My Sunday Feeling

Being a Methodist is pretty much all I’ve ever been. I know. I know.  My by-line when I used to write for the paper’s Religion page identified me as “a Methodist with Catholic tendencies.” And I suppose that’s still pretty much true.  But I was baptized at the Methodist church in Mabelvale.  I became part of the United Methodist church by operation of law when the Methodists merged with….somebody……. when I was 13 or so.  About the only impact the merger had on my young self at the time was that the MYF (Methodist Youth Fellowship) became the UMY or United Methodist Youth which in retrospect sounds kinda fascist.  Anyway, I was educated as an undergraduate by the Methodists and they loaned me money to go to law school.

And I’m still a Methodist, albeit a somewhat lapsed one  I like to think that i make up for it by being married to a UMC Deacon.  I like to think it at least.

So I’m about as Methodist as it gets.  The Methodist church I was raised in was a “big tent” informed by the Wesleyan Quadrilateral of Scripture, Reason, Tradition and Experience.  The church I grew up in and remain still, Catholic tendencies notwithstanding, is a tolerant place where a person can get all the welcoming grace he or she wants along with all the religion they can stand.  

Which suits me, and a lot of my cohort, just fine.

All is not well however in the UMC.  The church is experiencing an honest to God (you should pardon the expression) schism.  The reasons for same vary depending on who you talk to.  The schismatics (which is what they are) who wish to “disaffiliate” and become something called the Global Methodist Church will tell you that they are leaving to return to a more biblical and “Christ centered” church, which by the way, defines marriage as between a male and a female and whose clergy are at least unlikely to be gay.  

Many UMC types I have talked to view the GMC as crypto bigots who are being led by narcissistic Baptist wannabe clergy who are tired of Bishops calling all the shots.  And they highly resent the fact that the churches that are leaving at least on paper get to keep their church properties at a discount which would allow said clergy to create their own fiefdoms on somebody else’s dime.  Which is what many of the folks in the UMC camp think is the primary motivator for the guys trying to go out the door.

Long story short, things are about to get ugly here in Arkansas really quick.  The second largest Methodist congregation in Arkansas, First UMC in Jonesboro, voted to disaffiliate.  The Arkansas Annual Conference of the UMC which is the ruling body of the church denied Jonesboro’s application to hit the trail.  Long story even shorter, it is pretty clear that we are heading for litigation over all of this.

Which will be good for nobody.

Last year I assisted with the Theology Club at Catholic High.  The sponsor asked me to explain what was going on with the Methodists.  Which I did.  But what I mainly did was to urge the boys to watch this very carefully.  The United Methodists are the second or third largest worldwide denomination.  And it is in schism.  Which doesn’t happen every other day. This is important as a matter of history, both church and human.

What I didn’t tell the club is that the Christian church in America has historically splintered over social issues in the body politic.  Mainly slavery, civil rights and now matters of human sexuality.

Somebody always winds up on the wrong side of history in these deals.  

We shall see.  

PS…I drafted this post a couple of days ago.  Since then the Bishop of the UMC in Arkansas has suspended the Senior Pastor at Jonesboro FUMC from ministry pending formal charges.  The suspended pastor has vowed, in a post on his Facebook page, to be in the pulpit today despite that fact.  

Like I said.  Things are about to get ugly here in Arkansas.  

    

My Sunday Feeling

Random thoughts while fending off a cold…

To paraphrase a beloved but pretty lousy musical, the hills are alive with the sound of impeachment.  The Republicans are threatening to impeach the heads of Homeland Security and the FBI.  And that’s just for starters.  I guess they figure that their constituency put them back in charge of the House (albeit by the width of a razor blade) in order to exact Trumpian style revenge on his Democratic oppressors and to do nothing else.

Well, good luck with that.  In the event that they can get Articles of Impeachment out of their Chamber (which is by no means clear despite their majority status) the damn things will be DOA when they hit the Senate.  It will sound and fury signifying nothing as Shakespeare might (and did) put it.  Or a colossal waste of time and money as I would.

Such foolishness is not confined to the Red side of the bench.  There is a move afoot amongst earnest and weak-minded liberal types to impeach US District Judge Aileen Cannon who was appointed to the bench by Donald Trump.  You may recall that Her Honor was the one who granted a Motion (Petition?  Complaint?  I was never real clear on what they called the damn thing she decided she had jurisdiction over) to basically stay the investigation into Trump’s retention of classified and unclassified documents he took with him into private life.  She also appointed a Special Master to go through the docs before allowing the FBI to get its mitts on them.  

Long story short.  Thursday the 11th Circuit reversed her outright and dismissed the case brought by Trump to try to queer the investigation into his retention of theses docs.  Words and phrases such as “eviscerated” and “slam dunk” have been bandied about in the press to describe DOJ’s victory therein.

Not content with the Rule of Law being followed at last in this whole transaction, as was alluded to earlier, certain groups are calling for the Impeachment of Judge Cannon.

This is stupid.  Even stupider than what the Republicans are fixing to turn loose come January.  Look.  If committing error is a “high crime and misdemeanor” than we’re going to have a bunch of judges back in private practice.  No doubt that Aileen Cannon was wrong on the law.  She was so wrong on the law even I knew she was heading for reversal at warp speed.  But being wrong is not an impeachable offense.  And thank God for that.  

US District Judges toil, for the most part, pretty much in obscurity.  One has to screw up pretty bad to get into the zeitgeist.  And as some of my colleagues have suggested, perhaps this is Aileen Cannon’s legacy.  She will be forever remembered as the Trump appointed judge, sitting in the District where he resides (and whose forum was pretty clearly placed in a grocery cart) who issued one of the most idiotic decisions in the history of the United States Criminal Code and Code of Civil Procedure, two tomes which are seldom mentioned in the same sentence.

Sure it looked bad.  Really bad.  But the Nation got bailed out by the Rule of Law, which has been popping up more frequently lately.  And thank God for that.

Life tenure is a pretty sweet deal.  Unless the legacy of being thought of as a partisan hack or an incompetent follows one along in the discharge of that tenure.

Now guys like me know her name.  That’s punishment enough.     

 

 

My Sunday Feeling

I went to the law school library the other day. I had some stuff I needed to get done but the cleaning lady was in the house.  So that’s where I went.  Admittedly, that’s a pretty bourgeoise reason for going to the library.  But that was my reason.

The parking lot was jam-packed which I took to mean as a certain sign of high anxiety.  I was correct.  Finals start week after next.  It occurs to me on the fly that perhaps this is one of the reasons that I have so little use for the holidays other than the fact that being a dyspeptic crank comes easily to me.  Perhaps I still bear the scars of all of those first semester law school exams that were a harbinger of Christmases past. Makes as much sense as anything I suppose.

I am a mentor over there for a group of first year students believe it or not.  I saw a couple or three of them in the library intensely booking it.  One of them, let’s call him “T,” came over to where I was sitting. I offered him a chair.  He preferred to hunker down.  Most likely his backside has grown weary of furniture.  

“What are YOU doing here,” he asked.

“Practicing law mah bah,” I replied, pronouncing the salutation, as I do, with the south Louisiana inflection.  “So how are you doing, T?”

“I’mmmmmmmm…..actually doing OK,” he said as he looked off into the distance.  He looked back at me.  “Better than some.  A lot better than some.”

His eyes opened wide as if to help convey the gravity of that which he spoke.

“A LOT better.  Some of my fellow classmates are freaking out, quite frankly.”

That news came as no surprise to me although I hated to hear it.

I’m certain there are worse experiences than being a first semester law student.  Being burned alive, living in upstate NY this week (two sides of the same horribleness coin that involve exposure to temperature) and being a Texas A&M fan come to mind.  Even though the fix the Aggies are in is cause for mirth throughout the SEC.  

But first semester law school is just the worst.  You are basically learning not only a new language but a new, and some would say perverse, way of regarding the world.  And you have to go through this with other law students, some of whom are, to put it mildly, poorly socialized.  Or, as one of my former students aptly described her first semester, “It’s like kindergarten only with sociopaths.”

Ah!  Memories!

“You’ll be OK, T, “ I said.  “Really you will.”

“I know,” he said. “It’s just….”

“I know.  Believe me.  I know.”

He glanced at my iPad.

“So what are you working on?  If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Not at all,” I said.  “I just wrote an email to my client raising some concerns about whether he is in compliance with the Fair Labor Standards Act.”

T’s eyes became filmy.  I put my hand on his shoulder.

“See what you have to look forward to?”

“I think I need to get back to my memo for Property class.  Thanks a lot, though.”

That’s what I’m here for.

As I was leaving I heard my name being called.  Another one of my mentees, as they are called, came trotting over.  After some idle chitchat during which I took his temperature (he seemed fine) he came to his point.

“Ya know when finals are over, let’s you and me play nine holes first nice day we get.”

“You got it.  You know where to find me.”

By this time I was in the parking lot.  I could feel the received anxiety, think of the opposite of a contact buzz, receding from me. 

Years ago I was just like them, albeit less bright and not as capable.   I could have used a mentor back when I was going through the same horrible experience.  But when I was in law school, basic considerations of providing a minimally humane milieu for the first year students was unheard of.  As bad as it is for my students, and it is bad, it was worse 47 years ago.

Want to play golf?  That’s what I’m here for, mah bah.

As far as mentoring goes, I ain’t much.  But I do no harm. I suppose that’s something.

I just hope for their sakes, more accurately for the sakes of their loved ones, that this experience doesn’t ruin the holidays for them.

Who wants to have to fool with the Rule against Perpetuities during Advent?  As if the holidays are not sufficiently depressing. 

Bah! Humbug!  

 

  

      

 

My Election Day Feeling

I used to enjoy getting out on Election Day to cast my vote.  I liked seeing my neighbors either in the voting line with me or out on the curb waving signs.  I’ve done my share of the “sign waving” thing myself.

I don’t enjoy it anymore.

My buddy Phil Martin wrote about this in his very subject in his column today in the paper.  He does a lot better job of explaining this certain malaise -for lack of a better word-on our part about the electoral system in this country.  

Oh we vote.  I’m pretty sure Phil votes.  But I vote early.  That way I can do my civic duty and avoid the crowd.  Voting used to be a happy event.  At least it was for me.  

Now it’s the civic equivalent of getting your teeth cleaned.

Too much anger.  Too much suspicion.  Too much bad religion.  Too many lawyers. Too much money.

All in the service of selecting our elected officials, some of who have no business running, much less getting elected.

So I voted.  But that’s all I’m gonna do.  I’m not going to watch the returns tonight.  I will turn on basketball and my remote will remain on “mute” for one more night.  I’m going to put the phone on DND.  

And we’ll just see what tomorrow brings.  

Because I don’t enjoy it anymore.  

 

My Sunday Feeling

Tomorrow will be my birthday.  Don’t have anything planned.  First of all the two other people that live here work for a living and so things tend to shut down pretty early around here on the weeknights.  Secondly, it’s not like I’m 7 or something.  It’s just not that big of a deal.  Granted, unlike, say, Christmas, having a birthday is at least a moderately pleasant experience. But when you are entering the same zip code as the seventies, you put such calendar events in perspective.  

What’s different now that I’ve circumnavigated the sun one more time?  Not much really.  Against all odds I am still married.  “Against all odds” really is a figure of speech in my case since they me off the boards in Vegas years ago.

Joe and I seem to be the only people in the county that have not caught covid yet.  I figure that given my historic susceptibility to any bug in current circulation amongst the populace I would have caught it 5 times by now.  But so far so good.  

I guess my major difference between now and last year is I am down in the back.  Nothing major.  But I can’t seem to shake it which is unlike me.  I threw it out about a month ago. While. Taking. A. Walk.  I finished the apparently perilous activity in front of my house.  I stretched.  Suddenly-zing!- my lower back, glutes and hip flexors locked up.

I related this story to my PCP the next day.  He frowned and wrote stuff in his chart.  The nurse came in and gave me two shots in the ass.  I was then taken to the x-ray chamber.  A few minutes later, the doctor came back in the exam room.  “Congratulations,” he said. “Your back’s completely shot. I’m surprised you haven’t been in here with something like this before now.”

I guess at this point in time he figures I do not require even the pretense of a bedside manner.  Which I guess I don’t.  Give it to me straight.  I will take like a man.  Albeit one who is stooped forward.  He gave me a scrip for pills and PT.  He also gave me a booklet of exercises for my back. “Just like brushing your teeth every morning,” he said.

So I guess that’s new this year.  I start my day doing glute bridges now.  Didn’t do that this time last year.  All and all it isn’t so bad.  I can still play golf.  I just can’t do anything the next day.  My pain level on a scale of 1-10 is @ a 2. And it’s not a constant thing.  I can live with that.  God knows there are folks that are a whole lot worse off than me.  That in itself is worth remembering if not celebrating.  

Speaking of celebrations, and speaking of being 7 years of age, my great niece Hattie turns 7 today.  She is having a party today and unlike mine  WILL be a blowout.  Of course, what passes for the pleasure of my company is required.  This will be the first little kid party I’ve gone to in years.  I shall carry ear plugs and take Valium beforehand. 

Hattie is brother Bob’s granddaughter. He and I share a birthday.  Typically we exchange amber liquid to commemorate the fact that random laughing chance has given the two of us a shared native day.  Bob is into scotch now.  I know nothing about scotch and so I asked him what he wanted.  

I about threw my back out again when I saw the sticker.  He is not worth this.

We will meet again next Saturday night here with our buddy Ray, who naturally as I type this, is getting over -guess what?-Covid.  Random laughing chance has given the 3 of us a shared native day.  The Deacon will prepare a vegan repast for the occasion.  Toasts will be offered.  Stories will be shared.  Wives will be tolerant. And the 3 of us will celebrate the fact that we have circumnavigated the sun one more time.

Maybe I’ll forget about my back.   But I won’t forget that Bob ain’t worth the price of that high end scotch.  

   

My Sunday Feeling

 I believe in voting.  Really I do.  I couldn’t tell you the last time I didn’t exercise the franchise during election season.  I used to go on Election Day.  I always enjoyed the activity around the polling place, seeing friends and acquaintances and shooting the breeze with my fellow voters in the voting line.

As I’ve grown older I’ve tended toward earlier balloting for the same reason I don’t much like going to live sporting events anymore.  What used to be exciting has been rendered a hassle.  Particularly when even a high school game will broadcast on the Internet.  So I watch most sports from the comfort of my living room.  I now vote early.  Either method gets either job done.  

One of the local races of note is the race between our incumbent mayor Frank Scott and retired car dealer Steve Landers.  There are two others in the race.  One is an earnest, thought provoking food blogger.  He stands very little chance.  The other would have to be upwardly mobile to hit buffoon status.  Seriously the Buffoon Union should sue him for damaging the brand.

But I digress.

I don’t write all that much about politics.  I tend to keep my opinions limited to my friends and family.  For one reason I believe that my political beliefs are my own damn business.  Secondly, we are so polarized on every issue that to express an opinion invites invective styled as “debate.”  Who needs it?

But as God is my witness, as it stands right now I may not cast a vote in the mayor’s race.  And I’m a voting man. 

How come, you may ask?  Well I’ll tell you.

Let me preface my explanation by saying that I had great hopes for Frank Scott.  He is the first Black mayor in the city’s history.  He was a banker and Highway Commissioner before he threw his hat in the ring for Mayor.  He comes from the same modest working class part of town that I came from.  There is an absolutely charming story from his young banker days about his being invited to lunch at a swanky restaurant.  He had to ask for directions because he had never been in that particular section of town before.  That’s a great origin story.

Naturally he had a strong base of support from the Black community.  But a good number of white folks voted for him.  Indeed, I have a friend, a conservative in every sense, who voted for Scott because he felt it was time for a black mayor in Little Rock.

My friend will not vote again for Frank Scott.  

He lost our votes when he shut down 2 of the municipal golf courses with no funding in place to make use of the properties for other uses.  Frank’s Pasture, formerly  known as War Memorial Golf Course has been pretty much unused except for walkers and the homeless since he shut it down 2 years ago.

His hand picked Chief of Police, since “retired,” turned out to have money problems.  Little Rock is one of the more dangerous cities in America.  Scott promised to add cops to the police force.  He did not. In all fairness, unlike other cities I could mention, we do have running water.  And the Scott Administration has spent money like so much of it.  Further, the City’s compliance with FOIA is spotty at best.  And cronyism abounds.  

Speaking of cronyism, then there’s LITFest which was a phony baloney “festival” cooked up last August which was supposed to begin last Friday.  It was cancelled at the last minute due to questions about whether the funding of same was in compliance with the city code regarding procurement and the contract between the city and the event planner.  By the way, an employee of said event planner used to be Scott’s chief of staff.  I’m guessing that both the promoter and the city will get sued by the vendors and performers who got stiffed.  Good work.  

I could go on.  But it’s too depressing.

What about Landers then?  I do not know Steve Landers.  I’ve never bought a vehicle from one of his dealerships.  I have it on good authority that he is a warm and generous man, and that he was a good person to work for.  He is a good communicator, direct and to the point. Then again, his ads for his various car dealerships have run around here for years.  Sound bites he can do. Contrary to certain rumors along these lines, I wouldn’t think that one could be major success in the sales business if you are stupid or a racist.  I have no reason to be believe that he is either.  

Neither are these qualifications for public office.

This is Landers’s first run for elective office.  He says Little Rock’s problem is a management problem and that he is a manager.  So I guess that the argument is that olitical experience viewed through that lens is over-rated.

But I say Donald Trump and Frank Scott are proof that political experience is invaluable.  A man like Steve Landers is used to running things pretty much as he sees fit.  Can’t run the city like a car dealership.  There are constituencies within constituencies in city government.  The learning curve for him would be steep.  Just as it was for Frank Scott.  And the less we say about Trump the better.  

Look, the Mayor’s office in Little Rock is pretty weak.  The City is pretty much run by the City Board and City Manager anyway.  So I don’t feel that I’m being irresponsible.

What a choice.  A proven incompetent versus another amateur.  

Go ahead.  Arrest me for treason.  And I may change my mind.  But as it stands right now I swear to God I’m not voting in the Mayor’s race.

My Sunday Feeling

During the pre-vaccine days of the pandemic,  I could count on one hand the number of folks I knew at the time had COVID.  It turns out there were more.  But I didn’t know many at the time.  Now I know all kinds of people that have had it.  Both of my brothers have gotten it.  Bob, a nurse practitioner who works on the respiratory floor at a local hospital, was the last on his unit to get it.  He has no explanation for why he held out so long.  Unfortunately he gave it to his wife.  Any of a number of my teacher buddies have had it.  My cousin and her husband, along with Aunt Marlene. My young friend Nathan with whom I am privileged to act as a mentor at the law school (and in my case it really is “acting”) got it twice.  

Most folks reported that it was not much worse than your average cold or flu.  Like the flu, it’s nothing you want to get. But unlike the grim reality of 2-3 years ago you are less likely to wind up on a vent assuming that you have had the sense to be vaccinated.  As were the folks described hereinabove.  

Anyway, our luck ran out over here last Saturday when the Deacon tested positive.  She had retired to the den earlier that morning with what she thought was a stomach bug.  She had sensibly banned both Joe and me from that space when she thought all she had was a bug.  That’s probably what saved us as she didn’t have no bug.  Naturally she couldn’t get through to her doctor on the phone.  So Bob put her on musinex, Zyrtec and Tylenol. “She’ll power through this,” he said. 

So for 3 days or so Joe came down to the kitchen though the guest room.  I took her rations and fluids just as far as the coffee table while wearing a mask.  She was sick as a dog for 36 hours or so.  Fever, muscle aches, coughing.  Her skin color, usually like unto a perpetual tan, was ghastly. Her voice was reduced to a squeak.

I called Bob about day 2 to report what I viewed as alarming symptoms.  “Sounds pretty typical,” he said. “She’ll be fine.”

“What about antivirals?”

“Eh. Besides its probably too late. She’ll be fine.”

And by day 4 she was much better.  And last Thursday she went back to work.

Bob was right for once.

Amazing.  The scourge of this earth two years ago, “the worst public health crisis of my career” according to my PCP who called me in at the start of the pandemic to give me a years worth of prescriptions and to teach me breathing exercises, had finally found our house.  And, amazingly enough, did not find me.  He Who Catches Everything.  Me or Joe.  At least not yet. Knock on wood.

I’m not going to credit entirely the Deacon’s vegan diet for her return to the living.  But it didn’t hurt any.  I credit her generally modest and healthy ways.  That and she doesn’t smoke. 

Most importantly, and not to beat a recumbent equine mammal, she had the sense to get vaxxed up and remain up to date on the boosters.  That’s why I’m not typing this from Baptist Medical Center.  It’s mostly why Joe and I didn’t get it.  That and we stayed away from each other for a good 4 days.  The former scourge of this earth has been rendered manageable for most people.  Thank God for medical science.  I’m referring to real science.  Not Facebook science or science as practiced by Jim Bakker.   

But I’m gonna have to disagree with the noted epidemiologist Joe Biden.  COVID is still a thing.  A treatable and preventable thing.  But a thing.  What was he thinking?  

So it’s back to masks in public for me.  No more handshakes.  Gonna take the flu shot next week and the latest COVID booster next month. I’ll still have a cigar maybe once every 6 months.  I figure the smoke will keep the germs away.  Makes as much sense as reposing trust in ivermectin and tonic water.

We are lucky.  The Deacon was spared.

And I don’t take it for granted either.

  

  

     

  

My Sunday Feeling

  

Last Friday was the first meeting with the 1st year law students assigned to me or “1Ls” which is the term made popular by the biographical novel Paper Chase.  I have been a mentor over at the local law school for 6-7 years I guess.  Maybe longer.  I forget.  A young lawyer named Nathan and I are partnering up again this year to inflict ourselves on these poor bastards (I refuse to use the word “mentees”) for another school year.

I don’t know much.  But I know I’m glad that I’m not in law school.  If there is a more grueling, dehumanizing and demoralizing experience than the first semester of law school, I don’t know what it is.  Telemarketing annuities comes to mind.  Perhaps you have your own thoughts.  

The first semester of law school they are learning a new language while getting impaled in class by the Socratic method of teaching the law.  They are competing against one another for the privilege of making it to second semester, which means some of them will go deeper into debt, which doesn’t exactly help the anxiety level a damn bit.   And in three years they get to experience the exhausting terror of sitting for the Bar exam and then enter into a terrible job market.  Did I mention Continuing Legal Education?  They will have 10-12 hours of that uselessness to look forward to each year.  I forget exactly how many hours.  I am now exempt since I have-God help me-held a license to practice law for 40 years.  Which is one of the few comforts of old age I have experienced thus far.  

Further there is this.  As my buddy Don says, with considerable understatement, law school does not do a very good job of weeding out jerks.  Tulane sure wasn’t very good in this regard.  He and I can readily name 5 or 6 guys off the top of our heads-and they are all men-who were lousy excuses for human beings back then and most likely never changed.  As one of my favorite former students, a fast rising M and A type named Katie (who had the good sense to never listen to me) once said of 1st semester law school “It’s like being back in kindergarten but with sociopaths.

And not to flog the recumbent horse, some of them are going into debt to finance this amusement.  

So what do Nathan and I do?  Not much to tell you the truth.  The law school has a script for us to follow as we progress through the forced march of 1st year law school.  Which we mostly follow.  But mainly we try to be there for them.  To listen.  To reassure them that all sickness is not death.  That they will get through it.  

As I said in a speech I was foolishly invited to give at the awards banquet last spring, “I’m just the kill switch.  I cut off the juice before something blows up.” I can’t speak for Nathan but I think he would pretty much agree with that job description.  Pearls of wisdom they do not require.  2 guys that have been there before they do.  2 guys that are always available that is.  And know when to throw the kill switch.

So we start another semester.  Face to face for the first time in 2 years.  Standing in front of these bright young folks last Friday I was reminded how hard-harder than hard-the last two years have been.  I don’t know how we did it.  But we got through it.  

And so will the Class of 26.  

Wish us all luck.  

BTW I want to apologize for the weird font.  Blogger wouldn’t let me change it to Arial for some damn reason.  Go figure.

    

My Sunday Feeling

 I had to take out student loans for law school and to finish up at Hendrix.  My father died a week before Christmas during my senior year.  My brother Dave was a year behind me in college at the time and Mother had 2 more in the home.  Buck had life and mortgage insurance so she didn’t have to return to the workforce immediately.  But she couldn’t pay the horse-choking tuition bill for law school.  

So, I took out loans from the Guaranteed Student Loan Program and the Methodist Student Scholarship and Loan program.  And so three years later off I went into the world of work with $30,000 or so on my back.  Which was a not insignificant amount of money in 1981.  But you know what?  I paid them all back.  True, I got some help along the way. I did work study at Hendrix and at Tulane.  The law firm I clerked for back home sent me stuff to research from time to time.  Mother paid the rent for the flophouse I lived in.  And since I was a Legal Services type in my first job, I was allowed to pay interest only for a year.  Which really came in handy.  

Anyway, I paid them all off.  Every penny.  But those payments, taken off the top as stuff like the rent and the car note that had to be paid first kept me out of the housing market when I moved back to Little Rock.  In retrospect, that wasn’t such bad thing.  I distinctly recall my friends that were first time home owners back then bragging about locking in at 15% which is damn near a loan shark rate given the present market.  And I came out with a good credit rating especially when you consider the default rate on student loans even back then.  That was never an option for me as I spent the bulk of my career as a debt collection lawyer for a Federal agency.  That sort of fiscal indiscretion would not have been looked upon favorably during my annual Ethics in Government.  

Besides, if I stiffed the Methodists I would go to Hell.  Which, depending on who you’re talking to, and what Bible he or she reads, observes no statute of limitations for payback.

And so the question that has been put to me is whether I resent the fact that certain folks will be eligible for up to $20,000 in student loan debt forgiveness under President Biden’s proposal.  My answer is simple.

No.

I figured the government eventually would have to do something along these lines.  Last time I looked there was a trillion dollars of student debt floating around out there.  If you think anywhere near that is going to be repaid you are nuts.

Sure, I would have liked to have my debt written off.  But I didn’t.  And that issue is water way far under the bridge at this stage.  So I don’t resent it a bit.

But boy, some of our politicians, sure want me to.  Like the always-good-for-a-laugh Congresswoman from Georgia Marjorie Taylor Green who said, and I quote, “For our government to say  “OK, well your debt is completely forgiven’ it’s completely forgiven’ is completely unfair.”

First of all if a particular student’s debt is under $20,000 then, yeah, it would be completely forgiven.  They are still on the hook for any balance over that.  Secondly, she has got a lot of nerve to pop off about this proposal seeing as how her PPP loans were forgiven to the tune of $188,504.  And her Sovereign Liege, the sticky fingered collector of documents he should not have in his possession, has sent entities he had interests in to Bankruptcy Court 6 times.  Further, he has a well deserved reputation for stiffing people on top of that.  It is hoped, for their sake, that the armada of lawyers he has toiling on his behalf in multiple venues got it up front.  

Facts are troublesome things, Marge.

Look.  To make a morality play out of a commercial transaction-albeit a crazy commercial transaction-is just plain stupid.  Subsumed in every contract is the right to breach.  The question remaining is what are the consequences that flow from that breach.  Not whether the debtor goes to Methodist or Baptist Hell for doing so or gets locked up.

Neither is it immoral or unfair to those that are current on their payments for the government to write off debt.  It does it every day.  I know.  I approved it in certain cases if the facts warranted it. Just as somebody at the Treasury wrote off Congressman Taylor’s debt.  She obviously qualified under the rules of the program and took advantage of it.  Am I supposed to resent that too?

Actually, my biggest problem with the recent proposals by the administration is that it didn’t address what I perceive to the two biggest problems in the Student Loan program off the top of my head from whence most of my notions originate.

1)  A student loan debt is the only one that I am aware of that cannot be negotiated down or Discharged in Bankruptcy. Well, you can get a Discharge if you can prove “undue hardship’ which Congress has yet to define or that you are dead, which has a generally agreed upon definition.

2) There are too many lousy post-secondary institutions of “education” that convey completely worthless degrees to those that actually fulfill the course of study at these diploma mills.  I’m talking primarily about “for profit” schools that primarily exist on the Internet to sponge off the Student Loan Program and VA student loans.  The government needs to either kick them off the program or tighten up the eligibility rates based on retention and job acquisition.  And, to be fair, I can think of think of a couple of “traditional” State schools here in Arkansas that would literally cease to exist but for the various student loan programs out there.

I suppose I could go on and on about higher education in this country but I’ve made my main point.

Again, do I resent the fact that current student loan debtors are getting a writeoff and I didn’t?

Of course not.  I could not have gone to school without taking on student loan debt.  I paid the damn things back.  I’ve had a nice career during which I paid back in taxes exponentially more than the loans I took out  It all worked out pretty good for me.

What’s there to resent?

   

  

 

My Sunday Feeling

I’m no great shakes as a writer.  But I know a metaphor when I see one.

As any reasonably sentient person is aware, Little Rock is only marginally safer than Kabul.  Last weekend, 17 people caught slugs.  Which would be an alarming number for Chicago or Los Angeles.  It is a testament-for lack of a better word- to the shooters’ lack of skill and ignorance of combat tactics that only 3 of the 17 died.  Speaking of lack of skill, last Friday a shoot out erupted @ 3:30 pm in the River Market, Little Rock’s major entertainment district. At least nobody was injured in that particular fracas although a late model Chevy appears to have gotten shot up pretty good.

Metaphor alert!  

And earlier this week, mayoral candidate Steve Landers accidentally left his personal firearm in the restroom of a downtown restaurant.  Of course, Landers does not have a security detail (much derided by many) as does Frank Scott, the man Landers is trying to unseat.  As an aside, if LRPD has identified legitimate threats concerning Mayor Scott, which it says it has, then I have no issue with him traveling with security.  I can easily envision any of a number of people that aren’t thrilled by the notion of an African-American Mayor.  And some of those guys can get excitable.  So I’m good with it.

But let’s go back to the metaphor that dropped out of the sky last Monday or Tuesday.  Frank Scott’s major opponent apparently feels the need to pack heat -and he is trained and licensed to do so-while he’s out on the hustings shaking hands and kissing babies. That pretty much serves as the perfect metaphor for Little Rock and the Mayor’s office in the present state of-let’s face it-mayhem.

Then again Landers was a car dealer.  People hate car salesmen worse than they hate lawyers.  Which maybe moves last week’s “opposite of safety first” episode slightly less useful as a metaphor.   

What is clear is that the LRPD seems to be outmanned and outgunned.  So much so that certain political columnists around here-people, unlike myself, who are trained and licensed in the use of metaphors-have called on the Governor to add more State Troopers to this area to help local law enforcement take up the slack.  I’m good with that.

Little Rock has so much going for it.  I didn’t live here my entire adult life because I hate this town. People that come to visit invariably are impressed by Little Rock’s beauty, friendly people and excellent restaurants.  We have got a lot to work with.  But lest you think things are bad here-and you wouldn’t be completely wrong-go spend a couple of days just down the road in Jackson, Mississippi.  Jackson is dangerous as hell, as in almost a free fire zone.  Municipal services are practically non-existent.  The public schools are terrible.  Its tax base-or former tax base-left for Madison County, Mississippi years ago.    

Little Rock has got problems.  But it ain’t Jackson.  It ain’t Chattanooga either. Chattanooga is a comparably sized city that works.  Little Rock could be known as a city that works.

But it can’t be if people are afraid to go out at night.  Or go to the River Market in broad daylight.

Or to hit the campaign trail for the Office of Mayor unarmed.  

I remember when Jackson, Mississippi was a nice town.  I never want to speak of Little Rock in the past tense.  But things got to change.  And change in a hurry.  

  

  

    

My Sunday Feeling

 I’m not typically an anxious person.  Maybe anxious is too strong a word.  But it will do for now.  Things have happened in this country since January 6 of 2021 that I could not have dreamed possible even 4 years earlier.  

The recent execution of a search warrant by the FBI on the residence of a former President- words I can scarcely believe I just typed-has unleashed the floodgates.  Lunatics on the Internet-including a couple of locals-are calling for war, both civil and otherwise.  Indeed, one particularly ardent Trump is no longer a life-in-being after he went calling on the FBI wearing body armor and brandishing a nail-shooter, WTF that is.

Mercifully, recent history, including the insurrection of January 6, has proven that these patriots are not particularly competent.  Indeed, one writer has likened their dressing up in quasi-military guard and engaging in balcony talk on social media as tantamount to cosplay.  Indeed, she points out that approximately 90 of the insurrectionists have been rounded up and some of them have received stiff sentences. I hope her assessment of their capabilities is correct.

For purposes of this lecture, I will go back to my earlier theme of anxiety and try to explain what is causing me to experience the yips even away from the putting green.  This may turn into a multi-part series.  But we have to start somewhere.  

When I taught government at a local college I told my class about the protester back in the Tea Party days who carried a sign that said “Keep The Government’s Hands Off Medicare.”  Well even the dimmest amongst us should know-without getting into whether the Government has hands- that Medicare is a government program.  And I told my classes that my goal was minimum.  

I didn’t want any of them to be the guy holding that sign.

And recent yapping on the Internet makes it abundantly clear that a lot of people do not understand the process the government has to go through to obtain a warrant to search someone’s dwelling place.  There are a lot of people out there holding that sign.  

First of all according to the 4th Amendment of the Constitution of the United States, the right of the people to be secure in their homes against unreasonable searches and seizures shall not be violated.  Rather no warrant shall issue but upon probable cause supported by oath and particularly describing the place to be searched and the stuff sought.

What this means is that the law enforcement officer seeking a search warrant must swear out an Affidavit describing what is sought, where the officer thinks it is and why he thinks he might find it there and what criminal activity is suspected.  The Affidavit is attached to the Application for a Search Warrant.  The Application is then taken to a Judge who approves it, denies it or approves it after altering it.  

This is how constitutionally valid search warrants get issued.  These are the requirements of the Constitution.  

Which means that Joe Biden didn’t call Merrick Garland and tell him to get the FBI to search Mar a Lago.  Or that the head of the FBI didn’t call the Agent in Charge of the Miami Field Office and tell him or her to poke around in Donald Trump’s personal residence to see what they can find.  

Now there’s no doubt that this didn’t happen without approval from the highest levels of the Justice Department.  Indeed Attorney General Garland has told the public that he approved the Application.  Which has been unsealed by the Judge and which Trump could have released himself.  You can find the Application and a copy of the Inventory of stuff seized (which was given to Trump’s attorney) anywhere online.

Here’s why I’ve got the yips.  Supposedly the search warrant sought, and obtained as fruits of the search, classified documents that the former President was not authorized to possess according to the National Archives and Records Administration(NARA) .  Some of these docs allegedly pertain to nuclear weapons.  And yet, the fact it looks like he had no authority to retain these docs that were seized is of no moment to those on the hard right.  And those people used to be pro-law enforcement.     

I believe in the rule of law over which no person is above.  Not even a former President.  Or even a sitting one as the case of US vs. Nixon instructs.  

Let’s go back to the 4th Amendment.  Note that I italicized the word “unreasonable.”  The 4th Amendment proscribes unreasonable searches and seizures. Not all searches or politically sensitive searches. The FBI obtained a warrant.  It appears they played it by the book, most likely to the Nth degree, given the unprecedented stakes involved.  Therefore the search was not unreasonable.  The evidence seized might not be admissible in court if it gets that far. It was, as I said, unprecedented. But it was not, on its face, Constitutionally unreasonable.  

Finally, some on the hard right have said that the search of Trump’s home is proof that we have become a “banana republic.”  Bullshit.  The fact that a facially legal search warrant was issued against a former President and that neither the current President or the Attorney General are running their mouths about it is proof that we are not.  At least not for another two years.  

Still.  Too many people are holding that sign.

And that’s why I got the yips.  

   

 

    

 

My Sunday Feeling

The Deacon and I had an evening with the arts Friday night.  She had just completed the work for her  doctorate-at least I think she’s through-and had wanted to go out to dinner followed by a night at the theatre.  

I have to say that the old Argenta section of North Little Rock was hopping.  The restaurant and the surrounding streets were packed.  I think it was a combination of things.  One, people are sick of staying home and two, it wasn’t 200 degrees in the shade for the first time in weeks.  It was nice to get out of the house like we used to pre-plague.

And three, the Argenta Community Theatre has been packing them in with their production of “Memphis” which is a show set in mid-fifties Memphis (ostensibly) concerning a white disc jockey who falls in love with a black singer and the familial and societal problems that ensue because of this relationship.  

I cannot fault the production at all.  The cast and crew were great.  The audience-packed into the ACT while the Fire Marshal wasn’t looking-loved it.  There was much foot stomping, clapping and hollering.  It was fun to be with a bunch of folks from all walks of life that were genuinely having a good time.

Granted I am no fan of musical theatre, even though I’ve done some of it back in the day.  But that was mainly to meet girls.  “Memphis” works really hard to make its audience believe that music and love can act as a bridge between the races despite the fact that Martin Luther King was destined to get whacked some 10 years after the time in which the show is set.  Which struck me as a little hokey.  Maybe because it’s not true.  Or as the Deacon said, “I liked it.  But the show tried to do too much.”

And that is a pretty good way to put it.  But there were far worse ways to spend an evening than taking in unusually good community theatre in old Argenta.  

Speaking of the Deacon-and the arts-while she is out doing the Work of the Lord tonight, I’m going to take in a program of chamber music.  Get this. At the White Water Tavern.  I think this is genius.  The old WWT has had a past that is checkered as all get out.  But the folks that are running it now have cleaned it up and serve real food while slinging whiskey and putting various musical acts on their little stage.

Tonight’s musicians are from the Arkansas Symphony Orchestra.  They will be performing mostly in quartet form.  This should pull in an interesting crowd.  And I’m really looking forward to it.

Going out to listen to live music 2 out of 3 nights this weekend.  How about that? 

Maybe the worst really is over after all.  Maybe we are back to some semblance of normal.  

  

My Sunday Feeling

I think it is finally beginning to set in.  My buddy Rick swears up and down that he is going to retire come December.  One of our mutual friends is retiring next Thursday.

“Where did the time go?” he asked rhetorically the other day.  I certainly don’t know.  But things seem to be speeding along with or ,generally speaking, without our consent.

Take my immediate circle by way of example.  I’ve know stepson Joe since he was in the 9th grade if memory serves.  He’s now a proud diplomate of Hendrix College and working as an analyst for a bank.  He’s still living upstairs as I type this but he’s looking at apartments and most likely will leave us old folks sooner than later.  Which is the way it should be. 

I have been texting with nephew Clarke who is over in Germany for a truncated summer abroad.  He would have left in June but for the “recent unpleasantness” in Eastern Europe.  But he’s there now and from the pictures he is sending home he seems to be having a big time, drinking bottled water from the Alps and visiting dungeons in the Netherlands.  

But the most astounding thing I’ve seen out of him is a video of him conducting a virtual tour of Mississippi State where he is enrolled.  

In Russian.

I had managed to forget Russian is his Minor over there.  I have watched it 2-3 times.  To my admittedly untrained ear his pronunciation sounds spot on.  It seems like last Friday I was teaching history and he was across the hall in Latin class.  And there he is pointing out the “stadia” where “Americanski football” is played.  I kept listening closely but never heard words or phrases you might also associate with Mississippi State.  Words like “beerski” or “rednecksumbitchski” uttered.  Or “cheatlikehellski.” I’ll have to listen again. Maybe I missed it.

His step-cousin Sarah, Joe’s sister, is an Arabic speaker.  As I was telling a language teacher buddy of mine the other night, I can kinda fake my way through Latin, French and Cajun-French.  I couldn’t begin to decipher Russian and Arabic.  Sarah and Clarke are way smarter than me.

But the biggest news, one that I never saw coming, is that my nephew Eli and his wife Sunny, along with their two little girls, have bought a house about a good quarter mile from here.  I guess I’ve know Eli since he was 5 or so.  I didn’t figure that they were going to stay in Oxford forever.  But I didn’t think they would move to a Little Rock much less Hillcrest.  Maybe that was the plan all along and nobody told me.  That’s OK.  I’m used to it.  

So I’ve been helping them on this end before the big migration next Thursday. I let the plumber in last week.  And Monday my yard man is sending a crew over to cut the lawn.  Odds are that they will have a box of wine waiting on them too.  

The girls are something like 5 and 2.  Their grandfather Bob says he has told the proud parents that I am willing to act as an au pair.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  The Deacon has allowed as how it will be “fun” to have little girls around the house.  I find the prospect totally alarming.  Not that I have anything against little girls.  I don’t much want little boys around either.

As you can see, I am an equal opportunity curmudgeon.  I do not discriminate on the basis of sex.  

Not that anybody much cares about that either.  

But that’s not the point.  The point is that I’ve known these young people for what seems like 15 minutes in the fullness of time.   And look at them now.

Look at us all now.

Where did the time go indeed?

  

   

     

My Sunday Feeling

Looks like I’m a recidivist.  I managed to get myself thrown back in Facebook Jail again last week.  It was pretty stupid.  Even stupider than the last time when I kiddingly threatened to beat up one of my creditors. Ha-ha!  I’m a kidder like that.  

My brother John had posted something about some guys blowing up a controversial “Stonehenge-like” monument over to Georgia someplace.  My comment was to the effect of “Sure. By all means, let’s blow stuff up.”  

Boom!  The trap door opened and I was swiftly advised by the sarcasm-free algorithms on the job over there that my post had violated Facebook’s community standards.  And so I was on the banned list for 24 hours.  

FB quickly offered me appeal rights although this offer was tempered by the statement from it that my appeal probably would not be actually read by anybody due to the sheer volume filed out there.  This seemed to my lawyer brain to be indicative of a larger procedural problem.  But I’m sure they would care even less about my pointing this out to them than the actual merits of any appeal that I might lodge.

God has evidently lent me time to waste so I set out about swiftly to seek justice on my behalf and behalf of similarly situated posters on that platform that have excessive sarcasm enzymes.

My appellate brief was pretty simple.  It went something like, “ Your algorithms need to be tweaked to recognize sarcasm and humor.   My comment was meant to reflect the banality (have your algorithms look that word up) of resorting to violence against public art.  There is not a violent (or courageous for that matter) bone in my body.  I am a lawyer that takes pro bono cases.  I am a mentor at the local law school.  The fact of my chosen profession is further proof of my aversion to violence.  I ask you.  Have you ever heard of anybody say “Step outside and say that to my lawyer?” Of course you haven’t.   Finally, not that she asked to be brought into this,  my wife is a Deacon in the United Methodist Church who ministers to and advocates for the homeless.”

“Gentlemen, this is ridiculous.  Especially when I could easily point you to any of a number of science, Biden being President and Insurrection deniers braying at the sky with impunity on this platform.  And you’re gonna come down hard on me? Again, this is ridiculous.”

I am a realist.  I expect that the only satisfaction I will derive from my appeal is the minimal catharsis banging on this keyboard has afforded me. 

So, Gentle Reader, the next time you feel led to make some socially relevant commentary on FB (which I do not recommend)  do not think that subtlety will be recognized as such by the Great FB Culture Wars Sheriff who evidently has its eye on each and every user.

Go ahead.  Let her rip.  Be stupid. Bray at the sky.   

There’s a good chance they will let that go.    

My Sunday Feeling

 So I've come crawling back.  

Looking back on it, what was supposed to have been about a 30 day reverie turned into about 6 months.  I can't say as I missed typing these musees during my absence.  And judging by the complete lack of response to same nobody else did either.  Perhaps it is because as one of my big shot writer friends says "nobody reads blogs anymore."  Then again, another of my big shot writer friends blogs and does a podcast in addition to his day job at the paper.  He enjoys doing them even as he concedes that maybe nobody much is paying attention.

He shrugged his shoulders over his beer the other night in the restaurant.   He enjoys doing them.  Works for me.

I think I may take it back up if for no other reason that this gives me a way to get it off my chest for cheap.  So you may see me more from time to time.

Then again, you may not.  I'm like everybody else.  The last 2 years have not been fun.  Not that I have absolutely anything to complain about.  I guess I was hoping that once the vaccine got in arms that things would get back to "normal" whatever "normal" was.  If anything, the polarization that exists in this country has gotten even worse since the pandemic.  

It is Independence Day weekend and we are at each other's throats.  6 months ago a sitting President attempted to overthrow an election by urging his followers to attack the Capitol building while the electoral college votes were being tallied. Most likely Donald Trump will run again if only in hopes that he will be harder to sue and prosecute while out on the stump.  Inflation is through the roof.  The United Methodists-my fixed theological abode- are splitting the sheets.  (For those of you keeping score at home, the Deacon and I are staying put.)

What else?  The SCOTUS has opened Pandora's box in a couple of three areas. BTW the gun thing?  I don't even care anymore.  If the Deacon starts packing maybe I will. I tend to pick fights I have a chance at winning.  That ain't one of them.  But shootings at schools and church picnics.  Godalmighty.  And don't get me started about UCLA and Southern Cal going to the Big 10 of all damn things or that there is something called a "4 out rule" in baseball.    

No rest for the weary.  I could go on and on.  But I won't. At least not tonight. 

I fear that I have become inert.  You know the old "they can't hit me if they don't see me" approach to stress and confusion.  Not much different than the state of Pink Floydian numbness, comfortable or otherwise.  I haven't blogged or written much the last six because I have rendered myself inert.    

But that is no way to live.  So I shall will myself back to becoming "ert" if I may be allowed to make up a word.  And I am allowed to because this is my blog.  I will take up the pen again-so to speak-because I need to get it off my chest.  

Happy 4th of July.  Be careful out there.