You owe it to yourself to click here, and ether read or better yet listen to the mp3 of her 1988 keynote at the Democratic National Convention in Atlanta.

She was a great American politician, rhetor, and lady. I remember watching her and Clayton Williams go at it when she ran for governor of Texas in 1990. (Yes, I was in fifth grade at the time and keeping track of the Texas governor's race. I was a special kind of kid.)

A few years ago, when I was a delegate to the Democratic National Convention in Boston, I splurged and spent $125 to go to an EMILY'S LIST luncheon featuring Ann Richards and other Democratic women. She was, far and away, the best speaker there.

RIP, Governor.

You know, I don't blog about my job. First of all, there's that whole confidentiality and attorney-client privilege thing that makes it rather difficult, and while I've grown to love this blog, even though I do neglect it with alarming frequency, but I value my law license even more.
What I'll discuss is not, of course, covered by confidentiality or attorney-client privilege, although I still feel somewhat reluctant. You know, there's supposedly this "brotherhood of attorneys" (the reasons for why that gender is chosen may be clearer after reading this post), and we try not to make each other's lives more difficult than necessary in zealously representing our clients.

Neither of these protections, sir, apply to you. First of all, we were not on the same case; indeed, you did not even deign to speak to me or introduce yourself. Your comments were made sitting in a public hallway; you did not lower your voice; you did not seem embarassed that I was two seats over from you and another attorney was another two seats over from you. In fact, we were in the hallway of the courthouse, and most anyone could have wandered in upon your conversation.

I should mention that I wondered if you would make it to te point where you would sit down. You are not, sir, an attractive man. You are overweight, with jowels to spare and a pockmarked face. There are several bartender's children who are probably in med school due to you.

I had this feeling I wasn't going to like you when you started commenting to your client how much you objected to waiting for the prosecutor to appear to pretry your case. With as old as you are, you've clearly been around, and the prosecutor usually runs into a backlog. You're getting paid obscene amounts of money for hanging out to deal with parking tickets or other such kerfuffle, so just deal with it.

I guess it's a good thing you were so pressed for time, insofar as you compared how some attorneys ended up lining up like there was an open bar. This led to your musing that, "We went to a wedding, where they had an open bar, and my...my...my --"

Whereupon, your client helpfully supplied, "Your significant other?"

Which, surprisingly, you did not go along with; you said it wasn't to that stage yet. After all, "the last one still hasn't moved out." But, that's fine, relationships go through stages, and perhaps you've found someone nice in the 52-to-65 range to accompany you to events while the last one packs her boxes.

Apparently, Last One called you last night, crying that you didn't love her anymore. (You confirmed this was true.) She was crying because you were going to make her kids homeless. This did not seem to bother you.

Anyway, your Signif -- oops, girlfriend -- and you went to a wedding where they had an open bar, and New One apparently enjoyed partaking of this, to the tune of five doubles, and was smashed by the end of the night.

At which point, I was tempted to lean over and tell you that the Pleasant Reason and I recently went to a wedding where they had an open bar, and the Pleasant Reason (who is, I assure you, a very Significant Other), did not get smashed, and we had an absolutely wonderful time talking all night and on the way home, as well.

I'm rather pleased I didn't, however, because you provided more than enough detail about what happened after the wedding. While your girlfriend was apparently drunk after five doubles, she still "put on a porno and wanted to do everything in it." This was, apparently, asking a little too much of you; after all, you're nearing sixty years old.

Now, really. Is that the sort of thing you find you must discuss in an open hallway? Where anyone can hear it? Apparently, your client didn't mind this detail, and he in fact asked, "Her name's not Staci, is it?"

As a matter of fact, it wasn't. In fact, this led to your commenting that you "weren't sure if you'd ever lived with a Staci before. Let me think. This'll take a while. [Pause] No, I haven't lived with a Staci. I've lived with five Teresas, though."

(If there are any statistically minded readers out there who'd like to work out how many women one has to live with to live with five Teresas, I'd be fascinated to know.)

This led to something of a detour into what Teresas like to be called (Terri; Traci; Reesa.) Apparently, the one who went by Reesa was a lot of fun; although she'd never have kids, you all tried. (Your words, not mine.)

But, then we went back to the Not Significant Other. You suggested that she was a bit more, shall we say, ambitious than you, since she is, after all, twenty-eight years old and you'll be sixty next Monday. She apparently was living in South Carolina, but called you to come pick her up, so you took two and a half days off, the longest vacation you've taken since 1967. (Which suggests you're either a workaholic or no one wants to go on vacation with you. I know which horse I'm betting on.) But, really, it ended up being four days together, since you did get that weekend in there. (And there are some who say romance is dead!)

You then mused that relationships don't get better and -- and this was where I had a major problem with you, really -- then commented that "they never should have passed that amendment back in the 1920s." I knew what you were talking about, but your client apparently didn't, leading him to force you to illuminate that it was the one that gave women the right to vote.

That was classy. I mean, really. Perhaps I could buy you a big flashing sign to wear around yuor neck, saying, I AM A SEXIST, MALE CHAUVINIST PIG. Besides saving people a valuable three minutes of talking to you before discovering this, it would also help them have something to look at other than your face.

And I'm sorry to keep going back to your appearance, but you were, in a word, ugly. And that wouldn't be so bad, if you didn't seem to need to trumpet the fact that you are now dating someone less than half your age.

You know why she's dating you, and, let me assure you, none of us are fooled, either. While she at first sounded a bit of a lush for drinking five doubles at that wedding, thanks to your graphic description of what transpired thereafter, I think she can plead the defense of necessity. No one believes she's dating you for your chiseled good looks, and she sure as hell ain't with you for your personality.

A few years ago, there was a movie where Robert Redford offered a woman a million dollars to sleep with him. It was called "Indecent Proposal." Truly, the film would have been more aptly titled had its star not been one of the well-known hunks of our time, but rather an unattractive, ill-mannered, chavinistic pig like you. I really don't care why she's dating you, although, if you can't figure it out, please do note that if she wakes you up by saying "BOO!" every morning, it's not a good sign; but I do care about your degrading and despicable treatment of women. The fact you harbor those beliefs is appalling; the fact that you, a member of the bar, feel comfortable making your thoughts on this subject known in such a public forum speaks poorly for you and worse for a society that tolerates it.

In closing, may I just say that, if your sweetie is buying the cigarettes you went outside to smoke for you, it'll be another hint she considers you a significant payday; and I am probably only surpassed by her in the sincere hope that one day your most prized posession turns black and falls off.

Yours very truly, a person who is sorry you make both the legal profession and the male species look bad.

...it's worth noting who's picked to be #1 in the polls.