If you could meet any famous personality, living or dead, and smack them in the head with a large trout, who would it be?

I'd whack the guy who invented high heels. And every fashion editor that said I can't wear flats with a short skirt or my legs will look chunky.

( after I've had morning coffee )

[Cross posted to Theatrical Muse: "If you could trade lives with one person for a day, who would it be, and what would you do?"]

For all his talk about legacy, dad would rather live his life than document it.

"Just write it, dad. Or dictate it. For us." I used to bring up his unwritten memoirs on birthdays and family holidays. I don't, anymore. He'd crack a joke, make like he's going to tickle me. Now it just disturbs him. Reminds him of mortality. He's most definitely not a fool. He gets it that I want it as much for my memories as the world at large. It doesn't even have to be as daunting as his life's history. "Dad - a book of quotes. Your thoughts on random topics. You could write a book on legal strategy - or military strategy."

Remember that movie 'Freaky Friday'? Jamie Lee Curtis changed places with her daughter? I'd like to wake up in dad's bed. *snicker*
( what if )

| cross posted to theatrical muse |

What makes you feel vulnerable and what makes you feel invulnerable.

Vulnerable?
Seeing a defenseless being in trouble and not being able to help. This happens every month when I get my issue of PETA’s magazine. Or I watch Nature on TV and see a predator takedown. I melt for the naked, breakable casualties among us, susceptible to the cruelty of this world.

Invulnerable?
Music.

Not bleak Elliott Smith music. I mean bulletproof music – where you know you can take anything without batting an eye.

I was raised with a desire for the eclectic. I mean, my dad’s Denny Crane. Goes with the territory. Lately its undefeatable music – the kind that makes you immune to loneliness: surf rock, alternative. I’ve played Green Day's Jesus Of Suburbia every day before walking through these doors at Crane, Poole & Scmidt. Brad, Alan, Dad - give me whatever you got, boys. Decca’s invulnerable.

Why is it that Flowers On The Desk has become some great Corporate Symbol for a girl getting laid?

When I arrived at the firm this morning, I ran the gauntlet of smirks and asides from Samantha at reception (You have some of the oddest stems I've ever seen) to Sally in the Unisex (I hope he was more endowed than those stamins) to Shore at the coffee pot (Pollination at the office is entirely fine with me) - even Dad gave me the Denny Eye.

The worst of it was Brad. By the time I made it to my desk and saw the highly suggestive bouquet of antherium, Brad was waiting, sitting at my desk and looking at the Wicked Chambers card Frank had given me. When he saw me, he shot me his best smirk, waved the card at me and said I thought I saw you there. Tell me - was it the submissive dog collar guy who sent you these?

But I wasn't talking. He was my secret agent secret.

| cross posted to theatrical muse |

Do I believe in an afterlife?

I know there's an afterlife. It's called 7 pm at Crane, Poole and Schmidt. After all the lawyers flee to the suburbs, life comes back to the beige glossiness of the firm.

I flip off the Musak, wander in to Daddy's office and help myself to a shot of his cherished Ruskie Standart and flip through his record collection for the evenings theme song.

Tonight is special. Tonight Johnny Ramone is joining me. Dear, sweet Johnny who was there for me in my awkward years, thrashing on his power chords, gifting me with freedom to be. Just be.

Tonight, the afterlife at Crane, Poole and Schmidt is dedicated to Johnnys send off into his own afterlife. We'll share one more dance. I'll worship my beloved punk-rock guiterrorist. I'll whisper to him that Joey and DeeDee are waiting and its 1974 and they're holding the stage for him at a heavenly CBGB's.

God speed, sweet Johnny. I hear your beautiful music - always.

It's dark at Crane, Poole and Schmidt.

I hear a low hum coming from Shore's office, then see Teresita emerge, pulling her vacuum behind her. Brad left with Sammi hours ago. Dad flew to LA earlier to persuade Donny to come back with him.

I walked over to the kitchen and made a strong cup of coffee. Meek girl's speed. Swallowing the last of it, I made the decision to not go home. Every so often I'd feel the need to put myself out there and see what happened. I sure didn't need a regular guy. Didn't want to be accountable to anyone in my personal life. But a girl has needs. I'd occasionally set myself out in the right location just to see what would happen. If someone came along and it felt right...

I looked at the card Frank had given me. "Wicked Chambers". Frank fit my needs in every way - the tingle factor, the certainty there wouldn't be any lingering committment. But Tara still had his fingerprints on her and I had my doubts that Wicked Chambers was where a girl should go by herself. And I always went by myself. I was not a pack grrl. Not if I wanted what I was wanting tonight - a little guy connection. I tucked the card back in my desk for future consideration.

I looked toward Brad's dark office. He had invited me to join them later at a club. That would be too third-wheel-ish, but I could meet them, then go my own way. Perhaps Brad would see me in a different light. I dialed his cell and it immediately clicked over to his answering machine. "It's Decca. Where are you guys? I'm ready for some fun. Are you at the 21st Amendment? I'm heading over there now. Call me."

I waved to Teresita and entered the night, ready for whatever presented itself.

| cross posted to theatrical muse |

How do I handle disappointment?

In my own goofy way. Sometimes I...

Pout.
But this only works for an audience. Since my cats simply sleep through these sessions and I'm virtually always alone, I move on to...

Exercise.
I would don my Keds and run down a handy road. But I quickly discovered I was horrible at it. My endorphins eluded me, I'd get side aches and out of breath and sweaty, which would lead to a disappointment spiral. I would then...

Pogo.
I'd put on cartoon punk. A guaranteed funk-dispeller are The Dickies' turbo version of the "Banana Splits" song. I would bounce around my room and work out as many demons as I could in a minute and a half. My cats simply sleep through these sessions, too. I usually had some success with Pogo Therapy. If my disappointment was deep, then I'd crawl into the...

Cat Pile.
I find if I get in touch with my inner...shall we just say cat - I would simply sleep through the disappointment. Sleep = good.

But these were all band aids to patch me up when my old pal disappointment paid a visit. True self-discovery occurred last year on my birthday. Like most years - and most days in between - I was alone. I had a perfect day of solitude, quiet, peace. You could hear a cat purr.
( Read more... )

Decca Crane
Crane, Poole & Schmidt Law Firm
Boston Legal

tap-click

Just as Brad Chase strides over and perches on the corner of my desk, I alt-tab my email behind the Kaufer Prenuptial I'm suppose to be working on.

What?, he asks, raising an eyebrow.

I shake my head quickly, but can't suppress a silent giggle, covered by my hand. Carolina's coming to Boston!

Brad looks at my downturned face for a moment I can feel it - and then playfully shoots a rubber band at my monitor, gets up and goes into his office behind me.

I look over my shoulder, grinning, then back across the room toward Shores office, where he's talking with Dad. Hiding my too-loud gaffaw behind my hand, I imagine these two well-suited lawyers coming to comical blows over their girl toy.

I had actually spent a fair amount of time pondering this one before I finally deleted it from my backgrounder for Dad.

Shore was an ethics dancer. He could bebop and scat with the best of them. All step-skippers could. The case of Francis and Walter could have been his Waterloo.

The question spinning in my head that summer afternoon in the firm library was whether I should give Shore a pass or let Dad make that decision.

The American Bar Association's Ethics 2000 Commission drafted an amendment to its Model Rules of Professional Conduct that would restrict attorney-client sex. Of course the role of lawyer and lover are incompatible, but did that preclude sex prior to the defendant becoming a client?

My Dad, partner at Crane, Poole & Schmidt, could be positively snappish when it came to sexual deviants on his team. I ultimately showed mercy to Shore with my delete key - not so much because I didn't agreed with the code but because - well - whenever Shore walked by my desk, I felt a chill. Not so much a chill. More like when you have a fever and you can't stand the feeling of sheets on your bare skin.

Now it has come back to haunt him. She came back to haunt him. At least that's what Brad thinks. When that ethereal woman swept into the lobby today, I saw what it did to Shore. To everyone who witnessed it.

Francis. That's what he called her.
She called him Walter.
Walter...

Then Brad had leaned in and quietly told me about Francis Farmer, that actress from the '40's. She was institutionalized at the Western Washington State hospital. Just like Shores client that had won him a reprimand from the judge all those years ago.

Brad said Walter was the doctor to that actress. He said he was a notorious psychosurgeon who developed the transorbital lobotomy. Ice picked that poor girl by lifting her eye lid and inserting an ice pick to tear into her brain.

Could Francis and Walter be their little inside joke?

She swept in like some ethereal vision. She didn't even hesitate at reception - just floated directly to Shore, who was doing a walk-and-snipe with Brad.

I watched him.
I watched her.
I watched him ... not exactly stop as much as crash into an invisible wall as she entered his field of vision. Brad proceeded about five paces before he realized he was arguing with thin air.

She glided up to a ghost-white Shore, frozen in mid-debate. She stopped, her seafoam green silk skirt swinging around her hips. One arm slowly, languidly curved around Shores neck as her soft face slid in for a blonde-framed kiss on his cheek.

Shore blinked. That was the only movement I saw him make in the first minute of their encounter.

Or should I say their reunion.

She spoke softly, directly to him. The entire firm had frozen in place, silent in anticipation of the play that was unfolding.

"Walter."

Shore blinked again. Then you could see him soften slightly.

"Frances. How have you been."

He then took her hand from his shoulder, gave her an almost imperceptible bow and escorted her into his office as if she were a princess entering the ball.

| cross posted to the boston_legal community |