Pitiful Wednesday

For the last twenty-plus years, I have been taking two puffs in each nostril of a nasal steroid called Flonase. Before I started the puffs, I would get an allergy attack about three times a year that followed a regular cycle: first a little congestion, then a lot of congestion, then the congestion would move down into my lungs for a week or so, before eventually fading away.  These attacks were miserable for me - lots of coughing, rattles and whines in my lungs, a general sense of fatigue.

After Flonase, the attacks mostly stopped, at most once a year, and sometimes years would pass with no problems. I am a Flonase evangelist because it works for me.

Except when it doesn’t, like this week.  On Monday, the last day of my early voting polling place work, I started coughing.  When I got home, it started getting worse.  I took some NyQuil which let me sleep, but I woke up worse off.  All day Tuesday, I was either sleeping or coughing and I had to skip my workout and my Tuesday poker game. (Nothing worse than sitting at a table with eight other people in close quarters, coughing all over the cards and poker chips.). Today has been slightly better, but it’s going to be a slow recovery.

It may be that this is a cold or some other virus and that the Flonase is not relevant.  I was making contact with or breathing in the exhalations of over five hundred people in the polling place, after all.

Whatever.  This is just to explain why the journal has been quiet lately.  I really am committed to this project, and I have been worrying about my lack of diligence.  And then I would roll over and take another nap.

We will see how I feel tomorrow.  I have a workout and a guitar lesson scheduled and my mother wants me to get her car registered in Texas, so I really need to get it together.

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I finished April 1865 on Monday and came away admiring the book very much.  Jay Winik, the author, has an interesting narrative style - he tracks the timeline of the month, and when a new character is introduced, he does a deep digression into that person’s history.  I learned a lot about Lincoln, Grant, Lee, Jefferson Davis, Andrew Johnson, and John Wilkes Booth.  I also got a better understanding of the incredible number of casualties in the Civil War, some 600,000 men, and the astounding amount of damage done to Southern cities.  And mostly I came away with an appreciation of how much worse things could have been (and conversely, how much better off the country would have been if Lincoln had lived).

My supervisor at the polling place saw me reading the book and asked me what it was about.  When I told him, he was interested, so on my last day. I gave it to him.  Had I not done that, I would probably have kept it in the library.  I recommend it.

Next up: Big Bang by Simon Singh, an in-depth review of the origins of the universe.  I remember taking a dive into this book about ten years ago and getting bogged down in the science before skipping ahead to the end to find out that no one really knows where the singularity came from.  That was a bummer.

But I am going to double down this time, inspired by my wife’s dogged reading of The Making of the Atomic Bomb by Richard Rhodes.  That book was huge and dense and technical, but she finished it over about three months and can say that she has a law person’s understanding of atomic energy and weapons.

It would be cool to have a layperson’s understanding of the universe after finishing this book, but I will settle for a better appreciation of the scale of the universe.  (I am in the camp of believing that there is probably life elsewhere in the universe that we will never encounter because light-years are immutable and in the 10,000 years it would take for another civilization to answer our SETI call, we will be long gone.)

Now, chicken soup.  Wish me well.

Pizza Saturday

When I was a kid, I read everything.  All of the books on my parents’ bookshelf were fair game, and they had some interesting choices there.  

For example, my mother had a book that was simply titled Yoga and it had a woman in a leotard demonstrating various asanas.  For a thirteen year old boy, a woman in a leotard was reason enough to closely examine the book (in those days, the lingerie pages in the Sears catalog were good reading as well), but I also appreciated the philosophical text that accompanied the photographs, detailing a whole lifestyle dedicated to the meditative benefits of yoga.

My father also had a paperback book on transcendental meditation which appealed to me for a single reason: the author promised that with enough concentration, you could literally float in the air.  I did everything the book said to do, right down to focusing on a mantra (I don’t remember what my mantra was, but as a smart-ass seventh grader, it was probably something like “boobs”), but I never got close to leaving the ground.  Between the failures of that book and my cynicism about Catholicism, my spiritual growth was definitely stunted at a young age.

I also remember that my dad had the sequel to Jim Bouton’s Ball Four, the first real sports tell-all about baseball in the Sixties.  This book had a bunch of stories about a guy named Doug Rader who apparently liked to poop on cakes that the team bought to celebrate birthdays and other milestones, then close the lid of the cake box and wait to see the poor teammate’s reaction to the defiled dessert.  As a thirteen year old, I thought this was hilarious.  As a sixty-two year old, I now think it was a waste of good cake.

My dad also had a book called Steal This Book, by the Yippee activist Abbie Hoffman.  The book was basically a guide to living outside the law as a countercultural hippie, with practical advice on shoplifting, phone scams, and even making pipe bombs.  It was many years before it occurred to me that it had been my dad who bought this book.  Why would he have bought this book?  My theory is that he was only 23 when I was born in 1963, so I think he lived vicariously through the Woodstock generation, unable to be a part of it because of, among other things, my mother and me and my sister, who he loved dearly.

(He wouldn’t have been much of a hippie anyway. He didn’t do drugs, and he loved easy listening music. Not ballads and jazz, but hardcore elevator music.  It was unbearable to ride with him in his car, hearing easy listening versions of songs by the Beatles and the Stones, cringing through choirs intoning Baby you may drive my car or I cannot get any satisfaction no matter how hard I try to do so.  At least that’s how I remember it.)

I bring this up because my parents’ library also included a book on mythology and a copy of Aesop’s Fables, and those stories imprinted on me in a big way.  One of the recurring themes of those stories was how the gods hated - hated! - the hubris of mere mortals.  You think you’re all that, huh?  Here’s a deeply ironic comeuppance to you, sir, the gods would say, and you would be turned into a newt or a piece of cheese to be eaten alive by a hungry rat.

I think of those stories because I too am afflicted by hubris.  I think I am funny.  And what happens to a person who thinks they are funny?  The gods make them deeply, deeply unfunny at the worst possible moment.

And this does happen to me. My wife has come to accept that when we go out to a party or a gala, I will be charming and funny for 95 percent of the evening and then, chasing a laugh too hard, I will say something deeply inappropriate, resulting in open-mouth astonishment from all who hear what I said.

I will not cite examples of this because they are all amazingly embarrassing, and usually at her firm’s social functions or at dinner parties or just chatting at the mall with someone we happen to run into.  Open mouthed astonishment and then muttered good-byes, and my wife either staring daggers at me or rolling her eyes.

I have often thought I’d have been a good character in an instructive mythological story.  “And somehow, Scottius had placed both feet firmly into his mouth while his head was in his ass.  And the gods rejoiced to see him put in his place because Scottius knew not his place and was trying too hard to be funny.”

Anyway, I approached last night’s gala - a fundraiser for San Jacinto College - with great care and trepidation.  No foot in mouth tonight.

We found our table and my wife introduced me to the couple sitting next to us.  “You remember Scott?” she said. “Last year, he told you that story about his urologist calling his penis unremarkable.”

I figured this was my wife’s attempt to preeempt whatever I was going to say this year, but geez, maybe they hadn’t remembered until she reminded them.  Plus, it had been a good story, and my wife was making it sound worse than it had been.  (I know, you cannot imagine how that story could have transcended its punch line, but it’s actually … no, the story had been pretty much what you’d think it was: funny but deeply inappropriate.)

They’d remembered me.  “Oh sure, we remember that story.  You have any new adventures in your pants?” Mrs. Z asked me, smiling.  They were okay with me.

She was actually great fun, as was her husband.  We talked about Louisiana cooking and golf and the law and I stepped carefully through the conversation as if I was walking on an iced-over lake in early spring.  I ultimately made it through the night with no major gaffes, and I won a silent auction for some golf equipment I had been intending to get anyway.

My only real goof was when I hugged the chancellor of the college when she had extended her hand for a handshake.  In my defense, she had hugged my wife, who she’s known for thirty years, so I thought that was the mode of greeting across the board.  And I did see her hand, too late, my momentum committed to the hug, so I put the brakes on and did the most xhaste hug possible before quickly releasing and jumping back behind my wife.  One day, I will figure this out.

We had a nice meal, prepared by the San Jac students in their culinary program and made it home by 11:00.  No late nights these days.  My son and daughter had gone to watch the Rockets lose to the Lakers and we got a quick recap of the game before going to sleep.

This morning was basketball, then a trip to Home Depot for twelve bags of mulch.  I then made pizza dough and homemade sauce and we had pizzas tonight with the kids and my grandson and my mother.  No dessert, just a quick game of Rummikub and off to bed.

Tomorrow, some legal work and then a Rockets game.  Fun!

 

Boba Thursday

After complaining yesterday about the missing eight hours of my normal Wednesday, today - not a work day for me - was just higgledy-piggledy.  

Up at 7:30, then in the car by 8:00 to meet my walking buddy A at Memorial Park only to find the park was closed due to a professional golf tournament.  Parking on the other side of Memorial Drive was $35, so our planned walk there was moved to Rice University.  

I raced there and we walked two laps at a good pace through some muddy areas, with some drama when A got a call from a client asking for advice about a federal raid on his rent house.  The door had been forced open and some of the windows had been broken.  A business card from the U.S. Marshal’s office had been left in the broken door frame.  The homeowner landlord asked A what to do, and I warned her that he should prepare for the worst case scenario and consult with a lawyer.  It will be interesting to hear what this ended up being all about.

Then I raced to the gym for an early workout with my buddy A (lots of people named A in my life).  He and I worked on arms, and it wasn’t easy - I did something called a shrug row with a barbell holding over 300 pounds, plus farmers carries, incline presses, and other horrors too esoteric to describe.

Then I had a quick lunch at a seafood place, bought some comfortable shoes at SAS for tomorrow’s gala (the saleslady measured my feet and showed me that I was a size 13, contrary to my longstanding belief that I was a 14, but their size 13 shoes did not fit, so I ended up buying some size 14 shoes anyway), then I raced home for a quick shower and picked up my mother for our weekly guitar lesson.

The lesson went well. We started practicing The Battle Hymn of the Republic, one of my mother’s favorite songs, which happens to be another song in the key of D.  I worked on a blues shuffle, learning some interesting new techniques.  Mr. Cory again reassured my mother that she was doing well, and it seemed like she actually believed it this time.

After the lesson, we went to the post office to pick up my copy of this year’s edition of my ethics book.  I had updated my Acknowledgments page to express my appreciation to some of my personal friends, so I snapped a picture of that page and sent it to them.  There’s something nice about seeing your name in a real book - I’m acknowledged in about five true crime books for my help with the author - so I was happy to do that for them.

After the post office, I took my mother to a cafe for boba tea, which she had never had before.  To be honest. I’m not sure I’d ever had it before either and I’m not sure I get the appeal.  The tapioca was kind of gummy and flavorless and got in the way of an otherwise nice glass of iced tea.  My mother was not a fan either.  Next week, we will go back to the smoothie place.

Then we returned to my mother’s house where I did some IT work for her.  I’ve installed a password manager on her computer, but she insists on using random slips of paper to manage her various passwords.  I think she’s pretty safe from being hacked because the paper is not exactly intelligible.  Her handwriting is fine, but there are no clues what the words belong to.  The NSA would have to assign a team of cryptographers to break her codes.

We parted ways and I returned home, collapsing on the sweet, sweet couch.  I eventually had to get up to go fetch dinner for me and my son, and then I watched the NFL draft until it was time for bed.

Now…tell me I could have done all of that if I worked a normal business day!  Nope.  No chance.

Tomorrow, another workday, then off to a black tie gala in my new SAS shoes.

Working Wednesday

After nearly five years of retirement, I had forgotten how big a hole a 9 to 5 schedule blasts through your day. 

I am not asking for sympathy here.  The luxury of retirement is not available to many people at my age, and I awake every day profoundly grateful for my second act, and if working several shifts at the polling place disrupts the current rhythm of my lifestyle, it’s temporary and is actually a nice way to interact with new and interesting people I will see again in the future.

(Case in point: I made a commitment today to one of my co-workers to get a membership to the Pearland Recreation Center and start playing pickleball at - gulp - 7:00 a.m.  This illustrates how my friendship network grows: I meet and befriend five or six people at the polling precinct, and then one of my new friends connects me to a whole new set of friends on the pickleball court.  You just have to say yes to new opportunities, even at -gulp- 7:00 a.m.)

I’m just saying that I’d forgotten how a normal workday compresses the rest of your free time.  I was up at 7:00 this morning, quick shower and trip to the donut shop for donuts and kolaches (another secret to making friends), then at the polling place by 7:45.  Work, work, work until 1:00, lunch by myself at the nearby BBQ restaurant, then work, work, work until precisely 5:00.  Then a stop at the dry cleaner to pick up the suit I’m wearing to an event on Friday, home to let the dogs out and then feed them dinner, then off to my mother’s house for dinner (country ribs braised in sauerkraut, mixed vegetables, and sweet potato fries), before coming home at about 8:00.

Compare today’s schedule to my normal Wednesday, which would have included a long walk, a workout, a couple of errands, and some light housework, before making something to bring to my mother’s house for dinner.  Objectively better and more leisurely time, albeit unpaid and a little less productive for society.

And of course, I still have books to write, cases to work on, and regularly scheduled events to attend.

One of my precinct co-workers asked me today if I missed working at the DA’s office.  I said what I always say - “Heck no!”- but today it was less of an abstract answer and more informed by the fact that I was actually working on a job for the day.  I am all of a sudden realizing that I have so much else going on now that I really don’t think I could fit in a regular job anymore.  

And I don’t miss the institutional stress.  Not one bit.

So, to sum up, cosplaying as a regular worker has reminded me to count my blessings.  I am, in so many ways, an extraordinarily lucky person.

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I am almost done with April 1865, and it has been a better book than expected. Today, the book covered the circumstances leading to Lee’s surrender to Grant at Appomattox, including Lee’s remarkably patriotic decision not to disperse his army into the woods to conduct a guerrilla campaign against the North, which would have extended the war for many years and done horrible damage to the prospects of reconciliation.  Don’t take this as an endorsement of Lee’s decision to throw in with the Confederacy - it was a terrible decision that significantly improved the South’s military prospects, which in turn caused many more deaths than would have been sustained if he had accepted Lincoln’s offer to command the North’s forces (true story!) - but you have to respect Lee’s sense of honor and desire to end pointless bloodshed.

The book then details Lincoln’s assassination, which is still heartbreaking 160 years later.  He was so close - so close! - to the retirement he deserved after the years of stress, depression, and anxiety he endured, and a narcissistic assassin just stole it from him. His martyrdom enshrined him as the best and most loved president in American history, but I wish he had gotten to see the Holy Land, as he so hoped to do in his dotage.  

This is what a good book does - it evokes in your core a sense of empathy for real (or fictional) people about whom you would otherwise not think twice.

I am just starting the concluding section, which is about the disastrous ascension of Andrew Johnson to power.  The book will probably argue that Johnson was the worst president in American history, which I would have agreed with … until now.  Someday, someone will write a book about the present day that my great-grandchildren will read, and they will wonder how we lived through the tenure of the worst president in American history.  History repeats itself.

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Tomorrow: no work!  A long walk, some exercise, new dress shoes, and some IT work for my mother.  Back to my status quo before another day at the polling place on Friday.  So much to do, so little time!

Basic Tuesday

On Sunday night, I got a text from the election judge supervising the precinct where I was going to be working on Monday.

Hey Scott, please plan to arrive no later than 7:45 tomorrow morning. Looking forward to working with you.

My shift was from 8 to 5, but this made some sense because voting started at 8, and the judge would want everything ready to go when the doors opened on Monday morning.

Still, this was kind of annoying because I don’t do anything before 8:00.  When I worked, I was rarely in the office before 9:00, and in retirement, I am doing puzzles in bed most mornings from 7:30 to 8:30.  

(I don’t really sleep in for two reasons: (1) I have old man bladder issues these days which means I gotta pee; and (2) my dogs want love and attention and will lick my face until I wake up.  Also, I can’t really go back to sleep once I’m up without feeling hungover when I wake up again an hour or two later.  

Those two extra hours are super REM sleep with my brain in overdrive putting me in extremely weird and uncomfortable dream scenarios, probably my brain’s passive-aggressive way to get me back into real world action.  I always like to think about why evolution leads to certain outcomes, and here the answer is pretty evident: our forebears who went back to sleep did not do as well compared to the people hunting and gathering for the clan in the morning and were probably held in contempt by the females, ensuring that they did not pass their genes on.  My dad and I both liked early morning runs, so maybe I’m from the hunter-gatherer side of the ancestral tree (less hunter, more gatherer, to be honest, but still a productive person).)

So on Sunday night, I was in bed early and slept fitfully.  When the alarm went off, I hit the snooze a few times and only left myself about twenty minutes to get ready for the day.  Quick shower, teeth cleaning, threw on some professional-ish clothes and out the door, arriving at 7:47, late.

I went into the polling place and met the judge, who could not have been nicer.  The machines were already set up (the judge had set the room up over the weekend), and everyone was ready to go.

I was the only rookie.  In addition to the judge, there was an associate judge, and three other clerks.  

There were five stations: a check-in desk with three iPads running a proprietary scanning system for drivers licenses to verify the identity of the voters; a station where voters would bring their verification printout to obtain a unique code to access the voting booths; a station with equipment to bring voting machinery outside for drive-by voting for people with disabilities; and the ballot box itself where the paper ballot is scanned and securely stored.

I started at the identification verification station.  There, I would put a DL in a designated slot on the iPad stand where it would be scanned and linked to the county’s election roll database and pull up the voter’s information.  I would then ask the voter if he or she still resided at the address in the county records, and flip the iPad toward the voter for a signature.  Then I’d flip it back to me, initial the interaction, and print out the receipt of verification.  I’d then send the voter to the voter booth station.

I worked with a sweet older lady and we talked about retired life.  I tried really hard not to puff myself up as some kind of election law savant.  I’d read the room and the people there were all non-lawyers and humble, not the kind of folks who would be impressed by that kind of thing, and I just wanted to fit in.

After a couple of hours of that job, I moved to the ballot box.  I was there mainly to help people feed their ballots into the scanner and make sure they did not leave with their ballot.  Apparently, what a voter does in the booth is not recorded at all - it is just a place where the voter’s choices are printed onto the ballot.  The vote itself is not recorded until the ballot goes into the box.

And all hell breaks loose if the voter leaves with his or her paper ballot.  The numbers don’t add up and it gives the gadflies some reason to question the integrity of the vote.  Everyone in the system emphasized that everything in the room was designed to prevent and rebut any such speculations.

At 12:30, I got a lunch break and had a nice chicken sandwich at a nearby barbecue.  It was then that I could get back on my phone and see what I’d missed all morning, which was basically nothing.  Nothing at all.

I’d spent the morning reading April 1865, the book from my Library Project.  It was really good, albeit a little overwritten, giving me a flavor of the battles leading up to the conclusion of the Civil War. More to come on that when I finish.

When I got back, it was time for me to work the station handing out access codes and ballot paper to the voters before they went into the voting booths to make their choices.  I had a little orange flag to catch the voters’ attention after they left the verification station.  The voters were always amused by my waving with the little flag.  I’d ask them to tell me their name to make sure it matched the slip they handed me, and then I’d print out their unique access code and hand them a unique blank sheet of shiny photo paper to feed into the voting machine.

That’s where I remained until 5:00.  This was not deep thinking, just a lot of making sure that proper procedures were being followed.  Our election judge did not have many controversies to resolve, except for a voter whose recently annexed neighborhood had not been updated to vote in the Pearland elections.  A quick call to Angleton resolved that issue and the voter returned in the afternoon with access to the Pearland ballot.

Everyone was nice and seemed to like me.  I have three more shifts with these folks, and if turnout remains what it was on Monday (134 voters), I will get to know them much better.

The jury is still out on whether this is something I want to do in the long run.  It’s not that intellectually stimulating, although I did have time to read my book.  We will see.

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Today, a walk and some exercise.  Then some legal work in the afternoon.  Also considering making plans to visit Chicago in May for my wife’s birthday.  She certainly deserves a nice trip.

Tepid Sunday

About twenty years ago, I read Peter Guralnick’s two-volume biography of Elvis Presley, Last Train to Memphis and Careless Love. These books were the definitive biographies of his life, detailing his roots, his meteoric rise, and his long career, warts and all.

When I was done, I was mostly sad for Elvis. Not just because he ended up overweight, addicted to prescription drugs, exploited by his management and hangers on, and plagued by extraordinary narcissism and insecurity, but mostly because he wasted the final years of his life, day after boring day, holed up on the second floor of Graceland, trying to discern some kind of meaning to his life.

I also felt bad for Guralnick, who’d spent years of his life chasing down the details of Elvis’s final years, looking for some kind of point to it all, but just chronicling the slow decline of a man who could not get back to who he once was - a creative and original entertainer bursting with energy and a sense of destiny.  The last two hundred pages of the biography just kind of peter out after Elvis gets bored at his early-Seventies Vegas residency and he starts losing control of his addictions.

I came away from the book with a simple resolve: live your life as if there is a biographer waiting to write about it.  There should never be a day where the biographer writes, “He woke up, watched some television, ate some food, and went to bed.”

I am not always successful.  Today was pretty close to one of the nothing days I abhor - I woke up, solved some puzzles, read the paper, hung a picture, watched the second day of Wrestlemania, and made a pretty good dinner of homemade raviolis in brown butter and fried sage leaves with Italian sausage and green beans.  That’s about it.

I may have been a little depressed because I got word this morning that a good friend of mine has been diagnosed with dementia. No one deserves dementia, but this person particularly doesn’t deserve this fate.  He was a person who embraced life and friendships with love and humor.  Closer to home, he looked out for me at a time when I was professionally vulnerable, something I will always be grateful for.

He is also the third person in my generational cohort who has been diagnosed with dementia, which is beginning to sound some alarm bells.  It reminds me of the last time I went to a high school reunion and looked around the room at all of these middle-aged, balding men and realized that my highly idealized self-image was delusional - it could not be denied that I too was middle-aged and losing (or graying) my hair.  And so I cannot deny that old age is coming for me, faster than I realize.

Which is why I have to hold myself accountable, as do you, my faithful reader, to do something meaningful every day.

(By the way, I see the page views for this blog every time I log in to write another entry.  There is one person who reads me nearly every day - I think I know who it is - and I am profoundly grateful for your attention to my reminiscences and observations and efforts at self-improvement.  I write these blog entries because it is good for me, hopefully fending off dementia and other horrors for a while, but also because I enjoy being read.  Thank you, my friend.)

Tomorrow will be a meaningful day!  My biographer will write, “Scott awoke early, ready to do his part in saving American democracy as an election clerk.  He savored his bowl of cereal, his banana, and his ubiquitous Diet Coke, then dressed and reported for duty.  He could not have possibly imagined what would happen later that day, but most historians agree that it was a pivotal and transformative moment in his life, propelling him in an entirely unexpected direction. A statue now commemorates the site, a single word in Latin etched on the marble base: ‘Majestas.’ He rose to his moment.”

I can’t wait to find out what happens next!

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By the way, the website is once again not letting me insert pictures into this blog.  I think I am going to have to migrate to a real website sooner than later.  Fortunately, I have a nephew with skills, so expect a call, sir!

Foodie Friday

I have a preternatural ability to procrastinate by becoming extraordinarily productive on something else.  Need to go run three miles by myself?  All of a sudden, there’s laundry to wash, dry, fold, put away.  Have a legal project to work on?  There’s a flower bed that needs weeding, replanting, mulching.

This week, I had hoped to start work on my legal conflicts book.  But instead, I exercised and worked on my mother’s kitchen drawer, and I walked and read and played with my grandson.  And today, having no scheduled exercise, I made blueberry muffins, and chocolate chip muffins, and Detroit-style pizza with sauce from scratch, and pesto chicken pizza with fresh pizza dough, and my daughter and my mother and my grandson came over to eat.

There are worse ways to kill time, but I have things to do and time is passing.  At least I am feeling well-fed.

I finished the Bob Lee Swagger book too.  It was pretty good, a little irreverent for a book about Chechen mobsters taking corrupt congresspersons hostage during a hearing on proper use of deadly force by snipers.  Stephen Hunter, the author, is in his eighties and I hope he has at least one more book in his quiver.

(I worry about my authors.  I never feel my age more than when an author I love dies because a voice I love is stilled forever.  In recent years, we’ve lost Elmore Leonard, Tim Dorsey, Robert B. Parker, Clive Cussler, while others like John Irving, Thomas Harris, Richard Ford, Garrison Keillor and Big Steve King keep getting older, but still keep writing.  If they keep writing, I will keep reading (or at least listening to) their work.  It’s kind of a gesture of mutual respect.)

Tomorrow: basketball.  Next week: election clerking, a legal project, and … yes, the conflicts book.

Smoothie Thursday

Today was my weekly guitar lesson with my mother, and despite having not practiced at all for three weeks, it went okay for me.

The way these lessons go is this: for about twenty minutes, our infinitely patient instructor, Mr. Cory, a professional musician who plays weddings and other events when not teaching, goes over my mother’s open chords: good old D, G, A, and E.  My mother, who does practice, wraps her fingers around the fretboard and makes a chord, strums the guitar tentatively, then looks at me and Mr. Cory for encouragement.  We smile and she looks down again at the fretboard, shaping the next chord.  Mr. Cory makes pleasant observations - “You are getting so much better!” - and my mother alternates between shy smiles and discouraged frowns.  

But she motors on, because this has become one of the important events in her week and she does not want to disappoint either of us.

Mr. Cory then turns to me and says, “Now what are we working on today, Mr. Scott?”  We both know that these lessons are not about me, but devoting the whole hour to my mother would likely make her head explode, and the time he spends with me gives her a chance to rest for a little bit.  Plus, she tells me, like she did when I took piano lessons fifty years ago, she enjoys watching me play.

(In fact, after today’s lesson, she told me that she had been encouraged watching me struggle with a blues progression.  “If you make mistakes, it makes me feel better about making mistakes myself,” she said.)

Mr. Cory and I work through some interesting techniques for about twenty minutes.  I must say that I do enjoy this in the same way I like to talk to professional chefs, IT professionals, and garage mechanics: they have not only mastered their craft, which I greatly admire, but they have shortcuts for us laypeople.

(For example, I once spent some time in the kitchen at Brennan’s downtown during a chef’s table dinner my family arranged for me on Father’s Day, and I asked one of the sous chefs about the proper way to make a roux.  My roux always takes a long time to get to the brick red you want for gumbo, but I knew there had to be a shortcut.  The chef said that the roux they made was done in a hot second: the flour hits screaming hot fat and is rapidly whisked until the granules are properly toasted and then off the heat before turning into the dreaded black roux (unusable).  He showed me, and sure enough, it was perfect roux in five minutes.  But for the life of me (and this was before cell phone video was a thing), I cannot remember how he stopped the flour from continuing to cook after it rapidly hit its right color.  Oh well.  I am doomed to forty-five minute roux.)

The guitar is particularly suited for these kind of shortcuts.  It is basically a musical abacus, every note on every string up and down the fretboard mathematically related to each other string and note, with dozens of different ways to play the same progression of notes.  And like a good math proof, your goal is to find the shortest and easiest path to your destination.

Mr. Cory is my guitar Sherpa, patiently leading me up the musical mountain, finger by everlasting finger, a pick in each of our hands, unafraid to fall in a crevasse of bad notes because who cares?  It is the journey that’s the fun part, isn’t it?

Today, as noted above, I struggle with a pretty easy blues progression, watching Mr. Cory effortlessly play the same line three different ways.  I know, just as I do when I am lifting weights, that this is not about talent, it is about repetition, so I tell him, “I need an incentive to practice.  If I get this lick right at the next lesson, I am going to treat myself to…”

I pause briefly, considering my audience, which includes my saintly mother.  A number of rewards are rapidly considered and rejected.  Finally, I reach for my lowest common denominator.

“…a cookie.”

Mr. Cory looks at me with pity.  That’s what motivates you? he is clearly thinking.  Sad.

My mother must have also thinking the same thing because she tries to come to my rescue. “Scott is a gourmet chef,” she says.  “He makes such good food.”

Mr. Cory looks at me again, a professional musician teaching two elderly dilettantes how to make open chords, and he resets.  “I’m sure he does,” he says, smiling.

Then it’s back to my mother for another twenty minutes, more or less, and then we wind it up and my mother hugs Mr. Cory at the end of every lesson.  He seems genuinely touched each time by her affection and so am I.

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Lately, my Thursdays are slow in the morning - puzzles and a leisurely breakfast - then noon at the gym (another awful core day today), race home for lunch and a shower, then guitar lessons, then Mom time, and then it’s 5:30 or so, the day flying by.

Today, Mom time was a drive to her accountant to pick up her folder of tax materials (“I need it because I’m starting next year’s folder, Scott.”), then a visit to Home Depot for more flowers for her townhome (and tomato cages for my rapidly growing tomato plants), then Smoothie King for something sweet.

We call my sister who is pleased to visit with us.  Happily married, enjoying her post-retirement work as a photographer‘s assistant, she seems to be in a state of contented equilibrium.

I can hear her husband talking in the background, but I cannot tell if they are in her car or in a bar.  It doesn’t matter - she’s in her element either way.

I dropped Mom off and went home, suddenly exhausted.  My plan to make blueberry muffins gets shelved and I sit down on the couch to read.  We order in some food from Red Robin, and the evening passes uneventfully, but not unpleasantly.

Tomorrow: you know, I don’t have any plans.  Maybe a long walk and mental preparation for next week’s election clerking, plus some deadlines coming up on legal matters.  I have a feeling a tsunami is looming on the horizon.  I will rest while I can.

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Random interesting picture (now that I can import pictures again):

 

This is me with the Cheese Days Ambassador in Monroe, Wisconsin in 2022.  My law school buddy Scott (who I golfed with last week) lives there and invited me to stay with him during the biannual Cheese Days festival.  I drove there from Texas and enjoyed beer, music, and cheese for four days before heading south to Missouri to visit my friend Ron and then to Arkansas for a music festival in Bentonville with my friend Glenn.

That may have been my favorite road trip of all time.  Cheese Days is this year.  Maybe one more time?

Bad Poker Tuesday

I have been in a bit of a slump lately at poker.  

It’s not financially painful because I am careful not to bet any money I cannot afford to lose.  But it has been mentally painful because I am not making bad decisions in the hands - I am just losing with good hands when my opponents get better hands.

Playing high-level poker requires you to be confident and unafraid of losing.  But when you lose over and over, you inevitably begin to play more tentatively, trying to not lose, which is not the same as playing to win.

Tonight, I entered a tournament at 7:00, and was out by 8:30.  I got a pair of kings on the first hand, which were counterfeited when an ace hit on the flop.  I lost with AK to a pair of sevens, and other pairs went nowhere on bad flops.

I have frequently told my wife that it’s not gambling if you never lose, but I am beginning to lose a little credibility with her on that concept.

Sigh.

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I got up with the dogs this morning at 7:00, fed them, and then went back to bed, sleeping until 10:00.  My seasonal cold has been making it difficult to sleep without periodic coughing, which wakes both me and my wife (and whichever dogs are in bed with us), and I woke up tired.

I did some light housecleaning and then did my son’s taxes.  He will get a nice refund.

I then watered and fertilized my container garden of herbs, tomatoes and peppers, and pruned my basil plant.  I made pesto with the basil using cashews, garlic, lemon juice, salt, pepper, Parmesan cheese and olive oil.

Then it was off to the gym for some torturous core exercises.  The low points were a bear crawl while holding 25 pound dumbbells in my hands, and a combination Burpee and broad jump.  There were other exercises including farmers carries (95 pounds in each hand), walking while holding a barbell above my head, and pushing a tire on the floor.

Then back home where I read my Bob Lee Swagger book until it was time to leave for the poker game.

Not the most productive day, but aside from the disappointment of the poker game, pretty nice.

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The pesto picture above is the first picture my phone has allowed me to insert.  It took some doing because Google was fussing at me about it, but I’ve figured out the problem and fixed it, so more illustrations to come!

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Tomorrow, a long walk and more gym time, where I will try to play Hotel California on the gym piano at the request of the ladies at the counter.

“You can check out anytime you like/But you can never leave.”

Taxes Monday

I had a decent night sleep on Sunday/Monday night, except for the usual aches and pains that plague my old body as I sleep.  

I sometimes think about taking a couple of Advil before bed as anti-inflammatories and pain killers, but I have some PTSD about taking too much Advil from my marathon and chronic back pain days when I would regularly gulp down 1200 milligrams at a throw and feel it in my stomach and eventually my liver.  After my back surgery and some pretty intense physical therapy, I stopped running long distances and got my core strong enough to support my spine, ameliorating the need for that much Advil.  So the idea of getting into a routine of pain killers before bed is repugnant to me - instead, I’ll fade the small pains as I sleep and keep rolling around in a regular search for the perfect pain-free position.

I sometimes feel like I’m not sleeping well even when my smartwatch - a Garmin Fenix 8 - says that I did.  The watch and the accompanying program on my iPhone have a function that measures how much deep sleep, light sleep and REM sleep I get every night.  It also assigns a score for my sleep, as if this is some kind of competition I enter every night.  We live in a world where everything we do or see or eat or wear gets rated, and we are trained to feel bad or disappointed when our scores are not what we want, and we are also trained to set aside our own personal assessments and trust the ratings even when they don’t feel accurate.  

That’s the weird part about my sleep score - it’s telling me that I’m doing fine.  Maybe it’s right, and maybe I’m being over-influenced by my brief periods of wakefulness instead of the long periods of oblivion.  I just know that those truly great nights of sleep are rarer and rarer as I get older.

But last night was one of those rare nights.  Why?  A goblet of margarita at the dinner before the Rockets game may have made a difference.  A week of not exercising at the gym may have made me less sore.  A week of relaxing at the golf course with friends in another state and breathing fresh clean outdoor air (even though I did bring home a seasonal cold) may have stilled the neurotic voices in my unconscious head.

I don’t really think too much about it - I just enjoy it when it happens.

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I walked a lap at Memorial this morning with my buddy A, then we worked out at the gym, sumo squats and weighted stationary lunges and weighted step-ups and bench presses and incline presses, always cheerfully complaining about the amount of weight we are being asked to lift.

I was in good spirits - we kept a great pace on the track and I was really feeling good during the sets at the gym.  I’d had a couple of Larabars before the walk, which gave me some good energy.

Afterwards, I went home for a ham sandwich before going to my mother’s house tomorrow finish fixing her kitchen drawer.

When I got there, I checked my gluing and it was solid.  As I prepared to put it all back together, my mother mentioned to me that her accountant (who had agreed to handle my mother’s taxes as a favor to me and my wife) had not done a return on her Arkansas state taxes.

To say this had distressed my mother would be an understatement.  She appeared to have became convinced it could not be done before the 15th and that she would be going to jail.

This is not hyperbole.  At this age, my mother takes such matters very seriously and perseverates until something is done to resolve it.  It’s actually kind of charming, in the same way that your kid’s disproportionate distress about something they have done that you know is not a big deal is amusing.  In both instances, it is based on their inherent and admirable desire to always do the right thing.

I stopped working on the drawer and went to her computer to get the Arkansas taxes done.  Two and a half hours later, they were done.  She owed the great state of Arkansas $27, which would be taken from the $1000 she had sent the state in withholding for distributions from her retirement account.  She will be getting a nice refund.

I took her to the post office because I wanted her to see the envelope go into the mail and dropped her off at home, the drawer repair deferred for another day.

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Dinner was a very fine Detroit-style pizza.  No dessert because we still have not replenished our store of ice cream!

I have set aside the Civil War book for now to read a book I bought this weekend at a discount store - a Bob Lee Swagger book by Stephen Hunter, which I am really looking forward to reading.  (I met Hunter once at a book signing and he was very nice and engaging.  Book signings are actually a great opportunity to have a quality personal encounter with an artist because there are almost never more than a few dozen people at the signings.  Because people don’t read books much any more.  But that discussion is for another day.)

Tomorrow: more exercise, more walking, maybe a drawer repair, maybe some work on my book, and poker!

Slipping Sunday

I woke up this morning with the cough still lingering in my lungs, just enough there for me to taste the coppery rust in the back of my mouth, the detritus of hours of suppressed coughs accumulating into greenish-brown microlayers, not enough to produce a loogie, but enough to make its presence known.

I really should have brewed a kettle of tea and let the steam clean and sterilize those nasties back there, but I had a bowl of cereal and a Diet Coke because I am a hopeless addict to the faux cola.

After I cleaned the kitchen and made my bed (I cannot start the day with sticky counters and an unmade bed), my mother called with a new problem at her townhome.

“I pulled the drawer, Scott, and it … it fell off!” she said.

“Fell off?”

“Yes!”

When I got to her place, she led me to her kitchen island, where a drawer was in place, but exposed with no front.  I pulled it out and saw that, sure enough, she had somehow pulled off the decorative panel attached to the front side of the drawer.  The drawer itself was made from very cheap particle board and the front side of the drawer had basically disintegrated at the corners.

I had brought wood glue with me to glue the side back into place, but I knew the glue/particle board would eventually give way again from my mother’s Hulk-like pulls.  

So what to do?

And then - snap! - I had the solution.  I unscrewed the decorative panel from the front side of the drawer, reglued the side back into place, and then reversed the drawer so that the back side was now the front side.  I am waiting for the glue to set so that I can secure the wall with some wood screws and then I will reattach the runners and the decorative panel on the new front side.

And boom - a solid new drawer where the weak side is on the back bearing no stress.

We will see if this works tomorrow!

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After I got back from my mother’s house, it was time to go to the Rockets game with my wife and children.  For various reasons, we don’t do this very often, get together as what my wife calls the “OGs,” the original four.

It was great.  We had dinner at a Tex-Mex place before the game and talked about old times and new times and our planned vacation in Galveston, and then went to the game and watched the Rockets bench play the whole meaningless game.

The only glitch in the evening was when a lady in the row immediately behind us said, “Scott!” and I had no idea who she was.  I worked the problem and eventually realized that she was one of the people in HR at my old job, and by the end of the first quarter, my memory laid her name out in front of me, far too late.

There are few things worse than you forgetting a person you should have remembered, and that person realizing that sad fact.  This lady was a kind person who had frequently helped me and I felt horrible that I’d very likely hurt her feelings.

But she was graceful about it and we parted in a friendly way at the end of the game.

Old age, if you didn’t know, sucks.

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Tomorrow, I start working on my conflicts book and I return to the gym.  Also, I suspect there will be some new developments on some pending legal matters I am handling, so a cloud of dread is hovering off in the distance.  I really need to start winding down my practice and concentrate on my health.

As my trainer says often, “Health before wealth!”

Training Saturday

About a month ago, my wife told me that she wanted me to volunteer to work at a polling place.

“It’s important,” she said.

She has been worrying about democracy and elections pretty much since DJT was re-elected in 2024 and started calling elections and the workers who manage them corrupt. As a history buff, she can see the signs of civic disengagement as demagogues and thugs threaten to make election workers miserable and intimidate voters.

She has been supporting candidates who share her concerns, but that wasn’t enough, I guess.

Which is how I found myself Saturday morning in Angleton being trained to work as an election clerk.

There were twelve of us at the class, eleven newbies and an election judge getting a refresher.  Our instructor, Brazoria County’s elections supervisor, was a delightful and enthusiastic middle-aged woman who had that command of procedure and esoterica that the best government workers have, a confidence from years of having seen every possible ridiculous malfunction, outrageous gadfly complaint, and political hustle thrown at her, while remaining standing and delivering a free and fair election.

The job I’d applied for was election clerk, which is distinguishable from election judge in one key respect: if a problem arises as a clerk is processing a voter - checking identification, locating the proper ballot, sending the person to a machine - we send that problem to the election judge and get out of the way.

This was ironic because in my former life, I worked on some of those same election law issues from a prosecutor’s perspective, and when I applied to work as a clerk, I wrote that I could be helpful in that respect.

But my role as a clerk was much simpler than I expected.  The instructor kept saying, “You only handle perfect voters,” which was intended to be reassuring, and I guess it was, at least for now.  This is my apprenticeship.

I am scheduled for four nine-hour shifts during early voting, and will be working a precinct in East Pearland on voting day.  There will be at least one election judge and three clerks each day, which takes some of the pressure off of what should be an interesting runoff between John Cornyn and Ken Paxton with a decent turnout.

We apparently also get paid for this, which is nice.  And, by law, we cannot use a smartphone in the voting location, which is going to be a test of the depths of my phone addiction.  Did I say nine hours?

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Now that the golf trip is behind me, it’s time for me to start working on my second book, which is due in September.  I have been contracted to update a book on legal conflicts, which, when finished, will be sent free of charge to every prosecutor in the state of Texas.

I have a plan.

I need to check the cases cited in the original book to make sure that they are still good law.  Then I need to read and index the cases that were decided after the original book was written.  And then I need to add any new content or theories about conflicts to the original book.

Ever the procrastinator, I have a finely tuned inner alarm clock that tells me when I am approaching the point of not enough time to get it done.  That clock is beginning to beep at me.

So that is something I will be doing this week.  Writing is harder work than you think.

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I am fighting a change of seasons cold where a cough has settled into my lungs.  Nothing terrible, mostly annoying.

These minor maladies are usually my excuse to indulge myself with something soothing to eat.  Unfortunately, the only ice cream in the house was a Drumstick that had melted and then refrozen in our garage refrigerator.  It looked sad and deflated in its plastic wrapper, and I am kind of proud to say that, even though it was technically food and technically sweet and absolutely the only ice cream in the house, I decided to just throw it away.  Good for me.

I watched a little SNL and then went to bed.

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Today:  rest and recovery before getting back into my exercise routine again.  Also a Rockets game tonight!

Relaxing Thursday

Missed yesterday because I was pretty exhausted at the end of a long day.  We played a course called Sand Hollow, the best course in Utah, and it lived up to the billing.  Red clay sand bunkers, beautiful mountain vistas, impeccable grass and greens.  If only I had the talent to fully enjoy playing the course.

Afterwards, we had some late lunch at the grill - a nice focaccia chicken sandwich - and then a refreshing nap at the hotel.  Then a smoothie for dinner at a place unfortunately named Slurp.  It was quite good.

This morning, we drove five minutes away to a course called Wolf Creek, which apparently is the best course in Nevada.  Well cared for, it was particularly notable for the changes in altitude.  It seemed like every other tee box was at the top of a mountain, leading to glorious, majestic drives to fairways far below.  Hit well, the balls would bounce high and roll long, small white dots moving on deep green carpets.

Today, I was the master of my 5 iron, and not much else.  Even my putter turned on me, the balls flowing like beads of mercury, past the hole and onward, sometimes off the green altogether, me staring bleakly at them like a man watching a cab ignoring his upraised hand, speeding by.

Nonetheless, it was a marvelous final day to an excellent trip.

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Tomorrow, the long plane ride home!

Cranky Tuesday

The title of this entry is a little misleading.  I am not in a cranky mood, not at all, but when you get four men in their sixties together for a golf vacation, there is a strong cranky old man vibe underlying the conversation.

And again, this is not to say that we are cranky in the moment. It is more to say that any topic drifts towards how much better things were when we were younger.  Examples:  

• The doctor in the group expounds on the work ethic of the residents he supervisesand their unwillingness to consider house calls even if it would prevent a more complicated and expensive office visit.

• The two lawyers in the group talk about how much more dignified and respectful lawyers were to each other back in the day.

• We all complain about how technology has invaded our free time, first slowly with pagers, then quickly with smart phones and location services.

• Even food was better back in the day - real pizza, real Chinese food, real Italian.  Not the homogenized chain foods we get at the drive through, but food made with care at a mom and pop.

Cranky about now, cranky about the future, glad to be in our tribe of like-minded old men.

Today the golf course was Conestoga in Mesquite, Nevada, a beautiful course carved out of stone canyons with mountains in the far horizon, weather clear and not too hot.  Like yesterday, I hit some good shots, a lot of bad shots, and worked on getting a little better at the game.

Breakfast was biscuits and gravy, lunch was  chicken sandwich with sweet potato fries, and dinner was a pizza at a mom and pop place in a strip mall.  Nothing special, but nothing bad, and the people serving us were really friendly and kind.

After the round, I got a cribbage lesson from Tony, who is a savant at these complicated card games.  I think that he, like many who live in cold weather states including my dad, grew up passing the winter days playing games at the kitchen table with his family and developing card sense, a shorthand for assessing probabilities and game theory.  You can’t say how you knew that your opponent had a particular card, but you knew.

The game was interesting, but nothing I’d go out of my way to find others to play with.

I also got my schedule for working as an election clerk.  Four days during early voting working 8 to 5 shifts.  I sure hope I’m working with interesting people.  I looked up one of my co-workers on Google and it appears that she is 93 years old.  Once again, I may be the youngest guy in the room!

Tomorrow: more golf!

Golfing Monday

I had a flight scheduled this morning at 8:00 out of Hobby Airport.  My original plan was to be up at 5:30, shower, and be out the door by 6:00, arrive at the parking garage by 6:30, check my bags by 6:45 and have 75 minutes to get through security, TSA funded or not.

I told my wife this and she said that I was overly optimistic.

“I think you should be up earlier.”

“Earlier than 5:30?”

“Yes,” she said firmly.

This was not surprising.  She is a notorious early arriver at the airport, terrified of being late to the gate.  In 1995, we were in New York when I ran the marathon, and after the Sunday race, we had a flight home on Monday afternoon.  That morning, I said that we should see the World Trade Center on our way out of town, and she said we didn’t have time, and that we could see it the next time we were in town.  Although she did let me stop and get some fresh bagels to take home, we missed our chance to see the WTC before it came down on 9/11.  She has always felt a little bad about that (we were three hours early at LaGuardia), but her phobia persists.

So I was up at 5:00, and was safely at the gate by 7:00.  She was probably right as usual.

The flight to Las Vegas was uneventful.  I snoozed through most of it, having a breakfast of cinnamon graham crackers, onion crackers, and Diet Coke.  Echhh.

Upon arrival, I reunited with the guys I played golf with last year - my law school buddy Scott, his neighbor Tony, and Tony’s friend Doug.  They are all about my age and are all golf nuts.  

We went directly from the airport to the first course -  Coyote Springs, about 50 miles north of Vegas.  A quick lunch, some range practice, and off we went.

The course was beautiful, a Jack Nicklaus designed layout with ultra fast greens.  I was worried that my game was not going to be up to par (dad joke) but I hit the ball well, especially off the tee.  I did not score well, but we had a lot of guy fun on the course.  The highlight for me was holing a thirty foot putt in a competition for beers.

We finished at about 5:30, then checked into our casino hotel and watched the NCAA basketball championship game (I continued my sports betting losing streak by picking UConn over Michigan for $20), and then up to the rooms for a well-deserved good night’s sleep.

Tomorrow: More golf!

Easter Sunday

A quick entry today because I am about to go to bed in anticipation of an early morning to catch my 8:00 flight to Nevada for my golf trip (sigh).

We had a lovely Easter dinner today: baked ham, turkey tenderloin, asparagus soup, Waldorf salad, sweet potato puree with bruleed marshmallows, scalloped potatoes, carrots, and Challah bread.  So good!  Then carrot cake and orange rolls for dessert.

The bubby was here again and enjoyed dairy-free purple sweet potato pancakes.  He was the center of attention and knew it, a dervish of impulsive behavior and laughter.  I love him so much.

Packed my golf bag after cleaning the clubs.  Southwest is now charging for bags, but I get one free as a credit card holder, so the golf travel bag will is stuffed with more than just my clubs.

Off to bed now.

Bubby Saturday

I called my daughter at around noon today, but got no answer, just a text telling me that she was putting the baby down for a nap.

“Was going to see if you want us to babysit the bubby today,” I wrote back.

“That would be a lifesaver, yes please!!” she wrote back.

Our grandson is now eighteen months old, getting smarter and more fun with each passing day.  Where he was crawling before, he now saunters with the insouciance of a man touring a grand estate he is contemplating purchasing, admiring the architecture and the classicist paintings in the study.  He makes you earn a smile or a laugh, waiting patiently for the punch line, then nodding appreciatively at your wit.

He also likes to throw things now.  Balls, books, shoes, anything that he can lift and toss with determination.

My daughter dropped him off this afternoon while my wife was running errands. We played inside for a while, then outside for awhile, then Where’s Spot in an armchair.  I was still tired from this morning’s basketball, so I wasn’t up for a walk to the local park, but I tried to be high-energy gramps inside the house.  He was actually pretty chill for a bubby.

My wife got home after a while and took over.  When my grandson was born, I had briefly contemplated being a “manny” (a caretaker grandfather) for the baby, but by mutual understanding, we all implicitly concluded that this would not have worked out. I’m better in small doses, at least at this time.

But now … this kid is pretty great.  It’d be fun to help raise him.  First thing would be to get a Fisher Price basketball hoop.  Can’t start playing ball too soon!

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The Library Project is underway.  I’m about halfway through April 1865 and I hope to finish it on the plane to Vegas this

Monday.  I like it so far.

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I have a bet with my walking buddy A on tonight’s game between Michigan and Arizona: loser has to wear a temporary tattoo of the  winner’s choice.  As I write this, my team (Michigan) is up 21 with about eight minutes to go in the game.

Whew!  I think she was going to make me wear a tattoo of our president on my forearm.  That would have been very very tough to take, even if temporary.

But turnabout is fair play - if I win, I think she is going to be wearing a tattoo of Bullwinkle the Moose.  What I like about that is that she will spend a lot of time having to explain who Bullwinkle is to kids under 30 who have never experienced the glory of the Rocky and Bullwinkle show.

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No breakfast today before the game.  I never know if that affects my play or if eating breakfast would slow me down.  (When I was a trial lawyer, I never ate anything, believing that it made me slower to react to objectionable evidence, but it probably also fatigued me as the day wore on.  Glad I don’t try cases anymore.)

Lunch was a Whataburger, and dinner was a turkey potato.  Tomorrow is going to be an Easter feast and final preparations for the golf trip.

Slideshow Friday

I mentioned it before, but I have a legal education presentation coming up in June at the State Bar’s Annual Meeting.  Appropriately for my age, it will be on succession planning for lawyers - how they can wind down their practices in an orderly way, even when the end comes unexpectedly.

I first heard about this from my old law school buddy D, who works for the Bar and was tasked with dealing with the graying population of baby boomer lawyers who have either been retiring, losing their marbles, or dropping dead, leaving their clients at a loss.  

Imagine finding out that the lawyer you hired to handle an important matter got COVID and passed away before helping you resolve that important matter.  Sure I feel bad for the deceased lawyer, but what about me and my case?

The Bar has been pushing us older lawyers to start designating someone to be a “custodian” for the case files until the clients can get new counsel.  It makes sense: it’s kind of like having a will for the death of your practice.  Dying intestate (without a will) makes everything so much harder for the survivors.  (If you don’t have a will, get one!)

So when the opportunity came up, D asked me to step in and do thirty minutes on this topic, plus the topic of selling your legal practice (my short summary of that part: if dentists can do it, why not lawyers?)

I use PowerPoint for my presentations and work really hard to make them informative and fun.  My son would roll his eyes if he read this, but I’ve been playing with the animation functions more.  Nothing obnoxious, but I have figured out how to make excerpts POP OUT to emphasize important concepts.

(Man, I just re-read what I just wrote and I’m rolling my eyes.  I guess I am now like those old people who announce their discovery of computer tricks that were new twenty years ago.)

Anyway, I got the slides turned in, along with a scholarly paper written by my friend L, and that’s another thing off the desk.

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New clean sheets on the bed and I feel like I am a freshly toasted Reuben sandwich wrapped snugly in butcher paper.  If I ever become really wealthy, newly laundered sheets on my bed every day.

Wait, why do I have to be rich?  I know how to do laundry.  I know how to make a bed.  I am mostly retired.

I think I have a new purpose in life.  Plus now I can have breakfast in bed and then wash the crumbs out of the sheets!

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Nothing for breakfast today, but I had a good lunch at a place called Mama Ritas on I-45 South with my longtime friend J.  We talked about the old days at the office, which I used to think was indulgent and schmaltzy when I was younger, but now realize is a way of re-experiencing a special time with someone who was there with you.  Remembering good times is like playing golf in some respects: if you play alone and hit a good shot, you kind of enjoy it, but if you hit a good shot while playing with someone else, the moment is so much sweeter.  We each remember different events and different people and weave a much more detailed tapestry.  The recollections may all be wrong, our memories having faded over time, but who cares?  It is the remembering that is the fun part.

After I finished the presentation slides, I ordered takeout for me and my son from Texas Roadhouse.  They make a good chicken sandwich, so that is what I got.

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After dinner, we got into the backyard hot tub and I curated the playlist with a bunch of indie bands and old friends.  Thanks to Apple Music, I have a list:

MJ Lenderman - Dancing in the Club

Waxahatchee - Be Good

Phoebe Bridgers - Motion Sickness

Nickel Creek - Destination

INXS - Don’t Change

Rolling Stones - Moonlight Mile

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - Red Right Hand (yes, that’s the Peaky Blinders song)

Courtney Barrett - One Thing at a Time

Radiohead - Karma Police

Foo Fighters - Everlong

Spoon - The Underdog

Talking Heads - Making Flippy Floppy

Pulp - Spike Island

The Hives - Hate to Say I Told You So

Lucy Dacus - Night Shift

Sufjan Stevens - Chicago 

The Lumineers - Hey Ho

That’s some pretty good music.

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Tomorrow, basketball and Easter preparations!

Missing Thursday

Strange day today.  

Ordinarily, I would have walked at one of the parks, exercised at the gym, and taken a guitar lesson with my mother.  But no walk (no partner), no gym (my trainer had cancelled the workout last week, a fact I’d forgotten until I got to the gym), and no guitar lesson (Mom had the chills and did not feel up to it).

In the gym parking lot, I took the opportunity to look up “best chicken sandwich Houston” and was directed to Pappas Burger on Westheimer by the Galleria. I ordered one to go and drove there to pick it up.  It did not disappoint - grilled with a sweet bun and plenty of foliage, it was big and juicy, which is harder than you think to get.  Wendy’s and Chick-Fil-A have grilled chicken sandwiches that can be hit and miss, too small or too dry, even with the lettuce and tomato adding moisture to the mouthfeel.

When I got home, I did a financial statement for my wife’s annual business loan.  Without going into detail, we’re doing okay.  Surprising fact: my 2013 Mercedes SUV is currently valued at $5,000, which if you asked my wife or son, overvalues it by $4,900.

He and I drove the SUV to Freebird’s for National Burrito Day, and he said, “You need to just take a test drive of a car that looks good to you.  Unless you’re at the Lamborghini dealership, they have to let you.”

I told him I was fine with my used car with only 148,000 miles on it.  Properly cared for, it could last long enough for my grandson to drive when he gets his license in 2041.  Of course, by then we will all be in flying cars, right?

The burrito was pretty good.  I’d forgotten how much I enjoy a good burrito, especially the adaptability of it to your preferences.  Mine had chicken, cilantro rice, black beans and a lot of vegetables - I was in a healthy frame of mind.

I spent most of the day working on a speech I will be giving in June.  Almost done, which is good because it is due tomorrow.

Finally, I found out that I will be working the early voting precinct in my neighborhood for the upcoming runoff in May.  First rule of being the new guy - bring good donuts.

Tomorrow, lunch with a buddy and finishing my speech, plus preparing for next week’s golf trip.  Also need to start reading my library!

Rockets Wednesday

I’m at the Toyota Center tonight with the missus for the Rockets game.  They are playing the Bucks (without Giannis) and while Reed Sheppard made nine three-pointers, the Bucks kept it close until the end.

We sat next to two nice ladies who were very enthusiastic fans.  The lady next to me kept leaning over me to talk to my wife, both of them politely ignoring me.  The other lady said that she liked basketball, but loved Texans football.  I told her that I had gotten tickets for next season, and she kept assuring me that the Texans football game was even more exciting than the Rockets, a superfan shimmering with enthusiasm.

Today was a doctor’s appointment day - my weigh-in was disappointing, but my doctor did not seem worried about it.  Cholesterol was good, blood pressure was good, blood sugar was a little elevated, but I will work harder in my diet.

Lunch was sticky rice with chicken and a mango smoothie from my favorite Vietnamese sandwich place, Cali Sandwich on Travis in Midtown.  Their bahn mi grilled pork sandwiches are superlative, with crunchy bread, unctuous pork, and super-fresh veggies, but I was really jonesing for the sticky rice.  Old me would have gotten both the rice and the sandwich, but new me is all about portion control now.  Sad.

Tonight, I split a tray of chicken fingers with Korean dipping sauce with L for dinner.  Portion control.

I walked four miles at Memorial Park in drizzling rain this morning while listening to Bill Simmons and Zach Lowe talking about the NBA.  Drizzle in the mid-seventies is not unpleasant, and it gives you a sense of dedication and accomplishment.  My pace by myself is always slower than with a partner, but I still felt pretty good.

Then I sent my trainer and my exercise partner a text cancelling my workout because I had been bitten by a fat lady’s labradoodle and was at urgent care getting rabies shots.

“What!!  Are you ok?” my partner A texted back.

I walked into the gym.  A was obviously confused until I said “April Fools!”  I love this day!

Deadlifts, reverse lunges, pull-downs, bar hangs, and rows ensued.  I keep working.

Tomorrow, a workout and guitar lessons.  Also portion control (sigh).