Tag Archives: Journalism

Warning: Big Post Soon!

Well another semester has come and gone. I know that this semester has been a whirlwind for me and thus the blawg has suffered something awful. Maybe it is the fact that the top 100 Blawgs were just currently ranked or the fact that finals are next week, something has me wanting to catch people up on what I am doing.

But where to start? And how intense should the writing be? Should I tell people about my school semester and how the 2L year is dead on when they say that the school works you to death? Should I talk about how happy I am that Notre Dame is going to a national Championship? Should I write about the downfall of my PACKERS?  I could write about my new job with the state government. Maybe I could mention the girlfriend. I could even tell you about the fact that I have not been home to Indiana since before the school semester started. Hell, I am only going to spend a week at home for Christmas!

And where should I end? Should I end by telling you that I will not be in the United States on Christmas Day? Should I mention that I (again) have a new car? Should I tell you about the upcoming finals and my complete contempt for school? Maybe mention that there is no way that I am sad with straight “C’s” this semester: JUST GIVE ME MY DEGREE AND GET OUT OF THE WAY.

I just wanted to put a post on here to give my followers who apparently still exist a heads up on a big post tonight or tomorrow depending on when it is fully finished. I am studying for my finals and use my study breaks for this blog today and tomorrow. I want to post photos…. Tell stories… and reminisce. I guess my biggest want is just to have a semester in review.

Also, I should give a big shout out to y’all. Apparently my blawg is still netting hundreds of views a month without me writing a word. That leaves me almost speechless.

-YJ_SL

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1L Year: Done

What a ride.

There is no other coming of age ritual quite like the feeling one gets when they say that a chapter is over in life. None is more enveloping as the 1L year. There is no other question about the things you can accomplish when I think of the yeah I have had.

All the late nights, studying, practice tests and reading have lead to an academic life that is mid-range. The drinking, making new friends and being in a new city has given me a life experience that I wouldn’t trade for the world.

Thomas Edison may have put my law school experience best. He said, “Being busy does not always mean real work. The object of all work is production or accomplishment and to either of these ends there must be forethought, system, planning, intelligence, and honest purpose, as well as perspiration. Seeming to do is not doing.” I started with real planning and perceived intelligence but realized that sometimes it is the head games of what others believe you seem to be doing that is just as successful. Yet, some of those hours in the library that people thought I was studying was merely me writing for this blawg. That may have made them work harder, in turn decreasing my grade.

But it’s over. At least for now.

Sugar Ray Leonard once said, “Although it was a great accomplishment to win a gold medal, as soon as they put it on you, that’s it; your career is over.” My career isn’t over, but my blawg is no longer in the realm of the 1L category. I am now a rising 2L with his own challenges and beliefs that will be chronicled to the best of my ability.

While, I am not necessarily a supporter of our current President, Barack Obama, I can say with no shadow of a doubt that he understood the same things that I am going through now as a true crossroads in understanding of law and society. In his book, Dreams From My Father; A Story of Race and Inheritance, he eloquently wrote this; “The study of law can be disappointing at times, a matter of applying narrow rules and arcane procedure to an uncooperative reality; a sort of glorified accounting that serves to regulate the affairs of those who have power–and that all too often seeks to explain, to those who do not, the ultimate wisdom and justness of their condition.
But that’s not all the law is. The law is also memory; the law also records a long-running conversation, a nation arguing with its conscience.”

I don’t know if I can handle that at times. This societal memory. This bigger than I sense of accomplishment with a larger than life topic. Law is bigger than any of its pundits and teachers. It is us. It is in the very fabric of our being. And now, I, Aaron Hommell, am stuck within its varied conversations. Its endless wins and losses, coupled with shame and glory. Blind or not, justice is served.

Today a 2L, things are very much the same.

~YJ_SL

 

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The Anti-Law School Chronicles

Got out the camera.

Even though I wanted to take a tone of pictures, I only came home with about 50. I am so damn tired that I’m going to throw up 4 of them now. Enjoy.

Old Foodery

 

Old Club.

Burned out house's hallway.

Trash left by the homeless in the burned-out abandoned house.

~YJ_SL

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NOT HAPPENING

I watch this video about once a week and say this isn’t happening to me. I won’t let it.

 

 

Law school can begin anytime. I’m ready.

 

~YJ_SL

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Anonymity Sucks ~ Let’s Get Personal, Personal.

How in the hell did I end up here?

I shouldn’t be going to law school. Should I?

I am the son of a retired cop and a college VP’s secretary. My mother had an associates degree and my father was a high school drop-out who got his GED before joining the police force. I didn’t come from some affluent family with old money. I have cousins who have graduated from law school and passed the bar in the last couple of years, but we aren’t much of a real big family in the schooling sector. That is quickly changing.

My mother and father divorced when I was five. I don’t remember much about it, I just knew my mother wanted me in Catholic school. That’s where I headed. On a secretary’s salary, my mother sent me to private school. Not just any school, a Blue-Ribbon School of Excellence. Both my elementary and high school were recipients of this high honor; my high school was honored three separate times. These schools were the best that my mother’s money could ever afford and she sacrificed like none other to put me through school. She worked at a college and I could get free tuition if she worked for a certain period of time. I got to go to college tuition-free based on her work.

She passed away during football season of my senior year of high school.

This is the letter my father sent. Yes, I have some mean Photoshop skills. A degree in journalism and a photography hobby will get you those.

My father is a real gem. As the son of a cop, life can be different anyway. He grew up on a farm in the county I lived in. His father was a drunk. His mother was a homemaker. His mother died when he was 18; his father when he was 22. He was pretty much on his own from the age of 14 on. He has many brothers and sisters, all of whom live close by except for Larry who lives in California. There is a reunion every year at the shelter house in the city park on the first weekend of August. I won’t be attending this year.

My father’s side of the family spells our last name in two variations. One has one “l” the other has two “ls” (ll.) This confuses people and in super annoying to deal with at home at times. Speaking of spelling, my father misspelled the state I live in on a card he sent me. Sure, it would be understandable if I lived in a state like Massachusetts. That is a somewhat hard word to spell. See for yourself how he spelled mine.

He has made his own move from North to South. He lives in Florida and works as an ambulance driver; moving patients from rehab centers to hospitals or moving dialysis patients. It is the perfect job for him. He still gets to drive all around town on someone else’ gas and gets to talk to a variety of people. I think he really enjoys it.

My father has been married 5 times. My mother was #3. He has a few kids. I am very close to his oldest son, my half-brother, who is an awesome person. My current step-mother is a great person as well. She is so nice.

My half-brother is in his mid-30s and is married with 3 kids. The kids are great kids who are elementary aged. The oldest plays football, baseball and basketball. The middle child is the only girl. The youngest is a chunk who is going to be a stud in sports. I could see him as a hell of a linebacker. My half-brother coaches a pee-wee football team. I helped out one year and really enjoyed my time with that. It is not much fun to think that living down here, I won’t get to do that or see the games. We look so much alike, that people think we had to have the same mother. It is weird to see us together. We have the same wit and sense of humor so things are usually pretty fun.

My other two siblings are a half-brother and a step-brother. The other half-brother has cerebral palsy and lives in a group home up North. The step-brother lives with my father and step-mother. He is about a year older than me and is a security guard at a bar in Florida. I talk to him rarely, but when I visit we always have a good time.

After my mother died, I lived with my mother’s mother. My “Nana” is the greatest person I know really. I have written about her before, but she is truly a peach.

I went to college at a small liberal arts school. It was the same size as my high school so there was no real difference there. I stayed close to home and could easily visit anytime I wanted to have laundry done or get a home cooked meal. Not anymore.

College was a pretty great time. I was very active on campus in student government and the radio station. My fraternity, other clubs and organizations all took up the rest of my time and the studying was sometimes put on the back burner. Until my senior year in college, studying wasn’t that important to me. I was going to be a journalist. What is there to study once you know the basics? You have to learn new technology as it comes, and the stories don’t give out tips before they happen.

Without the LSAT to help even my resume out I probably wouldn’t be in law school. That, and of course my great resume of internships and experiences that had almost nothing to do with law school. No law school cares that I wrote for a national magazine that had a publication of 72,000. They only care if you spent a summer pushing coffee at a law firm with a good name. I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to go out and actually meet some people. My mother spent some time working in our county prosecutors office. If I had wanted a summer job using those connections, I probably could have had one. But, I didn’t. And I feel like that made all the difference in the way I ended up here.

I’m glad I’m here. But I’m going to have to work harder than everyone around me to feel like a success. Give me my books, give me the assignment and get out of the way.

~YJ_SL

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New Drivers License After Extended Stay

I have been to the license place three times in the past week.

On Friday, I was told that I had gotten to the location too late. I showed up on Friday afternoon at 4pm knowing that they stop running out-of-state license exchanges at 4:30pm. I finally had my number called at 4:29pm and walked to the front to be told that the machiene was already down for the day and that I needed to come back Monday. I said I still had a minute by the clock behind the desk. I had all of the paper work filled out in advance. All that was needed was for her to call my old state and fill in her section of the paperwork. She impolitely told me to come back Monday. Her fake “I’m so sorry you had to wait. We can take care of you on Monday” dealio did not make me pleased. I left in a humph.

I came back this morning after my run-in with #VagabondVern. I walked in about 10:15am and took my number. I was number 31. They were on number 74. I would have to wait nearly 60 numbers for mine to be called. There were no seats open so I shimmied into a spot between a looker of a mother and an older gentleman.

At some point in the hour and a half that I was there before my number was called I moved towards the back of the room closer to the fan. I wasn’t going to have a seat, because there were quite a few older people as well as women who were in the room and I was always taught to give up your seat to either group. Besides, I can stand just fine.

The black guy next to me stared at me as I stood there with my materials. I wondered for a minute if I had taken his spot or something. I looked over and engaged in small talk.

“What number are you,” I said.

“I’m number 15. You?”

I told him I was 31 so he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled up number 16. SCORE!

I grabbed it and said thanks. I asked the guy on the other side of me what number he was: “43″ and I gave him my old 31. He was overjoyed.

Finally my number was called and I got to go hand in my info and get my new license. The picture is as horrible as most license photos are. You cannot smile or anything, so that didn’t help. The lady behind the counter said I looked “intimidating” when I wasn’t smiling or talking. The older lady working didn’t look like she had ever been intimidated by anything in her life, so I guess I should take that as a compliment.

The place also had people running around in green and white striped pants and white shirts that said “Corrections” on the back. If there is one place I don’t think convicts should be working it is in the license branch. Anyone else see a small window for wrongdoing? Yeah, me too.

Rent is paid, construction is still going on outside my house and I still haven’t met my neighbor. My room mate moves in Wednesday so I need to make sure the place looks okay.

Other than that, I’m loving it here.

~YJ_SL

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Ever-Vigilant #VagabondVern

There is a homeless man who walks past my house every day. He whistles the same tune as he walks. When I hear the lovely melody of Edison Lighthouse’s “Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes,)” I sing along in my head and have walked outside to talk to him a couple times.

If I am already outside, he always speaks with his daily dose of “news.” The first time I met him was on July 18th of this year when he told my moving buddy, “Steve” that he should, “Fuck the system. Overthrow that corrupt Governor of ours. Live life.” I wasn’t frightened of this short-statured  street-walker and his outgoing openness, even though I had never met him and did not know if he was dangerous or not. He finished his meeting with us asking “Steve” if he wanted “to go check out the underpass.” “Steve” declined.

He wears mostly the same thing: a green shirt and destroyed acid-wash jeans. He has a pair of worn trainers that are about three sizes to small. His big toe stuck out of the right shoe until Wednesday afternoon when I left him a pair of my old shoes on the front step. I wasn’t home when he came past, but he said he loved them last night and that they fit, “fine and proper.”

He always asks how I’m doing with a smile from a mouth that has three teeth or so. His wispy grey-haired balding head, shows the effects the beating sun of the south shines down on him daily. His journey usually takes him by my house around 10AM and sometime between 11 and 12PM. Twice a week, Mondays and Thursdays, he walks past in the afternoon.

His views on the world are about as steadfast as the his schedule. He hates the government, hates lawyers and hates organized religion. He loves his meth, his “freedom” and the water he drinks constantly. The guy is almost always carries a water bottle. He says it is his key to life. I don’t disagree with him there.

Last night he came by about 11PM and was whistling his usual tune. I had just finished a drink and thought to myself, “I could go say hello. Why not?”

I walked outside onto my porch and said hello. He had the usual to say and I questioned his feelings on “Congress is a bunch of sissy pieces of shit. You know that, don’ cha’ boy?” I said, “Well, they are by far the weakest branch of government… wasn’t really supposed to be that way, but that’s how it ended up.”

I apparently said the right thing. The man smiled. He clapped. For a moment, I thought he might jump for joy.

“Boy, you sure gots that right. Well, I’ll be damned… maybe there is gonna be one good lawyer.”

I am glad this guy believes in me and my journey through law school. At least one other person does.

“The Supreme Court has always had the power, boy. They took it from da other branches with that big case. That uh… uh… Marbury Madison case. You know what I’m talkin’ ’bout, boy?”

Yeah, I think a lot of people know what he was talking about. But how many homeless guys know case law? I mean sure, it is a landmark decision that established judicial review and it has probably been the basis of every 7th graders social studies class since WWII… but c’mon… this guy knew that? Now I was really intrigued. I played dumb.

“No, tell me about it,” I said coyly.

“Well, it gave them damn justices all the power. It told the pres’dint to take the sen’tors and respreset’tives dicks and shove ‘em up his ass,” he said.

I seriously wish my 7th grade social studies book gave me that definition. I would have understood the case so much better. I mean can you really disagree with how this man characterized the case? I can’t. It fits exactly what my college judicial process class taught. Maybe there is some more colorful language, but all in all it is the same.

I finished up my conversation with the man and I bid him a good night. I decided to tweet about the encounter since I hadn’t really told anyone that I had been talking to this guy. A frequent visitor to the blawg and twitter mate, sjblawgs, was intrigued and we decided that not only should he be a focus of a post, but that some sort of daily dose and hashtag was appropriate for the gentleman I talk with so often. We started throwing out names. #NomadNorman #VagrantVincent  and #HomelessHowie were some popular choices that were eventually decided against. sjblawgs had the perfect name. #VagabondVern – And it is a perfect fit.

So, I am announcing here that I will have a #VagabondVern installment on the blawg whenever something happens that is especially colorful or interesting. I can’t promise a ton, but I have hope that this will be a regular thing. If he keeps giving me history lessons then I am sure this will only grow. Keep an eye out on twitter for the #VagabondVern hashtag, as I am sure that will become very popular.

I want to give a special thank you and an “Alliteration-Alive Award” to sjblawgs. She is what made me actually post this and more importantly named my homeless friend.

I hope #VagabondVern keeps coming by. I hope my room mate doesn’t mind when he moves in next week, that I have befriended him.

~YJ_SL

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With 9 Days Until Orientation: Houston; I’ve Got A Gunner

Our school has a page designed to help 1Ls find each other roommates, or classmates easily on facebook.The page is very useful as my roommate and I found each other on the site and made our move south painless.

However, the site has people already worried about what law school is going to be like. One person posted: “AAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGHHHH” to the fact that we are something like 19 days from our first class. I must be missing something.

Am I worried? I think I would be ousted as the worst liar in the world if I were to say that I was not. However, I’m much more excited than worried. In fact, worried may not be the real word to use here. “Cautious” is probably better. I’m perfectly content to take orientation and the first weeks of school as they come. Keep my head down and try to make it to Labor Day weekend with some semblance of sanity or calmness. I am a loud and outgoing person by nature, so keeping my head down will be harder than it seems for me anyways. I think buckling down 6 nights a week can make this semester a success. I figured out (a little late in college, finally) my best studying is done when I am at home locked in my room.

Forget study groups and library all nighters. Yeah, I know I am sure I will live to regret that statement. I am a library in the daytime, room at my desk in the nighttime sort of studier and worker. When I do my best writing, I am at home by myself, not in the library per say. I never thought I would say it, but after my last semester in college, I realized that I love to get up early and stay up late.

When I get up early, I am more active and alert. I eat breakfast, I read the paper and I get things done. I’m ready to do that with school as well.

So what am I spending my last 19 days doing? Well if you follow me on twitter (@YJ_SL) then you know my house is receiving some major repairs. My schedule is boring to some but I think it is the best way to get me ready for school.

MY DAY:

7AM: Up and showered/shaved. (This is an acomplishment on the shave part. I had a goatee all through college and shaved maybe every other day if the girl I was dating at the time complained too much. Now I’m clean shaven and feeling much more fit in down here in the south.)

7:30-10AM: B-fast…Reading various news outlets on my phone and reading The Chive. I tweet on my personal account and the account for the blawg constantly. I creep into the twitter lives of my friends.

10AM: Take a morning constitutional around my neighborhood. I don’t live in the best neighborhood but I like a good walk. Plus I am still getting used to my surroundings. I usually walk for an hour or so. Decent exercise (if you can call walking exercise) and it gets me out of the house and into the heat for a little while.

My Afternoon

My Afternoon

Noon: Lunch. (See Dinner)

Afternoon: Visit library, deal with repairmen, check the mailbox constantly, promote synergy, hit on Debra, get rejected, swallow sadness, send some faxes – Like A Boss!

6PM: Dinner. Making it a point to actually make something good. No PBJ for me. Also trying to eat a bit healthier since I will have less time to do that later on in the year. For me, a habit dies hard so if I can make the salad a habit… well then it will stay. And lord knows I could use more salad. Tonight I broiled a chicken breast and then cut it up, seasoned it and threw it over a salad with some italian dressing. The salad was prepackaged, but I added diced green pepper and a couple of slices of tomato. It may not be restaurant quality but it was damn tasty.

Evening: Writing, watching movies, having a drink. Movie collection is getting a work-out. I have watched: Thank You For Smoking, Shaft, Coach Carter, Pulp Fiction, Reservoir Dogs, Green Street Hooligans, A Few Good Men, Rules of Engagement, Beerfest, Super Troopers, The Rock, Jerry Maguire, American History X and Old School. I’m moving and grooving to say the least.

1AM: Bed.

My day is no where near as grueling as most of my days will be this fall, but at least I am getting up and doing something. I don’t want to get to used to sleeping in and sitting on my ass all day long. I mean, I’m not a slob, right? I’m not a gunner, right? I’m in the middle? Because that would be fine with me.

~YJ_SL

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Stylebook Still Stylish

The most important tool in the arsenal of a reporter is not his mind or pen; it is the AP Stylebook.

AP Stylebook

In the book lie the most important answers to usage, spelling capitalization and punctuation for a reporter or any journo for that matter. To the book, the journo is the slave; the book is its ever-present taskmaster. While some may think that characterization is too harsh, I submit that it is not. Without these rules, there would be no uniformity between papers. Even with the Stylebook there are those weird papers that still use Chicago format or some kind of quazi-mixture of the two.

My Bookcase

I was putting together my bookcase, which is filled with some of the most important books to me. I also wanted to clean out the collection and cull some of the unworthy from the collective book herd.

My case has some things one just cannot get rid of easily. If the last name of the author is well-known, it stays.

Camus- Stays.

Vonnegut- Stays.

Nietzche- Stays.

Grisham- Stays.

Shakespeare- Stays.

Whitman-Stays.

If I keep the Whitman and the Grisham, I have to keep Carl Hiaasen (my favorite) and Anthony Bourdain.

By the time I weeded may way through the books, I am down to textbooks I used a ton after classes or I couldn’t sell back to the bookstore. A theatre 101 book and a copy of the MLA Handbook seem to be two of just a few that can be gotten rid of.

This brings me back to the AP Stylebook. Should I keep it? It ruled my life; my collective writing abilities (or lack thereof) for years. How do I part ways with something that graced the right hand top corner of my desk? I sat so many Polar Pops and half eaten pieces of pizza on that thing when I couldn’t find a coaster or plate. I have memorized more than half of the book as I look up the differences in words. I even know the difference between sewage and sewerage. They cannot be used interchangeably I might add.

So here it sits next to my Black’s Law Dictionary. One is a new tome that will help me through law school similarly to the Stylebook in undergrad, but it is so different.

One is an old friend; warm and familiar. The other is more sinister; cold and distant.

I think I’ll keep the Stylebook. I think keeping it in its old spot guarding pizza and cokes is the best place for it.

No worries buddy. You’re home.

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Handy man: 1, House: 0

My house was winning the game against my handy man until he showed up with his tools, ready to unleash them against my unruly house and its leaky ceiling.

The handy man walked in and looked perplexed by the problem lay before him. His job was made no easier by the forecast of rain this afternoon.

He pulled up with his father and son who was named Brandon. The father had the look of a salty old storyteller; mustached and soft-spoken. The son had the thickest of southern accents with his 7-year-old frame being weighed down by a vocabulary he hasn’t yet grown into.

A ladder was put up and gutters were quickly cleaned and put back in their place. The man worked with a quick but purposeful pace. There was no lost movement. No energy wasted.

The grandfather and son piddled around moving gutter remnants and holding the ladder.

“You fixin’ ta leave, son?” The grandfather hollered at me from the front porch.

“No, I am going to do some work around the house and stuff. I have nowhere to be this afternoon. Come in and out as you please,” I responded.

I went into the kitchen and poured up some generic Kool-Aid for everyone. I figure it is important to take care of those who are working on things in your house. People work better and harder for people they like.

The old man and son stopped for a second and drank some Kool-Aid.

“Where’d ya go to college?” asked the man.

“I went to [XXXX],” I responded.

The man looked puzzled and was trying to place why in the hell I was living here. I was wearing a Sigma Alpha Epsilon t-shirt and as the only fraternity founded in the anti-bellum south, people down here know the name and characterize it specifically as being southern. When I said I went to a school in the north, it was surprising to him.

“I am going to be a 1L at the law school,” I volunteered.

He seemed to understand this as he said, “This is a different kind of place down here ain’t it?”

I understood what he meant. My town is not amazingly friendly or safe. I know this and so does he. He reminded me that I was in a “whiter” neighborhood than most in town. With the town’s racial make up at a staunch 67% black, 14% white, 12% latino or hispanic and the rest “other,” my town is very diverse.

“Well if you’re looking for a good time, in town is not a great as outside town. I live out past the reservoir and that is where all that partying and having a good time out on the lake is happenin,” the man informed me as he went about finishing his gutter work.

The work moved from outside to inside shortly.

In and out. In and out the man came with his tucked in t-shirt and newish blue jeans. He topped his outfit with a newer, navy blue Lacoste hat that probably cost $60.

The grandfather had already worked on the ceiling a bit; pulling the old pieces out. Now they just needed to cut the sheet rock and put it in place in the ceiling, plaster and paint. Paint would need to wait until the plaster dried.

He asked a few times about information on how I had found the leak, or how the pieces of ceiling had fallen off. He chuckled a few times when I would say a word he didn’t understand or know. Caddy-wampus is apparently a word he hadn’t heard very often. I didn’t dare tell him about the adjacent corner diagonal to mine as being caddy-corner. No point in having to explain myself even further.

The rain never came. A sprinkle, maybe two passed a couple of times as he worked outside. More sweat than rain dampened the white T-shirt still tucked squarely into the jeans.

The grandson talked to himself and chased a little gecko through the front yard as his father and grandfather worked inside. He was a cute kid. He would get to about two or three feet of the lizard and the chase was on until he finally lost him in the side yard under a bush.

A good result for my house came about today. He has to come back tomorrow to finish, but all in all the task is 90% finished.

Handy man: 1, House: 0.

The handyman didn’t look so perplexed anymore.

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