Blah

Ma chambre a la forme d'une cage

Le soleil passe son bras par la fenêtre

Les chasseurs à ma porte

Comme les p'tits soldats

Qui veulent me prendre

Je ne veux pas travailler

Je ne veux pas déjeuner

Je veux seulement l'oublier

Et puis je fume

-Pink Martini

I could feel the funk coming on last night, and figured I'd just post some song lyric here instead of writing. Maybe "Choctaw Bingo", that anthem of poor Southern family life that has always struck me as the most vivid and honest portrayal of our tribe ever written. Faulkner couldn't touch it. Then I re-read the lyrics, and although they're dead-on they also include one verse about the speaker and his relationship with his second cousins that would earn this blog an R rating. I guess you can find it for yourself online, if you're interested.

Which left me with nothing to say.

But here I am writing anyway. What to talk about?

The bidding process for classes at NYU in August ends in about three hours. Will I get all three I bid? It seems likely, given that they're recorded lectures and my addition just means one more exam to grade for the prof. If I bat three-for-three, I'll spend my fall semester in Taxation of Property Transactions, Tax Procedure, and Corporate Tax I. It sounds like a lot, but it's only five units. We'll see how this goes.

I'll be 62 when I finish my LLM. Sometimes I wonder what's the point, given that most guys my age are edging toward retirement, and even I have slowed down considerably since the pandemic. My contemporaries seem all to be getting certified as mediators, thinking it's easy and pays well. What I wish I could tell them is that the work is largely going away in my part of the state, as south Florida law firms exploit Zoom by swallowing much of the decent legal work in the panhandle, and bring their mediators onscreen with them.

That same geographic shift convinces me I can't stand still, and need a new skillset I can market down the stretch. The big cases I once handled, and my neighbors in the other law firms in PC once handled, mostly go to big firms in places like Miami and Tampa now. I could limp along picking up the best of the dregs that are left, but the thought of it depresses me.

I also need to get away from the sort of legal work that's dependent on staff and large investments in technology, the former because skilled legal staff in my part of the world is exceedingly rare and hard to find; the latter because my partners won't invest in it, and I'm too old to learn how to use it. As discovery becomes more of a massive undertaking, and clients decline to pay my hourly rate so I can sift through twenty thousand pages of documents looking for the needle in the haystack, the lack of technological infrastructure renders us noncompetitive in the market for legal services that involve complex litigation.

So now the shift toward work that involves thinking, planning, and writing, rather than attending depositions or arguing motions. More control over my schedule, more control over outcomes with no judge or arbitrator in the picture, and the flexibility to slow down in my senescence rather than racing to keep from being run over by some aggressive young litigator looking to make a name for himself by slaying the tired old warrior. The ability to add sufficient value to justify my very high hourly rates.

I guess that covers it. This leap of faith looks more rational in that light.

Time for a quick run to Wegman's for a couple items I'll need to cook this Cuban pork roast I'm smoking for Peg tonight. It's supposed to marinade eight hours, but I'll be lucky to soak it for six if I leave right now. Looking forward to having her back here for a midweek feast, watching it rain and feeling temperatures plunge across the Southern Tier tonight.