2003-04-14 � Remembered Fondly

So tell me what justification Stone Phillips has for taking up arms against Dan Rather? I think the president should step in and do something about this before any more statutes of Rupert Murdoch are toppled, beheaded, and dragged through the street.

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An update on the chamber's mug situation. I've added a lovely cobalt mug with the slogan "my other ride is your girlfriend" to the mix. I was nearly delirious when the princess picked it up and fouled it with her barn yard table manners.

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My judge writes four or five opinions every week and they cannot leave the chambers unless every apostrophe has been checked for accurate placement and every citation verified. So in addition to our other duties, we do a lot of proofreading and editorial stuff.

Judge Selma likes corrections to her opinions to be noted in red ink. Right, fine. No big deal. Except that I work for the state, yo. Office supplies are among the least of the state's concerns so they provide the shittiest of writing implements only. Ellen maintains a drawer full of red disposable Bic "Roundstic" Ballpoint Pens with a fine point, which are the least wonderful pens ever in the history of the universe. The grip is painful, the balance resists the art of handwriting, and the vibrations produced by scratching the rough plastic across a sheet of paper to make a mark have a tendency to shoot up my arm and through my skull and down my spine in sharp, uncomfortable waves. And as this is not Consumer Reports, I won't comment on the inferior quality of the stroke left behind by the "Roundstic." I think we can all be grateful for that as I have many negative things to say about it.

I bore it for as long as I could, but when it just got to be too much, I asked Ellen if it was possible to get different red pens. She handed me a catalogue and told me to look through and jot down the order number of the pens I like and she'd look into it. In no time, I located my favorite of the disposable pens. Sanford Uni-ball GelGrip medium point with the cap, not the clicky retractable kind. I was elated. I could tell that I was editing one of my last opinions with gritted teeth and scratchy pen shock waves dancing on my spine.

Two months went by, not to the day or anything. It could have been more, it could have been less, I don't know precisely. So, more accurately I should say, something like two months went by before Ellen greeted me at the office door with her hand behind her back. "Guess what I have," she toyed.

"Syphilis?" I asked.

"Careful, or I'll never tell you."

"Ok, ok. I'm sorry. What is it?"

She pulled her hand out from behind her back to reveal a red Sanford Uni-ball Gel-Grip. I started to tear up. She put it in my hand and told me to use it in good health.

"Oh, Ellen!" I cried. "It's so beautiful! So very beautiful!"

She hugged me and said, "you deserve it, Brian." And then she said, "now be careful with it, because I could only get one."

"One? One box?"

"No, one pen. Cutbacks and all. That's my gel-ink budget for the year."

"For the year? I hold in my hand Judge Selma's gel-ink budget, the entire thing? We shot her wad on one pen?"

"Yeah, Brian. They're expensive, you know? Like two dollars and something. So don't lose it because I can't replace it this fiscal year."

The next two weeks were a delight. I found myself volunteering to proofread the opinions as they came up. Any excuse to use my Uni-ball, you know. And I have to say, my editorial corrections greatly improved. Things that were fine, but could have been improved, I often let go back in the Bic days. Improvements require marking up the page, just as correcting errors and typos do. I subscribed to the no unnecessary marks school of thought. But now, with the smooth gliding action of my Gel-Grip, I was freed to reach new editorial heights. No more artificial restrictions.

I marked freely in vibrant red gel ink. And every night before leaving, I carefully checked that the cap was on securely and hid my Gel-Grip underneath my box of tissues in the right-hand, bottom drawer of my desk. For safe keeping. I didn't want an overzealous cleaning person to mistake my pen for trash and I certainly didn't want the princess to find it and steal it and use it because I hate her and I never want her to proofread with ease, but instead always with the scratchy yuck of the Roundstic.

And oh, I was a delight in the chambers. Other clerks would spot me in the library and say, "oh, Brian! Is that a new pen you have on your finger? Just looking at it has so enthralled me that I've completely blocked out the nagging hum from the flourescent lighting! Oh, Brian! May I try it out? Just to sign my name or something? Just a little try out with that wonderful and beautiful and mysterious pen?"

And I always would say, "I'm sorry, but I can't let you touch it. If you break it, I'll not be able to replace it as this is my judge's entire gel pen budget for the year. You'll have to get your own secretary to order you one for yourself."

And then they say, "What if I just take it? Huh? What are you gonna do about it if I just take your pen, midget?"

And I have to say, "you leave me no choice!" and then I charge them and bite their inner thighs until I taste blood and they usually limp out of the library cursing. I've created more than a few enemies that way.

So, last week things got a little hectic here in the chambers. I was called into the reception area to handle a particularly difficult crisis. I grabbed a stenographer's pad and the only pen I could find, my prized red gel-grip, and ran up the gently sloping midget ramps that wind through out the chambers.

When I reached reception I asked for a recap of the situation to date. It soon became clear, as I'd anticipated, that I would need to take notes, so in my haste I gripped the cap of the pen with my poorly formed midget teeth and pulled it off. I had begun to write when my tooth grip slackened and my cap fell onto the pad, where it bounced, finally landing on the file cabinets. In my haste to retrieve it I tripped over my adorable little midget shoes and faltered in my reach such that the cap was sent flying toward the wall. It fact, it hit the wall and seemed to hang suspended in the air for the split second it took me to realize what was happening and then it disappeared behind the file cabinets. I heard it land on the floor with a faint ping sound.

I lay on the cabinets, my arm outstretched, my jaw agape. I still held the pen, but without the protective cap, how much longer could it last? I knew it was the end of an era.

Oh, sure. That night I wrapped my pen in aluminum foil in a vain attempt to keep it from drying out. But as quickly as the next morning I could tell a difference in the action of the pen. It wasn't as responsive; it was beginning to lack flow as the ink dried and seized around the mechanism.

Today my pen died completely. I was mid correction when it finally gave up the ghost. I put it in a discarded Coke can and intend to bury it in the park. I'll place a little stone to mark it's final resting place and hope the squirrels leave it unmolested.

It was a good pen that died before its time.

Posted at 3:16 p.m.

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