On May 26, I was driving from Colorado Springs back to Denver and noticed, as I neared the Air Force Academy, fighter jets flying in formation over my car. After contemplating the pros and cons of trying to photograph them through the sunroof as I drove up I-25, I pulled into a restaurant parking lot to take photos and found that many other people had done the same.
Turns out the Thunderbirds were practicing for an airshow. I had my camera and kit lens and managed to get a couple of OK shots. Memo to self: if you’re going to drive around Colorado, bring the good lenses.
It was breathtaking! Back when I was a biglaw associate, our firm represented GE in some litigation or another, and a partner I worked with had a big poster of fighter jets on her wall, captioned “Freedom’s Engines.” My first reaction was that that was sort of cloying — the aerospace engineering equivalent of a big-eye puppy photo — but when I thought more about it I thought, as I did last week watching these amazing pilots of these amazing machines do mind-blowing, stomach-churning maneuvers, I’m really glad these folks are on our side, protecting us.
A hilarious Graduation Bingo card has been making the rounds of Facebook, with squares like “ethnic name is awkwardly pronounced” and “someone in your line of sight is wearing Canucks gear.” Evidently, the graduation was in Vancouver.
This inspired me to compose ADA Defense Counsel Bingo. (MS Word version here.) Some of these are more common than others; all of these are real.
Once upon a time, there was a young lawyer who was working with a slightly older and much cooler lawyer representing a plaintiff in a civil rights case. The young lawyer and the cool lawyer set out on a journey to a village to the south where the young lawyer and the cool lawyer defended the deposition of their client, taken by a man who was a Well Respected Member of the Bar. During the deposition, the Well Respected Member of the Bar threw a pencil at the cool lawyer.
Time passed and the young lawyer became an old lawyer. She still represented plaintiffs and even though she aged and acquired experience and gray hair, she remained a woman.
Recently, she came before an Elder of the village’s Judicial Tribunal. For the first time since she was a young lawyer, the other attorney was that same Well Respected Member of the Bar from the village to the south. He was older and grayer, and still a man. During the proceeding before the Judicial Tribunal, the Elder posed questions to the once-young-now-old lawyer about her case, using words that showed sympathy, ableism, sexism, and condescension.
After the preceding, the elder asked the Well Respected Member of the Bar about his golf game.
And the once-young-now-old lawyer thought to herself, “I wonder if the Elder of the Judicial Tribunal knows that Well Respected Member of the Bar once threw a pencil at my co-counsel during a deposition.”
Against all of the sage advice of my brother and sister-in-law, we are undertaking a remodel of our house. We’ll get a new kitchen, I’ll get a new bathroom, the entire house will get new paint, and we may avoid dying a gory death at the hands of our basement.
We always knew that a previous owner had seriously overestimated his handyperson abilities, resulting in charming features like The Cardboard Wall and The Wood Paneling from Hell. These monstrosities lived in the basement, though, and since it’s inaccessible, we mainly interact with it when I do laundry or putter in the many boxes of documents I salvaged from my Dad’s house in 1997. Very occasionally we have house guests who stay in the bedroom down there; understandably, not many have stayed twice.
Because we largely ignore our basement, it wasn’t until the remodel demo crew started taking apart the basement “walls” that we learned just how bad it was.
Instead of taking dramatic before
remodel photos, I thought I would take pictures of a couple of the more startling hacks.
The guy demo’ing the basement remarked, of one amateurishly framed wall, that we were lucky the ceiling had not fallen in.
As if on cue, the level of entropy here generally is going through the roof. It’s like the house knows help is on the way, and is shedding its old skin. The vent in my office is coming apart.
The bricks next to the garage, slated for repointing,* collapsed just a little yesterday.
And in a piece of sympathetic entropy, our toaster died today. I think we’ll soon be huddled in the middle of the living room, cooking over a fire made from burning our furniture.
*Whatever that is. Our contractor says it authoritatively when I ask for the bricks to look better, so I’m guessing it’s a procedure for making bricks look better.
I spent part of last week in Helena, Montana on a new/old case in which CREEC is joining the ACLU National Prison Project and the ACLU of Montana as co-counsel on the case of Langford v. Bullock. The Langford case was brought and settled in the early 1990s, but the implementation period is ongoing with respect to a claim under Title II of the ADA. CREEC is lending its expertise in this area.
Sarah and I flew into Missoula, met with Jon and Ajmel, and then all drove over to Helena. The meeting went well, and left me a few hours of Wednesday afternoon for a leisurely stroll around Helena. As I’ve mentioned — among other places, in my Ramps of Route 1 post — I love to observe the small ways that small town small businesses find to provide access.*
First up: Taco del Sol on Last Chance Gulch Street.** I love not only their tile ramp
but that, even as a small restaurant, they made Braille menus available.
Also the carne asada burrito was fantastic!
Last Chance Gulch was a sort of pedestrian mall that did a great job ensuring the one or two steps of rise at most stores was ramped. The giant plush bear added an extra touch at the Lasso the Moon toy store.
And accessible ice cream!
Helena had a couple of hilarious access fails, as well. Flower pot access fail:
Pink flamingo access fail:
And major design brain fart fail:
The photos below were just randomness from my walk:
And my photos could not capture the beauty of the mountains, but I tried:
* As with the original post, I have to offer this disclaimer, because every now and again some defense-side attorney (hi, guys!) may read this: I did not evaluate these ramps for compliance with the Standards. I don’t know their dimensions or slope. If you try to introduce this as evidence in one of my cases, I will file a Motion for Judicial Notice of Completely Missing the Point.
** Not kidding!
When I saw Mighty Girl’s post on Rosie’s Girls summer camp, “a trades exploration day camp for school girls” where girls can learn welding, carpentry, auto repair, etc., I was moved to comment (on Facebook) that I wish this had been an option for me instead of figure skating camp. I thought I’d expound.
Yes, figure skating camp. But first, I got to spend a summer attending the Flint Hill Day Camp, where (IIRC) we spent up to six hours each day making plastic lanyards. I’m confident that there must have been other activities, but that’s the only one I recall. I loved it just as much as you would expect a nerdy introvert to love engaging in six hours a day of non-book-oriented activities with random unfamiliar kids.
By the time I was 12, I was launched on my figure skating career, which was ultimately as successful as you would expect for a klutzy nerdy introvert, but did provide good money-making opportunities in college, teaching private lessons to local kids. But back to skating camp. In 1973, there was no year-round ice rink in the DC area, and the Skating Club of Wilmington ran a summer program for skaters of a wide range of abilities, from Olympic trainees to klutzy kids from locations without year-round rinks. So off I went.
Activities consisted of skating, hanging around the skating rink, and hanging around the dorm. When I think of the sort of enrichment and structure that my friends expect from their kids’ camps these days, I don’t think they envision the sort of enrichment and structure the Wilmington summer skating program dorm provided:
The back of the photo reads, “Laurie and Dr. John.” So, yes, one of my dorm-mates — already much older than me — had a much older, beer-drinking boyfriend who had dubbed himself “Dr. John.”
What’s amazing is that — at 12 — I wasn’t even the youngest kid living parentless in this enriching environment.
More of my hall-mates.
The back of that photo reads, “Laurie, Jill Cosgrove, Carrie Applegate, Amy Keilly, Bruno, Patti Downst.” Through the miracle of Google, I learn that Jill Cosgrove went on to have a successful career as a figure skater and choreographer. Couldn’t find the others.
Since I was the photographer, there are — sadly — no photos of me. Wait, what? No. That’s not me. No way. Seriously?
I also found this one, of me with my coach, Uschi Keszler, whom I totally idolized and who turns out — who knew?* — to be minorly famous herself, complete with Wikipedia page.
Yes, I’m holding a toy lobster. Deal with it.
I tend not to have very fond memories of the whole skating camp experience. It was my choice — my parents were not stage parents, though God knows the skating world had plenty of those — but in retrospect I’ve come to believe that neither the program nor figure skating in general was a very healthy experience. It was a world that encouraged kid vs. kid (generally girl vs. girl) competition, with no sense of teamwork. We heard rumors of kids ruining each other’s skates or program tapes before big competitions. And, at bottom, I just sucked at it. So wish there had been a Photography and Reading for Introverted Klutzes camp. My peeps!
But going back through the photos made me remember a couple of other cool things (besides the early introduction to wardrobe-coordinated beer drinking). Wilmington, in 1973, had a number of blind skaters. One, Stash Serafin, shown here in my 1973 photo,
has (thanks again, Google!) gone on to have a successful skating career.
And finally, in 1973, you could get an entire basket of fries for 35 cents!
*Well, I suppose many Germans whom she represented in the Olympics knew, but I was stunningly unaware of who she was. In retrospect, I can only imagine her thinking — watching me skate — “I left my homeland for THIS?”