I actually got banned from leaving comments at a blog today. The woman who runs Sofiya the Grouch has decided, I guess, that I cannot post comments there anymore. She deleted the comments I left and banned my ass from ever darkening her comment boards again. I am sort of amused. She is, I gather, a graduate student in music school at U.T. Austin where one of her professors was allegedly killed by another student. I left a message of sympathy on her blog comments.

When next I tuned in, Sofiya posted the following concerning her reaction to the arrest. She said, if you don't want to follow the link, that she is sure the alleged killer is disturbed and she wants to interview all of his fellow students to present some sort of petition to show that the alleged wacko should not get the death penalty. Oh, and she wants to send him a care package.

Did you read the article above concerning the murder? The alleged killer used a meat cleaver to kill a woman with multiple sclerosis. That is absent from Sofiya's blog. Read her comment on this and you will be sure, as she is, that the alleged killer is being "vilified" and needs our help. So, I left a message on her comment board, as best as I can recall since she deleted it, to state that: one, the guy used a cleaver; two, she may not be in the best position to judge the guy's sanity; and, three, that she could easily muck up his defense by running around contaminating all of his witnesses and in doing so would be doing no favor for the guy.

She replied to my comment by noting that unless I know her personally I have no right to comment on her blog like this and she seriously doubts that she could do anything to gum up the system. That's as best as I can recall.

In any event, I replied to her that I had not been rude on my first comment but that contamination is an issue. Also, I figured that a blog is a public space and I could comment as I pleased. But, since she did not want to have anyone commenting who might disagree with her, I would refrain from doing so in the future. [Digression: I am a big believer that the remedy for speech with which you disagree is more speech, not banning the speech. It's a principal that has worked well for this country for a very long time].

So, I went back later to see if she had any reply and found that not only had my earlier comments been deleted, but I was now banned.

What have I learned from this? That if you consider yourself on the right side of an issue (here, death penalty), don't bother with facts (here, how the legal system works). It may be more important to do good (i.e., her investigation and petition), than to do right (refrain from f*cking things up for his attorneys). I gather that for Sofiya and her friends taking action is a comforting end in and of itself which will without question make them feel better about themselves. No room there for a messy discussion about whether it is the right thing to do. Nope.

How very odd. So much for civil discourse.

So, what are the rules for my comments' board? Well, I like lively discussions and hope to have some here. That said, I expect civil discourse. We're all adults here. Whatever happens, though, I highly doubt that I will ban someone for challenging my world view, however narrow my view may be.

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I finally decided to tell my wife about my blog. I realized that I did not want to wall off a section of my life from her. Generally speaking, we (or at least I) don't keep secrets from each other. This was not a big secret but we've been married for 10 years and I decided I did not want to start now. So, last night, while we were getting ready to go to sleep, I told her about it. Her reaction surprised me. She was excited for me! She thought it was a great idea and she encouraged me.

Well, now she has actually read it. She said she liked it a lot and reminded me that the contraction of "its" takes an apostrophe when it is short for "it is". Duly noted.

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I came across this article today and it put into words some of the amorphous feelings I have had lately after hearing about the shooting of the pregnant woman and her daughters in Israel. And the world remains silent Just why does it seem that no one is prepared to protest the shooting deaths of a pregnant woman and her four daughters? These people were shot, execution style, up close and personal. Some animal had to make a decision AFTER he saw them, to kill them. Where is the outrage in the European capitals? These great European humanists who fill the streets when Israel takes out the people who send these criminals to kill young women and children. Why does no one protest these deaths? Do you remember the young child who was shot in his bedroom, hiding under his bed after terrorists invaded his home? No one protested that death either. Instead, you see rallies in Gaza and the West Bank to celebrate this "triumph" and marches in Europe to press the Palestinian cause. Are we back to a place and time where Jewish lives count less? Is that the only conclusion we can reach? I think we all know that this is so in the Arab world in general where they want to push the Jews back into the sea. But is it the case once again in Europe, too? Sometimes, I just despair.

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Well, its official. If I write about this, I cannot tell my friend, my co-worker, about this blog because it will chronicle one of his adventures in blind dating. Still, it may prove to be too delicious to keep to myself.

My friend, who I need to give a name to for this blog, shall be known herein as Buddy. Ever play Lacrosse? A buddy pass is something you don't throw to a buddy. It has a big looping arc which gives the other team time to arrive at your buddy's location at the same time the ball does and hammer your buddy. Having hooked my friend up once before with the dating equivalent of the buddy pass, I shall call him Buddy (or just B) for this adventure.

B is a clean cut, nice, funny, smart, well-dressed, conservative guy who works with me. I think a lot of him. I wish my sister had dated him instead of the dirt bags she seems to prefer.

B is single. Not that he doesn't try. He's just kind of a freak magnet. No, that's too strong. But, he generally gets the girl who, by way of example, has her mother as her best friend and tells her mother everything, including details of her sex life. Too much for B. And probably for most men. I mean, it sort of puts three in the bed with none of the advantages. B is in his early thirties and would like to meet a nice girl and settle down.

I have tried to help him by introducing him to some nice girls (one of whom turned out to be buddy pass girl, more on her later, perhaps). Why? I am happy in my marriage and would like to see B happy, too. Also, I probably have a small streak of yenta in me.

So, on to the new possibility. What to call her? How about Lass or L? She appears to be a sweet Irish lass. She may just be covering up her inner psycho, and don't we all, but time will tell. L is the same age as B. She is blond and I don't know much more about her. She seems very nice. She had a tattoo on her ankle. Normally, I don't care for that but on her it looked cute.

I met L on the train going home from work one night. We had a lovely conversation -- unusual but not unprecedented on the train -- occasioned by train problems and our relationship with the train service. During our chat, it came out that she was single and looking. So I asked whether she'd like to meet a nice young man and I described B to her. She replied, in words or substance, sure, why not? As she said, she had just told a complete stranger that she was single and had a less than fulfilling social life, so why wouldn't she be open to the possibility of a complete stranger introducing her to another complete stranger. So I gave her my email address and, to my surprise, she emailed me the next day.

At that point I asked B to join me in my office and to shut the door. I described the situation, the woman, and the setup. He did not think I was out of my mind for trying to pick up a girl for him on the train and was interested in having a drink with her.

We are getting together tomorrow night for drinks.

The stage is set.

Are you all interested in me reporting back on this as it develops? Or should I not bother?

(Spell check claims I got every word right, a first! Must be a mistake in the spell checker.)

Posted by: Random Penseur at 08:02 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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There is a lot I cannot write about here concerning my job as an attorney. I am a repository for confidences and every time I mention anything to do with my work, I sanitize it the best I can. I make it more general to distill the point I'd like to make without compromising confidentiality. I'm going to be extra careful with this post. Yesterday someone suggested that if I was interested in taking on a fraud case, evidence could be found to support whatever proposition I needed to have supported to bring the lawsuit. I guess I'm naive. I was shocked. Still shocked, actually. Sure, I've had clients shade things in their favor every day. That's just a fact of life. Everybody shades things to put themselves in the best possible light. Indeed, there is an old legal truism that you never know the real story about what happened to your client until your client is being cross examined on the stand. But this was the first time anyone ever suggested to me that evidence could be, well, created or fabricated. I should note that I shut the conversation down immediately, told this person that I was not interested in their case, and that I'd return the documents they sent to me right away. I have very high moral standards and I am not about to compromise them by accepting a tainted representation. How the hell would I live with myself? I guess I had heard that stuff like this happens. You read about insurance frauds all the time. I just never thought it would come so close to me. And you know what the truly invidious thing is? The way it was put to me was so subtle and so nebulous that there isn't anything to report to anyone. Why? Because it was a matter of interpretation. I felt the message was clear but the person who made the statements to me could deny it. I feel as if I brushed up against something dirty. I need some fresh air.

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I said yesterday I expected to appear before a judge who had not read my papers or prepared for oral argument. I anticipated writing today a very cynical post about the failures of the judicial system in NY State Courts. Happily, it didn't turn out that way.

This morning I was before a judge who was prepared, courteous, focused on the issues, asked targeted questions, was polite to counsel (most of the time), and decisive. It was a pleasure. I have no idea how he will rule on the motion to dismiss I put before him, but I am certain he will give the motion his proper attention. This was an example of how a court room should be run. In part, this may have been because we were in the Commercial Division of New York State Supreme Court, which only hears commercial disputes above $150,000. So, he's accustomed to hearing and deciding the special kinds of issues complex corporate litigation presents.

Today was really one of the best parts of my job. I love being at the sharp end of the stick, facing a skeptical judge who's asking hard questions as you try the best you can to respond to his or her questions and make your points and arguments. You feel totally alive because you are completely engaged, both intellectually and emotionally. It is exhilarating and leaves you pretty spent afterwards. The thing is, not only do you have to listen and respond, you have to judge how best to respond. In that, you are an actor. You modulate and change your tone of voice to emphasize points and to capture the interest of the judge. By the way you change your tone, if you do it right, you can silence the entire room. I did that today. I had everyone's attention. I could feel it, almost physically, when I took pauses in my argument. No question, oral advocacy rocks.

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A quick note: I just called home to tell my wife what train I'd be taking and I spoke, briefly, to my daughter. I asked her if she was being a good girl for Mamma and she replied, "no, but I'm getting ready to be a good girl for the rest of the week."

I can't believe how well she already has me figured out. I think that kids are naturally manipulative.

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I am at work today (Sunday) preparing to go to Court tomorrow morning and argue with a judge who probably has not read the papers I spent hours preparing -- more on that later, I think.

But yesterday, despite the hangover and because my wife's was much, much worse, I took my daughter out of the house for several hours in the afternoon so my wife could rest without interruption while the baby was napping.

We went to the beach, about 10 minutes drive from the house. There was practically no one there. When was the last time you were at an empty beach? It smelled of the sea. It was this iodine like decomposing rich smell. There were mussel shells all over the place. We came on a whim, so we were neither dressed for it nor in possession of toys. Still, I took off her shoes and rolled her jeans up to her knees and did the same with my pants and shoes. And off we marched. The sand was warm from the sun and went right between our toes. Then we hit the high water mark (and clearly the tide was out) and the sand there was wet and hard packed from the ocean rolling in and over it. That sand was a little cold. I stood there for about an hour watching my daughter run in and out of the waves as they rolled over her feet. She shrieked and shrieked with laughter. We threw sand at the water and I tried to show her how to skip rocks (doomed to failure, but still). The sun was strong on our heads -- it was over 80 f. It was a beautiful moment.

We sat on the steps leading down to the beach afterwards to let our feet dry so we could get the sand off and I picked her up and pulled her onto my lap. She was happy and I was happy.

Her hair smelled like sunshine and all was right with my world as we watched the waves roll in.

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I use curse words all the time. Don't blame my mother. Partially, its a professional habit. All litagators swear and do so way too much. Partially, I spent a summer in China when I was 18 and when no one can understand what you saying on the street, the societal control over your language just disappears and you begin to express yourself in ways that are limited only by your imagination. That was a pretty salty time. Anyway, it took years before I could get over that kind of freedom. I'm better now.

Except when driving. Which leads me to the thought I've been kicking around. Maybe there is no such thing as bad language, maybe there is only language that is appropriate to a situation and inappropriate but no word is intrinsically bad. Even if I can't envision a situation in which certain racial epithets are ever appropriate doesn't mean I have it wrong here, since my imagination is limited. This, anyway, is what I am trying to teach my kids. Well, my daughter since the boy doesn't speak yet.

When we moved out to the suburbs, my daughter spent a lot of time with just me in the car because my wife was put on bed rest with the second pregnancy. So she heard a lot of language that maybe was not appropriate for her situation.

We were all in the car together, backing out of the driveway to take my daughter to the doctor for her two year check up when she said, "shit, fuck". Everyone in the car looked at me. Not her, me. So I told her, "Honey, those are daddy's car words and he only uses those while he's driving." "You can't use them until you are driving". Not bad words, just words that are inappropriate for a then 2 year old.

I'm told I also use those words when reading the NY Times and I've been asked to stop reading that paper around her.

Posted by: Random Penseur at 07:04 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Does anyone remember him? He died some years ago. Borge was a Danish Jew who, while a classically trained pianist and musician, made it big in the United States as a comedian and musician. He had impecable timing and was so funny without ever needing to joke about sex or use inappropriate langauge you had to explain to a child. I think that one of my favorite bits was the inflationnary language. To wit: you look wonderful tonight becomes you look two-derful three-night. Or, instead of I ate a tenderloin, I nined an elevenderloin. Or, he was a cap-eleven in the air five-ce. You kind of have to hear him to it but you get the idea.

Posted by: Random Penseur at 06:52 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Too. Much. Red. Wine. Still hurts. In bed by 12:30 and child up by 6:00. Even after coffee and other fluids, still hurts.

But it was worth it. My wife and I had an adult evening out. Men in tie and jackets and women dressed up, too. Just getting dressed up for dinner changes the whole tenor of the evening. You want to act better, enjoy sparkling conversations, be witty. It starts with the cocktail -- the Sidecar. Ever have one? You feel like the star of a 1920's film, all dinner jacket and cigarette holderish. This is a serious cocktail that, in the words of PG Wodehouse, slips its hand trustingly into yours like a little sister and ends up with you trying to explain yourself to the Magistrate. You don't notice how lethal it is until it is too late.

We had cocktails for about an hour or more. Then dinner. More conversation. Two bottles of Burgundy (Pommard, for those who care). It was heaven. Like we didn't even have kids. I had the Asparagus Vinaigrette followed by Blue Cheese encrusted steak. And more wine. And espresso. Dinner lasted another 2 1/2 hours. More conversation. Home to bed for mildly drunken adult entertainment.

Then, 6:00, "Dada, I need to go to the potty". And the real world returns. Only, this time with a hangover.

Posted by: Random Penseur at 10:51 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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I am feeling kindly disposed to the world at the moment. No good reason why. The sun is shining and its a beautiful day outside of my office. I got retained on a new matter this morning. That's always good.


Mind you, it will change shortly. I am having a meeting shortly with some scumbags who will no doubt piss me off. I don't know why some lawyers confuse aggressive behavior with effective dispute resolution. Ok, maybe I do. Sometimes its inexperience, but sometimes that is the only reasonable position they can take for their client. If you can't pound the facts, or the law, pound the table. I think I am in for some table pounding shortly. Oh, joy.

Posted by: Random Penseur at 02:37 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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I posted the following comment on an article on taxi cab safety in NY at Gothamist (which is a great NY City website) and wanted to share it here. I thought it might amaze some people that this actually happened:

"Back in New Orleans, in the early 1990's, it was not uncommon to see drunken people left in bars, propped up in corners, with their addresses and $5-10 pinned to their shirts, as their friends continued on the next bar. When the bartender had a few moments, he or she would call a cab and the cabbie would take the person home. I never heard stories of that going awry or of a cabbie, assuming he was from United Cabs, misbehaving.

Can't picture that in NY, can ya?"

Posted by: Random Penseur at 09:24 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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I saw a photograph this morning in the NY Times showing the last Oldsmobile rolling off the production line. That's it. No more Oldsmobiles. It got me thinking a little bit, as much as I could since it was 6:30 a.m. and I had not had any coffee, about the automobile as icon in America. This, I grant you, is not an original thought (but there are not many original thoughts anyway, so WTF -- sorry, still no coffee).

The car is romance and possibilities. There was another article in the Times talking about GPS and road trips. Road trips are what I mean by possibilities. If you grow up in the suburbs, nothing much happens without the car. For me and my family, that was the Oldsmobile.

My father was very clear on this point: America has been very good to our family and we will only buy American cars. So, for me, growing up meant that when I turned 16, it was driving the Delta 88 with a v-8 engine that just blew away my friend's cute little BMW. Not that I would ever do that. Driving too fast on I-287. Nope, must have been some other idiot with Iron Maiden or AC/DC (hey, I was 16!) blaring out of the speakers so loud that I blew one of them.

The car was painted a truly ugly brown. I loved it, especially because it smelled like old cigarettes and spilled coffee. It used to be the car my father drove to the train station every day. That smelled forbidden and grown up and serious. Everything I probably wasn't but desperately wanted to be.

That really brings me to the point I had been thinking about for a couple of days now. The car is not just the American icon, it is our special meaningful smell memory (damn, I can't get this phrase right). If France, thanks to Proust, has the madeleine, we have the smells of cars that bring us back to our youth. Can't most of you close your eyes and remember the smell of the school bus? That mix of diesel fumes and plastic and rubber and who knows what else that when you smell it you are a kid again? And you haven't done your homework?

That's why, for me at least, the car is an icon. That damn smell makes me think of my childhood. And I still miss the sound of that Oldsmobile peeling out of the school parking lot. Oh, I also miss the sex we used to have in that car.

Posted by: Random Penseur at 08:37 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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The Hatemonger's Quarterly

The results are in on the "First Annual Horrible College-Student Poetry Competition". Worth a look even if it does not qualify as my "Time Suck of the Day".

Hat tip to Joanne Jacobs who runs a very interesting education blog.

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'I got a story I really need to tell'

Holy Shite! The Chief of Police and his Chief Assistant (who I gather is a woman), in Wales? Can you imagine the embarrassment? I can feel it from here. Its like your parents trying to rap. Its just wrong. I do wonder how it sounds in Welsh, though:

"I'm just a white boy called the Deputy CC / They said I'd never make it as a bitchin' MC / You got it all wrong, cos now here I am / Giving it for real in the North Wales BPA jam

They call me Roxy, or Ms Dynamo on stage / Unlike my brother here, I never look my age / I'm goin' to spill it all about the boys in blue / Show you what it's like within the not-so-solid crew

So listen! Watch a doin' here today / Checkin' what the Heddlu Gogledd Cymru gotta say / Put away your cameras and your note pads for a spell / I got a story that I really need to tell

Bein' in the dibble is no cakewalk when you're black / If you don't get fitted, then you'll prob'ly get the sack / You're better chillin', lie down and just be passive / No place for us just yet in the Colwyn Bay Massive"

It continues. You owe it to yourself to check it out.

Posted by: Random Penseur at 08:15 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Chinatown Says Police Parking Makes Its Streets Too Tight

This is a very old question, perhaps first asked in Latin: "Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?" When the guardians, those people charged with the duties to protect you and to protect society, misbehave, to whom do you turn? Who is it who watches over the guardians? And then, of course, you are have to ask who is going to watch those who are watching the guardians?

It is my impression that the effects of 9/11 on NYC's Chinatown may not have received much in the way of national exposure. Chinatown got hurt badly. Chinatown's businesses and restaurants got clobbered as people stayed home. Those who tried to venture down there may have been deterred by travel restrictions and checkpoints. We are talking about people who were struggling to begin with. Now, if you take a peek at the article I linked to, it appears that the guardians are abusing their privileges, by parking where they shouldn't, and the people in Chinatown are taking it on the chin.

Basically, it works like this: Chinatown is congested; businesses need to have deliveries to stay in business so they have things to sell; the only street parking -- including loading zones -- appears to be taken up by police officers and corrections officers parking their private vehicles there. Result? Business getting hurt again. Remedy? Well, there is no easy remedy if the only people you can call to have cars towed won't tow the cars of their fellow officers. So, who guards these guardians?

The civil courts and the lawyers the merchants have hired. That is what the whole system of checks and balances is supposed to be about and the only way we've managed to answer the question. We don't give final authority to just one institution, just one guardian. All the guardians, in a sense, watch each other. Its not elegant, but it works most of the time in practice. But as one Frenchman once famously asked, yes, it works in practice, but does it work in theory?

post script: I know that the officers have no other place to park, that they are hard working joes (and janes) too, and that they are performing vital and critical functions. I support them and I thank them for their service. Indeed, after 9/11, I regularly thanked these guys in the streets in person. I just wish they'd take public transportation.

Posted by: Random Penseur at 07:58 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Church Sign Generator

Go forth as God has commanded and create your very own Church sign.

Posted by: Random Penseur at 12:35 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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So, I am suffering from a severe case of sleep-deprived lassitude today. The last two or three nights, my children have been waking up at irregular intervals resulting in my sleeping in stretches only. Even if you don't get out of bed when they wake up, for instance, if the baby is just chatting to himself in his crib, you still have interrupted your sleep cycles. I understand that messing with the sleep cycle is something that is done to prisoners to disorient them and make them more amenable to interrogation. What is has done to me is just leave me feeling wasted and useless today.

I am also stressed because my wife had a job interview yesterday for a job she really wants. However, the horrible thing is the waiting to hear period. Will she get called back? Will she just get the "thanks but no thanks" letter? Who knows? And the waiting is hard because you don't want to hope because that sort of magnifies the disappointment if you don't get it and yet you can't help yourself from hoping. So it created this odd tension. I told her to immediately begin aggressively pursuing other job options so that if this one doesn't come through, she can say something to the effect of, "ah, well, but I have all of these other live possibilities". It might also distract her from the waiting. The funny thing about a deeply intimate relationship is that I think sometimes her disappointments are harder for me than for her -- that I feel her pain more deeply because I have no power to jump in and try to fix it. Maybe its love. Maybe its just bullshit and I am being stupidly self-centered to think that I can feel her disappointment more keenly than she can. Beats me. I just know for certain that when she is hurt I feel it.

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Le Monde.fr : Bloody Day

If you read French, the above is an interesting article on what's happening in Thailand where, "combat between the forces of order and the separatists has resulted in about 95 deaths, according to official estimates."

I saw nothing in the U.S. press about this. According to the article, this has been going on since January where, in this underdeveloped province, "majority muslim and where the tenants of radical islam are rapidly gaining ground", "policemen, village leaders, buddhist priests, civil servants, and tourists are the targets of the separatists".

This is wild (to me). I always thought Thailand was a relatively stable democracy with strong royalist traditions, to the extent I thought about it at all. Even the author of the article thinks this sudden violence is inexplicable.

However, it is interesting that there were multiple "coordinated" attacks. Is this the start of something bigger in Thailand?

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