I’ve been “in irons” lately – my bow so close upon the wind that all headway ceases. As even the novice sailor knows, “irons” await when sailing into the wind without tacking. The illusion of motion remains, of course. One can feel the wind. There may be waves roundabout and the motion of the living sea surges beneath your hull. But, in truth, you are not moving at all. You are dead in the water – your boom loose, your sail listless and unfilled.
Until very recently, my irons went unnoticed, I imagine because the mere illusion of motion was inexplicably enough for me. However, recent postings about Trial Lawyers College (TLC) in a variety of venues have caused me to consult my internal GPS. Confirming a troubling lack of headway, I’ve reached for my boom and tiller – pushed them away from me – a counter-intuitive sailing move designed to reverse and turn your bow. Once the bow moves along the compass slightly, the sailor can pull in the mainsheet sharply, confidently draw in the tiller and off he will go.
I think I just heard my sail pop as it filled with wind.
The search for a word perfect for the situation at hand prompted my personal GPS consult. I needed a word to properly assess and describe a variety of recent postings about Trial Lawyers College – postings which mimic what used to be called “investigative journalism” but which are really just shallow imitations of Westbrook Pegler – a gentleman of the press once properly characterized as “the shrill, stuck whistle of American Journalism.”
Anyway, I found the word.
The word is: “Horseshit.”
There is a shrill, stuck whistle reverberating through the TLC firmament. The whistle poses as an investigative alarm and directs its focus toward people and personalities and TLC Boards and tax returns and leases and other such matters. These points are "investigated" with such erudition that one could be forgiven for assuming there was some palpable substance to the sound. That is the very nature of sound and fury, of course. This faux alarm whips up the ambient wind and leads people to conclude that SOMETHING must be up in light of all the hubbub. Amid such sound and fury, people bemoan the status quo, resign from Boards, decry materialism or the corrosive nature of “ TLC politics” – all while wringing their hands about thongs and such.
As a civil plaintiff trial lawyer, I have no trouble with alarms as a concept. How many products liability cases have I won wearing the fragrant garland of DESIGN – GUARD – WARN? Alarms are critical when a manufacturer can neither “design out” an identifiable danger nor adequately guard a consumer against that danger. In those situations, an “alarm” of some type is imperative. So, I get that.
Moreover, I have nothing but admiration in my heart for a free and unfettered press. America needs persistent watchdogs in the press asking the hard questions and irritating the power structure. Such overview, scrutiny and revelation keeps folks responsible for the Public Fisc honest…..or, in Louisiana, close enough to what might reasonably pass for honest. I secured a Journalism degree at LSU long before I somehow crowbarred my way into law school. Thus, the press has no greater champion than me – even when they sometimes get it wrong. If motives are pure, I’ll opt for revelation every time. Honest mistakes keep those in power with their hands on the Pepto-Bismol.
What’s true for alarms and journalism in general is probably also true for TLC, specifically. I get that too.
Of course, as Glenn Beck has so sagely taught us, there’s a difference between purely motivated revelation and old-fashioned horseshit.
So, how does one counter persistent, shrill horseshit anyway – particularly when presented eloquently? You cannot simply squelch it, for that tramples the right of every citizen to insert his two cents of horseshit into the American marketplace of ideas, even when it’s worth considerably less than that sum. You cannot intellectually counter it without descending into an abyss pre-defined by horseshit-spreader. This is why celebrities rarely sue The Globe or The Examiner or The National Enquirer. I mean….is there really any point to Brad Pitt suing over a story about how he is in cahoots with alien Scientologists seeking to impregnate teenage orphans?
Instead, I guess we simply have to think for ourselves and tune in to our own intuitive feelings on the points raised – feelings based upon our own experience. That might be a start.
Insofar as TLC is concerned, I am blessed to have had personal interaction with all of the folks named recently in blog-postings finding wide dissemination these days -- including Gerry. Some are dear friends. Some were TLC ’02 classmates. Some are on the TLC Board. I have been close to these TLC people over a considerable period of time. Thus, I have seen them at their best and I have seen them coast occasionally and I have seen them make the occasional misstep – just as I sometimes coast and just as I make my own daily missteps.
However, I will tell you what I have never seen. I have never seen ANY of them engage in wantonly selfish conduct with the goal of “using” TLC to secure personal enrichment. To anyone who says otherwise, I say: SHOW ME. The stuff I have seen written recently doesn’t demonstrate a damn thing, except that some people yearn to become transitorily relevant by shitting in their hands and throwing it, like chimps at the zoo.
Anyone who thinks that Gerry Spence is “using” TLC as a personal profit center is an imbecile. Any inference of this type is simply foolish. This is my considered opinion based upon personal observations cataloged over an extended period of time and in situations not open to all. Gerry Spence is human and has made mistakes -- just like you and me. His words and his record over the long haul, though, reveal an honest devotion to TLC's mission --- a life path in which much more has been GIVEN to The College and its Alumni over 15 years than has ever been TAKEN. So, please......save the "Spence-self-interest" conspiracy theories for the nuts with tin foil on their heads (to prevent the satellites from invading their thoughts) who love to "explain" how the CIA blew up the Twin Towers in New York on 9-11-01.
Anyone who concludes that the owners of the Thunderhead should just give The Ranch to TLC “and be done with it” are as selfish as toddlers and about as deep. When was the last time THEY gave anything possessing such immense value to anyone or anything? Here’s the answer: Never. But, it’s so easy to suggest that others do what they have never accomplished or considered. Too bad Huey Long isn’t still around as he could have recruited them to join his Share Our Wealth Party. Then, they could sit around and divide up the patrimony of others -- a delightful pastime if you have the stomach for such as that. (Do they like reeling in fish that others have hooked too?)
Anyone who thinks that TLC could secure another facility like Thunderhead for anything remotely approaching the lease terms currently in place is so ignorant of the market in this area that further discourse on the point would be wasted on such a rube. Look around and see what 250 acre (+ or -) Wyoming ranches with abundant water surrounded by non-developable Wildlife Preserve acreage are leasing for – IF you can find one. Then, take a gander at what they SELL for – remembering that, after you purchase the place, you STILL have to maintain the whole shebang. Assuming you did not have the do-re-mi to BUY such a joint – which the College does not – what would you have to borrow to make the purchase (assuming you could find a lender) and what would the attendant debt service costs be? Does any thinking person truly believe -- but for the provisions made for TLC by The Spence Foundation – our College would have access to anything like the facilities currently enjoyed? Please. We'd be in a Strip Mall in Lander.
Anyone who thinks ---just because Gerry’s attaches his name to TLC—that Spence should therefore be obligated to reach for his wallet and un-ass the full sum required to run the College is as stupid as he is short-sighted. Gerry’s contributions to TLC are immense. Nonetheless, some are apparently able to keep a straight face and state that---in addition to all that’s been done thus far—Spence should now part with millions he sweated to earn to either support or endow TLC. Such a vapid assessment ignores the manifest truth, which is this: Trial Lawyers College must learn to support itself. And, we will either embrace our responsibilities in that regard or we will perish. I am betting we will “cowboy up” and do what needs to be done, although we will do it carrying the horseshit-spreaders on our muscled backs.
Anyone who thinks that a foundation owning a Wyoming Ranch worth many millions of dollars should lease that facility to some entity (ANY entity) without a mechanism of prompt lease revocation is a piteous simpleton. It would be completely irresponsible to effect a lease on a property such as Thunderhead without a codicil of that type. Including language of that character is good lawyering, which fairly protects the owner of an immensely valuable property. The shrill skeptics say that such a clause allows the owning coalition to give TLC the boot once Gerry dies and is no longer the moving force behind that Foundation. Uhhhh....OK. So? Quit whining. When you've been given a lease-venue like Thunderhead in which to operate for the artificially depressed price assessed to TLC, this is a chance you take. Is it a realistic, looming possibility -- one that will pull the rug from beneath the College at any moment? The record of those involved in the ownership of Thunderhead shows it is NOT. But, it does give those who wish to become transitorily TLC-relevant a platform to sew cynicism and discord for their own purposes.
Anyone who bemoans the raising of funds from our own ranks to support TLC—even though it calls upon Warrior-volunteers to perennially pinch their own pocketbooks—does not understand what it takes for TLC to remain independent. Instead, they want “Daddy” to simply buy them the shiny new convertible. Similarly, anyone who spends time gazing upon lists of TLC donors so as to pronounce judgment on their true level of commitment to the College is engaging in a form of ignorant stone-throwing usually reserved to the sole province of 9th grade girls.
And, now that I mention it…..what are the horseshit-spreaders doing to suggest pragmatic mechanisms through which money might be raised to support the College?
Not a thing.
They actuate nothing.
They innovate nothing.
They plan nothing.
They brainstorm nothing.
They solve nothing.
Instead, they do the only thing people can do when they are bereft of true ideas: They embrace their transitory relevance through the ancient art of unremitting criticism. So, hooray for the criticizing horseshit-spreaders! They are as valuable as parasitic deer ticks.
But, I digress.
Anyone who succumbs to the vapors because TLC merchandise includes a thong carrying the College logo needs to have a sense-of-humor transplant, for cryin’ out loud. Anyone who thinks that such an item of merchandise somehow denigrates women is just spoiling for an argument over nothing.
Anyone who would pound their soap box because the TLC Board of Directors is not “elected” by the Alumni so misunderstands the basic methodology through which Non-Profits staff their Boards that illuminating the reality for them would begin much as Vince Lombardi commenced each one of his Packer Training Camps: “Gentlemen,” Lombardi would say, holding up a pigskin before his rookies. “THIS is a football.” TLC is not a traditional for-profit corporation, with a Board selected by shareholders, who are thus pledged to act in a manner designed to increase corporate stock prices and spur dividends. Non-Profit Board Members are routinely recruited and INVITED to join – usually by other members of the Board or the Executive Director or by other corporate officers. Anyone having rudimentary experience with non-profits knows this. That being so, any person who would intimate there is something dark and malignant in what is—in truth—wholly routine is….well…he’s Glenn Beck is who he is.
One could go on, of course. But, what is the point of arguing with The National Enquirer and the claim that a photo of Elvis cured the cancer in Jack Kennedy’s brain, which is alive in a jar somewhere?
My ongoing experience at Trial Lawyers College has evolved into one of the most important phases of my life. I know that any experience so thoroughly touching my heart cannot be run by pretenders and charlatans. My personal observations and friendships with the folks who run the joint bear that out. Where horseshit-spreaders see hypocrisy, I see human beings---with all their faults and failings---doing their level best to make an astonishing place better and more accessible to other trial lawyers. Where the horseshit-spreader sews cynicism and opts for criticism or the spinning of base conspiracy theories, I choose to roll up my sleeves and work to help a special place survive and prosper.
Of course, this will mean to the horseshit spreaders that I am brainwashed -- that I am adrift in cultish TLC Kool-Aid and thus incapable of objective assessments. Such an assertion just makes me chuckle. It cannot be countered and I will instead rely on those who know me to judge who and what I am......although the potential charge DOES remind me of one of the greatest exchanges in American politics. The exchange took place in 1968, when candidates were coming out of the woodwork to oppose Lyndon Johnson's anticipated re-election bid. Eugene McCarthy was mounting a stinging challenge within the Democratic Party to his sitting President and George Romney, previously the governor of Michigan, was one of the Republican hopefuls. Romney had been a POW in Korea and the issue of whether or not he had been "brainwashed" while in the hands of his Korean captors came to the forefront of political debate. Romney denied being "brainwashed", of course -- engendering predictable skepticism. McCarthy, on the other hand, skewered Romney's campaign forever when asked if he believed Governor Romney had been "brainwashed" in Korea. In response, McCarthy paused briefly and then replied with great solemnity: "Well....a light rinse would have been sufficient."
Instead of trying to defend against a lack of objectivity --an unwinnable battle because I am obviously NOT objective -- maybe what’s best to say to the horseshit-spreaders is what Nicholson’s character, Melvin Udall, says in the 1997 movie As Good As It Gets: “Where do they teach you to talk like this? In some Panama City "Sailor wanna hump-hump" bar, or is it getaway day and your last shot at his whiskey? Sell crazy someplace else, we're all stocked up here.”
Now….enough is enough. Let’s move our bow along the compass, draw in our mainsail, pull the tiller firmly toward our chest and get this damn boat out of irons and movin’.
----J.R.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Paul
“Life’s mostly handshakes and divorces….true blue friends who bend and sway….” --Jerry Jeff Walker
A pair of black Allen Edmonds oxfords sits on the rear floor of my car. Size 7 ½. I wear a 10 ½ so—even if I was inclined to wear them, which I’m not—they would never fit. But there they are, sitting on the driver side rear floor. I see them every time I open my door.
They were placed there on July 10, 2009 and I haven’t been able to move them.
I know this is odd but that’s the way it is.
Have you ever had a friend in your life to whom you revealed everything? A friend who knew everything about you – the good bits and the swirls of “not-so-good” stuff and the downright defective parts? A friend who knew the mistakes you’d made and the challenges you’d faced and who had been there in your life every step of the way and—knowing the whole enchilada of your being— made a conscious and loyal decision to love you anyway?
I had a buddy like that.
I met Paul Jennings when we were both in the 8th grade at Sherwood Forest Junior High. It was the early autumn of 1968. He arrived at Sherwood later in the fall, after the initial semester was already underway and –-because he started the term a little late--- he didn’t really know anyone. He would stand alone by the flagpole in front of the school in the mornings and during the recesses. I noticed him there, but thought little of it until Debbie in Home Room remarked that she thought Paul was “cute.” Thus, I was shortly thereafter dispatched to approach him and secure such intelligence about “the cute new boy” as was important to 8th grade girls in 1968.
So, I did.
He was very approachable—even then—and he was a handsome devil – even then. We hit it off quickly, as lads in the 8th grade often do. Our coincidental intermediary, Debbie, was soon dismissed from Paul’s area of interest, but he and I never looked back. We were close friends from that day until he died of metastasized lung cancer at 10:29 a.m. on Friday, July 10, 2009. He was 54 when he left us, same as me.
Some of the closest pals I have today are they guys I met in the 8th grade. Paul was one of those dear friends and we remained close through high school and college. We stayed close as we all wandered into the years after college when we built families, businesses, professions and lives. Packed into a handsome frame, the only thing more appealing about “PJ’s” outside was his inside. Bashful and unpretentious, he knew better than almost anyone I ever met how to live the old saying: “If you want a good friend, then BE one.”
It was a shock when he received his cancer diagnosis in January of 2008 especially since there was really no rhyme or reason for it. I was initially angry about this staggering turn of events, but Paul was not. A few months before he died he told me he only had room in his heart for love or anger. And he chose love. That's what he said to me.
He fought hard, but—in the end—he left us. I was with him until the very end, just as he was there for me throughout over 40 years of abiding friendship.
On the day he died, I met his beautiful wife, Linda, at their home and we selected the clothes in which he would be laid to rest. I brought them to the funeral home and they took everything but said they didn’t need the shoes. So, I placed them carefully in my car, thinking I would do something with them later. They are there even yet.
They go everywhere with me and I cannot move them from where they were lovingly placed. I know it’s peculiar but the presence of those oxfords lead to me to feel Paul is with me still, as –of course—he certainly is.
I know PJ won’t mind riding with me for awhile. He knows I’m not yet able to say a final farewell.
He would smile and understand. He was a fella who always understood. He was my dear friend and I knew him well.
And he knew me.
--J.R.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Behold a Pale Horse....
And ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars: see that ye be not troubled: for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet. ---Matthew 24:6
TLC terrain is mountainous. Level landscapes along valley floors are transitory and lead nowhere, sheltered as they are by scarred and foreboding peaks.
Upon the serrated TLC horizon, visible to us from the valley, there now appears a rider well situated on a pale horse, silhouetted against advancing thunderheads. There is an electric apprehension in the wind as the rider places himself between the Warrior and new worlds, cantering to and fro on his glistening mount. From somewhere deep within our ancient genetic code, there comes a warning to flee from the sight of this rider, as if he brings to us the end of days.
He is not a member of our tribe. He is not anyone we know. If we yet live, we have never met him.
Strangely, though, tremors of elemental danger and rumors of war come to us from him on the wind.
Leaving the comfort of a valley floor requires courage, effort and sweat coupled with no small amount of determination. Determined, any member of the TLC tribe can scale the adjacent heights and discern new worlds. Absent such determination, one shall be condemned to live always in the valley.
In this terrain, even a slight relocation of your position from within the valley changes your view entirely. No matter how many times that happens---and it always does---such an altered scene quickens the pulse. Having just seen a vista in one light, a few determined steps will reveal it shimmering from a new perspective, as if the world is new.
Neither the rider nor his pale horse bears down upon us. It is not our time for that encounter. Instead, they are simply in our view, seen on the far horizon, in advance of streaming thunderheads which miss as often as they hit. They are but a vision, there for us to make of them what we will from our initial vantage point. Determined, we can stride from the valley, into the craggy heights, where our view of the panorama will inevitably change.
And then, from that evolved, heightened place, the world before us is new.
--J.R.
TLC terrain is mountainous. Level landscapes along valley floors are transitory and lead nowhere, sheltered as they are by scarred and foreboding peaks.
Upon the serrated TLC horizon, visible to us from the valley, there now appears a rider well situated on a pale horse, silhouetted against advancing thunderheads. There is an electric apprehension in the wind as the rider places himself between the Warrior and new worlds, cantering to and fro on his glistening mount. From somewhere deep within our ancient genetic code, there comes a warning to flee from the sight of this rider, as if he brings to us the end of days.
He is not a member of our tribe. He is not anyone we know. If we yet live, we have never met him.
Strangely, though, tremors of elemental danger and rumors of war come to us from him on the wind.
Leaving the comfort of a valley floor requires courage, effort and sweat coupled with no small amount of determination. Determined, any member of the TLC tribe can scale the adjacent heights and discern new worlds. Absent such determination, one shall be condemned to live always in the valley.
In this terrain, even a slight relocation of your position from within the valley changes your view entirely. No matter how many times that happens---and it always does---such an altered scene quickens the pulse. Having just seen a vista in one light, a few determined steps will reveal it shimmering from a new perspective, as if the world is new.
Neither the rider nor his pale horse bears down upon us. It is not our time for that encounter. Instead, they are simply in our view, seen on the far horizon, in advance of streaming thunderheads which miss as often as they hit. They are but a vision, there for us to make of them what we will from our initial vantage point. Determined, we can stride from the valley, into the craggy heights, where our view of the panorama will inevitably change.
And then, from that evolved, heightened place, the world before us is new.
--J.R.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Wyoming ... and The World
I’ve just returned from TLC Staff Training at Thunderhead Ranch– a period of time devoted to “working on the horse.” Wyoming’s gorgeous terrain fosters an initial wide-eyed wonderment. Shortly, however, the wide and jagged spaces prod me toward an ever more inward trek, where I wander among shadowed soul canyons. Although it takes 2 or 3 days sometimes, the nation’s news cycles fade from consciousness and the political cacophony is stilled.
For days this inward reverie shepherds me to the most intimate inner spaces and I find myself becoming oddly tender in the most surprising ways. I am changing and—resistant at first—I inevitably succumb, reveling in the change.
And, then, just as others experienced long ago in The Nam, I start to get “short.” My tour is over and the time grows nigh for my return to The World.
They ought to pipe in some Buffalo Springfield as the keys to the rental are surrendered. I can hear it as background for the shuffle through airport security in Jackson Hole and the march out onto the tarmac leading to the jetway:
“…What a field-day for the heat
For days this inward reverie shepherds me to the most intimate inner spaces and I find myself becoming oddly tender in the most surprising ways. I am changing and—resistant at first—I inevitably succumb, reveling in the change.
And, then, just as others experienced long ago in The Nam, I start to get “short.” My tour is over and the time grows nigh for my return to The World.
They ought to pipe in some Buffalo Springfield as the keys to the rental are surrendered. I can hear it as background for the shuffle through airport security in Jackson Hole and the march out onto the tarmac leading to the jetway:
“…What a field-day for the heat
A thousand people in the street
Singin' songs and carryin' signs
Mostly say, hooray for our side
It's time we stop, hey, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down…”
Plucked out of Thunderhead’s cocoon, carted down the mountain and zippered up in an aluminum tube – I submit unto my delivery system back into The World. Squeezing into my seat on an MD Super80 or some such, I often wonder if I ought not stand, ask for quiet and then say a few words to my fellow travelers who are leaving God’s Country to be deposited back into “civilization.”
However, I always demur so as not to get the police involved.
Anyway, like I was sayin’, I’ve returned from Trial Lawyers College just in time to have my brain saturated by the hubbub surrounding Obama’s nomination of Ms. Sotomayor as the next Associate Justice of our Supreme Court. The opinions crack along the airwaves like the report from my Ruger 30.06 – painfully sharp at first, followed by a reverberating echo. Then, your ears ring for awhile as you acclimate to your new level of permanent hearing loss.
In order to lend a hand, I usually find myself wading into the Talk Soup to venture my own opinion, which is usually ill informed, partisan and loudly heartfelt.
On this occasion, I have refrained.
Instead, quietly wishing Ms. Sotomayor well, I tug at drifting memories of Wyoming landscapes and the recollected sound of my own breath as I climb alone up rocky ridges, soaking up an evolving understanding of my place in the world. Like dreams, though, these misty, tugging memories swirl and dissipate even as I long to neatly fold them into my pocket like ready cash.
Again amid the worldly clamor and nearly a week removed from Thunderhead, I reach for my pockets and that ready Wyoming cash. However, as in dreams, my reach never finds its mark. The pocket into which I have tucked this precious treasure eludes me.
Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?
--- J.R.
Plucked out of Thunderhead’s cocoon, carted down the mountain and zippered up in an aluminum tube – I submit unto my delivery system back into The World. Squeezing into my seat on an MD Super80 or some such, I often wonder if I ought not stand, ask for quiet and then say a few words to my fellow travelers who are leaving God’s Country to be deposited back into “civilization.”
However, I always demur so as not to get the police involved.
Anyway, like I was sayin’, I’ve returned from Trial Lawyers College just in time to have my brain saturated by the hubbub surrounding Obama’s nomination of Ms. Sotomayor as the next Associate Justice of our Supreme Court. The opinions crack along the airwaves like the report from my Ruger 30.06 – painfully sharp at first, followed by a reverberating echo. Then, your ears ring for awhile as you acclimate to your new level of permanent hearing loss.
In order to lend a hand, I usually find myself wading into the Talk Soup to venture my own opinion, which is usually ill informed, partisan and loudly heartfelt.
On this occasion, I have refrained.
Instead, quietly wishing Ms. Sotomayor well, I tug at drifting memories of Wyoming landscapes and the recollected sound of my own breath as I climb alone up rocky ridges, soaking up an evolving understanding of my place in the world. Like dreams, though, these misty, tugging memories swirl and dissipate even as I long to neatly fold them into my pocket like ready cash.
Again amid the worldly clamor and nearly a week removed from Thunderhead, I reach for my pockets and that ready Wyoming cash. However, as in dreams, my reach never finds its mark. The pocket into which I have tucked this precious treasure eludes me.
Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?
--- J.R.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
May 27th, 1863
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This morning I fired up my 30 year old Ford tractor so I could knock back another maze of lingering Labor Day debris from Hurricane Gustav. “Old Jubilee’s” diesel grumbled into life just after 8 a.m., belching a signature plume skyward and stuttered briefly before settling down into his trademark clatter. The smooth black hydraulic lines stiffened and sniffed at the load when I raised the front-end bucket and then the bush-hog. Goosin’ the throttle a little, I slid out the clutch and trundled off toward the target tangle.
I was working along a prong of Foster Creek known as Little Sandy when, clearing away fallen trees, brambles and honeysuckle, I stumbled across an old rifle pit. Little Sandy meanders beneath a 30 foot escarpment which overlooks the usually docile creek and faces west, toward the Port Hudson siege lines and the Mississippi River. 146 years ago, some Union sentry stood in the shallow depression behind that U-shaped lunette, rested his rifle on the earthworks and watched for Confederate pickets probing east away from the Mississippi to recon the Federal lines.
I live on an old battlefield and, amid the worldly clamor in my life, it’s easy to forget that sometimes.
I shut down General Early and lowered the bucket, leaned across the smooth, worn steering wheel and stared at the irregularly worn, now barely discernable rifleman’s position. The silenced Cummins ticked as it cooled.
It’s May, I thought to myself.
Springtime.
Blue-jays squawked from the water oaks along the creek. Carpenter bees hovered stationary, surveying where they might place their next perfect 7/16” hole. Crickets strummed. It wasn’t yet 9 a.m. and I could already feel the sun forcing sweat out of my skin. Make no mistake about it, summer was heading south. It was on a sultry, clear, hot Spring day just like this in 1863 that Captain Andre’ Cailloux (KAH-you) and Color Sgt. Anselmus Planciancois (Plonge-WAH) died, very nearly within sight of where I sat on the worn seat of the old Ford.
And, therein lies a story.
By May of 1863, the Federal Army under Gen. Nathaniel Banks had backed a vastly outnumbered Confederate brigade, commanded by Gen. Franklin Gardner, into intricate siege works at Port Hudson along the bluffs towering over the east bank of the Mississippi River. The Rebel lines described a large, jagged semi-circle with the "open end" pressed against the Mississippi. The Johnnys had placed numerous cannon along the river bluffs, denying the Union navy use of that segment of the majestic waterway. This well fortified position also secured the critical artery at that point for supplies crossing from the western part of the Confederacy –Texas, mostly—and into the heart of the states in rebellion.
The rebel guns on the river outlined one side of the position and their semi-circular works --which bowed out to the east away from the river and toward the property I now own--- bristled with artillery, dismounted troopers and entrenched infantry. All of the high points were well fortified. Ravines and practically impenetrable brambles and hardwoods protected the approaches, making any sort of sudden charge impossible. Rebel positions along the lines were ably stationed to provide enfilading (flanking) and other supporting fire to oppose any approaching Union force. Although fielding a much smaller army in the face of the Union encirclement, the Confederates had the benefit of interior lines and could shift forces nimbly within their works to meet the constant threat of assault. Over time, therefore, the sharp initial clashes had degenerated into a brutal contest of wills, marked by constant Federal thrusts which were repulsed at the works, often hand-to-hand.
I was working along a prong of Foster Creek known as Little Sandy when, clearing away fallen trees, brambles and honeysuckle, I stumbled across an old rifle pit. Little Sandy meanders beneath a 30 foot escarpment which overlooks the usually docile creek and faces west, toward the Port Hudson siege lines and the Mississippi River. 146 years ago, some Union sentry stood in the shallow depression behind that U-shaped lunette, rested his rifle on the earthworks and watched for Confederate pickets probing east away from the Mississippi to recon the Federal lines.
I live on an old battlefield and, amid the worldly clamor in my life, it’s easy to forget that sometimes.
I shut down General Early and lowered the bucket, leaned across the smooth, worn steering wheel and stared at the irregularly worn, now barely discernable rifleman’s position. The silenced Cummins ticked as it cooled.
It’s May, I thought to myself.
Springtime.
Blue-jays squawked from the water oaks along the creek. Carpenter bees hovered stationary, surveying where they might place their next perfect 7/16” hole. Crickets strummed. It wasn’t yet 9 a.m. and I could already feel the sun forcing sweat out of my skin. Make no mistake about it, summer was heading south. It was on a sultry, clear, hot Spring day just like this in 1863 that Captain Andre’ Cailloux (KAH-you) and Color Sgt. Anselmus Planciancois (Plonge-WAH) died, very nearly within sight of where I sat on the worn seat of the old Ford.
And, therein lies a story.
By May of 1863, the Federal Army under Gen. Nathaniel Banks had backed a vastly outnumbered Confederate brigade, commanded by Gen. Franklin Gardner, into intricate siege works at Port Hudson along the bluffs towering over the east bank of the Mississippi River. The Rebel lines described a large, jagged semi-circle with the "open end" pressed against the Mississippi. The Johnnys had placed numerous cannon along the river bluffs, denying the Union navy use of that segment of the majestic waterway. This well fortified position also secured the critical artery at that point for supplies crossing from the western part of the Confederacy –Texas, mostly—and into the heart of the states in rebellion.
The rebel guns on the river outlined one side of the position and their semi-circular works --which bowed out to the east away from the river and toward the property I now own--- bristled with artillery, dismounted troopers and entrenched infantry. All of the high points were well fortified. Ravines and practically impenetrable brambles and hardwoods protected the approaches, making any sort of sudden charge impossible. Rebel positions along the lines were ably stationed to provide enfilading (flanking) and other supporting fire to oppose any approaching Union force. Although fielding a much smaller army in the face of the Union encirclement, the Confederates had the benefit of interior lines and could shift forces nimbly within their works to meet the constant threat of assault. Over time, therefore, the sharp initial clashes had degenerated into a brutal contest of wills, marked by constant Federal thrusts which were repulsed at the works, often hand-to-hand.
A family named Slaughter owned a large segment of the property around the Confederate lines, including one parcel named Slaughter’s Field. Watching the Union Army through a glass as they assembled for such an attack, one Rebel officer noted: “This field will be well named before our day’s work is done.”
Outnumbering almost 5-to-1 the 6,000 Confederates commanded by Gardner, Banks had been acting on orders to sweep his 28,000-man army group north through Baton Rouge, quickly overwhelm Port Hudson, and then travel smartly upriver to Vicksburg, where he would reinforce Grant. Here’s an interesting “what-if” thought: Banks was senior to Grant in the United States Army and—had he been able to comply with those orders—upon his arrival at Vicksburg, he would have assumed command of the combined army group at that site. If that had happened, the ultimate honor of that victory would have gone to Banks and not Grant. That being so, and following the surrender of Vicksburg in July, Lincoln would not have called Grant to assume command of the eastern theater and, thus, he would have never faced Lee and perhaps never assumed the Presidency after the War and the course of history would have somehow unfolded differently.
But, Banks' line of march became tangled in vicious, unremitting trench warfare with the Port Hudson Rebels --- cruel, deadly work that would not end until several days after Grant had stolidly forced Pemberton’s surrender at Vicksburg. So, things turned out as we know they did.
On such a small point does history sometimes turn.
But, I digress upon such speculation, for that—as they say—is another story.
I mentioned in an earlier post that the very first time African-American soldiers were used by the U.S. Army in offensive operations occurred at Port Hudson – notwithstanding Denzel Washington and the story told in the movie Glory.
It happened here.
Not in South Carolina the next year, which is the 1864 story told in Glory, but here. Here where I sat, looking into the thick, living spring woods over an old Union rifle pit, an important and tragic part of our African-American brothers’ history unspooled on another May day in 1863.
May 27, 1863 to be exact.
And that brings us back to Capt. Cailloux and Color Sgt. Planciancois and THIS story.
Andre Cailloux, a former slave, was widely known as an excellent horseman and a skilled boxer before he volunteered for service in the Union Army. Possessed of pure African heritage, he referred to himself proudly as the “blackest man in America.” Those who wrote of him in the years after the Port Hudson siege remembered him as a magnificent man. Both he and Anselmus Planciancois served in the 1st Regiment of the Louisiana Native Guards, Company E. Cailloux was the Company Captain and, by all accounts, intensely devoted to the men of this all-black unit. His Color Sergeant, who had the honor of carrying Company E’s pennant in battle, was Planciancois, another volunteer.
Reports survive of Planciancois’ receipt of the Company’s colors from the brigade colonel ---a white officer named Stafford--- who presented them before the assault on the 27th of May. During the ceremony, Colonel Stafford exhorted Anselmus to NEVER surrender his colors to the enemy. Planciancois replied: “Colonel, I will bring back these colors in honor or report to God the reason why.”
The 1st Louisiana Native Guards were attached to a Federal division brigade in Banks’ army group commanded by Brigadier General William Dwight, Jr., a man whose reputation primarily swirled around a fondness for drink and shady financial dealings. During prior action around Port Hudson, he was seen to be intoxicated by eyewitnesses. Filling a primary role as part of the attack on May 27th, this division was ordered to assault the Rebel works on the extreme right or upriver side of the Confederate position, near a densely wooded salient that would earn the name “Fort Desperate” because of the savage fighting occurring there. The two other division brigades were comprised of white New Englanders. The third brigade consisted of the 1st and 3rd Louisiana Native Guards – all black units.
Dwight had specifically asked that the Negro units be assigned to him. In a surviving letter to his mother, written the evening before the May 27th attack, Dwight wrote: “I have had the Negro regts. longest in the service assigned to me, and I am going to storm a detached work with them. You may look for hard fighting, or for a complete run away…The Negro will have the fate of his race on his conduct. I shall compromise nothing in making this attack, for I regard it as an experiment.”
The Union assault on this day was poorly coordinated and abysmally led. Proper recon of the Rebel lines sheltered behind the thick woods and treacherous ravines had been criminally ignored. The rising Mississippi River –running near its ultimate crest-- had flooded the low areas, forcing assaulting Federal troops to cross deep backwaters, stunting the speed of any attack. Moreover, one Union officer – Col. Edward Bacon of the 6th Michigan—would report that General Dwight was drunk “before breakfast” on the 27th of May.
The initial morning assault was spearheaded by the white brigades and ran into frightening difficulty quickly. The deadly, massed Rebel infantry fire, along with shattering canister from the hidden artillery, absolutely dissolved the Union advance with great loss of life. By 9:30 a.m. any realistic chance of a successful advance on the Confederate lines was a military impossibility, let alone any penetration of the works.
Outnumbering almost 5-to-1 the 6,000 Confederates commanded by Gardner, Banks had been acting on orders to sweep his 28,000-man army group north through Baton Rouge, quickly overwhelm Port Hudson, and then travel smartly upriver to Vicksburg, where he would reinforce Grant. Here’s an interesting “what-if” thought: Banks was senior to Grant in the United States Army and—had he been able to comply with those orders—upon his arrival at Vicksburg, he would have assumed command of the combined army group at that site. If that had happened, the ultimate honor of that victory would have gone to Banks and not Grant. That being so, and following the surrender of Vicksburg in July, Lincoln would not have called Grant to assume command of the eastern theater and, thus, he would have never faced Lee and perhaps never assumed the Presidency after the War and the course of history would have somehow unfolded differently.
But, Banks' line of march became tangled in vicious, unremitting trench warfare with the Port Hudson Rebels --- cruel, deadly work that would not end until several days after Grant had stolidly forced Pemberton’s surrender at Vicksburg. So, things turned out as we know they did.
On such a small point does history sometimes turn.
But, I digress upon such speculation, for that—as they say—is another story.
I mentioned in an earlier post that the very first time African-American soldiers were used by the U.S. Army in offensive operations occurred at Port Hudson – notwithstanding Denzel Washington and the story told in the movie Glory.
It happened here.
Not in South Carolina the next year, which is the 1864 story told in Glory, but here. Here where I sat, looking into the thick, living spring woods over an old Union rifle pit, an important and tragic part of our African-American brothers’ history unspooled on another May day in 1863.
May 27, 1863 to be exact.
And that brings us back to Capt. Cailloux and Color Sgt. Planciancois and THIS story.
Andre Cailloux, a former slave, was widely known as an excellent horseman and a skilled boxer before he volunteered for service in the Union Army. Possessed of pure African heritage, he referred to himself proudly as the “blackest man in America.” Those who wrote of him in the years after the Port Hudson siege remembered him as a magnificent man. Both he and Anselmus Planciancois served in the 1st Regiment of the Louisiana Native Guards, Company E. Cailloux was the Company Captain and, by all accounts, intensely devoted to the men of this all-black unit. His Color Sergeant, who had the honor of carrying Company E’s pennant in battle, was Planciancois, another volunteer.
Reports survive of Planciancois’ receipt of the Company’s colors from the brigade colonel ---a white officer named Stafford--- who presented them before the assault on the 27th of May. During the ceremony, Colonel Stafford exhorted Anselmus to NEVER surrender his colors to the enemy. Planciancois replied: “Colonel, I will bring back these colors in honor or report to God the reason why.”
The 1st Louisiana Native Guards were attached to a Federal division brigade in Banks’ army group commanded by Brigadier General William Dwight, Jr., a man whose reputation primarily swirled around a fondness for drink and shady financial dealings. During prior action around Port Hudson, he was seen to be intoxicated by eyewitnesses. Filling a primary role as part of the attack on May 27th, this division was ordered to assault the Rebel works on the extreme right or upriver side of the Confederate position, near a densely wooded salient that would earn the name “Fort Desperate” because of the savage fighting occurring there. The two other division brigades were comprised of white New Englanders. The third brigade consisted of the 1st and 3rd Louisiana Native Guards – all black units.
Dwight had specifically asked that the Negro units be assigned to him. In a surviving letter to his mother, written the evening before the May 27th attack, Dwight wrote: “I have had the Negro regts. longest in the service assigned to me, and I am going to storm a detached work with them. You may look for hard fighting, or for a complete run away…The Negro will have the fate of his race on his conduct. I shall compromise nothing in making this attack, for I regard it as an experiment.”
The Union assault on this day was poorly coordinated and abysmally led. Proper recon of the Rebel lines sheltered behind the thick woods and treacherous ravines had been criminally ignored. The rising Mississippi River –running near its ultimate crest-- had flooded the low areas, forcing assaulting Federal troops to cross deep backwaters, stunting the speed of any attack. Moreover, one Union officer – Col. Edward Bacon of the 6th Michigan—would report that General Dwight was drunk “before breakfast” on the 27th of May.
The initial morning assault was spearheaded by the white brigades and ran into frightening difficulty quickly. The deadly, massed Rebel infantry fire, along with shattering canister from the hidden artillery, absolutely dissolved the Union advance with great loss of life. By 9:30 a.m. any realistic chance of a successful advance on the Confederate lines was a military impossibility, let alone any penetration of the works.
Having received word that his major attack had faltered within moments, Dwight ordered his black units from their support positions and into the “hole” left by the disintegrating spearhead brigades. Anxious to have the opportunity to fight for their country and against their oppressors, the African-American units filed into line of battle. Cailloux moved among his men and soothed them, speaking both French and English fluently. Shortly before 10 a.m., and upon the order, the black units leapt from their positions and charged toward the Rebels, covering the first 200 yards at a quick trot, Planciancois holding the colors aloft in lieu of a weapon.
Still well away from their ultimate objective, the black troops were smothered by an overwhelming leaden rain, fueled by no less than 6 Confederate field pieces which operated in good order and pumped grape and canister into the massed regiments. The attack staggered and slowed and, those who had not been wounded or killed, ducked for cover in the direct face of the Rebels. Shielded by their earthen works, the Confederates continued to pour a murderous fire into the area of the trapped Federals, preventing either advance or retreat.
A aide reported the stalled advance to Dwight at brigade headquarters in the rear, stating that the initial loss of life among the Negro regiments was so frightful as to prevent any orderly reformation. General Dwight thundered to the startled aide: “Charge again and let the impetuosity of the charge counterbalance the paucity of numbers.”
The order went forward to the scene of the carnage. One of the stunned battle commanders, a white colonel named Finnegass, returned from the front to report the impossibility of the current order to Dwight’s adjutant, a Col. Nelson. A screaming confrontation ensued between the two officers amid the smoke on the battlefield, ultimately resulting in Finnegass’ angry refusal to accept the order. In the midst of this escalating argument, additional written orders from Dwight for the African-American units were brought up on the run by a messenger. They said: “Tell Col. Nelson to keep charging as long as there is a corporal’s guard left. When there is only one man left, let him come to me and report.”
Staring in disbelief at the bizarre order, Nelson wilted. After a pause, he quietly told Finnegass to return to the front and have the negroes continue firing, but remain hidden in place. As long as Dwight heard firing, he would think that the suicidal attack he had demanded was still underway. When darkness came, they would withdraw as safely as they could. For the remainder of that long day, though, the trapped remnants of the regiments held in place upon that stifling, deadly field -- wounded, thirsty, dying and under fire.
Tragically, the decision to halt the advance came too late for Andre’ and Anselmus. Their volunteer service for the United States ended on 27May.
Cailloux, at the head of the advance, was struck in the left arm by an artillery round, destroying the limb. Survivors would recollect that he continued forward at the head of the slowing blue surge of men, until they were almost 200 yards from the Rebel lines. At that moment he was struck by a round and killed.
Color Sergeant Planciancois, following Cailloux’s lead with the company’s ensign, took an artillery round to the head, spattering with his own blood, brain matter and gore the colors Anselmus had vowed to defend. His death was instant and one can only assume that he surely did report to God that morning, as he’d promised.
Still well away from their ultimate objective, the black troops were smothered by an overwhelming leaden rain, fueled by no less than 6 Confederate field pieces which operated in good order and pumped grape and canister into the massed regiments. The attack staggered and slowed and, those who had not been wounded or killed, ducked for cover in the direct face of the Rebels. Shielded by their earthen works, the Confederates continued to pour a murderous fire into the area of the trapped Federals, preventing either advance or retreat.
A aide reported the stalled advance to Dwight at brigade headquarters in the rear, stating that the initial loss of life among the Negro regiments was so frightful as to prevent any orderly reformation. General Dwight thundered to the startled aide: “Charge again and let the impetuosity of the charge counterbalance the paucity of numbers.”
The order went forward to the scene of the carnage. One of the stunned battle commanders, a white colonel named Finnegass, returned from the front to report the impossibility of the current order to Dwight’s adjutant, a Col. Nelson. A screaming confrontation ensued between the two officers amid the smoke on the battlefield, ultimately resulting in Finnegass’ angry refusal to accept the order. In the midst of this escalating argument, additional written orders from Dwight for the African-American units were brought up on the run by a messenger. They said: “Tell Col. Nelson to keep charging as long as there is a corporal’s guard left. When there is only one man left, let him come to me and report.”
Staring in disbelief at the bizarre order, Nelson wilted. After a pause, he quietly told Finnegass to return to the front and have the negroes continue firing, but remain hidden in place. As long as Dwight heard firing, he would think that the suicidal attack he had demanded was still underway. When darkness came, they would withdraw as safely as they could. For the remainder of that long day, though, the trapped remnants of the regiments held in place upon that stifling, deadly field -- wounded, thirsty, dying and under fire.
Tragically, the decision to halt the advance came too late for Andre’ and Anselmus. Their volunteer service for the United States ended on 27May.
Cailloux, at the head of the advance, was struck in the left arm by an artillery round, destroying the limb. Survivors would recollect that he continued forward at the head of the slowing blue surge of men, until they were almost 200 yards from the Rebel lines. At that moment he was struck by a round and killed.
Color Sergeant Planciancois, following Cailloux’s lead with the company’s ensign, took an artillery round to the head, spattering with his own blood, brain matter and gore the colors Anselmus had vowed to defend. His death was instant and one can only assume that he surely did report to God that morning, as he’d promised.
A white lieutenant in one of the New England brigades would later write of the black troops he observed making that fearful assault -- men like Cailloux and Planciancois. Before the advance on May 27th, 1863 he had "entertained some fears as to their pluck..." but added that he "had none now."
"Valiantly did the heroic descendants of Africa move forward," he wrote, "cool as if marshaled for dress parade."
But, it was hardly a dress parade. And it happened here.
Honey bees work the clover blossoms steadily around my tractor. It is quiet and I note it’s getting on to 10, just about the same time Company E of the 1st Louisiana Native Guards stepped off with a shout and in good order on that May morning so many years ago. Staring at the thick woods along my creek next to a long abandoned Union rifle pit, I sit for a time in the sun and listen to the wind.
---J.R.
"Valiantly did the heroic descendants of Africa move forward," he wrote, "cool as if marshaled for dress parade."
But, it was hardly a dress parade. And it happened here.
Honey bees work the clover blossoms steadily around my tractor. It is quiet and I note it’s getting on to 10, just about the same time Company E of the 1st Louisiana Native Guards stepped off with a shout and in good order on that May morning so many years ago. Staring at the thick woods along my creek next to a long abandoned Union rifle pit, I sit for a time in the sun and listen to the wind.
---J.R.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
How To Secure A Release From Jury Duty?
As trial lawyers, we have all received calls from a client or a friend or a family member who has received a Summons for Jury Duty and needs our help to “get out of it.” In seeking our help, they explain how busy they are or they recite a litany of other commitments which preclude their participation.
Dutifully, we explain to them the constitutional obligation we all have to serve on juries. Usually, we extract some vague promise that they will gladly serve at some point in the future….just not THIS time. Thereafter, we “make a call” and secure an excused absence for the citizen.
Rarely do our family, friends or clients tell us what they really feel, which is: Serving on a jury is for other people. I’m busy. I’m important. I have better things to do. Besides, it’s all a bunch of orchestrated baloney anyway. Let someone else do it. Not me.
Mr. Erik Anthony Slye of Belgrade, Montana apparently has a different approach to securing an excused absence from jury duty. I have on my desk the REQUEST FOR EXCUSE FROM JURY SERVICE Affidavit he completed in his own hand and then filed with the Gallatin County Clerk of Court on January 26, 2009. A copy of it is reproduced within this post. Apparently, Mr. Slye was summoned once in the past and excused. Then—because he was excused earlier—was summoned again for a later jury term. This subsequent summons led to his filing the following Affidavit with the Montana District Court who had requested the assimilation of a venire:
AFFIDAVIT
(Request for Excuse from Jury Service for Case at Issue)
STATE OF MONTANA
County of Gallatin
I, ERIK ANTHONY SLYE, being first duly sworn upon oath, depose and say that jury service would entail undue hardship on me and that I request to be excused from jury service for the following reasons:
Apparently you morons didn’t understand me the first time. I cannot take time off from work. I am not putting my family’s well being at stake to participate in this crap. I don’t believe in our “justice” system and I don’t want to have a goddam thing to do with it. Jury duty is a complete waste of time. I would rather count the wrinkles on my dog’s balls than sit on a jury. Get it through your thick skulls. Leave me the Fuck alone.
Erik Slye
56 Tulip Ave.
Belgrade, MT 69714
SUBSCRIBED AND SWORN to before me this 15th day of January, 2009.
Susan M. Hedrick
Notary Public for the State of Montana
Residing at Belgrade
My Commission Expires 09-22-2009
Erik, if you have something you’d like to share, please do not hold back your feelings.
Say what is on your mind.
Don’t be so reticent.
Dutifully, we explain to them the constitutional obligation we all have to serve on juries. Usually, we extract some vague promise that they will gladly serve at some point in the future….just not THIS time. Thereafter, we “make a call” and secure an excused absence for the citizen.
Rarely do our family, friends or clients tell us what they really feel, which is: Serving on a jury is for other people. I’m busy. I’m important. I have better things to do. Besides, it’s all a bunch of orchestrated baloney anyway. Let someone else do it. Not me.
Mr. Erik Anthony Slye of Belgrade, Montana apparently has a different approach to securing an excused absence from jury duty. I have on my desk the REQUEST FOR EXCUSE FROM JURY SERVICE Affidavit he completed in his own hand and then filed with the Gallatin County Clerk of Court on January 26, 2009. A copy of it is reproduced within this post. Apparently, Mr. Slye was summoned once in the past and excused. Then—because he was excused earlier—was summoned again for a later jury term. This subsequent summons led to his filing the following Affidavit with the Montana District Court who had requested the assimilation of a venire:
AFFIDAVIT
(Request for Excuse from Jury Service for Case at Issue)
STATE OF MONTANA
County of Gallatin
I, ERIK ANTHONY SLYE, being first duly sworn upon oath, depose and say that jury service would entail undue hardship on me and that I request to be excused from jury service for the following reasons:
Apparently you morons didn’t understand me the first time. I cannot take time off from work. I am not putting my family’s well being at stake to participate in this crap. I don’t believe in our “justice” system and I don’t want to have a goddam thing to do with it. Jury duty is a complete waste of time. I would rather count the wrinkles on my dog’s balls than sit on a jury. Get it through your thick skulls. Leave me the Fuck alone.
Erik Slye
56 Tulip Ave.
Belgrade, MT 69714
SUBSCRIBED AND SWORN to before me this 15th day of January, 2009.
Susan M. Hedrick
Notary Public for the State of Montana
Residing at Belgrade
My Commission Expires 09-22-2009
Erik, if you have something you’d like to share, please do not hold back your feelings.
Say what is on your mind.
Don’t be so reticent.
As it turns out, however, Mr. Slye's Affidavit did not have EXACTLY the effect he had no doubt hoped for, because it resulted in the following Order from the Court:
CITATION FOR CONTEMPT
THE FREEDON AND LIBERTY THAT MR SLYE ENJOYS DEPENDS UPON THE VOLUNTARY SERVICE OF JURY DUTY, THEREFORE, IT IS HEREBY ORDERED THAT ERIC SLYE BE AND REMAIN IN THE COUNTY JAIL FOR 20 DAYS OR UNTIL HE RECANTS HIS CONTEMPTUOUS CONDUCT IN OPEN COURT. MR. SLYE'S FAMILY MAY VISIT HIM ON WEEKENDS BUT HIS DOG SHALL STAY AT HOME UNMOLESTED BY THE DEFENDANT.
Notwithstanding his rather direct (albeit foolhardy) approach, I am left to wonder: How many potential jurors in the box are truly on Mr. Slye's wavelength, but never express it?
--- J.R.
THE FREEDON AND LIBERTY THAT MR SLYE ENJOYS DEPENDS UPON THE VOLUNTARY SERVICE OF JURY DUTY, THEREFORE, IT IS HEREBY ORDERED THAT ERIC SLYE BE AND REMAIN IN THE COUNTY JAIL FOR 20 DAYS OR UNTIL HE RECANTS HIS CONTEMPTUOUS CONDUCT IN OPEN COURT. MR. SLYE'S FAMILY MAY VISIT HIM ON WEEKENDS BUT HIS DOG SHALL STAY AT HOME UNMOLESTED BY THE DEFENDANT.
Notwithstanding his rather direct (albeit foolhardy) approach, I am left to wonder: How many potential jurors in the box are truly on Mr. Slye's wavelength, but never express it?
--- J.R.
Monday, April 27, 2009
THE GOP: Divorced From Reality, by Bill Maher; LA Times, 4-24-09
Sometimes you just CANNOT say things better than they've already been said. Looking for a method to sum up the Republican Party's position in the present political climate? Here's HBO "Real Time With Bill Maher" Host, comedian and political commentator on the current state of The Grand Ole Party in these United States:
The GOP: divorced from reality
The Republican base is behaving like a guy who just got dumped by his wife.
By Bill Maher April 24, 2009 Los Angeles Times
If conservatives don't want to be seen as bitter people who cling to their guns and religion and anti-immigrant sentiments, they should stop being bitter and clinging to their guns, religion and anti-immigrant sentiments.
It's been a week now, and I still don't know what those "tea bag" protests were about. I saw signs protesting abortion, illegal immigrants, the bank bailout and that gay guy who's going to win "American Idol." But it wasn't tax day that made them crazy; it was election day. Because that's when Republicans became what they fear most: a minority.
The conservative base is absolutely apoplectic because, because ... well, nobody knows. They're mad as hell, and they're not going to take it anymore. Even though they're not quite sure what "it" is. But they know they're fed up with "it," and that "it" has got to stop.
Here are the big issues for normal people: the war, the economy, the environment, mending fences with our enemies and allies, and the rule of law. And here's the list of Republican obsessions since President Obama took office: that his birth certificate is supposedly fake, he uses a teleprompter too much, he bowed to a Saudi guy, Europeans like him, he gives inappropriate gifts, his wife shamelessly flaunts her upper arms, and he shook hands with Hugo Chavez and slipped him the nuclear launch codes.
Do these sound like the concerns of a healthy, vibrant political party?
It's sad what's happened to the Republicans. They used to be the party of the big tent; now they're the party of the sideshow attraction, a socially awkward group of mostly white people who speak a language only they understand. Like Trekkies, but paranoid.
The GOP base is convinced that Obama is going to raise their taxes, which he just lowered. But, you say, "Bill, that's just the fringe of the Republican Party."
No, it's not.
The governor of Texas, Rick Perry, is not afraid to say publicly that thinking out loud about Texas seceding from the Union is appropriate considering that ... Obama wants to raise taxes 3% on 5% of the people? I'm not sure exactly what Perry's independent nation would look like, but I'm pretty sure it would be free of taxes and Planned Parenthood. And I would have to totally rethink my position on a border fence.
I know. It's not about what Obama's done. It's what he's planning. But you can't be sick and tired of something someone might do.
Republican Rep. Michele Bachmann of Minnesota recently said she fears that Obama will build "reeducation" camps to indoctrinate young people. But Obama hasn't made any moves toward taking anyone's guns, and with money as tight as it is, the last thing the president wants to do is run a camp where he has to shelter and feed a bunch of fat, angry white people.
Look, I get it, "real America." After an eight-year run of controlling the White House, Congress and the Supreme Court, this latest election has you feeling like a rejected husband. You've come home to find your things out on the front lawn -- or at least more things than you usually keep out on the front lawn. You're not ready to let go, but the country you love is moving on. And now you want to call it a whore and key its car.
That's what you are, the bitter divorced guy whose country has left him -- obsessing over it, haranguing it, blubbering one minute about how much you love it and vowing the next that if you cannot have it, nobody will.
But it's been almost 100 days, and your country is not coming back to you. She's found somebody new. And it's a black guy. The healthy thing to do is to just get past it and learn to cherish the memories. You'll always have New Orleans and Abu Ghraib. And if today's conservatives are insulted by this, because they feel they're better than the people who have the microphone in their party, then I say to them what I would say to moderate Muslims: Denounce your radicals. To paraphrase George W. Bush, either you're with them or you're embarrassed by them.
The thing that you people out of power have to remember is that the people in power are not secretly plotting against you. They don't need to. They already beat you in public.
Bill Maher is the host of HBO's "Real Time with Bill Maher."
The GOP: divorced from reality
The Republican base is behaving like a guy who just got dumped by his wife.
By Bill Maher April 24, 2009 Los Angeles Times
If conservatives don't want to be seen as bitter people who cling to their guns and religion and anti-immigrant sentiments, they should stop being bitter and clinging to their guns, religion and anti-immigrant sentiments.
It's been a week now, and I still don't know what those "tea bag" protests were about. I saw signs protesting abortion, illegal immigrants, the bank bailout and that gay guy who's going to win "American Idol." But it wasn't tax day that made them crazy; it was election day. Because that's when Republicans became what they fear most: a minority.
The conservative base is absolutely apoplectic because, because ... well, nobody knows. They're mad as hell, and they're not going to take it anymore. Even though they're not quite sure what "it" is. But they know they're fed up with "it," and that "it" has got to stop.
Here are the big issues for normal people: the war, the economy, the environment, mending fences with our enemies and allies, and the rule of law. And here's the list of Republican obsessions since President Obama took office: that his birth certificate is supposedly fake, he uses a teleprompter too much, he bowed to a Saudi guy, Europeans like him, he gives inappropriate gifts, his wife shamelessly flaunts her upper arms, and he shook hands with Hugo Chavez and slipped him the nuclear launch codes.
Do these sound like the concerns of a healthy, vibrant political party?
It's sad what's happened to the Republicans. They used to be the party of the big tent; now they're the party of the sideshow attraction, a socially awkward group of mostly white people who speak a language only they understand. Like Trekkies, but paranoid.
The GOP base is convinced that Obama is going to raise their taxes, which he just lowered. But, you say, "Bill, that's just the fringe of the Republican Party."
No, it's not.
The governor of Texas, Rick Perry, is not afraid to say publicly that thinking out loud about Texas seceding from the Union is appropriate considering that ... Obama wants to raise taxes 3% on 5% of the people? I'm not sure exactly what Perry's independent nation would look like, but I'm pretty sure it would be free of taxes and Planned Parenthood. And I would have to totally rethink my position on a border fence.
I know. It's not about what Obama's done. It's what he's planning. But you can't be sick and tired of something someone might do.
Republican Rep. Michele Bachmann of Minnesota recently said she fears that Obama will build "reeducation" camps to indoctrinate young people. But Obama hasn't made any moves toward taking anyone's guns, and with money as tight as it is, the last thing the president wants to do is run a camp where he has to shelter and feed a bunch of fat, angry white people.
Look, I get it, "real America." After an eight-year run of controlling the White House, Congress and the Supreme Court, this latest election has you feeling like a rejected husband. You've come home to find your things out on the front lawn -- or at least more things than you usually keep out on the front lawn. You're not ready to let go, but the country you love is moving on. And now you want to call it a whore and key its car.
That's what you are, the bitter divorced guy whose country has left him -- obsessing over it, haranguing it, blubbering one minute about how much you love it and vowing the next that if you cannot have it, nobody will.
But it's been almost 100 days, and your country is not coming back to you. She's found somebody new. And it's a black guy. The healthy thing to do is to just get past it and learn to cherish the memories. You'll always have New Orleans and Abu Ghraib. And if today's conservatives are insulted by this, because they feel they're better than the people who have the microphone in their party, then I say to them what I would say to moderate Muslims: Denounce your radicals. To paraphrase George W. Bush, either you're with them or you're embarrassed by them.
The thing that you people out of power have to remember is that the people in power are not secretly plotting against you. They don't need to. They already beat you in public.
Bill Maher is the host of HBO's "Real Time with Bill Maher."
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