Farmers Abandon Law School and Urban Living

I've been abandoned. Seriously. The farmers today informed me that they are dropping out of law school and returning to the farm. Within an hour of telling me this, they had packed up most of their things and were on the road. Apparently, the contract for the farmer's cows fell through and the cows were coming back to the farm--tomorrow.

I'm shell-shocked. It was a perfect fit, and I really liked them. While they will be back for their furniture--a brand new entire bedroom set--it sounds like a done deal. Now, I'm a tenant's attorney compelled to enforce my sublease against two renters. Dang. Anyone know of a good housemate out there?

A Pinup, But Not In Lingerie

Contrary to rampant rumors, I am NOT going to model the new line of Victoria's Secret underwear and bras. NOT.

Yesterday I got an e-mail from a staff person at Guild Incorporated, a social service agency that helps lots of people with mental illness. It turns out they selected me as an "Everyday Angel" because of my past pro bono work in helping their clients. I represented one woman in a nasty divorce case involving mental illness on both sides--boy, was that a doozy, but ended with good results after years of struggle. I also represented a woman in an Order for Protection hearing involving a terribly abusive husband. I actually forgot all about these cases and was only reminded of them when I got the e-mail yesterday.

Here's the deal: I'm one of 12 Everyday Angels. Why 12? Because part of the deal is a photograph of me produced in the annual Everyday Angel calendar, sent to some 4,000 people associated with the Guild. There's also an interview and whatnot, and an award ceremony, but the idea that I could be a pinup in a cubicle in an office building in Maplewood is pretty frickin' funny. Though I am, of course, completely flattered and honored.

Crabby Summer

First, I was pleasantly surprised to read an editorial in the Star Tribune about bike commuting. Apparently, the Strib editors believe it has been a "beastly summer," difficult for bike commuters. I don't think I'd go as far as beastly. Maybe crabby or flaky.

The farmers have moved in. Ken, the fourth-generation farmer, sold all his cattle except a few, and some folks back at the farm have agreed to feed the last remaining cows. He's truly a farmer, with broad meaty and calloused hands, an aw shucks attitude and a laid back temperament. Liberal to boot. His wife is not your typical farmer's wife, though what the hell is a typical farmer's wife? Law school orientation has started for them and they have their first reading assignments, which they diligently complete. They've already developed that first year law student knack to discuss every small detail of a case, as if it is the most moving case ever read. I'm going to enjoy this, though it's an adjustment to get used to two additional people in my space.

Chitlins, Pickled Pigs Feet, and Bush Bearings

The diversity of my job and life is pretty remarkable, though it's likely going to change. Take yesterday. I spent most of the morning supervising lay advocates in housing court, then we all went out to lunch for a working meeting. While it was officially a meeting, it turned into a long discussion about food, including arguments about the best way to make okra, the delicacy of pickled pigs feet, and how much you have to clean chitlins before boiling them in water and beer. I learned, in fact, that "you cannot eat everyone's chitlins" simply because you cannot trust how well the intestines were cleaned.

From there, I met with a bunch of attorneys to discuss technical details about landlord-tenant law. Sounds boring, but I actually like that stuff as well. Then, a discussion with my mechanic about transmission fluid and the right front end replacement of bush bearings and U joint. From there, home with my son, where he met one of the farmers and we got to talking about pregnancy checks in heifers, complete with gloves up to your shoulder.

I really shouldn't call them the 'farmers' anymore. though the husband is still back at the farm dealing with the sale of the dairy cattle. He wants to sell them to someone close to home so he can still visit them. Interesting.

Keep Your Mouth Shut

I've been biking for three months now, almost to the day. Physically, I'm a lot faster and stronger on the bike, and I've returned to my bike messengering days when the bike felt nearly like an extension of my body. When I rode from Max's house to my house last night, I covered the 12+ miles in about 45 minutes. A word to the wise, though. When you bike fast and down along the wetlands next to Minnehaha Creek, keep your mouth shut. While they may be a delicacy somewhere in the world, a bowlful of gnats down your gullet is not very appetizing. Yech.

Ultrathon Stage 2

Little did I know that the Urban Ultrathon is a staged event. Stage 2 today involved loading my bike into the moving truck, returning the truck, biking over to the YWCA to work out (yes, the ultrathon is a full body experience), hopping on a train with the bike, badly miscalculating the bus schedule to South Minneapolis, and then biking to Max's Mom's house in lieu of the bus, where I borrowed a car. From there to Max's school, hop on a school bus for a field trip to the Metrodome, hop back on and return to school, then off to a meeting, all before noon. A protest has been launched, however, about the use of my ex-wife's car. I had no idea that ultrathon rules were so rigid.

Despite the setbacks, my bike is super fit after its tune up and flat tire repair yesterday. I love it. And with gas now at $2.69 a gallon and going higher, it's about time I'm back in the game.

Urban Ultrathon

First, the rumors are true: I've been on my bike. But, only for a limited time. You see, I apparently entered my first urban ultrathon. Here's how this sporting event works. First, you fry your transmission on your pickup truck, rendering it useless. Forced to bike to your child's house to pick him up and take him to school, you blow your back tire while crossing the Mississippi River. After limping along on the bike for half a mile, you lock it up and hop a bus that dumps you about a mile from your kid's house. From there, you grab your bicycle helmet and run the final mile to the house, arriving a sweaty mess. You play with your kid, get him some breakfast, then walk to the coffee shop where he gets his favorite sprinkle donut. Then, both of you hop on another city bus to his school. After dropping the kid, you hop back on a bus, then a train, and arrive at the truck rental place, where you rent a ten foot moving truck. You hop in the truck, drive to your old office and load up all the remaining furniture and boxes, say hello to your old landlord, and head off to move the furniture into storage.

All this before 9:00 a.m., which is a new record in the event. We'll see what happens tomorrow, but for now I have to retrieve my bike and take the truck in for treatment, all post urban ultrathon clean up.

(Let's Get) Physical

I'm taking my bike in for a physical today. I get a free 90 day check up at Penn Cycle and I'm now approaching the 86th day. It's in need of a tune-up, as I estimate I've ridden it about 500 miles in the last three months.

If you read the title to this entry and got a sudden twinge of feeling toward Olivia Newton John, then, yeah, I suckered you in. I know you are all closet lovers of Olivia, as I am a devoted follower of her poetic genius. So, I leave you with these fine words. Notice her brilliant turn of the phrase "intimate restaurant" and the remarkable closing of the song's first stanza. Cue it up, boys, and don't blame me if you are grooving to it the rest of the day and singing it loudly to your colleagues.

I'm saying all the things that I know you'll like, 
Makin' good conversation
I gotta handle you just right, 
You know what I mean
I took you to an intimate restaurant,
Then to a suggestive movie
There's nothin' left to talk about, 
Unless it's horizontally

Let's get physical, physical
I wanna get physical
Let's get into physical
Let me hear your body talk, your body talk
Let me hear your body talk
Let's get physical, physical
I wanna get physical
Let's get into physical

When It Rains, It Rains

I was offered a job today at a small law firm in Edina. I'd be the fifth attorney there and would do a lot of litigation. In other words, court work. I tell you, when it rains, it really rains. I was half-kidding earlier about wrapping up the trifecta of love, money and shelter, and here it is at least partially wrapped. There's lots of work and unknowns for the future, but I honestly cannot help but smile.

It's likely I will take the job, though I asked to sleep on it before making a decision. For me, the most painful issue will be leaving my baby behind--Project 504. It's been six years in the making and a roller-coaster ride at that, with near financial shutdowns, frustrating and deflating defeats, and unbelievable results and recognition. Recently, I've been working with the most remarkable people: our team of lay advocates, regular people who assist tenants in eviction cases in Hennepin County District Court. Two in particular--Megan and Yolanda--are quite powerful in the work that they do. All I did was provide some basic training and direction, as well as immediate feedback, and they have become smarter, more insightful, and more effective than the team of volunteer attorneys who are available to help tenants at court. They are street smart, savvy and compassionate, a rare combination. I will miss them immensely, not only because of their skill and efforts, but also because I have loved hanging out with them at court and taking their guff about my life--whether that relates to my dating, my son, or the goofed up things that I sometimes do.

We'll see. If all goes as I would like it to, I will accept the job and also hang on to some role with PJ504. Given the rain that has come down on me, I'm thinking it's all possible. Knock on wood, everybody, and touch metal if you happen to be or speak Italian.

Darkness Visible

First of all, four thirty in the morning is not morning. It's NIGHT. It's the hour that people sneak home from doing wrong. It's the peak hour of owls, the middle of the day for raccoons, the bedtime for ghosts. But I swear to God it's night, and there I was at 4:28 a.m. in the parking lot near Summit Avenue and River Road thinking "this is all a brilliant practical joke. I've just been punked."

I wasn't punked. Ugly Juice and her friend Tonya did show up. UJ ran two miles with us before fading, her excuse being lack of training. Tonya wrapped it up after about 9 miles, which was excellent considering her late night snacking at the Chatterbox and the fact that her father--a marathoner himself--passed away suddenly two weeks ago. I hustled on and completed about 13 miles before heading in to Dunn Bros for coffee. I wasn't going to stop at nine when I got out there at 4:30 in the NIGHT.

Now, for your literary types out there, Darkness Visible is the title of William Styron's brilliant book about his personal struggle with depression. Read it if you need to understand depression. I won't reveal my own struggle, but suffice it to say that I am happier now than I have been in at least four years, evidenced by my ability to drag myself out of bed at 4:00 and run thirteen miles, starting in the dark and finally ending after the sun comes up. Thanks, UJ, for busting my butt.

Running Craze Taking Over

Part of the deal with the biking powers is to track how much weight, if any, I lose as a result of riding my bike around. But that's problematic when I'm simultaneously training for a marathon. I've actually lost about 15-20 pounds in the last few months, but that has been accelerated by all the biking. I'm guessing it's responsible for 5 of the pounds, 6 tops. That's what I'll report.

Now, talk about insane. Ugly Juice and her friend Tonya roped me into a 15 mile run tomorrow morning at 4:30 a.m. Yeah, 4:30. Apparently this is something of a regular deal with them, and they rope other people in as well. The only reason I'm going is that I will already have been up and have biked 42 miles, plus they are promising me all-you-can-eat banana and orange GU. Who could refuse? I am disappointed they did not get the new flavor, Espresso Love, in honor of my caffeine addiction and mad dating skills.

Two Going, One to Go

OK, my life trifecta of shelter, money and love is cruising right along. I got new housemates. Two to be exact, and they are a farm couple from Southeastern Minnesota. Both of them are in their fifties, operate a dairy farm, and are going to law school in the fall at William Mitchell College of Law. Pretty fascinating, and it's a good fit for my house, as we need a few head of cattle and some down home cooking. Actually, he's the farmer and she's involved in academia in some way, and they are selling their cattle and moving in with me on August 15. Don't worry, it won't crimp my newfound and exciting dating life--they'll spend most of their weekends back on the farm.

So, I got love going and shelter done. More info in a bit on the money side; i.e., my job search. Oh, and an update on the bike situation--after all, this is BikeTown.

Will Bike and Boy Be Repossessed?

I've been on the bike a total of 0 days since mid-July. I hope Bicycling Magazine is not reading this, as they may take the bike away.

But I have excuses, good excuses. Like I've been dating, finding housemates, and looking for a job. All is going well and in different degrees. Take the dating. I've been on two dates so far. The first was nice but there was no chemistry, which is code for I wasn't that attracted to her. Hey, I'm being honest. The second was last night with a very nice, smart and attractive woman. We had fun on an All-American Date. But, man, am I a complete dork. Dinner was cool and we had a great conversation. Then we went for a walk along the Mississippi. Toward the end of our walk, I suggested that she should get home (she lives about 50 miles away from the Twin Cities) because it's "getting late and getting dark." Yeah, like 9:15. Dufus. Did I recover? Nope. I followed that brilliance with my saying "yeah, I'm a worrier about travel at night." What a moron. God, can I be any more of a complete ass? I barely recovered and said or mumbled something or maybe I didn't say anything, but it could have been"or we could get a beer or something." She suggested ice cream and Izzy's was not far away, so off we went to get ice cream and listen to music in her car through her iPod. Yeah, we went parking on our first date.

I withheld the driving-home-in-the-dark story to my dating advisor, who is supplying me with tips and encouragement. My advisor will remain confidential, but suffice it to say that she is young and super hip and dishes out great advice. But she doesn't have much to work with at times. For instance, and to continue the theme of boy as dork, I suggested a second date toward the end of last night. What was the proposed date? Going to a coffee shop in her town and reading the Sunday New York Times. My advisor's reaction was, well, fairly predictable, like "You f---ing moron. God, what are you, an old couple already ten years into the marriage, hanging out and just reading the paper on a Sunday morning? Jesus, what are you going to do next, mow her yard?"

I'm in damage control mode now. We'll see if we can save me from myself.