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.