President Trump Names His Cabinet


Good morning folks. I’m very happy to be here today to announce my cabinet selections. They are smooth, luxurious 100% cherry wood- no particle board- and made right here in the…..

(Donald Junior whispers in his ear and hands him a piece of paper)

Oh right. Here is a list and I will now tell you who I have selected to be my secretaries. I don’t know all of these women but rest assured all of them will be beautiful. Because they are secretaries. And I only hire beautiful secretaries, believe me. I am told that some of them may be men so I think it’s very clear that I do support the LGBT community. I mean a male secretary is probably gay, right? That’s just what other people are saying.

First, for my Secretary of State I choose Ted Cruz. I know what you’re thinking. “But Donald he said some truly awful things about you.” I know. But it’s Secretary of State. Not States. And the State I choose for him is……New Mexico. Believe me, new Mexicans are even worse than old Mexicans. Then when I build my wall I’ll go around the northern border of New Mexico and Lyin’ Ted will be trapped….in Mexico….where he’s from.

For Secretary of the Treasury-Jack Sparrow. Have you seen the treasure this guy finds? We could probably wipe out half the Obama deficit with just the stuff he found in Pirates of the Caribbean I.

Next is my Attorney General. Ladies and gentlemen it’s not easy finding an attorney who is also a general. Most attorneys are pussies, am I right? I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. Cap’n Crunch. I’m going to promote him to General and give him a bar card. He will be tremendous. #bigly

Secretary of the Interior will be Ivanka. She already has her own line of home furnishings. It’s all gold and very luxurious. She’s very hands on too. You should watch her hang curtain rods. What an ass. And by the way, my Mar Largo gardener, Jose, will be Secretary of the Exterior. But he has to stay outside.

My Secretary of Agriculture will be Jolly Green Giant. I mean, have you seen this guy? He’s huge. I frankly can’t believe I am the first President smart enough to choose Mr. Giant. He’s been around for years. Eats nothing but vegetables and look at him. Great guy. And he’s said very nice things about me.

Secretary of Housing and Urban Development. Are you serious? This department is so obsolete it’s not even funny. If you don’t already have a house by now with these low interest rates, you’re a loser. But there aren’t enough people buying second homes. So I am changing it to Secretary of Vacation Housing because I believe every American should be able to realize the dream of second home ownership. Or at least a time share.

And I’m going to privatize the Urban Development part. It’s going to be known as Trump Urban Development or TURD for short.

My Secretary of Transportation is going to be that guy who owns Uber. Come on. #nobrainer

Secretary of (High) Energy. By the way, if I had to choose a secretary of low energy do you know who I would choose? You got it. Jeb!

But my administration is all about high energy so I choose….you’re seriously going to love this …..Tasmanian Devil. Have you seen this guy? He’s nothing but energy. And it’s a win-win. Let’s say Putin decides to invade Tasmania. He is screwed. There’d be no point. We already have their devil. He works for us. You’re welcome.

Secretary of Veterans Affairs. We have to care for the veterans who were smart enough to not get captured or killed. But they did get injured which is not good. And that’s going to cost us a great deal of money. Should they have been smarter about not getting injured? That’s just what some people are saying. You tell me.

Let me think about this one. On second thought you know what? I’m not so sure these Veterans even deserve to have affairs.

Secretary of Homeland Security. I can’t decide. The Rock? Or Jack Bauer? Or that guy from American Gladiators? Or Clint Eastwood? All of them have been very nice to me. So here’s what we are going to do. We are going to have a competition. It will be prime time Thursday on Fox Public Television and hosted by our new Secretary of Education-Willie from Duck Dynasty. It will be huge. Best ratings ever.

Junk Bonds

fleaLast Sunday morning, as I enjoyed the silence and my first cup of coffee, I started to hear some strange noises. Bump…..bump……bump.

Silence again. Then the faint but unmistakable sound of footsteps. Another bump. Long silence. A few more footsteps. Another bump. They were coming from the attic. Squirrels? Mice?

I did what I usually do when confronted with the grim prospect of a household chore that could not be immediately subcontracted. I ignored it.

But the noises grew louder and louder. Clearly someone or something was rummaging through our attic. It had to be a bear. Or Big Foot. No ordinary human would venture to the nether regions of our garage.

I ran to the garage and saw the attic door open, my wife casting boxes everywhere.

“What are you doing?” I yelled.

“Where is the box with the Beanie Babies?”

The Beanie Babies-those tiny stuffed animals that were all the rage in the early ’90’s. When they first appeared we bought some for our kids. Then my wife got wind that they might be a collector’s item, so we bought several hundred more, left the tags attached and put them directly in a box in the attic. Seemed like a pretty solid retirement plan. Incubate those gems for a couple of decades and, in the event Ross Perot wasn’t able save America from economic ruin, sell them on the open market. Index funds are for suckers.

“Well? Aren’t you going to help me look?”

I climbed midway up the ladder when I was struck by a horrible thought.

“I think we gave them to Goodwill.”

“You better not have given them to Goodwill!” she said.

“Why do you need them?”

“Just start looking.”

Hoping that I didn’t take the box of beanie babies to our local dump after a painful episode of “Hoarders,” I found myself rummaging through several sizable mounds of worthless residue accumulated over the past 25 years.

My wife was going at this with great gusto. Finally, she confessed in a conspiratorial whisper.

“The Princess Di Bear is worth $75,000.”

I was careful. My wife tends to mishear things. She still thinks the chorus to “Beasts of Burden” is “I’ll never leave your pizza burnin’.” She also once called our kids’ school to protest when she heard the cafeteria was serving fish dicks.

“$75,000? That’s impossible.”

“Yes. $75,000. I saw it on the internet.”

So it had to be true.

I guessed it wouldn’t hurt to look. Just last week some lucky bastard in Toulouse, France stumbled upon a Caravaggio worth $136 million when he was having his roof repaired.

After about an hour of planting the seedlings of asbestosis in my lungs, I gave up. I can safely confirm that I don’t own a Honus Wagner baseball card or an original Van Gogh. Or, alas, it would appear, a Princess Di beanie baby.

This isn’t too surprising. I’m not much of a collector. That’s not to say it isn’t in my genes.

My dad was a hell of a trader. He would drag us to flea markets and estate sales almost every Saturday morning growing up. He would move through the tables with the grace of a lumberjack, an aura of flea market mogul about him. There could be a hundred people standing at a table of junk and my dad would always be the one who caught the vendor’s wary eye.

“What you lookin’ for?”

“Not buyin’ today. Just out with the kids” my dad would reply.

He paused for awhile over some old, wooden fishing lures while the vendor, a bear of a man in a straw hat, tried to resist the tractor beam. Then after just the right length of time had passed, my dad sauntered off. He was a world class saunterer.

“Them’s wood minnows. Company that makes ’em went out of business 40 years ago” the vendor called after my dad.

My dad was already across the way at a competitor’s table where he paid a dollar for some old postcards. I kept glancing back at the fishing lures salesman. My instincts told me we still had some unfinished business.

Finally, my dad sauntered back and picked up one of the lures.

“What’ll you take?”

“Askin’ $40 for 10 but I’d take a little less. Gotta get a scrip filled for nitro. Bout to run out.”

My dad, clearly unconcerned with this man’s incipient medical condition, examined the lure even more closely.

“Look an awful lot like the ones I saw last week in Lindale. Ol’ boy had a whole table of ’em. Come to find out they were fakes.”

My dad sounded like an investigator on “CSI: Lake Tenkiller.”

The vendor and I couldn’t tell whether my dad was bluffing. I eyed the exchange like I was witnessing the climax of a John Wayne movie.

“How about 13 lures for $15?” asked my Dad.

One of his favorite negotiating ploys was to mix up the bargain i.e. change the numerator; adjust the denominator. The vendor was sufficiently befuddled and, as best I can recall, my dad finally ended up with 15 lures for $25.

When I was about ten my dad took me to Mecca for junk dealers-First Monday Trade Days in Canton, Texas.

We rode down there with one of his best crap cronies, Poe.

To this day I’m not sure whether Poe was his last name or first. I do know he was as shifty as the popped clutch on a Model T. He had a firm, protruded belly that made him walk with a backwards lean as though he were carrying twins at full term. His daily uniform was high water jeans, frayed gray T-shirts and a ball cap that could barely contain his unruly mop of hair.

He supported himself with dice games and the two bit commerce of bric a brac. He didn’t pay taxes because he claimed to be registered with the IRS as a Unitarian minister. He was the type of guy who would rather climb a tree and run a con than stand on the ground and work for an honest living. But he was sure a lot of fun to be around.

We picked up Poe at a storage unit. He threw a couple of large, dirty boxes in the back of the van and we were off.

On the way to Canton we stopped for lunch at a local burger joint in Luella, Texas.

“I’ll get lunch” he said as we stepped out of the van. “Just stay quiet.”

We sat at a corner booth. Poe was reading the menu upside down when the waitress approached. My dad, unable to endorse what I was about to witness, gazed out the window.

“Get you guys something to drink?” asked our cheery waitress.

“Free tees and sho muggers” mumbled Poe through his bushy mustache.

“I’m sorry. What was that again hon?”

“Free tees and sho muggers.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t understand you sir. Did you say three teas?”

Poe nodded. “And sho muggers.”

The waitress left. A few minutes passed. A different waitress this time.

“You guys ready to order?”

Poe nodded and pointed to the menu.

“Is yis dere ho shiner?”

The waitress leaned in. I was about to wet myself trying to contain my laughter. My dad excused himself to the restroom.

“Are you pointing to the hamburger sir?”

Poe nodded.

“And I’m sorry but what did you want to know?”

“Yis ho shiner. It….it… stam wenzy?”

The waitress was ashamed that she had to ask again. And again.

“Ho shiner…..Ho shiner…… Yis dere. Ho shiner.”

Poe feigned deep shame that he was unable to convey even a rudimentary order. After a few more minutes Poe and the waitress gave up.

“How about I just bring three burger baskets? Is that okay?”

Poe shrugged and nodded. Then he pointed to his tea.

“Sho muggers?”

But the waitress had already turned and run to the kitchen. Every time she came to our table to bring our food, refill our tea or clear our plate, she avoided eye contact. When it came time for the check, she politely and quickly informed us that our tab had been comped by the manager. She thanked us for our patience and we were off to Canton.

Time to trade a little junk.

I woke from a nap as we pulled into the flea grounds. It looked as though every garage sale since Herod’s reign heaved forth its contents onto 250 acres of scrubby hell. Row upon row of vendors with every ware imaginable- watches, hubcaps, transistor radios, dolls, glassware, paintings, lamps, clothing, pop bottles, tools, cinder blocks, license plates.

We pulled to our spot and set our table. My dad carefully displayed an assortment of hickory shafted golf clubs, a dozen gutta percha golf balls, some antique toys and a stack of vintage postcards. Poe opened his box to reveal some old coins, several rusty knives, rain sticks, a heavily dented trumpet, a ukulele with no strings, a felt painting of a nude woman in semi-repose and a frayed rabbit’s foot. Poe placed the rabbit’s foot in a fancy glass box and set it toward the back, distinctly separate from his other clutter.

My dad handed me a twenty dollar bill and turned me loose.

I quickly located a booth with vintage games. A Plinko board was $18 and a magic set was $13. I couldn’t decide between the two. It was still early so I ventured on.

The more I looked, the more overwhelmed I became. I was headed back to our booth empty handed when I saw a dealer selling vintage tin signs-Burma Shave, Coca-Cola, Route 66, Humble Oil etc.

Then I spied one with a painting of a small dachshund and the caption: “Have you seen my wiener?”

Newly aware of the hilarity of this double entendre, I was eager to show my dad and Poe my maturing sense of humor. I just knew us guys would get a hell of a chuckle out of it.

“How much for the sign?” I asked the man.

“How much you got?”

“Twenty bucks.”

“It’s $23. But I reckon I could let it go for $20.”

Sweet. My first scalp. I handed the man my money, tucked the sign under my arm and sprinted back to camp.

“What’ve you got there, Weasel Wart?” asked Poe.

“Where’s my dad?”

Just then my dad appeared and it was time for the big reveal.

Poe roared with approval. My dad looked at me with a glare he usually reserved for bankers, lawyers and high school football coaches.

“What’d you pay for it?” he asked.


“A dollar.”

A dollar? He thought this sign was worth a dollar? Didn’t he get it? I tried to explain but about this time Poe gave me a shush.

A mark approacheth.

I looked up and saw an older man wearing bib overalls and a ball cap with a confederate flag. Thousands of tiny, broken capillaries pockmarked his nose and cheeks. He was drinking a can of beer wrapped in a brown paper bag.

After lingering a few minutes he wondered: “What’s in the glass box?”

“Oh that. It’s not for sale.”

“Didn’t ask that.”

Poe ignored the man’s abrupt manner and handed him the glass box.

“Be real careful with it now” Poe warned.

The man laughed.

“Ain’t nothin’ but a damned ol’ rabbit’s foot.”

“That ‘damned ol’ rabbit’s foot’ belonged to Stonewall Jackson, sir.”

“Bullshit,” said the man displaying all the evidence one needs that your first instinct is almost always correct.

“Had it in his pocket at the Battle of Bull Run, first and second. Lost it after Fredricksburg. Accidentally shot by his own men a couple of weeks later.”

Poe held it to his nose.

“Still smells like his nuts.”

Poe handed it to the man. The mark didn’t bat an eye that Poe was able to discern a telltale odor from the scrotum of a long dead Confederate General. The mark took a sniff and carefully placed it back in its case.

Curious, I picked it up and took a whiff. It occurred to me unlikely that anyone could prove the rancid smell was from glandular excretions more than a century ago…..but they couldn’t prove it wasn’t either.

“How much you want for it?” asked the man.

“Ain’t for sale. Sorry.”

“Bet you’d take $50 for it.”

“Bet you a fifty I won’t.”

“How bout a hunnert?”

“Sir I’m sure you’re well-intentioned but I can’t sell this to just anyone. This right here is history. It needs a proper home.”

“I reckon ain’t no one could give it a better home than me! I’ve got all kind of Civil War memrobilya.”

“What you got?”

The man rattled off a litany of his belongings from the Civil War Era but the die had long been cast. Sold. For $150 and a promise to give it due respect evermore.

After the man left, Poe grabbed a few old coins and placed them in the same glass box, setting it again near the back of the table.

The next morning we packed our belongings, but first a little unfinished business. My dad asked me to follow him.

“Grab your sign” he said.

We walked a few rows over where the sign vendor was packing his truck. I stood several yards away.

“Mornin'” said my dad.

“Can I help you?” replied the man who took my money.

“Just doin some last minute trading.”

“Don’t have much left. Most of its been packed away.”

“Looking for a Route 66 sign.”

The man started to dig under a blue tarp.

“Happen to have one right here.”

“How much?”

“How’s about $15?”

My dad called me over and motioned to me to hand over my sign. The man showed a brief glimmer of shame.

“Tell you what let’s do. I’ll trade you this sign for that sign and a ten dollar bill” offered my dad.

Obeying the code of honor among thieves, the man handed my dad $10 and the sign.

My dad and I walked to the van where Poe was half asleep in the front seat. I sat in the back and pawed through Poe’s boxes as evening approached.

“Hey Poe, what are these things?”

“Indian rain sticks. That purple one there ended the dust bowl. Brought the first rains to Kansas in over three years. Took this country out of a depression. Works every time.”

I turned it over and over, listening to the beads fall as a light drizzle coated the windshield.

Letter to My Daughter(s)

I’ve been away for awhile, unable to write much. Without getting too morose, my Dad is disappearing into the fog of Alzheimer’s and my kids are growing up fast. We dropped Sophie off in Washington, DC last weekend to start her summer internship. My other daughter is gingerly navigating the no man’s land of high school social bullshit.

Much of the time, I’m ill equipped to raise girls. How much do I protect them? How much do I let them go? How much of my male perspective helps/hinders them?

My youngest (I call her Goot) went away on a confirmation retreat a couple of months ago. We were asked to write letters of support. Since I’m in a deep personal struggle  with my own faith, it was a hard letter to compose.

I’ve only shared this with a few people and, frankly, I’m not sure why I’m sharing it now with the public at large. I guess I just think it’s important to let people (especially young women) know that they are loved.

Anyway, here it is.

Dear Goot:

Just think of all the Mass credits you’ll have after this weekend. Of course, I’m kidding. As you know by now, I do that quite a bit. I also hope you know that when I joke about Mass credits and tell stories of my days as an altar boy, I am not in any way diminishing the importance of faith. In fact, I strongly believe that being able to poke fun is one of the most important aspects of living a life of faith. People take religion much too serious. 
So here you are spending a weekend “confirming” your commitment to the Church. That’s great. But I warn you that you will very likely have a lifetime of commitments, break-ups and re-commitments with your faith. This is because no religion is a “one size fits all” experience. There are things about the Church that will bring you great comfort. There are things about the Church that will drive you nuts and you just won’t be able to swallow. No matter where you are on your faith journey, however, I hope you will always carry a fervent belief in these:

God: Geniuses, dunces, artists, freaks, zealots, people much smarter than me and people much dumber than me have debated the existence of God since the dawn of time. And no one is getting any closer to definitive “proof.” But, for me, the proof is everywhere. Your best friend’s smile, the delicate fingernails of a newborn baby, a burden eased by a helping hand, the tiny flower that grows in a crack in the sidewalk, the smell of honeysuckle after a spring rain, the stars. Don’t lose yourself in the pursuit of God only through books or Sunday Mass. The evidence you long for is all around you.
Jesus: Is Jesus the literal Son of God? Is Jesus God incarnate? I don’t know. Frankly that’s not a question that I spend much time on. But I believe the teachings of Jesus have endured thousands of years because they are so transformative and redemptive. He turned traditional concepts of God and religion upside down. My favorite part of the Bible is a passage in the Gospel of John where Jesus encounters a blind man. Rabbis ask Jesus “Who sinned that this man should be born blind, the man or the man’s parents?” Jesus replied: “It was neither this man nor this man’s parents who sinned. This man is blind so that the glory of God might be revealed through him.” That single passage tells you everything you need to know about Jesus. He was a radical, an outcast, a reject- and in all of those things- the perfect embodiment of a loving and forgiving God. 
Yourself: The human mind is a frequent harvester of doubt and insecurity. Get used to it. There are days you’ll feel out of touch, worthless, weird, sad, guilty, screwed up. But at your very core I need you to always believe in the fundamental goodness-no, greatness-of who you are. I am an expert evaluator of the human condition and I know. You are special. You’re not perfect and you never will be. But you are a miracle, nonetheless. And it is my undeserving honor and greatest pride to call you my daughter. 
I love you. 


Black and White

I’m whiter than a whale’s tooth. Can’t do much about it. Not that I’m complaining. As a middle aged caucasian male I’ve been the beneficiary of just about every privilege society can bestow. 

I’m probably unqualified to offer much in terms of the recent events surrounding the SAE chapter at OU.  But since good judgment has never been my guidepost, here goes anyway.

My initial reaction was probably not unlike most people. I was disgusted and I thought President Boren handled it in an appropriate manner. 

We have a serious black and white issue in this country that isn’t so black and white. As a white male I want to fit the entire spectrum of the racial divide into a tidy package. I want a villain. Someone about whom I can say isn’t at all like me. David Duke. Paula Deen. Parker Rice. I would never chant the “n word” on a bus full of coeds. 

But Parker Rice and Paula Deen and every other Neanderthal spewing racial epithets aren’t the characters of racism. They are the caricatures of racism. It’s easy to distance ourselves from these people.

Individual racism isn’t the real problem; institutional racism is. We have disproportionately segregated almost an entire population of minorities through the prison system. It’s modern day slavery. 

Look at the numbers. A black defendant is 22 times more likely to be convicted and given a death sentence than a white defendant. One in three black males born today will spend time in prison. If Hispanic and African American men were incarcerated at the same rate as whites the prison population would drop by 50%. In urban areas, upwards of 60 % of the adult black males are in prison. Sixty percent. Five times as many whites use drugs as African Americans, yet African Americans are sent to prison for drug offenses at ten times the rate of whites. 

We shake our heads and voice fleeting outrage at the individuals who embarrass us and our race of privilege. And we wait for Hollywood to make a quick Sandra Bullock movie about saving a black boy from the clutches of poverty and sending him to the NFL so we can pat ourselves on the back for our collective beneficence. 

We decry the stupidity of a racial slur but we give tacit approval to widespread discriminatory incarceration without so much as a thought. But they’re criminals, you say. 

And you’re partly right. Our prisons are full of drug dealers, murderers, rapists, thieves and thugs. But they’re also full of sons, fathers, hard workers, artists, potential scientists and social workers, mistake makers. 

What if you were branded your whole life by your single worst act? I shudder to think, especially when I consider all of the stupid shit I’ve said and done. What if I were always branded as a liar? Or a cheater? I haven’t always been known for having the best judgment. Suffice it to say, I’m a big fan of second (and third and fourth) chances.

If a young black man goes to prison for selling drugs, should he have to wear that label the rest of his life? How about the time you drove home drunk? Sure you made it home safely but shouldn’t that act of stupidity define you? Of course not. In either instance.

Worse yet, what if I was defined by the actions of others just because I was “one of them”? What if I was always a suspect because of the color of my skin? And what if I was labelled  a racist because someone in my fraternity said something inflammatory? Sound familiar? I know that some, perhaps many, of the kids in the SAE house don’t share the same views on race as Parker Rice. 

The older I get the less I see things in black and white. As much as we want tidy labels, there just aren’t any. Will a young black boy who killed someone at age 15 get discarded without any chance at rehabilitation? Has a college freshman ruined his life because he sang a vile song? 

I hope not. For their sake….and ours.

50 Shades of First Grade


It was first grade “show & tell.” As you might have guessed I was more of a teller than a show-er.

So I was always jealous of the kids who brought cool things to show. Monty brought some Mexican jumping beans one day. Another day, Clay brought some rattlesnake eggs.

But the most interesting day was when Joanie Holmes brought to school a fun little item. She found it in the top drawer of her mom’s dresser. It was beige, thin and oblong with a button that would make it vibrate. Her mom told her it was a foot massager, so during recess she had several of my classmates lined up with their shoes off and she was using it for its intended purpose.

Mrs. Alley, our first grade teacher, walked by, paused briefly to observe what was happening and turned a shade of white I’ve not seen since.

“Holy Mother of Christ! What in the hell are you doing?” she said as she reached down and grabbed Joan’s “show.”

“Giving massages” said Joan, completely innocent to the fact that something was, well, amiss.

Always a few years behind the curve, I too had no idea at the time that a simple foot massager could have so many other useful purposes.

I hope you’ll forgive me if I’m a little late to the “50 Shades of Grey” conversation. After reading reviews of the book and watching the trailer, I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.

According to the Sherwin Williams color wheel at Home Depot, I’m the 49 1/2 shades between porcelain white and marshmallow with a 1/2 dalliance into ecru. Not exactly blockbuster material. BDSM isn’t really in my DNA.

Not that it has always been this way. Without trying to sound overly libidinous, I vaguely recall that I once owned a Marvin Gaye and a Barry White album. I think I sold them in a garage sale when the kids were little and used the proceeds to buy a “Wheels on the Bus” CD.

Still, this 50 shades thing isn’t exactly in my wheelhouse. Bondage, dominance,sadism. I left that behind when my kids outgrew Chuck E Cheese’s and I ain’t going back.

It’s not that my wife isn’t used to a little torture in the bedroom. I left her screaming just the other night…..when my big toe scraped against her shin.

“Ouch,” she screamed. “Would you clip your toenail please? You could puncture a snow tire with that thing!”

Sorry ladies. I’m taken.

If my wife ever does express an interest in torture, however, I’m ready. I’ll just blindfold her and lead her to the laundry room. It’ll probably leave her breathless.

She did introduce me to a fun game of adult hide and seek once. And let me tell you she’s a damn good hider. I didn’t find her until the next day. She cheated a little though. She was hiding at her mom’s house.

I don’t want you to get the impression that I’m just some Puritan. I’ve watched Taxicab Confessions enough times to have a pretty good idea of what the rest of you are doing.

So all I would ask of you is to please, just stop. I’m not interested. I once visited Victoria’s Secret to see whether it might stoke the smoldering fires but it had the opposite effect. I was behind my sunglasses and delicately pawing through a piece of lace the size of a cocktail napkin when I noticed several women trying on some pink sweat pants. You know the kind that say “Juicy” or “Pink” on the rear end. Always one to promote truth in advertising, I wondered aloud whether they might be more appropriately emblazoned with “Think Outside the Bun” or “Unlimited Breadsticks.” No one appreciates my help.

But seriously, I don’t really care to know what goes on behind your closed doors. If you have to read a book or see a movie to figure out how to enjoy your sex life, you must not have a very fertile imagination.

As for me, let’s just say that I’m very likely going to make a run over to Spencer’s Adult Toys later today and pick up a little something. My feet are killing me.


Big Nose, Not Funny


I approached the hostess stand at one of my favorite restaurants Friday night.

“How long is the wait?”

“About 30 minutes.”

I mustered a cool countenance.

“Do you even know who I am?”


She wasn’t amused.

I gave her my name and waited. The hostess was doing a nice job of working through her list without having to shout the names over the huddled throng. I wondered how she remembered so many people. Then I snuck a glance at her list and discovered her secret. Next to the names she wrote a brief description of the person.

“Cat lover. Sweet,” she jotted down. Sure enough, a few minutes later I saw the hostess summon the party of an older woman wearing a patient smile and a Siamese cat sweater.

“Beard. Mad.” I scanned the room and saw a man with a full facial hair and a menacing glare. Bingo.

This was fun. There was “Huge. Rude.” And “Tattoo. Funky.” I pegged them both. Then “Hot. Blue eyes.”  That wasn’t me.

“Big nose. Not funny.” I looked left. Then right. No luck. My eyes followed the hostess as she wandered through the crowd. When she returned to the hostess stand our eyes met.

“Oh there you are,” she said.

“Me?” I asked, looking around.

“Your table is ready.”

Big nose? Not funny? She was probably right on both counts but it was a setback of sorts for me. After 50 years, I was just starting to come to terms with my nose.

We do it all the time don’t we? We categorize people based on our limited perspective. It’s just easier that way. We take a fleeting encounter and fill in the blanks. I specialize in this. I’m the Burger King of drive-thru judgments.

It’s just not as much fun when we are on the receiving end.

One of my posts from last year generated a number of interesting appraisements. Many are positive. Some, not as much.

My favorite thus far reads: “I hope you enjoy feeling smug and superior. F*** off.”

Various other people have instructed me to watch my tone, get off my high horse, lose the attitude, pound sand and die. I’ve been described as cocky, a weasel, a sham, a dimwit, a prick, dense, an embarrassment-oh and now “not funny”-all of which are fairly apt on a rotating basis. I just hope they don’t tell the whole story.

Of course, this is the frustrating thing about our story. It is always read by someone else. I can say something to you, but I can’t interpret it for you. As much as I want to come across as “hot, blue eyes,” I can’t stop you from thinking “big nose, not funny.”

Everything I do or say is filtered through your lens. Since I’m not sure we even see the color blue the same way, it’s a wonder humans aren’t lost in a constant state of misunderstanding and hurt feelings.

We even do this with people we know well.

It usually comes down to assigning intent to the words and actions of others. The Facebook pictures of your vacation are rubbing my nose in it. Your sympathy e-mail seemed shallow and uncaring. Your failure to remember my birthday was a personal affront.

This is not to say that your interpretation is wrong. Just futile. What good does it do to ascribe malice or ill will to the actions or words of others?  My mom used to always say “take people at face value.” In other words, quit looking for ulterior motives or hidden meaning. If someone pays you a compliment, don’t search for subtext. If they offer you compassion, don’t waste your energy feeling slighted.

You are the only one who can shape the way you interpret the world. So enough fretting over pithy assessments. You’re wasting your time. But if you can’t help yourself, I know a nice little restaurant where you can hostess.

10 Rules for Young Lawyers

baby lawyer

I was honored to have the Texas Bar Journal publish my “10 Rules for Young Lawyers” in the January, 2015 issue.

A link to the actual article can be found by clicking here.

The text of the article appears below:

I was recently updating my State Bar profile when I noticed that my date of admittance was 1988.  I’m not usually one to lament the passage of time but for one reason this acknowledgement stopped me in my tracks-26 years. The next weekend my son and some of his friends were in town. Two of them are going to law school so they asked me what advice I would give to young lawyers. After thinking about it for a while I decided to jot down a few of my “rules.”

  1. Start at the end.

Your career will be over before you know it. What do you want it to look like in 25 years? 35 years? Do you want to be known as a person of integrity, a person who keeps his/her word? A person who follows through? A person who looks out for his/her client’s best interests? Or do you want to be someone who takes shortcuts? Someone who pulls silly stunts? Someone who puts his/her interests above those of the client?

This also applies to every matter you undertake. Figure out the ultimate goal and write it down.

“Settlement or verdict of X.” “Sole managing conservatorship.” “Probation.”

Make certain you have a clearly defined objective. Then make sure every effort is spent working toward that goal.

  1. Preserve your ice sculpture.

I stole this one from a law school classmate. He says he thinks of every case like a brand new ice sculpture just removed from the freezer. Beautiful. Solid. From that point forward it’s going to melt. Your mission is to make certain you get a resolution before it turns to water. This is important for two distinct reasons.

First, you need to work fast. Don’t delay. Don’t hesitate. Don’t waste time or resources.

Second, understand that your case is never as good as it is going to appear when your client comes to your office and tells you his/her story. On that first day you will take your ice sculpture from your client meeting and be proud to show it off. Then another lawyer will come along with a pick and a blow dryer and start chipping away. And an arm will fall off. Or you’ll lose the head. But it’s still your ice sculpture. Strap that sculpture in the front seat, turn the a/c as low as it will go and get to the wedding reception as quick as possible. No detours.

  1. Wait at least 24 hours before sending a letter which begins: “Dear Judge Dumbass.”

When I was a young lawyer I had a contentious case in front of an overbearing Judge. One morning I appeared at a hearing in front of this Judge. He was rude and, in my opinion, flat out wrong when he ruled against my client. I thought he needed to know. I went to my office and dictated a letter which began: “Dear Judge Dumbass.” I gave the letter to my legal assistant to send.

I slept rather fitfully that night and when I arrived at the office the next morning I told my legal assistant I was starting to regret sending the letter. She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out the letter.

She had the sense to save me from my basest instincts. I have appeared in front of this same Judge many times since that day. Some days he is smart; other says he is pretty dense. Either way, he’ll never know what I really think.

  1. It’s not always chess; usually it’s just checkers.

Let’s face it. There’s only so much strategy one can employ. Thankfully, the Rules of Civil Procedure have removed much of the gamesmanship from litigation. In the end, preparation will trump strategy every time. Read the case law. Examine every document. Prepare for the deposition. Be thorough. Be diligent.

  1. Get in the bunker.

What is just one of many files to you is the most important thing in the world to your client. It’s what keeps them up at night. It occupies their every thought. They don’t want just a lawyer. They don’t even want a hero. They want a teammate.

If you take a case your client wants you to climb in the bunker with them. Some of my most grateful clients are those for whom I failed to get a good result. But we fought their fight together-and that made all the difference.

  1. Don’t let your client’s money get mad or stupid.

Here’s the one truth about litigation that lawyers often forget. It’s only about money. Therefore, it typically comes down to a business decision. As a litigator you should frequently assess the cost of your pursuit with the likelihood of your desired result. Caution your client from pursuing an agenda that is born of vindictiveness, revenge or stupidity.

  1. Don’t take it out on the staff- yours, theirs or the court.

Everybody is doing a job. Just because they are not performing to your expectations doesn’t mean they have it in for you. Everyone carries responsibilities, stresses and baggage you know nothing about. Be kind.

  1. Don’t take in stray cats.

My legal assistant has a file cabinet filled with the detritus of “causes” I have chosen to undertake through the years. She calls it the “Stray Kitten” drawer.

Here’s an example. I once represented a client who was about to have his house foreclosed. Unemployed. Terrible credit. But he had two kids living with him so I felt sorry for him. He was extremely late for his first appointment with me, which is usually a harbinger of bad things. When he arrived he convinced me of his good intentions, his hard luck and his extreme need. So I took him in. We successfully postponed the foreclosure but as we tried to work out a deal with the lender the real story emerged. He had made only two payments the previous 18 months. He had been fired from his job for excessive absenteeism. His kids lived with his wife because he had a serious dependency problem. He was a mess. Unfortunately, he was my mess.

He was one in a long line of stray cats I have tried to help. So I have learned a few things about strays. They will cry for attention, fight like hell when cornered and gladly accept your generosity. But stray cats live outside because they choose to. They don’t want to have rules. Unless you are trained to rescue stray cats, leave them alone.

  1. Don’t take everything so personally.

I handled a case one time that was just awful. My client was, well, difficult. The facts were, ahem, unfavorable. My better judgment told me to stay away but I filed the case anyway. The lawyer for the defendant-a grizzled, crusty veteran of the defense bar-called and told me, in no uncertain terms, that my case was a joke. I got my back up and pursued the case longer than I should have, primarily because I was not going to be told what to do by my opponent. Sometimes you have to take off your rose colored glasses and put on your bile-tinted monocle.

  1. Don’t give up.

I am always mystified by lawyers who will work up a case, hire experts, file motions, get to the courthouse steps……and fold. Litigation is a full contact sport. There will be times you think you cannot lose; times you hope you’ll be able to just keep your license; times you’ll want to beat the table; times you’ll want to crawl under it. All of these will usually occur in the same case. Fight through the urge to give up for the wrong reasons. Play to the whistle. Just hanging in can yield positive results.

So there you go. I’ll end with one of the single greatest rules I ever learned. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I won’t be able to share the back story. It is: Know when to shut up.

I’m sure you have some nuggets of wisdom you’d like to share. Let me hear from you.