I'm not ashamed to say it: I love the law, and I love lawyers; though, as any good corporate attorney would be quick to point out, one does not necessarily follow the other.

For nearly seven years I owned a magic shop that I grew despite a myriad of mitigating factors, and at this point I am quite famous (at least in my own little circle) for declaring upon my sale of the business that I love magic but dislike magicians. The reason why was simple, and its essence is contained in a single joke that I used to find the most hilarious nugget of humor on the planet:

Q: What's the difference between a magician and a pizza?

A: A pizza can feed a family of four!

Now, don't get me wrong; it's not the party magician's fault that his art, and therefore his financial prospects, are declining in relevance with each passing day. It's just depressing to be involved in a business where one of your best customers can't scrounge together five bucks to buy a box of sponge balls.

Lawyers, thankfully, seldom need props to assist them in their miracle making; in fact, maybe that's why I love them so much: lawyers are sorcerers of sorts, too. Just practical ones.

They're our salvation when customers don't pay, but also when creditors come calling. They eradicate bad marriages, and establish trust funds that bad children will never be able to access all by themselves.

They advocate for greater civil liberties and for clearer case law. They review our advertisements to reduce the risk of lawsuit, and they settle out of court when someone files a lawsuit against us.

Sure, there are lawyers that fail to work with the public interest in mind (I call them politicians), but there are also magicians that molest small children and one (who used to work for me) that would hurl tying balloons toward young party guests and screech, "Here are the balloons - blow them up yourselves!"

No profession is perfect, or is populated by perfect people. But the practice of law, and the pursuit of truth and justice through due process, is noble, at least in theory.

So, if you practice law, especially as a public defender or for an organization such as the Legal Aid Society, good for you. You are making real magic happen, while I as a prestigitator am but a pallid pretender.

However, if you are an attorney that spends his days crafting more complex credit card regulations, restrictive recording agreements or student loan default documents, well - you are making magic, too.

Not all magic brings with it happiness, but that doesn't make it any less magical. It just makes it a little more painful.

Thankfully, it is the nature of the law that there will always be another lawyer - a defense attorney, opposing counsel - to advocate for you; long, long after the birthday party magician has produced a farm animal out of thin air, tossed his party balloons at you and sped away.

I recently discovered a website called deadmaneating.com, a macabre affair that chronicles the last meals of the condemned while offering armchair commentary regarding their crimes and culinary preferences.

While a site that sells trucker hats in the service of discussing death hardly grants the subject of executions the gravity it deserves, according to the Texas Department of Criminal Justice, the site is certainly on to something.

In Texas, according to the Department, last meal requests constitute the number one inquiry from the public with regard to administration of the death penalty. And if any state should be an expert on death penalty administration, it's Texas. By my calculation, they've done it more than four times as much as runner-up, Virginia.

Why Texas puts so many more people to death than any other state is beyond the scope of this essay; but the rationale behind the public's fascination with last meals certainly bears some investigation here.

I personally think, and some sociologists have agreed, that information about the last meal has the effect of humanizing the condemned. As one journalist points out, "We may not be mass murderers, but we like cheeseburgers too."

It occurs to me (rather eerily, I might add) that this real, yet tacit connection isn't really that much different from the kind people receive by friending Al Gore on MySpace or following Demi and Ashton's Twitter. Chances are you are never going to meet these people and have the opportunity to sit down with them over lunch to establish a genuine connection. Hence, we settle for connection by proxy.

In the case of death penalty inmates, the desire to physically break bread with them seldom exists, but a morbid, verdant curiosity survives our initial revulsion of the crimes they committed. We want to know why - what could have possibly been running through their heads? - and, not having lived their lives, we may never come to know that any more than we know why we do all of the things that we do.

But we do know why we like french fries (salt), apple pie (comfort food) and butter (fat), at least on some remote level. And so we call on these commonalities to form enough of a connection for us to try and understand.

Britney updated her blog on MySpace. Your favorite band just posted a note on Twitter that their tour bus broke down. Facebook reports that the Jonas Brothers are off to see the new Star Trek movie, which is the exact same thing you're going to do that night.

Suddenly the distant seems closer; the mysterious and aloof, more familiar and engaging.

Before Gary Gilmore was executed in 1976, he dined on a last meal of a hamburger, eggs, potatoes and contraband bourbon. "Hey, I would have tried to sneak something in there, too" I mused - and for a moment the thought of Gilmore slaying two service employees that complied with his demands slipped a bit further back in the maw of my consciousness.

If a kernel of relatablity can do that for a convicted spree killer, just imagine what it can do to bring you and your customers or employees a little closer together - no lethal injection, electric chair or firing squad required.

“The man who stops advertising to save money is like the man who stops the clock to save time."

This quote is not from an advertising executive or (my original guess) a Yellow Pages salesperson, but from our third President of the United States, Thomas Jefferson.

Jefferson was a creative, contemplative and restless man; an intellectual but utilitarian writer whom historians say preferred crafting letters in his office to intermingling with the public.

He would have made a good copywriter.

I can see it now: "The President wants YOU to advertise your business!"

Jefferson's words belie the fact that he lived through tough times, too; times when merchants and professionals decried advertising as just another expense eligible for ye olde chopping block.

But Jefferson know advertising is more than an expense - it's an investment, specifically in the future of your business. Bad economy or great, boom or bust, time continues its forward procession, leading us (sometimes unwillingly) into tomorrow.

What is advertising but a stake in influencing what tomorrow will bring?

Without it, you are giving up your voice; you are giving up your vote in what will happen to your business.

Advertising does not have to be expensive; advertising does not have to be complicated. It just has to be.

If you don't believe me, then believe Thomas Jefferson: chief author of the Declaration of Independence, Congressman, Vice President, President, founder of the University of Virginia, US Ambassador to France. And: amateur advertising executive.

Today's employers bemoan a dearth of responsibility and talent among young workers. They do it disarmingly, over martinis or while waiting on a flight at the airport. I used to laugh along with them, waiting at the gate and sharing stories about feckless interns and incompetent college graduates: "Ha!" I would chortle, "I know what you mean!"

My stance continued until one gentleman, after heartily insulting the work of the young, pointed toward me and muttered, "No offense." These people weren't just talking about surly teenagers and spoiled Ivy Leaguers; they were talking about me.

They were also talking about my friends. During the last three years as I have built my business, I've also watched not-so-silently as others, more comfortable in the corporate world, have watched their prospects for a career dwindle into those for a mere job, and finally, from a job into mere survival.

Take Corey King, for instance, one of the clearest and most succinct writers I know. I am completely flummoxed at his inability to land a sane job representative of his skills and ambitions.

Chalk it up to the economy, chalk it up to Bush, chalk it up to whomever you like - but as employers and managers, ask yourselves if you're overlooking candidates whose talents may not be apparent from scanning a piece of paper, and may only appear when one's purview is widened.

What follows is Corey's story, told in his own words. Read it and you'll understand why the youth of America are so, as one mature businessman put it, "skeptical".

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I have been going crazy trying to find a job. Everywhere you go, and everyone you talk to - they all say the same thing. Our economy sucks, and for the unlucky people that live in Rhode Island, it sucks even worse. The smallest state has the highest unemployment rate in the nation. That is fucking disgusting.

I was making a joke to a friend earlier that trying to find a job is a job itself. Day after day I scour through newspapers and internet sites like Craig's List trying to find something, anything that will get me out of the house for 8 hours a day and provide some source of income. Who knew it could be so hard to meet those requirements.

The other day my Mom sent me some jobs that she came across. She tries hard, and I appreciate it, but she finds the most random, nonsensical jobs that they couldn't get a homeless person to do if they paid them with drugs and alcohol.

She was all excited about this one job but I was suspicious from the beginning. The title on the listing was something along the lines of "Make $500/wk and Make Your Own Schedule!". As enticing and awesome as it sounds, it screams BULLSHIT. But what can it hurt to call, right?

So I call this place. A really nice guy named Tim answers. I asked him for some information about the company and about the jobs they were offering. "Well, we are called P&G Distributors and we offer home maintenance equipment for residential use. We are looking for people to perform customer relations jobs, managerial positions and a few positions in sales. Base pay starts at $500/wk and can go up from there. Do you want to come and fill out an application?"

Well, it sounded a little better, but I still had my doubts. The place is only 15 minutes from my house so what the hell, I made a 5:00PM appointment with Tim for today.

I walk into this tiny little section of this storefront type building. It couldn't have been more than 400sq. feet. I was greeted by Tim, who looked exactly like I had pictured him. I sat down, filled out an application and attached a copy of my resume to the back of it. I met Tim in his office, handed him my application and he sat me down for a brief interview.

He asked the usual questions.. "What was your last job?", "How soon can you start?", and "How are you with people?". All questions that usually come after you know what job you are applying for. Weird.

Then comes the sentence that was basically like a shot to the heart...

"Let me tell you a little about us then. We are P&G Distributors, and we sell the KIRBY. Have you heard of it before?"

What The FUCK. Vacuum salesperson. That's the job. Are.. you.. fucking.. serious?!?

Of course, I was about to stand up and walk out of the door when I heard that statement. For those of you who don't know, Kirby Vacuums cost in the area of $2,000 and weigh about 25 pounds. They are the most cumbersome, heavy vacuum you will ever touch. Not to mention who the fuck is going to pay 2 grand for a vacuum when half of the country don't even have jobs.

He proceeded to glorify the job - "You only have 15 appointments per week which are already scheduled for you. You make $500/wk regardless of if you sell any vacuums. And if and when you DO sell a vacuum, you can make up to $700 per sale. You get to make your own hours, most guys work 9-5 on M-F and 9-1 on Saturdays."

It sounded better, but I was all set. I was polite and sat through the pitch. By the way, it's pretty sad that they have to give you a sales pitch to accept a job. Tim told me he would call me at 6:30 to let me know if I got the job. Yippee Skippee.

I went home and did some research on Kirby Vacuums and the people that sell them. The first result I see was saying "I worked for Kirby. The are scam artists and take away your weekly pay after about a month and switch you to commissions only."

Even though my decision was pretty much already made that I wasn't going to take this job, that was the straw that broke the camel's back.

6:30 rolls around, and good 'ole Timmy boy calls me to congratulate me on the job. Much to his surprise, after his big congrats I told 'ol Timmy that I did some research on Kirby and it wasn't something I was interested in. He was still his polite self, said thanks for my time, and hung up the phone.

So, ladies and gentlemen, I think I hold the Guinness World of Record for the shortest job EVER. If it were timed on a stopwatch, the official time would be about 2.4 seconds of employment.

Jesus Christ, will someone please just give me a decent job? I don't think that's asking too much.

If you happen to be a twelve year-old girl or a gay boy — or if you will encounter either of these genotypes sometime today — my sincere condolences. David Archuleta failed to capture the American Idol crown last night, leaving these two groups plenty petulant. As for me personally, I'm shocked, dismayed and even a bit disappointed in the text-messaging might of tweens everywhere.

Despite Archuleta's pervasive Utah schoolboy innocence and general cheek-squeezing cuteness, the Other David (Cook) received a surplus of some 18 million votes, as Ryan (smug) Seacrest informed viewers doggedly, as if this were actually important, or something. (Wait: Doesn't AI tally more votes than most Presidential elections? Oh yeah.)

What happened? Conventional wisdom, of course, designated Archuleta the clear victor — kids are more likely to vote, and vote repeatedly, for talent contests — aren't they?

Sure, at least when the votes are not terminal. Think of the American Idol elimination episodes as political primaries: generally speaking (though less so this year), only the hardcore politicos bother to participate. The majority of voting Americans wait until the vote is truly decisive and cast their determinations in the general election, or in this case, after the final elimination episode.

I wouldn't feel too sorry, though, for Archuleta. AI's final vote is largely inconsequential, considering the frequency with which the American public is known for changing its mind (see Ruben vs. Clay, Jennifer Hudson, George Bush); and accounting for the wide net cast in this mega-vote, which includes vast swaths of people that buy very little music in the first place.

In other words, the previous votes are clearer indicators of purchasing preferences, since they are concentrated among a younger base of music-buying individuals.

Archuleta will clear an easy $500K or more opening for the Jonas Brothers or Jesse McCartney and hawking iTunes downloads of treacly, Backstreet Boys-like ballads to counterpoint with the aforementioned artists' teeny dance-pop ditties. He has the sonic sincerity, he has the looks and he barely says a word — he's the perfect fantasy boyfriend. (And bonus for dads: David Archuleta does not look like a kid that would ever violate your daughter, or even know how, for that matter. Nice and swarmy and safe - perfect parental fodder.)

David Cook, on the other hand, comes off like a weaker imprint of Chris Daughtry — just as Ruben came off as a weaker imprint of Luther Vandross.

Despite the massive television exposure, AI contestants are successful in selling units only when they fill a hole in the established music market: Kelly Clarkson, Clay Aiken and even Carrie Underwood were not simply diluted imitations of other, more established artists. They were packaged and exhibited as unique acts in their own right.

This perception, so broadly consumed by the young, coltish, AE-shopping, retainer-wearing music buying public, will always trump the votes of the summer-homing, suit-wearing, tax-paying but non-music-buying class. After all, when 48 year-old men buy concert tickets, it's normally to take their kids to see a show, not their wives. Which means Archuleta will win the vote that truly counts — not the one made with text messages and autodialers, but the far more stealthy suffrage of Visa, MasterCard and American Express.