As I'm sure everyone has noticed, I have not posted anything in several weeks. This is partially by design and partially by necessity.
In recent weeks, my impulse to write has ebbed. I am not ashamed to say it. To the contrary, I think it is only natural for me to take a long break after writing almost 3000 pages over the past 20 months. Spring and summer traditionally tend to weaken my urge to write. They always have. I've also been coping with crippling migraine headaches lately. But my reasons for curtailing my output now are more substantial than that.
About two months ago, I literally ran out of money. So for the last two months, I have scrambled to find ways to stave off my inexorable creditors. That cut into my writing routine. It also sapped my energy, since commercial venturing took my best time from me. In the past, I had all the time I needed to write. Now, I spend my freshest hours pursuing economic stability. That denies me my most creative time.
I do not regret this in the least. I have doggedly attended this blog since before Obama became President. I think I have largely addressed my life philosophy. I have done what I set out to do. This blog encapsulates my views on so many subjects. It is a living testament. I am proud of it.
On the other hand, I am not exactly the same person I was when I began writing this blog. In some ways, I feel like I am no different than I was on September 11, 2008. But so much has changed in my life since that day. While my core thoughts on many subjects have remained consistent throughout that time, my circumstances and life expectations have changed dramatically. I see no need to continue addressing issues that I have largely addressed in the past. I don't like repeating myself.
Yet my blog will never die. I will return to it from time to time in order to mark evolutions in my thinking. I do not want to obsess about it as I once did. Rather, I want to use my blog to annotate my life when I must. I want to control my blog, not the other way around.
I say that to clear the way for a larger endeavor. If my blogging experience instilled anything in me, it was writing discipline. When I get an idea, I follow through with it. I commit it to paper. And then I've captured it for all time. Applying that discipline, I assembled a formidable array of familiar themes that will guide me in future projects. I plan on writing three large pieces in the coming few years. In large part, they will draw from thematic material I have already explored in this blog. In that sense, I have already written the large pieces: You have already seen their roots right here in this blog. I just need to fill in the blanks now.
I have no intention to ever stop writing for good. I can't. I must do it. Convention appalls me too much to merely go through life in silence. No matter the literary medium I choose, I promise to continue critiquing, observing, satirizing, reminiscing, lamenting, analyzing and philosophizing.
I apologize to all those who have grown accustomed to daily posts. I have simply reached a new phase in my life and it is time for me to modify my writing accordingly. From today on, I plan to post on recent news when I can. I also plan on jotting down the occasional satire when something really tickles me. But I will conserve my main efforts for my larger works. Even then, I will give myself a very long break to reflect on what I plan to do before I sit down to write again.
I am grateful to everyone who has taken the time to read my posts. You have gained an insight into how I think and how I perceive the world. And when my larger works appear, you will feel yourself in familiar territory. It all stems from this source. This is my testament. Thank you for sharing it with me.
Oesterhoudt
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Monday, June 7, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
UNCOMFORTABLE SUBJECTS : PRIVATE RACISM
A REFLECTION ON RACE IN AMERICA
I want to take some time to mention what I'm planning to write over the next few days. I think it's especially important to lay out my intentions this time because I am about to venture into very difficult territory.
Whenever I set out on a new intellectual endeavor, I always think of my mentor: Friedrich Nietzsche. In this instance, I think about the title to one of his aphorism collections: Uncontemporary Observations. Nietzsche did not care whether he wrote about subjects that ruffled traditional feathers. He purposely contradicted the expectations of the "the present" and "contemporary" society. His ideas at times recapitulated themes from distant history. At other times, they foretold the future. In either case, he was not "contemporary." To the contrary, he purposely defied "contemporary."
Writers face constant pressure to be contemporary. After all, you can't be successful if you don't write to meet present expectations. Yet no one ever evolves without taking daring chances; and writers are no exception. By accident, I find myself in early 21st Century America: A strange, confusing, conflicted, changing civilization. There are certain subjects that we simply do not talk about, or at least we do not voice certain sentiments about them in public. It is irrelevant what we privately think about these "taboo" subjects. We just never voice what we really believe. Sometimes our beliefs are not even conscious.
Race is among those subjects. Personally, race is an obsession of mine. It frequently inspires my writing because it is so maddeningly relevant. Yet there are certain things we simply do not say about it, no matter how often we think them.
Race has played a pivotal role in American civilization from our earliest history. Through race, we have seen just how low American civilization can fall. Through race, we see our principles challenged. All our grand rhetoric about equality, dignity and fairness falls flat when applied to the American experience with race. It is no surprise that much of my satire involves racial realities in the United States. After all, when we honestly view race in America, we see several different Nations living in one. And they aren't all equal, no matter what the law says.
But I struggle with my own conflicts about race. In my writing and in my public expressions, I vociferously advocate equality. I believe that everyone in this country--no matter their origins--should have equal legal opportunities and a fair shot at success. I truly believe that. It is only just. We cannot claim to live in a just society if some people do not have the same chances for success simply because of their ancestry in a certain country or a certain continent.
Yet even in saying this I feel myself a hypocrite. In fact, I come close to a confession when I say that I am a racist. But we all are. Americans simply do not understand that racism comes in many shades. Some are overt, but most are extraordinarily subtle. Everyone in the United States is a racist in their own fashion; you do not have to be David Duke to be a racist. Rather, every American--including declared liberals--harbors deep-rooted cultural expectations about the "ways" of different ethnic groups. Every American believes on some level that people in other ethnic groups are "different" and "act differently" than they do "because that's the way they are." They do not necessarily mean it in a malicious way; but it is ever-present. And it is racism.
We are racists the moment we say: "Two guys and a black guy entered the room." I was raised with these distinctions. I also grew up in a distinct cultural background (southeastern Connecticut; and as the biological product of hardworking Northern European Protestant descendants). Both by nature and by operation of economic forces, that cultural background was racially exclusive. For the longest time, I never thought I was racist. How could I be? After all, I always learned that it was "bad to be a racist" and that I wasn't a racist because I did not publicly say bad things about people in other ethnic groups. But my own family--the same family that taught me these abstract lessons about race with the best possible intentions--cultivated a set of cultural values in me that made me completely dissociate myself from other races. Those values also made me intuitively judgmental toward anyone who did not share them. And on a subconscious level, I began to believe that my values were normal, while others were not. That was racist.
Racism is everywhere in the United States. It is on everyone's mind all the time. And it is intensely private. When white people eat at a restaurant and a black beggar enters the restaurant, I challenge everyone sitting there to say that they do not harbor certain negative assumptions about black people: "Why doesn't he work? Why do they beg? Why are they all so poor? They're all like that..." they think. They might be ferocious liberals and believe in equality. But in that cultural situation, I challenge them all to say that they do not make immediate judgments about black people in their own private minds. And it is not their fault: It is simply a function of their own cultural backgrounds reacting to another cultural background.
America elected Barack Obama. But that does not mean we are not beyond racism. My "uncontemporary observation" on this subject is that EVERYONE IS A RACIST. It is just a question of degree. We may bear no conscious ill-will toward other ethnic groups. Yet when we make even the most subtle assumptions about them, we are racists. Even disadvantaged ethnic groups engage in racism. I challenge any black person to say he harbors no assumptions about white people when placed in a social situation with them: "He's not going to be fair with me. He's not going to treat me right. He's going to condescend to me. He's going to exploit me. He's going to disrespect me. He's going to fire me because I'm black. That's what they all do. White people are mean and will hurt me any chance they get." Racism goes in both directions--all the time.
Overcoming racism is about more than turning to the law for superficial equalization. Overcoming racism is a mammoth cultural endeavor; and we are nowhere near achieving it. Until we truly harbor no assumptions or expectations about "how other ethnic groups act," and until we truly do not think "How typical" when someone from a particular ethnic group acts in a particular way, we are racists. Yet we do these things all the time without even knowing it. We are merely giving expression to the combined weight of our respective cultural heritages. Heritage bears down upon us in America as in no other country on earth. Nowhere on earth have so many disparate cultural traditions been thrown in with one another. And nowhere else has such burning intolerance arisen when those traditions clash.
Let me be clear for the record. I live my life to avoid racism in all things. But I am still as racist as every other American because I cannot honestly say that I do not occasionally make negative assumptions about other ethnic groups in difficult situations. In this sense, we are all racists. When a black youth wearing a doo rag, low pants, a crooked hat and gangster-style sports garb acts rowdy with his friends on a subway train, I intuitively think: "He is up to no good. He's going to cause a scene." I wish I didn't. But I do. I tell myself I shouldn't think it. I challenge any white person from my cultural background to claim the very same thoughts do not flash in his mind in the same situation.
I have no solutions to the racism problem. The best we can do is to forbear as much as we possibly can in our external behavior. We must try to understand one another as best we can for the sake of order and coexistence. It is relatively easy never to "act like a racist" or "say racist things" in public. It is easy not to be David Duke. But it is not so easy to truly drive racist thoughts from our minds in pressing circumstances.
I wish we weren't all racists. I really, really do. But we would all be dishonest if we said we weren't. And I will immediately call anyone a hypocrite who denies his own racism. Racism is not just the overt hatred we hear about in groups like the KKK. Racism is also about unconscious economic segregation. Living in a part of town that no black person can afford is racist, too. Supporting an economic system that perpetuates racial inequalities is racist, too. After all, why do most wealthy white people live in areas that black people cannot afford? Because they won't have to be around black people. When black people are around, it's a "bad neighborhood." Even using the term "bad neighborhood" is racism. It is no coincidence that "bad neighborhoods" are always the poor, black areas. And it is racist to assume the poor, bad areas are always black. Yet people who claim not to be racist use the term "bad neighborhood" all the time.
Consider a white real estate broker who thinks he is not a racist. He says to his client: "You don't want to live above 96th Street. That's a bad neighborhood." Why? Because black people mostly live there. How can that not reflect deeply entrenched, racist assumptions about black people? Think about how often we use terms like "bad neighborhood." They are racist. And most barely comprehend why.
Racism in the United States is exquisitely subtle. It is the inevitable byproduct of placing so many cultural backgrounds in close proximity to one another, along with the natural human propensity to resent those who are different. As such, racism is everywhere. I know it's not popular to say. But that does not mean we cannot honestly grapple with it. Is it terrible? Of course it is. But there are lots of terrible things about American life; and in my view it makes more sense to call a spade a spade than to pretend it's not.
This is my uncontemporary observation for the day.
Friday, April 16, 2010
WHY I WRITE ABOUT TIME
A REFLECTION
In recent weeks, my writing pace has slowed. I am thankful for that. It has allowed me to look back over my work and reflect on what is important to me. No one likes change, but I welcome this one.
I write thematically. Last week, I looked over several old pieces and started to think about the themes that occupy me most. I asked myself: "Why do I write about these things? Why are they important to me? Is it apparent why they are important?" Perhaps it is apparent why I write about reason, dignity, evidence, law, power, money, death, fairness, equality and happiness. Perhaps it isn't. Perhaps people think it's just because I am a hermit who writes whatever he thinks on a certain day.
But that would be incorrect. Common threads unite all my themes. Those threads bind all my pieces together. Taken together, they present an overall philosophy about our existence. I am a consummate individualist: I never surrender who I am. I do not like to follow, but neither am I a zealous leader. I am not presumptuous enough for that. If my ideas gain traction, it is by quiet assent, not by compulsion or advocacy. In the end, I am a voice against all the forces in our society that subvert individual creativity and value. I criticize commerce because commerce is antithetical to both. I do not like forces that instrumentalize human beings or reduce them to purposes. I do not like convention. That is why I write satire, too. Normality makes me laugh--hard.
Among the threads that unite my work is a respect for time. I write about time in many ways. But in the end I admonish my readers to remember that time is vital because it is all we have. Without time, we cannot cultivate our interests or expand our personalities. Nor can we experience joy or feel good about ourselves. Yet so many forces compete for our time. When we lose our time to some competing interest, we lose the opportunity to live for ourselves. That is one reason why I am so critical of employment: Employment robs our best time and leaves nothing for us. It purports to "compensate" us for the robbery with a paycheck. But what good is pay (even really poor pay) if you can't spend it until your best time is gone? We have just a limited time to experience positive emotions before we die. If we give up our time in unpleasant ways, we never get it back to spend it pleasantly. We have only one shot at joy.
My views about time have changed significantly over the years. Before my father died in 2006, I had a very dismissive attitude about time: I always thought I would have more. I did not mind working for 14 hours a day in an office because I knew there would be time to enjoy myself later in life. I had smug assumptions; I thought life would just wait for me as I slaved away, wasting my time. I thought for sure that I would have at least 25 more years with my mother and father. I thought they could wait until I put in all that work, so it wouldn't hurt if I skipped seeing them for Christmas. I thought they would understand if I had to work a weekend.
But all those smug assumptions came crashing down when my father died. He died without any warning. In January 2006, he was a healthy 58-year-old who ran half-marathons every year. Then he developed pancreatic cancer. By June 2006, he was dead. And I had skipped his birthday every year for five years before that because I had no idea that he could die. I was focused on my "traditional career program." I did not respect time. And I suffered for it.
Thankfully, I learned my lesson. Only after living with death did I start to respect time. It made me rue the choices I had made in my life. I did not care about "success" any more. After all, what good does "success" do when you can suddenly just die at any moment like my Dad? Who cares whether you get a certain job or own a home? It's all meaningless; it can all end before you know it. Recognizing how fast life can end makes you respect time. And it makes you start spending your time more wisely, too.
Within six months after my father's death, I resigned my job at the law firm. It came to nauseate me. It probably would have nauseated me even if my father had not died. But after experiencing his death, I simply could not bear the pettiness of law practice. I could not bear hearing people whine and bicker about money. I could not bear the infighting about filing papers, sharing copy costs, managing calendars and setting docket dates. And I could not bear the ceaseless criticism about "not moving fast enough" to make profits on cases. It all seemed utterly, utterly meaningless. I did not care in the least. After all, what difference did all this make? I could just die suddenly like my father; what good what profits and docket dates do then?
When my father lay dying, he was not thinking about success, careers or money. He was thinking about his own existence. He was thinking about the fact that his time was running out; and whether he had spent it well.
I took that lesson to heart: Was I spending my time well? Or was I wasting it in a chase after meaningless rewards? I concluded that I was wasting it. I began living in the awareness of death; and that made me treasure my life. I started savoring my time. I resented anyone and anything that impinged on my time; for how was I to know whether I would be here tomorrow? I wanted to be master of my own time, because time gave me my chance to live. Obviously, this did not make me a good candidate for employment. So I had to adjust my approach to supporting myself.
I contented myself with making just enough money to feed and house myself. And I did so in a way that did not rob my time and dignity. Since then, I have been happier with my lot. For the most part, I am master of my time. That brings its own rewards.
I never forget what happened to my father. It tempers me whenever I feel the impulse to get into the "success race." I reflect on how little time I have to relish my life. Then I think how much time I will have to yield in order to achieve "career success." That is to say nothing about the sacrifices in dignity, ethics and happiness I would have to make to achieve it. Finally, I think: "Even if I do achieve 'career success,' what will I feel? What good will it do? What if I simply die on the way? When I lay dying, what will I think about how I've spent my time? Will I regret all the days and nights I toiled in an office fighting for a company's profit?"
These thoughts comfort me. They assure me that I have made the right decision for my life. Having said that, I know not everyone will make the same decision. My views about time reflect my experiences. They work for me because I live in the awareness of death. My respect for time intertwines with my respect for death. After all, life--with all the joy and misery it can write upon our bodies--hangs by a thread. It can end instantly. And life is time: There is our time, then there is death.
That is a pretty good impulsion to spend our time well. Because once it's over, we're over, too.
That is why I write about time: It is the tragic, ever-diminishing coating that encapsulates us all. When we waste it, we waste ourselves. So I choose not to intentionally waste it on anything that does not bring me joy.
In recent weeks, my writing pace has slowed. I am thankful for that. It has allowed me to look back over my work and reflect on what is important to me. No one likes change, but I welcome this one.
I write thematically. Last week, I looked over several old pieces and started to think about the themes that occupy me most. I asked myself: "Why do I write about these things? Why are they important to me? Is it apparent why they are important?" Perhaps it is apparent why I write about reason, dignity, evidence, law, power, money, death, fairness, equality and happiness. Perhaps it isn't. Perhaps people think it's just because I am a hermit who writes whatever he thinks on a certain day.
But that would be incorrect. Common threads unite all my themes. Those threads bind all my pieces together. Taken together, they present an overall philosophy about our existence. I am a consummate individualist: I never surrender who I am. I do not like to follow, but neither am I a zealous leader. I am not presumptuous enough for that. If my ideas gain traction, it is by quiet assent, not by compulsion or advocacy. In the end, I am a voice against all the forces in our society that subvert individual creativity and value. I criticize commerce because commerce is antithetical to both. I do not like forces that instrumentalize human beings or reduce them to purposes. I do not like convention. That is why I write satire, too. Normality makes me laugh--hard.
Among the threads that unite my work is a respect for time. I write about time in many ways. But in the end I admonish my readers to remember that time is vital because it is all we have. Without time, we cannot cultivate our interests or expand our personalities. Nor can we experience joy or feel good about ourselves. Yet so many forces compete for our time. When we lose our time to some competing interest, we lose the opportunity to live for ourselves. That is one reason why I am so critical of employment: Employment robs our best time and leaves nothing for us. It purports to "compensate" us for the robbery with a paycheck. But what good is pay (even really poor pay) if you can't spend it until your best time is gone? We have just a limited time to experience positive emotions before we die. If we give up our time in unpleasant ways, we never get it back to spend it pleasantly. We have only one shot at joy.
My views about time have changed significantly over the years. Before my father died in 2006, I had a very dismissive attitude about time: I always thought I would have more. I did not mind working for 14 hours a day in an office because I knew there would be time to enjoy myself later in life. I had smug assumptions; I thought life would just wait for me as I slaved away, wasting my time. I thought for sure that I would have at least 25 more years with my mother and father. I thought they could wait until I put in all that work, so it wouldn't hurt if I skipped seeing them for Christmas. I thought they would understand if I had to work a weekend.
But all those smug assumptions came crashing down when my father died. He died without any warning. In January 2006, he was a healthy 58-year-old who ran half-marathons every year. Then he developed pancreatic cancer. By June 2006, he was dead. And I had skipped his birthday every year for five years before that because I had no idea that he could die. I was focused on my "traditional career program." I did not respect time. And I suffered for it.
Thankfully, I learned my lesson. Only after living with death did I start to respect time. It made me rue the choices I had made in my life. I did not care about "success" any more. After all, what good does "success" do when you can suddenly just die at any moment like my Dad? Who cares whether you get a certain job or own a home? It's all meaningless; it can all end before you know it. Recognizing how fast life can end makes you respect time. And it makes you start spending your time more wisely, too.
Within six months after my father's death, I resigned my job at the law firm. It came to nauseate me. It probably would have nauseated me even if my father had not died. But after experiencing his death, I simply could not bear the pettiness of law practice. I could not bear hearing people whine and bicker about money. I could not bear the infighting about filing papers, sharing copy costs, managing calendars and setting docket dates. And I could not bear the ceaseless criticism about "not moving fast enough" to make profits on cases. It all seemed utterly, utterly meaningless. I did not care in the least. After all, what difference did all this make? I could just die suddenly like my father; what good what profits and docket dates do then?
When my father lay dying, he was not thinking about success, careers or money. He was thinking about his own existence. He was thinking about the fact that his time was running out; and whether he had spent it well.
I took that lesson to heart: Was I spending my time well? Or was I wasting it in a chase after meaningless rewards? I concluded that I was wasting it. I began living in the awareness of death; and that made me treasure my life. I started savoring my time. I resented anyone and anything that impinged on my time; for how was I to know whether I would be here tomorrow? I wanted to be master of my own time, because time gave me my chance to live. Obviously, this did not make me a good candidate for employment. So I had to adjust my approach to supporting myself.
I contented myself with making just enough money to feed and house myself. And I did so in a way that did not rob my time and dignity. Since then, I have been happier with my lot. For the most part, I am master of my time. That brings its own rewards.
I never forget what happened to my father. It tempers me whenever I feel the impulse to get into the "success race." I reflect on how little time I have to relish my life. Then I think how much time I will have to yield in order to achieve "career success." That is to say nothing about the sacrifices in dignity, ethics and happiness I would have to make to achieve it. Finally, I think: "Even if I do achieve 'career success,' what will I feel? What good will it do? What if I simply die on the way? When I lay dying, what will I think about how I've spent my time? Will I regret all the days and nights I toiled in an office fighting for a company's profit?"
These thoughts comfort me. They assure me that I have made the right decision for my life. Having said that, I know not everyone will make the same decision. My views about time reflect my experiences. They work for me because I live in the awareness of death. My respect for time intertwines with my respect for death. After all, life--with all the joy and misery it can write upon our bodies--hangs by a thread. It can end instantly. And life is time: There is our time, then there is death.
That is a pretty good impulsion to spend our time well. Because once it's over, we're over, too.
That is why I write about time: It is the tragic, ever-diminishing coating that encapsulates us all. When we waste it, we waste ourselves. So I choose not to intentionally waste it on anything that does not bring me joy.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
DON'T SAY "NEXUS;" SAY "CONNECTION" : WHY I DON'T LIKE PRETENTIOUS LANGUAGE
AN ESSAY
During my first year in law school, I had to take a "legal writing course." It was pure misery. The "professor" was really no professor at all, but rather a disgruntled low-level staffer from the Attorney General's office who worked part-time scolding terrified first-semester students for putting one space before a period rather than two. She never praised anyone. And she consciously tried to drain all individuality from everyone's writing. She said: "This is legal writing. It's time to un-learn everything you've ever learned about writing. Right now."
In her defense, legal writing is certainly different from expository writing. It follows distinct conventions and customs that differ from the classic liberal arts essay. It proceeds along identifiable logical pathways and channels arguments to lead ineffably to a conclusion. It is not subtle. Legal writing does not hide anything from the reader. It tells him exactly what he is reading and repeats it about fifty times before it is over. In our legal writing class, we learned how to manufacture these technical baubles. And we got lots of bad grades along the way to remind us that we missed some essential detail or other.
I became a pretty decent legal writer. After all, it isn't difficult. It's just a skill, like baking. There is no artistry to it. You just take a position, organize some arguments to support it and start declaring why you're right. You avoid the passive voice, follow a set sentence structure and repeat your argument over and over again. You make all your sentences declarative and begin each closing line in a paragraph with "thus." Clarity is important. Subtlety is not. And why should it be? After all, if you're writing to a court to win a case, you don't want to leave your fate to interpretation, do you? Hell no. You want to scream why you're right; and you'll be damned if you hesitate in your demand for victory.
But there is irony in all this. Legal writing--like the law in general--leads lawyers to believe that they possess magical powers. After all, lawyers feel exulted because they know that they can influence the machinery of the State to deprive others of property, liberty and even their lives. They influence that machinery through advocacy, including writing. For that reason, lawyers believe that their "legal writing" opens the doorway to power over others.
Yet there is nothing magical about the law or legal writing. In fact, I came to understand that legal writing actually wields very little influence, despite the mythology to the contrary. When I practiced law, my superiors praised my writing. I thought it led courts to make better decisions in particular cases. But time after time, I saw that judges probably had not even read what I had written. Rather, they knew beforehand how they would rule in a case and carried that prejudice with them through the proceeding. No matter how grand my rhetoric or airtight my logic, my writing would never dislodge an entrenched conviction. Just because I nailed all the technical criteria required for "good legal writing" did not mean I would magically win the case.
All this sobered me about the "power of the law." I learned that there was a vast propaganda machine at work perpetuating the idea that "judges were impartial" and that "good arguments always persuade." The cruel fact is that judges and lawyers are just as shortsighted and prejudiced as the next man. They make decisions based upon their cultural intuition, social values and emotional reactions. They can skillfully cite the law to provide a seemingly "neutral" justifications for their decisions. But in the end, "good legal writing"--and even "good arguments"--will almost never change minds.
Nor should it. Legal writing is agonizingly formulaic. I even wonder how judges can even keep their eyes open when they read it. And who really needs to know what one side in a case says? You can pretty much figure out what each side wants in the case simply by looking at the facts. If a person gets injured, he's going to say the other guy is at fault and should pay him money. The other guy will say he's not at fault and shouldn't have to pay. Or maybe he'll say the injured guy caused his own injury, so he's excused. Our legal system is adversarial. That means that you can figure out exactly what each side wants beforehand: Team A wants to make money; Team B wants to save money. Each accuses the other of bad faith and shouts to the court why he should win.
It's not complicated. It's just a game: One team wants to beat the other. You don't need masterful writing to understand how most cases go. Our adversary system explains it all. And chances are a judge will form an intuitive opinion about the dispute long before he reads what either team has to say about it. So nothing either team says will change the result.
Yet lawyers love their writing, even if it does not ultimately influence anyone. Worse, they scold lower-level employees who do not use the right words in court papers. This may seem meaningless--after all, why insist on particular words if the writing does not affect the outcome in the end?--but it happens. It is as if lawyers understand that their writing will change no one's mind, yet they adhere to rigorous standards merely to show that they can. This is sheer pretentiousness, and I don't like it. Moreover, it is pretentiousness without reason; for even when lawyers use all the right formats, phrases and page headings, their writing will not influence the judge. He has already taken an intuitive notion about the case.
Take this example: In legal writing class, we learned that you must always recite a legal rule exactly as it appears in a case. Over the centuries, pretentious judges have written pretentiously (and sometimes very poorly) about the law. When they lay down a legal rule in a particular case, they enshrine bad writing for generations to come. But in legal writing class, you must cite the rule exactly as it appeared. I recall an example about some lawyer being disciplined for neglecting his client. Once upon a time, a court said there had to be a "nexus" between the lawyer's conduct and resulting harm in order to determine whether an attorney should be disciplined for client neglect.
What the hell is a "nexus?" In law school, I remember thinking: "What a pretentious, unnecessary word. You can just use the word 'relationship,' or even 'connection' to express the same idea without sounding like a complete SAT-word-dropping douchebag.'" So in my brief, I cited the rule without using "nexus." I changed it to "connection." I thought it sounded more accessible. It sounded less arcane. I did not want to sound like a spell-casting sorcerer when I wrote. I wanted my reader to understand immediately what the law said.
But I got a bad grade on that paper because I did not literally use the word "nexus" in reciting the legal rule. It did not matter that my formulation expressed the rule better than the judge's legalese. No, details are important in legal writing, even really bad details that do nothing to improve communication or style.
Still, at the time I had not yet recognized that the law cared nothing for style. I had always prided myself on making my writing as clear and as accessible as possible. It was difficult for me to comprehend that clarity and style did not matter in this new discipline. I resented the formality and structure in legal writing. Ultimately, I learned to do it with the best of them. But it was just imitation. I never believed that legal writing possessed any intrinsic merit over my traditional, expository style.
Recently, I have begun to see legal writing in a larger context. Now, its rigidity and pretentiousness make sense: They reflect the law's effort to construct a fanciful aura of authority and inaccessibility.
Courts and judges--as well as the governments that institute them--benefit from a population that fears the law. People fear things they do not understand. They cower before institutions that speak in a hard-to-understand way. It makes them obedient and respectful. That is why courts want words like "nexus" instead of "connection." If they used words like "connection," people might understand what they were saying. If that happened, more people might see through the law's charades and disrespect it. They might not even need lawyers to translate all the legal rubbish.
In this light, pretentiousness in legal writing makes some sense. It is a smoke-and-mirror routine. It is Wizard of Oz stuff. It looks impressive. But in the end it's all nonsense. Men behind velvet curtains are still men, even if they use befuddling synonyms for common words.
And the ultimate irony is that even the best legal writing will not impress the men behind the velvet curtain. They already know what they plan to do each day. Lawyers can talk and write until they are blue in the face. It won't change anything.
During my first year in law school, I had to take a "legal writing course." It was pure misery. The "professor" was really no professor at all, but rather a disgruntled low-level staffer from the Attorney General's office who worked part-time scolding terrified first-semester students for putting one space before a period rather than two. She never praised anyone. And she consciously tried to drain all individuality from everyone's writing. She said: "This is legal writing. It's time to un-learn everything you've ever learned about writing. Right now."
In her defense, legal writing is certainly different from expository writing. It follows distinct conventions and customs that differ from the classic liberal arts essay. It proceeds along identifiable logical pathways and channels arguments to lead ineffably to a conclusion. It is not subtle. Legal writing does not hide anything from the reader. It tells him exactly what he is reading and repeats it about fifty times before it is over. In our legal writing class, we learned how to manufacture these technical baubles. And we got lots of bad grades along the way to remind us that we missed some essential detail or other.
I became a pretty decent legal writer. After all, it isn't difficult. It's just a skill, like baking. There is no artistry to it. You just take a position, organize some arguments to support it and start declaring why you're right. You avoid the passive voice, follow a set sentence structure and repeat your argument over and over again. You make all your sentences declarative and begin each closing line in a paragraph with "thus." Clarity is important. Subtlety is not. And why should it be? After all, if you're writing to a court to win a case, you don't want to leave your fate to interpretation, do you? Hell no. You want to scream why you're right; and you'll be damned if you hesitate in your demand for victory.
But there is irony in all this. Legal writing--like the law in general--leads lawyers to believe that they possess magical powers. After all, lawyers feel exulted because they know that they can influence the machinery of the State to deprive others of property, liberty and even their lives. They influence that machinery through advocacy, including writing. For that reason, lawyers believe that their "legal writing" opens the doorway to power over others.
Yet there is nothing magical about the law or legal writing. In fact, I came to understand that legal writing actually wields very little influence, despite the mythology to the contrary. When I practiced law, my superiors praised my writing. I thought it led courts to make better decisions in particular cases. But time after time, I saw that judges probably had not even read what I had written. Rather, they knew beforehand how they would rule in a case and carried that prejudice with them through the proceeding. No matter how grand my rhetoric or airtight my logic, my writing would never dislodge an entrenched conviction. Just because I nailed all the technical criteria required for "good legal writing" did not mean I would magically win the case.
All this sobered me about the "power of the law." I learned that there was a vast propaganda machine at work perpetuating the idea that "judges were impartial" and that "good arguments always persuade." The cruel fact is that judges and lawyers are just as shortsighted and prejudiced as the next man. They make decisions based upon their cultural intuition, social values and emotional reactions. They can skillfully cite the law to provide a seemingly "neutral" justifications for their decisions. But in the end, "good legal writing"--and even "good arguments"--will almost never change minds.
Nor should it. Legal writing is agonizingly formulaic. I even wonder how judges can even keep their eyes open when they read it. And who really needs to know what one side in a case says? You can pretty much figure out what each side wants in the case simply by looking at the facts. If a person gets injured, he's going to say the other guy is at fault and should pay him money. The other guy will say he's not at fault and shouldn't have to pay. Or maybe he'll say the injured guy caused his own injury, so he's excused. Our legal system is adversarial. That means that you can figure out exactly what each side wants beforehand: Team A wants to make money; Team B wants to save money. Each accuses the other of bad faith and shouts to the court why he should win.
It's not complicated. It's just a game: One team wants to beat the other. You don't need masterful writing to understand how most cases go. Our adversary system explains it all. And chances are a judge will form an intuitive opinion about the dispute long before he reads what either team has to say about it. So nothing either team says will change the result.
Yet lawyers love their writing, even if it does not ultimately influence anyone. Worse, they scold lower-level employees who do not use the right words in court papers. This may seem meaningless--after all, why insist on particular words if the writing does not affect the outcome in the end?--but it happens. It is as if lawyers understand that their writing will change no one's mind, yet they adhere to rigorous standards merely to show that they can. This is sheer pretentiousness, and I don't like it. Moreover, it is pretentiousness without reason; for even when lawyers use all the right formats, phrases and page headings, their writing will not influence the judge. He has already taken an intuitive notion about the case.
Take this example: In legal writing class, we learned that you must always recite a legal rule exactly as it appears in a case. Over the centuries, pretentious judges have written pretentiously (and sometimes very poorly) about the law. When they lay down a legal rule in a particular case, they enshrine bad writing for generations to come. But in legal writing class, you must cite the rule exactly as it appeared. I recall an example about some lawyer being disciplined for neglecting his client. Once upon a time, a court said there had to be a "nexus" between the lawyer's conduct and resulting harm in order to determine whether an attorney should be disciplined for client neglect.
What the hell is a "nexus?" In law school, I remember thinking: "What a pretentious, unnecessary word. You can just use the word 'relationship,' or even 'connection' to express the same idea without sounding like a complete SAT-word-dropping douchebag.'" So in my brief, I cited the rule without using "nexus." I changed it to "connection." I thought it sounded more accessible. It sounded less arcane. I did not want to sound like a spell-casting sorcerer when I wrote. I wanted my reader to understand immediately what the law said.
But I got a bad grade on that paper because I did not literally use the word "nexus" in reciting the legal rule. It did not matter that my formulation expressed the rule better than the judge's legalese. No, details are important in legal writing, even really bad details that do nothing to improve communication or style.
Still, at the time I had not yet recognized that the law cared nothing for style. I had always prided myself on making my writing as clear and as accessible as possible. It was difficult for me to comprehend that clarity and style did not matter in this new discipline. I resented the formality and structure in legal writing. Ultimately, I learned to do it with the best of them. But it was just imitation. I never believed that legal writing possessed any intrinsic merit over my traditional, expository style.
Recently, I have begun to see legal writing in a larger context. Now, its rigidity and pretentiousness make sense: They reflect the law's effort to construct a fanciful aura of authority and inaccessibility.
Courts and judges--as well as the governments that institute them--benefit from a population that fears the law. People fear things they do not understand. They cower before institutions that speak in a hard-to-understand way. It makes them obedient and respectful. That is why courts want words like "nexus" instead of "connection." If they used words like "connection," people might understand what they were saying. If that happened, more people might see through the law's charades and disrespect it. They might not even need lawyers to translate all the legal rubbish.
In this light, pretentiousness in legal writing makes some sense. It is a smoke-and-mirror routine. It is Wizard of Oz stuff. It looks impressive. But in the end it's all nonsense. Men behind velvet curtains are still men, even if they use befuddling synonyms for common words.
And the ultimate irony is that even the best legal writing will not impress the men behind the velvet curtain. They already know what they plan to do each day. Lawyers can talk and write until they are blue in the face. It won't change anything.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
A LITTLE ENCOURAGEMENT FROM NIETZSCHE
A REFLECTION
Sometimes I wonder what all my writing will lead to. I never intended to make a career from my writing. People tell me: "Go write a book." But then they say: "You need to have a story that people will like, etc., etc." In other words, to be a successful writer I need to stop wandering and get focused. If I want a bestseller, I need to Grishamize.
If you read my blog, you know I'm no John Grisham. I simply write what occurs to me. But my writing is thematically consistent. An identifiable core runs through everything I write here. I think it's possible to glean my life philosophy from the topics I choose to discuss. That might not be a recipe for bestselling commercial writing. But what have I ever cared about commerce? If anything, I recoil from it. I'm an Aristotelean in that regard: Philosophy and commerce just don't mix.
Still, it's a lonely road sometimes. I look at authors who achieve commercial success and wonder why no one ever notices me. Maybe I am just too weak or too preoccupied to promote myself. On the other hand, I know that most Americans really don't care about--or care to think about--the issues I typically address in my writing. So my commercial non-viability is really twofold: (1) I do not promote; and (2) My substance is largely unpalatable.
To be clear, I am not complaining. It is exciting to write only about things that stimulate me. For the longest time, I lived life without commenting on it. Commentary simmered in my mind all the time; work just never gave me a chance to write it all down. This blog has given me the chance I always craved. It has transformed me. So even if this blog does not pay me in U.S. dollars, it pays me in emotional satisfaction. If I die tomorrow, people would know who I am. My voice would not be lost. This blog is as much a testament as it is a forum.
I always find inspiration and encouragement when I need them most. Yesterday, I sat thinking about the fact that no one will ever read what I write, at least not in my lifetime. It frustrated me a little bit. I even thought about my philosophical archetype, Friedrich Nietzsche. Nietzsche never achieved commercial success in life, either. His books barely sold a thousand copies. When he was 45, he lost his mind and never recovered. He died young. I don't think I'm losing my mind yet, but I identify with what happened to Nietzsche: I am defiantly proud of the fact that I am anti-commercial; but it nonetheless hurts to know I will likely never receive wide recognition.
So I felt a little down yesterday. It was cold, gray, windy and rainy outside. I reflected on how poor I am. I can barely pay my rent. In fact, this month I can't even pay it at all. I need to budget out my money to buy food. Plus I need to care for Steve, who is incapacitated. It pretty much sucks. I still experience joy these days. But it only peeks through like tiny patches of blue sky on a very cloudy day.
I decided to crack open Nietzsche's Human, All-too Human. I paged through the aphorisms. I stumbled on this one: "121. A Vow--I do not want to read any more authors about whom people say: 'He set out to write a book.' Rather, I only want to read authors whose thoughts became a book by accident."
Is this me? It sure sounds like it. I just write my thoughts. I never set out to write a book. I simply allow myself to pour out impressions on things that fascinate me or incite me. There is consistency in my thoughts. But they do not reflect a conscious plan to "write a book" in the conventional sense. Could they "accidentally" become a book? Perhaps. As a whole, I like to think that this blog resembles a collection of Nietzschean impressions. Nietzsche's unconventional thoughts transformed into books. Perhaps mine can too.
That was encouraging. Without even trying, I fit into the category of "authors" whom Nietzsche might have wanted to read. I am not one of those authors who "set out to write a book." I do not sketch plots or try to cram my writing into a conventional format that people like. I am not John Grisham. John Grisham's thoughts do not become a book "by accident." No, when he sits down to write, he knows what book it's going in. He's just fleshing out the formula he laid down before he starting writing.
I'm glad I stumbled on Nietzsche's aphorism when I did. I was feeling low and worthless. I was losing hope. But after discovering that Nietzsche, too, faced similar struggles in his time, I felt encouraged to face mine. I felt freshly secure in my writing. It did not bother me that I am not a bestseller. Rather, I felt hope that perhaps one day--like Nietzsche--my thoughts would "accidentally" transform into a book. That thought brightened me, even if the "book" appears after I die. I do not really value my life too much anyway. I would rather have people remember my thoughts than my "too too solid flesh." As the Germans say: "Wer schreibt, der bleibt" : "He who writes remains."
I blog because it is the only way for me to publish without editorial control or commercial pressure. Nietzsche wrote longhand and hoarded his writings in his desk. He found a publisher who printed a few editions. I can publish over the internet, even if my audience is small. At least it's something. And I will continue. That is my vow.
Sometimes I wonder what all my writing will lead to. I never intended to make a career from my writing. People tell me: "Go write a book." But then they say: "You need to have a story that people will like, etc., etc." In other words, to be a successful writer I need to stop wandering and get focused. If I want a bestseller, I need to Grishamize.
If you read my blog, you know I'm no John Grisham. I simply write what occurs to me. But my writing is thematically consistent. An identifiable core runs through everything I write here. I think it's possible to glean my life philosophy from the topics I choose to discuss. That might not be a recipe for bestselling commercial writing. But what have I ever cared about commerce? If anything, I recoil from it. I'm an Aristotelean in that regard: Philosophy and commerce just don't mix.
Still, it's a lonely road sometimes. I look at authors who achieve commercial success and wonder why no one ever notices me. Maybe I am just too weak or too preoccupied to promote myself. On the other hand, I know that most Americans really don't care about--or care to think about--the issues I typically address in my writing. So my commercial non-viability is really twofold: (1) I do not promote; and (2) My substance is largely unpalatable.
To be clear, I am not complaining. It is exciting to write only about things that stimulate me. For the longest time, I lived life without commenting on it. Commentary simmered in my mind all the time; work just never gave me a chance to write it all down. This blog has given me the chance I always craved. It has transformed me. So even if this blog does not pay me in U.S. dollars, it pays me in emotional satisfaction. If I die tomorrow, people would know who I am. My voice would not be lost. This blog is as much a testament as it is a forum.
I always find inspiration and encouragement when I need them most. Yesterday, I sat thinking about the fact that no one will ever read what I write, at least not in my lifetime. It frustrated me a little bit. I even thought about my philosophical archetype, Friedrich Nietzsche. Nietzsche never achieved commercial success in life, either. His books barely sold a thousand copies. When he was 45, he lost his mind and never recovered. He died young. I don't think I'm losing my mind yet, but I identify with what happened to Nietzsche: I am defiantly proud of the fact that I am anti-commercial; but it nonetheless hurts to know I will likely never receive wide recognition.
So I felt a little down yesterday. It was cold, gray, windy and rainy outside. I reflected on how poor I am. I can barely pay my rent. In fact, this month I can't even pay it at all. I need to budget out my money to buy food. Plus I need to care for Steve, who is incapacitated. It pretty much sucks. I still experience joy these days. But it only peeks through like tiny patches of blue sky on a very cloudy day.
I decided to crack open Nietzsche's Human, All-too Human. I paged through the aphorisms. I stumbled on this one: "121. A Vow--I do not want to read any more authors about whom people say: 'He set out to write a book.' Rather, I only want to read authors whose thoughts became a book by accident."
Is this me? It sure sounds like it. I just write my thoughts. I never set out to write a book. I simply allow myself to pour out impressions on things that fascinate me or incite me. There is consistency in my thoughts. But they do not reflect a conscious plan to "write a book" in the conventional sense. Could they "accidentally" become a book? Perhaps. As a whole, I like to think that this blog resembles a collection of Nietzschean impressions. Nietzsche's unconventional thoughts transformed into books. Perhaps mine can too.
That was encouraging. Without even trying, I fit into the category of "authors" whom Nietzsche might have wanted to read. I am not one of those authors who "set out to write a book." I do not sketch plots or try to cram my writing into a conventional format that people like. I am not John Grisham. John Grisham's thoughts do not become a book "by accident." No, when he sits down to write, he knows what book it's going in. He's just fleshing out the formula he laid down before he starting writing.
I'm glad I stumbled on Nietzsche's aphorism when I did. I was feeling low and worthless. I was losing hope. But after discovering that Nietzsche, too, faced similar struggles in his time, I felt encouraged to face mine. I felt freshly secure in my writing. It did not bother me that I am not a bestseller. Rather, I felt hope that perhaps one day--like Nietzsche--my thoughts would "accidentally" transform into a book. That thought brightened me, even if the "book" appears after I die. I do not really value my life too much anyway. I would rather have people remember my thoughts than my "too too solid flesh." As the Germans say: "Wer schreibt, der bleibt" : "He who writes remains."
I blog because it is the only way for me to publish without editorial control or commercial pressure. Nietzsche wrote longhand and hoarded his writings in his desk. He found a publisher who printed a few editions. I can publish over the internet, even if my audience is small. At least it's something. And I will continue. That is my vow.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
COMMERCE VERSUS JUSTICE : A REAL LIFE EXAMPLE
A REFLECTION
It took me a while to name this blog. I wanted to make it memorable. At the same time, I wanted it to reflect my life philosophy. I didn't want to sound pretentious; rather, I wanted to alert the reader to the big questions that animate me. And I also wanted to hint that I am at heart a "satirical rogue." That's why I added "free beer" at the end.
I chose "Reason," "Commerce" and "Justice" because those subjects focus my critical energy. Everything I write in some way relates to those three concepts. No matter what style I choose, those concepts unite my work.
Reason interests me because it encapsulates the human capacity for thought. Reason allegedly separates human beings from other animals. I write about reason's limitations, as well as its less-than-reasonable corollaries: Emotions, reflections, memories, impressions. My fixation on language also involves "reasoned" analysis. No matter the specific subject, however, I cast a critical eye on reason. I do not praise it as an inexorable pathway to truth. Indeed, I maintain a healthy skepticism for reason. I am a qualified empiricist: Reason is just one tool to help me understand existence. But I certainly don't put all my money on it. Too much unreasonable stuff happens in life. In that light, putting full trust in reason is not only unadvisable; it's also really disappointing.
Commerce offers me plentiful material for both satire and commentary. I define myself against commerce. Its values repel me. I do not like promoting myself. I do not like circulating resumes or kissing ass in interviews. I don't like wearing little costumes and going to work for private employers. I also don't like unfairness, inequality and hypocrisy. Commerce is rife with all three. Commerce also interests me because it is all about instrumentalism; and that clashes with my steadfast respect for the individual. In commerce, people play roles to make money: Master, servant, employer, employee, officer, director, customer, client…the list goes on. In the process, they lose their humanity. They also tend to exploit one another for crass personal gain. Commerce is the stage upon which to showcase my ruthless cynicism. It allows me to ironically brandish my own colors while criticizing things I fundamentally don't like.
Moreover, commerce is the perfect context in which to explore the tension between flexibility and principle. I often write about principles and honor. Commerce weighs against both. And sadly, my satires take doubled strength from the unfortunate truth that most people live for commerce rather than honor. Just listen to the radio or watch television. You will see and hear a lot more commercial messages than honorable ones.
Finally, justice draws me because it represents something larger than commerce. Justice has obsessed philosophers for millennia. I am just continuing down the road. In my work, justice stands as something hopeful, something better than ourselves, something transcendent, something to achieve. Justice is that great, intuitive feeling that something is right, not wrong. I do not identify a source for it. It just "is." I am no theologian. But in my heart I know when a situation is just. And I know when a situation is unjust. Injustice reeks. It seems to revolt against nature.
Justice is about ideals. It is about striving for something more than mere convenience or comfort. In that light, I use justice to champion my zeal for principle, honor, equality and "better" things. I use it to underline the key distinction between subjectivity and objectivity, because justice is largely subjective and cannot be objectively measured.
I also use justice as a backdrop to criticize the law. My fascination with ethics relates to my suspicion toward law. Justice and ethics go hand in hand. Ethics clashes with law. Therefore, law and justice clash, too. If you've spent any time studying my writing, you will know that I have very little respect for the law. If anything, I relegate law to the "commercial" category. And that it is ultimate insult, because law claims to advance justice. I make a few exceptions in my criticism for law, especially in cases where the law protects individual rights and enforces principles that restrain commerce. But I castigate everything else. In fact, law in most cases does not serve justice at all. To the contrary, in most cases it serves commerce--my perpetual theoretical foe.
In essence, then, my writing boils down to a battle between justice and commerce. I even thought about renaming my blog "Commerce Versus Justice," because that dichotomy really dominates my arguments. Something is either "just" or "just commercial." No matter what subject I address, chances are good that it involves hopeful ideals and crass realities. I lament the crass realities and wish for the hopeful ideals. The hopeful ideals are "justice." The crass realities are "commerce." In the "real world," commerce usually wins. In my eyes, it is usually an "unjust victory." And that "injustice" provides me fuel for criticism, commentary and satire.
But I decided against renaming my blog. Although I consistently allude to the struggle between commerce and justice, I refuse to abandon my commitment to "reason." There is a significant self-exploratory element to my writing. I write about people, their motivations, thoughts, dreams, hopes, happiness, unhappiness and machinations. While these things often involve commerce, they also implicate reason. I need to retain my focus on "reason" in order to continue writing about human beings--myself included. That is why I am going to keep my original three-part title. Well, four-part when you drink the free beer.
I sketch my thoughts about my blog's title in order to provide background for an important story. After all, one of the reasons I opened this blog was to therapeutically resolve difficulties that began to arise in my mind around 2006. In 2006, three critical events occurred in my life: (1) I finished my legal education; (2) My father died; and (3) I rejected law practice on principle. In essence, my life expectations completely changed. For one, I began thinking about death more than I ever had before. Second, after spending three years submerged in legal study, I recognized that I had no place in legal practice. That forced me to reevaluate my life in a very basic way. Beginning in 2006, I started to understand the distinction between commerce and justice. And when my father died, I used my reason to reflect on life. My philosophical fixation on reason, commerce and justice had begun.
I was not a child anymore. I was suddenly an adult. And life was full of trouble. Wrenching, inscrutable trouble.
In 2007, my focus on reason, commerce and justice sharpened even more. As I have written in several other contexts over the years, 2007 was the year in which my life partner, Steve, suffered a life-altering accident. I have not gone into great detail about the event. Neither has Steve. Yet I am painfully aware of it because I lived through its aftermath. And in truth, Steve's story perfectly illustrates the tension between commerce and justice. In this sense, Steve's story cemented my theoretical focus with a real life example.
Late on August 1, 2007, Steve went to work out at an all-night gym in Chicago. Back in those days, we used to go our own ways. We stayed out late alone sometimes and it never mattered. I went to bed about midnight. At about 2:15 AM, I got a phone call from the Illinois Masonic Hospital. "Are you Steve's partner?" someone asked. Half-asleep, I replied: "Yes. What is it?" "Steve has been badly burned. He wants you to visit him." I could not really understand what that meant, but I was stunned. "I'll be right over," I think I said. Then I hung up. I sat on the edge of the bed for a minute or two thinking. Then I got up and pulled on my jeans. I had no idea what was in store.
I got to the emergency room about 3:00 AM. Steve was laying on a cot, incoherent, drenched in sweat. They had wrapped a huge bulky bandage on his right arm. I could see dark-red bloodstains on the upper part. It looked like his skin had peeled right off midshoulder. Steve managed to tell me that he had been burned in the gym's steam room. He said he had just walked in when suddenly a jet of steam burst from the wall and scorched his arm.
I did not really know what to make of his story at the time. He was delirious. He must have been in shock. He talked about our dog and his clothes. I stayed with him in the emergency room for about two hours while the hospital arranged a transfer to a burn center outside town. I dozed for a while on a folding chair. I remember when the emergency room staff wheeled him away and put him in the back of the ambulance. He was smiling. He said he would be fine. He told me to go home and get some sleep. He told me to meet him at the hospital the next day. Then they closed the ambulance doors. The ambulance rolled off into the brightening summer dawn.
I had a meeting with my law school dean later that morning. I think I wanted to talk to him about getting a job with a federal judge. I somehow managed to attend the meeting with a straight face. At the time, I thought Steve would be all right, so I don't think the meeting went badly. The dean told me he would "put a word in" for me with several judges. I was out within an hour. I immediately hopped in the car and went to visit Steve.
Steve was fine when I arrived. They had his arm suspended above him in a sling. The doctors said they were going to perform skin graft surgery on him at 9 AM the next day, August 3. I spent about 8 hours in Steve's hospital room, assuring him that everything would be all right. Steve was cheery that day. He was happy that I was at his side. I went home about 8 PM. At 9:30 PM, he called me and thanked me for being at the hospital during the day. I told him I wouldn't abandon him for the world. I also told him I would be there as soon as he came out of the recovery room after his surgery. He cried when I said that.
I went to bed that night confident that Steve would be fine. I thought they would just do the surgery, then he would be home in a week or so. I was tired, sure, but I did not think life would be much different after that day.
I got up on August 3 waiting for a phone call to let me know I could visit Steve after his surgery. At about 11:00 AM, I got a call from a nurse who told me the surgeon needed to speak with me. I figured the surgeon was just going to tell me that the surgery had gone well and I could visit. So I called the surgeon back. I didn't reach him. After two more tries, I did reach him. He told me to come to the hospital right away. That was all he said.
I was a little nervous at this point. I had never really spent much time around hospitals. I did not know the procedure for getting news about surgeries. I thought maybe the surgeon could only tell me details about the surgery in person, not on the phone. So I headed back over to the hospital. It was about a 40-minute drive. I remember George Benson's "Affirmation" was on the radio during the trip.
I made it to the hospital and parked my car. First I went to the gift shop. I bought Steve a "Get Well Soon" balloon and a teddy bear. Then, holding the balloon in one hand, I went to the main desk. I said I was here I visit Steve. The guard tapped the keyboard and said: "Burn ICU. Seventh floor."
Now I was getting more nervous: Why is he in the ICU? Why isn't he in the recovery room?
I followed the signs to the Burn ICU. I went through a few automatic double doors into a large room with a nurse's station in the middle. Patient rooms lined the walls in a big circle around the station. I asked one nurse: "I'm here to see Steve."
She pointed to a room on my left. It was full of doctors, nurses, interns, even executives in suits. I pushed my way in. Steve was unconscious on a bed, angled up. He was on a respirator. A thick silver tube stretched from the respirator into a hole punched through his throat. There were two tubes lined into his nostrils. More tubes funneled out from his arms. Wires were tacked on to his chest and legs. There must have been about twenty wires and tubes attached to his body. His mouth was wide open and his eyes were as if glued shut. His tongue was protruding from his mouth slightly and it looked completely parched. There was blood caked on the edges of his lips. Bleeping, whirring machines and monitors ringed his bed.
I let go of the balloon and covered my mouth with my hands. I left the room for minute to reflect on what I was seeing. At that moment, the anesthesiologist approached me and explained nervously that something went horribly wrong during the surgery. Apparently, Steve had a strong reaction to a particular anesthesia and it stopped his heart. He told me that he had jumped on top of Steve to perform CPR and that he finally got his pulse back after 53 seconds. After reviving him, they stabilized his blood pressure and rushed him to the ICU. He told me he was in an induced coma. They wanted to keep him motionless until they could place a stent in his heart. Apparently, his body had convulsed uncontrollably after his heart stopped.
I could not believe what I was hearing and seeing. Here was the man I had loved for seven years, reduced before me to a motionless vegetable. Here was the man who just two days before was strong, enterprising and courageous; and now he was on the verge of death. I felt utterly broken. I immediately thought about my father. Was I going to lose Steve, too, just a year later? What was this life? What was the point? Was I doomed to lose everyone I loved?
At that moment, I thought that Steve would die. At the very least, I thought he would never recover his brain function. The doctors were all very grave. They said: "We have no idea what will happen with him. But he did go without oxygen to the brain for over a minute." I just paced around the ICU all day. I made phone calls. Our best friend was flying in from New York that day. I took a break and picked him up at the airport. That was a good distraction; I needed support that day, and he gave it to me. We spent the rest of the day staring hopelessly at Steve on the respirator. We worried every time a machine made a noise. Finally, we left at about 8 PM.
Over the next two days, Steve was in critical condition. He could not open his eyes. I just sat at his side for hours at a time listening to the respirator and the other beeping machines that kept him alive.
On the third day, however, Steve suddenly opened his eyes. The paralytic had worn off. He looked around as if in a panic. Then he turned and saw me. His face glowed for an instant, then it crumpled into tears. He grabbed for my hand as the nurses struggled to keep all the tubes attached to his body. Tears streamed down my face. I clenched his hand and told him everything would be all right. I tried to explain what had happened, but it was obvious he could not comprehend what was wrong. He could not speak. He could mouth words, but the tracheal tube blocked his throat. Still, as pitiful as he appeared that day, I knew he would survive. It was a huge relief.
Ultimately, Steve stayed 33 more days in the hospital. I was there every day from morning to night. He got the stent he needed in his heart. He underwent three more skin graft surgeries to repair the arm. They had to shear skin off his thighs to replant it on his arm. At one point, the graft did not take; so they had to put cadaver skin on his arm as a "bedding." Toward the end of his stay, they took out the tracheal tube and he could speak again. His voice had changed and he lisped, but he could speak. There had been no brain damage. He was handicapped and slower, but he had survived. He went home September 5, 2007. The hospital bill came to something around $2,000,000.
In the months that followed, Steve pursued a legal case against the gym that caused his injuries. We hired a law firm to investigate and prosecute the claim. As a former trial lawyer, the case seemed a winner to me. There was nothing wrong with his arm before he went into the steam room on August 2. When he came out, he was permanently injured. His "special damages" amounted to at least $2,000,000, not to mention the "loss of a normal life," "disfigurement," "pain and suffering" and "mental anguish." There was no quarrel that the gym's facilities caused these injuries and Steve had no control over those facilities. Based on my experience, I estimated Steve's case at around $7,000,000.
Despite these compelling facts, the case went poorly. For its part, the gym denied it had done anything wrong. It actually came forward with some questionable "incident reports" that said that Steve "laid down in front of the steam vent" and "caused his own injury." The gym manager--who was not there on August 2--claimed that Steve must have "passed out in the steam room," then fallen in front of the vent for a long time. Yet the medical records all corroborated Steve's story. And the emergency responders who took him from the gym said nothing about "fainting" or "falling." They did not treat him as they would have treated someone who had just fainted. Steve's surgeon even said there was no evidence of a fall.
Still, our lawyers found the gym's self-serving reports troublesome. For some reason, they thought that if the gym's story were true, then Steve could not win the case. Yet Steve always told the same story about how he was injured: He walked into the steam room and a jet of steam suddenly burst from the wall. The gym did not provide warnings anywhere about steam vents. It was a very big steam room with several blind corners and crannies. I had been in it myself and often found it difficult to determine where steam was coming from. That is why it did not surprise me when Steve said the steam took him by surprise.
And no matter what story people believed, the logic of the case seemed obvious to me: You shouldn't allow access to something on your property that can cause an injury as bad as Steve's. It's almost like letting a wild animal loose in your house during a dinner party.
But our lawyers did not see it that way. They said they could never sell Steve's story to a jury. They said they could not convince people that steam could emanate from the wall when the pictures showed the vents were only at ankle level. They did not acknowledge the fact, however, that they took the pictures almost a year after the event. Who knows what "improvements" the gym had made in the intervening time.
Yet all these rationalizations took a back seat to an even more compelling problem for our lawyers: They discovered that the gym did not have any liability insurance. Liability insurance means that an insurance company pays if someone gets injured on your land. If you don't have liability insurance, an injured person can go directly after your assets. But if you have no assets--or if the assets are insufficient to cover the injury--it makes little sense for an injured person to pursue you. After all, it takes years to win a judgment, let alone collect on one. Insurance companies shorten the time needed to get money from an accident. Without insurance, most injury lawyers don't waste their time on cases, even if they are meritorious. After all, they don't get paid until they win. If they spend 5 years working a case, then discover no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, they will have wasted 5 years for nothing. That is a terrifying prospect for a lawyer trying to pay his rent.
So our lawyers fired us. They never said that the gym's insurance situation was the reason they turned us away. But it was obvious to me. The gym got away scot-free because it strategically decided not to buy liability insurance. The gym knew that no personal injury lawyer would waste his time pursuing an entity without insurance, so it just did not buy insurance. In essence, it insured itself against lawsuits by refusing to insure. It understood that civil litigation is a time-consuming, expensive business. So it correctly guessed that most lawyers would avoid a case that does not promise a quick insurance payout.
In short, the gym acted in a commercially prudent manner. It minimized its liabilities. It saved money.
But Steve suffered injustice for it. Steve's life changed because of the gym's conduct. It offered its facilities to the public for a fee. Those facilities nearly killed Steve and gutted his entire existence, not to mention mine. And due to the gym's strategic failure to buy liability insurance, Steve will not even receive the psychic satisfaction that the law avenged the hurt he endured. Put simply, Steve did not get justice. The law failed him.
Or did it? Steve's case confirms me that the law does not serve justice. If it did, lawyers would have flocked to represent him. Yet none did. From an intuitive perspective, Steve suffered a gross injustice due to another's negligence. No one should ever have to endure such clear wrongs in life.
But the lawyers did not flock to his aid because justice does not motivate them. Avenging injustice, after all, does not necessarily pay the bills. Paying the bills is a quintessentially commercial function. And lawyers did not take Steve's case because they could not assure themselves that it would be "worth the investment." It did not matter that he suffered injustice. Rather, his case was not "commercially viable" because the gym did not have insurance.
In Steve's case, commerce won out over justice. That's a lesson in law for you.
I have no more illusions about the law. It is a business like any other. If a case doesn’t promise a quick profit, no lawyer will take it, even if a person has suffered obvious injustice.
It took me a while to name this blog. I wanted to make it memorable. At the same time, I wanted it to reflect my life philosophy. I didn't want to sound pretentious; rather, I wanted to alert the reader to the big questions that animate me. And I also wanted to hint that I am at heart a "satirical rogue." That's why I added "free beer" at the end.
I chose "Reason," "Commerce" and "Justice" because those subjects focus my critical energy. Everything I write in some way relates to those three concepts. No matter what style I choose, those concepts unite my work.
Reason interests me because it encapsulates the human capacity for thought. Reason allegedly separates human beings from other animals. I write about reason's limitations, as well as its less-than-reasonable corollaries: Emotions, reflections, memories, impressions. My fixation on language also involves "reasoned" analysis. No matter the specific subject, however, I cast a critical eye on reason. I do not praise it as an inexorable pathway to truth. Indeed, I maintain a healthy skepticism for reason. I am a qualified empiricist: Reason is just one tool to help me understand existence. But I certainly don't put all my money on it. Too much unreasonable stuff happens in life. In that light, putting full trust in reason is not only unadvisable; it's also really disappointing.
Commerce offers me plentiful material for both satire and commentary. I define myself against commerce. Its values repel me. I do not like promoting myself. I do not like circulating resumes or kissing ass in interviews. I don't like wearing little costumes and going to work for private employers. I also don't like unfairness, inequality and hypocrisy. Commerce is rife with all three. Commerce also interests me because it is all about instrumentalism; and that clashes with my steadfast respect for the individual. In commerce, people play roles to make money: Master, servant, employer, employee, officer, director, customer, client…the list goes on. In the process, they lose their humanity. They also tend to exploit one another for crass personal gain. Commerce is the stage upon which to showcase my ruthless cynicism. It allows me to ironically brandish my own colors while criticizing things I fundamentally don't like.
Moreover, commerce is the perfect context in which to explore the tension between flexibility and principle. I often write about principles and honor. Commerce weighs against both. And sadly, my satires take doubled strength from the unfortunate truth that most people live for commerce rather than honor. Just listen to the radio or watch television. You will see and hear a lot more commercial messages than honorable ones.
Finally, justice draws me because it represents something larger than commerce. Justice has obsessed philosophers for millennia. I am just continuing down the road. In my work, justice stands as something hopeful, something better than ourselves, something transcendent, something to achieve. Justice is that great, intuitive feeling that something is right, not wrong. I do not identify a source for it. It just "is." I am no theologian. But in my heart I know when a situation is just. And I know when a situation is unjust. Injustice reeks. It seems to revolt against nature.
Justice is about ideals. It is about striving for something more than mere convenience or comfort. In that light, I use justice to champion my zeal for principle, honor, equality and "better" things. I use it to underline the key distinction between subjectivity and objectivity, because justice is largely subjective and cannot be objectively measured.
I also use justice as a backdrop to criticize the law. My fascination with ethics relates to my suspicion toward law. Justice and ethics go hand in hand. Ethics clashes with law. Therefore, law and justice clash, too. If you've spent any time studying my writing, you will know that I have very little respect for the law. If anything, I relegate law to the "commercial" category. And that it is ultimate insult, because law claims to advance justice. I make a few exceptions in my criticism for law, especially in cases where the law protects individual rights and enforces principles that restrain commerce. But I castigate everything else. In fact, law in most cases does not serve justice at all. To the contrary, in most cases it serves commerce--my perpetual theoretical foe.
In essence, then, my writing boils down to a battle between justice and commerce. I even thought about renaming my blog "Commerce Versus Justice," because that dichotomy really dominates my arguments. Something is either "just" or "just commercial." No matter what subject I address, chances are good that it involves hopeful ideals and crass realities. I lament the crass realities and wish for the hopeful ideals. The hopeful ideals are "justice." The crass realities are "commerce." In the "real world," commerce usually wins. In my eyes, it is usually an "unjust victory." And that "injustice" provides me fuel for criticism, commentary and satire.
But I decided against renaming my blog. Although I consistently allude to the struggle between commerce and justice, I refuse to abandon my commitment to "reason." There is a significant self-exploratory element to my writing. I write about people, their motivations, thoughts, dreams, hopes, happiness, unhappiness and machinations. While these things often involve commerce, they also implicate reason. I need to retain my focus on "reason" in order to continue writing about human beings--myself included. That is why I am going to keep my original three-part title. Well, four-part when you drink the free beer.
I sketch my thoughts about my blog's title in order to provide background for an important story. After all, one of the reasons I opened this blog was to therapeutically resolve difficulties that began to arise in my mind around 2006. In 2006, three critical events occurred in my life: (1) I finished my legal education; (2) My father died; and (3) I rejected law practice on principle. In essence, my life expectations completely changed. For one, I began thinking about death more than I ever had before. Second, after spending three years submerged in legal study, I recognized that I had no place in legal practice. That forced me to reevaluate my life in a very basic way. Beginning in 2006, I started to understand the distinction between commerce and justice. And when my father died, I used my reason to reflect on life. My philosophical fixation on reason, commerce and justice had begun.
I was not a child anymore. I was suddenly an adult. And life was full of trouble. Wrenching, inscrutable trouble.
In 2007, my focus on reason, commerce and justice sharpened even more. As I have written in several other contexts over the years, 2007 was the year in which my life partner, Steve, suffered a life-altering accident. I have not gone into great detail about the event. Neither has Steve. Yet I am painfully aware of it because I lived through its aftermath. And in truth, Steve's story perfectly illustrates the tension between commerce and justice. In this sense, Steve's story cemented my theoretical focus with a real life example.
Late on August 1, 2007, Steve went to work out at an all-night gym in Chicago. Back in those days, we used to go our own ways. We stayed out late alone sometimes and it never mattered. I went to bed about midnight. At about 2:15 AM, I got a phone call from the Illinois Masonic Hospital. "Are you Steve's partner?" someone asked. Half-asleep, I replied: "Yes. What is it?" "Steve has been badly burned. He wants you to visit him." I could not really understand what that meant, but I was stunned. "I'll be right over," I think I said. Then I hung up. I sat on the edge of the bed for a minute or two thinking. Then I got up and pulled on my jeans. I had no idea what was in store.
I got to the emergency room about 3:00 AM. Steve was laying on a cot, incoherent, drenched in sweat. They had wrapped a huge bulky bandage on his right arm. I could see dark-red bloodstains on the upper part. It looked like his skin had peeled right off midshoulder. Steve managed to tell me that he had been burned in the gym's steam room. He said he had just walked in when suddenly a jet of steam burst from the wall and scorched his arm.
I did not really know what to make of his story at the time. He was delirious. He must have been in shock. He talked about our dog and his clothes. I stayed with him in the emergency room for about two hours while the hospital arranged a transfer to a burn center outside town. I dozed for a while on a folding chair. I remember when the emergency room staff wheeled him away and put him in the back of the ambulance. He was smiling. He said he would be fine. He told me to go home and get some sleep. He told me to meet him at the hospital the next day. Then they closed the ambulance doors. The ambulance rolled off into the brightening summer dawn.
I had a meeting with my law school dean later that morning. I think I wanted to talk to him about getting a job with a federal judge. I somehow managed to attend the meeting with a straight face. At the time, I thought Steve would be all right, so I don't think the meeting went badly. The dean told me he would "put a word in" for me with several judges. I was out within an hour. I immediately hopped in the car and went to visit Steve.
Steve was fine when I arrived. They had his arm suspended above him in a sling. The doctors said they were going to perform skin graft surgery on him at 9 AM the next day, August 3. I spent about 8 hours in Steve's hospital room, assuring him that everything would be all right. Steve was cheery that day. He was happy that I was at his side. I went home about 8 PM. At 9:30 PM, he called me and thanked me for being at the hospital during the day. I told him I wouldn't abandon him for the world. I also told him I would be there as soon as he came out of the recovery room after his surgery. He cried when I said that.
I went to bed that night confident that Steve would be fine. I thought they would just do the surgery, then he would be home in a week or so. I was tired, sure, but I did not think life would be much different after that day.
I got up on August 3 waiting for a phone call to let me know I could visit Steve after his surgery. At about 11:00 AM, I got a call from a nurse who told me the surgeon needed to speak with me. I figured the surgeon was just going to tell me that the surgery had gone well and I could visit. So I called the surgeon back. I didn't reach him. After two more tries, I did reach him. He told me to come to the hospital right away. That was all he said.
I was a little nervous at this point. I had never really spent much time around hospitals. I did not know the procedure for getting news about surgeries. I thought maybe the surgeon could only tell me details about the surgery in person, not on the phone. So I headed back over to the hospital. It was about a 40-minute drive. I remember George Benson's "Affirmation" was on the radio during the trip.
I made it to the hospital and parked my car. First I went to the gift shop. I bought Steve a "Get Well Soon" balloon and a teddy bear. Then, holding the balloon in one hand, I went to the main desk. I said I was here I visit Steve. The guard tapped the keyboard and said: "Burn ICU. Seventh floor."
Now I was getting more nervous: Why is he in the ICU? Why isn't he in the recovery room?
I followed the signs to the Burn ICU. I went through a few automatic double doors into a large room with a nurse's station in the middle. Patient rooms lined the walls in a big circle around the station. I asked one nurse: "I'm here to see Steve."
She pointed to a room on my left. It was full of doctors, nurses, interns, even executives in suits. I pushed my way in. Steve was unconscious on a bed, angled up. He was on a respirator. A thick silver tube stretched from the respirator into a hole punched through his throat. There were two tubes lined into his nostrils. More tubes funneled out from his arms. Wires were tacked on to his chest and legs. There must have been about twenty wires and tubes attached to his body. His mouth was wide open and his eyes were as if glued shut. His tongue was protruding from his mouth slightly and it looked completely parched. There was blood caked on the edges of his lips. Bleeping, whirring machines and monitors ringed his bed.
I let go of the balloon and covered my mouth with my hands. I left the room for minute to reflect on what I was seeing. At that moment, the anesthesiologist approached me and explained nervously that something went horribly wrong during the surgery. Apparently, Steve had a strong reaction to a particular anesthesia and it stopped his heart. He told me that he had jumped on top of Steve to perform CPR and that he finally got his pulse back after 53 seconds. After reviving him, they stabilized his blood pressure and rushed him to the ICU. He told me he was in an induced coma. They wanted to keep him motionless until they could place a stent in his heart. Apparently, his body had convulsed uncontrollably after his heart stopped.
I could not believe what I was hearing and seeing. Here was the man I had loved for seven years, reduced before me to a motionless vegetable. Here was the man who just two days before was strong, enterprising and courageous; and now he was on the verge of death. I felt utterly broken. I immediately thought about my father. Was I going to lose Steve, too, just a year later? What was this life? What was the point? Was I doomed to lose everyone I loved?
At that moment, I thought that Steve would die. At the very least, I thought he would never recover his brain function. The doctors were all very grave. They said: "We have no idea what will happen with him. But he did go without oxygen to the brain for over a minute." I just paced around the ICU all day. I made phone calls. Our best friend was flying in from New York that day. I took a break and picked him up at the airport. That was a good distraction; I needed support that day, and he gave it to me. We spent the rest of the day staring hopelessly at Steve on the respirator. We worried every time a machine made a noise. Finally, we left at about 8 PM.
Over the next two days, Steve was in critical condition. He could not open his eyes. I just sat at his side for hours at a time listening to the respirator and the other beeping machines that kept him alive.
On the third day, however, Steve suddenly opened his eyes. The paralytic had worn off. He looked around as if in a panic. Then he turned and saw me. His face glowed for an instant, then it crumpled into tears. He grabbed for my hand as the nurses struggled to keep all the tubes attached to his body. Tears streamed down my face. I clenched his hand and told him everything would be all right. I tried to explain what had happened, but it was obvious he could not comprehend what was wrong. He could not speak. He could mouth words, but the tracheal tube blocked his throat. Still, as pitiful as he appeared that day, I knew he would survive. It was a huge relief.
Ultimately, Steve stayed 33 more days in the hospital. I was there every day from morning to night. He got the stent he needed in his heart. He underwent three more skin graft surgeries to repair the arm. They had to shear skin off his thighs to replant it on his arm. At one point, the graft did not take; so they had to put cadaver skin on his arm as a "bedding." Toward the end of his stay, they took out the tracheal tube and he could speak again. His voice had changed and he lisped, but he could speak. There had been no brain damage. He was handicapped and slower, but he had survived. He went home September 5, 2007. The hospital bill came to something around $2,000,000.
In the months that followed, Steve pursued a legal case against the gym that caused his injuries. We hired a law firm to investigate and prosecute the claim. As a former trial lawyer, the case seemed a winner to me. There was nothing wrong with his arm before he went into the steam room on August 2. When he came out, he was permanently injured. His "special damages" amounted to at least $2,000,000, not to mention the "loss of a normal life," "disfigurement," "pain and suffering" and "mental anguish." There was no quarrel that the gym's facilities caused these injuries and Steve had no control over those facilities. Based on my experience, I estimated Steve's case at around $7,000,000.
Despite these compelling facts, the case went poorly. For its part, the gym denied it had done anything wrong. It actually came forward with some questionable "incident reports" that said that Steve "laid down in front of the steam vent" and "caused his own injury." The gym manager--who was not there on August 2--claimed that Steve must have "passed out in the steam room," then fallen in front of the vent for a long time. Yet the medical records all corroborated Steve's story. And the emergency responders who took him from the gym said nothing about "fainting" or "falling." They did not treat him as they would have treated someone who had just fainted. Steve's surgeon even said there was no evidence of a fall.
Still, our lawyers found the gym's self-serving reports troublesome. For some reason, they thought that if the gym's story were true, then Steve could not win the case. Yet Steve always told the same story about how he was injured: He walked into the steam room and a jet of steam suddenly burst from the wall. The gym did not provide warnings anywhere about steam vents. It was a very big steam room with several blind corners and crannies. I had been in it myself and often found it difficult to determine where steam was coming from. That is why it did not surprise me when Steve said the steam took him by surprise.
And no matter what story people believed, the logic of the case seemed obvious to me: You shouldn't allow access to something on your property that can cause an injury as bad as Steve's. It's almost like letting a wild animal loose in your house during a dinner party.
But our lawyers did not see it that way. They said they could never sell Steve's story to a jury. They said they could not convince people that steam could emanate from the wall when the pictures showed the vents were only at ankle level. They did not acknowledge the fact, however, that they took the pictures almost a year after the event. Who knows what "improvements" the gym had made in the intervening time.
Yet all these rationalizations took a back seat to an even more compelling problem for our lawyers: They discovered that the gym did not have any liability insurance. Liability insurance means that an insurance company pays if someone gets injured on your land. If you don't have liability insurance, an injured person can go directly after your assets. But if you have no assets--or if the assets are insufficient to cover the injury--it makes little sense for an injured person to pursue you. After all, it takes years to win a judgment, let alone collect on one. Insurance companies shorten the time needed to get money from an accident. Without insurance, most injury lawyers don't waste their time on cases, even if they are meritorious. After all, they don't get paid until they win. If they spend 5 years working a case, then discover no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, they will have wasted 5 years for nothing. That is a terrifying prospect for a lawyer trying to pay his rent.
So our lawyers fired us. They never said that the gym's insurance situation was the reason they turned us away. But it was obvious to me. The gym got away scot-free because it strategically decided not to buy liability insurance. The gym knew that no personal injury lawyer would waste his time pursuing an entity without insurance, so it just did not buy insurance. In essence, it insured itself against lawsuits by refusing to insure. It understood that civil litigation is a time-consuming, expensive business. So it correctly guessed that most lawyers would avoid a case that does not promise a quick insurance payout.
In short, the gym acted in a commercially prudent manner. It minimized its liabilities. It saved money.
But Steve suffered injustice for it. Steve's life changed because of the gym's conduct. It offered its facilities to the public for a fee. Those facilities nearly killed Steve and gutted his entire existence, not to mention mine. And due to the gym's strategic failure to buy liability insurance, Steve will not even receive the psychic satisfaction that the law avenged the hurt he endured. Put simply, Steve did not get justice. The law failed him.
Or did it? Steve's case confirms me that the law does not serve justice. If it did, lawyers would have flocked to represent him. Yet none did. From an intuitive perspective, Steve suffered a gross injustice due to another's negligence. No one should ever have to endure such clear wrongs in life.
But the lawyers did not flock to his aid because justice does not motivate them. Avenging injustice, after all, does not necessarily pay the bills. Paying the bills is a quintessentially commercial function. And lawyers did not take Steve's case because they could not assure themselves that it would be "worth the investment." It did not matter that he suffered injustice. Rather, his case was not "commercially viable" because the gym did not have insurance.
In Steve's case, commerce won out over justice. That's a lesson in law for you.
I have no more illusions about the law. It is a business like any other. If a case doesn’t promise a quick profit, no lawyer will take it, even if a person has suffered obvious injustice.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
HOPEFUL TIMES
I've been getting a lot of phone calls lately. Never fear; there's been no bad news. On the contrary, I have lately reconnected with many old friends and I hope to see them over the next couple weeks. Additionally, I have received a few offers to do some "paying" work from home, and with my finances as critical as they are, I am loath to turn them down.
Against that background, I am going to do my absolute best to keep up my writing schedule. But in the coming weeks, I may have to without a post for a few more days than usual. I apologize for that. On the other hand, I am grateful that I am starting to spend more time out of the house. For the first time in over a year, my partner is feeling well enough for me to reasonably start pursuing some additional interests, seeing more people and rekindling a social life that has been dormant for quite some time now. To put this all in perspective, I have not been able to leave the house for more than a few hours at a time since late 2008. That is changing now.
My life is getting richer every day. I know that richness will aid my writing. This is certainly not to say that I am going to stop writing. In fact, I am committed to this blog more now than I have ever been. I am grateful for my readers and I always look forward to hearing from you. I am proud to have amassed so much writing about so many subjects.
Having said all this, I will be branching out a bit more in the coming weeks. If that means two and three posts per week rather than the customary five, I am willing to pay that price. It is simply a question of free time. When I have it, I will write. When I have something else going on, I won't. But all in all, I think time off the blog will be my exception, not my rule. I just want to keep the option open. And I wanted to let you all know about it.
Thanks again to all who stop by for Reason, Commerce, Justice and Free Beer! I am excited about the future. And even when I don't write, I experience, observe and analyze my surroundings. Experience always delivers me onto fertile creative grounds; life is never really dull when you dare to live it.
See you all soon!
Oesterhoudt
Against that background, I am going to do my absolute best to keep up my writing schedule. But in the coming weeks, I may have to without a post for a few more days than usual. I apologize for that. On the other hand, I am grateful that I am starting to spend more time out of the house. For the first time in over a year, my partner is feeling well enough for me to reasonably start pursuing some additional interests, seeing more people and rekindling a social life that has been dormant for quite some time now. To put this all in perspective, I have not been able to leave the house for more than a few hours at a time since late 2008. That is changing now.
My life is getting richer every day. I know that richness will aid my writing. This is certainly not to say that I am going to stop writing. In fact, I am committed to this blog more now than I have ever been. I am grateful for my readers and I always look forward to hearing from you. I am proud to have amassed so much writing about so many subjects.
Having said all this, I will be branching out a bit more in the coming weeks. If that means two and three posts per week rather than the customary five, I am willing to pay that price. It is simply a question of free time. When I have it, I will write. When I have something else going on, I won't. But all in all, I think time off the blog will be my exception, not my rule. I just want to keep the option open. And I wanted to let you all know about it.
Thanks again to all who stop by for Reason, Commerce, Justice and Free Beer! I am excited about the future. And even when I don't write, I experience, observe and analyze my surroundings. Experience always delivers me onto fertile creative grounds; life is never really dull when you dare to live it.
See you all soon!
Oesterhoudt
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
LIFE, DEATH, ABORTION, SCARFACE AND HAMLET
AN ESSAY
I grew up in a ferociously pro-choice household. From my earliest memory, my mother told me that abortion was a woman's right. It was her choice to decide what to do with her body. Those ideas filtered into my mind. I never thought much about it. I never thought abortion amounted to murder. In fact, I remember my mother used to say: "It's nothing but a clump of cells. It's not even a person. You're not hurting anyone when you pull it out of there."
I was satisfied with her explanation. It passed my empirical scrutiny. After all, I had no memory about my own life before I was three years old, let alone memory about my time in the womb. I recalled no pain from that time. In that light, I perceived no moral problem in terminating a pregnancy: It just didn't hurt anyone.
I could not identify with a fetus; I may have once been a fetus, but if someone had rooted me out before I was born, I would not have known the better. There seemed to be no suffering in abortion. I had no problem with it.
When I was a little older, my mother told me that she had had an abortion three years after I was born. That made me understand why she so fiercely advocated abortion rights: She had needed an abortion and she got one. She told me she could not have supported another child. I completely agreed with her. I did not want another sibling, either. I liked my mother's undivided attention. So we both had some self-interest in our beliefs about abortion. I never regretted the idea that I "may have lost a brother or sister." I supported my mother's decision. In fact, I fully endorsed her main argument: That no one has a right to tell a woman what she should do with her own body.
I carried these beliefs with me to law school. They informed my understanding about the Constitution. I read Roe v. Wade, 410 U.S. 113 (1973), as if I already knew what it said. In essence, Roe held that a woman has a constitutional right to terminate her pregnancy at any time before "viability." It reaffirmed my own belief that the State has no right to interfere with a woman's reproductive choices because we all have a right to "privacy" in our bodies.
But there were people in my class who strongly disagreed with Roe. They thought that abortion was a crime. They thought that there was such a thing as "potential life," and that the State had a right to protect "lives that did not yet exist." My own values clashed with that argument. I had always believed--thanks to my mother's explanations and my own empirical conclusions--that fetuses were not people. They were just "clumps of cells." I did not consider them "alive." And even if they represented "potential life," that concept was far too nebulous for me to defend.
Still, many people vociferously believe the opposite. In fact, there are probably some people out there who would kill me for my belief that abortion is acceptable in virtually every circumstance.
In recent years, I have been obsessed with death. When my father died suddenly in 2006, it forced me to reevaluate every assumption I had about life. I pondered life's meaning, its "rewards" and its expectations. After all, I saw that life can end without warning. And all the things that we learn to expect from life can evaporate in an instant. We are all just going to die--in fact, we might even die tomorrow--so why stress out about little things, like careers and money? What do they gain us in the end? Why waste time on them? Why waste a single day on something unappetizing? If all we have are our bodies, why torture ourselves doing things we would rather not do?
I developed a contempt for life. I am still quite contemptuous about it. What does life really have to offer, anyway? Food? Sleep? Orgasms? Comforts? Feather beds? Money? Joys? Is this everything? Are we mere slaves to our senses until the day our senses cease functioning? What difference will food and orgasms make once we die? None, none, none. In fact, those are only the good sensory things that can happen to us in life. More often, life inflicts unbelievable sensory suffering on us. We endure physical pain and emotional turmoil. We endure heartache, delay, disappointment, rejection, boredom, stress, betrayal, mockery, abuse and frustration. The bad moments usually far outnumber the good ones. Then we die. Taken as a whole, then, life is a losing proposition.
That's not to say that I do not sometimes like living. It feels good to eat, sleep, have sex, talk with friends, love people, be loved, sit in a comfortable chair, listen to music and read books. I like being alive in those moments. But is this all there is? And do I have to endure all the bad stuff for these few good moments?
Many others have come to these same sad conclusions about human life. In Brian de Palma's Scarface (1983), drug kingpin Tony Montana achieves the height of earthly success. He has a beautiful wife. He has untold riches. He has a huge villa in Florida. He has a massive hot tub. He throws mammoth parties. He wants for nothing. Yet after an argument at an expensive restaurant one night, he turns to his best friend and despondently says: "Is this it? Is this what it's all about, Manny? Eating, drinking, fucking, sucking, snorting, then what? You're 50 with a bag for a belly."
Tony Montana developed a contempt for life. He did not care about what it had to offer, even though he had it all. And he did not mind dying after he saw how little life really matters.
Shakespeare's Hamlet thought the same thing. In several scenes, Hamlet rues the crude banality of human existence. Like Tony Montana, he says: "What is a man,/ If his chief good and market of his time/ Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more." Hamlet, Act IV, sc. iv, l. 31-33. Hamlet understands--as I do--that life's so-called "good things" add up to little more than "[b]estial oblivion." Act IV, sc. iv, l. 38. In fact, Hamlet grows so disenchanted with life's petty potential rewards that he prefers death to living: "O that this too too solid flesh would melt,/ Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!/ Or that the Everlasting had not fixt his/ Canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God!/ How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable/ Seem to me all the uses of this world!/ Fie on't! O, fie! 'tis an unweeded garden/ That grows to seed; things rank and gross in/ nature/ Possess it merely." Act I, sc. ii, l. 129-138. Later, he dismisses the world as "no/ other thing [] than a foul and pestilent/ congregation of vapors." Act II, sc. ii, l. 308-309. And he dismisses man, too: "What piece of work is/ man!...what is/ this quintessence of dust?" Act II, sc. ii, l. 309-310, 314-315.
Is this what it's all about, Manny? A "quintessence of dust?" "Bestial oblivion?" An existence "weary, stale, flat and unprofitable?" "An unweeded garden that grows to seed?" "A foul and pestilent congregation of vapors?" Taken in the abstract, Hamlet is dead on. Life pretty much sucks. And even the good stuff is a pretty poor palliative for the endless difficulties it inflicts upon us.
I am permissive toward abortion because I really could care less whether another person enters this brutal world. After all, earthly life offers little more than "bestial oblivion," anyway, so why should I care whether some new beast gets to eat, sleep or feed? It just doesn't matter to me. If a woman chooses to end her pregnancy, good for her: She's saving the little tyke a whole lot of trouble.
But what about abortion opponents? They must have different expectations from life than I do. They must not really ponder human existence. They must genuinely like what life has to offer. They must really like eating, sleeping, fucking, sucking and snorting, even if they wind up with bags for bellies. After all, they are willing to kill doctors in order to defend potential life. Let me say that again: Potential life. They like life so much that they are willing to commit murder so that a clump of cells may one day eat, sleep, fuck, suck and snort. They are committed not just to an existing person's right to eat, sleep, fuck, suck and snort. They are also committed to a non-existent person's right to do so. Now that shows real dedication to earthly life. It's a dedication I certainly do not share. To each his own, I suppose.
In my experience, life is no bowl of cherries. It is hard. It is full of misery and pain. When we do enjoy good moments, they are precious. But how rare they are! And viewed in the abstract, how petty! Is this why we're alive, then? To undergo endless difficulty punctuated by a few slender moments of bestial joy? We cling to life like any other mammal. We fear death because we do not know what awaits us. So, as Hamlet says, we "bear those ills we have/ [rather] than fly to others that we know not of." Hamlet, Act III, sc. i. l. 83-84.
We are the only ones who can create meaning in our lives. Hamlet found meaning by finding a purpose: Taking revenge for his murdered father. He did not seek mere "bestial oblivion" or "worldly comfort." He impressed his soul on his existence to transcend his "mortal coil." His life took on greater significance. And fittingly, he died in the process.
I have not died yet. I know that life does not offer much. Yet I try to do what Hamlet did. I am trying to live for something greater than bestial oblivion. I like bestial oblivion as much as the next man (beast). But my real joy flows from the idea that I am doing something beyond the flesh: Writing. I had to find something to make this maddening journey bearable. It was my choice.
Even then, I do not hold my own life in high esteem. On the whole, life is more trouble than it's worth. Only instinctual self-preservation holds me in check.
So from my view, so what if a woman gets an abortion? I have no philosophical problem with any activity that saves another from this harrowing sphere of pain.
I grew up in a ferociously pro-choice household. From my earliest memory, my mother told me that abortion was a woman's right. It was her choice to decide what to do with her body. Those ideas filtered into my mind. I never thought much about it. I never thought abortion amounted to murder. In fact, I remember my mother used to say: "It's nothing but a clump of cells. It's not even a person. You're not hurting anyone when you pull it out of there."
I was satisfied with her explanation. It passed my empirical scrutiny. After all, I had no memory about my own life before I was three years old, let alone memory about my time in the womb. I recalled no pain from that time. In that light, I perceived no moral problem in terminating a pregnancy: It just didn't hurt anyone.
I could not identify with a fetus; I may have once been a fetus, but if someone had rooted me out before I was born, I would not have known the better. There seemed to be no suffering in abortion. I had no problem with it.
When I was a little older, my mother told me that she had had an abortion three years after I was born. That made me understand why she so fiercely advocated abortion rights: She had needed an abortion and she got one. She told me she could not have supported another child. I completely agreed with her. I did not want another sibling, either. I liked my mother's undivided attention. So we both had some self-interest in our beliefs about abortion. I never regretted the idea that I "may have lost a brother or sister." I supported my mother's decision. In fact, I fully endorsed her main argument: That no one has a right to tell a woman what she should do with her own body.
I carried these beliefs with me to law school. They informed my understanding about the Constitution. I read Roe v. Wade, 410 U.S. 113 (1973), as if I already knew what it said. In essence, Roe held that a woman has a constitutional right to terminate her pregnancy at any time before "viability." It reaffirmed my own belief that the State has no right to interfere with a woman's reproductive choices because we all have a right to "privacy" in our bodies.
But there were people in my class who strongly disagreed with Roe. They thought that abortion was a crime. They thought that there was such a thing as "potential life," and that the State had a right to protect "lives that did not yet exist." My own values clashed with that argument. I had always believed--thanks to my mother's explanations and my own empirical conclusions--that fetuses were not people. They were just "clumps of cells." I did not consider them "alive." And even if they represented "potential life," that concept was far too nebulous for me to defend.
Still, many people vociferously believe the opposite. In fact, there are probably some people out there who would kill me for my belief that abortion is acceptable in virtually every circumstance.
In recent years, I have been obsessed with death. When my father died suddenly in 2006, it forced me to reevaluate every assumption I had about life. I pondered life's meaning, its "rewards" and its expectations. After all, I saw that life can end without warning. And all the things that we learn to expect from life can evaporate in an instant. We are all just going to die--in fact, we might even die tomorrow--so why stress out about little things, like careers and money? What do they gain us in the end? Why waste time on them? Why waste a single day on something unappetizing? If all we have are our bodies, why torture ourselves doing things we would rather not do?
I developed a contempt for life. I am still quite contemptuous about it. What does life really have to offer, anyway? Food? Sleep? Orgasms? Comforts? Feather beds? Money? Joys? Is this everything? Are we mere slaves to our senses until the day our senses cease functioning? What difference will food and orgasms make once we die? None, none, none. In fact, those are only the good sensory things that can happen to us in life. More often, life inflicts unbelievable sensory suffering on us. We endure physical pain and emotional turmoil. We endure heartache, delay, disappointment, rejection, boredom, stress, betrayal, mockery, abuse and frustration. The bad moments usually far outnumber the good ones. Then we die. Taken as a whole, then, life is a losing proposition.
That's not to say that I do not sometimes like living. It feels good to eat, sleep, have sex, talk with friends, love people, be loved, sit in a comfortable chair, listen to music and read books. I like being alive in those moments. But is this all there is? And do I have to endure all the bad stuff for these few good moments?
Many others have come to these same sad conclusions about human life. In Brian de Palma's Scarface (1983), drug kingpin Tony Montana achieves the height of earthly success. He has a beautiful wife. He has untold riches. He has a huge villa in Florida. He has a massive hot tub. He throws mammoth parties. He wants for nothing. Yet after an argument at an expensive restaurant one night, he turns to his best friend and despondently says: "Is this it? Is this what it's all about, Manny? Eating, drinking, fucking, sucking, snorting, then what? You're 50 with a bag for a belly."
Tony Montana developed a contempt for life. He did not care about what it had to offer, even though he had it all. And he did not mind dying after he saw how little life really matters.
Shakespeare's Hamlet thought the same thing. In several scenes, Hamlet rues the crude banality of human existence. Like Tony Montana, he says: "What is a man,/ If his chief good and market of his time/ Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more." Hamlet, Act IV, sc. iv, l. 31-33. Hamlet understands--as I do--that life's so-called "good things" add up to little more than "[b]estial oblivion." Act IV, sc. iv, l. 38. In fact, Hamlet grows so disenchanted with life's petty potential rewards that he prefers death to living: "O that this too too solid flesh would melt,/ Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!/ Or that the Everlasting had not fixt his/ Canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God!/ How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable/ Seem to me all the uses of this world!/ Fie on't! O, fie! 'tis an unweeded garden/ That grows to seed; things rank and gross in/ nature/ Possess it merely." Act I, sc. ii, l. 129-138. Later, he dismisses the world as "no/ other thing [] than a foul and pestilent/ congregation of vapors." Act II, sc. ii, l. 308-309. And he dismisses man, too: "What piece of work is/ man!...what is/ this quintessence of dust?" Act II, sc. ii, l. 309-310, 314-315.
Is this what it's all about, Manny? A "quintessence of dust?" "Bestial oblivion?" An existence "weary, stale, flat and unprofitable?" "An unweeded garden that grows to seed?" "A foul and pestilent congregation of vapors?" Taken in the abstract, Hamlet is dead on. Life pretty much sucks. And even the good stuff is a pretty poor palliative for the endless difficulties it inflicts upon us.
I am permissive toward abortion because I really could care less whether another person enters this brutal world. After all, earthly life offers little more than "bestial oblivion," anyway, so why should I care whether some new beast gets to eat, sleep or feed? It just doesn't matter to me. If a woman chooses to end her pregnancy, good for her: She's saving the little tyke a whole lot of trouble.
But what about abortion opponents? They must have different expectations from life than I do. They must not really ponder human existence. They must genuinely like what life has to offer. They must really like eating, sleeping, fucking, sucking and snorting, even if they wind up with bags for bellies. After all, they are willing to kill doctors in order to defend potential life. Let me say that again: Potential life. They like life so much that they are willing to commit murder so that a clump of cells may one day eat, sleep, fuck, suck and snort. They are committed not just to an existing person's right to eat, sleep, fuck, suck and snort. They are also committed to a non-existent person's right to do so. Now that shows real dedication to earthly life. It's a dedication I certainly do not share. To each his own, I suppose.
In my experience, life is no bowl of cherries. It is hard. It is full of misery and pain. When we do enjoy good moments, they are precious. But how rare they are! And viewed in the abstract, how petty! Is this why we're alive, then? To undergo endless difficulty punctuated by a few slender moments of bestial joy? We cling to life like any other mammal. We fear death because we do not know what awaits us. So, as Hamlet says, we "bear those ills we have/ [rather] than fly to others that we know not of." Hamlet, Act III, sc. i. l. 83-84.
We are the only ones who can create meaning in our lives. Hamlet found meaning by finding a purpose: Taking revenge for his murdered father. He did not seek mere "bestial oblivion" or "worldly comfort." He impressed his soul on his existence to transcend his "mortal coil." His life took on greater significance. And fittingly, he died in the process.
I have not died yet. I know that life does not offer much. Yet I try to do what Hamlet did. I am trying to live for something greater than bestial oblivion. I like bestial oblivion as much as the next man (beast). But my real joy flows from the idea that I am doing something beyond the flesh: Writing. I had to find something to make this maddening journey bearable. It was my choice.
Even then, I do not hold my own life in high esteem. On the whole, life is more trouble than it's worth. Only instinctual self-preservation holds me in check.
So from my view, so what if a woman gets an abortion? I have no philosophical problem with any activity that saves another from this harrowing sphere of pain.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
A HARBINGER
Tomorrow it looks like my week will ease up and I will have time to write! I am very excited to get back at it. And for those who don't want to wait to see what Oesterhoudt will bring tomorrow, let me just say this:
John Mayer is in for a whipping. Hardcore. I'm firing up the furnace to roast that white ass. The fact that he hails from Connecticut--like me--will not save that pearly butt from slow, hickory-smoked satirical basting.
I don't care how much sexual napalm he dropped on Jessica Simpson. I don't care if his body is a wonderland. I don't care if he disclosed Jennifer Aniston's sex perks. I don't care if he wore an embarrassing singlet on a yacht. I don't care how many battles he studied. He's getting Oesterhoudted tomorrow. And I have no sympathy for him whatsoever. Like David Mamet said in The Edge, never feel sorry for a guy who owns his own airplane.
I will take no further questions on the matter.
A domani. A demain. Hasta manana. Do zavtra. Bis morgen. Until tomorrow.
Oesterhoudt
John Mayer is in for a whipping. Hardcore. I'm firing up the furnace to roast that white ass. The fact that he hails from Connecticut--like me--will not save that pearly butt from slow, hickory-smoked satirical basting.
I don't care how much sexual napalm he dropped on Jessica Simpson. I don't care if his body is a wonderland. I don't care if he disclosed Jennifer Aniston's sex perks. I don't care if he wore an embarrassing singlet on a yacht. I don't care how many battles he studied. He's getting Oesterhoudted tomorrow. And I have no sympathy for him whatsoever. Like David Mamet said in The Edge, never feel sorry for a guy who owns his own airplane.
I will take no further questions on the matter.
A domani. A demain. Hasta manana. Do zavtra. Bis morgen. Until tomorrow.
Oesterhoudt
Sunday, February 28, 2010
BUSY WEEK AHEAD
It looks like next week will be quite busy for me. I have a ton of appointments. They are going to rob my mornings. I'm not looking forward to it, but at least I can anticipate it.
I always put undue stress on myself when I expect myself to generate a post every weekday. But if I explicitly "excuse" myself from writing for particular reasons, I somehow feel better about missing a few days. So I'm going to do that today: Next week, I likely will not have time to write effectively every day. If you don't see a new post each day next week, you know the reason.
Still, I am not tired at all. My inspiration level is as high as ever. I constantly get new ideas. Life is interesting and fresh. It's just that a whole crosscurrent of banal crap converged in one week; and I know it's going to keep me from writing.
There you have it. Thanks so much for reading my posts. And remember to always check the archives or--if you're feeling adventurous--try a word search. I always amuse myself by typing in certain concepts in the dialog. It reminds me how much stuff I've written about so many different subjects. It makes me proud, actually. I have a complete record about my beliefs on every issue that matters in my life. And it will last beyond my years!
Oesterhoudt
I always put undue stress on myself when I expect myself to generate a post every weekday. But if I explicitly "excuse" myself from writing for particular reasons, I somehow feel better about missing a few days. So I'm going to do that today: Next week, I likely will not have time to write effectively every day. If you don't see a new post each day next week, you know the reason.
Still, I am not tired at all. My inspiration level is as high as ever. I constantly get new ideas. Life is interesting and fresh. It's just that a whole crosscurrent of banal crap converged in one week; and I know it's going to keep me from writing.
There you have it. Thanks so much for reading my posts. And remember to always check the archives or--if you're feeling adventurous--try a word search. I always amuse myself by typing in certain concepts in the dialog. It reminds me how much stuff I've written about so many different subjects. It makes me proud, actually. I have a complete record about my beliefs on every issue that matters in my life. And it will last beyond my years!
Oesterhoudt
Monday, February 15, 2010
A LAWYER'S VALENTINE (SUBJECT TO APPLICABLE LIMITATIONS CONTAINED THEREIN)
PLAINMAN, SCHNORRING & DRYE, LLPAttorneys at Law Specializing in Mergers & Acquisitions
"We Help You Combine. Every Time."™
DATE : February 15, 2010
TO: Ms. Gabriella D. Purdy, B.A. (no relevant accolades) ("VALENTINEE")
FROM : Mr. Herbert J. Plainman, Esq., Senior Partner (Top 100, American Lawyer P.P.D. (Profit-Per-Deal List)); Silver Medal Winner, Monopoly Advocates of America, LLC (2008)("VALENTINOR").
RE : Valentine's Day
Ms. Purdy,
Pursuant to applicable law, rules and any provision of the Civil Procedure Law and Rules of the State of New York (NYCPL), please accept this Expression of Valentinary Intent (hereinafter "Valentine") done on or before February 15, 2010, in the City of New York, County of New York, State of New York, Country of the United States of America, from aforementioned attorney Mr. Herbert J. Plainman, Esq. (hereinafter the "Valentinor")(State Bar No. 987125).
ARGUMENT
Now, therefore, comes VALENTINOR, and in recognition of certain amorous feelings, having arisen in aforementioned Valentinor, and subject to all limitations applicable under any relevant law, ethical guideline, handbook, employee manual, offer, contract, pamphlet or written item having direct pertinence hereon, and giving due deference thereto (and disclaiming any intent to violate any such limitations, liability wherefor is hereby expressly disclaimed), Valentinor hereby presents this certain "Valentine" to and for aforementioned Valentinee.
It is expressly and unequivocally understood that Valentinor finds certain bodily and psychical characteristics in aforementioned Valentinee "appealing," both as a matter of taste and as a matter of law. Those characteristics include--but are in no wise limited to--her lips, hips, chest, legs, eyes, face, stomach, voice, charm and fashion choices. According to the Court of Appeals, "appealing" means "objectively pleasant to the satisfaction of any office or officer duly appointed under law to judge pleasantness, be that pleasantness aesthetic, erotic, artistic, intellectual or otherwise bearing upon the human senses." See, e.g., Quaker v. Booty-Licious Bumshakers Dance Hall Ltd., 4 N.Y.3d 165,190 (2005)(Kaye, C.J.).
In view thereof, and in view of Valentinor's express finding (under all relevant State evidence rules) that Valentinee is "appealing," Valentinor hereby concludes that it is both reasonable and prudent to present this Valentine, unless Valentinor in any way concludes that Valentinee is not appealing, either in body or spirit, in his sole and unreviewable discretion. Valentinee's expression of affection for any persons--or animals--other than aforementioned Valentinor shall result in the immediate rescission of this Valentine in toto, with treble damages not to exceed $400,000, U.S. currency, to be assessed against Valentinee as liquidated compensation therefor.
This Valentine serves as a symbol of Valentinary Intent and no more. This Valentine is not a contract. It creates no legal duty or obligation in Valentinor. Valentinor's failure to perform according to this Valentine creates no claim whatsoever in Valentinee. Valentinor is under no obligation whatsoever to show good faith in the performance of this Valentine, nor must Valentinor continue to show affection in any appreciable way beyond a time reasonable for showing affection consistent with office protocols or any other applicable decency standards, including the criminal law. (Valentinee is hereby advised that Failure to Appreciate Your Employer is a crime under New York Law.) But upon acceptance of this Valentine, Valentinee assumes an absolute and nondelegable duty to show Unlimited Affection (hereinafter "UA")--in both mind and body--to Valentinor, in excess of the customary employer-employee affection expected in the course of office service. UA includes, but is not limited to: Making remarks as to Valentinor's good looks; praising Valentinor's masculinity; rubbing Valentinor's body in all places directed by Valentinor; dressing in an appropriately alluring way as directed by Valentinor (subject to Valentinor's rejection and imposing a duty to cure such rejection upon Valentiee); removing aforesaid clothing at any time (and at any place) directed by Valentinor; shaking any body parts in any manner directed by Valentinor (in this context, "shaking" includes erotically oscillating movement both in contact with Valentinor's body and outside Valentinor's body), and delivering various gifts to Valentinor subject to decency and Valetinor's request. Valentinee's failure to perform any of above-mentioned duties under this Valentine shall result in immediate termination, negative reporting to all major credit bureaus and referral to police authorities for disorderly conduct.
Valentinor herewith acknowledges that this Valentine comes one day late. In view of the fact that the Holiday commonly known as "Valentine's Day" fell upon February 14 in this calendar year, and in view of the fact that February 14 fell upon a Sunday in this calendar year, Valentinor hereby submits that it was legally impossible to deliver this certain Valentine on a Legal Workday (see, i.a., 5 U.S.C. § 6103). Legal Impossibility is a defense to any action based in contract. See., e.g., Combs v. Work-It Records, Co., Inc., 84 N.Y.2d 143, 150 (1994). Pursuant to law, Valentinor had no duty to deliver this Valentine to Valentinee on Valentine's Day; and Valentinee hereby waives any cause of action for Valentinor's failure to deliver this Valentine on February 14, 2010, any exception in the common law of the State of New York, the law of the United States or the Constitutions of the United States and the State of New York absolutely notwithstanding.
In the alternative, Valentinor asserts that this Valentine is purely gratuitous and may not be enforced against Valentinor in any way whatsoever. But because Valentinor is Valentinee's employer, Valentinor reserves the right to enforce this Valentine against Valentinee to the full extent of law, morality, decency, justice, right and any other authority deemed controlling hereon, including Valentinor's subjective jealousy and envy.
Valentinee is under no obligation to accept this Valentine. According to law, acceptance is only valid if it is free and voluntary. See, e.g., Morris Carburetor Repair of Queens Boulevard v. Fuggett Supply House, Inc., 1 N.Y.3d 363, 370 (2004). But if Valentinee does not accept this Valentine, Valentinor cannot warrant Valentinee's future employment at this firm, nor can Valentinor warrant Valentinee's future employability or income. Valentinor further promises that he will make best efforts to torpedo Valentinee's career if Valentiee does not freely and voluntarily accept this Valentine without qualification. Valentinor therefore must advise Valentinee to accept this Valentine and all duties appurtenant thereto, it being a relatively small price to pay for incumbent benefits.
Valetinee has no right to bargain for or alter the terms of this Valentine. This Valentine represents the full and final agreement of the parties hereto, any prior or contemporaneous oral declarations thereagainst notwithstanding. It is offered solely on a "take-it-or-leave-it" basis.
CONCLUSION
In view of the foregoing, would you please by my Valentine, subject in all events to controlling legal authorities, limitations and exclusions, unless those authorities be held invalid prior to acceptance?
I have hereby set my hand hereunto, this 15th Day of February, 2010,
__________________________
Mr. Herbert J. Plainman, Esq.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
IF PALIN WINS, OESTERHOUDT EMIGRATES
I CAN PROMISE YOU THIS...
I just read an article in the New York Times detailing Sarah Palin's increasing political influence. It mentioned that she is positioning herself for future elections and that she even is "educating" herself about relevant events so she can better compete with her opponents. She has walled off her home and turned it into a "compound" for conservative patrons. She makes daily Twitter broadcasts to millions outlining her "rogue" approach to American government, namely, that there should basically be no government--beyond a police department and prison system, of course. You know, to lock up undesirables, communists and the like.
I guess that's what they mean by "The Tea Party Movement."
Well, no matter what they mean by it, today I am making a promise:
I, Balthazar Oesterhoudt, author of that certain online periodical entitled "Reason, Commerce, Justice & Free Beer," published in the GREAT REPUBLIC of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, do hereby promise and commit to LEAVE this GREAT REPUBLIC of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA if--and on the express condition that--SARAH PALIN is elected President of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
That's my promise. If Palin wins, Oesterhoudt emigrates. That's all there is to it.
So, if Palin takes the White House, Oesterhoudt is taking Berlin. End of story.
I usually don't write on the weekends. But the sheer potential horror of a Palin government moved me to write this morning. I don't have a complicated message today. All I want to say is that if the American people really elect Palin, I have no place among them. It's no answer to just cower among my fellow radicals in New York. If Palin wins, it symbolizes a much larger problem than mere sectional differences between Americans. It symbolizes the victory of foolishness over reason, ignorance over learning and backwardness over tolerance.
So again, if Palin wins, ich bin ja raus hier... I'm outta here !
I just read an article in the New York Times detailing Sarah Palin's increasing political influence. It mentioned that she is positioning herself for future elections and that she even is "educating" herself about relevant events so she can better compete with her opponents. She has walled off her home and turned it into a "compound" for conservative patrons. She makes daily Twitter broadcasts to millions outlining her "rogue" approach to American government, namely, that there should basically be no government--beyond a police department and prison system, of course. You know, to lock up undesirables, communists and the like.
I guess that's what they mean by "The Tea Party Movement."
Well, no matter what they mean by it, today I am making a promise:
I, Balthazar Oesterhoudt, author of that certain online periodical entitled "Reason, Commerce, Justice & Free Beer," published in the GREAT REPUBLIC of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, do hereby promise and commit to LEAVE this GREAT REPUBLIC of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA if--and on the express condition that--SARAH PALIN is elected President of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
That's my promise. If Palin wins, Oesterhoudt emigrates. That's all there is to it.
So, if Palin takes the White House, Oesterhoudt is taking Berlin. End of story.
I usually don't write on the weekends. But the sheer potential horror of a Palin government moved me to write this morning. I don't have a complicated message today. All I want to say is that if the American people really elect Palin, I have no place among them. It's no answer to just cower among my fellow radicals in New York. If Palin wins, it symbolizes a much larger problem than mere sectional differences between Americans. It symbolizes the victory of foolishness over reason, ignorance over learning and backwardness over tolerance.
So again, if Palin wins, ich bin ja raus hier... I'm outta here !
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
READING DAY AND A WORD ON WASHINGTON GRIDLOCK
I found some really interesting stuff to read today. I spent the better part of the morning paging through another book on ethics. Then I had some phone calls to make. To be blunt, it cut straight into my writing time.
But that doesn't matter. I grow when I read. I stock up on ideas. When I sit down to write tomorrow morning, I'm sure my inspiration will be flowing at full speed.
In the meantime, thanks for checking in. And don't forget to check out my archives!
I started looking through everything I've written so far about Barack Obama. I'm amazed that my satires have partially proven correct. Last year at this time, I never would have thought that my jokes about stubborn Republican opposition to Obama would have proven true. But oh how they did: Painfully so. In fact, the Republicans have succeeded in completely intimidating Obama simply by digging in their heels, crossing their arms and saying the word "no."
Democrats have not done much better. They refuse to stand up to the Republicans even though they have massive Congressional majorities. But whenever they pass something, the Republicans start screaming "tyranny by the majority." Now most Americans think Obama caused all the problems that originated more than 10 years ago. It's just hopeless.
Who'd a thunk that would have happened on February 3, 2009? I know I didn't. On the other hand, perhaps we all expected just a little too much from the Washington political system. I don't blame Obama as much as I blame the entire wretched two-party system with its identical, wealthy members. There really is no difference between Republicans and Democrats. They all come from the same social class. They just debate each other for show. In the end, nothing changes. Nothing at all.
But at least it gives me something to satirize. I guess that's the saving grace for me. There is abiding truth to the old Russian adage that "laughter through tears" is the best kind of laughter.
Oesterhoudt
But that doesn't matter. I grow when I read. I stock up on ideas. When I sit down to write tomorrow morning, I'm sure my inspiration will be flowing at full speed.
In the meantime, thanks for checking in. And don't forget to check out my archives!
I started looking through everything I've written so far about Barack Obama. I'm amazed that my satires have partially proven correct. Last year at this time, I never would have thought that my jokes about stubborn Republican opposition to Obama would have proven true. But oh how they did: Painfully so. In fact, the Republicans have succeeded in completely intimidating Obama simply by digging in their heels, crossing their arms and saying the word "no."
Democrats have not done much better. They refuse to stand up to the Republicans even though they have massive Congressional majorities. But whenever they pass something, the Republicans start screaming "tyranny by the majority." Now most Americans think Obama caused all the problems that originated more than 10 years ago. It's just hopeless.
Who'd a thunk that would have happened on February 3, 2009? I know I didn't. On the other hand, perhaps we all expected just a little too much from the Washington political system. I don't blame Obama as much as I blame the entire wretched two-party system with its identical, wealthy members. There really is no difference between Republicans and Democrats. They all come from the same social class. They just debate each other for show. In the end, nothing changes. Nothing at all.
But at least it gives me something to satirize. I guess that's the saving grace for me. There is abiding truth to the old Russian adage that "laughter through tears" is the best kind of laughter.
Oesterhoudt
Friday, January 15, 2010
BREAK CONTINUED...
I have to travel again today, then handle more administrative stuff once a I get home late this afternoon. I didn't anticipate this yesterday, but there's nothing I can do about it.
Sorry about the interruption to my writing flow this week. Thankfully it looks like this week will prove an anomaly. Next Monday I'll be ready to put all my new ideas in writing. I have a lot outlined already. There are important things to mention these days. I'm especially looking forward to discussing the Haitian disaster--from Dick Cheney's perspective.
Stay tuned! And don't forget the archives if you need a RCJ & FB fix this weekend!
Sometimes I enjoy just typing a word into the search dialog. It pulls up all my posts that use that word. Cool stuff. But if you type the word "commerce," you'll get almost everything I've written.
Oesterhoudt
Sorry about the interruption to my writing flow this week. Thankfully it looks like this week will prove an anomaly. Next Monday I'll be ready to put all my new ideas in writing. I have a lot outlined already. There are important things to mention these days. I'm especially looking forward to discussing the Haitian disaster--from Dick Cheney's perspective.
Stay tuned! And don't forget the archives if you need a RCJ & FB fix this weekend!
Sometimes I enjoy just typing a word into the search dialog. It pulls up all my posts that use that word. Cool stuff. But if you type the word "commerce," you'll get almost everything I've written.
Oesterhoudt
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
IF YOU RUN FOR SENATE, I DEMAND IMPECCABLE GRAMMAR FROM YOU : THE SENATE IS NO ARISTOCRACY
AN ESSAY
New York prepares for an extremely nasty Senate race. For the second time in a decade, an out-of-Stater has taken residence in New York in order to run for Federal office. Eleven years ago, Illinois-born Arkansasan Hillary Clinton bought a house in Westchester County so she could run for Senate. Now, Tennessee native Harold Ford, Jr. has moved to Manhattan in order to battle Democrat Kirsten Gillibrand for her Senate seat.
Technically, there is nothing wrong with out-of-State people moving to New York to run for Senate. It's not like everyone can run for Senate. After all, the American constitutional system is no democracy; as a practical matter, you need to be "part of the club" to run for Senate--the most hallowed clique in the United States. You can't be a plumber from Queens to run for Senate. You can't be a drug dealer or even a university professor with modest savings. No, you need to be in the political elite. You don't need to be an "elite person" from an ethical or moral perspective. You just need to be bred for the job. Generally, that means coming from an extremely wealthy, well-connected family. That's what "elite" means in American political discourse.
Harold Ford meets the criteria. He comes from money. He has served five terms in the United States House of Representatives as a Tennessee delegate. He has sufficient political and economic connections to qualify for Senate membership. In essence, he is "elite." He has the backing and pedigree to join the club.
But unlike Hillary Clinton, Harold Ford's political philosophy does not find an easy home in New York. New York is a famously liberal State. That is why few people had a problem with Hillary Clinton when she waltzed into Westchester to run for Senate. Her political views matched most New Yorkers' views. They elected her by a wide majority, even though some Republicans squawked about "carpetbagging." They thought New York offices should be for New Yorkers, not transplanted former First Ladies from Arkansas.
Harold Ford votes like a southern Republican. New Yorkers like to think that they are nothing like southern Republicans. Yet the same Republicans who complained about Hillary Clinton "carpetbagging" to New York in 2000 now say nothing about Mr. Tennessee.
Who is Harold Ford? New Yorkers should ask that question. They did not have to ask the same question about Hillary Clinton. She was a household name long before her election to the Senate. Everyone knew where she stood on major political issues. Most New Yorkers liked her long before she moved to New York. But what about Ford? Most New Yorkers know nothing about him. He's not even 40. He served ten years in the House. What's so special about that? Unlike Hillary Clinton, he is nothing close to an internationally-recognized celebrity politician.
Ford wrote a brief article yesterday in the New York Post to inform New Yorkers about his candidacy for the Senate. He struggled to deflect early Democratic criticism that he is a "right-wing nut" who opposes abortion and gun control. After all, according to the critics, New Yorkers strongly support both abortion rights and gun control; it would be anomalous if their Senator opposed these things.
I do not know what to think about Ford. I can only speculate based on experience and intuition. Applying my experience, I can say that most representatives from Tennessee would not have their jobs if they supported abortion rights or gun control. Folks from Tennessee don't care much for abortion, and they certainly don't tolerate no Yankees taking away their guns for no thang, no how. Despite Ford's contention that he supports both abortion rights and gun control, I have trouble believing that he could have won five terms in Tennessee with that position. I mean no disrespect to Tennessee when I say that the State is not known for its grand liberalism. That reputation informs my intuition about any politician who serves there.
I know the Civil War has been over for a long time. But former Confederate States are still former Confederate States. Some things survive the generations. Just talk to a drunk Southerner to find out what I mean.
Ford wrote in his article: "I am pro-choice--have always been since I entered politics almost 15 years ago." N.Y. Post, Ford: I'm gearing up for Senate race, Jan. 12, 2010 at 5. But immediately below his article, another blurb disclosed that in 2006 he said to MSNBC's Tucker Carlson: "I'm pro-life, Tucker…I don't run from that." N.Y. Post, Obama elects to stick with Gillibrand, Jan. 12, 2010 at 5.
In lawyer-talk, this is called "impeachment." You're the jury. You decide which statement you want to believe.
No matter what Harold Ford actually thinks about political issues, I insist that he write clear, grammatical English. If someone wants to join America's most elite legislative club, he or she had better know how to write well. Unfortunately, Ford's article reveals that he does not.
First, Ford does not grasp the magical rhetorical art of the semicolon. On terrorism, he says: "Defeating terror isn't a talking point in New York, (sic) it's a way of life." N.Y. Post, Ford: I'm gearing up for Senate Race, Jan. 12, 2010 at 5. Whenever two sentences can stand on their own and they depend on each other for rhetorical effect, commas do not suffice to connect them. Only a semicolon can achieve the desired impact. First-year law students learn this very quickly under pain of academic chastisement. Ford apparently never learned his grammar lesson. He proves it in the next paragraph when he writes: "Rebuilding an economy isn't an item on an issue checklist, (sic) it is what New York does--and must do." Id.
Oops. Same boo boo. Aren't Senators supposed to be rhetorical wizards? This guy doesn't even get his grammar right.
But Ford's grammatical woes do not end with semicolons. He also has a problem with run-on sentences. Try this one on for size: "And New Yorkers want an honest and serious debate about how to grow our economy, create new jobs downstate and upstate and keep New York state (sic) and our country safe." Id.
Whew! Talk about trying to cram too many ideas into a single breath. Let's try to unpack this linguistic crate: Ford thinks that New Yorkers want honest debate about the economy, jobs and safety. He also thinks they want serious debate on the same subjects. He further thinks New Yorkers want both "honest and serious" debate about those issues from an upstate/downstate perspective, not to mention a State/Federal perspective. That 's a lot of debate from a lot of perspectives. It took me a good four sentences to mention all the ideas he squeezed into one. Needless to say, you can't effectively communicate so many things in one line. Multiple adjectives and conjunctions do not make the reader's job any easier.
Some will inevitably label me petty for criticizing Ford's grammar. After all, we all make grammatical blunders from time to time. But I respond that anyone who wants to be a United States Senator must adhere to a higher linguistic standard. I could forgive a college freshman's incessant run-ons and semicolon misuse. But I can't forgive the same foibles in a man who wants to join America's most elite legislative club.
On the other hand, perhaps I demand too much. Ford fits the bill for membership in the Senate. He's wealthy, he comes from a political family, he has connections and he has powerful friends. He comes from the right social class to get in the door. Sadly, that's all you really need to hold high office in the United States. If you happen to be intelligent and eloquent, that's great; but it's not required. In this sense, we see once again that America is neither a democracy nor an aristocracy.
In the original constitutional understanding, the Senate was supposed to be America's "aristocrats' club." It was supposed to comprise the "excellent" people from across the land. Yet as Ford's case shows, Senators need not be intellectually "excellent." They need only fit the property and pedigree requirements for membership. Quality is irrelevant.
I wish quality were more relevant in American government. The word "aristocracy" has a dirty meaning in American discourse because Americans allegedly believe that everyone is equal. They also associate "aristocracy" with the arrogant British nobility that led the colonies to revolt from England.
But in the Aristotelean sense, it is no insult to call someone an "aristocrat." To the contrary, it is the best thing a politician can be. A true "aristocrat" is a person with naturally excellent moral, intellectual and ethical characteristics. Aristocracy implies inequality; not everyone can be "excellent." Yet this is not a bad thing, because it is only prudent that "naturally excellent, unselfish" people rule the State.
Ford's case shows that American Senators are not aristocrats. They are oligarchs. Oligarchy means rule by a few, irrespective of personal excellence. To be a Senator, you don't need to be excellent. You just need to be part of the "few" who are eligible for the job. In that sense, it is incorrect to call Senators "aristocrats." If they were truly aristocrats, there would never be any scandal, corruption or acrimony in the Senate. But a quick glance at congressional history reveals that scandal is the rule, not the exception.
Instead, we have an oligarchy. Oligarchs don't need to be excellent. Far from it: They don't even need to know how to use semicolons.
New York prepares for an extremely nasty Senate race. For the second time in a decade, an out-of-Stater has taken residence in New York in order to run for Federal office. Eleven years ago, Illinois-born Arkansasan Hillary Clinton bought a house in Westchester County so she could run for Senate. Now, Tennessee native Harold Ford, Jr. has moved to Manhattan in order to battle Democrat Kirsten Gillibrand for her Senate seat.
Technically, there is nothing wrong with out-of-State people moving to New York to run for Senate. It's not like everyone can run for Senate. After all, the American constitutional system is no democracy; as a practical matter, you need to be "part of the club" to run for Senate--the most hallowed clique in the United States. You can't be a plumber from Queens to run for Senate. You can't be a drug dealer or even a university professor with modest savings. No, you need to be in the political elite. You don't need to be an "elite person" from an ethical or moral perspective. You just need to be bred for the job. Generally, that means coming from an extremely wealthy, well-connected family. That's what "elite" means in American political discourse.
Harold Ford meets the criteria. He comes from money. He has served five terms in the United States House of Representatives as a Tennessee delegate. He has sufficient political and economic connections to qualify for Senate membership. In essence, he is "elite." He has the backing and pedigree to join the club.
But unlike Hillary Clinton, Harold Ford's political philosophy does not find an easy home in New York. New York is a famously liberal State. That is why few people had a problem with Hillary Clinton when she waltzed into Westchester to run for Senate. Her political views matched most New Yorkers' views. They elected her by a wide majority, even though some Republicans squawked about "carpetbagging." They thought New York offices should be for New Yorkers, not transplanted former First Ladies from Arkansas.
Harold Ford votes like a southern Republican. New Yorkers like to think that they are nothing like southern Republicans. Yet the same Republicans who complained about Hillary Clinton "carpetbagging" to New York in 2000 now say nothing about Mr. Tennessee.
Who is Harold Ford? New Yorkers should ask that question. They did not have to ask the same question about Hillary Clinton. She was a household name long before her election to the Senate. Everyone knew where she stood on major political issues. Most New Yorkers liked her long before she moved to New York. But what about Ford? Most New Yorkers know nothing about him. He's not even 40. He served ten years in the House. What's so special about that? Unlike Hillary Clinton, he is nothing close to an internationally-recognized celebrity politician.
Ford wrote a brief article yesterday in the New York Post to inform New Yorkers about his candidacy for the Senate. He struggled to deflect early Democratic criticism that he is a "right-wing nut" who opposes abortion and gun control. After all, according to the critics, New Yorkers strongly support both abortion rights and gun control; it would be anomalous if their Senator opposed these things.
I do not know what to think about Ford. I can only speculate based on experience and intuition. Applying my experience, I can say that most representatives from Tennessee would not have their jobs if they supported abortion rights or gun control. Folks from Tennessee don't care much for abortion, and they certainly don't tolerate no Yankees taking away their guns for no thang, no how. Despite Ford's contention that he supports both abortion rights and gun control, I have trouble believing that he could have won five terms in Tennessee with that position. I mean no disrespect to Tennessee when I say that the State is not known for its grand liberalism. That reputation informs my intuition about any politician who serves there.
I know the Civil War has been over for a long time. But former Confederate States are still former Confederate States. Some things survive the generations. Just talk to a drunk Southerner to find out what I mean.
Ford wrote in his article: "I am pro-choice--have always been since I entered politics almost 15 years ago." N.Y. Post, Ford: I'm gearing up for Senate race, Jan. 12, 2010 at 5. But immediately below his article, another blurb disclosed that in 2006 he said to MSNBC's Tucker Carlson: "I'm pro-life, Tucker…I don't run from that." N.Y. Post, Obama elects to stick with Gillibrand, Jan. 12, 2010 at 5.
In lawyer-talk, this is called "impeachment." You're the jury. You decide which statement you want to believe.
No matter what Harold Ford actually thinks about political issues, I insist that he write clear, grammatical English. If someone wants to join America's most elite legislative club, he or she had better know how to write well. Unfortunately, Ford's article reveals that he does not.
First, Ford does not grasp the magical rhetorical art of the semicolon. On terrorism, he says: "Defeating terror isn't a talking point in New York, (sic) it's a way of life." N.Y. Post, Ford: I'm gearing up for Senate Race, Jan. 12, 2010 at 5. Whenever two sentences can stand on their own and they depend on each other for rhetorical effect, commas do not suffice to connect them. Only a semicolon can achieve the desired impact. First-year law students learn this very quickly under pain of academic chastisement. Ford apparently never learned his grammar lesson. He proves it in the next paragraph when he writes: "Rebuilding an economy isn't an item on an issue checklist, (sic) it is what New York does--and must do." Id.
Oops. Same boo boo. Aren't Senators supposed to be rhetorical wizards? This guy doesn't even get his grammar right.
But Ford's grammatical woes do not end with semicolons. He also has a problem with run-on sentences. Try this one on for size: "And New Yorkers want an honest and serious debate about how to grow our economy, create new jobs downstate and upstate and keep New York state (sic) and our country safe." Id.
Whew! Talk about trying to cram too many ideas into a single breath. Let's try to unpack this linguistic crate: Ford thinks that New Yorkers want honest debate about the economy, jobs and safety. He also thinks they want serious debate on the same subjects. He further thinks New Yorkers want both "honest and serious" debate about those issues from an upstate/downstate perspective, not to mention a State/Federal perspective. That 's a lot of debate from a lot of perspectives. It took me a good four sentences to mention all the ideas he squeezed into one. Needless to say, you can't effectively communicate so many things in one line. Multiple adjectives and conjunctions do not make the reader's job any easier.
Some will inevitably label me petty for criticizing Ford's grammar. After all, we all make grammatical blunders from time to time. But I respond that anyone who wants to be a United States Senator must adhere to a higher linguistic standard. I could forgive a college freshman's incessant run-ons and semicolon misuse. But I can't forgive the same foibles in a man who wants to join America's most elite legislative club.
On the other hand, perhaps I demand too much. Ford fits the bill for membership in the Senate. He's wealthy, he comes from a political family, he has connections and he has powerful friends. He comes from the right social class to get in the door. Sadly, that's all you really need to hold high office in the United States. If you happen to be intelligent and eloquent, that's great; but it's not required. In this sense, we see once again that America is neither a democracy nor an aristocracy.
In the original constitutional understanding, the Senate was supposed to be America's "aristocrats' club." It was supposed to comprise the "excellent" people from across the land. Yet as Ford's case shows, Senators need not be intellectually "excellent." They need only fit the property and pedigree requirements for membership. Quality is irrelevant.
I wish quality were more relevant in American government. The word "aristocracy" has a dirty meaning in American discourse because Americans allegedly believe that everyone is equal. They also associate "aristocracy" with the arrogant British nobility that led the colonies to revolt from England.
But in the Aristotelean sense, it is no insult to call someone an "aristocrat." To the contrary, it is the best thing a politician can be. A true "aristocrat" is a person with naturally excellent moral, intellectual and ethical characteristics. Aristocracy implies inequality; not everyone can be "excellent." Yet this is not a bad thing, because it is only prudent that "naturally excellent, unselfish" people rule the State.
Ford's case shows that American Senators are not aristocrats. They are oligarchs. Oligarchy means rule by a few, irrespective of personal excellence. To be a Senator, you don't need to be excellent. You just need to be part of the "few" who are eligible for the job. In that sense, it is incorrect to call Senators "aristocrats." If they were truly aristocrats, there would never be any scandal, corruption or acrimony in the Senate. But a quick glance at congressional history reveals that scandal is the rule, not the exception.
Instead, we have an oligarchy. Oligarchs don't need to be excellent. Far from it: They don't even need to know how to use semicolons.
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