Off Season Post 10: Bailey, Banks, & Bulls*it.

Hello and welcome back from the overeating fest we all refer to as Thanksgiving. I hope the holiday provided some much needed relief from life’s daily stressors. I’m thrilled to inform everyone that my Thanksgiving was both relaxing and eventful at the same time. I’m posting on Thursday this week because the mound of extra work I left on my desk was screaming my name when I high tailed it out of the office last Wednesday like the French army when the Germans came goose stepping down the Champs-Elysees. I had to catch up. Alright, that reference was a little unfair, but I did watch a bunch of History Channel this weekend too.

I have three subjects I want to prognosticate about this week and I appreciate—as I always do—you taking the time out of your lives to humor me, if not for just a few fleeting moments. I also need some suggestions for upcoming blog topics and beg you for some feedback. We’re headed at warp speed toward the biggest season of the year and I want to make sure I’m doing my part to keep you entertained.

Sore muscles, paper cuts, shopping dilemmas, travel plans, over-eating fears, the dreaded in-laws, toy stores, school plays, plane tickets, bad weather, and the overall holiday experience can rob us of all the fun. Somehow, holiday cheer always manages to peek out from behind the curtain, though, and if we’re not careful we’ll miss it. With that said, let’s get to it.

Well, let’s not get to it quite yet. I need to purge myself of some mixed emotions before I assume the Some Guy persona. I found out recently that a friend of mine—check that---This person is not really a “friend” per se. I can’t say that we know a lot about each other. I can’t say that we’ve ever spent a significant amount of time together. I can say that we know each other and sometimes that’s enough to know that a friendship would blossom if given the chance. I recently found out that this person is strongly considering moving across the country and that bums me out.

He or She is really not the issue. This isn’t about lost love or a broken heart. This is more about regret. It’s about not picking up the phone when I should have. It’s about being afraid to take a chance. It’s about not knowing what could have been. I’ve missed a few of those moments in my life and as I get older I regret them even more. I’ll think about that this holiday season and I’ll try and correct that in the future. There are few things sadder in life than the loss of something great because of the failure to act. I’m a bit sad today and I felt compelled to share. Thanks for listening.

NOW—let’s get to it.

For those of you who pay attention to nuance, you’ll undoubtedly know that Some Guy in Austin’s birthday is quickly approaching. It’s December 4th to be exact. It’s that one chance we get every seven or eight years to celebrate a birthday on a Saturday.

Unfortunately, I’m not feeling very “birthday-y” this year. It’s not because I feel old or because no one loves me. I’m just not that into it this year, which brings me to my point. It’s MY birthday isn’t it? That means I have the exclusive right to determine what I do that evening, doesn’t it? You’d think so.

I’ve received a few calls from friends who offered to plan something for me and I politely declined. I don’t want to have anyone buy me dinner. I don’t want to dress up. I don’t want to run around Downtown in a tiara and sash announcing to the world the day I was pulled bloody and screaming from my mother’s uterus. I just want to hang out.

I’ll drink a few Lone Stars, take a single shot of whiskey, and two step the night away. If anyone wants to show up, so be it, but I’m not doing anything I don’t want to do. Besides, I forgot to send out Save the Date cards 6 months ago and without a picture of me on a refrigerator magnet reminding people about my “special day.” I have no confidence that a last minute party will materialize.

I also think that—like most things in life—the people who care about me most will be there with me regardless of an event, free booze, or a refrigerator magnet. Those are the people I want around me on my birthday. Let’s face it. An invitation to something is really nothing more than a presumptuous, unsolicited imposition on someone’s valuable time. Alright, that’s a bit cynical, but you understand my point.

Most of the time, we only go to stuff we’re formally invited to attend because we feel either a sense of obligation or there’s free booze involved. We stress over what to wear and lament what other stuff we’re missing by choosing to attend. How many times have you gone out and met a group of your friends for a birthday dinner in honor of someone you know tangentially and ended up forking over an extra forty bucks for her to drink apple-tini’s and bitch about her ex-boyfriend all evening? You leave exhausted, pissed off, and you can’t wait to fire off a “can you believe her” email to whomever you sat next to at that dinner and subtly complained to all night.

I don’t want to have that kind of pressure hanging over my head on my birthday. I’ll take a free Lone Star, a hug, and a song on the jukebox. I’ll take true friends in place of obligors (that’s a fancy lawyer word for someone who owes you something) any day of the week. Like my taste, my birthday will be simple yet meaningful. Incidentally, the one who is owed the obligation is called the obligee. Do me a favor and toast me with your favorite beverage this weekend. In fact, post those picture on my Facebook Fan Page. I’d get a huge kick out of them.

Annnnyyyhooo . . . next subject.

Apparently, the jewelry conglomerate Bailey, Banks, & Biddle thinks I’m a big shot. So does a company called Hira’s Fashion. A funny thing happens when a person becomes a lawyer. You see, the mere impression of affluence bolstered by the presence of a title that implies it is enough to make people with expensive stuff to sell go freaking nuts. Allow me to explain.

When I graduated law school, I had a Doctorate of Jurisprudence conferred upon me. That sounds awfully fancy but it amounts to nothing more than an illustration that I was, in fact, willing to spend sixty thousand dollars of my own money and an additional three years of my life slaving away in the bowels of a law school library in order to argue with insurance adjusters over an extra five grand in an attempt to settle a slip and fall case on my client’s property. It’s not that glamorous. Trust me.

Having a law degree is comparable to renting a limousine. Sure, it looks nice and it will probably help me pick up some chicks, but at the end of the day all it means is that I had a lot of spare time and access to 120 bucks. The truth is that I’m no better or worse off than the next guy and, while this career choice has blessed me with the ability to earn a good living, I’m far from rich—by any standard. Nonetheless, Bailey, Banks, & Biddle sees fit to send me its ultra top secret “Special Reserve Vault” catalog filled with high end (read “ridiculously overpriced) “treasures” inviting me to “unlock great savings.” I love the clever safe metaphor. Whatever.

The best part about it—or the most laughable depending on how you look at it—is the fact that it’s addressed with my full first name, middle initial, and last name followed by a comma and an Esquire. More about that in a minute.

In the interest of full disclosure, I have to tell the readers that there was a time in my life when I was, in fact, rich—by any standards. I lived in a horrible city that sucked the life out of me, went to a horrible job that sucked the life out of me, and drove to and from work in horrendous traffic that sucked the life out of me. However, I made a pile of cash, had a couple fancy schmancy cars, a nice office, a cool house, and did I whatever I wanted to do. The problem with that scenario is that the price of receiving all of that wonderful money was literally my soul. I lost everything dear to me, including my identity, and truth be told, there is no amount of money that could ever make me put myself in that situation again. I simplified and I’m eternally grateful that I did. Lesson Learned. The Hard Way.

During this time, I actually had someone that I referred to as “my jeweler.” I know. Stay with me. Over a seven year period, I purchased approximately $40,000 worth of jewelry from “my jeweler.” Unfortunately for me, none of it was mine. I treated my money as if it didn’t belong to me and so did the recipients of those gifts. Congratulations to the beneficiaries of my generosity—or stupidity. Lesson Learned. Again, the Hard Way. The point is, I suppose, that the fine folks at B,B,&B might be justified in thinking I’m a big shot. Throw in a comma Esquire on top of that and I’m the freaking King of Siam. Ergo, access to the special vault. If they only knew . . . .

By the way, one of my favorite movies is “The King and I” not because it’s any good but because Yul Brynner is the best King of Siam ever. The guy was like five feet tall and literally smoked more than John Wayne. He played cowboys, pharaohs, and kings over the course of his career and all of them were angry and had a Russian accent. Every time that movie comes on television, I watch it simply to see him put his hands on his hips and say “Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.” They don’t make diminutive, chain smoking Russian immigrants like that anymore. Rest in Peace, Yul. Rest in Peace.

Back to my “title.” The term “Esquire” is used by many attorneys—all of them on the East Coast or in Dallas—I imagine, to garner the recognition of earning the aforementioned Juris Doctor degree. The suffix is commonly used in court documents to clarify who the counsel of record is in a particular matter. Its practical use ends there; however, many attorneys put it on everything from business cards to Christmas cards. I literally roll my eyes when I see it; especially in Austin where, like me, the standard lawyer shows up to the office in jeans and boots. Finding an “esquire” in my office is like peeking into a nudie bar and attempting to find a “gentlemen.” Nonetheless, the term “Gentlemen’s Club” is part of our vernacular.

The term “Esquire” was formerly used by English “gentlemen” to denote they came from a higher class than those referred to simply as Mr. So and So. Today, it is as meaningless as a Lady GaGa song or a campaign promise and literally anyone can use it after his or her name. It is generally assumed that the person using it is a lawyer, but that’s not always the case. In short, it means nothing. For the record, I’m hardly an upper class gentleman and I’m certainly not in the habit of gaining advantage by use of a title. Such is life, I suppose. I find it incredibly amusing—and fitting—that I spent a ton of money and time all in pursuit of a meaningless title. I’m like the Charlie Brown of the legal world . . . or is it Charlie Brown, Esquire?

Much to my chagrin, various Bar Associations to which I belong don’t feel that way and they feel free to stain my good name by including Esquire on everything from junk mail to credit card offers. Ironically, its use on junk mail and credit cards leads to—you guessed it—more junk mail and credit cards. It’s bad enough I have to pay dues to the Bar Association in exchange for junk mail. Now they sell my name to whoever will pay for it. Maybe this is why I often feel cheap and unappreciated. Then again, maybe it’s not.

Final thoughts on Esquire. The title is not for me. I’ve said before, I don’t hate being a lawyer and I do get a sense of accomplishment from my job--sometimes. However, the last thing I’d ever want to be remembered for being is a lawyer. With that said, it is customary in certain places to use the Esq. and I understand that. If you ever come to Texas, though, do yourself a favor and leave the Esquire on the plane.

Aside from the giant pile of the catalogs published by the usual suspects: Target, Lands End, Crate & Barrel, REI, etc., I also received a catalog from a company named Hira’s Fashion. I immediately looked at it because it was emblazoned with gold lettering which I assumed I was supposed to think was actually gold leaf. Fat chance. I pulled it from the stack of Christmas solicitations and noticed the E the S and the Q after my name. “This ought to be good,” I thought.

I opened the catalog and immediately began laughing out loud when I saw the greeting. It read—and I quote—

“Hello D. P., Esquire (there’s that word again),

Hira's Fashion was established in London & Hong Kong in 1960. We are specialists in fitting lawyers (Barristers & Solicitors) in all commonwealth legal communities throughout the world for legal regalia. Although not a requirement for U.S attorney's, we are one of only three companies in the world that make a full range of Barrister Horsehair wigs and robes, a tradition that dates back to the 17th Century.”

It went on, but I had to stop for fear of laughing to death. A horsehair wig, huh? I immediately had visions of myself walking into a rural Texas County Courthouse with my briefcase, opening it at counsel’s table in front of the local judge, and donning my horsehair wig prior to beginning oral argument. Can you imagine? Perhaps I could just wear the thing about town to the grocery store, the gym, and various bars and restaurants in lieu of putting Esquire after my name. Everyone would sure as hell know I was a lawyer then. A horsehair wig. Dude, someone needs to tell Hira’s VP of Marketing to hire an American ad agency.

My absolute favorite part is “Although not a requirement for U.S attorney's . . .” Apostrophe misuse aside, I love how they leave the door open for attorneys here in the good ole U.S. of A. to order a horsehair wig. Sure, it’s not a “requirement,” but the option is there if you want to take advantage of it. As if any Esquire who received this in the mail wondered for even a millisecond if he should order a horsehair wig. Classic. I’m still laughing at that one.

Switching gears . . .

I was speaking to a lady friend of mine the other day and we were discussing setting up one of my newly single friends with one of her newly single friends. I don’t know why we do that to our friends. Isn’t that always a bad idea? At any rate, the conversation went something like this:

DP: Is she hot and normal as opposed to homely and crazy?

LF (Lady Friend): That’s mean. Yes, she’s cute.

DP: I didn’t say cute. I said hot. Is she cute as in ‘she has a cute face’ or ‘she has a cute personality?” because I really can’t endorse it if either is the case.

LF That’s mean. I’d say she’s hot, but what do you mean by ‘hot’?

Ok, you get the idea. The conversation went on from there and deteriorated into an iPhone check of the Facebook page where I complained incessantly because there was a severe lack of full body pictures. For the record, her friend could not have been more lovely and she and my newly single friend, although they did not find a love connection, got along famously and had a wonderful time. Disaster averted.

For the benefit of my overwhelmingly female audience allow me to explain the different versions of “hot” that men have in mind when we ask that kind of a question.

First, “hot” does not mean trashy. Nor does it mean easy. “Hot” means attractive from head to toe, from any angle, at any time of day, and in any setting. I know you’re all saying that men’s standards are too high and that test is impossible to meet. No, it’s not. If a man finds you “hot”—whatever that means to him—this will be the definition.

Minus meeting all criteria of this test, there are other kinds of ‘hot’.

Office Hot: This is the semi-attractive woman in an office who provides a welcome distraction from all of the unattractive women in the office. She’s not necessarily THAT attractive, but she’ll do during the 8 hours a day when a man is sequestered from all of the really hot women in the world.

Funny Hot: This is the woman who makes up for an overall lack of physical hotness or a single unattractive physical characteristic by having a fantastic personality. This happens a hell of a lot more than women think it does. Every guy knows a couple of these women. I suppose it could be the same with a funny short, chubby, bald guy, for instance.

Dropped French Fry Hot: Kind of dirty, but you’d still eat it.

College Hot: This one is self explanatory.

Cool Hot: This is the woman that every guy loves to be around because she’s low maintenance, self-assured, even-tempered, and spontaneous. Every guy knows a few of these women too and, believe me, we’re thankful for them. This is the type of girl that romantic comedies use as the loveable sidekick to the neurotic lead character that women picture as the perfect match for any man. When we watch the romantic comedy with you, trust me, we’re looking at the sidekick. No guy wants to listen to Meg Ryan self-loath for an entire evening.

Sand Wedge Hot: This is also known as a 9-Iron or a Picasso Painting. Why? Because it looks good from 100 yards away.

and last but not least, 10-2 Hot. This is the woman who is a Ten at Two A.M. and a Two at 10 A.M.

Of course, there are other kinds of hot, but I think this runs the range. You’re welcome.

. . . and FINALLY . . .

I lost a bet recently. To tell the truth, I lose a lot of bets. I lose bets on pool games, football games, turtle races, and any other friendly, meaningless type of wager that friends dream up while downing a few Lone Stars. The problem with the bet I lost recently is that I lost it to Lincee Ray, the wonderful, fun-loving author of www.ihategreenbeans.com and bona fide member of the Wes Hayden Fan Club (she’s running for Treasurer).

The substance of the bet is unimportant. What is important is that I lost. What I lost is really important. You see, I made the mistake of sharing with Lincee that years ago I supplemented my income by performing some modeling jobs on the side of my regular gigs. I was no Antonio Sabato, Jr., but the work was somewhat steady and I never minded it too much. My highest paying job came when I was asked to spend 4 hours at a photo shoot here in Austin. A woman I knew at the time had a friend who was a photographer and suggested I go see her about the job. I did and she hired me. I was told to show up at a local studio where I would get fitted in my wardrobe. Excited, I accepted and went about my business.

The following week I showed up at the studio. The woman came to the front and greeted me. We walked back to the room where I’d be earning my keep for the next four hours. Much to my surprise all that was in the room was a white, flowing background with a king sized bed in the foreground. That’s it. Hmmmm, I wondered. What in the world have I done? I had been assured that this was a legitimate photo shoot for a local business that would appear across town on a billboard and in various print ads. A consummate professional, I pushed on.

When I got to “wardrobe” I began to worry. The woman opened the door and instructed me to “pick a pair that works and meet me in the studio.” When I walked in there were a dozen or so pairs of boxer shorts laid out on a table along with a cardboard nametag that read “Male Talent” on it. Sh*t, I thought.

Long story short, I put on the boxers and joined my female counterpart—who I assume was just as uninformed as I was—between the sheets for a four hour photo session. Apparently, the ad was for a local store called Condom Sense which sells a variety of safe sex items. The ad promoted safe sex along with the Grand Opening Sale.

That’s a true story and I happened to share it with Lincee after I’d let my guard down after she bought me a few Lone Stars and unquestionably slipped something in my beer. Later in the evening, Lincee and I made a bet—again, the substance of which is irrelevant—and I lost. The price of defeat was a copy of one of the pictures which she would post on her site. Not one to shirk my responsibility, I paid up.

Please know that I am horrified, but a loss is a loss. Congratulations, Lincee. I will get you back . . . one of these days.

Please enjoy the start to your holiday season. Take it easy on yourselves and on those around you. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be wearing a set of boxers . . . and a horsehair wig. DP