So, see the side brushy thing there? And how all skinny it is? I did that with my new friend, Photoshop.
But, as it turns out, I didn't have to! I opened my in-box yesterday, and there was a message from one of my lovely readers, Glen, who also cut the border down for me and sent me the jpegs.
My readers are the best. Don't let anybody try to fool you. MY readers are better than any other journaler's. MINE.
I got the best phone call from my friend Tara in Kansas City.
For a few crazy moments, it was not the best phone call, only the scariest phone call.
"Hey... I just heard that Sting is going to be here on July 23rd. I can get us tickets, but I wanted to make sure it didn't conflict with your bar exam. Let me know."
I'm listening to her message, saying "shit... shit..." over and over again while frantically pulling my calendar apart, looking for July 23rd, my mind going blank as to the dates of the test.
A Sunday. The Sunday before the bar exam. Two days before.
Big surprise: I'm going.
Call me crazy, but I'm going. Here's my rationale (reasons, excuses, justifications, whatever):
1. I will not learn anything the Sunday night before the bar that I don't know already.
2. Sting is getting old. I'm not saying he's about to die, I'm just saying that it will be years before he tours again, and I can't afford to both buy a ticket and travel somewhere to see him later on in the tour.
3. I have seen him on his last three tours. I can't break that kind of streak.
4. If Sting is the reason I fail the bar, it will have been worth it.
Okay, that last one isn't true. And yes, two days after the bar would have been much better than two days before. But I can't believe that taking six hours out of my life to go to, watch, and come home from a concert will invalidate the eight weeks of preparation I will have done up to that point.
This, however, does not mean that I'm not going to keep my attendance a secret from anyone who might repudiate me. And it also doesn't mean that I won't be taking flashcards with me in the car and in the amphitheater to review while some lame-ass opening band plays.
I took a poll at the Senior Picnic tonight (third-years are called Seniors at my school), and the vote was overwhelmingly in favor of attending the concert. But if any of you lawyers out there think it's a really stupid idea, please tell me. I'll trust your judgment.
My first order of business upon returning to Kansas is to force Sam Brownback out of office.
Sam Brownback is a Senator. He was elected to fill Bob Dole's seat when ViagraMan left to run for president in 1996, and was elected to his first full term in 1998.
And he's an idiot.
Two days ago, I saw a report on the controversy surrounding stem cell research. Apparently, there are currently hearings going on in Congress about the benefits of stem cell therapy in regrowing all kinds of tissue, from nerve endings to organs. Christopher Reeve testified about the huge improvement in spinal cord injuries that could result from stem cells.
The "problem" is that stem cells are harvested from aborted fetuses. (I don't know for sure, but that may be the only way to get them.)
And Sam Brownback, in all his right-wing glory, got up there before Congress and equated stem cell research with Naziism. Because, you see, harvesting the cells from LEGALLY aborted fetuses is just the same as the Nazis conducting horrendous human experiments on holocaust victims that were "going to die anyway."
This just burns me. Now, many of my friends are Catholic and pro-life, and I have absolutely no problem with that. I'm a pro-choice kind of girl myself. I adopt the old theory that if you don't believe abortion is right, fine. Don't have one.
But the fact is that, at this moment and for the last 17 years, abortion is legal in this country. And as long as that is the case, why deny hundreds of thousands of people suffering from all kinds of degenerative diseases the opportunity to benefit from this perfectly legal choice?
But that's just me. As far as medical research is concerned, I'm also pro-animal testing. If some rat has to die so my mother can survive cancer, so be it. Stick that in your pipe, Sam Brownback.
To tell if a pearl is genuine, rub it against your teeth. A fake pearl will feel smooth; the real thing will grate.
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