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Saturday, February 01, 2003 The Inkjet Refill I bought an inkjet printer refill kit. It comes in a plastic package that could withstand uranium-tipped ammo. The packages are being shipped to the Persian Gulf and troops will be carrying them as makeshift bomb shelters. The kit comes equipped with a syringe, a bent needle, and some bottles of ink, which, of course, flew across the room when I managed to get the packaging open, and some other stuff, like hole-pluggers, ball bearings (?), hook screw, pusher tool (I knew then that there were other uses for the syringe and needle), tape dots, and some kind of clear plastic bottle. Oh, there's a 28-page instruction manual included. I do not exaggerate or lie (I know, I know -- but let's just go on with this fairy tale; and, besides, what kind of person admits to running out of gas seven (7) times -- y'see, that's lawyer talk there, putting that number in parentheses -- only an HONEST person ... well, an honest STUPID person). I am sitting here right now while I'm writing this entry, looking at the instruction book. I can't read many of the pages because they are covered with black ink. One of the instructions is "6. For best results, try to refill your cartridges before they are empty." Maybe this is the instruction I didn't follow. I bought the damn refill kit because I ran out of ink. NO ink in the cartridge -- that's when people go out and buy new ink cartridges -- well, that's when stupid people like me go out and buy ink cartridges. I can't call Miss Cleo anymore to predict when my cartridges need re-filling, just like she did with other things in my life. I wanted to save money. That's all -- the advertising said save thousands of dollars. I looked at the pictures in the instruction manual. Those gave me a pretty good idea of how to refill the cartridge -- it was the black one that was ... empty. The plan was to top off the color cartridge when I was done with re-filling the black one (I was missing that laser printer I had when they first came out. I got it because the 9-pin printer didn't look good on letters to judges and retired football players who were accused of smashing their daughters' heads on the door frame. It set me back about $150,000 ... or was it $1,500. That was so long ago.). Anyway, I put the syringe together like in the pictures and stuck the needle part through the seal on the bottle -- hey, just like the nurses do in the movies. That's on page 5 of the manual. The book shows that I had to put the needle in the cartridge, but I couldn't find the damn hole in the cartridge that was in the picture. The picture didn't even look like the cartridge I took out of the printer. I had the syringe full of black ink with no place to put it. I put the cartridge down and started looking through the instruction manual. And wouldn't you know it, the fucking cartridge is on page 26. I should have known at that point to check to see if the planets were aligned correctly or to check my horoscope to see how many stars were after the Libra listing (Starbucks has the horoscope out there on the pick-up counter, which, by the way, is so fucking high, someone in a wheelchair would find it difficult to reach up for his or her Venti 3-pump Cafe Mocha Extra Hot or Vanilla Latte, and the horoscope rates your day at 3, 4, or 5 stars, which means that if you have a three-star day, that's really a no-star day, not a three-star day, but who believes in that horoscope mumbo-jumbo anyway). I pried off the top of the cartridge with the base of my Swingline Tot 50 stapler because I wasted enough time on this stupid thing and did not want to go downstairs to get a knife to pry off the top. I also figured that the way it was going I would have severed a tendon in my hand or something if I used a knife. I had to put down the syringe. It didn't leak out -- physics, you can't live without it sometimes. I got the fucking top off -- it flipped onto the floor under the desk, of course, and one of the damn dogs grabbed it; so, I had to go after the dog. She was merciful and dropped the top when I screamed at her. I had to enlarge the filling hole with the included hook screw -- what the fuck? What, this company picked up a load of hook screws cheap or something. You could screw it into the cupboard when you're done with the kit and hang a cup from it? And "enlarge" the filling hole? There's no fucking hole in the top of the fucking cartridge to enlarge! Idiots! And the picture has a line going to where the "hole" is supposed to be. The same little asshole that found the deal on the hook screws must have written the fucking 28-page instruction manual with the black-and-blacker pictures with black lines going to the picture because -- you know what the song says -- "Black is Black." But the fucking little asshole with the Wally Cox glasses never heard that song; so, I can't see where the fucking hole I'm supposed to enlarge is supposed to be. If this little fucker were in front of me, I'd jam that syringe right ... little bastard. I screwed that goddamned ink cartridge -- it took longer than I thought it would to drill it -- I finally broke through. So, I could finally stick that fucking thing in the hole and push the plunger, which I did. Fucking black ink sprays right out of that little hole that I'm trying to get this stuff into -- it sprays all over the place, shooting up on the wallpaper to my right, all over the desk, on the carpet, all over the desk, on my laptop, on my new, white shirt from Old Navy -- what the fuck kind of a bullshit deal is this!?? Goddamned instruction book. I can't read the fucking toll-free number on page 28 to call to complain about this bullshit product because it's covered up by black ink. I noticed right above the big black spot on page 28, "In no event shall STRATITEC be liable for incidental, special, direct, indirect, consequential or multiple damages, such as, but not limited to, lost business or profits ..." The rest was covered up. I had seen enough. Fucking lawyers. Thursday, January 30, 2003 The High Cost of Gasoline I was going to tell you about some more legal stuff, but that would make it three out of the last four, and then even I would think: What's with this guy? I filled up the car this morning and noticed that the price of gasoline went up 25 cents in the last two days -- that wouldn't be because of the State of the Union speech on Tuesday, would it? It took a few more bucks to fill the tank -- the numbers that show the purchase amount used to move so slow. Now, those numbers move so fast, it's hard to stop the pump at an even amount -- you know what I mean -- you used to be able to pump it and stop it right at three dollars. That is so hard to do now -- $3.04, $3.21, you know how it is. I didn't have to worry about that, though, because my wife told me to fill it up. I have been very good the last seven months about filling up the tank. For the year before that, I ran out of gas seven times. You may ask yourself, how did he do that? And I will answer that there was no gas station around. And you would naturally ask what do you mean by that, you could have put gas in it anywhere along the way. And then I would tell you to shut up, you're right. And then you would tell me to fuck off. Now, you are asking me how anyone could run out of gas seven times in one lifetime, let alone a matter of months. And that's what my good friend, Dave, asked me after the first time he had to come out with a gas can. And I gave him the answer most would give, "Uhh, I dunno. Stupid?" Girls Can't Weld It is the 21st Century. I checked my Handspring Visor just to make sure, and I am right. It feels good to be right. But some people don't know we're in the 21st Century (I'm not talking about those people at 20th Century Fox.). I count as a client a young woman. She became a welder -- went that route in high school, then went to a technical school, got a welding job, worked hard, then became certified. She was laid off. She went to the employment office (to apply for unemployment and to check the job listings). The employment counselor, to whom she was assigned, told her that there were two job openings for welders at a local company. She hurried over to the compnay offices to apply for the openings. The personnel guy accepted her application, but told her that there were no openings for welders. She questioned why her employment counselor said there were two openings, and the personnel guy said that there must have been some mistake made because there were no openings. Disappointed, she went home. The next day the employment counselor called her to find out what happened at the welding company. She related the story, to which the employment counselor replied that she should come to the office because there were openings and she could be placed. So, she went to the employment office to see her employment counselor, wondering what good it would do since it was obvious the employment counselor had no idea what jobs were out there in the real world. Sitting down in the chair across the employment counselor's desk, she told the counselor how disappointed she was. The employment counselor swung the computer monitor around so she could see it and pointed out with a sharpened yellow number 2 pencil first one line and then the second line, which showed the two job openings at the company. The employment couunselor picked up the phone and called the company, getting on the line with the personnel guy, who indicated that they were no closer to hiring anyone. He also told her that there were now three openings for experienced welders. She went back to the company to find out what was happening. She was told that there were no openings, but that they would call her when something became available. She has been unable to find work comparable to the pay and conditions under which she would heve worked if she would have been hired. She filed suit against the company. The lawsuit remains pending. This is the 21st Century. This is sex discrimination. Wednesday, January 29, 2003 Snow Ban Parking I have become aware of lack of access to businesses and services in the last few years. I know that there are some out there who are totally unaware of the barriers encountered day-to-day by those who are disabled. And I'm not condemning anybody for that -- unless part of the job is making sure paths of travel are clear and there is access available. I pulled into the parking lot to pick up my wife from work. There are four handicapped parking spots (2 x 2) in the lot. A delivery truck, with no markings on it, was parked right in the middle of the four spots (like that asshole with the Corvette parks across six or eight spots so nobody will park near him and scratch that phallus, I mean, car). Delivery guys -- they have an unconditional license to park where they want at any particular time they want. I'm sitting there, blocking his escape route directly in front of him. I know that if I can hold him up until my wife comes out of the building that she will beat him into submission with her Leki Wanderfreund trekking pole. He comes out of the building with his little four-wheeled cart. I opened the window and asked him in a pleasant way whether he knew he was in the handicapped parking spots. "Where the fuck do you want me to park?" he asked politely. Things degenerated from there -- he ended up using the rear escape route, but not before we exchanged old English exressions several times. This is standard I'm-a-delivery-truck-driver-I can-park-anywhere-I-goddamn-please behavior, which includes, among other things, stopping in the middle of the road and backing into a driveway to make a delivery, even though there are cars and SUV's behind the truck. Tuesday morning, the snow plow guy left big piles of snow in the handicap parking spaces at the local shopping strip. I am trying to figure out how the plow operators interpret the sign's language and symbol to mean: This is where you put all the snow from the entire parking lot, you moron! Time for a letter from the fucking lawyer. Tuesday, January 28, 2003 The Links The Links -- I guess I couuld be writing about golf in this one, but I'm not. I got this request from my 17-year-old son to link to his site. He started the website as part of a project for his home-schooling and as a diary of his day-to-day recovery. It was supposed to be a private thing, but he asked me today to link to him because he is going public. He has been working hard. I don't need to go into where he was about 15 months ago; but suffice to say, cocaine had its claws into him big time. He had brushes with the law, but I kept him out of that system, which swallows kids and spits most of them out with more street smarts than when they went in. The problem was -- we thought we were savvy about drugs, my wife having come from a family that -- well, you know, and me, the lawyer, who represented drug addicts and dealers; and we weren't savvy when it came down to it (We did our share of room-tossing and grilling and grounding and yelling.). Some parents told us that he should take his medicine and live with it -- yeah, his medicine. When the cocaine pipeline dried up (when we found out), he went to outpatient counseling, but then he turned to Robitussin DM -- the company that makes the stuff could be fodder for some enterprising lawyer -- and relapsed. And he said he needed help. It's been a rough year for the J-Dog. Friends said he didn't deserve another chance, that we should turn him in to the cops, that we should give up on him. We took a different tack. He got on a plane to Salt Lake City with the clothes on his back, his ticket, his photo I.D., and his CD player, and went to Aspen Achievement Academy in February and graduated in mid-April, went through an intensive outpatient program, where he hooked up with Ed Mitchell and A.A. as a part of his aftercare. He graduated from Ed's program and continues to go to A.A. meetings at least six times a week. He attends 12-step weekends every other month. He is sponsor for a couple of young men in the A.A. program. He fights the demon every day. He says it's much better now. The cravings are not there. We, his mom and I and his brothers, are very proud of him. Bar Fights Blake came to me because he was sued by a guy named Thomas for the broken jaw and the teeth he spit out after Blake one-punched him into unconsciousness in a local bar. There was a problem Blake related to me -- after he was charged with criminal assault, he entered a plea of guilty to assaulting Thomas and was ordered to pay restitution for Thomas' medical expenses. So, he basically admitted that he punched Thomas in the face, resulting in about $4,000 in medical bills. Blake didn't pay the bills. Thomas wanted not only the medical expenses, but money for pain and suffering and punitive damages for Blake's outrageous conduct. After about a year and a half, the case went to trial today before a jury. Siroka, the bar owner, was called as a witness by Thomas and took the witness stand. He swore that he had known Thomas for 25 years and had known Blake about 10 years. He said that Blake was there at the bar and that he hit Thomas in the face with a punch. On cross-examination, he acknowledged that Thomas was drinking most of the evening and was very drunk, loud, and obnoxious. Thomas followed Blake around, including to the pay phone, constantly jawing at Thomas. Siroka said that he had to step in between the two guys during an argument, but he couldn't remember anything about what they were arguing over. Siroka said that Thomas, at one point, jumped to his feet from his bar stool and moved toward where Blake was standing by the bar, yelling, "Let's do Jello shots!" That's when he saw Blake spin and punch Thomas in the face, laying Thomas out cold. Then Siroka said, "It happened fast and Blake thought he was gonna get hit." The other attorney did not object to that -- don't know why. Thomas' wife tetsified about coming to her husband's aid after he was hit. She didn't see who did it or what happened. She just saw her husband go down, unconscious, blood streaming from his mouth, and convulsing. She didn't see her husband talking to anyone, except that she met some friends there and was talking to them most of the evening. Thomas' story was that he was minding his own business in the bar enjoying the evening drinking and having conversation with his bar buddies. He met Blake for the first time when Thomas' old friend, with whom he and his wife socialized over the last 25 years and who owned the bar, introduced Thomas to Blake in the bar that night. Thomas made some small talk with Blake, but never got into any argument with Blake or said anything to Blake that could be considered offensive. He talked to his friend, the bar owner, for a long time and decided to leave. Thomas says he got out of his chair and turned to get his wife's coat from a table nearby. Thomas testified that Blake sucker-punched him and he was knocked out. Thomas' dentist testified that the jaw and mouth injuries were caused by a blow to the mouth and jaw and that Thomas needed crowns on the the three broken teeth. She also testified that Thomas never came back to her for treatment, care, or exam in the two years since she saw him about two years ago, which was about five days after being struck. To her knowledge, Thomas had not been treated since that date. His prescriptions were not re-ordered or re-filled. And he testified, when I asked him if he was drunk, that he was "stable." What? "You know, stable." "Well, how much did you have to drink?" "10, 12, probably 15 drinks, not much." "What kind of drinks?" "Vodka." Jurors were smiling. I thought I had a good chance at that point. The bartender was called as a witness, but he didn't see much. He did say that he kept giving drinks to Thomas. Blake took the witness stand. He said that he was talking to Siroka and that Thomas came over and started leaning on him, asking him if they were related because Thomas heard something that he was related to Blake. Blake did not know the man and never saw him before. Thomas called Blake a punk and that he could beat Blake's ass. Thomas wanted to know whether Blake worked out [No]; whether Blake was a Gold Gloves champion [No]; whether Blake was a boxer [No]; why Blake was lying [Get outta here]. Blake moved. Thomas followed him. Thomas went on about his martial arts training and about his black belt in Karate. He continued to harangue Blake about Blake's impotence in the area of kicking ass. He questioned Blake's heritage, his sexual orientation, and his gender. He was abusive, obnoxious, and insulting. Blake wanted to leave, but was afraid to walk home, thinking he might be attacked by Thomas on the way home. He told Thomas several times to leave him alone, to no avail. Blake went to the pay phone to call for a ride. Thomas continued to chide Black, even when Blake was on the phone. Blake went back to the bar where he was sitting, but was confronted by Thomas who wanted to kick Blake's ass. Siroka stepped between them. Blake turned his back, and out of the corner of his eye saw a quick movement toward him with arms in the air. He pun and punched at the same time, decking Thomas. Jury went out, picked a foreman, used the restroom, voted. signed the verdict forms, and were back in 15-20 minutes. Blake won. Monday, January 27, 2003 And You Think Sundance Has a Film Festival? The sixth-annual Steven Seagal Film Festival is on February 15 and 16 this year. We've expanded to three screens this year and will be showing Above the Law at 12:01 A.M. on Saturday morning for a limited audience with the usual midnight buffet in the main screening room. Tenderloin stuffed with shrimp and crab will be on the table, since everyone enjoyed it so much last year. I do not expect that Mr. Seagal will make an appearance this year. After last year's festival, a number of people asked that Marked For Death be eliminated from the rotation; so, we have acceded to the demand and will not be showing it this year (I agree with all of you, by the way.). In its place will be substituted Action Jackson with Carl Weathers, Craig T. Nelson, and Sharon Stone (who, of course, plays Mrs. Toscani in Above the Law), which will be shown at 2 a.m. in the basement theater. Immediately afterward, at 3:45 a.m., Carl Weathers will remain on the screen, this time with Bill Duke and other notables, in the bloodbath, Predator. A continental breakfast will be served starting at 9 a.m. and beginning at 10:30 a.m. on Saturday, on the main screen will be Mr. Seagal starring in Out for Justice, Hard To Kill (12:15 p.m. with the sandwich buffet, including smoked salmon courtesy of PJ's Executive Barber Shop), and Exit Wounds (2:30 p.m. without the end credits and Tom Arnold's narcissistic display). In the auxillary screening room, commencing at 10:30 a.m., we will be showing On Deadly Ground, Out for Justice (12:30 p.m. with the sandwich buffet), and Hard To Kill (2:30 p.m.) In the basement, as a result of a serious write-in campaign, which I believe was orchestrated by two college students, we will be playing Die Hard, the bloody, Bruce Willis classic, at 2:15 p.m. And to slake your thirst for Bruce Willis, Pulp Fiction will be shown in the basement at 12:30 a.m. Sunday morning. All tickets for this movie are gone, even after having opened up the obstructed view seating. As you will recall, last year, the police did make appearances because of the parking situation and the fireworks. These incidents should be ample proof that we are not above the law, and I will warn you now that scalping of tickets, in addition to illegal parking and blowing off fireworks (especially at 2 a.m.), is against the law. As has been the custom, we will have valet parking. Saturday night, at 7 p.m., in the main and auxillary screening rooms, will be shown one of Mr. Seagal's classics, Under Seige. At 9:00 p.m., we celebrate the return of "Casey-fucking-Ryback" in Under Siege 2: Dark Territory. On Sunday, buffet breakfast will be open at 8:45 a.m., which will include the omelette and Belgian waffle table again this year, the usual array of eggs benedict, bacon, sausage, hash browns, juices, milk, and coffee. There will be no egg nog this year because I don't feel like making it -- several of you made a real mess last year. We will begin Sunday morning screenings at 10 a.m. in the main screening room with Executive Decision. I do not want to hear any complaints about this movie being included in the festival this year (you knew it had to come sometime -- he dies -- its only a movie). In the basement, at 10 a.m., we will be showing another film with Kurt Russell, directed by John Carpenter, Escape From New York; and in the auxillary screening room, by popular demand, the Clint Eastwood classic with Tyne Daly, The Enforcer will be shown. Novotny Catering will be bringing in lunch, which will be served between noon and 1:30 p.m. Sunday. If you remember, last year, Del served roast beef and ham with a couple of potato dishes, an outstanding cauliflower with a swiss cheese sauce, and the make-your-own-sundae cart. I am sure he will come through for us again. It will be The Patriot at 2 p.m. on the auxillary screen, one of my favorites, Repo Man on the main screen, and a re-run of Above the Law in the basement. Why Repo Man? Because Harry Dean Stanton was in Fire Down Below, and I will never allow that stinker to be shown at the festival. We will conclude this year's festival with the auction of DVD's of all the movies shown at the festival this year. All proceeds will be donated to a charity as chosen by a vote of the winnning bidders. Thank you for your support. Sunday, January 26, 2003 Space Invaders Life just smacks you flush in the face with a meat tenderizer when you go one of your favorite restaurants, and the server taking care of you wasn't even alive when you first ate at the restaurant. We went there the first Saturday night it was open and have been going there ever since. We called at 6:45 and asked for a table for four at 7:15 -- we walked through a gaggle of people which spilled outside for the hour wait. The food was great, as usual. The server -- she was 21, 22, maybe 20, whatever, wearing a tight, black turtleneck sweater, black mini-skirt, black hose, and funky cream-colored hockey socks. She was very efficient and responsive, but there was this problem I had with her service. She just got too damn close. I was sitting there, talking across the small table, when she asked to take our order. I looked to my left; and I swear that if I blinked, I would have tickled her right breast with my left eyelashes. Thank God I didn't lean left a little before I looked. I jerked back like Randy Johnson smoked a fastball inside and high and almost fell out of my chair. Am I exaggerating? No. She was way too close. Personal space. Its size fluctuates. And you yourself don't know how far that personal space extends at any given time until someone invades it. It's kind of like Justice Brennan's definition of obscenity -- you know it when you see it (or feel it). I saw it. Almost felt it.
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