Patrick Sherman’s a lucky guy. He raped his 8-year-old stepdaughter, and in Louisiana, you can get the death penalty for that.

Or at least you could until a couple days ago. The Supreme Court decided that capital punishment is a punishment disproportionate to this crime. But it was a close 5-4 vote.

I think I agree. It is disproportionate. Maybe justified, but disproportionate. I’m not sure that disproportionate is bad. Relative to that little girl playing with dolls, getting raped was pretty disproportionate treatment,too.

I won’t pretend I know jack squat about the Supreme Court, but I’m pretty sure that if Justice Kennedy and I were to meet at a bar, I’d end up bitch-slapping him. Mainly because he’s a big pussy. To quote him:

the death penalty should not be expanded to instances where the victim’s life was not taken.

This might be my biggest beef with murder trials, no matter if it’s a capital punishment state or not. If a person took all the premeditated steps to try to kill someone; they waited seven days, bought a gun, loaded it with ammunition, arranged for a meeting, then pulled the trigger multiple times firing round after round into the flesh and organs of another human being, just to make sure they were dead, they should not get any sort of break if by some miracle that victim was able to survive the attack. In other words, sucking at murder should not be a mitigating circumstance at trial.

I’ve never done hard time, so this may not mean a thing. But from what I’ve seen on teeeveee, even felons think child rapists are worthless pieces of shit that should be used as punching bags. And for the occasional salad tossing. Come to think of it, if Law& Order is an accurate representation of our prison system, maybe the sentence best fitting Patrick Sherman is not the death penalty, but 20 years in a supermax. And if I were in charge, before he served his first day he’d receive a tattoo on his forehead that says: “I fuck kids. You got any?” Then he’d be turned loose in the yard.

The rest would be history. Sweet, sweet history.

I see you.

Every morning.

Angry girl.

As we leave for work, loaded trucks carrying us to a jobsite, I see you on the sidewalk, pumping your fists.

Your arms.

For a few seconds each morning, I watch.

Furrowed brow, leaning hard into a wind that isn’t there, swinging your locked-straight arms as your feet thump the concrete.

Determined.

Burning calories.

But wearing a frown.

Like you’re mad at someone.

Like someone told you you’d be pretty if you just lost a few pounds.

Or a few inches.

Like someone isn’t treating you the way you deserve to be treated.

Don’t you know? You don’t have to be twiggy to be beautiful.

Don’t you know you deserve to be treated well?

Can’t you see?

You’re already pretty.

Except maybe for the frown.

I hope you figure it out.

I hope he figures it out.

I hope you stop frowning.

Angry girl.

When I was in second grade I’d won to my mind one of the most prestigious awards that can be bestowed upon a young person: Class Clown.

I still have the award.

The need to generate laughter in my classmates would be an ongoing theme throughout my childhood. (Insecurity? A need to be liked? Ayyh, probably.) Just two years after receiving the award pictured at right, I would find myself spending the better part of the 4th grade sitting in the hall, unjustly punished for the rays of humorous sunshine I’d bring to the classroom each day. Like saying Toilet Paper! instead of “present” when the teacher called my name, taking attendance. I was the Lenny Bruce of Collins Elementary.

Roughly two years after that my parents would do what they could to encourage the interests of their black sheep son, buying him a comedy record as a birthday present. It had a hippie looking dude on the album cover with hair past his shoulders, sitting on a stool in front of a blackboard, feigning a deep nose pick. These were the days before Parental Advisories, and I don’t think my folks had actually heard the routine from the album, because there’s no way I would have been allowed to speak the words I heard on it.  Recognizing this was a huge oversight by my parents, I’d listen to it through my headphones.

In a few months I had both sides of the album memorized I’d heard it so much, which was a good thing because after the one time I listened without headphones, within earshot of Mom and Dad, well let’s just say that that birthday present was quickly replaced by something even Tipper Gore would approve of. But it was a great few months, while it lasted.

My heart broke a little when I heard that George had passed away two days ago. Toward the end his routines were less funny than I remember as a kid, but I still liked knowing George was out there, doing his thing.

Rest in peace, first banana.

“Somewhere out there is the worst doctor in the world. And someone has an appointment with him tomorrow.” - George Carlin

Before I became a father, I didn’t know

1. That I’d stop measuring a guy by whether I could kick his ass.
2. That I’d start measuring a guy by whether he’s a better dad than me.
3. That one day I’d wish for an auxiliary faucet that dispensed ketchup.
4. That next to the ketchup faucet I’d wish for a ranch dressing faucet.
5. That each and every day with my kids would be a continuous loop of America’s Funniest Home Videos hits-to-the-junk. I think I need to buy a cup.
6. That when I was a kid and my parents told me through gritted teeth that they could just strangle me, I should have been more worried.
7. That I’d change how I live and act because I want my kids to be proud to have me as their dad.

My apologies for my silence. Actually, my apologies for what will be a bit more silence than you’re used to here (for those 6 of you that read - thx, btw!). Work has been exceedingly stressful over the past couple weeks as we attempt some work we’ve never done before (and I’m the type to sell it first, figure out how to build it later) - enough so that Jack’s poor little ticker has been beating out of time. It happens sometimes, but lately it’s been enough to be on the debilitating side. Imagine your heart skipping a beat, but like 20,000 times over the course of a day. It can be kinda freaky.

Don’t worry - In the not-so-distant past I’ve had the recorder with electrodes spidering from it, stuck to various points on my chest, and I’ve had the ultrasound jelly liberally applied as they scanned the insides of my cardio plumbing to make sure everything was ok. And it was.

There are a few mystery products that help set my blood-pumping metronome askew (and a few known things, like caffeine and large quantities of chocolate), but mainly, it’s periods of accumulating stress. And the weird thing about stress is it creeps up on you ever so slowly that you really don’t recognize how bad things are until all of a sudden you’re in a chain restaurant with your family and it’s noisy and the kids and all over the place and food is on the floor and a person at the next table drops their glass of foo-foo beverage, shattering everywhere and you’re sitting there, feeling like someone’s playing slap bass in your chest and you’re wondering if you’re going to stroke out right there, in front of everyone and fall face first into your food, dead on the spot.

That’s where I am.

So I’m gonna need to slow some things down for awhile so I can decompress.  I have some posts in the can and I’ll cut them loose periodically so those of you who might worry (and if you do - thanks!  You rock!) can know that I’m still sucking in air.