Tidbits

I found myself longing for Tuscany again after reading this article in the New York Times real estate section, about a Phoenix woman who bought a beautiful Tuscan house by getting subscribers to pay $1000 for a three-week stay there. The house is simply gorgeous. I'm now thinking about investing in Italy. Hm.

By way of update, my idea of having a personal assistant tackle my list of projects has worked beautifully so far! I now have covers on my electrical switches, a closet door that doesn't fall over and frighten the dogs, a shower that drains and all other variety of newly-repaired wonders in my home. Now I have to do my part and make up my mind about the biggest project--the leaking porch--and what I plan to do about it. Argh.

I learned yesterday morning that the TSA's strongpoint is not common sense (or fractions). You may have heard that passengers may once again travel with containers of liquids that weigh less than 3 ounces. I had not heard of the 3 ounce restriction and found myself traveling with a 4 ounce, see-through, travel bottle containing my face gel. The bottle was significantly less than 1/2 full. So the brilliant TSA agent examines it, saying, "I don't see a size on here, so I will have to take it." She then saw a label that said 4 ounces, and said, "Well, 4 ounces, I will have to take it anyway." When I pointed out that the 4 ounce countainer was clearly less than 1/2 full, making it obviously less than 3 ounces, her face took on a puzzled expression. I tried again, gently saying, "A less than half-full 4 ounce container clearly weighs less than 3 ounces, you see?" But she would brook no lip from a smarty like me, and took my bottle away with a flourish, then threatened to detain me when I snapped a picture of her doing so with the camera on my cell phone. Yes, these people are responsible for the security of our country's flight systems. Feel safer?

My pet peeve of the day: people who smoke right outside the door to a building where smoking is banned, forcing non-smokers to walk though a Cloud Of Lung Cancer if they want to go to work. There is nothing I hate more than being forced to move my freshly-showered and dressed body through their cloud of smoke. Ugh.

Wondering how to tell when a relationship is over? I love the British, by the way.

Speaking of the British, I loved this Guardian article about judging people by the books they read. It raises two excellent questions:

(1) What, books-wise, does it for you?

(2) Are there any books that would put you off absolutely, no matter how attractive the reader?

My off-the-cuff answers:

(1) Anything slightly off-kilter, but not frighteningly so.

(2) "20 ways to yes" or other go-getter kinds of sales/leadership books or anything indicating right-wing tendencies.

Another picture from my Labor Day trip home:

Who says a Cubs fan can't see

meaningful baseball in September? No, silly, I'm not going to a Cubs game. I'm going to see the Mets/Braves game tonight! Not that the game is particularly meaningful, actually, but the Mets are going to the playoffs! It will be my first visit to Turner Field, where the Braves, play.

I'm excited!

Traveling (again!)

Today I'll take a quick trip to Atlanta for a client meeting. I had hoped to spend the weekend there afterward and finally explore Atlanta a bit, as I have been meaning to do for a long time, but work does not permit that.

In the event that my blog has veered too far toward the dark and sad lately (I fear that is the case), I will leave you with something happy--this photo I took of my friend Beth's beautiful and awesome kids while I was home for Labor Day:

Another costly war casualty

This time, a determined and talented young woman who would surely have been a leader for years to come. When will the costs of this waste of a war stop racking up?



Rest in peace, Ms. Perez.

And on a note related to my post below, Andrew Fastow, mastermind of many of the greedy Enron plans that cost multitudes of people their jobs and life savings, some just before they retired, was sentenced today. His punishment? Six year, just like my friend, only that my friend received no personal gain of any kind for his alleged wrongdoing, while Fastow made millions. And not a single person lost his job or life savings as a result of what my friend did. Strangely, the judge found that one factor mitigating against a longer sentence (he could have received up to 10 years based on his plea bargain with the government) was that Fastow's family has already suffered enough, largely because his wife spent a year in prison and a halfway house because Fastow's lies to her led to a charge of falisfying her income tax return. In other words, he benefited from having duped his wife into committing a crime. What?

Perspective

Last week, a federal judge told my dear friend he will spend a total of 6 years in prison, give or take a bit of time off for good behavior. Believe it or not, this is an improvement, given that his initial sentence (which the Court of Appeals overturned) was 24 years. My friend is 40 years old now and has served more than two years already. This reduction in the sentence means a great deal to him, I am sure. Among other things, he may actually see his young daughter off to her first day of some year of elementary school, instead of missing her high school graduation and all that will come before it.

Though I have often tried to do it during the past two plus years, I have found it impossible to imagine my friend behind bars. I try not to picture him there, but to think the thoughts that are in his head, to see what he sees through his eyes and to feel the feelings he struggles to keep in check. I wonder sometimes if he ever recalls the lazy days we spent together in our first law school summer, when we took a few classes, did a bit of paid work and spent the rest of the time lolling in the sun with friends, playing basketball and catching the occasional summer movie. That summer was the very definition of carefree and I cannot think of it without remembering how my friend and I and all of our other friends laughed more times than we could ever count, with the laughs perhaps coming more freely because we knew it was our last truly free summer.

Only now my friend is less free than we could ever have imagined. He is sensitive and smart and sweet and once prided himself on all that he accomplished, against great odds. He survived his American soldier father's abandonment of his Korean mother when she was pregnant with him, his first stepfather abuse of the entire family, and taunting by American schoolkids who laughed at the way he talked and dressed. These once were secrets that he shared with me, his good friend; these were the secrets that shaped who he was and how he saw things and the way he treated other people. "I always root for the little guy," he told me. Now those dismal stories of the things he overcame are public knowledge, the subjects of newspaper articles summarizing the testimony from his trial and sentencing hearing.

Now that his sentence has been reduced, I wonder what my friend will do when he is free again. "Free," that is, to make a living without the law license or CPA certificate that he worked so hard for so many years to obtain. No matter how long I search, I cannot find in my imagination a picture of how he will make a living after this; I simply cannot envision him doing anything that does not involve accounting, which he knows better than anyone I have ever known. This is all because he helped carry out a transaction that the government said should have been booked as debt instead of as a loan, or something like that. I do not know what brought him to this place, but I know what will keep him there for the next four years or so.

The government agreed to a one-month "prison" term for the colleague who was closest to my friend's level in the hierarchy of the ill-fated project. His boss received only 15 months in exchange for testifying against him. Although the boss named higher-ups who masterminded the scheme and highly-paid outsiders who assisted with the deal, they have yet to be charged. Does this seem just? As in "Justice Department"?

This post began as something very personal for me, a story about a person about whom I care deeply. But in the end, it comes back around to an issue of interest and importance to all of us: the government's abuse of its power to obtain an end that does not justify the means in a variety of areas, one of which is torture of not-yet-convicted individuals and immunization from punishment for those who carry out that torture. It is clear that the U.S. Attorney's office is using sentences like those my friend received to deter people from exercising the right to a trial instead opting for the certainty of a plea bargain. Does that seem right to you?

Open for Questions

What do you want to know?

And how do you like my new blog template? It's strange, because I was hunting all weekend for a new blog template and saw tonight that Jay has done some fall sprucing as well! You'll find no alpaca here, but plenty of stripes!

Thank you, villages

Today I had to deal with my most hated opposing counsel again. It was painful and I let that show and that made it more painful. I beat myself up about it all night, feeling sick and disgusted and hating what I do for a living more than I ever have, and that's saying something. And I have to deal with him again tomorrow, and was dreading it more than words can say.

But then something happened.

I talked to my friend at work about this and she sympathized and reminded me how important is not to let him know that I hate dealing with him. We vowed that I will immediately take some valid actions to put him on the defensive after tomorrow's encounter.

I still wasn't finished feeling down, however, so I called my friend Jay (a friend I know "in real life", as opposed to my internet friend Jay) in Virginia to confirm that I will have a nice catch-up visit with him and his family while I'm in Washington, D.C. for the ACLU conference next month. This gave me something to look forward to.

But even after my nice chat with Jay, I couldn't bear the thought of going home, where I knew I would stew about the day's events, including but not limited to this jerk. I truly couldn't imagine it and so I picked up dinner (it was well past the dinner hour) and took it to my friends' house and sat with those nice people talking mostly about non-law related things and eating dinner and drinking wine and petting their dog and just being with people I care about, who take such great care of me for reasons I cannot completely fathom.

I thought it would be better after that, but as I pulled into my driveway, I found the sinking feeling hitting me again. This time, it was so powerful that I was actually afraid to be alone. I felt overwhelmed, didn't want to feel that way anymore and could not see my way clear to a time when it would stop. I could hear my neighbor, who is a lawyer my same age and a really nice guy with whom I go out for sushi a few times a year, playing his piano. We have had some deep talks about the practice of law and I know he feels the way I do about a lot of things. He is a late night person like me, and I took a chance by knocking at his door. I didn't really feel I had another choice in light of my fears and I somehow knew he would understand. At first it was a bit awkward because I am not in the habit of dropping in on him just to visit, but he made me feel at home and as soon as he realized why I was there, he made me feel completely understood and heard. And after a long talk with him, I finally feel better.

I need to go to sleep, but I wanted to write about how grateful and lucky I am to have such amazing friends. It takes a village, they say, and a village is definitely making the difference for me right now. Thank you, my online and "in real life" villages. I owe you a debt I can never repay, but for which I am eternally grateful.

All that is great about America: Jury Duty

I completely wasted my day--not with the jury duty, but by staying up too late last night and being wiped out today. So I am briefly awakening from sleep replenishment to write about jury duty.

As I feared, I barely woke up in time to throw on jeans and a non-wrinkly shirt and drive downtown. I even eschewed my daily Starbucks coffee and croissant, hoping to be out of there in time for breakfast. Darting through downtown construction chaos, I pulled into the parking garage across from our city's large criminal courthouse just minutes before the 8:30 a.m. start time. I ran up the steep, steep stairs and, out of breath, made my way through the security line with my briefcase of work I fantasized about actually completing while there today.

Many of us realized we had forgotten to complete the juror information form and bring it with us, so we perched at narrow, high tables like those found at the post office while scratching out personal information such as our drivers' license number, employer and religion. Well, except for me, who has a problem identifying my religion or lack thereof to my government, so I left that one blank.

I entered the large jury room and took my seat among the 300 or so other folks who, like me, ran out of postponement opportunities. The "juror movie" was already in full swing, telling people what would preclude them from service. It was as if everyone had a thought bubble above his head that read, "I wish that applied to me." I looked around, bored already, and noticed a self-titled "Freedom Shrine" on the wall (the title was spelled out in very large black letters), which appeared to contain snippets from the Magna Carta, Constitution and other great documents (I assume these were reproductions). I thought this looked oddly placed behind a few rows of cheap plastic chairs reserved for those who arrived too late to get the comfy upholstered chairs and/or who are too large to fit in those chairs.

The sheer variety in the dress of those attending jury duty could have kept me amused for quite a while, had I put my mind to it. There was everything from the explicitly forbidden flip-flops (but they had rhinestones!) to suits to muu-muus to linen. I spent a good bit of time thinking about how I would size up each of my fellow jurors' predelictions based on their dress if I was the attorney choosing from a jury panel that included them. Then I found myself regretting not having worn my typical business dress (instead, I dressed for comfort in my jeans), thinking that I would let down my profession if I had to stand up in front of a judge, lawyers and fellow potential jurors and identify myself as a schlumpily-dressed lawyer. So I worried for a bit about my clothing, then moved on to wondering what was up with the woman sitting next to me.

She said she is a "home health worker," and I later heard her talking about being some kind of therapist. Her voice was like the voice of every meddlesome neighbor woman one would find in 50's era movies. She opened a conversation with me by inquiring about my cell phone/PDA. I now think she may have been wishing I would invite her to surf the internet on it, but I didn't realize that then. Seeking to liven things up, I turned the conversation to "things one might say if one did not want to be chosen as a juror." My personal favorite was, "I think it's best to let people do what they will do and permit God to sort it all out in the end." My neighbor laughed uncomfortably when I said this, and even more so when I said I was just joking and that of course one must honestly give their opinion when asked for it upstairs (meaning in the courtroom, not the figurative "upstairs").

Oh, yes, the jury duty. First, the deputy clerk read basic information to the group from a prepared text in a way that made it seem as if it was her first time reading anything, ever. I felt bad for her, worried that she had not had sufficient reading practice as a child. She then departed and was not seen again.

Next, a beautiful spokesmodel-like woman came out to announce to us what prizes we had won, I mean, to tell us about what would happen next, and to announce the groups of jurors who should head upstairs. She has developed a sense of humor working in this job, and shared a story about someone who was concerned about how to reach a courtroom on the 3rd floor in light of the fact that the "escalator only goes to the 5th floor," assuring us that we were welcome to step off the escalator at any floor of our choice, up to and including the 5th floor. The first groups of jurors she called reached only halfway to my juror number, but she told us we must continue to wait until after 11 am, when the courts have a deadline to call for any jury panels.

So wait we did, freezing our little tushies off in the very chilly room and entertaining ourselves by buying snacks and drinks out of the machines located behind the Freedom Shrine. The adventures with my seat neighbor continued. She was taking extensive handwritten notes that I tried not to look at; but she peered so intensely while I was writing in my Moleskine that I finally put it away, as she made me feel rude for not openly sharing my musings with her. She had the odd habit of turning while speaking as if she was talking to the people on each side of her, when she was actually only involved in a conversation with one person. This interfered a bit with my newspaper-reading, until I learned to immerse myself in the paper and not look her way.

While waiting, I realized that jury duty is one of the few events in Dallas without a Spanish-English translation. I realized this when an anxious man speaking broken English figured out several minutes into our wait that his number was included in one of the prior groups and that he was quite late getting upstairs. The rest of us spread out so we were not packed elbow-to-elbow in our chairs, reading newspapers and books. That is, except for Gladys Kravits, who informed her other neighbor that she has not read a book in more than two years.

The spokesmodel called a few more groups of jurors to head upstairs, but my number was just on the other side of those called to service. We were asked to wait for another period of time, after which she returned to say that no more jurors were needed today. And with that, I was returned to freedom. I met a friend and her daughter for lunch and contemplated going in to work, but opted instead to come home for a nap, then work at home, in light of my late, late night at work last night. But various events of the afternoon conspired to keep me from sleep and I wound up wasting the entire day. Argh! No rest for me this weekend.

Anyway, I hope this has been informative and educational for you: what it is like to have jury service without actually seeing a judge or a courtroom.

Quick hits.

I have been trying to figure out what all the fuss is regarding last weekend's Oregon/OU football game. It isn't easy being a baseball girl in the Great State Of Texas, which should be called Football Land.

My deep, dark arrest story came back to haunt me today, reminding me that I haven't yet shared it with you all as promised. Soon, I swear.

Have I mentioned how crazy I am about my dogs?

And about my personal assistant, who seems to have gratuitously emptied my too-full bathroom trash while meeting a contractor here today. It is helping keep me inspired to keep the house looking relatively presentable because I know she might drop by at any time.

I worked until 3 am and have jury duty tomorrow morning. Yes, it is now 4 am and I can't sleep, for fear that I won't wake up in time. Tomorrow's summons is the product of a glorious year's worth of postponements. I'm curious to see what all the hype is about.

UPDATED: This is one of the best-written baseball articles I have ever read. It is a story by Tom Verducci of Sports Illustrated which covers, among other things, Alex Rodriguez's difficulties with his play this season, his relationships with his teammates and his increasingly rocky relationship with Yankee fans. The story is remarkable to me in many respects. First, it is amazingly well-researched--the writer even uncovered an incident in which a player on the Yankees' arch-enemy Boston Red Sox saw Rodriguez's increasing look of panic and reached out to help him, getting quotes from both the other player and Rodriguez about the incident. The incident itself (I'll let you read the details in the article) is, in my opinion, one of the reasons why baseball is the best sport of all: in what other sport does a player from the opposing team have the courtesy and kindness to reach out to an opponent in distress? The article also portrays an interestingly conflicted version of Rodriquez, one minute as cocky, arrogant and out of touch and the next as utterly insecure, beaten down and depressed. However cocky he may be, my fan-abuse-hating side despises what the Yankee fans have done to this man--not that they are the sole cause of his situation, but they certainly made his slump more painful and it is hard to believe they played no role in extending it. Anyway, this is a must-read article--check it out.

Back in the saddle

I spent my weekend kibbutzing with 332 colleagues who descended upon Dallas for our annual firm retreat. I am pleased to report that the shindig went off quite well. I take special pride in having assisted with the planning of the Saturday afternoon activities and Saturday night dinner event. If only I could have actually partaken in the activities--I was stricken Saturday morning with a mysterious but powerful stomach ailment that confined me to my hotel room for the entire afternoon. I rallied enough to go to dinner, determined not to miss out on seeing the fruits of our efforts. It was fun, but would have been more fun if I was able to take in something other than water.

Having spent the remaining portion of my Sunday at the office after meeting in-from-out-of-town friends for lunch, I'm feeling unusually awake at this late hour. Perhaps this is due to the quick catnap I took while at the office. It's handy to have a couch in one's office.

Anyway, I found this picture from the Found site to be quite amusing:

Rest in peace, Ann Richards.

Ann Richards died yesterday, and this makes me very sad. Ever since I moved to Texas and learned about her, she has been one of my idols, ranking right up there with Sandra Day O'Connor, whose appointment to the U.S. Supreme Court made me think maybe a girl could be a lawyer, too. Ann was the Governor of Texas before the Shrub (aka Our President) held that position. Her intelligence and charm and wit know no match, whether inside Texas or outside of it.

This story told by Molly Ivins, which I am borrowing from the amazing Juanita, sums up the kind of person Ann Richards was better than anything I could write about her:

Several years ago there was a big political do at Scholz Beer Garten in Austin and everybody who was anybody in political Texas was there, meetin' and greetin' at a furious pace. About halfway through the evening, a little group of us got the tired feet and went to lean our butts against a table by the back wall of the Garten. Like birds in a row were perched Bob Bullock, the state comptroller; me [Ivins]; Charlie Miles, a black man who was then head of Bullock's personnel department (and the reason Bullock had such a good record on minority hiring); and Ms. Ann Richards.

Bullock, having been in Texas politics for thirty some-odd years, consequently knew every living sorry, no-account sumbitch who ever held office. A dreadful old racist judge from East Texas came up to him, "Bob, my boy, how are yew?" The two of them commenced to clap one another on the back and have a big greetin'.

"Judge," said Bullock. "I want you to meet my friends. This is Molly Ivins with the Texas Observer."

The judge peered up at me and said, "How yew, little lady?"

"This is Charles Miles, who heads my personnel department." Charlie stuck out his hand and the judge got an expression on his face as though he had just stepped into a fresh cowpie. It took him a long minute before he reached out, barely touched Charlie's hand and said, "How you, boy?" Then he turned with great relief to pretty, blue-eyed Ann Richards and said, "And who is this lovely lady?"

Ann beamed and said, "I am Mrs. Miles."

I want Jon Stewart

to run the next campaign for the presidency on behalf of the Democratic candidate:

The loss of many things

I posted this story late Sunday night, then removed it Monday afternoon, worried about, well, the obvious. But I want to put it up again now. I feel I can trust you with this and for me, it is one of the most important pieces of writing I have done since beginning this blog. Please do not feel compelled to comment; that isn't the purpose of posting this piece.

She didn't even think she wanted to have children. Definitely not. She was too selfish and absent-minded and fly-by-night to ever consider actually having responsibility for an actual human being, she thought. No kids for her, then. She was thirty-six and single, and had finally made up her mind on this very important topic.

Then came the recurring stomach pain that would not stop. It was not quite like the kidney stones she had experienced before, but just as powerful. The pain made her literally sick to her stomach. Her friend insisted that she go to the doctor, and imagine her surprise when the doctor asked, "Did you know you are pregnant?" Surely she could not be pregnant. Her life--all the experiences and accomplishments for which she planned and hoped--flashed before her eyes. But almost as quickly as the blood test results were returned, after days of uncertainty, panic, uncomfortable, embarrassing tests and empty hours spent wondering what she had done with her reckless irresponsibility this time, she learned it was not meant to be after all. Instead, there was only a tubal pregnancy, with no hope of a viable birth. The treatment was to be a form of chemotherapy, which would hopefully resolve the situation while permitting her a chance at motherhood in the future, but with no guarantees.

So just as quickly as she became a potential mother, she faced not only the loss of a first child, but possibly the lost potential for any children, ever. It was then that she realized she wasn't so sure after all that she would make an unfit mother. That she still held out hopes for marriage and family, however carefully she hid those hopes. That maybe her friends' children, however wonderful and sweet and funny, could not completely fill her need to nurture someone all her own. And just as quickly as she stopped mourning the loss of her carefree life, she tucked away those hopes and dreams, trying not to think of them or the little boy who might have been.

The obligatory 9/11/01 posting.

My 9/11 memories are not particularly profound, but I do find it interesting to hear about what others did that day, so I will share what I did that day.

As usual, I was listening to my favorite sports radio show, which is a combination of sports talk and schtick. The hosts always have a news program on their television that they keep an eye on during the show. I heard Gordo, the jokester of the show, say that a plane had just flown into the World Trade Center. I immediately turned on my own television (I still had TV then), just in time to hear the female news commentator talking about how the crash clearly had to be an accident, while her male counterpart insisted that we could not be sure yet what had occurred. His words were still hanging in the air when the second plane hit the World Trade Center right in front of our eyes. It was the first time I had ever heard polished network news commentators sit in stunned silence. After several silent seconds passed, one of the talking heads said something like, "It appears this may be no accident." And I sat there with my mouth hanging open, trying to wrap my mind around what was happening.

I dressed and went in to work at my office that was on one of the highest floors in one of the tallest buildings in downtown Dallas. It never occurred to me not to do that. Upon arriving, I saw that nearly everyone in the office was glued to a television in one of the conference rooms; those who were not watching the coverage were listening to the radio coverage and watching the skies anxiously through our large windows. I noticed, while sitting at my desk and listening to the radio myself, how eerily still it was outside my window, which normally afforded me an up-close view of Southwest Airlines' flight pattern for its Houston to Dallas routes. Usually I would see at least 2 or 3 planes an hour pass my window, but today there were none. Apparently realizing no one would be productive that day and fearing an attack against one of our tall buildings from one of the still-unacounted for planes, the Powers That Be closed the firm for the day.

I was not sure what to do with myself. So, I headed for Reunion Arena, where thousands of Dallasites were gathered to make blood donations with the Red Cross. I sat there for over an hour, then realized there was no way they would actually get to me that day, given the number of people there and the pace at which they were progressing. So I left and headed home, calling my mother on the way because I felt as if I should check in with her. I was surprised to find that she seemed numb to the whole thing; perhaps she had not fully absorbed it yet. At home, I tucked into my comfortable, big leather chair and watched news loop after news loop in an attempt to understand what had happened and why it happened. I wondered about the safety of my college roommate who lived in the Village in Manhattan and tried calling her, but the phone lines were all tied up. Finally, that evening, I needed human companionship and found it with my neighbors, who finally succumbed to watching the news when their young daughters went to bed.

My college roommate was physically fine, though I think she still bears the emotional scars of the panic and fear and mess of that day. She and her husband now live in a suburb north of Manhattan, no longer able or willing to bear the burden of life in Manhattan. Other than my roommate and my friend who works for CBS News in Manhattan (she found herself in an apartment with George Stephanopoulos and a crew as they attempted to find out what was happening and cover the day's events), I do not personally know anyone who was directly affected by that day.

But in retrospect, I realize that we were all indirectly affected by September 11, 2001. We all came together as a nation that day, with the support of millions from around the world. We all looked at the flag differently and looked at each other differently and, for many days that followed, appreciated more than ever the freedoms that were ours before the terrorists' attack. In the years since the attacks, I appreciate the freedoms we once enjoyed more than ever, as that day also became the excuse our Administration used to strip away our Constitutional rights one by one. By choosing to use that day as an excuse to invade Iraq, the Administration plunged our country into a debt of lives and money and morality we will never rebuild. It is our duty to ensure that the harm visited on us by the attacks--the loss of lives and our feeling of security--not be expanded by the loss of our Constitutional rights as well. Without those rights, all is lost.

The ACLU has posted an excellent report on the events since September 11, 2001. If you are looking for a worthy cause to receive a donation in memory of the events of September 11th, I can think of no cause more worthy than the protection of our human rights and civil rights.

The Sartorialist

The Sartorialist is a web site in which a man in the fashion industry in NYC snaps photos of fashions worn by people he sees on the street or in his work and writes pithy little commentaries on them. He has just the right mix of genuine love for fashion, kindness and sharp-edged wittiness. I discovered his site a few months ago and only occasionally think to look at it. When I do, however, I am invariably rewarded with entries like this one, in which he faces dismay when a handsome famous person looks great in the new suit the Sartorialist just bought for himself.

Check it out!

Taking a "funny test" can be . . . fun.

the Wit (57% dark, 34% spontaneous, 21% vulgar)

your humor style: CLEAN | COMPLEX | DARK You like things edgy, subtle, and smart. I guess that means you're probably an intellectual, but don't take that to mean pretentious. You realize 'dumb' can be witty--after all isn't that the Simpsons' philosophy?--but rudeness for its own sake, 'gross-out' humor and most other things found in a fraternity leave you totally flat. I guess you just have a more cerebral approach than most. You have the perfect mindset for a joke writer or staff writer. Your sense of humor takes the most thought to appreciate, but it's also the best, in my opinion. You probably loved the Office. If you don't know what I'm talking about, check it out here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/theoffice/. PEOPLE LIKE YOU: Jon Stewart - Woody Allen - Ricky Gervais The 3-Variable Funny Test! - it rules - If you're interested, try my best friend's best test: The Genghis Khan Genetic Fitness Masterpiece

My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 99% on darkness You scored higher than 99% on spontaneity You scored higher than 99% on vulgarity

Link: The 3 Variable Funny Test written by jason_bateman on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

Quick hits.

For a short work week, this week has seemed incredibly long. These are some of the random thoughts that have flitted through my mind:

Things with my personal assistant are working out swimmingly. She is energetic and trustworthy and optimistic and is doing a great job of knocking out projects that have been hanging over my head for years! I am also learning in working with her that just as a number of people think I should cut myself some slack, I need to cut my house some slack, in accepting certain qualities that are part of having an older house that will never be perfect like a brand new house. I am partial to old houses because of their charming quirks and will try to remember to accept the less beautiful quirks along with the more charming ones.

This article about the returning popularity of the scooter made me remember the cute red one I bought for myself in college. I didn't have a car and the scooter was perfect for getting around my then-small college town. I loved zipping around town on it, except for the state law requirement that I wear a helmet while doing so. To ensure that I was as nerdy as possible, I attached a light blue grocery crate to the back for toting around things that would not fit in my backpack. I even received my first traffic ticket on the scooter, for not fully stopping at a stop sign. (It was during my court appearance on this ticket--in which I offered into evidence photos showing the officer could not have possibly seen whether I fully stopped from his vantage point--when the judge suggested that I might consider going to law school). Strangely, I cannot recall now what happened to the scooter when, thanks to my Dad, I had a car at school in my senior year.

Aren't barns beautiful?





I find it interesting that my dog Kip--who has never met a stranger--instantly and obviously disliked the only guy I have ever dated who was physically abusive to me, even though he never actually saw the guy be physically abusive. No dummy, that Kip.

I returned home from Chicago to a car with a completely dead starter, which has since been replaced at no small cost to me. My car's 19th trip to the shop in the time I have owned it spurred a frenzied research expedition for a new car in a quest for reliability. I was to the point of planning test drives for the weekend, when I came to my senses and thought: Hey, you want to go into civil rights work full-time, in a city where one uses public transportation and doesn't even have a car--what the heck are you doing thinking of taking on a car payment? Back to reality. Sigh.

Here's the rest of the Salman Rushdie story that Jay requested: Rushdie was speaking at an Arts and Letters Live event in Dallas last year, talking about his newest book and hoping against hope that he could get through just one talk without a million questions about the fatwa. Of course, he could not. But during his talk, he referred to the fact that he is a devoted fan of the New York Yankees, whining, I believe, about his team's loss to the Boston Red Sox in the 2004 playoffs (which came after the Yankees lost 4 straight games, having initially taking a 3-0 lead against the Red Sox in the ALCS). My friend and I were having Rushdie autograph books for us after the talk and I tried desperately while we stood on line to think of something non-fatwa related to discuss with him. My mind returned to his words about baseball and the Yankees, as I was going to New York that summer to watch the Cubs play the Yankees. When we finally reached Rushdie and I proferred my book for his signature, I asked if he would be at the games. He said he might take in one of the games. I then gently chided him for his whining, saying that Cubs fans know the disappointment of a lost game in a way that no Yankee fan ever will. He appeared somewhat amused by the comment, but is not a very warm and fuzzy guy, so we didn't exactly guffaw together. I guess that is to be expected of someone who has lived to talk of a death threat from an Ayatollah.

On another note, my friend Jay who owns this really cute dog thinks that Rushdie's beautiful Indian model/wife is not a very nice person, as she appeared completely indifferent to his dog in a fashion store in Chelsea, rather than gushing over him like 99% of humans do:



I hope you all have a great weekend! I am looking forward to spending my first weekend at home in the last three weeks. Who knows, I may even engage in some photojournalism regarding my recent travels! This is my version of a "gone fishing" sign:

A guessing game.

At the risk of totally embarrassing myself, I thought you all might enjoy something fun after yesterday's somber post. So here you go:

While I was at home, I visited the hometown library that I wrote about a few weeks ago. My favorite place in the library was the old part that is a reading room.



In it, I found all the yearbooks from our local public high school.



I only attended public school through the fourth grade, but knew most of the kids my age, either from grade school or summer softball or detasseling or through other friends around town. I thoroughly enjoyed reading the old yearbooks and recalling names I had not thought of for years!



Imagine my surprise when I turned to one page of a yearbook and realized that I knew a remarkable number of the people on that particular page. Here is the guessing game for you: how many people on this page did I date or have a crush on?



Oh, the things I do to entertain you people!

Something so true.

I am pretty sure that Josh Marshall reached into my head and my heart and pulled out my own memories and feelings when he wrote this piece about his father's death and so much more. Maybe his words will have that kind of meaning for you, too.

Planes, trains and automobiles

I believe I have enjoyed every possible form of transportation today. My friend and I took a taxi cab to the Shedd Aquarium this morning, then walked back along the lake. I popped into a new favorite place for lunch and learned while there that my flight had been cancelled and that I was now on a 7 p.m. flight.

This left me with just enough time to jump on the "El" and take it to Wrigley Field, where I saw the last 5 innings of the Cubs' loss to the Pirates. Jumped back on the "El," (more quickly than I could have imagined, thanks to my using the super secret entrance to the Addison El station that only I and a handful of other Cubs fans know about), popped into the hotel to pick up my bags, then lugged said bags up the steps to the El that would take me to the airport.

Plane's departure was delayed, reached Dallas around 9:45 p.m. Retrieved luggage, relieved to find car (not a given at DFW), only to find that my car was deader than a doornail, as they say. Called AAA and had car's death (or serious illness) confirmed, realized with tow truck driver that a flatbed was needed. Awaited arrival of flatbed and watched anxiously as car was loaded. Rode with tow truck driver to rental car facility; rented car, then met flatbed driver and car at dealership, where I dropped keys in drop box, resisting temptation to get out matches and light my car on fire in the service bay for them to find in the morning. Arrived home around 12:45 a.m.

Did I mention that this will be my car's 19th service visit in the six years I have owned it? 19.

Argh.


Don't buy a Volvo. And if you do, God forbid, decide to buy a Volvo, don't buy it at Volvo of Dallas. I'm serious.

On September 2, 1969 . . .

I was born. I feel slightly nauseous at the thought of my 37th birthday. I shall take comfort in the fact that I was carded not once--but twice--when buying a beer at last weekend's Cards/Cubs series. Really carded, as in "we don't think you are yet 21" carded, or so the kind salespeople told me. I can't be that old if I'm still being carded, right?

I want this year to be different. I want to live the kind of life I want this year instead of just thinking about it. I want to be the kind of person I want to be this year, instead of regretting the kind of person I am. I want to reach back to the past only to ground myself, instead of beating myself up for the decisions I have made. I feel cautiously optimistic about this year of years. And I have kicked it off with a weekend in which I already visited old haunts, friends and family and did things that were hard but made me feel better. For the next three days, I will do many of my favorite things in Chicago, one of my favorite cities in the world, and spend time with good friends there.

More when I return to Dallas on Monday . . . happy Labor Day, all!