What can I say?

Sometimes a man just needs to write.

I find that, from time to time, I lose focus on what I blog for.

There are all kinds of blogs, after all.

Some blogs are designed for people to share intimate thoughts. Some are designed exclusively as a collection of links to other blogs. Some blogs are designed to make the writer seem something they're not.

My blog is none of those. I don't pretend my blog is special. I do, however, realize it has a place.

My blog's place is that of my outlet. The primary reason for me to blog is to write. Alot of people seem to follow that vein. The main person popping to mind is Rozanne, who seems (like me) to be looking for a way to voice the writer she wants to be. Although it seems that, since she's in publishing, she at least has one foot in the writing world. I'm a lawyer, which means any writing I do get to do is forced to be boring and intellectual to the point of tedium, which therefore robs me of whatever joy I might obtain from it.

Don't get me wrong. I actually quite enjoy legal writing. The thing I think I like the most about lawyering is the argument. Not the confronting another person part of the argument, but the persuasion element. And the purest persuasion is that which appeals most to the logical part of a person, because you know that you aren't scoring points off of cheap plays at emotion or what-not. So I enjoy it when my legal writing is rewarded by a judge being persuaded to my viewpoint.

When I first started lawyer, in Marion County, I wrote much more than I do now. As a prosecutor in Marion County, you have the luxury of some element of time prior to arguing points before a court. When you commence a case, you schedule a time a month or so into the future for motions to be argued, and after that (assuming you win) you schedule a new date for a trial. Since there's all that time, you are able to pour yourself into your writing. I often feel that the judges in Marion County made better decisions on a more consistent basis regarding legal issues, if only because they were better briefed on the law in question, and had time to read what was written for them and to research whether the points made were legitimate.

I came to Multnomah County and was shocked to see that, as a misdemeanor attorney, I was assigned a case two or three days prior to trial, and further that motion arguments were held on the trial day. There was no great opportunity to receive a motion, consider it, research it, and respond. Hell, you often didn't get the motion until the day prior to the trial.

I recall how astounded my co-workers were to see that, despite this disturbing state of affairs, I still managed to write responses to the vast majority of motions presented. I pretended like it was a great bother, but, really, it was my chance to engage in one of my favorite lawyering bits. I love writing. I also love the crutch that a prepared memo represents, because I (unlike most lawyers I've met) am terrible at remembering the law, and being able to direct a judge to my written material takes off a fair amount of pressure.

And I've always loved to write. I credit my enjoyment of writing with the perception my teachers had that I was smart. Really, I'm not that smart. Writing is great in that you can take an idea, write it down, realize how half-baked it is, erase part of it, and refine it (rinse and repeat) until you've made it into something at-least-cohesive.

But the best writing is the last-minute stuff, because if you can write well, it can be clever without being contrived. One day, in my senior honors english class in high school, I was shocked to find that I'd forgotten to do a writing assignment. It wasn't anything major, just a page or so (handwritten) on a hero in our life and how they fit into the Beowulf hero-archetype (whatever that meant). I was 3/4 of the way around the room from where Mrs. Schwabe, our teacher, began collecting the assignments. Luckily for me, some of my fellow students engaged her in small-talk as she came around the room, buying me the extra two or three minutes I needed to really get the assignment done nicely. By the time she got to me, I had a complete writing assignment, and I don't even think she realized how hastily it was put together.

I didn't like Schwabe. I remember my least favorite writing assignment. We were to read, digest, and respond to a poem called "Venus and the New Ark" or some drivel like that (I'd link you, but Google even thinks my search is ludicrous...). I didn't take kindly to this assignment. Essentially, the poem discussed a group of astronauts assigned to develop a greenhouse on Venus, and while they were gone a war broke out on earth, and their home was destroyed, requiring the two men and two women of the New Ark to begin again, like Michael Finnegan. Seeing as I was growing into my own in high school, and wasn't about to be Schwabe's yes-man, I wrote something like the following: "This is stupid. I don't understand why we are required to imply meaning into a straight-forward story like this. I object to being asked for deeper meaning in the discussion of a science experiment, looking for the secret significance of a dirt experiment in a spaceship. This is a waste of our time." Mrs. Schwabe's snappy come-back? "Obviously, I disagree." Well, I guess I was put in my place.

Now I don't have to worry about Schwabe approving of my work, and I don't have editors to worry about. Indeed, my blog is for me, to the greatest extent, and if you get a kick out of it, that's a bonus. I am aware of only four or five people that regularly read it fully (JLowe, Frodo, Mak, Burnsy, and occasionally C-Mac) and the occasional stops-by by the likes of Krime-Dog Kerry, Roxanne, Jack Bog, and my boss. Otherwise, I'm free to put whatever here.

Last week, my friend Hozay (who ended up not buying the Element, thank you) e-mailed me out of confusion regarding my blog. Mainly, he was confused because the voice he reads in my blog is not the same as the voice he hears when we talk. And that got me thinking. Which voice is the true one? The voice in my blog, I think, represents the voice I wish I could speak in all the time. The sentences are coherent, they come to a rational (though not always agreeable) conclusion, they are self-referential and deprecating, and they always are laced with some bitter-sweet humor. In my daily life, I am a silly person who spouts off half-baked pontifications and cusses too much. What I told Hozay is what is true -- "With regard to the blog, much of what is written is a twist on life where I'm trying to let out the frustrated writer. Some things are cast in a way designed to be funny to the reader, or to make the reader think. They are not always exactly how I feel (although I suspect, in some places, you can tell exactly when I'm just being straight)." But, I guess, this is only mostly true. While I do consciously consider that what I'm writing here is being read by somebody, it's mostly just me trying to write.

What's the point of what I'm saying? Well, I guess it's me trying to work through my own frustration at not understanding why I keep on blogging. I spend alot of time thinking that I should stop this blog, because it serves no purpose and will, I suppose, eventually be my doom (just like Queen of Sky's blog was for her...). But, at the same time, I can't let it go. And I think this is because, if I don't blog, I won't write, and all semblance of ambition will dissolve from my life.

Our secret? Between you and me? I think I'd eventually like to be a writer, though I really have nothing to write about that the masses would likely enjoy consuming. But, Krime-Dog, if you're reading this, whenever you get to doing your children's book, I'd like to help if you need it.

And so, enough of my blog's existential quandry. It will survive another day, to the delight of just about noone.

A couple of random topics:

C-Mac and the Blazer game. If any of you know C-Mac, you know he's an evil, evil man. Which I've dealt with well by mostly just shrugging my shoulders and watching for the other shoe to drop. I hadn't been affected by his crapulence until recently. As I've reported, I was supposedly going to the Blazers-Pistons game in March. This was with C-Mac, who caved and bought a ten-pack of tickets, which is a misnomer, as it's actually 20 tickets for ten games. Anywho, after promising the ticket to me (the exact words were "Okay, it's yours," C-Mac has supposedly retracted the guarantee and placed me on a contingency basis, assuming his daddy doesn't want to go with him. To which I say "BULL-PUCKY". A promise is a promise. I'll sue for that ticket, so you'd better hand it over!

Halo 2. Like every other geek in the world, I've eagerly anticipated the release of X-Box's latest shooting game, Halo 2. For those who don't speak nerd, Halo was a game where you shot up lots of other people in an effort to achieve mildly noble aims. The main point was destruction. The game's value, though, lay in multi-player mode, where you can host epic battles posing up to 32 players against eachother in an orgy of death and mayhem. Tonight, I went to Shro's to try out the new version, and (like New Coke) it is good in a different way. There are definite improvements, and yet things I'm not sure I like. Reminds me of the first time I heard U2's Zooropa. At first I said "what the hell is this?" But, eventually, it grew on my. Anyway, the first multiplayer death extravaganza is Thursday (in celebration of some obscure government holiday), and if my thumbs aren't calloused and numb at the end, I'll know I didn't do good enough.

Herpes. As with about 98% of the population (according to my doctor), I am a carrier of herpes. Not the gross kind, mind you, but the kind that result in ugly blights on your lip from time to time (strangely called cold sores, despite the fact that I often get them in the summer time...). Of course, not all of those 98% ever exhibit symptoms. That's left to poor bastards like me. Hozay takes great joy in my despair, as he likes to refer to the ugly growths on my face as Quato, in recognition of the Total Recall character that grows forth from the body of its host, looking entirely gross yet enthralling you instead of totally repelling you. I've noticed, as time has gone on, these fiendish sores take longer to heal. I've had the current iteration of this issue for almost a week now, and though it is nearly gone, I keep on bumping my lip, causing a new gush of blood. I hate these things. I blame my mother. BAH!

My car. So, I know you're all concerned. Turns out a drainage cap on my rear differential was not entirely screwed on, which caused a leak, which caused dryness in my differential, which caused damage. Imagine my delight when my auto shop called today to report that repairs were immediately necessary (grrrrr...) but that they should be covered by my 60,000 mile powertrain warrantee (yay!). I simply needed to take my car to a dealership and pretend I'd never foolishly let my car bleed its vital juices away. So, I await the dealership's realization that I should have a repaired vehicle on their dime. I love this country.

I'm sleepy. I've been listening to a playlist I put together on my computer called "Sleepy Time Music". Contains great stuff: 10,000 Maniacs, Joe Cocker, Blind Melon, U2, Alanis, Dire Straits, Blues Traveler, Sheryl Crow, Van Morrison, Sade. A veritable cornucopia of joy, all slow and sleep-inducing. 'Fraid it's working. So, I guess I'll just have to...

Catch ya later.