Welcome to the One True David Mintz Page

This is the David Mintz who was born in 1958; grew up in Maryland and spent his teenage years in Chile; studied classical guitar at the Hartt School of Music and the University of Arizona; became a Spanish<>English court interpreter after about ten years as a capable but chronically underemployed guitarist; is a staff interpreter for the federal court in Manhattan; lives in a state of near-continuous bliss in downtown Jersey City, New Jersey, with Master Lin-chi and Vernon T. Bludgeon the Cat. Lo, here we are again. How's the local weather, you ask? As of 20-Aug-2008 at 6:51 am it was a few clouds and 59°F/15°C with relative humidity at 62% and winds from the northeast at 9 mph.

Less talk, more inaction

My daughter Gabriela Cloé and I looked something like this on October 5, 2007 as we made our way from airport to auto rental in West Palm Beach, Florida:

Gabriela is five years old. When she was a mere babe in November of 2003 she looked like this. That's right, don't expect to come around here without having to see pictures of the kid.

If you have an interest in court interpreting, try the site that I built for our office: sdnyinterpreters.org. If you would like to check out a court interpreting site that isn't boring, try courtinterpreter.net.

I don't talk about politics because good judiciary employees don't do that. If I did, I would probably point out that it's just about time to impeach Bush, Cheney and Rumsfeld and try those evil shits for war crimes. I've had just about enough lies, corruption, incompetence, greed, illegal secret prisons and torture, illegal wars of imperial conquest based on lies, illegal domestic surveillance, hypocrisy, arrogance and did I mention lies? Even by historical White House standards, any fool should be able to see that these guys are very likely the Worst Ever.

Not that Kerry did not fully deserve to lose in 2004. Next time maybe I should just write in for Nelson Muntz (Ha ha!). Or for the penguin with the cool sunglasses. Or better yet, for Mayor E. B. Farnum from the HBO series Deadwood, as proposed by that most brilliant of commentators, Professor B of the weblog hosted by Vernon T. Bludgeon Consulting.

Here's a photo of my sister and me, circa 1962. Fascinating what a few decades of aging will to do you.

Want to send me email but don't know my address? Start with the word david. Next, append an "@", then davidmintz.org. I wonder if this circumlocution is sufficient to confound the spambots -- hopefully it has not confounded you.

Rambling, am I? Yes indeed. But it's my Web page and I can present with a little cognitive disorganization if I want to.

Last update 13-Aug-2008. By the way:  that ain't a sig. This is a sig:

              Time present and time past
              Are both perhaps present in time future,
              And time future contained in time past.
              If all time is eternally present
              All time is unredeemable.
              What might have been is an abstraction
              Remaining a perpetual possibility
              Only in a world of speculation.
              What might have been and what has been
              Point to one end, which is always present.
              Footfalls echo in the memory
              Down the passage which we did not take
              Towards the door we never opened
              Into the rose-garden. My words echo
              Thus, in your mind.
                                            But to what purpose
              Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
              I do not know.
                                     Other echoes
              Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
              Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
              Round the corner. Through the first gate,
              Into our first world, shall we follow
              The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
              There they were, dignified, invisible,
              Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
              In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
              And the bird called, in response to
              The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
              And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
              Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
              There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
              So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
              Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
              To look down into the drained pool.
              Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
              And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
              And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
              The surface glittered out of heart of light,
              And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
              Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
              Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
              Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
              Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
              Cannot bear very much reality.
              Time past and time future
              What might have been and what has been
              Point to one end, which is always present.

T.S. Eliot
BURNT NORTON
(No. 1 of Four Quartets)