Introducing Bill Simmons

In legal parlance, I have been accused of *cue smirk quotes* "allegedly" being too serious from time to time, though not by anyone who really knows me well or whose opinion I care much for, but it has happened. There are things that make me genuinely happy in life...hanging out with my best friends and cracking inside jokes, good fights and football games on TV, and anything that makes me laugh until my sides hurt, comedy, something I read, doesn't matter. All those things are on the list. So when I come across a sports writer who: a.) writes about sports, b.) has a wicked and cutting sense of humor which I sometimes emulate and borrow from, and c.) tells great stories about his friends cracking inside jokes and having raucous fun...yep, I'm hooked. I check espn.com at least once a week on Fridays to see if Bill Simmons has written anything new. So to pass along the humor and good times, I am reposting a 2002 column of his re: Las Vegas that combines all the elements I just mentioned above...enjoy!

"Thrown to the Mat in Vegas"
By Bill Simmons, Page 2

Editor's note: This article originally ran on October 17, 2002.


"There isn't anything on the planet quite like the sensation of "I'm getting my butt handed to me in Vegas," which feels like getting pulled over for a speeding ticket, but for an entire weekend. Voyage to Vegas enough times and it's bound to happen. Law of averages. With six trips on my résumé and only one semi-thrashing, I knew another one was coming. Eventually.

That didn't stop me from fighting it. I tinkered with my "winning" Vegas formula like Bill Walsh honing his West Coast offense, improving it over the years, fixing the kinks, installing new plays, gaining confidence and eventually coming up with these guidelines:

Avoid getting killed on the first night because that sets the tone for the weekend ... stick with blackjack on Fridays and Saturdays, poker and football on Sundays, and blackjack for any night beyond that ... never lose more than $400 in a single day without stopping ... always walk the Strip at least once ... fight off the urge to gamble 24/7 ... whenever a table rubs you the wrong way, immediately get up ... whenever your table's hot, there's a dealer change and Mariano Rivera suddenly emerges from the Asian Gaming Room bullpen, scale your bets back (and eventually get up, if things aren't going well) ... always bet the same amounts on your sports bets ... no DTM gambling (any gambling after 2 a.m. when you're drunk, tired and miserable).

(Wait, there's more!)

Never hit an ATM twice in one day ... pick a drink at the beginning of the day and stick with it ... avoid any blackjack tables with those automatic shuffle machines (more on them in a second) ... avoid the Champagne Room because "things" happen in there ... never tell a cab driver how much you've won, because you might end up getting buried in the desert ... never play poker with someone who has the same first name as a city ... never up your bets when you're losing to "change the momentum" ... always up your bets when you're winning, because blackjack is all about streaks ... and most importantly, don't gamble just for the sake of gambling (find something else to do -- you're in Vegas, for God's sake!).

Eventually, I figured Vegas out. Maybe I wouldn't win every time, but I wouldn't get shellacked, either. And that was my mindset at my friend Mikey's bachelor party last weekend ... right until Vegas gave me the off-and-on Ralphie Treatment for four consecutive days. Yes, it was that bad.

At least I weaseled a column idea from it. On Monday's airplane back to Boston, as I fought off the urge to slit my wrists with the October issue of Ebony En Espanol, it dawned on me that a losing Vegas weekend mirrors every WWF TV match from the '80s -- one of their recognizable jobbers (like SD "Special Delivery" Jones or Koko B. Ware) would get pinned by a more established superstar (like Cowboy Bob Orton or Big John Studd), the same match unfolded every week, and it almost felt like "Groundhog Day." Same with Vegas. When your weekend goes up in flames, it always unfolds the same way.

So without further ado, here's the SD Jones Memorial "Stages of Getting Your Butt Whupped In Vegas" Theory, using last weekend's Vegas trip as a template:

Stage No. 1: The Overconfident Introduction

You're at the mercy of the Gambling Gods in Vegas. If they don't want you to win, you're not going to win. Period. So when you enter Vegas like a wrestler strutting into the ring before a match -- jiving to the music, pointing to the crowd, pounding your chest, talking trash to your opponent -- you're basically digging your own grave. It's like speaking during a no-hitter -- the less you say and think, the better off you'll be.

In my case, there were five problems: A) I hadn't been to Vegas in nearly a year, B) I hadn't lost big in Vegas in five years, C) my sterling 47-27 record in my NFL picks pool had boosted my self-confidence to Terrell Owens-level proportions, D) I was carrying $1,100 dollars in my pocket (bigggggg mistake), and E) I spent my last hour on my plane thinking things like "When I double this $1,100 to $2,200, I'll have the casino write me a cashier's check so I won't have to carry all the cash on the way home."

One other warning sign: For the first time in my life, I landed in Vegas and didn't feel a rush. Getting my suitcase, seeing the Strip for the first time, strolling into Mandalay Bay (our casino), hearing the constant chatter from the slot machines ... nothing. I felt like I had been there a million times. And if you're gambling without that "I'm in Vegas" rush, it's like playing a playoff game and not being pumped up. You just can't win.

(Can you see where this is going? I thought so.)

Stage No. 2: The Eye Gouge

You know when two wrestlers lock horns and push each other around, then one of them sticks two fingers in his opponent's eyes, sending him reeling into the ropes? That's the Eye Gouge. It works for all forms of life -- getting passed over for a job promotion, losing an NBA bet on a 3-pointer at the buzzer, finding out that you left a drunken answering machine message for your ex-girlfriend at 4 a.m. the previous night. Eye Gouge, Eye Gouge, Eye Gouge. Not quite a Stomach Punch, but it still smarts.

In Vegas, the Eye Gouge usually arrives Friday night, when you least expect it. Our swollen 22-man group gathered after dinner, including my key Vegas running mates (you might remember them from last year's Vegas columns: Mikey, Hopper and Bish, although Geoff couldn't make it). I had an inkling that it wasn't my night when Hopper and I sat down at a $10 table, joined by someone else from our group who we didn't know too well. After this guy lost a few hands, he hopped up from the table and stood behind us, his hands resting on our chairs, watching us lose hand after hand.

Now ...

There are many rules in Vegas during a male bonding trip, and we don't need to delve into all of them. But here are two, and you need to know them, and you need to pass them along, and we all need to band together collectively and ensure the world is a safer place:

If you're watching friends play blackjack and don't partake, stand about 5 feet behind them. Don't stand too close, don't hover over them, and definitely don't rest your hands on their chairs. I mean, ever. You might as well throw chicken blood and a black cat on the table.

If these same friends lose more than two hands in a row, quickly say something like, "All right, I'm gonna go look for the other guys" or "I'm gonna go find another table" and get the hell out of there. Don't look back. Don't wait for a response. Flee the premises. Leave treadmarks.

And if you continue to stand there with your hands on their chairs, and you're making comments like "I can't believe she got another 21" and "Hey, there's another five for you!" ... well, you might as well fly in one of the guys' sisters and start making out with her. It's one of the Hall of Fame Vegas No-No's. You can't recover. Everyone losing at that table will remember it for the rest of their lives. And you think I'm kidding.

Anyway, that didn't get the night off to a good start. Hopper and I fled to a $25 table (dodging the seat-toucher), as I made the decision, "Screw it, I have tons of 20s in my pocket, and I'm ready to play with the big boys." After an hour of treading water, Malena The Bulgarian came out of the dealer bullpen -- stone-faced and sullen, throwing everything for strikes -- and within five minutes I had already cracked the first "I'm getting more 14s and 15s than R. Kelly" joke.

Ten minutes later, I was down $340, holding my eyes and reeling against the ropes ... and it wasn't even 9 yet. Uh-oh.

Stage No. 3: Over the Ropes

In wrestling, the Eye Gouge sets the tone for the next few minutes: The jobber's opponent executes a few moves and throws him over the ropes, and the poor jobber writhes in agony on the concrete floor (as his opponent mocks him and makes obscene gestures to the crowd). Same with Vegas. After the early Eye Gouge, it's too early to stop gambling, so you convince yourself that you can come back ... and you end up getting worked over even more.

There was no sign of the women from "Real World: Las Vegas," but "The Bachelorette" did make an appearance. In my case, we headed over to the Palms -- where "Real World: Las Vegas" was filmed -- because we figured it would be easier to hire cast members Brynn and Trishelle as strippers than to pay a cover charge at Olympic Gardens. Unfortunately, the cast had long since fled the premises, but we did glimpse another reality-TV star ... that's right, it was Trista from "The Bachelor," filming her spinoff show, "The Bachelorette." She was playing craps on a group date with five cheesy guys, prompting my best joke of the trip: "I bet she's playing the 'Don't come' line."

Anyway, we ended up waiting in a maddeningly long line to get into Rain, one of those 21st century clubs where you can freak dance, pop Ecstasy pills like Pez and order rohypnol daiquiris. Why couldn't they have had these places when I was in my early-20s? Why did I miss out on the whole "Girls dress like hookers and act like them, too" era? Somehow my prime was sandwiched between the late-'70s (Disco Era, drugs and free love) and the early-'00s (no clothes, designer drugs, tons of sex). I had the late-'80s and early-'90s, when girls wore baggy sweaters to cover their rear ends, drugs were evil and everyone was terrified of AIDS. Really, really, really bad times. Ten years either way and I could have been prominently involved. It's haunting.

I'll shorten this part of the story: Bish and I became bored, mainly because there isn't a club on the planet worth waiting in line for 45 freaking minutes. Please. Unless they're handing out massages, free drinks and happy endings, no club could be that good. So we found a $15 blackjack table and settled there for the next two hours, just me and Bish. He wins, I lose. He wins, I lose. We're sitting right next to each other. WE'RE SITTING RIGHT NEXT TO EACH OTHER!!!!!!! He ends up winning about $200; I end up losing $220. Also, I hated Bish and wanted him to die.

By 1 a.m., we were buzzed and wandering around a half-empty Luxor casino -- one of the most depressing places on the planet -- looking for a pizza place that some senile Mandalay security guard had recommended. Turned out to be a Little Caesar's. Great ending to a lousy day: soggy pizza. And I'm hammered and jet-lagged, reeling from the fact that I somehow lost 560 bucks, trying to ignore the fact that there were still 60 hours left in my trip. Just like writhing on the concrete floor outside a wrestling ring.

Stage No. 4: The Rally

You know how it works in wrestling: The wrestling jobber climbs back into the ring, blocks a few punches, lands a few dropkicks and overhand rights, gets the crowd excited and turns the match around.

The Vegas equivalent? Simply waking up. In Vegas, every day is a new day. A giddy Bish and I ordered room service for breakfast, titillated by the fact that we weren't sharing a bed all weekend. That's a watershed moment in life, isn't it? The "I can afford my own bed and I don't have to worry about sharing a bed with someone else and making sure we stay as far apart as possible while we're sleeping" feeling? Good times. We both ordered $13 ham-and-cheese omelettes, toast, a $10 giant pot of coffee and two $5.25 orange juices, which turned out to be the size of two urine samples.

Total cost with the room service charge? $53. Not including tip.

(Note: I think this was the point when I officially turned on Mandalay Bay. As if that place already isn't enough of a ripoff ... the dealers and waitresses are mostly unfriendly, the rooms aren't that nice, the sports book is consistently overcrowded, and they're slowly sneaking in automatic shuffle machines on their blackjack tables, which is only the single-worst invention since the designated hitter. Now we're shelling out $30 apiece for an omelette, some white toast, two drops of juice and some lukewarm coffee? An absolute outrage. Do yourself a favor ... if you're spending the money, stay at the Venetian. Bigger rooms, nicer dealers, better accomodations. Just trust me.)

Eventually, we left the casino to walk the Strip, my favorite tradition of any Vegas trip; this year's excursion featured me, Bish, Hopper and Hopper's friend DJ (picked up in free agency since Geoff didn't make the trip). Our first stop? The Monte Carlo, an underrated place for blackjack (cheap tables, no shuffle machines, friendly waitresses, good lighting). Of course, our first $10 table was manned by a surly dealer named Frank, who apparently forgot to take his Zoloft that morning. At one point, I counted seven spots at our table, then wondered why there were seven spots and only six seats. So Frank hollers out, "It's a handicapped table -- there are five seats, not six ... COUNT AGAIN!" Swear to God.

On the bright side, we finally had a running joke for the trip: COUNT AGAIN! We probably said that 25,972 times over the next four hours. And once Frank changed tables, everyone was in good spirits, and the jokes were flying, and everyone was winning, and Rick the Dealer was commenting on every female in a 50-foot vicinity, and Darlene the Waitress was keeping the drinks coming ... next thing you know, three hours had passed and our planned voyage down The Strip was up in flames. COUNT AGAIN! We were doing so well that the Generic Evil Pit Boss started hovering near our table, making annoying comments to destroy our karma. Didn't work.

Up $300 and humming "Rocky" music after every blackjack, the drinks were catching up to me. All afternoon, I had been drinking Absolut Raspberry with tonic water & cranberry juice, partly because I was too hung over to drink anything else, partly because I knew the drink would become a running joke. And it did. After the third order, Darlene was asking me, "You want another macho drink?" and Hopper was ordering me Pink Squirrels. I'm telling you, this stuff needs to happen when you're winning -- good karma, jokes flying, people making fun of each other, friendly dealers and waitresses, the whole shebang. That's why I kept ordering the Macho Drink.

And I was having too good of a time, and the pilot had turned off the "No Smoking" sign, and we couldn't stop winning, and the drinks kept coming ...

Stage No. 5: The Missed Jump From the Top Rope

You know how this works: The jobber has turned the tide, the crowd's behind him, his stunned opponent lies prone on his back ... and the jobber gets greedy. He climbs to the top rope and goes for his killer finishing move, soaring in the air to land his big elbow, and at the last minute, his opponent rolls out of the way. You can't recover from that one.

And I couldn't recover from this: Playing third base, I'm on my umpteenth Macho Drink -- I was afraid to switch drinks, because I don't want to ruin our collective karma -- when the dealer asks me if I want to stay on ace-eight against a nine. I wave my hand "No," but a little too emphatically ... and inexplicably knock my drink everywhere.

Chaos. Suddenly eight people are cleaning up the mess. My buddies are ragging on me. I'm trying to pretend that I wasn't buzzed, that the whole thing was an accident. And most importantly, some of the cards got soaked, so we needed a whole new setup. That's right ... a 20-minute delay and we lose the cards that were working so well for us.

COUNT AGAIN!

You can guess what happened. The new deck didn't treat us nearly as well, eventually driving us out of the Monte Carlo (I finished plus-$200). But that gaffe set the tone for the rest of the night, which included an absurdly expensive, drunken dinner at the Mandalay's Rum Jungle ($3,700 for 22 people, yet another chapter in the Mandalay's new book, "How To Rip Off Our Customers"), followed by some, um, bar-hopping and general revelry, which culminated in DJ, Bish and I heading back to Monte Carlo (somehow, improbably, our cab got pulled over for running a red light -- talk about your bad omens). After struggling at Monte Carlo, we walked back to Mandalay, where I pulled my patented "I'm running up to my room to take out my contacts and put on my glasses ... I'll be right back" ploy and passed out within 15 minutes. At least I avoided the DTM gambling.

Final tally: plus-$140 for the day, minus-$420 for the trip. Could have been better. And it all goes back to spilling that damned drink.

Stage No. 6: The Chair Shot

In wrestling, usually this happens when the ref isn't looking: The opponent grabs a chair from outside the ring, brings it back in and bashes the unsuspecting jobber across the head. Happens all the time. Nobody bounces back from the chair shot.

As for me, I spent my Sunday morning ordering room service, coughing up oyster-sized loogies (thanks to Hopper, the only person alive who can convince me to smoke cigarettes), and monitoring my NFL bets, where I planned to make my big comeback. I ended up winning Tampa Bay-Buffalo and Tampa Bay -Indy teases, but losing huge on the slumping Pats, a wager in which I broke three of my own rules -- "Never bet against Brett Favre" and "Never bet on your own team" and "Never bet more on one game than the other games." The lesson, as always: I'm an idiot.

Kicking myself, I headed downstairs to wager on the Chiefs (money line: $60 to win $93) and play some poker. Here's where hubris kicked in -- instead of playing it safe at a seven-card stud table, I pulled a Mike McD and joined a $4-to-8 "Texas Hold 'Em" table (higher stakes, better players, greater chance to lose big quickly). Looking back, I should have been wearing a Tom Gamboa jersey, just because as soon as I sat down, I was suddenly and inexplicably getting the crap kicked out of me.

A mere $190 later, I limped over to Mandalay's sports book to watch the Chiefs finish off the Chargers. When they won the game, I would be down about $50 for the day. Not bad. Of course, the Chiefs blow third down and end up kicking a field goal. Up by six, 150 seconds to play. Wayyyyyyy too much time.

Now I'm scared. Sometimes in Vegas, you just know. You can feel it. It's mystical. I'm watching Brees pick apart K.C.'s defense like Elway, driving the Chargers down to the red zone, and the sports book is hopping, and I'm like Apollo Creed waiting for Drago to land that last overhand right, and then Brees finds someone in the end zone -- touchdown! -- and I'm down $190 for the day, a whopping $610 for the trip.

Good God almighty.

Stage No. 7: The Pin

Pretty self-explanatory in wrestling. When you get pinned in Vegas, it's usually that one final wager that breaks your heart -- you're down, you're struggling, you're practically done, but there's one wager that could turn things around, whether it's a giant blackjack bet, a roulette bet, a sports bet, a bottle of Veuve Cliquot in the Champagne Room or whatever floats your boat. In my case, I reached for the Broncos. Sunday night game. Denver at home. Fielder on the road. Denver only giving 3½ points.

Bish and I headed over to Treasure Island's sports book, where we drank bloody Mary's and watched the Broncos dominate the first half against Miami, somehow only emerging with a two-point lead (thanks to a goal-line fumble, red-zone interception and half-ending field goal wiped out by a holding penalty). And you knew it was ending badly. You just knew. In the history of the NFL, nobody has ever squandered multiple scoring chances in the first half, then ended up winning the game. It's never happened. I defy Steve Sabol to prove me wrong.

You know the rest. Miami ended up winning an unbelievable game -- an absolute roller-coaster ride of the worst scale -- and I dropped another $82.50. Heartbreaking. I can't even talk about it. Seriously. I'm incapable. For some reason, I kept forging ahead, hitting the Treasure blackjack tables with Bish and Hopper, so desperate that I even consented to play at a table with those evil automatic shuffling machines. That led to this exchange:

Hopper (peering over at my chips): "How you doin'? Treading water?"

Me (speaking without thinking): "Like Leo DiCaprio at the end of 'Titanic.' And I think we're right at the part where I'm trying to climb on Kate Winslet's life raft, but she's too fat to let me on."

Suddenly Angry Female Dealer: "You staying on 16?"

You can guess how that one ended. I dropped another $105, pushing my figure right up to minus-$800. Minus-$800!

Now it's midnight. I'm buzzed again. And tired. And wildly depressed. Three days of sitting in Vegas have left me more constipated than the Sumner Tunnel at rush hour -- I can't perform on the road, anyway, and frankly, I don't know who can -- so I have the permanent Mike Shanahan Face going. And I have an 11:45 a.m. flight the following morning. I'm totally broken. I'm Tim Couch. I never want to come to Vegas again. Ever.

It's over. I'm done. Vegas has pinned me.

(Wait, there's one more stage!)

Stage No. 8: Cleaning House

One of my favorite wrestling traditions: The jobber squanders the match, becomes incensed, attacks the winner, unleashes a few punches and throws him out of the ring (as the crowd explodes). A moral victory, if you will.

Well, we have those in Vegas, too: The last-minute, "I know I'm getting on a plane in a few hours, but maybe I can fit in a few more blackjack hands" gambling spree. Strangely enough, there's a remarkably high success rate here, almost as if Vegas allows you to leave on a happy note, just so you'll come back again.

My mini-redemption happened in the strangest of ways: Bish skipped out to catch an early flight, I woke up, couldn't fall back asleep ... within 30 minutes, I found myself heading over to the Venetian at 7:30 in the morning (special thanks to the Sports Gal for her inspiring "You can do it!" speech). And everything just felt right. The five cups of coffee helped. So did the jovial dealers. And the three guys at my table who knew what they were doing. You can't describe why it's working in a casino, you only know how to identify it when it's happening. And for me, it was happening. Finally.

Two hours later, I regained a little self-respect, walking away at the perfect time and cashing in for a $175 profit. More importantly, I liked Vegas again. Losing $800 in three days would have been a disaster; losing $625 in four days was merely an unfortunate aberration. Vegas might have pinned me, but I think I had her scared there Monday morning. And I'll be back. Ohhhhhhhh, yes ... I'll be back.

Vegas, baby.

Vegas."

One Muslim at a Time

Now if only we could get about, say, another billion Muslims or so to, as this author has, having them take a frank, hard look at the failures and shortcomings inherent in some of their religious and political practices and in the dictatorships and terror havens they have spawned, then we might be getting somewhere defeating terrorism. Let's hope there are more where this man came from...via the Middle East Times, July 19, 2006:

COMMENTARY: MUSLIMS MUST BEAR THE BRUNT OF THEIR FAILURE
By Salim Mansur, Middle East Times

Muslim Canadians, as Muslims elsewhere in Western societies, have felt increasingly besieged for some time now, both from outside their community and from within. This sense of isolation, of being misrepresented and misunderstood, will inevitably deepen as the full story of the arrests of 17 Toronto-area Muslims on terrorism charges unfolds.

But whose fault is this? Let us, Muslims, be brutally honest.

We have inherited a culture of denial, of too often refusing to acknowledge our own responsibility for the widespread malaise that has left most of the Arab-Muslim countries in economic, political, and social despair.

Statistics and intergovernmental reports over the past several decades have documented a gap, perhaps now unbridgeable, between Muslim countries and the advanced industrial democracies in the West. In a recent "failed states index" published in the May/June issue of "Foreign Policy" magazine, Pakistan, for instance, is ranked among the top 10 failed states in the world - ahead of Afghanistan. Pakistan is a Muslim country, a nuclear military power, but it can barely feed, clothe, educate, and shelter its population.

The reports on the Arab countries are a dismal catalogue of entrenched tyrannies, failing economies, squandered wealth, gender oppression, persecution of minorities, and endemic violence. (Emphasis mine --Ed.)

The cleric-led regime in Iran seeks nuclear weapons and threatens to obliterate Israel, repress domestic opposition, and seek confrontation with the West. Instead of acknowledging the reality of the Arab-Muslim world as a broken civilization, we Muslims tend to indulge instead in blaming others for our ills; deflecting our responsibilities for failures that have become breeding grounds of violence and terrorism.

Many of our intellectuals in public life and our religious leaders in mosques remain adept in double-speak, saying contrary things in English or French and then in Arabic or Farsi or Urdu. We have made hypocrisy an art, and have spun for ourselves a web of lies that blinds us to the real world around us. We seethe with
grievances and resentment against the West, even as we have prospered in the freedom and security of Western democracies.

We have inculcated into our children false pride, and given them a sense of history that crumbles under critical scrutiny. We have burdened them with conflicting loyalties - and now some of them have become our nightmare.

We preach tolerance yet we are intolerant. We demand inclusion, yet we practice exclusion of gender, of minorities, of those with whom we disagree. (emphasis mine --Ed.)

We repeat endlessly that Islam is a religion of peace, yet too many of us display conduct contrary to what we profess. We keep assuring ourselves and others that Muslims who violate Islam are a minuscule minority, yet we fail to hold this minority accountable in public.

A bowl of milk turns into curd with a single drop of lemon. The minuscule minority we blame is this drop of lemon that has curdled and made a shambles of our Islam, yet too many of us insist against all evidence that our belief somehow sets us apart as better than others. In Islam, we insist, religion and politics are inseparable. As a result, politics dominates our religion - and our religion has become a
cover for tribalism and nationalism. We regularly quote from the Koran, but do not make repentance for our failings as the Koran instructs, by seeking forgiveness from those we have harmed.

We Muslims are the source of our own misery, and we are not misunderstood by others who see in our conduct a threat to their peace."

Salim Mansur is an associate professor of Political Science at the University of Western Ontario. He is also a columnist at Canada's "Sun Media".

A Celebrity Who Is Actually Cool...How Refreshing

Over the weekend, I dropped in on a meeting of an organization with which I am involved and had a great time. After a good meal and the end of our meeting, I had occasion to meet someone who, as I would later discover, was a celebrity of some fame and stature in the music business. For reasons of confidentiality, I will not disclose the person's name, but I will say that she turned out to be one of the most gracious, humble, thoughtful, and down-to-earth people I have ever met...and she was very pretty to boot! We talked of common things in our personal backgrounds and swapped professional stories too...as it turns out, we have something in common. Just as people think the practice of law is what they see on "Law and Order", people also think that the music business is all about glamour, money, fame, etc. In reality, the stuff on TV in both fields is but the tip of the iceberg, and it fails to show the ever-present hard work required to succeed and the occasional grind that the business sometimes becomes. It was very refreshing and fun to meet someone who hasn't let fame go to their head...it was a pleasure to meet her, yet another good part of a weekend of big fun and good times. :)

Three Passions

Three passions have governed my life:
The longings for love, the search for knowledge,
And unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind.

Love brings ecstasy and relieves loneliness.
In the union of love I have seen
In a mystic miniature the prefiguring vision
Of the heavens that saints and poets have imagined.

With equal passion I have sought knowledge.
I have wished to understand the hearts of men.
I have wished to know why the stars shine.

Love and knowledge led upwards to the heavens,
But always pity brought me back to earth;
Cries of pain reverberated in my heart
Of children in famine, of victims tortured
And of old people left helpless.
I long to alleviate the evil, but I cannot,
And I too suffer.

This has been my life; I found it worth living.

~ Bertrand Russell

Great Times with My Best Friends

A couple of weeks ago, I got to hang out with some of my best friends in the East TN area while over there taking care of some business. This weekend one of my best friends since freshman year of college (for almost a decade now, yikes!) had flown in from the left coast where he has been on tour with his job for the better part of a year. The last time I saw him we went to a Nine Inch Nails concert for his birthday in February and had a blast, except for the nasty fall and resulting bruise I sustained trying to navigate the mosh pit and find him, lol.

Prior to my friend's arrival in town, I had found a listing for what looked like a pretty cool club in Nashville, good reviews and atmosphere, not too pricey, the whole bit. After a good workout, dinner, and a shower, we were ready to cut loose and have some fun. Note to self and others...when you are looking for places online to go out on the town, call them first to make sure they are still, you know, open. After stopping for a bit on the side of the road due to torrential rainfall on the way downtown, we got to 2nd Ave., only to find that the club I had seen online had closed down WEEKS ago...not good times. We made the best of it though, and as a nice surprise, we ran into another friend of mine I hadn't seen in months and made it a group night on the town. We all went to Graham Central Station and Excess/Orbit dancing and having a few drinks until way too late before drifting off to get some sleep, then followed up with the obligatory Waffle House breakfast the next morning.

I am not much on the club scene and never have been, but I do like to go out and break it down on the dance floor every once in a while. It's a good stress reliever and workout, and I am not a bad dancer for a white guy, lol. I have good rhythm, can lead when necessary, and certainly won't embarrass anyone, myself included. It was a great night and lots of fun...my college buddy is already back in Denver gearing up for more shows (he is a dancer) and it will probably be another several months before we hang out again. One of the things I like best about our friendship is that, even when there are long breaks in between times we hang out, when we eventually get together, it's like we never left and just hung out last week. I have said it before and will say it again, I am very blessed to have such friends as these, I love them all, and don't know what I would do without them.

Sometimes I Think I'm the Only Cab on the Road

I know the feeling of thinking I'm the only one out there feeling this way sometimes...just as the cabbie must continue making the rounds to pay the bills, so must we keep putting ourselves out there, or at minimum, remaining open to the possibility of someone special if that is our heart's desire (as it is mine). Does it open a person up to the possibility of being hurt? You bet it does, but as they say, it beats the alternative.

"Cab", Train
For Me, It's You, 2006

"New York snow this time of year
There's nothing more beautiful to me
Except for you
Making my way on the town and down
seeing familiar places, faces
In my pile of coffee grounds
The days are better, the nights are still so lonely
Sometimes I think I'm the only cab on the road
Sometimes I think I'm the only cab on the road

Watching my breath rise in the sun
Pulling myself into mid-one
Helplessly feel for my phone and drive away

This new rhythm I pursue
Is just my getting over you
Telling myself that I need to

The days are better, the nights are still so lonely
Sometimes I think I'm the only cab on the road
Sometimes I think I'm the only cab on the road

I'm still looking for a play no one said that it was fair
To be alone

The days are better, the nights are still so lonely
Sometimes I think I'm the only cab on the road

The days are better, the nights are still so lonely
Sometimes I think Im the only cab on the road
Sometimes I think Im the only cab on the road."

Thank Heaven For Small Favors

Is there anything worse or more inconvenient than car trouble, especially when you are trying to travel, and double especially when you have someplace you are looking forward to going? Taking the second half of the day off work, I got all my errands done and wrapped up at the office, then got out on the interstate...with good times on the horizon.

First I heard a funny noise, thinking "OK, I will check this when I stop for gas." Then it got worse, and worse, and then it was drowning out the radio and A/C combined. So I pull off the interstate (about 5 mi. from where I live) and come to a red light...then the light turns green, I press the accelerator, and my front left tire explodes...bad times.

On top of that, it is broiling hot here, 98 degrees and 110 on the heat index, and it's a humid heat, ugh. So the wrecker came, took me to a tire place, and I was all fixed up in an hour. Why do I mention this? Because I am thankful for small favors. Before every road trip of any length I pray for safety on the trip and for no car problems. Sometimes mechanics break down, but I will thank the Lord for allowing it to happen 5 minutes from the house as opposed to halfway between here and Nashville in the middle of nowhere...for letting it be a tire blowout instead of massive engine problems...and for allowing my A/C to still work while I waited. A state trooper even stopped to ask if I was OK and had someone coming. This is was definitely incovenient in terms of time, money, and comfort, but it was very small in comparison to what it could have been.

Yes Lord, I noticed, and thank you for being there even when I don't deserve it :).

Hell May Just Be Freezing Over Here...in a Good Way

This is really cool, and historic. Both President Bush and Condi Rice are striking the right tone here. For the first time, maybe ever, a U.S. president isn't engaging in the same mealy-mouthed calls for "restraint" from Israel, which for four decades have done nothing except give terrorist groups time to regroup, dig in, rearm, and murder more Israelis. U.N. Ambassador John Bolton makes a great point asking who exactly speaks for terrorist groups like Hezbollah and who would enforce a ceasefire, especially when there is already a U.N. resolution in place demanding that Hezbollah disarm and withdraw from southern Lebanon (et tu Saddam Hussein and Iraq U.N. fiasco?). Israel has had enough and appears to be taking the gloves off, and it's about time we let them. No one wants war or bloodshed, but if Mexico or Canada were lobbing missiles and rockets into American cities, we certainly wouldn't stand for it, and neither should Israel. Good for Pres. Bush and Sec. of State Rice...as the article below states, we do need to get to the "root causes", which means the eradication of Hezbollah as a terror/military force in the Middle East (not alleged Israeli misdeds). God be with the IDF as they battle an entrenched and fanatical enemy, and with the Israeli people, because who knows how far down the rabbit hole this conflict might take that country and region.

Geneva Conventions Do NOT Protect Our Soldiers or Those of Our Allies

But, but, but the Supreme Court in Hamdan said... if only we grant Geneva protections to the big meanies in al-Qaeda, Hezbollah, and the like, then those honorable, reasonable folks will kindly treat our soldiers and others they capture according to the rules of law and war. Wait, what's that I hear...? Why, that would be the fine lady in charge of the Villainous Company blog, reporting that Hezbollah, shocker of shockers, will not allow the Red Cross access to the Israeli soldiers they captured, nor will they provide reports on their condition or allow them to contact their families. This in spite of the fact that Israel has granted such rights to Palestinian and other terrorist "soldiers" for over 20 years. I would go on, but the lady of the VC blog has said it best, so I will let her take it away:

"It seems to me that reciprocity is a two-way street. If Geneva coverage is to be extended to insurgent groups under Article 3, then surely reciprocal treatment should be expected from them? Otherwise Geneva is a mockery. I hope Justice Stevens is paying close attention.

Imagine that. Israel fully observes international humanitarian law. But they've never been able to visit an Israeli prisoner captured by Arab terrorists... oops... freedom fighters. Even ones who've now been imprisoned since 1982. But hey... they think about them a whole lot. Somebody get Justice Stevens on the bat phone! He'll shake the sternly wagging finger of international opprobrium at these guys. A few days of that, coupled with his turgid legal prose, should have them just begging for mercy."

For more excellent post-Hamdan commentary, and where we hopefully go from here, check out Grim Reborn (Cliff notes version- that Congress takes up the High Court's invitation to give legislative blessing to the military tribunals set up for terror suspects by the President, but which the Court declared in Hamdan that the executive branch can not set up on its own on the basis of inherent power as commander-in-chief).

Appeasers, Meet Crocodiles

It really is embarrassing that things have gotten to this point. Michelle Malkin she rightly asks, "Whose country is this anyway?". In this story, we are regaled with the story of a contractor who was actually trying to follow the law and not hire illegal immigrants. See if you can guess which of the following he gets for his efforts...a.) an award, b.) well-deserved kudos for buildings constructed by legal workers, or c.) a vicious beating from a marauding pack of illegal immgrants committing violent felony assaults that no Americans will commit...? If you guessed C, you are correct.

People of both parties who think that appeasing the radical illegal immigration lobby by "legalization" or "regularizing the status" of those here illegally should take a hard look at this incident as a harbinger of their future. Sir Winston Churchill once said, "Appeasers are those who feed the crocodile hoping he will eat them last." Appeasers, gaze upon your crocodiles.

Get This Child a Law License and an ATLA Membership

Spoke with a law school classmate/colleague of mine who works at a great Nashville law firm on my lunch break today...always good to catch up with folks who can feel your pain, lol. Anyway, since we graduated, he has gotten married (to another attorney) and has a daughter who is now a toddler (either 2 or 3 years old). Apparently, she is getting a head start on the family business, because she was chatting with a day care worker when she said, and I quote, "If you don't take me to Starbucks, I'm gonna SUE you!" That's just classic, you can't make that stuff up, lol...I told him he has a future President of the American Trial Lawyer's Association in the making. It's little stuff like this that comes from nowhere to leave you rolling in the floor with laughter. It also gives me a preview of coming attractions, because that sounds like something a smarty pants child o' mine would come up with. :)

Retrosexuals

I ran across this on The Net a some time ago, and I don’t remember where, when or who composed it, but it pretty accurately nails me and most all the guys I know who are PBCs. The newly coined phrase "Pre-Bizzaro Child", to describe those of us who were raised by responsible parents before The United States turned into Bizzaro-World. This is funny stuff right here, and I mostly agree with it, although I do make some allowances for modernity in the dating world and have still yet to learn some of the manly home improvement-type chores; but it's on my to-learn list, I swear. :)

"After searching for my sexual identity. I finally discovered it and I can no longer keep it in the closet. I am here to openly announce that I am a Retrosexual.

My Retrosexuality is defined by the following Retrosexual code:

A Retrosexual, no matter what the women insists, pays for the date.

A Retrosexual opens doors for a lady. Even for the ones that fit that term only because they are female.

A Retrosexual DEALS WITH SHIT. Be it a flat tire, break-in into your home, or a natural disaster, you FUCKING DEAL WITH IT.

A Retrosexual not only eats red meat, he often kills it himself.

A Retrosexual doesn’t worry about living to be 90. It’s not how long you live, but how well. If you’re 90 years old and still smoking cigars and drinking, I salute you.

A Retrosexual does not use more hair or skin products than a woman. Women have several supermarket aisles of stuff. Retrosexuals need an endcap. (Possibly 2 endcaps if you include shaving goods.)

A Retrosexual does not dress in clothes from Hot Topic when he’s 30 years old .

A Retrosexual should know how to properly kill stuff (or people) if need be. This falls under the "DEALING WITH SHIT" portion of The Code.

A Retrosexual watches no TV show with "Queer" in the title.

A Retrosexual does not let neighbors fuck up rooms in his house on national TV.

A Retrosexual should not give up excessive amounts of manliness for poontang. Some is inevitable, but major re-invention of yourself will only lead to you becoming a froo-froo little puss, and in the long run, she ain’t worth it.

A Retrosexual is allowed to seek professional help for major mental stress such as drug/alcohol addiction, death of your entire family in a freak treechipper accident, favorite sports team being moved to a different city etc. You are NOT allowed to see a shrink because Daddy didn’t pay you enough attention. Daddy was busy DEALING WITH SHIT. When you fucked up, he DEALT WITH YOU. Buck up, pussy.

A Retrosexual will have at least one outfit in his wardrobe designed to conceal himself from prey.

A Retrosexual knows how to tie a fucking windsor knot when wearing a tie.

A Retrosexual does not strip naked, get into a sweat lodge, and bang on drums to bond with other guys. That shit is gay. However, dressing in kilts, banging on drums around a campfire and drinking heavily is just fine.

A Retrosexual should have at least one good wound he can brag about getting.

A Retrosexual knows how to use a basic set of tools. If you can’t hammer a damn nail, or drill a straight hole, practice in secret until you can or be rightfully ridiculed for the wuss that you be.

A Retrosexual’s asshole is an exit ramp on the road of life. Ladies, contrary to what Cosmo says, spontaneously sticking a finger back there is a good way to be launched off the bed (or if Hooters hotwings have been recently consumed, lose a finger). Make you a deal, we won’t mess with yours unless you want us to, and you won’t mess with ours… period.

A Retrosexual will buy feminine hygine products if he has to, but only under protest. This falls under unpleasant things you have to fucking DEAL WITH. Get some Hagen-Daas while you're at it.

A Retrosexual gives a lady his seat on the bus/subway/etc.

A Retrosexual does not order an apple martini at the bar. A Martini has fucking Vodka and vermouth in it dammit. And maybe an olive. In fact, why not just get a shot of Vodka??"

Appreciate the Story...Then Go Make Your Own

Pretty good article here...I am probably as big a sap for a great love story, especially on the big screen, as you will ever find. Some of the stuff in the article (with fun excerpts) below is pure fairy tale, with heavy doses of reality notably absent, but like the author says, nothing wrong with dreaming or having something to shoot for...just don't become an old maid waiting for these silver screen stories to come to a love life near you. I find the "Titanic" comparison especially apt, since I made it on this blog myself about a month before this article was published. Call me a trendsetter, ahead of the curve, whatever, just don't hate me because I am good.

"A lot of lip service has been paid to the idea that violence in films causes men to be violent in real life. Why isn't anyone calling for warning labels for movies that cause otherwise reasonable women to act like emotional psychopaths? Hollywood's take on love leaves us dissatisfied with the relationships we have, and hungry for the sort of romance that simply never occurs in nature.

The Titanic Trap

You just made partner and need to focus on work, but you can't get this new guy off your mind. His name is Bo, he never went to college, and he works at the burrito place where you sometimes grab lunch between clients. Your friends ask what exactly you hope to gain from this relationship, but luckily you're not a snob like them, and you know that a persons job isn't what defines him.

See also: Sabrina, Pretty Woman, Sweet Home Alabama.

The Real Ending: At a company dinner, your boss asks Bo what he does and he replies, I work the grill, but I'm hoping to be put on the register soon. Face it: If Leo had made it to dry land, that relationship would never have survived."

Let Africa Sink

The billions upon billions of dollars we have poured into Africa over the last several decades out of a misguided (if charitable) sense of guilt have rendered not a single positive result. It's gained us nothing in terms of returns, it has fostered a sense of dependency on aid handouts, and the only people who have benefitted from such aid are thieving, dictatorial kleptocrats who build wealth in foreign banks at the expense of their people and whose human rights abuses make ol' Saddam look like a rank amateur sometimes (think death by machete times 800,000). This whole aid situation sounds familiar, because it is also playing out in several Middle Eastern countries as we speak. Kim du Toit, blogger extraordinaire and former resident of the continent says we as a nation should say "No more" to the aid, and let the continent sink (or swim, if it can) on its own, and limit the collateral damage by keeping the rot from spreading here. He is absolutely right.

"We, and by this I mean the West, have tried many ways to help Africa. All such attempts have failed.

Charity is no answer. Money simply gets appropriated by the first, or second, or third person to touch it (17 countries saw a decline in real per capita GNP between 1970 and 1999, despite receiving well over $100 billion in World Bank assistance). Food isnt distributed. This happens either because there is no transportation infrastructure (bad), or the local leader deliberately withholds the supplies to starve people into submission (worse). Materiel is broken, stolen or sold off for a fraction of its worth. The result of decades of "foreign aid" has resulted in a continental infrastructure which, if one excludes South Africa, couldnt support Pittsburgh.

Add to this, as I mentioned above, the endless cycle of Natures little bag of tricks--persistent drought followed by violent flooding, a plethora of animals, reptiles and insects so dangerous that life is already cheap before Man starts playing his little reindeer games with his fellow Man--and what you are left with is: catastrophe.

The inescapable conclusion is simply one of resignation. This goes against the grain of our humanity--we are accustomed to ridding the world of this or that problem (smallpox, polio, whatever), and accepting failure is anathema to us. But, to give a classic African scenario, a polio vaccine wont work if the kids are prevented from getting the vaccine by a venal overlord, or a frightened chieftain, or a lack of roads, or by criminals who steal the vaccine and sell it to someone else. If a cure for AIDS was found tomorrow, and offered to every African nation free of charge, the growth of the disease would scarcely be checked, let alone reversed. Basically, youd have to try to inoculate as many two-year old children as possible, and write off the two older generations.

So that is the only one response, and its a brutal one: accept that we are powerless to change Africa, and leave them to sink or swim, by themselves. It sounds dreadful to say it, but if the entire African continent dissolves into a seething maelstrom of disease, famine and brutality, thats just too damn bad. We have better things to do--sometimes, you just have to say, "Cant do anything about it.

The viciousness, the cruelty, the corruption, the duplicity, the savagery, and the incompetence is endemic to the entire continent, and is so much of an anathema to any right-thinking person that the civilized imagination simply stalls when faced with its ubiquity, and with the enormity of trying to fix it. The Western media shouldnt even bother reporting on it. All that does is arouse our feelings of horror, and the instinctive need to do something, anything--but everything has been tried before, and failed. Everything, of course, except self-reliance.

All we should do is make sure that none of Africa gets transplanted over to the U.S., because the danger to our society is dire if it does. I note that several U.S. churches are attempting to bring groups of African refugees over to the United States, European churches the same for Europe. Mistake. Mark my words, this misplaced charity will turn around and bite us, big time.

Even worse would be to think that the simplicity of Africa holds some kind of answers for Western society: remember Mrs. Clintons little book, "It Takes A Village"? Trust me on this: there is not one thing that Africa can give the West which hasnt been tried before and failed, not one thing that isnt a step backwards, and not one thing which is worse than, or that contradicts, what we have already.

The West cant help Africa. Nor should we. The record speaks for itself."

Quicksand

OK, so I quote movies a lot, and even if they depart from reality rather often, there is still wisdom to be gleaned from them. In the movie, "The Replacements", there is a pro football strike, and the league chooses to play the season with replacement players. This gives second or only chances to players who would have never made it in the pros otherwise. Keanu Reeves stars as QB Shane Falco, a one-time college star whose career ended after a disastrous Sugar Bowl where he threw four interceptions and his team lost 35-7.

About halfway through the replacement players' season, the team is struggling mightily, so the coach (Gene Hackman) calls a players' meeting and asks the team what they are so afraid of. After some cheesy jokes, Falco chimes in with his biggest fear..."Quicksand", he says. One of his teammates asks him what he means, and he replies, "Well let's say you are playing, and everything is going fine. Then you make one mistake, and another, and another, then another. The harder you fight the deeper you sink. Next thing you know you can't move, can't breathe...like quicksand." Obviously the players rally around their coach and QB and turn the season around or it wouldn't be much of a movie, lol.

That's how it is in life sometimes, at least with me. I don't know about everyone else, but when things go wrong in my life, they tend to go wrong in packs, like wolves. And when that happens, it seems like every move you make to try and pull myself out of the mud only sinks you deeper, like quicksand.

I am not sure why this is, but I have a theory. The difference between now and times past is that I have God to take things like this to, to ask Him about it, question Him, seek His will, even disagree or be upset with Him from time to time. What's even cooler is that I am not required by the Lord or my faith to like it when things go wrong. I truly believe that the God I serve is big enough to handle all of these things and then some...the only thing that breaks His heart is silence, when I don't talk to Him at all. There in lies the biggest problem I have with my faith over the long haul.

Comparatively speaking, my life is very blessed...living in America, free, gainfully employed as a professional, etc. I would also bet that I am not alone in that, when my life gets busy or hectic, and doubly so when life is a good busy and hectic, my time with God gets inevitably gets downsized. This is bad enough, because when things are going well, that is part of God's plan too, so he is properly due credit and praise for that. Worse yet, in these instances of downsized God-time, the time I do give Him inevitably ends up dedicated to asking for things I want, blessings I feel are due me. Contrast this with the period of time after I first became saved, when I couldn't WAIT to talk to the Lord, be it in prayer, at night before bed (the most frequent) or even in my car on the way to work...of course I prayed about things in my own life, but I also dedicated time to others and was just plain happy to spend that private quality time with Him.

My selfish downsizing of God's time in my life isn't right, no matter the reason. So times like now, when I catch myself doing that, it's then time to go to the Lord and ask His forgiveness and make my best effort to improve going forward. I am unsure where I heard this, but someone once said that God doesn't give us everything we want because if He did, we wouldn't need Him and would never talk to Him. While, from a human perspective, this sounds incredibly selfish, from the perspective of a Christian, it is, in reality, very little to ask indeed. In fact, that's the least I can do, because were I (or anyone else) dependent on what we could do for God in exchange for salvation, Hell would be bursting at the seams in very short order.

In closing, I saw NFL QB Ben Roethlisberger on Sportscenter tonight in his first interview since a serious motorcycle wreck a few months back that could have easily killed him. He told Jim Rome that he felt this was God's way of reminding him to slow down, that he wasn't invincible, and that everything he had could be taken away in a second. I have worked very hard to get where I am, I am thankful for it, and I look forward to greater things in the future...but I certainly didn't get here on my own and I won't ascend to the greatness God has destined for me that way either.

While I can't say I am terribly thriled with the recent and temporary valleys in my life, I will certainly thank the Lord in my prayers tonight that He didn't send me a telegram requesting the honor of my time and presence with Him in a much more serious fashion. Message received Lord, loud and clear.

Forties Going on Fourteen...Ugh!

OK, so I am sitting here killing a few minutes waiting for my assistant to prepare my files and lunch to get here so I can go meet with my clients later today, so right now seems like a fine time to point out something so utterly childish that I can't even believe it has become an issue, much less the consequences it wrought.

Most of the work that I do is primarily done in a single court. In the back area behind the court there is a small room with a refrigerator, sink, etc. This room is for staff and employees to use to eat and relax, and sometimes when we have lunch at the court, it's where the food is kept. Let me start by saying that the only way I have ever used this room and/or refrigerator is during times where the court has lunch there (meaning I have chipped in money for the food and drinks and I am therefore entitled to eat) or to keep my diet sodas cold (got to have caffeine and I don't do coffee).

So I go in this morning to confer with the DA regarding the cases on tomorrow's docket (Thursday is my long day, I am in court all day with lunch in between) and attempt to put up my soda in the fridge, only to find that a lock has been installed on the refirgerator! I don't care that much really, but I did ask someone out of curiosity why this has been done, and in garbled diplo-speak that would have done the U.N. proud, it was not-so-discreetly insinuated that the lock on the fridge was somehow a result of my actions...this is patently untrue and I am not happy.

In this particular office (happily NOT the same office in which I work, where the people are wonderful), there is constant backbiting, gossip, and sometimes outright throwing people under the bus. It has even cost a couple of employees their respective jobs there. It isn't like this is a bunch of teenage interns or folks fresh out of school, these people are mostly middle aged women for crying out loud...how sad it is that they haven't progressed beyond the social and professional maturity level of your average 14 year old. Such a poisonous work atmosphere does not concern me in the slightest, until this juvenile behavior is pointed in my direction. I simply won't stand for it, and I plan to speak with the judge and clerk in charge of this court at my earliest opportunity to prevent the problem from metastasizing into something more serious.

The crux of this issue comes down to a pair of issues: 1.) On occasion, when the deputy clerks are busy, I sometimes go and get my warrants out to make copies or to discuss with the DA. I do this to save time, money, and to prevent these women from having to stop what they are doing just to do something I am fully capable of. 2.) When we do have lunch at the court, it is usually a combination of homemade food and things from stores or restaurants, and it is always good, most of the time better than what I eat on a day-to-day basis. Accordingly, I eat sizable, but not unreasonable, portions, and am roundly teased for it. Nevermind that I am consistently smart about what I eat and take steps to reduce bad fat and excessive calories in my diet and only indulge occasionally, like when I get a chance to eat very good food. I am no Brad Pitt, but I have lost the 20 pounds I gained in law school since I began this job because I watch what I eat and work out regularly to keep myself in good shape. I am certainly not such an overeater that I feel the need to surreptitiously eat other people's food out of the refrigerator, lol. It is also, I believe, of note that most of the people who work there are, shall we say, substantially less fit than I.

The bottom line: these individuals have one little sliver of power and influence in the universe, and they will meet even the slightest threat, real or perceived, to that power with all the zeal of a jilted middle school prom date. Further, I believe I now can empathize with the experiences of attractive women in certain situations, namely being ostracized and singled out because of my physique. The whole situation is ridiculous, petty, and nonsensical, and I was (incorrectly) hopeful that my becoming a professional would relieve me of dealing with things like this.

It is a mere annoyance for now, and I certainly will not lose a moment of sleep nor will I quit my job over it, but that doesn't mean I have to like or tolerate it either. The judge in that court is great to work with, as is the head Clerk of Court, but all other things being equal, if anyone is curious why no one sticks around there (staff and/or attorneys) more than a year or two, they need look no further than this incident to see why.

Pennsylvania Town Gets It Right on Illegals

Via MSNBC, this little town in Pennsylvania got it exactly right re: illegal immigration, and showed itself a fine example of Americn democracy at work, solving problems at a local level when the feds are unwilling or unable to do it. By turning off the magnet of jobs and housing, the town will go along way toward making it impractical to impossible for illegals to set up shop there. The same ban should apply to all non-emergency (meaning life-threatening, not you get a cold you go to the ER) social services and schooling (the Supreme Court got it wrong in 1982 saying the children of illegals are entitled to free schooling), but this is a fine start, and I am envious...hopefully more towns will do the same and more.

"The City Council approved a law Thursday night designed to make this small city in northeastern Pennsylvania among the most hostile places in the U.S. for illegal immigrants to live or work. The 4-to-1 vote came after nearly two hours of passionate debate. Opponents argued it was divisive and possibly illegal, but supporters said illegal immigrants growing numbers have damaged the quality of life here. Barletta proposed the Illegal Immigration Relief Act last month as a response to what he said were Hazletons problems with violent crime, crowded schools, hospital costs and the demand for services.

The ordinance would deny licenses to businesses that employ illegal immigrants, fine landlords $1,000 for each illegal immigrant discovered renting their properties, and require city documents to be in English only. The illegal citizens (an oxymoron, but the meaning is clear --Ed.), I would recommend they leave, Barletta said after the meeting."

Kill, Don't Capture

Ralph Peters is one of the top writers around, and his area of expertise is in military strategy and affairs. He was a career military man until his retirement, and I believe I respect him most for his willingness to say what needs to be said, free of PC, inside the Beltway nonsense regarding the enemies we face. He has said so well here what so few have the courage to, and something with which I agree wholeheartedly, that I am reposting it below in its entirety. The recent Hamdan decision by the Supreme Court (5-3), which grants Geneva Convention (GC) protections to any and all terrorists captured by U.S. forces, only serves as further proof that U.S. forces should proceed exactly as the title suggests. I am an attorney and have read the applicable portions of the GC, and I can see no way whatsoever that terrorists who blend in with and target civilian populations, who wear no uniforms, and who have never and would never treat captured prisoners according to the GC are entitled to GC protections themselves. If U.S. military personnel come under attack, they should grant precisely the same mercy and quarter to the terrorists that our troops receive from them...meaning none. This is what we did with captured Germans, especially officers, in WWII, and that worked out just as it should. Read on, because Mr. Peters has it exactly right...and for a more measured, scholarly response, I recommend Cornell law professor Jeremy Rabkin's article, "Not as Bad as You Think", linked here. I sincerely hope that Congress takes up the Supreme Court's invitation to clarify exactly what rights detained enemy combatants are to receive, but I yet fear the spineless, PC culture of the Beltway will prevent this from happening in a way that actually aids the War on Terrorism, and I still stand with Mr. Peters as to what to do with such individuals who take up arms against us.

Ralph Peters

July 10, 2006

"THE British military defines experience as the ability to recognize a mistake the second time you make it. By that standard, we should be very experienced in dealing with captured terrorists, since we've made the same mistake again and again. Violent Islamist extremists must be killed on the battlefield. Only in the rarest cases should they be taken prisoner. Few have serious intelligence value. And, once captured, there's no way to dispose of them.

Killing terrorists during a conflict isn't barbaric or immoral - or even illegal. We've imposed rules upon ourselves that have no historical or judicial precedent. We haven't been stymied by others, but by ourselves. The oft-cited, seldom-read Geneva and Hague Conventions define legal combatants as those who visibly identify themselves by wearing uniforms or distinguishing insignia (the latter provision covers honorable partisans - but no badges or armbands, no protection). Those who wear civilian clothes to ambush soldiers or collect intelligence are assassins and spies - beyond the pale of law.

Traditionally, those who masquerade as civilians in order to kill legal combatants have been executed promptly, without trial. Severity, not sloppy leftist pandering, kept warfare within some decent bounds at least part of the time. But we have reached a point at which the rules apply only to us, while our enemies are permitted unrestricted freedom. The present situation encourages our enemies to behave wantonly, while crippling our attempts to deal with terror.

Consider today's norm: A terrorist in civilian clothes can explode an IED, killing and maiming American troops or innocent civilians, then demand humane treatment if captured - and the media will step in as his champion. A disguised insurgent can shoot his rockets, throw his grenades, empty his magazines, kill and wound our troops, then, out of ammo, raise his hands and demand three hots and a cot while he invents tales of abuse. Conferring unprecedented legal status upon these murderous transnational outlaws is unnecessary, unwise and ultimately suicidal. It exalts monsters. And it provides the anti-American pack with living vermin to anoint as victims, if not heroes.

Isn't it time we gave our critics what they're asking for? Let's solve the "unjust" imprisonment problem, once and for all. No more Guantanamos! Every terrorist mission should be a suicide mission. With our help. We need to clarify the rules of conflict, but integrity and courage have fled Washington. Nobody will state bluntly that we're in a fight for our lives, that war is hell, and that we must do what it takes to win.

Our enemies will remind us of what's necessary, though. When we've been punished horribly enough, we'll come to our senses and do what must be done. This isn't an argument for a murderous rampage, but its opposite. We must kill our enemies with discrimination. But we do need to kill them. A corpse is a corpse: The media's rage dissipates with the stench. But an imprisoned terrorist is a strategic liability. Nor should we ever mistreat captured soldiers or insurgents who adhere to standing conventions. On the contrary, we should enforce policies that encourage our enemies to identify themselves according to the laws of war. Ambiguity works to their advantage, never to ours.

Our policy toward terrorists and insurgents in civilian clothing should be straightforward and public: Surrender before firing a shot or taking hostile action toward our troops, and we'll regard you as a legal prisoner. But once you've pulled a trigger, thrown a grenade or detonated a bomb, you will be killed. On the battlefield and on the spot. Isn't that common sense? It also happens to conform to the traditional conduct of war between civilized nations. Ignorant of history, we've talked ourselves into folly. And by the way: How have the terrorists treated the uniformed American soldiers they've captured? According to the Geneva Convention?

Sadly, even our military has been infected by political correctness. Some of my former peers will wring their hands and babble about "winning hearts and minds." But we'll never win the hearts and minds of terrorists. And if we hope to win the minds, if not the hearts, of foreign populations, we must be willing to kill the violent, lawless fraction of a fraction of a percent of the population determined to terrorize the rest. Ravaged societies crave and need strict order. Soft policies may appear to work in the short term, but they fail overwhelmingly in the longer term. Wherever we've tried sweetness and light in Iraq, it has only worked as long as our troops were present - after which the terrorists returned and slaughtered the beneficiaries of our good intentions. If you wish to defend the many, you must be willing to kill the few.

For now, we're stuck with a situation in which the hardcore terrorists in Guantanamo are "innocent victims" even to our fair-weather allies. In Iraq, our troops capture bomb-makers only to learn they've been dumped back on the block. It is not humane to spare fanatical murderers. It is not humane to play into our enemy's hands. And it is not humane to endanger our troops out of political correctness.

Instead of worrying over trumped-up atrocities in Iraq (the media give credence to any claim made by terrorists), we should stop apologizing and take a stand. That means firm rules for the battlefield, not Gumby-speak intended to please critics who'll never be satisfied by anything America does. The ultimate act of humanity in the War on Terror is to win. To do so, we must kill our enemies wherever we encounter them. He who commits an act of terror forfeits every right he once possessed."

Living in America Also Means Freedom to Vote with Our Dollars

One thing I love about this country is the freedom to vote, not just in elections, but also with my feet if I don't want to live in a particular place, my career if I am unhappy with a particular job, and with my dollars if I no longer wish to do business at a certain place. I informed a bank that I currently do business with of my intention to do the latter based on an incident I witnessed in a local branch two days ago (7/7).

While in line waiting to make a deposit, a pair of Hispanic gentlemen walked in, speaking all Spanish. The manager of the branch walked over to the main teller desk and picked up a document, which I later discovered was written entirely in Spanish, handed it to one of the gentleman, and asked him if he was Mexican. The gentleman said, "Si.", so the manager handed him the document and told him that this bank had procedures in place for people relocating from GA (one of the highest growth illegal immigration populations in the country) to TN (fast catching up with GA) to open new accounts. What infuriated me was that he told this man that no Social Security card was required, and that an account could be opened with a TN driver's license (which does not require proof of legal residence) and a Matricula Consular card (issued by the government of MEXICO!).

The U.S. Treasury Dept. and Congress have determined that this Mexican ID card is rife with fraud (a U.S. Congressman who has never been to Mexico was able to get one with his name on it for less than $100), and besides, no one in the U.S. would need this card unless they are here illegally. The Mexican gentleman thanked the manager, and after I completed my transaction, I walked up to the manager and told him that as soon as is practicable I would be withdrawing any money I had from the bank and closing my account. I also told him I knew that the decision to accept the Mexican IDs was far above his paygrade, but to kindly inform his superiors that the reason for me no longer doing business with them is twofold: 1.) Their company is willfully and knowingly engaged in money laundering of illegally obtained funds earned by illegal immigrants working in the U.S. without authorization (see 18 U.S.C. § 1956(A)-(B)). 2.) At best, they are turning a blind eye and giving a wink and a nudge to people who are flagrantly violating federal immigration law. More likely, and worse, they appear to know that they will not be prosecuted either for their illegal acts or enabling the lawbreaking of others, so they see it as an opportunity to pad their bottom line, which is obviously far more important. I was very pleasant and matter of fact throughout my conversation with the employee, during which I also informed him that I would tell as many people as I could about this practice in hopes of inducing them to stop doing business there, and then I left the bank.

I wish that Bank of America was alone in engaging in this sort of practice, but they are not. Wells Fargo proudly boasts of providing home loans and mortgages to people here illegally, and many local banks provide loans to illegal immigrants on the basis of income earned illegally. Here's an idea...let you or me as a legal citizen attempt to get a home mortgage or open a bank account without a SSN and see how far you get. Much like other radical special interest groups, the illegal alien lobby doesn't merely want even equal treatment, they demand, and recieve, special treatment, and it's ridiculous and wrong. But as I told the manager, living in America means not having to give a crap if you do the right thing or not...and in the case of immigration law, it means not having to abide by the law at all if you so choose, because we don't want to hurt anyone's feeeeelings...pathetic.

Rockin' Good Times With My East TN People

Spent today over in East Tennessee, on business the first part of the day in Chattanooga and then up to Knoxville to see some of my favorite people in the world who I don't see nearly often enough. To my friend Kimball, you always rock and make me laugh, and your husband John is one of the funniest mo-fos I have ever met. EVER. I think he and I would be pals even if you hadn't shacked up with him. Between the two of us we could probably reconstruct the highlights of South Park and Family Guy from scratch using only our memories...good times. To Mandy, for working hard even though she doesn't have to, she gets my respect and admiration. This gal has everything going for her and if there is such a thing as being within your rights to be a conceited snob, it would be her boys and girls. She, however, is one of the kindest, hardest working people I have ever met, hands down. She will make a great lawyer someday and is an even better person. I am truly blessed to call these good people my friends...I love y'all!

A Big Middle Finger the the Supporters of the 7/7 London Bombings

From Vince Aut Morire, I am happy to bring you this gem of a post, originally posted last year immediately after the bombings, in honor of the Koranimals who callously murdered civilians in the subway systems of London exactly one year ago today. Take it away Vinnie...

"Nice try. Really it was. Is that all you have left? Since 9/11, I seem to have noticed the significance of your efforts falling off drastically, from Bali to Madrid to today. What's the matter, are we a little busy elsewhere?

But the book of History was being written long before your pedophile prophet slunk his way out of his hole in the sand to wreak havoc amongst the civilized world. I'm no expert in the history of Great Britain, but I do know enough to say that your pathetic attempt today represents no more than a pinprick to the proud history of that nation. The legend of King Arthur was centuries old when Mohammed was but an infant.

It's time to face reality.

The explosives you used, you didn't invent. The internet you use to crow, you didn't invent. The bus and trains you blew up, you didn't invent. The printing presses you shut down in your home countries, you didnt inven't. You didn't build the AK-47s you fire into the air. You didn't build the planes you fly in. You didn't build the cars you ride in. Those jeans youre wearing? You didn't make those either.

Show me the three Islamic countries with the highest number of oil reserves, and I'll show you the three Western oil companies you had to hire to even get it out of the ground. You didn't even invent the tools that brought you your wealth. You're so pathetic you even kill your own. A sure sign of desperation, such as when Hitler sent dissenting generals to near certain death on the Eastern Front.

You exploit the laws of the free societies, which you also did not invent, in order to kill. Yet, while you slaughter the unsuspecting on their way to work, the armies you shy away from butcher you on your home turf. That's right, while you kill the innocent in the name of Allah, your ummah, and the dream of the global Caliphate, shrink further on the map of the world.

So next time, show us what you really got. Build the planes, tanks, ships, and armies to show us just how badass you really are. Instead of hiding in the dark corners of the world, raise a military and invade the West, on equal terms. You've done it before, now try it again. Take back Andalusia, not by immigrating, do it the old fashioned way. Sail your mighty navy into the Strait of Gibraltar and take back what was rightfully yours. Oh, I'm sorry, you can't. You're incapable. Hell, you didn't even invent the suicide attack.

Keep showing who you are. Keep killing the innocent. Youll still lose."

And in case anyone thinks this is a tiny minority of an otherwise peaceful religion (nevermind the "death to the infidels", move along, nothing to see here), just remember that even 10% of over a BILLION Muslims worldwide is still a big number, and when you include moonbat Islamoterrorists like the freakshow from the post below in that minority, it shows how vital it is to prevent them ever obtaining any kind of WMDs, which they also, incidentally and ironically, would not have invented. Here is the link and the money quote from this jihadist nutbag...

"At one point he announces dramatically that the September 11 attacks on the World Trade Center changed many peoples lives. After a pause, he brings the house down by adding: Especially those inside."

Utah Tells the U.N. Where to Go and How to Get There

Via the National Review Online archives, a couple of small towns in Utah are set to declare themselves U.N. free zones, and I dig it! That's one of the best ideas I have ever heard. Note that no one is saying that supporters of the organization are prohibited from meeting or otherwise violating their Constitutional rights. These towns are simply saying that we as a town will not support the U.N. with our money and that the U.N. has no jurisdiction to "demand" that our citizens serve it or its interests. Hopefully this will catch on in more places throughout the country, but more importantly, it illustrates a larger point about the ineffectual bordering on worthless nature of the U.N. itself. What, precisely, would the U.N. do about this? The answer, nothing, and that is because its continued existence as an organization depends almost entirely on the goodwill of others. When those "others" include tinpot third world dictators and grotesque human rights violators, as well as an American populace that is correctly growing sick of funding the U.N.'s corruption, its arrogance at meddling in the internal affairs of its member states (especially the U.S.), and its rather blatant anti-Semitic and anti-American attitudes...well, all I can say is it sucks to be them.

Oh, and if the U.N. is having any wet dream fantasies about us as a nation ever surrendering our right to bear arms (see U.N. Gun Control Conference link here), just one piece of advice: Don't even THINK about it! U.N. Ambassador John Bolton and Rep. Bob Barr may communicate that thought in nice diplo-babble because a.) it's their job, and b.) because that's the only language that the U.N. trolls who only want criminals to have weapons will understand...ordinary citizens, on the other hand, would meet any blue helmet knocking on our door to confiscate legally purchased and possessed weapons with, shall we say, much less kind and charitable words, and actions if neccessary.

True Enforcement First and Only from a RINO President...? Unlikely

Via Michelle Malkin, we hear the first ever rumblings that Pres. Bush may actually be open to enforcing the border first before any type of amnesty/guest-worker/handout nonsense. Please let it be true, but like Michelle says, I will believe it when I see it. I think Americans, especially those who live on the border whose lives are being destroyed by the invasion if illegals into the country, have had enough. Everyone fighting for border enforcement first should be encouraged by this step in the right direction, but for now, that's all it is. And as much of a fan as I am of Rep. Mike Pence (R-IN), his amnesty-lite plan isn't going to cut it either, no matter how "encouraged" the President might be. The only acceptable immigration bill besides an enforcement only bill is a bill that puts enforcement first and does not allow any type of amnesty program or other increase of foreign nationals into the U.S. above current levels until the borders are secured, period.

"Rafts", by Bill Whittle

For those of you who may not know, Bill Whittle is one of the top essayists around regarding the issues that define who America is as a country. His first book, "Silent America: Essays from a Democracy at War", is a fantastic collection of essays about those very issues. The writings in that book had a huge impact on me during my formative years as I learned at an exponential rate about our nation and its history, the world around us, and where we go from here in the aftermath of 9/11. A second book will be out later this year, and I can't wait. But in the meantime, in honor of the 4th of July, here is his most recent essay, entitled "Rafts", along with key excerpts. As Mr. Whittle says, on this holiday, "Which way are the rafts headed?"

"The forces of ignorance and barbarism bearers of ruin and despair wherever they make camp are growing in confidence. But besides their will to destroy and die they have nothing. These Death Cult barbarians think this is all they will need that, and an initial alliance with the forces they most despise. I still hold out hope that they will crack open a second book a history book, say that might at the eleventh hour give them some insight into the avocado nature of the Civilization they seem determined now to assault: soft and pulpy on the outside, impenetrably tough and hard within. They are going to do more than chip a tooth on us, these raving, bloodthirsty lunatics: they are about to make, I think, the same mistake that others have made before them to see the Cindy Sheehans and Michael Moores as representative of a corrupt and dying culture, rather than what they really are: somewhat entertaining animal acts we Westerners use to pass the time while waiting for the next opportunity to pull the gloves off, and kick some new inhuman, barbaric horde onto the ash heap of history, where reside Aristocracy, Slavery, Fascism and Communism, holding in common only the mark of our boots on their asses." ...

"We can, indeed, lay out competing philosophies on the table, and see where each conforms to reality and where it does not. No maps are without distortions; none of these are likely to be, either. And one map may conform perfectly to the coastline in one area, and be dreadfully amiss in another. We can cut and paste them as we wish. This is too important for us to be arguing about who is right all our energies must go to getting it right.

And before we start, we must agree to one thing: we will never be so full of arrogance and blinded by pride that we dare confront a place where our map does not match the coastline, and proclaim that the coastline must be wrong." ...

"How much pain and torture, how many human lives -- each as unique and wonderful as your own -- have been snuffed out of existence because self-righteous, power-mad bastards have waved maps written decades, or centuries, or millenia before, without so much as a peek out the window at how the world really works? How many of the criticisms leveled at this civilization are genuine, and how many are nothing more than sketches on parchment in the minds of bitter and vindictive people who dare not face the light of day? How many people have died because a person would rather see a thousand people taken out in the night and shot in the head -- or a million people, or a hundred million -- seen them shot in the head, rather than facing the coastline and changing their mind?" ...

(On the question of whether Cuba is a worker's paradise or Communist hellhole...--Ed.)

"Well, ask yourself what it would take to give up your home, your country, your family and all your friends. Ask yourself how desperate you would have to be to sneak out in the night, and strap your family your grandmother and infant son to a collection of inner tubes lashed together and set out in the dark surf across 90 miles of shark-infested water in the dead of night, hoping against hope to make landfall. We can all agree, I think, that that kind of desperation could only be driven by a fairly passionate first-person opinion of such things. Surely this goes beyond what you or I would do to win a map argument at Starbucks.

So. Go up on deck, get out the telescope, and answer one simple question for me and for yourself: Which way are the rafts headed?

We need to know how to cut to core truths. We need to practice testing our maps against the shoreline. We need to do this, and more right now because as we sit here together, you and I, something delicate and precious is dying before our eyes for the simple lack of belief in what it represents."

More Good News From and For Israel

Via Captain's Quarters, we hear that, in addition the IDF buzzing planes by the office's of Syria's terrorist supporting President Assad and sending a couple of Hellfire missiles as a warning shot in the office of Hamas's PM, Israel, and with a center-left government coalition no less, has finally gotten the message that no amount of negotiation or appeasement will ever satisfy the demands of those who wish to bring about its extinction. They have moved ground forces into the area, and have told Hamas that they will not negotiate for the life of the kidnapped IDF soldier...either he can be returned in one piece and unharmed, or Hamas and all its governing officials can and will be considered legitimate targets of war. Let's hope this attitude keeps up.

UPDATE: The IDF also captured the three terrorists suspected of murdering an 18 year old Israeli man in cold blood that occurred around the same time as the kidnapping of the IDF soldier. The terrorists surrendered without a fight according to reports, and that was the only option that would have kept them alive, as the IDF was prepared to use deadly force if necessary, to bring to justice the men who brutally murdered the young settler less than an hour after his abduction. May God have mercy on the soul of the slain young man and comfort his family, and may he have neither on his killers.

I Have a Gift, in a Manner of Speaking...

In the movie, "You've Got Mail", Tom Hanks says to Meg Ryan, "I have this gift of being able to say the exact thing I mean to say at the exact moment I mean to say it. It's inevitably followed up by an overwhelming sense of guilt afterwards." I have this so-called gift, and it serves me well at times. For example, when some idiot starts talking smack, this puts me in the 99th percentile of being able to regulate on such a fool and put him/her in the appropriate place...or when one of my clients verbally abuses me for not making his charges disappear after telling me he did EXACTLY what he was accused of.

On the other hand, it sometimes comes back to bite me when it comes to romantic relationships and people I care about. The reason this happens is because I haven't quite located the off switch for this ability just yet. The bluntness and honesty of my words sometimes carry more sting than I mean for them to, and even when I am simply trying to present my point of view and let the other person know where I am coming from, I sometimes zing the person I am talking to without even meaning to. And as bad as that zinging might feel, what I can't seem to get across is that I am not trying to do this...that if it were my intention to hurt them deeply, knowing these folks as well as I do, well, let's just say that would be a very easy thing to make happen.

On top of a lost off switch, my gift comes with an extra added bonus feature of impeccably poor timing. These zingers seem to pop up at the most inappropriate moments, times when I should be making a conscious effort to consider the person's feelings and be easy with them. I can always seem to write out what I mean to say here better than I can communicate it in real time and real life...don't know what that says about me except that my relationship skills sometimes jive better with the screen of an idiot box rather than people, lol...not good. All that said, I just hope the people I care for most in the world can accept my apologies, freely grant forgiveness even though I don't deserve it, and love me anyway in spite of it all when this "gift" makes its appearances. Even if they don't know it yet, it will be worth their while...I will see to it ;).