Bellying up to the bar

It is my very great pleasure indeed to announce that my friend and colleague Charles F. Pelkey, J.D., has passed his bar exam — and on the very first try, too. Next week he will be a member of the bar instead of merely a patron of one, and getting sworn in instead of sworn at.

Dude did it the hard way, studying around a full-time job, a couple of part-time gigs and family obligations, and got to chew his fingernails to the elbows for the past couple of months while waiting to hear whether he passed the unholy trinity that constitutes admission by examination in Wyoming — the Multistate Bar Examination, the Multistate Professional Responsibility Examination and the Wyoming Essay Examination.

So, chapeau, counselor. Remember, with great power comes great responsibility, so if I ring you up drunk from some hoosegow late at night I don’t wanna hear nothin’ about billable hours — I just want that get-out-of-jail-free card.

Burnin’ the bayou

Tiptoeing through the tulips.
Tiptoeing through the tulips.

It really must be spring. In the past couple days I’ve seen a cottontail, a snake, a red fox the size of a coyote jogging up the sidewalk across the street and a muddy rain that required me to deploy the windshield wipers before I went grocery shopping yesterday morning. Oh, yeah, and enough yellow pollen to give King Kong the sniffles.

It’s 80 degrees one minute and 30 the next, and the dandelions are proliferating faster than dingbats in the GOP. Census workers are out and about, noting the locations of armed Christian patriots to be seized and shipped off to death camps as part of President Antichrist’s scheme to remake America as a socialist Muslim paradise.

But at least the oil slicks around these parts are mostly confined to Sprawl-Mart parking lots, under beater pickups. That sucker in the Gulf of Mexico is a whole other deal. It’s a hell of a note when cleaning up a spill means setting the ocean afire. Makes that 1969 Cuyahoga River deal look like a 5-year-old farting in the bathtub.

God certainly seems to have it in for Louisiana, afflicting it with every manner of torment, from Hurricane Katrina to Gov. Bobby Jindal. Maybe He had a bad bowl of gumbo there once.

Can we please deport these guys?

Plenty of battiness in the GOP belfry lately. Rep. Duncan Hunter (R-Calif.) wants to deport American citizens, as in the U.S.-born children of undocumented immigrants. Rep. Steve King (R-Iowa) wonders whether the district represented by Rep. Raul Grijalva has been ceded to Mexico. Another Iowan, GOP congressional candidate Pat Bertroche, wants to implant microchips in illegals. And Colorado gubernatorial hopeful Scott McLobbyist thinks Arizona’s fascist immigration law is just peachy.

Have graying Yippies finally infiltrated the GOP? Or it it just that the lead in those Chinese-made flag lapel pins is wreaking havoc with their teensy brainpans?

Greenhouse gasps

Button up.
Button up.

Linda Greenhouse, who writes about the Supreme Court and the law for The New York Times, says she won’t be visiting Arizona again “as long as it remains a police state, which is what the appalling anti-immigrant bill that Gov. Jan Brewer signed into law last week has turned it into.”

Greenhouse — a Pulitzer Prize winner who teaches at Yale Law School — warns that all the soothing jabber about “reasonable suspicion” and “lawful contact” is so much chin music, a scanty “fig leaf of reassurance,” given that this odious law provides that a person “is guilty of trespassing by being present on any public or private land in this state” while lacking authorization to be in the United States, which she says creates “a new crime of breathing while undocumented,” a lighter shade of DWB (Driving While Black).

She goes on to say that while it’s by no means a safe bet, given the current roster of the Supremes, pre-emption by the federales seems to be the best line of attack, noting that high-court precedents “make clear that immigration is a federal matter and that the Constitution does not authorize the states to conduct their own foreign policies.”

In the meantime, she proposes that “the good people of Arizona — and anyone passing through — walk the streets of Tucson and Phoenix wearing buttons that say: “I Could Be Illegal.'”

That ought to punch their buttons.

Tacos and Vino’

Fish-and-spinach tacos tonight. This proved a poor strategic decision, dinner-wise, as Herself was in Santa Fe, yukking it up with a few girlfriends, which meant I had to cook and clean up.

The recipe, from Martha Rose Shulman, was OK but not stellar — especially considering that the post-dinner wash-up involved a couple of saucepans, a steamer and basket, a food processor and skillet, plus the usual cutlery, cutting board and spatulas.

Something was missing, and I’m damned if I know what it was. Avocados? Citrus? A scullery maid? I used vegetable stock instead of chicken, and warmed the corn tortillas in a skillet instead of steaming them — hey, I was hungry — and I skipped the grated queso for the same reason. Time’s a-wastin’, Fat Boy needs his vittles.

Whatever. I’m surprised I had any appetite at all after watching Alexander Vinokourov win Liège-Bastogne-Liège, with Alejandro Valverde third. Runner-up Alexander Kolobnev was the mystery meat in this unsavory sandwich, which got a big thumbs-down from the Belgian crowd; homeboy Philippe Gilbert finished just off the podium in fourth after a desperate, last-ditch attempt to win the thing.

I don’t speak any of Vino’s languages, and he’s not so good with mine, so I have to rely on better educated folks to tell me what he’s saying about his being shit-canned from the 2007 Tour, getting two years off on a blood-doping rap and coming back bigger and better than ever. Some say he’s unrepentant; others read a subtle confession in his recent statements.

Me, I keep getting a whiff of asshole off this guy. A suspicion that he might do anything, to anybody, to win races, collect trophies and cash checks.

Maybe that’s what it takes. If so, he has plenty of company, in cycling and elsewhere. Doesn’t mean I have to like it. Call me a Belgian if you want, but I ain’t cheering this one.