Can We All Calm Down?

After finishing "The Help," last night, I woke up with fists swinging, itching to be righteously mad at someone or something. What better vehicle upon which to inflict my free-floating rage, I thought, than Arizona's new immigration law?

But before I run off to my next cocktail party spouting profound and provocative phrases like "Arizonans are racist, fascist pigs," I thought it might be prudent to actually read this new law. Call me crazy.

Still, my self-imposed research foray into Arizona's new immigration law seemed like overkill. After all, the media has been reporting for days on end that the law allows police to stop anyone they want to, at any time, to "check their papers." And if we can't believe the media, who can we believe?

On Tuesday, former Con-law professor President Obama decried Arizona's new law.

"Now, suddenly, if you don't have your papers and you took your kid out to get ice cream, you're going to get harassed -- that's something that could potentially happen ... That's not the right way to go."

Baskin-Robbins raids? Shiver me timbers.

The mayor of Phoenix had a stronger reaction; he called for a lawsuit (although he later withdrew the request). Irate vandals smeared refried beans in the shape of swastikas on the windows of Arizona's capitol building. The usually well-informed Joe Scarborough was apoplectic.



So when I took the time to read Arizona's law, I was . . . well, to say I was surprised doesn't capture it. Obama's and the media's spin on this law versus a plain reading of the statute is as different as night and day.

Albeit, there has been mass confusion about what law was actually passed. There were two versions bouncing around the internet last week, and the earlier draft was fairly draconian. A significantly less onerous version, however, was the one signed into law.

But gee whiz. If I can get my hands on the law that was enacted -- before I start spilling bile all over it and calling an entire state racist -- surely everyone else, and especially Obama, can, too.

Same goes for the New York Times. Are they so broke they can't keep a fact-checker on staff? I mean, really.

Yesterday that paper reported that Arizona's law gives police, "broad power to stop people on suspicion of being here illegally." Umm, no, it does not. That assertion is patently false.

Here are a few of the -- Mr. Prez, can I borrow your word "misguided"? -- press reports:

* Arizona's law allows the police to harass people who have no "papers."

* Arizona's law lets the police pull over anyone, at any time, for any reason, just to make sure the person is "legal."

* Arizona's law is Hitleresque, allowing police to demand proof of citizenship from anyone they choose to pick on. If you forgot your "papers" you'll get carted off to jail.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.

Consider these facts (and please, read the law for yourself; you don't need a J.D.); I'll start with a bombshell:

* The federal government already requires aliens to register and carry their "papers" on or about their person at all times. 8 USC 1304(e).

* An Arizona police officer cannot stop you -- be you yellow, brown, black, or white -- unless he has reasonable suspicion to believe you've committed an offense; if he does, he can make "legal contact." He cannot stop you simply because you might not be "legal." No, the officer must have independent reasonable suspicion that criminal activity is afoot.


* If you are legally contacted (i.e., legally stopped), and only then, can the officer ask about your immigration status and only if he has reasonable suspicion to think you are here illegally.

* If you produce a valid Arizona driver's license or Arizona-issued state identification card, you are presumptively legal and the inquiry as to your immigration status ends there. A valid DL or ID vitiates -- indeed precludes -- any "reasonable suspicion" that you are not legal (unless, of course, your DL or ID appears forged or fake).

* What is a "legal contact"? Some examples: if a police officer has reasonable suspicion to believe you are speeding, say, or ran a red light, or robbed a liquor store, he can stop you. This is well settled criminal law, certainly not shocking.

* What is an Arizona officer now required to do, during a legal contact, that he wasn't required by law to do before? Nothing more than ask for your Arizona DL or ID and inquire further if you have none.

* Officers across the country routinely (and legally) ask to see a person's driver's license during a stop -- so the officer can check to see if someone has a warrant out or just escaped from the pen. This is a gross violation of our civil rights hardly a big deal.

* Only someone who, during a legal contact, has no license or I.D. (or produces something suspicious) will be questioned about their immigration status.

Now then. Am I saying I agree with every aspect of the law? Not at all. It is poorly drafted, to begin with. How out-of-state visitors, for instance, will be treated is entirely unclear -- because to be presumptively "legal" in Arizona, your DL or ID must be issued by a state that has already confirmed you are lawfully in the country.

Of more concern, are so-called police/citizen "casual encounters" (an officer can lawfully walk up to you on the sidewalk and start up a conversation -- you can walk away, if you like). Where these encounters fit into the law seems an open question.

Even so, before we all turn into an hysterical mob of furious, we're-never-coming-to-your-state-again protesters, eager to blindly and blithely brand Arizonans as Mexican-hating, harassing racists, let's at least get our facts straight.

Immigration is a hard, already divisive issue that our country desperately needs to address. But we sure won't get very far making misinformed, inflammatory accusations against each other.

Ladybug Juice

Sorry, it's actually "ladyboy juice," as in the pornographic website "ladyboyjuice.___," frequented frequently by several folks at the SEC.

Weird, huh?

I thought so, too.

Tonight, Diane Sawyer claimed ABC had broken this "exclusive" story and aired it on World News Tonight.

But when I googled "SEC executives porn" it was immediately clear that ABC was a little late to the party -- the put-it-on-the air party, anyway. I wonder why.

Apparently quite a few boys (and one girl) over at the Securities & Exchange Commission ("SEC") have some kind of, umm, porn problem: thirty-one employees thus far, and seventeen of them are pulling in a bunch of our bucks ($100k or more).

One SEC sloth tried to access the . . . err, let's call it "lady bug" site, 300 times in one day. "TrannyTit" was another of his personal favorites, in case you were wondering.

The more prurient amongst us can go here for an excerpt from that sloth's deposition.

This is the same SEC, you'll recall, that admitted it had known since 1997 that Allen Stanford was scamming people. Sadly, the Stanford story got buried by the blizzard of stories on Goldman Sachs (the SEC cleverly announced both on the same day).

The SEC's explanation for not going after Stanford sooner? Why, "institutional influence," of course. Sounds better than porn, no?

This is the same SEC, I need not remind you, that failed to catch Bernie Madoff time and time again, despite the ear-piercing whistle blown by Harry Markopolos for nine long years.

Call me crazy, but . . . how about the government gets its priorities straight before forging headlong into yet more "reform"?

It's a novel idea, I'll readily admit, but maybe we should try reforming the regulators before we reform the "regulatees"? I'm just sayin'.

You know, I'd planned a field trip for Mr. M to visit Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. Guess I'll put that one on hold until he's a little older -- oh, say, twenty-one.

Well, at least we've gotten a glimpse of our triple-X tax dollars at work. It's just a glimpse, mind you, but a glimpse is still a glimpse.

But fret not and take comfort, gentle readers: at least one of the SEC pornsters said he "rarely" put in for "comp" time -- extra pay or time-off for legitimate work he couldn't perform during his regular, porn-surfing hours.

Alrighty then. I. Am. Feeling. Good. Excellent, actually. I cannot wait for the bureaucrats to run our health care system.

So sleep well. And stay away from the ladybug juice.

Friday Listing

Thought I was gone for good? Nope. I'm back today for a brief pop-in.

The SEC just announced charges against Goldman-Sachs and I couldn't stay away.

The allegations, in a nut shell:

"Goldman wrongly permitted a client that was betting against the mortgage market to heavily influence which mortgage securities to include in an investment portfolio, while telling other investors that the securities were selected by an independent, objective third party,"

so says Robert Khuzami, Director of the SEC's Division of Enforcement.

The unnamed "client" is John Paulson, FYI.

Talk about an "I'm Glad It's Not Me" day. I'm glad I'm not:

* a lawyer in the SEC enforcement division.

* a baby lawyer at the firm Goldman hired to defend it. Lord, I'm glad I'm not that.

* Fabrice Tourre, the loose-lipped Goldman golden boy who gloated in an email to his friend,

"More and more leverage in the system. The whole building is about to collapse anytime now.…Only potential survivor, the fabulous Fab . . . standing in the middle of all these complex, highly leveraged, exotic trades he created without necessarily understanding all of the implications of those monstruosities!!!!"[sic]

* John Paulson, the billionaire hedge fund manager who worked in concert with Goldman to pick super crappy mortgages for Goldman's ABACUS CDO (Paulson shorted it, of course), even if he wasn't charged by the SEC.

* David Kotz, the author of the SEC report, also released today, which says the SEC knew about Allen Stanford's ponzi scheme as early as 1997. But the SEC failed to act because of "institutional influence." Now that's a euphemism worthy of award.

* this school photographer. For heaven's sake! How do these people stay in business?

On a somewhat, but not very, related note, Mr. M just got home from school and reported his playground altercation. One of the kids refused to get off of Mr. M's bike and after a protracted exchange, Mr. M pushed the perp. A mother standing nearby told him to "use your words."

Sorry to offend, but I can't stand that ridiculous talk. "Use your words," "use your inside voice," and "that's a sad choice," are just plain silly and I told Mr. M so.

To which he replied, "You know, I was thinking this morning on my way to school that you are a good mom. Because you don't talk in a squeaky voice like all the other moms do."

Score one for the blunt mom. Yes, on this day I'm especially glad to be me.

My hope is to post next week on the commerce clause. Although always a sexy and scintillating topic, now it's a timely one, too, in light of our new health care law and the upcoming vacancy on the Supreme Court. (Oh, that unemployment post I was working on? Meh. Too boring and depressing).

In the meantime, here's letting you in on some big news. If you've been the internet slug that I've been lately, you may not know that our beloved Dental Maven has a new website. She's moved from the "know your teeth" spot and into her own.

This Maven is witty, wizardly . . . and chock-full of stories, like her post on cheaters. Is your husband brushing his teeth every day? This could be a bad omen, girls.

Thinking about saving money by using an unlicensed dentist? Bwahahaha. The Dental Maven will set you straight.

Happy Friday. Happy Glad-to-be-Me Day.

Oriental Rugs in the Trailer Park

Greetings, friends. Yes, it's been a while since I've posted. My blogging sabbatical was occasioned by a number of things: our Spring Break trip (the details of which still languish in a draft post), making my home office more fully an "office," and a bit of an amorphous malaise.

So where to start? Let's see.

Well, we could start with my good friend from high school who is about to get foreclosed on. Or should I say "foreclosed upon"? Semantics aside, the pain is the same. It's a house she and her husband worked hard to buy and furnish. And now, well, they can't pay the mortgage. He's in commercial real estate. Need I say more?

Then there's my dear friend who moved from Texas back to her home state a couple of years ago, after her husband lost his job during a corporate acquisition. Selling their house at a reasonable price in this climate simply wasn't an option. Oh, hell, I'll be blunt: it was impossible. Happily, they just got news they'll be able to lease it. Her husband's job hunt, though, continues.

Last, but so not least, another close friend just found out she didn't get into nursing school -- on her third try. Of course, she was devastated. And because her scores were excellent, the news was entirely unexpected. Her family needs that future income.

An unemployment post I've been working on for a while continues to gather computer dust. Because the topic is so damn depressing I haven't been in the frame of mind to dig in, spiff it up, and make it "postable."

I've been warehousing it because the data is so bleak. Although the "official" unemployment rate is 9.7%, when you include all of the people who are "underemployed" (the MBA who is now selling shoes at the department store, the salesman with a B.A. who now works at Potbelly Sandwiches, etc.), the unemployment rate is more like 20%.

But you already knew that.

I don't want to be the "Ior" blog you turn to, when you're feeling all morose, or worse, the one you don't want to read when you're feeling upbeat. But right now, girlfriends, this is all I've got.

Things are not good. Not good at all. And I don't think the underlying fundamentals are in place such that our economy will recover, in any meaningful way, for years and years to come.

Some days I think about the options for all of us. A trailer park in Florida, maybe? There we'll all be, living in "Palm Harbor" homes, with oriental rugs scattered over the linoleum, gourmet pots on our stovetops amidst the ubiquitous "one day at a time" bobbing hound-dog heads.

We'll borrow sugar and flour from each other and trade recipes as we bustle from trailer to trailer with a Reidel wine glass in hand.

The local diner, where we'll congregate, will be a hotbed of intellectual activity. There, we'll solve the problems of the world over coffee and discuss early feminists like Edith Wharton and Kate Chopin.

Sometimes I feel like I'm in a Saturday Night Live skit. I mean, seriously. This is surreal city. TV advertisements blare, "buy this business suit [or car . . . or whatever] now. If you lose your job in the next year, we'll take it back."



Did you ever, in your wildest dreams, imagine this?

A realtor friend and I chatted on the phone yesterday and she asked me how I was, how things were going. "Fine, I think," I answered. "I have no terminal illness that I know of, and I'm still here. So I guess that puts me in the solid lukewarm category."

What say you? No doubt, some of you have some good news, or a come-back story that would cheer us all. Let's hear it.

Surely we'll feel better tomorrow.
_____________________

And that would have been the end of this post had I not just visited the Suburban Matron before I hit the "publish" button.

"Suburban Matron" is written by the wry, unmatronly Becky, who rivals Erma in her witticisms. She's the mom blogger who makes you feel like you are sitting right there in her kitchen. The one who makes you want to sell your house and move in next door to her.

She regularly regales us with stories about her neighborhood Frenemy, the "foster kids," Pretty Neighbor, and her crazy co-room mom. Finer writing that you can read for free, I've yet to see.

Well, she recently learned she's got breast cancer.

"Life's not fair," our mothers always said. I know. But damn. I never thought it would be this unfair.

So when you have a moment, go read some of her recent posts and give her a kiss, a gentle hug. And try not to curse her for looking so gorgeous and glamorous in her hospital garb.


She posted an update tonight and reports that she's doing just fine. XOXO, Beck.