I'm working on a couple longish blog entries- a humorous family piece, "My brother, Hitler," and a kind of sarcastic political piece on "holier than thou" activists that do drugs.
But, it may be a while before either comes into print.
In the meantime, I wish you all a Happy Easter!
About Me
- Estolano in San Diego
- chula vista, California
- Random thoughts, some of them funny, from a San Diego divorce and criminal defense attorney, as he fights for his clients in Court, fights the battle of bulge and goes through life.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Friday, April 3, 2009
Some Poetry
First, some honesty- from a lawyer, nonetheless! Although I really enjoy poetry and admire good poets, 90% of the poetry that I've written in my life was probably written to impress a girl. Like many of my friends, I spent a good deal of my pre-married life chasing after pretty women. At UC Berkeley, many girls liked poetry- so I ended up writing a ton of cheezy poems.
Some of the poems were just funny invites to a coffee or a dinner.
Others were more traditional "come hither" poems- "come share with me a lover's night, no moon, nor stars, just you and I, two lights in darkness, together so bright."
For a period of time when I was seeing an actual poet, I wrote more traditional poems- about world issues like AIDS- "I write to you, who could never write to me, your night has passed to stars that we can no longer see, etc, etc.." I think some of these poems were even published, but I have no illusions about the skill level.
Here's a sample (reproduced by memory) of my work.
The Baby
She lies next to me tonight
Her slender arms clutching a
Baby Doll she thinks she
may never really have
Tears run slowly down her
Small brown eyes and she looks
out to the world through
a watery prism that sees only
the pain that remains
A night of red, gray, and black
when a man too much like me
showed her what a woman was for
A friendship betrayed under a moon
that had belonged to lovers
the light of the stars faded
Never to return
No, she cries
The tears fall faster now
I put my clumsy arm around her
and she just clutches the baby tighter
Finding in the baby doll the hope
She can't find in me anymore
She lies next to me tonight
Her slender arms holding a
Baby Doll that I wish
We could have really had
And that's why I became a lawyer instead of a poet!
Here's a link to some poetry that I like
Willie Perdomo
Geoff Bouvier
Lizz Huerta
The first two were teachers of mine- they had to put up with having a hypercritical lawyer in their workshops.
"So, what exactly is so great about Kafka's weird sentences?"
"What if I don't especially feel like writing about my childhood?"
"What's the point of this?"
But, they were both incredibly patient and informative. I recommend their poetry books to anyone with an amazon.com account. Perdomo's poetry is fun, incisive and actually educational about social issues. You can learn a lot about the streets, reading his work. Sometimes, it's more fun to listen to his work as you'll see from the link. As a fellow "mutt", I enjoy his takes on what it feels like to be considered both black and Latino.
Bouvier is more cerebral and nerdy in his approach- the finely constructed sentence turned on its head, hidden messages in the poetry and such... You can easily spend an hour contemplating a single poem in his book "Living Room." His best work is not online, but in the book, so I urge you to buy a copy (or, if you know me, borrow mine.)
The third poet, Lizz Huerta, has no books for purchase online, but has a blog where she will be posting a poem a day. I haven't read enough of her poems to launch a full critique- but the poem that I linked- "To Know" is a brilliant analysis of your typical Latino father- sacrificing for his children and swallowing his pain, but perhaps sacrificing his children by his emotional distance. It has a beautiful allusion to the story of Abraham and Isaac.
I have always loved poetry- Gustavo Adolfo Bequer, Neruda, Emerson and many others were inspiring to me and enriching to my life. It's wonderful to see how a tiny poem can have a depth that is so profound. Sometimes even just a line sticks with you. Like "if eyes were made for seeing, then beauty is its own excuse for being."
Pretty cool stuff. Poetry- it's not just for chasing women!
Some of the poems were just funny invites to a coffee or a dinner.
Others were more traditional "come hither" poems- "come share with me a lover's night, no moon, nor stars, just you and I, two lights in darkness, together so bright."
For a period of time when I was seeing an actual poet, I wrote more traditional poems- about world issues like AIDS- "I write to you, who could never write to me, your night has passed to stars that we can no longer see, etc, etc.." I think some of these poems were even published, but I have no illusions about the skill level.
Here's a sample (reproduced by memory) of my work.
The Baby
She lies next to me tonight
Her slender arms clutching a
Baby Doll she thinks she
may never really have
Tears run slowly down her
Small brown eyes and she looks
out to the world through
a watery prism that sees only
the pain that remains
A night of red, gray, and black
when a man too much like me
showed her what a woman was for
A friendship betrayed under a moon
that had belonged to lovers
the light of the stars faded
Never to return
No, she cries
The tears fall faster now
I put my clumsy arm around her
and she just clutches the baby tighter
Finding in the baby doll the hope
She can't find in me anymore
She lies next to me tonight
Her slender arms holding a
Baby Doll that I wish
We could have really had
And that's why I became a lawyer instead of a poet!
Here's a link to some poetry that I like
Willie Perdomo
Geoff Bouvier
Lizz Huerta
The first two were teachers of mine- they had to put up with having a hypercritical lawyer in their workshops.
"So, what exactly is so great about Kafka's weird sentences?"
"What if I don't especially feel like writing about my childhood?"
"What's the point of this?"
But, they were both incredibly patient and informative. I recommend their poetry books to anyone with an amazon.com account. Perdomo's poetry is fun, incisive and actually educational about social issues. You can learn a lot about the streets, reading his work. Sometimes, it's more fun to listen to his work as you'll see from the link. As a fellow "mutt", I enjoy his takes on what it feels like to be considered both black and Latino.
Bouvier is more cerebral and nerdy in his approach- the finely constructed sentence turned on its head, hidden messages in the poetry and such... You can easily spend an hour contemplating a single poem in his book "Living Room." His best work is not online, but in the book, so I urge you to buy a copy (or, if you know me, borrow mine.)
The third poet, Lizz Huerta, has no books for purchase online, but has a blog where she will be posting a poem a day. I haven't read enough of her poems to launch a full critique- but the poem that I linked- "To Know" is a brilliant analysis of your typical Latino father- sacrificing for his children and swallowing his pain, but perhaps sacrificing his children by his emotional distance. It has a beautiful allusion to the story of Abraham and Isaac.
I have always loved poetry- Gustavo Adolfo Bequer, Neruda, Emerson and many others were inspiring to me and enriching to my life. It's wonderful to see how a tiny poem can have a depth that is so profound. Sometimes even just a line sticks with you. Like "if eyes were made for seeing, then beauty is its own excuse for being."
Pretty cool stuff. Poetry- it's not just for chasing women!
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
April Fools Jokes
I've always been something of a joker. My instinct has always been to find the funny side of life, even in stressful situations. Moments before my surgery for cancer, I was joking with the surgeon about whether he'd paid his malpractice premium. Friends say that had I been on the Titanic, I probably would have been doing stand up.
So, in the spirit of April Fool's day, I thought it'd be fun to scribble down a few stories about funny pranks that I played on people.
Story #1- The Chicken Incident
On of my closest friends- I'll call him JC (because as a lawyer he might sue me!). Anyway, JC and I had the exact same model of phone. We were running errands for work and my phone was almost out of charge.
"Do you mind if I charge my phone on your charger," I asked.
"My phone isn't fully charged yet," he said, not bothering to look at me.
"But it has more charge than my phone. I'm almost out."
"I said no." he said, still looking ahead.
Inwardly, I seethed with irritation. I really needed my phone as I was expecting a call from my fiance (and now wife). So, I did slight of hand. While JC looked ahead, I switched phones on him- placing my phone in the charger.
We drove around for a while and out of boredom, I checked to see what ringtones he'd downloaded. It turned out that he had the same funky chicken ringtone that I had. It gave me an idea.
"So, we're here," J.C. said when we had arrived back at court for the afternoon calendar. "I'll see you later."
"Yeah, see you," I said, but I followed him down the hall way a few steps back. I waited until he approached a group of officers that were his witnesses for the afternoon. Then I dialed his phone.
"CACKLE DODOO DODOOO! CACKLE DODOO DODOO!" came the sound from his ringtone. with any accompanying disco beat. The officers that were with him stared at him and then burst into laughter.
"Nice phone, counselor.."
Story #2- Sing, mothertrucker!
When I was a teenager, I had an interesting relationship with my oldest brother Mario. We would steal from each other. Nothing serious- mostly music and clothes. He would see a cassette of mine that he liked and, being bigger than me, would take it. I would respond by going to his house or car, and taking two CDs. Then he might snag my favorite sweater, while I would respond by taking his shirts. Being ten years older and actually having money to buy good stuff, Mario almost always came out losing in the exchange. He would complain to my father, but it fell on deaf ears.
"You should be setting an example for your brother. You're the older one." Papa would say and Mario would grumble.
Then came the famous car crash of the Pontiac T1000. In addition to larceny, my brother and I shared bad driving in common. No one else in the family had crashed as many vehicles. My latest victim was my Pontiac economy car- chosen by my father because it could not exceed fifty miles per hour and was presumably very safe for me. As it turned out, it wasn't very safe for my Aunt Betty's car. I totaled both cars in a collison that happened while I fiddled with my new car radio.
The Pontiac ended up at my brother's used car dealership. He took the car radio out and put in his car and showed it off to me while I grumbled.
"I'll give it back to you when you get a new car," he said. "In the meantime, try singing?"
But, when I got my next car- a wonderful Datsun pickup that you could drive with either keys or a screwdriver- Mario refused to give me the radio back. He offered me a used radio from the dealership and easily deflected my attempts to take it by force- I was tall and gym strong, but my brother Mario has always been street strong.
I ended up returning to the dealership when he wasn't present and borrowing a slim jim from the car lot. This was a tool used to open cars without a key- it was a slim piece of metal with a hook that you could use to jimmy a lock.
That night, I drove to his house in Tijuana and parked next to his car. It took only a second to open the car and another few seconds to remove the radio, but I felt like I was going to be discovered at any moment. Sure enough, I'd just finished locking his car back up when Mario emerged from his house.
"Dinner?" I asked, dropping the radio surreptiously at my feet and kicking it under my car. My brother grabbed me in a headlock, but then dragged me into the house and fed me. It was a wonderful dinner of meat, tortillas and salsa. After about five tacos, I got ready to leave.
"Can I borrow a piece of paper and a pencil," I asked.
"Not a problem, Mario said. He advised me to be careful when I went clubbing, evidently thinking the paper was to jot down phone numbers.
Instead, when I left, I used the slim jim again and left a note in the gaping hole where the radio had been.
"Sing, mothertrucker!"
So, in the spirit of April Fool's day, I thought it'd be fun to scribble down a few stories about funny pranks that I played on people.
Story #1- The Chicken Incident
On of my closest friends- I'll call him JC (because as a lawyer he might sue me!). Anyway, JC and I had the exact same model of phone. We were running errands for work and my phone was almost out of charge.
"Do you mind if I charge my phone on your charger," I asked.
"My phone isn't fully charged yet," he said, not bothering to look at me.
"But it has more charge than my phone. I'm almost out."
"I said no." he said, still looking ahead.
Inwardly, I seethed with irritation. I really needed my phone as I was expecting a call from my fiance (and now wife). So, I did slight of hand. While JC looked ahead, I switched phones on him- placing my phone in the charger.
We drove around for a while and out of boredom, I checked to see what ringtones he'd downloaded. It turned out that he had the same funky chicken ringtone that I had. It gave me an idea.
"So, we're here," J.C. said when we had arrived back at court for the afternoon calendar. "I'll see you later."
"Yeah, see you," I said, but I followed him down the hall way a few steps back. I waited until he approached a group of officers that were his witnesses for the afternoon. Then I dialed his phone.
"CACKLE DODOO DODOOO! CACKLE DODOO DODOO!" came the sound from his ringtone. with any accompanying disco beat. The officers that were with him stared at him and then burst into laughter.
"Nice phone, counselor.."
Story #2- Sing, mothertrucker!
When I was a teenager, I had an interesting relationship with my oldest brother Mario. We would steal from each other. Nothing serious- mostly music and clothes. He would see a cassette of mine that he liked and, being bigger than me, would take it. I would respond by going to his house or car, and taking two CDs. Then he might snag my favorite sweater, while I would respond by taking his shirts. Being ten years older and actually having money to buy good stuff, Mario almost always came out losing in the exchange. He would complain to my father, but it fell on deaf ears.
"You should be setting an example for your brother. You're the older one." Papa would say and Mario would grumble.
Then came the famous car crash of the Pontiac T1000. In addition to larceny, my brother and I shared bad driving in common. No one else in the family had crashed as many vehicles. My latest victim was my Pontiac economy car- chosen by my father because it could not exceed fifty miles per hour and was presumably very safe for me. As it turned out, it wasn't very safe for my Aunt Betty's car. I totaled both cars in a collison that happened while I fiddled with my new car radio.
The Pontiac ended up at my brother's used car dealership. He took the car radio out and put in his car and showed it off to me while I grumbled.
"I'll give it back to you when you get a new car," he said. "In the meantime, try singing?"
But, when I got my next car- a wonderful Datsun pickup that you could drive with either keys or a screwdriver- Mario refused to give me the radio back. He offered me a used radio from the dealership and easily deflected my attempts to take it by force- I was tall and gym strong, but my brother Mario has always been street strong.
I ended up returning to the dealership when he wasn't present and borrowing a slim jim from the car lot. This was a tool used to open cars without a key- it was a slim piece of metal with a hook that you could use to jimmy a lock.
That night, I drove to his house in Tijuana and parked next to his car. It took only a second to open the car and another few seconds to remove the radio, but I felt like I was going to be discovered at any moment. Sure enough, I'd just finished locking his car back up when Mario emerged from his house.
"Dinner?" I asked, dropping the radio surreptiously at my feet and kicking it under my car. My brother grabbed me in a headlock, but then dragged me into the house and fed me. It was a wonderful dinner of meat, tortillas and salsa. After about five tacos, I got ready to leave.
"Can I borrow a piece of paper and a pencil," I asked.
"Not a problem, Mario said. He advised me to be careful when I went clubbing, evidently thinking the paper was to jot down phone numbers.
Instead, when I left, I used the slim jim again and left a note in the gaping hole where the radio had been.
"Sing, mothertrucker!"
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