That's How I Prole

My Tuesday night was dinner at the Vanderbilt University Club with judges, lawyers, and other notable members of Nashville's local bar association, where our guest speaker (one himself a former founding editor of USA Today) regailed us with advice for managing your client's media relations. Dinner consisted of Smothered Chicken, haricot verts, and salad with creamy Italian. We swapped stories of cases past, legalese, and the occassional name-drop to impress.

My Thursday night is already booked: a fundraiser and dinner for Senate-hopeful Harold Ford, Jr. Sure to be a suave affair full of distinguished dignitaries at one-hundred dollars a head, all of whom wish to see our junior congressman and rising star in the Democratic Party fill the seat left vacant by Majority Leader Frist. Power mongering at its finest.

In stark contrast, on Wednesday night I have my first kickball match. Our team name? "Drinking Team With a Kickball Problem." This was chosen by a slim margin over the runner-up: "Nicole Kidman Got Drunk and Pooped In My Front Yard." Our field is a dirt patch in the middle of Ghettotown, a suburb of downtown Nashville. We still can't decide what beverage to go with: cases of PBR, a Party Ball and styrofoam cups, or 40oz. of Old English and Mickeys. With any luck, the hangover will last until just before I get in my car and drive to the swanky restaurant where the future Senator awaits to greet my bloodshot eyes, cloudy memory, and massive cheap beer headache.

That's how I roll.

"Yes, I am beautiful, and I just pooped in your front yard."