The Deposition

A civil lawsuit mushrooms in the shadows and spores the instant people become aware of its existence. Parties then spring up hither and yon as if by magic. They busily set about filing suits and counter suits against each other until it becomes almost impossible to tell who is saying what about whom. Those cases are usually combined and assigned to a single judge for the purposes of discovery, which is the process the parties use to gather evidence against each other. 

Reams of paper then pour to and from the various law firms and into the court. In those reams of paper are the subpoenas and notices commanding witnesses and parties to appear at depositions and give sworn testimony in an informal, out of court setting. Many of the witnesses and parties will not have anything to say about a given firm's client, and it is the practice of most law firms to send young associates, such as Max Stevens, to those depositions least likely to produce testimony about the firm's client. While this practice is understandable, it does not give young associates much of an opportunity to hone or demonstrate their skills as attorneys.

Max had high hopes when he flew down to San Diego with one of the senior partners of the firm. This was a combination of six complex cases, and several depositions were taking place at the same time. He thought this scheduling conflict might allow him to take part in a deposition where his questioning skills would be important. It was not to be. Instead, he spent the next three days yawning his way through testimony in which the firm’s client was scarcely mentioned. Finally, mercifully, the deposition Max was attending ended.

He returned to the hotel to pick up his luggage and to report to the partner that was nothing of note to note. As Max entered the hotel lobby his mind was filled with thoughts of home. That damn deposition had lasted one day longer than he had expected, and he wanted very much to climb into some clean clothes. He knocked on the door of the partner's room and impatiently waited for an answer. The answer did not come from the room but from behind him.

"Max!" the partner exclaimed. Max almost jumped through the roof.

"Glad to see your here," the partner continued, as if he had not noticed Max's imitation of an MX missile.

Max had this awful feeling that he was about to be given an assignment he did not want. Not being one to waste time, the partner opened the door and motioned for Max to enter without interrupting his dialogue.

"The firm where my deposition was taking place was kind enough to let Jim fax some things to their machine for me."

"For a fee, no doubt."

"Of course, the greedy bastards! Anyhow, he has this fascinating case in which several oil companies are producing oil from the same field. There is a topping plant, whatever that is, and pipe lines and the sort of technical stuff you're so good at figuring out. To make a long story short, some semi-refined product got into a nearby stream and really messed things up. Our client is one of the companies producing oil from that field." He handed Max a paper containing the client's name and a summary of the allegations against the client.

"Fascinating?" Max thought with more than a little skepticism.

"What Jim needs is for you to cover a deposition for him down here."

Saying what Max was thinking would have been detrimental to his career so he said nothing.

"You don't have to bother checking into the hotel again or canceling your plane reservations. The deposition I was conducting unexpectedly ended today. You can have this room."

Max's silence lingered into a long pause. "I know its imposition," the partner conceded. "You probably don't have any clean clothes, do you?"

"Well, now that you mention it..."

"I can't help you with underwear or socks, but I have a shirt that would go well with your suit."

Not that the partner was a flashy dresser or anything, but the shirt turned out to be silk. If anyone else had told Max it would go well with his suit, Max would have punched him in the nose or burned the suit. Since he could not do that in this case he thanked the partner and consoled himself with the thought that the shirt was clean.

Max hopefully called Jim at the office the following morning only to have his worst fear confirmed. The client was not the operator of the topping plant or the pipeline. This meant there would be little or no need for Max to ask any questions. He started to ponder the injustice of so many boring assignments over breakfast, but he decided this was not a wise thing to do. "Such assignments are just the dues one has to pay," he told himself. "Besides, there might be some interesting attempts to link the client to the piece of equipment that leaked." Those thoughts put him into a much better frame of mind by the time he finished his breakfast.

He then stepped out into one of those bright summer mornings that promised to become a scorcher of a day. Since the law firm where the deposition was taking place was only a quarter of a mile away he decided to walk there and enjoy the beauty of that part of San Diego. It seemed as though he had just started walking when he arrived at his destination. It was one of those quaint buildings dating back to the early nineteen-twenties. A thick, elegant carpet covered the floor, and the deep, rich tones of natural wood abounded. Near the entrance was a shoe shine stand attended by a man who was only slightly younger than the building. At the back of the building was a manually operated elevator, which was no longer in service, and an ornate stairway leading up to the second and third floors. Max thought the building was charming, but he also knew that a structure this old lacked air-conditioning altogether or had the sort of improvised system that made one room emulate a meat locker while another room did a credible imitation of an oven.

The moment he stepped into the room where the deposition was to take place he knew it would soon begin to mimic an oven. A small, attractive blond, who was in her late twenties, was sitting near the end of the table. Although she had been at the deposition he had attended for that other case, the only thing he knew about her was that her name was Jane and that she seemed to have a good sense of humor. He thought about the silk shirt. Since the room was going to get hot he removed his jacket anyhow and sat down next to her.

He was exchanging greetings with her when a lady with long brown hair and incredibly long legs entered. She was not all that attractive at first glance, but there was something about those long legs and the way she moved that made her appealing. From her age, he guessed that she was a third or fourth year associate. From the way they greeted each other, he knew that she and Jane were friends. Jane introduced her as Shirley. Shirley sat down on the other side of Max.

The court reporter was a young, attractive brunette. Max admired her figure as he watched her set up her equipment. The next person to enter the room was a tall, dark, dapper gentleman, who was in his late thirties. His name was Roger, and it was obvious that he knew Jane and Shirley fairly well. Following on his heels were two other gentlemen. The one who introduced himself as the witness's attorney was in his mid to late forties. He had the calm, confident manner of someone who has seen it all before. The man who was introduced as the witness was a short, slightly overweight man of some fifty years of age. His nervousness gave the impression that he had not seen any of it before, at least not from the prospective of the person who was going to be questioned.

As the introductions were being made, the attorneys identified themselves and the parties they represented. Roger represented a group of plaintiffs. Both Jane and Shirley represented defendants who might have interests similar to those of Max's client.

Max stood up and leaned across the table to shake hands with the witness and his attorney. When he sank back into his chair he inadvertently let the sleeve of his long sleeved, silk shirt brush against Jane's bare arm.

"Oh, that's nice," she purred, and she started petting his arm and shoulder. "Feel his shirt," she invited Shirley.

"Ooo!" Shirley said as she lightly felt Max's shoulder and chest.

"My shorts are made out of the same material,” Max said.

Both ladies laughed. Shirley blushed and Jane demanded verification. The court reporter walked over to Max and joined the petting. It was at this point that the attorney who was holding the deposition entered the room. The expression on his face was both stern and quizzical. The witness, who was still laughing over Max's comment, found the expression hilarious.

"Don't ask," the witness's attorney advised.

"But I'm here to ask. So do you mind if we get started?"

The witness laughed a bit more and made some comment about Max cracking him up. He then took the oath. The deposing attorney went on to explain what a deposition was in methodical detail. He said that although the witness was properly called a deponent in this proceeding and there was no judge present to rule on the objections raised by the attorneys, the deponent was still testifying under oath and that his testimony would have the same force and effect as it would have if given in a court of law. The deponent listened patiently, answering, "I understand," at the appropriate times. He did this with a bemused expression on his face, and he kept glancing over at Max, as if he was expecting Max to do something comical.

The deposing attorney had just asked his first question when Jane gave in to the temptation to feel Max's shirt one more time. The deponent saw the feel and burst into laughter.

"You find that question funny?" the deposing attorney asked.

"It's not you," the deponent's attorney explained, "it's Jane."

"Well, that damn shirt drives me wild," Jane said as she rubbed her face on Max's sleeve.

"Not to mention his shorts," Shirley chimed in.

The deponent was now laughing so hard there were tears rolling down his cheeks.

"You had to have been here," Max said.

"Perhaps we should take five and let him regain control," the deponent's attorney suggested.

"At this rate we'll be here for the next three days," the deposing attorney groused.

The deponent settled down, however, and the questioning proceeded at an orderly pace. At the noon break, Jane and Shirley asked Max if he would like to join them and Roger for launch. The waitress had just brought their drinks to the table when Jane apologized for missing the wedding of Shirley’s younger sister.

"How was the ceremony?" she asked.

"It was so beautiful I almost cried.”

"I cried at mine," Max told them.

"Did you really," Jane asked incredulously.

"Yeah, but they made me go through with it anyhow."

Roger found this jest so amusing that he blew his drink up into his sinuses and out his nose. He then sat there choking. A nearby waitress dutifully began mopping up the table.

"I know my comment was tasteless, but you didn't have to spit up over it, Roger.”

This caught the waitress in mid-swipe. She started to laugh, and the laughter caused her to knock a full glass of water right into Roger's lap.

"Oh, good method!" Max cheered. "Yes, sir. A shot of ice water to the crotch will make a choking victim shout the obstruction out of his throat every time."

At his point Max heard a familiar laugh, which he could not place.

"If you felt that way, why did you ask her?" Shirley asked.

"I didn't exactly.”

"Oh, don't tell me your going to give me that old shit about her asking you.”

"Persistent, these female attorney's," Roger said, after coughing the last of the moisture out of his throat. "Truculent too."

Shirley was still waiting for Max’s Reply.

“You know, it took me a long time to figure it out, but here's what I think happened," Max began. "I met this beautiful woman, and the more time a spent with her the more time I wanted to spend with her. We eventually wound up moving in together. It was wonderful. I mean, we pampered and spoiled and really tried to please each other

Then, one fateful day, I found myself engaged in this great moral battle, her high against my low, and she had all the weapons! Yes, I know, clergymen of all faiths are always warning you about the temptations of sin, and I'll concede that it's all too easy to stray from the path of righteousness. Straying from the path and staying off that path, however, are two entirely different things. This is particularly true when an attractive, unscrupulous woman is trying to get you back on it. And believe me, my ex-wife was unscrupulous. She used sex, food, tears, appeals to conscience, and appeals to my friends and family to get me to do what she wanted. All I had to pit against this onslaught was my own pitiful will, and it was not enough. 

I'll never forget how she caught me off guard one day and got me to concede that it might be okay to get married sometime. What I had in mind was twenty or so years from then, but at the very first opportunity she told my mother we were engaged. And my mother -- this dear, sweet lady who had nurtured me and cared for me and had never wished me anything but the best -- upon hearing that a date had not been set for the nuptials, took my ex aside and said to her: 'Listen, honey. Don't you worry about where or who will be there. You concentrate on when. Pin that irresponsible bastard down!'"

Roger and the familiar laugh found Max's explanation quite funny. Jane also seemed to be amused by it, but it was given a frosty reception by Shirley. She expressed her agreement with Max's mother. Max smiled to let her know he did not have any hard feelings about her reaction to what he thought was a humorous story. It took a while, but she eventually smiled back at him.

Max’s explanation and the reaction to it had consumed quite a bit of time. They all realized it would now take some rapid mastication to down the meal and get back to the law firm at the appointed hour. The upshot was that they were twenty minutes late. This was all right because the familiar laugh turned out to be the deponent, and he and his attorney also arrived at the firm twenty minutes late.

The receptionist was just returning to her desk from some errand when everyone entered the lobby of the firm. She glanced over at them, noticed Roger's wet trousers and began to snicker. Trying to cover his embarrassment, Roger then waxed poetic.

"Anyone who goes to lunch with that son of a bitch," he said, pointing at Max, "is risking a choking and an ice water soaking."

"It looks like an inside job to me," Max observed, and Roger called him an asshole.

The receptionist was now laughing vigorously. Feeling the need to be steadied, she reached out and touched the front of Max's silk shirt.

"Mmmm!" she cooed.

"His shorts are made out of the same material," Jane and Shirley simultaneously informed her.

"Oh, nice going, ladies!" Max said with raised voice and feigned irritation. "Now the whole place knows I'm an easy lay!"

"Oh, shit!" Shirley shrieked.

"Why you outrageous son of a bitch!" Jane said.

In spite of their protests, both women were laughing. Above their laughter rose the playful cry of the receptionist.

"I want to see your underpants!"

It was at the very height of this hullabaloo that the deposing attorney stuck his head out through the doorway of the room in which the deposition was supposed to be taking place. Being a man of short temper and strong language, he made some reference to fornication and the disruption of his law firm. He then asked what the hell was going on. But before anyone could explain, he demanded that they get on with the deposition.

Everyone accept the deponent and his attorney suppressed their mirth and took their places in the conference room. The deposing attorney then went on the record. He complained bitterly about everyone being late and what he described as the party atmosphere. When he finished, the deponent's attorney entered the room without the deponent.

"Where's the deponent?" the deposing attorney demanded.

"I'm afraid Mr. Stevens has done it to him again. He's out there laughing hysterically. Every time he just about gets it under control someone else starts laughing and gets him going again."

"Well, I want him in here now, and I expect you people to start acting like attorneys and to stop treating this deposition like some Goddamn farce!"

The deponent was red faced and still struggling for control when he entered the room. The deposing attorney took one look at him and said: "I want to go on the record as warning you about the seriousness of this proceeding."

"He understands," the deponent's attorney said.

"Sorry," the deponent said, “but Jesus that was funny!"

"You understand that we are now on the record, don't you?" the deposing attorney asked.

The deponent answered that he did, and with that everyone settled down again. The deposition was proceeding smoothly until the deposing attorney asked if the heater to the topping plant had a back flush valve.

"Yes," the deponent answered.

"And what would happen if someone left the back flush valve open?"

"You mean while the heater was running?" the deponent asked in disbelief.

"Well... Okay, while the heater was running?"

At this point the deponent seemed to be at a loss for words so Max thought he would help. "He'd burn his biltong," Max suggested.

Everyone except the deponent greeted this comment with a blank stare. "Perfect," the deponent uttered between guffaws, "the perfect answer."

"You and Mr. Stevens seem to have a private joke," the deposing attorney said. "Would you like to let the rest of us in on it."

This made the deponent laugh harder, and he shook his head no.

"All right, then. Why did you say it was the perfect answer?"

"Because that’s what someone would have to be doing to let it happen, and that’s what would happen to him if he did."

"I don't understand. Perhaps... What is the meaning of the word biltong?"

"Jerked meat," the deponent howled, and the room turned into pandemonium.

"What was that word again?" someone inquired."How do you spell it?" the court reporter asked."Objection!" the deposing attorney shouted."I can't believe you said that," Shirley giggled."That's our Max," Jane said, patting him on the back."Objection!" the deposing attorney shouted again.

The court reporter put two fingers in her mouth and interrupted the cacophony with a shrill whistle.

"Give me a break, folks! I can't take all of you down at once."

"Then take me down," the deposing attorney demanded, causing still more laughter. "I object, Mr. Stevens. I object to you giving this witness answers. I object to the vulgarity of the answer you gave him..."

"Prig," Jane muttered under her breath.

"And I object, sir, to the way you have constantly disrupted these proceedings."

"Counselor," Max replied. "You leave me no choice but to respond on the record. While I'll admit that my comment may not have been in the best of taste, I have not, until this very moment, done anything by word or by gesture to interrupt or disrupt this deposition, and any contention to the contrary is a falsehood."

"Does that mean your going to make a gesture?" Shirley teased.

"She's hoping you'll moon him," Jane said.

"Oh, no," Shirley objected. "I want that stricken from the record."

"No, Goddamnit! No, that stays," the deposing attorney shouted. "I want the judge to see the kind of shit you're pulling."

The deponent's attorney was enjoying the exchange so much that he could not resist joining in. "Do you also want His Honor to see the kind of language you're using?"

"That behavior deserves strong language! In fact, I'm thinking of adjourning this deposition and asking for its resumption under a special master to control you people."

There followed a heated exchange in which everyone agreed to curtail all levity. Surprisingly enough, the deposition was concluded that day.

On his flight home, Max began to think about his use of the word "biltong" on the record. He knew he had gone too far. He was afraid there might be some repercussions at the law firm. By morning, however, his fears had dissipated. It usually took more than a week for a deposition transcript to arrive at the law firm. In the meantime, there were bound to be many motions that had to be written at the last minute and all kinds of distracting little emergencies to lessen the impact of his minor indiscretion. So it was with some degree of confidence that he greeted the receptionist at his firm.

"You have a message," she told him.

He thanked her as he took the message slip and read it. It said the partner wanted to see him immediately.

"By the way," she asked, "did you really say all those funny things when you were in San Diego?"

His heart took one giant leap and lodged in his throat. "Jesus Christ!" he thought. "What a pipeline those bastards have." Then he made himself calm down. He decided the worst that could happen would be a tongue lashing and a delay in receiving the interesting assignments he so dearly wanted. There was only one thing to do. He would march into the partner's office as bold as brass and have done with it.

Much to Max's surprise, the partner seemed to be in a festive mood. After making a few perfunctory remarks about the undesirability of using words such as "biltong" on the record, he told Max the deposition had gone pretty well.

"Apparently, the deposing attorney was so upset, he forgot to ask some potentially damaging questions about our client," the partner said. "Furthermore, Roger was so anxious to change out of those wet trousers that he also forgot to ask some potentially damaging questions." He then added that the main reason he had left Max the message was because he wanted Max to return the silk shirt as soon as possible.

"That damn thing has a lot of potential," he added with a grin.

First published in macsbackporch.blogspot.com on Mar. 26, 2009

Good Words, Bad Words

The story I am going to post next week has me thinking about adding a warning label to this blog. The fact that there are people who will find some of the subject matter and words in that story objectionable reminds me of my childhood. There were good words and there were bad words. The fuss stirred up by uttering the bad words made them far more memorable than the good ones. Using the bad words when there were no adults present to chastise me was a harmless act of rebellion. I had reached that questioning age when testing what I was being taught was an important part of learning about life. Approaching adulthood was exciting and a little scary. I was lucky enough to have access to two magazines that helped to put things in prospective and satisfy some of my curiosity. I pity anyone who had to go through puberty without Mad Magazine and anyone who had to go through adolescence without Playboy Magazine. It was not just the centerfolds that made Playboy such a delight. It was also the cartoons, the jokes, the wonderful short stories, and the frank discussions. Mad satirized the adult world and Playboy explained many of the mysteries of that world. Both Publications helped me appreciate the complexities of our society and the beauty of our language.

I eventually learned that bad words are bad because they offend other people. Fair enough, but I really dislike what euphemisms do to our language. They ruin perfectly good names and change the meaning of words, such as “gay” and “booty.” I do not know if the colloquial meaning of Dick started out as a euphemism. What I do know is that if your surname is Head, you should not name your son Richard. Most of the Richards I know will not let you call them Dick as it is. I think that is a shame. I also think what happened to Fanny’s name is a shame. Unfortunately, each generation’s tendency to create new euphemisms adds to the number of names and words that are ruined. It has gotten so bad that you have to think twice before putting your name on a product. Consider the case of Thomas Crapper. Here is a man who designed and manufactured a wonderful device, and look at how we treat his good name. Imagine how people would react to Fanny’s name if she married Mr. Crapper!

Euphemisms are a foolish attempt to find an acceptable way to refer to things people consider vulgar or profane. I say foolish because those things are what they are regardless of what we call them. This brings up the larger question. How do we decide what subjects and words are acceptable? I am not the first one to pose this question. Comedians, in particular, have had a lot of fun with questions about why we find some subjects and words profane. Lenny Bruce was one of the earliest and the foremost comedian to do this. Unfortunately, I do not recall the routine verbatim. While my description is generally accurate, I have to admit that I took some liberties in regard to where I placed the quotation marks. Consider it poetic license.

He opened his routine by saying: “I have a reputation for putting on a dirty show. I use one word people find particularly offensive. All right, lets get that out of the way. I’m going to say that word right now.” He then yelled, “Snot!” He waited for the laughter to die down before adding: “I’ll bet you thought I was going to say fuck, didn’t you?”

The reason why this routine worked so well is because “fuck” was the king of cuss words. It had shock value. Lenny Bruce was arrested more than once for using it on stage. Fortunately, he and others continued to push the envelope. They were courageous enough to challenge our concept of obscenity, and they often paid a high price for doing it. Their challenges resulted in court cases that gave us a broader and more consistent interpretation of the First Amendment. Thanks to Mr. Bruce and others we can now say anything we want on or off the stage. I am grateful for that. I think freedom of speech is far too precious to allow any unnecessary restrictions. The problem is that many entertainers are now going too far. My objection is not based on what I consider to be decent or indecent. Nor would I ever advocate any form of censorship. My objection is based on artistic grounds. Entertainers have become so explicit that we are now losing some of the art. I really miss the clever double entendres and innuendos. In an effort to demonstrate what I consider to be the difference between artful phrases and needlessly explicit ones, I offer the following examples:

Artful: Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?

Explicit: Is that a gun in your pocket or do you have a hard on?

Artful: If the world seems like a dark and smelly place, perhaps it’s because of where you have your head.

Explicit: If the world seems like a dark and smelly place, it’s because you have your head up your ass.

Artful: That running back fumbles so much no one will stand next to him at a urinal.

Explicit: That running back would fumble his penis.

I would be willing to bet that most of you found the artful phrasing funnier than the explicit phrasing. Artful phrasing is not like a euphemism. It is not a matter of being delicate or trying not to offend. Instead, it is a way of pulling your audience in. If you are too explicit, members of your audience do not have to think. They become mere spectators. If you are artful, you should inspire an “aha!” Your audience should think, “I get that, and it’s funny!”

There is an old saw that says familiarity breeds contempt. I think that is overstating it, but too much exposure does desensitize you. If you frequently drop the word “shit” into your normal conversations, it becomes a common word dropping. If you save that word until there is a need for it, such as when you discover you are out of toilet paper, it becomes a poignant expression of disgust. Using a mild substitute such as “shoot” is far too lame under those circumstances. This is particularly true if you dropped your load before you discovered that the roll was empty. Similarly, if you are walking through your yard barefoot and you inadvertently step in dog shit, what you have stepped in is not dog droppings, crap, or a pile of dung. It is shit! And the odds are that you will shout that word loud and clear. My point is that words considered profane are a part of the language, but they are special words. They should not be wasted on the ordinary.

It occurs to me that it is now too late to add a warning label to this blog. If you are one of those people who think I should not use “vulgar words” under any circumstances, I have already offended you with this essay. That is all right. I will defend my right to use those words, but I will also defend your right to criticize me for offending you. Whether you agree with me or not, I wish you well.

First published in macsbackporch.bogspot.com on Mar. 19, 2009

Last Ski Trip

Dear Rich:

This is just a quick line to let you know how I am getting along. I do not know if I have told you this before, but I have taken up the sport of skiing. What a blast! As with all good things, however, the ski season had to come to an end. Last week we found ourselves taking what Sheri so aptly described as the sort of late season trip guaranteed to convince even the most die hard fan that it is now time to move on to summer sports. There was slush in the sunny areas and ice in the shady areas. Not what you would call ideal conditions. Still, everyone said I was skiing very aggressively, and, for me, quite well. Except on the last day, which turned out to be a bit of a farce with yours truly cast in the leading role.

It all began when I inadvertently performed some aerobatics, which I concluded with the type of landing my skiing companions refer to as a face plant. According to awestruck observers, it was a classic performance: commencing at a launch speed of around thirty miles per hour, skis rising gracefully behind me, body rotating slightly beyond the prone position, and face at a forty-five degree angle to the slope at point of impact.

“Are you okay?” inquired the sweet voice of a concerned female.

This is not an unexpected question. It is also a question that can usually be answered with some degree of confidence, unless one has just used his face as a snow compactor. In which case the face is really quite numb. Not wanting to mislead the young lady, I paused to take inventory before answering.

Teeth? All there.

Nose? Yes, I still have a nose.

Spectacles? Frame broken, clip-ons missing and one lens gone.

“Fine, thank you,” I finally replied, “but I broke my glasses and lost a lens.”

“You’re also bleeding,” she observed.

I reached up and gently ran my index finger over the now stinging portion of my chin. Since the left lens of my glasses was fogged up I held my index finger up in front of my naked right eye.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell without that lens,” I said, trying to impress upon her the importance of finding same.

A successful search was then launched for the lens and clip-ons. The broken frame would not hold the lens but did hold the clip-ons. At this point the fog had cleared, and I discovered that the young lady was quite attractive. Although I could not see her eyes through her dark glasses, she had an absolutely charming smile. Her slim, athletic body suggested that she was very much the skier. If there is one thing I know about skiers, it is that you must ski to impress them. “Well,” I thought, “if Wiley Post could fly with only one eye, I could ski with only one eye.” After thanking her, I took off down the hill at a brisk pace. Of course it did not occur to me at this juncture that Mr. Post had crashed and died in snow.

As I approached the next lift I was pleasantly surprised to see that Bill had waited there for me. It was the sort of lift that seats four, and we took our place in line next to two gentlemen who had some lady friends directly in front of us. The ladies were having a difficult time catching the chair – a fact we all found quite amusing. Indeed, so great was our mirth that our chair was well upon us before we started moving into position. All of us gave a mighty push on our poles in an effort to gain the line before the onrushing chair. The others glided gracefully over soft snow, whereas I shot out like a hockey puck across a solid sheet of ice. To make matters worse, I had to look over my right shoulder for the chair pole I was supposed to grasp, and it was the right lens that had taken leave of my glasses. The chair smacked me about mid-derriere, and Bill’s ski struck me just above the ankle. This caused me to fall in the supine position so that I was spread out across the three pairs of skis belonging to the gentlemen who now occupied the chair. Normally, one would expect the bindings to release those skis, but I must have been well back towards their boots and my weight must have been so evenly distributed that the bindings held. The effect was similar to that of a forklift. I rose one foot, possibly two. It felt like four. Then, as if on command, all three gentlemen thrust the back of their skis toward the back of the chair. Thus dumping me off onto the waiting snow, much to the amusement of the gallery.

Finally, there came evening – blessed evening – a time for repose, libations, and polite conversation. I was delighted to see that the young lady who had come to my assistance graced us with her presence. I entered the room just as she was commenting on how much she enjoyed seeing the type of fall in which the faller did cartwheels and such.

“Now who’d do a thing like that,” I quipped, as I sank back into the only unoccupied chair.

I swear to you, Rich, my tongue had barely flicked the last consonant of the last word off the roof of my mouth when the back legs of that treacherous chair gave way, catapulting me backwards across the room. Furthermore, it turned out that the young lady had an escort.

Looking on the bright side, I can say that the chin has healed well and that providence has served up an experience that softens any lament I may have had for the passing of an enjoyable season. In fact, I am loath to mention skiing in front of those who were there. Do you think a year will be long enough for them to forget?

I am looking forward to hearing you.

Steve

Rich’s reply was well written and funny. I would like to share it with you, but I was not able to reach him to get his permission. He said, in part, that he and his wife thought my performance more closely resembled the antics of Wile E. Coyote than Wiley Post. He also told me that people will not forget, but that I should not worry about that because the entertainment I provided will make them more than eager to ski with me again.

First published in macsbackporch.blogspot.com on Mar. 12, 2009

If Bachelors Ruled

Say what you want about women’s liberation, but no woman is going to give up the areas of supremacy she developed because of a woman’s traditional role. Any time you doubt it just try leaving the butt rim up after you have taken a leak. If a woman thought about it logically, she would have to admit that it is easier to lower the toilet seat than it is to raise it and then lower it again. Forget it, guys! You will never win that argument. It does not matter whether you are going to stand or sit, a man assumes you will look at the toilet before taking action. A woman, on the other hand, seems to assume that you will look at the toilet only if you think it might need to be cleaned. Otherwise, you will simply drop drawers and plop. If she falls in, it is not because she did not look. It is because some inconsiderate lout left the seat up! The bottom line, if you will pardon the pun, is that the bathroom falls in the woman’s domain. You can use it, but you have to play by her rules.

The kitchen also falls in the woman’s domain. For that matter, so does the entire house, with two small exceptions. A man will always find a place in the refrigerator for his beer, and he will always stake out his place in front of the television. A woman will normally bow to the inevitable when it comes to those exceptions because she knows that all a man really wants is a place to park his butt, drink his beer, and watch the ballgame. She will usually draw the line, however, when it comes to him watching the game in nothing but his underwear. The point is that she has undisputed rule over the household and everything connected to it. This includes grocery stores, real estate listings and many other things that have such a subtle connection to the household that a man will not even realize they are connected. What this means is that almost all retail establishments are designed to appeal to women.

If bachelor’s ruled, things would be set up the way a man likes them, and they would be far different than they are now. In the following pages I present a bachelor’s view of how things should be.

Grocery Stores

Forget about paper sections and such. A man thinks in terms of tasks. As it now stands he has to traipse all over the store to find the bathroom stuff. To a man the bathroom means the four S’s (shit, shower, shave and shine). He would put toilet paper, soap, deodorant, shampoo, products related to shaving, toothbrushes, toothpaste, dental floss and shoe polish in the bathroom section. While we are on the subject of shampoo, it should be noted that a man is not interested in esoteric descriptions of shampoos containing conditioners. If he has dandruff, he wants something that will cure it. If he does not have dandruff, he just wants something that will clean his hair. Descriptions on his shampoo should read: “For Normal Hair, For Oily Hair, For Dry Hair.” Those short descriptions are about as much as he has the patience to read when shopping. A woman, of course, is more complex, and her bathroom stuff takes up a lot more room. So next to the bathroom section we would find, “Her Bathroom.” This section would contain shampoos and conditioners with esoteric descriptions, feminine hygiene products, make up, and all the other stuff she uses in the bathroom.

One of the advantages of our task oriented product arrangement is that it also provides for conditions that could be urgent. Please note that Kaopectate and other butt corks would be next to the toilet paper. Let’s face it a person buying a combination of those two products is likely to be in a real hurry. Furthermore, if those products are the only items a person is holding, they should be a considered a free pass to the front of the line, and clerks should not waste time with needless conversation or pleasantries. The same courtesy should be extended to a woman who is buying only items related to her period. If a person has the time to buy other products as well, I think we can assume it is not an emergency. In which case the normal rules apply.

Many supermarkets carry underwear and socks as well as food. Markets that do so frequently make the mistake of creating separate sections by gender. Instead, they should place men’s underwear and sox right next to women’s underwear and panty hose. Furthermore, men’s underwear should be prominently displayed. The reason for this is that a man does not give much thought to his underwear or sox. Indeed, this is a section he will very rarely visit. If his shorts have two holes he can get his legs through and they do not form uncomfortable bunches under his trousers, a man is perfectly content with them. A woman has an entirely different attitude toward underwear. She thinks tattered underpants are almost as bad as dirty underpants. In fact, there are times when she will decide that she has seen enough of a particular pair of raggedy shorts, and she will rip them right off her boyfriend’s body. Thereby feeding his ego and getting rid of the odious in one fell swoop. Hopefully, she will buy him a new pair.

Nose blows (Kleenex, etc.) belong next to the allergy and cold medicines. Why else do you need them? Paper towels belong next to cleaning supplies. Thus, you would have cleansers, general cleaners, window cleaners, furniture polish, vacuum cleaner bags, etc. in the same section as paper towels because they are not room specific. Dish soaps, oven cleaners, tooth picks, and napkins are another matter. They belong in the kitchen, and they would be in the kitchen section along with potholders, dish towels and that sort of thing.

Carbohydrates (beans, chili, pasta, packaged potato things, etc.) would all be in the same section. They all give us gas, and the anti-flatulence products would be in that section as well. Cause and cure! What could be more logical? Although, I must confess that a sign above the beer saying, “Ill Wind? See Carbohydrate Section,” would be appropriate. We might also have a sign above the anti-flatulence products saying, “See Bathroom, Dog Breath!” This sign is to remind a man that he can be offensive at either end, and the mouthwash is in the bathroom section.

Fruits and vegetables fall within the woman’s sphere of influence. So the produce section would remain as it is, with the exception of citrus fruit. You can always tell a man who has developed an interest in citrus fruit. He is the guy who just purchased a copy of Mr. Boston’s Bartending Guide. He will start out by squeezing lemons, limes and oranges to make the mixes for his cocktails. As soon as he finds out how much work all that squeezing is he will discover the pre-mixes. Until then, we should applaud his industry and humor him by placing citrus fruit near the booze. Many drinks have a slice of lemon or lime in them anyhow.

Meat! Now that is something near and dear to a man’s heart. We must bear in mind, however, that meat is not just meat. To the extent that a man cooks, he usually does it on a barbecue. His tastes also tend toward the traditional. What he wants to barbecue is a big old beefsteak, chicken, hot dogs, hamburgers or perhaps some sausages. All those meats would be at one end of the meat section. Next to them would be barbecue fuel, barbecue sauce and other items pertaining to barbecues. This is also a good place for paper plates, unless you want to amuse yourself by putting paper plates next to the dish soap where they will make a bachelor think twice about whether he really wants to wash all the dishes piled up in his sink.

The Beer Section, nothing could be more male! To a man beer means recreation and/or relaxation. It is his sports viewing elixir, among other things, and viewing sports is one of his most frequent pastimes. He will also require some food while watching the game. Do not make the mistake of thinking that food means a nutritious meal in this instance. There is a time and place for everything, and what is clearly called for here is snack food. Chips and dips are what he wants, and they should be as close to the beer section as possible. To the extent that a man will think about heating something up, say at halftime, it must be something he can heat up in a hurry. We would, therefore, place ready to heat microwave foods, as well other fast cook items, in close proximity to the beer section. Another item I would strongly consider placing near the beer section is a guide to sports on television or a TV Guide.

Every grocery store would also have a “Special Occasion” section. This is really the relationship section, the romance section and the “Oh boy, did I piss her off” section. Here we would find flowers, candy, wine, condoms, and mushy greeting cards. The cards would fall under the headings of: “Birthday, Anniversary, Thinking of You, and So Sorry.” The “thinking of you” card section can mean many things, including: “I missed you while you were away,” or “I thank you,” or “I love you.” Do not make the mistake of having a separate “I love you” section. A young man will feel too self-conscious to browse it, and even an older man will cast furtive glances over his shoulders while browsing it. This is true even though an older man knows a woman will require him to express feelings he would rather keep private, and that other experienced men will understand this. Surprisingly, a man will not feel as self-conscious about browsing a card section labeled “so sorry.” This is because even a young man soon discovers how incredibly easy it is to stumble into a woman’s emotional minefield. The worst part is that a man does not even realize he has done it until it explodes on him. Then it is damage control time.

One item we might seriously consider putting in the Special Occasion section is a dating book, if anyone decides to print one. This is not the infamous little black book, which has name, phone number, vital statistics and comments. Instead, this is a life raft for a man who suddenly finds himself in a relationship. Forget about love at first sight, a man is too choosy for that. In all likelihood, he will find himself in a serious relationship when a woman decides that he might be someone she can mold into the sort of mate she thinks she wants. A woman is usually smart enough to hold off on any major renovations until she is sure she has the man’s undivided attention, and she does everything she can to gain that undivided attention. In the beginning it is really a very subtle process, far too subtle for a man to grasp.  The thing is that a man sort of sleep walks his way into a relationship. At some point he realizes that he enjoys being with this woman more than he enjoys being with anyone else, but he does not think of it as being a relationship until it dawns on him that he has already made some of the changes she wants. By then it is too late. She is and has been viewing the full course of the relationship (past, present, and future) in great detail. He is and has been enjoying what they share on a day-by-day basis and sees only today. This means that many of the details she expects him to remember have long since faded from his consciousness. In this regard, the dating book can save his ass! In it he has recorded her birthday, her favorite flower, her favorite candy and wine, as well as significant events and symbols, such as where they ate and what wine they drank on the first night they made love. CAUTION: It does not matter if you have expunged all references to other women, this is a book your woman must never see! She expects you to remember those things unaided. So keep this book locked in a drawer of your desk at the office or in a vault or some other very secure place out of her reach.

DEPARTMENT STORES

Talk about a woman’s world, this is it. Department stores know that she is the shopper. A woman actually enjoys probing every nook and cranny of a store to find out what it carries. To her shopping is recreation. To a man shopping is necessary drudgery that eats up his precious leisure time. When a man enters a department store it is because he just blew out the seat of trousers and must have a new pair immediately, or there is some particular product he really, really wants. He enters the store committed to finding that product as quickly as possible, buying it immediately, and getting the hell out. If you think he will look for other things that might interest him, you had better think again. If you want to entice him into buying other wares, you almost have to hit him over the head with them.

For this reason the first products he would see when he enters the store on the ground level are the big screen televisions, the stereos, etc. These are large ticket items you have to tease him with often. The next section would be the tool section. Make him wander through the tool section to get to the sporting goods section. It might remind him of those tasks he has been putting off. Besides, he does not want to waste a lot of time looking for the tool section when he finally decides to do those tasks. If his recreational activities require sports equipment, he will walk through the tool section to get to the sporting goods section fairly frequently.

Next to the sporting goods section would be the men’s clothing section. The clothing closest to sporting goods would be jeans, short trousers, sweats, polo shirts and other casual attire. If he is there to buy clothing, this is the clothing he has probably come to buy. Behind the casual clothing would be the dress shirts and neckties. Shirts and ties are the part of his work wardrobe that he has to replace most frequently. Sports coats, dress slacks and suits would come next, but they are items he buys infrequently. If he is in a relationship, his woman is probably going to re-dress him anyhow. The last items, of course, would be underpants and sox. If he is there to buy underwear, you can bet that the waist band on his shorts has finally given way or he has gained so much weight that his brief under shorts are beginning to make him sound like he is auditioning for the Vienna Boys Choir.

You may have noticed that I did not even mention pajamas. If a man thinks about pajamas at all, it is because he is wondering who buys them. There are only two conditions that can make a man wear something to bed. If he lives in a cold climate and is skimping on the heating, he might want to wear something warm to bed. In which case he will probably opt for a thick pair of sweats. He will also wear something to bed if he is in a situation where doing otherwise might be socially unacceptable. One such instance might be if he is sleeping in a not so private room at the house of his girlfriend’s parents. In all likelihood, he will not buy pajamas for that rare occasion and will resort to a pair of sweat pants instead. So the mystery continues. Who the hell buys men’s pajamas? It must be women. Men’s pajamas, if you must carry them, should probably be placed with women’s clothing.

THE MALL

The less we say about it the better. The mall is the playground of womankind and the bane of mankind. At every entrance to the mall there would be a watering hole with a huge, obtrusive sign saying: “Ladies, shopping is extremely detrimental to your man’s blood pressure and mental health! Park him here. We have the game on TV and libations to sooth his fragile nervous system.” If a woman is re-dressing her man, she should take him to the men’s shop straightaway. The moment he has tried on and purchased what she wants him to wear, she should deposit him at the watering hole while she does the rest of her shopping. Needless to say that the nerve tonic he will quaff to blunt the trauma of being re-dressed is not conducive to operating a motor vehicle. So a woman who puts her man through this ordeal should also plan on driving him home afterward.

You may have noticed that I have written about how stores and such would change if bachelors ruled. I am not naive enough to think we men can change women. That is not a complaint. It is just a fact. Ladies, I think I speak for all men when I say we love you anyhow.

First published in macsbackporch.blogspot.com on Feb. 25, 2009

The Whittier Narrows Earthquake

They who have not experienced it have no idea how exciting it is to be cruising down a freeway at sixty miles per hour when a six-point earthquake hits. It was as if some whimsical, drunken giant had decided to play basketball and was dribbling my car down the road. The bounces were erratic and uneven, with a twist thrown in here and there for good measure. I had no time to think about what was happening, I simply reacted. My hands automatically turned the steering wheel to adjust for the twists and turns while my foot eased off the gas pedal. I hung on to ride out the bone jarring jolts for what seemed like an eternity. Then it ended, leaving me baffled as to the cause of the bouncing. The most logical explanation seemed to be an earthquake, but this one had lacked the usual sideways shaking.

The other drivers in my vicinity had pulled over. Many of them now stood in the outer lanes. They were looking up and down the road and inspecting their vehicles as if they were seeking some explanation for the event. This told me it had been an earthquake. It also gave me a clear path for the last quarter of a mile into downtown Los Angeles. I have always had this terrible fear of getting caught on or under an overpass when it collapses, and I drove on breathlessly until a finally descended the off ramp onto Seventh Street.

The scene downtown was incredible! Glass from broken windows had rained down onto the sidewalks, and all of the traffic lights were out. Throngs of people were milling around in the streets, forcing drivers to negotiate a path through the dazed crowd. I had already commuted nearly twenty miles at that point. Since none of the buildings seemed to be in imminent danger of collapse I kept going. The radio was now warning people to stay out of the downtown area, but the information it was providing was sketchy. It was too early to know where the quake was centered or the extent of the damage. All I knew was that the streets were snarled. It took almost a half-hour to cover the remaining three miles to my office.

As I approached the parking structure of the complex housing my office I saw that the entrance and exit signs were still lit. I tried my key card. It worked and I entered. The parking structure is laid out in a manner that forces you to park on the fifth floor or higher. You must then take an elevator down to the ground floor and traverse the plaza to another bank of elevators that take you up to the offices. None of the elevators in the parking area were working. I looked up at the huge cement beams running across the ceiling, and I felt anxious. Adding to my anxiety was the deafening noise from what had to be a hundred car alarms. It echoed off the walls in what seemed like and infinite variety of nerve wrenching racket. It was enough to drive a person mad. I raced down the emergency stairs leading to the street to escape it.

A large number of people, many still dressed in bathrobes and bedclothes, surrounded the perimeter of the building. They looked at me in bewilderment as I entered the plaza through a side door. The few people inside the plaza appeared to be Californians who had offices in the building, as opposed to the tourists who had been shaken out their hotel rooms and now stood outside. Experienced Californians expect to see broken glass and displaced merchandise after such a temblor. We do not become concerned about the safety of a building unless we smell gas or see cracked walls or distorted support beams. The building seemed sound in that regard. What was unusual was the water seeping out from the doors of several of the elevators. Someone told us to be patient.

"I should be able get one or two of them running in fifteen or twenty minutes," he said.

I was skeptical. I decided to see if I could get something to eat at the hotel coffee shop while I waited. The coffee shop employees were busy cleaning up the mess, but they did sell me a cup of coffee to go. It then occurred to me that waiting for the repair of an elevator that might get stuck between floors during an aftershock did not make much sense. So I took the coffee with me, and I hiked up the emergency stairs to my office on the eighth floor.

My office was a disaster. Many of the ceiling tiles had fallen, and the contents of files that had been in my bookcase added reams of paper to the litter on the floor. I removed the lid from the cup and took a few sips of coffee while surveying the damage. My secretary must have worked late to finish typing in the changes to an important study I had done. I was pleased to see the final version sitting on my desk. The study had been my most pressing task, and I thought its completion might give me some time to put my office back in order. My bladder was now sending me an unmistakable message. I set the coffee cup down on my desk, and I trudged off to the men's room.

I was standing in front of the urinal when a powerful aftershock struck. The lights went out, and I am certain I must have given the wall one hell of a paint job as I struggled to stay on my feet. The after shock and I finished at about the same time. I cannot begin to tell you the gratitude I felt when I lit my cigarette lighter and glanced down at my miraculously dry shoes. Unfortunately, this feeling of gratitude was replaced by apprehension the instant I stepped out into the hallway. The closed doors of the outer offices prevented any light from filtering in, and the sealed windows and lack of vents made the air deathly still in the absence of a functioning climate control system. It was so quiet I could actually hear my footsteps on the soft carpet as I walked to my office. Furthermore, the heat from my cigarette lighter was beginning to burn my hand. I put the flame out and stood in the doorway of my office for a few moments as I waited for the lighter to cool down.

When I lit the lighter again I discovered that the aftershock had tipped over the coffee cup. My study was soaked. I administered paper towels and did my best to clean it up in the dim light provided by the small flame. It was the last task I performed before the tomb like atmosphere drove me out of the building.

I had just entered my office on the following day when I received a call from my boss over the intercom. He told me he had to catch a plane for Chicago within the hour, and he said he wanted to present my study at a meeting when he arrived there. I tried to tell him the study was covered with brown blotches and was barely legible, but he insisted on having it immediately. "Very well," I concluded. "If he wants it that bad, he shall have it." I took it to his secretary, borrowed a red pen from her and wrote on the top of the first page:

"The shabby condition of this document is a direct result of the earthquake that devastated the office I was in. And that ain't coffee!"

He has since informed me that the notation was a big hit which saved a lot of explaining on his part. We may be battered but we are not dead. Life goes on.

First published in macsbackporch.blogspot.com on Feb. 19, 2009

A Road Traveled Sort Of Well

A road well traveled is not always a road traveled well. In many ways, we all take the road less traveled because we all filter what we see through our own perceptions of the world and how we fit into it. We smooth our rough edges, rationalize our selfish acts and emphasize whatever contributions we have made. We create our own mythology, casting ourselves in the leading role. We undoubtedly sacrifice some accuracy in doing so, but how important is accuracy if we remember what we should or should not have done?

Who cares how I learned that it’s not a good idea to stick a hairpin into an electrical socket? Yeah, I know you gave me the usual warnings about the wind, but did you know that your shoes also get wet if you pee uphill? Incidentally, giving me a name with a “T” in it made it really hard to write my name in the snow. Okay, maybe the freezer wasn’t the best place to put my sister’s bra, but I didn’t think she wanted her boyfriend to see it hanging on the line. And how was I to know she didn’t want to carry potato chips in the seat of her pants? Did you know that if you smack a fly on the window with your baseball bat, you let more flies into your house? By the way, if you have poison oak on your hand, people will always remember where you touched them. Girls don’t care much for lizards and toads, particularly when they find them in their lunch boxes. They don’t think that the combination of static electricity and a kiss on the ear are a good way to prove you’re hot, either.

Those are just a few of the things I learned at an early age. I like to think that a complete list would be much longer. It would also get pretty boring, which is another thing I learned.

First published in macsbackporch.blogspot.com on Feb. 12, 2009

Welcome

Although this is my first post on this blog, creating a first post has become old (I would even say "frayed") hat at this point.  This is the fourth time I have felt compelled to create a new blog.  Believe me I do not enjoy having to apologize to my readers for moving my stories and articles to new blogs on new sites.  In fact this move is particularly painful for me.  If you want to know what caused it, read the page entitled "From Randy."

On the up side, this return to Google should put an end to the uncertainty about where my writings will be displayed.  I am guessing that the few people who have been following me have finally run out of patience.  Unfortunately, I am afraid I must irritate them further with the slow pace of posting here the stories and articles previously posted on the now defunct blog at Fiction for all.com.  This means it will be quite a while before I have anything new to offer them.  In a fit of optimism, I am hoping that at least a few people who are not familiar with my writing will discover it here and enjoy it.

You are now at the start of my postings.  If you move sequentially through the newer posts, you will witness my blogging journey as it progressed.  Yeah, yeah, I know: "Big Whoopee!"  In the case of this blog starting with the first post is only important if you are as prone to linear thinking as I am.  I am still trying to figure out whether that is a good thing or a bad thing.