[for dr_julianna_cox and backdated to last week]

He’d bought the Mercedes seven years ago with the better part of an extravagant and wholly deserved bonus, had borne the inevitable cracks about his midlife crisis bemusedly. It was by no means a flashy car—four doors, a top that wouldn’t budge, a coat of black paint designed not to turn any heads—but it handled well and, on those occasions when Alan pressed it for speed, complied readily enough. A study in the elegance of understatement, he might have (and probably did, at one point or another, to impress one girl or another) pronounced it.

All of which served to make the journey from Boston to New York City just short of intolerable.

He left the office early, thanking the deities or demons governing baseball scheduling that the Sox had been banished to Philadelphia for the weekend, and nevertheless managed to snarl himself in traffic almost immediately. Several hours of the very worst kind of driving ensued, Alan nudging the car forward with alternating taps to the gas and brake pedals, blasting the air conditioning and fussing with the radio. Traffic thinned once he’d left Boston behind, congealed again when he reached New York. There were, of course, no parking spots available in the vicinity of Julianna’s apartment.

(Well, no legal parking spots.)

Road-weary, tie slightly askew but expectant look in place, he rapped on the door.

Current Mood: tired

Two devilishly handsome men walk into a Stargate... [for stargatejackson]

“You can sit down,” the judge says, shooing the latest witness—an economist with an oily smile and (Alan is forced to concede) a rather slick-looking suit—from the stand with a dismissive sweep of her hand.

“Forgive me for asking the obvious question, but was it absolutely necessary to antagonize him?”

“It was that or succumb to sleep in the middle of my own cross, and I’ve a sneaking suspicion”—the gavel comes down; they’re vouchsafed two hours free from the mind-numbing intricacies of antitrust law, two hours in which the words “market power” will not be uttered—“that would have sent the right message to the jury.

“Besides,” Alan adds, gathering his notes and depositing them in his briefcase, “the man had it coming, and somebody involved in this case might as well get what he deserves. Shall we?”

“Oh. Jerry’s here—today—on another matter and I—“ At this conversational juncture, a polite person would have the grace to look contrite; Katie looks positively mortified.

“And you’d rather have lunch with him.”

“Well.” She smiles, likely in spite of herself.

“I’ll see you in two hours,” he says, feeling—for a fleeting instant—like a father setting curfew. It passes, as things do, and he makes his way to the door.

Current Mood: relieved

Comment to this post and I'll entrust you with five subjects I believe you uniquely qualified to discuss. Then post this in your LJ and tell me something I don't know about the subjects given.

From Peter:

( lawyer, generosity, Zippy, Boston, justice )

Current Mood: curious

Happy Valentine's Day.

( The things I do for you, Jean-Paul. )

Current Mood: okay

1 question...
1 chance... That's a touch hyperbolic. I've posted this once before, and one could always loosen my tongue with liquor.
1 honest answer...

That's all you get. Ask me one question. Any one question, anything, no matter how crazy. An honest answer. No catch.

Current Mood: curious

Five minutes in the life of your muse.

( The printer spits out sixty-five pages of court opinion—only the legal system could produce a sixty-five page 'no'—and Alan gathers the still-warm stack of paper in his hands and carries it to his office. )

All right, since I have a lazy Sunday ahead of me, we'll give this a try. Basically, it works just like a Choose Your Own Adventure novel: I write a little snippet that culminates in a cliffhanger and a series of options, and the first person to reply gets to select the option that most appeals to them. (I should probably warn you now that, in keeping with the spirit of the CYOA books--and, for that matter, Boston Legal--these options will tend toward the cracktastic.)

This continues until Alan discovers the treasure trove hidden in the boiler room of CP&S, meets his doom in a pit of writhing snakes, or I lose interest.

Anyone is welcome to comment. You don't need to have Alan friended!


The new regime took a dim view of tardiness—they’d conveyed as much in a meeting consisting largely of stern looks supplemented by the occasional PowerPoint slide—and accordingly Alan made a point, whenever possible, of arriving to work a few minutes late. It meant losing out on the choicest pastries and the freshest coffee, but adherence to principle demanded certain sacrifices.

Today he set down his briefcase at 9:23, took a seat behind his desk, and began what promised to be a long and arduous slog through a contract in need of invalidation. Fortunately, it wasn’t long before something stirred near the doorway.

Alan looked up to see…


A) Denny Crane!
B) Carol Danvers’ feral feline
C) His younger self
D) A partner intent on reprimanding him
E) Rahm Emanuel

Current Mood: venturesome

From Kara.

( Ancient history )

Current Mood: tired

Denny and I are now legally wed.

No gifts, please. Definitely no china.

So, as you may or may not know (and judging by the show's ratings, I'm gonna go with "may not"), tomorrow the very last episode of Boston Legal airs. Thus far, I've tried to play Alan as close to canon as humanly possible (with a few minor exceptions *cough*utterlypreposterousfearofwater*cough*), but it's possible that after the finale I'll need to tweak a few things.

Therefore, Alan will likely spend the next few days in a state of suspended animation as I try to work out how best to incorporate his final bit of canon into RP and cope with my grief. I definitely plan to continue writing him--Alan will be around to torment your muses for years to come--but he may vanish for a short while.

Of course, it's also possible that nothing of import will happen in the finale and things will proceed as usual.

Anyway, while we're at it, if you have any questions about Alan or how I write him, or would like to treat me to a nice old-fashioned spamming, go right ahead.

A belated Happy Thanksgiving to all those who saw fit to participate in Thursday’s festival of gluttony. Shirley Schmidt was kind enough to throw wide the doors to her home and welcome a—I’m not sure what the term of venery is for a group of lawyers, so I’ll appropriate that of our closest relative—shiver of attorneys to her table. I spent the better part of the day nibbling on succulent turkey and gorging myself on candied yams, and the worse part suffering the egregious violation of my bodily integrity by one Melvin Palmer.

I’m very glad to have done so.

My legal career has always been a follow-the-bouncing-ball sort of affair—or perhaps, more accurately, a follow-the-wrecking-ball sort of affair—and when I was hired at Crane, Poole & Schmidt, I didn’t expect to last a year, much less six. I certainly didn’t expect to find myself...I sometimes (all right, often) lose sight of how fortunate I am.

I’m thankful that I’m able to work with a number of passionate, intelligent, talented people, many of whom inexplicably permit me to call them “friend.” I’m thankful to work at—to be a part of—a place that, for all its shortcomings, does occasionally aspire to loftier goals than turning a buck. I’m thankful that place has a balcony.

I’m thankful to belong somewhere.

Even if that somewhere may not be around much longer.

Current Mood: pensive

After Disch and Levine, with apologies only to the former.

A is for Antics, of which I am fond;
B'd better be Bail or—barring that—Bond.
C is for Closings of prodigious length,
Because I refuse to abide by the notion that anything and everything can be distilled to a sound bite or encapsulated in a convenient metaphor. Complex issues ought to be treated as such, ought to be examined in depth and from more than one perspective, and if that takes seven minutes of your time, so be—
D for Debauchery, Debasement, Denny.
E is for Eloquence, which eludes many.
F is for Fishing at Nimmo Bay;
G is the Games that I am wont to play.
H is Hotel, rather than House,
I the Intent lacked when offing one's spouse.
J is for Jail. K is the Key
That locks you away or sets you free.
L is for Laughter held tightly in check;
M is the Moment it bursts forth to wreck
The pretense of Nonchalance (that would be N).
O is for Objections sustained often.
P is for Pink, preferrèd hue;
What could I choose but a Question for Q?
R is for Rules—bent, fractured, broken;
S has been censored with a stroke of my pen.
T is for Truth guaranteed by an oath;
U is for Utah and Undress, states both.
V is for Venturing hither and thither;
W's Wit, without which words wither.
X was a girlfriend whose name I expunged;
Y is for You, who I have adjudged
Worthy of reading this litany.

There are your constants—now solve for Z.

Current Mood: whimsical

Write page 57 of your 300-page autobiography.

Excerpt from As Yet Untitled by Alan Shore.

( 57 )

Current Mood: listless

9-1.

Break my heart why don't you.

Current Mood: other

At long last: sleazy!Alan for tm_northstar

Remember that drabble meme? No, you say? It was posted four months ago, you say? Well, this began in response to that and then proceeded to devour my brain. I apologize for the utterly ridiculous length and my equally ridiculous attempt at a plot.

( 'You're always going on and on about what a detestable bastard you are.' )

For the purposes of this inquiry, "therapy" shall be defined as "the treatment, conducted by a licensed professional, of mental and emotional disorders through the use of psychological techniques"; "therapist" shall be defined as "the licensed professional conducting said therapy."

These questions arise from my own curiosity, nothing more. They're for my own edification and enjoyment; you're under no obligation to respond to them. If you do opt to answer, however, I would ask that you do so as honestly as possible. Or at the very least, as entertainingly as possible.

( Come one, come all to the latest poll. )

Current Mood: scientific

Here are the rules:
1. Leave me a comment saying, "I am not smarter than Alan Shore."
2. I will respond by asking you 5 questions of a very frivolous nature.
3. You will update your LJ with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this and an offer to interview someone else in the post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them 5 questions.

( Zippy )

( Jean-Paul )

( Senator Kelly )

( Harry )

( Lorna )

Current Mood: blank

"Everything passes. Nobody gets anything for keeps. And that's how we've got to live." Haruki Murakami.

Denny and I are in Luray, Virginia (at his behest—I don’t voluntarily venture south of the Mason-Dixon line unless it’s to see somebody executed) fishing the Shenandoah. I’m pleased to announce that in our time here we have been neither sued, arrested, imprisoned, nor elected to public office, though this may speak more to the remoteness of our location than the rectitude of our conduct.

It’s quite beautiful. We’re surrounded by mountains—I forget, sometimes, that they actually do exist in this country, that they’re more than a poetic conceit or the name of Colorado’s baseball team. This morning Denny woke before dawn and I sleepwalked alongside him down to the river, which is every bit as breathtaking as its name, and we stood knee-deep in freezing water and watched the sun come up.

I haven’t witnessed a sunrise in I don’t know how long. Not that I’m exactly—at all—eager to repeat the experience (and you can be sure I stalked off to the lodge for coffee the moment the thing had situated itself in the sky), but…he and I are accustomed to looking out over a city that’s more or less packed it in for the night, and…this morning it felt like the day, replete with all its clichéd promise, was ours to share.

Monday we were at Arlington—that, too, was Denny’s idea. Ironic, isn’t it, that he of all people should insist on honoring Memorial Day. Or perhaps not. I’m not sure what to say about it. Public displays of sincerity and reverence never fail to make me feel like a fraud—I don’t know how to properly fold the flag (for that matter, I was one of those kids who cleverly substituted phrases like “and to the republic for witches’ hands” into the Pledge of Allegiance), nobody close to me has ever died in combat or in service of their country, and I’m still half-convinced my acceptance into the Coast Guard was the result of a clerical error or the work of an IBM machine with a sense of humor.

We stayed for some time, though. Eventually I got over myself.

Tomorrow, assuming all goes according to plan, we’re headed to the North Carolina coast. I need to work on my sunburn.

Current Mood: quixotic

In celebration of the arrival of my brand spanking new laptop and because I can't write lyrics-inspired fic to save my life, I'm resurrecting my favorite drabble meme. Pick an Alan, any Alan, and I'll write you a drabble featuring him and your muse (or the character of your choice). I'll do my best not to butcher anyone's characters--literally or figuratively--but since I'm not familiar with certain canons, I can't offer any guarantees.

1. Playful!Alan
2. Sleazy!Alan
3. Whiny!Alan
4. Incarcerated!Alan
5. Diabolical!Alan
6. Coast Guard!Alan
7. Intoxicated!Alan
8. Wildly Inappropriate!Alan
9. Married!Alan
10. Sincere!Alan
11. Naked!Alan
12. Remorseful!Alan
13. Faux Innocent!Alan
14. Young!Alan
15. Eloquent!Alan
16. Bedtime!Alan
17. Jealous!Alan
18. Enthralled!Alan
19. Reveling-in-the-Misery-of-Others!Alan
20. Arrogant!Alan
21. Disgusted!Alan
22. Loving!Alan
23. Balcony!Alan
24. Inquisitive!Alan
25. Choose-your-own!Alan*


*Except pregnant!Alan.

Current Mood: hopeful

1. Ask me three questions.
2. I will pick two of them to answer.
3. One I will tell the truth about.
4. One I will lie about (the last you will have to try and answer for me).
5. Post this in your journal so others can ask you.

Current Mood: indifferent