Last year on this date, the New York Times reported that New York personal injury lawyer Eric Turkewitz had been picked as the official White House law blogger. They based their story on blog posts by Eric and several other legal bloggers, but they apparently didn't check with Eric or the White House. It was, of course, an April Fools' Day prank.

So, this year, you'd think they'd be more careful, wouldn't you?

Turns out...not so much. Eric's not responsible for this one, but he has the details.

At about this time every year when I was in college, my friend Todd Cohen used to complain about all the businesses that would wish everyone a "Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah to our Jewish friends!" It was the "to our Jewish friends" part that somehow got on his nerves.

With that in mind, I was listening to a few tracks off of The Life and Times of Mike Fanning by Da Vinci's Notebook, and I came across a little something for all my Jewish readers. It's the grunge version of the Dreidel song. Don't say I didn't warn you.

 

Now we know for sure. The Matrix was originally developed using Linux. Oh sure, it looks all loving and caring now, but plug that box into the Internet, let it read all about socialism and soon enough humanity will be hunted down in our sewer-submarines and end up plugged into Linux controlled wet squishy cocoons while we dream about hot chicks in black leather beating up cops and jumping from building to building.

In graduate school I had the most trouble staying awake in finance lectures. I always thought finance had to be just about the most boring topic ever.

I see some [foreign investment funds] looking for returns of 20 or 25% at a time when fellatio is close to zero.

I guess I was just doing finance wrong.

Here's something you don't see everyday in the news:

A worker at Arlington Park racetrack has been arrested and charged with having sexual conduct with a horse.

The horse's name was "Buzz My Bell". Given that, and the fact that she was prancing around naked in public, I think she was just asking for it. Besides, how do they know it wasn't consensual?

Meet the God of Tetris, master of blocks. If you've played Tetris, his last words will haunt you.

[Update, 12/29/09: the village idiot himself weighs in; see the comments.]

Here we go again . . .

Near as I can figure out, Josh Hendrickson of Minnetonka MN, didn't have anything useful to do last Saturday, so he headed on down to the Obama Worship Seminar at the Target Center, where thousands and thousands of Minnesotans were assembling to hear Barack Obama explain that the folks who had done such a wonderful job with delivering our mail are now ready and eager to take over our health care, or something like that.  

I can actually understand why somebody who has a Minnesota carry permit (often mistakenly called a "conceal and carry permit") might reasonably choose to carry a handgun under his outer clothing when heading into downtown Minneapolis -- or, actually, anywhere else.  Bad stuff can happen anywhere, and the area outside the Target Center is not a mugger-free environment, nor is the walk from there to wherever one parks.  As Hendrickson later, in a moment of lucidness, said to a Star Tribune reporter, when he leaves his house, "I grab my wallet, my keys, and my gun."  Nothing wrong with that.   .

And I can certainly understand why somebody would want to be part of a counterprotest against Obamacare.  "We are Americans.  We have the right to disagree and debate with any administration," as Hillary Clinton said, back before she joined this administration.  She was right then; she's right now.

So far, so good.

And it was also, all in all, pretty good that somebody in the Secret Service and/or MPD apparently spotted a telltale bulge at Hendrickson's waist.  Concealment isn't difficult, mind you, but a lot of folks who have taken inadequate carry classes haven't been given good directions as to how to do that, and some who have taken good carry classes weren't paying attention.

So, it was perfectly reasonable that a couple of MPD cops came over and checked out his carry permit -- something they've every right to do, under the law -- and then a Secret Service agent stopped by for a quick, professional chat.  It's not like there was any chance that Hendrickson was going to get near the President, after all -- hell, he couldn't have gotten inside the building without going through a metal detector -- and while there's no reason at all to think he planned on shooting President Obama, it didn't hurt to check him out.

But then, his little incident having been concluded with no muss, no fuss, and no arrest, Hendrickson proceeded to chase down the nearest reporter, and make sure that he got the attention that he so desperately craved.  Apparently dressing so that the authorities would "accidentally" see the bulge in his clothing hadn't gotten him enough attention, the poor dear.

He did get his attention, and he isn't liking it. The idiot's been posting up a storm, ever since. 

As it turns out, Josh Hendrickson's is pretty lengthy, and pretty bad:

• CASE NO. 27-CR-08-57490 June 8th, 2009 Convicted-5th Deg. Assault-Intent to Cause Bodily Harm

• CASE NO. 02-CR-07-7671 Oct. 6 2008 Convicted Disorderly Conduct-Brawling or Fighting

• CASE NO. 10-VB-07-8199 Apr. 16, 2008 Convicted Disorderly Conduct

• CASE NO. 27-CR-06-084595 Feb 14, 2007 Convicted 3rd Deg. DWI

• CASE NO. 27-CR-04-014473 Sept 29, 2004 Convicted Disorderly Conduct

• CASE NO. 27-CR-03-025265 Apr 21, 2003 Convicted Interfere with Emergency Call

• CASE NO. 27-CR-99-011521 Feb. 18, 1999 Convicted Alcohol con. .10 or more

• CASE NO. 27-CR-98-086285 Sept. 14, 1998 Convicted Reckless Driving

• CASE NO. 27-CR-96-109111 Jan. 9, 1997 Convicted Disorderly Conduct

Yucko.  Four convictions for disorderly conduct?  How the hell does anybody manage that?  Discon is, often, one of those bogus charges that cops throw at somebody who they really don't have anything on, and which quickly gets dismissed as soon as a real lawyer enters the case.  Four of them?  Interfering with an emergency call?  Two DWIs?  And let's not get into the pepper-spraying incident that cost him his most recent conviction for 5th Degree Assault.

Why somebody with that kind of record would try to draw both police and public attention to himself is pretty easy to explain. 

See, there's apparently been an open position in Minnetonka for a village idiot, and, having gotten fired from his job as a security guard for pepper-spraying a customer, Hendrickson was just looking for work.

Earth to Josh Hendrickson:  the position of village idiot doesn't pay well, or at all. 

Sheesh.  I was going to be blogging about another idiot, but . . . some other time. 

Addendum:  a fair number of folks have asked why this nimrod had a carry permit in the first place.  It's a good question.  The Minnesota Citizens Personal Protection Act is, by design and intention, a liberal law -- the notion is that somebody should not have a fundamental right restricted, except under unusual circumstances.  Hendrickson would have lost his right to possess firearms -- and his carry permit -- if he'd been convicted of any felony, or a domestic violence misdemeanor.  Among his cornucopia of convictions -- including an amazing four disorderly conducts, a couple of DWIs, interfering with a 911 call (!), and his latest feat:  the assault where he spend thirty days in the more structured environment suitable for his special needs -- there aren't any of those.

But there is some hope, and it's in the law:

(c) The sheriff of the county where the application was submitted, or of the county of the permit holder's current residence, may file a petition with the district court therein, for an order revoking a permit to carry on the grounds set forth in subdivision 6, paragraph (a), clause (3). An order shall be issued only if the sheriff meets the burden of proof and criteria set forth in subdivision 12. If the court denies the petition, the court must award the permit holder reasonable costs and expenses, including attorney fees.

Yup.  Hendrickson's sheriff can, if he chooses, file a petition to have Hendrickson's permit yanked, on the grounds that "there exists a substantial likelihood that the applicant is a danger to self or the public if authorized to carry a pistol under a permit."  Hendrickson's due process rights would be intact -- and, if he managed to beat the petition, he'd be awarded his lawyer's fees.

I don't think that's likely, though.  Sounds like a slam dunk to me, and I wouldn't find it at all surprising if Hendrickson loses his permit, sooner than later. 

I guess we'll see. 

There's actually some lessons to be learned from this; I'm figuring that Kevin Ecker will be first to point them out . . . after all, he's got a head start.  He's heard the story.

Maybe you can, too, but I gotta tell you the story, first.

I was running over to meet a guy to buy a gun. Private sale. Since he's not an idiot, he wanted a copy of my DL and permit, just to adhere to the forms.

Perfectly reasonable.

So I had a xerox of both in my front shirt pocket, wrapped around $400 in cash. I got a call from my younger daughter's school about some... issues that are going on.  Some other time.

I was so distracted by that phone call that I didn't notice that I'd let my speed creep up to a tad over the legal limit, until I noticed the flashing lights.

Shit.

So I promptly found a safe place to pull over, and did just that. T

he cop -- never mind quite which agency; I've got my reasons -- comes up to the window, and asks for my D/L, proof of insurance and... "...do you have any firearms on you?"

I answered, as I read somewhere that a guy should, "My carry permit and drivers license are in my left hip pocket, Officer; and, yes, I'm carrying today." Oh.

"And where is the firearm?"

This is embarrassing, but I do have an excuse. Some other time. "Shoulder holster."

"Do me a favor, sir, and step out of the car." He didn't sound like it was really a favor, so I did, and pocketed the keys, closing and locking the door behind me quite appropriately.

He didn't ask about that.

Instead. "I need to see your license and carry permit." Which was just as well, for reasons I'm not going to go into, about where some people put their insurance cards. 

What I should have said: "Sure. It's in my left hip pocket. Would you like me to take it out?"

What I said. "Sure. I've got a copy of both in my shirt pocket. Would you like to see that?"

I think he liked the idea that I wasn't going to be reaching anywhere, so he said that that would do, and I took out the piece of paper, and started to hand to him.

You see where this is going?

Well, so did I.

I was just about to hand a cop a piece of paper wrapped around twenty twenty-dollar bills, and it was a bit too late to withdraw the offer.

So I explained, with a fair amount of stuttering, I think, that, yes, there was some money in there, but I wasn't offering him either a bribe or a tip, just so there wasn't going to be any misunderstanding.

"And where were you going with a copy of your permit wrapped around $400?"

The gun store, I said, more or less accurately.

Well, when he took the piece of paper either I let go too soon or he grabbed at it too late, and the money started flying all over the place . . .

So, with the money flying all around, he dashes for it, and after a couple of seconds, I figure that it's okay if I help -- if he was worried I was going to, like shoot him in the back or go all stabbity, he probably wouldn't have turned his back to me -- and since it's not all that windy, he and I (mainly him; he's younger and moves faster) quickly gather it up and hands what he's got to me, and no guns, knives, tasers, nor clubs come out.

"Better count it, and make sure we didn't miss any." He glances down at the piece of paper, and frowns. "...Mr. Rosenberg. I wouldn't want you, of all people, to think that some money's missing."

Just as I'm thinking this is about to get bad, he smiles, and it's a friendly smile.

So we both count out the money -- and it's all there, and we're in front of his cruiser, so if there's a camera running, it's all on the record, and we both announce the amount, and it's the same $400 that it should be-- and he hands it back to me and suggests that I tuck it away, which I do.

"Just wait here a minute, while I run this," he says, waving the paper. He sort of glances at me, as though he was going to ask me to produce the DL --  they can swipe them, rather than type stuff in -- but then he goes back to his car, and I just wait over to the side of the road, smoking a cigarette.

Very intently.

A couple of minutes (which didn't feel like minutes, but the cigarette timed them), he comes back, and we move around to the side of the car.

"You're fine, Mr. Rosenberg," he says, and then smiles. "Guess if you had any warrants on you, the Gang Strike Force would have kicked in your door yesterday, after all."

Oh, goodie.  I think that was a figure of speech.  Really.

"I'm just going to give you an 'advisory', Mr. Rosenberg. Watch the phone stuff when you're speeding."

Yes, he said, watch the phone stuff when you're speeding.

And he sort of cocked his head to one side, and was clearly making a decision, and then he made it, and he said, "you know, there's some of us jackbooted thugs," this is a phrase I use, but to describe a certain kind of bad cop, not as a generic, "who believe in all ten of the Amendments -- "

I did not correct him and point out that there's more; that's just the Bill of Rights. Didn't even think of it until later, and I'm not always a stickler for details.

" -- to the US Constitution. You seem to," he said, handing the paper back to me, "work the First and Second pretty hard, and that's just fine."  There are ways to say it that mean and there's nothing I can do about it, but I'd like to.  He said it the other way.

I didn't quite know what to say, but I think something like thank you came out of my mouth.

"You drive safe, Joel," he said. 

And he stuck out a hand, and I shook it, and he went his way, and I went mine. Afterthought:  I guess it's possible that he knew who I was when he pulled me over, but I was driving SWMBO's car; the War Wagon was getting its a/c worked on that day.

As a friend pointed out to me, a bit later, when we were discussing this, the reason that I didn't find it offensive for him to first-name me is that he was doing it as a human sort of thing -- he'd already been formal, and was saying that as one guy to another, not a cop talking down to a "civilian," as he wasn't.

Yeah, I like cops. Some cops. I like this guy.

Not vouching for him on other stuff, but, hey, yeah, I've got a soft spot in my heart and head for cops who cut a guy a break when they don't have to. 

He could have written me, and he didn't, and I'm not about to don tactical kneepads, and all, but, hey, I like the guy.  And if the story ends a bit anticlimactically, hey, I didn't write the script, and don't mind that at all.

What can we learn from this? 

A lot, I think.  Over to you.

Greenfield sighed.  He had been reading the discussion over at Simple Justice about the attorney's ethical role in discussing taking a plea, mainly as a way to avoid getting back to thinking about what he was going to say to his own client about the plea offer; the guy was due in the office at the top of the hour.

Damn.  Double damn. 

Damn.  It didn't look good, mind you, but, then again, how often did it?  He flipped through the file again, as though he hadn't committed it to memory.  He hated this.

He sat back in his chair and took another sip of coffee, hoping that it would clarify things for him.  It didn't. 

He had about two hours to figure it out; his guy was not exactly a demon for punctuality.  If he had been, well, he wouldn't have been in this trouble, in the first place -- he would have caught the train on time, and not just missed and, and while he was waiting for the next one, struck up a conversation with what he'd thought was a hooker, but turned out to be an undercover cop.  Turns out the difference was kind of important.  

Trying to arrange a commerical quickie while carrying a backpack containing three pounds of barely-stepped-on cocaine wasn't a bright thing to do in the first place, of course, but as a wise man once said, the prisons weren't exactly filled with Lex Luthors.

Not that it mattered much. Oh, if it went to trial, he'd give it all he had, but it didn't look --

That's when the genie appeared, in a puff of smoke.

As usual.  The nosmoking ordinances didn't apply to genies, apparently; he was, again as usual, puffing on a preposterously large Monte Cristo.

"Hello, Scott," the genie said, as usual.

"Mark."  You'd think a genie could at least remember first names.  "I'm Mark Greenfield. Scott Greenfield's a different guy. You could look it up."

The genie shrugged.  "Sorry; I always get the Jewish lawyers confused.  You get yourself locked in a lamp for a couple of thousand years, and if you come out only having a little trouble with names, consider yourself lucky."

"Fair enough."  Greenfield tapped at the file folder in front of him.  "I guess I know what this is about."

"Yup."  The genie nodded.  "It's the usual thing, just like the last five times.  I'm going to tell you how it all turns out."

"Okay," Greenfield said.  "How bad?  Or how good?"

"Bad?  You've got the plea offer in front of you.  Five years isn't anything to sneeze at, given the weight.  Good?  If your guy goes to trial, you win.  Turns out that between now and the trial, some crooked cop is going to substitute corn starch for the coke.  Which gets your guy off of everything except the solicitation charge.  Time served."

He could suck that up.

"So to speak," the genie said, his annoying habit of mindreading still intact.  "Possession of a condiment isn't a felony, and -- "

"And my guy wasn't even trying to sell it."

"Yeah."  His mind was already racing.  All he had to do --

"Not so fast, Mark."  The genie shook his head.  "The coke's still in the evidence locker; it hasn't gotten substituted yet.  It happens, well, just in time.  But you know the rules."

Yeah.  He knew the rules.  Not that it mattered much.  What was he going to tell the client?  That a genie had appeared in a puff of smoke and told him that if they went to trial, the guy would get off?  That this had happened five times before, and that of that, the two times that he had gone to trial, the genie had been right?  And that the three times that he hadn't, he'd later learned that they would have won? 

Didn't matter.  He couldn't say it.  He couldn't write it down; he couldn't sing it.

The genie grinned.  "Nope.  That's part of the deal.  You can tell him whatever you want, except the truth:  that a genie came and told you that if he goes to trial a minor miracle happens, and he walks."

Shit. 

There were times when it would have been easy to throw ethics out the window.  Too bad today wasn't the day he'd decided to do it.  As a practical matter, it would have been child's play to persuade the client to go for the trial. 

Hell, he wouldn't even have to lie.  Just tell the truth, or any of a number of truths:  that the prosecution never, ever got a nasty surprise at trial -- one that could shatter their entire case -- if the defendant pleaded out; that witnesses had been known to screw up on the stand, that cops about to testify had been indicted on other matters just before a trial opened, destroying their credibility; that evidence had been lost or --

"Easy there," the genie said.  "You can't go much further than that."

"Shh."

There were times when ethics sucked, and this was one of them.  Dammit, he didn't have the right to make the decision for the guy, even though he knew what decision his client would make, if he knew everything that Greenfield did, and that was the problem now, every bit as much as it would have been if the damn genie --

"Hey!"

"Sorry, but not much."

The genie sniffed. "Well, I guess that's my own fault.  Take care, Scott."

"Mark."

"Whatever.  See you next time around."  The genie disappeared in a puff of smoke.  Monte Cristo smoke.

Greenfield sat back and thought about it.  His own interests didn't matter, but that didn't mean that he could pretend he wasn't aware of them.  Winning cases in court not only felt better than getting a good plea, it was better for him than getting a good plea, and not just because of the trial fee.  Best thing for a practice was winning, after all; word got around.

Okay; he'd come clean with himself, so now he could put that aside.  The clear benefit, in this case, was for the client to go to trial.  Walking out of the court was better for him than five years in prison, after all.

But . . . but, dammit, it was still the client's decision, not his, and he had little more right to push him this time than he usually did. 

After all, dammit, some of the time -- much of the time -- he was close to this sure how it would all turn out.  Sure, you couldn't win by pleading guilty, but one hell of a lot of the time, you couldn't win at trial.  A lot of the time -- hell, most of it -- the evidence didn't fall apart; and even when it did, the jury often didn't care, as all they really needed to know is that the guy was the defendant; the witnesses would lie their heads off, but they were believed anyway; a bogus ID would somehow solidify when the witness only had to point to the person sitting next to defense counsel, and there were all the other zillion ways that a trial could go inexorably to a sentence, with the finding of guilty just a stop along the way . . .

And . . .

Okay.  Screw it.  This time, he wouldn't play it down the middle.  Fair, but not down the middle.  He'd tell his guy all the way things could go wrong, but he'd let himself show some excitement when he talked about all the ways that things could go right. 

Because they could, and this time he knew that they would.

#

Greenfield was eyeing the level in the bottle of Old Grouse when the genie appeared, again in a puff of smoke.

"You son of a bitch," he said.

The genie smiled.  "You mean, that the coke turned out to be, well, coke?  Not like all the other times, when I didn't mislead you?"

"Yeah.  Fucker."

The genie just smiled.  "Aren't you a little old to be believing in genies?"

I don't make this stuff up, you know.  So, here we go again.

For those who came in late, let's go back to the Assault Weapons Ban.  Passed in 1994, the feature of it that drew most attention from people who don't own guns was the ban on the importation, and manufacture of some scary-looking (to some) kinda sorta military-looking rifles, like this one. 
Understandable, really, given all the mass killings by pretty Wiccan girl -- oh, nevermind.

Less remarked upon, outside the gun community, was the ban on the sale of new standard capacity magazines -- that's the black, boxlike thingee that the cartridges go into. The theory was that since nobody -- other than a cop -- needs a magazine with more than ten rounds, and since magazines with more than ten rounds are bad if you don't need them, much -- or, at least some -- goodness would ensue. Now, yeah, I know that's silly.  Granted few people can switch mags as fast as this guy, but realistically, it wasn't much of a muchness to most people.  A bad guy who wanted to murder a bunch of people with his Glock would, instead of carrying a couple of spare 15-round mags, would carry three ten-round mags. 

A good -- or, at least, okay -- guy, who thought that he might need more than ten rounds would just carry a spare mag, or buy one of the "pre-ban" mags which were still available, to those who had the cash.

But something did happen.  Since manufacturers could no long make guns for the noncop market that were designed around, say, fifteen-round magazines, they started designing more guns around ten-round or lower-capacity mags. 

The Assault Weapons Ban inspired a new class of smaller guns -- pocket pistols with ten rounds in fairly large calibers, like, say, these: (Two of the above are in 9mm; one's in .45.  Perfectly reasonable self-defense calibers.)

Which, naturally, made the folks in the anti-gun industry happy?  Nah.  They decided that the relatively new, smaller guns -- largely a response to their own sponsored legislation -- were evil:  "Pocket Rockets". 

Well, the Assault Weapons Ban has been dead for four years, and people can, if and when they want to, buy new, standard-capacity magazines, even if the mags happen to hold fifteen or sixteen rounds, but the "pocket rockets" remain.  (And for good reason; pocket carry, while not a cop thing, is often a very useful way for somebody who doesn't want to draw attention to himself to keep a self-defense tool handy.)

Now, it would be untrue to say that the gun manufacturers are terribly sympathetic to the hysterical shouts from the antigun industry, but they do listen.  Smith and Wesson, after some years of development, came up with a brand new handgun, developed around a brand-new round:  the .500 Magnum: As a carry gun -- for either good or bad purposes -- it would be pretty hard to imagine a worse choice.  For one thing, it's a great, big, heavy sucker -- even empty, the lightest variant weighs three and a half pounds.  It's hideously expensive to practice with -- each trigger pull is going to throw almost three bucks downrange.

Basically, it's designed for folks for whom dealing with humongous recoil is a lot of fun, who are maybe going to be hunting something like grizzly bears with a handgun, and who have definitely have lots of money -- forgetting ammo, the gun itself is going to run around a grand.

Surely, it's something that even the hysterics at the Brady Center and the VPC couldn't complain about.  Heck, if Plaxico Burress had been trying to hide .500 Magnum in his shorts --

No, I'm not going to go there.  Never mind.  Back to the antgun folks.  Having nothing real to complain about, they decide that the .500 is a "big boomer" (yeah, it is; I've been around one going off, once; it is kind of loud) and a "vest buster".

There's just no pleasing some people.

Here are a few annoying PowerPoint tricks.

I don't normally do memes, but I've been too busy to write much original material this week, so here goes. (Tom at Doors of Deception tagged me with this one.)

Five things people who know me might be surprised to hear:

1. Floater. I have a permanent floater in my left eye that's right near the center of my vision. When it drifts in to the exact center, I tend to reflexively glance at solid colors around me—the sky is best if I can see it—trying to get a better look at it. Then, when I realize what I'm doing, I try to shake it out of my vision by glancing sharply left and right several times. If you've seen me doing this in the middle of a conversation, now you know what was going on.
2. Ignorance of Professional Sports. If you know me, you know I don't follow sports, but you probably don't realize the full scope of my ignorance. For instance, two of the sports headlines on Yahoo right now are "Pacers, Warriors make eight-player deal" and "Schottenheimer to return to Chargers." I don't know who Schottenheimer is, I don't know where those teams play, and if the headlines weren't labeled, I couldn't even tell you which sports we're talking about.
3. Peanut Butter and Ketchup Sandwich. Sometimes, I just gotta have one.
4. Prosopagnosia. I think I have a little bit of it. Prosopagnosia is difficulty recognizing faces. Some people with severe forms of it—often caused by brain damage—are completely incapable of recognizing even close friends and family by their face. They have to rely on clothing, voice, behavior, and context. I just have a little trouble learning to recognize people until I've met them several times, especially if I see them out of context, and I'm easily thrown by a change of makeup, hair style, or sometimes clothing. I also have trouble matching faces and names. There are whole groups of people where I recognize everyone and I know all their names, but I can't match the names to the faces.
5. I Like More Rap Music Than You'd Think. Well, not much of the gangsta stuff...or maybe I'm confusing rap and hip-hop...if there's even a difference between rap and hip-hop...maybe I shoud say I like some music that's rap-ish. Obviously, I don't know much about rap, but from time to time I do enjoy the work of Eminem, Everlast, Black Eyed Peas, Gnarls Barkley, with maybe a little bit of Kanye, Nelly, Twista, and Will Smith. I never said I was hard core. Blogga 4 Life.

Now I'm supposed to pass this on to five other people. I don't really know who's going to read this, but I guess I'll pass this on to Leslie, John, Libby, Pete, and Philipp. I don't think any of them except Leslie do memes, and she probably did this one months ago, but now I've done my duty.

Heh.

In case you didn't know, the 2005 Weblog Awards are running right now. There's a 10-day voting period which ends on December 15th. Like all things in the blogosphere, the Weblog Awards are mostly just an attempt to get attention. Then again, that's how the Oscars started.

If you care about these awards, you should visit the main Weblog Awards site and start voting. You get to vote once every 24 hours.

If you don't care about these awards, can you please do me a favor and visit this page and vote for the Dynamist blog? Virginia Postrel is a nice lady who doesn't deserve to come in last, so I'm trying to get people to stuff the ballot box.

If you live in Chicago, I expect you to follow the honored traditions of Chicago-style voting, if you know what I mean.

You scored as Engineer. Military Engineer. Your job is usually overlooked, but without you nothing gets done. While you sometimes annoyed at this, and you know the only time people come to you is when there's something wrong. You understand that you are the heart and soul of any organization with honesty and nice work ethic to boot. "I need more Duct Tape!!!" Which soldier type are you? created with QuizFarm.com

I found this via Doug Petch. Click the image to take the test and get your score.