Law School #2

Vaughan v Menlove
Court of Common Pleas, 1837

"[Defendant built a hay rick near the boundary of his land not far from the plaintiff's cottages.  It was alleged that the rick was likely to ignite, thereby endangering the plaintiff's cottages, of which the defendant had notice; that the defendant was negligent in maintaining the rick in this dangerous condition and that the rick did ignite and the fire spread to plaintiff's land, burning his cottages.  Defendant denied that he was negligent.]"

I wonder: who is liable for the spontaneous combustion of a drummer who perhaps happens to cause damage to the venue or audience during a concert?

Law School #1

Three or four weeks ago (I've lost track) I intended to write here weekly about the goings on, personal experiences, and thoughts surrounding my entrance and immersion into law school at Ohio Northern University.  Well, clearly, that hasn't happened.  I could get into all the various whys and wherefores, but I can't imagine anyone would really care to read that.  So the shortest of it: it boils down to the fact that I really just don't need the blog right now.  That, and I'm so totally fried once and if I actually do have time to write something for myself that I can't manage it.  Yesterday, however, there was quite a convergence of my past and present interests in three little moments: two while sitting in Property, one preparing for Torts.

We were discussing the right we have as property owners to exclude others from our stuff--land, things, home, whatever.  We went further--to the "outer reaches" of the privilege--to talk briefly and hypothetically about the supposed, and in fact very limited, right to destroy our property.  Interesting to note, and I think I'm grateful for it (though this is a fairly complicated mix-up of thoughts, opinions, and emotions, really), that a court will not generally back our actions if we gratuitously destroy, say, our house, at least not if we don't replace it with an improvement, for example.  It reminded me of some things I learned about Italian real estate (back when I subscribed to Architectural Digest), that even to make minor adjustments (and I'm talking about even just getting new windows or locks installed) to a home or piece of property over a certain age or in a certain location requires full authorization from the government, in the interest of preserving cultural interest in architectural heritage.  Further, courts will rarely support you in the destruction of artistic or literary works, even if they're yours and were never even published.  For example, Franz Kafka (if I'm remembering this correctly) requested that his many incomplete works be destroyed in the event of his death.  Aren't we all glad (well, okay, I'm glad!) the court did not enforce that request!

In torts Torts today, we will be discussing a case regarding an event that occurred in good ol' Saginaw, Michigan, outside a now-defunct department store called Arlan's (suspicion of shoplifting with pursuant accusations of slander and wrongful arrest).  I couldn't remember the name of the department store that is now the Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy, so I did a little digging.  I'm sure most of you will be little surprised to learn that I found a number of cases built upon events that happened to have occurred outside one Montgomery Ward not far from Arlan's.

So long for now.  I suppose I will write again eventually, if not soon.

Cart-Pushing, Farming, and Lawyering

I am not second-guessing my decision to pursue a law degree.

On my way to work this morning, I came out of a local grocery store and overheard a few lines of  conversation between two employees.  The weight of their dialog wasn't carried in their words, but by their tone.  Both employees were men, older-not-old, the first particularly happy--you know, that certain brand of big-happy that comes with wide smiles, grandiloquent gesticulation, and hearty ribbing--the second quieter but similarly smiling.  The second had apparently been gone a week or so from work and hadn't communicated with his friend who thought maybe he'd left or disappeared or, I'm guessing now, worse.  I got the impression--maybe faulty, but I don't think so--that these two men truly enjoyed their jobs, and all the more so for each other's company, at the grocery store.  They weren't owners or management; rather they both wore the neon orange vests with reflective stripping of the cart pushers and garbage attendants.

My dad, a veterinarian, once told me that he believed the men and women who lay traffic cones and barrels along construction sites on the freeway have a great job.  Later he told me how he'd enjoy being a farmer.  He's confessed multiple times how he dislikes--or is sick of, really--being a veterinarian.  He's still a vet, but he also has, finally, to a degree--and to just the degree he seems to have always wanted--his farm: a hundred acres of Ohio countryside to mow and tend and plant and do whatever-the-heck he wants with and when he wants to do it.

My first year teaching (and I believe I've mentioned this before), I asked my students to raise their hands if they planned to attend college.  I was appalled--even angered--by how many students did not raise their hands.  I was teaching seventh grade, "mainstream" English.  Surely these kids must have known by seventh grade--and none had handicaps that would otherwise remove them from the possibility--that they would attend college, that, so I foolishly believed, there was no other option.  I talked about future money and possibilities, financial stress, ladders, job satisfaction, and all the other crap an immature teacher would foist on his unwitting and quite innocent students.

What all of this comes to is an examination of what exactly I want and, perhaps, why I want it.  (I've been tinkering with an essay for weeks about the nature of human desire--not that kind of desire--and where our desires stem from and why according to most philosophers, if not all, we are not actually in control of our desires and therefore, ultimately, our choices.)  Why do I want to be a lawyer?  Easy.  So many people have asked the question that I've got an answer ready and waiting: I want to be a lawyer because I want to be able to better take care of my family and yet do a job at which I have potential to not only perform well but to also enjoy.  But why do I really want what I want?  Well, I guess it's the money.  I want my family to be comfortable.  I want my family have ... stuff.  I confess: I want a nice car a nice home and nice clothes.  I want to buy books.  I want to travel.  I want to buy new drums.  I want to be the one who offers help, not the one who requires it.

Selfish?  Greedy?  Indulgent?

Maybe.

It would be a lot easier if I were satisfied and happy with something much simpler but (and if you don't agree, you're stupid), no less important.

And I'm leaving it at that for now.

TWO THINGS THAT, TODAY, HAVE MADE MY DAY

ONE:

I have been accepted to Ohio Northern University College of Law, which response is the first, positive or negative, from the seven law schools to which I have applied.  What a relief!  That means, whether I'm accepted anywhere else or not, well, I'm going to law school in the fall.  What's more, and while I can't say for sure that its role was integral in my acceptance, this validates, at least to a point, my maverick approach to writing my personal statement.  Take that, naysayers!

***

TWO:

Today is my last day subbing for 8th grade science.  (HERE's the first entry, typos and all, from my tenure in this particular classroom.)  While reaction to my time here really requires a full entry, I'm going to leave it at this: it's been a great experience, I'm actually pretty good at teaching science, and I'm really going to miss these kids--even though they're eighth graders.  All that aside, a young lady in my first period class said something really funny today.  Context: Someone needed to borrow a pen.  He took one of mine.  I let him, because he's always returned pens in the past.  When he was finished with it, I told him to just go ahead and throw it to me.  He threw it.  I didn't catch it; more accurately, I missed it.  The young lady in the back laughed, so I threw the pen at her.  (I did wait until I knew she was ready.)  She missed.  I laughed at her (this is all quite good-humored, by the way).  "And you made fun of me?" I asked, so she said: "Hey, I'm a girl.  What's your excuse."

Unfortunately, I couldn't think of anything to say that couldn't, potentially, get me into trouble.  So I only laughed with her.