Over the past week or so I’ve had an illuminating assignment at A Company Called Malice, Inc. I’ve been working on a marketing thought piece on Distressed Debt investing. Finance is not my field of expertise. I don’t do content. I’m the design/layout make-it-look-pretty guy. I’m not going to pretend that I know anything about Distressed Debt investing. But what I’m reading makes my flesh crawl just a bit.

As I understand it, Distressed Debt is the opportunity to invest in companies that are in the final stages of life. They invest in companies that are faltering because of financial and/or operational difficulties. This is, on the surface, an almost benevolent act. They are giving troubled companies a cash infusion with the hopes of profiting on their recovery. What a great bunch of altar boys.

But it’s the tone of this piece and my conversations with the authors that irks me. The message is that, while it’s a damn shame that small business are failing at record rates and unemployment is above 10%, hey, fraternity brothers, let’s not weep in our beers over these losers because guess what? There’s lots and lots of money to be made on their failure. Let’s not pass up an opportunity to cash in.

The piece practically celebrates the fact that we are not at the end of the current distressed cycle and stresses that there’s going to be plenty more meat and bones for the Golden Boys to pick over and profit from.

It’s a terribly cold and calloused piece, especially when you consider the fact that this is the same bunch that got us into this mess in the first place. But business is business. And while it eats at my guts just a bit to be associated with this industry, I’ve got a mortgage to pay and two children to feed, so I’ll keep my mouth shut and do what I’m told. Yessah! Whatever you say sah! I sho hopes you admires mah work.

We took 7-Year Old Daughter to a birthday party in Washington, D.C. It was held at a fancy bakery. The pastry chef gave a demonstration to all the girls on how to decorate a cake. They were instructed on what type of flourish each frosting tip would render. Ribbons. Roses. Flower petals. Swirls. Then, they were each given their own cake to decorate.

Art is not The Daughter’s strong suit, despite the exposure she’s had to some world-class museums. She enjoys taking it all in but, frankly, isn’t very good at producing it. Her cake was a bit of a catastrophe. She made some unfortunate shapes and blobs of frosting. The colors didn’t match and there was no order to it.

A few of the other girls, however, made splendid cakes. Especially 8-Year Old Niece, who has an uncanny talent for art that borders on macabre. Daughter took one look at the other beautiful productions, looked down at her own, and the look on her face broke my heart 10,000 times. She said, “My cake looks stupid.”

Do you remember the first time your own mediocrity was revealed to you? What could I do? I knew what she meant. I’ve had that feeling many times. I told her that her cake was beautiful but it rang hollow. Then, I said the only thing I could think of: “I love you very much.”

* * *

These pics are from a few weeks ago when Sister #2 was visiting. Contrary to popular stereotype, New Jersey isn’t ALL chemical plants. We took her to the beach but also for a walk in the forest. She took these of the two Daughters and I strolling a well-worn path through a thick woods. I like the first pic but the second one is a classic because of 3-Year Old Daughter’s over-the-shoulder glance back.

Sister #1 was hit by a drunk driver last night. Teen niece was in the car with her. Sister spent most of the night in the hospital and, after a healthy dose of morphine, was sent home where she slept, according to her, better than she has in years. Too bad it takes morphine to do that. Niece was examined and released. Both are “okay,” thank God, but I lectured them to monitor their health because injuries can lie dormant.

The car is pretty much totaled. She was turning left and Drunky turned right wide into their lane and slammed into them. He, coward that he is, took off but someone followed him home. The police were called and a small militia showed up. The car in the driveway was generously detailed with paint from Sister’s car. The police entered the home to search for him, but he was found cowering in the bushes, reeking of alcohol. As of this writing, he is in jail.

I got this news halfway to Washington, D.C., where we drove to visit relatives. I was so consumed with the revenge fantasy of splitting this guy’s head open with an axe that I missed a turn off and got on the wrong freeway.

The penalty for this crime is far too lenient. If you drive drunk, you a child molester. You are a murderer. You eviscerate puppies. I despise drunk drivers have NEVER had any sympathy for alcoholics.

Here’s an oldie but a goodie.

Alcoholism is not a disease and I resent it being treated as such. It’s an insult to people who are actually battling a disease. Labeling it as a disease makes it sound like something you could helplessly fall victim to. Something that couldn’t be avoided. Horseshit. You can’t quit cancer. You can’t quit leukemia. But you can sure as hell quit drinking. I’ve seen it done plenty of times.

I don’t know of too many diseases that will allow you to go out on a Saturday night, party your ass off and then drive head-on into a van full of kids. I’ve had alcoholics in my life and do you know what? They tend to be a bunch of big fucking babies. As soon as they stumble into a room, they have to be the center of attention and need to be indulged and mollycoddled and understood because, after all, the poor dear has a disease. If you love an alcoholic, get ready to suffer. And you will continue to suffer until he/she decides to do something about it (if ever). Or, conversely, you could leave them.

Ptuy. Fuck ‘em. Losers.

Yesterday, the guys and gals who occupy the lunatic fringe of the Republican party were doing the happy pee-pee dance because they won two gubernatorial elections. They’re convinced that it’s a new dawn for conservativism. If that’s true, I hope it’s a sensible brand that I can participate in and not the vitriolic hate-spewing kind that seems so popular these days. Boy, those guys are sore losers and not very gracious winners.

Then I heard Paris Hilton interviewed on Jimmy Kimmel’s show. She’s a vapid narcissist and yet she is admired by young girls. They all want to be like her.

This morning I see in the papers that the New York Yankee$, a group of blood-sucking slugs and carpetbaggers, just won the World Series. Another big eff-ewww to small-market baseball.

I’m leaving for Washington D.C. tomorrow to visit relatives. When I get back, this mess had better be cleaned up or someone is going to suffer a double-salvo of sarcastic wit. It won’t be pleasant so get on it.

I just got my cell phone bill. There was a dramatic spike in the amount due this month, so I started to scour the many pages in search of the error that I was certain Verizon made. I bundle my services; two cell phones, land line, cable and internet all from one provider. So the bill has taken on biblical proportions.

I found the the gaffe and it wasn’t Verizon who made it. My current text message plan allows for 500 messages per billing cycle. I sent/received 1,064 messages and was billed for the overage. I asked several friends (via text message, of course) if they noticed when I turned into a 14-year old girl.

One of my oldest friends said that I am not even close to being a teen girl. He said, in all sincerity, that last month his daughter sent 9,000 text messages and received 7,000. 16,000 text messages in a single month. And according to him, that’s not even a record for her! How is that physically possible? He said that kids in their early teens now communicate almost exclusively via text messaging and that he’s worried about their eroding face-to-face social skills.

Guess how much it costs providers to transmit a text message? ZERO. The amount you pay for text messaging is PURE PROFIT. Text messages are sent along what’s called a control channel—space reserved for operation of the wireless network. The channel uses space whether a text message is inserted or not. Text messages are of such an infinitesimal size that sending them is inconsequential. That’s why you’re only allowed 160 characters. How do you like them apples?

Those sobering facts are quoted from this article in the New York Times.

What Carriers Aren’t Eager to Tell You About Texting