There is no greater waste of time than CLE classes. Once a year, to avoid losing my license, I find myself sitting through a week's worth of the damned things crammed into two days. It's like watching cement harden. I always bring a sack of newspapers, magazines, timesheets and the Blackberry to busy myself, but no matter how many Weekly World News, Inquirers, FHMs, SIs, SPINs, Times, Newsweeks, Maxims, and Economists I read, and no matter how many time sheets I fill out, and no matter how many emails I send, I will be compelled to pay attention to the seminar for at least about one of the eight hours I'm there. I chalk this up to fear. As a child and young adult, I was constantly serving detentions for talking during assembly or doodling in class. I know they can't send me to the principal's office anymore, but I still have this lingering sense that someone is looking over my shoulder. I think some prefect is going to grab the Blackberry from my fingers and yank me out of my seat by the ear. "You'll be getting a big fat zero for today's assignment, mister, and you can plead for your license to the Supreme Court."

I take no blame for my inability to focus on CLE lectures. The speakers are just godawful. They fall into two categories. There's the pathetic shill who actually needs the lecture fee and free advertising. He's usually got a Tom Selleck moustache, gold tie clip, one of those gross stomachs that extends below his belt, uncuffed babyshit brown stretch slacks and orthopedic shoes. He's droning on like Ben Stein on three fingers of Nyquil about some arcane tax or zoning issue. Then there's the egomaniac. This guy is usually a trial lawyer or manager of some successful department of a firm, if not an entire firm. He's strutting around, basking in what he thinks is the rapt attention of his starstruck subjects. He's reading some canned shit prepared for him by a task force of associates on some "cutting edge issue" in which he'd like you to think his firm now specializes. Or he's telling war stories about some trial where he learned "this nugget of wisdom which has stuck with him ever since." The windbag is so enraptured by the sound of his own voice booming over the PA that he doesn't notice half the audience is doing time sheets. Megalomania has metastasized so severely in his brain that he does not - can not - even imagine that people might not be paying attention to him. "Me? a bore!? I've been referred to as one of the finest litigators of my generation!" Both of these types of speakers are like the drum solo in "In a Gadda Da Vida." If you stop reading Time for 20 seconds and listen to them, the only thought that comes to mind is "Why?"

I drift away into a daydream zone for at least two hours during each one of these presentations. I consciously notice myself drifting and let it happen. Actually, I encourage it to happen. First, I lose focus on the article or supermodel in the magazine I'm oggling. The words start blurring together, losing meaning, and become merely a pile of black characters on the page (exactly like the second page of any tedious research memo). Or the girl in the swimsuit fades into her background leaving a mere collage of colors with shiny teeth, blonde hair and an occasional breast floating in it. The lecturer's words, normally a monotone hum of disconnected syllables like the teachers and parents in old Charlie Brown specials, fade away completely. Sometimes, I'll pick my head up from the pages and just stare at a poster on the wall or the back of someone's head. During the last CLE sentence I served, I focused on the back of the head a brunette in front of me. It looked a lot like the back of the head of a brunette I knew in law school...

I knew law school was a bad idea when the first person I met was wearing a foam pirate hat and a day-glo Hawaiian shirt. Oh, this is not good. After driving seven hours, the last thing you want greeting you is a huge hulking hayseed wearing a Nerf hat. I immediately recalled a time earlier that summer outside Giant's Stadium where a large, sweaty, hairy man in a pink tie dyed tank top and huge blueblocker shades came up to me and offered me a handful of M-80s for a joint.

"But I... am not selling... anything."

"Too fuckin' bad, brother. These are fuckin strong M-80s! Blow yer fuckin' arm off! Later! Rollaway, rollaway the fuckin' dew..."

"Hi, I'm Jeb. I'll be running for class rep. But I'm a Parrothead for the night. Gotta go to the tailgate... great to meet you!" Jeb was on his way to the Jimmy Buffet concert that evening. Before I could even say "Nice to meet you," he'd shoved into my palm a pink 4 by 7 photocopy of himself with the words "Jeb Mellman, Class Rep." Between that encounter and the start of the Welcome Dinner, I met some kids who asked me if I was interested in joining a "federalist" club, a heavy metal nut in a jeans jacket with a "Slayer" emblem on the back who introduced himself as Marty (between excusing himself twice to spit chewing tobacco into his cocktail glass) and a round little girl named Frances who asked me if I was Christian. Oh yeah, and some skinny kid who asked me to join an investment club. If I had money to invest right now, would I be here?

Where is the fucking bar?

During dinner, a professor who bore an uncanny resemblance to Ned Flanders asked the assembled a variety of questions about constitutional law. He began with a slew of topics I didn't even understand. "Is anyone familiar with the current controversy regarding whether an anonymous political newsletter is exempt from federal campaign disclosure statutes?" What is he talking about? I continued chowing down on my rubber chicken and mixed greens. By this time, I was on my fifth or sixth beer, and was desperately scanning the room for attractive women. Then I heard a question I could answer. "Who here agrees with keeping prayer out of public schools?"

I took history and poli sci. Here's my chance to make points with the ladies. I'm at a table near the center of the assembly. I'll raise my hand first and highest, and stun them with a diatribe on the sanctity of the separation of church and state.

I raised my hand so quickly that I bumped my beer with my other arm, causing it to crash to the floor. That's OK, the beer falling is a good thing. It made noise. Now the professor will call on you, and you'll get to show how smart you are.

Mine was the only raised hand I could see for 50 feet in any direction. I turned to look around and saw two other hands far behind me. One was some granola girl and the other was a bald nervous-looking guy who later gave a speech recruiting members for a gay and lesbian students' group (If there were only three hands in the air supporting a ban on school prayer, you can imagine how his speech was received).

There I was, alone. "From a legal perspective, why do you take that position?" the professor addressed me. "Stand up, introduce yourself and tell us."

I am not going to get laid here.

To Be Continued

Posted by PhilaLawyer at 1:15 AM

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