forbothareinfinity

[forbothareinfinity]

What is very funny about being a specialist in juvenile law is that I never... actually liked children?

(Ok there is some possibility I am fooling myself about this, given that there has never been a single child client I got to know that I didn't love and root for and 100% support, but.)

I'm not a "kid person." I don't have the gift of running around and imagining with them. I babysat much less than equivalent older-millennial girls.

I just got into court, and I --

Okay, let me back up and talk about my first public defender's office. It was a rural office that covered several geographical jurisdictions, including multiple cities and counties, five total. Each of these had three courts that regularly needed to be covered: a juvenile/domestic court, a general court, and a slightly higher and fancier level of court. They all operated to varied schedules (general court A was on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but general court B was on Wednesdays and Fridays; juvenile court A was on Wednesdays and Fridays but juvenile court B was on Mondays and Wednesdays).

So, fifteen total "courts," and there were... hmm. 8-10 attorneys. And a boss who wanted us to be able to substitute for each other, and thus rotated us through the courts every month. On week 1, I might be doing general court A on Tuesday and general court B on Friday. On week 2, I might be doing general court A on Thursday and juvenile/domestic court A on Wednesday. I might have one day a month where I do general court C.

So on.

The court schedules cases not according to our schedules, but according to police officers. Do you see the problem yet?

Public defenders were fungible. For those who don't know that very academic-specific word, it means that we were exchangeable units. One case could go through four different attorney's hands because it would get continued, show up on someone else's date, get continued again, show up on someone else's date, and so on. Juvenile cases were particularly bad about this because they tended to linger in court for a long time, while the court monitored the juvenile's progress.

Here's another fun problem: the department in charge of things like child protection, custody, etc., would only come to court on Tuesdays. We did not have a spare attorney to cover an extra day on Tuesdays in which criminal cases would happen with children who happened to also have custody issues or a foster care prevention plan in place. They would put the criminal case on the next day, Wednesday. Effectively, this meant that we were not present for the decisions about where our clients went and what programs they would have to do.

So I'm dropped into this, a baby attorney, having watched a DVD about How To Juvenile Law. I feel my training is wildly inadequate, and I'm doing reviews on cases that have never had the same attorney twice. Zero trust between me and the kids, and why would there be?

I complained loudly until my boss gave in and ordered me the several-hundred-dollar Juvenile Practice In This State book, and then I read it cover to cover. I learned a bunch of really interesting things! Like all the stuff we'd been doing wrong!

My boss was shocked. "You actually read that?"

"What did you THINK I was gonna do?"

"Well, you're the juvenile expert now, I guess."

oh shit, I thought. oops. fuck.

But I leaned in, and not in the ambition way. I proposed a way to rearrange my schedule so that I would always be free on Tuesdays for DSS cases. Instantaneously, there was a change in the environment of the court -- before, it was the guardians ad litem, juvenile probation, and the attorney for DSS deciding what to do with kids. Now I was there. Making suggestions. And arguments.

We changed how we did the schedule, and how we put individual cases on that schedule. Keeping them on our days became a priority.

I instituted a weekly detention center visit, for myself. (I made it about half the time.)

I went to trainings. This area of law is wildly unpopular among a lot of public defenders, because it's complicated and sad and you don't get to do jury trials about it. Every new thing I learned just pissed me off. It wasn't that I liked kids. It was that kids deserved better. So I got to take over pretty much everything with regards to juvenile law in the office.

But like, I stumbled on this, I didn't know shit. I didn't have a passion for protecting children. It's just that every bit of law I learned made me go, "What? REALLY? Fuck off!"

[forbothareinfinity]

"I was unhappy with my service, and I will not be coming back!"

Cool. Don't

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Bear Selfies Captured By Camera Traps

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propaganda of the forced birth movement

https://myanetwork.org/

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I love you so much I hope we get reborn as housecats who sleep together like puzzle pieces

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I just love how everyone comes running to Tumblr when AO3 is down. We are all together in this and we all cry together because of this.

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asexual sex workers are braver than any US marine

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"The Alpilles" and "Mont Gaussier", Yoann Crépin

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Some day I want to see a show that does the “no filler episodes” thing from the opposite direction. Just a whole season worth of low-stakes character pieces that seem to move the overall story absolutely nowhere, then episode 26 pulls all the triggers at once and this massive Rube Goldberg machine of a plot the show’s been quietly setting up in the background the whole time hits you like a truck.

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one of my greatest pet peeves in fiction, and it is truly stupid I know, is that no one seems to understand how genuinely hard it is to kill someone via stabbing. stab wounds have a mortality rate of like 5%. especially abdominal stabbing. tv shows and movies show dudes getting stabbed one time in the lower abdomen with a tiny knife and then they fall over. like what did he die of precisely. that man died of Small Knife

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“Boromir apologist” he doesn’t have anything to apologize for????? He fell victim to evil ringTM like once. and then immediately redeemed himself. Guys come on.

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I love writing. I LOVE WRITING. THE ART OF ALL ARTS.

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stop

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It would be funny if nuclear waste warning messages become an attraction for future historical linguists.

I mean look at this thing:

A parallel text in 7 languages, with 4 different scripts between them! And pictograms! All designed to be preserved intact!

[forbothareinfinity]

I was raised agnostic and tend to remain ambiguous on theological matters.

-but my house has a porch on the second story that affords me a terrific view of my neighborhood and the Colorado Front Range and I was partaking of some peace before the 4th Of July Finger-Loss Festivities begin, and I have had a

~*Spiritual Experience*~

I just watched my neighbor try to unload an actual wooden pallet that had to have been forklifted into the back of his insecurity pickup worth of fireworks.

Except that he does not have a forklift in his garage.

He does have so much sports memorabilia and cardboard boxes of unsold MLM Merchandise and patriotically themed camping gear and posters of women in bikinis and flags of suspect political organizations in his garage that there is only BARELY enough space for the fireworks and certainly none for his truck.

So he had to unload the individual boxes of recreational explosives from the back of his truck and stack them in the minimal space he had cleared by hand. This is a tedious and time-consuming process as this neighbor has purchased a wide variety of recreational and locally illegal explosives instead of many of just a few types, so the individual boxes are rather small.

He begins, and this is crucial to what happens next, by cutting apart the industrial-grade saran wrap his explosives dealer had so carefully wrapped his merchandise in, and discarded it unsecured on his lawn.

Where Outdoor Conditions sometimes happen.

His process for unloading the fireworks is to 1. Climb up through the gate into the bed of his pickup truck (a feat made unusually difficult due to the slope of his driveway, and this man's fascinating decision to wear the world's Siffest and least Flexible Denim Overalls. 2. Once in the pickup bed, he selects ONE (1) box from the pile He is apparently from a niche religious institution that doesn't believe in stacking things. 3. Carries it awkwardly around the palette that barely fits in the truck bed 4. His wife yells "Be careful!" when he nearly falls out of the pickup. 5. He Yells "SHADDUP!" back at her. 6. The Large German Shepherd barks from inside the house. 7. He yells "SHADDUP!" back at her too. 8. He sets the (1) box down on the gate 9. Slowly and awkwardly climbs out of the pickup bed 10. picks the box back up, and carries it into the garage.

Question: Aren't you going to help this poor man? Answer: Absolutely Not.

There's four military veterans, MANY dogs, and several people with dementia in this neighborhood, all of whom are terrified by this chicanery every year and many neighbors have repeatedly asked him to maybe do the fireworks somewhere else. (This is the Eighth Year Running he's held a major demolition event in his driveway, and for those of you who can do math, you may be able to guess the precipitating incident to this little ritual) Additionally, I live in Colorado, a state marginally less prone to spontaneous and catastrophic conflagrations than a rotting grain silo, but only marginally. Our recreational explosives laws are written accordingly.

I am in fact calling the Non Emergency line to report Fireworks violations, and reading off the brand labels to someone named Dorothy, who is gleefully totaling up a SPECTACULAR fine for my oblivious neighbor.

However, while I'm on the phone with Dorothy, I notice the wind begin to pick up. and by "Notice" I mean "The Industrial Saran Wrap he left on his Lawn earlier is suddenly swept up about 100 feet into the air by an updraft intense enough to make my ears pop" And by "Pick Up" I mean "I look up to see the sky has turned a fun and exciting shade of glass green, and the bottoms of the clouds are bumpy and rounded, and the overall effect is not unlike looking up through the bottom of the cup at God's Matcha Boba Tea."

For those of you who do not live in places with Inclement Weather, these conditions mean "You have about 30 seconds before a Major Meteorological Event Occurs."

I move under the eaves. "Hang on Dorothy." I say, nose filling with Petrichor. "The show is about to be cancelled." "Oh, that doesn't matter!" Dorothy cheerfully informs me. "It's illegal for him just to possess those, no matter if he actually gets to set them off or not." "Terrific, because he's gotten maybe five boxes out of a hundred inside."

Sometimes, the weather gods are Merciful and give you a verbal warning, typically in the kind of thunderclap that makes your ears ring.

The Gods were not merciful today.

It's not often that I am in the time, place, correct angle or in a properly observational frame of mind to see this, But I got to see it today. Huh. I thought. I've never seen a cloud just DIVE for the ground before. Oh. I realized as it got closer. That's RAIN.

Sometimes, a thunderstorm will form in such a way that the rain that would normally be distributed over an area of say, five to tent square miles, is instead concentrated into an area of say, my neighborhood exactly.

So today, I was granted the rare privilege of being able to actually see the literal wall of water descend from On High and DIRECTLY onto my porch, my street, and my neighbor's truck, and his pile of unwrapped fireworks.

The sheer impact force of the downpour immediately scatters the teetering pile of fireworks boxes in the back of the truck, like the wrath of God striking down the tower of Babel. Boxes tumble, then are washed out of the bed of the truck by the deluge. Smaller Boxes are carried down the road in a little line by the stream forming in the gutter, like little impotent explosive ducklings.

My neighbor was definitely yelling something, but I could not hear what over the DEAFENING noise several million gallons of water makes upon high-speed contact with the earth's surface, but there was a lot of arm-waving and faces turning red as he went looking for the saran wrap that had probably blown to Nebraska by now, while his wife started disassembling the complex three-dimensional puzzle of interlocking material goods in search of a tarp. They do not have a tarp. They have one of those wretched Thin Blue Line flags though, and my neighbor jogs out in a futile effort to cover what's left in the truck.

Which is when the hail begins.

"HELLO?" Yelled Dorothy. "HI!" I shouted. "WE'RE HAVING SOME WEATHER!" "OH GOOD!" she shouts back. "WE NEED THE MOISTURE!"

I watch for a minute longer, but the loss was immediate and catastrophic- the hail is the size of marbles and dense and cares not for your pitiful cardboard and cellophane, ripping the boxes asunder and punching holes in the few things covered in plastic. The colors on the Thin Blue Line Flag are seeping all over the remains of that it was supposed to protect in a particularly apt visual metaphor. Not even the few boxes that made it into the garage are spared, as the German Shepherd escapes from indoors, and in an attempt to assist her humans, jumps directly into the small stack of not-yet-ruined boxes, scattering them into the driveway and deluge. She even picks one up so her humans will chase her around the yard, before dropping it in the gutter to be swept away.

So. I was raised Agnostic -but even I can recognize when God slaps someone upside the head and shouts "NO!" at them.

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