Cover yer Ass, 2006 is Coming!

Photo: Falling Snake courtesy of Infinitegtr
Copyright protected, all rights expressly reserved.

To hell with Top Ten lists from the out-going year, lets get right down to cool stuff coming up in 2006!!!

1) TCU Press is publishing a serial novel, an old-fashioned Western, consisting of 12 chapters written by 12 different authors. The book is similar to Texas Aggie football, in that one of the chapters is being written by Joe SixPack. The Fort Worth Star Telegram is running a two-part beauty contest for the 12th author. Submissions are taken January 1-20. After two rounds of voting, the favored son gets to rub elbows with Jane Robert Woods, Elmer Kelton, Dan Jenkins, Carlton Stowers, Phyllis Allen, James Ward Lee, Jim Donovan, Judy Alter, Mike Cochran, Mary Rogers and Jeff Guinn.

My writing sample is already written, and I am just waiting for the witching hour to submit it. Watch here for details on where and when to vote...

2) Last week, while flying over the tinderbox otherwise known as New Mexico, I had the good fortune of sitting beside a brilliant, talented gentleman by the name of Thomas Graves. Turns out, he is a professional photographer, and he has a great eye. Spend your new year checking out his work at www.thomasgraves.com and enjoy the show.

3) I WILL finish and publish my novel. Maybe I can get Graves to shoot the cover for me.

4) My wife is making me take a vacation. We are spending a week in Seattle. Maybe I can also get Graves to teach me a little better technique. The picture above "Falling Snake" was taken just east of Seattle (Assuming that Goggle's Hello doesn't have the picture all jacked up again, and that you can actually see it). I am already saving money now for extra film.

The day that I snapped Falling Snake, two people were killed on the same highway I took to get to the falls. There was a rock slide, and a boulder the size of a small Cadillac hit their car. I never figured out if this happend before, during or after my trip. That they died saddened me, and that it occured where I had just been frightened me. To die in the middle of such beauty though, not a bad way to go.

I have another version of the picture that I jacked up with Photoshop, the water has a golden hue to it, and the rocks in the background have a copper tinge. I have to figure out how to calibrate my printer so it prints what I see on the screen

5) In a few short weeks, I have been promised a one only CD from the second greatest musical genius of this generation. If I can figure out the audio options of this crappy blog, and can get wonder-boy's permission, I will post some of his tunes here for your listening pleasure.

6) Almost forgot, a colleague and friend has figured out once and for all how to resolve the abortion debate. Each side gets what they say they want, neither side will be completely happy, so it must be the correct solution. I don' think we can get the book out in time for the mid-term elections, but certainly in time for the Presidential primaries.

Having solved that problem, we will end world hunger with three clothespins, a gallon of Easy Cheese, an eye of newt and a good dose of... Formerly Living. 

70 and Sunny on Christmas Day

Photo: Kenai Mystery courtesy of Infinitegtr
Photo is copyright protected and all Rights are expressly reserved.


On Christmas Day, my daughter complained that it was the" dead of winter", and she was upset, because, at 70 degrees Fahrenheit, just not quite warm enough to wear shorts.

I used to hate cold weather, but two events changed that. The first was contracting multiple sclerosis (and if I can ever prove that MS is an STD, I am going after my ex-wife). The second event was actually a combination of two trips that I got to take to Anchorage this time last year.

For the first time in my life, I have found a place that has a beauty, a majesty, and a spiritual energy so overwhelming that I could really connect with the concept of home. I have seen no more of Alaska than a 60-70 mile strip running from just north of Anchorage down to the Kenai peninsula, but just that tiny strip of paradise made me feel the movement of a Supreme Being... hell, if I saw more of the state, I might even stop being an asshole for a while...

The photo above, "Kenai Mystery" was taken on the second trip, in January of 2005. I was sent to Anchorage, with a paralegal in tow, to begin a fairly sizeable document review. We started on a Thursday, just before MLK Day as I recall. The following Tuesday, I was planning on sending the paralegal home, and I was going to take the first of nearly 30 depositions. I was going to be on the road for 6 weeks straight, in a different town every night. At the end of that time, I would return home, and we were set to go to trial 4 days later. (It only now dawns on me that, I would have spent first anniversary in trial, having been gone the 6 weeks prior). I was in the early stages of pneumonia. The weather was dark and foul, and matched my mood perfectly.

On Saturday evening, opposing counsel informed me that we would not have access to her client's building, or the documents I sorely needed to review, on Sunday. Something about being the Sabbath, and staff wanted to worship their god, and Federal Rules did not require her to work on Sunday. My coughing fit gave her the perfect opportunity to assume my consent and hang up before I could engage the Expletive-O-Meter.

Sunday morning dawned... well, for that time of year, "dawn" starts to crawl over the mountain top about 10:00 Aleutian time. For the first time, the skies were clear, and we could actually see the "glacial glow" of Denali. If you have never seen the color of glacial glow on a Sunday morning, I truly am sorry. I think they named it glacial glow, because calling it a "hue of the very color of one's life force, shaded by the essence of the outer limits of human joy emanating from the deepest most profound regions of the human soul" is too long, a little unwieldy, and a bit too feminine to be used in the common vernacular of your everyday Alaskan mountain man.

But I digress... when the paralegal saw the first rays of sunshine, she forced me out of my Ni-Quil induced sleep, and demanded to see something other than the inside of the god-awful office I had imprisoned her in for 3 days.

Just south of Anchorage there is a lake that lies at the opening of the tunnel leading to Prince William Sound. In years past, glaciers were visible from the northwestern bank, where a visitors center was eventually built. Until the next Ice Age, the glaciers have receded quite a bit.

In November of 2004, I made my first pilgrimage to the lake. I saw my first bald eagle there. The waters of the lake, at least in November, looked like cold, molten lead. I tried to get some pictures, but even film could not capture the depth of the layers of leaden color in the water.

The paralegal desperately needed to be impressed with Alaska, so the lake was the first place I thought of. On the road in, we stopped in the hopes of seeing bald eagles. While I wrestled with my camera gear, I heard a disturbance in the air above me. Three, no five bald eagles swooped and soared out of the tree line, across the highway. Mentally groping my private parts in celebration of my good luck, I rapidly pulled my aging camera to my eye and pulled the trigger. Nothing, this thing was deader than Bob Dole without his little blue pills.

I have a daughter, my own flesh and blood, that wont speak to me. I was devastated by the untimely death of my camera, and secretly, for that one moment in time, I was not sure which of the two tragedies was greatest. My paralegal was used to seeing me act like an asshole, or an incompetent baby lawyer, but I don't think she was prepared for the full-scale mope that I was about to begin.

She took several photos of the bald eagles with her under-powered and over-priced digital camera, and I think she took a few extra just to piss me off. I am suddenly through admiring the taunting eagles, so we proceeded to the lake. The body of ethereal water that I had first seen in November was now, in January, a snow covered, solid, full-on winter ice-scape. The cold, gun-barrel grey and silty waters now encased the rocks of the shore in ice, and all had been dusted with snow. 300 hundred yards out, a group of people were ice-skating.

The paralegal stepped off the sidewalk. This was one of those slow motion moments, because I knew there were rocks here, and just 45 days ago this was water, and maybe it wasn't a good idea to just jump off into polar bear land. I was still pouting over my camera, my dagger tongue was dulled by cold medicine, and well, her camera worked, so to hell with her. I remained silent.

She may have actually taken two steps before falling face forward in the snow. Even now I am lauded for not laughing. No need to laugh, as cosmic justice had been meted out. We got back in the car, and I toyed with the idea of driving to the Kenai peninsula while she poured the water out of her now frozen and temporarily inoperable camera.

In 48 hours, I was to begin the Deposition Roadshow. Here was the only place in my life I had actually felt the presence of God. We were going to Kenai.

Once you traverse the southern edge of Turnagain Bay, there is a 10-15 mile pass that takes you to Kenai. If there is a portal to another plane of existence, it is this stretch of road. Sunshine turned to spectral fog, things seemed to be moving between the trees... hell the trees seemed to be moving through the trees.
Photo: Flight of Fantasy courtesy of Infinitegtr

Photo is copyright protected and all rights are expressly reserved.

As soon as we cleared the pass, we spotted a rest area and stopped. While paralegal danced and skipped through the parking lot, taking pictures as though she were throwing candy from a float at a parade, I decided to take one more shot at resurrecting my camera. A nudge here or an unstuck shutter there, and suddenly I possessed once again the magic necessary to preserve images on film.

I fairly well fell out of the car, careful not to drop my suddenly breathing camera in the snow. I could feel my shaking hands absorbing the adrenaline while I started lining up targets for my Minolta sniper rifle. I looked back towards the Twilight Zone from whence we had just emerged, and I was temporarily frozen in place. The sun was funneling through a jagged, gaping tear in the clouds while the fog seemed to be sneaking upwards trying to blot out all of the sun. I snapped Kenai Mystery before we rushed off to use every ounce of remaining light we had left.

As far as outdoor photography goes, this is probably pretty run of the mill stuff. For me personally, this photo has the same emotional impact on me now as it did when I first got the slide back from processing. On those late nights, when wife and children are tucked safely in bed, air conditioner running to prevent heat stroke, I often pull out this image and allow it to take me back to Alaska, if only for a few fleeting moments.

The rush is on! There's Formerly Living in them there hills...!

C'mere So I can Slap the Stupid off Ya'

So there I was, standing at the crossroads of my career, and I thought to myself, "Damn I am angry. A lot. Angry like a mean drunk coming off of a three day binge kind of angry."

Photo available at:
Dave Kommel - dkommel@autoimagery.com
www.autoimagery.com


My wife used to joke about stapling me into the sheets and setting the bed on fire. Last week, we were at Lowe's and I couldn't help but notice a professional staple gun, a case of staples, a gallon of lighter fluid, and some of those cool "strike when wet, burn in a hurricane" matches that you can usually find in the camping section or from military surplus stores. I also found it an odd time for her to be so interested in whether or not I was current on the life insurance premiums. I guess the joke is up, time to do something different.

I am already trying to cram too many things into a day, but now that Stern has gone off of terrestrial radio (and perhaps even further off his rocker), that frees up the 30 minute morning commute. So, I cashed in my Blockbuster Movie Pass (after they temporarily delayed their pending liquidity crisis by jacking up their monthly fees to customers, but that is another story), and signed up for a membership with Simply Audio, kind of a Netflix for audio books. One of the titles I put high on my list was some kind of How to on Cooling the Flames of Anger or some such... better to cool the flames in my Pontiac than be bar-b-qued in my Serta. (For some beautiful photography, that I was afraid to borrow for fear of serious lawsuit, check out the work of Karen Kuehn).

Day 1 - The audio book is narrated by the Dali lama of Fargo, North Dakota. He says mindful breathing a lot, which is cool because this sounds like Jedi Knight kinda stuff. I tried to fast forward to get to the Jedi mind tricks, because that kinda thing can come in very useful against the weak-minded... clients, judges, other attorneys, my boss. No such luck, must be on another disc.

Day 2 - This clown wearing the orange toga who narrates this audio book, there is something about his voice, just cannot seem to put my finger on it; some strange, sensual feeling, like being reunited with a long lost lover... but different. He also talks alot about mindful eating and organic chickpeas and eating milk. Pretty soon, he is going to start talking about mindful urination. I still haven't heard anything about Jedi mind tricks, which pisses me off, because I have this big contested hearing I haven't prepared for out of reliance upon the use my newly found Jedi skills.

Day 3 - Spend most of the day under the custody and control of the U.S. Marshal. Apparently, when I mysteriously waived my hand at the federal judge, and told him, "You don't need to hear evidence weak-minded one, just grant my relief, commend me on my advocacy skills, and send me on my way", that somehow crossed some kind of line of decorum. I went from contemptuous to out and out contempt. Notably, my underdeveloped Jedi skills do not work on the U.S. marshals either. They tasered me a few times, and left me alone. No CD player though, so I didn't get to listen to the Dali lama. I discover that being tasered REALLY pissed me off.

Day 4 - I am starting to doubt the Dali lama's wisdom. His teachings on mindful eating nearly made me vomit in the car. 20 minutes about chewing 50 times, mindfully chewing, turn your food into liquid and it is already half-digested. Before I decided to stop being angry, I would use this time in the car to shut off my emotions, to check the security of the wall between my soul and ghoulish siege army waiting for me at the office. This morning drive is kind of essential, and my stomach is often tied in knots as a result. I suspect this is the same process an exorcist goes through each morning on his way into the office. The last thing I need while steeling myself for the day's adventures is the visual image of some bald guy in an orange robe with liquefied chickpea and milk dripping out of his face while he mindfully breathes.

His advice ain't that practical either. Lunch usually consists of whatever leftovers I can scrape together as I am running out of the house in the morning, or some leftover from the refrigerator in the office. Regardless of source, it is generally eaten in about 5 minutes, in between client phone calls, returning emails, and furtive, stolen glances at my bookies' home page to see if he has put out a contract on my life yet.

Can't do this half-assed, so I try 50 chews per bite. Lunch takes three and a half hours. My face is swollen, and my taste buds are on strike (not a New York Transit kind a strike either... a strike with some commitment to the cause). I have liquefied Chinese take-out all over my shirt, and my intestines, overwhelmed by the onslaught of liquefied mush has me running to the bathroom every ten minutes, just so my backside don't look like my frontside. My boss, seeing my distress, and checking his web cam to gauge the length of my lunch, yells behind me that anyone who takes a three hour lunch and comes to work soiled shouldn't expect a Christmas bonus; and the cost of an exorcist was coming out of my next paycheck. I attempt to waive my hand mysteriously at boss to initiate a Jedi mind trick, but I can only raise a middle finger at him as I sprint to the sanctity of a once clean porcelain nirvana.

Day 5 - My children are afraid of me, and wife is practicing with the staple gun. She can spit lighter fluid with more dramatic effect than Gene Simmons. I have had it with Dali lama. That strange feeling I had when I heard his voice? It was the same ingratiating anger that used to well up inside me on the rare times that wife #1 would pretend to get calmer the angrier I got. I waited until I saw a motorcycle cop on the side of the road before I ejected Disc one out the window like a throwing star being shot out of a bad Jet Li 3-D movie; aiming for his sidearm, I must have hit an updraft, because the disc shot suddenly upward, hitting him in the helmet and waking him from his Krispy Kreme induced slumber. When he finally managed to pull up beside me, we were screaming at each other, throwing epithets back and forth as we weaved in and out of the slower traffic.

Oh Joyous Rapture, the release of anger! The cleansing sensation of seething rage, the catharsis of catatonic hate! He finally pulled me over, and as he yanked my out of the car with one hand and started wailing on me with night stick in the other, my intestines (the Dali lama of Fargo pronounces that in-test-i (with a long i) -nz) opened up, and I fed off of the anger now washing through the suddenly soiled and besotted officer beside me.

Day 6 - The audio book club had me served with process in the civil suit today. The process server had to talk their way past the line of cops, media and clergy trying to get into my jail cell. Soon as I get out, I am going to Fargo to find that Dali lama, going to take him a case of liquefied whoop ass and a year's subscription to... Formerly Living.

A Word, Literally, from a Sponsor

So far, I have been able to avoid mixing content with ads. But you gotta check out the freaky talking chick at the top of the ads column on the right. I find her pithy sayings strangely arousing...

Also, this little endeavor so far has been "revenue neutral" which is fine, but if there ain't gonna be any cash, we gotta have some kool swag. Soooo, let's have ourselves a little design contest, get some t-shirts, coffee cups, and temporary tattoos for Formerly Living. Winning design gets some free crap and my eternal gratitude. If the winner is a feckless law student, I will also quit claim all my interest in the City of Cincinnati to them!!!

Always a Bridesmaid, Never a Bride...

Dammit, beaten to the punch again. Turns out that a fellow Soul-Eater, a brother (well, sister) in the Brotherhood of Blood Money, has not only produced a better blog, (busted link fixed now, thanks greybeard)she has a huge number of page hits every day, and is preparing to turn her media attention into a new career. Some day I will be pushing a broom and taking out the trash in her 21,000 square foot mansion...

Formerly Living... where all 7 deadly sins are committed against Opinionistas. Good Luck!

One More Thing to Dust...

All of today's talk about authorized spying on US citizens by the government is ruse to hide a much more important scandal... best git yer hands out of yer pants and listen up here. The US Government has apparently decided to have a little garage sale. Seems that there are some in House that want to make it easier for the gubment to sell federally owned land to private interests. While the legislation purports to act in favor of mining interests, there are those that believe that the real thrust of the fire sale is to benefit private land developers. Having covered every available square inch of commercially useable ground with strip malls, Starbucks, Office Supply, and Circuit City outlets; and having crammed neighborhoods into every remaining nook and cranny, there is no land left to build upon. Must...(gasp)... have (cough)... government (wheeze)... land!

What is a recovering conservative to think? After all, what could be wrong with an oversized, inefficient sovereign divesting itself of unused real estate to those who best know how to turn a dime, especially in an up market? Policy assumptions underlying long established legal concepts suggest that property should be committed to the best possible economic use. What could possibly go wrong?

Maybe nothing, perhaps it is a rare instance of the government unloading an unused asset at the peak of a seller's market. I wonder though, what the last great conservative president would think. It was after all, the last true Republican that was largely responsible for today's US Park System. It was through the obsessively dedicated, sociopathically focused efforts of Roosevelt the First that some of the Nation's most treasured lands, and its various 4-legged inhabitants, are protected and open to the public.

Perhaps the proposed legislation should be expanded to include Yellowstone Park and Denali. They are, after all, some of the crown jewels in the holdings of the US. If the gubment wants to sell that which it bought from the Indians for good wampum, or purchased from the French with ill-gotten gold, well, why the hell shouldn't it? In fact, I say we put an oil rig and a 7-11 Convenience Store right on the front lawn of the White House.

But none of that is really what is on my mind (yes, shameless trick to pull you in, but keep reading because there is some eye candy as payoff). Instead, when I saw the report about the modern day land grab, I thought instead about another lasting impact that Roosevelt had on modern society. Roosevelt had a grand, bold vision of what the United States should mean to the rest of the world, and he wanted that vision reflected in grandest, boldest of means. Although less important to some degree today, the true heart and soul of a government is reflected in whatever things it may create or produce. Almost without exception, this includes coinage and currency, as expressed in its artistic stylings. The quality of coinage turns on the availability of gifted sculptors and engravers.

Both the Greeks and the Romans used their coins to express the strengths of the people, the love of particular rulers and heroes, and as a form of propoganda. The Greeks, by and large, had far superior sculptors and minters. As a result, ancient Greek coins carry a hefty premium over Roman coins, because they are valued for the undeniable aesthetic beauty of the remaining coins. The Greeks produced negotiable works of art as much as a system of regulating and stabilizing trade.

The Romans however, well, it seems that they were so damned busy conquering far away lands, importing Egyptian wheat and recruiting new legions to spread the freedoms of the Roman form of government that they failed to pay as much attneion as they should have to their artisans. Some of the coins of the Roman era are so poorly crafted, today's HBO viewers of "Rome" would think that all the fall of the Roman Empire was the result of a combination of Down's syndrome and wide spread in-breeding.

Once the Romans finally threw in the towel, it was not until the Renaissance the sculpture, and subsequently coinage, gained traction as a worth while endeavor.

In the United States, there was a brief period of time when our collective cultural contribution aspired to heights a little greater than the current (and upcoming) dose of Howard Stern. (Yes, I have priced Sirius Radio, so what about it?)

Before the likes of Howard, Madonna and Lindsay Lohan, the soul and the collective conscience of the country was shaped and molded by the likes of Augustus Saint-Gaudens. And it was the likes of Saint-Gaudens and his contemporaries that helped to define enduring, idealistic, and iconoclastic images of modern beauty.

Roosevelt turned to Saint-Gaudens to breath new life into American coinage, which had grown stale, at least by standards of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. In return for Roosevelt's confidences, Saint-Gaudens produced what, at least for the time being, is without a doubt one the best looking US coin in the nation's history. The design is still used by the US Mint to whore out bullion sales.

PBS, another important but underperforming government asset, has some great information on Saint-Gaudens and his works.

Some of Saint-Gaudens contemporaries were the Frasers.
Theirs is an interesting story by itself. Although Pa Fraser is probably most well-known for the "End of the Trail" sculpture housed in the NationalCowboy Hall of Fame, it is his medallic achievements that are of most interest today.
In fact, the US Mint, apparently fresh out of original artistic designs, reissued Fraser's most well-known contribution to the numismatic scene. I guess you could say that coin collectors are going through their own little "retro" phase, because they snapped these up as quick as the Mint could churn them out.

I apologize to Fraser, and to any one actually reading this far, for the piss-poor scan of the indian head. I borrowed a beautiful photo off of Google Images, but I think some assclown jacked up the picture so that it wouldn't upload here, and you gotta drive to their place to see it. I never did like those guys.

Ok, a little more eye-candy disguised as serious social commentary. Which has the most appeal on all sensory levels: Pamela Anderson or Liberty with an exposed breast?

Photographers the world over have made a fortune off of lovely Pamela, but images fade, film becomes more crackled and brittle than my crusty briefs, and eventually deteriorates. Liberty and her scandalous exposed breast shall live on well after the silicon in Pamela's chest has been recycled by Mother Nature.

Thanks to Rep. Mike Castle, the tired-ass coin designs that have remained static for 20 years (nearly 100 years in the case of the Lincoln cent) are starting to go through a mini-renaissance once again. Mike Castle for President in 2008! Here is a Yankee I can support!

Most of the real innovation has come on the US nickel. Thank you Joe Fitzgerald and Don Everhart for making Thomas Jefferson cool again.

Coast to Coast, this guy is the most if you want to take part in some of this artistic coingasm.

Fine, go ahead and sell off the real estate, this neighborhood has been going to hell ever since I moved in. Just don't, elected officials and fellow citizen-soldiers, continue to neglect some of the other treasures held for the public good. I am goint to petition the Mint to make a commemorative coin for this site, and on the obverse it should say, "In God We Trust, but We Read... Formerly Living".

Jeep Gladiator...get it...GladHEateHER...?!?

How in the hell did I manage to miss this for an entire year? Am I the only one who hasn't seen this masterpiece concept from Jeep? Please don't tease, if there is any chance in hell that the Gladiator is scheduled to see production as the next generation true truck offering from Jeep, life might be worth living again. Are there any responsible adults who can help us out with some non-Wikipedia type information?

The current version of the Wrangler Unlimited just doesn't quite do it. But this beast, hot skipping Christ, Jeep could sell these things! I suppose I could go to eBay, and bid myself silly on the real deal, but given my lack of skills with most things mechanical (and all things female), the pleasure quotient would be like having myself filleted pie-hole to ass-hole.

Here is the deal. My family has collectively been employed by GM for... nearly 100 years, no doubt. I still carry a grudge against the clods in Detroit for putting a bullet in the head of the iconic Oldsmobile line. Both the crappy vehicles in my driveway are Pontiac. The only import I ever had was a "thousand-dollar-car" that either got me through college, or divorce number one... Never bought a new vehicle either. That honor was going to be reserved for the Monte Carlo when rumor first had it returning to the GM line up. Who knew that GM would stick with anemic, vanilla, sissified designs and stick manly, historic badging on the sheet metal... Monte Carlo my ass. That thing is the bastard love child of a homely Buick that was sneaking around with a Ford Taurus from the wrong side of town.

I will be 35 in a few months, never bought a "new" car. Depreciation means more than just how my kids feel... I am always happy to let the other sucker tuck the ass-poke on the instant devaluation of a new ride. The Jeep Commander was about to change that, though. The current mode of familial mass transit is a tired Pontiac Montana, surely the inspiration for redneck circle 8 racers all across the South. The Commander. Made by Jeep. Big enough for a woman, tough enough to handle the daily assault of small children.

Then, from beyond the golden burning glow of all things righteous and holy in a consumerocracy, emerging under the taunting halo of "concept car", emerges this Holy Grail.

The Gladiator is more than just a hoped-for kick ass ride. This is exactly the kick in the ass I needed from the literary gods (don't pull a muscle, this is a big stretch, but we will get you through it). The novel that I have labored over (but mostly neglected) for the last year and a half features a lot of old guys and their old, busted up rides. The main character of my novel, he drives the forerunner of the Gladiator. When I am not daydreaming about the novel itself (and the millions of copies to be sold) I imagine the cover art, a black and white photo featuring the bottom of the door, the main character stepping onto a dirt road, wearing boots, shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and a cowboy hat.

I didn't cry when Ol' Yeller got what he had coming, Bambi's mom got what nature and the Forest Service intended. Want me to cry at a movie... blow-up an old car (even if it is a clone). Even after playing harmless video games featuring the senseless destruction of fine automobiles, I seek out psychiatric help. Such senseless car violence demeans the role of the automobile in society, oppresses them, and makes them second class citizens... oh the humanity...! And now, I surf upon the one-up physical embodiment of everything dear and precious that will surely someday form itself into a completed novel! Oh rapture!

I must have this truck, I must possess this thing, make it my own, to hold and cherish through love, broke-dickness and death. And one way or another, Jeep must build it. If Jeep won't build it, we will steal the design, have it produced in Mexico at the same plant that continues to make original body style VW Bugs. Or we get someone to sell it as a kit car! Yeah, that's it. Just gimme the sheet metal, diesel engine, drive train and an interior kit, I will take care of the rest myself. It is win-win, because I get my truck, Jeep gets cash for doing nothing but pressing some body panels, you buy my book in order to truly understand modern man, I take my jeep, my wife, and however many kids and dogs will fit in the bed, and head North until I reach Anchorage. Yeah, I bet that thing will do some sweet glacier jumps...

Screw it, I can't wait for Jeep to make up their mind. I am going to find the one-up, I am going to truck-nap THE concept. Payday is still a week off, and I need gas money, so please wire a contribution, will credit it against your purchase price of the book. Hurry, I gotta leave tonight. I am gonna get some one of a kind plates to go one my one-up truck of beauty, plates are gonna read... FormerlyLiving.

Not Redemption Yet...

Here is what the MS Society says about Richard Pryor:




For immediate release: December 10, 2005

Statement regarding the passing of Richard Pryor from
the National Multiple Sclerosis Society

On behalf of the National Multiple Sclerosis Society, we want to express our sincere condolences to the Pryor family. We are all saddened by this loss as Mr. Pryor will be remembered as a ground-breaking comedian and world-class talent. “Mr. Pryor struggled with the devastating effects of multiple sclerosis for many years and he will be remembered for his courage and dignity,” said Joyce Nelson, President and CEO of the National MS Society. “The Society was honored to work directly with Richard Pryor and is pleased to currently have his daughter Rain as an ambassador for the MS cause.”

Editors note: For more information about multiple sclerosis and to speak with experts about the disease, contact Arney Rosenblat at 212-476-0436 or Becca Kornfeld at 212-476-0484.
About Multiple SclerosisEvery hour in the United States, someone new receives that frightening diagnosis: multiple sclerosis. MS is an unpredictable, often disabling disease of the central nervous system. Symptoms range from numbness and tingling to blindness and paralysis. The progress, severity and specific symptoms of MS in any one person cannot yet be predicted, but advances in research and treatment are giving hope to those affected by the disease. Most people with MS are diagnosed between the ages of 20 and 50, with more than twice as many women as men contracting the disease. MS affects more than 400,000 people in the U.S., and 2.5 million worldwide.

About The National MS SocietyThe mission of the National MS Society is to end the devastating effects of MS. Through its home office and 50-state network of chapters, the Society funds more MS research, offers more services to people with MS, provides more professional education, and advances more MS advocacy efforts than any other MS organization in the world. This is why we’re here. Studies show that early and ongoing treatment with an FDA-approved therapy can reduce future disease activity and improve quality of life for many people with multiple sclerosis.

Talk to your health care professional and contact the National MS Society at www.nationalmssociety.org or 1-800-FIGHT-MS to learn about ways to help manage multiple sclerosis and about current research that may one day reveal a cure.

Now back your Formerly Living programming, already in progress...

Gotta get over this Death Thing...

Richard Pryor is dead. As my three faithful readers may recall from my recent cathartic, and catastrophic, trip to the National Multiple Sclerosis Society's conference in Atlanta last month, Richard Pryor was one of our more famous club members. Died of a heart attack, wife says he died with a smile on his face. No shit, he was glad to be done with the "More Shit."

He was in a wheelchair, and there was a report earlier this year that he had lost his voice to MS. Apparently he was in a few movies after his diagnosis, and even tried stand-up again; standing and speaking clearly were problematic.

Google is burning up with posts and articles about his growing up the son of a prostitute, the ex-wives, the drugs, the personal barbeque. For him, that may have been the chicken before the egg. For the rest of us with MS, there is a higher rate of divorce, depression, severe financial hardship, moldy socks and time spent with our hands in our pants.

For the first couple of years, I treated MS as one of the best things that evern happened to me. Tested my character, gave me perspective, forced me to really start looking at priorities, a real 7 Habits of Succesful MS Tards kind of groove. In the last few weeks, and for the first time, I have been bitter, angry, about MS. It is starting to limit some life options, at a time when everything needs to be back on the table.

No More Shit Mr. Pryor, rest easy now. Thanks for the laughs and... Formerl... fuck it. Bye.

Giant in Repose

It was, by all accounts, a clear sunny morning. The sky was as vibrant and alive as the people revelling below. While storm clouds of war were gathering on distant horizons, the US was in a period of relative peace, albeit a shallow peace. On this crisp morning, with no real warning, the skies changed from a medium of life-giving sunshine to a channel for the flying machinations of death. Within a few hours' time, thousands were dead, injured, and missing. Smoke and intense flame rose from the suddenly hobbled symbols of Americna invincibility. The unimaginable had just become the new reality. A panicked US began to question all of the securities it had taken for granted just the day before.

On this particular day, it was not the world that had changed; rather, it was the United States that was forced to change dragged, kicking and screaming, into a world long ignored and denied by Americans. This paticular morning was not that September morning in New York City that we all watched play out on our televisions a few years ago, although it clearly could be. Instead, I am describing that fateful December morning over Pearl Harbor that seems to constantly be replayed in black and white footage on the History Channel, or in Time Life books. The similarities between the two events has been noted many times, god knows I don't have the intelligence to come up with something so original. This just seems to be a good time to revisit the events, and the tenacious desire of our country to forget the lessons that should have been learned, and relearned, many times over.

Unfair comparison you say, World War II and the 9/11 attacks are apples and oranges? Believe that WWII was a noble endeavor from a black and white fairy tale, and the military endeavors following 9/11 are nothing more than a sinister, and cynical, play on oil, greed and revenge? If so, it is no wonder that we as a country continually have to be reminded about the nature of the world around us.

In the years and months leading up to the attack on Pearl Harbor, Japan had embarked on a campaign of expansion that included an invasion of China and many islands in the Pacific. Japan was a late comer to the Industrial Age economy, and lacked a number of valuable resources, which included oil and steel. The US presence in the Pacific represented a huge threat to the Japanese plans to take what it needed from its neighbors. Up until Pearl Harbor, most Americans were content to allow Hitler to swarm across Europe and kick the shit out of even the British. Once the first US sailor went down to a Japanese torpedo, we collectively stacked up our chips and went all in.

After Pearl Harbor, the surviving sailors were given post-cards and told to write home and let mom, or Mary Sue, know that they had survived the attack. One sailor's card, sent a few days after the attack, didn't reach home until February of 1942. In an era of satellite phones, email, and web cams, one can only imagine the uproar that would ensue if word of a loved one did not reach the states after nearly three months.

Immediately after Pearl Harbor, the US suffered horrific defeats in Manilla and the Phillipines. By the time the US was actively engaged in the European theater, Hitler was the landlord for the greatest part of the continent. During the height of US bombing runs over Germany, before P-51's were introduced as fighter escorts, B-17's, and their crews were being lost faster than my dollars fly to my ex-wife. In the years before Pearl Harbor, the US stuck its head in the sand, and the corner bullies took over while we wallowed in our own affairs.

In a far more subtle way, the Vietnam war was a similar learning experience. Although the homeland was not physically attacked, those who would take up arms against us learned, long before we did, that our national fickleness and weak-kneed approach to international politics could be used more effectively as a weapon than any physical attack. The rift that developed amongst US citizens, that is used to politicize and undermine public support for US military undertakings, that rift was the first real smart bomb, and it continues to be used against us today.

In the skirmishes leading up to 9/11, the US got another wake up call, this time in Somalia. In the process of trying to save a country from the itself, one particular sunny day, two Black Hawk helicopters get shot down (by techniques taught by Al-Queda). Those American soldiers that spent the remaining day and night trying to rescue pilots and comrades, were also unknowingly the first responders in the renewed attack against America's reputation for invulnerability.

Last night at Blockbuster, I saw that someone has made a "Black Hawk Down" video game for my beloved PS2. Now, you and your 10 year old son can re-live the video horror that our troops were subjected to. We forget so quickly.

A few weeks ago, National Geographic ran documentaries I had not seen before: Inside 9/11. In one of the series, in an interview with the FBI Scene Commander, he talked about when he returned to ground zero on the morning of Sept 12, and how the sounds of the firefighters' locators were beeping and screaming from within the rubble haunted him. NG played just a second or two of footage from that morning. The sound of the locators is simply heart-breaking.

That President Bush probably sold us on the Iraqi excursion by using some "soft" or questionable intelligence, is neither surprising nor damnable. For decades, critics have questioned whether or not Franklin Delano Roosevelt knew that Pearl Harbor was going to be attacked, and allowed it to happen so that the US would be drawn into the war... It ain't rocket science. FDR probably didn't know the day, the time, or even necessarily the exact target. But he clearly recognized that the US wasn't going to get off of its ass until someone took a pound of flesh. WMD's in Iraq? Yeah, at some point. Thanks to our previous administration, the Iraqis had a free hand to sell or loan everything it had to Syria, Iran, Egypt, maybe even to the North Koreans.

Iraq as the center of terrorism? Maybe, and maybe not. But Saddam had been hanging his ass out at the US while pretending to bow to Allah for a decade. He undoubtedly inspired hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, to hate you, your children, your SUV, your homes, your churches, your way of life. The single most devastating WMD today, short of nukes, is cash. Keep in mind that Saddam, for years, has been sitting on top of countless fortunes worth of oil and gas. (Let's see, didn't he also have some "aggressive growth" plans of his own a few years ago?) Not all of his oil money went to bribe the UN...

It does not matter whether you are Republican or Democrat. It also does not matter whether your president lied to you about uranium cakes, or plutonium pastries, or piss cakes from a urinal; his job is to protect this country. If he had to tell us that alien invaders with 6 foot anal probes had just landed in Bahgdad, if that is what it took to get us on the offensive, then he had a moral obligation to do just that. The night that Bush made the speech "laying out the case for war", I was sitting in a bar having dinner with one of my more devoted liberal colleagues. He quietly rolled his eyes during portions of the speech, I drank my beer, and could not have cared less. I had not forgotten that September morning, unable to contact loved ones, away from my children. I had not forgotten the warnings that were subsequently issued about possible attacks against grade schools.

Late in the day on 9/11, someone, maybe Senator McCain, said there would undoubtedly be a declaration of war. Well, yeah, but against who? I have grown tired of those who claim Saddam had nothing to do with 9/11, that Iraq is just baby Bush's way to get back for planned assasination attempts of Daddy Bush.

Those who wish to see the demise of our way of life, of our nation, they have continued to evolve and to find ways to defeat us. We collectively get the vapors about "proof" that this country or that tin-pot despot was behind an attack on us. Saddam didn't fly the planes into the building himself. The tenor of today's criticisms of the president make me think that, in-flight recordings of Saddam at the controls of the planes, with video footage of him spiraling into the Trade Center, even that would not be enough to placate the Cindy Sheehens of the world.

Truck bombs failed to topple the towers in the early 1990's. There was no such failure in 2001. The people flying those planes didn't give a damn if their victims were Republican, Democrat, white, black, Christian, Muslim, straight, gay or even moderately ambivalent. They had no allegiance to any one country, they did not wage their surprise attack against us under the banner of any single flag.

Pearl Harbor awakened the slumbering giant. Vietnam made the giant question itself, and wrip itself apart. The War against Terrorism has the giant schizophrenic, tripping all over itself in its oversized sensitivies and outmoded view of the world. In its on-going confusion, the Giant keeps forgetting that those sharp pin-pricks, those blows from behind and below the belt, they are all intended to leave the giant... Fomerly Living.

With Apologies to John Lennon

After a weekend of stewing over unrelated crises, real and imagined, I opted out of the first half of the NFL offering this morning (please hurry back NHRA), and decided to watch a 2 hour documentary on the life of John Lennon.

Thanks to the influence of my rock-n-roll grandma, and the subtle guidance of my mother, I grew up with a lot of Beatles music. Always enjoyed it, never put much thought into it. The early face of pop rock was just that, and with those bowl haircuts, well, they just ain't Shakira...

I tried, once, as a teenager to understand the Sgt Pepper album, but I never had access to any illicit pharmacology. I never really got it, and it just kinda scared me. (Truth is, that was the first compact disc I ever purchased, while my friends were discovering Guns N Roses, Bon Jovi and Poison. I wrote a post-mortem review of Sgt. Peppers, trying to be avant grade, thereby justifying the purchase in the first place).

Beyond that, I truly never understood anything that any of the former Beatles wrote or performed post-Bad haircut days. Paul McCartney especially was lost on me.

Still, I do remember when Lennon died. My father, who never gave a damn for anything other than Merle Haggard or other crooning cowboys that wound up as embarrassing lounge acts in dumpy little country bars in Amarillo, my father, who condemned most music I listened to, he was the first to break the news to me. At the ripe age of 10, I didn't really have a clue who Lennon was, but I knew the Beatles. The fact that the shooting even registered with dear old Dad meant that something was up.

That morning, our aging music teacher was visibly moved and distressed by Lennon's murder. So much so that he interrupted whatever song we had been slaughtering the prior two weeks, and spent the morning teaching us "I Want to Hold Your Hand". That song found its way into the next school program, which always surprised me a little more than it should have. Despite the fact that we lived each day under the watchful eyes of the blessed sisters of the only Catholic school in town, they never curtailed our daily KISS air guitar concerts at recess...

Julian Lennon had a hit, and faded back into the recesses. From time to time, I would hear someone take a potshot at Yoko, but that was it. There was also the scene in "Mr. Holland's Opus" when Dreyfuss portrays the affable Mr. Holland as getting his artistic knickers in a twist after the shooting. This event segues into the eventual reconciliation between Holland and his deaf son. Holland is also portrayed as singing one of Lennon's songs, dedicating it to his own son. Dreyfuss sounded like hell, but then again, I think Phil Spector may have been some of the brilliance behind Lennon's soulful sounds... In any event, the scene from Holland's Opus always intrigued me a little, especially in the context of the relationship between a man and his son.

So, open to any source of redemption and hope, I invested 2 hours into the Lennon docudrama. I still don't get the music (which oddly, did not seem to really be the focus of the movie), but I found a new appreciation for the man behind the music.

Even though the movie seemed to soft-sell the ingratiating presence of Yoko, it is pretty clear from the footage that she was indeed a lightning rod for conflict. Publicly, Lennon never flinched from his devotion to her. (Apparently, there was a brief separation marked by some self-destructive activities, but I was feeding children or changing diapers, or something...). I have found, in many ways, and am fortunate enough to actually be married to, my own Yoko. I gotta make damn sure she always knows how she keeps me ticking. I have two of my own versions of Julian Lennon, and the guilt I have for what I have wrought on them I will undoubtedly carry into the grave...

Late in his all too short life, and early in Sean's life, Lennon walked away from music for almost five years, so that he could spend time with his son. He traded his creative passion, the engine that made him a beloved cultural icon, gave him a podium, and provided financial security, he traded all of that for time with his son. I have enough kids to field a basketball team, and with each I have too easily traded their time in exchange for a job I increasingly cannot abide, with no palpable sense of financial security, with a product that so rarely provides any tangible benefit to society it cannot justify itself in any terms other than dollar bills.

This weekend, Judge Eldon Mahon passed away. Judge Mahon was one of the pre-imminent federal judges in this region. He spent 19 years desegregating the schools of Tarrant County. There are no great battles like that to be fought today, the scorecard is measured solely in dollars and billable hours. Free agency will sanitize the practice of law much the same way it will hobble baseball.

Most days I, like far too many of my colleagues, feel that choices are narrowing and alternatives are quickly fading away. I realize now that, if someone can walk away from something they love for the benefit of their kids, I have to find the strength to walk away from the that thing that stalks my dreams, drains my conscience, and steals my energy. Of all the talk about peace and love, this it seems is the lesson I take away from John Lennon.

Make no mistake, I gotta go find out about the music. Maybe I can get enough severance to buy one of those fancy disc changers for my car, load it down with CD's from Lennon and from...Formerly Living.

Godspeed, Officer Nava

Last night, Ft Worth lost an officer with 13 years experience. Officer Henry Nava was not only a good cop, he was a husband and a father to two small children.

He was shot while serving a "routine" arrest warrant. The whiff of human excrement, the genital puss that has wreaked this havoc on Fort Worth is Stephen Heard. According to the local media, Mr. Heard had been smoking marijuana the day of the shooting, as well as a little methamphetamine, but stated that the drug use didn't amount to anything. Heard admits that he sometimes is a little rebellious, has issues following some rules. He bravely admits that he has even been the lead car in a few high speed police chases, although they were for "Mickey Mouse stuff" and "nothing aggressive". Heard knew that someone was in the house when the police arrived. He was afraid that someone was coming to steal from him the gear that he was using to run his own little idendity theft operation. He was just defending his stuff, protecting his livelihood I suppose. Heard says that he had really just got his system set up, and didn't really even have the chance to start it up when the police arrived. Heard said it was just a simple mistake that led to Officer Nava's death.

Only hours in advance of the passing of Officer Nava, Mr. Heard had the audacity to conduct himself a little jail house press conference. Mr. Heard, it seems, is angry and disappointed as he claims that Officer Nava and the other officers present never announced they were police. Then Heard decided that the police came in guns blazing, and that he didn't start shooting until after a bullet knocked half of his own chin off. Heard finally arrived at the conclusion that the police failed to follow their own entry procedures, which he described as though he were the Training Officer for entry teams. In short, Heard says it was Nava's fault.

Officer Nava took a round above the left eye. Heard took a hostage, and had a three hour stand-off with police. Nava was carried off on a stretcher, leaving a widow and two fatherless children. Heard effectively walked into the Texas criminal justice system. His own mother said that Heard knew it was police in the house, and that if she dared to go to Ft Worth it would be to console Nava's family, not to see her son.

First the public service announcment, then the rant. Russ Martin runs a little radio talk show on a back-water FM station in the Metroplex. My wife, and most other women I know, dislike him with varying levels of intensity. Maybe he is as much of an asshole in real life as he is on the air, but he is the only guy in the area that can be consistently counted on to DO something of substance for fallen cops and firefighters in the area. Please catch the link and make a donation to his foundation. www.russmartin.com There will be additional links on the home page talking about the foundation and where to give.

The Nava children get Dad's funeral for Christmas. Instead of throwing your filthy lucre at the retail whores at the shopping mall this weekend, send some to the Foundation. I get paid Tuesday, I'm making my donation Tuesday. www.russmartin.com Go now, then come back.

Now the rant.

You don't have a constitutionally protected right to have the cops do a standard 2x2 entry into your home when they are serving a warrant on your narcissistic worthless piece of existence. When a man with a gun and a badge tells you to drop your shit and get on the floor, you do it. If you think you are falsely accused, or you have been watching BET or the Grand Dragon all night and believe the man is out to get you, that is the one instance in all of time when it doesn't matter if you are guilty or not. You can pause your game of Grand Theft Auto long enough to let the friednly PO-PO know that you aren't about to deliver a bullet into their temple at high velocity. You immediately stop ALL activity except for anything the cop tells you to do. If they are wrong and you are right, their are legions of lawyers, civil rights groups, and news organizations that will help you scream from the roof tops about how you were wronged by stormtrooper tactics of unruly cops. At that moment in time, when the door explodes inwards, shattering the door frame and wripping hinges out of place, the only right you have is to shut the hell up, peaceably arrange your stupid ass spread eagle or prone, and thank your god that, for now at least, you live in a country where you stupid ass can kill a cop, and his buddies will let you walk out, alive, three hours later. You better also know that there are plenty of us who are f-ing tired of burying cops and having to foot the bill for your room and board and for your lawyers and appeals. We are the same people who tend to vote and to run for elected office.

If you are too lubed up to achieve this kind of judgment because you have had a little marijuana or been tapping the meth, the last thing you better do is pick up that gun. I view cops the same way I view the Marines, because I view your stupid ass the same way I view Al-Queda. I have wives, ex-wives and kids that live here, and I can sleep a little better at night knowing that people who put on uniforms and strap on side-arms for a living are in places i don't want to go, doing things I don't want to do, being around people like you, all so that my kids can live in a fairly safe and stable society. Neither cops nor Marines get paid dick for putting up with skidmarks like you, and sometimes they lose their life as a result. Officer Nava's kids don't have a dad now, and he died protecting (in the collective) my kids, your mother, and every other person you came into contact with.

Officer Nava died protecting my kids, now we as a society will do what we can to protect the children of Officer Nava and the children of his colleagues from you and from other bottom feeders who reside at your end of the gene pool.

Texas traditionally has one of the highest execution rates of any state in the country, and it is for good reason. This is our response to society's failure to give your momma a free clothes hanger or $20 for the local clinic. You did nothing to contribute to society or to improve the lives of the people around you, and you should have been a bloody flush of the toilet 30 years ago. This is our response to society's failure to have the balls to recognize that you were nothing but a soul-less waste of flesh and make you accountable for being so damned useless. I wonder how many times you bitched about immigrants stealing jobs from Americans, justifying your behavior for stealing, running from the cops, killing your three remaining brain cells with illicit pharmacology. This is our response to our failure as a community to protect Officer Nava, his widow, and his children from you and your senseless, destructive presence.

A reporter asked you how you would feel when, inevitably, Officer Nava passed away. You answered, "My life is over." This isn't about you or your pathetic existence, you still don't get that, and this is why a jury of your peers is going to send you meet the executioner. When they slip that needle into your arm, don't you dare cry about how your father didn't love you, or it was a simple mistake, or how Nava didn't give you the courtesy of a standard 2x2 entry. When that needle enters your veins, and you feel the soothing juices of the Grim Reaper entering into your cardio-vascular system, I want you to feel the pain and anguish that you have caused a newly minted single mother. As your heart stops beating, 30 years too late, I want you to try to take with you the loss that Officer Nava's children now have to deal with every day.

One more thing. You tell your buddies that we are coming for them. The days of living off the tit of our labors, after they have killed one of our cops, raped one of our daughters, burned one of our schools, or got drunk and killed a whole family on the interstate is coming to an end. You committed a horrendous crime against society, but perhaps the bigger crime was that your head didn't explode in a fine red mist when you walked out of your hidey-hole and surrendered to police. We are tired of police funerals. We are tired of hiring armies of district attorneys, public defenders, and prison guards to protect our kids from you.

Formerly Living salutes Officer Nava. Godspeed, and thank you for your service.




www.russmartin.com

Me Too! Me Too!

Somebody beat me to the punch, again. This time, the Book is called The Number. I haven't read it yet, but will soon. Another of the bretheren, preaching to the fold...

http://www.thenumberbook.com/blog

Modern Services, Same Jesus

This weekend, the daughter that still pretends to love me took her first step towards true entrepreneurship. It seems that, several months ago, during her long car ride home with her mother (the good parent) she had nothing better to do with her time than tie some 60 balloons onto her three dollar WalMart flip flips. While they strike me as a god-awful boat shoe for Bozo the Clown, the child may actually be on to something here.

So, after just a few moments on eBay, and a hastily arranged Daddy/Daughter Promissory Note with the Option for Convertible Debentures subordinated by a Senior Lien, Security Agreement, Unconditional Personal Guaranty, Indemnification Agreement, a blended Synthetic Leveraged Lease, and an iron-clad absolute warranty to take care of Daddy in his old age, my baby incurred her first business debt. With a misty eyed gaze filled with love and admiration that only a father can have for a child, I said, "My baby just incurred her first business debt." Since I don't let her read this crap, she missed my earlier condemnation of all things debt related, and therefore missed the slight hint of sarcasm seasoned with the musky but bold after-taste of dry witticism.

Her eyes lit up, bathing in the approval, and emitted an abbreviated "Wheeee!" A pause, and then, "That is good, right?" Oh the trials and tribulations of raising a pre-teen.

So far, this teaching exercise in modern day capitalism seems to have more traction than my attempt, when she was at the delicate age of 6, to explain the intricacies of franchise law as it applies to the local McDonald's. I would like to think that I have somehow impressed upon my baby the desirability to be her own boss, blaze her own path, make her own Google type mouse trap. Alas, she is my daughter, and, deep down I know that what really drives her is the joy of living vicariously through my eBay purchasing power, and the opportunity to fleece her closest friends out of their parents' hard earned money by selling a simple but otherwise unavailable product for three times her cost. Intuitively, I know that greed can be a powerful teacher, now I fear that the measure of being a good dad to this child will be determined by whether or not she winds up as a litigant in Tax Court during her lifetime. Of my children, this one is most likely to have the entrepreneurial fire.

Even more so than usual, I am proud of my baby for coming up with the idea, and for having the desire to bring her creation to life. Except for the branding, the entire thing was her idea (so far as I know). I helped with the name for her balloon emblazoned flip-flops... Ballyhoo's. Available in women's sizes 4-10. Order now for Christmas. $10 plus $2.50 shipping and handling charge. Get yours at infinitegtr@gmail.com before Paris Hilton buys a pair and makes them instantly passe'.

There is more at stake here than a Junior Achievement badge for small business development.

I recently, and belatedly, started reading Jack Weatherford's modern wonder "A History of Money." Given the current state of consumer protection laws and the E-Z access to E-Z credit, this book should be mandatory reading for all grade schoolers, high schoolers, college students, bus drivers, Democrats, agnostics, and registered voters. It should be issued in all 50 states along with marriage licenses. A miniature version should be handed out by the VFW during the 4th of July parade, along with the pocket copy of the U.S. Constitution. The book should be set to music, the lyrics pounded out by a Johnny Cash impersonator.

One of the more compelling issues raised by Weatherford is his recounting of the financial troubles encountered by the Roman Empire as the Germanic barbarians were marching towards the Coliseum. The Romans produced very little of their own food and other necessary goods. This meant that Roman gold and silver was carted off to far-flung places such as Egypt, India and China, in exchange for grain, spices, silk, and all the other items that a Greco-Roman Martha Stewart would find necessary properly entertain her guests. Meanwhile, the Romans spent time eating, drinking, orgying, feeding Christians to lions, marching the Legions around, and spending their days looking imperial. Read another way, none of the Romans wore flame retardant shirts with their names sewn on the pocket; instead they were increasingly consultants, advertisers, or performance coaches.

For a while, Roman emperors were able to "debase" the Roman currency, which meant they put less and less silver and gold into their coinage, and put in more and more worthless metals to maintain size and weight. Eventually, shopkeepers and soldiers alike figured this out, and prices rose so that vendors and shopkeepers got the correct weight in silver. As this trick got old, Rome had no choice but to expand its empire, looting more treasure from the conquered, and demanding more and more goods so that Rome could reduce its dependence on foreign food. (As a curious side note, Alan Greenspan was a struggling college freshman during the last years of the Roman Empire. A few years later, he penned and defended his now infamous thesis: The Renaissance: The Irrational Exuberance of the Middle Ages).

Does any of this sound familiar yet? Ever heard of a service based economy? How about an economy driving down an information highway? When was the last time that anyone stopped wandering around staring at their Rolex watch, put down the PSP, unplugged from the iPod, turn off the Hitachi 72 inch HDTV, or parked the SmartLease financed Lexus long enough to consider what, exactly, that world-renowned trade medium also known as the US Dollar really is.

There was a guy who was a brilliantly talented artist, and perhaps a fellow smart-ass, who made some interesting observations. It seems that the hero of this little vignette, Tim Prusmack, spent his all-too short days on Earth free-handing his own currency. (To be clear, Prusmack was not engaging in counterfitting of any kind. His activities were limited to commercial, artisitc endeavors, and he is sorely missed). As I recall one of the stories, Prusmack once convinced his waitress at a burger joint that she should give to him a number of hamburgers in exchange for one of his pieces of paper, which looked like US Currency. As the story goes, Prusmack explained, quite correctly, that the US government has convinced people the world over to exchange goods and services for green pieces of paper which happen to carry the tag line legal tender, for all debts public and private. If the government's piece of paper was worth a hamburger, why shouldn't his piece of paper also equal the value of a hamburger? His interesting observations also earned him some interesting friends from the US Treasury Department.

I suspect that far more Americans know the name of Brittney Spear's baby then understand the ramifications of the US currency system being unhinged from the gold standard.

"An almost hysterical antagonism toward the gold standard is one issue which unites statists of all persuasions. They seem to sense... that gold and economic freedom are inseparable." -- Alan Greenspan.

My daughter's latest exercise in free enterprise may not reverse the same trend which may have single-handedly doomed the last "Last Superpower", even on a microeconomic level. I doubt that my daughter's Ballyhoos will spark the flame under the kindling of socioeconomic revolution, thereby saving us from that same fate of the Romans. The flip flops we ordered are imported from Brazil, the balloons we buy will have been shipped from Hong Kong, or perhaps Korea. All the same, on Christmas morning, when your loved ones open the BIG gift, after they shower you with love and affection for putting them on the cutting edge of flip-flop fashion, point out the tag sewn on the underneath of the straps. It is the one that says, "Made in... Formerly Living".

Running with his Hair on Fire

A couple of weeks ago, Gary Scelzi won the NHRA Funny Car championship. Sadly, Scelzi isn't the same kind of household name as say, Tony Stewart, Jeff Gordon, Little E., etc. Its a damn shame to, because Scelzi is one of the nicest guys on national television. One of my biggest disappointments in missing the Fall Nationals was not getting to meet Scelzi.

Perhaps you've seen the Dodge Charger commercial, where the Meteroplexual in the Charger is running against a Top Fueler, finally beating him out of the toll booth? Scelzi was driving the dragster. As I recall, the ads were released to coincide with NASCAR's spring race in Darlington. Anyone else see the irony here? NASCAR whores.

In winning the championship, Sclezi knocked out John Force, a devestatingly dominate driver. Force has won the NHRA champioship 13 times, and is just as entertaining off the track as he is on. Force has the illumination of the sun, the no-bullshit self-assuredness of experience... watching 10 seconds of post-race interviews of Force is the equivalent of running half a mile. Any man who drives 330 miles an hour, and claims to have seen Elvis at A Thousand Feet is not a man to be taken lightly.

In the larger scheme of things, probably none of this matters to very many people. But it matters to me. Every week, or so, these guys (and girls) line up and run just as hard as they can for quarter of a mile. First one to cross the line wins. It is mostly that simple.

Just once, I would like to go to work, hang it all out on the edge for one weekend and win or lose, know where I stand. As it is now, months and months of work, exhaustion, and time away from the family is all for naught while other people with other agendas reach settlements. On to the next project with the same inevitable outcome.

In the time that a car takes to run the quarter-mile strip, be it four-and-a-half or fourteen seconds, that surely must be the closest thing to true inner peace. No agendas, no bullshit. No employees huddled in a corner, plotting the next step of a palace coup. No silently disapproving stare of the disappointed boss. Heads up racing, win or lose.

Win or lose, blow or go. No moral ambiguities, no unintended disappointments of alienation of family. Ashley Force runs a Top Alcohol dragster. It is all I can do on a daily basis to prevent the proliferation of new ways to disappoint my daughters, or piss off my wife.

Cut a good light, stay in the groove, hit the shift points, shut it down at the other end. Missed my light, I been out of the groove a couple of times... now I am pedalling like hell to make it to the beam.

The Winternationals in Pomona don't fire up until February 9. It's gonna be a long winter without Scelzi, Force, Elvis, nitromethane and... Formerly Living.

Advanced Consumer Economics - Part II

Beloved, welcome to another advanced session of personal financial debauchery, inspired by the gentle soul at greybeard university. When last we met, I was preaching mightily about the avarice and vice of personal debt, and especially credit card debt.

To review, debt is bad. Liquid assets, good. Credit cards with mandatory arbitration, "universal default", and 30% APR, bad. Cash, your own cash, not owed to anyone, good. I passed high school physics for reasons other than my respect for the scientific prowess and appreciation of such dark arts. I made it through my high school math classes by cheating, but even I can tell you, investing at 8% return, and servicing debt at 30%, is a no-win situation. Investing Inertia is a physically impossible until you have politely, but firmly, instructed MBNA, Household Finance, and the rest to to kiss your fat Irish ass.

However, that was Class I, and now that we have all accelerated our debt repayment (God Bless you John Cummuta), chopped up all but one emergency credit card, re-roofed your house with the credit card applications, paid both mortgages (3Q 2005, Americans drew $60 BILLION equity out of their homes in home equity or re-fi... don't make me stop this car!), and made the final payment on the car note (at 17.99%) it is time to move on to a higher plane of living. Before blithely stepping into the bold new world of investment, let's take just a second to see what kind of shape the finances are in now.

Think just a moment. If you get debt free, and learn to live debt free (easier than you might think), that means there is going to be a pile of money that you gotta stick somewhere.

Hmmm... more than half of all marriages end in divorce, more than 75% of second marriages also end in divorce. Across the country, states have "lawsuit reformed" legions of lawyers into other exploits, and searching more a new source of deep pockets. The passing of the Greatest Generation might not result, after all, in the largest transfer of wealth in the history of, overweight, moneyed, bald Americans everywhere. Part of the perfect storm of bankruptcy reform was the palliative relaxation of consumer protection from debt collectors. I continue to be amazed by the number of people unaware that aggressive litigants can freeze bank accounts without notice. In many states, it is possible for a creditor to freeze bank accounts WITHOUT having a judgment! Those cute little children that want to grow up and be doctors and lawyers... you better turn them into profit centers now! Take care of yourself? Workout do you? Great, you may outlive me, and even my third grade math tells me that Social Security will be no more than an historical anomaly at retirement age. Oh, yeah, and don't forget about the Chinese...

In short, there is a daily domestic insurgency targeted at relieving you of your ducats. As we learned last time, the secret is not what you earn but what you keep. If you build a pile, only so that some one else (be they ex-wife, lawyer, doctor or other scavenger) you still lose cause you didn't keep it.

Here then, is the nutshell survival guide for having your pile and keeping it to:

1) Emergency liquid reserves - Open a savings account. Forget that crap about 6 months worth of salary in savings, none of us mere mortals will ever do it, and sitting on that much cash is the same thing as painting a big red target on the aforementioned fat, Irish ass. Keep enough cash for a few months mortgage, baby food, diapers, whatever... For purposes of rule #1, assume that unmarked black helicopters exist.

2) Emergency hard assets - Gold can be purchased for cash. Gold can be sold for cash. Gold can be kept in a safe deposit box, a shoe box, or, yes, buried in a Mason jar in the back yard. Gold coins do not have serial numbers, deeds, RFID chips, blogs, girlfriends, allegiances or biases. Gold, just like your gun, should be kept close at hand at all time.

3) Let your wife be one of your bosses - With the rise of the Internet, there is officially no reason not to have your own incorporated business. Mileage, home office, utilities, health insurance expense, losses, carrybacks, uppers, downers, straights, MILFS... sorry, got carried away there. It ain't a tax gimmick, but it sure doesn't hurt.

4) Don't be cheap - Find a good probate/estate lawyer, and live with the idea that your CPA is your best friend. I have had the good fortune of working for hundreds of self-reliant entrepreneurs over a few short years. I like them because they try to do it themselves, and they screw it up really bad. Almost universally, it will cost you more for me to fix your screw up after the fact, then it will for you to educate me about your business and build in firewalls upfront. If you ignore Rule 4, forget about trying Rule 3. You will only hurt yourself and further disappoint your family and friends. Each year, the government creates a new bushel basket full of gifts for the peasants, but don't tell the peasants. Think of your lawyer and CPA as little Christmas elves to Uncle Sam's Bad Santa.

5) Financial planners are modern day feudalists - Financial planners are the used car salesmen of the financial world. A good CPA knows everything financial planner does, and more.

6) Exemption is not an excuse to get out of jury duty - Each state has a secretary of state. Most secretaries of state have web sites. Most of those web sites have a link to the statutory law of your state. Most statutory collections have some form of Property Code. Most Property Codes have some form of list of property that is considered exempt from all but ex-wives, IRS, student loans, and Vegan invaders. Learn those exemptions, memorize them, tattoo them on your girl friend's ass and your wife's forehead. Then pay your lawyer for an hour of his time to explain the exemptions to you, and how to use them.

7) Lawyers and CPA's are corrupt, incompetent liars - Managing your finances, particularly your retirement, is a part time job, but one that requires perfect attendance. You paid damn good money for the advice of your lawyer and your CPA, but don't blindly accept what they tell you. Make them copy sections of the statutory code or the tax code they are relying on. Make them explain everything, twice. Slip a little tongue to the librarian in the Personal Finances section, so that she gives you first dibs at new books and CD's. Read at least one of them a month. Don't know where to begin...? Refer a new client a month to your professionals, buy them a Pinch of scotch for Christmas, and they will put up with your crap.

If all this is overwhelming, well... tough, get over it. Hurricane Retirement/Insolvency/Divorce/Lawsuit is blowing in from the Gulf. You have been warned, and a mandatory evacuation order has been issued, requiring you to vacate your current state of ass-clownery. That cruise ship anchored off the coast? That ain't your temporary residence after the storm blows in, that is me, lounging in a stately seaborne penthouse, smoking a Cuban handrolled and engaging in other activities involving the thighs of virgins... sailing into the sunset on the HMS Formerly Living.

...but How does the Plate Handle Turbulence?

Yesterday, one of my cellmates was all atwitter about some great party that she and all of her female friends were going to (just that alone will be the cause of therapy down the road). All the women folk were getting together to shell out gobs of cash for the chance to a) put all of their screaming children in one room, b) dip their precious, sugar throttled feet into paint, c) fight the now kicking and screaming children WHO HAVE WET PAINT dripping from their feet, d) place aforesaid feet, wet paint and all, onto a crappy little plate, e) find some place to toss children, now screaming and squirming 16 on a 10 knob, while they fight and kick each other with WET PAINT dripping from their feet, f) wait 6 weeks for the crappy little plate, smeared foot print and cheesy graphic to return from wherever the magic fairies sprinkle magic dust on the finished product, and g) find some place on the wall to hang the plate, the plate that you cant use because it had feet with WET PAINT all over it, and h) find a comfy easy chair to sit back in and watch the plate while dust settles on it, ignoring the children growing up around them while they wax sentimental about the babies they once had. Did I mention the small children with WET PAINT on their feet?

After much heated debate, it was determined that I am not a sentimental type. (Apparently, I was forgiven for being a tightwad, for not wanting to sacrifice an evening for the "perfect gift for my wife", for not wanting to hang a damn useless plate on my wall, and oh did I mention the screaming knee-biters with WET PAINT ON THEIR FEET?!?!). Nothing could be farther from the truth, I am certainly sentimental, if not overly sensitive to my children. One of the few pleasurable distractions I have is photography, and other than anything remotely connected to the Alaskan frontier, photographing my children is one of my greatest joys in life. Sticking their inverted feet on a plate and making them look like turkeys wearing neck ties, doesn't capture anything about their lives or their smiles or who and what they are. That is not a remembrance of what that child is about at that time in their lives.

But these plates, this is nothing more than a clever way for someone smarter than me to rake in holiday cash from a bunch of bored moms.

There are, I suppose, varying degrees of sentimentality. The History Channel has a show about scrapping and recycling large ships, aircraft, cranes, heavy duty machinery. Steel from the Twin Towers is being used to construct select sections of the hull of a naval vessel, the New York. The glow of molten metal did not hold a candle to the pride in the eyes of the steel workers and ship builders working on the New York.

Generations of military aircraft are baking under the Arizona sun, at the Boneyard. A great show is made of dissembling certain aircraft in 90 day cycles, the wings busted off of the fuselage, sinking into the hot desert sand. I did not know, or had forgotten if I did know, that various models of aircraft are preserved in flight-ready, or nearly flight-ready, condition. Some of the aircraft, many in service since the 1950's (one hint, looks like a city with wings, craps more exploding tonnage than all French forces in all of history), can be returned to service in 60-90 days. I am fairly certain I saw at least 1 F-111 wearing the tell-tale paint of an aircraft being preserved for potential later use. I seem to recall, when all but some EF-111's were finally deactivated, that maintenance to keep them aloft was expensive enough to make even Bill Gates blush.

F-14's are kept flight ready, fitted with a couple of servos from Hobby Towne, and used as target practice for new air-to-air missiles. It is a damn shame to see the machines wasting away, or to have a Roman candle shoved up their ass by some 19 year old that thinks an A-6 Intruder is a body piercing, or a beta version of their X-Box.

Tonight, our local PBS station ran a documentary on the B-17 Flying Fortress. There are no superlatives I can dream up that haven't already been properly assigned to the Flying Fort. Anyone who understands the basic concept of lift has heard of the exploits of these aircraft, and the men who flew them. At the end of the documentary, they showed a quick clip of the Flying Forts still in flying condition (I don't know what year the documentary was made). By my count, there were 14, three of which are in Texas. Number 14 was the B-17 in Seattle that is in flying condition, but no longer flies... if I recall correctly, that is because some asshat tried to fly it from one field to another, and wound up doing a belly-flop. One of the remaining 14, Chuckie, resides here in Ft Worth. I try to make an annual pilgrimage to see her. I have taken my children several times.

With the passage, finally, of summer to winter, and in between volleyball, girl scouts, and basketball, I hope to take my children to see other true classics: the legendary P-51, P-38, and my two personal favorites the Corsair and the Catalina. I want my children to feel the thunder in their chest that only comes from the raw power of a Merlin engine, watch them jump at the crack of shotshell blast to obtain internal combustion.

I have decided that, in a few weeks, when the pot gets bigger, I am going to win the lottery. I will have my own flying piece of history. I need an expert in nose art, someone who can catch the true essence of my aircraft. I shall call her... Formerly Living.