Foleydog's blog

Antonio Villaraigosa's Big Idea

Now where did Christopher Arellano get that Big Idea from?

Attorneys need not apply

Today, I was looking at job ads categorized under 'legal' -- and most of the descriptions explicitly say, "Attorneys need not apply."  I'm seeing this is more and more ads for job. 

I guess in this tight economy, attorneys, like myself who were told in law school our degree was an asset, because we could tackle anything are applying for jobs outside their immediate field.

With almost one million lawyers in California and what seems like three jobs, we're branching out.  Unsuccessfully for the most part, I may add.  To increase my chances, I've taken an unprecedented step.

I've finally done it despite years of threats. 

I've taken my law degree off my resume. 

For years, it's been a hindrance.

Two years ago, an executive at Fox looked me directly in the eye during an interview and said, "I hate that attorneys think they can come in here and do our jobs just because they went to law school."

Needless to say, I didn't get a call back from her.

Now, it's deleted.  It's gone.  Like it was never was there -- despite the one hundred thousand dollars plus interest, I'm still struggling to pay off.

I haven't gotten any response to my new lighter resume, but it has to be more positive than my current resume.

Just yesterday, and my millionth job interview in Los Angeles, I spent many minutes assuring my interviewers that even though I didn't take a class in administrative law, and I never worked in finance, that I could grasp the concept of administrative hearings and could read financial documents and other balance sheets.  Those seven years in Ivy League schools must have been worth something, right?

I'm not entirely sure they were convinced, but I found out they hired many more non-attorneys than attorneys.  I may have had a better chance at the job without that J.D. on my resume.

Who knew?

The hatred of lawyers has spilled over into other industries -- and it's not pretty.

Four years ago a friend of mine was hiring folks for her company.  She said when she got resumes from attorneys, she threw them out immediately.  "What do they know about my business?" she asked.  Now this didn't stop her calling me for free advice when she had a legal problem related to that job, but I digress.

My response?  "What could I know about your business?" and a shrug.

Now that Cornell Law School  has gone by the wayside -- maybe I can save myself from the round file.

Only time will tell.

The Permanent Racial Divide

I rarely read a work of fiction or non-fiction that transforms my perception of life.  Last week, I read that book: Thomas Shapiro's The Hidden Cost of Being African-American.

Though, this was not likely his intent, it shows that absent some sort of catalyst, there will never been racial parity, integration, or class equality in the United States.

Looking at the use of transformative assets, which lift many whites beyond their earning capacity, the tipping point of integration for most whites, and the costs associated with being African-American and segregated, Shapiro convincingly explains the divide between most Americans.

Erin Aubry Kaplan, a black columnist for the Los Angeles Times, could well benefit from the reading of this book.  In her February 15th column, Fear Takes Flight, Kaplan is dismayed that her black, middle-class neighbor is moving from the Century Heights section of Inglewood to -- anyplace else.

I learned the hard way that living in a black neighborhood can cost you.  When selling our remodeled West Adams home, which had been such a bargain, there were few takers. 

Sure, a few white families looked at our home, but none were willing to take the plunge and spend almost eight hundred thousand dollars on a house in a black neighborhood. 

The first clue that this would happen was when I would visit open houses in our neighborhood and the groups of people visiting the homes were smaller and smaller numbers of well-heeled blacks as the prices spiraled upwards.

Yet owning that home, may have cost me hundreds of thousands of dollars in 'appreciation.'  Many of my visiting acquaintances, after overcoming their irrational fear of being shot in a random drive by, would comment -- "Oh, what a lovely home.  If this were in any other neighborhood, it would be worth millions of dollars."

And if you follow Shapiro's well documented evidence.  It's true.  Lost equity, is just one of the costs of being African-American.  Aubry Kaplan's neighbor has just realized that -- and is taking action.

Bottom line, this book has saved me months, if not years of hand wringing.  The reasons for segregation and failing urban schools have been a mystery for me.  If, supposedly, the minds of whites have changed, then why were separation and unequal schools so pervasive, I pondered?

The answer can be summed up, I think, in one insidious code phrase used by too many I know, "It's for the children."

Translation.  "It's for our white, privileged, children -- and if yours suffer -- well, that's America."

Old Thoughts

Every so often, I start a blog post and don't finish it.  I save them as drafts -- because I plan to get back to them.

Mostly, I don't finish them because I don't have more than a few sentences to say about a topic or my thoughts on the topic never gel.

Since cleaning up clutter also extends to virtual hard drives -- here are some the my aborted thoughts:

From September 12, 2004:  My best friend is b lack.

Ah, it's a phrase we know well.  Before (or after) someone says or does something discriminatory -- they attempt to deflect by saying their best friend is black.  I never want to be that friend they refer to.

From September 24, 2004: Conspiracy of Silence.

Right before I sold my last house, I found out my neighbors had always known that the people living next door to me were crazy, drug dealing, lunatics.  They somehow thought if they didn't mention it to me -- I wouldn't notice -- though the guys standing out side with guns  - posturing, was a clue.  Fortunately (or unfortunately), when  we sold the house -- they were all standing outside -- playing music from the trunk of their car, and smoking dope -- so the new owners can't say they were uninformed.

From October 20, 2004: Those who know better.

Below is what I wrote when I made the emotional decision to sell my last house, and buy our third house -- the first in a 'white' neighborhood.  To summarize, I grew up believing that the decimation of black neighborhoods was integration.  I strongly believed the abandonment of traditionally black neighborhoods by black professionals had (among other things like poverty and crack cocaine) led to their demise.  I felt profoundly guilty for maximizing my investment in California real estate by leaving West Adams.  That guilt was partially alleviated by a wise friend last year.  She cut to the chase and said I shouldn't worry about those people because they weren't thinking about me.  And she was right.   Here's what I wrote then:

Many people have asked why I would leave my lovely renovated house for the unknown. It's because now, I know better.

When people ask you what you really think, they probably don't want to hear the answer. For once, however, I'm going to write what I really think. In the interest, of self interest, I'll not publish these pieces until I move from West Adams to wherever.

Why did I move here. As anyone who knows me knows, I've always wanted to live in California. To me California represents promise, hope, and who can resist living in a place with vacation like temperatures all year round. When I first came to California at 16, I couldn't believe people were slogging it out on the east coast -- I had west coast dreams.

So when the opportunity came, to move here, I ran, didn't walk, to get here. The first hurdle was looking for a house. I see myself as edgy, hip, cool, so you know I was insulted when family members among others asked, are you going to live in Los Angeles. Yes, of course, I replied, sure that a thinly veiled racial slur had come my way.

Looking for houses in L.A. can be daunting. They're exceedingly expensive and generally in bad shape. My dream was to live in Santa Monica or Westwood, places I had visited on vacation. When I found out that people were paying $500,000 for two bedroom fixers, I was stumped.

So, I decided to look in predominately black neighborhoods -- and after reading an article in the Los Angeles Times, I changed my course. And after looking for a bit, there they were, large homes, on relatively quiet streets. So I bought one.

Yes, I was a 'grandma fixer.' Nothing really had been done, ever. And what had been done was hideous, a fire danger, a water hazard -- you name it. So in the name of fire safety, and qualifying for homeowner's insurance, I fixed it. I fixed the sewer. I fixed the plumbing. I fixed the electricity. I fixed the water damage, the termite damage, etc. I looked at it as an investment.

So, when I got tired of living in a grimy kitchen and with the thirty five year old shag carpet, I fixed it. I looked at it as an investment.

Now, living in the 'city' can get tiring. And with only one life to live, I'm done. I started wondering about my choice when I joined Junior League and the Junior Chamber of Commerce and not one of thousands of members shared my zip code. I looked around as my friends bought homes and condos and no one even considered my area. Then, I started thinking . . . . hmmmm. Sure, everyone said, 'oh, this is such a cute neighborhood.' Sure, they marveled at the large, stately homes. Yet, we were the only ones here.

I started to sense trouble when my neighbors revealed problems they hadn't wanted to share for fear of scaring me away.

So, here I am. Tired of people who have lived here for fifty years who have nothing invested in the neighborhood. Tired of receiving poor services. I'm ready to move on and fortunately I can afford it.

Trouble is, I don't know if it's worth it. Funny, how real estate agents think I can't sell it. It all remains to be seen.

February 28, 2005: Disenfranchised?

When I wrote this, I was pissed because LA County was making voting at my new address extremely difficult.  Needless to say, I worked it out.  Here's what I wrote then:

I'm feeling disenfranchised as we head toward the March 8th Los Angeles mayoral primary election.

For a number of reasons, I have changed my status to that of permanent absentee voter.  Ah, the pleasures of voting at home.

But it looks like, I won't be able to vote in the March 8th election because I can't process a change of address with the Los Angeles County Registrar.

Despite mailing, faxing, and filling out endless forms, they don't want to let me vote in my new district.

April 17, 2005: Shoe Shopping.

Mama needs a new pair of shoes.  Actually, mama and papa needed a new pair of shoes.  So, off to the local mall we went.  I was surprised that Macy's has turned into a store more like Target than the 'upscale' department store I remember, but as always I digress.

The story.  I went shopping for shoes and found that Macy's and other department stores had some seriously archaic shoe commission notions.  In Nordstrom, I had to lie and say no one was helping me to get different people to get me shoes.  Their policy only lets one person help you.  And once that person gets you, no one else will help you.  I didn't buy any shoes there.  More savvy, Adam picked out some shoes at Macy's and we split up and got shoes from a few different folks.  We checked out -- then the salespeople got into a fight over who had helped us first -- and tried to rope us in.  We just wanted shoes, and left them to work it out.

October 19, 2005: Could hear a pin.

Does anyone remember when Sprint's advertising campaign for it's fiber optic long distance service stated, 'you could hear a pin drop?'

I think about this commercial all the time, these days, when I get those awful cell phone calls.  I'm sitting at home, and the phone rings.  I hear static, and possibly nothing at all.  Then the phone rings again, and the caller always says, "Oh I dropped the call."

Then some patchy conversation happens.  Mostly me saying, "What? What!"

Bottom line.  I'm tired of horrible phone conversations from people who refuse to use a land line.

-- So that's it.  I've cleaned out my virtual blog holding pen.

I got caught cheating

on my furniture guy.

That's right -- my furniture guy.

In L.A., like New York, you can get anything you want -- as long as you find the right guy.  Sewers -- get the right guy.  Electricity -- get the right guy.  Custom cabinets, earthquake proof picture hanging -- get the right guy.

A few years ago, I wandered into a tiny crowded furniture shop.  For a fraction of the cost of a buffet I had my eye on at Arhaus, I could get a similar buffet.  I made a deal, and it was delivered to my house.  It fit in perfectly.

A year later, I wanted a dresser and armoire for my bedroom.  Anything from Pottery Barn or Restoration Hardware was going to set me back thousands of dollars -- not to mention those huge delivery fees.  So, I wandered back into my little furniture store and asked -- could you make something like that.

Sure, Max said, and it was about a third of the Pottery Barn cost -- with real wood, and whatever finish I wanted.  The deal was struck and the furniture was great.

Then, a year later, my head was turned.  I heard about Larry St. John in Carson.  You could pick your furniture from the PB, RH, or ZGallerie catalog -- and they'd knock it off for you -- at half the cost.

So, I ordered an entertainment center for my family room.  Larry, though, had some crazy rules.  First, they only take cash, second, they offered no delivery, and third, the furniture was made in the southeast -- and you'd get it when they got it.  Max always lives up to his three week turn-around promise.

Got the entertainment center, six or eight weeks later, -- and it's good -- but I wish I'd gone back to Max.  The armoire he made for our bedroom, is really two pieces, cleverly disguised, which makes it much easier to move and maneuver.  Our entertainment center is a bear to move around.

A few weeks ago, I needed a new dresser.  (Don't ask how my dresser got relegated to the guest room).  A quick trip to Max, and the deal was struck.  Three weeks later, he came here and delivered my dresser.  On his way back down the stairs, my entertainment center caught his eye.  While I came back from getting my checkbook, I found Max caressing my furniture.

"Not mine," he said, "but, that's a nice finish."

I was caught.

The Disposable Society

Last month, we had wood floors installed on the third floor.  Don't even get me started on my feelings about having floors installed -- from a box -- the wood pre-finished in some factory in the South.

As I have learned from renovations on three houses, it's best to move most of your junk out of the way before workers move it.  Of course the more junk you move, the less junk you realize you need -- which spurred on a huge bout of  'spring' cleaning in the dead of winter.

I'm not one to keep too much stuff.  Nothing annoys me more than people who park their cars on the street because they garages are too full for their cars.  Despite my best efforts, I have collected odds and ends -- mostly stuff I didn't need as I upgraded.

My junk includes an old leather desk chair, two VCRs, a typewriter, an old fax machine, luggage, etc.  This stuff has all been replaced by a better desk chair, a DVD player, and the ability to PDF.  I can't even begin to imagine what I'd do with a typewriter.  And I finally have sturdy, matching luggage.

There's nothing wrong with the old stuff -- except maybe it's obsolete.  In Los Angeles, as in the rest of the country, our landfills are, well, filling up quickly.  I am an avid recycler.  Barely any garbage leaves my house each week -- but no one wants your old stuff.

The Wal-Mart revolution has provided sparkly new items to anyone with a few bucks.

Thrift donation centers have come to my house last week, and in the past, looked at my stuff, and declared that no one would buy it.

I looked on Ebay, and used VCRs and typewriters start at ninety-nine cents, with no reserve.  It would cost me more to ship to someone than to throw it away.

It's collecting in the family room, expanding in a corner near our clock.  I know the bottom line is that I need to call the city, and just throw it away -- but it's hard getting rid of perfectly good stuff I don't want or need anymore.

This is, I truly believe the evil of the Wal Mart revolution.  Nothing has any more value than one can pay to pick up a new plastic thingy at the local big box store.

So, I'm off to call the city because for no cost to me -- they'll take my junk.

Inequality

As I read about and talk about the Katrina hurricane coverage, I'm amazed that so many people are 'surprised' by the inequality that has been laid bare by the slow rescue and recovery efforts in New Orleans.  This predominantly black, predominately poor area has been left behind.

Recently, Adam and I were discussing inequality, and he was touting the integrated and multicultural city that is Los Angeles and asked me, "where can you go in Los Angeles that is all white?"

"Law firms," I began.  "Television networks, movie studios, non-profit organizations helping the poor and disenfranchised," I finished.  All the places I've interviewed for jobs have certainly been mono-cultural.

"I knew you were going to say that," he said.  Then I looked at him.  "There's also the grocery store, boutiques, and upscale department stores in our neighborhood."

Every day, you see it in our neighborhood.  Scores of middle aged white men, drive north out of our neighborhood in tank sized German sedans and SUVs.  And driving south in old El Caminos, battered sedans, and pick up trucks -- or by foot, young Latino men and women come in.  Promptly at 7:30 or 8:00 the lawnmowers start, and the blowers blow leaves up and down the street; while young Latinas load little white children into strollers and prams for their daily walks.  Late in the afternoon, the pattern is reversed, the white men coming back -- the Latinos making the exodus back to other neighborhoods that are forgotten, even now.

Last year, I toured Pacoima (in the city of Los Angeles proper) where yearly rains flood the streets and city sewers were recently installed -- their tar scars still marring the streets.  Last year, I lived in Mid City where calling the police for routine infractions of the law yielded no response.

If a large flood hit Pacoima, I can clearly imagine dozens of brown faces, on roofs, waiting for rescue in vain.  If a large earthquake rocked South Los Angeles, I could imagine a response no greater than the current non disaster response, which is delayed, at best, non existent, at worse.

So, when I see the pictures of black and brown faces waiting in vain for rescue in New Orleans, I'm not shocked, I'm not surprised, rather I'm amazed that others are.

The Hollywood Bowl . . . a full time job.

Getting a season of box tickets to the Hollywood Bowl is a full time job.

Here's how it works.  Every year or so, the L.A. Times or other non consequential newspaper publishes articles on how hard it is to get box seats at the Hollywood Bowl.  Apparently, there are people somewhere who've had the same box since the dawn of time and aren't giving them up.  People, these articles say, must wait in line for years to get a box.  One friend told us of moving to the east coast and buying season tickets in progressively closer seats -- even though she wasn't there -- just in the hopes of one day getting a box.

So, imagine my 'luck,' last year, when I signed up for a box at the Hollywood Bowl and got it -- not the ever popular classical series, mind you, but for the jazz series.  My friends were thrilled!  Sure, they said, we'd love to go with you to the concerts!  A box!  Van Morrison!  You'll never be alone.

What no one tells you is that when the crucial day comes and you invite them to the bowl . . . they can't commit.  "Here," you say, "are free tickets, a night of open air fun, free food, great wine."  "Ah," they say, "um, maybe, but there may be conflicts, I hate the stacked parking, but we'll see . . . ."

So, every other week, all summer, there you're left hawking tickets, by e-mail, by phone, trying to fill those seats.  "Ok, you're busy," then Adam and I are moving down our Rolodex/Outlook contacts lists.

Summers, people comment, are light at work.  For us, we spend much of our time working the phones, getting people to the bowl.  Yes, the great Hollywood Bowl where it's so hard to get seats and we're lucky to get a box.

Somewhere there's a lesson here.  I'm just not sure what it is.  But I must go, I need a couple for the August 3d concert.  If I start now . . . .

Husbands

Sometimes I think that husbands are an impediment to friendships with women.  You know how it is . . . you and your girlfriends get along famously, but when you throw husbands in the mix . . . .

Couples outings can be hard.  Women start budding friendships . . . we want to go out . . . take our husbands with us.

But then husbands can sometimes come in and muck it up.  You know the ones, the blowhards who talk non stop.  The husbands -- 'know-it-alls' who are experts at everything -- meaning nothing.  The husbands who corner you at parties, and never let you go.  The husbands who drink too much, flirt too much, care for their wives (your friends) too little.

Lately, my husband doesn't want to spend time with these other husbands.  He doesn't understand their one upmanship, and doesn't want to play the game.  He's tired of going to parties, he says, and being baited by men who want to engage in a pissing contest.  He doesn't want to spend time with these men who have to be an expert in every topic that ever comes to the table.

My husband saying this, finally, was considerable.  All those times we went out and he was quiet (an unnatural state for him), I thought he was just being shy.  In reality, he was just bowing out of the men games.

Why did he do it then, I asked?  Because they're your friends, and it was important to you.  The truth is, I didn't like the husbands either, but I was trying to be sociable.

I'm not sure what the solution is (other than spending time with only those couples you like), but I think more time with just 'the girls' may be more fun.

Freebies

Sometimes you just get lucky.

Recently someone told me I should look on the brighter side of things.  For a pessimist like me it's hard.  This weekend, was a lucky one, however.

I shop at whole foods because I don't eat corn syrup and a whole host of other gross things humans shouldn't eat, but I appreciate some prepared food -- because who has time to cook everything.  So there I was lamenting over the $15.00 vitamins (for my cat), and other expensive items I needed.  I find a check out counter without a line only to see the clerk removing the cash drawer and packing up her stuff.  Sighing and in for a long wait, a new clerk checks in and almost speedily starts ringing up my stuff.

Things in Whole Foods are looking up, when they only get better.  The clerk leans forward and something in her badge sets off the cash register.  The verdict.  Her badge scan had given me a 20% discount.  I saved a whopping 12 bucks, and a longish wait had a payoff.

The next day, I was still smarting from my last trip to the post office.  I asked for two books of stamps and got two books of ten each -- one of those special collections that are more sticker than stamp.  I didn't notice the price discrepancy, because I was doing all my mailing at once and was far too overwhelmed at the astonishing sum it takes to send a package from point A to point B when there is absolutely no guarantee that it will arrive within any kind of specified period of time, but I digress.

Stampless, I found myself in one of those mail drop stores that porn productions seem to favor.  To my delight, they sold stamps, so I asked for two books, and this time I checked -- they were the 20 stamp variety.  So I get home to stamp my permanent absentee ballot, among other things, and as I'm peeling them apart, I discover, I've gotten three books for the price of two!  Somehow the clerk didn't notice that two were stuck together like new dollar bills.

The bottom line, I'm up $17.40 -- and luck is with me.