Friction and Harmony

Oddybobo wrote a post about boobs heated rant about being misunderestimated in her job, where she disclosed the fact that she’s an Ivy-Leaguer who is still quite capable of “going redneck.”

Gotta love that image… She’s my new personal hero!

Her story reminded me of my own experience during my very expensive custody battle to get my kids. “Very expensive,” because at one point, I had to fly my attorney and his assistant 2,000 miles for a three-day junket to depose witnesses in the case. (My sons had been living in Utah with their monster mother.)

Being from coastal Alabama, it was a mini ‘vacation’ for my legal staff to go see the Rockies, and they soaked it up. They also brought no small part of Parrotthead, beach-life style to the depositions…

On the first day of depositions, my attorney wore khaki cargo shorts, worn deck-shoes and a seersucker, short-sleeved, comfortable shirt… with a button-down collar. He was tanned and looked like he had just stepped-off the deck of his sailboat. He carried an overstuffed briefcase which he dug-through almost absentmindedly from time to time, and he “lost” his reading glasses a few times – at least once on his head.

The defense attorney – also from our area – was dressed neatly in a suit and tie. They swelled-up with undeserved pride at the sight of their attorney in comparison to mine, and scoffed to themselves so everyone could hear, “looks like he forgot he was supposed to be working today,” (laughter) and, “hey buddy, the nearest beach is that-a-way!”

At first, I admit even I was a little shocked to see him dressed so casually. I had only ever seen him with the collar of his shirt unbuttoned, tie thrown over the back of the chair where his briefcase sat. All the hosting staff at the legal office that we were “renting” for three days (read, unbelievably expen$ive) were staring wide-eyed at us through the glass-walls of the conference room. Was this really an attorney? Did he actually expect to win a case acting so casually and cavalier?

As the grave details of our case began to emerge, I noticed that the looks I got from the staff turned to pity – “you poor thing… such terrible circumstances, but you don’t stand a chance with that absent-minded, drawling beach-bum of a lawyer! I bet his office – and home – are below-deck on some marina-bound, run-down barnacle-barge, tsk tsk.”

I might have been worried myself if I hadn’t already heard such tales from MamaBear… who had worked for over three decades at Alabama’s largest law firm, and had thus escorted the senior partners on at least one occasion to similar actions in New York City. In her case, her boss wore a plaid flannel shirt and bolo-tie. (The cold of the North just doesn’t agree with us Southerners!) His characteristic southern-drawl was as thick as molasses, and he frequently held-up his hand to turn to his junior partner to have him repeat what had just been said. Mom was mortified – they were out of their league! The high-dollar, window-dressed, big-city attorneys just grinned at each other like sharks circling for the kill… Until Mr. A. threw his glasses on the table, stood-up and shed his mock-ignorant persona, then proceeded to shred them with their own preconceived notions – giving them a good lesson in redneck lawyerin’.

So I knew what my attorney was doing; he was using their own ignorance to disarm them. His attitude was so deliberately cavalier (bordering on disdain – but they couldn’t recognize it as I could) also because he had no doubt we were going to win this custody case and free my children permanently from the devastating evil to which they had been subjected. (At the time these depositions took place, I had already been granted temporary custody under an emergency order.)

I also had the satisfaction of knowing that my attorney was a retired family court judge with over thirteen years of experience on the bench in the very court in which this matter was to be decided. I knew firsthand the respect we got when we walked into the courthouse of our turf, where even the security staff still snapped to attention as they greeted him, “good morning, Judge!”

And while their attorney was damned good – I actually have the utmost respect for him still – mine was a ringer. I watched with satisfied glee as he turned those smug, self-assured looks into panic and dismay every single time. One such “defense witness” was a 300-pound, tattooed ex-con that went by the nickname “Bear” (oh yeah, they put-on a quality case – lacking only elephants and a ringmaster tightwire act trained monkeys… shit, elephants), who at one point adamantly raised his voice to my attorney, “…and frankly, I RESENT YOU making these ACCUSATIONS about my FRIEND,” as my attorney was questioning him about his knowledge of our perp’s criminal convictions. With remarkable ferocity and matched agility, my parrotthead-attorney-judge lunged halfway across the table at the witness, slamming his fist down to punctuate the statement, “these aren’t accusations, my friend, they are court-determined, LEGAL FACT!!”

I still wish I had had a camera to get that picture… Of a big, dirty, hairy, biker-looking freak with his ill-fitting dress shirt and poorly knotted tie beneath a red fu-manchu moustache, looking quite suddenly like a scared kitten.

Heh.

After the case was decided, my ex-monster-in-law blamed Alabama’s “Good-Ol-Boy Legal System®” for their loss.

Damned right… You won’t like what happens when we go redneck on your ass!

Why is it that no other name measures-up as an insult? There are plenty of proper-noun synonyms for the male package: Johnson, John-Thomas, Peter, Willy… But none of them has the resounding hail of DICK!

Tonight I got called “a Dick.”

My chest swelled with pride, “That’s right!” I said, proudly, “That is my name.”

In fact, while I’m not particularly fond of having been named after my adoptive sister’s first two boyfriends, I do have a lot of fun with my name. Juvenile fun, of course – but fun nonetheless.

Like for instance, when visiting a food court in a crowded mall…

“What name should I call?”

“Dick.”

“Uh… your last name?”

“Schlochsonoweiczenecki. But Dick will be fine.”

“Shocks-uv….Uhhhh… ooookay. Do you go by Richard?”

“Just Dick,” I reply with mock-impatience, rolling my eyes for effect. “Richard is my father.”

A short while later, there’s a huddle behind the counter while they draw straws to see who has to yell “Dick!” in a crowded food court. Of course I would wait until at least the third or fourth shout before arriving to claim my food…

Okay, so I haven’t actually done that one for a couple of decades or more, but it was great entertainment for a bunch of idiot teenagers (sorry, redundant) with nothing better to do with a string of summer afternoons than hang at the mall and invent ways to raise as much hell as we could without actually getting chased off permanently banned by Mall Security.

It really is funny to watch how some people can be so uncomfortable with my nickname. Or that they drop “a” in front of my name and think that I should be insulted…

Insulted? Me? For being known by the standard by which all others are… *ahem*… measured?

Meh. They’re the same people who flip the bird timidly, with their extra-digits curled at the second knuckle and their thumb to the side in an open-palm little teacup-etiquette sort of gesture. Hell no! I have long hands anyway, so I get the message across quite effectively with a tightly-balled fist with my middle finger protruding long and proudly erect!

Yeah, I know… I really am a Dick!

But y’all can still just call me Bitterroot…

(Mrs. Who is so going to be giving me “a look” when she reads this…)

=====UPDATE=====

I debated for awhile before posting this, then I retracted it. It was my attempt to see the humor in the evening’s events, and the name-thing is an issue that I’ve ranted about privately on many occasions and so kicked-around the idea of posting.  What gave me pause was the fact that I’m giving away yet more of my private identity – after just having put my face on the web.

However, since Mrs. Who posted her version of last evening’s events, I figured I may as well drop the hat and re-release my post. What follows is an account (a continuation of my original post) from my own perspective of the confrontation that precipitated my ire (and sent Mrs. Who past the edge of dignity):

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Just one more reason I don’t like cats.

I think his reputation precedes him.  What would you do if you woke up with the “Grim Reaper Cat” sleeping on your hospital bed?

But I’m only here for a vasectomy!

Blogfather Harvey has been wanting to sport a new hairstyle, but has been unable to convince lovely wife TNT… So with a little googling, I found a solution. Here’s a ballcap (snicker) that he can wear around the house:

…drink cheap, domestic beer.

Really.

Bad things happen:

The boys didn’t understand at first why I had to pull over to the side of the road just a quarter-mile out of our subdivision, laughing uncontrollably and telling them, “we have to go back to the house…*gasp*  Have…to…get…camera.  *gasp* Blog-fodder!”

When I circled our SUV around, they saw it too, and burst-out laughing.  They agreed, we must get a picture.

After I snapped the pictures and got back into the vehicle, however, Goob and Eraserhead were still laughing hysterically.  Still recovering from the smell, I gave them a look and Goob explained, “Dad, I don’t know which is funnier – the armadillo with the beer can, or you standing on the side of the road with the camera.  Everybody that was passing was looking at this big, bald redneck taking pictures of roadkill.  I can’t believe there wasn’t an accident!”

Hey…  We do live in Alabama, you know.  Down here, this is entertainment! 

From the Stupid Things I’ve Been Meaning to Post file…

I don’t normally post “recent” photos of myself, but what the hell. About a month ago, I got sick of waking up looking like I actually belonged in this lineup…

…so I decided to do something about it. And the best part? This is the very first DMV license picture of myself that I actually like (even though my beard appears to be doing something of its own accord):

I had really planned to be scowling at the camera – hoping to look at least a little mean and/or maniacal in case I ever make the evening news – but the ladies at DMV were absolutely cracking me up.

Of course, Mrs. Who simply hates my “Mr. Clean” look. *sigh*

What I find most interesting, however, is how differently strangers react to me. For the most part, people seem somehow more willing and likely to approach me and strike-up conversation – even when I’m wearing an oversized Nuke The Moon T-Shirt, camo-BDUs work-boots and dark glasses. Of course there was one time when a woman looked fearfully at me, grabbed her two toddlers close to her and scooted away, but that was in the lingerie department at Target…

Weird people shop at Target.

Heh. That is an attention-getter, isn’t it.

Buck had a friend over this week for a “sleepover.” Buck’s friend (I’ll call him “PJ”) is an amazing kid – from a family of performers. At only nine years old, he’s an accomplished stage actor who could easily go far beyond local small-town theater. In the past months, he’s played leading and major supporting roles in two great local productions, nailing every line, helping the cast with theirs, and even pulling off a whole show while being terribly ill – all without anyone but his fretting parents knowing it because after all, ‘the show must go on.’

While PJ is incredibly talented and mature for his age in so many ways, he’s still very much a young and innocent little boy who needs a light left on to sleep in a strange place and so on. His mom and sister telephoned him a few times, even stopping by to see him during his short stay… Though I’m not sure for whose benefit it really was; his momma appeared to be suffering more separation anxiety than he evidently was.

It worked out well for all of us, since Buck has been more or less alone with us parent-folk this week. His step-siblings are still off with their father for the summer, and his brother Goob is staying with relatives in Pensacola while he attends summer school. (Gah – I could strangle that kid sometimes. Brilliant, but unmotivated. He gets it honestly, I’m afraid to say…)

With our often unconventional teenagers out of the house, we certainly didn’t have to worry about any displays of… urm… bad influence. Teenage boys will be – well, teenage boys. And PJ comes from a homeschooling, devout and proper family. Sometimes I have to hold my breath when teen angst makes a grand showing with young, impressionable eyes and ears about. But surely I could relax now.

Buck and PJ were playing XBox in the room where I was working on my computer, and I was more or less oblivious to their chatter, laughter and competitive taunts… Until suddenly I heard my son shout, “BLOW ME!”

I froze. Oh. My. God. Did Buck just say that?! I’ll strangle Goob if I found out he used that phrase on his little brother, or even in his presence. They don’t talk that way in this house without serious consequences, but Buck will emulate his big brother, and…

PJ laughed, and they continued on, chattering and taunting each other.

So did I actually hear what I thought I heard? I mean, I wasn’t really paying close attention, after all. Maybe I mis-heard. I was still sitting wide-eyed and unblinking in front of my display when it happened again. This time it was PJ…

“Wait… I’ll hold still and you can blow me, then I’ll come back and blow you again.”

Slowly, as nonchalantly as I could, I turned around in my chair to face them. Their faces were glued to the television screen as their hands pulled and swayed as they worked the controllers. I followed their gaze to the TV screen to see rendered cars street-racing and clipping mailboxes, telephone poles and trees. Then suddenly, one of them crashed into the other with a brilliant, billowing explosion of rendered flying pieces-parts, glass and animated fire and smoke. They erupted into fits of laughter. They had turned their street-race into a demolition derby – and had thusly truncated what would have been the obviously understood phrase “blow me up.”

I let out a relieved sigh and got up to fix myself a drink – just a Coke over ice, but it would have to do for now. I don’t know if it was fear, rage, dread, panic… Whatever that fleeting rush was, I needed to walk it off.

Mrs. Who told PJ’s mom about the incident and she laughed… Calling the boys’ attention to the phrase as being ‘inappropriate’ will only stick in in their minds. Fortunately they were oblivious to my entire 40-second breakdown.

Thank God for childhood innocence.

I know I haven’t been doing much on my little geek-blog lately to garner much attention, but I saw a comment here that I feel warrants some face-time far and wide.

But before I delve further, first let me offer something of a sidebar:

For those of you who are familiar with Rachel Lucas – no explanation is necessary. For those who might not have heard of Rachel, her original blog lived by a declared standard of three words: Piquance. Impudence. Ordnance.

Rachel has absolutely no idea who I am (I was never more than a mere lurker), but she may as well be my true blogmother… Hers was the first blog I ever read, which led me to others; IMAO and Harvey, then the rest of the Bad Example Family and beyond. She had closed her original blog some time ago, but not before inspiring Mrs. Who and I to venture further into the blogosphere to read, lurk, comment, and eventually blog on our own. (I’m taking credit for first introducing Mrs. Who and convincing her to blog, btw. Now I can’t even begin to keep up with her, so y’all are welcome!)

Anyway, Rachel is back, along with Digger and Sunny. (Woot!) She’s definitely worth putting on your regular “To-Read” list. In this post, a friend challenged her to watch a M.M. shlockumentary, in the hopes of swaying her to like the fat sonofabitch, even just a little. Uh, fat effing chance. Her post title says it all.

What really got my attention, however, was a comment left in response to M.M.’s recent celluloid-vomitus, “Sicko,” where the fat fuck touts Cuban health care as being somehow superior to the health care delivery system here in the U.S. The comment in question appears to be an un-credited cross-post from another blog, but I’m uncertain of the source…

Now, having a parent with cancer and making routine trips to the MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston, and having personally witnessed insanely rich foreigners also partaking of the treatment options here, I have a strong personal opinion about Moore’s sicko claims. However, nothing says it clearer or more movingly than this:

Michael Moore, Sicko, Cuba, Filmmaking, Deceit

This post I found a long time ago is now again relevant in light of Michael Moore’s, um, er, shit, uh… ‘techniques’

There is an eMail I recently received from a friend. It contained a link to the Babalublog about someone who was waxing philosophic about the greatness that is the worker’s paradise known as Cuba. I had something to say right away, but I held off for a few dasy in order to take care of some other things, and get a few minutes set aside to write about Cuba.

First, unlike about 99.99% of the population in America, I have actually been to Cuba. I didn’t go there as part of some bullshit potemkin village tour, or to betray the US by deliberately badmouthing these United States like Noam Chomsky.

No, I was there for other reasons. I was a sentry on the fenceline which seperates the US Naval Base at Guantanamo bay from Communist Cuba. I loved the character of Col. Nathan Jessup in “A few good men,” btw.

Now, I am a medical student, and I worked for a while as an EMT on an ambulance. One question I get sometimes from those who do not work in medicine is the dreaded “So, what’s the worst thing you have ever seen?”

btw, We generally hate that question. The bad stuff we have seen has broken our hearts, and asking us about it is like asking us about an ex-girlfriend who ripped our heart out and did a Mexican hat dance on it. It’s something we would prefer not to remember, but we cannot forget.

Anyway, they ask me what the worst thing I have ever seen is. I have a fair selection to choose from. I have seen soccer moms torn apart in MVAs. I have seen children who had fallen out the window of a moving vehicle. I have seen 15 year old girls in labor. I have seen the second of premature twins desperately trying to live against all odds gasping for air like a golddfish out of water, while his dead brother is beside him. I have seen a lot of stuff which I really could have lived for the rest of my life without seeing, and I wouldn’t miss it.

But the worst thing I ever saw was in Cuba.

There was, at the time of this, the policy of the Clinton administration to deny access to the US Naval base by refugees. One day, while I was serving as part of a reactionary force, a group of refugees were spotted heading towards the base. As the reactionary force, it was our duty to react to whatever came up. We did so in this case as well.

We deployed in the vicinity of the fenceline. We met the refugees as they approached, and with weapns in hand, denied them entry to the base. They had managed to traverse a kilometer deep minefield covered by towers with machine guns to get to this point. They had left everything they had ever known in order to get out of there. And we stopped them. We had orders. We had our orders, so we followed them. After enough shouting and threatening, the refugees eventualy gave up and headed back. Back into Cuba. While I was sweating my balls off under the hot sun, these refugees made a mistake. They had gotten through the minefield the first time, but they had not followed in their own footsteps going back. While I was thinking to myself how I wish these people would hurry up and go back so that I could head back to someplace with air-conditioning, one of them stepped on a landmine.

That explosion touched my world.

Then, I witnessed the worst thing I ever saw in my life.

As the dust cloud wafted away from those refugees, nobody ran. Nobody screamed. Nobody said anything.

They just laid down to die in the middle of a minefield that was the sun’s anvil.
Think of how badly you would not want to die like that. Think about that real hard. Think about slowly dying of exposure in a minefield. Think about what would make you risk such an outcome. Think about it real hard, and then remember that as bad as that was, it was better than going back.

Despair was once described to me by a college english professor as “the death throes of hope.” That day in the minefield was despair incarnate, and it was the worst thing I have ever seen with mine own eyes.

Make a fucking documentary of that.

Posted by FightClub™ | July 11, 2007 6:33 PM

Indeed. Thank you, sir – for your words, and most of all, for your standing watch over me and mine. Thank you.

Netflix has been an integral part of the HoZ entertainment machine for over five years now.  Since we don’t subscribe to the crappy local cable provider (almost as friendly a service provider as our local rural phone company – don’t get me started!) or to any of the satellite services, we enjoy watching movies, documentaries and television programs on our terms – sans commercials or uninvited smut. 

Of course, with over five years of DVDs that have been watched, returned and rated, the sophisticated Netflix suggestion service touts over 480 recommendations that are custom-tailored to our viewing preferences.  Along with each recommendation is a brief example of why such-and-such program is being suggested.  One of the more bizarre connections I’ve seen?  Have a look:

So is “Papa Ratzi” a NASCAR fan?  Is there a Popemobile Pace Car in the Vatican Garage?  Will “Smiting” on the track be the next penalty controversy?

The Superbowl I-X documentary made the cut for the same “Inside the Vatican” reference, but being from Alabama, that doesn’t raise any eyebrows ’round here.  In the South, Football is almost a religion, and all Alabama fans know “Bear” only left to coach for God.

Can you tell the difference?

One of these guys is an accompished actor, musician, inspirational speaker and author…  A genuine asset to society.

The other is just a retard.*

I couldn’t help but think of the striking resemblance when I first saw the photo.  My apologies to Chris Burke for drawing the comparison.

*For those who know me, ”retard” is a word to which I strongly object when used in reference to any mentally handicapped individual.   My brother has Down Syndrome, and he is one of the coolest and most uniquely loving, caring and talented people I know.

All evidence indicates that Al Gore III, however, is a spoiled, socially retarded asshole — in a pretentious “Save the Earth” fucking Prius, no less.