"L.A. Law" lied to me.

Darn you, Jimmy Smits. Being a lawyer isn't like t.v. Huh-uh. Nope.

I watched you in your fancy suits, with your clever plot lines . . . and at such a young age you warped my mind.

I gave up my dreams of one day having a major crime sydicate named after me . . . because of you. I will now never know the exhiliration of rubbing elbows with crooks and con-men; of extorting the small-businessman for my protection; of always attempting to influence local government; of flouting the law; of leaving a room with two suited goons on one side of a table and a poor sap on the other, listening to his whimpers . . .

I will never experience these things. (Unless, of course, I make partner some day.)

But for now, Jimmy Smits, I have to spend my days locked away in the mind-numbingly quiet solitude of a law library.

Leafing through page, after page, after page . . . of the Southwestern Reporter. Only to follow that up with the thrill of Shepardizing whatever gem I could find.

And when I finally emerge from the confines of my little hell-- I will emerge pasty, shrunken, hairless like some less-than-sypathetic Gollum in a Brooks Bros suit, cradling my tirelessly prepared brief in my arms, peering at those around me who would try to steal those oh-so original arguments from me and infringe upon my genius, softly petting my briefcase and repeating: "Me loves the precious."

Then I get to hand it over to the senior attorney. And HE gets to be like Jimmy Smits. And I go home in my $40,000 automobile to my $200,000 house and pop in volume 1 of the Sopranos, Season Four, dreaming someday I might get to represent Tony Soprano in an actual courtroom.

'Course, first he'd have to get caught. And that'll never happen.

And I'd have to learn where the courthouse is located. That would be even less likely.

But I'd still love being a lawyer . . . notwithstanding anything contained herein to the contrary, of course.