I was in Pointe Coupee Parish on Inauguration Day. The courthouse in that rural venue is a squat concrete structure built by the WPA in 1939 and appears hunkered down on its square for the long haul, notwithstanding its quaint domed cupola. During Ike’s 2nd term, the clock on the courthouse cupola fetched up somehow and so --since Sputnik or thereabouts-- its been 10:05 on False River, the large oxbow lake upon which the courthouse faces. Inside, the corridors are wide with light rose hued terrazzo floors trimmed with dark green – highly polished. When you get there early—as I do—you can hear yourself making progress down the hall on those floors. The courthouse deputies there are all older men carrying coffee, many speaking to each other in French – shifting effortlessly back to English to chat with the interlopers. Some are black and some are white but none are young.
Judge Robin Free’s courtroom is on the 2nd floor and I’m set to try a petitory action there this morning – an action which will finally determine who actually and legally owns Lots 419 and 420 in Island Woods subdivision there in Pointe Coupee. This is “drywall lawyering,” I call it. It’s heavy work cutting, angling and lifting all the reams of paper required to establish title and you end up feeling dusty somehow. It’s not what I generally do, so it’s interesting. Plus, I really like my client, Len Greene, think he has the better title and I therefore plan to get the fella squatting on these lots labeled a trespasser and sent packing.
I like my Judge, too. I’ve known Robin since 1985 when he was a law clerk for another District Judge, Jack Marrioneaux, down in Iberville Parish. I defended a lady in Plaquemine, the Parish seat, who had been charged with embezzling money from the local gas company where she’d worked for 26 years. That trial took 2 weeks and so we’d gotten to know each other well then, finding ourselves bonding over several odd incidents occurring during the trial. Like what happened during voir dire. This was waaaaaay before TLC and, as a young lawyer, I had an ardent, competitive spirit in my heart toward the young ADA, Allen Myles, who I nicknamed “Bullet” because of his shaved, polished, bald, copper-brown pate. Early during the voir dire, I thought “Bullet” was making remarks which poisoned the entire venire, so I stopped the process and moved –and I have no idea where this came from-- that we conduct voir dire one sequestered juror at a time. No one else in the room, just us and the single juror. The flustered ADA—having never heard such a motion—didn’t really know what to say. Neither did I, but I said something. Judge Marrioneaux looked at his law clerk, Robin, who just shrugged. The Judge shrugged back and granted the motion after about 10 seconds of reflection. So, that’s the way we did it. It took 2 days. (We also bonded over another incident in the middle of trial where a juror told the Judge to get fucked, but that’s another story for another day. )
Judge Free and I bonded yet again in the Island Woods case he’s set to adjudicate today, too. We had an earlier hearing on who should have possession (an issue legally differentiated from ownership) of Lot 419 and we won. Given this, we promptly alleged the other fellow was encroaching on 419 from 420 and we had a survey and pictures which showed this. The other guy and his lawyer disagreed. I had the defendant on the stand, looking at my pictures showing some pretty blatant encroachment, when he said: “You know, if you’d look at MY pictures, you’d see I’m on my side of the line. They’re right here on my laptop.” He extracted his laptop from his satchel and fired it up. Judge Free and I watched as the screen lit up and he marched through the windows folders necessary to get to the pics, which appear in due course and we go through them, maneuvering the laptop onto the bench so Robin can see them clearly. Soon, Judge Free himself is scrolling through the pictures as we watch when suddenly—BANG—there’s a picture of a fat, naked dame holding a 16 ounce Bud Ice sitting on the defendant’s couch wearin’ not so much as a blush. Remaining clothed is really best for some people. A moment of silence ensues. “Oh….that’s just a friend,” says the defendant. “Mus’ be a pretty good frien’!” says the Judge, with his beautiful Cajun accent.
This sorta stuff seems to happen when I’m in front of Robin for some reason. When I left the courthouse after that hearing, I was walking to my car when I heard my name being called from amid the huge oak trees surrounding the courthouse: “Hey, Clary….Clary….” I peer through the trees to see Judge Free leaning out of an open 2nd story courthouse window, his robes fluttering in the breeze. “Well, hey, Judge, “ I say. He shakes his head at me slowly, a smile on his handsome face and we make eye contact for a moment or two. Then, he says: “Lord, Jim…are you ever gonna bring me a NORMAL case?” I allow as how I’ll try and he slips back into his chambers, shaking his head and chuckling as he slides his window down.
Anyway, it’s not a normal day today. It’s Inauguration Day, like I was sayin’. Barack Obama, our first African-American President, is being sworn in today. As I wait for my turn at bat, the morning advances laboriously through the packed docket. It will be some time before our starting gun goes off, so my client and I wander from Robin’s courtroom and across the hall to see that the double-doors to the Judges’ Conference Room are wide open. Judge Jim Best is in there. Some other folks are there, too – some black and some white. Some ladies and some men. All different ages, but a lot of older folks. They are all sitting and quietly watching a TV set up in there, which is usually used to view DWI field sobriety and attendant breath tests. Len and I wander in and join them, dragging in chairs from the corridor.
Senator Diane Feinstein is emceeing the Inauguration ritual. Joe Biden is sworn in. Then Feinstein says: “And now, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, John R. Roberts, Jr., will swear in Senator Barack Obama as President of the United States. Would you please stand?”
Judge Jim Best, his eyes riveted to the TV, slowly stands. The clerks stand. The deputies stand. Len and I stand. Everybody stands.
Nobody speaks.
Barack takes the oath, becoming President Obama before our eyes. We all remain quietly standing as we watch his Inaugural Address. When he’s done, and as the crowd on the TV reacts, everyone in the room—all unknown to me except Judge Best and my client—start shaking hands. I do too. There are tears in the eyes of some of the old African-American deputies, who struggle with their emotions, their Pointe Coupee Parish Sheriff’s Deputy caps crushed in their hands.
“Well,” Judge Best says, “Here we go.”
Indeed, sir.
Here we go, indeed.
And that was how I spent Inauguration Day.
J.R.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Departure of 2008, LSU, Hunting, Peering into 2009 and Other Salient Year-End Points
So, 2008 is over.
Good riddance, I would like to say, contaminated as 2008 was by the proximity of the 7 years preceding it. Its been a lousy decade in general, thus far, so the sooner we get one of the shitty years over, done and behind us, the better for all concerned. That's what I WANT to say, with a dismissive wave of the hand. Except that---as I get older and hear the whispers of mortality every so often in my ear---I sometimes measure out the years ever more carefully, wanting to hold onto even the shitty ones. That’s a bitch.
But, they pass anyway. The moving finger, having writ, moves on.
Some say 2008 ended in New York when that big, sparkling ball dropped in Times Square or maybe it was when that nut on a souped up motorcycle jumped over a fake Arc de Triomphe in Vegas. The fact that 2008 escaped into the mists of history is undeniable even though I admit to being asleep at the time...which says more about where I am in my earthly walk at this point in my life than anything else, probably. Its departure was in all the papers, I do know that. You could look it up.
Actually, I think the year started to make its getaway in the Atlanta darkness while the LSU Fightin’ Tigers were giving the Orkin treatment to a vaunted Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets top ranked triple-option team in the Chik-fil-A Peach Bowl. Let us not study upon that LSU victory too assiduously lest we find ourselves “living in the past,” like the old folks.
We should turn our eyes forward…..to the future.
Before we DO that, though, we probably should nonetheless mention that LSU won the nationally televised contest 38-3 and played the last quarter and a half with 2nd and 3rd Teamers. It probably wouldn’t hurt to recollect that the Yellow Jackets had the No. 3 offense in the country, with a finely honed, sparkling triple option attack – a menacing, relentless attack that had mowed down Tech’s opponents all year. I see no reason not to observe, in all humility, that the Bayou Bengals stuffed that triple option attack into an old brown grocery bag and beat these self-styled ACC Tech wonder-boys like a series of rented mules.
Truly, though, that’s enough.
We should turn our gaze toward the horizon and reflect upon the august majesty of the FUTURE, hoping that 2009 will usher in the beginning of a beautiful new era….except, before we get all paralyzed with forward-lookin' reflection, maybe we should remember that LSU started a true freshman QB, Jordan Jefferson, who was named the 2008 Peach Bowl MVP. After we do all THAT, we can embrace the future, plant our feet and affect a steely-eyed Robert Mitchum gaze and what not.
You don’t want to rush into those sorts of planted stares, however.
You might take a pre-stare moment to observe that LSU totally wrecked Tech early, building a 35-3 lead by halftime on its way to a 38-3 pump-handle beating, handing the 14th-ranked Yellow Jackets their most lopsided loss in three seasons of football. Then you can stare all you want.
I spend a lot of reflective, solitary hours in the woods hunting whitetail deer at the end of every year. Although I have a fancy-shmancy custom built rifle that’s a beauty to behold, I more frequently shoulder my old misbehaving 30-06 as part of my hunting get-up, which includes an orange cap with fluffy ear muffs. Sadly, I am not kidding. I expect to receive any day a cease-and-desist order from Warner Brothers for co-opting the trademarked Elmer Fudd “look.”
I don’t like to fire my rifle very much anymore. For one thing, it’s loud and I’ve come to appreciate silence far more than when I was a younger man. For another, killing living creatures has long since lost whatever odd allure it once occupied in my heart. Unless, I am out of venison. Then, all bets are off. I didn’t claw my way to the top of the food chain to survive on vegetables.
I do like spending that special time with my Dad, however. Experiencing Jimmy Clary’s youthful 75-year-old exuberance while on the hunt or while we’re knockin’ around our camp keeps me constantly tickled. He says stuff that somebody ought to be writing down.
Like the time we were cooking white beans in the camp kitchen.
“Man, I love white beans,” one of the guys hunting with us observed, standing behind Pop as he stirred the pot. “But, white beans give me gas. Do white beans give you gas, Jimmy?”
“Sheeeit,” came Jimmy’s distracted reply. “I’m over 70. The purest Kentwood Spring Water gives me gas.”
See? Somebody needs to write that shit down.
Another reason why I rarely squeeze the trigger on my old Ruger 30-06 is because –somehow—the weapon comes with its own laugh track and is a near cousin to the Allen Pepperbox Revolver carried by a guy named Bemis, who traveled West by stagecoach with Mark Twain. As Twain recollected:
“George Bemis . . . wore in his belt an old original "Allen" revolver, such as irreverent people called a "pepper-box." Simply drawing the trigger back, one thence cocked and fired the pistol. As the trigger came back, the hammer would begin to rise and the barrel to turn over, and presently down would drop the hammer, and away would speed the ball. To aim along the turning barrel and hit the thing aimed at was a feat which was probably never done with an "Allen" in the world. But George's was a reliable weapon, nevertheless, because, as one of the stage-drivers afterward said, "If she didn't get what she went after, she would fetch something else." And so she did. She went after a deuce of spades nailed against a tree, once, and fetched a mule standing about thirty yards to the left of it. Bemis did not want the mule; but the owner came out with a double-barreled shotgun and persuaded him to buy it, anyhow. It was a cheerful weapon--the "Allen." Sometimes all its six barrels would go off at once, and then there was no safe place in all the region round about, but behind it…” ---- Mark Twain, Roughing It
I would say this adequately sums up my 30-06. Many a whitetail has looked up after I have loudly launched a round downrange toward his general area. As the ovine scampers unmarred into the thick woods, I can imagine him muttering: “What in the fuck was THAT whistling by my haunches, several feet to the left?!?”
But, I digress.
I must shed my Elmer Fudd persona and return to the Robert Mitchum glare….not the baggy-eyed look he had when he was arrested in a hazy swirl of marijuana smoke back in the day, but the dreamy gaze he had on the 1955 movie poster for Man With the Gun.
Good riddance, I would like to say, contaminated as 2008 was by the proximity of the 7 years preceding it. Its been a lousy decade in general, thus far, so the sooner we get one of the shitty years over, done and behind us, the better for all concerned. That's what I WANT to say, with a dismissive wave of the hand. Except that---as I get older and hear the whispers of mortality every so often in my ear---I sometimes measure out the years ever more carefully, wanting to hold onto even the shitty ones. That’s a bitch.
But, they pass anyway. The moving finger, having writ, moves on.
Some say 2008 ended in New York when that big, sparkling ball dropped in Times Square or maybe it was when that nut on a souped up motorcycle jumped over a fake Arc de Triomphe in Vegas. The fact that 2008 escaped into the mists of history is undeniable even though I admit to being asleep at the time...which says more about where I am in my earthly walk at this point in my life than anything else, probably. Its departure was in all the papers, I do know that. You could look it up.
Actually, I think the year started to make its getaway in the Atlanta darkness while the LSU Fightin’ Tigers were giving the Orkin treatment to a vaunted Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets top ranked triple-option team in the Chik-fil-A Peach Bowl. Let us not study upon that LSU victory too assiduously lest we find ourselves “living in the past,” like the old folks.
We should turn our eyes forward…..to the future.
Before we DO that, though, we probably should nonetheless mention that LSU won the nationally televised contest 38-3 and played the last quarter and a half with 2nd and 3rd Teamers. It probably wouldn’t hurt to recollect that the Yellow Jackets had the No. 3 offense in the country, with a finely honed, sparkling triple option attack – a menacing, relentless attack that had mowed down Tech’s opponents all year. I see no reason not to observe, in all humility, that the Bayou Bengals stuffed that triple option attack into an old brown grocery bag and beat these self-styled ACC Tech wonder-boys like a series of rented mules.
Truly, though, that’s enough.
We should turn our gaze toward the horizon and reflect upon the august majesty of the FUTURE, hoping that 2009 will usher in the beginning of a beautiful new era….except, before we get all paralyzed with forward-lookin' reflection, maybe we should remember that LSU started a true freshman QB, Jordan Jefferson, who was named the 2008 Peach Bowl MVP. After we do all THAT, we can embrace the future, plant our feet and affect a steely-eyed Robert Mitchum gaze and what not.
You don’t want to rush into those sorts of planted stares, however.
You might take a pre-stare moment to observe that LSU totally wrecked Tech early, building a 35-3 lead by halftime on its way to a 38-3 pump-handle beating, handing the 14th-ranked Yellow Jackets their most lopsided loss in three seasons of football. Then you can stare all you want.
I spend a lot of reflective, solitary hours in the woods hunting whitetail deer at the end of every year. Although I have a fancy-shmancy custom built rifle that’s a beauty to behold, I more frequently shoulder my old misbehaving 30-06 as part of my hunting get-up, which includes an orange cap with fluffy ear muffs. Sadly, I am not kidding. I expect to receive any day a cease-and-desist order from Warner Brothers for co-opting the trademarked Elmer Fudd “look.”
I don’t like to fire my rifle very much anymore. For one thing, it’s loud and I’ve come to appreciate silence far more than when I was a younger man. For another, killing living creatures has long since lost whatever odd allure it once occupied in my heart. Unless, I am out of venison. Then, all bets are off. I didn’t claw my way to the top of the food chain to survive on vegetables.
I do like spending that special time with my Dad, however. Experiencing Jimmy Clary’s youthful 75-year-old exuberance while on the hunt or while we’re knockin’ around our camp keeps me constantly tickled. He says stuff that somebody ought to be writing down.
Like the time we were cooking white beans in the camp kitchen.
“Man, I love white beans,” one of the guys hunting with us observed, standing behind Pop as he stirred the pot. “But, white beans give me gas. Do white beans give you gas, Jimmy?”
“Sheeeit,” came Jimmy’s distracted reply. “I’m over 70. The purest Kentwood Spring Water gives me gas.”
See? Somebody needs to write that shit down.
Another reason why I rarely squeeze the trigger on my old Ruger 30-06 is because –somehow—the weapon comes with its own laugh track and is a near cousin to the Allen Pepperbox Revolver carried by a guy named Bemis, who traveled West by stagecoach with Mark Twain. As Twain recollected:
“George Bemis . . . wore in his belt an old original "Allen" revolver, such as irreverent people called a "pepper-box." Simply drawing the trigger back, one thence cocked and fired the pistol. As the trigger came back, the hammer would begin to rise and the barrel to turn over, and presently down would drop the hammer, and away would speed the ball. To aim along the turning barrel and hit the thing aimed at was a feat which was probably never done with an "Allen" in the world. But George's was a reliable weapon, nevertheless, because, as one of the stage-drivers afterward said, "If she didn't get what she went after, she would fetch something else." And so she did. She went after a deuce of spades nailed against a tree, once, and fetched a mule standing about thirty yards to the left of it. Bemis did not want the mule; but the owner came out with a double-barreled shotgun and persuaded him to buy it, anyhow. It was a cheerful weapon--the "Allen." Sometimes all its six barrels would go off at once, and then there was no safe place in all the region round about, but behind it…” ---- Mark Twain, Roughing It
I would say this adequately sums up my 30-06. Many a whitetail has looked up after I have loudly launched a round downrange toward his general area. As the ovine scampers unmarred into the thick woods, I can imagine him muttering: “What in the fuck was THAT whistling by my haunches, several feet to the left?!?”
But, I digress.
I must shed my Elmer Fudd persona and return to the Robert Mitchum glare….not the baggy-eyed look he had when he was arrested in a hazy swirl of marijuana smoke back in the day, but the dreamy gaze he had on the 1955 movie poster for Man With the Gun.
Now, THAT’S a “look,” an affected countenance appropriate for peering into 2009.
Being in the winter woods is a good time for peering too. You can hear your own breathing when you quietly slip into the pre-dawn loam. I like watching the new day seep silently into the forest, waiting to hear the first bird announce his presence with some distinctive call, which ---I am reliably informed by the bird experts--- is an announcement roughly translating into: “Hey, all you other dickhead birds. This tree here is mine and so is everything else I can see. I mean EVERYthing. That worm? Those bugs? Those dames? ALL mine! Capish? If any other of you pissbubbles come into my territory, I am gonna open a can of whupass on you similar to the brutal beating given to the Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets by a rejuvenated LSU Fightin’ Tiger Team in the 2008 Chik-fil-A Peach Bowl!”
I believe I have the translation recited correctly.
Anyway…the point is that the end-of-the-year holidays have relaxed their annual grip around my windpipe. I feel the clammy fingers receding, as if 2008 is whispering to me: “OK, OK….you win for now, J.R. We’ll let you make it through another winter…but…..one day you’ll be tired and we’ll be game. As Joe Louis said about Billy Conn, J.R., you can RUN but you can’t HIDE. Not forever. One day we are gonna open a can of whupass on you similar to the brutal beating given to the Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets by a rejuvenated LSU Fightin’ Tiger Team in the 2008 Chik-fil-A Peach Bowl.”
That’s what I hear in the woods.
Or, maybe it was just a bird.
---J.R.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
A Friend of Mine Died Last Week
A young friend of mine died last week. He was supposed to be with us at a mid-December long weekend Retreat held for the Alumni of the Trial Lawyers College. He bought his plane ticket, but he never called and he never showed. His family found him in his apartment on the Tuesday after that Retreat weekend, alone and dead.
My friend struggled with alcohol and ---in the end--- lost that lonely struggle. Of course, the devastating loss was sad and tragic and left all of us at sea emotionally. However, the news chilled the base of my spine for entirely different reasons.
On an earlier Alumni Board Retreat weekend some years ago, I accidentally shared a TLC-style room with Mark. I say the room-sharing was accidental because, upon my arrival, I poked my head into the room looking for someone I knew, perhaps a Class of 2002 pal. Mark was already in the room and greeted me warmly. Although I scarcely knew him, he called me by name. How was my trip? Had I any difficulty in locating the joint? Suitcase still in hand, I intended to chat amiably for a bit and then look for another room occupied by someone I knew. But, I never did. Instead, I threw my bag onto the unused bed while we exchanged pleasantries and that was that.
We talked late into the night on the 2 evenings we were together. This was the first time I'd ever spent any time with him because I regarded him as quirky and different. He knew I had been in Recovery for many years and he was curious about my story. I related it in the dark, almost by rote, not realizing at that time that he was in a knife fight in a dark room with his own demons. To be honest, at least one incident over that weekend led me to suspect my friend may have been a candidate for admission to my club. Notwithstanding that radar blip, I did not press him. We’re taught Recovery is a program of attraction, not promotion. We do not corral or give advice. We just share our own experience, strength and hope. Thus, the conversation meandered onto other subjects. As I listened to him from my little single bed across our shared room, one could determine quickly that the guy was bright and inquisitive. He was kind and caring about who I was as a person. We talked about relationships and agreed they were hard, requiring a type of effort and work which often eluded us completely. We discovered we both liked to read and we talked books. After that weekend, a book would occasionally show up in the mail from my friend, with a quickly jotted note: You’ll like this, J.R. –Mark
During the next summer, at a Grad Program, we shared a powerful session where I helped direct a psychodrama in which my friend was a protagonist. Because of the connection forged earlier, he asked for my help in that session. Whenever I saw him after that, he was always the first one to come up to me and say hello -- always the first one to reach out. I would chat with him, secretly wondering how much time I should devote to the conversation so that the accepted conventions of social correctness could be observed. Then, I would bolt. In more recent months, it was mentioned that he was "struggling" and "having problems" and more gradually still it was mentioned that he had an "alcohol problem."
I heard all this. I knew it. And, knowing of my friend's struggles as I did and knowing how alcohol had debilitated and nearly ruined me, I never once reached out to my friend as he had reached out to me.
That chill at the base of my spine? I knew what it was as soon as I felt it.
It was wrenching regret and shame.
So....I'm remembering this morning what John Nolte would often say to me when my burning regret and shame percolated into the open during a drama:
"Just feel that, J.R."
My friend struggled with alcohol and ---in the end--- lost that lonely struggle. Of course, the devastating loss was sad and tragic and left all of us at sea emotionally. However, the news chilled the base of my spine for entirely different reasons.
On an earlier Alumni Board Retreat weekend some years ago, I accidentally shared a TLC-style room with Mark. I say the room-sharing was accidental because, upon my arrival, I poked my head into the room looking for someone I knew, perhaps a Class of 2002 pal. Mark was already in the room and greeted me warmly. Although I scarcely knew him, he called me by name. How was my trip? Had I any difficulty in locating the joint? Suitcase still in hand, I intended to chat amiably for a bit and then look for another room occupied by someone I knew. But, I never did. Instead, I threw my bag onto the unused bed while we exchanged pleasantries and that was that.
We talked late into the night on the 2 evenings we were together. This was the first time I'd ever spent any time with him because I regarded him as quirky and different. He knew I had been in Recovery for many years and he was curious about my story. I related it in the dark, almost by rote, not realizing at that time that he was in a knife fight in a dark room with his own demons. To be honest, at least one incident over that weekend led me to suspect my friend may have been a candidate for admission to my club. Notwithstanding that radar blip, I did not press him. We’re taught Recovery is a program of attraction, not promotion. We do not corral or give advice. We just share our own experience, strength and hope. Thus, the conversation meandered onto other subjects. As I listened to him from my little single bed across our shared room, one could determine quickly that the guy was bright and inquisitive. He was kind and caring about who I was as a person. We talked about relationships and agreed they were hard, requiring a type of effort and work which often eluded us completely. We discovered we both liked to read and we talked books. After that weekend, a book would occasionally show up in the mail from my friend, with a quickly jotted note: You’ll like this, J.R. –Mark
During the next summer, at a Grad Program, we shared a powerful session where I helped direct a psychodrama in which my friend was a protagonist. Because of the connection forged earlier, he asked for my help in that session. Whenever I saw him after that, he was always the first one to come up to me and say hello -- always the first one to reach out. I would chat with him, secretly wondering how much time I should devote to the conversation so that the accepted conventions of social correctness could be observed. Then, I would bolt. In more recent months, it was mentioned that he was "struggling" and "having problems" and more gradually still it was mentioned that he had an "alcohol problem."
I heard all this. I knew it. And, knowing of my friend's struggles as I did and knowing how alcohol had debilitated and nearly ruined me, I never once reached out to my friend as he had reached out to me.
That chill at the base of my spine? I knew what it was as soon as I felt it.
It was wrenching regret and shame.
So....I'm remembering this morning what John Nolte would often say to me when my burning regret and shame percolated into the open during a drama:
"Just feel that, J.R."
Stand By to Come About?
It's like I was sayin' to a friend of mine this morning.....you never know what will prompt the winds of change. Or, what might offer the impetus to start a Blog. For me, it turned out to be all the shrieking bullshit about Obama's invitation of Rick Warren to give the invocation at the Inaugural. I saw this snippet in an AP story this morning ---about how Rev. Warren "loves" gays while he nonetheless opposes their "lifestyle" (as if it's chosen), opposes gay marriage and sounds all the other Anita Bryant echoes from the Moral Majority's halcyon Reagan days.
Of all the guys Barack could've picked to offer the invocation, I thought, he picks THIS cat?
Why?
Commencing with the 5th 'graph of the AP story, the following was noted:
Obama defended his choice on Thursday, saying that he has also invited Joseph Lowery, a Methodist minister and civil rights leader who supports same-sex marriage and gay rights, to deliver the benediction.
"During the course of the entire inaugural festivities, there are going to be a wide range of viewpoints that are presented. And that's how it should be, because that's what America's about. That's part of the magic of this country ... we are diverse and noisy and opinionated," Obama said.
Now, is it just me, but could this be the moment in time upon which we later look back and peg as the precursor-tick-of-the-clock during which we flicked on our national blinker and moved out of the gridlocked, "politics-as-usual" lane and into a "faster lane" marked by a good faith, no bullshit attempts at bipartisanship? For that lane change to work, somebody has to go first, right? Somebody has to give a little -- perhaps on only insignificant points at first or on fronts involving more style over substance.
Is Obama leading here, I found myself thinking?
Nahhh....humans are venal creatures. Surely, the other side will screw it up. Instead of recognizing what is offered as the gift it is, the other guys will instead lick their party-polemic chops over the political give and use that opportunity to make some political hay out of the giving. That's the way it's done in D.C.
I went on to the Sports Page. As I tried to concentrate on a waning 2008 - 09 college football season which left my LSU Tigers mired in unexpected mediocrity and sweeping the SEC basement, I found my mind wandering...
Well....what if?
What if this WAS a gift to the other side?
And, what if, when the gift was given and abused.....what if SOMEbody was willing to avoid the tit-for-tat response so familiar to us and give a little again -- not on core issues at first....but SOMEwhere.
Is that what you're doing, Barack?
Could such an approach possibly lead to some type of new understanding blossoming within the giant heart of the American people? Could we, as a people, be led by Obama's initial choice here ---a tiny, baby step--- to ruminate upon magnitude of what's being attempted? Could such an understanding, evolving little by little over time, force the other side to get REAL....not because they want to, necessarily, but because to do otherwise is antithetical to the evolving will of the people? Could such an approach ---demonstrated by Barack here at this early point on a largely symbolic, meaningless front--- foreshadow a long needed evolution of old-school, tit-for-tat party politics?
Could all of this mark the germination of a simple idea: Entrenched, Washington siege warfare is now simply "bad politics"?
Could Obama be that smart?
I was up at my hunting camp this weekend with my Dad, 75 years old, and a died-in-the-wool conservative Republican with all the predilections and prejudices of his Pre- World War II upbringing. This topic came up. I think even a conservative guy like Jimmy recognized something different about the way Obama has come out of the gate. He says to me, out of the blue: "You know, son, the election is over. I remember when Bush won, the comment from the Republicans to the Gore people and later to the Kerry people was for them to 'get over it.' Well, now, the Republicans have to 'get over it.' We have a lot of work to do and this man is now Our President. Barack Obama is MY President and I really feel a duty to help the guy. Everybody needs to get on board, is the way I see it."
I was a little stunned -- not because of the Old Man's acceptance of the outcome of the election -- but by his willingness to grab an oar in the new guy's boat and to NOT "buy into" the usual junior high sort of political back-biting and 2nd guessing which has often followed a change in either the Executive or the national legislature.
What does it all mean?
Could it mean a shift in the winds, sensed by Obama -- who now quickly moves to foster the change by adjusting his political sails to catch the new direction of the breeze?
Are we about to hear: "All hands on deck, prepare to come about!"
Or, should I just sign this initial Blog Entry: Pollyanna?
J.R.
Of all the guys Barack could've picked to offer the invocation, I thought, he picks THIS cat?
Why?
Commencing with the 5th 'graph of the AP story, the following was noted:
Obama defended his choice on Thursday, saying that he has also invited Joseph Lowery, a Methodist minister and civil rights leader who supports same-sex marriage and gay rights, to deliver the benediction.
"During the course of the entire inaugural festivities, there are going to be a wide range of viewpoints that are presented. And that's how it should be, because that's what America's about. That's part of the magic of this country ... we are diverse and noisy and opinionated," Obama said.
Now, is it just me, but could this be the moment in time upon which we later look back and peg as the precursor-tick-of-the-clock during which we flicked on our national blinker and moved out of the gridlocked, "politics-as-usual" lane and into a "faster lane" marked by a good faith, no bullshit attempts at bipartisanship? For that lane change to work, somebody has to go first, right? Somebody has to give a little -- perhaps on only insignificant points at first or on fronts involving more style over substance.
Is Obama leading here, I found myself thinking?
Nahhh....humans are venal creatures. Surely, the other side will screw it up. Instead of recognizing what is offered as the gift it is, the other guys will instead lick their party-polemic chops over the political give and use that opportunity to make some political hay out of the giving. That's the way it's done in D.C.
I went on to the Sports Page. As I tried to concentrate on a waning 2008 - 09 college football season which left my LSU Tigers mired in unexpected mediocrity and sweeping the SEC basement, I found my mind wandering...
Well....what if?
What if this WAS a gift to the other side?
And, what if, when the gift was given and abused.....what if SOMEbody was willing to avoid the tit-for-tat response so familiar to us and give a little again -- not on core issues at first....but SOMEwhere.
Is that what you're doing, Barack?
Could such an approach possibly lead to some type of new understanding blossoming within the giant heart of the American people? Could we, as a people, be led by Obama's initial choice here ---a tiny, baby step--- to ruminate upon magnitude of what's being attempted? Could such an understanding, evolving little by little over time, force the other side to get REAL....not because they want to, necessarily, but because to do otherwise is antithetical to the evolving will of the people? Could such an approach ---demonstrated by Barack here at this early point on a largely symbolic, meaningless front--- foreshadow a long needed evolution of old-school, tit-for-tat party politics?
Could all of this mark the germination of a simple idea: Entrenched, Washington siege warfare is now simply "bad politics"?
Could Obama be that smart?
I was up at my hunting camp this weekend with my Dad, 75 years old, and a died-in-the-wool conservative Republican with all the predilections and prejudices of his Pre- World War II upbringing. This topic came up. I think even a conservative guy like Jimmy recognized something different about the way Obama has come out of the gate. He says to me, out of the blue: "You know, son, the election is over. I remember when Bush won, the comment from the Republicans to the Gore people and later to the Kerry people was for them to 'get over it.' Well, now, the Republicans have to 'get over it.' We have a lot of work to do and this man is now Our President. Barack Obama is MY President and I really feel a duty to help the guy. Everybody needs to get on board, is the way I see it."
I was a little stunned -- not because of the Old Man's acceptance of the outcome of the election -- but by his willingness to grab an oar in the new guy's boat and to NOT "buy into" the usual junior high sort of political back-biting and 2nd guessing which has often followed a change in either the Executive or the national legislature.
What does it all mean?
Could it mean a shift in the winds, sensed by Obama -- who now quickly moves to foster the change by adjusting his political sails to catch the new direction of the breeze?
Are we about to hear: "All hands on deck, prepare to come about!"
Or, should I just sign this initial Blog Entry: Pollyanna?
J.R.
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