As I’ve mentioned, I’ve taken up rollerblading.*  This was the compromise I reached for the fact that (1) I have a manic golden retriever who is incapable of unaccompanied pooping; and (2) I hate exercise.   Rollerblading is an excellent solution because the ratio of dog exercise to human exercise is much greater than with running.  For example: I can cause Saguaro to run like this:

while I exercise like this:

I reckoned (read:  was too proud to admit the alternative) that since I’d figure skated** as a kid, I’d be pretty good a rollerblading, and that has largely been the case.  After two recent falls, though, I decided I should have at least some protective gear.  Not wanting to look like something out of Mad  Max a dork who didn’t know how to rollerblade, I was determined not to go all out, gearwise.  Hence, the following analysis:

1.  If I break my leg or skin my knee, I can still practice law.  No need for knee pads.

2.  If I get a head injury, I will be unable to practice law, and thereafter no one will yell at me through font changes about deposition scheduling.  No need for a helmet.

3.  If I break my wrists, I can still practice law, but typing will a pain in the ass.  Wrist guards!

So I now wear wrist guards, especially after spending a couple of weeks with very sore wrists following the RUI incident I described earlier.  That and a heinous yellow fleece for pre-dawn rolls are now my only concessions to safety.

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*I know, that’s a brand name.  I’m supposed to say “in-line skating” or something like that.  But given that I skate in anything *but* a line, I find that sort of awkward.  I also take a sort of perverse pleasure in companies that are so successful they have to talk us out of using their product names.   Band-aid!  Xerox!

** Not well:

So as one of my faithful readers pointed out, I haven’t blogged for a while.  True.  Should be back to producing the full spectrum of useless blather you’ve come to know and love.  Meanwhile, a brief account of some of the many interesting things that have been keeping me from the blog:

• Getting my hair cut to look like my idol*

• Filing a motion for sanctions against my opposing counsel that — although it required extensive circumlocution where a single word would have sufficed — did not use the word “clusterfuck.”**

• Rollerblading with Saguaro — which I’m really enjoying.  It’s like ice skating without the numb feet or annoying, um, ice skaters.

• Getting a great decision in one of our cases.

• Celebrating with the team at The Pioneer after getting our great decision

• Having the brilliant idea that rollerblading to The Pioneer would avoid the risk of DUI.

• Falling on my ass rollerblading home from The Pioneer while attempting to talk, gesticulate, and roll simultaneously.

• Smiling graciously while Tim laughed his ass off at this excellent example of Guy Humor.

• Visiting my brother’s family at their place in Maine.

• Being chauffeured around Santa Fe in my brother’s badass rental car.

• Reading my cousin’s awesome blog about the process of commissioning, composing (being composed for?), and staging an opera with his chamber group, The Meridian Arts Ensemble.

• And of course hanging with the dogs.

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* When I went looking for this photo, I also found this one — a Ramona tattoo.  My mission is clear!

** I did use the word “unrepentant.”  Accurately.

We’re finally getting a vacation!  Going to spend the week in Sonoma, chilling, biking/rolling, reading, and perhaps tasting a wine or two.  We’re not really wine appreciators – let’s just say a vacation to the microbreweries of Oregon or the stills of Kentucky might have been more appropriate.  But Sonoma is gorgeous.  The place we’re staying looks relaxing and wonderful.  And look how much fun I had last time we visited:

Actual photo of me at about 9, learning early wine-tasting skills.  Thanks, Dad!

Source:  New York Times

Memo to media outlets reporting on things that go boom:  terrorists come in more than one color.  From the New York Times article about the bombing and shootings in Norway:

Initial reports focused on the possibility of Islamic militants, in particular Ansar al-Jihad al-Alami, or Helpers of the Global Jihad, cited by some analysts as claiming responsibility for the attacks. American officials said the group was previously unknown and might not even exist.

There was ample reason for concern that terrorists might be responsible.

Folks, a terrorist was responsible.  A white terrorist.  Like Timothy McVeigh.  Like Eric Rudolph.  Like Ted Kaczynski.   Like Scott Roeder.  Terrorism is defined as “[t]he use of violence and intimidation in the pursuit of political aims.”   When white conservatives shoot abortion providers or federal judges, or blow up gay night clubs, it’s terrorism.

Perhaps a more honest paragraph would have read:

Because of the pre-existing, race- and religion-based categories of the Official Journalism Verbiage List, we initially and mistakenly referred to the events in Norway as “terrorism.”  When it turned out that it was a white guy and not a brown guy blowing shit up, we returned to the Official Journalism Verbiage List, and concluded that the proper term was, instead, “extremism.”  You know, just an extremely pale guy, with some extremely conservative views that he held extremely passionately, leading him to commit extremely violent acts.  But not terrorism.  Glad we cleared that up.

… would you be asking the same question if it were blindness, deafness, quadriplegia or diabetes?*

As you can imagine, I’m not a big fan of Michele Bachmann’s policy positions.  But I’ve been appalled at how quickly folks on both sides of the political aisle have decided that even the possibility of a physical disability might disqualify her from the presidency.  And what’s even odder, the only criticism of the question has come from a gender perspective:   is it sexist to point out migraines?  C’mon, folks!  Whether you agree with her or not, it’s pretty inappropriate to question her ability to govern based on a disability.

And this is different than the question whether it’s OK for the LGBTQ community to wonder whether Marcus Bachmann is gay.  I find that a bit awkward, given that it’s based on stereotypes, but at least its a community on some level claiming Mr. Bachmann as one of their own.  The pearl-clutching about Rep. Bachmann’s migraines is all from the outside:  allegedly concerned non-disabled people furrowing their brows about whether someone with a physical impairment could possibly govern the country.

This does not bode well for the first time a candidate using a wheelchair runs for office.  Oh, wait:

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* If you answered “yes” to this question, please report immediately to your nearest qualified disability rights organization for enlightenment.

I had an idea for a comedy routine that would include this derivative one-liner:  if your car is older than your paralegal . . . YOU COULD BE A PLAINTIFFS’ LAWYER!  I never came up with other humorous  Foxworthian indicia of plaintiffs’ lawyer status, so that was as far as I got.  But I would like to pay tribute to the car that inspired that hilarious line:  My 1988 Honda Accord.

January 1988:  Purchased.  At the ripe old age of 27, I had never actually owned my own car.   I had previously driven the family Fiat (in high school) and a hand-me-down Malibu — the quirks of which I have previously described — in law school.  In between, I lived on a self-contained college campus (where the Fiat was an occasional visitor) and then in Taipei, which had such an outstanding bus system that I spent three years not driving and not missing it.

Early Summer 1988:  Drove the Accord cross country to a summer associate position in Los Angeles.  For part of the journey, I was joined by the guy I was misguidedly dating at the time.  Advice for any young ladies reading this:  Young Ladies, do not attempt to teach your boyfriends* to drive stick shift cars.  If your guy does not know how to drive a stick shift car, my advice is just to dump him now, as it suggests that he is too coddled to make good boyfriend material.

Late Summer 1988:  Drove the Accord back across country to start my clerkship in VA.  Picked up step-brother in Santa Fe.  Based on fear of step-brother’s driving record (love you, Jeff!), undertook to keep the wheel to myself during a three-day dash from Santa Fe to Arlington, VA.  Another lesson learned:  you cannot get off the highway in Oklahoma and expect to get a good steak at a random steakhouse.  Yelp.com didn’t exist in those days.

1988-89:  Lived in Richmond for my clerkship.  The Honda acquired the trunk gash it still bears today from some klutz’s attempt to attach a bike rack and (what the hell) a bike to the back of the car.

September 1989:  Drove to Minneapolis based on misguided relationship.  See supra.

February 1991:  Escape vehicle from misguided relationship.  Driven at great speed from MN to VA.  Stopped in IL to visit law school roommate, whose two-year old painted me a picture, which I put on top of the worldly possessions stuffed into the car.  To this day, I think of that 2-year-old (who, I believe, just graduated from college) every time I look in the rear view mirror and see the glop of yellow paint that remains from the inevitable moment when the picture flew up from the worldly possessions and adhered to the back window.

January 1992: Spun out in the snow driving to first date with Tim.  I remain very grateful that the Honda righted itself and I made it to the date on time.  Tim received early warning of my driving skills.

Later in 1992:  Acquired a “Clinton for President” bumper sticker, which would, even later, be covered with an X of duct tape when . . .

1993:  I loaned the Honda to my conservative brother.  It spent several months as the vehicle of choice for my sister-in-law to transport my newborn nephew — who is now 17 — as it had four doors to her CRV’s two.  That meant I got to drive around in a sporty red CRV for a few months.

1995:  Traveled to Denver in the back of a moving van.  I think it is still pissed at me for that.

Since 1995, the Accord has seen a lot less driving time, as Tim and I commute in the van.  It is now missing its hubcaps and the trim on the passenger side, which largely means that no one — no one — ever challenges me when I want to change lanes.  A few years ago, when I parked it on the street in front of our house for one night — it usually lives in the garage — someone broke the driver’s side window and crowbarred the original equipment radio and cassette (cassette!) deck out of the dashboard.  This had to have been the single most pointless and annoying crime in the history of crime, as the criminal ended up with a P.O.S. sound system, and I discovered that the cost of replacing that part of the dashboard — even without a new radio — exceeded the book value of the car. Luckily the thief left the lighter socket, so sound now comes from a jerry-rigged system involving a DC to AC outlet adapter and my smart phone.

From time to time, we talk about replacing the 88 Accord, but it never gives us a good reason to do that , and honestly I’m not sure how I’ll part with it.  Although automotive technology has advanced considerably in the past 23 years, I think the only thing I really miss is:  a cupholder.

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* Upon rereading, I recognized the heterocentrist assumptions underlying this sentence.  So to clarify:  advice for any young ladies dating young men.  I do not have any data on the advisability of young ladies trying to teach their girlfriends to drive manual shift cars.

… presented through the medium of bathroom-stall advertising.

A bed (“Best in Boulder”), emergency contraception (“Accidents happen – but there is no need to panic”) or Denver Christian Schools (“the perfect place for your five tow-headed children”).  OK, I invented the last tag line, but you gotta love the juxtaposition of the bed, Plan B, and, um, Plan C.

This is an actual bathroom advertisement at The Pioneer Bar.   OK, it’s a total college bar, but if you avoid times that it’s full of college students, and go when it’s sunny so you won’t be exposed to the cheesy decor and can enjoy a pleasant patio, a good margarita, and freaking excellent quesadillas.  Also highly recommend the steak fajitas.  In other words, a great place to goof off.

Lesson from trial day 1: The haircut you got for trial in a salon at 5,280 feet and zero humidity will not look at all the same at sea level and 100% humidity.

Lesson from trial day 2: Do not attempt new and untested methods of blow drying your hair on trial day 2.

Lesson from the evening of trial day 2: We are not in Kansas Colorado anymore.  Came out of the Safeway just in time to see the Oakland police surrounding someone at gunpoint in the parking lot.  Oddly, my first instinct — from years of Law & Order and Cops — was to walk toward the scene to check it out.  It took a sec to realize that “away” might be a better direction.

I used to be disgusted.  Now I try to be amused. — Elvis Costello