Free Legal Advice

As you know, I am an attorney. I'm also pretty good at my job, which involves going to court and trying cases. You'd be surprised how many attorneys never set foot in court. And you probably wouldn't be surprised at how many do but shouldn't. But for wahtever reason, when I started trying cases I found my little niche in life and therefore, when I give you free legal advice about what to do when you find yourself in front of a judge, you'd better listen. You never know when you're going to find yourself trying to explain something to a judge. Especially some of you who live in the south and have a lot of guns.

At any rate, while in court this morning, trying to explain a case to a judge well into his 80's, and failing to do so even though I was pretty much screaming by the end of it, ("NO YOUR HONOR, NOT STATE, CASE!!!!") (The difference between those words was actually crucial, a minor yet frustrating point that should discourage any rational person from pursuing a career in the law), I chanced to see something that inspired the following free advice.

Let's say, hypothetically, that you're involved in a work place situation where, say, I don't know, someone hasn't installed a lift-rig improperly, and since you're, again, hypothetically, PMSing, you do the only rational thing and shoot out his knee-caps. Not that anyone I link to would do that. cough-Maggie-cough

When you appear for the subsequent and inevitable court date, do you appear wearing a) your nice Sunday dress; b) a professionally tailored suit of some sort; c) something more casual but washed and ironed; or d) a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt reading "Alcatraz Psycho Unit Outpatient"? In my opinion, and remember, I'm a very experienced attorney and therefore well-qualified to comment on these subtle nuances, a-c are accpetable, while d is probably not the way to go. Oh, sure, you might think this is obvious, but based on what wandered into court this morning, it's not that obvious to everyone.

Why I Hate The Red Sox

First, a word about the origins of this post. A few days ago I was reading a very well-written blog by Yankee hater Chad Finn concerning his dislike of my beloved Bronx Bombers. Well, I couldn't let that go unanswered, and delivered a clever riposte of my own. OK, maybe five of my 26 responses were clever. Whatever. Chad responded by banning me from his web-site. What a dick, you think to yourselves.

But you would be wrong, because he was actually trying to ban some other Yankee fan who couldn't respond without some sort of "Jews are running the world from an outpost in Denver" hate screed that had nothing to do with anything. Seriously, you should have seen some of the crap that was up there. Made me ashamed for my fellow Yankee fans, and more than a little suspicious that the posts were actually from Boston fans pretending to be Yankees fans and making the rest of us look bad. At any rate, Chad actually came by here, apologized for the accidental banning, and I still comment over there.

And if you like Boston sports, you could do a lot worse than read his blog. Hell I read it and at best I'm ambivalent about any Boston team. Sort of like everyone in Boston feels about the Bruins I guess.

But I couldn't get the idea of responding out of my pin-shaped little head. Because over the last few years, I have developed an "intense dislike" of the Red Sox. And no, it didn't start in 2004. I can accept that the Yankees choked in the 2004 ALCS. I have moved beyond that. Because let's face it, I have no choice.

No I started to really dislike the Sox in about, oh, Day 2 of the 2005 season. And no it's pretty much a sociopathic hatred. How did this happen? I mean, my father and brother are huge Red Sox fans, and always have been. Some of my best friends, godparents to my children, are Red Sox fans. I've watched games at Fenway many times. So I thought about it, and came to some conclusions.

Curt Schilling. That fat, right-wing, born again hypocrite. Yes Curt, Jesus has so little to do with his time that he's willing to spend a good deal of it giving you the strength to strike people out. Although he must have been otherwise occupied on that last pitch you threw to Jeter. Either that or Jesus likes Jeter more than he does you, which is understandable. As for his hypocrisy, you can look at nearly every controversial stance Schilling has ever taken and watch him backtrack or turn out to be wrong. He backtracked on allegations he made about steroids and he might be the only person who's ever apologized for saying Barry Bonds cheats. He also, in 2006, said this would be his last year in the major leagues. Then at the begining of this year got pissy because Boston wouldn't give him an extension of his $13 million contract so he could pitch another year. Of course, he hit the wall last year and this year missed time with a bad shoulder, has an 8-8 record, and is nowehere near the pitcher he was two years ago. So if I were Boston I wouldn't sweat that "hometown discount" he's not going to give you. Egocentric prick. But what I loved most was this spring when Curt showed up at spring training having clearly spent most of the winter sitting on his increasingly ample ass. Numerous pictures appeared in papers showing his waist hanging over his pants. His response? "Yeah, you can do a lot with Photoshop" True, perhaps, but not as much as Curt can do with doughnuts.

Mike Timlin. I read an article about Mike in which he has a bumper sticker in his locker with a peace sign and on the sticker it says "symbol of the American chicken" Gee, Mike, I know you're over 40, but as a well-trained athlete, you're probably in pretty good physical shape, better than Schilling anyway. What say you put your money where your fat mouth is and volunteer for the army? No? Didn't think so.

David Ortiz. Dude, it was a strike. Sit down already. Also, for just general weirdness, Ortiz this year said something about how for all he knew he took illegal supplements because he lives in the Dominican Republic in the off-season, and you're never sure what you're taking in those supplements. OK. And I believe a professional athlete playing at the highest level of his chosen sport doesn't know what's in his supplements why? Hey, I know what I'm eating and I'm not exactly setting age-group records with my running. That struck me as more than a little odd. Something like Manny Ranirez would say, except I would believe him.

Manny Ramirez. Actually, I like Manny. A lot. Mostly becasue he plays the outfield with the blissful ignorance of a 9 year old, and over the last couple of years he's taken to disappearing entirely from the team during crucial parts of the season. Keep up the good work Manny!

Kevin Youkilis. A little known fact about Youkilis. Alone among major leaguers, he has never actually made an out. Every single time he's been called out, it is the direct result of a vast conspiracy to keep Kevin Youkilis down. Or at least, you would think that from his reaction. I swear he argues with umpires after swinging and missing strike three.

Fenway Park. Look, I majored in history. I appreciate a good landmark as much as the next person. The park is old, rundown and it's time to let go. If you sit out in right field you will sprain your neck watching a nine-inning game. I was there once for a 15 inning game, (Wade Boggs won it for the Yankees with a home-run that my numbnuts friend Tom had land in front of him and didn't think to grab it), and lost all feeling below my shoulders for three days. The wooden seats were designed for midgets back in 1910. They are not so much seats these days as they are interrogation chairs that wouldn't be used at Guantanamo. If the Yankees can build a new stadium, for God's sake the Red Sox can certainly do the same.

The fans. Specifically, the new ones. Like I said, I grew up with Red Sox fans. I used to find them cute. They reminded me of mushrooms. They spent a lot of time hiding in dark basements, keeping themselves well-irrigated with a never-ending flow of tears. And every now and again they'd see the sun, like in 1967, 1975, 1986 and they'd creep out, only to get kicked in the nuts and have to go back to the basement. I felt genuinely bad for them. So bad that in 2004 I rooted for them to win the World Series, (although in all honesty the fact that they were playing that douchebag LaRussa's team didn't hurt), and celebrated with friends and family when they did.

Then the fans changed. Not the old fans. All the new ones. The bandwagon fuckers. The ones who weren't there before 2004, and I know you bastards, because I've been going to Fenway for 25 years. The ones who gleefully chant "Yankees suck", because the Yankees haven't won a World Series since 2000, or four years before they started watching baseball. The ones who now take over stadiums in Baltimore and Tampa, whereas five years ago they wouldn't have crossed the street to go to a game if you gave them tickets behind home plate. The ones who see me wearing a Yankees hat at Fenway and say "Yankees suck!", then turn away if I glance at them. Look pal, a real fan would already be rolling on the floor with me. Man up or go buy a pink hat.

That's pretty much it for now. Chad had a much better idea, listing one reason for every title the Yankees had won. 26 total. I only came up with 7 myself. What's that? The Red Sox haven't won 7 yet? In their entire history? Really? Wow.

That sucks.

Want A Good Laugh

then click here If you don't have tears streaming down your cheeks either there's something wrong with you or you're just too mature to be reading this. Oh Lord my sides hurt.

Things I Worry About

As a parent, husband, and just all-around pussy, I find myself worrying about many things. Which may be why I'm awake during the wee small hours of the am yet again. "But Limpy", you say, "you're 6'4" and 235 lb. of well-endowed porn star! What could you possibly be worried about?" To which I would reply that I worry about your eyesight, gullibility and/or ability to measure things, because I am none of these things.

Despite the nice things Tysgirl says about me.

No, I worry about whether we can really afford that house we're looking at. I worry about the job we're doing raising the kids. I worry about whether or not the steak I grilled two days after its expiration date should have been quite that shade of green. I worry that Lindsay Lohan may be wasting her talent in family-oriented films, when her real talent clearly lies in snuff films. And now, thanks to the History Channel show "Mega-Disasters", I worry that two neutron stars will collide relatively near Earth, resulting in a massive gamma burst and destroying all life as we know it. There will be no real warning of this, or ability to do anything about it, but apparently the burst will first blow off the atmosphere, exposing us to a) massive amounts of incredibly deadly UV radiation, but also b), a wicked cool sunset, so let's hope Tysgirl has her camera pointed in the right direction, because they're ain't gonna be no reshoot.

But you know what really worries me? What really keeps me up at night? Besides of course, my insatiable and incredibly sexy wife? (Ha!, gotcha again! Damn you're gullible.) What really keeps me up at night is that there is a judge somewhere in this country who found it to be a good idea to release OJ Simpson on bail. Because there's a guy who poses no threat to anyone and who should be released from prison prior to facing charges which could result in his going to jail for 30 years to life. Maybe I'm wrong. I mean, he seems a bit high strung, but he probably gets a bad rap. I'm sure the witnesses to the armed robbery have nothing to worry about.

Actually, come to think of it, for those poor bastards that gamma ray burst can't come soon enough.

Still Here

OK, so I disappeared for a week or so. We're moving our office at work and packing stuff up every spare minute. At the same time out-of-office things have picked up, requiring me to spend most of each week in other offices or courts, usually banging my head up and down on tables and wondering why my client just said that. Consequently when I get home my head hurts and I dont want to use the computer for anything other than slaughtering hordes of aliens on Halo 2. Fucking aliens.

Halo 3 comes out this week. My son is tremendously excited and wanted to be first in line to get one. I told him to get a life; girls don't chase guys who get the high score on video games. Have they started to do that yet? Becasue if they have I'll need to change that whole speech.

Then on Friday I skipped work but that's becuase I had to dig up our spectic tank and wait for the guy to come and pump it out. Can you say "white trash"? On the plus side, no sewer fees! Ever seen a septic tank just before it's five-year cleaning? It's impressive. I suspect our family is doing OK in the roughage department. Took the guy 20 minutes to clear it out with a high-powered pump. I stayed nearby and kept the dog from jumping in. So much filth to roll in, so little time. Then I reburied the tank and tried to come up with a good reason to drive 40 minutes to work, stay for two hours and then come home. I couldn't do it, so I took the dog hiking instead.

Saturday I went to a friend's house to watch the Yankees get killed, 10-1. I may have had some beers there. Then my brother and I went to a soccer game, where we may have had some more beer. And then to a bar where his girlfriend works, where we definitely had some beer. And then across the street to shoot pool at a low-life bar, where we had more beer. But no cocaine, which put us in the minority. Then back to the first beer where I switched to coke, (acola), and then got the girlfriend to drive me home.

Sunday I woke up a bit tired, (but no hangover thanks to switching off to soda and OD'ing on aspirin before going to bed), and had to go to a christening party. Yay. We were promised food, so we went. The "food" was, to put it charitably, terrible. I would rather go after some of the stuff I saw in the septic tank. We grilled steak when we got home. Because I was too lazy to start digging again. Then I saw Derek Jeter hit a 3-run homer off Curt "God told me I'm awesome" Schilling to win the game for the Yankees and all was right with the world.

Is This Wrong?

This morning I'm listening to a sports talk radio, because I ike listening to Red Sox fans panic even when they're team is playing well, and the hosts are interviewing a member of the Patriots about his charity work. Apparently he has a group dedicated to fighting child sexual abuse and helping victims recover from it. Which is certainly a worthwhile endeavor. So naturally one of the hosts has to ask the dumb question "Why did you get into this?" and I'm thinking "God, please let him say 'to meet girls'"

Random Is As Random Does

So I had a dream last night. Not that one I've had about the bar, although I'm pleased to announce I've been back there on a couple of nights since I wrote about it, and the place seems to have re-opened and is doing quite well. I still don't know the name of it though. On an unrelated note, I'll be trying to see one of my favorite bands, Dropkick Murphys, in Providence this weekend. But last night, out of nowhere, I had this dream where I was with a bunch of Scientologists and they were making a new kind of Rasien Bran. Tom Cruise was standing over a vat of water shoveling two huge scoops of raisens into the boxes. He said it was important that each box could really say that they had "two scoops" in them. So I shoved him nto the vat and said, "Now the boxes can say they have Tom Cruise in them too" He was pissed.

I have no idea what this means. Other than that I'm clearly nuts.

Our first game was this Saturday. Techincally we won 9-0, since the other team only had five players. But we sent them some of our kids and played anyway, at last until half the kids were close to heat stroke. I'm not sure what the deal is with the other town, but the five kids who did show up look like they moonlight in adult softball leagues. My son didn't get hit while batting, but he did take a ball to the ribs while stealing second. He's getting used to the whole "hit by balls" thing, so either he's back on track to play high level baseball or I've got the next Liberace on my hands.

One kid on our team threw, literally, a fit after getting called out on strikes. Threw the bat, threw his helmet, wailed in the dugout. His father's been helping us out and he's a good guy, so rather than beat his son, I walked over to him and told him we couldn't accept that behavior. So he got him calmed down. Next time up he strikes out again. Same performance. I'm coaching first. His father tells him to pick up the bat and he keeps walking. In a voice that would freeze blood, or at least stop everyone on the field from doing what they're doing I let the kid know in no uncertain terms to pick up the bat. My son, (who was playing for the other team, got three hits, made two great plays in the field, stole on of their uniform shirts and in general helped beat his teammates), told me later he thought the kid was dead. Not quite, but you can bet he picked up that fucking bat.

Afterwards I talked to the team about the game and what we'd done right, what we could work on. Then I told them, while not naming names, (even though it was obvious who I was talking about, because he was the only one crying and throwing stuff, including one kid who the other pitchers hit not once but twice), that anyone who acted that way in the future would not be playing the rest of the game. Then after the game the kids mother approaches me to get my email address because she wants to send me something. My wife sees this and asks whats going on. I say I guarantee that I'll be getting something about how the kid has emotional issues and needs additional leeway on behavior problems.

Wife: "And how will you answer that?" (She knows damn well what I'll say)

Me: "I don't give a shit if the kid's got leukemia. He acts like that he sits"

Now I don't want to sound insensitive, even though I am, (I just don't want to sound like it), but if there are 14 other kids on the team, one kid with some sort of emotional wire crossed can't be held to a different standard. Because then you've got 15 kids with attitudes, and not only that but 14 who resent the one getting special treatment.

Anyway, today I got the email. I was right. "Special needs" in the first two sentences. Pleasant surprise? You bet. Mom is backing us up, told her son that he can't act like that on the field, completely agrees with us about setting clear guidelines for behavior during games, and had a talk with him about sportsmanship. I'm thinking that this is probably because she's British. An American mom would have sued me. But good for her. It's nice to know we have at leats one parent that isn't going to whine about their precious having to act in a civilized fashion.

Now if she could just teach the kid how to catch...



Almost forgot, meet Bif Naked. I won one of her CDs on a college radio contest. I had no idea who she was, but I knew the answer to the trivia question so I called in. Got a CD missing the cover and marked at $4. It's called "I Bificus" Two decent songs and one absolutely kick-ass tune called "The Peacock" song. I plyed it about 19 times ina row this weekend. I googled Bif to see what the deal was. She's into punk rock, chicks, guys and tattoos. I like her already. She's also straight edge, (no drugs, no booze) and a vegan, so we can never be married. Bummer. But check her out.

Dr. Spock Would Not Approve

So we have our first game scheduled for tomorrow. We actually had a great practice yesterday. The town finally got around to removing the crab grass from the infield area, so there was an actual dirt field to play on. Of course since it hasn't rained here in about three weeks, said dirt could more accirately be described as 4" of dust. Some of the kids suggested that they should have watered down the field, to which I replied that they weren't getting paid to play and that they should probably just shut up and be glad we didn't have to mow second base.

We don't have uniforms yet, which is just as well, since the kids spent the first 20 minutes of practice kicking the dust and producing a dust storm that in about three days will be affecting weather patterns over China. At one point I couldn't see the second baseman from home plate, so I told them to stop.

I'm pretty sure that we'll win our game. For one thing, based on yesterday's practice, we're pretty good. And more importnantly, the other coach finally called me this morning to tell me that he just got appointed coach two days ago and just got his roster last night. Their first practive will be our game. I told him I don't take these things seriously, but we're so totally kicking their asses.

Lost amongst all this good news, however, is my son's dark crisis of the soul. This year is the first year he'll face pitching from kids his own age. And 9 year olds aren't real accurate. And they tend to hit batters. A lot. During practice yesterday we scrimmaged and my son, and a few other kids, were basically hitting with one foot in the batter's box and the other in the dugout. I explained to my son when we got home that yes, it does hurt to get hit with a thrown ball, but that by the time you get to 1B it's basically just sore and you're fine. Besides, physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional pain of your old man calling you a little bitch. OK, I may not have said that.

So my son says that that's all fine for me, I've been hit before and I know what it's like. He doesn't know and he's scared.

You can see where this is going right?

So I say "Oh, we can take care of that right now." I take him out in the backyard and throw a baseball at him. He did consent to this beforehand. I throw it medium speed, probably a little less hard than what he'll face from the kids in his league. It's perfect. It's going to hit him right in the thigh. It'll give him a good little sting, he'll jog it off in about two minutes, and another childhood crisis will be averted thanks to a father hurling a baseball at a minor.

Then he moved.

He jerks backward, for some reason bringing his front leg up at the same time. The ball that seconds before was going to hit his thigh now hits him right on the edge of the knee cap. I can hear the crack from 20' away. I've been hit there before by bad-hop grounders and it's a pain that just makes you want to vomit.

Needless to say, for the next 15 minutes he was pretty pissed and wanted to quit. So I just hung out with him and told him about some of my memorable shots, including once playing catcher for my college dormitory and missed a throw from the outfield, taking a ball to the chin. That really happened. Make your own Elton John joke here. Soon he was back to normal, plus he had a cool bruise with stitch marks from the baseball on his knee. He's going to show it off at school today and I'll probably be arrested tonight.

Tomorrow we go up on the roof and cure his fear of heights.

Brainlock

I can't even come up with a decent title these days. Labor Day Weekend was a little nuts, to say the least. My wife woke up Saturday with a sprained neck, (the answer's no, although I wish I was responsible that way), and wound up going to the ER, where she was given all sorts of good drugs. Subsequently, she spent most of the weekend on the couch in a Vicodin-haze, while I entertained the kids. Sure, I entertained them by letting them draw all over Mommy, but let's not pretend you wouldn't have done the same thing. Also on the schedule for the weekend was a Saturday morning baseball practice at 9 am. I haven't been up that early on a weekend in months, except one time when I was awake at 6 am, but that's only because I hadn't gone to bed yet. The head coach is in Louisiana this week, we have one more practice tomorrow, and then our first game Saturday. This doesn't bode well for my coaching career. I'm not even sure what all the kids names are, and to make things worse, there's a set of twins on the team. I refer to them as "green twin", "red twin", or whatever color shirt they happen to be wearing. I'm sure they love that. Then we went to an agricultural fair in eastern CT where I dragged the kids around for 3-4 hours in 90 degree weather and showed them what prize cows and toothless hillbillies look like, and explained why the former are worth more than the latter. And let my son fire BB pellets out of a machine gun. His mother was less than thrilled about that when we got home. I'm sure my response of "fuck you stoner" didn't help any, but hey, I'm not the one huffing Vicodin.

Actually, she's better now and we have leftovers. The bidding starts at $15 a pill. Don't be shy.

Then I took my son out on the canoe Monday afternoon. Turns out that a 9 year old isn't of much use paddling a canoe into 20 mph winds, and we spent most of our time being blown around the lake. Usually I like getting blown around for an entire afternoon, but not that way. After succesfully battling the elements and returning to shore, I figured out a way to put the canoe on the roof of the car all by my big self, (Hint: just throw the fucking thing up there and worry about the paint job later), and we drove home. Fortunately the canoe didn't decide to start falling off the car until we were 20 yards from the driveway, so that tragedy was averted. Which we followed up with a bonfire in the backyard, (which is even more fun when there's been no rain for two weeks and your yard resembles a tinder factory), complete with S'mores and me getting a second degree burn on my foot when I steeped on a hot ember that came out of the fire-pit.

Subsequently, at this point I'm still pretty tired, especially after staying up until 1 am watching "The Departed", which was good but not great. Mark Wahlberg was underused, a sentence I never thought I'd write.

Hopefully I'll wake up and write more later.