched turned to crap. My computer died, I got nabbed doing 85 on the beltway, and then got stuck for 30 minutes behind some schlub at Kroger trying to buy a bag or pork rinds with the proceeds from his penny jar. That evening, just for grins I Googled "biorhythm chart" and found this site. I dialed in my birthday, and, sure enough, two of my curves were bottom dead center, and the other was getting close.
Ever since, I keep that site bookmarked and check it a couple times a week, just to get an idea of what lies ahead. No, I don't hole up under a blanket with my beanie babies on the bad days, but when life comes apart at the seams, it's nice to be able to blame it on the numbers.
10/29/2003
Karoshi, for both of you loyal readers out there wondering what it means, is the Japanese word for "death by overworking." I haven't confirmed it with my physician, but I'm fairly certain I'm suffering through a mild bout, you know, not enough work to actually kill me, just enough to make me consume Excedrin in quantities that could stop a mule's heart and pine for the "good ol' days" of my former vocation, peddling toilets for nine bucks an hour.
I looked pretty good on Monday morning, but around the time Houston rush hour hit (which, for the uninitiated, begins at 2:30 in the afternoon and lasts until 8:00) I was at Ben Taub Hospital for an expert's depo that wouldn't end until tomorrow. If you haven't had the distinct pleasure of visiting our fine county medical facility, think of a Greyhound station, now add the mellifluous aroma of sauerkraut cooking on a camp stove in the corner, then toss in a few scrub-clad zombies and you'll get the gist.
Hot on the heels of my head hitting the pillow, I was back up for a 350-page marathon of a plaintiff suing because an erroneously reported bankruptcy in her file kept her from amassing more credit. She's literally carrying $70,000 in short-term revolving debt, but the only explanation for why her 138th credit card only had a $300 limit was an invalid bankruptcy entry? People never cease to amaze me...
Now it's 9:30 Wednesday night, and I'm in the office doing a photo shoot of some laparoscopic medical device exhibit while the fax machine is spitting out 300 some odd pages of corrections from my proofer. They say there's no American equivalent to karoshi, but I beg to differ... and it smells like coffee and laser toner.
10/20/2003
As we are all well aware, the world is teeming with those completely bereft of human decency. To keep the karmic balance at equilibrium, for every bomb-wielding goat-humping Muslim extremist asshole, there must exist an absolute opposite; and Philadelphia's Court Reporting Son, Irving Starkman, is doing his part to keep the universe in check.
From his custom room baskets awaiting our arrival to the private party at his home Saturday night, including our own private Mummers Parade and every minute detail in between, Irv has raised the bar for all conferences in the future. I've attended extravagant functions where marketing and PR were the core intent, but the enjoyment we derived from this convention rose to its unprecedented level because Irv simply wanted us to have a good time and love Philadelphia as much as he does.
Irv, for the blood, sweat, time, love and tears you undoubtedly poured into STAR's 10th anniversary, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts.
10/13/2003
I'm leaving tomorrow for the Society for the Technological Advancement of Reporting's Fall Conference in Philadelphia. It's been three years or so since I had a "Cheese Whiz With" at Geno's, so that'll likely be my first stop on the way from the airport.
There's two conferences a year I will never miss, the spring and fall STAR conventions. Immediately precedent to my first meeting, I was working myself harder than Rick Perry's hairsylist, trying to collect all the ducats I could before my chosen profession went the way of piano neckties and Vanilla Ice. After my return from the STAR spring symposium in Vancouver, having spent the week swapping stories and scotches with titans of the industry, I garnered a completely new outlook on my profession that I maintain to this day, court reporting as a business rather than a hobby.
At most state functions, everyone is petrified to speak about specifics and practices, lest your next door neighbor move in on your turf; that, and in Texas we spend most of our convention time in mind-numbing continuing education learning how to interpret our damn format manual. Thanks to STAR, I now have the opportunity to candidly bounce ideas off the sharpest sticks in the court reporting drawer with none of the backbiting so prevalent with local associations. Oh, and did I mention I also got to hike a glacier in New Zealand and snorkel the Great Barrier Reef?
If you're a CaseCATalyst user, I highly recommend you join. It may be too late for Philly, but we'll be in Vegas next April! Visit www.staronline.org for more info.
10/2/2003
Honest to God, I thought surely I had missed the golden age of chainsmoking in depositions. I'm coming up on my ten-year anniversary as a reporter, so thankfully I got to skip double-knit suits, wax dictating cylinders, and, best of all, spending eight hours gasping for air in the miasma of a carcinogenic haze with an odor vaguely reminiscent of a coal miner's ass. Well, as of yesterday, everything old is new again.
It wasn't enough that I had the distinct pleasure of spending 10 hours with a charming specimen who kept correcting counsel on the point that she lived in a "motor home" not "mobile home," like that somehow mitigated the fact that I needed a shower after merely sitting five feet away from her. No, that wasn't enough of a crap day. No, the high point came when one of the attorneys whipped out his pack of Camels (yes, Camels, not some sissy ultra-light coffin nail) and said "You don't mind if I smoke" -- more as a statement of fact as he was lighting it than a polite request for permission -- which then prompted everyone else in the tiny dank conference room to spark up as well.
This may be de rigueur in North Carolina or Kentucky, but this just doesn't float in Texas.
