The next time I hear "It's God's will", I shall puke on the spot.
When I was a kid, maybe 11 years old, my Dad was stricken with an illness that his doctors couldn't diagnose. He had to stop working and we were literally penniless. He reached out to his brother for help. They sat down in the living room (the parlor) and the scene that played out will forever remain indelibly etched in my brain. My uncle pulled a folded $50 bill from his pocket and handed it to my Dad. He stared at the money in his palm and suddenly began sobbing hysterically. I had never before seen him cry and, as young as I was, it tore me up inside, for his pain was mine. He was such a good guy, why, I asked myself, was this thing happening to him? Where was God?
One year later, he was in the hospital. He kept complaining that he couldn't breathe all the way in. The look on his doctor's face did not bode well. I was an only child and every time the phone would ring in our tiny apartment, my heart would jump to my throat. The vigil was frustrating and endless. My cousin was getting married and I was to be an usher at the wedding. The plan was for me to surprise my Dad at the hospital, resplendent in my debonair white tie and tails. As I was getting dressed, I remember hearing on the radio that General George S. Patton had been in an accident and had died from a blood clot in the brain. I shuddered without knowing why. The phone rang. Panic! It was the hospital advising that my Dad had suffered a blood clot and telling us to come immediately. The next two nights were spent in the waiting room on his floor. I asked the nurse if there was a place for praying. She told me that the hospital chapel was on the street level. My mother was in a wailing mood and I was purely and simply frightened. The first thing I noticed, as I entered the chapel, was a huge cross. Uh, oh! I was Jewish so how could I pray to a cross? I sat on a bench, folded my hands, first asked God to forgive me and then began to beg Him to not let my father die. But he did, that night, and I couldn't understand why God had let me down. I was twelve tears old.
As a young man, I read a book by a theologian which attempted to address why bad things happen to good people. The author explained how frustrated he would be when asked to intervene with God on behalf of a perilously ill loved one. God doesn't have time to a give every situation on earth his personal attention, he claimed, but faith can sustain you in hard times. The book was a cop-out. He had dodged the question.
The Holocaust. Millions of innocent men, women and children ruthlessly slaughtered by a country whose national policy was to eliminate a religion from the face of the earth. Why didn't God strike Hitler dead?
***************************
Maybe the role of luck is vastly underestimated.
I find it difficult not to recognize fate as the ultimate decider of things. That way, the "why" questions are no longer formidable.. They are resolved.
Why, then, when good fortune comes my way, do I instinctively, spontaneously and immediately whisper to myself, "Thank God?"
Friday, July 19, 2013
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
WITH HIGHS GO LOWS
Anyone who rejects the theory that life is filled with moutains and valleys is full of crap.
Call it God made tests, forks in the road or challenges of choice, the art of survival comes into play when, for one reason or another, you find yourself in the shithouse, face down.
Obviously, it's easy to deal with the good times--you just enjoy to the max and try to ignore the nagging thorn that it's temporary and won't last forever. Make the best of it--you've obviously earned it because good times don't happen by natural causes. Your confidence soars, your swag becomes more pronounced and you vibe out a certain magnatism which draws others to you. They'll hover over you, eager to see and touch the man who is riding the fast track in fine fashion. These times have a way of erasing doubts and previous misfires because you're a winner and everybody wants to get close in the hope of gaining a rub-off effect. You're a potential benefactor, on top of the world, a Tony Montana, if ever there was one.
Unfortunately, nothing lasts forever, and, before you know it, you find yourself in a valley, all the forces in your life having done a one-eighty. The day to day incentives dissipate, the road becomes bumpy to the point of impassibility and everything you reach out for to break your fall splinters on contact. The fawners thin out and disappear, for they only signed on for the good times and never subscribed to the "for better or worse, in good times and bad" commitment. "Fuck 'em" becomes your mantra for survival. The only one you've got to lean on is yourself.
Being alone has certain advantages. You are obliged to answer to no one. Your former admirers become insignificant, rapidly fading to harmless whisperers. In a strange way, it's a relief, being able to differentiate the good from the shallow. And you develop your own tool for survival.
You re-prioritize the things in life that give you pleasure, free of tension,like oases in the desert. You arrange each day's schedule around these previously underestimated roads-to-escape and indulge in them. Watching movies, listening to your favorite music, eating on the cheap at neighborhood haunts where you get to know the regulars. A personalized anti-stress therapeutist. The fancy joints take a step back for awhile, until the next mountain comes around. Your task is to hold on and stay afloat until that day comes. And it surely will, because as an additional part of your weathering the storm, you are pursuing every angle, every opportunity to climb back, out of the rut and back to the level of success where your innate basic talents belong. You have exorcised the pressure of daily stress in favor of relaxing in the comforting knowledge that you have emerged from the rough onto the manicured grass all by yourself, once again reaffirming your personal mettle.
You're stronger now, for instead of giving up, you went into the ocean, you relaxed and simply let the wave take you.
It only works with good people.
Call it God made tests, forks in the road or challenges of choice, the art of survival comes into play when, for one reason or another, you find yourself in the shithouse, face down.
Obviously, it's easy to deal with the good times--you just enjoy to the max and try to ignore the nagging thorn that it's temporary and won't last forever. Make the best of it--you've obviously earned it because good times don't happen by natural causes. Your confidence soars, your swag becomes more pronounced and you vibe out a certain magnatism which draws others to you. They'll hover over you, eager to see and touch the man who is riding the fast track in fine fashion. These times have a way of erasing doubts and previous misfires because you're a winner and everybody wants to get close in the hope of gaining a rub-off effect. You're a potential benefactor, on top of the world, a Tony Montana, if ever there was one.
Unfortunately, nothing lasts forever, and, before you know it, you find yourself in a valley, all the forces in your life having done a one-eighty. The day to day incentives dissipate, the road becomes bumpy to the point of impassibility and everything you reach out for to break your fall splinters on contact. The fawners thin out and disappear, for they only signed on for the good times and never subscribed to the "for better or worse, in good times and bad" commitment. "Fuck 'em" becomes your mantra for survival. The only one you've got to lean on is yourself.
Being alone has certain advantages. You are obliged to answer to no one. Your former admirers become insignificant, rapidly fading to harmless whisperers. In a strange way, it's a relief, being able to differentiate the good from the shallow. And you develop your own tool for survival.
You re-prioritize the things in life that give you pleasure, free of tension,like oases in the desert. You arrange each day's schedule around these previously underestimated roads-to-escape and indulge in them. Watching movies, listening to your favorite music, eating on the cheap at neighborhood haunts where you get to know the regulars. A personalized anti-stress therapeutist. The fancy joints take a step back for awhile, until the next mountain comes around. Your task is to hold on and stay afloat until that day comes. And it surely will, because as an additional part of your weathering the storm, you are pursuing every angle, every opportunity to climb back, out of the rut and back to the level of success where your innate basic talents belong. You have exorcised the pressure of daily stress in favor of relaxing in the comforting knowledge that you have emerged from the rough onto the manicured grass all by yourself, once again reaffirming your personal mettle.
You're stronger now, for instead of giving up, you went into the ocean, you relaxed and simply let the wave take you.
It only works with good people.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
THE PASS
Sometimes, 'though very infrequently, readers will lightly scoff at a post on the ground that it's too
'Hollywood-ish", intentionally manufactured to attract readers. Things like that just don't happen, they claim.
I do not publish fiction.
Never have.
Never will.
It's just that I have been a part of emotionally satisfying moments which, because of their very nature, are impossible to forget and are delicious to tell.
This is one such romantic moment.
I was a Junior at Boston Latin School, which enjoyed the reputation of "best public high school in the country" and "a prep school for Harvard". Still does. I, never destined for academic excellence in the purist sense, really dug it.
The most favored sport was basketball. On my greatest day, I was an average player with physical limitations far exceeding my reservoir of talent. But, like so many others of similar ilk, I loved the game and could never play it too much.
In my Freshman and Sophomore years, I was on the Junior Varsity, an accomplishment recognized but not rewarded with a "letter", a prized "L" which was sown onto the school's purple and white coat sweater. That only came with "making the varsity", which was everyone's goal and for which I tried out in my Junior year.
Every day, after practice, we would run to the bulletin board and await the posting of those who had made "the cut" and were, therefore, still alive. The pressure was enormously palpable.
The number of viable candidates would dwindle after each day's scrimmages which were tests to constantly separate the wheat from the chaff. And finally, there was just one practice left, the survivors of which would make the Varsity.
On this particular day, Coach had arranged a scrimmage with Roxbury Memorial High School for a game that would determine who made the team. I was still on that list, right at the bottom, hanging on by the skin of my teeth. The make-or-break game began.
As usual, I was not on the starting team and would be put into the game in its final minutes. And inevitably, that moment arrived.
I, frankly, didn't know what I was doing (per usual) and was playing in my patented limited ability zone, when I found myself at our foul line with my back to our basket. If you analyze that, for a moment, you will quickly conclude that being in that position made no basketball sense whatsoever and just about rendered me more useless than usual. And then, a teammate passed me the ball.
My mind was blank. I entertained neither plan nor purpose. I just stood there, ball in hand, with my back facing our basket and my teammates running wildly around me, screaming for the ball. I was in some never-before-diagnosed state of shock which could very easily have been mistaken for a never-before-recognized confident look of a plan.
And then I did something which had no reason then and could never be rationally explained, to this day and beyond. I will never know what made me do it. It will forever lack all rhyme or reason.
I, with feigned great poise and assurance, threw the ball over my head. I had no target in mind or even the slightest degree of intent. I just did it--without any premeditation whatsoever. The ultimate blind pass.
There was a silencing gasp heard 'round the gymnasium as the onlookers dealt with the impact of having witnessed an act of insanity.
I turned around to see a teammate receive my pass, in perfect stride, and put in the sweetest lay-up of all time. I then saw the opposition coach glance over at our's with a look of amazement, raised eyebrows and all. Our coach, A cool dude if ever there was one, shrugged and shot back a look that said, "does it all the time".
I made the final cut and played Varsity ball for my last two years of High School.
Only the Gods can probably explain why I did what I did.
As for me, I just filed it under "Fate--Don't--Question."
The biggest reward is reliving it from time to time, as one is prone to do in one's look-back senior years.
Truth be told, I got a million of 'em.
'Hollywood-ish", intentionally manufactured to attract readers. Things like that just don't happen, they claim.
I do not publish fiction.
Never have.
Never will.
It's just that I have been a part of emotionally satisfying moments which, because of their very nature, are impossible to forget and are delicious to tell.
This is one such romantic moment.
I was a Junior at Boston Latin School, which enjoyed the reputation of "best public high school in the country" and "a prep school for Harvard". Still does. I, never destined for academic excellence in the purist sense, really dug it.
The most favored sport was basketball. On my greatest day, I was an average player with physical limitations far exceeding my reservoir of talent. But, like so many others of similar ilk, I loved the game and could never play it too much.
In my Freshman and Sophomore years, I was on the Junior Varsity, an accomplishment recognized but not rewarded with a "letter", a prized "L" which was sown onto the school's purple and white coat sweater. That only came with "making the varsity", which was everyone's goal and for which I tried out in my Junior year.
Every day, after practice, we would run to the bulletin board and await the posting of those who had made "the cut" and were, therefore, still alive. The pressure was enormously palpable.
The number of viable candidates would dwindle after each day's scrimmages which were tests to constantly separate the wheat from the chaff. And finally, there was just one practice left, the survivors of which would make the Varsity.
On this particular day, Coach had arranged a scrimmage with Roxbury Memorial High School for a game that would determine who made the team. I was still on that list, right at the bottom, hanging on by the skin of my teeth. The make-or-break game began.
As usual, I was not on the starting team and would be put into the game in its final minutes. And inevitably, that moment arrived.
I, frankly, didn't know what I was doing (per usual) and was playing in my patented limited ability zone, when I found myself at our foul line with my back to our basket. If you analyze that, for a moment, you will quickly conclude that being in that position made no basketball sense whatsoever and just about rendered me more useless than usual. And then, a teammate passed me the ball.
My mind was blank. I entertained neither plan nor purpose. I just stood there, ball in hand, with my back facing our basket and my teammates running wildly around me, screaming for the ball. I was in some never-before-diagnosed state of shock which could very easily have been mistaken for a never-before-recognized confident look of a plan.
And then I did something which had no reason then and could never be rationally explained, to this day and beyond. I will never know what made me do it. It will forever lack all rhyme or reason.
I, with feigned great poise and assurance, threw the ball over my head. I had no target in mind or even the slightest degree of intent. I just did it--without any premeditation whatsoever. The ultimate blind pass.
There was a silencing gasp heard 'round the gymnasium as the onlookers dealt with the impact of having witnessed an act of insanity.
I turned around to see a teammate receive my pass, in perfect stride, and put in the sweetest lay-up of all time. I then saw the opposition coach glance over at our's with a look of amazement, raised eyebrows and all. Our coach, A cool dude if ever there was one, shrugged and shot back a look that said, "does it all the time".
I made the final cut and played Varsity ball for my last two years of High School.
Only the Gods can probably explain why I did what I did.
As for me, I just filed it under "Fate--Don't--Question."
The biggest reward is reliving it from time to time, as one is prone to do in one's look-back senior years.
Truth be told, I got a million of 'em.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
BEND TO BREAK
The fact that the surviving "suspect" in the Boston Marathon attack is an American citizen has resulted in various claims that his rights to Due Process have been, or are about to be, denied.
I am not a fan of political labels. They are painted with too broad a brush for my tastes, and are inconsistent with opinions being tailored to specific facts. It is not a stretch of logic to declare that these complaints have, in the main, come from liberals and intellectuals. The latter term often requires the preface "self professed."
These individuals are well-meaning to the core and are correctly concerned with, and dedicated to , strict adherence to constitutional protections of fairness. But I suggest that there are always exceptions, grounded in appropriateness, which mandate a close examination of the elasticity of a doctrine's applicability.
We are at war with an enemy which has chosen terror as its instrument. No battlefield victories. No hand-to-hand combat. We are instead faced with the ominous specter of the stealth of suicide.
This requires the ultra-complex task of evolving the most effective reactive response.
I am a practical man. When confronted with a theoretical assertion, I say, "give me an example."
Accordingly, here, as I see it, is what we are up against.
Hamas, designated as a terrorist organization, recently broadcast a children's television program in which kids, who appeared to be no older than 10 years, extolled the virtue of suicide attacks and expressed their desire to blow themselves up in order to defeat their foes. The children sang in chorus: "Jihad bestows pride and glory upon you when you become a martyrdom-seeker."
One youngster was seen saying, "The mothers send their sons to victory or to paradise."
It must be realized that extremist Muslims, the Jihadi, stand ready to enthusiastically sacrifice their lives by blowing themselves up for the sole purpose of killing as many Americans as possible, for we are one of their enemies.
Not to ramble, I analyze the situation at hand.
Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, the "alleged" suspect, was captured and immediately hospitalized. The U.S. Supreme Court has held that in such a situation, the advising of Miranda rights may be delayed, for as long as 48 hours, so as to allow federal authorities the opportunity to question the individual about an existing imminent trhreat to public safety. They are not to expand this interrogation to the merits of guilt or innocence without Miranda advice being given. The FBI, properly utilizing this exception, had been questioning Tsarnaev, gathering valuable intelligence vital to the prevention of future suicide attacks, when, to their shock and dismay, a federal magistrate "waltzed" into the hospital room with a public defender, for purposes of arraignment. The attorney promptly advised Tsarnaev of his Miranda rights whereupon he stopped answering questions. The public safety interrogation had lasted only 16 hours before it was prematurely terminated. There was much more to learn and as long as Tsarnaev's answers were voluntary, the questioning should have been allowed to continue.
Let me bite the bullet. The "imminent public safety" exemption should allow interrogation on any aspecct of intelligence that could be obtained from the suspect. Time limits be damned. Even should this information be rulled inadmissable at trial, it would surely be a valuable tool for counter-terrorist operations. Besides, there is a plethora of independent evidence demonstrating Tsarnaev's guilt.
Which side should blink first? The vital need for intelligence or the tecnichal adherence to general constitutional principles?
If a Jihadist was captured in Afganistan, and it was discerned that he was an American citizen dedicated to destroying his country, should he immediately be read his rights and affordered counsel? Laughable, no? And yet, that is what is at play here.
This is a different type of war we're fighting. No other enemy has chosen suicide as its exclusive weapon of choice.
The enemy's means of attack is different. So should be our code of conduct.
No broad strokes. Take it on a case-by-case basis. Anything Tsarnaev had to say would have been solidly couched in public safety considerations. Withholding the advice of Miranda rights was justified under the circumstances and interrogation should not have been curtailed. The Miranda court had not been faced with terrorist activities. The war of the Jihadis is unique in its chosen means of terror. Miranda rules should be modified accordingly. This is a new ball game. A different arena of war. A modification of investigatory tactics is mandated. This will not threaten the constitutional rights of non-terrorist suspects.
Until and unless our Supreme Court declares "enhanced interrogation" (including waterboarding) to be unconstitutional, it should be utilized in our counter-terrorist efforts.
With national security at stake, do what must be done. Respond accordingly to the enemy's means of combat.
Our Founding Fathers, participants in the American Revolution, would not object.
Nor would the victims of 9/11 or the Boston Marathon.
Rules that don't apply can't be broken.
I am not a fan of political labels. They are painted with too broad a brush for my tastes, and are inconsistent with opinions being tailored to specific facts. It is not a stretch of logic to declare that these complaints have, in the main, come from liberals and intellectuals. The latter term often requires the preface "self professed."
These individuals are well-meaning to the core and are correctly concerned with, and dedicated to , strict adherence to constitutional protections of fairness. But I suggest that there are always exceptions, grounded in appropriateness, which mandate a close examination of the elasticity of a doctrine's applicability.
We are at war with an enemy which has chosen terror as its instrument. No battlefield victories. No hand-to-hand combat. We are instead faced with the ominous specter of the stealth of suicide.
This requires the ultra-complex task of evolving the most effective reactive response.
I am a practical man. When confronted with a theoretical assertion, I say, "give me an example."
Accordingly, here, as I see it, is what we are up against.
Hamas, designated as a terrorist organization, recently broadcast a children's television program in which kids, who appeared to be no older than 10 years, extolled the virtue of suicide attacks and expressed their desire to blow themselves up in order to defeat their foes. The children sang in chorus: "Jihad bestows pride and glory upon you when you become a martyrdom-seeker."
One youngster was seen saying, "The mothers send their sons to victory or to paradise."
It must be realized that extremist Muslims, the Jihadi, stand ready to enthusiastically sacrifice their lives by blowing themselves up for the sole purpose of killing as many Americans as possible, for we are one of their enemies.
Not to ramble, I analyze the situation at hand.
Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, the "alleged" suspect, was captured and immediately hospitalized. The U.S. Supreme Court has held that in such a situation, the advising of Miranda rights may be delayed, for as long as 48 hours, so as to allow federal authorities the opportunity to question the individual about an existing imminent trhreat to public safety. They are not to expand this interrogation to the merits of guilt or innocence without Miranda advice being given. The FBI, properly utilizing this exception, had been questioning Tsarnaev, gathering valuable intelligence vital to the prevention of future suicide attacks, when, to their shock and dismay, a federal magistrate "waltzed" into the hospital room with a public defender, for purposes of arraignment. The attorney promptly advised Tsarnaev of his Miranda rights whereupon he stopped answering questions. The public safety interrogation had lasted only 16 hours before it was prematurely terminated. There was much more to learn and as long as Tsarnaev's answers were voluntary, the questioning should have been allowed to continue.
Let me bite the bullet. The "imminent public safety" exemption should allow interrogation on any aspecct of intelligence that could be obtained from the suspect. Time limits be damned. Even should this information be rulled inadmissable at trial, it would surely be a valuable tool for counter-terrorist operations. Besides, there is a plethora of independent evidence demonstrating Tsarnaev's guilt.
Which side should blink first? The vital need for intelligence or the tecnichal adherence to general constitutional principles?
If a Jihadist was captured in Afganistan, and it was discerned that he was an American citizen dedicated to destroying his country, should he immediately be read his rights and affordered counsel? Laughable, no? And yet, that is what is at play here.
This is a different type of war we're fighting. No other enemy has chosen suicide as its exclusive weapon of choice.
The enemy's means of attack is different. So should be our code of conduct.
No broad strokes. Take it on a case-by-case basis. Anything Tsarnaev had to say would have been solidly couched in public safety considerations. Withholding the advice of Miranda rights was justified under the circumstances and interrogation should not have been curtailed. The Miranda court had not been faced with terrorist activities. The war of the Jihadis is unique in its chosen means of terror. Miranda rules should be modified accordingly. This is a new ball game. A different arena of war. A modification of investigatory tactics is mandated. This will not threaten the constitutional rights of non-terrorist suspects.
Until and unless our Supreme Court declares "enhanced interrogation" (including waterboarding) to be unconstitutional, it should be utilized in our counter-terrorist efforts.
With national security at stake, do what must be done. Respond accordingly to the enemy's means of combat.
Our Founding Fathers, participants in the American Revolution, would not object.
Nor would the victims of 9/11 or the Boston Marathon.
Rules that don't apply can't be broken.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
EXPOSING THE TRUTH
As part of my never-ending quest for seeking and trumpeting the truth, I have devoted my career to what I deem to be a most noble cause. Indeed, my code of conduct, in the courtroom and society, has always been to sweep away the fogs and shadows, in favor of discovering and exposing veracity.
Consistent with this life's commitment, and to emphasize my senior citizen independence, it is with renewed zeal that I embark on a crucial and salutary mission which, I trust, shall comprise a significantly illustrious chapter in my life. I shall discard and forever abandon misleading camouflage which tends to obscure reality.
I shall expose myself.
It has long been an inside joke in the legal community. The word has spread. I am so well-endowed as to necessitate doubling-up on my underwear. Indeed, the stories are legend with regard to the obsessive distraction of juries as I stood before them in a dire attempt to persuade them to focus on legal pointers rather than my private parts. Especially in the 1960's, when the pants were very tight and left little to the imagination, my impressive anatomy, left unabated, possessed the undeniable yet destructive capacity to obviate the ability to command attention to my words rather than my profile.
Of course, I know what I've got but it was never my intention to flaunt. On this, you can rely.
Accordingly, lest constant denials of outrageous claims rise to the level of absurd pomp and circumstance, or potentially cause a frenzy, I shall forthwith abandon and emerge from the world of clandestinity and embark on a courageous life-style of illumination.
Henceforth, I shall go commando.
Consistent with this life's commitment, and to emphasize my senior citizen independence, it is with renewed zeal that I embark on a crucial and salutary mission which, I trust, shall comprise a significantly illustrious chapter in my life. I shall discard and forever abandon misleading camouflage which tends to obscure reality.
I shall expose myself.
It has long been an inside joke in the legal community. The word has spread. I am so well-endowed as to necessitate doubling-up on my underwear. Indeed, the stories are legend with regard to the obsessive distraction of juries as I stood before them in a dire attempt to persuade them to focus on legal pointers rather than my private parts. Especially in the 1960's, when the pants were very tight and left little to the imagination, my impressive anatomy, left unabated, possessed the undeniable yet destructive capacity to obviate the ability to command attention to my words rather than my profile.
Of course, I know what I've got but it was never my intention to flaunt. On this, you can rely.
Accordingly, lest constant denials of outrageous claims rise to the level of absurd pomp and circumstance, or potentially cause a frenzy, I shall forthwith abandon and emerge from the world of clandestinity and embark on a courageous life-style of illumination.
Henceforth, I shall go commando.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
HAIR TODAY SHOULD BE GONE TOMORROW
I almost got arrested today. The alleged crime was the way I wore my hair.
A cop stopped me on the street and asked if I knew why I had been targeted. When I said, "No", he read me my rights, concluding with the statement that anything I said could be held against me. I, without pause, shot back,"Sharon Stone".
He went on to accuse me of having had a recent haircut which, he explained, was against the law. When a CORI check revealed no prior similar offenses, he let me go with a warning.
The point I make is this: Look at today's prevalent hair style for men. They look as if they have just rolled out of bed. Their hair is all over the place, simultaneously slanting in different directions. Up, down, left, right, followed by a thorough mussing-up lest it appear that a brush or comb had even been considered.
What gives? The closest thing to grooming is the hair streaking straight down toward the forehead, only to suddenly be stopped by a last-second up-swerl. I don't advocate the "wet look" but shouldn't there be some styling involved with the purpose of making you look better?
And on a related subject, who the hell is designing men's clothes? The suit jacket's first button is just below the adam's apple or, alternatively, at "poopick" level (Christians rush to an Old Testament dictionary). What is completely obviated is any kind of a draped look which conceals, or minimizes, the look of paunch. The belt line of the trousers is barely above the genitalia, thereby permanently exposing that part of the shirt between the end of the jacket and the start of the pants. Anyone weighing over 100 pounds is in trouble.
What's next? Suits made of wood fabric?
No more flies, just swinging doors?
I'm all dressed up with no place to go.
A cop stopped me on the street and asked if I knew why I had been targeted. When I said, "No", he read me my rights, concluding with the statement that anything I said could be held against me. I, without pause, shot back,"Sharon Stone".
He went on to accuse me of having had a recent haircut which, he explained, was against the law. When a CORI check revealed no prior similar offenses, he let me go with a warning.
The point I make is this: Look at today's prevalent hair style for men. They look as if they have just rolled out of bed. Their hair is all over the place, simultaneously slanting in different directions. Up, down, left, right, followed by a thorough mussing-up lest it appear that a brush or comb had even been considered.
What gives? The closest thing to grooming is the hair streaking straight down toward the forehead, only to suddenly be stopped by a last-second up-swerl. I don't advocate the "wet look" but shouldn't there be some styling involved with the purpose of making you look better?
And on a related subject, who the hell is designing men's clothes? The suit jacket's first button is just below the adam's apple or, alternatively, at "poopick" level (Christians rush to an Old Testament dictionary). What is completely obviated is any kind of a draped look which conceals, or minimizes, the look of paunch. The belt line of the trousers is barely above the genitalia, thereby permanently exposing that part of the shirt between the end of the jacket and the start of the pants. Anyone weighing over 100 pounds is in trouble.
What's next? Suits made of wood fabric?
No more flies, just swinging doors?
I'm all dressed up with no place to go.
Monday, March 11, 2013
CAPO DI TUTTI CAPI
This story is true in infinite detail. The names have been changed to protect me. The "Boss" died in prison, cancer-ridden. He was referred to as "The Teflon Don." He was the head of one of the original five organized crime families and was gifted with so strong a magnetic personality as to be, simultaneously, illustrious and notorious. For me, it was a brief but indelible ride. Come along with me.
I got a call from "Sal", a New York lawyer with whom I had worked on several cases and a solid, trusting friendship had come to exist.
"The Boss wants to see you."
He was the boss of all bosses, a media magnet whose face, powerful yet charming, was, along with his alleged exploits, instantly recognizable by most of this country's population and beyond. Breaking with Mafia tradition, he was a star who truly reveled in ubiquity, with perfectly coiffed hair and a wardrobe that defined haute couture. He was a national figure, handsome and dashing, who was, curiously enough, deemed attractive and worthy of adulation by a significant many who, simply put, found him fascinating. He was being held without bail, having been federally indicted for racketeering. Suffice it to say, every criminal defense attorney would consider representing him to be an indelible badge of honor, but he would be the selector from these many lawyers who were waiving their hands for attention, and he had sent for me, whom he had never met.
Air-shutteling in from Boston, I arrived at the detention facility on the specified day at 10am. I didn't know what to expect but wanted to impress with confidence and enthusiasm when I met this man who reputedly took instant measure of whomever came before him. Sal had made it known that my summons had become a matter of substantial interest among the New York defense regulars but I had intentionally declined to pepper him with the thousand questions raging within, lest I betray my anxiety, which was substantial. I reminded myself of the cardinal rule to never break eye contact while speaking, for this was taken as a sign of disrespect. I was psyched, for this was truly the major leagues. The goal of every lawyer in my chosen line of work.
When I signed the inmate request form, specifying whom I wished to see, I was thrown a bit off stride. The officer informed me that the Boss would not receive visitors prior to noon, with no exceptions. To the best of my knowledge, there existed no statute, case law or federal regulation which set forth this rule of convenience, but if you think I was about to make this an issue, you're crazier than I am.
I killed two hours and resubmitted my request. A different officer handled it this time. He looked at the Boss's and then at me. I was suddenly someone of importance.
"You his lawyer?"
"Hope to be," I replied as the security screening process was accomplished. I was led into a large room enclosed by chain-link fenced walls and took a seat at a large table.
"He's on his way down," I was told, so I waited. It was 12:20pm when he entered the room. I took in as much as I could, as quickly as I could. He appeared to have just walked out of a Fifth Avenue hair styling salon. Every hair was perfectly in place. No prison pallor for him. Instead, a ruddy tanned complexion. So perfect was the fit that I expected to see a Giorgio Armani label on his orange jump suit. His white sneakers and socks were spotless. He exuded power, obtained the old fashioned way. He had earned it. 'Twas on the other side of the tracks, to be sure, but it was a surreal facsimile of meeting the President of the Other United States.
I stood and our handshake was longer than ordinary, as his appraisal of me began. His eyes were blue steel and his brain was at maximum sharpness. No matter how early you got up in the morning, it would be too late to even come close to putting one over on the Boss. The game began. He laid it out for me.
"Up 'till now, I've been represented by the same lawyer. He's been with me for a long time. But that's the problem. Everybody thinks of him as a Mob attorney. I want a new face for this trial and that's where you come in. Sal says good things about you. I've asked around and the word from People in Boston is good."
I nodded, controlling my anxiety as best I could. Better to listen than to over-speak. When in doubt, opt for silence every time.
He continued. "Now, here's how I'm gonna do it. You'll enter your appearance for Pete, for starters. That'll give me a few weeks to let my lawyer down easy. I don't want to hurt his feelings or reputation or embarrass him. You'll get to know all the players and, in about a month, you'll switch to being my counsel and my guy will represent Pete."
Pete was a made man, one of five co-defendants in the federal indictment at hand. The Buzz on him had it that he was a shooter. "He could blow your head off and eat spaghetti off your shoulders." Very comforting. Bail had been set for him, he had made it and was on the street. I wondered about the feasibility of a valium enema.
As the conversation continued, the other co-defendants casualy sauntered in, their attorneys followed, and the scene in the room quickly came to resemble an upper echelon meeting of the G------ family. A burly individual nudged me over with the statement, "I have to sit on his right." I shall refer to him as "Capo", for that is exactly what he was. The number two man.
Eventually, the defendants were sitting on one side of the large cell, with the lawyers on the other. Business was to be conducted and the attorneys' conversation was to serve as a cover of what was being said across the way. There came a time when we ran out of talk and temporarily fell silent. The Boss, taking immediate notice of this, raised his right arm and twirled it in a circular motion, instructing us to carry on with the camouflage. After awhile, the groups again intermingled and the Boss bid me farewell.
"Come back next week and we'll nail this thing down." I said I would and I did. I was reasonably pleased with myself in my handling of this first meeting. I had spoken in measured tone, my goal being to appear confident, intelligent and, above all, respectful. A masquerade of maximum anxiety, for I was dealing with the Ruler of the wrong side of the moon. In a way, the antithesis of the President of the United States.
The scene was the same when I returned the following week. Sal, the conduit, was again with me. I was greeted cordially by the Boss who explained that he had not yet informed his present counsel of the game plan whereby I would, at first, represent Pete and then switch clients, bequeathing upon me the equivalent of the Medal of Honor. But, not to worry. Everything would fall into place.
At one point, he mentioned that a well known lawyer had visited him during the week and, in discussing the Boss' case, had remarked, "You just can't beat a RICO case (the criminal statute in question). Too tough." Adhering to my code of conduct, I played it safe and said nothing.
When things were winding down, I decided to raise the topic ultimately consistent with my personal interests. The fee.
I explained what I believed would be expected of me and the enormous effort which characterized my case preparation. He cut me off with, "Discuss it with Capo. There'll be no problem." We shook hands.
As we were leaving, I motioned Capo and Sal to a corner of the room. Capo heard me out and asked what I had in mind. No time to be timid or bashful. The Boss would be a most difficult taskmaster. I knew what was at stake, time-wise, and I had to be paid accordingly. Speak now or forever hold your peace.
I quoted Capo a fee which, to me, was both reasonable and substantial, and held my breath. One-half to be paid now, before I entered my appearance, the remainder to be paid prior to commencement of trial. Sal did not register surprise. Capo did not hesitate. "O.K. Come back next week. I'll have the first half ready and somebody will drive you back to Boston. No way can you board a plane carrying that much cash."
Bingo! I was in! The biggest sure-to-be-media-followed case in the country. Daily headlines. I was anxious as hell, but not afraid. We shook hands.
I was determined to make a fast and impressive start. I grabbed the other lawyers, informed them that I was on the team and called for a meeting the next day so that I could begin to catch up, discuss strategy, etc. I wanted to assert myself and impress the Boss. It was set up for two p.m. the next day. Don't dip your toe into the pool. Dive in!
Sal insisted to buy me a celabatory lunch and took me to one of those Italian restaurants not included on the tourist trail. This is where the boys would meet to eat. Signed pictures of Sinatra and Dean Martin on the wall, Jerry Vale on the jukebox and waiters who saw all but said nothing. The aroma of authentic Italian cuisine permeated everything. We began to relax and Sal ordered a king's meal. He was thrilled for me. He hoisted a glass of wine and toasted the future. What an adventure this was to be. A magnificent antipasto was placed before us. Life was good.
Then, Pete walked in.
The look on his face did not spread joy to the world. I looked at Sal and it was obvious that his read echoed mine and he was the more knowledgable on matters of this kind. Pete sat down to my right, directly across from Sal. The most accurate description of this unanticipated turn of events is best set forth by the dialogue which transpired.
"So, you're my new counsel, huh?" Pete's tone was not comforting.
"Yes."
And I understand you've called for a meeting of the lawyers for tomorrow."
"Yes, I have. I want to coordinate things as quickly as possible."
Pete's face flushed. Not a good sign. "So, just what is this going to cost me?"
This set off all alarm bells. Capo had given me the impression that the Boss had given him authority to handle the matter of my fee. Indeed, the Boss had specifically said this to me. My brain was a flashing neon sign proclaiming "proceed with caution." Sal's anxiety had increased which had a domino effect on me. Thank the Lord for Sal being with me when I had talked to Capo.
"I discussed this with Capo a few hours ago. He agreed on my total fee, with the first half of $100,000 to be paid next week."
I watched the tide of red slowly rise from Pete's neck into his pissed-off face. My truthful statement had landed in a very bad place.
"That's funny. I just left Capo and he told me that your fee would be 25 grand."
I was in no-man's land. This was not a chess game allotting each player a specified time in which to respond. I was telling the truth and could only hope that this was apparent.
"There must be some misunderstanding, Pete."
His anger was ratcheting to the point where even Sal was shifting uneasily in his chair. As for me, I was about to lose complete control of my bladder. A nice headline: Mafia lawyer pisses himself.
"Are you calling me a liar?"
All bets were off. "Of course not, Pete. I'm just telling you what Capo said."
Pete's face got redder still. "So, are you calling Capo a liar?"
Pete's reputation mandated the ground rule that he was not, ever, to be trifled with. Sal's accurate instinct called for an immediate intervention. Beads of sweat had formulated on his forehead for he realized that things were on the verge of getting out of control and I was in way over my head.
"Pete, please, let's step outside for a minute." They both left and I, sitting alone, could feel the scrutiny of the waiters' eyes. Having observed the whole thing and being quite familiar with just who Pete was, they must have been making book on my fate.
A solid 45 minutes went by. I hadn't touched the food, only the wine. Hey, this was part of the game, wasn't it? WASN'T IT?
Sal returned. He looked drained. Ordeal wracked. Pete wasn't with him.
"It's o.k. I settled him down. It doesn't take much to get him hot but I told him I was there when you spoke to Capo. He realizes it was all mixed-up communications. Everything's o.k."
We finished the meal with not quite our initial zest. Calming down takes awhile. Sal drove me to La Guardia and I caught the shuttle back to Boston.
Four days went by and I got a call from Sal. He said that the Boss had decided not to hire me. I had asked for too much money. Nothing personal. I played it cool, suppressing my disappointment. The squabble with Pete must have been the deciding negative factor. And then, I thought of something else.
When the Boss had quoted an attorney's statement that RICO indictments can't be beaten, I had deliberately remained silent. The Boss was a fox. What if that was all a test designed to take my measure? What if he had wanted me to burst forth with, "That's bullshit! There's no such thing as a case that can't be won." The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. In any event, I had flunked.
The trial lasted four months. The Boss was acquitted. The New York media followed its every move. On that, I lost out. On the other hand, I heard that all the lawyers involved had gone through hell and back. The Boss was a strict taskmaster and did not restrain his displeasure at an attorney's perceived misstep.
Oh, well. It was still an indelible experience.
I'm from the old-time school where any excuse was just that.
Wrap it up and move on.
Except that to re-tell it is to re-live it.
Demz were da daze.
I got a call from "Sal", a New York lawyer with whom I had worked on several cases and a solid, trusting friendship had come to exist.
"The Boss wants to see you."
He was the boss of all bosses, a media magnet whose face, powerful yet charming, was, along with his alleged exploits, instantly recognizable by most of this country's population and beyond. Breaking with Mafia tradition, he was a star who truly reveled in ubiquity, with perfectly coiffed hair and a wardrobe that defined haute couture. He was a national figure, handsome and dashing, who was, curiously enough, deemed attractive and worthy of adulation by a significant many who, simply put, found him fascinating. He was being held without bail, having been federally indicted for racketeering. Suffice it to say, every criminal defense attorney would consider representing him to be an indelible badge of honor, but he would be the selector from these many lawyers who were waiving their hands for attention, and he had sent for me, whom he had never met.
Air-shutteling in from Boston, I arrived at the detention facility on the specified day at 10am. I didn't know what to expect but wanted to impress with confidence and enthusiasm when I met this man who reputedly took instant measure of whomever came before him. Sal had made it known that my summons had become a matter of substantial interest among the New York defense regulars but I had intentionally declined to pepper him with the thousand questions raging within, lest I betray my anxiety, which was substantial. I reminded myself of the cardinal rule to never break eye contact while speaking, for this was taken as a sign of disrespect. I was psyched, for this was truly the major leagues. The goal of every lawyer in my chosen line of work.
When I signed the inmate request form, specifying whom I wished to see, I was thrown a bit off stride. The officer informed me that the Boss would not receive visitors prior to noon, with no exceptions. To the best of my knowledge, there existed no statute, case law or federal regulation which set forth this rule of convenience, but if you think I was about to make this an issue, you're crazier than I am.
I killed two hours and resubmitted my request. A different officer handled it this time. He looked at the Boss's and then at me. I was suddenly someone of importance.
"You his lawyer?"
"Hope to be," I replied as the security screening process was accomplished. I was led into a large room enclosed by chain-link fenced walls and took a seat at a large table.
"He's on his way down," I was told, so I waited. It was 12:20pm when he entered the room. I took in as much as I could, as quickly as I could. He appeared to have just walked out of a Fifth Avenue hair styling salon. Every hair was perfectly in place. No prison pallor for him. Instead, a ruddy tanned complexion. So perfect was the fit that I expected to see a Giorgio Armani label on his orange jump suit. His white sneakers and socks were spotless. He exuded power, obtained the old fashioned way. He had earned it. 'Twas on the other side of the tracks, to be sure, but it was a surreal facsimile of meeting the President of the Other United States.
I stood and our handshake was longer than ordinary, as his appraisal of me began. His eyes were blue steel and his brain was at maximum sharpness. No matter how early you got up in the morning, it would be too late to even come close to putting one over on the Boss. The game began. He laid it out for me.
"Up 'till now, I've been represented by the same lawyer. He's been with me for a long time. But that's the problem. Everybody thinks of him as a Mob attorney. I want a new face for this trial and that's where you come in. Sal says good things about you. I've asked around and the word from People in Boston is good."
I nodded, controlling my anxiety as best I could. Better to listen than to over-speak. When in doubt, opt for silence every time.
He continued. "Now, here's how I'm gonna do it. You'll enter your appearance for Pete, for starters. That'll give me a few weeks to let my lawyer down easy. I don't want to hurt his feelings or reputation or embarrass him. You'll get to know all the players and, in about a month, you'll switch to being my counsel and my guy will represent Pete."
Pete was a made man, one of five co-defendants in the federal indictment at hand. The Buzz on him had it that he was a shooter. "He could blow your head off and eat spaghetti off your shoulders." Very comforting. Bail had been set for him, he had made it and was on the street. I wondered about the feasibility of a valium enema.
As the conversation continued, the other co-defendants casualy sauntered in, their attorneys followed, and the scene in the room quickly came to resemble an upper echelon meeting of the G------ family. A burly individual nudged me over with the statement, "I have to sit on his right." I shall refer to him as "Capo", for that is exactly what he was. The number two man.
Eventually, the defendants were sitting on one side of the large cell, with the lawyers on the other. Business was to be conducted and the attorneys' conversation was to serve as a cover of what was being said across the way. There came a time when we ran out of talk and temporarily fell silent. The Boss, taking immediate notice of this, raised his right arm and twirled it in a circular motion, instructing us to carry on with the camouflage. After awhile, the groups again intermingled and the Boss bid me farewell.
"Come back next week and we'll nail this thing down." I said I would and I did. I was reasonably pleased with myself in my handling of this first meeting. I had spoken in measured tone, my goal being to appear confident, intelligent and, above all, respectful. A masquerade of maximum anxiety, for I was dealing with the Ruler of the wrong side of the moon. In a way, the antithesis of the President of the United States.
The scene was the same when I returned the following week. Sal, the conduit, was again with me. I was greeted cordially by the Boss who explained that he had not yet informed his present counsel of the game plan whereby I would, at first, represent Pete and then switch clients, bequeathing upon me the equivalent of the Medal of Honor. But, not to worry. Everything would fall into place.
At one point, he mentioned that a well known lawyer had visited him during the week and, in discussing the Boss' case, had remarked, "You just can't beat a RICO case (the criminal statute in question). Too tough." Adhering to my code of conduct, I played it safe and said nothing.
When things were winding down, I decided to raise the topic ultimately consistent with my personal interests. The fee.
I explained what I believed would be expected of me and the enormous effort which characterized my case preparation. He cut me off with, "Discuss it with Capo. There'll be no problem." We shook hands.
As we were leaving, I motioned Capo and Sal to a corner of the room. Capo heard me out and asked what I had in mind. No time to be timid or bashful. The Boss would be a most difficult taskmaster. I knew what was at stake, time-wise, and I had to be paid accordingly. Speak now or forever hold your peace.
I quoted Capo a fee which, to me, was both reasonable and substantial, and held my breath. One-half to be paid now, before I entered my appearance, the remainder to be paid prior to commencement of trial. Sal did not register surprise. Capo did not hesitate. "O.K. Come back next week. I'll have the first half ready and somebody will drive you back to Boston. No way can you board a plane carrying that much cash."
Bingo! I was in! The biggest sure-to-be-media-followed case in the country. Daily headlines. I was anxious as hell, but not afraid. We shook hands.
I was determined to make a fast and impressive start. I grabbed the other lawyers, informed them that I was on the team and called for a meeting the next day so that I could begin to catch up, discuss strategy, etc. I wanted to assert myself and impress the Boss. It was set up for two p.m. the next day. Don't dip your toe into the pool. Dive in!
Sal insisted to buy me a celabatory lunch and took me to one of those Italian restaurants not included on the tourist trail. This is where the boys would meet to eat. Signed pictures of Sinatra and Dean Martin on the wall, Jerry Vale on the jukebox and waiters who saw all but said nothing. The aroma of authentic Italian cuisine permeated everything. We began to relax and Sal ordered a king's meal. He was thrilled for me. He hoisted a glass of wine and toasted the future. What an adventure this was to be. A magnificent antipasto was placed before us. Life was good.
Then, Pete walked in.
The look on his face did not spread joy to the world. I looked at Sal and it was obvious that his read echoed mine and he was the more knowledgable on matters of this kind. Pete sat down to my right, directly across from Sal. The most accurate description of this unanticipated turn of events is best set forth by the dialogue which transpired.
"So, you're my new counsel, huh?" Pete's tone was not comforting.
"Yes."
And I understand you've called for a meeting of the lawyers for tomorrow."
"Yes, I have. I want to coordinate things as quickly as possible."
Pete's face flushed. Not a good sign. "So, just what is this going to cost me?"
This set off all alarm bells. Capo had given me the impression that the Boss had given him authority to handle the matter of my fee. Indeed, the Boss had specifically said this to me. My brain was a flashing neon sign proclaiming "proceed with caution." Sal's anxiety had increased which had a domino effect on me. Thank the Lord for Sal being with me when I had talked to Capo.
"I discussed this with Capo a few hours ago. He agreed on my total fee, with the first half of $100,000 to be paid next week."
I watched the tide of red slowly rise from Pete's neck into his pissed-off face. My truthful statement had landed in a very bad place.
"That's funny. I just left Capo and he told me that your fee would be 25 grand."
I was in no-man's land. This was not a chess game allotting each player a specified time in which to respond. I was telling the truth and could only hope that this was apparent.
"There must be some misunderstanding, Pete."
His anger was ratcheting to the point where even Sal was shifting uneasily in his chair. As for me, I was about to lose complete control of my bladder. A nice headline: Mafia lawyer pisses himself.
"Are you calling me a liar?"
All bets were off. "Of course not, Pete. I'm just telling you what Capo said."
Pete's face got redder still. "So, are you calling Capo a liar?"
Pete's reputation mandated the ground rule that he was not, ever, to be trifled with. Sal's accurate instinct called for an immediate intervention. Beads of sweat had formulated on his forehead for he realized that things were on the verge of getting out of control and I was in way over my head.
"Pete, please, let's step outside for a minute." They both left and I, sitting alone, could feel the scrutiny of the waiters' eyes. Having observed the whole thing and being quite familiar with just who Pete was, they must have been making book on my fate.
A solid 45 minutes went by. I hadn't touched the food, only the wine. Hey, this was part of the game, wasn't it? WASN'T IT?
Sal returned. He looked drained. Ordeal wracked. Pete wasn't with him.
"It's o.k. I settled him down. It doesn't take much to get him hot but I told him I was there when you spoke to Capo. He realizes it was all mixed-up communications. Everything's o.k."
We finished the meal with not quite our initial zest. Calming down takes awhile. Sal drove me to La Guardia and I caught the shuttle back to Boston.
Four days went by and I got a call from Sal. He said that the Boss had decided not to hire me. I had asked for too much money. Nothing personal. I played it cool, suppressing my disappointment. The squabble with Pete must have been the deciding negative factor. And then, I thought of something else.
When the Boss had quoted an attorney's statement that RICO indictments can't be beaten, I had deliberately remained silent. The Boss was a fox. What if that was all a test designed to take my measure? What if he had wanted me to burst forth with, "That's bullshit! There's no such thing as a case that can't be won." The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. In any event, I had flunked.
The trial lasted four months. The Boss was acquitted. The New York media followed its every move. On that, I lost out. On the other hand, I heard that all the lawyers involved had gone through hell and back. The Boss was a strict taskmaster and did not restrain his displeasure at an attorney's perceived misstep.
Oh, well. It was still an indelible experience.
I'm from the old-time school where any excuse was just that.
Wrap it up and move on.
Except that to re-tell it is to re-live it.
Demz were da daze.
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