Wednesday, November 30, 2005

The Hillel You Say

If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am not for others, what am I? And if not now, when?

These words have been attributed to great thinkers spanning the scope of human history from Krong the Prognathic, ruler of Caveland, to Mike Gorbachev, who, I guess, might be called “caver of Rule-land.” Ron Reagan was said to have originated this phrase, as have been Catherine the Great, Louis the Adequate, and Ethelred the Pathetic Loser.  Such wisdom seems to supercede individuality, and therefore, even though the words are in the public domain, professional quotologists consistently misattribute them. Frankly, it’s a pity, because the true originator of this adage was one of the greatest thinkers ever to put on one of those tall pointy thinking caps and thinkify.  Hillel was (stop me if you’ve heard this before) the “Nasi,” or head rabbi, in Jerusalem around the time of Jesus, with broad spiritual and secular sway among the hebrew people (or “heeple").  His wisdom continues to inform the course of modern judaism and of western ethical philosophy in general.  No Gorbachev, he - Hillel was truly a man who rose above his age and spoke to the millenia.

But that doesn’t mean that he just automatically knew just exactly what to say at all times.  He, like all of us, got tonguetied on occasion.  He attended “Toastmasters” and took a Learning Annex course on “Meeting People through Public Speaking.” He worked tirelessly on his material, often changing a sermon completely between afternoon rehearsals with his students and that evening’s studio broadcast.  He was tollerant of others, but a perfectionist when it came to his own work.  And that, largely, is why he’s now dead.  That, and the lapse of about 2000 years since his birth, but I think it was mainly the perfectionism.

That perfectionism also holds lessons for us, just as did the ultimate end-product of his work.  His struggles to think and speak complex principles clearly and persuasively continue to teach us the intellectual process.  It is said (this is true) that, when he was an old man, he was called before the roman occupier of Jerusalem and ordered to explain his faith of judaism, while standing on one leg.  He balanced himself and said, “do not do unto others that which is hateful to yourself.” Grounding his other leg, he continued, “the rest is commentary, go and learn it.” This is a technique I personally have found very useful in business meetings and political debates, and it has also improved my yoga practice.  So, Hillel still has much to tell us, both in his actual words, and in the efforts he undertook to articulate them.

Thus: my brazen and unauthorized “rogue philology” excavations in the old city (identity of actual city concealed to protect sources) have uncovered important evidence of Hillel’s intellectual process.  Before he published the adage with which this post begins, he tried out several other versions - each of which carried significance and wisdom, but which, for various reasons, he decided not to include in the final product.  However, these rejected adage fragments continue to teach us, both about human nature and about the nature and process of creativity.  For these two reasons alone, and not for any lucrative book deal that may ensue herefrom, I am pleased to regurgitate share the following:

REJECTED CLAUSES FROM HILLEL’S ADAGE:

If not me, who?  You?  Yeah, right.
If not you, who?  and if not YooHoo, how about a nice egg cream?
If not Turner, Hooch?
If not “not,” not-not?
If not now, maybe a little later, like after you’ve had a drink?
If not, why not?  Show your work.
If I wear this, does it not make my ass look fat?
Are you not going to finish that?
If not medical school, have you considered the rabbinate?

Wise words indeed, from a man with much to say. Or who would have much to say if he weren’t so terribly deceased.  And maybe that’s the most important lesson of all.

Monday, November 28, 2005

Thanksgrabbing: The Gleanings Under the Placemat, PLUS CHINESE NEW YEAR COOKIES

Feeling chipper?  Spry?  Ready for that early-morning jog around the industrial park?  yeah me neither.  Cap’n Pakanappie woke up early last night and would only stop crying 90 minutes later when we dragged him into our bed at 3 am.  I just ate my last piece of apple pie for breakfast and now it’s naptime.  Sadly, the office beckons and I’m going to have to pull myself together shortly to get there.

At least I can look back on a fabulous holiday weekend.  The visitors - my mom, my sister, and her husband and daughter - were all gratefully welcomed.  Mom finally got to spend more than six hours with Zach, and Delia and Zach got to make formal acquaintences, thusly:

The thanksgiving feast was, once again, breathtaking in scope and crushing in volume.  We ate and drank from about 4 in the afternoon till about 10 at night in Sha and Helena’s gorgeous palo alto condo, where I saw old and new friends and generally overconsumed my share of the earth’s bounty.  I felt that, all night long, I was a witty and brilliant conversationalist, but now all that I can remember are two flashes of faux brilliance that, if they are typical of what I was saying, suggest to me that the beaujolais and zinfandel were a bit more profound that I was:

* conception: a beautifully painted wall on which one might relieve onesself.  it is called a murinal.  this, I considered pure genius.

* conception: a bunch of youthful, yet metallic, aliens on the playground, cruelly taunting one of their classmates with sing-song repetitions of klaatu, barata, nikto.  No wonder he jumped ship and came out earth-way.  Aliens can be so cruel, don’t you think? 

Anyway this is the way my brain was working during thanksgiving.  For better or worse, that’s about the last thing I’ve heard from it since. 

The next day my mom went out for lunch with her friend Pat, whose husband is getting ready to go with a bunch of government-business muckimucks to china for a conference to celebrate 25 years of having Shanghai as a sister city.  As mom and Pat were in line at a bookstore after lunch, Pat heard a distinctive voice behind her talking about an upcoming trip to china.  “I know that voice,” she said, turning around.  “Senator Feinstein, are you getting ready for your flight?” “Oh hello Pat, yes I am.” “Please meet my friend Marge.” “Hello Marge, I’m Senator Dianne Feinstein - America’s Margaret Thatcher, Janet Reno with moves, the woman Geena Davis wishes she were.” “Yo, senator, looking hot.” “Yo, bitchin’.  Later, homes.” “Word.” Anyway that’s how I imagine the conversation went, but the actual meeting did really take place.  Mom goes out for lunch and comes back with a senator’s handshake.  And isn’t that what thanksgiving is all about?

Well really, no.  It’s more about hanging out with people you care for, and eating too much.  Here’s what the first one looks like, from Saturday’s trip to Crissey Field: say hi to evi, scott and delia, voguing with Kel and the Boy Who Hates Sleep:

... and here’s how to manage the second one.  It’s a recipe left behind with sample cookies by our wonderful friend Kim when she and Dave came by with their kids to babysit for Kel and me while we took our first non-baby-accompanied trip since getting back from Korea: we went to see the new Harry Potter movie.  I could say a lot about it but I don’t want to ruin it for others who have not yet seen it, nor do I want to start this back-to-work monday with lengthy rants about poor characterization, lack of fidelity to the original story, and superficial treatment of key factors.  So instead, here’s a recipe that ANYONE CAN MAKE, for holiday cookies that will make you very popular in any non-diabetic crowd:

Chinese New Year Cookies

1 12-oz pkg semi-sweet chocolate chips
1 12-oz pkg butterscotch chips
1 6-oz can chinese noodles (the crispy kind that you sprinkle into soup)
1 14-oz can salted peanuts

Melt chocolate and butterscotch on stovetop (if you put a bowl over a pot of boiling water the chips will melt without burning).  Stir in noodles and nuts (in fact, this is my personal motto).  Drop by teaspoonfuls onto waxed paper.  Cool until hard and keep cool or refrigerated for longer storage. 

These cookies look a bit like fistfuls of muddy twigs, but they taste great.  Enjoy them with your favorite friend.  Here’s another shot of mine, and with that, I gotta pull myself together and do that desk thing again. 

Now g’wan with your bad selves and meet a goddamn senator.  Time’s a-wastin’!  Get them senators!  G’wan!

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

have a fulfilling holiday

courtesy of obscure store: this thanksgiving, be grateful for the little things.  like, not being some dick who gets in the news by yanking his peterbilt.

have a delightful holiday and don’t pull any muscles you may need later on.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

getting flrxd

By the time I get home today I expect my home will be crawling (in some cases, literally) with relatives, breaking in the new rugs and crashing out in our computer room.  In that this might preclude me from blogging at will, I figured I’d throw down right now and get it over with. 

Because here’s the thing: I have to say goodbye.  No, not to you good people, I still have a dirty poem or two left to share with you.  Rather, I’m saying goodbye to the spongy floormats.  Let me elucidate:

Zach needed something to come between his hard toys and his hard noggin, and our hard floor.  What we found was a really inexpensive set of colorful rubber spongy mats with cutout sides that fit together in a big six-by-six grid.  Each individual piece is about one foot square, and has a separate foam letter or number stamped in the middle like a puzzle piece.  If you read across the whole thing from left to right and top to bottom, they spell out the
alphabet and the cardinal numbers.  (not the ordinal numbers. don’t make trouble, troublemaker.) The squares have a primary color, and the letter or number that fits in the middle is a different color.  Colors run in bands from top to bottom, so all the squares on the far left are yellow with blue letters and numbers in the middle, and that sort of pattern continues right across the whole thing. 

Naturally, if you want to spell out the alphabet in order, you need to make sure all the vertical bands are color-coordiated.  However, these were inexpensive floor mats for a reason: they actually got the order of the numbers wrong. After the alphabet is spelled out, the numbers on the bottom row skip around from 4 to 6 to 9 to 7 to 5 to 8.  This makes the whole assembly somewhat the opposite of educational.  It misteaches youth. 

Hey, we gotta keep whatever advantage we can.  Those bastards are already too smart.  This was not my favorite feature of this item, though.  My favorite feature was that, since the vertical columns (not the horizontal columns, troublemaker) are all color-coordinated, it looks as if you’re supposed to read it in columns rather than in rows.  In other words, instead of reading the alphabet and the numbers, it sort of looks like it says (in columns):

AGMSY4
BHNTZ6
CIOU09
DJPV17
EKQW25
and my personal favorite: FLRX38.

We can’t use the mats any longer.  Zach is too active and he just scrambles off of them the instant we set him down; they’re hard to keep clean and the pieces keep coming apart and Zach has taken to chewing on them, which can lead to a delicious (but deadly!!) mouthful of colorful foam bits.  We’ve packed them up and it’s time to get rid of them.  The big purple rug will more than replace them as far as a floorcovering and baby-protection device is concerned. 

However, it’s just not “on message” the way the alpha-mats were.  So, here’s a special farewell to those amusing little messages my living room floor used to spell out for me.  CIOU, FLRX38. If they tell you you’re not fun, you can tell them from me that they’re all a bunch of BHNTZ.

Monday, November 21, 2005

Brief Highlights of Recent Events: or, too busy to tell you all the good stuff

I’ve had quite a full plate lately, and there’s so many wonderful things that have been happening I’d like to have shared with all you lovely people but time has not permitted me to do so.  Even now, I really don’t have time to do any of it justice, but here’s a brief recap with some photos to break the monotony:

Our trip to visit Kel’s sister and her family up in Washington State went wonderfully - Zach met his cousin, uncle, and grandparents, and I got to meet little Nate, just four weeks old but already the owner of the largest television I’ve ever seen (61 inches!).  We ate well (delicious meat pie, el sabor authentico), slept well, read well (I blazed through Harry Potter VI - the AssBlood Prince), and even got taken on an awesome bike ride - my first real singletrack experience in years, on a twisty muddy trail through thick ferny woods; it smelled and looked wonderful, and I only fell about half a dozen times, and landed in thick soft forgiving mud so I really didn’t hurt myself too badly.  Zach enjoyed the flights, the change of scenery, and the carpeting, which helped him get some traction and learn how to start to stand up.  Here’s what it looked like:

hop on pop

getting vertical

little nate

o the delicious meatpie

We got home and I fought off a cold, then worked my ass off to get ready for a big commission meeting last friday.  However, on Saturday we met up with our good friend Jeannette to enjoy some tasty bivalves at the richly historic and deeply satisfying Swan’s Oyster Depot, a place I’ve wanted to visit since I moved to SF.  Here’s what it looked like:

outside Swan’s

a dozen mixed, Swan style

After stuffing outselves with oysters and seafood salad, Kel and Z and I drove to the unfashionable part of town to get some rugs so Zach could continue building his standing-up and big-boy-crawling skills.  We found two powerfully-hued rugs and brought them home, transforming our sunny yellow front rooms into warm, fuzzy, chromatically provocative living spaces.  We are really happy with the results, and Zach seems to like it too.  Here’s what they look like:

the dining room

the living room

Sunday Kel went to a party for Zach thrown by her friends from work, where we scored some wonderful toys and some truly amazing quilts for the baby.  We are flabbergasted and deeply honored to have examples of such craftsmanship given to us.  I spent the time putting together mix cds for thanksgiving, which is my tradition of many years longstanding, and then we hauled out to the east bay to see our friends Dave, Kim, Daisy and Kaleb, where we ate delicious indian food and drank delicious manhattans.  I got back by nine, had cleaned both bathrooms by 11, finished my paperwork by 11:30, and slept soundly.  A good weekend, all told - though this certainly didn’t tell all.

Finally, just so you don’t think I’ve lost my edge, here are some random images I really liked from the weekend.

rusty dumpster - bayshore boulevard

maple hall - polk street

I’m leaving out a lot of good stuff - homemade challah, a visit from the Penns in honor of Jon’s birthday and the 20th anniversary of the most fun I’ve ever had at a party (11/15/85 - by invitation only), and many other delightful memories.  However, I’m out of time, so you’ll have to exercise your atrophied imaginations for those details.  Enjoy the start of your week and I’ll try to come back before thanksgiving with something more entertaining.  For now, this is all I’ve got.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

street name

another postlet, because my mind, it is wandering and weary:

My Street Names: A Compendium, generated during my recent vacation to the greater Seattle area:

Caramel Nut Blast
Heavy Bags
Meat Pie
Drunken Nun
Bleeding Fist

If I’ve left any good ones out, feel free to add them in the comments section.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Nom de Guerre

Addendum: seems my pop culture references are a little stale. I added links for those of us wise enough to have avoided this programming.  Let’s just keep ‘em crossed that they never decide to make it a movie, or worse yet, a miniseries....

since that last post did so little business in the “comments” box, let’s try something pithier:

Oh, forget what Speed told you, he’s an idiot. It’s pronounced “Racer Ten.”

The Picnic

We’re back from the Northwest, and I can report that my new nephew is a real good-looking guy.  We were well-fed, well-entertained, and very well-rested.  I came back with a little cold, so I’m hoping today isn’t too intense for me, but that will be what it will be.  In the meantime I wanted to move on from the heavy weirdness of that last post.  Here’s a recollection that is among my most cherished - one that, I hope, gives the proper cast to what’s left of this week.  Drink up.

Andy’s dad, Alex, lent gravity to the affair.  It was another caravan of old friends heading up to Dry Creek Valley for some reflective relaxation.  We knew where we were going and what we were looking for there.  What we found was all that and more, but first things first. 

First we stopped off at the crossroads market to pick up some lunch.  The deli counter gleamed at us with its fluorescently-illuminated bounty of a dozen delicious salads and two dozen superb meats awaiting the slicer; several short aisles of condiments and chips, roasted artichoke hearts in herb oil and a dizzying variety of cheeses in the cooler - all the necessities of life and all the most sublime gourmet accompaniments thereto.  We put in our sandwich orders, grabbed some caprese and some carrots and some ratatouille or something - the details blur, it was so long ago - but we shopped bountifully there for our anticipated lunch. 

I rang out first and took my haul outside, under the broad awning, and waited for my friends by the crude benches, to savor the exhalations of the morning fields.  It was still fairly early and we had gotten a rather good way out in the country.  I’d been around there enough times already that the place felt very homey, with its barnhouse floors and roadhouse tavern next door, too authentic to be quaint but old and true and comforting.  As I waited, small bouquets of beautiful people wandered in through the old swing doors of the grocery, or came back out through them, satisfied shoppers returning to their vehicles toting heavy sacks of redolent comestibles.  In the damp grey morning air I could smell everything - the fields, the cars as they occasionally passed, the overcologned and under-deodorized, the breath of the earth. 

Alex stepped out of the store and stood beside me in silence for a few moments, his hands on his hips.  His brow furrowed, but then again it always did.  He was visiting from across the country.  He alone among us had never been here before.  “Like Italy,” he murmured with a soft accent.  “I can believe it,” I languidly replied, and then we lapsed back into silence for a while. 

Eventually we all completed our purchases and a drove around for a while, hitting a couple of wineries and renewing our acquaintance with the terrior.  Come lunchtime we were at Preston and the sun shone warmly down on us.  We drove up in our little caravan along their lengthy tree-lined creekside drive, parked near each other, grabbed our grub and meandered out toward the generous and inviting country house before us.  I think we must have tasted some wine there and gotten some to have with lunch - they do make an exceptional product, to say the very least.  What I do remember clearly, though - more clearly than anything else that day - was sitting out in the picnic gardens by the vineyards with Alex and the rest of the gang.  We had walked out past the courtyard and the arbor-shaded tables, and worked our way towards the horticultural plots.  There, on a lawn lying verdant, thick and cool between bordered beds of artichokes and herbs and fantasy lettuce, we laid out our blankets and bodies, and luncheon was served. 

Already blissed out by a morning of beautiful vistas and excellent wines, we let the sun pour down on us as we retrieved our sandwiches and sides from our shopping bags, sat down, and laid on.  The food was delicious.  The wine was outstanding.  The sky was blue and the midday heat tenderized us.  Conversation slowed.  People just sighed, mostly. 

Alex had always been, to my knowledge, a man of great dignity and propriety.  He sat with his legs stretched out before him, and cast a relaxed gaze back and forth around the gardens, watching the six of us nibbling on the downslope of lunch; when he reached back to support himself on his palms, I could see the faded blue numbers hastily tattooed on his forearm back in Poland.  “You kids don’t even know how good this really is.  It doesn’t get better than this.”

As one, we turned toward him, our hearts bursting from our chests.  “Oh, but Alex,” we assured him, “we know.  We really do.” And we thought that we did.  But even now, that afternoon of sunlight and wine continues to reveal new sublimities to me.  When you reach perfection, it never stops getting better, even after the moment has long since slipped into the past.  The key, I think, is to recognize it while it’s still happening.

Friday, November 11, 2005

The Mail Man

Miss me?  Oh don’t hand me that.  We’ve all been busy and there’s no need for excuses.  Not from me, anyway.  Regardless, since we’re leaving in 8 hours for a weekend in the Northwest for to meet my new nephew and see my inlaws, I figured this was a good time to throw down a freshie, so to speak.  I’ve held off posting this one for some time, because I don’t know what it means.  If you figure it out, drop me a line, will ya?

“Wry.  That’s a funny name,” I thought to myself as I thumbed through the mail that first evening.  “Wry Wigglesworth.  Heh.” It was a phone bill for the guy next door.  He’d moved in a year or so ago; I sort of knew who he was but I wasn’t even likely to recognize him in the driveway our buildings shared.  He was just a guy next door.  And now he had a name: Wry Wigglesworth.  And that was a funny name.  That’s all I thought. 

A little piece of me already resented Wry for developing a name, and thereby a nascent persona, allowing himself to be introduced into my life.  I harbored this petty resentment as I walked downstairs with his phone bill and rang his buzzer, about ten feet to the right of my own and nearly identical to it, though in better repair.  I heard an intercom crackle - looking up, I could see the speaker, just inside the steel gate behind the jamb of the entry arch.  “Yeah?,” the voice challenged querelously. 

“Um, Mr, uh, W?  I got some of your mail, here?  I’m from next door, it was in w’mine?”

“Yeah.” The intercom crackled off, briefly, and then on again.  “Yeah.  Yeah, um, I’ll buzz you in - can you just leave it on the bench down there?”

“Shu,” I replied. I heard the flat electric buzz of a gate unlocking and I stepped into the entryway.  The bench was unmistakeable, a faux rococo abortion in poured concrete that hunkered in the long terazzo hallway under a single naked bulb like an aged and unsuccessful ballerina crashed out in the hold of a cargo jet.  I laid the phone bill down as requested and left without looking back.  This Wry guy sort of creeped me out. 

Three days later I got more mail for Wry: this time, a card or invitation of some sort, and his weekly delivery of a popular news magazine.  I flicked briefly through the magazine over a glass of seltzer and then walked the Wrymail next door again.  I rang the bell, heard the intercom and the voice again: “Yeah?”

“Got your mail.  From next door.”

“Yeah.  Um, bench, please?” It wasn’t really a question.  The gate buzzed and I left it open behind me as I entered.  I put the envelope and magazine down next to the phone bill from before.  He hadn’t yet bothered to take it upstairs.  That irritated me. I brought that damn phone bill over; the least he could do was to take it upstaris.  And here he is with his snotty little “bench, please” over his antisocial little intercom.  No way, dude.  Not cool.

As I walked out of the dark hallway, the voice emerged again from the speaker - just as I was passing under it.  It gave me a bit of a start, actually, as he asked with a little giggle, “you didn’t paw through my magazine, did you?” The box crackled off.  I felt invaded.  I went back home and cracked a beer.

A few weeks passed before I got Wry’s mail again.  This time it was two pieces of advertising, a book in a mailer, and something from a medical office.  If it hadn’t been for that doctor letter I’d have thrown it all into the recycling, but maybe it had to do with some delicate health issue he was dealing with so I took a deep breath and a short walk next door.  It wasn’t his fault that I was getting his mail, after all.

He buzzed me in as soon as I announced myself; as I walked into the hallway he spoke to me through the wood veneer speaker: “Mmm, thanks so much, sorry for this inconvenience, the bench would be fine please....”

Once again, he hadn’t touched the mail I’d brought him before. I muttered, “this stuff just sits here, wonder why I bother....”

He buzzed in promptly: “Oh, I really appreciate you bringing the mail over, I can’t alway get to it right away but it’s so important to me to I know I’ve received it, it’s critical you know, vital,” he explained in a voice both mechanical and uncomfortably intimate.  “You’re doing me a wonderful service.  Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without your help.  Bless you.” Then he moaned, low and slow, like pork cooking, a sound that somehow turned into “very much.”

“Shu, yeah,” I replied automatically, thinking that this guy was weirder than I’d even thought, but at least I wasn’t too concerned he’d be coming after me any time soon.  He seemed pretty immobile, and that made him both much less actively threatening, and something more of an entertaining mystery.  I decided to find the whole thing amusing.

As weeks spun into months, his packages continued to find their way occasionally to my door, and I begain to form a sense of who Wry Wigglesworth was through the prism of his misdirected mail.  I always returned it to him promptly and unopened, but the scant clues I gleaned from it found fertile ground in my overactive imagination.  Letters from the phone company: he had a billing issue.  Magazines about current events and medicine: he was a concerned citizen with a health-related issue.  Something from the library: he was literate; a thrifty, thinking man.  Letters and cards, handwritten; from across town, from across the state, from England, from Peru: he was cosmopolitan, well-travelled.  Warranty information for his intercom.  Astronomy newsletters.  Astrology newsletters.  With each new mis-delivery I tried to reshape my sense of Wry Wigglesworth to conform to the new things I thought I was learning about him.  I started thinking I knew who he was and how he ticked.

Monday, November 07, 2005

Flooded with Memories - plus a genuine ghost

If I may make a prediction: there will be, I predict, as a result of this year’s un-global-warming-induced, bible-belt-destroying storm activity, a significant change in how some gulf coast land is used - or left unused.  But I further predict that, by and large, people will return whence they came, and the south, much as it was before – at least, around the Katrita region – will rise again.  This is because, without in any wise minimizing the tragedy and loss suffered in the storm zone, the one thing that was truly unique, that was absolutely irreplaceable and iconic, the regional international cultural heritage site – the most precious land withstood the fury of heaven.  The French Quarter was spared. 

Turns out, although the Vieux Carre (as they so quaintly call it) lies right next to a riparian leviathan, yet it survived – because the river didn’t flood the city: the lake and canals did.  The river is high ground, and the Quarter was safely arrayed along its bank.  It was damaged, but it was not destroyed. 

Consequently, a new dynasty of partying hard will inevitably be eventually overlaid upon the wreckage of the old.  This is what New Orleans brings to the world.  Some places seem to lack a civic soul, a depth to the life of the city; many describe Los Angeles this way.  Then again, some places feel dense and textured, its citizenry and architecture blending into a form of permanent performance art.  New Orleans – the French Quarter, at least – is definitely in this category.  Being there accentuates the experience of being alive.  It puts more out there for you, and pulls more up and out of you.  It can make you stop thinking and start living.  Anyway, that’s how it was for us at Felix’s. 

There weren’t a lot of things we knew that we wanted to do on our short stay in N.O. back in the early ‘90s, and most of those had to do with food.  Crawfish and muffoleta and oysterloaf po’boys, something file’ and something etouffe’, coffee and beignets from Du Monde on the levee of a river that looks like a moving inland sea…. The only thing I think I wanted to eat but that Kel didn’t, was oysters.  I’d heard Felix’s did a good job with them and I wanted to try the genuine article. 

After a few days of increasingly insistent whining, I got Kel to come with me to the famous old café with that special way with bivalves.  We sat at the bar, a long lustrous vein of heavy dark wood.  It felt comfortable and well-used, a nice contrast to the airy whiteness of the rest of the room.  A man soon appeared behind the bar before us, a calm smile on his broad face, the picture of gentility and attentiveness.  He didn’t need to ask us anything.  When we were ready to order, we would do so of our own accord.  He just warmly wished us a good afternoon, and waited.  For not too long, though. 

I knew what I wanted, and I ordered it: a ½ dozen on the half-shell.  The man’s eyes flicked to Kel to gauge her response, her involvement: she was locked in a rictus of shy declension. She didn’t want to deal with him, and she certainly didn’t want to deal with raw oysters.  The man’s eyes flicked back to me and his smile brightened a few candle-feet.  He stepped to a nearby cooler and pulled out a handful of heavy closed shells, cut them open for me, laid them out on a plate of ice with a little red sauce on the side, the whole confection gleaming with the promise of oral gratification – except….

“Here you go, sir,” he’d proffered as a platter of five oysters was laid before me.  Five? Before I could say, “you guys use a 12-oyster dozen around here, right?,” though, he brought up a smaller plate of crushed ice with one of my oysters set aside by itself, blinking blankly from its opalescent shell. “- And this one’s for the lady.”

Damn but that was smooth.  I have to figure out how to get away with saying that line at some point in my life.  But the point here is, he said it and gave Kel one of my oysters.  It was not what she’d been looking for.  She was there to keep me company on my weird quest for a N.O. oyster fix.  Now my connection was offering her a hit of the hard(-shelled) stuff too.  The oyster guy seemed really cool, too, the kind of guy you’d hate to let down.  It would involve a lot more dealing to tell him no, than to cave and slurp the damn thing down. 

So, that’s what she did.  She hoisted the cold rough shell with short-lived trepidation, because she realized as soon as the soft delicate flesh touched her tongue that what she was eating was essentially bayou sashimi.  Her eyes widened and then nearly closed; her posture softened; she smiled.  She swallowed and her eyes opened on the guy behind the counter.  He was smiling too.  She ordered another half-dozen.  The man blasted a few more watts through his smile and served us promptly.  Every one of those oysters was delicious, and tasted better right there than they could have anywhere else in the world.

And that’s how I know that things are going to come back just fine after those storms around Louisiana:  The French Quarter persevered.  It will be the nucleus for the regeneration of the whole region.  Any place that could have gotten my wife to enjoy her first (but hardly her last) raw oyster, is capable of making any kind of phoenician regeneration.  There’s too much spirit there to be drowned.  The French Quarter is a manufacturing district – it manufactures the essence of life.  A storm may be bad, but can’t wash out the joy pumping out of those hardy historic blocks.  Party on, New Orleans.  I will catch you on the flip side.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

Back Page Obsession

My obsession was, by definition, unhealthy.  I knew it wasn’t good for me; it was miring me in a bygone era of bad habits and festering frustrations. I suppose it was like one of those situations where, years ago, you happened to notice the hot neighbor cavorting nude behind an inadvertently unshaded window, and ever since you’ve cast a hopeful glance to that same window every time you pass it, remembering your unexpected titillation, and hoping with ever-decreasing expectations for a second bite at that succulent apple.  Except this time, it wasn’t some prurient thrill I was seeking – it was vindication, of the basest variety.  And it wasn’t an open window I kept peeking through – it was the State Bar Journal’s discipline roster.  I’m not proud of it, but I think it’s behind me now.  Maybe I can just get it out of my system here and move on with my life. 

So: let’s journey back to those heady days of the mid-‘90s.  You may remember a favorite piece of popular music from that era, or a television program that you enjoyed.  I don’t remember much of that stuff.  I was working.  I was gigging as an attorney and putting in a lot of hours.  I didn’t enjoy it much but I thought that was what it was to fulfill one’s destiny.  The harder it grew to find value in the path I’d chosen, the harder I strove to force it to be right.  I poured myself into my work, believing that my lack of satisfaction would effervesce into bubbles of pure bliss once I achieved professional mastery.  All that I needed to do was to establish myself.  Once I was happy with my work, everything else would fall magically into place.  And, since I believed that happiness is wrested solely by dint of painful exertion, that was how I proceeded.  Each case I litigated, now matter how petty; each client I endured, not matter how ungrateful; all my obstacles were but cobblestones on the bumpy road to personal fulfillment. 

The M~ case, however, was a turning point.  Our client was an obstreperous old bookkeeper, whose deal to sell her business to some lowlife had gone awry.  He was suing her and she was suing back.  Paradise on earth – for lawyers, anyway. 

The other guy was represented by an unctuous fellow who was as close as science has come to a boar-shark hybrid.  Everything about him screamed, “don’t trust this guy.” I didn’t, but it wound up not making much of a difference.  It did not, on the other hand, surprise me to find myself sliced down at the tendons. 

To wit: it came to pass, in the course of litigation, that opposing counsel filed a motion to strike my pleadings – that is to say, to have my client’s answer and cross-complaint removed from the court’s file, and for a ruling on the whole case based only on the scurrilous misrepresentations of his client’s unrebutted complaint.  I prepared a thorough response and filed it with the court – but I’d failed to take a holiday into account, and filed one day too late.  The other attorney gleefully told me he refused to consent to my going forward with the late-filed papers, so I filed for ex parte relief – that is, a request that the court give me a break.  In response, the other attorney took his motion off the court’s calendar.  He’d given up.  I’d won. 

Except: He immediately re-filed the same motion.  Funny thing, though – I never got a copy of it.  His paperwork included a sworn statement under penalty of perjury that he’d sent me a copy, but the first I ever head of it was when I got his notice of an adverse judgment by the court. His motion had gone forward unopposed and the court had given him what he’d asked for by default – essentially, my client’s head on a platter.  If I didn’t move quickly, the case would be utterly, irredeemably over. 

I immediately filed a motion for reconsideration, on the grounds that he’d pulled a fast one without word one to me.  I’d already written a full and effective argument against his motion – he’d seen it on the first go-around.  Knowing I was just waiting for the chance to use it against him, he had tried an illegal end-run.  The dignity of the courts and the impartial administration of justice, to say nothing of the Code of Civil Procedure, demanded that the court rescind its judgment.  And thus, we finally got before a judge. 

The other lawyer and the judge seemed well-acquainted and greeted each other on a first-name basis.  I, on the other hand, had never appeared before this judge before.  I introduced myself, told the truth, made my best argument, and stood my ground. 

The judge ruled from the bench: I’d screwed up the first filing, and therefore I’d screwed up the second one too.  The other lawyer’s statement that he’d sent me the paperwork the second time around outweighed my sworn statement that I’d never received it.  Result: reinstate the case, but fine me two grand for incompetence.  It galls me even now to remember it.  I insisted on appealing.  We lost again.  We paid $2000 to the court, and costs to opposing counsel. 

What’s more, my belief that hard work would bring me professional satisfaction was significantly undermined.  Time passed and I left that job.  Then I left a couple of other jobs.  Then I left the practice of law altogether, the sour taint of that motion to strike having blended with other disappointments and frustrations till I couldn’t stand it any longer.  If that’s what being an attorney was about, I’d had enough of it.  I moved on. 

All that remained to link me to my erstwhile profession was my actual license, issued yearly and clearly marked “inactive,” and my monthly newsletter from the State Bar.  And as for the newsletter, there was only one thing in it I really cared about: the last few pages, dedicated each month to a rundown of State Bar Court activities – the actions taken against malfeasant attorneys.  Once, during the M~ litigation so many years before, I’d seen the jerk lawyer on the other side written up for reproval – a pansy little slap on the wrist for misuse of his client trust fund account.  But he was there.  Even as he was tormenting me, so was he tormented.  It was so little, and so petty, but it was glorious to me.  It felt so good.  And so, every month thereafter, I checked the attorney discipline logs.  I wanted to see him listed down for something more substantial.  I wasn’t proud of my fascination with him, my desire to see his name in the rolls of infamy, but I didn’t do much to wean myself of it either.  It felt dirty but I just couldn’t help myself.  Every month, I turned to the back pages and looked for him.  Every month.  For about a decade.  Religiously.  Shamefully.  But I did it anyway. 

Well, to whom do good things come?  To my patient ass, that’s to whom.  I’m three lifetimes removed from those days of being lied to and called a liar and paying for the privilege in money and faith lost in myself and in the system.  Time enough, it seems, for the wheels to come full circle.  My old friend has finally returned to the printed page.  He’s been suspended from the practice of law for something more than 17 incidents of professional misconduct, including misrepresentations as to having filed documents that never got to the courthouse.  He cheated and lied to me ten years ago, and now it’s been made a matter of public record that cheating and lying was his basic M.O. A decade of frustration and rancor have been justified.  A dirty burden is lifted from my heart.  Now I can finally ignore the California Bar Journal altogether, if I want to.  The choice, finally, is mine to make.  I’m closing the books on the back pages.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

Life doesn’t just give you lemons.  You gotta take them.

wow, my listmaking abilities seem to have finally found an outlet.  obviously I’m setting the world on fire with this stuff.  that’s why I can’t stop the magic - the lists are just making themselves and I’m only the conduit.  given this fact, I am obliged to present to you another list:

OTHER THINGS TO DO BESIDES MAKING LEMONADE WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS

* Make lemon bombs.
* Make lemon schnapps.
* Hide behind a bush and huck lemons at garbage cans and pedestrians.
* Make an army of super-powerful mutant lemons to bring your evil avaricious fantasies to nightmarish reality.
* Wait for life to give you some nice meringue.
* Just whack them with a baseball bat right there in your living room.
* Feed them to zoo animals, who always need more citrus in their diets.
* Give each lemon a name and dress them all up in little outfits.
* Just leave them in a sack and forget about them till most of them have that gross grey mold all over them.
* Sit back and enjoy that fresh “just disinfected” scent.
* Sell your lemons for a profit in a relatively lemon-poor market.
* Try eating a goddamn lemon for once in your life.