Really people, this is why you should answer the Census

It bothers me to hear recent "right wing" hacks and politicians encourage a national refusal to respond to the Census forms we are receiving in the mail right about now.

According to ultra-"right wing" crack pot, House Rep. Michele Bachmann (R.-MN), this CONSTITUTIONALLY REQUIRED process (Article I, Section 2, Para. 3 if your interested) is tantamount to "big brother" (and to those of you generationally challenged, I mean Orwell and not the CBS show):

"Take this into consideration. If we look at American history, between 1942 and 1947, the data that was collected by the Census Bureau was handed over to the FBI and other organizations at the request of President Roosevelt, and that's how the Japanese were rounded up and put into the internment camps ... I'm not saying that that's what the Administration is planning to do, but I am saying that private personal information that was given to the Census Bureau in the 1940s was used against Americans to round them up, in a violation of their constitutional rights, and put the Japanese in internment camps."

She says she will not provide anymore than the number of people living in her home.

Then outspoken mouthpiece/entertainer/snake oil salesman, GLEN BECK, also equates the Census to slavery. What the hell? I bet neither one of these people would have even balked at the Japanese internment -- I feel confident that each would have the most outspoken of supporters!

Really, you want to go with that argument for refusing to follow and obey THE LAW?!?

First and foremost, the internment of American Citizens for nothing more than the nation of their ancestry is but one of SEVERAL blights on our history as a growing nation.

Yep, there were a few mistakes or minor "hick-ups" in our national development like the displacement of the ENTIRE indigenous population in favor of manifest destiny, the "War of Northern Aggression," the justification of segregation in Plessy v. Furgeson, and the Dred Scott decision which closed the books on the justified rights of African-Americans for the next 100 years by giving the important status of chattel to be owned, and not human to be free. That's just a few that jump to mind here at my desk.

Well, that is, if the Texas State School Board has not already voted to remove these issues from historical discourse in a classroom? But, I digress.

It is not my intent to bash the nation of my birth, the one place on this planet that my ancestors struggled, scrimped, and saved to relocate to for a better life. Instead, it is because of the Census that I can learn more about my personal history, and more importantly, where I came from to guide my path.

In 1929, a 19 year old Irish girl boarded the RMS Adriatic, owned by the White Star line, and came to this country to follow her dreams. That family history was always clear as my maternal grandmother was still around to tell her stories to my mother. These were later passed from mother to son in the most ancient of traditions.

But what of Georges Edouard Govignon, my great grandfather, who was born in France on February 24, 1888? After all, I carry this man's name, gave this name to my wife, and passed this name on to my two daughters.

I could learn no history from this man directly, as of course, he had long since passed away prior to my birth in 1970. I knew the legend about how a young man from Dijon traveled to this country and find his way to Lodi to work the vines. Problem was, he ended up in Lodi, New Jersey, and not California. Also, I had always been told that the present pronunciation of my last name, not the proper French, had come from his relocation into a largely "Italian" neighborhood.

But for the United States Census, I would have never discovered the truth to any of these claims.

In 1900, through these government records, I have discovered that Georges was living in a home owned by Albert Faesch, himself a Swiss immigrant in the City of Lodi, Bergen County, New Jersey. Well, seems the "Lodi" part of the legend was right.

Problem is this: the census record indicates that Georges came here with his mother, Marie, in 1889 -- making him only 1 or maybe 2 years of age at the time of his immigration." The mystery becomes only more complex by the new addition that my great grandfather is listed as "Step Son."

Huh?

Then, in 1910 something interesting happens. Albert Faesch is again listed, but now he is a widower and little Georges (actually 21) is no where to be found.

What happened to Georges? Thanks to the 1920 Census, he reappears right there in Lodi, Bergen County, NJ. Now he is 30 years of age and married to woman named Rose. He has a two year old named George Edward (my paternal grandfather). Thanks to his lawful participation, I can now, nearly 90 years later, discover that he became a naturalized citizen in 1919. Ironically, this is two years AFTER he registered for the draft in WWI on June 5, 1917.

I now know why my Grandfather was not called "junior." His spelling dropped the French "s" and adopted the English spelling for "Edward."

Thanks to this constitutional counting, I have discovered or confirmed where the "Italian" phonetic pronunciation of my name originated. Right there in Lodi where Georges lived with 50 of his neighbors, 30 of which listed Italian as their "mother tongue."

In 1930, Georges is 42 and now has a second son, Edward. He has transformed from a renter, and has purchased his own home for $6,000.00. Now it is revealed that he was 25 years old when he married Rose, sometime around 1913. I discover that he never attended college, and apparently worked in management as an accountant/timekeeper/paymaster for the local dye works for most of his adult life.

Alas, this is where the trail ends, for now. Thanks to the United States Census, I have a picture of the man who brought my family name to this Country shortly before the turn of the century. I have been able to put "flesh" upon those old bones. Evidence has been provided to explain how my name is pronounced.

Just think, none of this would have been possible had Georges, the immigrant turned United States Citizen, had never bothered to comply with a simple, legal request.

What would I have been able to discover had only the number of people in his home have been shared?

Go now, do your duty as an American and answer your Census.

Actually, ours came to the house yesterday. I know that I will tonight.

A wee bit 'o humour on this me Patron Saint's Day

While everyday I am proud of my direct lineal Irish heritage, I really get excited as this is also the feast of MY Patron Saint.

My Saint is the cool one, the one that EVERYBODY LOVES, and the one that apparently forgives and encourages the most sin. Take that St. Valentine!

Beyond the party, the stout, and everything green, this day is very special to me, because of one young lady who took that great trip across the Atlantic on a White Star Liner to pass on her legacy in the new world. A woman of about 20 years of age who came to this Country to live out the American Dream. I talk of my maternal Grandmother, Margret "Peggy" Barrett O'Brien.

I had only one grandparent that I ever really had the chance to know before I lost them all. My mother's mother, an immigrant who persevered through all types of hardships in Ireland, and later in her journey to the States, was my cherished Grandma Peggy, my Irish Queen. As the oldest child of our little clan, I had the most time with her before she began to deteriorate in 1981, and ultimately wander on home to God in 1985.

I can't remember how to say the "Hail Mary" in Gaelic an more.

I can't share a BLT, hold the mayo and the "t" with my beloved Irish Queen.

I can no longer argue with her about the fact that Star Trek IS NOT the devil and I will not go to hell for watching it.

My mind struggles now to remember the sound of her voice and that soft remnant of a brogue colored by a life in the North, and later Atlanta.

I will always remember that Morrison's was HER restaurant.

I will miss her chocolate iced, yellow layer cake that she would make only for me.

I mourn my Grandma Peggy. These days I regret that I never had the chance to sit down with her and hear all of her life's rich and wonderful tales. I wish that she had been there to bless my children when they were born.

I choose to remember her in a more traditional way. Why bog myself down with tears and remorse when I should reach out to grab life and suck out it's marrow. Why taste the salt of regret, when a nice pint of stout chased by a great shot of Irish whiskey tastes so much better. Remember the good that was a person's life, and relish all that they meant to this world.

I will always remember my Grandma Peggy's laugh and the way that she could appreciate humor (or humour) and I celebrate her life with a good Irish pub joke that I am sure would have her rollin':

"An Irish man shows up in a pub one day and orders three pints of Guinness. He takes sips from each glass until they are empty and calls the bartender for three more.

The bartender says, 'Sure it's up to yourself, but wouldn't you rather I was bringing them one at a time? Then they'll be fresh and cold.'

'Nah...' your man says, ' I'm preferrin' that ye bring 'em three at a time. You see, me and me two brothers would meet at a pub and drink and have good times. Now one is in Australia, the other in Canada and I'm here. We agreed before we split up that we'd drink to each other's honour this way.'

'Well,' says the bartender, 'that's a grand thing to do, all right. I'll bring the pints as you ask.'

Well, time goes on and your man's peculiar habit is known and accepted by all the pub regulars. One day though, he comes in and orders only two pints. A hush falls over the pub. Naturally, everyone figures something happened to one of the brothers. A group of the regulars corner the bartender and finally persuade him to find out what happened.

With a heavy heart, the bartender brings the two pints and says, 'Here's your pints... and let me offer my sincerest condolences. What happened?'

The Irish man looks extremely puzzled for a moment, and then starts laughing.

'Oh, no, no, no! 'Tis nothing like that. You see, I've given up drinking for Lent...'

So you beautiful Irish Queen, I will raise my glass tomorrow and drink the pint I could never share with you. I will try to remember that life is so short, and that there is still so much to live. I will remember that someday, with God's will, I will see you again.

AND TO ALL WHO MIGHT READ THIS TOMORROW, I leave you with this traditional and old Irish blessing that my mother toasted us with on our wedding day, and you pass a framed copy on your left as you leave my home:

"May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand."

Beannachtam na Feile Padraig!

Yep, call me lazy ....

I wanted to try and post something terribly insightful today, but to tell you the truth, it has been a long week and I am tired. I have a great deal to work on, and I thought I would be "green" and recycle in an effort to save time.

About a year or so ago, people were posting these "25 things about you" lists. I took a moment to read mine this morning and was pretty jazzed by what I thought about a year ago. Therefor, I thought I should post it again as a blog entry to tell you a bit more about the man in the mirror so enjoy my "25 things:"

1. I made an art of procrastination, like doing this list when I have more than enough to do on my desk.

2. I voted for Barak Obama proudly and even donated enough money to be reported so I could be counted amongst his supporters. This is the first time in my 38 years that I have heard someone I respect speak and truly inspire me mentally and emotionally to be a better person, demonstrate pride in being an American, and boldly ask "What do you need me to do?"

3. I love my wife as she is my best friend in the entire world and my partner on our journey and worry that I do not do enough to show her how much she really means to me each day.

4. I really like to win in court. I really like to be in court during the heat of battle and LOVE when I have a wicked cross examination.

5. I can be grumpy and snappy even when I don't intend to be and that bothers me.

6. I can't stand talking on the phone after having it glued to my head all day at work.

7. I love my girls and lay awake at night wondering if I will be the kind of Daddy they deserve. I don't want them to ever grow up.

8. I feel guilty whenever I don't win a case for a client and beat myself up for letting them down.

9. I think that Dad's deserve a great deal more than they are given in our legal system. In the modern era sexism is still very much a part of any custody case whether we will admit it or not.

10. Some days I think that it is a good thing I love the law, because those days I hate my job.

11. You will rarely hear me admit when I am wrong -- it is just not in my nature to concede any point on any subject and sometimes I think this gets in the way of my relationships with others.

12. I am proud that I am a geek and love science fiction shows and movies.

13. Playing games on a console or a computer are my best ways to relax and get lost after a bad day.

14. Exercise -- just do not do enough of this at all and that bothers me because I need to take much better care of myself than I do to ensure that I am around for my wife and daughters.

15. I am absolutely happy having two daughters and did not want to have a boy.

16. Auburn Football -- know it, love it, worship it -- if you know me now in my mid-life years, you know that I bleed orange and blue and that I have EARNED the right not to have to take crap about it.

17. I could be a better man, father, husband, and Christian every day.

18. I did not have a great deal of fond memories of high school -- life began for me in college and I really miss my group of friends in law school after all those hours, days, weeks, months, and years we spent together.

19. Sometimes I wonder what life could have been like if I had taken the opportunity presented to me to play college football in New York. Where would I be now?

20. I HATE TEXT MESSAGING AND THE DESTRUCTION OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE BY OUR YOUTH AND THIS DAMNED TECHNOLOGY. I treasure the art of the word and the ability to convey thought by prose. I envy a time when writing letters was the only real means of communication -- they could employ the language so eloquently back then.

21. I loved working at the student newspaper in college and secretly harbored a desire to change majors to abandon a pursuit of law.

22. I still like toys.

23. I get nervous every morning when I have a case on the calendar and usually will not eat to keep from throwing up. Somebody once said that the "butterflies" were important because they prevented you from getting cocky.

24. I am pro-choice because, while I personally think that abortion is morally wrong, it is for the individual to exercise their morality in making the decision and not the government. Also, if God made this miracle and man should not interfere, then I believe that means of artificially creating life outside the womb are also as wrong because man is so vain as to contradict God's will.

25. I dread the fact that someday I will have to bury my parents.

Ooops .... I knew there was something I forgot to do.

Yeah, I forgot to post anything this week, and only once last week. Sue me. Really, I could use the retainer.

Trouble with life is that it often finds a way to interfere with the fun stuff. I have determined that, if I want to continue to be a blogger worth a damn, I have to find the time to post, and keep posting at regular intervals, if not everyday. How the hell do I expect to build any readership if I don't provide anything to read. (assuming that more people than my wife are actually reading -- seriously, a bit of feed back would be nice)

Unfortunately, while there are the standard distractions of family, employment, and money management, there have been the Olympics barring my quiet time in the basement. Additionally, and pleasantly, work has found a way to prevent me from spending time pining away the hours in procrastination espousing my "bloggy" wisdom.

Things seem to be picking up in the economy. This may be a purely anecdotal observation on my part, but cases are rolling in and some bills are beginning to find satisfaction. The problem is that during this time every year there is a spike in filings and new clients. Why you might ask?

Tax Season.

No, I don't mean needing help filing. I refer instead to the fact that people are now flush with cash as a result of rapid refunds and electronic filing. Myself, I have not seen a "refund" since about 1998 and I am no longer familiar with this alien concept of the "gov'ment" giving back money once a year.

So, is the recent dramatic rise in my own available resources a result of the annual "tax spike," or have we started to turn a corner in the economy?

It feels like this is more than that annual litigation fest caused by large sums of redistributed funds. For example, last year one could sense that people were guarded and weary. Rather than splurge on that new divorce, or file to finally have custody of a child, the populace seemed more concerned with paying debts or "squirreling" money away in trepidation of a more serious crisis on the horizon.

By no means do I allude to a return to the largess of the early years of this new century. Sorry, that may or may never happen. As a student of history (really, a double minor even), I harken back to the fact that the "Great Depression" may have been set off in 1929, things were still pretty bad by 1935.

So things may be looking up on the local front. Still think I might put off the purchase of that new laptop for a few more months just to be sure.

$1.99 for fried rice? WTF?

Last night, in honor of my surrogate son's 12th birthday, we dined on sushi and teppenyaki.

As one given to the wonders of umami and the art of cold vinegar rice, I am often caught aghast by the very last dish delivered to that table.

You know, the most dangerous of crockery, the most potentially toxic of all culinary experiences.

No, not the candied ginger.

Nope, not an accidental overdose of wasabi.

Not sashimi of Tessa (puffer fish) that can cause paralysis if prepared improperly.

Ladies and gentlemen, I speak instead to that most dreaded of platters, the one that comes to the table carrying the bill.

My spouse says that I cannot be trusted with a sushi menu. Apparently, I tend to get a bit too over eager when making my selections on the order form. Seems that I transform instanter into an imbecilic idiot, blinded by aliment ambition, and completely ignorant to the fact that I just ordered some 50 or 60 bite size pieces. On one occasion, after having a dalliance with the wonderful list of comestible ecstacy and a writing utensil, I discovered I'd indeed ordered about $200.00 worth of rice, seaweed, and bait.

Last night, however, was rather unique.

It was not the price of the sushi that sent my world into a spin. Self control had been displayed.

There weren't outrageous bar tab charges to swallow. Only one large Asahi.

No, my shock came at the price added to each hibachi dinner for fried rice.

What the hell?

As a student of all things Japanese (even studied the language for one year in college), I am the first to acknowledge that these people have a routine for everything. Seriously, I am not sure whether or not there might be an ornate ritual attached to merely wiping one's own arse. Have you ever watched them make tea? For the love of all that is holy, it is just dried leaves and hot water dammit.

Did I slip into some alternate universe? Had I consumed liquid from the wrong bottle, traveled to wonderland to hang with Johnny Depp?

When did fried rice cost extra at a damn teppenyaki table?

The preparation of the meal is uniform. The performance almost scripted. Fried rice -- followed by meat-- concluding with vegetables.

Entertainment blended with piquant use of scythe and spatula.

Hell, they all make the same onion volcano and convert it into a "choo choo" train, don't they? How many times have I seen the egg spin/"egg roll" joke throughout my life's travels?

In EVERY teppanyaki joint I have visited, without fail or departure from the norm, part of the culinary ritual is the damned fried rice! When did this become an "add on," an option that was not normally available. Shit, I remember when getting the bland, starchy steamed rice was the actual "special request."

I have never been afraid of spending money on a nice meal. To me, there really is no problem with "sticker shock" if I enjoyed the art and magic presented by any chef ,regardless of the style of preparation.

Seriously, no wonder we have economic problems.

What is next?

Are we going to have to pay extra for sauce for the barbeque?

Are there going to be "ala carte" itemized expenses for the "all you can eat" salad bar items?

Will salt on french fries require a premium upgrade?

Will ice in a $3.00 soft drink require a $1.99 surcharge?

Valentine's Day

Too much pressure. Too much agony. Too much pain.

That is Valentine's Day.

I have always thought that this was one of those "made-up," bullshit holidays anyhow.

Seriously, how did we decide to take the celebration of a patron saint who was beat to death before beheading, and suddenly make it full of red heart shaped boxes of chocolate candy?

The meaning of the holiday becomes lost on me when all I see is naked commercialism forcing poor saps to trod into card and gift stores to buy tomes of affection contained in limerick form, trinkets, baubles, and confections to demonstrate affection and care. Then there is the obligatory date, the dinner costs, the movie or entertainment expenses.

Why? Why? Why?

Is this to demonstrate "true love?" By exercising this great exercise of consumerism, are we making sure that the most important person in our lives really knows how much we care? Are we just providing a fiscal stimulus to the struggling rose flower agricultural industry?

Why do these kind acts of affection have to be limited to just one day a year? Why put all that pressure to make just one day perfect? Isn't it more important to do that everyday, or at the very least, when is not expected and a pleasant surprise?

This Tuesday, February 16, 2010 will officially commemorate the passing of 19 years since my spouse and I had our very first blind date. We have been exclusive since that point. We have been married for twelve years, working on lucky 13 as I pontificate. Oddly enough, as I find myself commiserating about the oncoming mark of "middle age" this November, my wife noted in passing that, this time next year, we will have both spent more of our lives together than without.

In 367 days, I will have been with her for more than half of my existence on the face of this planet.

I don't need a "card holiday" to remind me that I love her more today than I did all those years ago.

I don't need red and pink decorations to remind me of how cherished and special my two daughters are in my heart.

So, why then do I have to play along with Valentine's Day and do all of these things that are required by the female predisposition to this one day a year? Why am I compelled to buy cards to show my love this day picked randomly on a calendar by some guy in Rome more than 2,000 years ago?

I mean, I already have their birthdays, Mother's Day, and my anniversary to buy cards and material offerings to them feel special. These important and unique days are spent buying a nice meal, providing gifts, and require spending 30 minutes to an hour in the Hallmark store.

I guess that I simply surrender and comply because it is just expected of me.

I do the things that are required because they would be crushed if I did not perform as conditioned.

I do these things because I do actually love them.

So, like Pavlov's dog, I will probably perform my identical response next February as well.

Why pay $5.51 for coffee every morning?

Simple answer: "'Cause I can."

That sounds bad, but it is all so true. I like my coffee hot, dark, strong, bitter and with a complicated but "fancy" name. Somewhere in my head a voice is saying "like I like my women" but that could get me into ALLLLL kinds of unnecessary trouble.

Born and raised in Atlanta, schooled in a college town, and "legally educated" in Birmingham, one can become accustomed to certain privileges, amenities, conveniences, or perks. Having gourmet coffee readily available is just one of those things you come to appreciate in "the big city."

This is not intended to be snobbery, just a realization that, when watching the Food Network, the selections of ripe goat cheeses are a bit limited at the Piggly Wiggly on Red Bud Road. In the realm of seafood, "fresh" is a generic term meaning flash frozen and placed in a box at the source before being shipped in refrigerator trucks for weeks to the Food Lion. On occasion, fine wines are not even an option at Walmart, where rather than distinguish by region, varietal, or even appellation, instead the magic of the grape is segregated by Red, White, and Other.

Oh the woes of the big city boy transplanted into rural northwest Georgia these last 13 years.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I like to be extravagant and taste cultural allurment and culinary alchemy without having to drive all of the way to Atlanta or Chattanooga.

On occasion, just the whiff of finely roasted Sumatran beans can give my mind the chance to day dream of being some high priced, silk stocking attorney who has an office located in some Buckhead high rise on some obscenely numbered double digit floor. A time where my spouse has the election of staying home in our 5,000 square foot home and the children are gaining their education in a uniformed private institution. Where one of my most important daily decisions is whether I chose from one of my 50 or so finely tailored suits, or simply dress down and take the convertible to work. Where lunch alone generally requires a reservation made by my very own, attentive personal assistant.

Life is a real bitch MOST days, and that is the god's honest truth. We have our little moments, but in the long run, each passing of the sun, each rising of the moon, each complete rotation of the planet generally brings forth an entirely new set of challenges to add to those that did not resolve themselves in the day now exhausted. You have to find joy and solace where you can, and that is the way to simply deal and survive. This respite can be the laugh of your five year old, the sound of your eight year old acting out her own cooking show in the basement, or merely the gentle touch of your partner, spouse, and best friend's hand while driving in the car.

These are the things that idiots like Suze Orman don't comprehend. The soul needs its brief escapes from the ordinary human condition to survive. I heard her once go off on some poor sap about how much he was spending for his double vanilla latte at Starbuck's ever morning as he walked to work as a door man in New York. She chastised him about how, by sacrificing this one instant and ethereal moment of routine joy, he could pay off some credit card in 5 years instead of 5 years and three months. Really, wow, that seems sooooooo worth it. Thanks.

It is not that I don't believe in saving for some far off future retirement. I just feel that I can better appreciate the finer things in life such as a good vino, or a fancy named coffee, NOW while my taste buds are intact, my teeth don't need adhesive gel to stay in, and I am not back to crapping myself in diapers after a 68 year hiatus.

Yep, I pay that much for coffee, and I am damn proud of that fact 'cause I can.