I'm running for President of the United States of America.
I need to begin with an admission: I had believed that you need to be born on U.S. soil to be eligible but I now know that's not true. If Ted Cruz is eligible, as a Cuban/Canadian/American, I realize that I am, too.
Also, if Ted Cruz is a viable candidate, I can be, too. I mean, seriously.
My qualifications:
As a prosecutor I have years of public service under my belt, and have accepted and executed the demands of this office with diligence and determination. Not executed literally, you understand, that's not my job.
As a former journalist I am up-to-date on current events and will be able to step into the White House and know what I'm talking about, be it the Russian invasion of Ukraine (and I know enough not to call it "the Ukraine"), climate change (and I know enough about science to accept this as fact), or the Keystone pipeline (ok, I don't know so much about that one).
As an author I wear tweed jackets and smoke a pipe occasionally. That is the perfect visual image of a President.
As an Englishman I will be able to take tea and play cricket with the English and Indian Prime Ministers. And continue to not take Australia seriously as a nation.
My political platforms:
Healthcare -- single payer system. I say make the Australians pay.
Gay marriage -- my wife would be most upset if I was in one. Kids would be kind of shocked, too. That said, I've noticed no detriment to my own vows or the fabric of society resulting from other people gay-marrying, so I'm all for it.
Military action overseas -- not really working out too well, so I say either (a) pull back the troops and reallocate money to make our own society more equal and just, or (b) invade a sleepy unprepared, and ultimately easy-to-conquer nation. May I suggest New Zealand? I know, you thought I was going to say Australia but that place is full of snakes, spiders, crocodiles, and wombats. And Australians. New Zealand is like the Canada of Australia, but warmer. And not as combative. An easy invasion followed by gentle walks in the sheep meadows. That's some foreign policy for you.
Climate change -- as a former ski instructor I'm a little miffed about this turn of events. And I hate the way sand gets in your sandwiches and crotch at the beach, so don't try and tell me that's a benefit. Consequently, I'm opposed to climate change. Plus, I feel bad for the penguins.
Taxes -- more. Locally and nationally. Although I'm in favor of alternatives like Uber. Oh, wait, you said "taxes" not "taxis." In that case, fewer taxes. And fewer tax dodgings (I'm looking at you, rich people; caveat: if I become rich, I will revisit this policy).
That's enough to get started on.
Oh, you're wondering which party I'm running with, Democrat or Republican. Answer: neither, which tells you that I have more self-respect and dignity than the vast majority of my opponents.
Vote for me?
Showing posts with label The lighter side. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The lighter side. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
Monday, April 14, 2014
The Best Advice Ever (and how it helped me learn to swim)
Naturally, the best advice I ever received came from a sprightly, white-haired old lady. She was my grandmother and I lived with her in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, for quite a while when I first came to America. It's her birthday this week, she'd be 105 (hey, she made it to 96, which ain't bad).
This was in the mid 1990s. I'd been a newspaper reporter in the UK, and was freelancing for local papers in the Chapel Hill area. But I wasn't happy - the stories I was being assigned were fluff and the pay was pathetic. I was 27 years old and wanting more.
I was thinking seriously about law school, but discovered very quickly I needed a U.S. bachelor's degree for that (my English journalism diploma wasn't enough). So I went to meet with admin people at UNC, to see how many hours of credit they'd give me for my professional qualification and the three years experience working at a newspaper.
They said: "Out of 120 hours needed to graduate, we'll credit you with seven hours."
Seven.
So I went home and, as we did most days, I made tea while Granny made cinnamon toast. She could tell I was disgruntled (because I told her) and she asked what was wrong.
I explained: "Well, I'm 27 years old and I want to get my law degree. But to do that, I'd have to do three years of undergrad, taking an overload of classes, and then there's three years more of law school after that."
"Okay," she said. "And what's bothering you?"
"To do all that, it'll take me six years. Six years! I'll be 33 by the time I'm done."
"I see." A little smile appeared on her face. "Tell me, how old will you be in six years if you don't do all that?"
It was a light-bulb moment for me. I could be 33 with a law degree and my bachelor's, or I could just be 33. Brilliant.
But what does it have to do with swimming? Well, this is me at the beginning of the year, doing a lap.
Okay, not quite doing one.
The thing is, I've always been active, my whole life. Even now I play on two competitive soccer teams, play squash at least once a week, and lift weights. But I've always been a horrible swimmer. Maybe I'm too big, too lazy, too... something. I don't know. For whatever reason, I could swim one length (not lap) of the pool before spluttering and gasping for breath, holding onto the edge like it was my only salvation. Which it pretty much was.
I didn't like that. It didn't suit the image I had of myself - as someone who is generally active and reasonably good at sports. I also didn't like that terrifying feeling of running out of air, a feeling I got every time I swam more than about ten yards.
So I took lessons. Signed up for swimming lessons at the age of forty-noneofyourbusiness. I wanted to make sure my technique was decent (it wasn't, but now is) and then after that I just swam. Twice a week. It started with the successful completion of one lap (not length!). Then I managed to sew two laps together without pausing. Then three...
That was in January.
Today I swam a mile. A mile. Such a thing was a pipe dream to me six months ago. Even four months ago. But I did it because I kept plugging away, adding lap after lap. And I've reached the point where I can swim a mile because I knew, back in January, that even though it was a pipe dream, it was a possibility. I knew that in four, six, or nine months I'd be able to swim without that terrifying feeling of suffocation.
The bottom line is that back in January, I told myself I could be forty-noneofyourbusiness and be able to swim a mile, or I could just be forty-noneofyourbusiness.
Thank you, Granny.
This was in the mid 1990s. I'd been a newspaper reporter in the UK, and was freelancing for local papers in the Chapel Hill area. But I wasn't happy - the stories I was being assigned were fluff and the pay was pathetic. I was 27 years old and wanting more.
I was thinking seriously about law school, but discovered very quickly I needed a U.S. bachelor's degree for that (my English journalism diploma wasn't enough). So I went to meet with admin people at UNC, to see how many hours of credit they'd give me for my professional qualification and the three years experience working at a newspaper.
They said: "Out of 120 hours needed to graduate, we'll credit you with seven hours."
Seven.
So I went home and, as we did most days, I made tea while Granny made cinnamon toast. She could tell I was disgruntled (because I told her) and she asked what was wrong.
I explained: "Well, I'm 27 years old and I want to get my law degree. But to do that, I'd have to do three years of undergrad, taking an overload of classes, and then there's three years more of law school after that."
"Okay," she said. "And what's bothering you?"
"To do all that, it'll take me six years. Six years! I'll be 33 by the time I'm done."
"I see." A little smile appeared on her face. "Tell me, how old will you be in six years if you don't do all that?"
It was a light-bulb moment for me. I could be 33 with a law degree and my bachelor's, or I could just be 33. Brilliant.
But what does it have to do with swimming? Well, this is me at the beginning of the year, doing a lap.
Okay, not quite doing one.
The thing is, I've always been active, my whole life. Even now I play on two competitive soccer teams, play squash at least once a week, and lift weights. But I've always been a horrible swimmer. Maybe I'm too big, too lazy, too... something. I don't know. For whatever reason, I could swim one length (not lap) of the pool before spluttering and gasping for breath, holding onto the edge like it was my only salvation. Which it pretty much was.
I didn't like that. It didn't suit the image I had of myself - as someone who is generally active and reasonably good at sports. I also didn't like that terrifying feeling of running out of air, a feeling I got every time I swam more than about ten yards.
So I took lessons. Signed up for swimming lessons at the age of forty-noneofyourbusiness. I wanted to make sure my technique was decent (it wasn't, but now is) and then after that I just swam. Twice a week. It started with the successful completion of one lap (not length!). Then I managed to sew two laps together without pausing. Then three...
That was in January.
Today I swam a mile. A mile. Such a thing was a pipe dream to me six months ago. Even four months ago. But I did it because I kept plugging away, adding lap after lap. And I've reached the point where I can swim a mile because I knew, back in January, that even though it was a pipe dream, it was a possibility. I knew that in four, six, or nine months I'd be able to swim without that terrifying feeling of suffocation.
The bottom line is that back in January, I told myself I could be forty-noneofyourbusiness and be able to swim a mile, or I could just be forty-noneofyourbusiness.
Thank you, Granny.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Hooligangsters and Me
I got word last week that my work here at the DA's office may slowly come to a halt in about a year. A new position has opened up with the city of Austin and they've asked me to consider it. I've already agreed to sit down with some of the city's council members to hammer out the details, but the job relates to the new soccer stadium that will be built here.
The Austin Chronicle covered the story a few days ago: All Aboard the Soccer Train! Major League Soccer and urban rail take Austin by storm.
In a nut shell: "the construction of a new soccer stadium in the middle of the Colorado River – a project which will also provide the missing link in a new urban rail line serving the entire Central Texas area. The train will cross the river between Congress Avenue and I-35, stopping mid-river at a new, landfill-constructed and designed 'Fantasy Island.'"
My new job? Well, it suits me perfectly because it combines my legal knowledge, my criminal law experience, and my knowledge and love of soccer. The job doesn't have a formal title yet but basically I'll be taking lead on ensuring the minimum of hoologanism before, during, and after the games.
It's kind of a quasi-lega, quasi-law enforcement, quasi-looking cool job, so here's a pic of me in what they've asked me to wear:
The need for someone to do this job is based on a significant fear is that outside groups will use the rail system and soccer matches to bring crime into the city -- drugs and prostitution mainly. There's also a concern that the gangs from south of the border will end up waging turf wars here against the established Bloods and Crips. Fighting on the terraces is bad enough when it's over soccer, but we simply can't have hooligangsters roaming the streets of Austin and causing trouble for innocent citizens.
One initial thought, and I welcome feedback, is that we should try and make the game itself a force against evil. I'm not sure how, but one possibility might be to make the goals a little larger (others are already proposing this, like here and here). I know, it sounds weird even when I write it, but it seems to me that if more goals are scored then the game is more interesting, and maybe the people who are in the stands to make trouble will actually become enthralled with the Beautiful Game.
The other thought rolling around in my head is to require everyone going to a game to bring a child. It's a clever idea, I think, because this will result in less violence (who wants to start a fight in front of a kid?!) but has side benefits: (1) more income for the stadium because it's two tickets instead of one; (2) ice cream vendors as well as beer vendors can make a buck; (3) more kids will get into soccer and in ten years maybe the U.S. national team will suck less. Probably other benefits, too, but I just had the idea so they're not coming to me just yet.
The last thought I'll share is about cheerleaders. A foreign concept for soccer, right? Well, in case you forgot what they are, here's one:
Wait, now I forgot my idea.
Anyway, I'll keep you updated. I won't give up my novel-writing, never fear, and maybe I'll even get a few ideas from the new position.
"Hooli-Czar." How's that for a job title?
The Austin Chronicle covered the story a few days ago: All Aboard the Soccer Train! Major League Soccer and urban rail take Austin by storm.
In a nut shell: "the construction of a new soccer stadium in the middle of the Colorado River – a project which will also provide the missing link in a new urban rail line serving the entire Central Texas area. The train will cross the river between Congress Avenue and I-35, stopping mid-river at a new, landfill-constructed and designed 'Fantasy Island.'"
My new job? Well, it suits me perfectly because it combines my legal knowledge, my criminal law experience, and my knowledge and love of soccer. The job doesn't have a formal title yet but basically I'll be taking lead on ensuring the minimum of hoologanism before, during, and after the games.
It's kind of a quasi-lega, quasi-law enforcement, quasi-looking cool job, so here's a pic of me in what they've asked me to wear:
The need for someone to do this job is based on a significant fear is that outside groups will use the rail system and soccer matches to bring crime into the city -- drugs and prostitution mainly. There's also a concern that the gangs from south of the border will end up waging turf wars here against the established Bloods and Crips. Fighting on the terraces is bad enough when it's over soccer, but we simply can't have hooligangsters roaming the streets of Austin and causing trouble for innocent citizens.
One initial thought, and I welcome feedback, is that we should try and make the game itself a force against evil. I'm not sure how, but one possibility might be to make the goals a little larger (others are already proposing this, like here and here). I know, it sounds weird even when I write it, but it seems to me that if more goals are scored then the game is more interesting, and maybe the people who are in the stands to make trouble will actually become enthralled with the Beautiful Game.
The other thought rolling around in my head is to require everyone going to a game to bring a child. It's a clever idea, I think, because this will result in less violence (who wants to start a fight in front of a kid?!) but has side benefits: (1) more income for the stadium because it's two tickets instead of one; (2) ice cream vendors as well as beer vendors can make a buck; (3) more kids will get into soccer and in ten years maybe the U.S. national team will suck less. Probably other benefits, too, but I just had the idea so they're not coming to me just yet.
The last thought I'll share is about cheerleaders. A foreign concept for soccer, right? Well, in case you forgot what they are, here's one:
Wait, now I forgot my idea.
Anyway, I'll keep you updated. I won't give up my novel-writing, never fear, and maybe I'll even get a few ideas from the new position.
"Hooli-Czar." How's that for a job title?
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
The mystery of the six-toed intruder
Everyone likes a good mystery, don't you think? Even if it can't be solved, there seems to be a certain pleasure in the wondering. Perhaps that's why Big Foot, aliens, and the Loch Ness Monster appeal - not because we expect to find them, but because we like to wonder, to consider the intriguing possibility that there are mysteries out there. . .
So here's one: yesterday morning I took the kids to summer camp. My littlest pointed out footprints on the windshield, prints that belonged to either a child or a 'little person.' Now, we have plenty of children in our neighborhood and no little people (that I've seen, anyway) but all three of mine denied knowledge of the print-leaver. They said they hadn't done it, and didn't know who had. And because of the way the conversation unfolded, I believed them.
And for another reason: none of my kids has six toes.
That's right. One of the prints very clearly left six toe smudges. I didn't spot this until I was driving but the kids will back me up. Six toes on one of the feet, the left I think.
So what happened, somehow, was that during the night a six-toed person with tiny feet crept into my closed and locked garage and climbed onto my car for no apparent reason.
Henry suggested maybe the intruder had five toes and one shifted a bit, leaving an impression of six, but such practical-minded nonsense was dismissed by me and my two girls.
After all, in a world needing intriguing mysteries, six toes will always be better than five.
So here's one: yesterday morning I took the kids to summer camp. My littlest pointed out footprints on the windshield, prints that belonged to either a child or a 'little person.' Now, we have plenty of children in our neighborhood and no little people (that I've seen, anyway) but all three of mine denied knowledge of the print-leaver. They said they hadn't done it, and didn't know who had. And because of the way the conversation unfolded, I believed them.
And for another reason: none of my kids has six toes.
That's right. One of the prints very clearly left six toe smudges. I didn't spot this until I was driving but the kids will back me up. Six toes on one of the feet, the left I think.
So what happened, somehow, was that during the night a six-toed person with tiny feet crept into my closed and locked garage and climbed onto my car for no apparent reason.
Henry suggested maybe the intruder had five toes and one shifted a bit, leaving an impression of six, but such practical-minded nonsense was dismissed by me and my two girls.
After all, in a world needing intriguing mysteries, six toes will always be better than five.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Birthday round-up
Somehow I'm 45. I feel like a 25 year-old and act like a teenager. But instead of being morose, or even moose, I thought it would be a good time for some random data.
Birthday presents received: 2 shirts, 1 book, 1 iPhone, 1 Amazon gift card
# of birthday wishes received on Facebook by 78:30 AM: 9
# siblings I share a birthday with: 1
Birthday wish from last year: that I get a book deal
Fulfilled?: Yes, times 4!
Birthday wish this year: well, I'm not allowed to say, am I?!
All-time # of page views of this blog: 158,914
All-time # of page views from Ukraine: 334
Most visited blog entry: What makes a good prosecutor?
Blog entry I like the most: This one.
Birthday presents received: 2 shirts, 1 book, 1 iPhone, 1 Amazon gift card
# of birthday wishes received on Facebook by 78:30 AM: 9
# siblings I share a birthday with: 1
Birthday wish from last year: that I get a book deal
Fulfilled?: Yes, times 4!
Birthday wish this year: well, I'm not allowed to say, am I?!
All-time # of page views of this blog: 158,914
All-time # of page views from Ukraine: 334
Most visited blog entry: What makes a good prosecutor?
Blog entry I like the most: This one.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Hail to the Emperor!
A light moment in court today. The judge was swearing in a witness, asking her to promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. And, in accordance with tradition, the witness held her hand aloft and took in the judge's words. When he'd finished, tradition was abandoned for a moment, perhaps elevated:
"Do you, Willamina Witness, swear.. blah blah blah...?"
"I do swear to. . . " Pause. "Yes, Cesar."
Silence descended on the courtroom, then the judged looked around and smiled. "Well, I've never been called Cesar before."
A giggle was had by all.
Turns out the young lady had started to recite the entire oath and her lawyer had whispered in her ear: "Saying 'yes' is easier."
Which she heard as, "Say 'Yes, Cesar'."
So she did.
"Do you, Willamina Witness, swear.. blah blah blah...?"
"I do swear to. . . " Pause. "Yes, Cesar."
Silence descended on the courtroom, then the judged looked around and smiled. "Well, I've never been called Cesar before."
A giggle was had by all.
Turns out the young lady had started to recite the entire oath and her lawyer had whispered in her ear: "Saying 'yes' is easier."
Which she heard as, "Say 'Yes, Cesar'."
So she did.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Aspen - where even the criminals are polite
I don't know if I've mentioned this before, very probably, but my brother is the police chief in Aspen, Colorado. (Amusing side note: he's a very law-abiding, serious, white Englishman by the name of Richard Pryor. And he rarely sets fire to himself.) We've talked many times about the differences between crime in a place like that and a larger metro area like Austin, but this little nugget came to me over the radio this morning and not from him:
A drunk in Aspen stole a bike to get home, then left it on the courthouse steps with a note of apology. The owner, delighted to have it back, had no interest in pressing charges. Full story here. That the thief (borrower may be a better term) signed it "Drunk" makes it that much better.
Tomorrow night my ride-along begins, so Friday I hope to have an interesting tale or two to share. And if I get the result of ADA John Hunt's "Bite Me" case, I'll let you know that, too. Hopefully if he loses he won't be in the dog house...
EDITED TO ADD: Guilty. Great work, John Hunt. And the story by your local newshound (hehe) Steven Kreytak is right here.
A drunk in Aspen stole a bike to get home, then left it on the courthouse steps with a note of apology. The owner, delighted to have it back, had no interest in pressing charges. Full story here. That the thief (borrower may be a better term) signed it "Drunk" makes it that much better.
Tomorrow night my ride-along begins, so Friday I hope to have an interesting tale or two to share. And if I get the result of ADA John Hunt's "Bite Me" case, I'll let you know that, too. Hopefully if he loses he won't be in the dog house...
EDITED TO ADD: Guilty. Great work, John Hunt. And the story by your local newshound (hehe) Steven Kreytak is right here.
Friday, February 3, 2012
It may not say what you think it says
I was driving home today and saw this license plate on an SUV:
DATRPR
I'm assuming it means "day tripper" but as a prosecutor, and one who's just finished three sex assault trials, I see something rather different. . .
DATRPR
I'm assuming it means "day tripper" but as a prosecutor, and one who's just finished three sex assault trials, I see something rather different. . .
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Christmas - it's about the presents!
On the way home last night I was listening to NPR, and I heard some lefty, liberal, tree-hugging boffin waffle on about the same garbage someone always waffles on about at this time of year: it's a boon time for meany big-box stores and the true spirit of Christmas has been forgotten.
Okay, here's the news: Christmas is about presents. It's about giving stuff and getting stuff. Some crappy stuff, sure, but even that is a delight to open (until you find out it's crappy).
This NPR dude was on about how we should buy half the number of gifts and make them more "connected to the earth." Well, let me tell you that the packaging around the junk I give and receive is indestructible and will be connected to the earth for ever. The hemp-based tea kettle or whatever you suggested won't last a week, my friend.
Every year I hear about how we should all just be nice to each other at this time of year, exchange sincere words and big hugs. Ever tried unwrapping a hug? Land you in jail and labeled a sex offender, so I'd recommend against.
Look, the truth is that Christmas is about the children. Sorry, The Children. It is. The best memories I have as a kid come from Christmas mornings, my brother and sister and me poking at the mound of gifts under the tree, fizzing with the excitement of what was to come. And before that, the wonderful feeling of anticipation as I tried to stay awake and catch Santa doing his thing (even when I knew Santa didn't exist). Priceless.
But Mr. NPR says, instead of giving a commercially-bought and carefully wrapped gift, we mail a farm animal to someone who needs it. Which, I promise you, will result in this Christmas morning conversation:
Kids: "Err, Dad, why is there a big empty space under the tree?"
Me: "Sorry, kids, no presents this year. But I did donate a heifer to some guy in Afghanistan."
Kids: "What?!"
Me: "In your name!"
Kids: "What's a heifer? Why can't we have one? No fair."
Me: "A baby cow. So they can get milk or eat it."
Kids: "But a drone will probably kill it first."
Me: "You watch too much news."
And years later, when they're comforting me on my death bed:
Me: "Remember Christmases, how special they always were?"
Kids: "Yeah, every year you donated a heifer to the same dude in Afghanistan."
Me: "Wasn't that awesome?"
Kids: "No. Now hold still while we adjust your pillows. . . It's okay, Dad, it's supposed to go over your face."
So, for the sake of the children, my Christmas tree will once more be surrounded by boxes and bags, flowing across the living room floor like economy-saving lava.
Just look at these cuties. Can you really blame me?
Okay, here's the news: Christmas is about presents. It's about giving stuff and getting stuff. Some crappy stuff, sure, but even that is a delight to open (until you find out it's crappy).
This NPR dude was on about how we should buy half the number of gifts and make them more "connected to the earth." Well, let me tell you that the packaging around the junk I give and receive is indestructible and will be connected to the earth for ever. The hemp-based tea kettle or whatever you suggested won't last a week, my friend.
Every year I hear about how we should all just be nice to each other at this time of year, exchange sincere words and big hugs. Ever tried unwrapping a hug? Land you in jail and labeled a sex offender, so I'd recommend against.
Look, the truth is that Christmas is about the children. Sorry, The Children. It is. The best memories I have as a kid come from Christmas mornings, my brother and sister and me poking at the mound of gifts under the tree, fizzing with the excitement of what was to come. And before that, the wonderful feeling of anticipation as I tried to stay awake and catch Santa doing his thing (even when I knew Santa didn't exist). Priceless.
But Mr. NPR says, instead of giving a commercially-bought and carefully wrapped gift, we mail a farm animal to someone who needs it. Which, I promise you, will result in this Christmas morning conversation:
Kids: "Err, Dad, why is there a big empty space under the tree?"
Me: "Sorry, kids, no presents this year. But I did donate a heifer to some guy in Afghanistan."
Kids: "What?!"
Me: "In your name!"
Kids: "What's a heifer? Why can't we have one? No fair."
Me: "A baby cow. So they can get milk or eat it."
Kids: "But a drone will probably kill it first."
Me: "You watch too much news."
And years later, when they're comforting me on my death bed:
Me: "Remember Christmases, how special they always were?"
Kids: "Yeah, every year you donated a heifer to the same dude in Afghanistan."
Me: "Wasn't that awesome?"
Kids: "No. Now hold still while we adjust your pillows. . . It's okay, Dad, it's supposed to go over your face."
So, for the sake of the children, my Christmas tree will once more be surrounded by boxes and bags, flowing across the living room floor like economy-saving lava.
Just look at these cuties. Can you really blame me?
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
I love you, Santa
I plan to talk some more about my visit to Eric Nenno, whose story is laid out below. But first, I wanted to share something on a lighter note. Way, way lighter.
You see, Christmas is coming. For the first time in months there's been a chill to the air and I'm just waiting for the moment I can build a cozy evening fire. And with Christmas, of course, comes Santa.
Now, I've heard that some people don't believe in him. Seriously, I know, it's crazy, right? It's especially crazy because he did something for me this past weekend. Even as he toils in his workshop with all those busy elves, he managed to do something wonderful for me.
I was at Dick's Sporting Goods, looking at ski gear with my son. He's six, almost seven, and in January we're going on our first ski trip together. A father-son thing, and we're both so excited we could explode. We talk about it every night, discussing how we'll stay up late after skiing and watch movies, eat pizza in bed, that kind of thing.
So there we were looking at ski gear, and he's got on a helmet, gloves, and goggles. Trying stuff on in the store, making sure we consider the right colors and styles. And of course he's begging me to buy stuff right there and then, only I don't want to because it seems too early, and I don't know how much cash I have in the bank account. Just not ready.
But he's so desperate, "Just the gloves... okay, just the goggles... why not some pants?" and who wants to dampen this enthusiasm?!:
And then suddenly he looks at me and says, "It's okay daddy, we don't have to get anything right now. We can just ask for it for Christmas. That way, you won't have to spend all of your money."
And now you see why I'm so looking forward to spending four days with the little chap.
Thank you Santa. We both love you.
You see, Christmas is coming. For the first time in months there's been a chill to the air and I'm just waiting for the moment I can build a cozy evening fire. And with Christmas, of course, comes Santa.
Now, I've heard that some people don't believe in him. Seriously, I know, it's crazy, right? It's especially crazy because he did something for me this past weekend. Even as he toils in his workshop with all those busy elves, he managed to do something wonderful for me.
I was at Dick's Sporting Goods, looking at ski gear with my son. He's six, almost seven, and in January we're going on our first ski trip together. A father-son thing, and we're both so excited we could explode. We talk about it every night, discussing how we'll stay up late after skiing and watch movies, eat pizza in bed, that kind of thing.
So there we were looking at ski gear, and he's got on a helmet, gloves, and goggles. Trying stuff on in the store, making sure we consider the right colors and styles. And of course he's begging me to buy stuff right there and then, only I don't want to because it seems too early, and I don't know how much cash I have in the bank account. Just not ready.
But he's so desperate, "Just the gloves... okay, just the goggles... why not some pants?" and who wants to dampen this enthusiasm?!:
And then suddenly he looks at me and says, "It's okay daddy, we don't have to get anything right now. We can just ask for it for Christmas. That way, you won't have to spend all of your money."
And now you see why I'm so looking forward to spending four days with the little chap.
Thank you Santa. We both love you.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Crimes at home (pt. 1)
A post from last week started this way:
My life at home is usually pretty separate from what goes on around me at work. You know, less heroin, fewer aggravated robberies, barely any check forging, and not so much with the driving around the cul-de-sac swigging bourbon.
And that got me thinking, you know, especially with my impending move to the juvenile division: Could I convert the crimes I see in court every day into infractions for my family? Let's give it a shot.
Failure to stop and render aid (3rd degree felony, usually when someone causes an injury accident on the roads and then flees):
Henry pushes Nicola down the stairs, then comes whistling innocently into the kitchen for a glass of milk.
Huh, this is pretty easy. . . lemme try another one:
Possession of a controlled substance (degree depends on amount, usually crack, meth, cocaine, etc.):
Nicola is caught with chewing gum (she's five -- she's allowed it when she's 18.) This happened last week, and she's still serving a sentence for it.
Tampering with evidence (third degree, usually drugs being swallowed or flushed):
Nicola spits the aforementioned gum into a tissue, and heads for the trash can, whistling innocently).
Retaliation (third degree, like when someone is arrested and they threaten to kill the cop or a witness):
Are you kidding me? An every-day felony, depending on who's done what to whom, and who's tattling on whom. (See also Terroristic Threat and Harassment).
This is fun (for me, anyway) so I'm going to do more later in the week. . .
My life at home is usually pretty separate from what goes on around me at work. You know, less heroin, fewer aggravated robberies, barely any check forging, and not so much with the driving around the cul-de-sac swigging bourbon.
And that got me thinking, you know, especially with my impending move to the juvenile division: Could I convert the crimes I see in court every day into infractions for my family? Let's give it a shot.
Failure to stop and render aid (3rd degree felony, usually when someone causes an injury accident on the roads and then flees):
Henry pushes Nicola down the stairs, then comes whistling innocently into the kitchen for a glass of milk.
Huh, this is pretty easy. . . lemme try another one:
Possession of a controlled substance (degree depends on amount, usually crack, meth, cocaine, etc.):
Nicola is caught with chewing gum (she's five -- she's allowed it when she's 18.) This happened last week, and she's still serving a sentence for it.
Tampering with evidence (third degree, usually drugs being swallowed or flushed):
Nicola spits the aforementioned gum into a tissue, and heads for the trash can, whistling innocently).
Retaliation (third degree, like when someone is arrested and they threaten to kill the cop or a witness):
Are you kidding me? An every-day felony, depending on who's done what to whom, and who's tattling on whom. (See also Terroristic Threat and Harassment).
This is fun (for me, anyway) so I'm going to do more later in the week. . .
Monday, July 4, 2011
Happy Independence Day . . for now . . .
Yes indeed. Congratulations. Well done.
But don't think we're not coming back. In fact, I'm here already, plotting.
This blog?
It's the start. Oh, just the start. And you're so blind you can't even see it. A British prosecutor? Are you serious?? Who let that happen?
I'm already halfway up the ladder. Should I go for governor or the guy who fixes the elevators? Yes, you see I do know who holds the real power in this country. Governor indeed.
I do have nice hair though. Well, not nice so much as plenty of it. I cut it short, you see. Especially in the summer because, by golly, it gets hot here. So incredibly hot I can't believe it sometimes. I mean, I went for a run at 10am this morning and ended up walking. Yes, me, the perfect human specimen sent to take back America for Her Majesty, walking because it's too bloody hot.
Come to think of it, it's all yours. No way the milky-skinned Englanders could take a full summer of this insane heat. So keep it.
But. . . if you don't mind. . . I'll stay. I've grown rather fond of you all.
And I promise, no more sneaky take-over attempts.
Until the autumn. Fall. Whatever. When it rains and cools down.
So for now, as I said before,
HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY!!
But don't think we're not coming back. In fact, I'm here already, plotting.
This blog?
It's the start. Oh, just the start. And you're so blind you can't even see it. A British prosecutor? Are you serious?? Who let that happen?
I'm already halfway up the ladder. Should I go for governor or the guy who fixes the elevators? Yes, you see I do know who holds the real power in this country. Governor indeed.
I do have nice hair though. Well, not nice so much as plenty of it. I cut it short, you see. Especially in the summer because, by golly, it gets hot here. So incredibly hot I can't believe it sometimes. I mean, I went for a run at 10am this morning and ended up walking. Yes, me, the perfect human specimen sent to take back America for Her Majesty, walking because it's too bloody hot.
Come to think of it, it's all yours. No way the milky-skinned Englanders could take a full summer of this insane heat. So keep it.
But. . . if you don't mind. . . I'll stay. I've grown rather fond of you all.
And I promise, no more sneaky take-over attempts.
Until the autumn. Fall. Whatever. When it rains and cools down.
So for now, as I said before,
HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY!!
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
And back to the homeland
Apparently I'm posting videos this week. Here's one from the (in-)famous Sun newspaper in England, who found CCTV footage of a gentleman who'd had a Pimms and lemonade too many at the posh Savoy Hotel in London.
Give him some credit: he didn't try and drive home.
Give him some credit: he didn't try and drive home.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Ah, a man whose mouth runneth over. A Prince, no less.
As my colleagues, and long-suffering wife, will tell you, I sometimes speak before I think. Sometimes I think before I speak, but my thinking turns out to be different than other people's. I'm in Texas, of course, so my accent does buy me a little grace (heaven forfend when that grace wears out!), but it sure is nice to come across people who are similarly afflicted. Or afflicted so much worse.
Say hello to Prince Philip, the husband of my dear Queen. Sheesh, talk about long suffering. As Philip himself said, "Tolerance is the one essential ingredient ... You can take it from me that the Queen has the quality of tolerance in abundance."
Better believe it.
The Independent Newspaper in England noted his upcoming 90th birthday and put together 90 of his gaffes. I believe there was a LOT of whittling down.
Here they are.
I would love to pick my favorites but that might imply I somehow approved of his incredible cultural, social, and racial insensitivity and anachronisticness. I don't. But here are a couple that had me shaking my head in wonderment:
"How do you keep the natives off the booze long enough to pass the test?" Asked of a Scottish driving instructor in 1995.
"We don't come here for our health. We can think of other ways of enjoying ourselves." During a trip to Canada in 1976.
"Do you still throw spears at each other?" Prince Philip shocks Aboriginal leader William Brin at the Aboriginal Cultural Park in Queensland, 2002.
I know. Amazing. One has to assume he's trying to be funny. One has to assume that. . .
Say hello to Prince Philip, the husband of my dear Queen. Sheesh, talk about long suffering. As Philip himself said, "Tolerance is the one essential ingredient ... You can take it from me that the Queen has the quality of tolerance in abundance."
Better believe it.
The Independent Newspaper in England noted his upcoming 90th birthday and put together 90 of his gaffes. I believe there was a LOT of whittling down.
Here they are.
I would love to pick my favorites but that might imply I somehow approved of his incredible cultural, social, and racial insensitivity and anachronisticness. I don't. But here are a couple that had me shaking my head in wonderment:
"How do you keep the natives off the booze long enough to pass the test?" Asked of a Scottish driving instructor in 1995.
"We don't come here for our health. We can think of other ways of enjoying ourselves." During a trip to Canada in 1976.
"Do you still throw spears at each other?" Prince Philip shocks Aboriginal leader William Brin at the Aboriginal Cultural Park in Queensland, 2002.
I know. Amazing. One has to assume he's trying to be funny. One has to assume that. . .
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
My last Royal posting (I think)
Did you guys see this? Is it sans photo shop?! Pretty amazing if so. (It came to me with the subject line, "Disney sues Royals for plagiarism.)
Thursday, April 21, 2011
A time and a place for everything
All trials are intense. Some more than others, of course--the transvestite prostitute trial is probably going to have more moments of levity than the debit card abuse case. But even the hardest trial, the most paper-intensive one, even the most emotional of cases, all will have flashes of humor, moments where the jury, the judge, the defendant, and all us stiff-necked lawyers can crack a smile.
We had a couple of those in my latest trial, a week-long affair that, of course, was deadly serious the vast majority of the time. But, as anyone who knows me will attest, if a door cracks a little giving me a chance at humor I will kick it open the rest of the way.
The defense witness, a friendly, jolly fellow, took the stand to say he'd not seen the defendant at a particular club on a particular night. He also mentioned on direct he'd been drinking that night. Here's roughly how it went:
Me: Is it possible the defendant was there and you just didn't see him?
Witness: Well, I guess it's possible.
Me: I think you mentioned earlier that you'd been drinking, is that right?
Witness: Sure, yes. Quite a lot. Well, not that much, I wasn't totally wasted. I mean, I managed to drive myself home so I couldn't have been that drunk.
A few raised eyebrows from the jurors. I wait a beat.
Me (smiling): I see. Sir, you do realize you're talking to a prosecutor?
The witness, like others, laughed. At moments like these you can feel the pressure lift just a little. And we all need that in a big trial.
We had a couple of those in my latest trial, a week-long affair that, of course, was deadly serious the vast majority of the time. But, as anyone who knows me will attest, if a door cracks a little giving me a chance at humor I will kick it open the rest of the way.
The defense witness, a friendly, jolly fellow, took the stand to say he'd not seen the defendant at a particular club on a particular night. He also mentioned on direct he'd been drinking that night. Here's roughly how it went:
Me: Is it possible the defendant was there and you just didn't see him?
Witness: Well, I guess it's possible.
Me: I think you mentioned earlier that you'd been drinking, is that right?
Witness: Sure, yes. Quite a lot. Well, not that much, I wasn't totally wasted. I mean, I managed to drive myself home so I couldn't have been that drunk.
A few raised eyebrows from the jurors. I wait a beat.
Me (smiling): I see. Sir, you do realize you're talking to a prosecutor?
The witness, like others, laughed. At moments like these you can feel the pressure lift just a little. And we all need that in a big trial.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Some changes are coming. . .
Our office recently implemented a program of "deferred prosecution," where first-time offenders can fulfill a set of conditions (treatment, restitution etc.) and have their felony cases dismissed. The story is here.
We've been working on some other programs, too, hopefully rolling them out in the coming months:
Jury Trials
The first program deals with jury trials. On trial weeks we spend a whole afternoon picking a jury, time that could be spent trying the case itself. It's also a massive inconvenience for the sixty people (in each court!) who have to sit there so we can whittle them down to just twelve. Every week, then, more than 200 people have to give up their Mondays to come in here and not get chosen.
What we'll be doing is selecting a group of just sixty individuals from the community and using them, on sort of a rotational basis, to sit as jurors. They will be people of intelligence and some will have legal training. Each jury will have one former prosecutor on it, to help explain the law. (The defense bar also wanted a defense lawyer, but you don't need two people to explain the law, and everyone knows defense lawyers are all about getting acquittals, while prosecutors are interested only in doing justice).
There are some minor constitutional issues to work through, but we're confident it will speed up justice.
Reimbursing Defense Lawyers
We have no public defender system in Travis County so right now, defense lawyers are appointed to cases by a judge. And they get paid a flat amount dependent on the work they do, not the result. So a lawyer gets $1,000 a day whether he sleeps through a trial or works his tail off.
The county is looking to switch to a new system, paying them according to results. The details are still being hammered out, but it'll work like this: ifthe State offers to plead the case for five years and you go to trial and win, you get five thousand dollars. If you go to trial and your client gets ten years, you either owe the county ten grand, or you work it off by not getting paid for your next cases.
A bit of a gamble for defense lawyers, but the pay off can be huge.
Clothing in Court
I have posted before about some of the crazy things people wear to court. Well, a new study shows that what you wear in court can increase, or decrease, your sentence. Seems kinda commonsensical to me, but after seeing that study, our higher-ups clicked that:
bad clothing = longer sentence = increased costs
As a result, they've hired one individual to roam the courthouse on docket days (when most plea deals are made and sentences handed down) to advise defendants on what (not!) to wear. He will also have a bag with some collared shirts, demure dresses, and nice trousers that he'll loan to those not dressed properly. Seems extravagant, I know, but apparently the boffins have crunched the numbers and this guy's $75,000 salary will be a saving in the long run.
They ran this program in Williamson County three years ago, but had to cancel it when those borrowing the clothes for court stole them, and the style guru was found upside down with his head in a public commode. But that's Wilco for you, we're a little more civilized down here.
And talking of Wilco, . . .
No More Probation Department!
This isn't a program we're running, but one they're not running any more in the esteemed county to our north. Apparently they have been paying salaries and for office space to Williamson County's probation office, but not giving them any business. Because defendants are either sent to prison for life (the easy cases to win) or have their cases pled down to time-served (the hard cases to win), probation has been left out in the cold.
The few people that do get probation up there have it revoked the minute they leave the courthouse ("A condition of probation was to always park facing north, you're facing north-east, at best") and so the Wilco probation dept. is being shut down. Fortunately, most of those laid off will be able to find jobs at the over-stretched probation office here in Travis County.
We've been working on some other programs, too, hopefully rolling them out in the coming months:
Jury Trials
The first program deals with jury trials. On trial weeks we spend a whole afternoon picking a jury, time that could be spent trying the case itself. It's also a massive inconvenience for the sixty people (in each court!) who have to sit there so we can whittle them down to just twelve. Every week, then, more than 200 people have to give up their Mondays to come in here and not get chosen.
What we'll be doing is selecting a group of just sixty individuals from the community and using them, on sort of a rotational basis, to sit as jurors. They will be people of intelligence and some will have legal training. Each jury will have one former prosecutor on it, to help explain the law. (The defense bar also wanted a defense lawyer, but you don't need two people to explain the law, and everyone knows defense lawyers are all about getting acquittals, while prosecutors are interested only in doing justice).
There are some minor constitutional issues to work through, but we're confident it will speed up justice.
Reimbursing Defense Lawyers
We have no public defender system in Travis County so right now, defense lawyers are appointed to cases by a judge. And they get paid a flat amount dependent on the work they do, not the result. So a lawyer gets $1,000 a day whether he sleeps through a trial or works his tail off.
The county is looking to switch to a new system, paying them according to results. The details are still being hammered out, but it'll work like this: if
A bit of a gamble for defense lawyers, but the pay off can be huge.
Clothing in Court
I have posted before about some of the crazy things people wear to court. Well, a new study shows that what you wear in court can increase, or decrease, your sentence. Seems kinda commonsensical to me, but after seeing that study, our higher-ups clicked that:
bad clothing = longer sentence = increased costs
As a result, they've hired one individual to roam the courthouse on docket days (when most plea deals are made and sentences handed down) to advise defendants on what (not!) to wear. He will also have a bag with some collared shirts, demure dresses, and nice trousers that he'll loan to those not dressed properly. Seems extravagant, I know, but apparently the boffins have crunched the numbers and this guy's $75,000 salary will be a saving in the long run.
They ran this program in Williamson County three years ago, but had to cancel it when those borrowing the clothes for court stole them, and the style guru was found upside down with his head in a public commode. But that's Wilco for you, we're a little more civilized down here.
And talking of Wilco, . . .
No More Probation Department!
This isn't a program we're running, but one they're not running any more in the esteemed county to our north. Apparently they have been paying salaries and for office space to Williamson County's probation office, but not giving them any business. Because defendants are either sent to prison for life (the easy cases to win) or have their cases pled down to time-served (the hard cases to win), probation has been left out in the cold.
The few people that do get probation up there have it revoked the minute they leave the courthouse ("A condition of probation was to always park facing north, you're facing north-east, at best") and so the Wilco probation dept. is being shut down. Fortunately, most of those laid off will be able to find jobs at the over-stretched probation office here in Travis County.
Monday, February 28, 2011
An Odd Case of Snobbery
Last week I wrote about why I do this job, why money isn't a primary force, and why civil law gives me the creeps. Here's the blog entry.
A couple of colleagues mentioned the post while we chatted in court and asked me about the attitude that many civil attorneys have towards those practicing criminal law.
That attitude is best described as an odd case of snobbery.
Let me demonstrate with an example from my previous job. It was at a civil law firm, one of about 50 attorneys who did everything from wills, to real estate, to civil litigation. Towards the end of my time there, work was slow (I did civil litigation) and I was trying to be creative in bringing in work (and therefore income) to me and the firm.
I suggested that, as a former ADA, I take a few criminal cases. Maybe some DWIs. Nothing too sordid and grubby, after all this was a law firm. But even the wives, husbands, and children of civil lawyers get arrested for DWI, right?
I talked to four of the senior lawyers there, one-on-one. They all appreciated my attempts to think outside the box, to generate revenue for the firm. But every single one of them stiffened when I mentioned doing criminal work. Oh no, they said. We don't do that here.
When I pushed it, when I actually told them I thought they had a prejudice against the practice of criminal law, they essentially admitted it. They conceded that they couldn't give me a logical, coherent reason why the firm shouldn't engage in a little criminal work. They admitted, point blank, that there was a prejudice against such a practice, and that they were willing participants in the prejudice.
I was pretty surprised. Each of these men had said things like, "We couldn't possibly engage in that kind of business," and tempered their distaste with "You know, some of my best friends are criminal defense attorneys."
Remind you of anything?
Me too.
So, what we ended up with was, instead of providing legal services to clients and those in need, the firm opting to continue to pay me a salary to do very little. Instead of bringing in much-needed cash I was twiddling my thumbs, all because of this pre-existing disdain for the practice of criminal law. A disdain no one could adequately explain.
As you may know, I grew up in England and went to school with some startlingly snobbish characters. People who came from long lines of the upper crust, people with more money than brain cells, frankly. And these folks, usually around the age of 8, would deride the people they described as "nouveau riche." Families whose money hadn't come from plundering the Armada or the Belgian Congo.
My response was always, "Oh, so you're mocking those who actually earned their money, rather than had daddy give it to them?"
Actually, I never said that, I just thought it--as a kid, one has an over-riding wish to fit in.
But I think the analogy is fair: there exists an inexplicable and hypocritical prejudice that has no basis in objective reason.
And, to explore this subject further, later in the week I shall point out that, in fact, not only is the prejudice misplaced, but one could argue (hypothetically, of course) how any disdain could legitimately come from criminal lawyers towards civil lawyers.
Inverse snobbery, you might say.
Hypothetically speaking.
A couple of colleagues mentioned the post while we chatted in court and asked me about the attitude that many civil attorneys have towards those practicing criminal law.
That attitude is best described as an odd case of snobbery.
Let me demonstrate with an example from my previous job. It was at a civil law firm, one of about 50 attorneys who did everything from wills, to real estate, to civil litigation. Towards the end of my time there, work was slow (I did civil litigation) and I was trying to be creative in bringing in work (and therefore income) to me and the firm.
I suggested that, as a former ADA, I take a few criminal cases. Maybe some DWIs. Nothing too sordid and grubby, after all this was a law firm. But even the wives, husbands, and children of civil lawyers get arrested for DWI, right?
I talked to four of the senior lawyers there, one-on-one. They all appreciated my attempts to think outside the box, to generate revenue for the firm. But every single one of them stiffened when I mentioned doing criminal work. Oh no, they said. We don't do that here.
When I pushed it, when I actually told them I thought they had a prejudice against the practice of criminal law, they essentially admitted it. They conceded that they couldn't give me a logical, coherent reason why the firm shouldn't engage in a little criminal work. They admitted, point blank, that there was a prejudice against such a practice, and that they were willing participants in the prejudice.
I was pretty surprised. Each of these men had said things like, "We couldn't possibly engage in that kind of business," and tempered their distaste with "You know, some of my best friends are criminal defense attorneys."
Remind you of anything?
Me too.
So, what we ended up with was, instead of providing legal services to clients and those in need, the firm opting to continue to pay me a salary to do very little. Instead of bringing in much-needed cash I was twiddling my thumbs, all because of this pre-existing disdain for the practice of criminal law. A disdain no one could adequately explain.
As you may know, I grew up in England and went to school with some startlingly snobbish characters. People who came from long lines of the upper crust, people with more money than brain cells, frankly. And these folks, usually around the age of 8, would deride the people they described as "nouveau riche." Families whose money hadn't come from plundering the Armada or the Belgian Congo.
My response was always, "Oh, so you're mocking those who actually earned their money, rather than had daddy give it to them?"
Actually, I never said that, I just thought it--as a kid, one has an over-riding wish to fit in.
But I think the analogy is fair: there exists an inexplicable and hypocritical prejudice that has no basis in objective reason.
And, to explore this subject further, later in the week I shall point out that, in fact, not only is the prejudice misplaced, but one could argue (hypothetically, of course) how any disdain could legitimately come from criminal lawyers towards civil lawyers.
Inverse snobbery, you might say.
Hypothetically speaking.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)