I had no choice. Really. I needed some things. I couldn't help it. It called to me. Great Caesar's Ghost, the guilt is consuming me.
I shopped at WalMart yesterday. Not only that, it was a WalMart Supercenter, and I was impressed.
I needed some basic sewing stuff. And a spot mirror for LaElu's new-used car. And Diet Coke for No. 3. I didn't know where else to go. Dammit, it's not fair. The place is enormous. The "associates," who I think of as slaves to an impersonal corporate King, were neat and friendly. I needed some buttons, and got 2 strips of them for 62 cents each. Hell, I even got a little underwear, first off-the-rack/non-specialty-store clothing I've gotten in a long time.
My liberal credentials are smashed. I'm a sell-out.
Sigh. Went to No. 3 this morning, puttered around. Tomorrow is a dedicated work day, on Saturdays I feel OK about not working intensely. Came home, and I've been reading a new book, The Nine, by Jeffrey Toobin. It is a recent history of the U.S. Supreme Court and, although I'm officially a member of the bar of that august body (having filed a case there many years ago), I've never so much as driven past the building. I don't know what there was about the book that called to me at B&N. I'm liking it, and if I finish it by tomorrow, it will fit into the 3rd quarter canon.
The windshield wipers on my Audi are crapping out. The f.ing part is $587. Then whatever labor to install it. I'm looking for a Jeep. I think I'm more of a Jeep kind of guy these days.
In response to a couple of comments to the Masonic posts: Is Masonry anti-Catholic? Not expressly, but I can understand why that's confusing. There is the Masonic Lodge, and also other "appendant bodies," that is, other organizations affiliated with it. The Lodge admits no atheists. That's the only religious test. I don't know how many of the brethren are Methodists, Catholics, etc. I do know that one new brother follows some Asian religion, but I don't have a clue which one, and it doesn't matter. Some of the appendant bodies have a strong anti-authoritarian message, both secular and clerical. My bare impression is that the Catholic Church has a more organized heirarchy than any other, but I may be wrong. Also, Kath mentions the Shriners. I'm a Shriner, but I don't attend meetings these days, just from lack of time. The Shrine is a social and service organization, as public as the Lodge itself is private. The Shrine has the largest charitable endowment in the world, and operates about a dozen totally free world-class orthopedic hospitals for children, and two out of the three best burn hospitals in the world, also totally free. I talked at my rescue company's reunion in May to a brother who does a lot in the Shrine. He is a tough, strong guy (former power lifter), and he teared up at his description of a particular young woman who has been treated at the ortho. hospital for many years, and who has gone from being wheelchair-bound to walking unassisted. Clank mentioned the Lodge helping her grandfather's family, and that's a sacred duty of the brothers, and one normally fulfilled as quietly as possible.
I've developed some tremors in my hands that make typing on a light keyboard (like the one on this, my favorite old, dependable Dell) a little unsteady. Damfino what's going on. On the other hand, the weight project proceeds totally nominally, and I am enjoying feeling those improvements.
I went down to the regional jail yesterday to talk to a couple of clients, including Tina the crack dealer/prostitute who I've mentioned in recent weeks. We had a nice chat, she just needed to know that I'm there, we're waiting on the pre-sentence report before the next heavy activity occurs. Thursday was her 40th birthday. She told me something (that I told her I was going to use in the sentencing hearing and tell others including you) that touched me. A year ago, on her 39th birthday, she was turning tricks in the rain on a street corner in a small city in West Virginia, and when she got home her husband beat her up. This year, she was in jail for her birthday. She said that she was safe, warm, being medically treated for the first time in a long time, and with people who for the most part were pleasant to her about her birthday. There are lots of ways to look at this. My first thought is that this is so sad, and that the sadness and degradation so common in America is evil. I also think about personal responsibility and choices, opportunity, and a healthy dose of there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-I.
Lots of things are going on which are taxing my "adaptability energy," which is what a old paramedic friend-preacher calls stress. I can only think of some favorite passages of Emerson, and press on.
Pippa passes. Mizpah.
R
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
I lost it in Court, there's a windmill that needs turned into kindling, and at long last I reveal all of the Mysteries of Freemasonry
OK, I confess that I have a distinctly surly attitude and demeanor this week, my legendary good nature has taken a beating and if I were a true Shawnee, I'd be raiding the settlements just for the hell of it today. (Read a fascinating account of the death of Captain Booth the other day in the local paper - killed by Shawnee while hoeing corn on some flatland by a creek near here.) (Damn, a 'hawk would feel good in my hands about now.) I got really iritated in Court today, and sort of lost it. It's a juvenile case, a 15 y.o. girl charged with domestic battery. Sort of boring case facts. But this young woman is drug dependent (I'm dead-bang certain), depressed (I'm almost sure) and has other serious diagnoses and I suspect what they are but am not smart enough to say with any confidence. She needs a full psychological and psychiatric evaluation and treatment plan, and that MUST be done by people who are qualified, not just some Master's level yahoos who churn cases. The f.ing politicians don't understand or particularly care about human needs and are totally clueless about the special needs of adolescents. The resources available are pitiful, and the best "we" can do is a facility far away in a month or so. In a hearing in the case in front of a Circuit Judge who's been a friend for 30 years, I just blew up and ranted and raged about the rotten way we "provide" for these youth. Mind you, often it is memorably poor parenting that has contributed a lot to these kids' problems, and society is DAMN weak there, too. But this is a proper place for government to provide services. Government is not a bad word. Government is supposed to do things that individuals cannot do on their own, and "provide for the common weal." Oh, the Judge took it in good humor, even when I went back to his chambers after the hearing (with the prosecutor) and was able to expand on my remarks with considerably richer vocabulary. I've had it up to here with mean-spirited, don't-give-a-shit, holier-than-thou (although maybe the latter can be said of me) people who abuse positions of authority.
My friend Dacey has warned me about what I write this evening. She's seen me when I'm irrational like this.
After I finish here, I'm going to compose a long, long letter to the County Commission (which is county government in WV). There are three commissioners, two of whom are friends -- one guy, I was in Boy Scouts with 40 years ago; the other is a former police chief who I've known for 30 years. I've talked about my EMS experiences. I can honestly claim that I was a decent paramedic - not great, not top 10%, not even real good, but decent given that I was coming out of a then-volunteer company. I was a much better administrator, have represented the state Department of Health Office of EMS, yadda, yadda, yadda. A fire department in a nearby village has asked the commission to approve their running an ambulance for EMS. (The County owns the 911 center. The Commission can't prohibit someone from buying a rig and running it, but they do determine who is where on the alarm list.) A further-out department did a midnight-requisition for approval a couple of weeks ago, and this is some sort of "me, too" phenomenon. This is a dumbass idea. It would be nice to have an EMS station and fire station on every street corner. But the cost would be ruinous and the call volume would be so low that nobody in the system would have enough work to maintain their skills. At my peak, I was doing 30 or 40 calls a month, and that wasn't anywhere near enough to keep my skills sharp. This little town has 15 to 20 emergency medical calls a month in their entire response area. I know that this sounds rather dull. Indeed, many organs of government and public service are invisible nearly all of the time. When you suddenly have to call 911, then you care deeply about the ability of the system to deal with the need, but it's just uncomfortable to worry about that in advance. Well, what ho, I'm in the exact frame of mind to spout some passion.
And at last, as promised, I am now prepared to reveal, right here, in a forthright manner never seen by me in any of the study I have done on the subject, all of the deepest, darkest, most intimate secrets of Freemasonry. Here we go. Are you ready? Really? The fundamental key to the secrets are . . . (Will I be assassinated for revealing this? Like the teaser at the end of a Rocky & Bullwinkle cartoon, am I on the Brink of Doom?) The key is . . .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Google.
Yes, Google. Anybody who thinks that the Freemasons are a secret society is too stupid or too crazy to Google. Freemasonry has no secrets. Go to Google - Hell, I'll even tell you the search terms: "Masonic ritual" - You'll get hundreds and hundreds of hits, all of which purport to tell these so-called deep, dark secrets. Some of these sources are pure fantasy. (Hint: If the article mentions a strange diety by the name of "Baphomet," or talks about the symbols on the back of the dollar bill, you are reading the work of someone with severe mental problems.) Some of the articles were written by people who were probably Masons, but hadn't paid a whole lot of attention to what goes on. And some are spot on. Now, I won't tell you which is which - I have promised not to. I keep my promises. But there are millions of Masons worldwide, and you can't keep a secret among that many people. Some of these guys don't keep their promises. One of them is a Master Mason who was the lay-minister of a fringe church that last inhabited the building where No. 3 is located. He had some sort of religious epiphany, and went on TV on a local "Christian" station, and there attempted to recreate the lodge room and show these terrible secrets. He obviously hadn't learned much of the "work," what we call the ritual, and some of his performance was buffoonery. I regard him as an oath-breaker. I don't like oath-breakers. But unlike some claims, we don't chuck the oath-breakers off the South Side Bridge, we just never trust them again.
Some of the brothers are bothered by the fact that these "secrets" are so readily available. Personally, I absolutely don't care. First of all, the secrets aren't designed for much security. Masonry can be traced through documents going back to the 14th Century, and can be traced very well beginning in 1717. The "secrets" today are the same as they were 300 years ago - same words, same handgrips, same "signs." If the CIA didn't change code words for 300 years, do you think that they'd still be secret?
Second, read all you want on the net or at the public library, find the accurate resources, knock yourself out. I don't care. This poor scribe tries to string words together to paint pictures, and even a blind squirrel gets a nut now and then, so sometimes I get it right. Let's say that I were to write about sky-diving. I would talk about the butterflies in my stomach as I carefully checked every line and buckle on the parachute. I would describe the airplane with the open door, and watching the concrete of the runway speeding by as we take off, the painted lines getting more and more blurred. And the fear of standing in the doorway, and the terror of dropping away, followed by such wonderful freedom and laughing and . . . you get the drift. And then, if a member of the sporting/athletic fraternity were to ask me how many jumps I'd made, I would have to say, "None, do think I'm nuts?" That athlete would then know me to be an ignorant posseur, who might talk a good game but who had zero understanding of the real experience. Ditto for the ritual. Read it all you want. It is indescribably different to be a part of it, to experience it. Every time I see it or participate in it, I learn a little more, reflect a little more. Freemasonry is nothing sinister. It's an association of hopefully good men who want to be better men. It turns the thoughts inward. It is a place of "friendship, morality and brotherly love." The only requirement is that you not be an atheist - you gotta believe in God. Or Allah. Or Shiva. Or whoever. You do not discuss religion in lodge. You do not discuss politics in lodge. When I'm at the lodge, I'm not the fat guy. (Social interaction is a problem for one of my appearance.) I am one of the brothers. If I do only what I can (e.g., due to weight and a knee injury from high school wrestling, I cannot kneel), nobody comments, nobody cares.
There are lots of crazies out there who love to expose conspiracies. I mentioned the back of the dollar bill. It's not masonic in origin. The designer, Charles Thomson, was not a mason. The only Mason involved in that project was Benjamin Franklin, and if you recall, his strong preference for the turkey as the national symbol was ignored. The pyramid is just an unfinished pyramid. The is the All-Seeing Eye, a common symbol for God at that time. Look at the CBS logo - it's the All-seeing Eye. The Pinkerton Agency used the same symbol. So did the "Vigilance Committees." The crazies read the motton on the reverse of the dollar bill, "novus ordo seclorem," and translate it to "New World Order," the code word for world government by the Zionists and the black-helicopter-flying United Nationists. Unfortunately, they are lousy at Latin. They ignore that "seclorem" is plural and refers to "the ages." Well, that's what America was in the 18th Century, a new order for the ages, the first representative democracy, the first nation to secure and guarantee the rights of average folks. (Magna Carta only applied to the upper class.) Sometimes, the "anti-Masons" point to a very strange guy, Albert Pike, as proof of the conspiracy. Pike was a lawyer (who was undistinguished in the law), a Confederate infantry general (equally undistinguished in military matters) and a brillaint (if obscure) classical scholar. He spoke and wrote in Greek and Latin, and about just as obscurely when he was writing in English. The work that the crazies cite to is Morals and Dogma, which is a source document for the "Scottish Rite" of Freemasonry. I'm a Scottish Rite Mason. I have a copy of Morals and Dogma. It's stunningly dull, and I've not read all of it. There are minor portions which explain the libertarian views of Masonry as a whole - the lack of need for intercessors with Deity, the freedom of citizens. But it's dull, dull, dull. It's unfortunate that some folks spend loads of time looking for darkness and conspiracies. Life is just too short.
By the way, Pete, Dacey had to explain your comment about the jars. I was just way to dense.
Pippa passes. Mizpah.
R
My friend Dacey has warned me about what I write this evening. She's seen me when I'm irrational like this.
After I finish here, I'm going to compose a long, long letter to the County Commission (which is county government in WV). There are three commissioners, two of whom are friends -- one guy, I was in Boy Scouts with 40 years ago; the other is a former police chief who I've known for 30 years. I've talked about my EMS experiences. I can honestly claim that I was a decent paramedic - not great, not top 10%, not even real good, but decent given that I was coming out of a then-volunteer company. I was a much better administrator, have represented the state Department of Health Office of EMS, yadda, yadda, yadda. A fire department in a nearby village has asked the commission to approve their running an ambulance for EMS. (The County owns the 911 center. The Commission can't prohibit someone from buying a rig and running it, but they do determine who is where on the alarm list.) A further-out department did a midnight-requisition for approval a couple of weeks ago, and this is some sort of "me, too" phenomenon. This is a dumbass idea. It would be nice to have an EMS station and fire station on every street corner. But the cost would be ruinous and the call volume would be so low that nobody in the system would have enough work to maintain their skills. At my peak, I was doing 30 or 40 calls a month, and that wasn't anywhere near enough to keep my skills sharp. This little town has 15 to 20 emergency medical calls a month in their entire response area. I know that this sounds rather dull. Indeed, many organs of government and public service are invisible nearly all of the time. When you suddenly have to call 911, then you care deeply about the ability of the system to deal with the need, but it's just uncomfortable to worry about that in advance. Well, what ho, I'm in the exact frame of mind to spout some passion.
And at last, as promised, I am now prepared to reveal, right here, in a forthright manner never seen by me in any of the study I have done on the subject, all of the deepest, darkest, most intimate secrets of Freemasonry. Here we go. Are you ready? Really? The fundamental key to the secrets are . . . (Will I be assassinated for revealing this? Like the teaser at the end of a Rocky & Bullwinkle cartoon, am I on the Brink of Doom?) The key is . . .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Google.
Yes, Google. Anybody who thinks that the Freemasons are a secret society is too stupid or too crazy to Google. Freemasonry has no secrets. Go to Google - Hell, I'll even tell you the search terms: "Masonic ritual" - You'll get hundreds and hundreds of hits, all of which purport to tell these so-called deep, dark secrets. Some of these sources are pure fantasy. (Hint: If the article mentions a strange diety by the name of "Baphomet," or talks about the symbols on the back of the dollar bill, you are reading the work of someone with severe mental problems.) Some of the articles were written by people who were probably Masons, but hadn't paid a whole lot of attention to what goes on. And some are spot on. Now, I won't tell you which is which - I have promised not to. I keep my promises. But there are millions of Masons worldwide, and you can't keep a secret among that many people. Some of these guys don't keep their promises. One of them is a Master Mason who was the lay-minister of a fringe church that last inhabited the building where No. 3 is located. He had some sort of religious epiphany, and went on TV on a local "Christian" station, and there attempted to recreate the lodge room and show these terrible secrets. He obviously hadn't learned much of the "work," what we call the ritual, and some of his performance was buffoonery. I regard him as an oath-breaker. I don't like oath-breakers. But unlike some claims, we don't chuck the oath-breakers off the South Side Bridge, we just never trust them again.
Some of the brothers are bothered by the fact that these "secrets" are so readily available. Personally, I absolutely don't care. First of all, the secrets aren't designed for much security. Masonry can be traced through documents going back to the 14th Century, and can be traced very well beginning in 1717. The "secrets" today are the same as they were 300 years ago - same words, same handgrips, same "signs." If the CIA didn't change code words for 300 years, do you think that they'd still be secret?
Second, read all you want on the net or at the public library, find the accurate resources, knock yourself out. I don't care. This poor scribe tries to string words together to paint pictures, and even a blind squirrel gets a nut now and then, so sometimes I get it right. Let's say that I were to write about sky-diving. I would talk about the butterflies in my stomach as I carefully checked every line and buckle on the parachute. I would describe the airplane with the open door, and watching the concrete of the runway speeding by as we take off, the painted lines getting more and more blurred. And the fear of standing in the doorway, and the terror of dropping away, followed by such wonderful freedom and laughing and . . . you get the drift. And then, if a member of the sporting/athletic fraternity were to ask me how many jumps I'd made, I would have to say, "None, do think I'm nuts?" That athlete would then know me to be an ignorant posseur, who might talk a good game but who had zero understanding of the real experience. Ditto for the ritual. Read it all you want. It is indescribably different to be a part of it, to experience it. Every time I see it or participate in it, I learn a little more, reflect a little more. Freemasonry is nothing sinister. It's an association of hopefully good men who want to be better men. It turns the thoughts inward. It is a place of "friendship, morality and brotherly love." The only requirement is that you not be an atheist - you gotta believe in God. Or Allah. Or Shiva. Or whoever. You do not discuss religion in lodge. You do not discuss politics in lodge. When I'm at the lodge, I'm not the fat guy. (Social interaction is a problem for one of my appearance.) I am one of the brothers. If I do only what I can (e.g., due to weight and a knee injury from high school wrestling, I cannot kneel), nobody comments, nobody cares.
There are lots of crazies out there who love to expose conspiracies. I mentioned the back of the dollar bill. It's not masonic in origin. The designer, Charles Thomson, was not a mason. The only Mason involved in that project was Benjamin Franklin, and if you recall, his strong preference for the turkey as the national symbol was ignored. The pyramid is just an unfinished pyramid. The is the All-Seeing Eye, a common symbol for God at that time. Look at the CBS logo - it's the All-seeing Eye. The Pinkerton Agency used the same symbol. So did the "Vigilance Committees." The crazies read the motton on the reverse of the dollar bill, "novus ordo seclorem," and translate it to "New World Order," the code word for world government by the Zionists and the black-helicopter-flying United Nationists. Unfortunately, they are lousy at Latin. They ignore that "seclorem" is plural and refers to "the ages." Well, that's what America was in the 18th Century, a new order for the ages, the first representative democracy, the first nation to secure and guarantee the rights of average folks. (Magna Carta only applied to the upper class.) Sometimes, the "anti-Masons" point to a very strange guy, Albert Pike, as proof of the conspiracy. Pike was a lawyer (who was undistinguished in the law), a Confederate infantry general (equally undistinguished in military matters) and a brillaint (if obscure) classical scholar. He spoke and wrote in Greek and Latin, and about just as obscurely when he was writing in English. The work that the crazies cite to is Morals and Dogma, which is a source document for the "Scottish Rite" of Freemasonry. I'm a Scottish Rite Mason. I have a copy of Morals and Dogma. It's stunningly dull, and I've not read all of it. There are minor portions which explain the libertarian views of Masonry as a whole - the lack of need for intercessors with Deity, the freedom of citizens. But it's dull, dull, dull. It's unfortunate that some folks spend loads of time looking for darkness and conspiracies. Life is just too short.
By the way, Pete, Dacey had to explain your comment about the jars. I was just way to dense.
Pippa passes. Mizpah.
R
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Rambling: I temporarily come unglued, the full moon, and thoughts on a man's man
I have not forgotten my promise to reveal all of the arcane secrets. As I unburden my brain, I am struck with awe at the audacity of the task. In the Fullness of Time, it will be published, right here.
The weight project proceeds without incident. Every Tuesday, I attend a class at an outlying clinic of WVU Hospital, where some wonderful and caring ladies operate what is called the "HMR Program." The heart of the program is a "supplemented fast," that is, darn little calorie intake, and what you do take in is heavy on protein, to protect muscle (particularly cardiac muscle) from wasting away. Another part of the program is attending class, where these folks work on educating and in many senses advising the participants. The "health educator" with whom I mostly interact is Torri, a young woman who is the daughter-in-law of a very, very dear friend, a wonderful woman with whom I've been through thick & thin. Torri is educated and licensed in the psychology/counseling profession, and that shows in her work. This evening's class was a little unusual. One of the students/patients/clients (I haven't decided what the heck we are) is having trouble following the program, and let her upset flow - which is a very good thing, IMHO. That gave us all the spark to vent, to show support, and to learn from one another. Torri took the conversation wonderfully flexibly - she's not one of those people who are stuck to an agenda or outline, she is there to guide and genuinely interact. I confess that I was somewhat animated - that life has dealt us a bad hand, that sucks, the whole experience of being fat sucks, it's not f.ing fair, but we gotta play the hand that's we're dealt. Far from whining, this was something that created some useful anger and determination and attitude. I made reference to that video clip of the professor that was on the Community Blog yesterday, and I hope that lots of folks watch it. I say that I'm so busy, the whole diet thing has faded into the background, but that's more wishful thinking than anything else. It's there on my mind and it needs to be. When I climb the long staircase at No. 3, it ain't easy. But I must remember what it was like 110 pounds ago. Everywhere I go, I keep what it was like several months ago in the front of my mind. Eye on the ball, eye on the ball. The head of the program is Carla, an understanding and compassionate woman who has helped me through some really difficult times in the past months. I do love these people a lot.
I was running around town this evening right after sundown. Living in the mountains, you will see either darn little sky or terrain (when you are down in a valley) or magnificent views (when you are on top of the hills). I was on top of a plaza and as I started home, I saw the full moon rising. I wonder - how significant are astronomical phenomena in other places? I'm not sure if it's a local thing/mountain thing, or a love-of-science thing, but I'm always aware of the sky - what phase the moon is in, and therefore when it will rise and set; the position of the planets (Venus is glorious in the morning sky right now - nearing the maximum optical deviation from the Sun which is, as I recall, about 19 degrees); the length of the day, how far we are from the equinoxes and soltices, that sort of thing. So, where you are at, is the sky important to you? If I were to live anywhere else, it would be Colorado or New Mexico or elsewhere in the Rockies, just because the sky there is endless and breathtaking.
I was at my Mom's this evening. LaElu was there, too. My Mom went to a "Lifelong Learners" seminar on probate today. She got to talking about an old, old friend of hers, Pauline, and the fact that one of Pauline's neice's attempted to invalidate her will. What my Mom didn't know was that I had prepared that will, knew that there was a strong potential of a will contest, and I think I did a pretty workmanlike job of making it iron-clad. Pauline was having some minor cognitive problems, but that doesn't render someone incompetent to make a will. In WV, a "testator," to be competent, has to know the identity of "the natural objects of their bounty," meaning who their closest relatives are, and the general extent of their estate. Because I had known Pauline for many years, since I was a little kid, I had an actual memory of the process of doing the will. I do lots of wills, that's part of representing people rather than things. I seldom remember much about a particular event. That's why I do the discussion which precedes preparation of the will exactly the same way every time. That makes me a legally ("specifically") competent witness in a will contest action, because I can then testify from unvarying habit and practice, with assurance that although I don't remember the details, I can nevertheless say with a great deal of accuracy what happened. This includes a long talk with the person making the will, separately from anybody else. Sometimes, older people will have one of their children bring them to me, or they will be present when I go to them. I never want to hear the children tell me "what Mom wants." I will find out from Mom what she wants. We will discuss the alternatives and the reasonableness or necessity of any arrangement other than equal division of property among the closest relatives. We discuss the community and the client's life and other things that give me personal assurance that the person is competent. (Yes, there are frequently times that I will refuse to do a will, when I don't believe that the testator is competent. Can the family take Mom to another lawyer and probably get a will? Yup. But not from me.) Well, when the omitted potential heir of Pauline got a lawyer, the deck was so cold it had icicles on it, and nothing was ever filed in Court. Anyway, this discussion got me thinking about Pauline's husband, Howard, who died a year or so before I did Pauline's will. I did Howard's will, medical power of attorney and so forth for him when he was terminally ill with liver cancer. He came to my office, I already knew about his medical condition, and I talked to him about it. I remember asking him if he minded talking about it. He replied, "Hell, no, Roger, this is a part of life." He went on to tell me that his doctor thought that the cancer had spread from his lungs, where it was caused by asbestos exposure. He told me that the only place that he had had asbestos exposure was when he served on a submarine in World War II as some sort of chief. He hastened to add that it was a fair exchange, that he had done his duty, and that the Navy had always done right by him. I wonder sometimes if gender-based models and examples are current and wise. I think that they are. There are some gender differences, we gotta live with that. You don't have to be a dick to be a man, you just need to have one. And I believe that some behaviors are validly assessed with gender-based models. In that light, I have always consider, and still remember Howard as a man's man.
My partner is president of the county bar. She just arranged to have the annual Christmas party at No. 3. That means that I have to participate. I loathe parties. I am the original wallflower, and don't have a hell of a lot of conversational skills. But I'll be there.
Pippa passes. Mizpah.Z
R
The weight project proceeds without incident. Every Tuesday, I attend a class at an outlying clinic of WVU Hospital, where some wonderful and caring ladies operate what is called the "HMR Program." The heart of the program is a "supplemented fast," that is, darn little calorie intake, and what you do take in is heavy on protein, to protect muscle (particularly cardiac muscle) from wasting away. Another part of the program is attending class, where these folks work on educating and in many senses advising the participants. The "health educator" with whom I mostly interact is Torri, a young woman who is the daughter-in-law of a very, very dear friend, a wonderful woman with whom I've been through thick & thin. Torri is educated and licensed in the psychology/counseling profession, and that shows in her work. This evening's class was a little unusual. One of the students/patients/clients (I haven't decided what the heck we are) is having trouble following the program, and let her upset flow - which is a very good thing, IMHO. That gave us all the spark to vent, to show support, and to learn from one another. Torri took the conversation wonderfully flexibly - she's not one of those people who are stuck to an agenda or outline, she is there to guide and genuinely interact. I confess that I was somewhat animated - that life has dealt us a bad hand, that sucks, the whole experience of being fat sucks, it's not f.ing fair, but we gotta play the hand that's we're dealt. Far from whining, this was something that created some useful anger and determination and attitude. I made reference to that video clip of the professor that was on the Community Blog yesterday, and I hope that lots of folks watch it. I say that I'm so busy, the whole diet thing has faded into the background, but that's more wishful thinking than anything else. It's there on my mind and it needs to be. When I climb the long staircase at No. 3, it ain't easy. But I must remember what it was like 110 pounds ago. Everywhere I go, I keep what it was like several months ago in the front of my mind. Eye on the ball, eye on the ball. The head of the program is Carla, an understanding and compassionate woman who has helped me through some really difficult times in the past months. I do love these people a lot.
I was running around town this evening right after sundown. Living in the mountains, you will see either darn little sky or terrain (when you are down in a valley) or magnificent views (when you are on top of the hills). I was on top of a plaza and as I started home, I saw the full moon rising. I wonder - how significant are astronomical phenomena in other places? I'm not sure if it's a local thing/mountain thing, or a love-of-science thing, but I'm always aware of the sky - what phase the moon is in, and therefore when it will rise and set; the position of the planets (Venus is glorious in the morning sky right now - nearing the maximum optical deviation from the Sun which is, as I recall, about 19 degrees); the length of the day, how far we are from the equinoxes and soltices, that sort of thing. So, where you are at, is the sky important to you? If I were to live anywhere else, it would be Colorado or New Mexico or elsewhere in the Rockies, just because the sky there is endless and breathtaking.
I was at my Mom's this evening. LaElu was there, too. My Mom went to a "Lifelong Learners" seminar on probate today. She got to talking about an old, old friend of hers, Pauline, and the fact that one of Pauline's neice's attempted to invalidate her will. What my Mom didn't know was that I had prepared that will, knew that there was a strong potential of a will contest, and I think I did a pretty workmanlike job of making it iron-clad. Pauline was having some minor cognitive problems, but that doesn't render someone incompetent to make a will. In WV, a "testator," to be competent, has to know the identity of "the natural objects of their bounty," meaning who their closest relatives are, and the general extent of their estate. Because I had known Pauline for many years, since I was a little kid, I had an actual memory of the process of doing the will. I do lots of wills, that's part of representing people rather than things. I seldom remember much about a particular event. That's why I do the discussion which precedes preparation of the will exactly the same way every time. That makes me a legally ("specifically") competent witness in a will contest action, because I can then testify from unvarying habit and practice, with assurance that although I don't remember the details, I can nevertheless say with a great deal of accuracy what happened. This includes a long talk with the person making the will, separately from anybody else. Sometimes, older people will have one of their children bring them to me, or they will be present when I go to them. I never want to hear the children tell me "what Mom wants." I will find out from Mom what she wants. We will discuss the alternatives and the reasonableness or necessity of any arrangement other than equal division of property among the closest relatives. We discuss the community and the client's life and other things that give me personal assurance that the person is competent. (Yes, there are frequently times that I will refuse to do a will, when I don't believe that the testator is competent. Can the family take Mom to another lawyer and probably get a will? Yup. But not from me.) Well, when the omitted potential heir of Pauline got a lawyer, the deck was so cold it had icicles on it, and nothing was ever filed in Court. Anyway, this discussion got me thinking about Pauline's husband, Howard, who died a year or so before I did Pauline's will. I did Howard's will, medical power of attorney and so forth for him when he was terminally ill with liver cancer. He came to my office, I already knew about his medical condition, and I talked to him about it. I remember asking him if he minded talking about it. He replied, "Hell, no, Roger, this is a part of life." He went on to tell me that his doctor thought that the cancer had spread from his lungs, where it was caused by asbestos exposure. He told me that the only place that he had had asbestos exposure was when he served on a submarine in World War II as some sort of chief. He hastened to add that it was a fair exchange, that he had done his duty, and that the Navy had always done right by him. I wonder sometimes if gender-based models and examples are current and wise. I think that they are. There are some gender differences, we gotta live with that. You don't have to be a dick to be a man, you just need to have one. And I believe that some behaviors are validly assessed with gender-based models. In that light, I have always consider, and still remember Howard as a man's man.
My partner is president of the county bar. She just arranged to have the annual Christmas party at No. 3. That means that I have to participate. I loathe parties. I am the original wallflower, and don't have a hell of a lot of conversational skills. But I'll be there.
Pippa passes. Mizpah.Z
R
Monday, September 24, 2007
An Old Bailey hack speaks from the trenches
I don't know what I intended to do when I got out of school, I had no firm idea of what my professional life would look like. I suppose that it was in my mind to do lots of library work and brief writing. Did I see myself trying cases? I suppose that I did, at least I had the vague image of Perry Mason-like murder trials, although how I was going to get there by inhabiting the library was a little obscure. (This winter, I toyed with growing a beard, largely because Raymond Burr looked so darn good in one in the more recent Perry Mason episodes. But for so long, I've been known as the guy with the brushy moustache and the book, so it was a little late to change that image.)
Most kids want to play in the NFL, I think, and I was probably like most of them. Everybody wants to play quarterback, but he's one of 22 starters. There are far more linemen, the guys who play in the trenches. Eighty times or so a game, they have an explosion of energy, work very hard, and get knocked on their ass. In the world of the NFL, this takes a great toll. Not only do I think about the guy from the Buffalo Bills with the cervical spine injury from a couple of weeks ago, I think of Mike Webster, the Hall of Fame center who played for the Steelers. His body and head took so much abuse that he became totally confused and, though he was drawing a decent pension, homeless. The guys in the trenches mostly don't end up as commentators or pitchmen, they end up selling cars or appearing at local "celebrity" golf tournaments. Well, this is where I live - in the trenches. John Mortimer would refer to me as an "Old Bailey Hack." (The Old Bailey is the common name of the Central Criminal Courts in London.) I'm not one of the guys who "wins every case." Indeed, those people are myths, with sooooooo few exceptions. Max Steuer was one of those - I bet you've never heard of him, he tried the defense case in the Triangle Fire case in 1912, and to my thinking is the second greatest trial lawyer of the 20th century. Gerry Spence is the best trial lawyer of the century, and my admiration for him is great. But when he started, he lost lots and lots of cases that even now he says he should have won. Nancy Grace markets herself as an always-victorious crusader. She never mentions the appellate courts who have thrown out verdicts because she pulled unconstitutional and illegal stuff in trials. Well, I don't win all my cases. Indeed, sometimes the best "win" looks a little bit like a surrender. Mary T. from yesterday's post is one of those - served a short term when she was facing the possibility of a life sentence.
I had two plays today that are on my mind. One of them, we had a three and out. The other, we made a first down and are still playing.
In the first, a 45 +/- y.o. woman came in who was injured in an industrial accident about 8 years ago. She has a really bad back, without involvement of the disks. After she healed up as much as she was going to (which isn't much), the Workers' Comp Commission "awarded" her a permanent impairment rating equivalent to about 1-1/2 years of wages. (I don't like the term "award," even though the statute uses that. It suggests that getting hurt to the point that you are permanently impaired is a good thing.) Anyway, as years are going by, she is getting worse, has increased pain and continued medical expenses. Her household is supported by her husband, who makes $12 an hour doing skilled manual labor. Before being injured, she had been in that workplace for 3 years, having gotten that job to help keep her son (who has two jobs himself) in college. Before that, she stayed home with the children. Clearly, this lady is permanently and totally disabled. She is in too much pain to do even a sedentary job on a sustained basis. And there is not a darn thing I can do to help her. Workers' Comp is a joke. It is virtually impossible to reopen a claim this old, because the carrier will always claim that the aging process is the reason that the exact industrial injury that she had is getting worse and, in any event, they have changed the impairment standards to make it most unlikely that the rating will be increased. They will also deny paying for medical expenses. There she is really screwed, because WV law prohibits me from charging any fee to help people with medical issues. That is the product of crocodile-tears-concern-for-the-worker, and the effect is that the worker gets the shaft. Because this lady didn't work for more than 5 out of the 10 years prior to her injury, she is not covered for Social Security Disability. Because her husband makes about $30,000 with lots of overtime, she is not covered by the "needs based" SSI system. So here we have an American family of hard working people, one of whom cannot work due to zero fault of her own who now live on the edge of economic collapse. Un-fucking-believable.
The second lady was a woman who is trying to do a "pro se" divorce, that is, without a lawyer, and a serious problem has arisen. Her husband wants to "give up his rights" to their toddler, even though she has been able, even anxious, that he be very much involved in the child's life. This presents very special problems -- will the Judge erase his rights and responsibilities? Isn't going to happen. But what sort of parenting arrangement can she now safely agree to? Would you want a spouse to have your kid when s/he had stated very clearly that s/he wanted nothing to do with the child? Oh, and there is an older step-child involved who is suffering the pangs of rejection/separation Hell. This is highly custom work, and I can help her. But it's another play, and I will get knocked on my ass a lot.
So, an Old Bailey hack, I just totter on.
Oh, I haven't forgotten my promise to reveal here on this very page all of the deep secrets of the Freemasons. It's taking a while to write carefully, so the Absolute Truth will finally be known by all. None of the so-called "researchers" writing on this topic today have this information. I am risking the Fires of Hell by revealing these things, but the Time has come for the Secrecy to be Pierced.
Mizpah.
R
Most kids want to play in the NFL, I think, and I was probably like most of them. Everybody wants to play quarterback, but he's one of 22 starters. There are far more linemen, the guys who play in the trenches. Eighty times or so a game, they have an explosion of energy, work very hard, and get knocked on their ass. In the world of the NFL, this takes a great toll. Not only do I think about the guy from the Buffalo Bills with the cervical spine injury from a couple of weeks ago, I think of Mike Webster, the Hall of Fame center who played for the Steelers. His body and head took so much abuse that he became totally confused and, though he was drawing a decent pension, homeless. The guys in the trenches mostly don't end up as commentators or pitchmen, they end up selling cars or appearing at local "celebrity" golf tournaments. Well, this is where I live - in the trenches. John Mortimer would refer to me as an "Old Bailey Hack." (The Old Bailey is the common name of the Central Criminal Courts in London.) I'm not one of the guys who "wins every case." Indeed, those people are myths, with sooooooo few exceptions. Max Steuer was one of those - I bet you've never heard of him, he tried the defense case in the Triangle Fire case in 1912, and to my thinking is the second greatest trial lawyer of the 20th century. Gerry Spence is the best trial lawyer of the century, and my admiration for him is great. But when he started, he lost lots and lots of cases that even now he says he should have won. Nancy Grace markets herself as an always-victorious crusader. She never mentions the appellate courts who have thrown out verdicts because she pulled unconstitutional and illegal stuff in trials. Well, I don't win all my cases. Indeed, sometimes the best "win" looks a little bit like a surrender. Mary T. from yesterday's post is one of those - served a short term when she was facing the possibility of a life sentence.
I had two plays today that are on my mind. One of them, we had a three and out. The other, we made a first down and are still playing.
In the first, a 45 +/- y.o. woman came in who was injured in an industrial accident about 8 years ago. She has a really bad back, without involvement of the disks. After she healed up as much as she was going to (which isn't much), the Workers' Comp Commission "awarded" her a permanent impairment rating equivalent to about 1-1/2 years of wages. (I don't like the term "award," even though the statute uses that. It suggests that getting hurt to the point that you are permanently impaired is a good thing.) Anyway, as years are going by, she is getting worse, has increased pain and continued medical expenses. Her household is supported by her husband, who makes $12 an hour doing skilled manual labor. Before being injured, she had been in that workplace for 3 years, having gotten that job to help keep her son (who has two jobs himself) in college. Before that, she stayed home with the children. Clearly, this lady is permanently and totally disabled. She is in too much pain to do even a sedentary job on a sustained basis. And there is not a darn thing I can do to help her. Workers' Comp is a joke. It is virtually impossible to reopen a claim this old, because the carrier will always claim that the aging process is the reason that the exact industrial injury that she had is getting worse and, in any event, they have changed the impairment standards to make it most unlikely that the rating will be increased. They will also deny paying for medical expenses. There she is really screwed, because WV law prohibits me from charging any fee to help people with medical issues. That is the product of crocodile-tears-concern-for-the-worker, and the effect is that the worker gets the shaft. Because this lady didn't work for more than 5 out of the 10 years prior to her injury, she is not covered for Social Security Disability. Because her husband makes about $30,000 with lots of overtime, she is not covered by the "needs based" SSI system. So here we have an American family of hard working people, one of whom cannot work due to zero fault of her own who now live on the edge of economic collapse. Un-fucking-believable.
The second lady was a woman who is trying to do a "pro se" divorce, that is, without a lawyer, and a serious problem has arisen. Her husband wants to "give up his rights" to their toddler, even though she has been able, even anxious, that he be very much involved in the child's life. This presents very special problems -- will the Judge erase his rights and responsibilities? Isn't going to happen. But what sort of parenting arrangement can she now safely agree to? Would you want a spouse to have your kid when s/he had stated very clearly that s/he wanted nothing to do with the child? Oh, and there is an older step-child involved who is suffering the pangs of rejection/separation Hell. This is highly custom work, and I can help her. But it's another play, and I will get knocked on my ass a lot.
So, an Old Bailey hack, I just totter on.
Oh, I haven't forgotten my promise to reveal here on this very page all of the deep secrets of the Freemasons. It's taking a while to write carefully, so the Absolute Truth will finally be known by all. None of the so-called "researchers" writing on this topic today have this information. I am risking the Fires of Hell by revealing these things, but the Time has come for the Secrecy to be Pierced.
Mizpah.
R
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Sociopaths I have known; and a teaser for coming attractions
On the Community Blog, there is a post about what defines a sociopath. While I am a jack-of-some-trades and master-of-darn-few, this is a subject in which I have some relevant experience.
Here at No. 3, we represent people, not things. Bank of America will never be our client. Neither will any corporation of greater wealth than your average Mom & Pop operation. When people come to us, they are in trouble. Some of them are in criminal trouble. Some of them are referred to us by Courts to assist an indigent is his/her defense (really, assigned - in the Federal system, the operative phrase directed at this poor barrister is "respectfully commanded"). Others are in the midst of divorce, injury or other assorted ills. Thus, we see a somewhat skewed slice of society.
In my world, I live in shades of grey. It is sooooo much easier to live a black & white existence, right or wrong, moral or immoral, good or bad. That's where most conservative pundits live, and in some respects I envy them their certainty and simplicity of mind. I have noted elsewhere that the justice system is reasonably accurate in determining results and consequences, but woefully deficient in making "the punishment fit the crime, the crime, the punishment fit the crime." (Gilbert & Sullivan, The Mikado) That is, we're not very good at accurately looking into a persons heart and mind and finding the WHYs of their existence. Dead body = bad. Self-defense by homeowner = good. Case closed. But I see, or try to see, a few "why's." There is Tina the crack dealer/prostitute about whom I've blogged in recent months. Life has given her a few tough breaks. Mind you, she has made poor choices and others who have been given damn bad breaks and have overcome them. But as much as I realize that Tina will serve the sentence that the law mandates (minimized as much as possible by my advocacy, I hope, but still at or above the 10 year mandatory minimum), I like her and feel sorry for her. There is little John W. who I represented years ago. I was called out in the middle of the night for a detention hearing on a juvenile who had shot his grandmother in the back with a deer rifle. The Sheriff (a brother) had pretty much determined what was going on as he brought John back to the Courthouse, and he was already somewhat sympathetic with him. As well he should have been, in my opinion. John was not "insane," but the circumstances leading to this shooting were unusual, and he was treated as a juvenile. I haven't heard anything about John for years, other than he is grown, employed, married, and living far away from here. I can hear most of society saying now, it doesn't matter the motivation, he intentionally shot his grandma, he's got to pay the maximum penalty that the law allows. And I don't condemn that opinion, I actually understand it. I don't buy it, but I understand it. And here, I wonder if I should claim to have some sort of greater understanding of human nature and human foibles than others. Damn - will I be cocky or will I be evasive. OK, evasive - I see society from an unusual perspective, let's leave it at that. There's Mary T. I was called out for an arraignment one hot summer Saturday afternoon. (I called my dear friend Leah, who was an associate with the old firm at the time, and told her, "The game's afoot!," and to get down to the Courthouse. Mary had taken her husband's revolver off of the china hutch (a strange place to keep a firearm), and put a bullet up his nose as he lay sleeping on the couch. He died just as the Medivac chopper was settling out of the air to take him to a trauma center. In this case, I renewed my acquaintance with the "Battered Woman Syndrome" defense. Shortly before trial, I sat down with the prosecutor, a dear friend now deceased, and we had a long and honest no-holds-barred conversation about what our evidence would be at trial (there are no "surprise witnesses" other than in the old Perry Mason episodes) and what the right thing to do was. Shades of grey. Mary ended up serving 2-1/2 years at a minimum security prison, where she acquired job skills, and she is back in the same house in the same little community and, I hope, is having a good life. All of these people are human, somewhat moral, and not terribly dangerous.
Remember, however, that black and white are also shades of grey. They do not appear nearly as commonly as the simple-minded would believe, but they do exist.
I am reminded this evening of two other criminal clients, and I think that they do fit pretty well the profile of a sociopath. The first is Allen T. Allen T. was an inmate at a penitentiary, serving life for murder. (In that case, he charmed a city police officer into turning his back, and then shot him.) Due to an unfortunate and sloppy chain of errors, Allen T. escaped the penitentiary and, in doing so, killed another police officer. He was on the run all over the country for a year or two, and made it to the FBI's "10 most wanted" list. (End of the story - he was convicted at trial, and sentenced to another life term, plus 300 years, and he is now held in maximum security.) I got into the case when another lawyer dropped out and the Court needed someone to put together a case quickly and without being overawed by this guy. (For a murder, you can request additional counsel, and I asked for my brother Dave, who is now a judge.) In the course of the proceedings, Allen T. was kept in our old county jail, isolated from other prisoners, and I would interview him there in his cell. One day, the chief deputy (now serving his third term as sheriff) found out that the jailers were searching us when we went in to talk to Allen T., and told them, "Don't be shaking these guys down." I told him then that I wanted to be searched because Allen T. was such a terrible security risk. At trial, another deputy (now chief deputy, and a fellow I went to high school with) told us his "secret security plan." The plan was, "if anything bad happens, you lawyers get down on the floor because we are shooting the defendant." Good plan - clear, simple. One weekend, while the jury was out, I went to talk to Allen T., and he was somewhat voluble. He told me the most chilling story that I have ever heard, bar none. He said that while he was out, he was stopped by a lady trooper in another state for a taillight out, or something of the sort. At this time, he knew that his photo had been circulated to all police departments in the nation. He didn't have a driver's license, but he did have his "favorite gun," a pistol, concealed under a newspaper on the front seat. He told me that he smiled, looked into the trooper's eyes, and that if he had seen "one flicker of recognition" by her, he was going to kill her on the spot. I tell this story to every police officer I know. (If you're pulled over by the police, understand that this is a finite danger that they face in every traffic stop, so if they are not chatty and chummy, there is a good reason for that.) This guy is a sociopath. We can talk about justice and revenge and retribution, but the reason his fate doesn't bother me is that he must be separated from society. For this guy, I have to say that having penitentiaries is a good thing. This guy is one of the true sociopaths, for whom the only shade of grey anyone can honestly see is black.
I also think of Jimmy S. tonight. Jimmy S. had a horrible upbringing in the most dysfunctional home imaginable. (While preparing for trial, we talked to his kindergarten teacher. He had been kicked out of kindergarten. He was beyond much hope even then.) Jimmy S. went to a local bar (an extremely, extremely low class place with old formica tables scarred by burning cigarettes and the smell of urine from poorly cleaned toilets) to establish an alibi (which didn't work, because the time records were very precise), and ran across a bridge over the river to an apartment building. There, he poured gasoline on the stairway and in front of several apartments on the third floor, and lit it. I'll not go into the gruesome evidence, but 7 people died in the fire. He may have had a beef with one of the residents, but the proof of that was lost in the horror of the crime. Jimmy S. hung around to watch the fire (as arsonists are prone to do) and was questioned by the police. Without much prompting, Jimmy S. confessed rather glibly. After a week-long trial in the city where the prosecutor and I attended high school together (aside - here in WV, cases move VERY quickly - If O.J. had whacked those people here, the trial would have taken two weeks, tops - In Jimmy's case, there was testimony from 40 witnesses), Jimmy S. was convicted of 7 counts of murder. The sentence was a mandatory life without possibility of parole, so at sentencing, there was basically no advocacy to be done. And so, I took the opportunity just to tell the Court what I thought, which was that Jimmy S. had no appreciation of what he had done, didn't have a clue what a life sentence meant, and probably was going to have a better life in the penitentiary than he possibly could have had in society. Jimmy S. was and is purely sociopathic. He doesn't understand to this day that he did wrong. Again, it's easy (ok, nearly inevitable) to talk about retribution and eye-for-an-eye justice, but the plain fact is that we as a society cannot have Jimmy S. live outside a penitentiary.
I've done maybe 25 homicides. Every defendant had a story. Some were sociopaths. But I have also met a few sociopaths outside of the criminal realm. One of these was a lawyer who was a lying son-of-a-bitch (and who is now a dead lying son-of-a-bitch.) One was an abusive boyfriend on the other side in a custody case. One was a police officer. One was a businessman who I declined to represent.
This is my life - shades of grey. But even I have to acknowledge that there's some black out there.
The teaser - within the last week, I've seen a bit of a documentary on one of the history/learning channels about "Secret Societies," and how, for example, the back of the dollar bill proves sinister Masonic influences in our government. I am a Freemason, have been for many years. This post is rather long, so the next time, I promise to tell all of the real secrets of the sinister Masonic order, hold nothing important back. Unless, of course, announcing the intention to do so gets me chucked off the South Side Bridge.
Mizpah.
R
Here at No. 3, we represent people, not things. Bank of America will never be our client. Neither will any corporation of greater wealth than your average Mom & Pop operation. When people come to us, they are in trouble. Some of them are in criminal trouble. Some of them are referred to us by Courts to assist an indigent is his/her defense (really, assigned - in the Federal system, the operative phrase directed at this poor barrister is "respectfully commanded"). Others are in the midst of divorce, injury or other assorted ills. Thus, we see a somewhat skewed slice of society.
In my world, I live in shades of grey. It is sooooo much easier to live a black & white existence, right or wrong, moral or immoral, good or bad. That's where most conservative pundits live, and in some respects I envy them their certainty and simplicity of mind. I have noted elsewhere that the justice system is reasonably accurate in determining results and consequences, but woefully deficient in making "the punishment fit the crime, the crime, the punishment fit the crime." (Gilbert & Sullivan, The Mikado) That is, we're not very good at accurately looking into a persons heart and mind and finding the WHYs of their existence. Dead body = bad. Self-defense by homeowner = good. Case closed. But I see, or try to see, a few "why's." There is Tina the crack dealer/prostitute about whom I've blogged in recent months. Life has given her a few tough breaks. Mind you, she has made poor choices and others who have been given damn bad breaks and have overcome them. But as much as I realize that Tina will serve the sentence that the law mandates (minimized as much as possible by my advocacy, I hope, but still at or above the 10 year mandatory minimum), I like her and feel sorry for her. There is little John W. who I represented years ago. I was called out in the middle of the night for a detention hearing on a juvenile who had shot his grandmother in the back with a deer rifle. The Sheriff (a brother) had pretty much determined what was going on as he brought John back to the Courthouse, and he was already somewhat sympathetic with him. As well he should have been, in my opinion. John was not "insane," but the circumstances leading to this shooting were unusual, and he was treated as a juvenile. I haven't heard anything about John for years, other than he is grown, employed, married, and living far away from here. I can hear most of society saying now, it doesn't matter the motivation, he intentionally shot his grandma, he's got to pay the maximum penalty that the law allows. And I don't condemn that opinion, I actually understand it. I don't buy it, but I understand it. And here, I wonder if I should claim to have some sort of greater understanding of human nature and human foibles than others. Damn - will I be cocky or will I be evasive. OK, evasive - I see society from an unusual perspective, let's leave it at that. There's Mary T. I was called out for an arraignment one hot summer Saturday afternoon. (I called my dear friend Leah, who was an associate with the old firm at the time, and told her, "The game's afoot!," and to get down to the Courthouse. Mary had taken her husband's revolver off of the china hutch (a strange place to keep a firearm), and put a bullet up his nose as he lay sleeping on the couch. He died just as the Medivac chopper was settling out of the air to take him to a trauma center. In this case, I renewed my acquaintance with the "Battered Woman Syndrome" defense. Shortly before trial, I sat down with the prosecutor, a dear friend now deceased, and we had a long and honest no-holds-barred conversation about what our evidence would be at trial (there are no "surprise witnesses" other than in the old Perry Mason episodes) and what the right thing to do was. Shades of grey. Mary ended up serving 2-1/2 years at a minimum security prison, where she acquired job skills, and she is back in the same house in the same little community and, I hope, is having a good life. All of these people are human, somewhat moral, and not terribly dangerous.
Remember, however, that black and white are also shades of grey. They do not appear nearly as commonly as the simple-minded would believe, but they do exist.
I am reminded this evening of two other criminal clients, and I think that they do fit pretty well the profile of a sociopath. The first is Allen T. Allen T. was an inmate at a penitentiary, serving life for murder. (In that case, he charmed a city police officer into turning his back, and then shot him.) Due to an unfortunate and sloppy chain of errors, Allen T. escaped the penitentiary and, in doing so, killed another police officer. He was on the run all over the country for a year or two, and made it to the FBI's "10 most wanted" list. (End of the story - he was convicted at trial, and sentenced to another life term, plus 300 years, and he is now held in maximum security.) I got into the case when another lawyer dropped out and the Court needed someone to put together a case quickly and without being overawed by this guy. (For a murder, you can request additional counsel, and I asked for my brother Dave, who is now a judge.) In the course of the proceedings, Allen T. was kept in our old county jail, isolated from other prisoners, and I would interview him there in his cell. One day, the chief deputy (now serving his third term as sheriff) found out that the jailers were searching us when we went in to talk to Allen T., and told them, "Don't be shaking these guys down." I told him then that I wanted to be searched because Allen T. was such a terrible security risk. At trial, another deputy (now chief deputy, and a fellow I went to high school with) told us his "secret security plan." The plan was, "if anything bad happens, you lawyers get down on the floor because we are shooting the defendant." Good plan - clear, simple. One weekend, while the jury was out, I went to talk to Allen T., and he was somewhat voluble. He told me the most chilling story that I have ever heard, bar none. He said that while he was out, he was stopped by a lady trooper in another state for a taillight out, or something of the sort. At this time, he knew that his photo had been circulated to all police departments in the nation. He didn't have a driver's license, but he did have his "favorite gun," a pistol, concealed under a newspaper on the front seat. He told me that he smiled, looked into the trooper's eyes, and that if he had seen "one flicker of recognition" by her, he was going to kill her on the spot. I tell this story to every police officer I know. (If you're pulled over by the police, understand that this is a finite danger that they face in every traffic stop, so if they are not chatty and chummy, there is a good reason for that.) This guy is a sociopath. We can talk about justice and revenge and retribution, but the reason his fate doesn't bother me is that he must be separated from society. For this guy, I have to say that having penitentiaries is a good thing. This guy is one of the true sociopaths, for whom the only shade of grey anyone can honestly see is black.
I also think of Jimmy S. tonight. Jimmy S. had a horrible upbringing in the most dysfunctional home imaginable. (While preparing for trial, we talked to his kindergarten teacher. He had been kicked out of kindergarten. He was beyond much hope even then.) Jimmy S. went to a local bar (an extremely, extremely low class place with old formica tables scarred by burning cigarettes and the smell of urine from poorly cleaned toilets) to establish an alibi (which didn't work, because the time records were very precise), and ran across a bridge over the river to an apartment building. There, he poured gasoline on the stairway and in front of several apartments on the third floor, and lit it. I'll not go into the gruesome evidence, but 7 people died in the fire. He may have had a beef with one of the residents, but the proof of that was lost in the horror of the crime. Jimmy S. hung around to watch the fire (as arsonists are prone to do) and was questioned by the police. Without much prompting, Jimmy S. confessed rather glibly. After a week-long trial in the city where the prosecutor and I attended high school together (aside - here in WV, cases move VERY quickly - If O.J. had whacked those people here, the trial would have taken two weeks, tops - In Jimmy's case, there was testimony from 40 witnesses), Jimmy S. was convicted of 7 counts of murder. The sentence was a mandatory life without possibility of parole, so at sentencing, there was basically no advocacy to be done. And so, I took the opportunity just to tell the Court what I thought, which was that Jimmy S. had no appreciation of what he had done, didn't have a clue what a life sentence meant, and probably was going to have a better life in the penitentiary than he possibly could have had in society. Jimmy S. was and is purely sociopathic. He doesn't understand to this day that he did wrong. Again, it's easy (ok, nearly inevitable) to talk about retribution and eye-for-an-eye justice, but the plain fact is that we as a society cannot have Jimmy S. live outside a penitentiary.
I've done maybe 25 homicides. Every defendant had a story. Some were sociopaths. But I have also met a few sociopaths outside of the criminal realm. One of these was a lawyer who was a lying son-of-a-bitch (and who is now a dead lying son-of-a-bitch.) One was an abusive boyfriend on the other side in a custody case. One was a police officer. One was a businessman who I declined to represent.
This is my life - shades of grey. But even I have to acknowledge that there's some black out there.
The teaser - within the last week, I've seen a bit of a documentary on one of the history/learning channels about "Secret Societies," and how, for example, the back of the dollar bill proves sinister Masonic influences in our government. I am a Freemason, have been for many years. This post is rather long, so the next time, I promise to tell all of the real secrets of the sinister Masonic order, hold nothing important back. Unless, of course, announcing the intention to do so gets me chucked off the South Side Bridge.
Mizpah.
R
Thursday, September 20, 2007
More totally boring, uninteresting, ordinary, jejune, tepid stuff
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." That's today.
Major problem that my oldest/dearest friend is helping me with. Her assistance is already drawing off a ton of stress.
I was called to a Circuit Court hearing on zero notice today which wasn't drawn to my attention from the notice. I confess that I got pretty peeved, commenting that I have to hike the ball, throw the pass, catch the pass, run for the touchdown and then kick the f.ing extra point. Well, you get the drift. The other denizens of No. 3 were glad I was leaving. I was still right irate when I got back, so I went into my room and closed the door. That is significant in my world. We run an "open door" shop, except when clients are in with us. A closed door says, don't even think about fucking with me. And they followed that advice. I ducked down to an adjoining town for a short-notice plea hearing in front of a judge who was a laid-back classmate in law school, but who runs the most formal state court I've been in. Sometimes the bowing and scraping gets old, I confess. But in this Army of Justice, he's a colonel, and I'm just a somewhat elderly sergeant.
I was thinking a good bit about my Dad this evening. I'm a generalist at heart, the proverbial jack-of-many-trades/master-of-none. One of the things that I do really, really well is run a meeting at a good pace which is interesting and memorable. My Dad taught me that skill, he was a master of it. My partner Amy is president of the Bar for this year (which starts in September), and I am teaching her the system, and she's getting it. She (at my suggestion) got the "dean" of the county bar to present the program at the monthly bar meeting this evening, to reminisce about what law practice in our town was like in 1959 when he came to the bar. It was the best program we had had in many years, a total success, with total good feeling and cameroderie (don't have a clue how to spell that) all around. All four of the candidates for Family Court Judge sat at the same table with me, including my partner Amy and my best friend, the incumbent, Dave. It was totally friendly, and I think that says something special about this county bar. Next month is the annual "social," a big dinner which is usually very well attended. Amy has moved it to a bigger venue this year because we've gotten the Governor to come. (Second time I've landed him for a speaker this year.) That's pretty cool, and we have already planned the "memorial" of the occasion, an inscribed copy of a rare book about West Virginia (Daughter of the Elm, by Granville Davisson Hall) that is a redundant copy on my local-interest bookshelf. Strictly shades of my Dad. By God, this is one thing that I'm good at.
I've been suggesting to Dave that he consider running for the Supreme Court - a state-wide race. He would be good at it, and I have a plan that I can't talk to him about yet about smoking out heavy money for the run. I doubt if he runs, though, he's about had it with politics. But he would be a damn fine Supreme Court Justice. He's a damn poor politician, and that's what MAKES him a really, really good judge.
A juvenile client who I'm VERY concerned about got detained today -- I have to raise some dust with a couple of state agencies tomorrow. She is one of the most "salvagable" kids I've represented -- smart, personable, but addicted to drugs and I believe at least depressed and possibly bi-polar. It will take somebody smarter than I am to determine that for sure, but based on my own experiences, I do know that she needs a thorough psy work-up. I gotta make that happen, she is depending on me.
My son Tim and I just had a long talk over at my Mom's house, we were talking about EMS in 2007. He said something that really touched me, that if/when he passes his paramedic test next summer, he's going to ask the state office of EMS to be issued my old paramedic license number. I was really touched by that. The guy who runs that office is someone I worked with many years ago.
For some strange reason, I have no clients scheduled to come in on Sunday. Hell, maybe I'll take ANOTHER 2 day weekend - that would be a treat.
I'm going to do a very selfish thing tomorrow - I'm going to be in Morgantown, and on the way out of town, I'm going to hit B&N, look for a book and suck down good coffee. Yeah, yeah, it ain't much but I'm an easy guy to please.
Mizpah!
R
Major problem that my oldest/dearest friend is helping me with. Her assistance is already drawing off a ton of stress.
I was called to a Circuit Court hearing on zero notice today which wasn't drawn to my attention from the notice. I confess that I got pretty peeved, commenting that I have to hike the ball, throw the pass, catch the pass, run for the touchdown and then kick the f.ing extra point. Well, you get the drift. The other denizens of No. 3 were glad I was leaving. I was still right irate when I got back, so I went into my room and closed the door. That is significant in my world. We run an "open door" shop, except when clients are in with us. A closed door says, don't even think about fucking with me. And they followed that advice. I ducked down to an adjoining town for a short-notice plea hearing in front of a judge who was a laid-back classmate in law school, but who runs the most formal state court I've been in. Sometimes the bowing and scraping gets old, I confess. But in this Army of Justice, he's a colonel, and I'm just a somewhat elderly sergeant.
I was thinking a good bit about my Dad this evening. I'm a generalist at heart, the proverbial jack-of-many-trades/master-of-none. One of the things that I do really, really well is run a meeting at a good pace which is interesting and memorable. My Dad taught me that skill, he was a master of it. My partner Amy is president of the Bar for this year (which starts in September), and I am teaching her the system, and she's getting it. She (at my suggestion) got the "dean" of the county bar to present the program at the monthly bar meeting this evening, to reminisce about what law practice in our town was like in 1959 when he came to the bar. It was the best program we had had in many years, a total success, with total good feeling and cameroderie (don't have a clue how to spell that) all around. All four of the candidates for Family Court Judge sat at the same table with me, including my partner Amy and my best friend, the incumbent, Dave. It was totally friendly, and I think that says something special about this county bar. Next month is the annual "social," a big dinner which is usually very well attended. Amy has moved it to a bigger venue this year because we've gotten the Governor to come. (Second time I've landed him for a speaker this year.) That's pretty cool, and we have already planned the "memorial" of the occasion, an inscribed copy of a rare book about West Virginia (Daughter of the Elm, by Granville Davisson Hall) that is a redundant copy on my local-interest bookshelf. Strictly shades of my Dad. By God, this is one thing that I'm good at.
I've been suggesting to Dave that he consider running for the Supreme Court - a state-wide race. He would be good at it, and I have a plan that I can't talk to him about yet about smoking out heavy money for the run. I doubt if he runs, though, he's about had it with politics. But he would be a damn fine Supreme Court Justice. He's a damn poor politician, and that's what MAKES him a really, really good judge.
A juvenile client who I'm VERY concerned about got detained today -- I have to raise some dust with a couple of state agencies tomorrow. She is one of the most "salvagable" kids I've represented -- smart, personable, but addicted to drugs and I believe at least depressed and possibly bi-polar. It will take somebody smarter than I am to determine that for sure, but based on my own experiences, I do know that she needs a thorough psy work-up. I gotta make that happen, she is depending on me.
My son Tim and I just had a long talk over at my Mom's house, we were talking about EMS in 2007. He said something that really touched me, that if/when he passes his paramedic test next summer, he's going to ask the state office of EMS to be issued my old paramedic license number. I was really touched by that. The guy who runs that office is someone I worked with many years ago.
For some strange reason, I have no clients scheduled to come in on Sunday. Hell, maybe I'll take ANOTHER 2 day weekend - that would be a treat.
I'm going to do a very selfish thing tomorrow - I'm going to be in Morgantown, and on the way out of town, I'm going to hit B&N, look for a book and suck down good coffee. Yeah, yeah, it ain't much but I'm an easy guy to please.
Mizpah!
R
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
No. 3 on the road
Today was long. I went extra-early to Charleston, the state capital, for a session of the Supreme Court. Friend Dacey tells me that they webcast the arguments now - I didn't know that. I met a colleague down there, Pam, a woman who was a divorce client 15 years ago and who says that that experience in part prompted her to go to law school. Although, I don't know if it was from some inspiration or the thought that "Hell, I can do this shit better than Roger." And I'm afraid to ask. Anyway, we sat on benches in the back of the Courtroom, which is one really big-ass marble room with marble columns out the wazoo and a bench the size of the biggest bar in Vegas. And we sat, and we sat. This was her first appearance there and probably about my 50th, so we talked about the fine points of arguing an appeal. (Much of my knowledge was gained from making mistakes along the way.) We didn't get on in the morning hearing, so loafed around the Court for the hour and a half break. Then the afternoon session started, and it was STILL HOURS before our cases were called. By then the Court was bored, tired and grumpy, so it was a damn short presentation. I had been psyching myself up for the attack I expected from one of the justices, a old circuit judge/gunslinger (that's not a disparaging term in my world) with a very pro-prosecution bent, but he was out. That took some of the wind out of my sails, although the "swing" justice - the guy whose vote I have to have - was on the bench. I made my points and told them I was going to respond to questions but otherwise I'd sit down, shut up, and let this long day close. I stopped at the Office of Disciplinary Counsel, where I park my car, which is 1/2 a block from the Capitol. I was on that board years ago, and that's sort of a remaining perk. We stopped in Elkview on the way back for a cup of tea to unwind, and Pam and I had a nice visit.
Don't know why I'm blogging about a fairly ordinary day. Today, perhaps, I'm just a fairly ordinary fellow.
Mizpah.
R
Don't know why I'm blogging about a fairly ordinary day. Today, perhaps, I'm just a fairly ordinary fellow.
Mizpah.
R
Thursday, September 13, 2007
If I were a bird . . .
If I were a bird tonight, I would be a vulture sitting high in a tree, glowering beneath furrowed brows. (Although, I don't think that vultures actually have brows.)
No time off this weekend. I've promised two days to people in the regional jail awaiting trial. Neither of them has accepted my advice. That's their prerogative, of course. Stupid, but they have the right to do that. One of them is going to turn a 6-1/2 year sentence into a 25 year sentence. It's like banging my head against a wall. Or a windmill. And windmills hurt.
Lunch today with a brother (not genetic). Very enjoyable, he has been of incalculable help to me since last fall. While there, I saw my former partner and her partner there, and I confess that put me seriously off-speed. I still haven't gotten over the rejection of that dissolution even a little. Which is childish, I know. Or maybe vulture-in-a-tree-ish.
A day-long class at the law school tomorrow on federal criminal practice. I really do need the class, to find out about some important changes. But I'm still thinking of bagging it so I don't have to interact with my (genetic) brother. He stopped at our Mom's today, and upset her quite a bit. A couple of months ago, he emailed LaElu and advised her to dump me. Cheeky of him. Mind you, if she did, I couldn't totally fault her for that decision, but I'd rather she came up with that on her own if she ever decides to do it. If she does, maybe I'll move to Lincoln County and be roomies with Vanda. It would be a long commute, though.
My partner and my paralegal are on their own tomorrow, if I don't bag the class. A replacement for the staff member we fired will start on Monday. She's rather a taciturn individual, which is fine with me.
Sometimes, I just pull out the ID tags I wear to remind me of who the hell I am.
Pippa passes.
R
No time off this weekend. I've promised two days to people in the regional jail awaiting trial. Neither of them has accepted my advice. That's their prerogative, of course. Stupid, but they have the right to do that. One of them is going to turn a 6-1/2 year sentence into a 25 year sentence. It's like banging my head against a wall. Or a windmill. And windmills hurt.
Lunch today with a brother (not genetic). Very enjoyable, he has been of incalculable help to me since last fall. While there, I saw my former partner and her partner there, and I confess that put me seriously off-speed. I still haven't gotten over the rejection of that dissolution even a little. Which is childish, I know. Or maybe vulture-in-a-tree-ish.
A day-long class at the law school tomorrow on federal criminal practice. I really do need the class, to find out about some important changes. But I'm still thinking of bagging it so I don't have to interact with my (genetic) brother. He stopped at our Mom's today, and upset her quite a bit. A couple of months ago, he emailed LaElu and advised her to dump me. Cheeky of him. Mind you, if she did, I couldn't totally fault her for that decision, but I'd rather she came up with that on her own if she ever decides to do it. If she does, maybe I'll move to Lincoln County and be roomies with Vanda. It would be a long commute, though.
My partner and my paralegal are on their own tomorrow, if I don't bag the class. A replacement for the staff member we fired will start on Monday. She's rather a taciturn individual, which is fine with me.
Sometimes, I just pull out the ID tags I wear to remind me of who the hell I am.
Pippa passes.
R
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
100 lost, but Vishnu on a Rotisserie I'm off-center
Tonight, I crossed the 100 pound lost mark. I honestly do not know how much I have to go, I know it's a lot, and I'll figure that out in the Fullness of Time.
I have to keep my eye on the ball - the ball being how much better (relatively speaking) I feel from when I started in March. I can climb the stairs in No. 3 without a whole lot of effort now. My legs are very strong from hauling around mega-weight, so handling "mere" maxi-weight is a bunch easier. Clothes are a problem right now, and thus my available wardrobe is limited. I fit in vehicles and chairs somewhat better. I'm going to the law school for a class on Friday, and am not unduly worrying about the relatively small seats in the courtroom. (I'm more worried about the interaction with one of my genetic brothers who will be there. But it's a really valuable class being offered to people on the Federal panel.) Hell, I actually without thinking crossed my legs today - sounds silly, I know, but it's been quite a while since I've done that.
But I gotta tell you, I'm really concerned. I feel very "brittle." I've had zero real problems with the diet. But I fear such problems. The whole addiction process is pretty insidious, and I have to learn to monitor this for life, or else I am duly and truly screwed. A problem is that food and booze are EXCELLENT coping mechanisms, if you only look at the very short term. They create satisfaction, pleasantly altered blood chemistry, and they never let you down. In the short term. So I gotta keep my eye on the ball, long-term. And I'm just really worried.
And I wonder - Is it "unmanly" to admit to these rather silly fears? This stuff is really bothering me. Normally, I don't worry so - I have done hard and bloody jobs without ill effect. Next week, I'm slated for what will be a very nasty argument with one of the justices during an argument at the Supreme Court. No worries, I'm positively looking forward to it. But fucking doughnuts scare the shit out of me. Totally illogical.
Going to lunch with a young lawyer who wants my advice tomorrow, and to lunch with a lawyer-brother Thursday who's been of enormous help to me in past months. Each time, I'll sit and swill coffee, and it won't bother me. But when I start to eat supposedly normally at some point, that's what I'm worried about.
And I really miss the old Bombay Sapphire.
Just venting, I guess. "I have met the enemy, and he is us." [Pogo]
Mizpah. Pippa passes.
R
I have to keep my eye on the ball - the ball being how much better (relatively speaking) I feel from when I started in March. I can climb the stairs in No. 3 without a whole lot of effort now. My legs are very strong from hauling around mega-weight, so handling "mere" maxi-weight is a bunch easier. Clothes are a problem right now, and thus my available wardrobe is limited. I fit in vehicles and chairs somewhat better. I'm going to the law school for a class on Friday, and am not unduly worrying about the relatively small seats in the courtroom. (I'm more worried about the interaction with one of my genetic brothers who will be there. But it's a really valuable class being offered to people on the Federal panel.) Hell, I actually without thinking crossed my legs today - sounds silly, I know, but it's been quite a while since I've done that.
But I gotta tell you, I'm really concerned. I feel very "brittle." I've had zero real problems with the diet. But I fear such problems. The whole addiction process is pretty insidious, and I have to learn to monitor this for life, or else I am duly and truly screwed. A problem is that food and booze are EXCELLENT coping mechanisms, if you only look at the very short term. They create satisfaction, pleasantly altered blood chemistry, and they never let you down. In the short term. So I gotta keep my eye on the ball, long-term. And I'm just really worried.
And I wonder - Is it "unmanly" to admit to these rather silly fears? This stuff is really bothering me. Normally, I don't worry so - I have done hard and bloody jobs without ill effect. Next week, I'm slated for what will be a very nasty argument with one of the justices during an argument at the Supreme Court. No worries, I'm positively looking forward to it. But fucking doughnuts scare the shit out of me. Totally illogical.
Going to lunch with a young lawyer who wants my advice tomorrow, and to lunch with a lawyer-brother Thursday who's been of enormous help to me in past months. Each time, I'll sit and swill coffee, and it won't bother me. But when I start to eat supposedly normally at some point, that's what I'm worried about.
And I really miss the old Bombay Sapphire.
Just venting, I guess. "I have met the enemy, and he is us." [Pogo]
Mizpah. Pippa passes.
R
Saturday, September 8, 2007
I love women, all women
A comment that Jilly made got me thinking this evening, the one about my wanting to be a young stud, not an "experienced" one. That, and in the mailbox at No. 3 today was a "Victoria's Secret" catalog. (I didn't work all day today -- I left early to go with my son Tim because he was trading his little PT Cruiser for a 4WD pickup truck. Tim's definitely more of a pickup truck kinda guy these days.)
My former partner used to joke when the VS catalog came to the old office that we kept it around as entertainment for the guys rather than for commercial purposes. And for someone who thinks conventionally, the models for VS are darn good looking -- tall, curvaceous, luxurious hair, yadda, yadda, yadda. But I gotta level with you -- I just don't find them attractive. They aren't real. I cannot picture lying on a bed with them chatting about books or business, idly stroking their hair. I cannot picture feeling my face light up and my heart bound with joy seeing them across the room. I cannot even picture deep embraces and doing the wild thing with them. I'm just not interested.
I see attractive women all around me. Real women. Some of them are size 6, some size 10 or 14 or 24 or whatever. Doesn't matter worth a damn. They have all sorts of hair styles. They dress differently, each of them. They are real, they are PEOPLE who are worth interacting with. A woman is not an adjunct to a vagina or breasts or whatever other convention says is attractive. A woman is a person. Some of them are vapid and boring, some are funny and fascinating and just a joy to be around. My unscientific survey suggests that women as a group have a similar bell curve of personality and intelligence to that of guys. The women of the Shelf are all GORGEOUS. I see Pete writing with total love about Sunflower. I envy BigJoe. I think this evening of Friend Beanns - who has been thrown into the maw of the medical monster, who has endured a mastectomy, and will endure the toxic treatment that must be done. Beanns, darling, if you are reading this, I can only imagine the things that are going through your mind - but know that you are beautiful. No operation will touch that. No hair loss from chemo will detract 1% from your beauty. Ditto my paralegal, Kathy - who had to start chemotherapy this week. Gorgeous girl, totally. So many of you I just know through the written words here. But I know you. You are lovely and ravishing. You fill the world with cheerfulness and tranquility. You complete me, as you complete every guy who will stop and think about it.
I confess that my love of women has, on occasion, led me into little issues. Heck, I've had a couple of spectacular romantic crashes. But, God help me, I just like girls.
Mizpah!
R
My former partner used to joke when the VS catalog came to the old office that we kept it around as entertainment for the guys rather than for commercial purposes. And for someone who thinks conventionally, the models for VS are darn good looking -- tall, curvaceous, luxurious hair, yadda, yadda, yadda. But I gotta level with you -- I just don't find them attractive. They aren't real. I cannot picture lying on a bed with them chatting about books or business, idly stroking their hair. I cannot picture feeling my face light up and my heart bound with joy seeing them across the room. I cannot even picture deep embraces and doing the wild thing with them. I'm just not interested.
I see attractive women all around me. Real women. Some of them are size 6, some size 10 or 14 or 24 or whatever. Doesn't matter worth a damn. They have all sorts of hair styles. They dress differently, each of them. They are real, they are PEOPLE who are worth interacting with. A woman is not an adjunct to a vagina or breasts or whatever other convention says is attractive. A woman is a person. Some of them are vapid and boring, some are funny and fascinating and just a joy to be around. My unscientific survey suggests that women as a group have a similar bell curve of personality and intelligence to that of guys. The women of the Shelf are all GORGEOUS. I see Pete writing with total love about Sunflower. I envy BigJoe. I think this evening of Friend Beanns - who has been thrown into the maw of the medical monster, who has endured a mastectomy, and will endure the toxic treatment that must be done. Beanns, darling, if you are reading this, I can only imagine the things that are going through your mind - but know that you are beautiful. No operation will touch that. No hair loss from chemo will detract 1% from your beauty. Ditto my paralegal, Kathy - who had to start chemotherapy this week. Gorgeous girl, totally. So many of you I just know through the written words here. But I know you. You are lovely and ravishing. You fill the world with cheerfulness and tranquility. You complete me, as you complete every guy who will stop and think about it.
I confess that my love of women has, on occasion, led me into little issues. Heck, I've had a couple of spectacular romantic crashes. But, God help me, I just like girls.
Mizpah!
R
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
41 cents
I have a commitment in another town every Tuesday evening. Being a man of habit, I always stop at McDonald's to get coffee. Today, they asked me my age. It turns out that according to them, I'm a "senior." I saved 41 cents. I'd rather pay the money and not be a senior.
R
R
Saturday, September 1, 2007
The Barber Shop, A Sad Reunion, A Book and I found Fred's ring
It wasn't a real intense day. I went to the office, mainly to read the paper and have some quiet time, and decided it was time to get a haircut. When I got out of school 30 years ago, my hair was long and bushy (and black). Since then, it has shortened by an average of 1/4 inch per year, gotten salt & pepper, and then gotten thoroughly grey. Now, I get what is locally known as a "cop cut," so either the average will go down, next year the barber will have to get a razor, or I'm gonna die.
I go to the "Barber Shop." Well, it may not be a sexy name, but it just about says it all. The barber, Lou, has been cutting my hair since I was in school, and recently moved to half of an old gas station building at the bottom of Hospital Hill, when his partner of 30+ years retired. The barber chair is in front of a large & sunny picture window (suitably painted with the words, Barber Shop). It's a small space, and mannish as possible. Lou keeps the TV on ball games or sports shows, the magazines are mostly "Field & Stream," "American Rifleman," and so forth. Lou is a trader, and always has interesting hunting/sporting equipment laying around, and he loves nothing more than wheeling and dealing. The parking area out front wasn't crowded, so I assumed it was good to go to slip in, get the haircut, and slip out. Damfino where they parked, but the place was packed. I hadn't brought my book in with me, so I relaxed, joined the male-bonding banter and observed the scene. A grandpa, dad and little boy were all ahead of me. Grandpa was a scruffy fellow with a viva zapata moustache, skinny legs in shorts and a beer belly, and he's the one who mostly held his grandson. All of the men in there were careful with their language owing to the little boy, and the way everyone interacted with the little boy was absolutely cute. I guess those of us who were dads were thinking of when our children were that age. After the three of them were done, and older gentleman and his wife came in. The rest of us weren't in a hurry, so everyone insisted that the old gentleman "play through." The presence of the older lady changed the banter to quiet and correct conversation, maybe that's why we all wanted them to go ahead of us. Well, I got the cop cut, and as usual refused to let Lou trim my moustache. I've worn it mostly bushy for lots of years, and only have really trimmed it when a girlfriend some years ago wanted it that way.
This evening, I chauffered my mom to & from her 66th high school reunion. I've mentioned before, my mom is a real lady, 84 years old, very healthy and quite feisty. When I picked her up to come home, she said that the reunion was, at best, "not bad." It reminded her that she is one of the very last healthy people in the class, and also that many, many of the people who were special to her in high school have died. I'm reminded of a passage in Proverbs which says, as best I can remember, that generations pass away, new generations arise, and only the earth is forever. (I'm too lazy this evening to save this and look up the exact quote at bible.com.) She says that she doubts if she ever goes to another class reunion. For some reason, this all strikes me as very sad. I don't have much experience with class reunions -- I graduated from a high school that I just attended in my senior year, so I'm somewhat a "man without a country" as far as high school is concerned. Everyone in my class who I have any desire to see, I see.
I read late into the night last night and lots today on one of the new books that came from Amazon that I'd been looking forward to. This book is Settling Accounts: In at the Death, an alternate history by Harry Turtledove. It is the 10th volume of a series that's been written over the last 15 years, and I've thoroughly enjoyed them. Alterate history postulates what would have happened if certain key events had gone differently, and this series is based on the premise that the Confederacy won the Civil War and the two Americas continued to violently clash for 80 years. Turtledove tells it as a series of vignettes involving several different characters. He certainly attains, at least with me, the "willing suspension of disbelief." I feel like I know these people, and they exist in a corporeal way someplace. Why do we have emotional reactions like this to FICTION? I am reminded of a line from a Simon & Garfunkel song from the 60's, ". . . and we note our place with bookmarkers, to measure what we've lost." When you've read all that a particular favorite author has written, and particularly after s/he has died and there will be no more work, there is a sadness that's hard to define. That's how I feel about lots and lots of authors - Dickens, Sinclair Lewis, L'Amour, Zane Grey, Asimov, John D. MacDonald, to name a few. Tonight, I'm contemplating my strange relationship to books, which are certainly among the most important things in my life.
I've been looking for months for my friend Fred's masonic ring. It's not much as jewelry goes. It was hand-made from 3/4 inch stainless steel tubing shaped by some process that's foreign to me, and stamped by dies with the various appropriate symbols. It's not valuable, but I really treasure it. Anyway, I did a treasure hunt of my bedroom this morning, and found the darn thing. I think I'll start wearing it constantly. Fred was a police officer who retired in the early 90's. He would stop by the office about 7:00 in the morning just about every day, and we would relax & drink coffee, and solve all of the world's problems. Fred died suddenly a year ago. He had owed me some money for a while, and his widow asked me the balance. I told her to forget it, and she asked if there was any remembrance from him that I'd like to have. So I told her I would love to have that cheap steel ring, since he didn't have a son to leave it to. To me, this represents continuity, another aspect of that quote from Proverbs. There are not distinct generations, there is a continuous flow of people, always handing knowledge and experience and tradition from hand to hand and mind to mind.
I started another of the new books, Wheel of Darkness, by Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child tonight. La Elu is wrapped up on the net, Tim is out with buds, and the dog & cats are sleeping, so it's back to quiet reading for me.
Mizpah!
R
I go to the "Barber Shop." Well, it may not be a sexy name, but it just about says it all. The barber, Lou, has been cutting my hair since I was in school, and recently moved to half of an old gas station building at the bottom of Hospital Hill, when his partner of 30+ years retired. The barber chair is in front of a large & sunny picture window (suitably painted with the words, Barber Shop). It's a small space, and mannish as possible. Lou keeps the TV on ball games or sports shows, the magazines are mostly "Field & Stream," "American Rifleman," and so forth. Lou is a trader, and always has interesting hunting/sporting equipment laying around, and he loves nothing more than wheeling and dealing. The parking area out front wasn't crowded, so I assumed it was good to go to slip in, get the haircut, and slip out. Damfino where they parked, but the place was packed. I hadn't brought my book in with me, so I relaxed, joined the male-bonding banter and observed the scene. A grandpa, dad and little boy were all ahead of me. Grandpa was a scruffy fellow with a viva zapata moustache, skinny legs in shorts and a beer belly, and he's the one who mostly held his grandson. All of the men in there were careful with their language owing to the little boy, and the way everyone interacted with the little boy was absolutely cute. I guess those of us who were dads were thinking of when our children were that age. After the three of them were done, and older gentleman and his wife came in. The rest of us weren't in a hurry, so everyone insisted that the old gentleman "play through." The presence of the older lady changed the banter to quiet and correct conversation, maybe that's why we all wanted them to go ahead of us. Well, I got the cop cut, and as usual refused to let Lou trim my moustache. I've worn it mostly bushy for lots of years, and only have really trimmed it when a girlfriend some years ago wanted it that way.
This evening, I chauffered my mom to & from her 66th high school reunion. I've mentioned before, my mom is a real lady, 84 years old, very healthy and quite feisty. When I picked her up to come home, she said that the reunion was, at best, "not bad." It reminded her that she is one of the very last healthy people in the class, and also that many, many of the people who were special to her in high school have died. I'm reminded of a passage in Proverbs which says, as best I can remember, that generations pass away, new generations arise, and only the earth is forever. (I'm too lazy this evening to save this and look up the exact quote at bible.com.) She says that she doubts if she ever goes to another class reunion. For some reason, this all strikes me as very sad. I don't have much experience with class reunions -- I graduated from a high school that I just attended in my senior year, so I'm somewhat a "man without a country" as far as high school is concerned. Everyone in my class who I have any desire to see, I see.
I read late into the night last night and lots today on one of the new books that came from Amazon that I'd been looking forward to. This book is Settling Accounts: In at the Death, an alternate history by Harry Turtledove. It is the 10th volume of a series that's been written over the last 15 years, and I've thoroughly enjoyed them. Alterate history postulates what would have happened if certain key events had gone differently, and this series is based on the premise that the Confederacy won the Civil War and the two Americas continued to violently clash for 80 years. Turtledove tells it as a series of vignettes involving several different characters. He certainly attains, at least with me, the "willing suspension of disbelief." I feel like I know these people, and they exist in a corporeal way someplace. Why do we have emotional reactions like this to FICTION? I am reminded of a line from a Simon & Garfunkel song from the 60's, ". . . and we note our place with bookmarkers, to measure what we've lost." When you've read all that a particular favorite author has written, and particularly after s/he has died and there will be no more work, there is a sadness that's hard to define. That's how I feel about lots and lots of authors - Dickens, Sinclair Lewis, L'Amour, Zane Grey, Asimov, John D. MacDonald, to name a few. Tonight, I'm contemplating my strange relationship to books, which are certainly among the most important things in my life.
I've been looking for months for my friend Fred's masonic ring. It's not much as jewelry goes. It was hand-made from 3/4 inch stainless steel tubing shaped by some process that's foreign to me, and stamped by dies with the various appropriate symbols. It's not valuable, but I really treasure it. Anyway, I did a treasure hunt of my bedroom this morning, and found the darn thing. I think I'll start wearing it constantly. Fred was a police officer who retired in the early 90's. He would stop by the office about 7:00 in the morning just about every day, and we would relax & drink coffee, and solve all of the world's problems. Fred died suddenly a year ago. He had owed me some money for a while, and his widow asked me the balance. I told her to forget it, and she asked if there was any remembrance from him that I'd like to have. So I told her I would love to have that cheap steel ring, since he didn't have a son to leave it to. To me, this represents continuity, another aspect of that quote from Proverbs. There are not distinct generations, there is a continuous flow of people, always handing knowledge and experience and tradition from hand to hand and mind to mind.
I started another of the new books, Wheel of Darkness, by Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child tonight. La Elu is wrapped up on the net, Tim is out with buds, and the dog & cats are sleeping, so it's back to quiet reading for me.
Mizpah!
R
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