It being Groundhog Day today, what better earworm than Frankie Yankovic playing “The Pennsylvania Polka”? Because if you’ve ever seen Groundhog Day, you’ll immediately associate the music with Bill Murray’s karmic transformation over (and over) the eponymous day in Punxsutawney, Penn.
Here’s a bonus: the chase sequence from the film. This never grows old.
You may be aware that a federal jury in Manhattan last week took all of less than three hours to award writer E. Jean Carroll $83.3M in damages (of which $65M was punitive) in her defamation suit against the Kleptocrat.
A couple of things—the award in her previous lawsuit (for sexual
assault and defamation) was $5M, of which $300K was punitive. That jury, in May
2023, found that Cadet Bonespurs did assault Carroll in a Bergdorf Goodman’s
dressing room in the 90s and then he defamed her by calling her a liar. In that
trial, the primary attorney for the defendant was Joseph Tacopina, an
experienced litigator, who was crass and pretty bolshie on behalf of his
client. But he did not piss off the judge and jury by disrespecting them and he
kept Bonespurs out of the courtroom because he understood that his client’s
worst enemy was the client’s inability to STFU.
This time around, the Kleptocrat fired Joey Tacos just before
the trial opened and went with Alina Habba, whose pre-Klepto experience was
largely limited to representing a parking lot owned by her husband. (Her
experience with Bonespurs has been less than stellar: she and her client were sanctioned
a year ago to the tune of nearly $1M for filing a frivolous RICO lawsuit
against Hillary Clinton, James Comey and half of Washington, D.C.) It showed in
her performance throughout the trial—the woman doesn’t have the most elementary
understanding of even how to enter evidence into the record. The kind of thing
you could pick up from watching reruns of Perry Mason episodes on TBS. This
was in addition to Bonespurs’ antics in the courtroom—muttering audibly his
objections to various things, shaking his head, even swanning out of the
courtroom during plaintiff’s counsel’s closing argument. Every orange pore
oozed contempt for the judge, the jury, the process and even the notion of
justice. Evidently juries notice this kind of thing.
(Also, I’m guessing it was very uncomfortable having to sit on that
wooden chair in a full diaper and girdle.)
So the Find Out part of this life experience cost him $83.3.
Habba swore on Friday they’ll appeal the outrageous judgment (although
there appear to be no legal grounds for an appeal; Judge Lewis Kaplan was
careful to ensure that). "We are just getting started," she said; actually, she was just getting finished. If he carries through, he’ll have to post a bond of
about $92M with the court (award plus interest) and that will have to be either
his money or through a bonding company (if he can find one that will take the
risk of fronting a notorious no-pay guy), which would also cost him fees in
addition to the $92M.
Either way, Habba found out Tuesday what every human on the face
of the planet could have predicted: the Kleptocrat is dumping her for a
yet-to-be-named legal draft pick. She found out via a post on his lame-ass
social network:
Now we see if there are any law firms willing to take him on.
And if there are any non-spousal parking lots willing to take
her on.
I was looking up on my walk yesterday—clouds not as interesting as on Monday, but I noticed that the trees look as though they’re thinking very seriously about coming into bud.
Well, we'll have to see what Punxsutawny Phil has to say about things on Friday.
Joni Mitchell was right—clouds are fascinating. You don’t even need the fire of a sunset or sunrise to find beauty in them.
Viz: yesterday morning’s walk.
Last Thursday was the first day in a week and a half that I could take my morning walk. (The People’s Republic don’t have no truck with clearing snow from sidewalks, so I had to wait until it melted.) It was also warm enough that not even halfway into my circuit I had to peel off my hoodie.
Friday it was 64F when I went out; I didn’t even bother with the
hoodie. It made it to 72F and I had my patio door open all day. In January.
Well, I’m grateful to be able to get back into the walks. I do
not do well if I can’t get out and get the muscles moving.
But also, on Thursday, I noticed these little guys starting
their annual visit.
By yesterday they were spreading, and making me so happy.
If they can pop up and thrive, so can I.
My year-end post on notable deaths of 2023 started it all. It was David Crosby, actually—who died last January at age 81; the harmonies of Crosby, Stills, Nash (& Young) were so distinctive. Singing any of their songs solo just doesn’t do justice to the impact they made.
So I’ve been revisiting unique harmonies. And that brought me to
The Everly Brothers. Phil and Don Everly straddled country, pop and rock from
the 50s through the 70s, when they broke up and pursued solo careers for 10
years, reuniting in 1983.
Many of their early hits were written by Felice and Boudleaux
Bryant, a husband/wife team. I’m truly hard pressed to choose among them for
today’s earworm, so I’m giving you two.
First up, “Bye-Bye Love”, which has that driving beat of true
rock and roll.
And “All I have to Do Is Dream”, credited solely to Boudleaux
(and I do love writing that name), a classic Everly ballad.
Crank up the volume.
I had two interesting senior product manager interviews this week, both of which say something about how companies are approaching their hiring practices.
The first call was brief—maybe eight minutes tops. Because,
after the opening small talk, the recruiter brought up the subject of
compensation. He did this because it was risibly low, and he acknowledged that.
I rather got the impression that he’s learnt to open the conversation with this
data point because he’d had too many calls that came to a screeching halt 20
minutes in when it came up in the “normal” course of interviews.
The company in question has had two really major security
breaches in the past couple of years, breaches that affected hundreds of
customers and brought them the kind of press that no software company wants. It
may be possible that they should consider better compensation for the people
who have to clean up these kinds of messes and maybe prevent them in the
future.
The second interview was actually fascinating. The company is
doing interesting things in cybersecurity, has been around for more than a
decade, getting close to IPO, but has never had a product manager. They’ve
crafted a thoughtful job description, enumerating some really high-level
expectations (including briefing analysts and the press, which typically
happens at the director level), and engaged a high-powered recruitment firm to
run the hiring process.
But when we got to compensation, the salary was in the exact same
where-do-you-expect-to-find-someone-senior-at-this-rate range. With no bonus or
equity. Again, the recruiter acknowledged that this was low, but that’s what
was budgeted. He mentioned that the company execs expect this person to “be the
CEO of their product line” (typical buzzwords for this role). He didn’t point
out what was obvious to me: that this person would not have a compensation
package that is in any way CEO-like.
Look, when even the recruiters are embarrassed to talk money, you know these are interesting times.
Okay, I had been unaware of this, but some Republicans in the Florida legislature actually think that Florida taxpayers ought to be funding the Kleptocrat’s fight against multiple indictments.
Because evidently a self-proclaimed billionaire, who’s reaping a
crop he’s been sowing for (in some cases) decades, deserves all the help the
citizens of the Sunshine State can hawk up. To the tune of $5M. (TBF, $5M is
barely the retainer for one of Cadet Bonespurs’ lawyers, former Florida Solicitor
General Chris Kise, currently beclowning himself in the civil fraud trial in
Manhattan, so it’s kind of a sop in the global scheme of TFG’s legal schemes.)
That’s pretty whack, I have to say.
But wait, as they say on TV—there’s more.
Because one day after Ron Never-Back-Down DeSantis backed down
and closed up his presidential run shop, and endorsed Bonespurs, he
apparently found a non-human vertebra and tweeted that he’d veto any such bill that came
across his desk.
Yeah, the guy who blew $1.5M of Florida taxpayers’ money to illegally
entice migrants in Texas to get on planes and be flown to Martha’s Vineyard to
stick it to the libs has decided that paying the legal fees of a private
citizen is not, in fact, an appropriate expenditure.
Well, we’ll see how long it takes for him to cave on this, too.
One of the best purchases I’ve ever made—next to the squirrel-proof feeder on a shepherd’s hook with a torpedo baffle—has been the heated birdbath.
No, the water is not warm and there’s no jacuzzi (although it
would be fun to watch birds turning the jets on and off by pecking a button).
It just means that the water doesn’t freeze, so the birds can drink even in the
coldest weather.
And it’s been in the ‘teens this past week, so that’s a big
deal.
I’m sorry I’ve not been able to get the camera out fast enough whenever one bellies up to the bar, but I do so love watching them at it. It’s a small thing in the global scheme, but it makes me happy to do it.
The snowfall of early last week brought me a bit of a bracha. Twice.
Because I caught movement in the corner of my eye as I was sat at
my laptop and—instead of the squirrel I expected—I saw this guy:
He stayed around for a couple of minutes and then flew off.
(The next day he returned, but I just watched him instead of
trying to pull out my mobile.)
I’m honored and grateful for those magical moments, even if the cost might
have been having to shovel snow.
