Monday, February 20, 2017

J. Edgar Hoover, our Dad, and I are the worst of the rotten apples.

From The Guardian

From Getty Images

First FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover (left) consulted President "Tricky Dick" Nixon (right).

From Avast

J. Edgar Hoover, our Dad, and I are the worst of the rotten apples.

People criticize lawyers unfairly. They're not a bunch of liars, despite the fact that liar and lawyer are alliterative.

Our Dad, Joseph P. Altier(i), sued the pants off the railroads and busted up a counterfeit money ring as an Assistant U.S. Attorney in the Southern District of New York, USA Justice Department. He told the New York Times that his firm, Altier and Vogt, 450 7th Ave., 25th Floor, NY, NY, which it came to be called, previously Bromsen, Gammerman, Altier, and Wayne when he began with them, now closed, had made the railroads safer for everyone, not just for the protection of the United Transportation Union (UTU) guys and gals who got hurt in the railroad yards, whom he represented as a Designated Attorney for the UTU. What a great political stunt was that one he told the reporter, but he meant it and it was true.

It's 50/50. In my loudmouth opinion, each creep has a kind, decent opponent, so it's not as grim as critics color them, but ask a good attorney to get a better picture of what it's like from their perspective.

In his office he kept an autographed picture written out to him of guess who? J. Edgar Hoover, spy-in-chief of the FBI for decades. Dad said I may not have that picture should I survive him. He said, "No. You'll make fun of both of us together." Well, yes. I would. It's too bad, however. Hoover's mugshot would have been my favorite gag.

Joe has a bigger coconut to crack open than I do. He didn't need a good argument to win a case. No. No. No. He's a better actor than debater by a landslide, let me tell you. He couldn't wrap his mind around Skinnerian determinism if his life was contingent upon it.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," he would say, "such a horrible injury this poor soul has suffered. How can anybody put a price on a severed thumb? You could never again mow your own grass on a warm sultry day and lounge about a properly hedged lawn with your Martinis Extra Dry. You would have to hire a Mexican. What a tragedy!"

It was Dad who taught me how to be crazy. Who else? Why, I learned from the worst of the rotten apples: Joey, whose second wife tells him to get off the stage when he introduces the entire dinner party to the waitress, one at a time, and then invites the chef to move in with him as poor Mary ribs him with her elbow.

"Honest lawyer one flight up," said the sign he always hung downstairs at home sweet home wherever he sank his butt over the decades.

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