Johnny Law and his Merry Band of Profit Centers

Don't get me wrong, I am a gun-toting, God fearing, law abiding sumbitch, along with the best of them. My most recent run in with Johnny Law, however, serves as a philosophical reminder that in a world of limited resources we really need to prioritize.

For the first time since 1990, fatboy got a speeding ticket. Let's cut through the crap, and establish the following: 1) I was speeding; 2) I was running every bit as fast as Johnny Law and his miraculous Ladar say I was running; and 3) if there is anyone that probably deserves a speeding ticket, it is me. My guilt, as is now begrudgingly established on the back of the misleading and poorly written ticket, is not the issue.

No, beloved, I am far more concerned about how, and where, our police resources are being arrayed. First the basics on the morning in question...

Highway 199 runs in a generally southeastern direction into down town Cowtown. Given that it is somewhat of a rural feeder into the big city, 199 is fairly busy. Outside of town, it is dangerous as hell. In the three months we have lived out in these parts, it seems that each month a hapless teenager has had their life prematurely cut short just on the section of 199 that is within walking distance of our house.

High speed, blind corners in a (rare) hilly area, driving into the sun during rush hour all mean that someone has to be on their game in normal conditions. Roll into those conditions that are just as preventable as they are asinine, and you have a real rodeo. Take for instance, the college coed that always passes me at 80 mph, the front drive wheel hanging on by a velcroed ball joint and a space saver spare on the back, with cell phone tucked between shoulder and blond hair, mascara in one hand, McHeartattack in the other hand, and a copy of Allure magazine being supported... well I still don't know how she holds the magazine. Then there is the bona fide retard who insists on turning right on red, into my lane while I am running highway speed, and waits until I approach the intersection to make his move... and despite the fact that he is in a Cummings Turbo diesel powered, towing packaged (plenty of acceleration and bite), jet assisted Hemi, extended cab dually truck with a titanium cattle guard arrayed around all four sides of his vehicle, insists on driving 40 mph while I light up the tires on my subcompact trying to stop before running underneath his armored urban attack vehicle and separating head from shoulders. With all of this going on in the fraction of a second, get this, Patton in his Dodge branded Bradley fighting vehicle has time to flip me off as I am sliding to a stop in the ditch beside the road, as though I had just tried to deprive his loved ones of their chief breadwinner. The irony of all of this only serves to piss me off more, while I am simultaneously trying to drag my car out of the 6 foot tall tumbleweeds and stomping out the numerous grass fires now starting to flare up from the molten slag that was once my brake drums. A job, which by the way, would have been much easier, if the woman who had been teaching herself the fine art of drafting her "gin-u-wine" gubment issued H1 Hummer behind my little car would have stopped to give me a tow. Mind you, all of this takes place in the right hand lane, meaning that I am on the breakdown side of the highway, rather than the median, because apparently we have all adopted some convoluted European driving style which requires the slowest drivers to hang out in the left lane with their forefinger in their nose and their thumb up their ass. Danger lurks in every driver's seat. But I digress.

While downtown Ft Worth is a great place to live and work, after 20 years of urban renewal, everything 2 blocks outside of downtown is still a pit, be it rust pit or slut pit. 199 winds through an archaeologists delight of a string of aging strip malls, used car lots, pawn shops, and finally, an industrial area that has been giving way to Bar B Q and wannabe blues joints before crossing the river into downtown. The residential areas are all nestled away from the highway, and their are no school zones, retirement homes, or duck crossings. Lower income, edge of Northside, which is largely Hispanic.

Just before reaching one of the largest Hispanic flea markets in the Tri-County region, I notice an odd-gathering of tall, beefy gentlemen all dressed alike, and all hanging around white and black motorcycles. My brain registers that something is amiss, just about the same time that the front end of the vehicle beside dives down into the pavement hard enough that Fiberglas shards from his ground effects embed themselves in my windshield. Hmm, that can only mean one thing...

Just as I decide that it might be a good time for a sudden brake check of my own, one of the men milling around the motorcycles walks out into the street, and appears to be stopping both inbound lanes of traffic. Still in denial, I am pleased to have been selected for this random survey, perhaps I will get a free mocha latte or a Thanksgiving turkey for my time.

Ladar. The use of a reflected laser beam to determine the speed of an automobile, relative to the stationery Ladar operator. 49 mph in a 35 zone, relative to the speed limit sign I hadn't actually ever taken note of before. Over the last 15 years I skated past state troopers in more states than I have fingers and toes, this was just a matter of time.

Four, maybe five, officers running and gunning, tagging everyone at the head of the column of traffic, everyone runs hot trying to get across the Trinity. Why aren't these officers walking the halls of my baby's middle school, where one of the teachers was fired from selling pot in his free time. The collection of various knives and sundry guns makes me jealous, except that they run in the same halls of education that my children do. Why aren't they working the school zones, where the kiddies with their personal speedways practice before stalking me so they can blow past me and my heavy foot on the highway. Hell, just this once, why can't they taser the assclown who lumbered in front of me in his rolling mountain of metal?

Sitting in the parking lot of the local Sherwin Williams (I will be buying all of my paint from Lowe's thank you very much), and looking at my fellow citizens who had been detained and delayed in their work days, I realized something very troubling. The folks sitting here in this parking lot, searching for insurance cards and trying to remember when they had last taken a driving safety course, these people were all broke-dick working stiff blue collar types trying like hell to make it to Friday's payday. Lawyers (responsible, well-paid lawyers anyway), bankers, doctors and politicians do not find their way into corporate America on this road. These were not people apt to fight a speeding ticket, nor were these people apt to have a friend who has a friend in the DA's office, or an attorney looking to impress a potential client at the cost of a few man-hours of a clueless associate wandering around municipal court. Mini-van in front of me, African American female driver. Two cars over, old man wearing his name sewn over the breast of his flame retardant uniform shirt. Not a teen-ager, ricer, or college coed in sight. No one weaving in and out of traffic, no tailgaters. While everyone around me was trying to figure out how to pay for their fine, I was doing a from the hip cost benefit analysis to determine the value of rolling the dice and hoping for a friendly judge or a forgetful cop.

But for the organized speed trap, Johnny Law wouldn't have had any reason this day to stop playing self-love ring toss with his "extendable baton" and his Krispy Kreme long enough to disturb this exercise in micro-economics. Alas, we are a nation of laws and not of men (so much for my ascent to power), and the powers that be ordered Roscoe out to the crik, and those passers-by unlucky enough to wander into Tarrant's own Hazzard got stuck with their Daisy Duke's hanging out in the wind.

Here comes the math. By the time the procrastinators in the group mail their tickets in, the court clerk turns around the disposition (damned driver's safety class is gonna be full on New Year's Eve), and folks get their court costs and fines paid, a big wad of extra funds will be rolling into city coffers before the end of the calendar year. I was in the parking lot no more than 5-7 minutes, times 5 vehicles per 5 minute session, over a 2 hour period, popped for at least $179 per offense, and another $70 or so for court costs... well you work it out.

Too bad this doesn't work like the United Way. I decided not to fight the ticket, but writing that check out would be a hell of a lot easier if I could designate the money go to the DARE cop assigned to my baby's school, rather than intuitively sensing it will be deposited into the Krispy Kreme donut and recreation fund.

I plead... Formerly Living.

Advanced Consumer Economics-Greybeard U. Part I

One of the smartest guys I have never actually met, recently posted a blog preaching the good word about the need to invest, to invest wisely, but most importantly, to start NOW. If I have learned anything as a pseudo-adult, I should have learned that a sword is not an effective writing instrument. What I discovered after I read again what I belched up into greybeard's comments area, is curiously instructive.

For anyone that remembers voting for Nixon, watching black and white television, benefiting from the Sunday senior special at Luby's or relying on your employer or your government to support you in your old age, greybeard's advice is spot on. He is so on the mark infact, that if you fall in that category, stop reading my assault on the English language, and go open a savings account, mutual fund account, and an account to fund my rock and roll career. For the Gen-X'ers out there, the problem is a little different; hence my late night campaign of hanging my bare arse out the window while running down the Information Highway.

[Blog note: I wasn't trying to pick a fight with greybeard. Many years ago, a silly little book unknowingly predicted one of the biggest problems with electronic publishing. The example in the book satirically made the point that the Bible was inherently inaccurate because it lacked the context of body language and facial expression; maybe Moses gave a little wink to the true believers when reading the part about not coveting your neighbor's Mustang/plasma screen TV/wife/etc. People often mistakenly believe I am picking a fight through email, when I really am not. I am an asshole by nature, and it comes through like the Ammityville ghosts in a seance. For that same reason, this is probably the closest I can come to an apology.]

For purposes of trying to spread a little common sense and make the world a little bit better place, greybeard gets my nomination for whatever equivalent of Blogger Peace Prize there might be. For anyone that might be more than 20 years out from retirement, or whatever equivalent my generation may have to retirement, the time has come to get your hands out of your pants and turn off your friggin' Ipod. This is important.

If you are still reading this far in, you won't mind two ground rules:
1) I don't play a lawyer on TV, but I pass (barely) as one in real life. This is my blog, not my law practice, and this is not intended to be, nor should it be construed as legal advice, either in this jurisdiction, any jurisdiction the reader may reside in, or in any other jurisdiction that some or all of this material may be transmitted through by the magical Internet fairies that keep this shit together. Moreover, your reading this blog does not create an attorney/client relationship. I maintain this blog for my personal edification and self-abuse. If you want me as your lawyer, call me. Good luck finding me.
2) This advice is coming for free (to you at least. I have spent thousands of hours reading and learning this crap, and lost thousands more by living in an adult world without knowing this stuff myself). You get what you pay for.

The first step is the hardest, beat it back and you have done the hard work. The truly rich, the people with tangible wealth, know that wealth ain't what you make, it is what you keep. There are two sub parts to this that you have to adopt, love and protect as though they were your children: 1) can the existing debt 2) do not incur new debt. What does this mean in the real world?

Can the existing debt - This is what I did in 1995-1996 to ZERO out my debt so I could afford to go to law school. I figured out my monthly budget, and figured out how much extra, discretionary cash I had after buying groceries, gas and guns. I also made a list of all my credit card bills and other revolving debt, with the smallest balance at the top of the list. That extra cash each month went only to the bill on top of the list. When it was paid, I crossed it off, and all the discretionary cash went to the next one on the list. In just two years time, I paid off some $15000 in credit card debt, plus paid off my car. With the debt gone, it was not nearly so painful to lose my income for three years. The feeling living debt free, even if for a little while, was a high similar to what I imagine I would experience sitting on a beach in Mexico, smoking a Cuban (cigar), rolling a Dominican (??) in the sand, and drinking 100% Blue Agave from a golden chalice. The stuff I still had was mine, didn't belong to bank, the ferrier or the candlestick maker.

Don't care for freedom or Dominican virgins? Fine, consider this. Remember that Dell computer you put on your charge card last Christmas for your idiot sister's high schooler, and despite your good intentions, you are still making minimum payments on? Assuming you have average credit, and were late on one or two payments this year because your SUV hijacked your gas card, you should finish making payments on that computer in about 7 more years. By then, the technology powering that computer will be fit only for a museum display, and you could have bought two more computers with the interest payments that you just GAVE to a bunch of Wall Street buzzards (spelled b-a-n-k-e-r-s). Consumer interest rates are so high, and interest paid on typical consumer savings or money market accounts is still so low, that you actually lose money if you put money into savings each month instead of using the money to buy down your debt.

30 year mortgage? You can get it knocked out in 7, without eating beans and mf's. Most households these days are paying $300-$700 a month to service just their credit card debt. Pay off the damned credit cards, and roll that money into payments against principal on your mortgage. See how quickly you can own the home that the bank is letting you live in. If this doesn't impress you, you richly deserve the credit score of 484 you undoubtedly have.

Debt is a good measurement of financial health, which we will prove in a later installment regarding investment. The more debt you have, the sicker you are. Don't take my word for it, this guy figured out the same thing...

If you don't pay it off soon, you will die before your debt does.

New debt, Just say NO! When the bankruptcy reform bill became effective October 17, the final piece of the perfect storm came into play. Fact is, if spouse gets sick, if you lose your job for a few months and get behind, it is going to be even harder to get caught up and back on track. Here is why:

1) The IRS is going to start contracting out it's collection functions to commercial debt collectors. Thats right kiddies, the same bottom feeders that call you at work and threaten to have you arrested, kick your grandmother or kill your dog because your credit card payment was 20 minutes late, they will now be holding hands with the Treasury Department.

2) A few months before bankruptcy reform kicked in, credit card companies raised their monthly minimum payments. If you ignore lesson #1 about scotching out the old debt, well then you are also the reason that I invest in the financial industry that I so detest.

3) Interest rates, if they haven't already in your state, are inevitably on the rise. Bitch about government being too involved in your life (I do daily), the banks aren't bitching. They are schmoozing your elected representatives and setting you up for even more voluntary servitude.

4) Your 30 year old child just signed a 30 year lease, also known as an interest only mortgage. This concept is so outrageously idiotic, I cannot even form the words.

5) Your 30 year old child just bought 3 times the house that he can afford. Over the last 3 years, I have seen a steady stream of clients tell me, with a straight face, that they had $100,000 equity, or more in their home. Whatever I had to do, whatever the cost, they wanted to hang in just long enough to sell the house and capture that equity. Really? I always had two questions to ask before delivering sobering news, and the answer was almost always the same. First, is the house on the market yet? If not, there is no time to put it on the market and close before the bank forecloses or you have to walk away. Second, are the other monster houses in your neighborhood for sale? Well, if they are all on sale, or have been foreclosed, you don't have any equity in your house. Equity in a home is only the dollars someone is willing to give you for your house, above the number of dollars you owe the bank for the house that the bank is letting you live in. If your entire neighborhood is for sale, you don't have equity, you have poor math skills.

Before you pour money into the greybeard bushel basket of stocks, make sure it is your money, not the bank's.

After I reload my poison pen, and you get all that debt paid down, we will talk about keeping what is yours, hers, and theirs...

As a side note, your nephew used that Dell computer to download internet porn and he failed math class because he and I played Texas Hold'em every night into the wee hours of the morning. He traded the computer in exchange for a bus ticket and three drink tokens so that he could go to Spring Break in Cancun. The computer eventually wound up overseas, along with your spouse's job, at a call center in India. The month that your credit card payment was late, that very computer pulled up your file, notified the $2.oo a day Customer Service Representative in New Delhi that you are a deadbeat, and even dialed your phone number. Two days later, the CSR took the computer home and sold your personal information, along with the personal information of 3.2 million of your closest friends, family, and neighbors, eventually selling the information to half a hundred different identity pirates.

Cash, credit or Formerly Living?

For the Want of New Curtains

A few weeks ago, the wife of a colleague and friend lost a long battle with cancer. I never met her. Our colleague, brother-in-arms, and fellow taker of blood money kept the entire matter very private. Had others not told me, I would never have known simply from talking with him.

My cellmate and I snuck out into the sunlight, and I somehow managed to sneak into the church without being smoted by God. The church proper had already filled, and the expando wall was pushed back so that the rest of us could sit in the fellowship hall. The walls were a cheery yellow, very discomforting for the surroundings. All around me sat other attorneys, people that I battle with on a regular basis. People that I look up to, admire for their various strengths and areas of professionalism. I don't think I have ever told any of them that.

Pictures of the beloved spouse were looped through a pc-slide show. She was smiling in each, even when it was evident she didn't feel well. For all the money I spend each year in patching up camera bodies, film, processing, storage... it occurs to me I have too many pictures of mountains and trees, not nearly enough pictures of my children or my wife. I am torn between compulsively checking to make sure my cellphone is turned off, and sneaking outside to call my wife. I feel a primal need to hear her voice.

During funerals, I often wonder if the stories told about the departed are embellished. I didn't wonder this day. Three advanced degrees, loving mother, patient wife, full-on personality, truly passionate for the arts. This was a woman who inspired good things in other people, she brought something so simple, yet so hugely important, as a little day to day happiness and joy to the people around her. Dammit, I never met her.

A local dance company, so the story goes, developed dance routines around the music of Lyle Lovett, based on the overly enthusiastic, and devout appreciation, that she had for Lovett's music. It was really a compromise, to secure her promise not to play Lovett's music in the office so loud. The troupe showed up and performed her favorite dance of the group. I am not a fan of modern dance, but this day I was a fan. Even a reformed Texan such as myself had to fight back hard tears when, as the dance routine finished, the final cowboy on stage went down on one knee, bowed his head while removing his cowboy hat, and laid it reverently on the floor near her picture.

Some people, I suppose, are put on this earth to inspire greatness. She clearly was one of those people. I was hoping like hell no one else in the church knew that I had threatened to sue the dance company a year ago, and that the matter had not been resolved. It is true that there is no yin without yang, no good without evil. One just gets tired of being the evil sometimes.

I wondered, as I guess those posing as grown ups eventually must, what would it look like if I gave up my meat sack, and had to go to the final reckoning with St Peter and his friends. The list of songs would be easy enough, just drop in some Stevie Ray Vaughan, some Dave Matthews and hit shuffle. Finish the day with Amazing Grace, because I am still hopelessly naive.

But other than my beautiful wife, my angry ex-wife, and the children I have collected like some men collect cars... who would care? What positive impact would I have had on anyone's life? Other than other lawyers, who would know anything about what I did during the daylight hours? There are a slew of local judges that could tell about the time that they suggested I forgo a legal career and consider dentistry school, or the times that my legal arguments might have been more readily accepted had I sang them to the tune of a Lyle Lovett song.

Yesterday I stood before a judge and tried to explain why my 77 year old client with a bad ticker should not be forced to submit to a modern day inquisition. My client's health concerns, it seems, have to be weighed against the parties' right to submit him to an inquisition. Have I failed yet again, or am I simply acquiescing to a system that increasingly makes little or no sense to me?

I have already done irreparable damage to two of my kids, the others, it is probably just a matter of time. My wife loves me without question, but she also thought Dumb and Dumber was a modern cinematic classic. I have toyed with a novel for nearly two years, that I have talked about and day-dreamed about more than I have really worked on during that period. Once every three months or so, the planets align such that I have the opportunity to leave the office a few hours early, with no business, networking, volunteer, or family obligations requiring my immediate presence. In this huge Metroplex, I don't know what to do with myself. To avoid a panic attack, I just keep working, or surf the Internet until I am required to be somewhere. My greatest achievement as a lawyer? This year I will bill well over 2300 hours in client services. How the hell does anyone tell that story and make it meaningful at the end of a person's life?

I am deeply troubled by these questions. Clients are coming soon, my cellmate points out it is time to leave. I feel some small measure of guilt in response to the wave of relief, because the room is suddenly too small and I cannot breath. I spend more time with my cellmate most days then I do my own wife, but today it does not take a rocket scientist to determine she is as deeply troubled by these questions as they regard her own life. With a touch of self-loathing, I see other attorneys leaving early. The monster is hungry, and we have to keep it fed.

Each day we have the same discussion that is now imminent... what am I doing with my life? My cellmate wants to spend more time with her son. She has been in her new house since January, and she can't find the time to get some damned curtains for her kitchen. Such trivial matters, such as the want of new curtains, legitimately take on greater importance when their absence exposes the absurdity of the whole. I really need to hear my wife's voice. At 70 miles per hour, I am at the head of a convoy of hired guns racing back to the office.

I shouldn't complain, all of my children are beautiful and healthy, my wife loves me more than I deserve, and statistically my income is probably in the top quarter in the wealthiest nation on earth. I will probably have to work until I die, or until I am drooling and in a wheelchair. That's my fault. The last week or so, I have spent more time tickling and tackling my children, or trying to heal the hurt I have caused my kids. I hope like hell that I do enough of it that, someday it means as much to them as it means to me now.

I never met her, and now she has brought good into my life, and into the lives of my children. Wishing I had a boat, so I could go out on the ocean, and wishing that I had a pony that I could ride upon my boat. I would name my boat... "Formerly Living".

Bay City Roller

34 years old, a wife, an ex-wife, 5 kids, a mortgage, one professional license, a future New York Times Best seller list novel in the works, currently involved in discovery and case management for litigation totaling about $2.5 billion, and at least one life altering disease. For all of these experiences, it is only within the last two weeks that I have had what can truthfully be described as a "modern American experience."

My three devout readers, who have been there since the very beginning, will gleefully recall that I have been barnstorming coast to coast all summer. The culprit is a bank that has it's monied knickers in a twist, and seems to think that they can win their lawsuit by simply wearing me out. According to the movie, the erstwhile sportswriter and Cobb biographer "Stumpy" threatened to write slowly, waiting for Cobb to die so that he could publish his story about the real Ty Cobb. In my best Tommy Lee Jones cum Cobb impersonation, dear bank, "I'll die slow."

I missed my daughter's first three volley ball games because of the bank. I missed the greatest musical secret of my generation because of the bank. I missed an entire weekend of nitromethane goodness under the lights of the Dallas skyline. 17,000 air miles since mid-July. Every hour spent on a plane is an hour not spent with my family, or working on my book. Dear Bank, I'll die slow.

Despite all this, I find myself indebted to the bank, for setting the stage for this penultimate experience, nudging me as a favorite Son of the South, towards greater understanding and appreciation of today's America. This is even more subtle than usual, so lean in towards the camp fire, and pay close attention...

After a full day of whining, backbiting, lying, and general tomfoolery, I hopped a plane to San Francisco dreaming of mountains of sourdough bread, roaring waterfalls straight from the vineyards at Napa, nestled snugly on a dreamy vista while a sultry fog rolled north of the downtown area, passionately enveloping the Golden Gate Bridge, which I was hell-bent on seeing while in town. Leaving DFW, the ground temperature on the tarmac was about 168 degrees Fahrenheit. My airvent on the plane didn't work, so at cruising altitude, the ambient cabin temperature was only about 20 degrees cooler.

Enter the pattern, begin approach. Remain seated until captain turns off the seat belt light. Thanks for flying American. Stiff arm old woman in seat across the aisle. Trample passengers trying to deboard. Rush to carousel, grab 18 suitcases that all look like mine. Cut into front of the line at taxi stand, throw suitcases out of window enroute to motel until I find my bag, the remaining bags go to driver as a tip. I have this system down, done it 20 times now, I don't understand why people bitch about flying commercial. Works great for me.

Time now to settle in, enjoy the Bay area, and watch the meter in the taxi run like it is linked real-time into the national debt. Cab drivers, love them or hate, they still need showers...

My motel was spitting distance (or forceful-expulsion-of-other-body-fluid distance) from Union Square, which appears at night to be some mystical, lighted gathering place for intelligent, fun-loving, artsy Bay City types who are all out to have a good time. During the day time, it seemed to function as some exit portal for the Borg hive, people were coming out of nooks, corners and shadows too small to house even a moderate sized rodent. I still don't know where the people came from, or where they went.

The cabbie and I nearly miss the motel, it is no bigger than the store front to a pawn shop, porn shop, or check cashing store (redundant I know, but I like the alliteration of the first two items). Pay the meter, three roll-ons and a briefcase for a tip, Allah be with you. I'm on my own. For the first time in my life, returning home and hopping on a tractor feels like a safe, comforting career move.

Front desk to the motel isn't manned, lights are dimmed, and the place smells of cinnamon and freshly smoked pot. This is what I have always imagined a Turkish whorehouse would be like. Cabbie got my cash, and cell phone isn't working. Deep breath, calm down, get your hands out of your pants, this will be okay. (Gimme a minute, getting to the modern American experience bit).

The cinnamon smell comes from the deli next door, which is connected to the motel. It is connected, because, as it turns out, the deli is the heart and soul of this place. The freshly mowed blunt fumes are rolling off the 40 year old German woman, and the strapping young 18 year old blue eyed, blond-haired poster child of the 4th Reich who quietly follows behind her. I don't know if they are checking in or checking out, they smoked enough, they aren't really sure themselves. All the residents leaving the place speak a combination of French, German, and other Eastern bloc dialects I cannot quite isolate. None of the other residents smell like a Cheech and Chong scratch and sniff sticker, no one else seems to care, and, well, hell I am getting more liberal the older I get. Brother can you spare a bowl?

First glance at my room proves what I was beginning to suspect in the haze of second hand THC, this place caters to European tourists. Room was small, but tasteful, the same way the a show box from Neiman Marcus is small but tasteful. Mattress was 1 inch thick, compressed to the point that its mass/density ratio was roughly the same as that of the planet Saturn, and was laying directly on top of bird's eye maple. This was one of the selling points in the brochure.

The smell of cinnamon was all that followed me upstairs, and I haven't eaten since I polished off the 10 am Bloody Mary. Back down into the international terminal I go. Find someplace to sit, here comes the modern American experience.

If there is a Jewish Heaven on Earth, it must surely be David's Delicatessan. I am not much of a biblical scholar, but I suspect when God's tribe was roaming the desert for 40 years, it was not manna dropping from the heavens. Instead, I think Moses' followers carried around clay jars full of sauerbraten. Exhibit #2 to prove the existence of God.

The deli had a large, horseshoe shaped counter in the middle of the place. Off to the right, along the length of the entire Northern wall, was the kitchen and prep area. The only soul in the kitchen was a wiry Asian, tough looking little bastard. He worked the entire time I was there. Efficient, fluid, no wasted effort, no chatter, no bullshit.

I sat on one of the curves of the horseshoe, studying each page of the menu. The menu came with instructions, which was good, otherwise I was ordering the hamburger. I carefully ordered my sauerbraten with potato pancakes, and a branded bottle of cream soda. Instinctively I knew that I made a mistake in not ordering the only beer on the menu.

On the far end of the right hand side of the horseshoe sat the prototypical struggling artist. He was sketching in between gulps of coffee and throughtful, measured glances at his surroundings. In this environment, this guy was the Lion, the vibes in the room were flowing through him. This guy carried the juice, he was alpha male with a specialized pencil and a man-bag.

Two seats away from him, moving closer to the curve of the horseshoe, was an old man in raggedy clothes, drinking just coffee. This guy was a candidate for eccentric rich man living like a bum. During his entire visit, he poured over a little red, hardback journal. Even as far away as I was, I could clearly see that each page had been studiously written in, in a careful but tiny style. Every surface of each page seemed to be covered in writing, with no room left for even the slightest scribble. Either the guy had the collected wisdom of an isolated genius, or the collective introspection about a heartless government that allows ET to perform minds probes by way of the colon.

Seated next to Grandfather time was heavy set Aleutian quietly eating his meal. If this guy lived in Texas, he would teach civics class and coach junior high football. He ate his meal, drank his water, paid and left. Just minded his own business.

Nearly to the curve now, sat Ahmed and Alex. Both of some Arabic descent, Ahmed was young and pissed. Every time I looked uo from my menu, he was glaring at me as though I were the one with the package on the floor containing a timing device. Alex on the other hand, much older, seemed far more are ease with the world around him. He had been to the tourist stops, bought the trinkets (he had lots of bags, none ticking), and likely had his arrangements for the night taken care of.

Besides me, the only other tangible presence sitting on the curve of the horseshoe looked like an elder father who had a woodshop behind his house and never missed a televised football game of his alma mater. The only difference was that this guy spoke very little English, and I guess football means something a little different to him.

The ghost of Archie Bunker sat next to me, chiding me for drinking cream soda.

To my left now, and around the left side of the horseshoe was an old German couple. They were similarly unable to speak English, but were non-plussed. They clearly reveled in the security of having the other at their side. They each ordered one of the huge pastries, washed down with a bottle of the house beer.

At the end of the left side of the horseshoe, sat David (or his management proxy). David lorded over everyone in the deli, sizing up each customer, filing us away in some manner only he could understand. Not unlike Ahmed, David seemed to most keenly watch me. I think the fact that I had not ordered beer with my meal, and that I was the only person in the room wearing short sleeves on the coldest night of the year so far, spoke volumes to him. This cracker might be trouble...

Some Anthony Edwards looking mope was working the counter. Not Mother Goose of Top Gun Anthony Edwards, but Dr. Green of ER Anthony Edwards. I knew his career had stalled, but jeez... The Anthony Edwards look-a-like mope was exceptionally courteous. Please and thank you, whether he was serving my food, or picking up shattered pieces of tableware after one of my Turrets' like outbursts about why the country is going to hell in a handbasket. Yes sir. Please and thank you.

Behind the cash register directly behind me, stood a large German speaking Asian woman. For some reason I gathered she was David's wife. She was surrounded by a mountain of fresh pastry. Awfully cranky, to be surrounded by such a spread of baked goods.

Then, out of no where, the source of the baked goods. A provincial, dark haired, olive skinned beauty with gaunt, tired eyes, appeared from nowhere, lugging a tray of freshly baked, flaky heart attack seeds. I felt David's eyes boring in to me like the farmer keeping vigil over his Daisy Duke-clad daughter. I think he feared less for her chastity, and more for the potential loss of cheap labor. Consummate capitalist.

For all my redneck friends and loved ones, this scene, I have discovered is the here and the now. This is the new American experience. Yeah, I remember high school civics lessons about the melting pot and all that crap. But this was the real deal. No signs reading "No coloreds", no cracks about slant eyes and riki-tiki hats. Natural born, naturalized, or just here to experience big flaky pastry served with beer, we sat at that counter apart and together all at once. Our collective vibe was influenced by the lesser parts of the greater sum. Good, bad or off our medication, we sat together at a meal in relative peace and safety. David almost released the vice-like grip the scowl had on his face, as this realization must have been evident on my face.

Yeah, I know. I remember Ahmed to. Unapologetically, I do think that Rolex wearing, iPod listening, pork eating sumbitch will some day blow some shit up, and kill a lot of folks doing it. Modern American experience.

Formerly Living in San Fran.

Anchorage Anxiety

In a recent post, my virtual father figure gave us all a much needed history lesson about a little place called Times Beach, Missouri. The bottom-line for my Internet Pappa, is that people ought not live in known disaster areas, and then expect the rest of us to bail their dumb asses out when Mother Nature decides, and she inevitably will, to kick them in their collective nut sack. "Amen!" I thought. Call off the Google-sponsored paternity test, surely I must be of this man's click-stream.

Then, in a rare fit of putting myself in someone else's' shoes, I tried to imagine what exactly drives a person to hang on when they know that the backyard is a future swamp, fault-line, or volcano. Other than bone-drying, brain-baking heat, the regions of Texas I tend to reside in really have no weather-born predators. Too far from the coast to really be effected by Rita's sisters, too far northeast to be assaulted by roving gangs of Mexican drug dealers in search of cool tropical shirts and clean bathrooms. We do of course get the occasional little tornado, but nothing to uproot people to the magnitude of Katrina or Rita.

What then, drives this bizarre behavior? Group neurosis? Saccharine? Nocturnal emissions beyond the levels allowed by the EPA? The emergence of Krispy Kreme and Starbucks into every vestige of American society? A modern, innate shared death wish brought about by a combination of over-worked, under-recreated citizens working too hard to enjoy their lives or raise their children, mingled with a desire to simply find a better way to live in a modern South that increasingly has neither a Dunkin Donuts location, nor an independent A&W Root Beer outlet? Why are two million of my fellow Texicans turning I-45 into a south bound parking lot back into Houston, when there is no question that the greenhouse gasses from all those idling cars and burning busses will lead to another Category 5 coastal blow before the end of the season?

What is it I am missing that would make me act the same way? In a word: home.

I am not missing my home, a child hood home, nor the dumpy little house I am consigned to now. If there was one place that I would feel compelled to wait out Mother Nature, one place to disregard all of the open-letter warnings and all the obvious signs of of trouble, my heart and mind draw me back to Anchorage.

The International Airport sits on the edge of the Bering Sea, on top of land that just 40 years ago was 12 to 20 feet higher in elevation than it is now. Up until the yuletide tsunami last year, most folks had forgotten the little tremble that echoed out of the then future grave of the Valdez. As a result, miles of new beach front property were created around Anchorage, extending south to the mystical scrap of land known as the Kenai Peninsula.

It is just a matter of time before it happens again. The airport will be suitable only for water taxis and float planes. With the exception of an air carrier that shares paternity with a current NHRA team, I don't think that many manufacturers will try to put floats on a 747. Homes, shipping, businesses, historic buildings and tourist destinations will be rendered useless, save for acting as a spot to anchor one's fishing boat. People, undoubtedly, will die. Lots of people. Lots of good people.

I have looked in the eyes of the people who live and work there. You ain't gonna pull them off their mountain, our out of their streams, or away from the glacier. All of the faults and failings of modern day life, all of the unrequited desires, all of the disappointments of a job well done, are all washed away by the silent buzz of the Northern Lights. Bathing in the emotional warmth of the glacial glow of Denali cleans the soul of the soot of modern America and restores the mysterious lifeforce of a man's marrow. My commitment to the Church of the High Agnostic and the Holy Ambivalent was forever shaken by the divine fingerprint of Anchorage.

SO, my beloved greybeard, I promise that I won't complete the move to Anchorage until I have sold enough books or won a big enough lottery to support myself and my family through the next earthquake. I won't come to you with hat in hand asking to rebuild my beautiful Anchorage when it sinks into the Bering; because, once I find my mountain, I know you won't ask me to leave my home. I know you won't ask me to be Formerly Living.

[Blogger's Note: I truly do admire greybeard, and don't want any of my three devoted readers to think any differently. Read his blogs, read his comments, he is a kind, thoughtful, inquisitive soul. The world would be a much more miserable place without him.]

Post 9/11 NYC Virgin

The bank is still in a twist, so I continue the whirl-wind tour of the air terminals of the major metropolitan areas of the United States. Last week, a long-held dream was finally realized, bitter sweet as it was. Small town, small-minded Texas boy finally makes it to (but not in, sadly) the Big Apple. Talk about a dry hump...

For some reason, it seems that I only travel to the East Coast during times of severe weather (DC flight and drive to Baltimore two weeks ago was on the leading edge of Hurricane Katrina). After a two hour delay in Pittsburgh (I guess it was two hours, the missing links hired by American Airlines for baggage handling broke my bag, my camera, and if I still wore a watch, pretty sure that would have been busted to hell as well), our US Airways regional air hump started jinking and rolling as though pitched in an enraged beehive dogfight. While the aerial high-jinks were entertaining, I put down the latest "Gee-why-didn't-I-think-of-that" book long enough to throw a falsely bored look out the window.

An airborne hell scowled at me from outside the Embraer jet hurtling my fat Irish ass towards LaGuardia. Hurricane Ophelia was still lifting her skirts at the coast line of North Carolina, but a whiff of her juices had already covered NYC. As we spiraled into the lower portions of the approach pattern, the clouds covered the entire city, and were backlit by the orange sodium street lamps, neon lights, and the 24 hour ephemeral glow which emanates from the world's favorite city.

Apparently, we missed LaGuardia, and were currently on approach through the Gates of Hell. Not even Momma Nature herself could generate the otherworldly display created by the roiling storm clouds and the carnival style backlighting, which threatened to reach out and grab our little aircraft, sucking us into some backwater of Hell. (Travel tip: Do not read anything by Dean Koontz during inclement weather. Or when on the road. Or when tired, frustrated, emotionally vulnerable or morally bankrupt.)

The stormclouds seemed to be peaking at about 15,000 feet, too low for hail or tornado, but just low enough to throw all forms of nastiness at small, low-flying aircraft attempting to land in a congested pattern, on approach over a large body of water, at night, at the countries' busiest airport.

That was of no concern to me. US Airways, still under the protection of a bona fide U.S. Bankruptcy Court, would see me safely to the ground, busted up baggage and all. Bankruptcy suspends most other laws, including the laws of physics. (Note: Effective October 17, 2005, the automatic stay provided under sec 362 of the US Bankruptcy Code will no longer suspend the second law of thermodynamics without notice and hearing).

What did concern me was that there were any number of other regional puddle jumpers flying around in the sulfur fueled fog, also looking for the airport. Somehow, the FAA mandated 1,0o0 foot, 3-mile required separation between commercial aircraft isn't any greater distance than the the distance between me and the scarlet-mary, wheezing mope sitting in the seat beside me who spent the entire flight sucking his brain matter back in through his left nostril. I hope he died in his motel room, alone, and very slowly.

But there is no time to visualize the numerous manifestations of of hoped for death for my cabin mate. I was too busy running through the dusty files in my mind trying to remember the last breathless 20/20 broadcast discussing mid-air collision, the technologically challenged air-traffic control infrastructure, and the level of mental illness, retardation and substance abuse of career air traffic controllers.

On the initial descent into Satan's early morning mist, I caught a little kid two planes over from our wingtip alternately sticking his tongue out at me, then picking his nose and wiping the dividends all over the window. I flipped the future Senator the bird, and closed my window. The little heathen could pick on someone else, maybe a passenger in the 737 flying so close to us that I could smell the vodka on the First Officer's breath.

I cried like a baby, when, in formation tighter than the Thunderbirds, the four commercial flights in our impromptu squadron landed in unison, wingtip to wingtip, on a southbound approach. It was also this very moment I realized that the northernmost point of the southbound approach was mostly a piece of corrugated tin hung out over the Atlantic, supported by the frame of an old card table from the set of "Welcome Back, Kotter". Although the landing gear of the plane next to me blocked my view, it looked like the same technology the cajuns used to build their levees.

Too many planes, too little airspace. Too many people being moved around to too many places. Functionally, there is no difference between TSA security checkpoints, and the Ft Worth Stockyards, except that the stockyards usually smell a little better. That the governmental powers-that-be, and their partners running the commercial airborne cattle cars, are trying to do too much with too little would also come to summarize my all to brief and, likely, all too unfair snap judgment of NYC.

During the ride into Manhattan (all the jokes about NYC cab drivers are true, by the way), one gets the feeling that the story of modern day NYC really is one of excessive good intentions and overreaching of goals, weighed down by the lack of resource, space, or cohesive thought. The bridges from Queens into Manhattan haven't seen fresh paint since the Kennedy administration, the steel and cable supports look to date about Civil War-era. The oldest buildings on the edge of Manhattan, many clearly marked for eventual destruction to cap generations of desecration, were probably well-aged by the time Vito Corleonne was setting up his olive oil import business. Parks and play areas are squeezed in between buildings and parking lots, surrounded by black, ornate iron fences. On the fence rests a simple sign that reads "Play Area". There were also signs that had nothing more than a Maple Leaf on them, so I wasn't sure if these areas were marked as "Safe Havens" for wayward cannucks.

Churches, schools, and apartments all looked as though they were bulging, seams ready to happily unravel and fail, spewing forth all manner of humanity and aggregate personal belongings. One can feel the psychic friction created from so many people trying so hard to squeeze so much utility out of the land and the resources available.

The World Summit was in town, and what little broken, pigeon English I could understand from the cabbies made it apparent that traffic was even worse than usual. I am still not certain how that is possible. The widest streets appeared to have room for parking against each curb, and two lanes designated for moving traffic. Incredibly, this somehow meant that six informal, meandering lanes of traffic became possible. Even when faced with a red light or a blocked intersection, the traffic whipped and throbbed, like a snake having a seizure. Like watching an interstate getting stuffed into a sausage casing.

Perhaps the infinite well of enthusiasm that once seemed to define American culture is what inevitably led to this Dr. Who Police Box feeling of compression, and the ever-present feeling of unrequited human want. For a fleeting second, I wondered what all the occupants of the vehicles sporting "Consular" or "Diplomat" plates really thought about this city, its people, and the nation that invariably follows its lead. Do they too believe that we have taken on too much, tried to serve too large a Sunday dinner to the masses? Is this why we justify a million people living in a soggy lakebed a/k/a New Orleans, and collectively gnash our teeth when the cavalry cannot rush in immediately and restore power so that they can use the HDTV's they boosted from Circuit City during the flooding?

I soon dropped that line of thought, and was satisfied with just being pissed off that the diplomats had their own barely used lane of traffic, through which they could freely drive their black Lincoln Towncars. God forbid that they be late for their chance to get a televised audience so they can rant and rave about the evil, lazy Americans at a time when Canadians are openly threatened and people look likes sausages stuffed into Vito's colon, or, well something like that.

This is not my final take on NYC, and barely passes as a beginning thought. However, it raises the troubling query of, whether or not the overly-ambitious existence of NYC, both decadent in desire but anorexic in remaining capacity is the chief culprit for the scene played out in suburban America each night as mom and dad arrive home from work later and later, leaving children unattended and unappreciated in the never-ending quest of attempting too much with too little to work with.

I can see why it would be easy to fall in love with NYC, for now I remain uncommitted. Until all the layers can sifted and understood, raise a cold one to the hopes that, until we have time to figure it all out, NYC does not leave us all Formerly Living.

All of my life, with the exception of limited periods of exile, I have lived in the Great State of Texas. Texas is big, Texas is good, and all things Texas, even if they make you uncomfortable, are right. We publicly don't question or challenge our mommas, the Bible, or the President. Thats just the way that it is.

It is true that we all carry guns, we all believe that the government screwed it up, whatever IT is, and that pickup ownership is a God-given right that transcends even the fickleness of a living, breathing, two-ply constitution. Women really do live in a prairie twilight zone, where they don't open their own door, they never buy their own drink, and they don't walk to their cars by themselves any later than 30 minutes before dusk. That's because they are too tired from taking care of all those lesser matters, including without limitation: picking up my underwear, bringing me a fresh beer (until the children can be trained to do so), policing up the empty beer bottles, cooking all three meals plus cobbler, keeping gas in her pickup, walking the dog, taking the trash to the curb, cleaning the pool, dressing the children, washing my clothes, interfacing with my ex-wife, making sure the child support gets paid, and still managing to look like the perrienial runner-up in the annual Ms. Peach Festival Beauty and Hog Calling contest, whether we are white-trashing with the wannabe lesbian college coeds, or at the bosses' Christmas and Silent Reproach party. That is just the way that it is.

Despite the infrequent pangs of guilt, or bizzare 3:30 a.m., Jack Daniels induced questioning about whether or not there might be a better way to live, there really has been no reason to live any differently. No need for the South to rise again, the modern South is a virtual cracker's paradise nestled snuggly inside a Pandora's Box.

Then an odd thing happened on the way to the office. A bank made two of the worst mistakes that banks ever make: getting their knickers in a twist over their own bad business decision, and hiring a bunch of Yankee lawyers to do something about it. The ensuing "mine is bigger than your's" match that always follows closely behind any congregation of lawyers numbering more than one, resulted in a little road show spanning from Coast to Coast, and Border to Border. (A taxi driver in Houston, in between rants about "those people" from New Orleans, told me that Canada has never had enough infrastructure to be more than a "prissy little territory of the US", because the Canucks had been waiting for the Mexicans to migrate that far North and build their country for them).

Suddenly, the displaced cracker is left questioning how comfy the Lone Star State's comfy chairs really are. People in the Midwest really are nicer, and more decent than anywhere else in the country. (One possible exception being Oklahoma, which really is nothing more than a prissy little territory of Texas). Suddenly Abu and Stella, who run the Shell station and live bait hut down the street seem a little more bitter than I remember. Indianapolis has a great drag racing event, steeped in just as much history and tradition as that run down Flying Saucer belly-button of a racetrack that runs in circles, and is unfortunately more closely associated with Indianapolis and motor sports. Burning nitro-methane smells just as good in the corn fields as it does in my garage when the wife and kids are gone. All of life is better with nitro-methane.

On the north side of Chicago, where houses the size of Country Clubs are being built, there is a lovely young professional looking blond driving a convertible Mercedes through the cool air of late morning traffic. She gives me hope, and condemns me to failure, all at once. Drive well, and drive fast, sweet lass.

Baltimore and DC are filled with mean, miserable people. Baltimore has a beautiful city, with a vibrant downtown, the U.S. Constellation, and Cal Ripken, Jr. Even with all those things going for it, I think they somehow screwed it all up. Shame.

At the risk of being ex-communicated by Gov. Perry, I fear that Boston has unveiled the Yankee that has always lurked inside my beer-guzzling, gun-toting redneck self. (Clearly here, you read Yankee to mean Yankee as in East of the Mississippi, North of the Mason-Dixon line, colonial style house with picket fences and old, funky looking barns overlooking rolling hills of hay and fresh grass kind of Yankee; and notYankee in the sense of NY Yankee baseball club buying its way into the playoffs every year kind of Yankee). Boston is too big, too bright, too thick of an accent, Too Much in the way Dave Matthews sings about Too Much.

Within 3 minutes of escaping Logan airport, and after paying $314.58 in tolls, I missed the ramp from the Ted Williams Tunnel to I-93 and South Boston. Native Bostonians are undoubtedly shaking their heads in a solemn understanding. It took two hours for me to realize my mistake, find a three foot wide section of missing guardrail to squeeze the rental car off the tollway, fight Dallas size traffic in Opie size hamletts on Highway 16, locate a major highway, and find an active artery back into Boston.

But during those two hours in the Massachusetts countryside (I guess I was in Massachusetts, for some reason no one puts any road signs up in this state), I found some alien yet familiar spot that felt like the wildest departure of imagination knocking at the door of some spot so natural and so much a part of the soul that it felt like returning home. The homes, the trees, the water. I know now why television commercials, whether they be for paint, Pine-sol, or those little blue pecker pep pills, are all set in Eastern sea-board beach front homes with a fragile picket fence hugging the contour of the land and marking the border between grassland and sand. There is something native, something universal to Americans, about this little pocket of the country.

Driving around a sharp bend on a two lane highway, peering into the twilight and the shadows just beyond the grass shoulder of the road, catching a glimpse of a stone chimney among a grove of encroaching trees and shrubs, is a startling reminder of how long white, god-fearing, gun-toting men have lived on this land, having instituted a still peach faced theory of governance. I hope the people who live here pay the right homage and make the right offerings to the ghosts that surely inhabit this place. Even when I snuck back into Boston on highway 9, I noted with some pride that the shopping mall was gracefully hidden behind the landscaping and strategically placed trees. Back home, malls are viewed with a sense of reverence once reserved only for pick-ups and good hunting dogs. Airline pilots use the overbearing lights of the local home-improvement chain store to line up for final approach during storms.

Now, if I can just figure out a way to help the bank get its knickers out a twist, so I can do some real sight-seeing...

Don't be Formerly Living.