Four Dollars a Minute...

Four dollars a minute... that is the drunkard's math in figuring out his cost/her gross revenue for paying for the attention of an exotic dancer. At 20 bucks for a 5 minute trouser grind, the cost-benefit analysis is not dificult to understand. (Ironically, her business model is the same as mine. At a billing rate of 4 dollars a minute, and assuming that she generated equivalent funds for an hour shift, she and I both generate nearly half a million in gross revenue every year for our respective employer [and, yes I realize she is more likely an independent contractor but that is unduly complicated, but she can deduct her slutty clothes as a business expense and I get health and retirement so it is a fair trade-off], yet we both receive as compensation about one dollar an hour).

What is difficult to understand is why we don't apply the drunkard's math to more important matters. At the age of 35, between the MS, stress, family history of diabetes and heart disease, my undying love for wreckless and uncontrollable driving fueled by a motorcycle and now the Chevy Vega stationwagon with a 350 small block shoved in the engine compartment like a quarterback with his hand in the homecoming queen's skirt, it is likely that even with medical advances (and assuming that our eventual Chinese overlords do not mandate euthanasia at retirment age), it is safe to say I can make it to the age of 70.

On most days, by the time I get home, eat, change clothes, chase those damn kids off my lawn and lock away the mental abuses from the daily interraction with butt-nuggets at work (and assuming it isnt a head-fixing night, a Girl Scouts night, or a scheduled in-home demonstration of organic insect based slabs of meat in order to get the free chest freezer with the built in waffle maker and snowcone machine) it is generally 8 pm before I get to time that really feels like my time. Kids go to bed at 8:30, and at 10:00 I am horizontal as well. I stopped working weekends when I accepted that I am ordained to always be a worker bee, never a queen. So, that means each week I roughly have 2040 minutes of "my" time within which to live a life. That is 53040 minutes a year. Assuming no significant life style changes, that leaves 1,856,400 minutes left before our future Chinese overlords organically compress my remains into heating oil. At just over a dollar an hour, (and not adjusting for wage increases, unemployment, divorce, scandal, incapacity, inflation or rabies) that means the remainder of "my life" has a value of just about $2,000,000.

It ain't money in the bank, and it is not a comment on any particular intrinsic individual value. It is a line of credit that the universe has extended to me, accepted at millions of retailers world-wide. I can spend my dollar a minute credit with my kids, ignoring my kids, or looking for new and creative ways to write off my children an business expenses. At the bargain rate of a dollar a minute, I can find stupid reasons to be angry at my wife, or I can enrich her life and allow her to enrich mine, all for 2 dollars a day.

Two weeks ago, I got to see Child #1 and Child #2 for about 20 minutes. We talked, laughed, exchanged some gifts, acted almost like a normal modern family. It was damned sure worth more than a dollar a minute.

This one I been holding on to for a while. Two weeks ago, a rookie cop stopped to help a young woman on the highway change a flat tire. While in his patrol car, a 20 year old penis with legs who had been drinking too much slammed his car into Dwayne Freeto's patrol car at 84 miles per hour. Freeto was trapped inside, and burned to death. Officer Freeto was 34 years old, had a wife. Had two children. His family has shown incredible restraint in the wake of this senseless loss, so I have been waiting for my own anger to subside. A year later, I still have an unresolved anger about the shooting of Hank Nava, who also left behind a wife and offspring. Freeto didn't get to max-out his credit card of life. His time was inherently worth a helluva lot more than that of the most of the rest of us. Men and women like Officer Freeto and Officer Nava stand between us and the drunken walking penises so that we can safely arrive home and play with our children, whom they were protecting at school and on the bus ride home. Four dollars a minute doesn't even begin to cover the things that police and firefighters do for us. (The walking penis survived the crash. I pray that his case goes to trial. Next week I am going to renew my voter's registration, just on the off-chance I can get on his jury panel. Gonna save him a seat on my party-bus to Hell).

Today, my wife took the second of three strikes that could lead to a diagnosis of cervical cancer. Dollar a minute, dollar a second, whatever. I will pay it as long as I can get it. There is no dollar equivalent for the time we share together.

Come one, come all. Your hot spot for male entertainment. We take all major credit cards, and have 28 ATM's on site! This week only guys, for your visual pleasure, coming to the center stage (cue the techno umptiss-umptiss dance music) the lovely, the talented... Formerly Living.

Christmas Time Call to Action!

Beloved, I have been wanting to tell you all about BACA (Bikers Against Child Abuse) in a well thought out, organize, humorous and informative manner. Such is not to be.

Some time ago I told you a little bit about riding with the Patriot Guard Riders, an organization of bikers dedicated to honoring this nation's Armed Forces. While the experience is breathtaking, especially to someone who never had the balls to serve in uniform, it is also exceptionally painful.

For reasons best left to the psychiatrists right now, I have found an equally honorable and respected group of bikers. Indeed, I have found an extention of my family, through BACA. Without belaboring the point, BACA provides some incredible and unique services to children who have been subject to abuse. The BACA founder, a child psychiatrist, discovered that all of his positive work with abused children was easily undone when the perp still had means and access to intimidate the child and child's family; or worse, was able to continue the abuse.

BACA adopts the child into its family. Anyone who knows anything about bikers understands what this means. I have personally witnessed the fire and joy return to a child's eye when he or she meets 40-50 men, women and children who pledge their heart and soul to the protection and happiness of that child. It is a beautiful sight.

But I digress. This year, our chapter was the recipient of a beautiful, hand-crafted Betty Boop motorcycle quilt. Since Texas has apparently outlawed "raffles", we are taking donations for the opportunity to be given the quilt. I guess. I wish I knew a good lawyer to vet that language. (By the way, maybe we should open up a community post about why gambling is illegal in Texas, except for the state's own lottery...).

Anyway, the suggested donations are 1 ticket for $3 or 2 for $5. The quilt is being given away Friday night. The proceeds are being used to buy Christmas presents for the kids our chapter has adopted. Please email infinitegtr@gmail.com now to make arrangements to get your tickets.

BACA Child = Baca Loved, Baca Protected... Formerly Living

Every Dog has its Day

Today was nearly, a heart beat away, one last fitful display of pride away from being my last day as a lawyer. Others have gone on before, and have done well for themselves. I have a mortgage (two of them actually), and enough children to field a basketball team. The oldest starts college in 3 years, the youngest will be under my roof for another 16. Ringing bells for Salvation Army and filing pro bono appeals for death row inmates ain't in my immediate future.

Then a funny thing happened on the way to the office. Moses wretched down from the heavens and handed me the stone tablets again. Here they are, mostly in there original form, but also with a few updates...

This list, and a better attribution to the original source, can be located here:



1. One Top Fuel dragster's 500 cubic inch Hemi engine makes more horsepower than the first four rows of the Daytona 500.

2. A stock Dodge Hemi V-8 engine cannot produce enough power to drive the dragster's supercharger.

3. With 3000 CFM of air being rammed in by the supercharger on overdrive, the fuel mixture is compressed into a near solid form before ignition. Cylinders run on the verge of hydraulic lock at full throttle.

4. At the stoichiometric 1.7:1 air-fuel mixture for nitromethane, the flame front temperature measures about 7000 degrees Fahrenheit.

5. Nitromethane burns yellow. The spectacular white flame seen above the stacks at night is raw burning hygrogen, seperated from atmoshperic water vapor by the searing heat of the exhaust gasses.

6. Dual magnetos supply 44 amps to each sparkplug. This is the output of an arc welder in each cylinder.

7. Spark plug electros can be totally consumed during a single pass. After half-distance, the engine is dieseling from compression plus the glow of exhaust valves at 1400 degrees Fahrenheit. The engine can only be shut down by cutting the fuel source (or by dropping enough cylinders that the supercharger blows into billions of pieces from the backpressure).

8. If a spark plug fails early in the run, unburned nitro can build up in the affected cylinder and explode with sufficient force to blow the cylinder head off in pieces, or split the cylinder block in half.

9. In order to exceed 300 mph in 4.5 seconds, dragsters must accelerate at an average of more than 4 g's. In order to reach 200 mph before half-distance, the launch acceleration approaches 8 g's.(The Space Shuttle has a launch acceleration of only 3 g's. The shuttle requires 6 seconds to clear the tower, and 8 minutes to reach its top speed of 17,000 miles. A Top Fuel Car essentially launches at 100 mph, reaching top speed by the end of a 4.5 second run). The 8 g claim is disputed by some heretics, who have been banished from the church of Nitromethane. An F-16 fighter takes off at 0.9 g's. A Top Fuel dragster reaches 300 mph before you have completed reading this sentence. (The Space Shuttle, landing in Florida, begins its re-entry over Hawaii. Since the inception of the shuttle program, less than 200 missions have been flown. A Top Fuel dragster typically has a shutdown area of 3/4 of a mile or less. The engine and transmission is completely broken down and rebuilt, test fired, and in the staging lanes in 75 minutes).

10. The exhaust gasses alone are believed to provide as much as 2,000 pounds of downforce during acceleration. When a Top Fueler drops cylinders on one side of the block only, the loss of equilibrium, results in a loss of traction on the block side throwing cylinders. One dropped cylinder wont necessarily prevent a complete pass, but two or more on the same side of the block will almost always cause the rear-end to fish tail and drop out of the groove.

11. The rear wing provides 8,000 pounds of down force. High speed, high defintion cameras reveal the "bowing" of the a Top Fuel dragster frame during acceleration. Structural failure of the frame can send a car airborn, as Cory MacLenathan learned earlier in the 2006 season. Structural failure of the wing can send a Top Fueler into orbit. Even when all the pieces stay on the machine, aerodynamics can still temporarily defeat gravity, with spectacular results.

12. With a redline that can be as high as 9500 rpm, Top Fuel engines turn approximately 540 revolutions from stage to finish light. Including the burnout, the engine only needs to survive 900 revolutions.

13. Assuming all equipment is paid off, the crew worked for free, and nothing breaks, each run costs about $1000 per second. (A single rear Goodyear tire runs $425. Top Fuel cars might get four passes from a set of tires. Last season, the average cost to run a Top Fuel team was $3,000,000).

14. The current Top Fuel dragster elapsed time record is 4.428 set by Tony Shumacher at the conclusion of the 2006 season. The top speed record is 336.15 set by Shumacher in October 2005.

15. Parachutes are used to assist in stopping the Top Fueler. Pulling power and deploying the chutes results in 3-4 "negative" g's. A detached retina caused from the forces of the parachute assisted stop led to the end of the career of Big Daddy Don Garlits.

So sayeth the Gods of Speed. And the choir said... Formerly Living.

If I Have to Explain It, You Won't Understand

Yesterday, merrily barrelling through holiday traffic on the way to work, I was dicking around with another clown who was also riding a motorcycle in much too cold Thanksgiving-like weather. He zigged right, I zagged left, and the Nissan Frontier in front me decided it was a good place to slam on his brakes. Locking the brakes up on my scoot, I clearly remember the progression of thoughts racing through my mind. First was, I am gonna face plant in his tailgate. Second was, I wish my ex-wife was with me, so I could escort her to the Gates of Hell.

I have not won the lottery yet, because I was saving all of my luck for that moment. I was able to stop the bike, stop the "controlled skid" and maintain a heart rate below the "pop a brain vein" level without showing off my Evel Knievel impersonation. After roundly chastising myself for several minutes, then going over the list of lessons to be learned from my two-wheeled tom-foolery, there was that little voice that asked, "Why do you do ride this two-wheeled widowmaker?" Brave, but foolish little voice...

I don't know if the individuals in any generation in any society has been more willing to define themselves by what they do as this generation seems so eager to do. Some of the worst offenders have got to be lawyers. Our self-imposed and sometimes enforced ethics imprison us in a bubble, sets us apart form everyone else. Our current, overwhelmingly accepted architecure for day to day work models largely keeps us in our offices, seperated from everyone. For reasons not important here, most lawyers leave lawschool emotionally stunted. We spend all day around similarly emotionally-stunted lawyers, finding new ways to push one another's buttons. Life loses its color, and the only remaining fun is finding new and interesting ways to be too clever by half, and succeed at the favored past-time of our predecessors, commonly referred to as "trick-fucking" the other side. I have said it before, I hate the job, but I do so love the work.

Driving around mindlessly in a four-wheeled cage is another form of the same kind of isolationism. In my little pimp-mobile, I am in my own world, master of my domain, all I need is me, fuel, GPS, satellite radio, telephone and a DVD player to get drive the 20 miles into work without having to consider, or really even see, the world around me. Narcotized mental masturbation.

On the bike, I can smell the eggs and the chorizo from the whole in the wall Mexican food restaraunt that I ignored for a year. I can feel the drop in temperature and the increase in humidity as I drop over a ridge that conceals a creek bed running through the bottom. I can hear an approaching ambulance nearly a full 30 seconds before any of the P. Diddy-thumping, blunt smoking, cage driving retards surrounding me in traffic. Watching the Blue Angels practice a performance from the relative safety of an SUV is one thing, feeling the growl of a jet engine, feeling the vibration of your helmet as they roar past is something all together different.

Having avoided a permanent tattoo on my forehead advertising the Nissan Frontier, I rolled into downtown and into the realization that, whether I like them or not I have the same sensory appreciation of the squibs walking through downtown. 30 degree weather means a hell of a lot more to that crazy homeless woman who told me several years ago that I was too fat. After just 30 minutes in the cold, I was freezing my fat ass off.

The summer was the same, though I didn't realize it at first. A few blocks form the office, there is a newly formed whole in the ground that used to be an abandoned office building. I had a small hand in the bankruptcy that, somehow, ultimately led to the implosion of the building. During the summer, the mexicans doing the cleanup at the site walk across the street at lunch time, arms and faces glistening with sweat from the ungodly 100 degree plus heat. Many of them sit at the street corner, under sparse, precious shade.

On the bike, I pay more attention to young lovers walking hand in hand down the street. It is easier to read the body language and see who hates who, who is kissing up to whom, and who just wants to be some other place. Two weeks ago, a friend (since undergrad) who screwed me out of a sweet job opporunity a few weeks ago was walking through the crosswalk earlier than usual. No one else was around, and I had to fight the urge to run through him. We were breathing the same air, but his seemed cleaner, the rareified air of a man much closer to the top than myself. Asshole.

I watched one of our longtime panhandlers slide up next to a tourist or conventioneer. Fort Worth has some of the most creative, laid back and god-fearing beggars in the country. He was shucking and jiving just seconds after introducing himself, and even shaking hands, with his mark. I could see his pointing and gesticulations aimed generally westward. This meant one of two things, either he was using the tried and true line about the church not yet being open and needing a cup of coffee, or he was falling back on the sometimes more plausible, but less sympathetic story about his car being out of gas at the 7/11 on 7th Street, and his child is waiting on him in the car, and he just needed a little gas money to get back to Irving. I love our panhandlers here, and will take them over indigents from any other city any day of the week.

Riding the bike, narrowly avoiding cranial/tire inversion, dodging soccer-moms with a cell-phone in their ear and their head up their ass reminds me that I won't live forever. I cannot wait to get help for my older kids, living in an emotional hell. I need to call my mom and my dad, more often. My brother works within walking distance of my office, and we cannot even pull off lunch together once a month. I need to tell my wife everyday that I love her.

If I have to explain, you won't understand... Formerly Living.

Here is an early Friday freebie. Mildly NOT safe for work. Mildly funny.

Speeding towards the exit door... Formerly Living.

Open Letter to Senator James Webb (D-VA)

Let me be the first white republican male from Texas to sincerely applaud your victory. I know that you were entirely too busy in the closing days of the campaign to seek solace in my miniscule support, so I wanted to provide a brief summary of how you might finish what the GOP has started over the last several years: pulling folks like me out of the Republican camp.



1) Bankruptcy Reform – The BAPCPA bill is a god-awful mess, and my three year old son who still eats bugs could have done better drafting the legislation. It is costly for those who most need the assistance, punitive to lawyers who try to assist working families, and it takes too much discretion out of the hands of our bankruptcy judges.

2) Stem Cell Research – I have multiple sclerosis, which is currently uncurable. I have a wife, an ex-wife, and five children in the mix. I have no choice but to stay healthy and productive for as long as possible to support and enjoy my family (and to outlive my ex-wife). The President’s recent veto on the stem cell legislation was a betrayal of his living supporters, and your vanquished opponent flip-flopped on the issue.

3) Consumer Protection – Recent changes in federal law served to weaken consumer protection laws that had been enacted in several states.

4) Health Care costs – Republican led states throughout the nation have followed Texas’ lead in severely restricting medical malpractice lawsuits, with the promise of cheaper, better medical care. Some time has since passed since Texas entered this brave new era of medical care, yet my health insurance premiums increase 25% every year, and my neurologist recently admitted that malpractice premiums have not dropped since “tort reform” commenced. Some of my friends from law school would have me drawn and quartered if ever disclosed, but I would have been content with the reforms if the promised economic result had been delivered. If the savings from tort reform is not going to be shared with consumers, then the liabilities need to be borne by doctor’s and malpractice insurers. My father, never a hunter, always claimed he would go hunting once the deer was given a rifle and had a chance to fight back. The herd wants their weapons back.

5) IRS using private collection agencies – Please see what you can do your first day in office to roll this back. I used to deal with a lot of those collection agencies, and these are not the folks that the US Government wants representing them to the general public.


Because of your unique background, many folks like myself will be watching your performance with a cautious sense of renewed hope and more than just a little curiousity. Senator, please don’t let us down.

Sincerely,
Formerly Living

A Man and his Urinal

Not long ago, I was roundly chastised by an unclean, uneducated chap (no, not Don Rumsfeld)because of my strict adherence to an instinctive, but unwritten, set of rules regarding Men's Room Protocol. Here, beloved, is further evidence that I do not tire of being right all of the time.



Although not captured in the video, there are other rules:

1) While using the urinal, do not lean against the wall with either or both arms, hands, shoulders, etc.
2) Do not use your cell phone while depositing butt pudding.
3) Any person using the cell phone while seated is not entitled to any cease-fire of the flusher.
4) Do not stand around outside the bathroom waiting for a colleague. They can find the beer vendor all by themselves.
5) Since builders insist on putting changing tables in men's rooms, and have alerted women to this fact:
a) Men with small children in tow have the right of way
b) Men with small children in tow, while using said changing tables, are exempt from all posted rules.
6) Finally, do NOT cross the streams. That shit was funny in Ghost Busters, about the same time that you went on your first Boy Scout campout, had too much to drink, and joined in "pissing out" the camp fire. That is not acceptable behavior now.

Bringing peace on earth, good will to men, and far more pleasant, civil experiences in public restrooms... Formerly Living.

BurnLounge

Beloved, on the threshold of tonight's elections, during a period when politicians and other assorted liars have promised you all sorts of golden new days and bright shiny dawns... I give unto you the greatest of all gifts! Never before in the history of mankind has technology enabled you, me, your girlfriend, and your girlfriend's friend to merge my two greatest loves... Music and Money!

Better than Avon, more rewarding than Rainbow Vacuum, more lucrative than lottery tickets and a hell of a lot more fun than working... it is BURNLOUNGE!!! Yes fair readers, it is true! The crack(head) staff at Formerly Living is pleased, proud and downright giddy to anounce a joint venture of dynamic proportions, a partnership of ginormous import, a consummation of the that most unholy of alliances allowing you to buy and immediately download millions of songs without getting sued in federal court by the big bad Music Industry. And when you get tired of buying music from the Formerly Living music store, when you realize that you should be a producer rather than a consumer, when you get laid off only to arrive home early to find your wife sleeping with your divorce lawyer, YOU TOO CAN BE A MUSIC MOGUL!

Join the ranks of Sony, Virgin Records, and all those other guys who make money in a multi-buzzillion dollar industry. Be one of the fat cats instead of being eaten by the fat cats.

By the end of the year, BURNLOUNGE should have ring tones, movies, video games and home movies of me and Pamela Anderson!!! (Ok, well, not the last thing, but the others are all supposed to be in the works.

Run, crawl, take a taxi, ride an elephant, just get to the shiny new Formerly Living music store today! Hurry, go there now before it is covered in bodily fluids and Internet porn graffiti, just like... Formerly Living!

*** Election Update***
Seems that the State of Virginia has opted to shut down all of its public libraries and opted to burn all the books to keep warm this winter. Virginia is banned from the Formerly Living music store... go away! No music for you, one year...

"We Care about Fact, Not about Fiction"*

Sen. George Allen R-VA, has just put modern American literature in its place, and I for one am grateful. It appears that Sen. Allen has just "exposed" thousands of pages of bizarre literary references penned by his political opponent, Jim Webb, who hasn't had much to say for himself.

The media coverage is only the tip of the iceberg though. The crack staff of Formerly Living, using highly controversial techniques, have uncovered additional related scandalous literary evidence suitable for condemnation by even the most open-minded Republican. For instance:

1) Woman #1 studs her husband out for a one night stand with Woman #2, and in trade, receives narcotics belonging to the son of Woman #2!

2) Young girl is raped by her brother, and the authorities do nothing. Years later, he is murdered by his own brothers for his in-house activities.

3) Man has unprotected sex with a hooker, and gets her pregnant. Oh, and the hooker is his daughter-in-law. The hooker is condemned to death for being such a feckless whore, until she goes on Jerry Springer and informs the world that her father in law is the child's father. Not only is she allowed to live, but gets a multi-year book and movie deal.

4) In another sordid tale, a man pimps out his own wife. After being raped and murdered, she is tossed back on his front porch. With nothing better to do, he chops her ass up.

5) Two girls are so hard up for trouser-snake, they slip their own aged father a rufie in his booze, and bear his children.

6) Son screws his old man's whore. In his old man's bed. Video available on YouTube.

7) This may be the worst yet. You've been warned. Man finds an abondoned baby in a field, cleans it up, takes it in, feeds and clothes it. Baby grows up to be a whore. Man then gets her pregnant, she kills all of their sons and daughters so she can gang bang the neighbors. Man complains that she is giving it away rather than charging for a piece of ass. Man beats her bloody, while her lovers watch, then invites the lovers to kick her ass also. Then he starts talking about what a tramp and whore the girl's mom and sisters were.

What kind of freak show are the voters in Virginia hoping for? What the hell are they thinking? Oooppps, I forgot to mention that the above examples are not things written by Jim Webb. In order to meet the FCC obligations of equal perversity, these are all examples of writing from a book that Senator Allen undoubtedly carries around with him.

Drudge was kind enough to offer up citations of Webb's works, so we thought we should do the same for the stuff in Allen's book. In the order in which they appear above:

1) The Bible. Genesis 30: 14-17.
2) The Bible. 2 Samuel 13:1-19.
3) The Bible. Genesis 38: 13-29.
4) The Bible. Judges 19.
5) The Bible. Genesis 19: 31-38.
6) The Bible. 1 Chronicles 5:1.
7) The Bible. Ezekiel 16.

You have got to be kidding me. Here, after all this time, I thought that we had moved beyond book burning. Has Allen actually read any of Webb's books? Has Drudge? Has CBS? Have you? I haven't. And for the record, it has been a good 25 years since I read the Bible. And I ain't gonna read it again, because the 7 examples above are so disgusting, and are so contrary to my high moral fiber that I refuse to have that kind of filth in my home where my children sleep, in my mind where I communicate with God, or in my mouth that I use to talk to my momma.

I don't need to see the context they were written in, and I don't need to know if there is some moral judgment or some moral lesson that the author is trying to make. All I need to know is that I am offended by adultery, incest, rape, murder, domestic abuse, prostitution, orgies, underage sex and anything at all having to do with Little Debbie snack cakes (she is a slut). All of those things are in there, so that makes the book evil, the author a purveyor of smut, and the entire work a damnable piece of filth that will undoubtedly lead to the destruction of our civilization as we know it. I am so worked into a lather, I am not sure which book and which author I am referring to now. Do you know? Can you tell? Or perhaps, maybe there is no difference in the intellectual analysis, or lack thereof between the two positions.

For the last 3-4 years, the Republicans (my last voting registration had a big R on it, so dont give me any crap) have been hiding Mark Foley in the page's closet and let him run rampant with his IM name of PeachFuzz69. They want to talk big about law and order and protecting children and... well, whatever else sounds good rather it makes sense or not. Webb is a former Marine, a decorated combat veteran, a historian, an award winning author, served under Reagan and was the Secretary of Navy.

A passage in a fictional novel about a guy flipping his son upside down and nipping in his noodle may, at the end of the day, be some sick, twisted admission that he likes to cruise the same sites as Mark Foley and hang out at the local Catholic church rectory. Or it might be something all together different. Maybe determining what that all together different thing requires maturity, intellectual honesty and a certain amount of personal character that most politicians fail to display. I will wait, Senator Allen, while you consider your answer.

Texas was the spawning ground for "No Child Left Behind" and the standardized tests that come with it, thanks to Il Presidente Bush. Taken in a vaccuum, out of context, No Child Left Behind looks just as good as Webb's subject-matter looks bad. Why? No Child Left Behind sounds great, but once you get past the political expediency, it is an unmitigated failure. Texas' education system ranks at the bottom of public school systems in the country. Why? Its because we don't leave any child behind, so long as our children know how to take a POS test that some pointy-headed retard in Austin dreams up while he puts in his time before he runs for governor. What that means is that the entire year is spent teaching our children how to take the TAKS test. Do we care if our children really know and understand basic mathematic concepts, do we care that our children do not read or think independently? We would rather standardize and tranquilize young minds instead of teach them how to flourish, and embolden them to be strong where we as a country have become weak. Children are not promoted to the next grade for fear they cannot pass the TAKS test. Teachers routinely lie and cheat so that their students pass the TAKS test. Just because something looks politically expedient Senator, don't make it right. This little scam of yours is insulting to Virginia, and to Mr. Webb.

Senator Allen, as an elected official to a national governing body (thank god I gradjeeated b4 No Child Left Behind, and know how some things work), your actions, your ideas, your legislative agendas have the potential to effect my children, my families and my loved ones. On the eve of a big election, what is your grand plan? You bang on Webb for his tales of fiction!!!!! Because the ficitonal characters in Webb's fictional novels do very bad things to sometimes very weak people, that automatically makes Webb an evil person who does bad things? Can we, Senator Allen, hold you personally responsible for the smut in the bible? What about the things I didn't cover? Are you violent, because the characters in the bible are violent? Are you a misogynist because misogyny is advocated in the bible? Are you incestuous because there is incest throughout the bible?

Let's do this. You put down that bible you undoubtedly thump, and also set aside Webb's written works. What do you have Senator? Do you have something you are in favor of, something to help my family or improve our lot in life? Your colleagues hurt a huge section of this country when you screwed up Bankruptcy Reform last year. Your president (whom I voted for last election, so give me crap for being stupid) has clamped down federal funds on stem cell research. My multiple sclerosis is a lot more subtle than Michael J Fox's Parkinson's disease, but you betrayed me and millions others based on some dubious science. How about that pill-popping hypocrite Rush Limbaugh (whom I used to listen to on a daily basis), calling Fox a mislead victim. Texas Republican Phil King tried to pull the same stunt in Texas a few years ago, by sneaking through so-called "anti-cloning" legislation that would have made it illegal for me to go overseas and receive treatment for my currently incurrable MS, if that treatment involved any cell replication technology. Don't you dare look with sympathy at me for being a mislead victim. I read and understand legislation. I don't blindly accept pablum as gospel just because high-brow "know-it-all" politicians like you tell me I should believe it. Lucky for you I can't vote in Virginia, so that after I publish this post, I will forget all about you and your stupid-ass clumsy attempt to shame someone for his works of fiction. Have you read all of these books by these folks? Are you going to condemn them as well?

Senator, I am half-way through my first novel. It involves rape, murder, drug use, alcoholism and racism. I am neither rapist, murderer, drug addict, alcoholic, nor a racist. I love ALL of my children, I love my wife, and have forsaken all other women for her. I try to be honest in my business dealings. I try to stay healthy, despite the high cost of my medications and my health insurance. I worry about the piss-poor education my children receive, and I worry even more about the sky-rocketing costs of college tuition (largely brought about under Republican administrations at the state level). Is there something you can point to in Webb's books and show me is the cause of these problems? Be careful what you point to sir, chances are it's in your good book...

I haven't voted in a while, but maybe I will move to your lovely state and start. I am bringing my novel with me if I come. Wake the villagers, sharpen the pitchforks and find a couple of torches to lead the mob, because I am a bad, bad man. The book's title? One Bad Child-Beating, Wife Killing, Pill Popping, Sister Screwing, Puppy Kicking, Rock and Rolling Mother Fucker... by Formerly Living.

*If you weren't paying attention to the video, you missed him make this Quote about fact and fiction. Irony, I love you.

... so it turns out I am Sick after all...

The happy pills are finally kicking in, at the end of my sessions neither I nor my counselor are balled up in a corner crying uncontrollably, and I haven't seriously threatened to snatch the life out of any one since at least Father's Day. By all accounts I am far more well adjusted then ever before. I feel like I have been rehabilitated, I have turned over a new leaf, I am a new man.

All that being said, this is fair warning of an impending, eye-bulging rant. Will try to throw in a freebie that someone actually appreciates to make up for it, but if you don't wanna risk it, maybe you should leave now. There is one piece of unfinished business, and the day of reckoning has arrived, a proper accounting is now due.

I don't know how anyone found it, but the post that generated the most response from my wild gesticulations on my humble little digital soap box was this one, addressing some "heart attack" serious issues with Child #1. That ain't been resolved. Nothing has changed except that the status quo has become more acceptable as the status quo.

Saturday night of Father's Day weekend, Ex-wife calls to inform me that Child #2, currently 500 miles away at church camp (yes, on Father's Day weekend), just informed a camp counselor that Child #2 had been molested. The previous summer. In my home. By the sibling of New Wife.

The next bit of information was not about how Child #2 was currently doing, or when Child #2 was coming home. The next thing out of Ex-Wife's mouth was, you have lost all credibility with Child #1. Curious statement, given that Child #1 had only talked to me once in the preceding 2 years.

Until now, I have not even revisited that evening in my mind. Beloved, do not ever let me catch you claim that it isn't in you to hurt another human being; because if that is true, you aren't paying attention. Once a person regresses to the animal state, it is far easier to justify evicting them from the realm of living man. Fortunately for me, my brother, being somewhat more level headed than I, saw to it (or at least made me believe he had seen to it) that local law enforcement in-between me and the termination of my planned 6 hour joyride presented enough of a barrier to prevent me from staging what very likely would have been my grand finale.

My brother, by the way, has not talked to me since. There are apologies to be made, other sub-accounts to be settled. Even in my bloodlust stupor, I reached out to him. Nada. Nada y nada.

As part of the statement of Child #2, the allegation was raised that dear old dumbass dad, and New Wife, were too intoxicated to realize what was happening at the time of attack. In fact, a huge portion of the investigative complaints were not about the attack itself, but about how shitty a parent, and a person, Dear ol' Dad is.

In law school, we were taught phrases such as "Texas Two-Step" and "Custody Catch-22". This was the scenario that gave birth to such clever little sayings. Lie, and cop to being a drunk, wreckless parent with patent disregard for the health and safety of his children; or parry with the truth (at least as it applies to Dad and New Wife), and create avenues to punch holes in reasonable doubt in the event that sibling lived long enough to go to trial.

Child Protective Services came to my home. They took pictures of children #3-#5, whom live with us. Asked me if I was a drunkard, or if I skipped merrily through life in wreckless disregard for the welfare of my children. Had I ever been accused of abuse, had I ever been abused (only by ex-wife).

I stopped communicating with close friends in both the DA's office and the Court of Appeals, for fear that I would be accused of using my influence to obstruct the investigation.

Without any court order, Ex-Wife cut me off from communicating with Child #2. When I politely told Ex-Wife to kiss my fat Irish ass, she pressured Child #2 until Child #2 stopped sending emails.

The summer, and the investigation drug on. CPS cleared us of whatever the hell we were accused of. Ultimately, the detective closed the case. She, like I, believe that something did happen. What, how, when are questions not likely to be answered. One of the biggest weaknesses in the case was the focus on Dad's failure as a human being that was rampant throughout the witness statements.

The price paid by everyone involved has been dear. Child #2 lost an innocent part of childhood, I may have lost Child #2 to the same black abyss as Child #1, I damn near lost my marriage, and probably lost my brother. The holidays will be even tougher this year than last. Neither of my older children are likely to be around, and I do not want the in-laws around. Sibling still lives with or near New Wife's parents, stealing from them, lying to them, hiding behind them. The fact that Sibling still draws a breath at all keeps hot fires burning in dark places inside of me.

Over the weekend, nearly on the verge again of likely self-destruction, I discovered an often discounted and overlooked ghost of a mental, emotional and legal concept that may be more prevalent, and more dangerous, then cancer, AIDS, diabetes and cranial/anal inversion combined. Thanks to the Eagles, I have long been suspicious of any "syndrome" that might excuse immature or irresponsible behavior. That was before I married the Wicked Bitch of the West, and before I fell prey to her implementation of Parental Alienation Syndrome, which was first described by Richard Gardner. The more I read about it, the angrier I become. Child #1 demonstrates behavior in every single category, and seems to place somewhere between moderate and severe. Some of the literature indicates that the alienating parent, (you read this as Ex-Wife), is a sociopath, or some equivalent soulless whore. Despite the fact that a significant number of non-custodial parents probably have seen some of this, despite the fact that millions of children are likely being disaffected from one of their parents without justification, Gardner has been treated like a whipping boy by courts and colleagues. I guess he doesn't hold his pinky out at the correct angle while sipping his tea.

The new kid on the block, Richard Warshak is in my neighborhood. Just his introduction to his book Divorce Poison had me crying like a baby.

One of the best new magazines on the rack today, Best Life, did an article a few months ago on the emotional, financial and legal burdens that children and that target parents suffer when the custodial parent goes off the reservation. I pray God that everyone forwards one of these articles, books or papers around (same way that Sibling will be traded around someday), so that no child and no parent ever has to go through this kind of emotional hell again.

Ok, I am done. Held it together fairly well, I don't think I committed too many crimes, nor did I violate many of the tort laws of most states. As a half-ass freebie, and to restore some good karma go check out Ken Sklute, just don't tell him that I sent you. If he digs through the archives enough, I probably have knicked some of his copyrighted material, probably best we not bring that up. Try this one also, I don't think I gave you this before. Brut is giving away tickets to the Sun Bowl, and I think Ron Capps will be the celebrity referee for the bench-clearing brawl scheduled for the third quarter.

Go Home. Hug your children. Warn them about...Formerly Living.

Do Not Make Me Smote You...

The Kansas asshats, also known as the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kansas, apparently are not satisfied with merely spewing insidious venom at the families of deceased US service members and their families. Given that picket protests that the pseudo-Christians have engaged in, which by most accounts have included celebrating the deaths of fallen service men, as well as taunting their families at the funerals, one would think that 1) the asshats are seeking an expedited meeting with their maker and 2) that some crusty old Marine would have already arranged the meeting. The fact that these jackasses have been neither dispatched with extreme prejudice, nor at least committed, says volumes about the restraint of this nation's war vets, and the complete failure of our nation's mental health system.

According to Fox News, the Kansas asshats (feeling some swagger since the military doesn't jack with them, and tired of picking on gays) has now decided to get really tough and start beating up and murdered Amish girls. Apparently, those poor young ladies had their lives tragically snatched away from them because God was angry, and rather than flood selected sections of Topeka, or cause all the pedophiles in Congress to be sucked into an express lane to hell, ol' Grumbly Ass upstairs arms a milk man with weaponry and decides to bitch slap the Amish...? Beloved, I only pick up my bible when ex-wife uses it to explain to my children why I am going to hell, but I am pretty damned sure that I have never seen any passage about Though Shalt not Kill, Unless its the Amish and I Happen to be Good and Pissed off.

You Fuckers in Topeka just keep spewing that venom. When you finally get what is coming to you, I have already made your travel plans for you. You have special seating in Hell, right next to... Formerly Living.

Finding New Religion, and Maybe Another Freebie

Beloved, I hope you don't take my freebies for granted. Some time ago, I posted a link for the Ultimate Nitro Fan package. As it turns out, someone near and dear to me actually won the Dallas package. We were hosted by Ron Capps, Kenny Koretsky (who as you may remember, had that gawd-awful collision with Bruce Allen last year in Dallas during Friday night qualifying... Kenny told me his T-shirts have been selling like crazy ever since The Wreck), the Serta Top Fuel team, and the good folks of the NHRA. We go to meet the Sarge, Greg Anderson and Jason Line sponsored by Summit Racing, Brandon Bernstein, and this clown, who I am still undecided about, having now met him in real life. His wife and oldest daughter were wonderful, warm people though. We got to tour NHRA operations during the race, met the wacky Bob Frey. We got to go the top end of the track while comp and super comp classes were running, driving towards the starting line, trackside, while dragsters were running at us at 200 m.p.h. We stood center track, just behind the mondo-cool Rick Stewart, official starter for NHRA, while the Funny Cars did burn out and launch during Saturday qualifying. Sunday, we hung out back stage before driver introductions, and I got autographs from JR Todd, Scelzi, Sarge, Scott Kalitta (who looks just as stoned as Connie), Greg Anderson (who I always thought was a real dick until I met him, turns out he is very approachable, very friendly), and this guy again, who wouldn't touch my Sharpie. If it wasn't for Austin Coil, I don't think he would have any friends at all ( and I'm not so sure that Coil likes him all that well either). I will have to continue to love and stalk him from a distance, I don't think I care for him too up close and personal.

My whole paradigm has changed. I don't think in terms of race. color, creed, religion or sexual preference now. It's all about the Nitro, either you got it or you don't.

Stick with me fair reader, I will show you the path to fame, fortune, wealth, the occasional case of the clap, and a lifetime supply of... Formerly Living.

Father Doesn't Know a Friggin' Thing...

In the late 80's and early 90's, I breifly flirted with full-on bleeding heart style liberalism. If you aren't already, just envision small town Texas boy away from home for the first time living amongst folks from a different racial/geo political/socioeconomic class. I tried liberalism, but I didn't inhale.

One thing I did take away with me though, aside from white man's guilt and the understanding that no government employer, no college, and few employers would ever "especially encourage" my application, (I used to joke that I was going to become a black, Jewish, lesbian woman just so that I could get preferences in government contracts), was the idea that dear old lovable Dad just isn't important any more. And I am not talking about my Dad, I mean all dads, fathers or papas in our little culture.

For reasons that aren't important for right now, that little issue has festered and threatened to spew puss all over my psyche for 15 years. Now, it has happened, and the creamy white infected ooze that is the concept of "marginalized fathers" is dripping off of me just like a bad scene out of the director's cut of Pulp Fiction.

This parental acne started to come to the surface last year whil I was on the road. 30,000 air miles last year, and only one time do I get an aircraft with an in-flight movie. The movie was the big screen adaptation of the run away best seller book Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants. If you have daughters over the age of, like, 8, they have seen it. If you haven't seen the movie, call CPS and turn yourself in. With a light-hearted approach to teen sex, and an understanding nod to teen angst, the only real moral dilemma the movie pretends to be serious about is how the typical teen age girl can cope with hopelessly imbecillic, thoughtless, conniving, cheating, home wrecking fathers who seem to go out of their way to step on their weiners and piss-off the all omnipotent teenage daughter.

Fine. Hollywood churns out enough just enough films with lesbian starletts that the score stays pretty even. Hollywood hopefully will not get the final say on the matter, but a new book out called The Disposable Male, does not offer much hope, at least from what I can tell. First Darwin was put on trial by the Bible-thumpers, and now I think he is going to be in deep shit with the folks from NOW as well...

Fast forward to two weeks ago. Wife tells me, in no uncertain terms, and with no real pleasant tone of voice, that come hell or high water, she is going to witness the birth of her sister's child when the annointed time comes and the heavens part, raining down the blessings of another future ungrateful child upon the ranks. Something is troublesome to me though, in that lovely wife and jovial sister have laid out all sorts of plans regarding breathing and positions and size of plastic hot dog tongs to be used during the delivery.

What, I wonder (and out loud which was my first mistake), will the new dad be doing while my sometimes stubborn and opinionated wife and her stubborn and over-bearing sister gang up to bring the new bundle of joy and love into the world? Conveniently, the proposed new papa claims to be scared, uncertain of himself, and in need of the motherly guidance of women almost without regard to which women provide same.

Mind you, new papa carries a badge and a gun for a living, so he doesn't get any more of a break for being scared than any of the rest of us millions of new fathers that go through the same range of fears and emotions. These trials and tribulations are where we learn to be dad. Of the 5 children that presently, or recently, called me dad, I attended the birth of 4 of them. 3 were c-sections, and 1 was a natural birth.

The in-laws attended the natural birth. They sat and played cards in the corner. Half way through the ordeal, a Domino's pizza guy showed up with hamburger and extra cheese deep dish. Somebody turned on a radio that only picked up 8 different country stations and one local hip-hop community access station. Not to be outdone, someone else turned on Springer, and turned it up real loud to drown out the radio. When the doctor arrived, the quarreling parents tried to settle a bet by asking the doctor whether he preferred Keystone to Lone Star. This was not how I had planned on bonding with my new bride, new son and new family.

15 years ago, shortly after the birth of my first beloved child, an event occured that proves my point. At the behest of my (former) young bride, I was riding in a 25 mile bike event with her friends from her church. 3 miles into the "Branch Davidian Road Rally and Peanut Festival", new bride and new baby slide to a halt in momma's car right behind my bike. After we picked up our bent and mutilated bikes, and stopped the bleeding, new wife explains that she thinks precious little bundle of joy just had a seizure and what should she do now?

I fought the urge to respond by referencing the more obvious choice of driving to the emergency room, which she drove past on the way to find me, in the hopes that she could find a real physician instead of searching me out as I only played a physician when conversing with the entertainers at certain gentlemen's clubs. Instead, I pretended to look calm and cool while I frantically searched the eyes of the crowd around me looking for some clue as to what to do next. And at that moment, that was when I realized that I was the only father in the crowd. More importantly, I was dad to this little baby that maybe was ill. I was that dad, I had to make a decision with no reliable information, and everyone was watching me now to judge and evaluate how I handled this.

The baby was fine (at least for the first 12 years, after that child #1 has become possessed by the same demons that get all teen agers). I didnt get, and didn't deserve, a medal for how I handled that situation. I did my job as a dad, just like millions of other fathers do every day. We do that job of dad, and try not to screw the kids up too badly along the way. And others are always standing around, looking like empty-headed dumbasses, but they are all evaluating and judging our performance.

During the birth, that moment when husband and wife become mom and dad, sometimes new dad needs a little shove and needs to go through everything required to bring baby in for a smooth landing before giving the stork a little kick in the ass and sending him back to Babydom.

This little encounter with wife, sister-in-law and new daddy Johnny Law bothered me so that it became a heated encounter during the next session with the marriage counselor. The counselor, also of the "sit down to pee" persuasion settled the matter in her mind by concluding that, if the woman is pushing the baby out, she gets to choose who is in there with her, including the whole Ringling and Barnum Bros entourage if she wants.

Maybe so. Maybe dad isn't needed in the delivery room. Hell, if momma and her sister, or her momma, or the whole friggin village can bring the child into the world, maybe they can raise it without dad. Lord knows, dads these days are prone to make mistakes and my ex-wife will be the first to admit that she is error free when it comes to our kids.

Or maybe, just maybe, if dad is given half a chance, and sometimes a little nudge, he and momma and baby will all be just fine. Maybe the starting assumption should be that the delivery, at least the first one, is such a sacred moment between mom, dad and baby that no other non-medical folks are allowed, period. If good old Doc Slappy Nuts can make me turn off my camcorder during the actual delivery, he can damn sure keep Beulah the Chain Smoking mother-in-law out as well. But what the hell do I know, I am just Dad, and not too good at that by most accounts.

Paging Dr. Slappy Nuts, Dr. Slappy Nuts to delivery! It's crying again and we need to spank... Formerly Living.

Prophylactic Friday Freebie

I think I meant Pre-emptive Friday Freebie, cause it is Thursday and, well, not Friday. If I don't do this now, I will forget, and there will be no Friday freebie. This isn't mine, I stole it from some one else. Feel free to steal it as long as the link is good.

Have a Happy Freakin Prophylactic. I mean, Friday, have a Happy Friday... Formerly Prophylactic... I mean Living dammit, Formerly Living.

So you Wanna be a Lawyer...

For some inexplicable hiccup of cosmic injustice, a dear friend of mine is taking a severe ass-pounding by the legal system, which happens to coincide with rumblings that my ex-wife is warming up the K-Y so that she can lay some more justice upon my backside as well.

So my friend asked me in passing a few weeks ago, isn't it right that law school is a three year endeavour. I told him that was correct, but the first three semesters are all that really matter. Those first three semesters look like this:

Fall 2006 course listing
1) Fee Agreements – The Reason We are all Here
2) Basic legal terms to Baffle and Amaze clients
3) Getting Paid, despite a Piss Poor Fee Agreement
4) Sleeping with Office Staff w/o Getting disbarred
5) Attorneys and Substance Abuse – Learning how to Function in a Fog of Alcohol, controlled substances, and anti-depressants w/o getting disbarred

Spring 2007
1) Fee Agreements – Drafting the sanction-proof agreement
2) Code Words to Let Other Attorneys Know you are as Stupid as they Are
3) Ethics – Learning to Discern what the Meaning of “is” is
4) Sleeping with Clients w/o Getting disbarred

Summer 2007
1) Cheating on the Bar
2) Learning how to Explain why you failed the Bar the first Three attempts
3) Billing your time for work done by Paralegals in India
4) Sleeping with Judges w/o getting disbarred

We hope you have enjoyed your legal education as much as we have enjoyed your tuition money! And now for your commencement speaker... Formerly Living.

Money for Nothing

Wanted to give you a little Friday freebie, wound up staying in office until after 7:00 pm, doing OPS (Other People's Shit), and didn't get around to taking care of my peeps. So you get freebie, and a little Sunday morning bonus too...

For the guitar player/hot rodder in your life, Gibson guitars is hosting a sweet giveaway in conjunction with Hot Rod Magazine. The picture above is the guitar I would have if I could trade my ex-wife for anything in the world. The Indian was discontinued a couple of years ago. I wish she was too...

Anyone living in the Metroplex knows that we are paying the highest rates for residential electricity in the country. Anyone who reads above an 8th grade reading level knows that the reason that is the case is because Texas loves business, and businesses love Texas. See, even in the wake of the California power de-regulation fiasco (which, if you have forgotten, lead to Enron and gaming of the grid that led to rolling blackouts), Texas forged ahead with its own de-regulation of the power industry in Texas. As a result, providers like TXU, playing apparently well within the rules, set their price to beat mark (which is based on natural gas prices, more on that in a minute) right after Hurricane Katrina hit. Natural gas was at, or near, record highs. So too have been our electricity prices. Admittedly, energy usage in Texas has been at a record high as well.

Fast forward a year later. Natural gas prices are off of last year's numbers because New Orleans was not completely smoted, and production is coming back online (I am purely guessing about that, don't bust my balls). TXU rates are set based on the price of natural gas, based on the once pre-dominant theory that power plants would be fueled by natural gas instead of coal. Two months ago, TXU tee'd up a request to the state of Texas to allow it to build 11 new generating units to meet increasing demand. Those 11 new plants are natural gas fired, right? No, beloved. TXU, experiencing record profits because of the price to beat mark, determined by natural gas prices, wants to build 11 brand new coal fired plants. (However, remember my advice from long ago, if you can't beat them, profit from them... ).

Coal is cheaper than natural gas, so TXU profits will be even greater (as long as current pricing stays in effect). Natural gas is cleaner than coal, so this must be some evil conspiracy to keep jacking up my sunsets by dumping more crap in the air, thereby perpetuating the cycle of harsh summers from gloab warming causing me and all my neighbors to use more electricity to cool our homes thereby requiring more coal fired plants, leading to more pollution, requiring me to use even more energy to cool my home... well, I made some ofthat up to, but you get the point.

One of the least consumer friendly industries is the power generation industry. I am as pro-business as most red-blooded Texas boys, but the power-gen folks are in the same category as those damned little college kids that show up at grandma's door with a cooler full of freeze dried steaks and a notebook full of ridiculous flip charts. Three hours later, Grandma is sucked into a contract that doesn't disclose the inflated prices she pays for the meat, the vegetable add-owns, or the "free" chest freezer that is supplied to house all of her new goodies. Friends, Texas power-gen is knocking on the door, and they have a chest freezer they wanna give you...!

So this morning I learn about this guy. This guy is the first of, I hope, many who will tip the scales back in favor consumers when it comes to dealing with residential power-gen. Power-gen is head and shoulders above the rest of us in learning how to game prices and keep screwing the other side. At ChooseEnergy.com, not only do they show you how to get the best deal on prices, they will alert you through email new ways to save money on residential electricity by learning, and gaming, the system. Even has a complete portion o f the site dedicated to 'splaining the current system in Texas.

Sorry, if I sound like a Man on Fire, but I am sick and tired of watching my friends and neighbors get hosed on their energy costs. There have been some dangerous, disheartening changes in this country the last few years, that have nothing to do with 9/11 or terrorism or the asshats in Lebanon. Salaries are stagnant, the cost of housing has sky-rocketed, retirement is a joke. Since bankruptcy reform, bill collectors and credit card companies have become more brazen (on both sides of the transaction). Hell, even the IRS is now farming out collection activities to private collection agencies. Grab your ankles friends.

The folks at ChooseEnergy.com are doing the rest of us a helluva big favor. Use him to switch, buy ad space, tell your friends and neighbors about him. Me, I am gonna sign him up for a different sweepstakes...

I was gonna save this for later, but since I have been so surly, and on a Sunday morning to boot... Please do yourself a favor and go check out this guy's work. He is called the Spirit Painter, and with damn good reason. The website does no justice to his works because of the subtlety of most of his work. I will do a post about him in a few days, because this was one of the mystical, magical experiences that the anonymity of the Internet allows me share. But as a primer, go see the site first...

ONE more thing (help, I cannot stop myself...)! Silver is sitting at just under $13 an ounce. Gold is far too high at current market, at least until new technologies require greater use of gold. Ten ounce and hundred ounce ingots/bars of silver are good buys. Try here, tell 'em who sent ya'!

That's it, that is all the freebies for you today. Go away and make your ex-spouse miserable and your children less embarrassed to know you. Look forward to the next freebie though, I will show you how to get a good deal on a free pinata, and if you hold it sideways, squish your eyes together, sneak a toke and look real closely, you will see that the damned pinata looks just like... Formerly Living.

Hang Gai, Fucking Wu...

Been gone awhile. The voices in my head couldn't be ignored this time...

Fans of the all too short-lived HBO series Deadwood are familiar with the Hang Gai symbolism (which, by the way, if I misspelled, insert your favorite Swearingen quote to disparage yourself). Few things on television today are as compelling as two aging, hard edged power brokers with fear in their eyes crossing their fingers and pledging "Hang gai" to show their friendship. Mainly visual, guess you had to be there...

Over the weekend, had a Hang gai moment of my own. Drug myself away from the worker's paradise of the 12 hour days, retributions, allegations, investigations and general tom-foolery of that zany ex-wife of mine and all her good friends at Child Protective Services. Spent 8 hours making a 5 hour trip. Stopped by the regionally infamous Booked Up owned by author Larry "I Cain't Quit You" McMurtry. I can't wait until I have a string of noteable publications and screenplays in my back pocket, so that I can up to the next level of being a real horse's ass. Damn good book store though. Make the pilgrimage to Archer City and see for yourself. Plan and spending at least two days to see most of the books in inventory. Don't expect to actually see Mr. McMurtry. Oh, yeah, and when you walk into Building #1, don't ask the pretty brunette working at the cashier's desk if they have any books. She doesn't think that shit is funny, not one damn bit.

But I digress. Hang gai. Spent the weekend with most of the male folk from my graduating high school class. Engineers, software geeks, roustabouts... all mostly married, many divorced or somewhere in between. Dads, men trying to enjoy and hold on to the laste vestiges of physical prowess and confident charm of youth. I remembered mostly the cocky arrogance of small town Texas boys, and those small town Texas boys grew up to be decent, likeable men. Without exception, it was impossible to miss the softening around the eyes and the pride-filled chests when they talked about their kids. Many have been married 12-14 years, and couple have kept the same wife throughout that time period. Made me proud to have grown up with the lot of them. Also made me want to drive home and hug my children. Hang gai boys!

Started on the novel again. First draft by Christmas, roll out finished product in time for Father's Day. Pulling out all the stops to. HAve a web site reserved, will have the literary equivalent of "DVD extras", and have even struck a deal for a soundtrack for the book. Here is to hoping that Father's Day 2007 is a damn sight better than Father's Day 2006...

For all of the young Dad's out there with the frustrations, the mistakes, the self-doubt. Many of us can, and did, learn more from our fathers than we think. And those clowns that you grew up with...? Give them a call, they just might surprise you.

Hang gai... Formerly Living.

Just Another Fallen Hero...

***UPDATE TO POST*** I have really been asleep at the wheel, but turns out that the Kansas asshats referred to below aren't spreading enough stupidity in the name of their God by protesting at funerals of fallen service men and women... Seems their latest tactic has been to protest at the funerals of fallen Patriot Guard Riders. When the Kansas asshats die and get sent to hell, I hope their room is right next door to mine... I am taking all my Metallica, Guns N Roses, KISS albums, and gonna sing at top of my lungs...

July 4th has come and gone, and I wonder how much we have forgotten already...

The first of week of June, I had the honor, albeit a sad affair, to ride in the funeral of one of the country's fallen warriors, Spc J. Adan Garcia. The Patriot Guard Riders escorts the families and the fallen, only with the permission of the family. The motorcycle escorts are both a show of respect, and a non-violent means to ensure that certain asshats from Kansas mind their own business. I don't know if God Hates Faggots or not, but I am pretty certain he hates asshats from Kansas...

The U.S. Armed Forces aren't the only bunch so soon forgotten. How about all of those cops that worked (or donated their time) on 4th of July so that the rest of us could sit back, drink longnecks, and generally act like idiots? Apparently, when the TSA identifies a shoe-bombing asshat, their first call is to the local PD.

As it turns out, Ft Worth Texas is the largest city in the nation without a police memorial. All three of my loyal readers have seen the rant about high profile cop-killings, such as that of Officer Nava. Now is the time to honor the memory of Officer Nava, and that of his fallen comrades.

Evil winds are blowing in, stench of death is in the air, weighing heavy on our hearts. These are the days of... Formerly Living.

Short Circuiting the Short Story

Freedom of the press is only free for those who own the press.

The lovely people in Austin who help lawyers keep track of their own recently reminded me that most of what I write is crap, gratuitously slathered across computer screens nationwide for the sole purpose of spiting the reader. The three that met their high expectations will be printed next month in the high brow professional rag. I am getting the jump on them, well, just because I can.

The short story is actually my working outline for a novel I wanted to write and release in conjunction with the bankruptfy reform act, but I was too busy doing the bidding of others. There are some pretty insidious provisions to the new bankruptcy code, some of which are hidden herein. If any one actually gives a damn, I will be happy to email you the Cliff notes.

This is copyright protected, and all rights domestic and international are specifically reserved to the author. I will sue for any violation thereof, because, well, I can.

Counsel for the Debtor
By Infinitegtr
Copyright 2006

The city bus lurched forward, tugging at Mayme’s drooping head and sagging shoulders. Mayme Johnston had not yet grown accustomed to the early mornings and the longer commute inherent in mass transit, but she had no choice after losing her car to the repo man. At the age of 63, Mayme had two grandchildren at home, her son’s kids. Keeping food on the table for herself had been difficult enough, especially with the cost of her medications. Now that she was working two jobs, Mayme felt as though she were grasping for a lifeline; the harder she tugged, the slacker the rope.

Mayme had mostly believed that by now she would have been able to quit working. Not retire really, not the way that other people retired to their condo’s and Cadillacs in Florida. All she really wanted was to spend her days playing grandma. Her hard-scrabble life never quite seemed to measure up to the most hard-scrabble of dreams.

Right after the birth of her second grand child, Mayme spent the last of her savings to help her son Scott cover the costs of an unexpected divorce. The night he appeared on her porch, dressed in his Army BDU’s, his face in anguish and his eyes filled with tears, she couldn’t turn him away. After he revealed that his wife continually neglected the children, and had just been arrested again for possession, Mayme was determined to protect "her babies" at any cost.

In the aftermath of the attorney’s fees from the divorce, Mayme’s car was repossessed when she fell behind on the payments. She had stopped answering the phone months ago, numbed to the endless barrage of threats, insults and curses from bill collectors. The sensory attack of an abusive phone-borne menace in one ear, and the cries of tired, hungry children in the other had become more than she could bear. Threats of lawsuit, public humiliation, homelessness and even jail time, those things were all tomorrow. The grandchildren were today, demanding and deserving her more immediate attentions.

Roused fully from her nap, as the bus driver carelessly fumbled through the gears, Mayme caught a glimpse of the newspaper carelessly tossed onto the seat across the narrow aisle. Just above the fold, peering back at her were the terminally tired eyes of a familiar stranger. The article, she suspected, was the latest in the series of public investigations, criminal indictments and civil lawsuits involving her recently retained bankruptcy lawyer.

This particular photo, and hundreds others just like it, had to be of someone else. The young man that comforted her when she cried in his office was a kind person; yet she sensed in him that same element she sensed in her own son as he prepared for his latest deployment to Iraq. That "thing" was neither anger nor hatred, perhaps a willful acquiescence to the brutal fights yet to come.

The man in the photo was her lawyer all right, but the eyes were wrong. Sad sometimes, often defiant, but not the tired eyes of the defeated man the newspapers tried to pass off. The man that she knew as Tomas Garcia had glowing embers of an eternal fire-fight in his eyes and fists doubled-up against the world, he was the man who was making sure this morning was the last time Mayme would have to take the bus to work.

The whole world heard the stories surrounding Garcia, but the scrutiny had been especially intense here in Houston. Two years after the Houston-based international oil giant GAAP had entered into its scandalous bankruptcy, Tom, a young associate with the law firm representing GAAP in bankruptcy court, emerged from a fog of controversy and secrecy, leaving behind him a broiling wake of intrigue and allegations of corruption at all levels.

On the verge of inflaming armed regional confrontations, GAAP’s bankruptcy was stayed so that Congress could convene its special committees and hold its televised and steroid-sized public hearings. Tension mounted for weeks as industry captains, lawyers, and even the bankruptcy judge were batted around by the politicians and excoriated by the press. The business men blamed the lawyers, the lawyers blamed Congress. The judge claimed to have been pressured by individual members of Congress, the administration, and even claimed that the CIA had him under surveillance.

The hearings painted a now predictable picture of accounting fraud, securities violations, looted retirement funds, and a bizarre array of duplicitous bankers and investors. None of these charges meant anything to Mayme, none brought her a better job, more insurance, or an easier time with the grandkids. Despite this, everyone was riveted to the unprecedented hearings. The public’s burning resentment of Big Oil went "nuclear" with the emerging stories of fraternity-style sex parties, a mercenary-fueled guerilla oil field war and backroom, Faustian bargains with "oil sheiks" and feckless South American dictators which had so blurred the lines between national security and corporate profit.

Corporate America and the legal community were already stunned by the time Tom was called to testify. Every flash-popping reporter and eye-squinting klieg light in the country bore down on Tomas Garcia, intent on exposing every dark secret and hidden fear tucked away in his soul. Faced with the likely prospect of losing his law license, and ignoring the death threats that poured in like a mid-summer monsoon, Tom endured withering questions on national television for a week. In confirming many of the self-implicating stories with a pleading, brutal honesty Tom had at least found the currency necessary to buy the trust and sympathy of the public.

That was when Tom told the world about the dead girl. He had loved her, GAAP had killed her and he blamed himself for her death.

Several months after the hearings had receded from the front pages of the collective conscience, Tom had returned to the Houston area to resume, at least temporarily, the practice of law. This time, though, he was not wandering the underground corridors of the air-conditioned ant farm of downtown Houston. Instead, Tom was sharing offices with Legal Aid in a newly acquired but long-ago renovated house in one of the poorest neighborhoods of Houston. The neglected structure, inescapably falling back in line with the appearance of the surrounding neighborhood, was only two houses away from the little Jefferson girl, who watched Mayme’s grandchildren on most days.

Mayme walked past the office two days in a row, pretending not to notice the new addition to the neighborhood. On the third day, Friday, she studied the small marquee on the front of the building with a feigned indifference. She spent the weekend pushing the babies in their stroller through alleys, picking through dumpsters for empty aluminum cans. The babies cried and sweated in the weltering humidity, further enraging platoons of angry neighborhood dogs barking a cacophony of warnings to the silver-haired intruder. The occasional questioning set of eyes appeared through blinds or from behind thin curtains.

A group of neighborhood thugs found Mayme before she could find her way back home, relieving her at knife point of her trash bag half full of aluminum scrap. The questioning eyes had suddenly disappeared even while the dogs collectively strained against their chains in a canine crescendo.

The following Monday, Mayme dropped the grandkids off early and marched resolutely to Garcia’s office door. By the time she reached for the door handle, her body was quivering as though racked with seizures, her tears coalescing into a stream of miserable exhaustion.
Mayme as much fell through the doorway as she walked through. The cramped, dimly lit hallway that greeted her was filled by both an ancient photocopier, and the slumped over figure glowering at the machine’s apparent refusal to work; his anger immediately dissipating at the sudden appearance of this sobbing, shaken woman.

Mayme shut the door behind her, dropped her hands to her side, and cried uncontrollably. Even in this crowded hall, her isolation was tangible and overwhelming.

"Please" she sobbed, "please help me. I just can’t do this anymore."

Tomas Garcia hesitated a moment, flashes of discomfort racing across his brow. Shaking away the doubt, he smiled warmly and stepped forward with hand extended. Mayme wrapped her arms around Tom’s neck, her muscles unknotting as the fear that had so bound her began to loosen its grip.

"Don’t cry, abuela. You’re safe now, okay?" At that moment, Mayme Johnston became the very first client of Tomas Garcia, Esq.

During their first meeting, after hearing her struggles, Tom signed and handed Mayme an embossed piece of paper, the calligraphy on top reading Certificate of Completion – Consumer Credit Counseling.

"Mrs. Johnston," a smile crawling across his dark features, "Congress could learn a thing or two from you about managing a budget."

Although she was terrified to do so, Tomas also gave Mayme a list of the bills that she could stop paying immediately. Reading her confusion, Tomas explained, "If Bill Gates were sitting where you are, I could tell him to go out today and buy a new car. I could explain to him not only why it is legal to do so, but I could counsel him as to all the reasons that it would be to his benefit. Since you are not Bill Gates, abuelita, I cannot advise you to stop paying all those bills on the list and to use that money as a down payment for a decent car."

Understanding, followed by a cautious joy, visibly crept through Mayme.

Tom slid a card across the table. "If Bill Gates followed my advice, I would send him to this car lot. The owner has a soft spot for all of the Bill Gates in the neighborhood; especially those that spend too much time on a bus away from their grand babies."

Over the next few weeks, most of the threatening calls stopped. The other thing that stopped was the monthly checks from her son Scott. At Garcia’s insistence, Scott agreed not to send any more money until after Mayme’s bankruptcy had been filed. Begging Tomas not to tell his mother, Scott confessed that he had delayed buying updated body armor and other needed gear for his unit just so he could help out with his kids.

Several weeks later, Tomas received a late night phone call.

"Mr. Garcia, this is Scott Johnston. I’m Mayme Johnston’s son."

"Of course, Scott. Are you okay?" Despite the hour, Tomas was fully alert.

"Yah… no I am fine, Mr. Garcia. I, look I don’t have much time, I just wanted to check in and make sure my mom is okay." Even thousands of miles away, a son’s love for his mother has a pervading, immediate presence.

Scott continued, "No disrespect sir, but everyone has heard the stories about you and that oil thing. Then yesterday I got a letter from mom saying that you weren’t charging her any money for your time. Some of the reservists here are law students, they said I should make sure you are legit."

"Scott, your mother paid in full the minute she said ‘Thank you’. She told me I changed her life, by helping your kids."

A distant, tense pause.

"I used to make a lot of money being a smart lawyer, but I never really understood what it meant to be a good lawyer. Those stories about me were also about the billables and bonuses that were my life. The truth behind the stories took that away from me, and left me empty. Your mom gave me back much, much more. Mayme taught me that the law can’t sacrifice good people for smart money."

Another pause, lighter now, "I guess you really can’t put that on a receipt, can you?"

The phone line hissed and popped as two voices spoke in unison, each to the other, "Thank you."

We Have all your Other Foots are Falling

So a couple days ago, I didn't go into the office. My blue collar work ethic (you read this as, the smothering, night sweating, spirit slaying belief that involuntary employment separation is just around the next corner) finally caught up with my poor math skills, and I took some much deserved time off. After toiling under the same thankless task master for 5 years, I have mostly drowned out (or can drink away) the feeling of guilt that is inevitably associated with taking a day off that does not involve some terminal disease. What never goes away is the dread of the things already late, and the new crises building on the horizon.

But none of that. The first hours away from work were spent reuniting with two of my best and closest friends from as far back as kindergarten. There weren't many of us to begin with, two others that we know of became lawyers. One is divorced already, and the other is fat, so I guess I am batting 1.000 so far...The evening filled my soul, rekindled my spirit. It also proved to me the extent that the man is formed from the boy, a hidden subplot of the novel I sometimes lie about writing... We eventually found our way to the evening's planned destination, and once again I learned that I don't have a monoploy on cleverly discovering all the cool things in life.

One of the greatest evenings of my life, reconnecting with two people who are the basis of so many of my happier childhood memories, discovering that they are both dynamic, energetic, creative men that I look up to and respect on so many levels. Aside from their damned lies (something about me being a child noted for having a terribly short temper), I can whole-heartedly endorse this concept of having a life not involving billable hours. I hope I can be as valued a friend to them as they are to me...

A day or so later, my lovely wife is on the back of my motorcycle, my father and my brother each following on their bikes. Somewhere outside of Weatherford, we picked up a gang of miscreant CPA's and lawyers all riding Harley products. I got lost, they followed us through Lostville. South of town, we formed up into a half-mile long, 65 mile an hour progression of chrome and steel tooling down the open road. Heaven and earth parted before us, nothing but asphalt in front of me, rear-view mirror filled only with the staggered, singular unblinking eyeballs trailing beyond my vision. Jesse James, kiss my ass... OCC got nothing on me (and in related news, Boyd Coddington is still a dick). A cell phone cannot be heard with wind rushing through the Shoei at 65 miles per hour, client complaints cannot cut through the wind fast enough to catch me. Life just grabbed a handful of clutch and shifted from bearable to pleasurable.

Sadly, avian flu has apparently arrived in Texas, and is airborne from road kill at 65mph. Spent the weekend projectile vomiting, curled in a ball praying for death or dismemberment.

First day back to the salt mines, nothing but more lies and more damned lies. Clients want Jerry Spence on a Jerry Springer budget. Boss wants to look like Jerry Spence on a Jerry Springer budget. Jerry Spence just called threatening to sue if I use his name in same sentence as "Jerry Springer budget." Suddenly avian flu doesn't look so bad after all.

Coats, soothes, relieves, restores perspective, preaches peace for none and love for all. 2 tablespoons of... Formerly Living.