1. With no TV, we watch a lot of TV courtesy of borrowed DVD's of the British Office and downloading shows on I-Tunes. The good of that is that you can watch the most hilarious points of The Office over and over again. The bad of that is that you can get stuck on one of those serialized vaguely mysterious shows (Lost, Heroes, Battlestar Galactica) over and over again looking for clues. Battlestar Galactica concluded its season last week and I have seen the last episode now 4 times trying to figure out exactly who the final cylon is.
2. Simon's digestive system continues to amaze. I swear if you compare food consumed to what he leaves around the house, the poop outnumbers the food by a factor of at least two. With no TV, these are the things I notice.
3. Humidity is not, nor ever has been, my friend. I somehow imagined that a bunch of wool suits would be the perfect court outfits for the south. I may start winning cases only because the jury is worried I am going to pass out from dehydration.
4. XM radio's customer service stinks. As in you are on hold for 45 minutes and then they tell you to unplug the machine and plug it back in again. As I was on hold for 45 minutes I had already done that like five times. Their follow up advice? Umm, get a new one. Thanks XM.
5. The judge I am in front of is convinced that I am going out of town to celebrate Easter, and I don't want to tell him that I never really did much for celebrating the re-birth. It's kind of like the time in law school my Constitutional Law professor assumed I celebrated passover and when I told him that I wasn't Jewish he looked like I just told him the Bill of Rights was for wusses.
6. The office down here decided to have a softball team. In the spirit of getting to know my officemates I decided to play. Except most of the team showed up in cleats with their own bats and batting gloves and were, well, much better than I was. Next time I am going to be the designated mascot.
7. The beignet should absolutely take over as the post-cheesesteak dessert. Pat's and Geno's should sell it in the booth with the cheese fries and drinks.
8. I have never seen more people out in suits on a Saturday night. You could be at some random divey bar and some guy is going to walk in wearing a blue suit, white shirt and broad striped tie. Not in an ironic "I am a southern gentleman way". More in a "no really I am an unironic southern gentleman" Maybe there's a story out there about how Katrina limited the drinking options so much that everybody's gotta share the same bar stools, but it's kind of weird to see.
9. They have praline encrusted bacon topped with brown sugar. I have no idea why this hasn't taken over the country. Then again I am the guy who is CONVINCED that if you had bacon flavored candles they would sell like mad.
10. If there was a way to combine TV shows the wire and battlestar galactica, I would never watch any other TV.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
Ten Random Things
1. We're still crashed in the shell of Walt's house, but now we have a REAL BED so we think we're all fancy. No more waking up on the floor with a deflated air mattress around us. We're big time now. We'll probably stay here, in the House of No Kitchen Appliances/No Furniture/No TV/No Internet/Etc, until we come back. It's just easier.
2. George Foreman is a genius. Without his grill, we'd be starving.
3. The cats are FINALLY adjusting. That said, they'll be going back to Philadelphia as changed animals. Bourre, for one, is twice her size now that she doesn't have steps to climb up and down or a backyard to play in. Her newest nickname -- and she pretty much has a new one every week -- is Tubbles, as in "Tubby who is Double her size." (Jordo is pretty good with the cutting cat nicknames. She was "Whiny McTubbs" earlier this month, when her screaming kept us awake at night.)
4. Don't hate us because the weather here is beautiful. Sure, we don't have snow or ice or even the hint of cold, but we suffer sometimes, too. Like earlier this week, I was working with a gutting group that insisted I wear a spaceman-type suit and a 9/11 respirator while working. I thought I would die of heat stroke. (Which really bummed me out, for multiple reasons, one being that that would be an unglamorous death. If you're going to die young, either go 1) Noble, like saving orphans from a burning building or 2) Vaguely Cool, like totalling your Porsche while speeding on a California highway or 3) Mysterious, like Amelia Earhart-esque but involving - instead of an airplane - Brad Pitt, a yacht and a missing diamong necklace.) (On a more positive note, if I were to die of heat stroke now, at least I have a tan so I'd look good at the wake.)
5. I'm in a minor panic about baseball season starting with me out of NY radio range. Do I get an air card for my computer? Satellite radio? I can't miss a game, especially as Carl Pavano may actually pitch an inning or two. (Hate him.) (Speaking of baseball, the other night, Tubbles was whining in the early a.m. hours and I just got so irritated that I began throwing random things at her, like clothing, pillows, etc. The next morning, Jordo said, "Yeah, you were like Curt Schilling with that aim." Do you see how how cruel he can be? He knows how I hate C Schilling with the burning passion of a thousand suns. He even insisted on the CS comparison after I offered more appropriate pitchers like Ron "Louisiana Lightning" Guidry.)
6. Philadelphia thinks it knows potholes. It knows nothing. There is no stretch in the world like our section of State Street Drive, which is more off-road than the Grand Canyon.
7. I still can't believe I went to a Justin Timberlake concert. True, the ticket was free, but really. I almost started a riot in the auditorium when I asked if Justin had been with Backstreet Boys or N'Sync. (I still think this is a legitimate question and does not deserve the mockery/shock it garnered.) It was an experience akin to the time I took my sister and cousin to see New Kids on the Block at MSG one Thanksgiving. Tricia maintains I had a good time because she saw me clapping. I maintain I was clapping because the show was finally over.
8. I'm on my third cell phone since moving here. I am a technological black hole.
9. During the St. Patrick's Day parade, we (including guests Dave and Amy) caught cabbages and carrots as well as assorted beads and flowers.(Getting flowers required kissing strangers. I got mine legitimately. Jordo said the clerk in his court just happened to be there and just happened to give him one. Sure.) Jordo also ended up in possession of a racy green thong. I have now planted that among his belongings and am waiting for it to reappear at the most inappropriate of times -- in court, at the gas station, during a family meal. (It could be anywhere at this point. Good luck, friend.)
10. Fun food facts: Snowballs are a poor man's Italian ice. It's OK to give up BYOB's when your drinks are $3 each. You can't eat too many beignets.
2. George Foreman is a genius. Without his grill, we'd be starving.
3. The cats are FINALLY adjusting. That said, they'll be going back to Philadelphia as changed animals. Bourre, for one, is twice her size now that she doesn't have steps to climb up and down or a backyard to play in. Her newest nickname -- and she pretty much has a new one every week -- is Tubbles, as in "Tubby who is Double her size." (Jordo is pretty good with the cutting cat nicknames. She was "Whiny McTubbs" earlier this month, when her screaming kept us awake at night.)
4. Don't hate us because the weather here is beautiful. Sure, we don't have snow or ice or even the hint of cold, but we suffer sometimes, too. Like earlier this week, I was working with a gutting group that insisted I wear a spaceman-type suit and a 9/11 respirator while working. I thought I would die of heat stroke. (Which really bummed me out, for multiple reasons, one being that that would be an unglamorous death. If you're going to die young, either go 1) Noble, like saving orphans from a burning building or 2) Vaguely Cool, like totalling your Porsche while speeding on a California highway or 3) Mysterious, like Amelia Earhart-esque but involving - instead of an airplane - Brad Pitt, a yacht and a missing diamong necklace.) (On a more positive note, if I were to die of heat stroke now, at least I have a tan so I'd look good at the wake.)
5. I'm in a minor panic about baseball season starting with me out of NY radio range. Do I get an air card for my computer? Satellite radio? I can't miss a game, especially as Carl Pavano may actually pitch an inning or two. (Hate him.) (Speaking of baseball, the other night, Tubbles was whining in the early a.m. hours and I just got so irritated that I began throwing random things at her, like clothing, pillows, etc. The next morning, Jordo said, "Yeah, you were like Curt Schilling with that aim." Do you see how how cruel he can be? He knows how I hate C Schilling with the burning passion of a thousand suns. He even insisted on the CS comparison after I offered more appropriate pitchers like Ron "Louisiana Lightning" Guidry.)
6. Philadelphia thinks it knows potholes. It knows nothing. There is no stretch in the world like our section of State Street Drive, which is more off-road than the Grand Canyon.
7. I still can't believe I went to a Justin Timberlake concert. True, the ticket was free, but really. I almost started a riot in the auditorium when I asked if Justin had been with Backstreet Boys or N'Sync. (I still think this is a legitimate question and does not deserve the mockery/shock it garnered.) It was an experience akin to the time I took my sister and cousin to see New Kids on the Block at MSG one Thanksgiving. Tricia maintains I had a good time because she saw me clapping. I maintain I was clapping because the show was finally over.
8. I'm on my third cell phone since moving here. I am a technological black hole.
9. During the St. Patrick's Day parade, we (including guests Dave and Amy) caught cabbages and carrots as well as assorted beads and flowers.(Getting flowers required kissing strangers. I got mine legitimately. Jordo said the clerk in his court just happened to be there and just happened to give him one. Sure.) Jordo also ended up in possession of a racy green thong. I have now planted that among his belongings and am waiting for it to reappear at the most inappropriate of times -- in court, at the gas station, during a family meal. (It could be anywhere at this point. Good luck, friend.)
10. Fun food facts: Snowballs are a poor man's Italian ice. It's OK to give up BYOB's when your drinks are $3 each. You can't eat too many beignets.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Screams of My Father (Alternative Title: David Flynn is a Jerk)
I promise this is my last post about the US Attorney purge (seriously, go to www.talkingpointsmemo.com, they found this story and have by far the best coverage). But all of this brings me back to somewhere between 1982 and 1987 (a little hazy on the exact time).
Back then my dad was still alive and working at the Civil Rights Division of the Justice Department, the main area for federal enforcement of various civil rights laws that had developed. He had worked in a bunch of the sections there but had ended up as Deputy in the Appellate Section. The job wasn't especially glamorous. Pay was fine but far below what the private sector paid, but he loved the work and more importantly thought it was important (Mom: If you are worrying that your kids are generally fine taking relatively low paying jobs doing work they find important, you have only yourself and Dad to blame).
Back in 1980, however Reagan got elected and slowly but surely the priorities of the Civil Rights Division changed. The Department started cutting down on enforcing voting rights, stopped pushing cases against segregated school districts and totally reversed their stance on affirmative action. In addition to orders from on high, they also appointed new section chiefs who were, how shall we put it, less concerned about making sure people weren't discriminated against.
Or as my friend Mike put it once, they were very very very concerned about the rights of white people to get into college and that was about the extent of their concern.
Anyway, now that we now the Attorney General lied and that the Civil Rights Division was getting stocked with right wing cronies whose main concern was making it harder for poor black people to vote, I am happy my Dad doesn't have to see it. It might have made him angry enough to buy one of those guns that Bush's Court of Appeal says DC residents can buy now.
Back then my dad was still alive and working at the Civil Rights Division of the Justice Department, the main area for federal enforcement of various civil rights laws that had developed. He had worked in a bunch of the sections there but had ended up as Deputy in the Appellate Section. The job wasn't especially glamorous. Pay was fine but far below what the private sector paid, but he loved the work and more importantly thought it was important (Mom: If you are worrying that your kids are generally fine taking relatively low paying jobs doing work they find important, you have only yourself and Dad to blame).
Back in 1980, however Reagan got elected and slowly but surely the priorities of the Civil Rights Division changed. The Department started cutting down on enforcing voting rights, stopped pushing cases against segregated school districts and totally reversed their stance on affirmative action. In addition to orders from on high, they also appointed new section chiefs who were, how shall we put it, less concerned about making sure people weren't discriminated against.
Or as my friend Mike put it once, they were very very very concerned about the rights of white people to get into college and that was about the extent of their concern.
Anyway, now that we now the Attorney General lied and that the Civil Rights Division was getting stocked with right wing cronies whose main concern was making it harder for poor black people to vote, I am happy my Dad doesn't have to see it. It might have made him angry enough to buy one of those guns that Bush's Court of Appeal says DC residents can buy now.
Monday, March 19, 2007
The Music Man
Before I begin, let me just note that not every homeowner I work for is an adorable elderly man who you just want to put in your pocket and take home with you.
There have been two homeowners among the many I've now met who were demanding/bossy/unhelpful. One, I think, was mentally handicapped. The other was just bitchy. She basically watched us work -- for free, I might add -- and looked grouchy while doing so. At first, I was miffed. Then I realized she'd pretty much lost everything she owned and, if I were in her shoes, I'd look more than grouchy. "Grouchy" would be a good mood for me under those circumstances.
But there is a high percentage of adorable old men.
I've been working with RHINO recently (Rebuilding Hope In New Orleans). Excellent organization, very together, good works. I'm a big fan. Each week, I've joined groups of college students and one or two locals in our gutting/tear down missions. On the most recent gutting, I met the Music Man.
He must have been in his late 70s at least, appearing healthy at first glance, with a young face and full head of gray hair, but if you looked more carefully, you could see one side of his body was slumped and he sometimes shook uncontrollably. He had not entered his home since the storm. This, despite the fact that he has been living in a trailer right outside his own front door. He couldn't bear it, he said
We all gathered on the street to meet and talk to the homeowner. He immediately started crying. He said he couldn't thank us enough.
We hadn't even gone into the house yet.
As we stood there around him, I asked about the license plate on his car. It said something like, "MUZIKMAN" or "MUZIKMN." Whatever the letters, it was clear what it stood for. So I asked him, "Why are you The Music Man?"
And he was off. He'd been a producer and promoter, he said, and began listing name after name of musicians he'd worked with. I didn't recognize one -- not a jazz fan here -- but it was clear he was proud. (And if I didn't know these names, the rest of the group definitely didn't. Honest to God: One girl, about 17, came out of the house, carrying a stack of records, and said, "I've never even seen one of these before. What do you play them on?" I thought about beheading her with a well thrown album.) He just went on and on, a little less than 10 minutes, I'd say, but it felt like longer as the group was kinda awkward and itchy to get to work and this conversation hadn't been planned.
It just made me so incredibly sad. Even writing about it almost makes me cry. He just wanted to talk to someone.
Then we started emptying the house. As I'm an old hand at this now, our group leader put me in charge of a group working in the back rooms. (Never give me power. I was all, "You! Blond Ponytail! Get over here and help me carry this dresser! Red Baseball Cap, you start emptying the closet." One group of my minions -- that's how I like to think of them -- were all hung up about how to get an air conditioner out of a window. "Where is it attached?" one girl said, looking at the house and the unit. I came over: "Just push it. Push it out of the window." They were like, "But we'll break it!" I said, "It's already broken. Push it." And they pushed it out the window and cheered when it hit the ground.) (You'd be amazed by what sheer force can accomplish. Sometimes, I'll be trying to take a door down by the hinges and they're rusted and I just get fed up and swing at the hinge with all my might and it breaks. V. satisfying.)
But even being an old hand doesn't make me immune to emotion when we do this. We had to throw away all of his jazz posters and music books and credentials from different music festivals. We pulled out hundreds of records, which we saved because someone thought they were still usable. Someone found the paperweight he specifically asked we look for, but pretty much every thing else was ruined. We basically dumped his memories on the curb, then went back and tore his house apart.
Throughout the day, The Music Man walked around outside, trying to smile as he examined the glassware we'd saved and the ever-growing pile of records. But it was a shaky smile.
A lot of people break Katrina down by color. Black and White. But it's the elderly, of any color, who suffered the most. At least that's what I think.
I've been worrying about The Music Man these last few days, as I worry about Mr. L living alone in Pontchartrain Park. I don't think I'll be able to leave New Orleans without a final check on them.
There have been two homeowners among the many I've now met who were demanding/bossy/unhelpful. One, I think, was mentally handicapped. The other was just bitchy. She basically watched us work -- for free, I might add -- and looked grouchy while doing so. At first, I was miffed. Then I realized she'd pretty much lost everything she owned and, if I were in her shoes, I'd look more than grouchy. "Grouchy" would be a good mood for me under those circumstances.
But there is a high percentage of adorable old men.
I've been working with RHINO recently (Rebuilding Hope In New Orleans). Excellent organization, very together, good works. I'm a big fan. Each week, I've joined groups of college students and one or two locals in our gutting/tear down missions. On the most recent gutting, I met the Music Man.
He must have been in his late 70s at least, appearing healthy at first glance, with a young face and full head of gray hair, but if you looked more carefully, you could see one side of his body was slumped and he sometimes shook uncontrollably. He had not entered his home since the storm. This, despite the fact that he has been living in a trailer right outside his own front door. He couldn't bear it, he said
We all gathered on the street to meet and talk to the homeowner. He immediately started crying. He said he couldn't thank us enough.
We hadn't even gone into the house yet.
As we stood there around him, I asked about the license plate on his car. It said something like, "MUZIKMAN" or "MUZIKMN." Whatever the letters, it was clear what it stood for. So I asked him, "Why are you The Music Man?"
And he was off. He'd been a producer and promoter, he said, and began listing name after name of musicians he'd worked with. I didn't recognize one -- not a jazz fan here -- but it was clear he was proud. (And if I didn't know these names, the rest of the group definitely didn't. Honest to God: One girl, about 17, came out of the house, carrying a stack of records, and said, "I've never even seen one of these before. What do you play them on?" I thought about beheading her with a well thrown album.) He just went on and on, a little less than 10 minutes, I'd say, but it felt like longer as the group was kinda awkward and itchy to get to work and this conversation hadn't been planned.
It just made me so incredibly sad. Even writing about it almost makes me cry. He just wanted to talk to someone.
Then we started emptying the house. As I'm an old hand at this now, our group leader put me in charge of a group working in the back rooms. (Never give me power. I was all, "You! Blond Ponytail! Get over here and help me carry this dresser! Red Baseball Cap, you start emptying the closet." One group of my minions -- that's how I like to think of them -- were all hung up about how to get an air conditioner out of a window. "Where is it attached?" one girl said, looking at the house and the unit. I came over: "Just push it. Push it out of the window." They were like, "But we'll break it!" I said, "It's already broken. Push it." And they pushed it out the window and cheered when it hit the ground.) (You'd be amazed by what sheer force can accomplish. Sometimes, I'll be trying to take a door down by the hinges and they're rusted and I just get fed up and swing at the hinge with all my might and it breaks. V. satisfying.)
But even being an old hand doesn't make me immune to emotion when we do this. We had to throw away all of his jazz posters and music books and credentials from different music festivals. We pulled out hundreds of records, which we saved because someone thought they were still usable. Someone found the paperweight he specifically asked we look for, but pretty much every thing else was ruined. We basically dumped his memories on the curb, then went back and tore his house apart.
Throughout the day, The Music Man walked around outside, trying to smile as he examined the glassware we'd saved and the ever-growing pile of records. But it was a shaky smile.
A lot of people break Katrina down by color. Black and White. But it's the elderly, of any color, who suffered the most. At least that's what I think.
I've been worrying about The Music Man these last few days, as I worry about Mr. L living alone in Pontchartrain Park. I don't think I'll be able to leave New Orleans without a final check on them.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
If You Outlaw Guns, only Outlaw's Children Will Shoot Themselves Accidentally
This post is horribly late, I know . . .
Apparently the D.C. Circuit Court of Appeals has now ruled that citizens of the District of Columbia can keep gays in their house. This is a direct affront to the will of the people of the city. They have repeatedly confirmed that in the District it should be illegal to have gays in their house and all of the elected leaders of the District of Columbia have echoed this feeling. These unelected judges have once again disregarded the will of the people and shown themselves to be nothing more than judicial activists. These tyrants in black robes must be stopped. They must be impeached immediately.
What, they said we can have GUNS in our homes. Oh well, never mind, I guess Frist, Dobson and the Federalist Society have no problem with that one (unless of course the guns are gay, which is a whole new problem).
Haven't read the case, but I see that already my temporary state Senator David Vitter has proposed a DC firearm law (the District of Columbia Personal Protection Act). Hmm, David, big bad federal government going to certain area of the country and telling them what to do with their laws? Didn't your region lose a war and about 8,000 court cases over the same sort of thing.
Growing up in D.C. there are always these incredibly annoying moments where the federal officials seize upon something to try and push some new development in D.C. Back when a congressional aide was shot there was a big move to reinstitute the death penalty (despite opposion from the actual residents of the city), and if memory serves at some point Ollie North showed up at Lincoln Park calling for a repeal of the handgun ban and said he was packing heat (my line of work disclines me from snitching to the police, but that was a time where I would have made an exception).
These sort of glorified photo ops with the backdrop of actual (ie. non-federal) D.C. always annoyed me. Be it Ollie or Dick Armey, I always imagined that they would get lost going near the SE-SW freeway and spend hours going in circles around the Kapper dwellings until they ran out of gas.
Apparently the D.C. Circuit Court of Appeals has now ruled that citizens of the District of Columbia can keep gays in their house. This is a direct affront to the will of the people of the city. They have repeatedly confirmed that in the District it should be illegal to have gays in their house and all of the elected leaders of the District of Columbia have echoed this feeling. These unelected judges have once again disregarded the will of the people and shown themselves to be nothing more than judicial activists. These tyrants in black robes must be stopped. They must be impeached immediately.
What, they said we can have GUNS in our homes. Oh well, never mind, I guess Frist, Dobson and the Federalist Society have no problem with that one (unless of course the guns are gay, which is a whole new problem).
Haven't read the case, but I see that already my temporary state Senator David Vitter has proposed a DC firearm law (the District of Columbia Personal Protection Act). Hmm, David, big bad federal government going to certain area of the country and telling them what to do with their laws? Didn't your region lose a war and about 8,000 court cases over the same sort of thing.
Growing up in D.C. there are always these incredibly annoying moments where the federal officials seize upon something to try and push some new development in D.C. Back when a congressional aide was shot there was a big move to reinstitute the death penalty (despite opposion from the actual residents of the city), and if memory serves at some point Ollie North showed up at Lincoln Park calling for a repeal of the handgun ban and said he was packing heat (my line of work disclines me from snitching to the police, but that was a time where I would have made an exception).
These sort of glorified photo ops with the backdrop of actual (ie. non-federal) D.C. always annoyed me. Be it Ollie or Dick Armey, I always imagined that they would get lost going near the SE-SW freeway and spend hours going in circles around the Kapper dwellings until they ran out of gas.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Mornings
Jordo and I both have to be at work by 8 a.m. so we get up and get ready at about the same time.
He takes a shower, shaves, and puts on a pressed suit.
I roll out of bed (easy because it's the low air mattress), yawn, find the dirtiest clothes I have, ignore all make-up, and stick on a baseball cap.
Then we leave the house, The Dirtbag and The Lawyer.
Yes, my work down here doesn't require much in terms of personal appearance. I have gone days without blow drying my hair, at least a week without a hint of make-up. Instead of showering before work, I shower after, when I'm covered in dust and grime. Instead of going to an office, I travel to different locations every day. I'm never quite sure what kind of work I'll be doing: could be knocking down walls, could be pulling up floor boards, could be general clean up of someone's trashed yard.
But you can guarantee I'll be wearing ill fitting clothes, (I had a rule during my pre-trip shopping venture at thrift stores: No more than a $1 for tshirts, no more than $3 for pants. As you can imagine, these guidelines have led to some interesting ensembles. The one word that consistently describes me? H.O.T. I have to beat off the male admirers with my faithful crowbar.) I always wear a baseball cap. I spend 90 percent of my day wearing leather gloves and a dust mask that covers most of my face.
It's just ... funny. It's so different.
Yet also similar. As with any job, I've developed favorites and routines. But I never thought I'd be telling you I had a favorite crowbar. (I do.) I have a preferred shovel. (I call him "Pointy," as in, "Are you using Pointy? That's my shovel. Find one of your own.") If given a choice between taking out tile or pulling out walls, I'm going to go walls every time. (I generally hate tile. Hate, hate, hate it. Much of it sticks and requires Herculean strength to remove. One day, we were getting killed by the tile because it just wouldn't come up and as my friend was about to give in, I inspired her with, "Don't let the tile win." Tile and terrorists, terrible.) (Oh, and sometimes, tile is a little dangerous, as in, "I could kill you." : In one house we were gutting, we got through two separate layers of kitchen tile to find a third. We started the prying. Then someone turned the tile over and it said, "Asbestos tile," because apparently, that's how you made tile back in the day. One friend said, "One fiber of this and you'll have cancer in 5 to 10 years." We stopped working on that house. I think it has to be classified as toxic now.) I love swinging a hammer and having the pieces of wall pile up by my feet. I enjoy shoveling them out of the house and into a wheel barrow or a garbage can.
Before I left the Inky, I'd been having pains in my hands, probably from too much typing, they told me. Now, I sometimes suffer from what I call "Hammer Hand." You can get it from holding a hammer all day. My right hand frequently catches HH. I try to balance things out, giving the left hand a shot at breaking things, but that doesn't last for long. (The joke is that I'm going to go home with really buff arms. Or arm, as my right arm gets all the work out. I'm going to be walking into bars and restaurants right side first. All photos must be taken from the right.)
At the Inky, at the end, I felt mentally battered. Here, I am physically battered. My arms and legs are covered with cuts and bruises. It's really quite gross. I know I bruise easily, but this is just ridiculous. One friend said to me, "People are going to think Jordan beats you." I said, "Have you met me? Have you met Jordan?"
She should see us in the morning.
Oh, and before I sign off: For those who don't read The Times Picayune, check out our latest media star:
http://www.nola.com/news/t-p/metro/index.ssf?/base/news-20/1173422078209920.xml&coll=1
He takes a shower, shaves, and puts on a pressed suit.
I roll out of bed (easy because it's the low air mattress), yawn, find the dirtiest clothes I have, ignore all make-up, and stick on a baseball cap.
Then we leave the house, The Dirtbag and The Lawyer.
Yes, my work down here doesn't require much in terms of personal appearance. I have gone days without blow drying my hair, at least a week without a hint of make-up. Instead of showering before work, I shower after, when I'm covered in dust and grime. Instead of going to an office, I travel to different locations every day. I'm never quite sure what kind of work I'll be doing: could be knocking down walls, could be pulling up floor boards, could be general clean up of someone's trashed yard.
But you can guarantee I'll be wearing ill fitting clothes, (I had a rule during my pre-trip shopping venture at thrift stores: No more than a $1 for tshirts, no more than $3 for pants. As you can imagine, these guidelines have led to some interesting ensembles. The one word that consistently describes me? H.O.T. I have to beat off the male admirers with my faithful crowbar.) I always wear a baseball cap. I spend 90 percent of my day wearing leather gloves and a dust mask that covers most of my face.
It's just ... funny. It's so different.
Yet also similar. As with any job, I've developed favorites and routines. But I never thought I'd be telling you I had a favorite crowbar. (I do.) I have a preferred shovel. (I call him "Pointy," as in, "Are you using Pointy? That's my shovel. Find one of your own.") If given a choice between taking out tile or pulling out walls, I'm going to go walls every time. (I generally hate tile. Hate, hate, hate it. Much of it sticks and requires Herculean strength to remove. One day, we were getting killed by the tile because it just wouldn't come up and as my friend was about to give in, I inspired her with, "Don't let the tile win." Tile and terrorists, terrible.) (Oh, and sometimes, tile is a little dangerous, as in, "I could kill you." : In one house we were gutting, we got through two separate layers of kitchen tile to find a third. We started the prying. Then someone turned the tile over and it said, "Asbestos tile," because apparently, that's how you made tile back in the day. One friend said, "One fiber of this and you'll have cancer in 5 to 10 years." We stopped working on that house. I think it has to be classified as toxic now.) I love swinging a hammer and having the pieces of wall pile up by my feet. I enjoy shoveling them out of the house and into a wheel barrow or a garbage can.
Before I left the Inky, I'd been having pains in my hands, probably from too much typing, they told me. Now, I sometimes suffer from what I call "Hammer Hand." You can get it from holding a hammer all day. My right hand frequently catches HH. I try to balance things out, giving the left hand a shot at breaking things, but that doesn't last for long. (The joke is that I'm going to go home with really buff arms. Or arm, as my right arm gets all the work out. I'm going to be walking into bars and restaurants right side first. All photos must be taken from the right.)
At the Inky, at the end, I felt mentally battered. Here, I am physically battered. My arms and legs are covered with cuts and bruises. It's really quite gross. I know I bruise easily, but this is just ridiculous. One friend said to me, "People are going to think Jordan beats you." I said, "Have you met me? Have you met Jordan?"
She should see us in the morning.
Oh, and before I sign off: For those who don't read The Times Picayune, check out our latest media star:
http://www.nola.com/news/t-p/metro/index.ssf?/base/news-20/1173422078209920.xml&coll=1
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
DA's like to keep cops off of the streets
Anyone who has worked in the criminal justice system knows that the majority of cases are resolved short of trial. Cases get dismissed, motions to suppress evidence get granted and people charged with crimes plead guilty.
It is the last one that allows the urban criminal justice systems to actually function, avoiding lengthier delays between arrest and trial. "Plea bargaining" is generally a give and take. DA's will make an offer, clients with either accept it, reject it or make a counter offer. Often there is a meeting of the minds and a deal is worked out. Sometimes not.
Here is where it has gotten tricky in Louisiana. Given the ridiculous mandatory sentences for some cases, a clients only option to avoid a 10-15 year jail sentence is for us to try and work out some sort of deal with the DA. IF we can.
The IF part of that is much bigger here than in Philadelphia. You see, as I learned today, the DA's generaly policy is that if they have a strong case, they will not even consider a sentence less than the mandatory minimum.
Example: I have a client who is 25. He has one prior arrest, for which he was found guilty. He know has been arrested again for distribution of cocaine. Because of his prior felony conviction if he is found guilty after trial he has to serve a MINIMUM of 15 years at hard labor, with no parole, probation, etc. I don't know many 25 year olds who think past 30, much less 40, so staring at that number it seems reasonable to try and resolve it without a trial and spare him that amount of time.
The DA does have an exceptionally well put together case. 10 police officers, video and audio surveillance and a ton of other circumstantial evidence.
DA's position: We have such a good case, we can't lose, he's gotta do the 15 years.
My position: If you are not going to offer less than he would get after, what is the possible reason to plead guilty.
I'm not going to rant again about the unfairness of mandatory minimums, but the problem with the DA's attitude is the actual effect on law enforcement.
We are going to have
-10 police officers spending.
-1 police officer bringing over the alleged narcotics.
-1 police technician bringing over the video and audio surveillance.
So we end up with 12 police officers spending a day or more in court waiting to testify in a case. 12 officers who could be, I don't know, patrolling the streets. 12 police officers who could be out investigating the backlog in unsolved homicides this city has. 12 police officers who could be writing up their arrest reports. You get the point.
So instead of this case being resolved short of trial and offering something that a client could live with, we are going to have what in all effects may be a long and drawn out guilty plea where the net effect is taking 12 police officers off of the streets. Crime prevention indeed.
It is the last one that allows the urban criminal justice systems to actually function, avoiding lengthier delays between arrest and trial. "Plea bargaining" is generally a give and take. DA's will make an offer, clients with either accept it, reject it or make a counter offer. Often there is a meeting of the minds and a deal is worked out. Sometimes not.
Here is where it has gotten tricky in Louisiana. Given the ridiculous mandatory sentences for some cases, a clients only option to avoid a 10-15 year jail sentence is for us to try and work out some sort of deal with the DA. IF we can.
The IF part of that is much bigger here than in Philadelphia. You see, as I learned today, the DA's generaly policy is that if they have a strong case, they will not even consider a sentence less than the mandatory minimum.
Example: I have a client who is 25. He has one prior arrest, for which he was found guilty. He know has been arrested again for distribution of cocaine. Because of his prior felony conviction if he is found guilty after trial he has to serve a MINIMUM of 15 years at hard labor, with no parole, probation, etc. I don't know many 25 year olds who think past 30, much less 40, so staring at that number it seems reasonable to try and resolve it without a trial and spare him that amount of time.
The DA does have an exceptionally well put together case. 10 police officers, video and audio surveillance and a ton of other circumstantial evidence.
DA's position: We have such a good case, we can't lose, he's gotta do the 15 years.
My position: If you are not going to offer less than he would get after, what is the possible reason to plead guilty.
I'm not going to rant again about the unfairness of mandatory minimums, but the problem with the DA's attitude is the actual effect on law enforcement.
We are going to have
-10 police officers spending.
-1 police officer bringing over the alleged narcotics.
-1 police technician bringing over the video and audio surveillance.
So we end up with 12 police officers spending a day or more in court waiting to testify in a case. 12 officers who could be, I don't know, patrolling the streets. 12 police officers who could be out investigating the backlog in unsolved homicides this city has. 12 police officers who could be writing up their arrest reports. You get the point.
So instead of this case being resolved short of trial and offering something that a client could live with, we are going to have what in all effects may be a long and drawn out guilty plea where the net effect is taking 12 police officers off of the streets. Crime prevention indeed.
The Things They Saved
First, a shout out to all my pals from Eastern Michigan. Stay warm!
And now to the news....
I was with a group gutting houses yesterday and I was thinking how much you can learn about someone by their possessions. The person who had lived in one side of the double house we were working on had been elderly, as the "Sexy to Sexty" joke book, a few canes and the general look of the clothing showed. She was religious, as evidenced from the crucifixes and saint statutes from the muck. She had a sense of humor which occasionally was a bit on the risque side, something demonstrated by some of the mugs she had in her cabinet and some other items we found. (I made her, in my head, be an Italian Catholic. Then I found her mail and learned I was right.) She was an old time New Orleanian who saved copies of The Times Picayune and had glasses from the defunct Jax Brewery and a fair share of Mardi Gras beads.
So I was very philosophical as I dumped this woman's life's possessions on a curb. (Yes, it had sat untouched since Katrina. Glasses and such still had water in them.) What would someone say about me if Philadelphia flooded and a team had to come in and empty out my home? (Thank God Philadelphia will never flood like that, by the way, because I just imagine the absolute horror I would feel at having people all over my stuff. On another gutting outing a while back, we were tearing down the closet shelves in a teenager's bedroom when we noticed that the flood waters had glued a photo of a barebreasted woman to the bottom of one of them. We carried out the shelf, woman intact. "Nobody has any secrets anymore," one friend observed.) I was very philosophical.
Then we started emptying out the other side of the double.
A man had lived there, an elderly one who had served in the military. He liked his guns, as evidenced by the boxes of ammo and many guns we found. He was a cop or a pervert, as the handcuffs and dirty magazines we uncovered showed.
Standard stuff, right?
Now imagine you're me, in a closet, pulling out boxes. And you open one and find these metal things shaped like grape clusters. And being me, and Mardi Gras minded, you immediately think this must be a souvenir from the Krewe of Bacchus or something like that. Then you look closer. And you're holding a hand grenade.
An entire box of them.
I remained calm. "Oh, my," I said to the college students working around me. "I believe these are hand grenades. I think I will carry them out of the house now. La la." One girl shrieked. The boys just looked intrigued. I gingerly transported the box outside and walked up to one of the project coordinators.
"Hand grenades," I said.
"Put 'em by the truck," she replied, unfazed.
I would later learn that such finds were common. In fact, a special crew later came out to collect the guns, ammo, and the grenades. (Which, it turned out, weren't live. They were practice grenades from WW II and Vietnam, the experts told me. They were the exact weight of live grenades so the grenade tosser could practice the craft. The guys told me I was lucky they were just practice ones, because the salt water that flooded the city could have eaten away at the pin and, without the pin, I would have 3 to 5 seconds before the grenade would explode. "Would it at least tick?" I asked. "No," they said. If I heard anything, it would be the blast, and then it would be too late.)
I went back to work emptying the closet. More guns, more ammo, some knives. La la. Things are going smoothly.
And then I saw something that terrified me more than any explosive could: God's. Biggest. Roach.
This thing was big, Africa big. It could have stood up on its little roach hind legs and had a face to face conversation with me. Only my face would have been contorted in horror while the roach would have calmly described ways it could bury itself in my hair.
I didn't remain calm. With a "Hi-YA!" type shout, I slammed my foot on the ground, aiming to hit Sr. Cucaracha. He nimbly avoided me. I tried again, and missed again.
And that told me something: Get out of that room. Escape while you still can.
All in all, I think I had an easier time handling the grenades.
And now to the news....
I was with a group gutting houses yesterday and I was thinking how much you can learn about someone by their possessions. The person who had lived in one side of the double house we were working on had been elderly, as the "Sexy to Sexty" joke book, a few canes and the general look of the clothing showed. She was religious, as evidenced from the crucifixes and saint statutes from the muck. She had a sense of humor which occasionally was a bit on the risque side, something demonstrated by some of the mugs she had in her cabinet and some other items we found. (I made her, in my head, be an Italian Catholic. Then I found her mail and learned I was right.) She was an old time New Orleanian who saved copies of The Times Picayune and had glasses from the defunct Jax Brewery and a fair share of Mardi Gras beads.
So I was very philosophical as I dumped this woman's life's possessions on a curb. (Yes, it had sat untouched since Katrina. Glasses and such still had water in them.) What would someone say about me if Philadelphia flooded and a team had to come in and empty out my home? (Thank God Philadelphia will never flood like that, by the way, because I just imagine the absolute horror I would feel at having people all over my stuff. On another gutting outing a while back, we were tearing down the closet shelves in a teenager's bedroom when we noticed that the flood waters had glued a photo of a barebreasted woman to the bottom of one of them. We carried out the shelf, woman intact. "Nobody has any secrets anymore," one friend observed.) I was very philosophical.
Then we started emptying out the other side of the double.
A man had lived there, an elderly one who had served in the military. He liked his guns, as evidenced by the boxes of ammo and many guns we found. He was a cop or a pervert, as the handcuffs and dirty magazines we uncovered showed.
Standard stuff, right?
Now imagine you're me, in a closet, pulling out boxes. And you open one and find these metal things shaped like grape clusters. And being me, and Mardi Gras minded, you immediately think this must be a souvenir from the Krewe of Bacchus or something like that. Then you look closer. And you're holding a hand grenade.
An entire box of them.
I remained calm. "Oh, my," I said to the college students working around me. "I believe these are hand grenades. I think I will carry them out of the house now. La la." One girl shrieked. The boys just looked intrigued. I gingerly transported the box outside and walked up to one of the project coordinators.
"Hand grenades," I said.
"Put 'em by the truck," she replied, unfazed.
I would later learn that such finds were common. In fact, a special crew later came out to collect the guns, ammo, and the grenades. (Which, it turned out, weren't live. They were practice grenades from WW II and Vietnam, the experts told me. They were the exact weight of live grenades so the grenade tosser could practice the craft. The guys told me I was lucky they were just practice ones, because the salt water that flooded the city could have eaten away at the pin and, without the pin, I would have 3 to 5 seconds before the grenade would explode. "Would it at least tick?" I asked. "No," they said. If I heard anything, it would be the blast, and then it would be too late.)
I went back to work emptying the closet. More guns, more ammo, some knives. La la. Things are going smoothly.
And then I saw something that terrified me more than any explosive could: God's. Biggest. Roach.
This thing was big, Africa big. It could have stood up on its little roach hind legs and had a face to face conversation with me. Only my face would have been contorted in horror while the roach would have calmly described ways it could bury itself in my hair.
I didn't remain calm. With a "Hi-YA!" type shout, I slammed my foot on the ground, aiming to hit Sr. Cucaracha. He nimbly avoided me. I tried again, and missed again.
And that told me something: Get out of that room. Escape while you still can.
All in all, I think I had an easier time handling the grenades.
Oh Beautiful Day
A day like today is a wonderful trifecta of Bush incompetence. Hearings on the Walter Reed disaster, four former United States Attorneys Bush appointees testifying how they were pushed out under circumstances that can charitably be described as sketchy, and jury for Scooter Libby confirming what most of us thought, that the White House is paying the salary for some lying assholes.
Throughout the past 6 years or so, my friend Mike Schaffer and I have had some form of the following conversation:
One of Us: "Can you believe that now Bush has (been caught lying about intelligence in Iraq, stacking contracts for former oil buddies, allowing crazies to write policy, etc."
The Other: "It's amazing, this will definitely be the thing that shuts him down."
Needless to say, for the past 6 years none of those predictions/hopes came true. Yes, I know, November of 2006 was a wonderful time to watch the maps change from red to blue, but losing your majority isn't the same as having your associates frog marched by the US Marshals to jail. And, yes I know, this was only VP's chief of staff but one hopes that ball can roll pretty fast.
I am too young to actually remember the last Republican president who fell from grace thanks to paranoia, executive overreaching and bungled cover ups ((1)yes I am sure Reagan did all of those things, (2) no they never were proven enough to make him fall). My mom, however, says that when the indictments were coming down my dad threw my infant self up in the air over and over saying "guilty!" "guilty!" He's not around anymore, but I like to think he'd be doing that dance again with his grandson.
P.S. Dear Congressman Waxman,
There are now at least four former United States Attorneys who seem very upset about being pushed out of their jobs by this corrupt administration. You have subpoena power. During the Clinton impeachment stuff, my friend Efrem made the point that with $40 million and subpoena power, you can bring down anyone you want. Hire Iglesias, Lam, McKay and Cummins right now, they will make it worth your while.
Throughout the past 6 years or so, my friend Mike Schaffer and I have had some form of the following conversation:
One of Us: "Can you believe that now Bush has (been caught lying about intelligence in Iraq, stacking contracts for former oil buddies, allowing crazies to write policy, etc."
The Other: "It's amazing, this will definitely be the thing that shuts him down."
Needless to say, for the past 6 years none of those predictions/hopes came true. Yes, I know, November of 2006 was a wonderful time to watch the maps change from red to blue, but losing your majority isn't the same as having your associates frog marched by the US Marshals to jail. And, yes I know, this was only VP's chief of staff but one hopes that ball can roll pretty fast.
I am too young to actually remember the last Republican president who fell from grace thanks to paranoia, executive overreaching and bungled cover ups ((1)yes I am sure Reagan did all of those things, (2) no they never were proven enough to make him fall). My mom, however, says that when the indictments were coming down my dad threw my infant self up in the air over and over saying "guilty!" "guilty!" He's not around anymore, but I like to think he'd be doing that dance again with his grandson.
P.S. Dear Congressman Waxman,
There are now at least four former United States Attorneys who seem very upset about being pushed out of their jobs by this corrupt administration. You have subpoena power. During the Clinton impeachment stuff, my friend Efrem made the point that with $40 million and subpoena power, you can bring down anyone you want. Hire Iglesias, Lam, McKay and Cummins right now, they will make it worth your while.
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