An Italian, a Jew and a Brown guy walk into a bar...

Thursday night, Vince, David, Joseph, William, a few others, and I went to Howl at the Moon, a piano bar in Midtown (is Midtown capitalized? I wonder about these things). As background, it's important for you to realize I'm a loud talker, a poor singer, and unlikely to be embarrassed by my own behavior. So, here's the story.

We were sitting at a table close to the stage. David and I were discussing world affairs, as I recall (It was baseball). The "singers" on stage were trying to start the classic piano bar song "Friends in Low Places" by Garth Brooks while we talked. Apparently, we (read: me) were (was) talking so loudly they couldn't get the song started. So, one of the "singers" with a microphone turns to us and says either shut up or come up here and sing. So, turning to the first of those three disclaimers, I talk loudly. Check. Talking loudly enough to be called out by the "singer" at the piano bar doesn't seem like that much of a stretch. Talking quietly or in my inside voice has never been one of my strengths.

David and I, after briefly considering our options, jump onto the stage. We were not going to be embarrassed by our behavior or shamed into being quiet by that pony-tailed "singer". Another disclaimer, check. I was never going to see the people at that place again. I would never eat there, anyway.

So, the "lead" "singer" handed us a mic and said, get to it. I turned back to him and said, how about some background music, chief? You're sitting at a piano.

So, he starts the song. David and I do not remember how the song starts. I turn back to the piano man and ask him, how about a running start? Again, not off to the best start. Joe Santini, a scholar and a gentleman, comes running onto the stage to help out. We eventually start the song, belting out as many of the lyrics as we can. Remember, there was no karaoke machine. This was from our memory. I'm thinking to myself, hey, we're doing a pretty good job. American Idol, here we come.

We sing the first two verses. The "singer" stops us. He asks the audience, should these guys continue? A round of applause and some people yelling for us. I'm thinking, hey, that's pretty good. An Italian, a Jewish guy and a Brown guy really can sing Country music. What a country.

The singer then asks, should these guys stop singing? A chorus of boos come down, loud as anything you've ever heard. Boo'd off stage!! Now, I can only blame myself. I've been told I have the singing voice of an angel, but I realize now that was all lies. All that Rock Band practice for nothing. Boo'd off of the stage!!!

We didn't get a prize. We didn't get a thank you. We got boo'd and yelled at by strangers. Now, that's just rude. But, we didn't let that "singer" tell us to be quiet. We showed him.

(Photo courtesy of Sara. Used with permission. Thank you.)

Fashion Question

Disclaimer: I know nothing about fashion. I shop at one store. I wear basically the same 3 things every day of the week. But, on to my point...

I realize that a lot of, well, let's call them "idiots" before I say something inappropriate or offensive, form their hair into a greasy Mohawk of sorts. I'm not sure the reason for this. Perhaps they are not committed enough to shave their head minus one strip down the middle. Perhaps it has something to do with the emo movement (I just learned that one. Also, is it a movement? I don't really care, but I am somewhat curious).

What's the deal with that hair style? These people look terrible.

I wonder if when black people (African American, sorry) shave their heads (a la Von Wafer [ one of maybe 4 to 6 Houston Rockets who cannot be categorized as geldings]) and leave a strip down the middle its called a blackhawk?

This is not a good look, people. It really grinds my gears.

When you say what you say, what are you saying? Or, Mr. Figs, what do you think?

This will only be relevant (403 [yes, I used that joke earlier. Sue me.]) to people who took Dean Wheeler for Criminal Law first year. The rest of you, of course, are welcome to read on but may not get the full benefit as the rest. I'm taking Dean Wheeler for Corporate and White Collar Crime this semester, my last (fingers crossed) semester in law school. Over the years, I've come to realize that there is a method to his madness, so to speak. Of all the professors I've had, I don't think another cared as much for his students as Dean Wheeler did. Both from an academic as well as human side, Dean Wheeler truly cared. What he did not do, however, was remember your name. At least the way you pronounced it. I was called Mr. Figs for the first month of the first semester. Suggs became Scruggs, Wiener (pronounced Whiner) was pronounced, despite much protestation, "wiener" (as in the hot dog -- get your mind out of the gutter). No name was safe. It was incredible that he was able to memorize 105 names in 2 days, but it was even more incredible one that even names like "Jones" were not safe from being butchered.

First year, Dean Wheeler held class in what I can only describe as a shock and awe campaign. He called on nearly 30 people every class, at seemingly the EXACT moment their attention wavered, or they looked away. No matter if the man's back was turned, he knew, he just knew, you were not paying him pull attention. He conducted class in barely more than a whisper, so you were hanging on every word he said. It didn't matter if he called on you the first day, you were still fair game any other day (I would know, he called on me every week). Even better, if you didn't know, sometimes you would be granted a life line. Dean Wheeler would ask, do you have a friend you'd like to call on? Of course, the first two times somebody was asked this (Nate and Nathan...did you think I would forget?), they said, uh, well, I know Vik. Dean Wheeler looked over at me, and smiled, each time. Ahh yes, he'd say, Mr. Figs. What do you have to add today?

It didn't matter if you told him you didn't know, because it was in the confines of your mind. It didn't matter if you hadn't read, because the book was not available in the bookstore, because it was in the confines of your mind.

If you gave him the right answer right off the bat, he would mess with you. Are you sure, he'd say, questioning your belief in your own answer. You could never qualify a statement with "I think" or "I believe" and you sure could never end a sentence with a question mark in your voice.

If you rambled something semi-coherent or BS'd him, he was on to you. That's when he would press you, with his famous line, when you say what you say, what are you saying?

He knew he could steer the direction in a certain way by calling on certain people. If he wanted to see what a person I'd like to call a moron but won't thought, he would call on Barrero (spelling?) or Griffin (he of "well, they'd have to get him for something" fame"). If you had a ridiculous hypothetical (we don't need to go there, but it involves a rocket launcher), he knew exactly when to call on you.

This was the class where Phil dented my book when he became so enraged I didn't save his seat (which I never promised to do!!!). If you want that whole story, you'll have to wait till another time. This was also the class in which the famous rifle (raffle) story took place.

Which brings me to my point. I always thought Dean Wheeler was hard on us because we were first year students. We knew he cared, but he was tough on us. Other professors have admitted to being harder on first year students that upper level students. It all comes with the territory, we thought. It's just a rite of passage, I thought.

WRONG.

Ole Dean Wheeler does the same thing in Corporate and White Collar Crime. He called on me three times today, buzzed somebody who didn't have the book, asked somebody else when they say what they say, what are they saying? He told one girl she knew after she said she didn't. He didn't say in the "confines of your mind" but I hoped he would.

As of now, it feels like the completing of a circle or the proper end to the cycle. Start with Dean Wheeler, end with Dean Wheeler. Is his style going to get old now that I'm not scared? I don't know. I already know I'm not terribly excited about random recitation.

If you have any other Wheeler-isms, please leave comments. Yes, I remember the magic trick, I just didn't feel like typing it up.

My brother, the Doctor

Well, he's not a doctor yet, but he'd sure like to tell you he is. He has been acting like one for years. (No, he will not write you a prescription. You don't have ADD; you're just lazy.).

All jokes aside, Luke (or Alok, or George, or Luke-George, or the boy, or Doc) starts his surgical rotation today, at 545am. Someone recently remarked that they weren't ready for my little brother to be a doctor yet (happy birthday, by the way, Betsy) and I initially agreed. After all, I still remember when he was telling bad jokes, rolling his eyes at me, and acting like an elitist. What's that? You're saying that was not that long ago? It was actually how he spent Christmas break? Oh, well, let's move on.

That kid, who put off getting a haircut for nearly 2 months, is going to be a doctor? That didn't seem right. The same kid who hid my bike helmet under his bed so we would get driven to elementary school is going to be scrubbing in later this morning? The guy who gave our mother a Mother's Day gift in November (when he was 23, even) is going to be removing people's gall bladders? Turns out, he's ready, and then some. He's surely smart enough and he definitely works harder than anyone else I know.

I told him today how proud I was of him. If you're not an older brother (or sister, I suppose [I've been called worse than a sexist, thank you very much]) you won't really get this till you have kids, I think. By way of background, I've always been the "big" in big brother. I've tried to look out for Luke. He only got a bad time if I was the one leading it on. Ask him about the time he was hoisted by his shirt collar, only to be put down and have his collar straightened on his first day at SJS, when he announced his last name. I protected him. I tried to, at least.

I have a photo on my shelf of the two of us in the Bahamas. He's 6 or 7, I'm 8 or 9. The white sand and blue water are in the background. He doesn't even come up to my shoulder. I've got my arm around his shoulders, and he's hugging me and showing his gap-tooth smile. He had lost three teeth in one day (quite a feat but not the point I'm making here) but he's still smiling. It's a good memory, no doubt, but a memory of a little kid. My point is, I often remember him as that little brother, the young child, the one who threw the second water balloon, who was there to play video games with, the one who played one on one with me in the driveway, the one who played neighborhood football, and on and on.

That's not to say he's still not those things (other than a little kid [he's almost 25 years old and he's 6'1, for chrissake!]). But, he will be operating on people soon. And he'll be a doctor (because Baylor College of Medicine and the American Medical Association say so, not just because he says so or tries to charge you $1200 for 2 Dayquil and a glass of water[which he tried Saturday!!]) sooner than you know it.

So, on the rare chance you see him (he's gonna be at the hospital for the next ten years), tell him congratulations. Or send him an email or text message. Tell him he needs a haircut. Make some joke about him NEVER smiling in photos since the age of 10, or about him complaining about his old bones at the age of 13. But don't forget to tell him you're proud of him. Proud of the doctor he will be. And the man he already is.

Random highlights from break

So, I haven't updated the blog a lot recently. Not much more to add than that. There have been some things I should have posted earlier, but this will have to do.

This is really my last Christmas break. Take a moment, I'll wait. So, I'm heading to my last semester (then the bar exam, oh crap!!) and then to a real job. Not an intern, not a clerk. A lawyer. Kinda scary, I know. So, even though I've been sick for most of break and now on antibiotics, I took some time to enjoy the break. Here are some of the highlights, at least those that are family friendly and won't hurt any feelings (no mention of hats, hurricanes, red skin, sweat pants, I promise).

1. The above pictured jacket. Now, that, folks, is a jacket. It would have gone well with a dinosaur mask, but since roughly 3 people in America get that joke, I'll just move on.

2. In New Orleans, for New Year's, Trey and I, both wearing UT shirts, are in the elevator. There is nobody else in the elevator. A guy tried to get on from the 3rd floor. He's wearing an OU shirt. There's plenty of room in the elevator. He looks at us, checking in at a combined 12 feet plus, and 500 pounds plus, and announces to no one in particular. "I'll take the next one." Before I say anything negative, I'll just move on. I'll only add I'm surprised he didn't cheat his way into the national elevator championship or into winning the elevator trophy.

3. Di Di Mau. Ok, if you haven't seen this movie, it sounds promising. DeNiro, Walken, Fredo, Vietnam War era. Billed as a classic movie. In the IMDB top 250. As it turns out, other than this scene, the movie pretty much sucks. Sure, seeing Walken and Bobby DiNero getting slapped around is hilarious, especially by a guy whose name is Po Pau Pee. I'm serious, look that one up if you don't want to take my word for it. But, what did come from this movie is a new family tradition. Slapping somebody (not hard enough to really hurt) and shouting "di di mau." I'm already looking forward to next Thanksgiving. Consider yourself warned, Jay.

4. Camellia Grill. Yes, it's been open since May. Yes, I've been there since May. But, upon returning this break, it was a truly memorable occasion. One of the chefs, when he saw me, did a double take, told me he thought he saw a ghost, and came out from behind the counter. We exchanged one of those combination handshake hugs that are so popular these days. One of the other guys did the same thing. We all ate omelets as big as our faces, and good night, were they good. If I can steal a line from Trey, and I'm pretty sure I can, I'd like to meet the man who decided to put chili on an omelet. I'd like to meet that man and shake his hand/give him a hug. That man is a hero.

5. Winning two fantasy football leagues. That's really more of a highlight for me, but since this is my blog, I'm adding it to the list. I'm sure you'll be ok.

6. The British girl who showed up with Wesley Hunt at my birthday party. Ok, I'll admit it, it is ironic that I'm an anglophile, but man, anybody with a British accent is instantly the most interesting person in the room. But when they run their mouth (I almost said something that rhymed with "walk spit" [good thing I didn't, this is a family blog]), it's even more fun. I'll also admit hearing British people talk "encourages" (I'm fine with that word) me to use my British accent. Now, if you've ever met my dad, you'll know I come by my accent impersonation "skills" honestly. My British accent is not that strong. Let's leave it at that. But, nonetheless, I decided to try my accent. It wasn't that bad, despite what some might say. I figure if you yell it as loud as possible, nobody will be able to tell you how bad it is. Especially if it's your birthday. But, I'm rambling.

7. Youtube shenanigans. I love Youtube -- Broadcast yourself. Now, there are some funny videos that I won't put on here. This one is hilarious, not that offensive, and it passed our censors (it's only me, guys). Enjoy. Any linked video you may get to from there is not our fault (right Jennifer? We're good here? Solid legal ground?).

I hope everyone had a great 2008 and has a better 2009.

New Feature

New to the blog is a poll, on the right side. Please vote for your favorite Christmas movie.

Thanks, and Merry Christmas to you and yours, from me and mine.

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas.

And a Happy New Year.


(Click the links, people.)