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

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

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

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 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

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

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