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.

The White Noise of Pain

The first sign of any trouble was the numbness in my arm. I had been swinging a sledge hammer three nights in a row, chipping 30 year old tile off of the bathroom wall of my recently purchased first home, and I thought that I had done nothing more than strain my arm. Within a few weeks, the tingling and numbness had spread from my arm, up shoulder, into my face and eventually all the way down the right side of my body. When the numbness hit my leg, it was accompanied by weakness, some loss of muscle control that threatened to send me head first into the wall every time I stood without any support. My fingers felt like someone had stuck an airhose in my elbow and and pumped 500 psi into my fingers. I could not button my shirts, nor could I write; hell I could barely pick up a pen.

Rain Pryor, the lovely daughter of Richard Pryor, has also played a huge role in the National Multiple Sclerosis Society. Rain spoke at the national conference, and also displayed her beautiful singing voice. When describing the period when her father was first diagnosed with "MS", Rain said she thought MS meant More Shit, because it was being piled on top of the wives and the women and drug abuse. (You can imagine the gasps from the Krispy Kracker section of the audience).

I think she may have been on to something. It is no easy thing to care for or live with someone with MS. We often have "invisible" symptoms, and its easy to forget someone has MS, if they aren't in a chair or toting a cane. A common symptom of MS is fatigue, and it can be severe. Depression is not uncommon, and pain can be brutal. It doesn't take long for all of the factors to combine until someone with MS snaps for no apparent reason, gets angry, has outbursts, gets pissy... there is a higher incident of divorce for couples affected by MS. Already rocky marriages get severely tested. For the spouses, parents, children loved ones that serve as care givers, whether its MS or some other crappy disease... these people are my heroes. You can never know how much you mean to all of us.

Aside from the physical symptoms, MS can also cause a loss of cognitive function. In a family that loses a breadwinner to MS, things get really scary. Aside from the loss of income (pray god no loss of insurance at the same time), there are physicians, neurologists, MRI's, shots, therapists, wheelchairs, home renovations... and this is on top of mortgages, car payments, kids, kid's college. More Shit.

Before I got the diagnosis, I went through a CT Scan in the ER to rule out stroke. My primary physician, who somehow has bought shares of stock in diabetes, and who tried several times to tell me I was diabetic, decided that I was suffering some diabetes related nerve damage. He sent me to Tung the Enforcer. Tung had this neat little gizmo that consisted of two large hypedermic connected by 16 gauge wire to a bank of car batteries, by way of a power converter that was humming in a corner, with a slight blue glow. We spent a lovely morning together. Tung took the larger of the two hypedermic and plunged it into my elbow. The other hypedermic was alternatively stuck into my finger tip up to my wrist, and Tung measured the length of time that the electric current took to roast my forearm.

Clay Walker also found his way into our little gang, and has been active in fighting the beast within. He was scheduled to be in Atlanta to play a song or two for the brethren. We left early, still I hope he gave them one hell of a show.

Closer still to my heart, and displayed prominently with the vendors and exhibitors, some yahoo beat me to the punch. Robert Burgin had his car onshow. I tried to talk to him while he was on the exhibition floor, but he looked like he was in a hurry to get to the free bar. Probably figured out I take a drug manufactured by one of Avonex's competitors. That's ok Burgin, cause I am going to get my ride ticket, and I will kick your ass on the track... someday... somewhere, somehow...

I was exhausted when Burgin spoke to the general session, and slept through it. I was told later that Burgin was part of the most powerful and motivational assemblies of the entire week. I am sorry that I missed it. Drive on Burgin, keep the tree green and your slicks in the groove...

One of the hard lessons that Burgin had to learn, same as the rest of us, is that heat kills. The first summer I was going through my divorce, after I had been diagnosed, I was flat ass broke. My ex-wife and her attorney had every extra dime I made tied up in one BS "agreement" or another. My 1991 Cavalier, threatening to break 200,000 miles, decided that air conditioning was no longer necessary. I had to go to Dallas for a hearing, and decided I would be fine rolling the window down, cause, you know, I drive fast and what Texas boy couldn't make do with 70 mph a/c? I got back to the office about 2 pm, in peak heat of the day. It was all I could do to keep my eyes open, take a good guess at my own name, and what day that it was. I went to my apartment, turned on my pretend television (empty card board box with a couple of volume knobs stolen off of stereos displayed at WalMart... I eventually pawned it to pay her attorney's fees), and slept until the next day. I never made that mistake again, but my dreams of living out life as a pirate in the Caribbean or being a beach bum are pretty much over...

Based on the message coming from the NMSS in Atlanta, they are intensifying the fight against MS. The antiseptic war in the lab is spilling out into the streets. The reason is simple. While huge advances have been made in terms of developing drugs that significantly slow the chronic and debilitating disease, scientists have yet to find a way to reverse the damage that is left from the attacks that have already taken place. As an organization, the NMSS has calendared the year 2010 as THE YEAR to make this happen. I will be bothering a lot of people for a lot of contributions between now and then.

In the mean time, I will rely on the magic of Thanksgiving, bee pollen, and the sweet soothing voodoo love of... Formerly Living.

...and Squigy was in the Bathroom

This week, a special and dedicated group of people have converged on Atlanta to take part in the annual conference for the National Multiple Sclerosis Society. MS is a nasty little disease where the bodies' immune system engages in night time raids against healthy cells in the neurological system. The range of symptoms seems almost unlimited sometimes including weakness, fatigue, pain, loss of motor function, blindness... the list goes on but does not get prettier.

Not unlike compassionate conservatism, no one is really sure what causes it, or how to get rid of it. The slightly technical explanation is this: nerve strands in the brain and spinal cord are covered with a protective layer known as the myelin sheath. The attacks cause damage to the sheath, which leaves scarring. Sometimes the damage can go so deep as to cause nerve damage. Either way, the damage impedes the electrical responses or pathways that the body uses to process feeling and sensation.

Think of a section of electrical wire. Now take your handy dandy Leatherman and strip some of the plastic/rubber coating away. The exposed wire can short out the rest of the system. Rather than blow a fuse and wait for the electrician, when this short occurs in the human body, the things stop working, like legs, hands, eyes... In many cases the short is transmitted, or experienced, by the tinglies you get in your ass when sitting on an airplane for 6 hours. Or it gets transmitted into pure, unadulterated pain.

When speaking to groups, I prefer to liken it to taking a bite out of a jelly donut (it is supposed to be a visual trick, an excuse to eat a jelly donut). When the doughy outer layer is gone, the tasty fruity middle is exposed and after a while becomes useless (unless I have been drinking a lot, and there is no pizza and anything goes then).

There is no cure yet. The drugs approved by the FDA are all designed to slow or to halt the progression of the disease. Right now, all the approved meds are also in the form of shots, which just sucks.

Already this week, we have seen Fox News' own Neil Cavuto. Aside from surviving cancer, which I didn't know, Cavuto has MS. Beating me to the punch, and perhaps of interest to greybeard, Cavuto has written a couple of books now which share some pretty powerful stories about how we focus too damned much on finances and money, and do a huge disservice to our families and to ourselves. Adding both of those to my Christmas list...

One of the stories that Cavuto recounts is that of Dave Landers, who we all affectionately know as Squigy from the Laverne and Shirley days. Landers had MS for 15 years, hiding it from virtually everyone, so that he could keep his Hollywood career. Now, he is a scout for the Seattle Mariners. Landers wrote a book about his experiences with MS, "Fall Down Laughing". I lived in nearly complete denial for a year after I was diagnosed with MS. It was Landers book, his humor, and his perspective, that helped pave the way for my own personal acceptance of how my life had been changed.

I saw Landers in the bathroom first morning of the conference. He was shaving, he doesn't get around too well, and he didn't look quite as good as I remembered. I have been so consumed with job and family and the right now, I have not been as reflective or as introspective as I once was. I react, rush to beat deadlines, speed to the airport... in a very short time I had forgotten what a huge impact this man had in my life. It took me hours to process and to remember that. So I missed my my opportunity to tell him thanks. I will just blame it on my instinctive desire not to accost strange men in a public bathroom.

There have been many inspirational stories, and I will try to put up more about this over the weekend.

Outside events sucking my attention away from the conference, have forced me to be a bit more reflective and introspective. I am falling back into the same type of rut now that I did before the diagnosis, I am sacrificing time with my family for other things that I tell myself is best for my family. After the diagnosis, I ramped up all my old motivations and desires, trying to live life to the fullest. I am realizing now, living life to the fullest means quality, not quantity. I am doing so many things with so little results, working more on adrenaline than focus, justifying instead of being accountable, so many things that push me closer to... Formerly Living.