Attu Sees All
Res Ipsa Loquitur
Rachel Lucas (on hiatus)
a small victory
Curmudgeonly & Skeptical
The Laughing Wolf
Not Quite Tea and Crumpets
On The Third Hand
Right We Are (Closed)
The Country Store
Single Southern Guy
The Spoons Experience
Jay Solo's Verbosity
Sketches of Strain (Closed)
In Sheeps Clothing
The Accidental Jedi (on hiatus)
Straignt White Guy
The Cheese Stands Alone
Trying to Grok
~ Wednesday, April 30, 2003
No Self Serve.
New Jersey drivers have to put up with a rather long list of horribles, among which are: blizzards, hurricanes, ice storms, toll booths, morning traffic jams, evening traffic jams, summer weekend traffic jams that can turn a 60 mile trip into something resembling a five-hour root canal, certain highways obviously designed by homicidal madmen (e.g. Route 280), New York drivers who never learn to stay to the right, Pennsylvania drivers who can’t figure out how to make a left turn, and other New Jersey drivers who are about as courteous as a wounded boar.
However, we do have one small blessing, for which I am eternally grateful. We don’t pump our own gas. In fact, thanks largely to the efforts of the New Jersey Gasoline Retailers Association, the law prevents us from doing so. (New Jersey Administrative Code Section 12:196). Once in a while the folks in Trenton get it right.
As such, we can buy gas in the rain without getting wet, we can fill up in a snow storm without getting cold, and we can stop for gas dressed in our best clothes, knowing that we wont have to get dirty or try to keep our hands from smelling like gasoline. It’s wonderful.
There is, however, a downside. When we travel to other states and have to buy gas, we are generally clueless. Perhaps the estimated 20,000 Jersey people who work at gas stations know how to operate a gas pump, but for the rest of us buying gas outside of New Jersey is, at best, a most unpleasant adventure.
First of all, no one has to look at the license plates on the car to know that we are from Jersey. They can recognize us instantly as those helpless knuckleheads actually reading the instructions on the pump. Once we finally figure out how to get the damned thing to work, we wander around a bit trying to figure out how to pay for the gas. You mean that I actually have to leave the car alone and unlocked, and go inside to pay for gas? Leaving one’s car unattended and unlocked in Jersey (the car-theft capital of the nation) is never a good idea.
Last June, I was in Colorado, and I stopped to buy gas for my rental car. After finally figuring out how to turn the pump on and then fumbling around with the nozzle, someone called to me from the other side of the gas station, “Hey, where in Jersey are you from?” Mind you, the rental car bore Colorado plates. I naively asked how he knew I was from Jersey. He responded, “Are you kidding?” I must have been about as conspicuous as a turd in a punchbowl. It turned out that he was originally from the Garden State, but had spent ten years living in Colorado, which presumably is a sufficient amount of time to learn how to operate a gas pump.
While you folks from the 48 states where you have to pump your own gas (Oregon is the only other state that prohibits self-service gasoline stations) may laugh at us as we wrestle with an uncooperative gas pump, that’s OK. We’ll think of you when we get back to Jersey and buy gas in the pouring rain.
Oh, and if you ever find your self in New Jersey and in need of gas, sit tight. Don’t even think about touching that pump. We fine people for that around here.
~ Tuesday, April 29, 2003
Sorry. After having been away from work for three days, I walked into the proverbial wall of ca-ca today. I got home late. I'm beat. I read everyone else's stuff, all of which is much better than I could possibly come up with right now. That said, I'm heading for the recliner.
~ Monday, April 28, 2003
The Army Stories.
Several people who have been reading this blog before Sgt. Steele came along have suggested that I make a list of the posts I have written about my experiences in the Army as a draftee in 1968. But for these experiences, Sgt. Steele would not exist.
The same people also tell me that the real Army stories are quite amusing. I will happily take them at their word. I can tell you that they passed my chuckle-while-writing test. Having said that, I will also tell you that some of the real events that are amusing when told now were anything but amusing at the time to this scared-shitless “raw-CROOT,” who wanted nothing more than to honorably serve my country as a “Remington Raider.”
Because I do not pack the technical gear to create such a list in the margin of the blog (HTML makes my hair hurt), or to open up a new window to display the list (you might as well ask me to fly an F-16), this primitive format will have to do. So, here they are, should you be so inclined to take a look at them:
"You Must Have Cheated!"
Test Day. The Sergeant, and the Wannabe “Remington Raider.
Night Infiltration and the Pathetic Mondo Kane Turtle.
Vertical Butt Stroke.
K.P., The Great Lie, and the Potato Mountain.
Fort Dix Quickies.
Spit, Polish, Graduation, and Orders.
Fort Holabird or the Twilight Zone?
I would like to thank the folks who sent me their best wishes on the occasion of my daughter’s wedding on Saturday. It was a wonderful day, the drizzly New Jersey weather notwithstanding. The ceremony was just long enough, just short enough, and just religious enough to be just right.
The reception was spectacular, with excellent music, food, service and a first-class, fully stocked bar (I insisted on that). As elegant as it was, it remained an ass-kicking party. It was great to have so many family and friends in the same place at one time.
Everyone had a great time.
Now, I can rest a bit.
~ Saturday, April 26, 2003
Wedding Day Tomorrow.
Daughter (our one and only) is getting married tomorrow. Tonight, in our bedroom, the same room where we put her in a cradle when we brought her home from the hospital, hangs her wedding gown that she will wear tomorrow. I'm so happy for her.
~ Thursday, April 24, 2003
MASTER SGT. JOHN “JACK” STEELE, ADJUNCT PROFESSOR OF LAW
First Installment – 1/26/03
Second Installment – 2/7/03
Third Installment: -- 3/5/2003
Fourth Installment -- 3/11/2003
Fifth Installment -- 3/30/03
Sixth Installment: The Faculty Meeting
Most of the faculty members were not terribly happy to be there. However, attending Dean Maxwell’s periodic faculty meetings was a job requirement for teaching law at Blackacre Law School. The tenured professors, who tended to teach “advanced” classes, which usually were scheduled so as to permit them to finish their typical workday by 2:00 p.m., regularly squawked about the timing of the meetings at 6:30 at night. The un-tenured faculty members regularly squawked about the tenured faculty members and their enviable schedules. It was a regular love fest.
The meeting was to be held in the usual place – a large open room that permitted folding chairs to be arranged in different configurations, depending on the event. On this evening, the chairs, approximately 50 in number, were arranged in three rows, in something approximating a semi-circle. Off to the side, was a long table on which coffee, tea, soft drinks and muffins were available.
The arriving faculty members gravitated to the refreshment table, where they clustered in small groups and engaged in small talk while awaiting the arrival of the Dean and the start of the meeting.
Professor emeritus Arthur Merriweather, a 79 year old, well-respected legal scholar, was one of the first to arrive to the meeting. Merriweather was the prototype of a law professor. He had a full head of gray hair, and he wore a full, gray moustache, which along with his twinkling blue eyes and his rosy cheeks caused him to look like everyone’s favorite uncle. He was standing by the refreshment table sipping a cup of tea when he was joined by Gerald Saxon who was munching a muffin with his coffee.
Saxon, an Associate Professor who usually taught civil procedure, property and evidence, greeted Professor Merriweather warmly: “Arthur, how nice to see you. You look terrific.”
“Why, thank you, Gerald,” Merriweather responded. It is nice to see you too. And how is the family?”
Saxon, who had three young children, replied, “We’re all doing well, although I must admit, I often have difficulty tearing my oldest, Kenny, away from video games.”
“Ah, yes. Video games. They are quite amazing. I can remember in the early sixties when electronic calculators and Pong were invented. We all thought that technology had reached its pinnacle. Now you have 13 year olds flying computerized flight simulators in their bedrooms. Truly amazing. However, it would be nice if they’d get a bit of air now and then, don’t you think?”
Before Saxon could answer Merriweather, each heard, “Gerald! Arthur! Hi!” The voice belonged to Marie Potter, who had completed her third year of teaching at Blackacre and was hoping to be promoted to Associate Professor this year. Before coming to Blackacre, Potter had spent two years at a large firm, where she was known for being a hard worker. At the school, she remained a hard worker, teaching contracts, criminal law and family law.
Merriweather and Saxon both greeted Potter, and Merriweather asked, “How was your summer, Marie? Did you find some quiet time to work on your article?” Just before the end of the previous spring semester, Potter had sought some advice from Merriweather concerning an article she had been trying to write, with a working title of The U.C.C.’s Battle of the Forms – A Legal Gordian Knot? She knew that having the article published would just about assure her promotion to Associate Professor. At that time, Merriweather, as usual, was gracious and had offered her some excellent suggestions.
“I wish I had, Arthur. The summer was a blur of activities that generally kept me from even thinking about the article.” Potter was not being truthful, as she had spent countless hours struggling with the article, and it was just not coming together. For the past few weeks, she couldn’t even face the word processor. She loved teaching and was good at it, but she feared that her writing ability was not up to par and that her career would suffer because of it.
Merriweather recognized immediately that Potter was not being forthright. He knew writer’s block when he saw it. “That’s a pity,” Merriweather replied, "because I think the article has a good deal of promise. I’d be happy to discuss it with you at your convenience.”
“Thanks, Arthur. I appreciate that, but I think I’ll be getting back to it some time next week.”
Potter continued, “Hey, Gerald. This is a big year for you, isn’t it? The Big “T?” Potter was referring, of course, to the widely known “rumor” that Saxon was being considered for tenure this year.
Saxon replied, “Yes it is. We just bought the new house, and I really don’t want to have to think about looking for a new job next year, if I don’t get tenure.”
Both Merriweather and Potter assured Saxon of their belief that he would do just fine. While Saxon normally would have written this off to pre-meeting small talk, he felt quite happy to hear that from Merriweather, who was one of the more influential members of the tenure committee.
Saxon said, “To tell you both the truth, I didn’t use to worry about it much, but now I find myself worrying about it all the time.”
“Why is that?” asked Merriweather.
“It’s the atmospherics, Arthur. I used to have a pretty good read on this place. Sure it isn’t Harvard, but it always seemed to me to be a solid, well-run law school that regularly produced graduates who, I think it’s fair to say, were 'legal mainstream'.”
“And why you think that is no longer the case, Gerald?”
“It’s a combination of things, some of which I cannot get my arms around. I hate to use the word ‘predictable,’ but maybe that’s it. Things just aren’t, well, as predictable as they used to be.”
Recognizing the somewhat puzzled looks on Merriweather’s and Potter’s faces, Saxon tried to be more specific. “Well, for instance – just for instance - two years ago the school hired a couple west coast law school activist types – the ones we call the ‘Westies’ - and because of their presence and their teaching style, I sense a difference in many of the students. They’re angrier and all too often much too confrontational. Hell, because of the influence of this new, and if I may say so, radical breed, even the curriculum has drifted off into a crazy direction. I notice that several of the newer courses all seem to start out with the presumption that American institutions are all corrupt.”
Merriweather, who had been teaching at Blackacre for more than four decades, and who was no stranger to change, listened thoughtfully, and after a short, reflective pause, replied, “Gerald, I have sensed the same things occurring, but I have been trying to keep an open mind about it all, knowing that change is often difficult to accept. While I absolutely agree that a law school should teach its students to confront the mainstream when it should be confronted, I do not believe in confrontation merely for confrontation’s sake.”
Saxon, feeling now that he had Merriweather on his side, continued, “And, just when I find myself becoming accustomed to the type of change I just mentioned, Dean Maxwell hires this Army guy to teach, and he has done a pretty fair job of turning the school on its ear.”
“An Army guy? What do you mean?”
“Just what I said, Arthur – a damned Army guy!”
Merriweather asked, “Is this fellow a retired Army officer? A former member of the Judge Advocate General Corps. – You know – A JAG.?”
Before Saxon could answer Merriweather’s question, Marie Potter stated, “No, Arthur. He’s not a retired officer. He is still in the Army. At least, I assume he is still in the Army because the students tell me that he shows up to class in a uniform, with combat boots and that strange looking hat.”
Now Merriweather was curious. “Strange looking hat? What does this strange looking hat look like?”
Potter thought a moment and then said, “A Smokey the Bear Hat, Arthur. That’s how my students described it.”
Merriweather thought a moment and observed, “You’re describing a Drill Sergeant’s hat, Marie. Drill Sergeants are just that – sergeants – they are never officers – and I have never heard of a drill sergeant who is also a lawyer. Might your students be mistaken?”
Saxon replied, “My students tell me he is a Master Sergeant, who managed to get a law degree from Georgetown while doing a tour of duty in Washington. He told the students that he had been contacted by Dean Maxwell and asked to take an Adjunct Professor position to take over Professor Carey’s torts class.”
“Fascinating,” Merriweather observed, obviously intrigued by the idea. “And I gather that there is a problem with this new Adjunct Professor.”
“A problem? I would say so, if some of things my students are complaining about are true.”
Marie Potter added, “I can back up what Gerald is saying. A few of my students described how he teaches his classes. At first, I thought they had to be joking, but I have now heard the same stories from four or five separate students.”
Merriweather asked, “What is it they are telling you both?”
Marie Potter said, “You go first, Gerald.”
“OK, my students tell me that he makes them stand at attention when he enters the room, and they have to stand at attention again before they can ask or answer a question. He absolutely insists that they attend all the classes, and that they remain absolutely quiet during class.”
Marie Potter interrupted, “He even has strict rules about what can be on the students’ desks during class, for Chrissakes. He hollered at one student for looking at him, and he berated another for the way his shirt was tucked in. Worse yet, he got in some young woman’s face and ultimately reduced her to tears. And, oh yeah, he has the entire class yelling things in unison.”
“Yelling things in unison?” Merriweather asked. “What kind of things?”
Saxon now took the lead and said, “I know that this may seem hard to believe, but the other day I was walking past his classroom, and I could have sworn that I heard the students all yelling, ‘WE LOVE THIS SHIT’.”
At that point, Merriweather broke out with laughter. “Gerald, are you telling me we have law students in a classroom all yelling at once, “WE LOVE THIS SHIT?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you, Arthur. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.”
At that moment David Pyle and Ronald Moon entered the room. Everyone took notice because Pyle was angrily waving his arms through the air and saying, at a volume that was louder than the sum of the collective conversations taking place. “We shouldn’t have to put up with that shit Ronnie. Let’s tell those corporate pigs that we’ll put together a class, get it certified and sue their asses.”
Saxon observed to Merriweather and Potter, “Terrific. The Westies have arrived. This promises to be long night.”
In stark contrast to the faculty members who came to the meeting dressed in business casual attire, the Westies showed up in torn jeans, and tee shirts. On the front of Pyle’s tee shirt was a picture of Che Guevera. Moon’s shirt was a sixties tie-dyed number similar to one that Wavy Gravy might have worn at Woodstock. Both wore their hair in a ponytail and sported what appeared to be three or four days’ growth.
Pyle and Moon always seemed to be together, although Pyle was clearly the dominant figure. In that regard, one faculty member had once wryly remarked, “If Pyle ever stops short, we’ll have to call the fire department to come here and use the jaws-of-life to pull Moon’s head out of Pyle’s ass.”
As Merriweather watched Pyle and Moon continue to carry on with their animated conversation at a volume calculated to attract attention, he said to Saxon, “That Pyle fellow certainly seems angry about something.”
Saxon answered, “He is always angry about something. I believe that the source of this week’s outrage and the target of this week’s invective is, as he would describe it, ‘The fascist, corporate swine who oppress working people, pollute the environment, and poison the minds of American children’.”
The general conversational volume rose as faculty members tried to compensate for the noise coming from the Westies. In fact, the room had become as noisy as a sports bar during a Monday night football game. Suddenly, those nearest the door became quiet, which created a slow moving wave of silence that worked its way across the room toward the refreshment table until all conversation had ceased. Everyone's head turned toward the door, where Master Sergeant “Jack” Steele had entered the room.
The majority of the faculty members had heard about Steele having been given an Adjunct’s position, but being busy with their own classes, they never gave it much thought. Very few faculty members had actually seen Steele.
Steele had heard the sound of the crowdspeak as he approached the meeting place. He was, therefore, aware that his entry into the room caused the silence, which was accompanied by stares. Two steps into the room, he stood erect and cast his eyes over those present, his gaze stopping for an extra second or two on David Pyle and Ron Moon. However, Steele’s gaze was such that every faculty member felt the heat of eye contact with Steele. He then took a few steps to his right to a coat rack and slowly and carefully removed his drill sergeant’s hat, placing it on the shelf of the coat rack. He was wearing his Class “A,” uniform, with his trousers bloused over his spit shined jump boots, a practice permitted only to paratroopers.
Surprisingly, most of the faculty members had never seen an Army uniform up close, and they were taken by the splashes of color on clothing they wrongly assumed would be a patchwork of dull, Army green. The gleaming brass, the bright yellow of his Master Sergeant stripes and his hash marks were impossible to miss, as were the multicolored rows of ribbons on his chest and the unit patches on his sleeves. No one was able to resist staring.
Merriweather smiled and quietly said to Saxon and Potter, “I think I can safely assume that the gentleman who just entered the room is the Army fellow you spoke of.”
Saxon said, “Yes, Arthur, that’s him. He certainly just pissed on this parade.”
Potter added, “He looks to me like he is really full of himself - the way he walked in here like some kind of general.”
Merriweather, with a distinct gleam in his eye, said, “To tell you the truth, all I saw was a soldier enter the room. Nothing more. Everyone’s silence and their gawking was not his doing, but rather everyone’s reaction to seeing a drill sergeant in the flesh – a reaction I find both fascinating and amusing.”
No one approached or greeted Steele, but rather the faculty resumed talking in their respective groups. Doubtless, the topic of all the conversations had turned to Steele.
Steele did not mingle or help himself to any refreshments. Rather, he looked at his watch and took a seat in the third row. Shortly after Steele was seated, Dean Maxwell entered the room in the rear, and briefly stopped to exchange pleasantries with a few faculty members. As he was moving to the front of the room to the desk and lectern, he saw Steele already seated. He walked up to Steele, smiled warmly and extended his hand.
“Hi Jack. I’m glad to see you. I was hoping you would accept my invitation to attend.”
Steele rose from his chair and shook hands with Dean Maxwell. “Hi Sam. It’s nice to see you. I was honored to receive your invitation, and I’m happy to be here.”
“I see that you already found yourself a seat. Did you have a chance to meet any of the other faculty members?”
Steele responded, “Well, I arrived at 1825 hours, and I knew that the meeting was scheduled for 1830 hours, and I also knew that you would be on time Sam, so I decided to just find a seat and make myself comfortable.” Steele did not mention that the “welcome” he had received was anything but warm. Besides, he really didn’t give much of a damn.
Other faculty members could hardly miss the friendly exchange between Steele and the Dean. It was obvious that the two really were friends. That sent shivers down the spines of several of those in the room. David Pyle certainly didn’t miss it. “Hey Ronnie, get a load of that shit! Maxwell is falling all over that Army asshole.”
Ronnie Moon, Pyle’s loyal minion, replied, “Yeah, that is weird, man. What the hell is that about?”
“I’ll be damned if I know, but I don’t like it. The last thing this school needs is some damned fool GI Joe up the Dean’s ass, and I don’t intend to be quiet about it.”
The Dean took his place in the front of the room, which was the cue for everyone to find a seat. After everyone had settled in, the Dean opened the meeting.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for attending the first faculty meeting of the year. I trust that you all had a pleasant summer. For those of you who were not involved in this year’s summer session, I would like to report that it was very successful.
“OK let’s get right down to it. We have a good deal of business to discuss, and I suspect that, as in the past, we will also spend some time discussing issues that are of particular interest to you. However, before we start, I would like to introduce you to someone who has graciously accepted one of the Adjunct Professor positions this semester. I decided that the best way to do that was to invite him as a guest to our first faculty meeting.
“I would like to introduce you to Master Sergeant John “Jack” Steele, currently serving in the United States Army. Sgt. Steele is a bit of an oddity in the Army in that he is a career enlisted man, who also happens to be a graduate of Georgetown Law School. We owe our thanks to the U.S. Army for permitting Jack to take the time to teach at our school. Jack would you please stand up so the faculty can see who you are.”
Steele rose from his chair, stood erect, and nodded in the direction of the Dean.
Pyle said in a voice that he knew would be heard by others, “Yeah, like he had to be pointed out.” Steele with the hearing of an antelope, heard Pyle, but did not react. Instead, he just sat down.
The first subject on the agenda was the academic calendar. With the predictability of the sunrise, Associate Professor Stuart Ross made his pitch for a shorter school year. Ross, whose name was Rosczewski before he changed it, was the school’s “media lawyer.” His good looks (which were the result of expert hair coloring and a face lift or two), his “winning smile” (which was the result of some very expensive cosmetic dental work), and his engaging personality (which was the result of being a natural-born, first-class bullshit artist) had landed him several spots on network television shows as the resident “legal expert.” As usual, he was trying to start the school year later and finish earlier in order to permit him additional time to cash in on more television work.
After a brain-numbing ten minutes of discussion, which was joined in by other faculty members who were not media sweethearts, but who were just lazy, the matter ended with the Dean promising to take the matter of a more abbreviated academic calendar “under advisement.”
Steele’s impression of Ross, which had been formed instantly when he entered the room a few moments earlier, was confirmed. Ross was a jerk.
The subject then turned to tenure, with Saxon trying to get Dean Maxwell to share more than Maxwell wanted to reveal about the school’s current plans for granting tenure. Saxon, and a few others nearing the time when a tenure decision might be made, urged the importance of giving people approaching tenure a lighter class load in order to permit them more time to research and write.
Steele took this all in and was quietly amazed that these people, who certainly did not do much heavy lifting, were seeking to do even less work. He began to feel somewhat uncomfortable amidst this bunch.
The minutes turned into an hour, and the subjects of discussion included requests for more office space, which resulted in a bit of unseemly bickering between two faculty members, each claiming rights to Professor Carey’s old office (the Professor whom Steele replaced). The Dean stated that he would meet with the two combatants privately to try to work the matter out.
Next there was a small group of faculty members who acted as if the earth would spin off its axis if they could not have flat-screen computer monitors. The Dean, who was by beginning to looking a bit weary from it all, stated that there was no money in the budget at this time for upgrading computer equipment, but that he would revisit the issue in the spring semester.
Steele thought, Flat screen monitors? These people are beginning to sound like a bunch of gott-damned high school kids.
After a downright painful discussion of a few more weighty subjects such as replacing the coffee maker in the faculty lounge, preferred faculty parking spaces based on seniority, and a “faculty only” seating area in the lunch room, the subject of course offerings was raised. As usual, David Pyle and Ronnie Moon took the lead. It would be more accurate to say that Pyle did all the talking, while Ronnie Moon, as usual, stood next to him about as useful as a hat rack.
“The course offerings in this place are horribly outdated. There are at least a half dozen courses offered here that deal with corporations, corporate tax, and corporate securities. All these courses place the corporate form on pedestal at the altar of capitalism. I strongly urge that we add courses that challenge the prevailing philosophical paradigm in society – courses that alter the dominant dialectic such that currently entrenched social structures are challenged by empowering those who are traditionally excluded from such institutional and structural power relationships.”
Dean Maxwell, now three hours into the meeting, was having a difficult time understanding what the hell Pyle was talking about (not that Pyle was ever very clear about anything), nor did he much care at that point. Nevertheless, in order to appear receptive to Pyle’s urgings, he responded, “What kind of courses did you have in mind, David?”
“I would like to see courses that expose the soft underbelly of the capitalist system and challenge the moral and legal right to private property ownership.” Ronnie Moon just stood there and nodded on cue.
The Dean, who by now had just about run out of patience, deflected Pyle’s statement by suggesting that he would form a curriculum sub-committee and he would see that David Pyle was a member.
After listening to Pyle, Steele felt himself approaching critical mass. He couldn’t wait to get out of that room.
Dean Maxwell could not have been more relieved when he asked, “Does anyone have anything else he or she wishes to discuss?” and no one spoke up.
“Very well. Now before we adjourn, I want to do something a little different. I am interested in these meetings being as productive and useful as they can possibly be. However, we have all become accustomed to this forum and, as such, we may not see it as critically as we should. Sergeant Steele’s presence here tonight provides us with a wonderful opportunity to get a more objective view of things. Sergeant Steele has never attended one of our meetings, and as an adjunct, he does not have an official role in formulating school policy. Therefore, I think we can all benefit by asking Sergeant Steele to share his impressions of these proceedings with us.”
“I don’t believe this shit,” Pyle said to Ronnie Moon is a stage whisper.
“Jack, might I impose on you share your thoughts with the faculty based on your experience so far at Blackacre, including tonight’s meeting?”
Steele rose from his chair, stood at attention, and replied, “Yes Dean Maxwell, I will do that, provided I have your permission to speak freely.”
“Of course Jack, I was counting on your being completely frank.”
“Thank you, Dean Maxwell.” Most of the faculty had turned around or sideways in order to listen to Steele speak from his place in the audience. They were caught off guard when Steele walked poker-straight to the front of the room and placed himself between the Dean and the audience.
Steele again passed his gaze over the assembled faculty members before saying a word.
Finally, he began:
“I have been sitting in this gott-damned room for more than three hours, and I have heard nothing but boatloads of bullshit!”
The statement took the faculty by such surprise that their collective gasp literally sucked the air out of the room.
“That’s right. Let me tell you what I heard tonight. What I heard was three and a half hours of bitching and moaning from a bunch of people who probably would not last one gott-damned week in a real job or five gott-damned minutes in the military.
“Now, let me tell you people what I did NOT hear all gott-damned night. Not once – I repeat – Not once did I hear one word from any of you pansy asses about how the faculty might do a better job of teaching the students in this gott-damned place.
“You sorry asses ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Right about now, this room is waist-deep in self-serving horseshit. All some of you want to talk about is tenure, and on that subject let’s cut through the bullshit, shall we? While you may have convinced yourselves that having tenure will give you the opportunity to better serve the school and to make a contribution to the body of legal scholarship, you can’t bullshit me. From what I’ve seen tonight, you want tenure because, once you get it, you can work less and, at the same time, have a secure gott-damned job. You all want the lighter teaching load that comes with tenure, and that includes not having to teach as many first year classes. Hell, some of you are so eager to work less you actually have the stones to request a lighter teaching load so that you can have time to research and write in order to get tenure!
“Hell, the capper was when I heard Mr. Television over there wanting days lopped off each end of the academic calendar so that he can hobnob with network news bunnies and pretend to be a legal expert on every gott-damned legal topic under the sun. One day, he’s a criminal law expert; the next day he is an expert on civil procedure and trial tactics. Hell, one day I even saw his sorry ass on television going on and on about the law of admiralty, when the closest thing to a ship he has ever been on is a gott-damned surf board. And, we all know that this purveyor of pig shit has his two – count ‘em – two student assistants up half the gott-damned night doing research and writing his scripts so that he can come off like a television “expert.”
At that point, Stuart Ross objected, “Hey wait a minute. Who are you to talk about me like that?”
Steele shot back, “I’ll tell you who I am. I’m the son of a bitch who can see that if you have one more face lift, your nuts will be chest high, and I’m also the guy who can smell bullshit a mile away, and mister, you are full of shit up to your blue-tinted contact lenses.”
Steele paused a moment to ensure that Ross had nothing further to say. Ross just sat there, wide-eyed and speechless.
Turning his attention again to the entire group, Steele continued, “Based on all the chicken shit I heard tonight I don’t think any of you gives a rat’s ass whether the students in this place learn any gott-damned law. You’re all too busy fighting over who gets what gott-damned office and who gets to park closer to the entrance than the next sorry ass. You want the school to shit money so you can have flat screen monitors? Why? So you can squirrel yourselves away in your offices to surf the gott-damned internet? And, yeah, I almost forgot. You want a separate place to eat your gott-damned lunch so that you wont have to be near any students, who many of you seem to view as a little more than a gott-damned nuisance rather than the reason your pitiful asses are in theses cushy jobs in the first place.”
Pyle, who was sprawled out in the first row with his legs extended and crossed at the ankles, had heard enough, and said as he scratched his unshaven face, “I don’t think any of us needs a lesson from some Army jerkoff about teaching law, especially one with no teaching experience.”
The faculty, already flabbergasted by what they had been hearing, looked with horror at Pyle, who remained seated with a smirk on his face.
Steele walked up to Pyle, stood directly in front of him and said in a voice that was ratcheted up in intensity, “You snot-nosed, wise-ass punk, you get on your gott-damned feet when you talk to me.”
Pyle looked up from his seat and said, “Screw you. Who do you think you’re talking to? One of your basic trainees?”
Steele snarled, “I know exactly who I’m talking to; I’m talking to an unwashed piece of dog shit, who is not worth the sweat off a basic trainees’ ass. Now you get on your gott-damned feet before I drag you out of that chair by your ratty hair! You read me, asshole?”
The faculty members in the room, all accustomed to the genteel and relatively cloistered life of the law school, were shocked beyond belief at what was happening in the room. Still, some of them secretly were enjoying watching one of the annoying Westies getting the business from Steele.
Pyle looked around for support but only saw the fixed stares of the others in the room. He slowly rose from the chair, ran both hands through his hair and said, “So, now are you going to tell me to stand at attention?”
Steele put his face inches away from Pyle’s and roared, “No, you pathetic sack of shit. I’m not going to tell you to stand at attention, because I know that standing at attention requires a gott-damned spine, and I know sure as shit you haven’t got one.
“I listened to all you third-rate, ill-thought, immature, neo-Stalinist horseshit, and I don’t know how everyone puts up with you. And I damned sure don’t know how or why the Dean tolerates you around this place. It seems to me that, other than your pathetic, ass-kissing flunky and about a dozen students who you have conned into believing that you’re some kind of smart guy, everyone in this place recognizes you for what you are – and that’s an empty-headed, loudmouthed, unwashed, unshaven, chicken shit, asswipe who has no business teaching in a law school.”
Pyle, his voice having lost its edge, replied, “You -- someone with no teaching experience -- have no right to talk to me like that.”
“No teaching experience? Let me tell you something, Pyle. I have more than twenty gott-damned years of teaching experience. I probably have taught fifteen or twenty thousand students over the years -- only we don’t call them students; we call them trainees. And unlike the students here, they don’t come equipped with college degrees and high LSAT scores. Hell, in some cases, they don’t even have a high school diploma. And, although I didn’t have the pleasure of teaching them the niceties of contracts and civil procedure, I taught them the skills they need to effectively destroy the enemy and to stay alive in the process. I taught kids who never were in the same gott-damned room with a rifle to shoot like experts in eight weeks. I taught them how to strip down and clear a jammed rifle with their eyes closed because they might have only a few seconds in the pitch dark to do that in order to keep from being killed. I taught them how to treat everything from heat exhaustion to sucking chest wounds and how to carry a wounded buddy out of the battlefield.
“I taught them the importance of showing respect and earning respect. I taught them teamwork so that when the shit breaks loose in the bush, they know that the two most important people in the entire gott-damned world are the guys to the right and left of you and that if anyone screws up, someone gets killed. Your teaching mistakes fail the bar exam. My teaching mistakes come home in body bags. So, you little shit, don’t you tell me I have no teaching experience.”
Pyle tried to speak, but got no farther than “Well…”
Steele cut him off. “I know you teach one of the first year courses in Property, right Pyle?”
Pyle nodded his head. Steele barked, “Answer me, gott-dammit.”
“Yes,” Pyle replied, beginning to wither under Steele’s relentless pressure.
“How many students are enrolled in that class, Pyle?”
Pyle thought a moment and then replied, “I think there are 85 students in the class.”
“Well then, Pyle, why is it that when I walked past your class just two weeks into the gott-damned semester, I saw TEN students sitting in the room?”
Pyle answered, now visibly shaken, “Maybe it’s because I don’t take attendance.”
“BULLSHIT!! The reason they don’t come to your class is because it is a waste of their gott-damned time. And the reason it’s a waste of their time is because you don’t teach property law. You rattle on with your own half-assed pet theories of law that don’t have a friggin’ thing to do with what they have to know when they graduate from this place. What they all end up doing is stripping the bookstore clean of Gilbert's on Property and teaching themselves what they are paying a large chunk of change to have you teach them. Sure, your captive audience of ten groupies might think you’re a regular Cardozo, but, in truth, if you paraded your stupid bullshit in front of real lawyers, they’d laugh you out of the room. You’re a piss poor teacher, and one sorry excuse of a person.”
Pyle was beginning to feel faint.
“Oh yeah, one more thing. What is your first name, Pyle?”
In a voice that was completely devoid of defiance, Pyle answered, “My first name is David.”
Steele looked contemptuously at Pyle and said, “David is it? Not for me. From now on, your gott-damned name is GOMER.”
The room erupted in laughter, and Pyle was crushed. He knew the name would stick.
“That is all I have to say to you, GOMER. Now sit your sorry ass down.”
With that, Steele turned toward Dean Maxwell and said, “Thank you for the invitation,” and he walked to the back of the room and slowly placed his drill sergeant’s hat on his head. Once he had positioned his hat exactly right, he walked out of the room, leaving the faculty speechless and Gomer wondering if anyone would be able to see that he had wet his pants.
As Steele was walking down the hall toward the exit, he heard someone yell, “Hey Jumpmaster! Wait!”
Steele was startled to hear someone in the school refer to him as “Jumpmaster.” He turned around to see Arthur Merriweather walking in his direction. Merriweather extended his hand and said, “Jumpmaster, I’m pleased to meet you. My name is Arthur Merriweather.”
Steele shook Merriweather’s hand and asked, “How did you know that I was a jumpmaster?”
Merriweather smiled and said, “I recognized the master parachutist badge, which means that you were a jumpmaster and that you have made combat jumps.” That’s most impressive.”
Steele asked, “I sure as hell didn’t expect anyone around here to know anything about a parachutist badge. How is it that you know that?”
Merriweather smiled even broader and said, “It’s because I have a badge just like yours at home. I also served with the 101st Airborne Division, but that was many years ago.”
“No kidding. When did you serve?”
Merriweather answered, “I was one of the guys who was dropped into France behind Normandy Beach the night before D-Day. Sadly, most of the fellows I jumped with are buried over there. I don’t believe I have ever told anyone around here about that. Some of it is difficult to talk about, particularly to people who I know won’t get it.”
Steele shook Merriweather’s hand again, this time placing his left hand over the old paratrooper’s hand, and said, “It is an honor to meet you sir, and please call me Jack.”
Merriweather replied, “It is an honor to meet you, Jack. Please call me Arthur.”
Merriweather continued, “I have to tell you, Jack. You’re one helluva breath of fresh air around here. I like your style.”
Steele laughed and said, “Well, I’m glad that at least one person does. I’ve never been known to sugar coat my feelings.”
“I’ve never known a drill sergeant to behave otherwise.”
“That may be true Arthur, but I figure that there’s a good chance that I’ll get a pink slip handed to me tomorrow.”
“Not a chance. The truth is, you were absolutely on the money in there. These people have lost sight of the mission here, and that is to teach these kids what they need to know once they’re out of here and inflicting themselves on the clients of the world. From what I saw in there and from what I’ve heard about your class, you have your eye on the ball. I understand that you even give your class a periodic attitude check.”
Steele laughed loudly, “How the hell did you know that?”
“I knew it as soon as I heard two of the professors complain about hearing your students shout ‘WE LOVE THIS SHIT.”
“Hey Arthur, waddya say we go some place for a beer? I’m buying.”
“OK, but only if you promise tell me if some of my favorite saloons around Fort Bragg are still in business.”
Steele replied, “It’s a deal,” and, with that, the two jumpmasters headed out the door.
(to be continued)
~ Wednesday, April 23, 2003
The Vanishing Drug Store
A few weeks ago, we received a letter from the drug store that has been filling our prescriptions for the last 28 years. The letter said that the family-owned business had been acquired by one of the gargantuan “drug store” chains. We have three such gargantuan drug stores, each representing a different gargantuan drug store chain, all within one mile of one another in the town.
I recall first going into Nestor’s (not the real name) drug store in 1975 and meeting Mr. Nestor, the owner and pharmacist. It was a small store that derived most of its income from filling prescriptions. The store had limited shelf space on which one could find the kinds of things that one used to go to a pharmacy to buy. There were a few over the counter cough medicines, aspirins, and allergy tablets, but even then, people would tend to buy those things across the street in the supermarket. So, Nestor’s stocked the types of things that one could not find in the supermarket, such as post surgical supplies, Ace bandages and the like.
Mr. Nestor insisted on keeping accurate patient profiles and prescription histories, always on the lookout for potential dangerous drug interactions or allergies. He also made sure that he spoke with every customer about his or her prescription. He cared about his customers. I recall one night when my daughter was an infant, and she was having a very difficult time breathing, as her nose was terribly clogged. The doctor recommended that I buy a nasal aspirator. It was eleven o’clock at night, and I called Nestor’s. A recording provided an “after hours” number. I labored over whether to use the after hours number, because this was not a life threatening condition, but my daughter’s continued distress made the decision for me.
I called Mr. Nestor, apologized for bothering him and explained that I needed a nasal aspirator. He instructed me to meet him at the store in ten minutes. I remember that he showed up with an overcoat over his pajamas. He unlocked the door to the store and handed me the aspirator. I took out money to pay him, and he said, “Don’t worry about that now. Go home and take care of the baby. Pay me next time you come in.”
I never forgot that.
His pharmacy enabled him to raise a family, which included a daughter who eventually became a pharmacist herself. After graduation from pharmacy school, she worked with Mr. Nestor at the store. For the last five years or so, his daughter took over the drug store, and Mr. Nestor would come in from time to time to help out.
Within that five-year period, the manner in which drugs are provided changed drastically, with the bulk of the prescription business being covered by employer-provided prescription plans, which do not allow much of a margin for pharmacies. In addition, internet and mail order prescriptions took their toll on Nestor’s business. The final nail in the coffin came with the appearance of the three giant drug stores in town. Nestor’s daughter tried scaling back hours; she tried guaranteeing filling of prescriptions in ten minutes or less. Nothing worked.
So, as the letter stated, one of the giant stores acquired Nestor’s business. I have no doubt that what the giant wanted most and what it paid for was Nestor’s goodwill i.e. the customer list. I’m sure that it paid a pittance for Nestor’s inventory, because the giant store’s inventory of hair care products alone is probably worth more than the entire inventory of Nestor’s. Part of the deal also included a pharmacist job for Mr. Nestor’s daughter.
Last week, I had to have a prescription filled, so I drove to the giant store. Why the place is called a “drug store” escapes me, for the “drug store” part is tucked away in the back of a huge retail space where one can buy everything from every deodorant and toothpaste known to man to motor oil and Franco American Spaghetti.
Nestor’s daughter was one of the three pharmacists behind the counter. She looked miserable, decked out in her lab coat emblazoned with the Giant Store logo, as she struggled with the store’s computer. She greeted me warmly and did her best to retain her game face, as she filled the prescription. I managed to retain my game face as well, as I wished her luck. It was sad.
This morning, I walked past the old store. It is empty, and there are glitzy signs on the window, which were printed by Giant Store, saying “We’ve Moved!” and providing the address of Giant Store.
The signs lie. Nestor’s didn’t move. It vanished.
~ Saturday, April 19, 2003
By this time next week, daughter will be married, and the shindig will be in high gear. And I should be pretty well oiled. For now, it's details, details, details, details. Oy!
~ Friday, April 18, 2003
Good Friday and Granny.
Cousin Jack takes us back to a Good Friday years ago as events unfolded in his neighborhood in the Ironbound Section of Newark, better known to those from the area as “Down Neck.” This got me to thinking about a Good Friday many years ago and our grandmother, whom we always referred to as “Granny.” She was a wonderful lady, born around the turn of the century in New York City, who could always be counted on for a laugh, a large dose of encouragement, “medical” advice, or a cup of tea.
On one Good Friday, when I was in my teens, I remarked to Granny how awful the weather was on that cold, dark and rainy day. Without pausing one second, Granny replied, “It always rains on Good Friday, Sonny.”
In attempting to process Granny’s bold statement, my first reaction was to try recall past Good Fridays. In about two seconds, I came to my senses knowing that, even if by some strange statistical accident Northern New Jersey regularly got rain on Good Friday, surely it wasn’t raining everywhere on the planet. And, after all, for a twenty-four hour period, it was Good Friday everywhere on the planet. I resisted the temptation to ask Granny if she thought it was raining that day in the Sahara Desert. I did so out of love and respect, and, besides, I really didn’t want to tangle ass with Granny, particularly over matters religious.
On the religious front, Granny took no prisoners. While church attendance in my immediate family was hit or miss (we lived two towns away from the Down Neck fourplex where Jack, Granny and our other cousins lived), skipping church was not an option when Granny was around. Such was the case on those occasions when I stayed overnight at the fourplex on Saturdays. No matter how late we had been up on Saturday night, Sunday morning we would all be greeted by Granny’s command voice saying, “Get your asses out of bed and go to church” (or “choich” as Granny would pronounce it).
Granny never missed mass, but she also never missed a chance to tell a funny story, laugh hysterically at a joke, have a couple “highballs,” dispense her precious pearls of wisdom, and generally raise a little hell.
Granny passed away more than 25 years ago, but she still lives, for when family members get together, we all share our favorite Granny stories. The stories age as gracefully as Granny did. I miss her.
Oh, yeah. I’m looking out the window on this Good Friday, and you know what? It looks like rain.
~ Thursday, April 17, 2003
OK. My archives have disappeared, and all the usual stuff is not bringing them back. Definitely time to call it a night.
Wired and Tired..
Sorry, nothing tonight. I worked late, had to make a stop on the way home to pick up a formal shirt for the upcoming nuptials, and what little time was left before bleary eyes and brain fry set in was spent with Sgt. Steele. He sends his gott-damned regards and hopes to see you “friggin' dim lights” soon.
~ Wednesday, April 16, 2003
Where Have All the Yankees Gone?
Peppermint Patty shares an e-mail from an uncle who has lived in France for 40 years. He reports that the places normally frequented by Americans are “empty.”
~ Tuesday, April 15, 2003
This is the legacy of Abu Abbas, the mastermind of the hijacking of the Achille Lauro cruise ship in 1985. During the course of this crime, Leon Klinghoffer, a 69 year old American passenger who was confined to a wheelchair, was shot and thrown overboard in his wheelchair. All this was done in front of his wife.
Abu Abbas was arrested in Baghdad and is now in American custody. I cannot imagine punishment that would be too severe.
New Jersey Lawyer Will Do Time.
While the Garden State is often associated with the Sopranos and their real-life counterparts who somehow seem to evade prosecution, New Jersey does not tolerate lawyers who steal from their clients. Robert Burrick, an attorney who worked at one of New Jersey’s more prestigious law firms, was sentenced yesterday to eighteen months in federal prison for embezzling $120,000 from his former clients and from the local soccer club, where his children played, and which had elected Mr. Burrick as treasurer.
Burrick’s “distorted sense of entitlement and, to a large sense, his greed,” according to the Assistant U.S. Attorney prosecuting the case, drove Burrick’s actions. Burrick offered no explanation for his behavior other than to say that clinical depression might have played a role.
In addition to doing jail time, Mr. Burrick has lost the $400,000 per year income from his law firm, he has lost his reputation, and he will surely be disbarred, if that has not already happened. Lawyers are disbarred in New Jersey for a good deal less, and in cases of theft from clients’ trust accounts, disbarment is a virtual certainty.
I feel sorry for his children.
In New Jersey all licensed attorneys (with very few exceptions) are required to pay annually into a client security fund, the proceeds of which are used to help re-pay clients who are bilked by dishonest lawyers. I hope the fund is able to cover most, if not all, of the $30,000 that Mr. Burrick stole from the children's soccer club...
Fortunately, Mr. Burrick is the exception. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it any less sad.
~ Monday, April 14, 2003
New York City Smoking Ban.
Yesterday, Dana Blake, a bouncer in a Manhattan Night Club, was fatally stabbed as he sought to enforce New York City’s two-week old law that prohibits smoking in New York City’s saloons. The reason for the smoking ban, we are told, is that smoking is dangerous to others. It certainly did not work out well for Mr. Blake.
Now, I know that the no-smoking law did not kill Dana Blake; two punks, probably both well oiled by 2:30 a.m. did the killing. However, the incident has caused me to think a bit about the extent to which the health of others is really what drove this sledgehammer legislation. It seems to me that between smoking and booze (both of which I am fond of), booze is far and away the bigger societal problem. Consider these make-believe headlines:
Woman Found Badly Beaten
Police reported that after a night of binge smoking, the victim’s husband returned to the house in a smoking-induced rage and beat her savagely.
Bus Plunges From Bridge, Killing Dozens
The investigation into this horrible tragedy revealed that John So and So, the bus driver, had been smoking heavily before driving the bus.
Deadly Fight Breaks Out at House Party
Police responded to a loud brawl outside the home of Mr. and Mrs. So and So. The investigation revealed that several of the participants in the fight, including the victim, had been smoking heavily at the party.
Car Smashes into Pedestrians, Causing Numerous Injuries
Police reported that the driver of the car in question had been smoking just before the accident in question.
New Year Marked by Huge Vehicle Pileup Results in Multiple Fatalities
Fifteen automobiles were involved in a multiple car crash that brought traffic to a standstill for hours on Route 24. The preliminary results of the accident investigation revealed that virtually every one of the drivers involved in the accident had been smoking heavily at New Year’s Eve celebrations that were being held at various places in the state.
So, one might ask, perhaps instead of laws that ban smoking in saloons, we should have laws that ban drinking in saloons. Let me answer that intentionally silly rhetorical question for you. The only reason that booze has not been outlawed in saloons is because the beautiful people who decided that they don’t like smoke, do like cocktails. Simply put, they want to be able to drink in a smoke-free tavern, and the smokers in New York City will just have to deal with it.
To get there, the beautiful people and others who make a living from telling others how to live their lives, have taken away the ability of a bar-owner to decide, based on market forces, whether he might want to permit smoking in his establishment. If the market were to dictate that non-smoking bars were the moneymakers, they would naturally proliferate, and they would do so without the force of governmental regulation.
I know…..I know…..I know….. The purpose of the law is to protect the people who have to work in a place where people are smoking. This was a stroke of genius on the part of the beautiful people. You see, the anti-smoking law is not about them –the limousine liberals - it's really about the poor workers. Sorry, Buffy, but I don’t buy it. I would hazard a guess that for every bartender who claims to have been bothered by smoking, one can find twenty who were not bothered – many of who are smokers themselves.
I am certain that there are many jobs that are much more dangerous or potentially hazardous to one’s health than being a bartender in a saloon where patrons are permitted to smoke. I also cannot help but wonder why, if smoke truly bothers a bartender, he/she chose that career path in the first place. Further, he/she could seek employment in one of the non-smoking bars that would spring up all over the place, if we are to believe that ridding saloons of smoke is vitally important to most people and not just another bit of social engineering on the part of those with the political clout and savvy to make it happen.
Finally, I understand that there is an exception in the New York law that permits cigar bars. That just proves that the beautiful people enjoy a good cigar with their cocktails.
~ Saturday, April 12, 2003
This is just swell. Not only could I appear in a Nyquil commercial (hacking, wheezing, aches, the whole bit), but I also have conjunctivitis. For those of you who have never had the pleasure, it is “pink eye,” which comes fully equipped with itching and swollen eyelids. The best part is the nasty discharge from your eyes that turns into a sticky booger-like substance that keeps your eyes glued shut. It’s at the beginning stages, so I will be standing at attention in the doctor’s office first thing Monday morning. For now, reading the computer screen is a bit of a chore, so it’s horizontal land for Jimbo tonight.
~ Friday, April 11, 2003
This is Beyond Awful.
It seems that some truly twisted pieces of human refuse, identifying themselves as representatives of the Red Cross, are calling spouses of Marines and informing them that their spouses serving in Iraq have been killed. The Marine Corps has advised military spouses that it does not use the Red Cross for such notifications.
I hope there is a special place in hell for people who would do such a thing.
Link via Res Ipsa Loquitur.
~ Thursday, April 10, 2003
Saddam’s Naughty Bits.
Last night on one of the cable stations (Fox or CNN, I believe) I watched a segment concerning the efforts being made to take down yet another Saddam statue. This one was near the Tigris River and, like the now-famous Baghdad statue, depicted His Rottenness standing on a tall pedestal. After several unsuccessful attempts to manually take the statue down, the military people rigged C-4 explosives on the top of the pedestal, around the statue’s feet. An old fashioned fuse with an estimated detonation time of five minutes was used to set the charge, thereby providing the audience with some drama as we waited for the charge to explode without warning.
Finally, the charge exploded. There was loud bang and a good deal of smoke. When the smoke cleared, one could see that the only damage done to the statue was that Saddam’s naughty bits were blown away! How fitting. The reporter, who, up to that point was doing serious commentary, could not stifle his laughter at what was missing from Saddam. It reminded me a bit of the Johnny Carson tomahawk-throwing episode.
I am sure that someone will be posting a picture of the hilarious result.
~ Wednesday, April 09, 2003
Worked late. I have a savage cold. I missed the TV coverage of the tanks rolling into Baghdad. The couch looks very inviting. See ya tomorrow.
~ Tuesday, April 08, 2003
Last Friday, cousin Jack posted the most recent Sgt. Steele link to a bulletin board that is read by law professors across the United States. That’s when it started. My hit counter went into second gear. Then Da Goddess had nice things to say about the site, which added yet more fuel to Site Meter. Venomous Kate, at Electric Venom, who describes herself as a “martini-swilling, tobacco-smoking, SUV-driving, coffee-guzzling, card-carrying Republican armed with a Smith and Wesson and a great pair of breasts,” and who also is a lawyer, albeit one who spends her time blogging on Hawaii's beaches (definitely my kinda gal) took Da Goddess’s lead, and the hits increased yet more. Finally, The Emperor Misha from the Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiler had some very nice things to say about the Sgt. Steele saga, and the hit counter went into warp-drive.
I would like to publicly thank them all for their kind words and for sending LEGIONS of readers to check out “Master Sergeant John ‘Jack’ Steele, Adjunct Professor of Law.”
Most of all, I want to thank the many people who stopped by to read the ongoing adventures of Sgt. Steele as well as some of the other blather on this site.
If Sgt. Steele could thank anyone, he would have to thank the real drill sergeants and real law professors who I came to suffer and know at two special times in my crazy life.
Again, my most sincere thanks to everyone.
~ Monday, April 07, 2003
Citibank – Shittybank.
The time I had wanted to use to do a bit of blogging tonight went down the rat hole of running "Mr. Snowblower" (6 ½ inches of snow in farookin’ April!), shoveling a ton of wet snow from the deck, and writing a six page mondo-snotty missive to the dumbshits at Shittybank who screwed up my fancy-schmancy Master Card Account, which I might add, bears the imprimatur of the American Bar Association. These form letter sending, incompetent buffoons have been screwing around with my cruller for quite some time now, and I finally have had it. If any of you are solicited by Shittybank to obtain one of its credit cards, do yourself a huge favor. RUN AWAY!!!
~ Sunday, April 06, 2003
Given the current speculation about Saddam’s whereabouts in this world or possibly the next, I think that my post from February of this year about Saddam’s phone call seems particularly timely. I can tell you that it passed my “laugh-to-yourself-while-writing-test” in spades.
~ Saturday, April 05, 2003
It’s a chilly, rainy and generally unpleasant day today. It, therefore, seems like a good time to add some links to the bloglist from among those that I bookmarked and have been reading regularly for a while. As was the case the last time I did this, I do not believe that any of these folks need any introduction from me, but for those few out there who may not be familiar with them, here goes:
Da Goddess. A California nurse who covers all the bases from serious, thoughtful and sensitive, to hilarious, sarcastic and sexy. Besides, she is one of Rita’s cyber buddies. What’s not to like?
Mean Mr. Mustard. A Berkeley student who, by virtue of his take on things, probably is not on the “A” List of hot tub party guests. At some point, we may have to form up a Special Operations Group to rescue this guy and bring him to the Right Coast.
Curmudgeonly & Skeptical. A mixture of images and writing that is wickedly funny and which most certainly is not one of Ted Kennedy’s or Michael Moore’s “daily reads,” but it is definitely one of mine.
Power Line. A blog that is maintained by three attorneys, two from Minnesota and one from Maryland, who call themselves “Hindrocket,” “The Big Trunk,” and “Deacon.” In addition to the regular posts, which are first-class, the site also provides links to some of the authors’ articles, published by the Claremont Institute, concerning legal and social issues. Good stuff.
P.S. If William at Phact Patterns decides to begin blogging again, I will gladly return him to the list.
~ Thursday, April 03, 2003
No Need to Worry about the POWs.
We no longer have any cause to be concerned about the possible mistreatment of American POWs by the Iraqis. Al Sharpton met with Mohammed Aldouri, Iraq’s Ambassador to the United Nations, to stress the importance of Iraq’s compliance with international law. Sharpton told reporters that Aldouri assured him that "our appeal would be communicated and that he would make clear we do not want to see POWs' lives risked."
It seems the Ambassador has had a busy week. On Wednesday he was visited by Jesse Jackson.
And to think I had been worried that Iraq would not comply with international law. What would we ever do without these men?
~ Wednesday, April 02, 2003
An Excellent Lid.
Today the UPS guy delivered this really cool lid I ordered about a week ago. I learned about it from my friends Rick and Amy, a military family, over at Ground Plums & Gun Smoke. You can order one here.
For those of you who think we should still be counting chads in Florida, you can order a “My President is Al Gore” hat here (It's cheaper!). You’re sure to be a hit when the Dixie Chicks come to your town. And, you can learn about getting some electroshock therapy here.
Just so you know, I have no connection whatsoever with the hat seller or anyone who makes his or her living shooting electro-juice through someone's cruller.