I'm Thankful To Be Back

Hello, Readers.  I know it's a huge assumption on my part that my salutation is still plural; however, I'm feeling horribly optimistic today.  I'm certain that most of you ceased wondering where I've been and when in the hell I'm going to post some time ago, but humor me here.  I'd like to explain for--if nothing else--my own edification.  I'll be brief. 

As most of you know, Some Guy's day job is as an attorney.  Granted, that word alone conjures up images of greedy, ruthless, money-hungry hucksters uttering nothing but half-truths sandwiched between words like "notwithstanding" and "allegedly" or pointing directly at you from a highway billboard or the back of your phone book. 

Incidentally, if you currently use a phone book for anything other than a booster seat during your toddler's haircut, please open the door and walk outside.  There's a whole world out there waiting to surprise you with its technology.   Phones are actually their own phone books these days and they no longer have cords.  They do, however, make lousy booster seats.  Anyhooo . . .

I suppose my industry has its fair share of those aforementioned huckster types, but in my experience it's not any better or any worse than any other industry.  It's more apparent, perhaps, but not any different.  The profession is much maligned.  I believe there are many reasons for that; some are fair, most are not. 

For the past 14 months I've been working on a case involving the most horrible death imaginable.  For privacy's sake and out of respect for the surviving family members--of which there are many--I won't go into detail.  Suffice it to say that the case is an extremely contentious one between the opposing parties in addition to being especially adversarial between the lawyers.  Put all of that in a bowl and mix in an inordinate amount of travel, many 12-14 hour days involving shouting matches, verbal jousting, not-so-veiled threats, graphic color pictures, and diametrically opposed theories of the apparent cause of the "accident" and you'll get an idea why I have had neither the time nor the inclination to wow you with witticisms lately.

Everyone is playing for keeps with this one and I take my duty to vigorously and unapologetically advocate for the family's interest very seriously.  Granted, I take that duty seriously in every case I handle.  I this case, however, I've come to take it very personally.  At my level of experience, that occupational hazard rarely, if ever, makes an appearance anymore.  When it does, however, it's difficult to handle.  I hope that explains my absence.  With that out of the way, let's get to the good stuff. 

Happy Freaking Turkey Day, Folks.  Yes, it that time of year when retailers across the world fill us with holiday cheer like Thanksgiving Day turkeys packed from neck to rectum with stuffing.  It's time to shake off the serotonin stupor and post-alcohol haze in order to venture out at 4 a.m. on Friday in anticipation of the opening of the nearest Best Buy or Wal-Mart to land the best Black Friday deal possible while simultaneously trying to avoid being trampled literally to death.

It's time for perfectly rational mothers to shake off any modicum of civility toward any other human being in the name of securing the last (insert name of this year's hot toy) in the store so her little angel--sleeping innocently and unknowingly at home or perhaps locked in the laundry room with a jug of water and a sandwich while 'mommy shops'--can have the perfect gift from Santa this year.  It's time for everyone's overbearing mother-in-law or creepy uncle to add stress to an already stressful weekend.  It's time for single, childless people and the black sheep of the family to huddle together and drink their faces off attempting to kill the pain of being ostracised.  In short, it's time to forget about the real reason we have a couple of days off this time of year.   

School children are forced to memorize outdated, historically inaccurate, culturally insensitive songs about Indians and Pilgrims harmoniously breaking bread together in the New World in order to perform them for anxious parents obliged to sit on miniature plastic chairs in the school cafeteria while others jockey mercilessly for position in the SRO section with cell phone cameras and iPads fighting for a glimpse of their little angel mouthing the words in unison.

 

 

Incidentally, I've been to one or two of those "Fall Presentations" before and they never teach the kids a catchy jingle about giving the Indians small pox and "purchasing" their land with fire water and shiny trinkets before herding them together like the buffalo they used to hunt and making them walk to Oklahoma in the cold 210 years later.  Perhaps that bit was cut due to time constraints.

As if the blatant mischaracterization of their history and the complete marginalization of the systematic disassembly of their entire way of life are not enough, we rub it in by dressing the kids in construction paper head dresses and face paint.  There's always that one chubby white kid or the Asian kid in the Indian costume that strains the authenticity of the depiction for me.  There hasn't been a casting error that blatant since Leonardo DiCaprio played Howard Hughes in The Aviator.  They might as well take the chubby white kid and the Asian kid and put them in blackface during the Civil War reenactment play.

Alright, I'm exaggerating.  Lord knows I'm not that cynical and all of you know that I'm far from that culturally sensitive.  All I'm saying is that they should at least make the Mexican kids play the Indians and the white kids play the Pilgrims.  While they're at it, they should give the fat kid a hall pass and send him to the back of the classroom with a snack.  After 65 days at sea on the Mayflower I seriously doubt there were any fat Pilgrims.  Now let's get back to my cynical side.  I find it far more interesting than my preachy, indignant side.
 

Here's a Thanksgiving kid's song I found online. In addition to its fiendishly clever lyrics, its author was so devoid of originality it was actually annotated above the song that it is to be sung to the tune of "I'm a Little Teapot."  Sing along with me, would you? 

I'm a little Indian on the go,
Here is my arrow and here is my bow.
When I go a-hunting, hear me shout-
Bears and buffalo better watch out!

I'm a little pilgrim on the run,
Here is my knife and here is my gun.
When I go a-hunting, hear my shout-
Deer and turkey better watch out!

 



As delightful as that is, I've taken the liberty of writing a few supplemental versus.   Sing along with me, would you?

I'm a displaced Indian on the go

The paleface took my arrow and stole my bow

When I'm robbed of my dignity, hear me shout

Small Pox and Dysentery, I'd better watch out!

 

I'm a Presbyterian Puritan watch me twist

I'm an old fashioned English Separatist

The Indian people helped me and that's just great

My progeny will oppress them until they assimilate

Now THAT'S the version I want to hear the kids singing at the play.  I find the thought of the judgey school moms' jaws hitting the floor between their seasonal winter boots--which are so in this year, by the way--hysterically funny.

Incidentally, while Googling "kids pilgrim costumes" in order to find the pictures above, this popped up--which I also find hysterically funny--and unusually confusing.  I'm guessing that there were few Pilgrims dressed like this in Plymouth.  Perhaps this is the traditional dress of the San Francisco Pilgrim who, unlike the Plymouth Pilgrim, had an affection for chilled sangria and dancing.

Alright, let's talk about my real opinion of Thanksgiving. 

Throughout my entire life my Thanksgivings have--like for a lot of people--grown increasingly secular in nature.  It's another long weekend to be enjoyed with friends, football, and plenty of the aforementioned fire water.  However, I always take a moment or two alone to say thanks for the things in my life that were supposedly placed there accidentally by Someone responsible for making us all. 

I suppose we all have a version of that Someone and we all have a version of how "accidental" the things in our lives actually are.  The Pilgrims believed in pre-destination.  The Indians didn't.  The Pilgrims wore funny hats and doilies around their shoulders.  The Indians were shirtless and wore headdresses.  They believed that the Earth was where God showed himself and found the Bible to be nothing more than a book as strange as the people who brought it across the ocean with them.  The Pilgrims were a structured, patriarchal society governed by strict rules dictating their entire existence.  The Indians were a largely matriarchal society of hunters and gatherers who lived communally. 

They were opposites.  Regardless of what Manifest Destiny would eventually visit upon the Indians and in spite of the strife the Pilgrims would endure in their New World, they were all able to come together as equals in November of 1621 and be thankful for the good things in their lives.  The first Thanksgiving was a recognition of an abundant harvest in spite of seemingly insurmountable difficulties.  Take a few moments during this hectic weekend and sit alone in order to appreciate the abundant harvest in your own lives in spite of your own seemingly insurmountable difficulties.

Happy Thanksgiving to you all.  Gobble, Gobble, Gobble.

Thanks for continuing to stick around.  I'll post as often as I can.  Enjoy your weekend.  In the meantime, if you need me, I'll be hanging out in the back of the classroom with the fat kid eating a snack. 

DP




 

 

Off Season Halloween: It's Scary How Long I"ve Been Gone

BOO!  Remember me?  A little?  I suppose I deserve that.  For the past six weeks or so DP has lived on an airplane and in various swanky hotels across the great State of Texas and beyond.  Without depressing you, I've been working (a lot) on several catastrophic cases that demand my attention.  Like you coming here for a laugh, people hire me to do what they believe I do best and I owe them the same focus I gleefully find here when I can make it work.  Unfortunately, the "real" world and this one don't always peacefully coexist. 

 

The good news is that the year is winding down and I'll be getting back to regular posts.  I'm well aware that I have to earn my audience back, but I'm anxious to draft something that doesn't start with the words "To the Honorable Judge of Said Court." 

 

Happy Halloween to you all.  Whether it's some innocent trick or treating or some good ole criminal mischief that happens to be on your evening agenda, have fun.  In light of my lack of post this Halloween, I'll direct you to a classic Some Guy in College Halloween memory involving Austin, Texas and my old roommmate, the now infamous Lenny.   Enjoy. 

 

http://guyinaustin.blogspot.com/2010/10/off-season-post-3-beer-batman-and-beef.html

 

 

Oh, and just for good measure, I'll leave you with a Halloween joke. 

 

How do you get a witch pregnant? 

 

You f*ck her. 

 

You're welcome.  Granted, that's creepy on an entirely different level but feel free to use it on your least sophistocated friends.  I miss the blog and I miss all of you.  I'll be back as soon as I can. 

 

DP

Off Season Post 39: DP Carries On

Hello, Readers.  Allow me to introduce myself.  I’m Some Guy in Austin.  I write a blog solely for your reading pleasure.  I’ve been woefully absent as of late and I realize it’s been an incredibly long time since I’ve posted.  I won’t bore you with the details but for those of you who are lawyers out there or have the misfortune of being married to one you’ll appreciate the fact that the ebbs and flows of the business are often extreme.  When it rains, it pours.  In short, it’s been pouring a lot lately.  Nonetheless, I’m back for now and I’ll try to make this post less introspective than the last.  In other words, I’ll throw in a lot of d*ck jokes.  As always, thanks for reading. 

 

Before I begin—you’ve waited two weeks, you can wait another minute—I’d like to send a shout out to a reader and a commenter you all know as dp2.  dp2 and I have been corresponding via email since she began reading this blog over two years ago.  Like me, she’s a sometimes disgruntled attorney in addition to sharing my affinity for anatomy jokes.  Her comments are always insightful and our email exchanges range from the highly ridiculous to the semi-intellectual. 

 
 

At any rate, she was in the great city of Austin, Texas for a friend’s wedding recently and I had the pleasure of being their tour guide for an evening.  We took in some live music at a couple of my favorite honky tonks and she was kind enough to buy me—you guessed it—a couple of Lone Star Beers.  She even got to meet the Special Lady Friend and Soon-to-Be Mrs. Some Guy in Austin.  They got along famously.  Thanks for the booze, dp2.  It was great meeting you and your friends. 

 
 

Now let’s get to it. 

 

 

 

I’ve mentioned many times in the past that I am a creature of habit.  While I’m not obsessively compulsive about the routes I take, the places I frequent, or the number of times in a day when I wash my hands, I am extremely consistent.  I take comfort in my routine and the structure provided by the habitualization of the more mundane, predictable aspects of my day allows my mind to roam as free as the wind in other areas.  It also ensures that I’m aggravated as little as possible. 

 

 

 

The other day, as I was in the middle of my lunchtime gym/turkey sandwich routine I noticed a man standing in front of me in line at the sandwich shop across the street from my palatial office.  In front of him was a fairly non-descript baby stroller containing what I assumed was his child.  Apparently, mommy had at least part of the day off and this guy attempted to boldly go about his day in spite of the responsibilities at hand. 
 

 

 

Incidentally, I applaud dads who have the “courage” to care for their children unassisted by mom and I applaud moms who have the wherewithal to give their baby daddies credit for being competent enough to figure out how to parent without them.  Indeed, certain vestiges of the 1950’s mentality linger in our culture and the notion that a father is inept when it comes to childcare is one of them.  Granted, Dad doesn’t have a pair of hooters from which he creates the milk of life nor does he have the ability to gestate a fetus.  Other than that, however, Dad is no less capable than mom when it comes to taking Junior out for a stroll around town.  Post-Pilates mimosas often necessitate the need for dad to step in and co-parent every now and then and it’s nice to see that occurring.     

 

 

 

Notwithstanding my respect for dad’s assumption of the traditionally uterine-bearing duties, I noticed that he was carrying an inordinate amount of baby supplies.  He had enough wet wipes to service a Fourth of July barbecue picnic.  All of his baby ammo was stuffed into a powder blue diaper bag adorned with yellow rubber duckies hanging from his shoulder.  Like a safe falling on my head from an upper story window, I was hit with inspiration.  There are just certain things that men should never be seen carrying in public.  Below are a few of those things.   

 
 

1.         Diaper Bag.  I’ve already laid the predicate for this one.  Look, being out all day in public with an infant or a toddler requires more skill than most people can appreciate.  Throw in the 100 degree heat of a Texas Summer or the sub-zero temperatures of a Chicago Winter and simply getting in and out of the car becomes exponentially difficult.  Because of that, it’s essential to arm oneself with an appropriate supply of wipes, powder, diapers, formula, pacifiers, snacks, rattle toys, and at least one change of clothes.  I get that. 

 

 

 

HOWEVER, there is no rule that says that all of that stuff has to be housed in the most ridiculously humiliating handbag possible.  Any “awwww, look how sweet” appeal a man gains by caring for an infant with mom nowhere in sight is inversely proportionate to how awkward a frilly handbag looks dangling from his shoulder--undoubtedly in place of his built in “handbag.”  Buy a backpack for crying out loud.  It’s not difficult to find one that matches the Baby Bjorn if that’s a concern.  All the fellow dads out there will appreciate (even envy) it and the Hooters girls won’t ignore you when you roll in for dollar wings and fried pickles on a Friday afternoon with the baby in tow.  Indeed, the only thing better than carrying a puppy on the beach for attracting young women and sending their ovaries into an egg-firing frenzy is an infant.   Ditch the duckies and bust out the backpack. 

 

 

2.         Flowers at the Airport.  I know what you’re all thinking:  Come on, Some Guy.  “Flowers are a wonderful gift to see when stepping off an airplane after an arduous girls’ weekend and I, for one, would love my man to do that for me.”  Whatever.  First of all, flowers are expensive and they do nothing but die slowly over time despite our best efforts to keep them alive.  Come to think of it, one could make the same generalization about most relationships. 

 

 

Annyyyhooo. . .

 

 

Every guy (and I mean EVERY) knows that all (and I mean ALL) women love to get flowers.  That’s just a given.  Sure, a lot of women love to say things like, “Oh, I don’t like flowers.  I’d rather my man save his money and spend it on something nice for us to do together.”  Right.  If you believe that you’ll also have no problem believing the biggest female falsity of all time. 

 

 

Say it with me.  “It doesn’t matter how big the diamond in my engagement ring is as long as I know he loves me.”  Frankly, it’s almost impossible to type that without choking on the words. 

 

 

Don’t believe me?  The next time some “lucky” woman strolls casually into a wine bar after announcing via social media that her boyfriend popped the question see what the first reaction of every woman is when she sees the bride-to-be.  The single ones in their early 30’s choke back their envy and feign happiness as they grow one step closer to being “That Girl” while the married ones smile from ear to ear content in knowing that another naïve single woman is about to enter the race to see whose husband is first to find his favorite recliner.  Regardless of reaction, every woman asks first to see the ring.  Don’t tell me size doesn’t matter.  It does.  There’s a reason that the word “fiancé” looks a hell of a lot like the word “finance.”  Don’t let the accent over that last “e” fool you.  I digress. 

 

 

Seeing a man awkwardly holding a bouquet of fresh flowers at the base of the escalator bank in Baggage Claim is difficult for a man to process.  On one hand, we all appreciate the “benefits” that come from forcing ourselves to suck it up and look hopelessly p*ssy-whipped.  The problem is one of scale.  In other words, the more p*ssy-whipped a man looks, the greater the effect on a woman.  Throw in a giant “Welcome Home” balloon and a stuffed teddy bear with those flowers and a guy is certain to score before he pulls out of the airport parking lot.

 

 

Like anything else, however, that rule will eventually reach its exception.  Add a bunny suit and a “I’m Hoppy You’re Home” sign to the balloons and the flowers and she’s likely to skip baggage claim altogether in favor of a cab.  It’s a delicate balance to strike.  There’s always the possibility of showing up with a fist full of carnations and a modest Hallmark card in hand and being forced to stand next to the guy with two dozen roses and the Lavender Spa Indulgence Gift Basket or whatever.  That’s always the boyfriend of the woman your lady friend sat next to in Coach and chatted with during her entire flight.   

 

 

For other men simply minding their own business in the airport that sort of abject public humiliation is difficult to watch.  It’s like watching a hobo beg for his dinner or seeing a puppy stuck in the median on a busy road.  Sure, we’re all rooting for the guy, but then again, we’re glad it’s not us sitting there atop a big podium of ridicule in the name of meeting our Love Language requirements.  My advice?  Avoid the entire situation by keeping the flowers in the passenger seat and surprise her on the way home.  Of course, that assumes the windows are tinted.

      
 

3.         A Tiny Dog.  I witnessed this while running around the lake the other day.  An otherwise normal looking man and his attractive wife or girlfriend was walking toward me as I ran toward them.  As they got closer I noticed that the man was carrying a Chihuahua in a pouch in his right arm while holding the woman’s hand with his left.  I felt compelled to stop and remind him how foolish he looked but I thought better of it.  There’s simply no saving a man who’s willing to do that, I reasoned. 

 

 

I blame the toy dog carrying trend on that spoiled, talentless C word, Paris Hilton.  What’s beyond me is how it migrated from a vapid bore like her to the male species on my jogging trail.  I can think of nothing that could possibly make that situation more emasculating.  Real dogs are too big to carry around while simultaneously holding your wife’s hand.  If a man feels compelled to carry around something small and hairy in a pouch in public, he should start with his testicles. 

 

 

4.         Feminine products at grocery store.  This has to be the Holy Grail of things a man should never be seen carrying.  This one, however, is not entirely within the control of the adversely affected man who has undoubtedly been forced to venture into the nether regions of the store aisle innocuously labeled “Feminine Products.”  Any woman who sends a man on an errand like that is unquestionably a sadist. 

 

 

I know I share the sentiment of most men when I say that I can’t even walk through the living room while the Special Lady Friend and Soon-To-Be Mrs. Some Guy in Austin is filling her estrogen tank watching whatever “men are evil, women are victims” movie starring Meredith Baxter Birney and Treat Williams on Bravo or the Lifetime Network and a commercial for any product beginning with the letters “Vag” is on the screen much less stroll through an aisle filled from floor to ceiling on both sides with them.   That sort of pressure is tough for a guy to absorb.  It’s super uncomfortable---or is it super plus?  You’re welcome.   

 

 

Aside from the obvious lack of “equipment” from which to form a frame of reference in  the selection process, that aisle appears to get longer and higher every time I walk by it on my way to the beer section.  The choices are overwhelming.  Every time I pass that aisle I literally picture myself walking into a giant, unfriendly uterus.  I feel like Charlie Bucket floating uncontrollably toward the giant fan atop the Fizzy Lifting Drink Room in Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.  As disturbing as that is, it’s the truth.  I’m certain Freud would have an opinion about that, but that’s an entirely different blog post. 

 

 

My point?  My point is that in the event a man is goaded into actually heading to the store to purchase a Vag-related product for his special lady, it is a given that he will be provided a piece of paper with a very specific description of the product and the correct size, color, and possible location of it in the aisle.  Women are particular creatures and will not relinquish the performance of such a profoundly important gender-specific errand like that without being able to control the details of its execution. 

 

 

After all, you wouldn’t want a Chevy if you had the option of getting a Mercedes, would you?  Taking that metaphor a bit too far, you wouldn’t want a Mack Truck when all you need is a Mini Cooper.  That’s like trying to stuff a bag of cotton balls into a keyhole or, conversely, like throwing a teddy bear into Niagara Falls.  As is the case with diamonds, size matters. 

 

 

Now that I’ve beaten that point to death  (I have a REALLY inappropriate joke here, but even I am going to censor myself for fear of offending all of your delicate feminine sensibilities, but man do I hate to waste a good joke), I’ll explain my problem with the Vag List.  Carrying around a list that says “Kotex Sleek Tampons with Perfect Touch Grip, Regular, Assorted Colors, 18 Pack” (Thanks, Google) is a horrifying proposition for any man. 

 

 

Factor in Murphy’s Law and I’d probably get into a fender bender and be forced to take down the other driver’s insurance information on that piece of paper as the driver and a police officer stood over my shoulder.  I’m sure I’d hear things like “boy you really absorbed that impact” or “this accident is your fault, period” or “it’s too bad you didn’t have the Perfect Touch Grip on your steering wheel.”  Down the road, I’d be forced to produce that piece of paper to the other side in the event I was sued as a result of that accident.  The case would undoubtedly require a trial and 18 months later that piece of paper would be labeled “Plaintiff’s Exhibit 1” and be blown up on a giant screen in front of a packed courtroom.  I’d be called to the stand where I’d be forced to explain that list to 12 jurors missing their jobs in exchange for ten bucks a day.  Like I said, horrifying.  Do us a favor, ladies.  Please go to Sam’s Club and stockpile Vag-related products.  If there ever was any line of products that should be sold in bulk, those are the ones.       

 

 

Well, there it is.  Only you can decide if it was worth the wait.  Just so we’re clear:  I love writing this blog and I plan to do it as often as my often busy life will allow.  I’m grateful for all of you.  Keep clicking.  I’m traveling the remainder of the week, so keep me grounded and entertained with a comment if you can.  I’ll be back soon.  In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be carrying a toy dog in a bag on my way to buy maxipads.    DP

Off Season Post 38: A Missive to Some Guy, Jr.

Hello, Readers. Thank you for allowing me the time off. All of you have been especially patient and kind over the past couple of weeks. I traveled to the West Texas Mecca, Snyder, for my annual dove hunt and John Wayne Film Festival put on by my fancy Hollywood friends over Labor Day Weekend. I lend both manual labor and some of my lawyerin’ skills to that festival and it’s always a highlight of my year. Special thanks to my friend Barry for tolerating my drunken behavior on his ranch and to the Wayne kids and grand kids. I’ll try and make it out to California in October. It was nice seeing all of you again. Special thanks to all of the dove we shot. You were delicious. I’m sorry that whole symbol of peace thing didn’t earn you any favors.


A couple of pictures of Snyder, Texas.

West Texas Sign.

Johnson House where we stayed.  Tons of History.  Google it.

Me and Barry Corbin.  He's been in everything, but he'll always be Uncle Bob from

Urban Cowboy to me.

Now, let's get to it.


As you are all keenly aware, I rely heavily upon reader feedback for ideas during the Off Season. My writing inspiration comes from unsolicited thoughts that pop into my head from some unknown place like Saturn, Uranus or, more often than not, my own anus. However, in order for those thoughts to hatch, they must be cultivated by the symbiotic relationship that I as the writer share with you as the readers.


I received many, many kind emails and comments last week after soliciting you like a New Orleans hooker at 3 a.m. I was touched (and we all know how I like to be touched) and humbled by your sincerity and candor and I appreciated your willingness to share intimate, often difficult, pieces of yourselves with me for the sake of simply telling me that you like what I do here. Thank you for that. Many of you communicated hardships. Some of you communicated reaching huge milestones in your lives. All of you asked me to keep writing. Thank you again.


In going back over the correspondence I noticed a couple of big themes. Many of you who wrote me are parents and—as it should be—your main focus was on doing everything in your power to see to it that your children are given every opportunity to avoid as much pain in their lives as possible. One email in particular focused on this subject and ended with a question that intrigued and, in fact, inspired me. 


Sherry from Nevada wrote to tell me about leaving a physically and verbally abusive husband taking with her no money, no car, and few options. She told me that her children, 5 and 7 at the time, were her reason for living. She told me that she got her education, found a job, and raised her children while struggling to keep her head and her finances above water. She talked in depth about how dark and difficult her life became at times and how the thought, “what will I tell my children” kept running through her head when she wanted to give up. Sherry told me that it was the possibility of looking into her children’s eyes and having to concede failure that prevented her from giving up. I’m happy to report that both of her children are in college today (one of them on scholarship) and that Sherry is remarried and living a comfortable life somewhere on the pointy end of Nevada. 


Sherry wasn’t the only one who wrote me about that type of struggle. However, she ended her email with the following sentence. “Whenever you get down on yourself and feel like quitting, just ask yourself what you would want to tell your child about yourself and you’ll find the strength to continue.” Well put, Sherry. 


Inspired by that sentence, I wondered how I’d like my child to think of me and what I think is absolutely essential to know. The following post is a list I jotted down spontaneously after reading Sherry’s email. Perhaps my child will read this one day.

A Letter to My Son

Dear Some Guy, Jr.,

Below is a bunch of stuff you’ll need to know in your life. After all, dick jokes will only get you so far. 

Love, Dad

P.S. (This list is in no way all-inclusive and I respectfully reserve the right to amend it into perpetuity.)



First, there is nothing that will make me stop loving you. There is and will always be only one of you. The love a parent has for a child can never be understood in reverse. You will never understand that the act of simply looking at you awakens every cell in my body each and every time I see you.



When I see you, I see myself as a child before I was corrupted by the world around me. I see myself before there were consequences in my life; before there were mistakes. I see before you a clean slate and I know you will be better than I am one day. I see possibility and I fear that any word I utter to you will dampen it. I pray every night that I am alive to see you with your children and see you finally understand what I feel for you now.



On that note, don’t be too chickenshit to call me when get picked up by the police for doing something stupid like mooning or stealing a street sign. Yes, there will be consequences but that doesn’t mean we can’t laugh about it together one day. You’ll inevitably find this blog and blackmail me with it.  


Second, it's all right to cry. Some of life’s greatest things come at the cost of sadness. Being in touch with that emotion and allowing yourself to fully experience it will help you be an empathetic person. Empathy is a valuable gift. Possessing it is one thing but letting others benefit from it is another. Do not be ashamed to cry. Just don’t forget that eventually, no matter what happens, your smile will return. However, don’t get too carried away with the crying. I want you to be human, not a pu*sy. If someone shoves you, that’s often a time for shoving back, not crying.   


Even your smartest friends are idiots. There will come a day when your mind is sharper than mine. You will know more about the world around you than I know. You will be quick. I will be slow. You will be strong. I will be weak. That day is not now. Neither you nor your friends have the life experience I have so, for the time being, I know better than you and all of your friends. Respect that and you’ll find that—like a mushroom with a 12 inch penis—I’m a pretty fungi to be around. Remember, a friend will help you move but a real friend will help you move a body.


Never go near a woman with a tattoo of a dagger on her body. Trust me on this one. 


In light of the last gem, please understand that people make mistakes. I am your father, which means that you will likely believe well into your adult life that I am incapable of making the wrong decision. You will realize that this is false very suddenly and it will come as a shock to you. While it is important for you as a child to view me as your role model, your protector, and the center of your world, it is also imperative when you become an adult for you to see me as a human being. Knowing that I can make a mistake will also allow you to understand that every person in your life can and will make mistakes. Learning to truly forgive is a rare gift. The first step toward acquiring that gift is to fully accept the inherent flaws inside of us all—including yourself.


The above piece of advice doesn’t mean that you get a free pass in life. A conscious, intentional bad choice in contradiction to a well-formed conscience in the face of clear boundaries does not qualify as a mistake. You are required to make an effort toward assisting me in making you into a well-rounded, well-equipped adult. Mistakes happen but you will be required by me to be accountable for yours. I will return the favor by admitting and being accountable for mine. 


Do the right thing because it’s the right thing to do. Sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing are the same thing. You’ll learn this (or a version of it) when you step to the plate in your little league game in the 9th inning with the bases loaded with the game tied. I hope that you’ll be ambitious-minded and physically gifted enough to try and hit a home run and win the game. However, I pray that you’ll be intelligent enough to know that you can accomplish the same thing by leaning into the pitch and allowing it to hit you in the ribs.


Trust the voice inside of your head more than you trust other people’s voice inside your ear. The old adage, “if you’ve got it, flaunt it” does not apply to stupidity. Your conscience is usually correct.   


Decisiveness is an admirable quality but you’re allowed to change your mind. However, never substitute a well-informed, quick decision with recklessness. Think.  

Be helpful and thoughtful. This could have easily been included in the “it’s ok to cry” paragraph above. However, it bears repeating. Helping people in any capacity will pay itself back tenfold. Treat people as you want to be treated and you will find great joy in simple things. Sometimes it is difficult to set aside your own self interest in order to help someone. Humility is important, however, and there is no better way to taste Humility than by cleansing your palate with a big swig of Pride. The good news about Pride is that there never seems to be a shortage of it. The only way to get rid of it is to swallow it.   


By the way, you’ll learn the distinction between helping and enabling later in life. For now, that is a distinction without a difference. Just work on being a good person by being considerate.


Find out what you are passionate about and pursue it fervently and without apology. Do not fear failure but do everything you can to prevent it. Look upward but know where the ground is below. Fight for your dreams. Record them. Share them. Surround yourself only with people who will help you realize them. This is perhaps the hardest item on this list. Like David must have thought when he saw Goliath, winning will seem impossible to do. Read the Bible and see how having self-confidence in the face of fear and seemingly insurmountable odds worked out for him.


Never, ever under any circumstances be ashamed of who you are. It is important to note that the foregoing piece of advice assumes that you have invested the time and the effort to figure out exactly who you are. Do that and you’ll never have to apologize for who you are either.


Listen. Learn early when to keep your mouth shut. You should always speak the truth; however, you are never obligated to spill everything you know. 

I miss you. I think about you constantly when you are not with me. This will never change. One day, you will not want me around as much as you do now. When that day comes, stop long enough to realize that another day will come when you do want me around. Pick up the phone and say hello. Call me often. Call your mother every day.


Respect your mother and all other people with boobs. Being a Man requires learning what it means to be a woman. 

Try.


Don’t be an asshole. This should be easy to achieve in light of the fact that there are plenty of examples from which to learn an asshole’s character traits.



Women like lots of flowers and lots of compliments. Remember that. Also remember that flowers are equally as effective as compliments; however, only one of them is free.


Finally, pay very close attention to Temperance and Chastity. However, not too much attention as the other strippers will eventually get jealous.


Oh, and never lose your sense of humor.


Well, there it is. Thanks to Sherry in Nevada for nailing down the specifics on the post and thanks to the rest of you for teeing it up for me. Tell someone you love that you’re lucky to have him or her in your life. I’ll write the next time inspiration hits. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be on Uranus. DP

Off Season Post 37: What Does it All Mean?

Hello, Readers.  Welcome back to the latest installment of my creative outlet.  I’ve had a few requests for posts over the past couple of weeks and, as I mentioned in my last post, I think the request for my take on pop country music is a good one.  I’ve been contemplating exactly how I’m going to present that in light of the mountain of thoughts on that subject that I have to organize.  To the Reader who requested that, thank you.  I’ll get to it but not this week.

This week I’ve been in a somewhat reflective mood.  I’ve had many things going on in my life—some positive, some negative, some of which inspire indifference—that have caused me to look inward in order to search for answers to the conundrum we call Life.  Alright, perhaps that’s a bit dramatic.  I think a better way to say it is that I’ve had a lot going on in my life lately and the combined effect of all of the tiny things I have to pay attention to have caused my mind to become more active than a spastic colon after a Mexican dinner.  In short, I need your help sorting out some things. 

 

In light of my vagueness, I suppose some background information would be helpful.  Like a modern day Dickens novel, mine is a Tale of Two Cities.  For you lit buffs out there, I’ll continue the comparison.  Honestly, I can’t decide if I’m more Charles Darnay or more Sydney Carton.  Top that off with the fact that I’m not a huge Dickens fan and you should feel my pain.  In short, I still need your help sorting some things out. 

 

You see, being a lawyer is an odd thing sometimes.  I’d love to tell you that this career is the noble pursuit of many of the things that our culture holds dear and, in fact, is built upon.  I’d love to tell you that I speak for those who cannot speak for themselves and I protect their inalienable right to have their grievances heard and decided by their equals in a court of law blinded by absolute indifference to the social status, race, religion, or politics of the litigants before it in the name of upholding the rule of law.  I’d love to but that’s difficult to reconcile with the fact that I spend a good portion of my day arguing with some guy in a short sleeve shirt and a tie in a cubicle on the fifth floor of some Midwest insurance company over five grand and a few commas in a Settlement Agreement and Release.  Half the time that guy is an inalienable as*hole who is anything but right. 

 

Work isn’t always such a struggle.  In fact, I often leave the office with a sense (albeit a small one) of progress.  The people that work for me seem happy with me and I try to be a considerate, sympathetic (empathetic when I can be), and reasonable boss.  On occasion, even the people that sign my paycheck seem happy with me.  Law firms (as I’m sure some of the readers can attest) are often horrible places to work and are, ironically, filled with the most egregious violators of every social more or boundary ever invented.  I’m happy to say that mine is not one of those firms, but let’s be honest, it’s called “work” for a reason.  If I could retire tomorrow, I would.  Granted, I’d still do SOMETHING, but I’d do it on my own terms. 

 

So why am I whining?  I’ll be the first to tell you that through no action of my own I’ve been tremendously blessed in my life.  Despite the bumps in the road and even the sinkhole to which I’ve not so subtly alluded in the past, I feel lucky.  I often wonder why that’s the case in light of the fact that I’ve taken very large steps on my own volition toward thumbing my nose at that good fortune.  I suppose that falls under the age old question “why do good things happen to bad people,” and, frankly, I don’t know the answer to that. 

I suppose we all have a sense of justice hardwired into our brains.  Try giving a child less soda than his brother or letting his little sister use his favorite toy.  From an early age we are imbued with the concept of fairness.  Granted, it’s impossible for us to articulate it at that age and I’m not certain it gets any easier to articulate it as we get older.  Some things simply ARE.  I suppose Hindus, Sikhs, or Buddhists would assign their respective definitions of “Karma” to this little puzzle.  Stated another way, fairness is a result of action.  You get what you deserve, in other words.  If you treat someone badly, then the universe will extract a payback upon you in order to balance it out.  The converse is true as well.  That concept is a little tougher to reconcile for a Christian; see Job, David, or even Jesus. 

I’ll stop there with the religious references because my struggle this week is not about God or religion.  I don’t want to start a debate or a holy war.  Rather, it’s about Self.  I had an especially horrible day at work last week and I left feeling frustrated and deflated.  I wasn’t five blocks away from my office when tremendous feelings of self-doubt with regard to my career choice, my finances, and the path I’d chosen in my life entered my head uninvited like a carjacker hiding in the bushes waiting for me to pull up to the stop light.

 

I went to the gym after work and had an especially cathartic run.  Indeed each drop of sweat that poured from my body was like a small piece of that self doubt leaving me forever and removing my saline soaked shirt was like shedding the very doubts I’d accumulated during the day.  I was whole again . . . well, at least until I got home and opened some bad news in the mail.  Over the rest of the week this cycle repeated itself.  I found myself taking breaks throughout the day to read your comments on this blog in order to remind myself that regardless of my perception; somehow I make a small difference in someone’s life.  This blog makes people laugh and writing it has made my life a fuller, more gratifying place to be since the first keystroke. 

So, what’s my point?  Well, I got to thinking on one of those aforementioned cathartic runs the other day.  Perhaps “wondering” is a more accurate classification of my process.  I wondered what I mean to you Readers.  I wondered if you take me with you beyond the 15 minutes you spend giggling at my nonsense on your screen.  I wondered if something I’ve written has ever made a REAL difference in any of your lives.  I wondered if I stopped writing tomorrow how that would affect you.  In a word, I wondered what Some Guy in Austin really means to you out there. 

Here’s what I’m asking this week.  Please write me at dp010835@gmail.com or simply post a brief comment answering one or more of these questions for me in any way you see fit.  I’m certain I’ll be back in rare form the next time I post.  For now, humor me. 

Thank you all for playing along.  Enjoy your week, kiss someone you love (consensually, of course), and take a moment to be grateful even though you might not feel like it.  I appreciate what you bring into my life.  Until next time, take care of yourselves.  In the meantime, if you need me I’ll be trying to keep my karma from running over my dogma.  DP     

Off Season Post 36: That 'T 'Aint My Credit Card

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