The sheer volume of information out there about whether or not to go to law school is pretty mind boggling. Why does everyone feel like they have to weigh in on this? There must be more people who write law school advice blogs then there are that vote in mayoral elections.
I've spent the last 24 hours lost in a maze of law school confidential blogs and career advice websites. It's been a kind of like walking through a stadium jam packed with people shouting "don't do it, you idiot!" The general consensus is that you should only go if you want to be a lawyer, because it's very expensive and insanely competitive. Also, most people find that being a lawyer either sucks because you work at a firm, or doesn't pay well because you work for the public interest. Here's how much debt you will rack up, on average. The people are all a bunch of jerks. Job prospects aren't actually all that shiny. This is how shitty it is to work in a corporate law firm.
I must be a deaf idiot, because I'm leaning towards it.
Yes, law school costs a lot and you shouldn't invest that much unless you know where you're going with it. But I'm not convinced by this argument. Undergraduate education is just as, if not more expensive and typically even more worthless. Barely anyone knows what they're going to major in and what they're going to use it for when they start undergraduate, but that's not keeping anyone's wallet shut. My own reasons were for college were pretty dumb in retrospect, but I still stand by them. I needed to get the hell out of Nashville, Tennessee (no offense to my friends and family there - the best friends I have are still there), and I wanted to learn something about the way the world works. I got exactly what I wanted out of my undergraduate - an incredible experience living in the insanity of Los Angeles and a new lens with which to view the world, tinted green.
I think that I can get exactly what I want out of law school. Anonymous Lawyer's Jeremey Blachman talks about law school giving you a sense of purpose. On the real, I want that - I want a path, so I can just get started running on it already! My internship director has ph.d's, bachelor's, masters, professorships, you name it, and she tells me her law degree was the one that changed her life the most. Say what you want, but people treat you differently if you have a j.d. I'm not just talking about the opportunity to preen at a party when someone asks you about your career. It's like a big fucking gold star on your resume, and god knows why but people take it seriously. A lot of journalists have law degrees. And I think it will matter when I go into the job market. Assuming symmetric information and symmetric skill sets(forgive me, I am an economics major.), a J.D. is going to make a difference to a hiring director. Big. Fat. Period. Additionally, I will find the classes interesting. I will learn information I consider useful. I can get at least as much out of a law degree as out of UCLA, and it can't possible cost me more than UCLA has.
Admittedly it will take some convincing, a few lifechanging epiphanies, perhaps a lobotomy(law school admissions board, please read this as humor) until I can seem myself being happy as a big corporate lawyer. But what if I can use these skill to do something more meaningful, in environmental law, or in public interest? I've never cared about money. (wait what's my major?) All I care about is finding a job that I can care about enough so that it's not hell making a living off of it. (If anyone's having this dilemma, read this now. It's like he plucked the thoughts about careers from my brain, really eerie.) It's a definite possibility that those jobs could make me happy. I know that I want to end up as a published writer no matter what I do after UCLA and for how long, and that kind of work can only help me in that.
I know exactly how hard it will be - I've read more than enough about it. From what I hear, it's exactly like placing your head in a meat grinder and turning the crank yourself.(this site for mature audiences. apologies to the creators of Saw if I stole the idea for your next movie.) But for some reason I'm not afraid. Assuming that I'm not an overconfident fool, I think it's because I've spent the past 3 years strapping my brain in the iron maiden that is the UCLA economics program, and I'm not even slightly mathematically minded. I'm so right brained that I don't even know how to use the number pad on the keyboard. It's like I'm right handed and I've been trying to make a career as a lefty armwrestler. If I can have the success I've had in economics with my particular skillset, then I can't feel real fear when I read those law school horror stories. Law school may be hard, but at least I'll get to use my right hand.
Damn this was long. but yeah, I need help on this one guys.
Trash Man and Law School
Just moved to the new apartment, and by new I mean old. The building is a near exact copy of the one I lived in last year, which is pretty eerie and results in my trying to sit in chairs that aren't there any more and look for stuff I need in the places in which they used to be located last year.
The timing of the move was incredibly lucky - I moved into an apartment with air conditioning as soon as this 100 degree heat wave swept across LA, overwhelming deodorants and antiperspirants and generally sapping all of the will to move or live. I'm liking this place so far, except for one thing - the 7am garbage man wakeup call.
Every morning around 7am, I wake up, and for a brief confused moment, I am utterly convinced that I'm tied to the wing of a Boeing 747. Understand that this isn't a nice, short series of clangs or engine noises. It's so loud it's like having your ear pressed to the engine of an 18 wheeler, while it's exploding. This racket lasts so long that I'm beginning to suspect that the garbage man is some sort of sadistic insomniac who hates the mere idea of sleep. I imagine him with bloodshot eyes, earplugs, and teeth bared in a triumphant grin .
Make no mistake, I'm not some princess who wakes up if he can hear the sound of a fly landing on a pillow. I can sleep through earthquakes, fires, and more often, the last call for my flight at the airport. I have all of the vital signs of a rotting log when I'm asleep. But this is 20 car pileup noise for at least 20 minutes. What can he be doing? How many dumpsters are there? This is literally the only explanation I can provide for the unholy cacophony of noises I hear:
The garbage man arrives that the pick up point with a broken muffler, replaced by what sounds like a pane of aluminum siding and garbage can lids. Alas, the mechanism for lifting the dumpster and overturning the refuse has failed. He is not a sensible man, but he is quite imaginative and resourceful, and decides to hammer a metal plate to the front of the vehicle to act as a ramp to flip objects in it's path, like he saw on a rerun of Robot Warz last night on G4tech tv. The possibility that he achieves the exact combination of speed and force necessary to send the dumpster on the precise trajectory that would flip the refuse into the truck is minuscule, but this garbage man is a determined man and tries anyway, clanging a spoon against a pot and shooting off a 12 gauge rifle to drum up his courage. For 20 minutes, he rams the dumpster repeatedly and fruitlessly. Finally, realizing that he was simply pressing the wrong button, he detaches the metal ramp, dragging it on the sidewalk, where it clashes with the littered shrapnel from the destroyed dumpster, and takes the trash away the normal way.
It doesn't help my morning mood much, and I already have an insanely angry morning mood. If you see me glaring at a truck in the AM, it's not because I'm pissed about something in general or because I'm grumpy. It's because I want to kill that fucking truck for being so fucking loud. Seriously, stay away from me before 10am unless I've had coffee.
Anyways, I've been thinking about going to law school, thanks to a conversation with my internship director who holds roughly 5 degrees and says that law school is the most useful and fulfilling. I don't know what she could have said to me, because I've always said that I would hate law school and hate being a lawyer. My friends, family, and anonymous readers, it's now your job to convince me not to go to law school.
The timing of the move was incredibly lucky - I moved into an apartment with air conditioning as soon as this 100 degree heat wave swept across LA, overwhelming deodorants and antiperspirants and generally sapping all of the will to move or live. I'm liking this place so far, except for one thing - the 7am garbage man wakeup call.
Every morning around 7am, I wake up, and for a brief confused moment, I am utterly convinced that I'm tied to the wing of a Boeing 747. Understand that this isn't a nice, short series of clangs or engine noises. It's so loud it's like having your ear pressed to the engine of an 18 wheeler, while it's exploding. This racket lasts so long that I'm beginning to suspect that the garbage man is some sort of sadistic insomniac who hates the mere idea of sleep. I imagine him with bloodshot eyes, earplugs, and teeth bared in a triumphant grin .
Make no mistake, I'm not some princess who wakes up if he can hear the sound of a fly landing on a pillow. I can sleep through earthquakes, fires, and more often, the last call for my flight at the airport. I have all of the vital signs of a rotting log when I'm asleep. But this is 20 car pileup noise for at least 20 minutes. What can he be doing? How many dumpsters are there? This is literally the only explanation I can provide for the unholy cacophony of noises I hear:
The garbage man arrives that the pick up point with a broken muffler, replaced by what sounds like a pane of aluminum siding and garbage can lids. Alas, the mechanism for lifting the dumpster and overturning the refuse has failed. He is not a sensible man, but he is quite imaginative and resourceful, and decides to hammer a metal plate to the front of the vehicle to act as a ramp to flip objects in it's path, like he saw on a rerun of Robot Warz last night on G4tech tv. The possibility that he achieves the exact combination of speed and force necessary to send the dumpster on the precise trajectory that would flip the refuse into the truck is minuscule, but this garbage man is a determined man and tries anyway, clanging a spoon against a pot and shooting off a 12 gauge rifle to drum up his courage. For 20 minutes, he rams the dumpster repeatedly and fruitlessly. Finally, realizing that he was simply pressing the wrong button, he detaches the metal ramp, dragging it on the sidewalk, where it clashes with the littered shrapnel from the destroyed dumpster, and takes the trash away the normal way.
It doesn't help my morning mood much, and I already have an insanely angry morning mood. If you see me glaring at a truck in the AM, it's not because I'm pissed about something in general or because I'm grumpy. It's because I want to kill that fucking truck for being so fucking loud. Seriously, stay away from me before 10am unless I've had coffee.
Anyways, I've been thinking about going to law school, thanks to a conversation with my internship director who holds roughly 5 degrees and says that law school is the most useful and fulfilling. I don't know what she could have said to me, because I've always said that I would hate law school and hate being a lawyer. My friends, family, and anonymous readers, it's now your job to convince me not to go to law school.
It's been an eventful past couple of weeks. Last weekend Amanda and I went to the Sunset Junction Street Fair in the silverlake neighborhood. Live music, corny rides, roided out grandpas holding hands, and the worst infestation of hipsters I have ever seen in my life.
We spent most of our time at the Bates St. Stage to see Nico Vega, The Submarines, Delta Spirit, and a 2 hour set from Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley band. I'd never heard of Delta Spirit before this. Essentially, they are a group of emo punkers turned rootsy folk rockers/ The lead singer never smiles, except ironically or sarcastically, and regularly quaffs a shot of whiskey between songs, a practice complicated by the presence of the harmonica stand mounted on his neck. They all play multiple instruments, including a tin trashcan lid which one guy enthusiastically and somehow, artistically bashes during the song "trashcan". All of this added up to a truly intriguing show. new favorite band.
Conor Oberst was pretty goddamn amazing. We were both tired as hell during the 2 hour set, but definitely glad we stayed. Definitely the best 15 dollars I've ever spent.
We spent most of our time at the Bates St. Stage to see Nico Vega, The Submarines, Delta Spirit, and a 2 hour set from Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley band. I'd never heard of Delta Spirit before this. Essentially, they are a group of emo punkers turned rootsy folk rockers/ The lead singer never smiles, except ironically or sarcastically, and regularly quaffs a shot of whiskey between songs, a practice complicated by the presence of the harmonica stand mounted on his neck. They all play multiple instruments, including a tin trashcan lid which one guy enthusiastically and somehow, artistically bashes during the song "trashcan". All of this added up to a truly intriguing show. new favorite band.
Conor Oberst was pretty goddamn amazing. We were both tired as hell during the 2 hour set, but definitely glad we stayed. Definitely the best 15 dollars I've ever spent.
Writing seems like such leisurely work that it’s difficult to take it seriously. I procrastinate more when writing a paper than any other assignment because of that particular quality. I can indulge my short attention span just as I would if you were playing a video game or skipping through my ipod. All art is this way. That’s why it’s so easy to fail at creating art. You can imagine yourself to be working hard – you can spend hours and hours a day trying to create that work of art – but you are still procrastinating. Real creative work happens quickly and takes a kind of discipline that most people don’t have, that I am attempting to develop. It’s why writing teachers tell you, just write. You simply have to do it. It takes a mind that is conditioned and strong to face the problem of creation constantly, persistently, without deviation from the issue at hand. I guess what I’m saying is it takes more focus than you probably realize. You might even call it obsession. I need this obsession.
The reason I'm writing in this so much is that coffee bean's internet enforces this ten minute break every two hours, and I'm opening up a word document and rambling.
Took a picture of The Wiltern next door on each two hour break:
The reason I'm writing in this so much is that coffee bean's internet enforces this ten minute break every two hours, and I'm opening up a word document and rambling.
Took a picture of The Wiltern next door on each two hour break:
A Strange Juxtaposition
The center of the UCLA nightlife is an all walk intersection in Westwood where a pair of hookah bars, a pair of movie theaters, a Starbucks, and the best boba and cookie places in town are all within a hundred feet of each other.
There are students driving expensive cars unnecessarily fast, the roars of 8 cylinder engines periodically drowning out conversation. There are students clustered around glowing hookahs spending too much money, laughing as plumes of sweet scented smoke issue from their mouths. At least a hundred students line up for cookies and ice cream from Diddy Riese.
A homeless man claims a bench in front of the Mann Bruin theater and the Starbucks. He seems like every bum I’ve ever seen; he’s wearing almost everything he owns, and everything he owns is stained and torn. But he never asks for money and I’ve never smelled alcohol on him. His hands aren’t curled around a cup, rattling the change inside. Instead, they clutch a bible which he waves like a two-handed sword as he shouts maledictions and condemnations of passers by. His eyes bulge madly, offwhite against black skin. His violent gestures stop just short of physical blows. He is angrier than anyone I’ve ever seen.
An acoustic guitar accompanies him on the bench. Occasionally, he seizes it by the neck and strangles a melody from it, singing songs that remind me of the rhythmic chorus of chain gang at work. His voice is deep, and surprisingly rich. It vibrates with a passion that I don’t understand.
Everyone tries to ignore this guy. Just noticing him seems to ruin your night. I made eye contact with him once; it was like an immediate injection of anger and resentment. I haven’t seen him in a while. I wonder what happened to him.
There are students driving expensive cars unnecessarily fast, the roars of 8 cylinder engines periodically drowning out conversation. There are students clustered around glowing hookahs spending too much money, laughing as plumes of sweet scented smoke issue from their mouths. At least a hundred students line up for cookies and ice cream from Diddy Riese.
A homeless man claims a bench in front of the Mann Bruin theater and the Starbucks. He seems like every bum I’ve ever seen; he’s wearing almost everything he owns, and everything he owns is stained and torn. But he never asks for money and I’ve never smelled alcohol on him. His hands aren’t curled around a cup, rattling the change inside. Instead, they clutch a bible which he waves like a two-handed sword as he shouts maledictions and condemnations of passers by. His eyes bulge madly, offwhite against black skin. His violent gestures stop just short of physical blows. He is angrier than anyone I’ve ever seen.
An acoustic guitar accompanies him on the bench. Occasionally, he seizes it by the neck and strangles a melody from it, singing songs that remind me of the rhythmic chorus of chain gang at work. His voice is deep, and surprisingly rich. It vibrates with a passion that I don’t understand.
Everyone tries to ignore this guy. Just noticing him seems to ruin your night. I made eye contact with him once; it was like an immediate injection of anger and resentment. I haven’t seen him in a while. I wonder what happened to him.
I've been thinking a lot about what it takes to find happiness in life. I think that more than anything, you need courage. It takes courage to recognize that your choices have backed you into a cage, and even more courage to tear down those bars and start all over again. It takes courage to make choices not out of expediency, practicality, or perceived necessity but from an unflinching assessment of your own desires. You can't shy away from difficult choices, because happiness is a difficult thing in and of itself.
Life is difficult right now, and will be for several years. The economy will not recover quickly, and once remade, it will be completely unrecognizable from the economy of the 90's. I know I sound pessimistic, maybe even depressed, but I promise that I'm not. I've started to change my perspective - to see opportunities where adversity and drudgery once loomed.
Life is difficult right now, and will be for several years. The economy will not recover quickly, and once remade, it will be completely unrecognizable from the economy of the 90's. I know I sound pessimistic, maybe even depressed, but I promise that I'm not. I've started to change my perspective - to see opportunities where adversity and drudgery once loomed.
I suck at blogging.
But I have a couple things to say while I'm here.
A friend of mine gave me some really good, very basic advice on my career. Essentially he told me I was smart enough to succeed at anything I desired, and that I'd have to choose something that would make me happy.
This is my first summer in Los Angeles and man, the living is easy. Pool after work, long leisurely dinners, walks at night in perfect weather, buying bags full of fruit from the grocery store for a few cents, taking the bus to somewhere new+venice beach every weekend. I'm overwhelmed with life changing decisions to make, and I'm struggling to both pay my rent and keep from starving, but god damn if I don't feel like I'm on vacation.
oh yeah, and that bike I was excited about below was stolen. Don't worry, 'Los Angeles, here I come' is still very much in effect but I'll just be on foot.
Also, what's this Twilight nonsense? I bet other vampire fiction writers are taking a long, hard look at their lives, wondering what they could have wrong. I imagine them sitting alone at the bar as the bartender gives the last call, one hand curled limply around an empty glass, the other clutching a ragged copy of "New Moon." Their faces are frozen in a rictus of despair and rage. "Why?" They cast the question into the empty room. Nobody can answer. The question shrivels, disintegrates, and fades into silence.
but seriously, what the fuck is this shit?
But I have a couple things to say while I'm here.
A friend of mine gave me some really good, very basic advice on my career. Essentially he told me I was smart enough to succeed at anything I desired, and that I'd have to choose something that would make me happy.
This is my first summer in Los Angeles and man, the living is easy. Pool after work, long leisurely dinners, walks at night in perfect weather, buying bags full of fruit from the grocery store for a few cents, taking the bus to somewhere new+venice beach every weekend. I'm overwhelmed with life changing decisions to make, and I'm struggling to both pay my rent and keep from starving, but god damn if I don't feel like I'm on vacation.
oh yeah, and that bike I was excited about below was stolen. Don't worry, 'Los Angeles, here I come' is still very much in effect but I'll just be on foot.
Also, what's this Twilight nonsense? I bet other vampire fiction writers are taking a long, hard look at their lives, wondering what they could have wrong. I imagine them sitting alone at the bar as the bartender gives the last call, one hand curled limply around an empty glass, the other clutching a ragged copy of "New Moon." Their faces are frozen in a rictus of despair and rage. "Why?" They cast the question into the empty room. Nobody can answer. The question shrivels, disintegrates, and fades into silence.
but seriously, what the fuck is this shit?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)