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Now comes the counterpunch.

Last night’s festivities in Tampa at the Republican National Convention concluded a week which brought us some of the brightest lights of the GOP (and Clint Eastwood) united in bashing the presidency of Barack Obama. Marco Rubio, Cuban-American Senator from my home state of Florida, referred to Obama as “a bad president,” a statement which echoed the underlying theme of the night: “It is time for a change” – or, as Clint told the partisan crowd and the empty chair to which he repeatedly turned: “It may be time for someone else to come along and solve the problem.”

The problem is the state of the U.S. economy, and the “someone else” is, of course, Mitt Romney, who accepted his party’s nomination near the end of the evening.

Pundits are busy breaking down and analyzing the impact of the Convention’s final evening. CNN.com ran a piece with the heading: “Did Mitt Romney Gain Ground”?

The answer is obvious: of course he did.

This happens every election year. A party’s National Convention leads to an immediate boost in the polls for that party’s candidate. So we should not be surprised when Romney’s numbers reflect an upward swing in the coming days. How could the result be different when that candidate has dominated the national airwaves (in prime time, no less) for the better part of a week?

Governor Romney should enjoy his upswing while it lasts because logic dictates that the numbers will readjust at the end of next week, when Democrats complete their swing through Charlotte. There will be no one at the Democratic National Convention indicting President Obama’s record. Rather, the blame will be placed on his predecessor, George W. Bush, and a Republican Congress whose stated goal was to ensure that Obama became a one-term president.

This past week did not win the election for Romney, and the coming week will not lose it. They are simply part of a process which began more than two years ago, when prospective presidential candidates commenced vetting their chances, and will end in early November, when votes are cast and a winner declared (unless, of course, we relive the uncertainty of 2000 when, thanks to many “hanging chads,” the election was not decided until close to the new year).

It all makes for compelling television, particularly when an election appears as close as this year’s.

September will be a busy month for television, with the networks introducing their new schedules and many of cable’s best shows (Dexter, Boardwalk Empire, Homeland) returning for new seasons.

But the focus in the coming days will be on the conclusion of perhaps the most important two weeks of Reality TV, which will set the stage for the next three months, and will undoubtedly impact the path our nation follows for the next four years.

In the end, two question emerge: Who will Democrats choose to counter Clint Eastwood’s star power? And will they bring their own chairs?

A Life

She was more sister than cousin. Memories of my early years are filled with images of the frail, pretty girl whose infectious smile and large hazel eyes masked the pain and uncertainty she carried inside.

She was not supposed to live past five. When doctors first diagnosed her heart ailment soon after birth her prognosis was poor. She underwent open heart surgery at age two, the first of several invasive procedures she would endure throughout her life. Doctors were far from optimistic about her long-term prospects. They encouraged my aunt to have another child to lessen the pain of her eventual loss.

Courage is often defined as action in the face of fear. The way she conducted her life exuded such courage. As a child she refused to be constrained by her condition. She danced, played and lived as if no malady existed. My aunt would warn her to slow down, worried that physical exertion would place undue strain on her heart. But she laughed off such fears and continued dancing, never admitting or letting anyone know that there was anything wrong.

She travelled, befriended and loved. The photographs of her wedding depict her glowing with excitement and anticipation, as she entered the next phase of her life. Her marriage lasted more than a decade, surviving further surgeries, illnesses and setbacks. In the end, her marriage would not survive the stroke she suffered at the age of thirty, leaving her incapacitated, with limited movement over half of her body.

Still she carried on, never feeling sorry for herself, and never losing her sense of humor or thirst for life. Her laugh was infectious, and she laughed often. She remained the little girl we all wanted to protect, even as she entered middle age.

She struggled with her computer, which became her constant companion and allowed her to stay in touch with the many people who came to know and love her. And love her we did –how could we feel differently for one who exuded such mischievous innocence?

She was far from perfect. She was set in her ways and stubborn to the edge of exhaustion. But I firmly believe that it was precisely this quality that enabled her to endure everything that life threw at her. She endured because she believed, and she believed because she loved life.

Carmen died last week in a hospital bed, a few days before her fifty-third birthday. In the end, her frail body could no longer withstand the complications of her affliction, and she moved on, leaving behind a world of memories.

As I think back over her years and picture her as she once was, I recall the closing lines of the 1971 TV film, Brian’s Song:

Brian Piccolo died of cancer at the age of 26. He left a wife and three daughters. He also left a great many loving friends who miss and think of him often. But when they think of him, it’s not how he died that they remember – but how he lived. How he did live!

Carmen lived well beyond all predictions, touching the lives of all with whom she came into contact. How she did live! If time is measured by impact, rather than hours and days, then her life was long and fruitful. She lived beyond time and stretched five decades into a thousand years.

Words With Friends

I see nothing but vowels; not a consonant in sight.

How do I create a word with three I’s sitting before me?

I am hooked. I no longer contemplate the mysteries of the universe. Instead, I focus on word structure and ponder how to make the most of what my I-Phone has given me.

The game is an electronic version of Scrabble. It can be played over hours, or days, or weeks (with some nudging for opponents who linger before making moves). I place letters into boxes, some marked DL or TL for “double or triple letters;” others labeled DW or TW, doubling or tripling the value of words.

Strategy will dictate what I do: Do I create a double value word even if it gives my opponent the opportunity to triple the value of his? Do I save my 10-point Z until I can enhance its value? Or does waiting create the risk that I will be unable to dispense of the letter and lose the 10 points when the game ends?

My friend Jeff is on a roll. In this match, he has come up with multiple words that have used all the letters before him, thereby earning additional bonus points. My letters, on the other hand, are unworkable. They sit before me and mock my linguistic impotence.

Three I’s? Really? How can I possibly hope to compete?

What finally sends me over the edge is VAULTING. The word has earned 60 points for Jeff, the third time in the past few hours he has eclipsed the half-century mark.

I reach out to him (texting is a prominent feature of the game, which is as much social media as contest): “Where are you getting these letters?”

He responds in typical Jeff fashion: “I assure you that whining and kvetching will not help – and I don’t use words like TALUK. What the heck was that?”

For the record, TALUK is a noun used in India. It is defined as “a hereditary estate” and “a subdivision of a revenue district.” I happened upon the word accidentally, while attempting to fit both an L and a K into a 5-box space.

My response to Jeff’s barb earns an electronic laugh: “No, but I am certain you will get the chance to use KVETCHING shortly.”

Some say that our increasing reliance upon smart phones has lessened our ability to communicate. We no longer look others in the eyes, but prefer instead to exchange short-hand electronic messages. The Norman Rockwell family of our era sits around the dinner table not sharing the day’s events, but doubled over phones, busily texting.

Perhaps they are right. Perhaps the dawn of instant communication is more curse than blessing, something we will regret in coming years, as each of us becomes increasingly isolated.

But I prefer not to dwell on such thoughts. Instead, I focus my energies on obtaining an U to go with my Q.

The Greatest

The crowd is electric. Eyes move restlessly, excitedly taking it all in: large Budweiser sign beyond the centerfield fence, tacky near-psychedelic home run structure (so Miami), men in military uniforms parading on the infield dirt. The retractable roof softly opens, unleashing rays of sun, like a blanket spreading over the green lawn.

It is opening day at the new Marlins Park. The sold-out stadium inches towards the first pitch, while fans in the stands celebrate, a buzzing of anticipation drowning out the PA announcer.

And then it stops.

All eyes turn to the giant scoreboard. A golf cart moves slowly from the outfield fence towards the infield. We can see Jeffrey Loria, Marlins’ owner, sitting beside a frail, old man. The PA announcer welcomes Muhammad Ali, former heavyweight champion, who won his first title in Miami, who once laughed and shouted for all to hear: “I AM THE GREATEST FIGHTER OF ALL TIME!”

He has been ill for years. Parkinson’s has eaten away at his once classic physique, leaving behind a shadow of what once was.

Loria holds Ali’s left hand, preventing the uncontrollable shaking that has invaded the rest of his body. Many in the crowd look away. It is a difficult sight to behold.

The PA announcer urges fans to join in celebration of the man: “ALI! ALI!” he shouts. But few join in the chant, which is less celebration of life than wistful longing for a dead era.

I close my eyes and see him as he once was: strong, and brash, and young. He bounces gracefully around the ring, throwing jab jab jab, mixes left-right-left combination and then dances away. All the while taunting, boasting, talking – echoes of his voice like whispers through long-darkened arenas, like Ali himself ravaged by the passage of time.

Seeing It Like a Native

She is the femme fatale of American cities, enticing with her glitz, seducing with her beauty, betraying with her violence.

I moved to Miami in 1985, as the city emerged from adolescence.  She had always been beautiful, a blend of pristine white sand and perpetual green enhanced by the translucent blue of her waters.  As a child vacationing with my family, I would stand on her shores and look to where sky met ocean as the sun’s rays warmed my shoulders.  I could not imagine a more peaceful place.

Changes

The city was undergoing a transformation.  Miami Vice was in its second season, creating an image of glamour and excitement which did not necessarily reflect reality.  Miami was still young, years from attaining the reputation she now holds as the ultimate party town, enticing revelers from around the globe.  South Beach was beginning to attract film crews, models and photo shoots, which competed for sidewalk space with a dissipating population of retirees outside deteriorating Art Deco hotels.  While her spotty past included trysts with politicos and gangsters (as depicted in 1974’s The Godfather: Part II and the current Starz TV series, Magic City), Miami seemed somehow uncomfortable with her image, clinging wistfully to her small-town past and refusing to become post-Castro Havana.

All changed in the waning years of the 1980’s.  As more and more people visited South Florida, seeking the world inhabited by Tubbs and Crockett, perception became fact.  Towering glass office buildings burst from the sands, creating a real downtown and a memorable skyline visible from the waters.  South Beach was reborn, long neglected Art Deco structures renovated and invaded by beautiful people doing questionable, yet exciting things.  Celebrity, not beauty, became the city’s defining feature.  Miami was an eclectic mix of ethnicity, excitement and extremes, home to jubilant crowds who turned night into day, partying through the dark hours.

Yet it has been said that nothing good happens after 3:00 A.M., and Miami felt the impact of her new nocturnal life.  Street crime increased, ethnic tensions heightened, and what was once a tranquil existence gave way to tourist killings, police overreaction and racial riots.  Miami had hit the big time, now mentioned with New York and Los Angeles amongst the most dangerous of American cities.

Popularity

It is precisely this mix of beauty, glitz and violence that continues to attract writers, filmmakers and TV producers to Miami.  It is here that Showtime’s Dexter tracks down serial killers, disposing of them in unique and creative ways.  It is also here that William Hurt was seduced by passion in 1981’s Body Heat, and where Will Smith and Martin Lawrence brought their own brand of violent justice to the streets in the Bad Boys films.

Above all else, Miami has become a writers’ haven, with thriller authors such as Carl Hiaasen, Les Standiford, Paul Levine and Tom Corcoran embellishing city streets with intrigue and corpses.

Perhaps the best writer of Miami crime stories is James W. Hall, the author of eighteen novels, all set in Miami and the Florida Keys.  Most of Hall’s tales feature his principal character, Thorn, a non-conformist and recluse, who yearns for the days when life was simpler, yet consistently finds himself enveloped in violence.  Hall’s latest, Dead Last (2011), brings Thorn to Miami, where he confronts the remnants of his past while investigating killings that mimic a less-than-popular TV show.  Dead Last is not Hall’s best work, but is nevertheless entertaining, and at times eye-opening.  One passage in the novel, which describes Thorn’s feelings about modern-day Miami is particularly poignant:

Working on the front lines of commerce in Miami could be risky.  The truce that kept chance encounters from erupting into bloodshed was fragile.  You didn’t joke about violence in public places, just as you didn’t kid about bombs at airport security checkpoints.  The new gun-friendly law was called Stand Your Ground.  Florida’s citizens had the state’s permission to use deadly force against anyone they considered a threat to their safety.  With so many people standing their ground, Miami had become a hair-trigger society.  Determining which threats qualified as worthy of lethal response was the new survival skill.  The rule was “Be nice or die.”  In fact, be very nice, or very quick on the draw.

Death

I read this passage as stories of Trayvon Martin dominated national headlines.  Martin was a black teen fatally shot on February 26, 2012 by a community watch coordinator in Sanford, about four hours north of Miami.  Much has been speculated and debated about what happened the night of Martin’s killing, what led George Zimmerman to gun down an unarmed teen walking at night to the home of his father’s fiancée in a gated Central Florida community.

My initial reaction when I read the news was to wonder why it was necessary for Zimmerman to carry a concealed weapon.  What is it about our society that makes its citizens feel the need to carry loaded guns?  And why do we, as a society, allow it?

The reality is that Trayvon Martin’s story would have been quite different had George Zimmerman not been carrying a gun that night.  Guns have the ability to take confrontations and elevate them into tragedies, and that is precisely what occurred here.

Florida’s “Stand Your Ground” law has been scrutinized since Martin’s killing.  Pressure is mounting on Florida lawmakers to modify or revoke the law, something that would come much too late for Trayvon Martin, but which may help avoid future tragedies.

The debate over “Stand Your Ground” has become increasingly political, with gun control advocates squaring off against those who support the right to bear arms.  I suspect that, in the end, little will be done and “Stand Your Ground” will remain on Florida’s books.

After all, why ruin a good story? 

Saints and Sensibility

Follow the money.

“Deep Throat’s” advice to Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein in director Alan J. Pakula’s 1976 screen version of their classic journalistic Watergate story, All the President’s Men, resonates through the sporting world. Money is at the heart of all significant decisions in sports, from Walter O’Malley’s relocating his Dodgers from Brooklyn to Los Angeles after the 1957 baseball season to former Cardinals idol Albert Pujols’ abandonment of St. Louis for more than $240 million offered by Anaheim.

Broken Records

Major League Baseball basked in the riches of the late 1990’s, when widespread use of performance-enhancing drugs led to record offensive numbers and the classic race for Roger Maris’ home run title waged by Mark Maguire and Sammy Sosa, players whose reputations have since been tarnished by their perceived association with steroids. Attendance reached all-time highs and jerseys flew off store shelves, so why would baseball powers challenge the legitimacy of artificially-enhanced records?

It took an act of Congress to alter baseball’s attitude towards PED’s. Faced with congressional hearings and threatened with the loss of MLB’s antitrust exception, a loss which would have resulted in a massive financial downturn for the sport, baseball leaders finally came together, acknowledged the problems associated with PED’s and crafted a system intended to dissuade players’ use of steroids and other enhancers. Yet despite facing extended suspensions if caught using PED’s, many baseball players continue to take the risk. Again, the issue is money. Players weigh the financial benefit of long-term contracts (such as Pujols’) given to those with superlative offensive numbers against the impact of potential banishment from the sport if caught using PED’s. It is not surprising that, in a society which consistently rewards the here and now, positive tests for PED’s continue to surface.

Hard Knocks

Football, a sport where brute force is an asset, and which has seen the lives of stars, such as former Raiders and Broncos defensive end Lyle Alzado, cut short by the use of steroids, has never developed a PED testing system to rival that of Major League Baseball. It has not had to because the NFL has never faced the potential financial consequences that forced MLB’s hand.

The one unpleasant issue that football has been forced to address recently has been concussions. For years the NFL ignored the detrimental effect that multiple concussions had on the lives of former players, despite consistent evidence of permanent brain damage caused by the violent hits associated with the sport. When many of those former players filed lawsuits, the NFL had to take notice. Faced with potential jury verdicts in the hundreds of millions of dollars, NFL leaders for the first time acknowledged that an issue existed and commenced studies to ensure player safety.

Money Hits

Which brings us to what sports journalists have christened “Bountygate.” When news surfaced in recent months that former New Orleans Defensive Coordinator Gregg Williams offered Saints players money for disabling hits on opposing players, NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell expressed outrage. While his office investigated the allegations, many questions were posed: How widespread was the practice? How long did it last? How much did Head Coach Sean Payton know?

The NFL completed its investigation, and Goodell’s hammer came down last week with a loud and violent crash. The team was fined $500,000, the maximum under the league constitution, and stripped of two high draft choices. Saints’ General Manager Mickey Loomis was suspended for 8 games and Assistant Coach Joe Vitt 6 games. Williams, now coaching with the St. Louis Rams, was suspended indefinitely. And Head Coach Payton, the “golden boy” who led the Saints to victory in Super Bowl XLIV, and whose accomplishments seemed to place him on the road to the Hall of Fame, was banished from the sport for a year.

Many were shocked by the severity of the sanctions. While repercussions were expected, few believed that, in a league that had never suspended a head coach for any reason, Payton would be treated this harshly. This was, after all, the man who helped lift the spirit of New Orleans by committing to help rebuild the city after the devastation of Katrina, the man who convinced Quarterback Drew Brees to join him in his efforts to restore the glory of the Crescent City, the man who carried the Super Bowl trophy down St. Charles Avenue in a parade that symbolized victory not just for the team, but for a seemingly lost populace.

Further, no evidence has surfaced that the “bounties” were offered for illegal hits. Injuries are very much a part of the sport of football, where players are taught from childhood to drive through the body when tackling, and the hardest hits are regularly highlighted on ESPN. Violent behavior is routinely rewarded with long-term contracts worth millions of dollars. What Williams did, and Payton assented to, was very much within the culture of the NFL (stay tuned for coming investigations of “bounties” offered by other teams).

Payton will remain a hero in a city known for its independent character and colorful ethics. His efforts on behalf of New Orleans will continue to be celebrated, even as his role in “Bountygate” is scrutinized.

Yet neither Payton’s philanthropic reputation nor the league’s history of violence impacted Commissioner Goodell’s decision. His sanctions were severe because they had to be. In the end, Goodell’s decision was not moral, but economic.

Failure by the NFL to act decisively when faced with “Bountygate” allegations would have been used by players in the concussions litigation. They would have characterized lesser sanctions by the NFL as further evidence of the league’s indifference to player safety. Juries would have considered such indifference in rendering verdicts and awarding damages.

So Goodell had little choice. He had to come down hard on all associated with “Bountygate.”

Payton had to go.

It was the sensible decision.

Post Mortem

Death changes everything.

I was in London when I learned of Richard Nixon’s death in 1994. While the news stories all touched upon Watergate and Nixon’s resignation from office, their general tone was far from negative. Nixon was portrayed as something other than a disgraced former President. He was the man responsible for opening doors to relations with China, a brilliant politician who stumbled ethically and therefore compromised his place in history. Yet that place in history was acknowledged, despite Nixon’s latter years as pariah.

Whitney Houston spent the last decade of her life engulfed by the shadows of addiction. Her once incomparable voice succumbed to the abuses wrought by her lifestyle and she faded from the international spotlight. Headlines in supermarket tabloids would occasionally remind us of the demise of her once glorious career, as she fought battles with drugs and alcohol. Her death last week at age 48 was sad and shocking, yet not altogether surprising.

There has been much speculation and conjecture about Houston’s death. This was to be expected given the circumstances and delays in releasing the official cause. Televised eulogies this past weekend, however, generally focused on Houston’s life, and not the uncertainty surrounding her death. References were made to her troubled final years, but the emphasis was on Houston’s music and film career, her identifiable voice, her generous nature. Her troubles were pushed to the background while her friends, family and fans celebrated her life.

Gary Carter, the Hall-of-Fame catcher who also died last week of cancer at age 57, received similar accolades. Carter, the final piece of the puzzle in the Mets’ 1986 drive to the World Series title, was universally acclaimed by former baseball players as a great teammate, consummate family man and all-round great guy. This was consistent with the image fans held of Carter throughout his career. The unbridled enthusiasm he brought to the game was contagious, as was the smile that always appeared on his face. Yet teammates and opponents were not always enamored of Carter’s demeanor. I recall several players, contemporaries of Carter, expressing reservations about his sincerity, and hinting that his “winning” smile was simply a public relations tool. Such criticism vanished in the aftermath of Carter’s death.

None of the above should surprise. Death has a way of redefining or refocusing life. When Joe Paterno died in January, less than two months after his unceremonious dismissal as head coach of the Penn State football team, a friend remarked: “They will honor him in death the way they should have in life.” And honor him they did. He was praised as an educator and humanitarian, and remembered for his unwavering loyalty to the university. Had Penn State trustees evaluated his career in the same manner last November, he likely would not have been fired after 61 years with the Nittany Lions.

Perhaps we are driven by a desire to attain finality in death, a desire that can not be fully realized if we focus on lingering issues, such as those that plagued Paterno. Or perhaps it is fear for our own legacies (“What will they say when I’m gone?”) that cause us to shift our focus from the human shortcomings that inevitably accompany life once that life is gone. Whatever the reason, the change is palpable: we accuse in life, yet forgive in death.

Nixon, Houston, Carter and Paterno were no less human after death than they were in life. Death does not alter life, only our perception.

Reflections on Life Choices

He no longer stands erect. His rear legs give way, and he collapses into a prone position, which is how he spends most of his day. Gone are the days of running through our yard, barking at every nearby noise. He is now quiet and immobile.

Cheddar, the yellow lab who has lived with us for thirteen and a half years, has reached the age where he no longer looks forward to each coming day. His eyes and ears have diminished, and he can no longer control his bodily functions, causing us to move him at night from an interior bathroom to our partially covered patio, where he can move at will when nature requires.

Many have suggested to me that it is time. Cheddar’s life is clearly not what it once was, and it becomes increasingly difficult to care for him. Perhaps they are right – perhaps the humane act would be to hold him and comfort him while his vet eases him into a deep sleep. But it is difficult to make that decision for someone whom I have loved and who has loved me unconditionally for over a decade.

His vet tells me that the act is painless and humane. He is administered a sedative that quickly puts him under. Then he is given a drug that, within seconds, will cause his heart and brain to cease functioning. I can be with him through the end or not; the choice is mine. I can have his ashes or simply have the vet discard them; again I get to choose.

My principal concern has always been ensuring that I am making the correct decision for the right reason. I do not wish to end Cheddar’s life as a matter of personal convenience. If I am to make that choice, it will be because his “quality of life” is gone. He suffers only pain and prolonged inertia.

Perhaps we are there now. I look into his eyes occasionally for signs of the joy and curiosity that once were there. But they are gone. His eyes are sad and listless, the life within them superficial.

Someone recently suggested that dogs are lucky. When the life of a dog reaches the stage where pain and apathy pervade, we can bring an end to his discomfort by administering a couple of painless injections. Euthanasia is acceptable for animals, but not humans. A person in Cheddar’s condition would likely be hospitalized for months, suffering the indignity of total helplessness, with doctors striving to prolong what can barely be considered “life.”

I can bring Cheddar’s pain to an end, and perhaps I should. But whether out of love or selfishness, I am having trouble facing what is likely inevitable. How does one decide between life and death for a living being? Who gave me the right to play God?

Or Words To That Effect

The piece below was brought to my attention by my paralegal, Glorialee. I believe it perfectly captures the spirit of the season. Its author is unknown.

Happy holidays to all.

An Attorney’s ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas

Whereas, on or about the night prior to Christmas, there did occur at a certain improved piece of real property (hereinafter “the House”) a general lack of stirring by all creatures therein, including, but not limited to, a mouse.

A variety of foot apparel, e.g., stocking, socks, etc., had been affixed by and around the chimney in said House in the hope and/or belief that St. Nick a/k/a/ St. Nicholas a/k/a/ Santa Claus (hereinafter “Claus”) would arrive sometime thereafter. The minor residents, i.e. the children, and issues of the aforementioned House, were located in their individual beds and were engaged in nocturnal hallucinations, i.e. dreams, wherein vision of confectionery treats, including, but not limited to, candies, nuts and/or sugar plums, did dance, cavort and otherwise appear in said dreams.

Whereupon the party of the first part (sometimes hereinafter referred to as “I”), being the joint-owner in fee simple of the House with the party of the second part (hereinafter “Mama”), and said Mama had retired for a sustained period of sleep. At such time, the parties were clad in various forms of headgear, e.g., kerchief and cap.

Suddenly, and without prior notice or warning, there did occur upon the unimproved real property adjacent and appurtenant to said House, i.e., the lawn, a certain disruption of unknown nature, cause and/or circumstance. The party of the first part did immediately rush to a window in the House to investigate the cause of such disturbance.

At that time, the party of the first part did observe, with some degree of wonder and/or disbelief, a miniature sleigh (hereinafter “the Vehicle”) being pulled and/or drawn very rapidly through the air by approximately eight (8) reindeer. The driver of the Vehicle appeared to be and in fact was, the previously referenced Claus. [See Exhibit A]

Said Claus was providing specific direction, instruction and guidance to the approximately eight (8) reindeer and specifically identified the animal co-conspirators by name: Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner and Blitzen (hereinafter “the Deer”). (Upon information and belief, it is further asserted that an additional co- conspirator named “Rudolph” may have been involved.)

The party of the first part witnessed Claus, the Vehicle and the Deer intentionally and willfully trespass upon the roofs of several residences located adjacent to and in the vicinity of the House, and noted that the Vehicle was heavily laden with packages, toys and other items of unknown origin or nature. Suddenly, without prior invitation or permission, either express or implied, the Vehicle arrived at the House, and Claus entered said House via the chimney.

Said Claus was clad in a red fur suit, which was partially covered with residue from the chimney, and he carried a large sack containing a portion of the aforementioned packages, toys, and other unknown items. He was smoking what appeared to be tobacco in a small pipe in blatant violation of local ordinances and health regulations.

Claus did not speak, but immediately began to fill the stocking of the minor children, which hung adjacent to the chimney, with toys and other small gifts. (Said items did not, however, constitute “gifts” to said minors pursuant to the applicable provisions of the U.S. Tax Code.)

Upon completion of such task, Claus touched the side of his nose and flew, rose and/or ascended up the chimney of the House to the roof where the Vehicle and Deer waited and/or served as “lookouts.” Claus immediately departed for an unknown destination.

However, prior to the departure of the Vehicle, Deer and Claus from said House, the party of the first part did hear Claus state and/or exclaim: “Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!” – or words to that effect.

The Spanish Countryside

The city of Valencia disappeared behind me, replaced by the vibrant green of the Spanish countryside. I sat in the car’s passenger seat, wondering whether I had made a mistake in agreeing to the trip.

The year was 1997. I represented the owner of a famous trademark for towels and bedding in litigation involving the manufacture of counterfeit goods in Spain. I had traveled to Valencia to take the deposition of the Spanish manufacturer, whose plant and warehouse were situated outside the city. The deposition would begin the next day at the Melia Hotel, where my opposing counsel and I were both staying. On this day, I had agreed to travel with the manufacturer and his attorney to the plant to review documents and observe the operation.

We drove for more than an hour, the manufacturer behind the wheel, my opposing counsel directly behind me. We would occasionally comment on the beauty of our surroundings: a sea of green extending in all directions, with occasional villas visible on the horizon. Despite the soothing panorama, I could not relax. I stole occasional glances at the defendant behind the wheel and half-seriously wondered whether I would mysteriously disappear and never make it to the next day’s deposition.

We eventually reached our destination, a large, box-shaped building in the middle of nowhere. The manufacturer insisted that the lawsuit was a mistake, that he did not engage in the manufacture of counterfeit merchandise. He was short for words, however, when an employee inadvertently opened a door into a room that contained counterfeits of not just my client’s products, but of many other famous trademarks, as well.

After several hours of documents and explanations, the manufacturer drove us to an outdoor restaurant at an old hotel situated near the base of a medieval castle wall. The location was breathtaking and the food delicious. The conversation soon turned to the case, with the manufacturer again insisting, despite what we had seen at his plant, that he did not manufacture counterfeits. I responded that, while I appreciated his hospitality, I intended to come down hard on him. It was all very pleasant, but with an underlying feeling of unease.

I spent the next two days grilling the manufacturer and confronting him with the evidence of his activities. At the conclusion of the deposition, we sat down at a café in a medieval section of Valencia and spent several hours negotiating a settlement.

Two days later, I boarded a plane for Madrid, where I would catch my connecting flight back to Miami. The trip had proven successful – I had been able to negotiate a settlement very favorable for my client. Yet what I remember most about the case, and what keeps it fresh in my mind fifteen years later, are not the legal issues, the eventual settlement or even the personalities involved (many were quite flamboyant). Rather, the images that most vividly remain are those of medieval castle walls, ancient countryside hotels, and a long car ride into the Spanish countryside with the possibility of no return.