My Interns.

Well, technically they're called "externs" (I think they told me why, but I wasn't listening). Technically, they're not "mine", either. John, Roger and Stacey are law students at the College of Charleston School of Law, and they spent a good bit of their Summer breaks working with the Public Defender's Office in the Boro. They are smart, intellectually curious, genuinely helpful and were a joy to have around. They helped me (and Harris, who is the Chief Public Defender) prepare several cases for trial. They interviewed witnesses, prepared briefs on issues that we expected to arise at trial, reviewed evidence, prepared trial exhibits, and even sounded me out on trial strategy. They shared in the highs (a "not guilty" verdict in my armed robbery trial), and lows (a life without parole sentence of a client after a guilty verdict in my arson trial) of life in the Public Defender's Office. Did I say "my trials"? No. That's wrong. Our trials. John, Roger and Stacey, I'll miss you.

Clubbing Baby Seals: Good or Bad? Discuss your Answers.

Sweet and Sour Children.

Warning: This post is kind of a bummer. Feel free to skip it. I'll have something lighter tomorrow.

I've mentioned ad nauseam that I have, like, 106 kids. Actually, it's four, but believe me, that's plenty. My youngest are thirteen year-old twins. One of the twins- Tyler- had me take him to Beaufort yesterday, because he had a date with a girl he met on-line. The girl's parents insisted it be a group outing, so Taylor went along also, as did another friend or two of the girl. Taylor already had his first date about six months ago. Taylor also was the first to "make out" (though, technically, Tyler got his first kiss when he was in Sunday School at age six). This is a weird age for the Lads. They still let me read The Narnia Chronicles to them. Tyler has not totally gotten rid of the teddy bear he's had since he was an infant. They will still give me a hug and tell me they love me. But most of their friends are at least two years older than they are. Some of their friends use drugs. The boys tell me this. Taylor asked me the difference between "weed" and crack yesterday. Drugs are a dead end, I tell them. I've previously offered a bribe: if they can make to 18 years of age without using alcohol, tobacco or drugs, I'll give them 500 bucks each. I'm pretty sure Taylor is already out of the money. Shoot, I was twelve the first time I got drunk. Should I be surprised? There's no rush for this, I tell them. You guys will have all the friends and girlfriends you'll ever want. I promise. No need to hurry. Still, I'm battling biology here. "Dad, I miss my friends in Beaufort" really means: "Dad, Mom lets me do whatever I want. Why don't you? I want to do everything. Now. If you won't let me, I'll go back to Beaufort". I want to tell them, "I did all that. It gets you nowhere. Enjoy being a kid. It ends before you know it". But that's not what kids do, is it?

Big Red Machine.

Anybody remember the movie Sandlot?

The boys need a baseball, and the baseball-impaired protagonist gets one from the house. 'Cept it's not just an old baseball; it's been autographed by one George Herman "Babe" Ruth. The Great Bambino. The Sultan of Swat. The ball is knocked over a fence into a yard containing a monstrous dog, and, well, anyway, it's a pretty cool movie about being a kid decades ago. I got to thinking about my own autographed baseball (well, actually, it's my brother's baseball. I'm not sure if he still has mine).

Sometime in my youth, my dad took me and Andy to Al_Lopez_Field, where the Cincinnati Reds used to Spring Train. We got to skip school and everything. It was great. Dad got us baseballs, and we scooted around to the various players getting whatever autographs we could. These were the days of "The Big Red Machine", when the Reds were the best in baseball. We got autographs from Tony Clonninger, David Concepcion, Tommy Helms, Pedro Barbon, Willie Smith, Hal McRae, Lee May, Wayne Simpson, and Clay Carroll (and one other name I can't read). Oh, yeah, and Johnny Bench, who was maybe the best hitting catcher of all time. Pete Rose was holding out for more money, so we didn't get his, but, man, what a treasure. I remember this was the early to mid-70's, but I don't remember which year. Steve? Anybody?

I Like to Move It, Move It.

Before I came to work for the Public Defender's Office, I had a private, solo law practice in nearby Ridgeland, SC. I had a little building, that used to be a little house, across from the County Courthouse. Though I never made a lot of money, I actually had a fair number of cases. Cases mean casefiles. Casefiles mean storage.

My office building was small, so I got a little 8x8 RubberMaid shed for my old files. When I began the process of closing down my private practice, I sold my building, but asked the new owner to allow me to keep my shed on the premises. She initially said that would be fine, but had grown weary of my use of her space. Last week, she'd had enough. "Move the shed", she said. So I did.

I rented a U-Haul truck, and bribed my neighbor Big John, and one of his buddies to help me dis-assemble, unpack, and move the shed and the boxes contained therein into the truck, then re-assemble the shed in the Boro and replant the boxes.

Big truck for a little shed. Still, the monster truck was only ten dollars more than the more appropriately sized one.

With anywhere from ten to fifty files per box in the seventy-five or so boxes in there, you'd'a figured I'da made a killing in my seven years of private practice. You'd be wrong. Good thing we got the big truck after all. We still had to fit the shed in there.

Here lies my private practice. R.I.P.

The files are now safely resting behind the Manor. The Code of Ethics requires me to keep my files for several years. Good Lord, I hope noone needs me to actually find one.

More Raisins, Much More Raisins...

My oldest son, Davis, is passing the Summer with his mama in Beaufort, whilst awaiting his real life as a college senior in Sewanee, TN. He stopped by the Boro the other day and regaled me with tales of his college exploits. He asked, out of politeness, I suppose, about some of mine.

IIt's amazing what ridiculous things we remember. Ultimately, the events matter less than camaraderie, or purpose, or freedom that we felt through the events. Or sometimes, just the silliness. One such event was a road trip that two of my Frat brothers, Michael "Commander" McHale and Pat McInerney, and I made from Sewanee to see my brother (and Brother), Andy, at Auburn University in Auburn, AL. I have vague memories of the consumption of vast quantities of alcoholic beverages, late night trips to Krystal's for sacks of burgers, and crippling hang-overs.

Mostly, I remember AndyMan and his girlfriend- a proper Southern Belle who, I don't doubt, continues to have nightmares about this incident- driving me and my badly hung-over classmates over many hills and winding roads in his ancient Volkswagen beetle, ostensibly to a party at a lake. We stopped for food. This was not a good idea. I opted for Strawberry NeHi and a moonpie- an even worse idea: I promptly deposited those items on a constable's feet, ala Animal House, very early in the trip. My nausea necessitated a shift in seat assignments. Andy's girlfriend, Lisa, had to move to the back seat between Commander and Mac. Mac was a "playa", back before they called Lotharios "playas", and was leering at Lisa. Commander? Well, Commander was, er, unique. Poor Lisa looked anywhere for relief. She looked desperately to Commander, who looked back at her with understanding, and, out of the blue, began to sing a commercial jingle to her: the Raisin Bran song. What? You don't remember the Raisin Bran song? Here. Let me refresh your memory:



Lisa, as you might imagine, was mortified. Sadly, relief was not to be had. Mac joined in. Then, feebly, so did I. Lisa looked imploringly at Andy in the rearview mirror. In the end, AndyMan joined in as well. Anyway, that's how I remember it. Deeper meaning? Nah. It was fun, though.

These are My Turtles, Cuff and Link...

I don't like to shop for clothes. Most guys don't. I'm not good at it. I've been divorced for eight years now, and most of my clothes were purchased either by my ex-wife or her mother (a very nice lady, who passed away last year). I wear white shirts every day, and frankly, they're getting a bit thread-bare. As much as I hate to shop, I desperately needed at least one new white shirt. Well, shucks, it's a white shirt; how hard can this be? So, I saddled up the SpongeBobMobile and off to Belk's I went. Yippee! I caught a sale! Regularly $45.00 shirts with my neck and sleeve size for $25.00. I grabbed a shirt, tossed the clerk my debit card, and I was oughta there in, like, ten minutes. Shoot, this wasn't that hard. 'Cept I didn't look closely enough at the shirt. Evidently, this particular brand and style didn't have buttons at the cuffs. Cufflinks? I've got to use cufflinks? A bit much for Walterboro, S.C. Still, I'm not taking the shirt back. I hate taking stuff back even more than I hate clothes shopping.

Cobbler.

No, not that kinda cobbler.


Peach cobbler. After our unsuccessful attempt to procure peaches a couple of weeks ago, Cathy and I again endeavored to acquire peaches this weekend past. Off to Kline, SC, we went. I might post the journey. Or not. Either way, we did score some Pat's Peaches, some of which went into the cobbler at left. A scoop of vanilla icecream on top. Mmmmm.

Byrne-ing Down the House.

I'm supposed to begin trying an arson case today. Naturally enough, I suppose, my mind wandered to the Talking Heads.

About three minutes into the video of "Burning Down the House", a child is grabbing lead singer David Byrne's hand and using it to strum Byrne's guitar (I suppose with a name like Byrne, it was inevitable that the singer would perform a song involving fire). I'd recently found a video of the song "Use It" by the New Pornographers which made use of- and expanded- the "people as puppets" theme.


The New Pornographers? Wonder if they'd peddle their wares to people accused of arson? Porno for Pyros? Guess we've completed the circle.

Black Betty Smackdown: The Poll

Aight. Last Smackdown, Johnny Cash's "A Boy Named Sue" Smacked Down the competition. Now, it's go time again, Betty Betty style. The nominees are Ram Jam, Tom Jones, Cheryl Crow and Spiderbait. Seemed like the last poll messed up from time to time. If you have difficulties, let me know (I probably won't do anything, but, well, you can still let me know). Let the best Betty win.

Black Betty Smackdown 4: Spiderbait

Australian group Spiderbait does a pretty good version of Black Betty, too.


AndyMan comments that Tom Jones gives a shout-out to Leadbelly in Tom's version of BB. Leadbelly, it seems, introduced the song to the world. Ah, what the heck. Let's include Leadbelly's version, too (though the video has nothing to do with the song or the performer, and the audio quality isn't that great).

Black Betty Smackdown 2 and 3: Cheryl Crow and Tom Jones

Thanks, AndyMan.

Thanks, John.

Black Betty Smackdown 1: Ram Jam

I'm really not sure why I felt the need to do a Black Betty Smackdown. I was diligently doing my YouTube research, and was amazed to find several very different versions of a song that has already received more than its 15 minute allotment of fame. Okay, I guess that's why I did it. Anyway, the version most of America first heard was early 1970's by a one-hit wonder, Ram Jam. I remember on an episode of "The Gong Show" where two guys dressed in the same huge pair of over-alls danced to this version. Apparently, none of the rest of America was too enthralled with that bit, as I have not found it on YouTube.

Cerealist Art (or Well, Hello, Dali)

I remember trekking across the Bay from Tampa to St. Pete to visit the Salvador Dali museum many moons ago. While nearby Charleston has a fairly lively art scene, the Boro has...not so much. Here, you take art where you can get it. Even in your cereal.

My earlier post on Freakies cereal led internet buddy Chase to ask what happened to those little toys you used to be able to get in cereal. Wonder no more! Cereal boxes remain a repository for more than just cereal. Merely a toy? I think not! Check out this Joker: a pastiche reminiscent of Dali (and he kicks!).

Justice or Just Us?

South Carolina is, I believe, the only state in the Union that allows the prosecutor to set the docket in criminal cases. Why do I mention this? Well, you know I've been preparing for a particular murder case. In fact, I've been preparing for this case since, in the middle of last month, the prosecutor told me he'd call this particular case. I wasn't completely ready, but I was ready enough. So, what do they do? They call a completely different case to trial. I've got witnesses subpoena'd. I've reviewed the jury panel with my guy. I've neglected a lot of other cases- all because the State tells me they're going to call this particular case. The kicker? The prosecutor implies to the judge- when I'm not in the courtroom- that I needed a continuance. I like the guy. Really, I do. This move was, however, not cricket. So, anyway, I've got one day to get ready for an armed robbery case. I can do it: I'm a Public Defender. Trying stuff on the fly is part of the job. Still sucks, though.

Chick-a-Boom.

...Because I felt like it, that's why.

I always remembered this commercial. I'm not sure if AndyMan and I ever ate the cereal. One of the lines in the jingle: "This is the big boss, we call him Boss Moss". I musta known I would end up working for two separate bosses named Moss. I'm pretty sure neither of them knew about Freakies cereal.

Things Goin' On.

Two weeks of General Sessions Court- criminal court- coming up starting Monday. First up, the prosecutors tell me, is a double_murder . The forecast? Drugs, guns, and lots of lies.

What really stinks is that there's a lot more going on than meets the eye. Oh, well, we all got our roles to play, I guess. I'll give you some updates along and along.

Bizarro World.

I had a strange day at work yesterday. Thursday was criminal domestic violence (CDV)day. No, I wasn't beating the Lads. Yesterday I was in Magistrate's Court representing people accused of CDV. Until CDV became an important political issue in South Carolina, neither the Public Defender's Office nor the Prosecutor were involved in Magistrate level CDV first offense cases, because the maximum penalty is only 30 days in jail or a $2,500 fine (I've got serious issues with the politicizing of CDVs, including a blatent disregard for not only the defendant's, but also the victim's_rights but you'll have to get Kate to do a post on that one. Too serious for me). None of my clients showed up. Hardly any of the victims showed up. These aren't office consultations, these are the actual trials of CDV charges. The high absentee rate is a symptom of CDV's generally: couples fight, and one of them wants the police to help them win the fight. Domestic violence is certainly a bad thing; generally, though, the couples remain together, forget their differences, and don't care about the case. So, Steve, the Prosecutor, and I sit in the criminal equivilent of small claims court without witnesses or clients. At one point, I look over at Steve and ask him if he imagines that in the "Big City" on the Thursday before a Monday double murder case, the lead prosecutor and the defense attorney in that case would be sitting in a nearly empty Magistrate's court courtroom revisiting drunken domestic disputes. He doubted it. Such is life in the Boro.

I like our prosecutors, even though we're always on the other side of cases. Always kinda thought of us as like Ralph and Sam from the old Looney Tunes cartoons.

I'm Your Handyman.

I'm not handy. I've mentioned this before. An open truck or car hood may look seductive to various and sundry shade tree mechanics. To me?
More like this.

Still, sometimes stuff needs to be done and there just isn't anyone else around to do it. A truck I'd borrowed encountered a serious, major, epic problem: the cigarette lighter plug (okay, they call them "accessory outlets" now, but my whole life they've been cigarette lighters, okay?) was busted. I'm not gonna shoulder the blame if my friend can't charge her cellphone, knowudImean? With my amazing ability to discern the obvious, I decided it was a fuse. Well, I don't want to brag or anything, but I CHANGED THE FUSE! All by myself. Like a big boy. Maybe it even works now. Okay, that wasn't such a great story. Maybe you'll like this one better:

Pie!

I promised y'all a slice of blueberry pie. Well, here you go. Actually, it's a blueberry tart. I wanted to use a recipe sent to me by My Friend Amy, but, over the last week I've put an awful lot of my berries on cereal, so I was a cup short. Anyway, this was pretty good stuff. Enjoy.

Roadtrip: Beaufort?

Last Saturday, Cathy and I decided to go to Kline, SC, to get peaches (South Carolina is one of the big three in peach_production (Now, see what you've done, John. Absolutely unnecessary links, just because I can)). The Palmetto State grows almost as many as the Peach State). Along the way, we stopped to look at some sunflowers. Barbed wire kept us from getting too close.
Along the way, Cathy got an emergency call that a family friend had been stopped for speeding, and was being tossed in the pokey in Beaufort for some previously ignored driving infraction. Just eight miles short of our destination, the plans were changed, and two quite casually clad crusaders were en route to Beaufort to spring Cathy's bud. Barb wire did not keep us out this time.Sadly, even two super-lawyers couldn't spring this chicken, because the bond judge was unavailable (Cathy did get him out Sunday morning).
Peachless and unvictorious, we decided to make the best of it, and parked Cathy's vehicle at the marina parking lot in Beautiful Beaufort by the Sea (26 miles from Yemassee).
The view of the Intercoastal Waterway out of the window at Plums wasn't bad, and the sandwiches weren't bad either.
We even got to see sunflowers again.

Happy 21st Birthday, Davis

Beer and Flying Saucer Shooters all around: My oldest is legally a man. The lads wouldn't return from a Fourth of July weekend trip with their mamma until into the wee small hours, so it was just Davis and me for his Birthday (Don't feel too badly for him; he and his buddy Matt spent Saturday night/Sunday morning teaching Charleston how to party).
So, how did we spend the day? Beer, frisbee and cake. The gifts he received were few, and largely symbolic, but he seemed to enjoy them. Ah, come on, you know you like flying saucer shooters!

Old Crow Medicine Show Show.

My oldest, Davis, called me Thursday afternoon and invited me to go to a folk-bluegrass show on nearby Hilton Head Island with him and his buddy, Matt. Yesterday, I told you about the roadtrip; today, the show. I'd never heard of Old_Crow_Medicine_Show, but Davis assured me I'd like it, and that we'd all have fun. He was right; it was a blast. Evidently, I've been out of the loop for awhile. Old Crow Medicine Show have been making waves for eight years or so. Their Wikipedia article includes a description that sounded about right: "Old Crow Medicine Show is a young five-piece rollicking, punkified old-time acoustic band".

Can a bluegrass band rock? You better believe it.

Check out two generations worth of folks having a great time. The silver-haired dude to the right facing the leprecaun to his left. The crowd, while quite Euro-centric, covered the gamut of ages from about seven to about seventy, and all of them were having a great time.

Ketch, Willie and Morgan git 'er done.

"I Hear Them All" has evidently gotten some props.


The crowd favorite was Wagon Wheel, from their first CD. The energy was great, and most of the crowd was singing along. The Old Crow Medicine Show've got another gig on the Fourth, in Charleston. They open for The Dave Matthews Band. Man, I wish I'd gotten tickets.

Roadtrip: Old Crow Medicine Show

My oldest child, Davis, gave me a call Thursday afternoon and invited me to join him and his friend, Matt, for a concert in nearby Hilton Head Island. Matt and Davis were sort of odd birds at their very conservative, very rural primary and secondary school, and their very conservative, very rural community, and have been best buds since middle school or so. I took Davis and Matt to their first rock concert, Green Day, in, I think, 2003. Both have been to many others since. At that first show, I challenged them to dare to be goofy. I'm proud to say, the message sunk in: very little embarrasses them. Anyhow, Ridgeland, where I used to live, and where Matt still lives, is about forty-five minutes South of the Boro in a straight shot down I-95. I picked up Matt and Davis, and we trekked the hour or so from there Southeast to Hilton Head Island.

We had some time to kill before the 9 p.m. start of the show, so we stopped in Barnes and Nobles for a bit. I just can't keep the boy away from Hannah Montana.

Matt is a big fella, and Davis occasionally gets this Jerry Lewis thing going and hops into his buddy's arms. Did I mention they don't embarrass easily?

Hats seemed to be in order. Did I mention that none of us embarrass easily?

We get carded at the door (I started to get excited, but apparently they were carding everyone). Davis will celebrate the 21st anniversary of his birth on Sunday. The gate-keeper asked me Thursday's date. "The sixth?". Nice try, but no dice. Matt gets an alcohol band wrist accessory; Davis gets the "do not serve" stamp. Which is nice for me, because, you know, we have to drive home.

What's a concert without the shirt?

All evening long, a right pretty gal is trying to get Davis' attention. He's oblivious, until she grabs and wears his fedora. He's only got eyes for his once and future Sewanee girlfriend, but in the end, he asks if she'll pose with him.

The venue was The Shoreline Ballroom. We got the ballroom part, but where's the shoreline? There it is. Shore enough.

Blueberries!

All year long, I look forward to the Fourth of July. Fireworks? Okay, I guess. Remembrances of our great Nation's independence? Er, I'll try to remember to do that. Nope. That's when the blueberries are ripe. Frequently, I reap where I did not sow. I can't grow much of anything, except children (come to think of it, they grow wild, too), but in both the Boro, and in Ridgeland, my property came equipped with blueberry bushes. Actually, along with the proximity of "the Manor" to my work and the property's reasonable price, the presence of blueberry bushes on the lot was what sold me on the place. A fence to keep in Bo and Brady keeps out two of the three bushes, but there are still plenty of blueberries for a pie and a couple of servings of blueberry pancakes (in fact, we had some this morning. Alas, the camera batteries were spent). Maybe I'll show you a slice of pie after I've baked it.