Archive for March, 2010

For those of us trying to get out of the toilet (and in all likelihood just into a slightly less awful toilet), sending out resumes is a lot like being on a deserted island. Except in this version of castaway, we’re third tier toilet grads supping on ramen noodles, and instead of a painted volleyball, Wilson is instead the name of the Sallie Mae bill collector calling every 30 minutes asking when their money will come in. Other than that, metaphorically, we’re living the same meaningless life with little to call our own, isolated from the rest of the world due to our career choices and suffocating debt. We send out resumes in mass, on anything we can find, desperately praying for salvation, or a least a reprieve to a better island. I couldn’t imagine having to do this job search without the benefit of email. Because the odds of response are minute, the amount of time put in to applying would reflect minimal emotional investment. I have perfected the art of the form cover letter. Each job opening requires only a few moments of google searching to get the gist of the firm at which I would apply, after which I would change the address, and use the appropriate OpenOffice macro to insert the corresponding copypasta. I have a certain one for criminal defense, a certain one for civil litigation, a certain one for government work, appellate work, and so on. I have created an assembly line means to generate hundreds of cover letters in minutes, with PDF versions of redacted criminal motions or civil motions with memorandae as writing samples, and even tweaked resumes depending on the profile of the firm. I have turned email applications to law firms into an art form, cramming hundreds of PDF kilobytes into tiny binary corked soda bottles, shipping them out into the ether, knowing full well that the vast majority of them would never see the light of day, not to mention the loving spray of printer toner, forget ending up in a partner’s inbox.

So it goes to stand that any news is good news, even if it is in fact the same bad news normally packaged as no news. Which is to say that although I got a phone call from a firm I applied to, telling me that they weren’t interested in me in any way shape or form, it was a step above the standard, substandard noncommunication those of us in shitlaw/unemployment are used to. To compare: Its akin to asking out 1000 girls, and getting 999 nonresponses, and number 1000 takes 30 seconds out of her day to tell us to fuck off. It’s common courtesy to at least shit on us instead of ignore us. Thank you, sir, may I have another.

However, not all is lost in the land of toiletlaw. In fact, I have a phone interview on Friday. After the last interview debacle, where I flew up just to have someone tell me they weren’t interested, I included a little caveat in my macro cover letters. I “respectfully request a phone interview to determine if my skillset would fit well with your office, and to determine mutual interest” after which i would fly up for an in person interview. Not only did someone’s secretary email me asking for time on Friday for such an interview, they even asked me to send a picture of myself to accompany my resume. This means not only are my emails getting somewhere, someone’s actually taking the trouble to spend 1 minute reading what I have to say. This makes me feel doubly good as I weighed in just under 285 pounds this morning, making it over 51 pounds lost since November 2009. Combine this with fitting comfortably back into size 42’s, I actually start to look presentable. At least my facial features are recognizable from the surrounding fat.

Aside from that, I’m hoping someone still recognizes the musical reference in the previous post. It’s obscure, but I might send you a prize or recognize you in some way, and as fairly anonymous people on the internet, recognition is what we all strive for. Oh, and Bayan Rabbani from life at 160 (click link on right) interviewed me on Sunday night while I was watching Wrestlemania for free on my computer. He didn’t ask me nearly a lot of substantive questions, but it might be his style to save anything of value for his own writing. Sorry Bayan, I won’t shower with you.

TL DR at the end.

Things proceed to their inevitable conclusion. This weekend will be a continuation bet on last weekend’s preflop raise on the ex roommate. Thanks to the magic of priceline, I’m getting a 4 star hotel on Saturday night for a hundred bucks, and I’m sure I overpaid. This whole week we’ve been texting back and forth. I knew I was getting somewhere when she send me a detailed description of what she was wearing underneath her clothes and how she pleasured herself over what went down the previous weekend. It did excite me a bit, but I have to keep a clinical aspect to this whole experiment, which might just extend a bit longer than I had thought. If she is willing to have a languid, all night into morning evening with me once, why the hell would I not want to do it again? She knows about the woman up north, and we’re trying to postpone that conversation as long as possible. Even if that situation were to work itself out, such that I would abandon all hope of moving north, (to some extent with the job market the way it is, and the black hole of the advertising firms failing to give even a belch of a response… well wait, i take that back – time for a family guy style non sequitur – remember that time when

[cut to me reading another boring police report] Fuck another got damned post miranda statement – fuck. Let’s see whats on the usual sites, CL, LawJobs, Symplicity, aint no jobs in..
[phone rings, its an unusual number, i dont readily recognize the area code, but its not an 888 or 800 so its not a creditor] Uh, hello?
Hello, Toiletlawyer?
You’ve got him how can I help you?
Oh this is so and so from Smith and Wesson, Attorneys at Law.
Oh really? Ah yes, well…
[interrupting] Yes we got your resume and I was just calling to say we won’t be offering you an interview and best of luck with your job search.
Oh, well you got my resume, well I guess that’s something. Ah thanks for calling, you know, and uh, getting my hopes up for a split second instead of just ignoring my resume like everyone else. The brief rush of adrenaline certainly improved this deary hour.
Yes well, good luck and all that! [click]

Anyways if things up North were abandoned, I don’t think I could go into a deep long term relationship with this woman. She is fairly hot for a 42 year old woman and all, but you know if I wanted to get married or have a kid, which she doesn’t want, well, you can see how that might pose a problem. However, since this is all about me wallowing in my crapulence, I’m all about Saturday night at a beachside suite, with me genitals-deep inside her, nibbling away at whatever I can crane my neck and strained left trapezius to get to.

–Fast forward to Sunday–

And it was worth every fucking dollar, if you don’t mind the pun. Between the hotel, his and hers pedicures, lunch, dinner, clothes shopping, wine, breakfast, massage oils, I spent about 500 bucks, but she was soft butter in my hands. The only downside is the conversation we’re not having, or avoiding. The woman up north. She has asked about her and has her concerns. It’s the iceberg, and we’re the titanic. However, she was insistent on no condoms, and was willing to do practically everything, so I figure since this is destined to end in a watery crash somewhere I might as well enjoy the trip. I’m making every effort to avoid deep meaningful conversation simply to avoid getting the notion of love wrapped into my intense desire to ravage every inch of her flesh. She is very open but with that comes her saying things that don’t need to be said, or even heard. I’m not going to tell her to shut her noise hole, because I actually like it when the woman gives a little direction and suggestion to matters coital, but I don’t need you to apologize when you use sardonic wit to skewer me for something stupid, and I admit defeat. I can take a barb or two, I’m a grown man. But for fuck’s sake please don’t tell me about how your ex completely fucked up your mental wiring. I know he was a douchebag and a complete sack of shit, I know you had to practically beg him for sex, and I know you have a hard time letting yourself come from cunnilingus since nobody’s done it to you in forever, I WAS JUST DOWN THERE, IT TOOK DAMN NEAR 40 MINUTES BUT I GOT IT DONE! Just shut up and enjoy yourself.

Anyways the experience didn’t entirely live up to fantasy, but her body was what I thought it would be, and it was pretty good. First time sex doesn’t always work the way you want it to, but that’s ok since round 2 and 3 were spaced out a little later when I was slightly more sober. So in the end, Toiletlaw finally succumbed to the ways of Lifeat160, and in doing so, he gave just a little bit of his soul away. Toilet and 160, what a couple of dumb shits.

TL;DR HAY GUISE I HAD SEX LOL

When I first started this blog, I was about 340 pounds of mess. I looked like 50 pounds of mashed potatoes stuffed into a 10 pound potato bag. The only thing separating me from the guys on the biggest loser was initiative. I tried abortively to get my rotund, cellulite ridden ass into shape in 2008. I had some moderate success but never went out and got a digital scale and really just thought I could get it done by eating and weightlifting and even then my interest waned right as I was closing in on 310 pounds. It wasn’t a good idea for obvious reasons, my bank account was still being pinged for 30 bucks a month for the gym I was suddenly not going to. Also, combined with the fact that I moved 3 times in 2009 it wasn’t conducive to staying at the same gym or even being motivated. I wasn’t living with people who were making me motivated to get the job done.

In the summer of 2009 I answered a CL ad for a place to live. (since I was trying to move to jurisdiction x, i reduced myself to nearly nomadic possessions: clothes, a bed, and a tv. I’ve since gotten rid of the bed) It was in a furnished house with a woman who had recently lost her job and wanted someone to help defray costs. She was kinda attractive in a no-kids milfy, cougary way, but since I was living with her and we had a financial relationship I knew nothing could come of it. But the place was nice, and she had some cool dogs, and the rent and utilities contribution was next to nothing. I drew up a month to month lease and we lived together but never really bonded. Eventually she signed a short sale contract and I had to move to where I live now. I always thought in the back of my mind how she had this sexy way about her, and she lost a significant amount of weight while I lived with her, since she lost her work and barely ate. She got a job eventually right as we were forced to leave. I remember picking up my deposit check from her office, and the outfit she had on was so tight I couldn’t help but gulp audibly as I met her in the parking lot. I kept up with her on facebook. This goes somewhere, bear with me.

I moved into my new place, and at some point fell into a rut of shit: get up, go to work, be unmotivated about a hell of a lot, go home, play portal/tf2/fallout 3/whatever, go to bed. It was then that i started writing for toiletlaw. I looked at my life at some point and said to myself “Self – You need to get your defecation united.” I may practice shitlaw but I dont need to look like shitlaw, and feel that way. Get confident, stupid! So it was late October/early November when I decided I needed to get ahold of myself before I hit 350 pounds and make something happen. I started with the weightlifting again, and was making marked progress, going from 336 on November 3, 2009, to 310 by the end of the year. It was around then that one of my relatives convinced me to try doing Brazilian Jiu Jitsu to supplement my workout. It has worked a lot in building my confidence and my appearance.

Last weekend I weighed in at 287 pounds, admittedly after a pretty sweaty 4 hour BJJ seminar. I had put pictures from the past week showing where I was and where I am, and the difference is pretty remarkable. I got a facebook message from the 42 year old chick saying congrats on getting sexy. Then it hit me. A devilish idea, a horrid, deplorable, completely XY chromosmal idea: I was going to ask her out. I always wanted to. I had this inside desire for her that was part fantasy part who knows what. But i thought to myself “Self – you’re going to get her.” I don’t exactly know *why*, but I guess the lack of sex for a while had something to do with it. I don’t describe myself as “having game” or being a player or anything of the sort, but I figured it was worth a shot. What’s the worst that could happen? She would say no?

So I asked her out to dinner. She was a little surprised. I never asked her to dinner when I lived with her, even though she said “Hey next time you go to get BBQ bring me with you!” I never did because well 1. I didnt want her to see me crushing smoked pork like a monster and 2. I had a shitty little car with no air and it was always a mess littered with various fast food bags. Fast forward to today with my newly acquired, paid for with cash, SUV and a sense of confidence, and I replied “Because I want to be seen with an attractive woman in my new car and take her to dinner. A guy doesn’t need any other reason.”

Lo and behold the texts and facebook messages flowed, with subtle sexual suggestion. We went to a local fondue restaurant. I knew something was up when the waitress suggested a Merlot called “Menage a Troix,” which elicited a “I love that name” response from my date. Dinner was various cheeses, vegetables, meats, shellfish, lobster, and chocolate combined with the bottle of wine and after dinner whiskey. She made it clear she was in no desire to go home just yet, so we went downtown to see what drinks and trouble we could get into. I was imagining what circumstance would lead to me kissing her.

We ended up at a quiet bar attached to small club playing obnoxious club music. She had martinis, I had bacardi and sugar free rockstar. We talked and drank and talked some more. The bar grew crowded within an hour, and our conversation was at the same time both intimate and inaudible over the din of at least 3 dozen early 20 somethings, including a white guy with a ridiculous oversized and natural afro that very nearly got burned by the various 20 something beach blonde cigarette smokers.

After a while, we were both somewhat buzzed. She had for some reason asked me to hold onto her lipstick. She asked me for it, and as I handed it over I asked her if it had a flavor. “It’s whatever you want it to be,” she said. Green means go. “Well let’s find out.” I leaned in for a non tongue, yet soft couple of kisses which was about as sweet a payoff as getting it all in with Aces pre flop. It was exactly what I thought it would be. I pulled back a moment, in awe of the execution of my ham handed yet somehow successful plan. In the back of my mind I could imagine getting a slight disdainful nod from lifeat160. We both looked at each other with a half smirk/laugh, and then she went in again. Two for the price of one. I cut myself off, bought her two more drinks, and we stayed till about 130 am. The next say she was going to a hockey game, and complained that she had no shirt for that team. I suggested I would buy her one, but the only place open at this time of night to get such a thing was across town at wal mart. Off we went, and the store was nearly empty. We happened upon shirts she liked at the women’s department, and she grabbed a medium and a large, to see which fit better. She wanted something tight and sexy, but then something that wouldn’t look ridiculous if it shrunk in the wash. I stood outside the dressing room like a gentleman as she tried on the shirts, and agreed that although the medium showed off her natural assets, it might not be fit for the public if it shrank, and the large looked pretty good too, all things considered. She went back into the dressing room to put her back buttoning blouse back on. She comes out, asking me to button her up.

It was only 3 buttons up the back, but I slowly did the first two. I took my time with the third, noting a gigantic target in front of me. She was lifting her hair up as I worked the buttons, and the complexion of her skin was like a slightly mocha/vanilla. Throwing all hell to the wind, i went in and gave a soft, sucking kiss just to the side of the nape of her neck, tracing a small line with my tongue to her right ear. Her entire upper torso shivered. “All done,” I said.

We made our way home, I dropped her off at her doorstep, and gave her a simple goodnight kiss. I knew for a fact she would have had sex with me had I put any more effort into it. I didn’t though, because I didn’t want her to wake up with buyers remorse. I wanted her to know that I wanted to touch her just as much sober as somewhat inebriated, and that there would be plenty of time for this at some later date.

I don’t know how this will all turn out. She is too old for a meaningful relationship for me, but she is the fulfillment of a pretty substantial fantasy of mine for a while. She has told me about her sexual proclivities in the past, and seeing as right now the only thing regularly fucking me is Sallie Mae, I figured I deserved a little self indulgence. I channeled my inner 160, and you know what,

I liked it.

There is a big difference between Federal and State sentencing. In the Federal system, you cannot contract with the prosecutor for a certain sentence. Sentencing is entirely the judge’s job. How the judge arrives at a sentence is dependent upon a lot of things. First, each Federal crime has a corresponding entry in the US Sentencing Guidelines. That entry will spell out the base offense level, which is a numerical score. Certain factual circumstances can make the number go up or down. That resultant score can then be modified down by accepting responsibility by pleading, debriefing and cooperating with federal agents, and if he has no criminal history they have something called a “safety valve” provision. You end up with an adjusted offense level. Then the Defendant’s criminal history is scored, and depending on the number of convictions, a criminal history category is assigned. Then you consult a matrix, and at the intersection of the offense level and criminal history score lies the guideline sentence. But the beauty of it is that the judge doesn’t have to follow it since the Booker decision. This allows you to go in at a sentencing hearing and argue to the judge for a departure on any number of reasons. For example, I attended a seminar on child pornography sentencing where the USSG factors for determining a sentence and the sentences that have been imposed in the past 20 years are on their face arbitrary as all hell. You can also “set the narrative” so to speak about your defendant and the judge can depart from the guidelines for almost any reason in practice. It’s very easy to get sentences in many cases below the guidelines. This is the beauty of the Federal system.

The state system, not so much. If you beat the State’s case all to hell and the witnesses look like crap in depositions, you can contract with the state for almost any sentence, so long as the court accepts. There are guidelines as well. The state department of law enforcement sets out the guidelines. Similar setup – crimes have certain category levels which corresond to points, which get enhanced by criminal history, additional charges, victim injury, and other such tweaks. However, getting a judge to go below that amount requires a departure sentence. There is a statute for that which lays out the factors that a Defendant has to prove by a preponderance of evidence, and only then can a judge grant it even though he doesn’t have to. There is a catchall that allows a judge to depart for almost any reason, but on appeal, the courts have pretty much laughed them all off and remanded for resentencing. State judges don’t have a lot of discretion and frequently choose not to execute it. This is likely because they are subject to election, whereas Federal judges are lifers.

Recently we had an extremely notorious case involving a minor defendant and some serious offenses. There was no offer from the state as the victims did not want to offer anything. He made a full confession in front of his parents and police, who did their job. Trial was not an option. His guideline sentence was practically the statutory maximum for the offense. Our only option was to plead open to the court to ask for a departure. The sentencing hearing got media attention, and cameras and reporters filled the jury box. My boss and I went to the hearing with our witnesses and experts in tow, and were hoping for the best, arguing that the kid was too young to appreciate the consequences of his actions.

I didn’t get to be on TV as the sentencing was held at the podium before the judge’s dais, not at counsel’s desk. The judge, of course, did. We made legal arguments, put out experts on the stand, developed a good record, but my attention wasn’t on our client, who had a hangdog expression the whole time, nor was it on my boss who was going through her 20 minute presentation on the culpability of children, citing supreme court dictum and caselaw. My attention was on the judge. The judge could have cared less. He was repeatedly shifting back and forth in his chair, oscillating from one side to the other, his face growing increasingly stern with impatience. He grabbed at his water bottle several times, crinkling the plastic container loudly over my boss’s argument. It was obvious to me that in his mind, the Supreme Court could piss off on the horse they rode in on. When it was his time to speak, he boomed. The Supreme Court didn’t know what it was like on the state trial level, the current juvenile justice system is broken, kids get off too easy, they commit worse crimes, they know right from wrong and society is going to hell in a hand basket, cats are sleeping with dogs, biblical plagues, etc. He danced about in his chair, gesticulating wildly as the tv news cameras’ red lights glowed. This was all kabuki theater, the judge knew beforehand what the sentence would be.

After berating the supreme court, the juvenile justice system, saying our client was a horrific monster, and basically getting his face time for re election time, he handed out the statutory maximum sentence and got coverage on the news, where online comments on the news websites delighted in the judgment and actively hoped for the brutal rape and murder of my 15 year old client while in prison. Some even wished for the dismemberment of his family.

This wasn’t his only case. He had notorious charges in another county, and when sentencing went down there, the media was present and there was a large writeup. That judge was solemn, academic, and very even keeled. He did describe the offenses as “highly aggravated” but was nowhere near the rhetoric used by the TV judge. He also didn’t hand out the maximum sentence. The charges were less, so there was more disparity between the sentencing max and the guidelines, but it was night and day between the two.

I wish at the end of the day the media weren’t allowed to videotape proceedings, but they have their freedoms as well, and as long as our judges are elected, they have to show for the public which I believe taints the process. Thats it for seriouschat.

833 months to life in prison. Life to life. I’ve never seen a scoresheet that high. It hasn’t been a pretty week in toiletlaw. One client just went to prison this morning because he wouldn’t cooperate, and he is so sick he will likely die there, whereas he could have had guarded medical treatment in the real world. Asking the department of corrections to take real good care of a man with diabetes, sleep apnea, pulmonary disease, embolisms, a necrotic leg and oxygen tank needs 24/7 is a joke. The prison system is a deadly joke as it is, but this guy made the conscious choice and the best I can do is make as good a record as possible about his illnesses. See you in 3 years. Then we have sentencing on an infamous case. I saw the scoresheet, so fucking high its life or life. There was no need for trial. We have to pray for departure. The ugly side of criminal defense.

On the other hand I’ve finally cracked 300 pounds for good. 295 and change this morning. My instructor got me to buy a rashguard with the school logo on it. It helps actually draw water off my body when training. It’s tight as a motherfucker and leaves nothing to the imagination. I asked him for an XXL which is my t shirt size. “The largest is XL, dont worry itll fit right.” I put it on. I’ll never wear it outside of jiujitsu. You can see why:

However we’re moving in the right direction weight wise. I have a new suit coming in today. I feel better and look better. The job front is as bleak as ever though. One day this profession will let me move on from this purgatory. Not today though. Back to the shitmines.

I wanted to write a lengthy diatribe venting about how much I despise this particular client. I won’t. I’ll just say you know you practice shitlaw when:

A hearing date gets moved back a week, and you tell your witness a week ahead that it got moved but you didnt tell them immediately when you found out, so:

The client emails you 4 times accusing you of not caring
The client calls you and keeps you on the phone for 15 minutes because he thinks you dont care.
The client’s mother emails you accusing you of being racist and not caring since the client is black.
The client’s witness emails you at 930 calling you unprofessional and begging you to call them even though the opposing party just filed a pleading with the court admitting to the one fact the witness was being used to introduce.
After straightening everything out with the witness at 9 am the next morning, the client’s mother calls to yell at you accusing you of not caring and doing a horrible job on the case because we haven’t won yet, 40 seconds into I just zone out and play tetris while waiting for her to shut up.
After telling the witness that if they can’t make the hearing it’s ok, we will make do without their testimony (which we dont even really need anymore) the witness bitches at me for using the term “make do” and CC’s the client’s mother who bitched at me earlier today.

So, CLIENT NAME REDACTED, you get 5 homer salutes! Fuck You!