Trial--and Error

I have a very soft spot for lawyers, being married to one and being the mother of another. As the saying goes, some of my best friends are lawyers.  Usually I am able to cut them a lot of slack. A lawyer's job is to help his client. Anyone accused of anything is entitled to a lawyer and a good defense. I have a more difficult time believing this in cases that are really cringe-worthy--anything that involves children as victims, for example. I've managed to avoid comments on the whole Penn State brouhaha, but yesterday, a defense lawyer, commenting on (not answering) a question as to whether Sandusky would testify on his own behalf, said (I paraphrase) that he couldn't answer that question as it would 'ruin the excitement'. That was the word he used. Excitement.

Excuse me if I fail to see what is exciting about a trial concerning child abuse. It might, I suppose, be exciting for a young lawyer to be involved in a high-profile, nationally-covered trial, but the testimony (or non-) of the defendant shouldn't make a difference there. What the lawyer said, as far as I can see, is  an indictment of the public. Are trials of this sort public entertainment? Is this theater? And of course, it is--witness the OJ Simpson trial, the trial of Michael Jackson's doctor, the multitudinous legal hi-jinks of  Lindsay Lohan, or Charlie Sheen, or Robert Downey..  All of these garner ratings that any network would die for.

If it were just celebrity worship, if it were just fans following the lives and doings of their favorites, it might be forgivable. We ordinary people are often fascinated by the foibles of the other half, the misfortunes that prove that wealth and fame don't really make them different from us. An occasional reminder of their feet of clay (complete with photos) isn't so bad. But here? Here we have a trusted (and, of course, famous) coach, accused of preying on the young men in his charge; who were in fact purportedly being helped by the coach's own charity foundation. And his lawyer is worrying about ruining the excitement of the trial??? I doubt the judge and jury are worrying about whether they will be kept on the edge of their seats. I doubt that the young men and their parents, or families and friends, or even the defendant himself, are too concerned about how exciting the big finish is going to be. This isn't "Dancing with the Stars". This isn't the movie of the week (though I have no doubt it will become that, sooner or later.)

This is real life, not reality TV. The workings of the justice system should not be measured by its excitement level or its entertainment potential. What is wrong with us?

Elections

Tomorrow is Alexandria's Democratic primary, and it's a doozy. Fourteen candidates in a fight for six City Council seats: this is a situation where voters need to be informed in order to walk into the voting booth and make any kind of decision at all.

I have opinions on most of the issues: education (as always), the development of the waterfront (hot button issue this year), affordable housing, where we should be spending our money, the arts and the city's support thereof... No one candidate is going to agree with me on all of these--much less six of them. And so, I am combing through their resumes, reading their answers to questions, looking at their records (if there are any), and thinking about my impressions when I've met them or heard them speak.

I have arrived at this very subjective checklist that I am willing to share with candidates.

• The articulate candidate gets my attention. If you are well-spoken and know how to put together a cogent sentence or two that conveys your thinking, I'm willing to listen, and perhaps be persuaded. 
• If I have seen you out and about, talking to citizens...good for you. You have an ear to the ground and might just have a clue as to what your constituency is saying. 
• Practical experience is a plus as well. Educators know education; transportation specialists know transportation; planners know the steps in getting things done. The Council doesn't need anyone on it who doesn't have some sort of expertise on at least one of the issues, or who is unwilling to be educated. 
• The ability to work with those with opposite views gets big points with me as well. Nobody gets their own way all the time. Compromise and negotiation are vital skills.
• I don't vote for a person's ethnicity or school ties or family or longevity or even specific party affiliation. I don't like voting for someone whose tactics to get elected are less than honorable. The way you treat an opponent tells how you treat people in general. Likewise, dishonesty in one area leads me to suspect dishonesty in others. Be upstanding. I don't want to be ashamed of someone I've voted for.
• I do cast a serious look at who has endorsed you. The recommendation of any person I respect and who has served their community well carries weight. 
• I look for dedication, for someone who is willing to put their time and effort where their constituency's interests lie. If I give you my vote to be my representative, I expect you to represent me.

All that being said, I am making my list and checking it twice. I may not know who is naughty (demerit given) or nice (a much-neglected quality that I like in a candidate), but I do know which candidates will have my vote in their stockings tomorrow. 

At the Met

We went to New York this week. JC had a map auction he wanted to attend on Thursday, and we decided to go up Wednesday, have dinner and see a play ("The Columnist" with John Lithgow) that night, then come home after the auction. Fate smiled. The weather was wonderful, the to-and-from train rides uneventful, and while the play was perhaps not as good as we'd expected, we had a great dinner and John Lithgow gave a Tony-award quality performance. I finally finished a book that I've been slogging through just to see the ending (the author cheated: EVERYONE did it, but not in a clever Agatha-Christie-Orient-Express style, but in a just-plain-stupid-why-doesn't-the heroine-SEE-this? way) and got halfway through another one I've had languishing on my Kindle for far too long. But I digress.

In the middle of Thursday, in the middle of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I was wandering rather aimlessly from room to room--simply stopping whenever a piece spoke to me. I traveled through Greece and Rome and Egypt; I traversed the American Wing and saw everything from the Wild West to the modern East. I had lunch in the cafe in a  huge open space with a glass ceiling, with clouds billowing overhead. I stood by Tiffany windows, and peeked into a complete French dining room with finely carved paneling and ethereal painted panels, reconstructed with precision from its own place and time. I stopped by Ellsworth Kelly's plant drawings, just to see what that was all about--and specifically because Sallye Mahan-Coxe (an art teacher friend from Robinson) once said that, whenever you have an opportunity to see drawings, you should go, because they aren't often on exhibit. In any case, I came, I saw...and then I started to think.

Who is there to say that I am not one of the luckiest people on earth? I  have a world of opportunity that waits for me every day. I can take myself to museums--both in NY and at home in Washington-- that have the best the world has to offer. I have access to one of the two best libraries in the world, barely a 20-minute drive away. I live in a place that values history and the arts and quality of life. I have technology that will do my bidding (most of the time) and keep me in touch. I have friends. I have the freedom to be in New York, or Virginia, or California, or Europe, or any of the places in between. I have the best of food and shelter and transportation. My limits are pretty much of my own creation-- the normal aches and pains and memory lapses notwithstanding. I can travel, I can read, I can write, I can look. Not all of the throngs of people at the Met on Thursday--sitting on the steps, poring over maps, standing in lines, sitting (gratefully) on the benches--have those luxuries. Even fewer of the people that mob the streets can spare the time or energy--or even the cash--for them.

I can, in short, be inspired. I just have to remember that. I just have to follow the inspiration that taps me on the shoulder and says, each day, "Here. This way." I am so lucky.

Dear Diary

One of the first things anyone tells you about writing is that you have to do it regularly. Whether you are inspired or not, whether you feel like a million bucks or like something scraped off the bottom of your shoe, whether you are excited or depressed, happy or sad, pressed for time or lolling about eating bonbons--you've got to write. Often. Preferably every day.

And so...the diary. I've got to tell you that I love paper. I love notebooks. I love pens. I love my ancient Royal typewriter. And I love my laptop and iPad and iPhone. More than Imelda Marcos loved shoes; more than Scrooge McDuck loves money. But for all the soft leather notebooks and all the beautiful pens and all the lovely efficient machines, I cannot seem to muster up the discipline to write every day.  It's just not in me.

But the world has come to rescue me in the form of the social media. I (essentially) now keep a diary. It's called "Facebook". Every day (almost), I find something to say, or some tidbit of information comes my way that I find interesting enough to remark upon. Even if all I do is post a sarcastic remark, or a comment on my surroundings, or the tenor of my day...it is writing.  If I am blocked, I can distract myself with (God forgive me) Solitaire, or an email message. But more often than not, whatever I write in those status updates leads the way into something else, with any luck, of greater import.

I am one who saves everything--every scrap of writing, every inkling of an idea, every likable phrase that passes through my Swiss-cheese memory. I write them all down, usually as part of a post. Going back and reading what I've written gets me going again. Sometimes I cringe at what I've put out there. Sometimes I smile. And sometimes (don't tell anyone) I quietly delete posts in the hope that no one actually read them.

So say what you will about Facebook. It's a time-eating, narcissistic, pointless activity. Yup. For some. But for me, it's a writing tool. It's inspiration. It's my diary.