Is There a Happy Ending?

What do you do if your neighbor's large trees, within a few feet of the property line, are overhanging your yard?

Enjoy the shade, I'd say; but life is rarely that simple. The actual answer - as far as I have been able to determine from a good four hours' online research today - is that you are entitled to cut back the overhanging limbs, at your own expense, because your property line extends from the center of the Earth into the most infinite reaches of space. (No charging tolls on passing airplanes / satellites / asteroids / alien spaceships / comets / the incalculable array of matter floating through the boundless unknown! I mean, let's be reasonable here.)

But if you cut back the limbs (this also applies to encroaching roots, which are trickier) so severely that it damages or kills the neighbor's tree, your neighbor can sue you for damages.

If your neighbor is behaving in good faith, he may (but is not necessarily obligated to - this is a matter for local jurisdiction or civil action) pay for the trimming, or assist with payment. The neighbor may be motivated to do so because it ensures he has a say in how, exactly, the trimming is performed. You may (as long as it doesn't kill the tree) cut the limbs right back to the property line; imagine a laser beam, one poster remarked, raking straight up from the fence to the sky. If the neighbor finds this aesthetically or otherwise objectionable, it's certainly in his interest to work with you.

If your neighbor's tree drops limbs onto your roof or cars and causes damage, this is actually (unless the neighbor knew the tree to be unhealthy, and therefore predisposed to socially unacceptable behavior) an Act of God - or even, if you've failed to trim back the limbs that overhang your property - a result of your own negligence. You can file a claim with your homeowner's insurance, or sue God for damages. Either course is likely to be equally effective.

Excessive brush due to the incursion of overhanging limbs, and the wildlife dwelling therein, is definitely your own problem.

Do you know, I've worked on this issue, doing the best research I could, for about 8 hours so far. I asked a coworker for help with city ordinances in the jurisdiction in question, and he came back with detailed instructions on how to open a massage parlor.

Then my boss set me to 10-keying travel and tourism stats from the 50's. This is a day in my life. I can't figure out if I'm under- or overpaid. At least I don't have to trim trees.

How the Other Half Lives

Leaning on the railing of a balcony overlooking the pool and yard of a multi-million-dollar Westlake Hills mansion yesterday evening, I realized that Austin has an aristocracy. And the people who keep Austin weird aren't hippies, or garage band members, or Chronicle staffers, or art car drivers, or even, say, Leslie. Not that these people don't do a lot. But they're labor, not management. Without the blessings, programs, and campaigns of the moneyed ruling classes, all these feathers in the weird Austin cap would be just so much underground-movement riffraff.

"How do you know Scott?" I was asked several times over the course of yesterday evening. "Oh, he represented my sister's ex-boyfriend on a DWI charge," I didn't say.

The full story is that the band Margie's in plays at parties for Scott, who really is an extremely nice guy - certainly he has at least 300 close friends - as payment in kind for his services. The upper classes can be indulgent: certainly he had no difficulty affording a "real" band, an excellent professional bluesy roadhouse combo whose name I didn't catch. Teddy and Marge are not such a band. They typically play for exposure, not money, in any case.

There were two kegs of good beer by the front door, two more on the back patio, and a third pair at a drink station in the yard. There was a full bar in the wood-paneled den, better stocked than some restaurant bars I've seen. There were margarita machines and limitless bottles of wine. So Scott, being as I've mentioned a DWI attorney, rented out the parking lot of the nearby high school and hired a fleet of golf carts to shuttle guests back and forth from his house all night. Guests who had too much to drink could then easily be prevented from leaving.

Margie's ex-boyfriend, Bill, befriended Kay over barbecue. She's from Dallas and took an instant dislike to him. "How did you come to be here," she asked, "did you find a flyer on the street somewhere?"

I have never liked Dallas.

But Bill, who works for Waterloo, has been respectably outfitting Scott with vinyl for years, apparently. Scott is a connoisseur, and has a small room just off the entrance hall dedicated to his record collection. Bill is too good-natured to bristle. Kay became friendlier, asking how she might best dispose of her ex-husband's record collection, which she doesn't know anything about, except that he had loved it and supposedly had several rare and valuable items in it.

"Why did you get it, then?" Bill inquired.

Kay laughed. "Oh, I got everything!" she said. "Except the dog."

After we had eaten, Teddy and Marge relieved the roadhouse combo to do a set by the pool. I was apprehensive. "This is not the right scene," I whispered to Bill. "These people are going to hate this."

He laughed. "It doesn't matter," he told me.

We were both right, though at least Scott said he enjoyed the set. I did, too. And the aristocracy of Austin is too well-bred to be openly hostile. Afterwards we tore down and loaded up the trailer, and Grady (that's the Teddy of Teddy and Marge) capped the show by stripping down and leaping, splay-legged, hooting and naked, into the pool. Nobody batted an eye. I don't think they expected anything less from someone who had just played what they had just listened to him playing.

With gratitude to our generous and indulgent host, then, we headed out to Clementine's to hear Grady's girlfriend Lauren play accordion with the Seas, which was totally awesome, then back to the little eastside art co-op where Bill lives.

Money's nice and all, but I think the riffraff have more fun.

In Your Court

Have you ever browsed through the attorney listings in the Yellow Pages?

It's an interesting little sociological study, you know, to do so. The basic alphabetical text listings are no good whatsoever. You can't just pick someone and call, because for all you know you're getting someone who's board-certified in suits for personal injury caused by escaped zoo animals. If you called such a lawyer needing real estate advice, the receptionist would just laugh at you. You schmuck! What do you know about the law?

So you have to rely on the lawyers who have taken out ads listing details of what types of cases they handle. And because a picture is worth a thousand words, almost all of them are thoughtful enough to let you know what they look like, too.

Personal injury attorneys always look very grim and aggressive in their pictures. They're pissed as hell at what's happened to you! And they're not going to take it! Some of them appear to be clutching pieces of raw meat in their teeth. These are the guys you want on your side if you're dealing with big business: uncooperative insurance companies, malpractical doctors, your asshole of an employer. This'll learn 'em a lesson they'll never forget.

But look, then, at the bankruptcy attorney pictures. They're smiling, but not happily. They appear to be overwhelmed with sympathy. You poor thing, you can almost hear them saying. There, there. Everything's going to be okay. My favorite attorney in the whole Yellow Pages falls into this category: not only does he bear a genial, understanding grin, but his kindly visage is blessed with the Moustache of Compassion. Look in the Yellow Pages; you'll see him. Just looking at his photo is almost enough to make me wish I were cripplingly in debt, because then I'd get to hire him.

My second favorite is the one who has "As seen on TV!" in his ad. I've seen him on TV: he looks like a regular guy, with long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. His schtick is that he doesn't look like a lawyer, so that helps him sneak up on 'em! But his Yellow Pages photo looks like an illustration from a children's Bible. My third favorite is the one who I refuse to believe is not actually a woman dressed up like a man. God, I hope this post doesn't get me sued.

It disturbed me a little to note that attorneys representing you against charges of sexual misconduct or DWI seem disproportionately to look like college frat guys. But they're junior partners, generally; the senior, respectable guy, the "dad" attorney, almost always appears alongside. We can sympathize with what you're going through! But unlike you, we know how to keep it in our pants.

Family law attorneys (that's divorce, there, and a few other case types of less immediate interest) smile brightly, but don't look quite as compassionate as the bankruptcy guys. Sure, they'll provide a shoulder in your time of need; but make no mistake: you wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of one in court.

Then you have your large law firms: a full staff of senior partners and junior partners and associates and who knows what all. These firms have something for everyone. Just look at the pictures: men, women, black, white, Hispanic, kindly, tough, old and young, all arrayed in dark suits and ties for your pleasure. One rather wonders if they offer a special of the day.

I'm going to a lawyer party tonight with my sister. It will make my weekend if I actually get to meet some of these people.