Unwell
I was to cover the oral arguments today in the MGM v. Grokster case, so I forced myself to get out of bed this morning when I should've stayed and gotten rest. You see, in all that cold and rain yesterday it seems I caught myself a bug.
Actually, it's more like a bug caught me, cause I sure as hell ain't holding onto it.
I got the the supreme court press room just in time to take my place in line and get escorted to my seat. I sat down in my reserved chair, from which I could see a whole lot of nothing of the justices, and only an occasional glimpse of the counsel. This poor lady who escorted us in the room had the undesireable job of looking around the pillar to see who was speaking, then mouthing the justice's name and communicating the seat number with her hands.
This was nice of her, but it didn't matter much in the end because I couldn't make out half the words anyone in the courtroom was saying, it was like a language where every other syallable is silent. I knew I had no drugs in my system, so I should have been able to understand them.
Everyone around me was taking furious notes, while I just sat there writing down the occasional word that made it through.
Every time I thought I had a quote, I'd just lose the voice. Some times another reporter would grunt or riffle through their notes or ask me what I heard. I almost slapped this annoying witch that plopped down next to me after coming in late, then asked me who was speaking while I was desparately trying to take notes.
Meanwhile, my throat was 40-grit/grain sandpaper, my lymph nodes were swollen and sore, and my skin felt like it was on fire inside my grey suit.
I left once the arguments were over with a few pages of notes that had the quality of chickenscratches in both penmanship and idealogical content. I called my editor, explained the situation and went home. I couldn't write story about this, I needed to get some rest.
I also called home and arranged for some medicine to be perscribed, which I hope to get tonight or tomorrow morning.
Actually, it's more like a bug caught me, cause I sure as hell ain't holding onto it.
I got the the supreme court press room just in time to take my place in line and get escorted to my seat. I sat down in my reserved chair, from which I could see a whole lot of nothing of the justices, and only an occasional glimpse of the counsel. This poor lady who escorted us in the room had the undesireable job of looking around the pillar to see who was speaking, then mouthing the justice's name and communicating the seat number with her hands.
This was nice of her, but it didn't matter much in the end because I couldn't make out half the words anyone in the courtroom was saying, it was like a language where every other syallable is silent. I knew I had no drugs in my system, so I should have been able to understand them.
Everyone around me was taking furious notes, while I just sat there writing down the occasional word that made it through.
Every time I thought I had a quote, I'd just lose the voice. Some times another reporter would grunt or riffle through their notes or ask me what I heard. I almost slapped this annoying witch that plopped down next to me after coming in late, then asked me who was speaking while I was desparately trying to take notes.
Meanwhile, my throat was 40-grit/grain sandpaper, my lymph nodes were swollen and sore, and my skin felt like it was on fire inside my grey suit.
I left once the arguments were over with a few pages of notes that had the quality of chickenscratches in both penmanship and idealogical content. I called my editor, explained the situation and went home. I couldn't write story about this, I needed to get some rest.
I also called home and arranged for some medicine to be perscribed, which I hope to get tonight or tomorrow morning.
posted by Logan C. Adams at 3/29/2005 03:20:00 PM
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