Author Archives: Amy Farr Robertson

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About Amy Farr Robertson

Civil Rights Lawyer. Dog Lover. Smartass.

Political rhetoric

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A really smart friend of mine asked, “For my liberal friends only: when we’re objecting to cross-hairs, should we maybe feel a little bit bad about ‘somewhere in Texas, a village….’?”   The question made me think, as all of her questions do.  So here are my thoughts on four kinds of political rhetoric.

Juvenile name-calling.  Somewhere in Texas . . .; Bu$h; Busshit; Nobama.  Calling Bush or Palin stupid or Obama an elitist, or candidly using the words “socialist” or “fascist” as epithets these days has precisely the substantive content and rhetorical impact as calling someone a poopyhead.  Yes, it cheapens the dialog, but it wasn’t very expensive to start with.  The key effect of language like this — at least on me — is to make me turn the page or click away from the site, confident that I’m not missing anything enlightening or even funny.

Gun-related words.  I’m in favor of generally giving people credit for metaphor.  Crosshairs over congressional districts was at worst bad taste, and probably pretty banal.  I’ve described an opponent’s brief full of silly arguments as a “target-rich environment” and plaintiffs’ lawyers who make silly arguments as “friendly fire” without the remotest connection to an actual firearm.*  Indeed, when Rand Paul came out against the ADA and enthusiastically in favor of the Second Amendment, I joked that he might have arrived at a more efficient remedial process:  access at the point of a gun.  “My friend Glock and I would like you to install a ramp.  Now.”   Again, no intent to replace my Westlaw subscription with a semi-automatic, but I thoroughly enjoyed the mental image.

Of course, actually calling for someone’s death crosses a very important line, and calling for “second amendment remedies” or  explicitly for political violence comes damn close.

De-legitimizing language.  Now, this sort of rhetoric really bugs me.  Throughout the Bush years, there were liberal bloggers who insisted on calling Bush the “Resident” rather than “President,” and  asserting that “he’s not my president.”  These days we have “birthers” — folks who think Obama was not born in the US and therefore not legitimately qualified to hold the office.  Assertions that a president from either party is a tyrant or a dictator may fall into the juvenile category, but they also suggest that he is trying to change our political system, rather than simply implementing policies the speaker disagrees with.  The country thrives when the loyal opposition is both loyal and opposed.  We need people in every administration who believe in the country and its system, but disagree with the current guy’s policies.   Rationally, reasonably, preferably civilly.  Arguing that the president isn’t legitimate is completely unhelpful, whether from the left or right.

Knee-slapping hypocrisy.  People from Alaska criticizing federal spending.  Anyone who supported the Patriot Act complaining about over-regulation.  This type of discourse may be the most pernicious, because it doesn’t go away once we’ve all had a good laugh.  But damn, I love it!  It’s an excellent reminder that, as human beings, we’re all about 97% full of shit, with the differences at the margins.

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* However, when I propose to engage in kitchen remodeling using a flame-thrower, I intend to be taken very, very seriously.  I will be exonerated by a jury of my peers.

What he said:

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You see, when a tragedy like this strikes, it is part of our nature to demand explanations – to try to impose some order on the chaos, and make sense out of that which seems senseless. Already we’ve seen a national conversation commence, not only about the motivations behind these killings, but about everything from the merits of gun safety laws to the adequacy of our mental health systems. Much of this process, of debating what might be done to prevent such tragedies in the future, is an essential ingredient in our exercise of self-government.

But at a time when our discourse has become so sharply polarized – at a time when we are far too eager to lay the blame for all that ails the world at the feet of those who think differently than we do – it’s important for us to pause for a moment and make sure that we are talking with each other in a way that heals, not a way that wounds.

Scripture tells us that there is evil in the world, and that terrible things happen for reasons that defy human understanding. In the words of Job, “when I looked for light, then came darkness.” Bad things happen, and we must guard against simple explanations in the aftermath.

For the truth is that none of us can know exactly what triggered this vicious attack. None of us can know with any certainty what might have stopped those shots from being fired, or what thoughts lurked in the inner recesses of a violent man’s mind.

So yes, we must examine all the facts behind this tragedy. We cannot and will not be passive in the face of such violence. We should be willing to challenge old assumptions in order to lessen the prospects of violence in the future.

But what we can’t do is use this tragedy as one more occasion to turn on one another. As we discuss these issues, let each of us do so with a good dose of humility. Rather than pointing fingers or assigning blame, let us use this occasion to expand our moral imaginations, to listen to each other more carefully, to sharpen our instincts for empathy, and remind ourselves of all the ways our hopes and dreams are bound together.

From President Barack Obama’s remarks at the memorial in Tucson.

A guide to using the concept of “death” in politics

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Encouraging conversations about end-of-life issues before you’re in a coma and your estranged husband & his new girlfriend get to decide for you = “Death Panels.”

Telling your supporters to “reload,” saying “violent revolution is on the table,”  proposing “second amendment remedies” to political disagreements, and holding a fundraiser to shoot automatic weapons to “help remove Gabrielle Giffords from office” = “Hey!  Wha?  Why is everyone looking at us?”

Things that predictably turn out to be a bad idea

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Cross-country skiing.*

For the first time in 20 years.**

In boots that are 1.5 sizes too big.***

While walking two enthusiastic dogs.

There were actually moments of pure bliss, if by moments you mean “the nanoseconds between Saguaro taking off at full speed and me landing on my butt in the snow.”  But those nanoseconds brought the pure bliss of effortless motion!

Anyone notice in the photo what made the outing extra-special?  That’s right:  the poop-bag/ski pole grip!

For all the goofiness of the adventure (see photo above), it was actually a lot of fun.   Hope to try again soon with new boots and an OFF-LEASH DOG PARK.

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* I tend to think cross-country skiing is generally a bad idea, as you get very little help from gravity, placing it firmly that distasteful category of exercise that requires you to actually exercise.   See also note **.

** The only time I’ve cross-country skied in the past was at the urging of a long-ago boyfriend, and I tend to associate the sport with the general aura of humorless didacticism that pervaded that relationship.

*** I cannot imagine what prompted me to buy boots in this size, but it turned out to be a blessing.:  As I plummeted**** toward the snow, rather than spraining my knee or ankle, it was the vast unoccupied space at the toe of my boots that twisted.

**** OK, there’s only so much plummeting you can do at 5’2″, but allow me some dramatic license!!

Addams Family Robertson

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My wonderful husband organized a surprise party for my 50th birthday and my wonderful brother brought a bunch of hilarious family photos.  Here, for example, don’t we look like the photo in the newspaper after one of us shoots the other three?

In the resulting Lifetime movie, I’d definitely be played by the early Christina Ricci, reprising her role as Wednesday Addams. Early Ricci both because in the Addams Family movies, she was the absolute master of the pre-teen, smartypants, fuck-off attitude to which I aspired throughout my childhood, and because after her Addams Family roles she, um, developed, so the verisimilitude would be less compelling.  Still, this has to be one of my favorite scenes in all of moviedom:

All in all, I like her braids better than my combover.  There was simply no time in human history when that was fashionable on an 8-year-old girl.

Bruce, of course, is nothing like Puglsey Addams. In fact, isn’t he ADORABLE!   Brothers — they’re so cute at that age!  Before they grow up to be (sigh) Republicans.

From our group mugshot above  — and of course from growing up in the same household with him — I imagine he’d be played by the kid who played the son in The Ref:

Seriously, compare that face with Bruce’s above.  Good likeness AND this is the teenage kid who takes his dysfunctional family in stride by developing a lucrative talent for business.  Sounds like Bruce, eh?  That the kid’s business was blackmailing his military school administrators with dirty photos is, um, beside the point.

Seriously, though, you have to watch The Ref.  BEST CHRISTMAS MOVIE EVER.  Best. Ever.

As for my folks, I just have to blame the photographer.  They are/were both good looking people, and we were only ordinarily dysfunctional, not actual axe murderers, as portrayed in this photo.   Had no one invented the concept of “Cheese!!” yet?

Just to show that we did, in fact, know how to smile:  cousins!!

Stupid Lawyer Tricks: ADA Defense Stupidity

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An animated response to all the invective-filled, garment-rending articles about lawsuits against businesses that violate the ADA.  As with my earlier attempt, I think I succeeded only in cracking myself up.   Call it Animation Therapy.   Try it:  http://www.xtranormal.com

Couple of notes.  I love how the animated gestures are almost as awkward as the gestures I generate naturally.  On the other hand, I’m very disappointed that I could not make the automated voice render the word “law-nerd.”  This is a significant gap in the Xtranormal program.  And because I can overthink anything, I feel a tiny bit odd that my alter ego is African-American.  (Of COURSE she’s my alter-ego.  What did you think?)  Felt odd as in “in a post about civil rights what right do I have to speak from an African-American perspective?”  Truth is, of the characters available from Xtranormal in this set, I identified strongly with the obviously coffee-related superpower and did not think a minor difference in skin color should stop me.  In addition, my Caucasian choices were rather limited.  This one was not alter enough of an alter-ego:

This one perhaps TOO alter:

We’ve previously established that I’m no superhero in the kitchen.

And I basically didn’t know wtf this was:

So Super Coffee Woman it is!   Superpowers include:  high caffeine tolerance; overthinking; snark; wasting time she should be working playing with online animation programs.

Cooking with the FoxRobs … or A Christmas Miracle

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I can’t cook.  No really.  I’m not being modest:  it’s a fact.  Whenever I say this, my friends — because they are sweet, polite, and largely full of shit — say “Oh no!  No.  No, um, really, you’ve prepared many fine dish . . . . . . . . .es”  (struggling with the plural as they abandon the last thread of honesty).   I love them for this, but they are wrong:  I can’t cook.

There are a number of reasons I’m a bad cook:

Impatience (“It says bake for 15 minutes, but what do those last 5 minutes really DO, chemically speaking?”).

Disorganization-induced substitutions (“Shit, I forgot to put mint on the shopping list.  Well, lettuce, in small enough pieces, looks sort of like mint.”).

Bizarre spousal ingredient negotiations (“I’m OK if you want to double the curry powder if I can double the olive oil”).

And most often, plain cluelessness.   For example, we decided to make a leg of lamb for our Christmas dinner.  The recipe* and other knowledgeable kibitzers recommended we use a meat thermometer.  And the meat thermometer packaging** recommended that we “calibrate it to our oven” or something like that.  Unfortunately, no one provided instructions for this crucial step.  I first tried to put the thermometer directly onto the oven shelf.  After several tries, it became clear that it was too top heavy and would not stay on the grill, so I had to find something to put the thermometer IN to then put in the oven.  And that something of course should be oven safe, right?  So I grabbed a pan from the drawer under the oven, put the thermometer in it, and put it in the oven.

A, um, metal pan:

Very Dali-esque, don’t you think?  Perhaps I should pretend I intended it as art — as sort of comment on the arbitrariness of the experience of temperature, which in our house is indeed very arbitrary, but that’s a whole nother post.

I’m still not sure how one calibrates a meat thermometer, but this isn’t it.  Luckily the good folks at Safeway kept their store open on Christmas, so I biked up and bought a new meat thermometer.  That I did this while wearing a pair of reindeer antlers shows that I am, slowly and proudly, becoming my father.  The rolled up pants legs exposing thermal socks underscored this progression.

Anyway, the rest of the story is all good.  Because Tim was in charge of the actual cooking — with me supplying only a functional pair of arms — it was smooth sailing through the rub, the roasting and the finished product.

We actually did a little touchdown dance when the roast came out of the oven, not really able to believe that we had accomplished this.  We paired it with a recipe that Tim invented and that turned out to be wonderful. It was a sort of spousal-negotiation recipe, involving potatoes, which Tim loves, and a handful of Mediterraneany things (fresh basil, olives, red peppers), that I love, all coated in olive oil (I win!) and stir-fried.  It was AWESOME.  Add raita and a salad and just start grinning!

We had reached a pact with our guests — my in-laws — not to serve dessert, but our talented weekend assistant showed up with something she called pumpkin spice bread (sounds healthy, right?), which turned out to be at least half cream cheese.  But there it was, sitting alluringly on the counter in its GladWare container.  What could we do?  Paired with either black coffee (me, Nora) or scotch (Tim) it was incredible.

All in all, a wonderful Christmas.  But not complete without a gratuitous dog photo.  Chinook, enjoying his present:

Happy Boxing Day!
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* Yes, I found the recipe in Esquire.  One of my favorite airplane reads.

** Yes, I’ve reached the age of 50 without learning to use a meat thermometer.  It’s not much help with frozen pasta, though, so the need really hasn’t arisen.

Vegas Diary

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Arrive at the Vegas airport with no power in the power chair.  Parking guy happy to help because he loves God.  No luck; battery is dead; charger is kaput; not really God’s fault.  Carrie IMs suggestion: buy a car battery charger at Walmart.

Of course Vegas has a 24-hour Walmart.   And of course Carrie has solved the problem.*

Breakfast Saturday morning the girl at the next table has a head full of pink rollers.

Tim heads off to play poker; I find quiet corner of a lounge to read.**  Overhear a guy explaining the relationship of free will to Christianity.

On the way to manicure, learn the reason for pink hair rollers and over-decorated 8-year-olds: MGM is hosting a cheerleading competition.  Also, said 8-year-olds look like they could kick my ass.

Get a manicure.  Nail polish is called Mrs. O’Leary’s BBQ.  Love the color but love the name more.

Join Tim at poker where he is playing Texas Hold Em at a table with Orel Hershiser.  First time I’ve seen a World Series ring in person.

Out to  dinner wearing 4 inch heels.***

Christmas carols in the casino are a weird combination with the slot machine sounds.  Also just weird.  Perhaps for the first time in my half[assed] Jewish life, I find myself asking WWJD.

Sunday Tim plays Hold Em with Hershiser for another six hours.  He takes off the World Series ring to let me get a closer look.  It’s incredibly cool and diamondy.  Hershiser is funny and a mensch, offering to help Tim with cards.

We decide it would be too weird to ask for a photo, so you’ll have to take our word for it.

An introvert strolls down the Strip:

Wow!  This is so cool!

Vegas is full of such diverse, interesting, weird people!

Spiderman!

A pirate!

A, um, little person dressed like Elvis.  Cool?  Exploitative?  He has every right to make as big an ass of himself as anyone else in Vegas, right?

Fat Michael Jackson impersonator.  Same questions?

Awesome people-watching!

Diversity!  Let your freak flag fly!

Why do people bring toddlers to Vegas?

Funny t-shirts!

Funny sexist t-shirts.  OK, well, it’s Vegas.

Disgusting sexist t-shirts.  Yuk. Sigh.

Skinny Santa alone with his Christmas tree.

Geez there are a lot of people on the Strip.

No, I don’t want Girls Girls Girls!

And wouldn’t the Girls Girls Girls proprietors have better luck if they gave their sales reps clean Girls Girls Girls t-shirts?

Screw diversity and freak flags — what is the fastest way back to the hotel??

This is actually an example of the Introvert Curve:

Rinse.  Repeat.  The social interaction can be anything, really, from strolling down the Strip in Vegas to attending a cocktail party****.   And what’s great is:  I also have some sort of Introvert Amnesia that makes me forget this curve as I ascend the left side, my need to Get Outta There coming as a surprise each time.

Anyway, we headed home Monday having accomplished perhaps the most important variation on the Vegas cliche:  What happened outside of Vegas stayed outside of Vegas.  We really needed a break from litigation, worrying about litigation, and litigating the case in our heads at 3 a.m. … and we got it.

Now back to reality.

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* She specializes in ass-kicking lawsuits on behalf of radically underserved groups and lifehacking.  Ask her to assemble your IKEA furniture; she’s really good at that too!

** What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

*** Sorry no footwear photos.  Images of age-inappropriate shoes worn in Vegas stay in Vegas.

****  This makes it sound like we attend sophisticated gatherings where people dress up and drink interesting mixed drinks.  Mostly, we play poker and order out for BBQ.

Extra-Dorky

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I have a bike in San Francisco.  After one especially stressful hearing, we were returning to the hotel room and passed another guest wheeling a cool-looking bicycle down the hall.

Me: Cool bike!

Woman with cool bike: Wanna buy it?

Me: Yes.

And so I came to own a bike in San Francisco.  I quickly learned several important things about my new bike.  The previous owner was a much taller woman than I am.  And the bike has 21 gears.  I have figured out the height adjustments — though I’m convinced I look something like this:

As for the gears, I pedal along happily in what appears to be gear 14, and am still waiting for someone to tell me what to do with the other 20.

The bike purchase was quickly followed by the bike helmet purchase, the bike lock purchase, and of course the bike rack purchase — as I had not, in my rash original purchase — thought about where the bike would fit in the van when we drive to and from SFO, along with the boxes of office supplies that live in the van, the suitcases we schlep each time, and our 6-foot-tall assistant, Dustin.   To this equipment were added a pair of old running shoes from home and a set of rubber bands from the office supply box, so that when I pedal around Emeryville, I look really truly Extra Dorky:

And this being one town over from Berkeley, all of us comrades get

whereas in capitalist Denver, we have to shell out 25 cents.   Ultimately, though, this whole post was just one big excuse to share these photos, taken about half a mile from our regular hotel in Emeryville, while Tim did the real work of preparing for the hearing that brought us here.

Additional dorkiness obvious in the shadow.