What I Would Trade

I own a 46" Sony HDTV, a 5.1 surround sound system, and a Playstation 3 capable of playing the most impressive in video format.

I'm also rather bored with my gadgets. (I also just succeeded in talking about my lovely electronics and not seeming arrogant. [Though I may have just blown my non-arrogant cover.])

Remember the first time "A Christmas Story" came on between glasses of eggnog on Christmas day? The delight on Ralphie's face as he unwrapped his Red Rider BB gun? Yeah, you may shoot your eye out, but shooting anything (even your eye) is the greatest feeling in childhood. For example:

I loved bowling. Not Brunswick bowling. We're talking a cheap plastic bowling set. Unfortunately, buying such a set would have required enough self restraint to save my allowance for three or so weeks. Maybe you were the next Charles Schwab, but I had/have, well, no self control. Three weeks was an eternity. So, childhood ingenuity overcame financial constraints. The precise selection of Skeletor, G.I. Joe, Raphael, Splinter and a McDonald's Happy meal Chicken Nugget toy held down the 7-10 pins. And, while other kids would have cheated and used a soccer ball for its relative size to the pins, we believed in regulating our local league in conformity with the USBC's strict requirements; a duct tape ball served quite nicely.

And we played with it for hours. Happily. I forgot that better sets could be bought at any grocery store. Who needed it? I had MY set; it was the "Corso Signature Series." Every detail of it was hand selected for a specific purpose. How could it get any better?

And then the value of items as commodities for the purpose of making life that little bit better snuck in. American Eagle's shortcomings were replaced by J. Crew (if you didn't know before, now you do: I am white). My bike, necessary to get me the 1.2 miles to school each morning and nowhere else, had to be replaced by a car; the car's stock audio system had to be replaced by an Alpine deck and Pioneer speakers. A perfectly satisfactory standard definition 32" TV lost all value because "Planet Earth" didn't give up enough of its details upon closer inspection. To top it all off, I couldn't hear the bullets coming from behind me in Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 without buying my surround sound system (if you didn't know before, I am a white geek).

Despite the impressive sights and sounds of my newest toys (which are not a part of my "Signature Series"), they don't offer the same glee as a makeshift bowling set. Let's define glee: a great delight. So, I am on an adventure to find some "glee" again.

I started hiking recently. Have you ever hiked? It is, in a word, hard. And, as I trekked up the mountain (being passed by athletic freaks who were sprinting up the trail for a short ten mile run), I felt glee again.

Yesterday I played basketball. A simple game; a potential player need only find a hole and have a ball (Yes, that's what she said). But, God as my witness, I have no talent on the court. Everything I can do (read: dribble with my right hand, lose the ball with my left) I spent countless hours practicing to achieve. Yesterday, I made every shot I took. Yesterday I dominated the game, got every pass I wanted and was the "go-to" guy. Yesterday, I was Larry Bird (Do. Not. Ruin. It. For. Me. It is my description), and I felt glee.

I'm going back to simple. It seems to me that in the simple I find glee.

That said, I have no plans to give up my surround sound system or TV.

Now Let Me Make One Thing Clear...

What is the least attractive trait an individual can possess? Ignorance.

Today I was asked to embarrass someone who made a mildly racist comment about Hispanic Americans (asked whether someone wanted to see "America" become "Americano"), stated support for Arizona's new immigration law, and objected to socialism. All in one sentence. The feat was impressive to say the least.

And so I responded. The following is what I said.

Since I know my good friend was talking about the Arizona law, let's have a chat on the topic. Earmuffs, children.

I'm just going to go ahead and quote the Constitution (which I am pretty sure was written in English... Correct me if I am wrong. No-O Objection-O? OK-O. Here I Go-O. Alright. I'm done-O.).

"No person shall be . . . deprived of life, liberty, or property without due process of law." Then, in the landmark case of "Bolling v. Sharpe" (347 U.S. 497 if you are interested doing some legal research), the Supreme Court of the United States read into the "Due Process" requirement the equal protection of law for all persons from abuse by the Federal Government. Stopping someone with no probable cause? Sounds like a deprivation of liberty to me, but what do I know? Not like I have a degree in this and am two-thirds done with law school and have a year of work experience in criminal law. No. Not at all.

We being intelligent and educated individuals, we know that the 14th Amendment (that beautiful addendum to our founding document) is what applies here, not the 5th Amendment and its Federal Restrictions. After all, the 14th Amendment clearly reads: "[No] State [shall] deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws." Note, and I cannot emphasize this enough, it says any "person." Not citizen. We know this is of importance since those who have come before us so emphatically stated "citizen" earlier in the amendment. "Person," not "citizen." Follow the bouncing ball a little further, won't we?

What if, say, a law were not facially discriminatory? After all, Arizona's law isn't, right? Well, then there could be no challenge. Unless, of course, the law were applied unequally based upon one of the restricted classes the United States Supreme Court has enumerated. Well, we might then have an issue. "Yick Wo v. Hopkins," (118 U.S. 356) a seminal case in this area of law, teaches us many lessons. First, is that any person, even non-citizens are due the equal protection of the laws. I suppose they are "persons," aren't they? Well, if a law were applied to non-citizens unequally, based simply upon their citizenship, then the law has an almost per se status as unconstitutional. (Note, a few other minority statuses would cause the same result. Perhaps, race? Nationality? Ethnic heritage? Any of those float our boat? Why, yes, look at them as they float nicely.) And, though some might say "such a liberal opinion must have come from the Warren Court. Liberals. They hate America. I hate Ginsburg." Eh hem... No. Yick Wo was written under the watchful eye of Chief Justice Morrison Waite. He was a Republican. In 1886. (Damn.)

So, let's break that down.

You cannot treat people differently based upon the way they look, where they are from, their heritage, race, country of origin, etc. Such treatment violates our Constitution and national ethos. It has for over a century. It will for the remainder of the republic.

Oh, and (just so I am not accused of avoiding the question posed) yes, I am okay with my money being spent on illegal immigrants. Like when they are injured. Or starving. Or have no healthcare. Perhaps if they were in absolute need of the help of a society with the wealth, ability and intelligence to make the world around them a better place. Yes. I am okay with empathy and consideration and a willingness to deprive myself of the most lavish lifestyle in the world, at least a bit, so that other men, women and children can have food and a doctor to see.

I think I will sleep well tonight. I mean... tonight-O. (I guess I wasn't done.)

I am not saying the legal analysis was completely correct and that there could be no other interpretation of the Constitution. I am not saying you cannot support Arizona's law. I am not saying that Republicans are terrible people.

I'm saying if you make a racially motivated comment, a baseless claim, or utter a political catchphrase without the full knowledge of what it is you are asserting, I will not stand by.

Also, if you ask me to embarrass someone who deserves it, I will gladly do so.

Adult Children

Childood is a time reserved for wide eyed wonder, novel experiences and doing everything in your power to skirt the line of getting grounded. It is a simple time, loaded with hilarity and embarassment.

Adulthood is a time to rehash those childhood experiences. . . With alcohol. We remember the times we spent in our youth, appreciate the pure glee we got out of almost every moment, and do all the things that previously would have gotten us grounded.

We spend our adult lives attempting to recreate the simplicity of childhood. From the freedom teenagers enjoy to the excitement kids have at the mention of their favorite cartoon character, true childhood experiences nearly always trump our adult recreations.

This weekend I learned one time where childhood falls short.

What is the most memorable experience of nearly everyone's childhood? Disneyland. Princes and princesses, coasters and teacups. A(n impressively) pink castle and the four "mountains" signifying the four corners of Walt Disney's dream. Disneyland, even for the most embittered, is an iconic reminder that childhood is a state of mind.

But Disneyland can be, and was this weekend, a more hilarious experience than it was in my childhood.

Let me set the scene: take five of your closest friends, add in a few random stragglers for good measure. Combine with a healthy obsession for all things Disney (my first kiss? God as my witness, Minnie Mouse. She wanted me, and Mickey knew it. Sucker). Add 12 drinks in three hours. Shake in the Matterhorn, two servings of Splash Mountain and Indiana Jones' Adventure. Undoubtedly this is what heaven is like. We'll call the resulting cocktail "Adult Disneyland."

I am not sure how many Disney security guards told me to stop running, but I know how many I listened to. Also, giant turkey legs chased with churros and beignets make me happy. Also, margaritas (Even if they cost $10 each).

And, while alcohol gives adults a means to access the unabashed (and admittedly ridiculous) joy their everyday lives often fails to grant, it can also take away irrational fear left in the wake of childhood. Case in point: Splash Mountain.

I hated Splash Mountain. Feared. Loathed. Cringed at the thought of. I believed Br'er Rabbit deserved his fate. Stealing is wrong. Over the waterfall he goes. (Don't fret, dear reader, he is fine. He is a cartoon. A metric ton of Acme explosives couldn't stop him.)

Adult Disneyland changed my perspective. I want to steal carrots with the furry bastard and poke fun at Br'er Bear. At the end of the day we can take a turn down the creek ending with a short fifty foot drop. (Thank you, Coors Light.)

Disneyland is the happiest place on Earth. Adult Disneyland is the most fun. I plan on going back to both in the near future.

(Note: Undoubtedly someone will read this and think to themselves "alcoholic." They couldn't be further from the truth, but I appreciate your concern. Every once in a while drinking, even to excess, can make any experience more entertaining. Here it made my favorite place in the world a little more fun for a few hours.)

Signs of Fate

Skip Bayless is to blame (thank?) for my fate. Well, perhaps not Skip, but his parents.

For my sports illiterate readers, Skip Bayless is Bill O'Reilly's sports counterpart. Controversial opinions come from Skip like so many slanderous tales originate with O'Reilly. A short sampling: LeBron James is overrated; Tim Tebow will make it in the NFL; Jay-Z is an overrated rapper (he said it, not me). And yet, he is beloved. ESPN has given him a daily pulpit in the four downs of First Take from which he reigns over his delusional opinion filled world. Despite Skip's ridiculous nature, I must grant him one accord: having one's views despised and yet continuing to state them in the face of such hate takes confidence. This rarified sort of self worth gave Skip the ability to continue ranting until the world loved him. And love him they do.

Where does one learn such confidence (arrogance)? Perhaps in a home that provides all the advantages. Skip was (is) a rich white male (so sayeth Wikipedia, so I believe(th)). Top flight school, elite sports programs, cultural experiences, and daily injections of "you are soooo special" must have been the four pillars of Skip's upbringing. (Side note: If you believe the developmental experience described above to be common/you identify with it, you could potentially develop into the next Skip Bayless. Beware.) Having such a supportive/developmentally aware/Norman Rockwell/whitebread/easy upbringing is alien to me, and so I wondered, "what other results could it have yielded?"

Wikipedia (Latin for "place with a zillion facts.") tells me Skip has a younger brother: Rick Bayless. Reared in the same environment, Rick became elite in his culinary ability. Where Skip dominated at sports, Rick easily dispatched dishes in Home-Ec classes. While Rick Honed his craft in unkowing preparation for the Iron Chef arena, Skip (a devout Cowboys fan) denied Montana's rightful status as the GOAT (Thank you, Jay-Z for teaching me about the Greatest Of All Time. Point, Hova. Jiggaman: 1, Skip: 0). Each sibling became the best at his trade; one through skill at his craft, the other by speaking without stopping to think. You decide which is which. (If you find youself compelled to "be controversial," and call Skip the first, you failed test #2 and have given more proof you might be the next Skip Bayless.)

Given that I have yet to talk about myself in these many words (please insert applause here as this is an accomplishment for me), you are wondering how this post could be about fate, right? Follow along, dear reader. You see, I spent this Saturday among my brother's people. My brother was at one point a top tier Magic the Gathering player (#6 in California). He lived for destroying his foes with wizards and elves (Yup. Wizards and elves). And because of my mild exposure and developed resistance to such awe-inspiring nerdiness, I went to WonderCon.

Held each year in San Francisco, WonderCon is a festival of celebration for the antisocial. People dress up in a superhero costume, transforming not only their appearance, but also their personality. Betty, the quiet "would be attractive if she tried" saleswoman goes through a metamorphosis. Diana, the very attractive queen of the Amazons, known to we mere mortals as "Wonderwoman," emerges with not only tranformed physically, but in personality as well. Being me (I don't need or want to transform into someone else) I was ready to leave after five minutes.

And so, I found myself wandering the streets of San Francisco.

Let me 'esplain something to you, city dwellers: we suburban folk get lost in your streets. Left and right lead to the same street, and performers cause us to shy away from our intended route. It is similar to Nemo's dad in "Finding Nemo." . . . Except we of the suburban variety are less threatening than your average clownfish, and more easily scared.

Being a city neophyte (vocabulary word, children), I got lost. Not lost per se, and not lost as in "We've been Going left for two hours... And we don't even have Nascar sponsors," but lost nonetheless. Where I was, what street I was on, what might appear before me next, and what the smell coming from the sewers? All mysteries. Until I saw Union Square. (Union Square is a San Francisco landmark and I got lost until it found me. Yes, it found me.)

At the same time I stumbled upon Union Square, I noticed I hadn't eaten in 24 hours. (I got excited at the prospect of WonderCon. I'm a geek. Fine, I admit it.) I had choices. I could re-lose myself in the city hoping to find a great eatery. (Not an option due to time constraints.) I could wait until the people I went with were done at the show. (Not an option since they wanted to eat bad sushi.)

And here the Bayless family had an impact on my life.

Rick Bayless' biggest commercial success, as a San Francisco resident, is a small cantica in the downstairs of Macy's of Union Square. Let me say this: If you ever get the chance to go, please do. The Mexican flatbread (Huerteca, I believe) is a corn meal based dish with carne asada, chipotle pepper sauce and other things I don't claim understand. Top that off with a rasberry prickly pear limeaid? You have a wonderful day.

So let's recap. I have a brother who allowed me to develop a vaccine/immunity to lame-itis. Over a year ago I read Skip and Rick Bayless' unofficial biographies on Wikipedia. There I learned Rick Bayless owned a restaurant with some serious culinary credibility in Union Square. A year later, while lost, hungry and in a city I love but can hardly navigate, I stumble upon that restaurant. Oh, and I had one of the most authentic (and delicious) Mexican meals of my life because of it.

Random events? Nay, dear reader. Fate stepped in and saved me from bad sushi. (We're talking Safeway quality, terrible sushi. Faux crab meat galore, smells like the ocean sushi. I had amazing Mexican.) Win for fate.

My Feet Are Cold

What is it about a warm bed that makes everything else in the world an inferior option? Put aside your wild animals, theme parks, jobs, friends and sports (society seems to collectively say), I am still in bed.

Society gears us from infancy to be productive individuals, and yet every Pavlovian impulse we have about producing may be set aside if the floor is too cold. Why? It isn't a sense of physical pain or mental humility. No punishment will come to us for getting out of bed and joining the world, and yet there we all stay, suited up for bed, onesies (don't judge) and all.

What could the cause of this accepted form of slothery be?

There must have been some biological reprograming at the beginning of the last ice age, as if an early warning system loosed our minds from the normal impulse to start the day. ("Nope, it is fifty below outside, and you could die. Stay in bed.") Modern humanity has been burdened with a vestigial impulse with a lesser standard. ("Nope. The floor is 60 degrees and the bed is 70. Plus I don't think the coffee is ready. Do. Not. Move.(!))

All of this is not to say this impulse is unwelcome. A professional procrastinator like myself can utilize this tool daily. For example: I am due at the office in an hour. Clients will need advice and I would, on the average Thursday, give counsel. But, today, they can wait because, well, my toes are cold and the thickest, fuzziest socks won't cut it to my standards.

In order to make such "relaxation" societally acceptable, I propose an initiative. Let's call it the "Beware Exiting the Duvet" bill (or as lobbyists will refer to it, "B.E.D."). Sick days have provided an easy out to those unwilling to overcome their physical ailments for the greater good. We now ask for the freedom to give excuses and receive reprive from our duties when the floor scares our feet, forcing us into the fetal position under our comforters.

I think we can make the world a better place. Let's start by taking (or I suppose not taking) this one step.

Billy Madison

Let me know if you remember this little diddy:

Back to school. Back to school.

To prove to Dad that I'm not a fool.

I got my lunch packed up, my boots tied tight.

I hope I don't get in a fight.

Ohhhh, back to school. Back to school. Back to school.

This was the memorable and always entertaining Adam Sandler in Billy Madison. So, here I sit, listening to a professor recite the syllabus.

Why has the "first day of class" dilemma yet to be solved? While my law school of choice has a position in the rankings well below "The Harvard," we students are respectable, intelligent and capable. The three pages of introductory page number paraphrasing could as easily be assigned, given a minute's attention, and ignored for the remainder of the semester. Yet, men and women with IQs beyond a number my five year old sister can count insist upon repeating the plain language put on paper. Yes, professor, I do know what "Assigned Pages: 217-240" means. Thank you, can we please move on to the next topic?

Then again I continue to attend these early sessions. Why? Perhaps I fear the occasional professor who would take the opportunity of being in a classroom seriously. I can only imagine missing foundational material, and having no basis upon which to develop an understanding of "Prosecutorial Discretion & Ethics." But I have never been disappointed . . . Or, rather, I have been perennially disappointed.

Effectively the second class becomes the first class. Our collective reluctance to delve into work from the starting gun shows our pandemic laziness. We are more than capable of dedicating the thought and effort into making that first class worthwhile. So, professors, please don't waste my time.

My boots are tied tight. And the lunch box? Balogna. Now on to the education.