My Sunday Feeling

For those of you outside the State of Arkansas, or without Internet access, this is State Representative Justin Harris of West Fork, Arkansas which is up in Northwest Arkansas.  He is a Tea Party Republican and he and his wife own a Christian day-care center up there that is heavily subsidized by Arkansas Department of Human Services to the tune of about 800 grand a year depending on what you read. He is also in the big middle of one the tragic stories I've ever heard.  Tragic in the sense that a small child was sexually assaulted while legally in the custody of he and his wife after they gave she and her sister to another family to care for.  

The practice is called "rehoming."  It is one that I had never heard of before the Arkansas Times broke this incredible story.  Basically, rehoming is when an adoptive or custodial parent gives a child or children to someone else to raise.  As you might imagine, not all adoptions work out.  Rather than trying to work through DHS at these times some folks just basically give the kid to someone else who wants him.  The new parents take the kid in without having to go through all the background checks and home visits that the law requires.   Indeed, there are websites where people can find kids that adoptive parents want to get rid of.  I have read that it is not unheard of for pedophiles to frequent these sites.

Obviously the practice of rehoming is a recipe for trouble of the worst sort.  And trouble of the worst sort, the most sickening and heartbreaking sort, is precisely what happened here.  

You can read the original Arkansas Times piece here: http://www.arktimes.com/arkansas/a-child-left-unprotected/Content?oid=3691164 . I will give Gentle Reader the Reader's Digest condensed version. 

Rep. Harris and his wife, who were already the parents of 3 boys adopted the two girls in question. (They had adopted another girl which they subsequently prevailed upon DHS to take back.) The girls came from a background of abuse which is sadly not unheard of in the juvenile court system.  It is common for parents who adopt difficult cases to receive a subsidy from the State as an incentive to adopt problem kids.  According to what I have read the subsidy is to help defray the additional costs engendered by these children.

The girls in question had been diagnosed with Reactive Attachment Disorder or RAD.  I have reasonably unfettered access to psychiatrists, which I concede I should probably take better advantage of, and they assure me that this is a real disorder.  It is characterized by a failure of the child to bond with the new parents and can manifest itself in acting out behavior and even violence. Representative Harris received a legal monthly subsidy for this reason.  

For whatever reason, things did not go well.  The long and the short of it is that Harris wanted DHS to take the kids back.  It is unclear as to what happened at that juncture.  Harris says they threatened him with a charge of abandonment. DHS will not confirm or deny this allegation because the adoption process throughout is veiled in secrecy.  And properly so.

Enter trouble of the worst sort.  Rebuffed, so he says, by DHS, Harris sought to rehome the girls with a man named Eric Francis and his wife, who had adopted children through a foreign agency.  Mr. Francis (who for God's sake should not be confused for 5 minutes with the local journalist of the same name) had worked briefly for Harris at the day care center owned by him until he was terminated for excessive absenteeism.  Mrs. Francis-or the former Mrs. Francis I should say for reasons that will become clear shortly-was said to be friends with Mrs. Harris.  

However we got to this juncture is murky.  But this much is agreed on.  DHS knew nothing about Harris rehoming the girls with the Francis family.  Harris kept receiving the subsidy checks despite no longer having the girls in his care.  

And Eric Francis raped one of the little girls for which he is now pulling 40 years.

In a news conference at the Capitol and in a subsequent interview with a local television station Harris blamed the alleged threats by DHS for his feeling as if he had no choice but to take the actions he did given the unruly behavior by the girls, behavior which he said escalated to threats of violence among other things.  This story, along with questions of whether Mr. and Mrs. Harris were suitable to adopt these girls in the first place, are raised in another story put out today by the Times.  You can read it here: http://www.arktimes.com/ArkansasBlog/archives/2015/03/07/foster-family-disputes-key-staments-from-justin-harris

I spent my career chasing down money and getting it back for the government. Government money comes with strings.  The recipient has to dot every i and cross every t. Or as the old SCOTUS case I always cited said "men must cut square corners" when they do business with the government.  And thus we come to the easy part of the case against Mr. Harris. 

In a subsequent news conference, Harris claimed that he can prove that he gave the subsidy checks to Mr. Francis.  Doesn't matter.  The subsidies in question were for the specific use of Mr. Harris for the care of the girls based on his having satisfied exceedingly stringent conditions precedent.  Mr. Francis was no more entitled to those checks than I was.  Harris had no authority to disburse that money in any fashion other than what the law allowed. Further, once he rehomed the girls how on Earth was he still an eligible payee?

In the interview he defended the decision to rehome the girls with Francis-a man that he had terminated from his day care center-because he had a "pristine" police record, one which we may candidly state is now decidedly less pristine.

Doesn't matter.  First of all, it was not Justin Harris's call to make.  That authority is vested in DHS.  Secondly, a clean police record is not the standard for adoption. 

In the past 18 months or so, I have passed 2 police background checks and hold a VIRTUS certification from the Roman Catholic Diocese of Little Rock.  My record with the cops is as pristine as Mr. Francis's was.  This just means that I am a fit candidate for taking pictures for Girls On The Run and for yelling at guys at Catholic High.  It does not mean that sending a kid to live with me is in the best interests of a particular kid.  No matter how great a guy I am or how much I love the kid.  The best interests of the kid is the standard.  Not lack of a criminal record or what is in the best interests of Justin Harris. 

So you may ask why wouldn't an elected official work within a system he took an oath to uphold?  Good question.  Harris is a powerful guy.  Why did he jump through all these hoops when he could just threaten to defund DHS and haul the Director in for a browbeating?  Why didn't he hire a lawyer to challenge the threat to charge him with child abandonment? If indeed one was made.  

There is the likely Tea Party reflexive response that he wasn't gonna let some pointy headed government bureaucrat dictate how he was going to run his family.  So he took matters into his hand as a sovereign citizen or the other foolishness I have seen in my day.  As for me, it has always been my practice to try to work with the folks that give me money.  But then again I don't have much of a sense of entitlement.  

But here's my theory, speaking of the money. It's all about the money. And not the subsidy checks. That's chump change.  I'm guessing that a DHS finding that Harris had abandoned the kids, if upheld, would adversely impact his license to-duh- run a daycare.  Which you and me are pretty much subsidizing. So for this reason he decided to game the system that was jamming him up. 

Which resulted in a child getting raped.  

Rehoming is not illegal in Arkansas.  But it may soon be.  A bill was introduced the other day that would make it so. Governor Hutchinson says he is concerned about this issue.  Former Governor Beebe says he never heard of rehoming until he was leaving office.  I fully believe both men.  I fully believe that what happened was a failure of a system that allowed Harris to adopt these kids in the first place.

I fully believe that Justin Harris is sick unto death about what happened to that girl.  I fully believe that he would have never knowingly placed that child in harm's way. That is the only undeniable truth he has uttered about this whole sordid transaction.  

I also fully believe that his response to this is firestorm reveals him to be a gold plated narcissist. He, and he alone, is completely responsible for what happened to that child. He neglected a child in his custody.  It resulted in her being violated at the tender age of 6.  She is the only victim here. 

Which leads me to the next question. 

What the hell does it take to get a day care license revoked in this state anyway? 

My Sunday Feeling

As statistics go it hasn't been a bad winter.  In fact, if one were to sit down and look at the data, one would probably find that the winter 2014-2015 was one of the milder on record.  And I know that I have played a good bit of golf in December and January.  

But to hell with data.  February has been brutal.  

As I type this my Weatherbug app informs me that it is 26 degrees on the other side of the wall.  I am beyond sick of this bitterly cold weather.  I made this observation at a luncheon following a Lenten service over to the neighborhood branch of the Baptists.  Father Erik, who had given the homily, reminded me of the fact that this Winter has been mild up until now.

I'm not one to rebuke the clergy but I have become even more cantankerous in my old age.  I wasn't going to take this layin' down just because this observation was coming from a guy wearing a collar.

"Oh yeah?," I said, trying to be helpful. "I wrecked my car on some black ice Tuesday night. I've had water running for 2 weeks.  I can't play golf and I'm tired of being housebound and eating my own cookin'.  Forgive me but I've just about had it."

Father's expression was quite tranquil seeing as how he was sitting next to a madman.  
"I'm sorry about your car," he said. "Spring will be here soon."

Spring will be here soon.  

I don't know if it is a function of my advancing age but I really long for Spring. I used to like Spring mainly because it heralded the beginning of baseball season. And there is still something reassuring that the Cubs will be yet again toiling away in the friendly confines of Wrigley in the service of utter futility.  

But I need to hear the birds, to see grass grow, feel the sun on my face.  I want to spend hours out on the deck.  I want to sit on the porch, play golf, and to take long walks.  This latter consideration is particularly acute seeing as how I now have a hiker in my life and I am not keen on being told by her to go take one by my lonesome.  

But today it is 26.  The clouds are positively leaden.  

Tomorrow the Little Rock Marathon will take place.  They are predicting a high in the forties with a 60% chance of rain.  

Ugh.  I'm sorry.  But that just doesn't sound like fun.  

But there is no chance of snow.  The temps will get above freezing.  

Father Erik is right.  Spring will be here soon.

Go Cubs!

Duty Calls

I will be busy most of the weekend listening to high school age tenors and sopranos audition over the Internets for the vocal music program at the Arkansas Governor's School.  So no blogging this weekend.  If history is any guide my hands will be shaking too badly to type anyway.

Talk amongst yourselves.  

My Sunday Feeling

I got a letter the other day from an unexpected source.  The return address indicated that it was from a gentleman that I know from church.  K is a retired real estate man as I recall.  In my experience, unsolicited correspondence of this sort tends to generally be limited to fundraising.  So imagine my surprise when I read the first paragraph.

"For the past several years, rather than giving up something for Lent, I have instead given special time to thoughts and prayers for special people."

My day is Friday the 20th.

"[I] will pause to thank God for you.  I will ask that he make his presence known to you in all you do and to bless your life and, through you, the lives of others. I'll be praying about your family and all those you love, about all the things that keep you busy, and about your health.  I'll be expressing particular thanks for your talent as a writer and the education you received at Hendrix and for your long membership in the church I love.  Finally, I'll thank him for you friendship and the privilege I have to know you."

To say that I was stunned is to to understate the case considerably.  In the first place, I don't think that I've had a conversation of any substance with this gentleman in 2-3 years.  Secondly, while God knows I could use it, I don't exactly consider myself a fit subject for such intervention.

My initial thought is that K had obviously reached the bottom of the barrel of available candidates for intercessory prayer after all of these years.  After all, as I said, I haven't had many dealings with K in some time.  

But I was mainly struck by what a profound kindness out of the blue the letter represented.  To know that someone thought about me and was thankful of it is profoundly humbling.  And while I am not superstitious in the slightest I confess that it is comforting to know that someone will be praying on my behalf next Friday.  

We live in a brutal world filled seemingly to the brim with fear and hatred.  And that's just the Arkansas legislature.  It is all to easy to forget that people are capable of "random acts of kindness" as the saying goes.  

Ash Wednesday is at hand.  It is the first day of the penitential season of Lent. It is the day that we remember that we were formed from dust. And that unto dust we will return. 

I will also remember that people can be capable of indescribable grace and kindness even to those that are completely undeserving of same.  Such as myself. 

And I will try to pay it forward if I can.  

My Sunday Feeling

I never cease to be amazed by the persecution complex present among certain majorities.  Some straights claim to be persecuted by gays.  Rich folks by lazy welfare cheats. Whites by African-Americans.  And some Christians by everything.  Scientists, historians, "secularists" and people that say "Happy Holidays" during the Winter Solstice.  

A recent example of this paranoia may be seen in its full flower over to the Commonwealth of Kentucky where a ministry called "Answers in Genesis" has sued over Kentucky tourism officials denying AiG (not to be confused with the financial and insurance conglomerate that damn near took down the world's economy when it defaulted on all the credit-swaps it "insured" during the real estate bust in 2008) 18 million bucks in tax incentives to build a theme park called the Ark Encounter which would feature a 500 foot long replica of the vessel used by Noah to save all of the animal kingdom (except the dinosaurs) during either one or both of the Great Floods as recounted in the Book of Genesis.   AiG is no stranger to this type of real estate development.  The ministry opened the Creation Museum in northern Kentucky which promotes a strict interpretation of the Genesis account of creation.  

According to an AP story in the Lexington Herald Leader, AiG is suing because Kentucky's actions allegedly violate the organization's right to free expression of religion which is guaranteed by the 1st Amendment.  

Which, of course, is complete hooey.  Here's what happened.  

Kentucky was on board with this project until it found out that AiG would require applicants for jobs at the park to sign a statement that they believed in the Genesis account of Creation including the belief-considered non-sensical even by many fundamentalists(even that known rationalist Pat Robertson)-that the Earth is a relatively juvenile 6000 years old. The tourism board considered this to be discrimination based on religion which the state could not support through taxpayer financed tax incentives.  

As I say at times like these, this is an opportunity to teach.  

Religious institutions, to a certain extent. are free to discriminate in their hiring practices.  A Catholic school may limit the pool of applicants considered for a position teaching theology to Catholics.  A Jewish school may likewise hire only Jews to teach Torah.  A Baptist church in the Southern Baptist communion may hire only graduates from a Southern Baptist seminary for its clergy.  And so on.

Where it gets less clear is if a Catholic school would only consider Catholics for positions to discharge strictly non-ministerial duties such as teaching math or coaching football.  Or being a janitor or food services worker. The case law, as I remember it, is that our hypothetical Catholic school could not discriminate in this fashion for every position that it offered to the public.

But we don't need to go there.

What is clear in the present case(at least to the Kentucky tourism folks) is that if the park is primarily an extension of AiG's ministry, it is not eligible for state tax incentives.  Further, if the purpose is primarily a business, such as a football stadium or water park, it is not eligible for assistance from the state if it discriminates in its hiring practices.  AiG cannot have it both ways.

This is not discrimination against religion by Kentucky.  This is not suppression of free expression of religion.  If AiG can gin up the money for this silly park through private donations as it did for the equally silly Creation Museum ( where I read that there are exhibits depicting humans cavorting Flintstone-like with dinosaurs), then God bless. But every application for state funding for private business ( loans and loan guarantees, bids on building projects, government contracts, you name it) I have ever seen in my illustrious career requires the applicant to sign a statement that it will not discriminate in its hiring practices. Which is where I am guessing the trouble started here.

Answers in Genesis, as a ministry, may limit its pool of job applicants to "young Earth" types if it so desires.  It just can't ask the government to help finance such an endeavor.

It can't have it both ways.  And I like the Commonwealth's chances in Federal Court. 

My Super Bowl Feeling

It is somehow fitting, at least to the sort of person that thinks along these lines, that the NFL's liturgical year should end with today's Super Bowl being played at something called the University of Phoenix Stadium.  

Unlike, neighboring schools like, for instance, the University of Arizona or Arizona State, the University of Phoenix does not participate in intercollegiate athletics.  Indeed, some might say that it doesn't participate in academics.  

It primarily exists as an online alternative to traditional colleges and caters what the education industry refers to as "non-traditional" students.  The cynics among us might also refer to UP as a mercenary diploma mill which, along with its other equally aggressively marketed "for profit" competitors, issues phony credentials to those few students that actually finish a prescribed course of study in whatever "degree" path they elect to follow.  

Go ahead.  Google "University of Phoenix." You will read tales of woe on various consumer sites from former students.  No respect for a diploma earned there. Credits earned there that are not transferable to the average community college.  Accumulation of student loan debt that would choke a mule enforced by predatory collection practices.  

But what do they expect?  Everybody is accepted.  Student loans are pretty much the way that every student's tuition is paid.  

Now are some of these posters merely disgruntled hacks?  Sure.  Are some of these stories anecdotal?  No doubt.  Are some of them planted by competitors? Wouldn't surprise me in the slightest.  

By the same token you are unlikely to find someone complain about their experience at Columbia University in "The Ripoff Report."

But today's post is ostensibly about the Super Bowl which will bring down the curtain on Roger Goodell and the NFL's annus horribilis in which you had a player cold-cock his wife, a botched and insensitive investigation of same, and a star running back spank his 4 year old with a tree limb along with the usual garden variety failed drugs tests and car wrecks.  

There has been some speculation as to whether this clown car of unusual travesty will cost Goodell his job.  Nah.  Not likely.  The Commissioner's job is to make the owners money and to bust the NFL Players Association.  On the former he is succeeding wildly.  On the latter, well, he is not doing them any favors.  

The NFL is all about product.  The game is almost irrelevant, dwarfed as it is by the endless commercials and a halftime show that Baz Luhrmann would find lurid. 

But of course I am going to watch.  Not that I particularly care about the outcome.  Actually, I don't care at all.  The Super Bowl provides me with an excuse to eat chili and to spend the day with somebody I like. Overly high-minded about these things I am not.  I walk as closely with hypocrisy as the next man. 

And so I find that it is right and proper that a phony baloney academic institution like the University of Phoenix should play a prominent role in today's extravaganza. It's all about money, honey.

Speaking of which, the line in this morning's paper calls the game even.  From what I can tell, most of the sports books in Vegas have the Patriots by one or two over the Seahawks.  

This means that the pros in the sports investment industry are predicting a close game.  Which also means that the first half might be a great warm up act for Katy Perry and Lenny Kravitz. 

Enjoy.  

My Sunday Feeling

I was still pretty young when Ernie Banks was at the height of his powers. But I have a vivid recollection of watching baseball with my grandfather over in Quitman one day.  The Cubs were on the Game of the Week that particular Saturday for some reason as they were their typically lousy selves.  

Anyway, I remember the broadcast starting with a smiling Ernie Banks facing the camera and saying, "It's a beautiful day for baseball.  Let's play two." I was probably all of 10 at the time.  I loved baseball.  I thought Ernie Banks was pretty cool. 

My father grew up in what is now called "Chicagoland."  Back then they were content to refer to it as Valporaiso, Indiana which is right across Lake Michigan.  When he was a kid he and a buddy used to hop the train when it would stop in Valpo and ride into Chicago to watch the Cubs and the Blackhawks.  Even then you couldn't get a ticket to see the Bears.  

And so my father was a Cub fan.  And like most Cub fans, and other veterans of combat, he had a sort of PTSD that prevented him from talking about it very much.  Being a Cub fan will do that to you.  Unlike my youngest brother, who named his son after the intersection upon which Wrigley Field sits, I have remained mostly agnostic about the Cubbies.  I refuse to permit hope to dwell in my heart given their record, writ large as it is upon history's immortal scroll and available for examination by the public.

Because the Cubs-and let's not put too fine a point on it- have stunk on ice for most of their existence.  They somehow even stunk with a lineup in those days that, off and on, featured Ron Santo, Don Kessinger, Ferguson Jenkins, Billy Williams and, yes, Ernie Banks, the universally beloved "Mr. Cub,"who died yesterday at 83.  

Yes child, Mr. Banks could certainly play.  He batted .274, had 2,583 hits and 512 home runs.  He twice led the league in homers.  He is rightfully in the Baseball Hall of Fame.  His number 14 is retired.  

But those are just numbers.  To me, and to legions of Cubs fans, he was the embodiment of "Cubdom"or, "Cubismo" if you will, in that he always projected an aura of sunny optimism in the face of almost certain merciless clockwork doom.  He was ready to "play two" while other Cub teammates were looking for ways to get traded if not outright looking for small handguns with which to end their misery. The true Cub fan understands this.  After all, the Cubs play in a Catholic town.  The true Cub fan is not one of the arriviste types that bought up the brownstones in the neighborhood so they could watch the games from the roof.  The true Cub fan is not a narcissist unlike these insufferable types.  He is also unlike Red Sox and Giants fans in this regard as I ponder this further.  

No. The true Cub fan is a guy who took the "El" in to Wrigley from some place. A guy who sits by his lonesome in the bleachers on a September day nursing an Old Style("Authentically Kraeusened")as the first hint of autumn wind rolls in from the lake, foreshadowing as it always does misery and futility. The Cubbies are apt to be comfortably 15 games out of contention in the effing division at this point in time. The true Cub fan, who prosecutes a close walk with grief, guilt and shame, is there.   And yet, and also in order to push the Catholic metaphor to the vanishing point, what passes for faith, a faith so far yet cruelly unrequited, compels him to yet believe in those things visible and invisible.   Well, mostly invisible. These are the Cubs after all. 

What passes for faith sustains him even when he witnesses legendary ineptitude -and I'm just picking one out of the air here-such as the night portly right hander Rick Reuschel injured himself FALLING OFF THE MOUND DURING WARMUPS. Which I actually saw on TV.  And Reuschel was pretty good.  

The true Cub fan believed in Ernie Banks and Mr. Banks understood him.  

Ernie Banks never had a bad day.  And you would think somebody who carried the grim mantle of "Mr. Cub" would have had plenty.  

Rest In Peace, Sir.  Boy, have you earned it.  

My Sunday Feeling

It is a remarkable thing that Alex Malarkey survived the car crash that occurred when he was 6 years old.  Indeed, the crash was so horrific that the responders called for the coroner to come to the scene. You note that I didn't use the word "lucky" to describe young Alex as the accident rendered him a quadriplegic.  I know other kids left in a similar state after accidents.  I wouldn't describe them as "lucky" either. Beloved, brave and inspirational maybe.  But "lucky" never.

As you might think, boy's condition was grave after extraction from the vehicle.  Indeed, he lapsed into a coma that lasted two months.  And when he woke up, he allegedly claimed that he had gone to Heaven and that he had communed with angels and met Jesus.  He and his father Kevin, who holds himself out as a "christian therapist," wrote a book about Alex's claimed experiences called "The boy who came back from heaven" which was touted by Tyndale Publishing company as "a true story." It became a #1 best seller in the category of inspirational books.  It got a 4.2 rating on Amazon.

Except it wasn't true.

Earlier last week Alex-now 16 or 17 by my math-recanted the testimony about his cameo appearance in the Hereafter.  In a letter to Christian bookstores posted to the "Pulpit and Pen" website, he plainly stated "I did not die.  I did not go to Heaven." Tyndale issued a statement in which it said it was "saddened" by this turn of events (I'll just bet) and that they were taking the book out of print.

Alex's parents are divorced.  Last April Gwen Malarkey posted on her blog that Alex's objections to the continued sale of the book had been "ignored and repressed." She also stated that Alex had not received any money from and that his medical needs-which must be staggering- had not been funded by it.

According to the Huffington Post, Kevin Malarkey, with whom Tyndal contracted to reduce Alex's story, or at least Kevin's version of it, to writing,  has not commented on his son's recantation and neither his blog nor his Facebook page have recent posts.

I am painfully aware that my profession is widely reviled in polite society.  But we are useful at times.  And Tyndale would have been well-served if it had run the manuscript past a lawyer before publishing it.

If Tyndale had brought it to me my first red flag would have been their idea to pedal Alex's testimony as a "true story."  Because, not to put too fine a point on it, in the first place,Alex didn't die. He may have been near death while in a coma.  But he didn't die.  Indeed, Alex has recently made the self-evident, if lugubrious claim, that he neither checked out nor visited the Far Shore after doing so.

"I did not die," he stated.  Of course he didn't.  And this would be, and I can't believe my sudden compulsion to type these words-the generally accepted condition precedent to joining the Choir Invisible.

Look, I'm not busting the kid out.  He was 6 at the time he was in the coma.  Who knows what a child under such dreadful circumstances and full of all kinds of medication is going to believe he thought he saw in such a state? I used to see ghosts when I was that age.  My claims of contact with the restless departed were met with skepticism and outright occasional annoyance by my father who usually would patiently explain that "there are no such things as ghosts."  Other times the explanation consisted of "Get back in bed."

But the literature of "near death experiences" or "NDEs" is a popular genre with all kinds of otherwise unreliable informants leaving us here on this vale of tears only to return to relate their unprovable tales in exchange for a fat paycheck..  Even Mitch Albom, who occasionally writes about sports when he is not cranking out "inspirational" and exceedingly lucrative potboilers, has written a recent book about "phone calls from Heaven" or some such foolishness.  Nobody is going to tell the paying customers to get back in bed.

I wonder how a phone call from Heaven would show up on Caller ID?  "Burning Bush?" "Fear Not?" But I ramble.

It sounds like to me-cynic that I may be- that fantasies related by a badly injured little boy-if they were related at all-got turned into a cash cow by somebody betting on the sustained gullibility of an reliable audience for this kind of hooey . I bet Tyndal Publishing gets lawyered up for real now in an attempt to get back the money they paid the Dad.  After all, it is only here in the temporal world that people part with hard earned money for-pardon me-complete and utter malarkey.  It is here that Tyndal will have to regain what passes for credibility in a genre that relies on that which is completely unverifiable.  And the I also bet the next time poor Alex tells this story it will be under oath.

I don't much know what I believe anymore.  But I don't believe in ghosts.  I don't believe that you go to Heaven while still a life-in-being as they say in probate law.  And I while I don't know for sure what happened here, I do believe that it is all going to come out in the wash both in the fullness of time and before the statute of limitations runs in any event.

And I also believe that there is a special place in Hell for somebody that tries to mine the commercial potential of a disabled child.

Just sayin'.

AWOL

No Sunday blog today.  Too much stuff going on.

Talk amongst yourselves.

My Sunday Feeling

A friend invited me to go with her to a folk music concert put on by the local folk club last night.  I confess that I was lukewarm about this as I am not much of a folkie.  But I like her and I had watched about all of the football that I could stand for one week.  So off we went.

My father was a big folk music person.  I remember listening to the Weavers-Buck owned the album inserted above-a lot when I was a kid.  I remember thinking at the time that Pete Seeger was funny and that he could really sing.  I was also fascinated by the fact that bass Lee Hayes (the big guy wearing glasses)was from Arkansas. After all, nobody was from Arkansas.  We also watched Hootenanny and some other folkie show that was on TV in those days.  And he was into early Simon and Garfunkel which was pretty much a folk act in their early incarnation.

As I have written before, my father was no leftist.  But folk music, with its themes of brotherhood and justice, obviously spoke to him on some level.  I wonder if his experiences in World War II, experiences that he rarely if ever talked about, lit this spark in him.

I don't know.  He died long before I had sufficient gumption to try to mine these thoughts.  After all, the Weavers were damn near Communists and my father tended to vote for Republicans.  At least Republicans as existed back in those days.  Way back before the GOP was taken over in these latter days by snake-handlers. 

But I ramble.

I forget the name of the act that performed last night.  Some husband and wife duo from Northwest Arkansas.  They were fine musicians.  But the performance, at least during the first set, was interspersed with highly tendentious and occasionally tedious disquisitions about Ozark culture and the environment and the imperative to preserve same.

At least it was tedious to me.  I was there to listen to music.  Not to attend a lecture.  

Look. My sister-in-law Judy does folk music for a living too.  She dresses up in period attire and plays at various county fairs and the like.  Judy gets on with it and spares her audience her insights into current events.  She preserves the culture by doing the culture and she pretty much lets it go at that from what I can tell.  It's not my cup of tea, and she knows that, but I have deep respect for her as an artist.  And I hope she knows that.

But you know what?  I'm not the target audience for these acts.  The crowd there last night-mostly older, older than me even-loved it.  They had a blast. They bought all the CDs the performers brought with them to sell at intermission.  I was in the distinct minority.  

And even though I thought the performers last night veered perilously near self-parody at times-one of their songs was actually entitled "Too Much Information" which almost put my friend and I on the floor given all the sermonizing-there was no denying the earnestness and sweetness-for lack of a better word- of the evening.  These qualities of the genre are perfectly captured by comedians Christopher Guest, Harry Shearer and Micheal McKean as "The Folksmen" which is a parody.  

But folk music is as American as American gets.  A lot of is meant to be political.  A lot of it is about preservation of culture.  And it continues to inform us today even if some of us aren't particularly aware of it.  I was fooling around on the guitar with Wilco's "California Stars" the other night.  At least I thought it was Wilco's. Turns out that it was written by Woody Guthrie.  I had no idea. Shows you what I know.

The local folk club puts on a show every month.  Maybe I will go back sometime. Maybe I won't.  I'm glad I went.  It was something different to do and I enjoyed being in the company of people-many of which were probably recovering hippies- that were having such a good time.  Like I said, it's not my cup of tea.  

But something about folk music obviously spoke to my father who voted for both Nixon and Ford.  I wish we had talked about it.  Maybe I would have learned more about both folk music and my dad.  

My New Year's Day Feeling

I don't know how your New Year's Day started.  Mine started at 8 AM on the dot with a call from a voice translator calling for a deaf lady in Maryland about a Legal Services case I'm doing.  The translator asked me to call the lady tomorrow.  

This couldn't have waited?  Happy New Year!

I write these words as I contemplate the smoking rubble that is college football in Mississippi  Both Ole Miss and Mississippi State were in the top 10 at one time this season, which some convincingly claimed was a sign of the End Times as prophesied by John the Revelator.  And both got their doors completely blown off yesterday in their respective bowl games.  The Mississippi State game at least looked competitive on paper if you didn't actually see those boys from Georgia Tech getting their cardio in against the Bulldog defense.  However, the Rebels got thoroughly whacked by a riled up bunch of TCU Horned Frogs who were high pissed at a) not getting put in the Final Four by the College Football Selection Committee and b) having to put up with the likes of Ole Miss. 

By the way, a TCU alumna to whom I am related by marriage posted TCU's cheer on Facebook during the "game."  Here it is: " Riff,Ram,Bah, Zoo, Lickety, Lickety, Zoo, Zoo, Who, Wah,Wah, Who, Give 'em Hell, TCU!" 

My research (watch it) reveals that this cheer originated in the twenties which would have put Bard of Fort Worth Dan Jenkins at about 40 years of age at the time. Anyway, this was back when collegiate athletics in the old Southwest Conference was the exclusive province of white folks.  Black folks wouldn't have come up with something this stupid.

Anyway, Carolyn is not only a nice person but she is a minister of the Gospel over in Indiana last I heard.  It made her happy to share this foolishness and it is certainly harmless.  Besides reading her post was more interesting than watching the actual sportscast.  

But back to the new year. As many of you know, I don't actually make resolutions.  But there are some things that I would like to accomplish in the coming year.  I'm going to write more.  I'm going to play and sing more.  I'm going to play more golf and I am going to blow town with more frequency in order to do so. I have some projects around this damned old house that I would like to get done.  

And I'm going to do a better job of counting my blessings.  My boon companion Kerri and I were texting about just this subject last night before she and the Colonel ventured out into the Hell that is New Year's Eve.  We take so much for granted in this life.  We should all do a better job of not doing this.  Maybe that should be my resolution.  I could make worse ones. 

All in all 2014 was not so bad.  I made new friends.  I still cling tightly to my old.  I actually regressed as a golfer if that's possible.  But I don't much care anymore.  I got out and played and sang in front of a live audience and it didn't completely suck.  And believe me, not completely sucking was about all we were shooting for.  Unlike my golf game, this project has potential.  Then again I am under strict supervision. 

After all a man has to know his limitations.  And I am fully conversant with all of mine.  

As for today, I'm certain it will be spent watching football and receiving the usual erudite running commentary from fans both near and far.  My buddy Allen down the street is a Florida State alum.  It is my New Year's wish for him that Jameis Winston makes bail in time to suit up for the Seminoles today.

Happy 2015 to one and all.  I wish you all health, happiness and prosperity.

And to all the Mississippi State and Ole Miss fans in my life (and they seem to be Legion), who were unusually chirpy even for them in 2014, I have only this to say:

Riff, Ram, Bah, Zoo. 

Early Holiday Trauma

I'm going to take a little break from this space.  I got way too much to do. Which seems odd since, suffice it to say, its not like I am overly burden by work-related cares.  In fact, I was way better at multi-tasking back then.  Now I'm not real good at "two-tasking."  

A friend of mine who is a retired law professor warned me about this.  He said I would arrive at this place.  

Boy he wasn't kidding.  

Then again, a lady told me the other day that I was awfully busy for somebody that has nothing to do.  There is that too.  Before I left the house last night I was emailing back and forth with a lawyer in Louisiana about the Declaratory Judgments Act along with other fascinating matters.  

As they say, once a Baptist always a Baptist.  Once a lawyer always a lawyer. Now, don't get me wrong.  I could not be trusted with a simple divorce without supervision. But I guess as long as my mind remains polluted with experiences involving the United States Code, federally insured loans and other arcane matters, the phone will ring from time-to-time.  

But that was yesterday.  Today, I have a book review to concoct before the Saints come on.  And I need to practice my guitar.  

What stress.

Talk among yourselves until I get back.  I'm going to lie down now.

Post Football Lethargy

No MSF today.  Too busy with friends, fambly and college football.  Will return soon.

Talk among yourselves in the meantime.

My Sunday Feeling

         I first came into the orbit of William H. Bowen, who died a week or so ago,  when I was in my early thirties.  I had written something for the old Arkansas Gazette that had caught his eye.  Actually, my last name caught his eye.  Turns out he had a lifelong habit of trying to get to know anybody named Bowen that he ran across to see if there was some sort of relation. 

          In our case there was not, but that didn’t keep him from graciously inviting me to join him nonetheless for my first lunch at the Little Rock Club.  I don’t remember much about the lunch except that I enjoyed the view from atop what was then the Commercial National Bank building (as I recall) while wondering why on Earth Bill Bowen was wasting his time with the likes of a nobody such as me.

          We kept in touch over the years mostly through mutual friends and acquaintances.  We would see each other when out to dinner and the like.  And he called me out of the blue shortly after Uncle Sam and I split the sheets to make sure I “didn’t do something stupid” as he put it before he could get to me. 

          But my favorite memory of Mr. Bowen was back when he was running Bill Clinton’s office while the latter was flitting around all over the country running for President.  Our family has held our reunions at Eden Isle for as long as I can remember.  It was during one of those occasions that I ran into him in the club house at Red Apple Golf Course.  After we had made small talk and caught up with each other he asked me what I was doing in Heber.  I told him that I was up there for the family reunion.

          “Now, you lost your daddy when you were young,” he said.  “Did I remember that right?”

          He did.  The fact that he remembered it at all was amazing to me.

“Is your mother still living?”

          “Yes sir,” I said. “She’s in one of those condos over there.”

          “Take me to her.  I want to meet her.”

          “Really?”

          “Of course I want to meet your mother.  Lead the way.”

          At that point in time he was merely the 3^rd most important guy in the damn State behind Frank Broyles and Bill Clinton.  What was I going to say?  I had a tee time?

          He put his arm around my shoulder as we walked to the condo where Mother and the rest of the family was staying.  Mother was sitting in a rocking chair when we entered. 

          “Mother, I want you to meet Mr. William Bowen,” I said. 

          “Don’t get up ma’am,” he said as he extended his hand to her.

          “He’s the Chief of Staff for the Governor of Arkansas,” I said by way of introduction for the first and last time in my life.

          By this time, Mother had just begun her cruel descent into dementia.  Mr. Bowen must have sensed that as he took her hand in both of his. 

          “My name is Bill,” he said gently.” What’s your name?”

          “My name is Donice,” she said. 

          “I’m glad to meet you Donice, he said as he patted her hand.” I’m glad Paul told me you were here. I want you to know that your son is a very fine man. I’m honored to meet his mother. And that’s all I want to say other than I hope you are enjoying the family reunion.”  

     

          “Thank you Sir,” my poor confused mother said.

          As he left he said,” You take care of your mom, Paul.  Call me if you need me.”    

          They say that you can tell if a man is a gentleman by the way that he treats the waiter.  And I agree with that.  But a gentleman is also a man who takes the time to impart a kindness for no other reason than he has the opportunity to do so.  After all, is there a mother that breathes who doesn't like to hear a compliment about her kid? Even if in the case of Donice's oldest boy, Bill Bowen had to apply considerable gild on an exceedingly dubious lily in the process.

          Like I said, I’m nobody.  But on that day years ago a truly great man like William H. Bowen offered to meet Nobody’s mother just because he had the opportunity to impart a kindness.  

          Thank you Mr. Bowen.  You were a gentleman.

          Rest in Peace. 

         

         

          

My Sunday Feeling

I really am agnostic when it comes to most things Razorback.  One of my best friends doesn't believe this.  But it's true.  

But if you are going to be a fan of Division I sports in these here latitudes you have to be at least cognizant of what is going on up in the Ozarks when it comes to the kingdom Frank built.  Because with all due respect to Arkansas State fans the Arkansas Razorbacks may not be the only game in town but they are the biggest.

Ok.  So they're not really "in town" anymore.  They have forever abandoned Little Rock and it's crummy football facility.  But they still have a hold on the collective mindset of our fair city.  That much is fair to say.  

And last night they beat LSU up in Fayetteville to end a 17 game losing streak in the SEC and to even their record to 5-5 over all.  

Really, their record should be better.  The only team that beat the daylights out of them was Georgia here in Little Rock.  They should have beaten A & M.  They should have beaten Mississippi State and Alabama.  They had a chance against Auburn.  

And they blew all of those games high, wide and handsome.

Unlike some of my friends and acquaintances that have expressed an opinion on the matter, I am no expert on college football.  But you have to wonder how much psychic residue Houston Nutt-Bobby Petrino-John L. Smith left on this program.  But, as second year coach Bret Bielema-who a couple of my friends believe should be fired already-said, of last year's squad, that it was the first bad team he had ever seen that was completely blameless for how it got there.  

But last night may go a long way towards cleaning up the residue.  Not only did they thoroughly dominate a quality opponent, that quality opponent was LSU.  

Suffice it to say, the LSU fan base is borderline psychotic.  Worse than Alabama and Auburn even who can at least back it up.  Ole Miss's fans are merely delusional while Mississippi State's are just kinda cute given the latter's newly found-and so far not unprovable legal-major prowess.  And A & M and Missouri have even less business in the SEC than Arkansas.  

But LSU is the worst.  Not a game goes by-not even the ones the Tigers win-that commenters on blogs run by the New Orleans and Baton Rouge papers call for the scalp of Les Miles.  Charles McClendon-"Cholly Mac"-coached there for 18 years.  This sort of tenure is unthinkable down there given the advent of talk shows and internet bulletin boards.  Indeed, who could blame Miles if he said    " to hell with this" or the Cajun-French equivalent and took the soon-to-be-open job at Michigan from whence he graduated?  At least the Wolverines are just obsessed with Ohio State.  

So despite my agnosticism concerning all things WPS, it was indeed highly amusing to see the downtrodden Razorbacks lay it on the Bayou Bengals.  And I shall enjoy collecting on an improvident bet made by a friend in Baton Rouge, although I know at least one lawyer here in town that took LSU with the oddsmakers favoring the Razorbacks by two.

I do not begrudge him this.  Because I do not care and because I know that bidness is bidness.  

So next week the best 5-5 team in the country gets the Ole Miss Brown Bears at home.  I will root for the Razorbacks for no other reason than they are playing Ole Miss which is all sufficient to my mind.

To think that this bunch could get bowl-eligible next week is practically mind-boggling.  

Thanks LSU.  They couldn't have done it without you.

My Sunday Feeling

The wife of one of Mr. Trimble's law partners approached my before the service.  
"I knew you played golf," Janie said. " I didn't know you could sing."

"I'm a lot better singer than I am a golfer," I replied. "Singing is easy."  

I suppose that I have sung at around 50-60 funerals in my day.  I have probably attended a hundred more.  It is my privilege to be in the orbit of many.  And so I seem to attend a lot of funerals.  

It is always a tricky thing when the laity speaks at funerals.  They are for most part not used to public speaking.  They tend to be understandably emotional. Indeed, it is for that reason that I declined the opportunity to sing or speak at my own mother's service.  And I'm experienced at both.  Come to think of it, while I have sung at any of a number of funerals I have never given a eulogy. I suppose hearing from me twice during one service would understandably be overkill.

I don't expect much at these times.  I'm not typically one to bother God with my supplications, seeing as how I figure He or She has better things to do than attend to my picayune concerns.  But I always pray when friends or family of the departed get up to speak.  

"Please God get them through this," I pray.

While I don't expect the Gettysburg Address at these times, I do expect a modicum of propriety and humility.  It's a low bar.  

Bearing this modest template for funeral oratory in mind, I can honestly say that the sermonette inflicted upon the congregation yesterday by the lay witness was by far the worst I have ever heard in my life.

He gave a few appropriate recollections that were truly amusing and gave insight into Mr. Trimble's formation into the gentleman he became. That was not sufficient.  He then veered off into a fundy hellfire and damnation sermon before his captive audience that was exquisitely inappropriate.  

Walls Trimble was a Presbyterian man of quiet dignity.  He would have been horrified.  

It went on and on.  He did everything but an altar call.  I was sitting behind the pulpit beside the Real Minister.  I noticed her inching forward in her chair. She was about to bring on the hook around Minute Twenty.  Mercifully, he shut up before that happened.

As we prepared for Mother's funeral, Vic Nixon told my brothers who wanted to speak his rules for witnessing at such times.

" You will have 5 minutes.  Don't preach.  That's my job."

Don't preach.  It's not your job.  

I didn't get to speak to the apostle afterwards.  It is just as well.  Because this is what I would have said.

" What you did was not about Walls.  It was about you. It wasn't really about proclaiming the Gospel.  It was about you.  And I guarantee you that the talk in cars going back to Little Rock or wherever won't be about old Walls.  And it won't be about how they are persuaded to accept your version of Christianity.  It will be about how dreadful your diatribe was before a captive audience that wasn't there to hear you preach.  That will be the recollection of this day."

The minister shook her head as she pulled off her robe after the service.

"I mean, you try to be respectful.  People are nervous.  People are emotional.  But that was hardly Presbyterian theology."

And that's the point.  It was a Presbyterian service after all.    

You try to be respectful.  

For God's sake.  You try to be respectful.  

Which means, at the minimum, when you are called to speak at a funeral, it can't be about you.  

My Sunday Feeling

Just when I think (and boy I know I have written these words before) election rhetoric can not possibly descend any further to any lower depths, another two years comes along and proves me wrong.  While there is much to complain about from here in the electorate's Stygian darkness, where many "mute" buttons are fused to the "on" position, there is a recurrent leitmotif being bandied about (mostly on the "R" side of the equation as far as I can tell) that if a candidate has ever represented a Defendant in a criminal case, then ipso facto (as we say) said candidate is suspected of being "soft on crime."

The more prominent example of this argument (if indeed it rises to the level of same) involves a local attorney running for City Board.  Seems the one criminal case he has handled in his career was as a favor to somebody.  The Defendant pleaded out to some nickleshit shoplifting offense or something.  His lawyer went on to representing banks and other security threats.

For this one act, he has been labeled as "soft on crime."  This charge has been leveled at other lawyers in other various races who have represented Defendants in criminal cases.

Let's get the Civics lesson over first.  Under the 5th Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America, which we all profess to revere, a criminal defendant is not required to testify if his testimony would tend to incriminate him.  This right against self-incrimination ("taking the 5th") was expanded by the United States Supreme Court to include the right to have an attorney present during questioning by the authorities as well as the right to an attorney appointed by the government if he cannot afford one.

So, at the risk of belaboring the obvious, you and I have a constitutional right to be represented by counsel whenever we are taken into custody by the authorities.  This applies to juvenile court cases as well in which a juvenile is accused of having committed a delinquent act 

Further, when us local lawyers took the Oath to be admitted to the Bar we promised to "support the Constitution of the United States and the Constitution of the State of Arkansas." Further, we swore not to "reject, from any consideration personal to (ourselves) the cause of the impoverished, the defenseless, or the oppressed." Most lawyer's oaths everywhere have similar language.  

So, everybody has a right to a lawyer in a criminal case.  Lawyers have an ethical obligation to represent the poor and oppressed.  

And then there's Brandon Barber whose mugshot graces the top of this page. Barber, a former mover and shaker in Northwest Arkansas real estate caught around 65 months in Federal prison after pleading out to charges of bank fraud and money laundering to the tune of around 32 million bucks.  Interestingly enough, this is the amount both sides agreed to, although Barber may be ordered to repay a different amount after his restitution hearing. 

Property offenses are a big problem in my neighborhood.  Violent crime is worrisome and is often committed by really scary people.   Who ought to be locked up.

But I have always believed that white collar criminals are a bigger systemic menace to society than property offenders.  Property offenses are serious and they are a pain in the ass.  White collar guys take down several people at once. Charles Keating took down the Savings and Loan industry.  Bernie Maddoff bilked hundreds of investors.  How the guys that rigged the mortgage industry in the last decade haven't gotten indicted is rightly considered a scandal by some. And as for Barber, he didn't steal $32,000,000 without skinning numerous individuals and institutions.

And who represented Brandon Barber?  The Asa Hutchinson Law Group.  For those who don't know, Asa is the most likely going to be the next Republican Governor of Arkansas.  Indeed, his law firm's website states that 45% of his practice is devoted to white collar criminal defense.  This is how he made much of his living.  He and his son are listed on the docket as counsels of record in the Barber case.

So will you hear me accuse Asa Hutchinson of being "soft on crime?"  Not a chance.  I'm a lawyer.  Brandon Barber may be a snake in the grass but he has a right to counsel.  And Asa is a damn good one.  

But if the current Republican meme is that representing a low level dumbass means you are "soft on crime" than what does representing white collar punks that cause immeasurably more harm to society than a shoplifter mean?

It's a fair question.  And one that won't get raised.

Meanwhile, I will continue to watch sports in blessed silence until Tuesday when the polls mercifully close.

Happy Birthday to me and Uncle Ralph

No MSF tomorrow.  

Been doing the family thing.

Talk amongst yourselves until I get back. 

My Sunday Feeling

As I type this the Tulane Green Wave are trying to hang in there on the road against the University of Central Florida whatever that is.  The Greenies were getting hammered, as per usual, but have managed to cut it to seven.  

I have watched much Tulane football over the years.  I have seen many different Green Wave teams from Bowl caliber (such as last year) to hide-your-eyes Godawful.  This year's offering from the brain trust on Willow Street is just mid-range terrible.  But if they fooled around and won nobody would pass out or anything.  Apart from UCF's George O' Leary that is.

Down the street the Razorbacks are preparing to host the Georgia Bulldogs who are gracing the People's Republic of Hillcrest for the first time.  The Razorbacks haven't won a conference game in over a year.  They are 3-3 and by all rights should have been 5-1, having blown winnable games against Texas A & M and Alabama.  I don't anyone would be too surprised if Arkansas pulled an upset other than my friend Joan who is a Georgia alum.  She might take to her fainting couch.  

Stuff happens.  But I don't believe for 5 seconds that anyone could predict that Mississippi State would be the #1 team in the nation with Ole Miss nipping at their heels at #3.  

Of the two programs, the Bulldogs have had a little better success over the last 20 years.  And I have long believed that the Ole Miss boosters that thought another Johnny Vaught was going to appear and get them back in contention for the national title were positively hallucinatory.  But look at them now.

I have seen more Ole Miss football in recent years than MSU's product.  The Rebels have put out some pretty crappy teams.  Tulane used to thump them with some regularity when I was in law school there.  Or at least that is my recollection.  I don't recall the Greenies ever playing State when I was there. But many of my memories from those days are lost in the fog of alcohol.

One of my best friends is an alum of MSU.  And I managed to find 2 female former residents of StarkVegas here in Little Rock.  Both were great gals but they tended to be a little high strung when it came to Bulldog football.  

Still, while I could perhaps envision that one or the other would be pretty good, the notion that both schools could be in the top 5 in the polls much less one of them occupying the top spot would be along the lines of changing the gravitational constant of the universe.  

They are both doing with great coaches and by keeping the African-American athletes home.  Mississippi State has had an easier job of this than has Ole Miss which, shall we say, has something of an image problem in this regard. Deposed former Rebel Head Coach attributed much of his problems in recruiting to the "mamas" of potential athletes that remembered the events depicted in the film "Mississippi Burning."  And indeed, a fraternity there on campus got shut down after one of it's members puckishly placed a noose on the statue of Civil Rights icon James Meredith there on campus.  Like last Spring.

The politicians would refer to this as "bad optics."

But crazy or not, Ole Miss and Mississippi State are undefeated and heading for a confrontation for the ages in the mutual hate fest known as the Egg Bowl. But as Lee Corso might say, "Not so fast my friend."  The odds of any team running the table are low.  Indeed, you can make a case that Baylor is better than anybody in the Magnolia State.  They got beat pretty bad by West Virginia.  And they don't play in a murderer's row like the SEC West.  

So to my friends in Starkville and Oxford, my advice is to enjoy it while you can. Because the odds of this happening again are pretty slim.

But what do I know?

The Moving Finger Writes Is Positively Curtains Again This Week

Outta town.  

Will be back soon.  

Talk among yourselves yet again. 

Rest Cure

No MSF this Sunday.  

After doing pics for Race for the Cure, Harvest Fest and the fashion show yesterday I am a tired boy.

Pics will go up soon once my eyes uncross.  

Talk amongst yourselves.