The Investigator's Notebook

Heeeeeeereee's Johnny!!

2009-10-21T10:54:00.000-07:00

Dear Faithful Readers and Unquestioning Disciples,

Your sycophantic devotion has been rewarded. Johnny Undercover will return 11/1/2009.

Brace yourselves...

Johnny Undercover, Miracle Worker

2006-04-28T11:29:00.000-07:00

One of the weird things about being a PI is that, since your job is not that clearly defined, people assume you can do anything. Things like access Federal databases, turn water into wine (man, I wish), divide prime numbers evenly, etc…

Well guess what, spellbound disciples…I probably can. I have long held the theory that anything can be done if you throw enough money at it. Ahhh, but therein lies the quandary:

“If you throw enough money at it…”

So let me modify my previous statement. People believe you can do anything…FOR FREE.

F-R-E-E. How I hate those four little letters. So contrary to everything I represent and aspire to. Free is my antithesis…my Kryptonite…my Dr. Moriarity…Yang to my Yin, Cain to my Able, Yogi Bear to my pic-a-nic basket…

Understand me, mere mortals, nothing gets done for free. Nada por gratis.

Why the rant, you ask? Well, other than the recent change in my medications, I got a request for help.

For free.

Nice lady e-mails me. Seems her hubby recently opted to trade up to Wifey Ver 2.0. A few weeks ago she believed she had substantial assets. Turns out she has squat. Hubby, being the only one in on the plan (which always helps), has pilfered out ½ a million dollars over the past ten years via “business trips” to sunny Mexico.

Where he currently resides. With his new wife, who I won’t identify by name. Let’s just call her by her scientific classification…Whoreus Homewreckerus.

If you know anything about money laundering (or if you prefer, asset relocation), you’ve already heard enough. That money? The fruits of all she’s worked and toiled for? That representation of all her hopes and dreams for the future?

Gone.

She asked me to look into it Pro Bono, and promised to pay double my usual rate for such services once she gets her divorce judgment. I didn’t even bother telling her the only thing I do Pro Bono is write fan letters to U2. No need to even give that speech, because she’ll never see dem dere pesos, no matter what I find out. Dey goooooooooonnnnneeeee…..

Which, by the way, I did find out. Starry Eyed and Adoring Wife took pity on her plight and demanded I find out SOMETHING to help her out, at least for her divorce case.

Fine.

Know what I found out? He’s a pretty smart guy. He moved the money out in small increments via frequent, legitimate business trips to Mexico. My source in Mexico City advised me he’s listed as the owner of some prime oceanfront condos and various other real estate holdings throughout the country.

In other words…he won.

Sorry, I don’t like it any more than you. But for years she blindly trusted him to oversee the finances. She faithfully believed he was providing for a good future for her and their children. And she got screwed.

Darwinism 101, spellbound disciples. The strong and smart will devour the weak and naïve. They always have, and they always will until that Guy in the bible with the red lettering comes back and kicks all the bad people in the crotch.

That’s what it says, right? I kinda zoned out in Sunday School…

Could she get her share of that money back? Probably. Can she afford the long and protracted legal battle over international assets?

No.

Anyways, the whole point of that story was to illustrate that ultimately in the end…I did it for free.

Sucker.

Rumors of My Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

2006-04-14T11:28:00.000-07:00

Okay, Faithful Readers. On some level, I understand that leaving you for months at a time is unacceptable.

On the other hand…you’ll get over it.

I got called up yet again to hurricane duty, so what can you do? Now I’m back in Big D for more spying and lying. Temperatures in Dallas are quickly gravitating from merely hellish to nightmarish, so I’m looking forward to getting back on surveillance.

Yes, I’ve always been a smartass. My father was a smartass, as was his father before him and so on and so on ad infinitum. Nature will always kick nurture’s ass. Nature fights dirtier.

So call off the search and rescue teams and tear up those suicide notes…Daddy’s back.

Everything I needed to know I learned from 'The Godfather'

2006-02-06T20:45:00.000-08:00

[Starry Eyed and Adoring Wife has vowed to leave me if I subject her to one more Godfather I & II marathon. Maybe posting some of my favorite quotes will get it out of my system. Yeah...]

Producer Jack Woltz's tirade to Consigliere Tom Hagen:
"Johnny Fontane never gets that movie. That part is perfect for him, it'll make him a big star, and I'm gonna run him out of the business - and let me tell you why: Johnny Fontane ruined one of Woltz International's most valuable proteges. For five years we had her under training - singing lessons, acting lessons, dancing lessons. I spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on her, I was gonna make her a big star. And let me be even more frank, just to show you that I'm not a hard-hearted man, and that it's not all dollars and cents: She was beautiful; she was young; she was innocent. She was the greatest piece of ass I've ever had, and I've had 'em all over the world. And then Johnny Fontane comes along with his olive oil voice and guinea charm, and she runs off. She threw it all away just to make me look ridiculous! And a man in my position can't afford to be made to look ridiculous! "

Don Corleone to Bonasera the Undertaker:
"What have I ever done to make you treat me so disrespectfully? If you'd come to me in friendship, then this scum that ruined your daughter would be suffering this very day. And if by chance an honest man like yourself should make enemies, then they would become my enemies. And then they would fear you. "

Michael confronting his brother-in-law Carlo about Sonny's murder:
"You have to answer for Santino, Carlo...You fingered Sonny for the Barzini people. Ahh, that little farce you played with my sister. You think that could fool a Corleone?"

Don Corleone talking to Michael about his future:

Don Corleone: "I never wanted this for you. I work my whole life...I don't apologize...to take care of my family, and I refused to be a fool, dancing on the string held by all those bigshots. I don't apologize,that's my life...but I thought that, that when it was your time, that you would be the one to hold the string. Senator Corleone...Governor Corleone. "

Michael: "Another pezzonovante."

Don Corleone: "Well, this wasn't enough time, Michael. It wasn't enough time. "

Michael: "We'll get there, Pop. We'll get there."

[And my absolute all time favorite quote...EVER:]

Sonny Corleone to Michael after learning he'd enlisted following Pearl Harbor:
"Whaddid ya', go to college to get stupid? You're really stupid!"

[Sonny Corleone, baby...Sonny F'n Corleone!]

At Least There Was No Wardrobe Malfunction

2006-02-05T21:04:00.000-08:00

ABC has no ‘Satisfaction’ with Stones’ lyrics - Music - MSNBC.com

In ABC's defense, the blasphemous and inflammatory lyrics to 'Start Me Up' might have incited violence against Danish embassies worldwide. Oh shit, too late...

In related news, much to Keith Richards' surprise...He's still alive.

The Terrorists Are Getting Smarter

2006-02-05T15:38:00.000-08:00

"Oh, quit worrying, Honey. It's not like it's a bomb or biohazardous..."

From Found Magazine again. Man, that @#$% fascinates me for some reason...

Never Duel With a Londoner

2006-02-05T13:47:00.000-08:00

I had this e-mail exchange with Charles from London over the past week. Watch how deftly he extracts an answer from me in spite of myself. How we ever managed to outmaneuver the British, I’ll never know.

Charles is the Q, I’m the A. Good show, old man:

Q: “Mr Investigator, I read your blog in the UK. I’m curious, what is your position on the Iraq War?”

A: Hi. Actually, it’s Mr. Undercover. Investigator is what I put on all those tax returns I don’t file. Mt position on the Iraq War is approximately 2,000 miles West/Northwest of it. Dallas, TX. Present weather conditions 71 degrees, partly cloudy skies.

[Apparently redneck sarcasm doesn’t translate well across the pond, because he persists:]

Q: “Mr. Undercover, I understand your physical location, but what are your thoughts on the war? Did you serve in the military for example?”

A: Hello Again. No, I did not serve in the military. Unless you count the KISS Army, in which case I was a Commander in the Peter Criss Brigade. Even then, the Gene Simmons Marines got all the glory. Is there a reason you ask?

Q: “Yes. You seem to have political leanings in your writings. I wanted to know where you stood on the issue.”

A: Actually, the blog is mostly about my job. Any political or topical postings occur strictly because I find them amusing. I don’t find war amusing. Quite the opposite.

[‘Quite the opposite’? Note that I’m lapsing into British mannerisms throughout the course of the exchange. He’s already won this battle, my minions…]

Charles responds:

Q: “So you are against the conflict then?”

[Aaaaaaaahhh! Did I say that?]

A: Aaaaaaaahhh! Did I say that? I said I don’t find war amusing and therefore not appropriate material for what is basically a satirical blog. I leave warblogging to those better suited to discuss it. I can recommend a few if you like.

Q: “Not necessary. Easy enough to find those. Thought you might have an interesting take on it.”

A: Fair enough. Now that you’ve gotten me curious, what’s yours?

Q: “Mine? Mine can be summed up in one sentence. War is never the answer.”

A: That would depend largely on the question, I imagine.

Q: “That’s your position then?”

A: I guess so. [DAMN! I walked right into that!] Can I post these e-mails to the blog?

Q: “You’re going to do it regardless of my answer, aren’t you? Why ask?”

A: The appearance of civility. Take care, Charles.

Getting To Know You, Getting To Know All About You

2006-02-05T10:43:00.000-08:00

I hate legal investigations.

Take one of last weeks cases, for example. The Subject (not the Claimant, that’s only during insurance investigations) is embroiled in a lawsuit against his former employer for breach of non-compete agreement. Apparently, the Subject formed his own consulting company, taking a large portion of his former company’s clientele with him in the process. Business is an ugly business, Spellbound Disciples.

Lawsuits were filed. Countersuits were counter-filed. Hilarity ensued.

I have been giving the comically vague task of “Finding out whatever you can”. The main goal, of course, being to catch the Subject engaging in activity in violation of his non-compete agreement.

I started out with a little surveillance, just to make my client think some real PI work took place. Given that the Subject is currently working out of his house; however, I knew there was virtually no chance of following him to an office and documenting him meeting with clients. Which means dumpster diving.

You’ve heard the term, right? Subject puts trash out. I pick trash up and sift through it for evidence. Think of it as "CSI: Garbage Dump".

Did I ever mention I was the first college graduate in my family? Never underestimate the importance of higher education.

So I swing by his pad around 3:00 in the witching hour and make off with my ill gotten booty. The logical question for a discerning Gentle Reader to ask is, “Just how legal is taking someone’s garbage?” The answer is: Very.

Well, more like: Sorta. Trash retrieval is actually fairly established case law. You threw it away, implying you surrendered legal claim to it. I took it and had my merry way with it. Further affiant sayeth not. Still, the question always comes up in court, causing the lawyers to confer with the judge in hushed, lawyerly tones for about fifteen minutes while everyone else looks at you and thinks about how you dig through trash for a living.

In my defense, I think the philosophical question of garbage is largely chronological. Sure, right now it’s filthy, dripping, disease ridden garbage, but in 500 years scholarly types would refer to it as archeological evidence.

Doesn’t matter now. I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it. Won’t be on this case, though, because I’ve made the following discovery:

This guy is a paper shredder.

You wouldn’t believe the amount of coffee grounds and dirty diapers I dug through to discover that. Industrial model cross shredder, to boot. Probably ran close to $200 at Office Depot.

You dig through entirely too much trash if you can recognize the shredder model by the confetti it produces, wouldn’t you say?

This leaves me with a grudging new respect for my opponent. When (not if) I catch him, it won’t be some dipshit error like throwing away faxes to his clients or a CD ROM full of marketing materials. It’ll be the result of some actual investigative work on my part.

If I sound bitter about that, it’s only because I am.

I used to investigate identity thieves for credit card companies, mainly because the cops refused to do it. ID thieves in those days were friggin’ idiots. Dumpster dives used to yield treasure troves of smelly, soggy evidence. There would be three or four discarded social security cards or driver’s licenses while they attempted to come up with a master forgery. We would carefully piece together evidence to present to the police detectives, who would promptly tell us they had real crimes to investigate and please QUIT BRINGING THEM MORE DAMN WORK!

I’ve always made friends easily.

Back to my current case. He’s definitely won this round, but the war goes on. He doesn’t know that I was born with only two advantages in this world:

1. I’m too stupid to know when I’m beaten

-and-

2. I have no concept of overkill.

One of those two tragic personality disorders will eventually be his undoing. Believe it.

There was a dream that was 'American Idol'. This is not it. This is not it!

2006-02-03T16:29:00.000-08:00

{I had to print this article in its entirety instead of linking it. The Dallas Morning News is one of those annoying subscription based sites.}

Apparently, Spellbound Disciples, the two or three of you out there that watch ‘American Idol’ were led to believe that judges Simon Le Bon, Paula Ragu and Tito Jackson were actually in Austin screening contestants.

According to Dallasnews.com, they opted not to go in person due to the “fallout” from Hurricane Katrina.

In fairness to them, Austin was, like, completely obliterated by Hurricane Katrina [self-righteous, ironic smirk goes HERE]

Here's the article:

Idol in Austin? Not quite
04:46 PM CST on Friday, February 3, 2006
By MANUEL MENDOZA / The Dallas Morning News

There really is a place called Austin – in fact, auditions for American Idol were held in the Texas capital in October. Oh, they weren't?

Viewers of Wednesday's Idol episode were deceived to believe judges Simon Cowell, Paula Abdul and Randy Jackson were in the city by the lake after producers initially screened potential contestants last summer. But because of the fallout from Katrina, the Fox show decided not to return, instead flying the hopefuls they wanted to put in front of the judges to San Francisco, the network confirmed Friday.

The episode not only failed to reveal what really happened, but also went out of its way to imply the judges had gone to Austin to decide which contestants would go on to the next round. For instance, as footage of Mr. Cowell arriving somewhere other than Austin was played, a woman who didn't like him was shown running away from him – in Austin.

"Upon reflection, there should have been a line in the show" explaining that the second round of auditions were not held in Austin, a Fox spokeswoman said.

But in the weekly Idol conference call with the media, executive producer Ken Warwick said, "It wasn't a big deal."

"Clearly that didn't happen the way it [was shown]," he said. "We have to produce an entertainment program to begin with. We didn't mention it on the air, to be honest, because we thought it wasn't a big deal. ... It was not deliberately done to mislead anybody. We had nothing to gain by misleading people."

My Business Card

2006-02-03T07:33:00.000-08:00

From Found Magazine.

You do read Found Magazine, right?

The contributor says she found it taped to her door in the 70's. Apparently she kept it for 30 years for just such an occasion.

Kendra Moore and Co. will take ANY job...

Seeing Red

2006-02-02T10:09:00.000-08:00

Malkin has a great piece on a New York Daily News story about the President’s body language during the State of the Union address. She points out that the article “quoted a single source, Karen Bradley, ‘a certified movement analyst at the University of Maryland, College Park,’”

Needless to say, the article contains a smarmy analysis of the President’s body language from the “Certified Movement Analyst”. There's really nothing like a good, certified movement is there?

Most telling is the link to her biography at the Democracy Cell Project. Apparently, “Karen Bradley spent the 2003-4 electoral season choreographing volunteers and developing her political awareness, mostly by listening to fellow travelers.”

Fellow travelers? Waaaaaait a minute. Where have I heard that term before? Lemmee think….

Oh yeah, Freshman Year. ‘History of Communism’ course.

Wikipedia (yeah, I know) defines the term here.

As long as we understand the foundation on which she developed her political awareness.

The Perfect Case

2006-02-02T07:57:00.000-08:00

Aye, laddies and lassies, tis’ a fine morning here at Stately Undercover Manor.

The one year old is systematically torturing the family poodle, who is not quite smart enough to avoid him completely. She has what’s commonly known as Battered Poodle Syndrome. Her rationale is that if she can just keep the house clean enough, maybe he won’t try to pull her ears off today.

The four and a half and three year old are playing a game I’m pretty sure is called “Smell My Butt”. The rules are somewhat vague, but points appear to be awarded on a sliding scale directly proportionate to how close you get your butt to the other contestants face. Actually managing to fart in the other players face results in either an immediate disqualification or an immediate world championship, depending on if yours is the lucky face or not.

Starry Eyed and Adoring Wife yells from the other room that I shouldn’t be laughing at this game, much less helping them keep score. By the tone of her voice, I can tell she does not yet suspect I taught them the game in the first place.

Inevitably, I corral the Little Godless Heathens in front of the 57 inch rear projection babysitter unit. Today’s distraction is Sinbad, which is a cartoon that apparently only my children watch. Sinbad is voiced by Brad Pitt, by the way. To show his appreciation for their support, Brad actually dropped by to watch with them today. Then I went to the bathroom for two minutes (okay, forty five minutes), and when I came back he had adopted them.

Heh. Jokes on him.

With my children’s minds safely in the care of Hollywood, I commenced to writing my investigative report from yesterday’s case. Yesterday’s claimant was what PI’s refer to as “The Perfect Claimant”.

Let me explain.

You see, our clients aren’t really that concerned with what type of video evidence we obtain on their claimant’s, as long as we get something. They don’t like reports that say the subject was home and inactive all day (even though that happens more often than not). Makes the client think you stayed home to watch the Showcase Showdown.

So why was my subject yesterday a Perfect Claimant? For the following reasons.

She:

Was active, but not tooooo active. She made brief but documentable appearances throughout the course of the day.

She drove slow. Real slow. Have you ever been to South Florida? That slow.

She lived in a neighborhood still under development. PI’s love lots of construction activity nearby. Lets us blend in comfortably without nosy neighbor interference. God forbid your subject should live near an elementary school, because you’re screwed.

She appeared to actually be hurt. It’s great to catch your subject working on the side and all, but Oy Vey the paperwork.
She was blissfully ignorant of my presence. She had a strange vehicle behind her for over two hours, and had no clue about it. Great news for me, bad news for her if she ever has a real stalker.

And there you go. So, having justified both my existence and invoice, I shall now indulge my taste for the classics. Something old…

Hennessey, maybe.

Hes Got a 50-50 Chance, But Only a 10% Chance of That

2006-02-01T13:17:00.000-08:00

To this day, there’s nothing funnier than ‘The Naked Gun’.

Unless, of course, you count John ‘I BEEEEEELIEEEEEVEEE’ Kerry’s assertion on The Today Show that 53% of “our children” are not graduating from high school.

Now, I don’t remember much from Statistics class, but I do remember the Professor telling us that “Figures lie, liars figure”. Then he gave us a pop quiz that I promptly flunked.

My own calculations being therefore suspect, I consulted the good folks at the US Census Bureau, who apparently are under the impression that as of 2003, “85 percent of adults age 25 and over had completed at least high school, an all-time high.” They also report that, “27 percent of adults age 25 and over had a college degree, another record.” See their press release here.

To her credit, Katie Couric, relentless bulldog journalist that she is, promptly…let it slide.

Maybe he was talking about his own kids…

Train Wrecks I Cant Look Away From In 2006

2006-02-01T08:34:00.000-08:00

Avian Bird Flu Outbreak – Because my cockatoo’s boss is a real ass when he calls in sick to work

The Disappearance of Lindsay Lohan –How the hell did Hollywood get the idea that the American male’s idea of a sexy woman is one built like a 12 year old boy? For crap’s sake…open your mouth…insert food...repeat 3 x’s daily

The Middle East – How easy would it be for the tensions between Idaho and Wyoming to spill over and ignite the tinderbox that is Utah? Think about it.

American Idol – Low ratings and lack of mass marketing exposure could doom this little known gem to cancellation. Write to Fox, people. WRITE…TO…FOX!

Liberals vs. Conservatives– Ever since the first nerds landed on the internet, the Captain Kirk vs. Picard issue has been the driving force behind the World Wide Web. Fight the good fight, Starfleet brothers!

My Ever-Evolving Culinary Skills – Sure, tonight’s meal wasn’t the best I ever made. But I think my wife’s use of the word ‘dogs**t’ was a bit excessive…

Cindy Sheehan – Makes out with Hugo Chavez and gets thrown out of the Capitol during the State of the Union address – all in one week. Plans on resuming her demonstration in Crawford, TX, after a brief jaunt to Cambodia for a photo op at Pol Pot’s grave.

The part that baffles me is that she must have handlers out there telling her, “This will lend credibility to your issue! Acting like a nut at the State of the Union address, that’s it!” Think how much more powerfully she could have gotten her point across by having the cameras fade to her sitting in dignified silence every time the President addressed the war in Iraq.

But noooooooo, hell no.

She gets to her seat and starts UNDRESSING, trying to reveal her t-shirt that reads ‘Bush is a Poopiehead’ or ‘Van Halen Tour 82’ or whatever. Hey, I don’t agree with her message or position, but having given a son to service of God and country, she has a right to be heard on the issue. But since every action she takes seems to be designed to sabotage her credibility, what the hell can you do?

My Ever-Expanding Beer Gut – It isn’t called ‘getting fatter’. It’s called ‘Reaching My Manifest Belly Destiny’.

Senator Ted Kennedy – Shine On, You Drunken, Crazy Diamond. His screaming tirades continue to justify the existence of C-SPAN.

Wikipediagate – Congressional staffers defacing other Senator’s and Congressmen’s Wiki entries continues to justify the existence of the Wikipedia.

New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin – Hurricane Katrina levels his city. Goes on the radio and cries. Tells the government to get off their asses. Practicing what he preaches, gets off his ass and moves his family to Dallas. Buys a house in Dallas and still pretends to be mayor of New Orleans. Blames both God and the President for the disaster. Says New Orleans must remain a ‘chocolate’ city, all the while maintaining residency in the very ‘vanilla’ city of Dallas. At a town hall meeting, he is quoted as saying "I can see in your eyes, you want to know, 'How do I take advantage of this incredible opportunity? How do I make sure New Orleans is not overrun with Mexican workers?'"

Ray ‘Sexual Chocolate City’ Nagin gets Daddy’s vote for Most Glorious Train Wreck to Watch. He also is clearly this year’s winner of the Special Media Dispensation allowing him to make plainly and overtly racist comments that would get a white politician personally drawn and quartered by Christiane Armanpour on CNN. He’s expected to accept his award later this month at a ceremony attended by past winners, the Rev. Jesse ‘Hymietown’ Jackson and former President Bill ‘F** These Honkeys’ Clinton.

Google, I Owe You an Apology

2006-01-31T07:58:00.000-08:00

[I’m man enough to admit when I’m wrong. Actually, I’m not, but for the sake of satire…]

Looks like I had it all wrong. Turns out, Google hates censorship…in Europe, at least.

But China? Nooooo…still cool in China. Hey, even Bill Gates agrees.

Is there anything more beautiful than two archrivals like Microsoft and Google coming together to defend a cause as noble as Communist information suppression? Up with people!

Hat tip: Vodkapundit

Enron...Game On

2006-01-31T06:26:00.000-08:00

The Enron trials have begun (the two that matter, anyways).

Here are my predictions:

Jeff Skilling gets the three nails and a cross treatment.

Ken Lay walks.

Why? Because "Kenny Boy" gets birthday wishes like these:

Don't be shocked when this Handsome Devil's name comes up:

The Smoking Gun has a link to the Enron Code of Ethics, which is Exhibit 1 at trial. Every time I read it, it just gets funnier.

More Required Reading on the Subject: The Smartest Guys In the Room. Stop what you're doing and read this book NOW...

If Lindsay Lohan Starves, The Terrorists Have Won

2006-01-30T14:07:00.000-08:00

For the Love of God...Feed Lindsay.

Red Light District

2006-01-30T12:35:00.000-08:00

Most days, Faithful Readers, I wake up with two goals in mind. They are:

A). Resume drinking

- and –

B). Take over the world

Having achieved the former for the day, I shall now focus on the latter. And that’s where you come in, Unquestioning Disciples.

You see, I was dismayed this morning to find my subscription to The Economist had lapsed for non-payment (Like I’d pay for such tripe). With the call of nature beckoning me to my Porcelain Throne, and lacking suitable reading material, I did the only thing a man of my stature could do in such a situation:

I whined.

“There’s nothing to read in the bathroom!” I cried indignantly to no one in particular and the gods of all creation in general.

Upon hearing of my plight, Starry Eyed and Adoring Wife proceeded to abandon the task of dressing and preparing breakfast for three toddlers while simultaneously getting herself ready for work and focus on that most important of issues…MY HAPPINESS.

And yes, it’s all caps.

Actually, she just yelled, “Read the damn newspaper. I’m busy!” But in my fantasy; however…

Having always considered The Dallas Morning News more along the lines of quasi-socialist, liberal propaganda birdcage liner than a newspaper, I nevertheless relented in the face of overwhelming urgency. Besides, I was pretty sure I could find another use for it in there…

And there it was. A story about more Texas cities installing cameras at intersections to ticket red light runners. In case you’re wondering where The Man might be watching you in Big D, here’s the graphic they included in their so-called ‘newspaper’:

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for law and order and civil obedience and yadda yadda whatever. I’m sure that such deterrents probably will save lives at dangerous intersections. I’m sure they probably ultimately serve the public good. Like I said, I’m all for it…

…as long as…

…as long as it…

…as long as it does…

…as long as it DOES NOT AFFECT ME.

Because lookit, kiddos, Daddy runs lots and lots of red lights throughout the course of the day. And the vast majority of the time, its work related. I follow people for a living, do you dig it? If necessary, I follow them through red lights. All PI’s do it, allright? And if everyone does it, it must be okay.

Just like that time I jumped off that cliff.

So, understand me, local law enforcement and constalbury officials, for I am not a difficult man. Take all the pictures you like. Mail your little tickets every driver in the greater D/FW Metroplex if it makes you feel better. BUT LEAVE ME ALONE...I’M WORKING...Okay?

Should you fail to heed my warning, rest assured my minions will rise up against you. They are docile creatures, but can be incited to madness when under the influence of my Kool-Aid.

I’m not paying fifty tickets a month. Do you understand me? No…tickets…

The Devil's In The Details

2006-01-27T22:26:00.000-08:00

Okay, last post on the Google thing, then I’ll set them free to continue transferring all monies outside their bank account into it.

Here are some screenshots I took today from Chairman Google’s site. Note that these screenshots are not caches. As of 1/27/06, this content was still available directly on Google's main pages.

If you go to the Google Help Center and type in the word “censor”, you get a header that reads:

“What Can I Do If a Site in Your Search Results Ripped Me Off?”

[See? I told you so. Now check this response]

‘We're always sorry to hear when a site misrepresents its products or treats individuals unethically.’

[Really? How about an entire country?]

‘As you may know, Google is a reflection of the web.’

[Mirror, mirror, on the wall…]

‘Although we aggregate and organize content published on the web, we don't control the content itself.’

[We leave that dirty work to our newest ‘associates’]

‘It's our policy not to police content.’

[Policies subject to change without warning]

‘Rather…’

[Let’s not bring Superscript Dan into this mess]

‘…we hope that by including as much information as possible in our results, you'll be able to easily find warnings about rogue sites.’

[Did they say rogue ‘sites’ or ‘states’ ?]

‘For more information about our Terms of Service, please visit…’

[Yeah, let’s do that…]

Google’s Terms of Service

[It just gets better, kids]

[Oh, where to begin...]

‘Welcome! '

[Happy, Productive Proletariat Worker!]

'By using Google's search engine or other Google services ("Google Services"), you agree to be bound…’

[and possibly gagged]

‘…by the following terms and conditions (the "Terms of Service").’

[In Google’s defense, they never expected anyone to actually read this tripe]

‘The sites displayed as search results or linked to by Google Services are developed by people over whom Google exercises no control.’

[There are, however, others willing to step up to that plate…]

‘The search results that appear from Google's indices are indexed by Google's automated machinery and computers, and Google cannot and does not screen the sites before including them in the indices from which such automated search results are gathered.’

[For the right amount of Yuan; however…]

‘A search using Google Services may produce search results and links to sites that some people find objectionable, inappropriate, or offensive.’

[We can fix that, no sweat]

‘We cannot guarantee that a Google search will not locate unintended or objectionable content…’

[But vee do have vays of making deem talk]

‘…and assume no responsibility…’

[And the understatement of the year award goes to…]

'…for the content of any site included in any search results or otherwise linked to by the Google Services.’

[Seriously, I wish I had made all that up]

But wait…keep scrolling…

Requests for Removal of Links or Cached Materials

‘Google occasionally receives requests from people to remove links from its indices.’

[Ha! Nuff said…]

You'd better get hopping if you want screenshot evidence of the Google That Was (Don't Be Evil Ver 1.0). I don't think they'll repeat the "I forgot to wipe my cache" fiasco when those pages go into the black hole.

Google apologists…Flame On!

Cache Is King

2006-01-27T15:31:00.000-08:00

Ahhhhh, Google. You tried to wipe out all evidence of your crime, didn’t you? Seriously, you guys need to watch more CSI or something. Rookie, rookie, ROOKIE error!

You should know that removing the page you used to have regarding your no censorship policy in the Google Help Center wouldn’t fool the Gaggle of Google Cache Hunters out there.

Props to The Forest for the Trees for digging up the evidence of their old censorship policy. Using the Google cache, of course. There’s probably a funnier story out there somewhere, but damned if I could find it.

More alternate Google logos here. Don’t cry for them, Argentina.

Cell Me Down The River

2006-01-27T14:44:00.000-08:00

Yep, Faithful Readers and Spellbound Kool-Aid Drinkers, I KNEW it was just a matter of time before this can of worms broke open.

Suddenly, your friendly neighborhood congressional representative is very concerned that your cell phone records are for sale on the internet. Considering they’ve been for sale online since….ohhhh….1989 or so, I applaud the catlike speed and grace with which they’ve pounced on the issue.

If not for the courage of that fearless crew, the Minnow would surely be lost.

Now, let me go on record as saying I don’t provide cell phone data to my clients. I tend to be the questioning sort, probably as a result of my past life with the Spanish Inquisition.

“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!”

Why? There’s just too much gray area involved, even with a legal and legitimate purpose like tracking down deadbeat parents (You’ll note I didn’t say deadbeat dads. Waaay to many useless deadbeat moms out there to play favorites with that euphemism).

So how hard is it to buy cell records online? Take a look at the Google ads in my links section. If yours are loading like mine, you can access at least 10 different providers with one click.

And, you know what? Those are the mostly LEGITIMATE ones. You wouldn’t believe the e-mail I get as a licensed PI from brokers who can get any kind of information you can imagine. I could probably get the results of your last colonoscopy if I wanted to throw enough money at it, Gentle Reader.

By the way…I don’t.

So, here’s what will happen. Laws will be passed and the domestic sites will be shut down temporarily while they move their servers offshore and commence business again. Your records will still be for sale, but with a premium on the price for the minor inconvenience of having to circumvent the law to retrieve them.

So sleep tight, America. Secure in the knowledge that you are powerless to prevent anything from happening anywhere, anytime. Or, as the brilliant Dennis Miller says:

“F*** it, who wants pie?”

Google Isn’t Schizophrenic…And Neither is Google

2006-01-26T13:01:00.000-08:00

On one hand, Google refuses to divulge search information to the US government.

Good for Google.

On the other hand, Google spinelessly acquiesces to the Chinese government by agreeing to censor “politically sensitive terms” on its Google China site. Oh yeah, no blogging capabilities or Gmail for the Chinese either. That’s how dissidents are born.

Bad Google. Bad, bad Google. There’s just no stench like the stench of hypocrisy.

I love co-founder Sergey Brin’s rationale on the topic:

“I didn't think I would come to this conclusion — but eventually I came to the conclusion that more information is better, even if it is not as full as we would like to see”

If you squint just right at that quote, you can juuuuuust manage to read between the lines. Just let your eyes go slightly out of focus, like one of those 3-D pictures with the Statue of Liberty in it.

“I didn't think I would come to this conclusion — but eventually I came to the conclusion that I WANT CHINA’S MONEY, AND I WILL CRUSH ALL WHO STAND BETWEEN ME AND THEIR MONEY. BWAAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAAAAAA!”

Michelle Malkin has pics of some alternate Google logos. Have a good laugh.

What Tangled Webs

2006-01-26T10:33:00.000-08:00

Okay, I think I’ve strung you along long enough, Faithful Readers and Captivated Disciples.

I won’t lie, it’s been fun toying with your heats and minds, laughing maniacally as you gazed up at me from that pit in the floor I threw you into. Ignoring your tortured pleas for mercy and demanding that it rubs the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again.

Fine, playtime’s over. I’m going to tell you, hands down, the best way to get an address from a telephone number, listed or not.

Yeah, I know I’ve hinted in a few posts and thrown you the collective bone or two. But this time, you get the bonus package, baby.

I’m going to tell you the one place that has every address associated with every phone number in the known universe. And no, it’s not:

The Police

The FBI

The CIA

The NSA

None of em’. Are you ready?

It’s Domino’s Pizza.

Yep, the one place in the free world that absolutely knows where you live is Dominos.

Why? Because you told them.

And if you know how to ask, they, in turn, will tell anyone.

Here’s the drill:

So you have a phone number you can’t get any info on, eh? You’ve tried on line reversal sites, you’ve Googled, and zippo.

Okay, we go back to Fone Finder. Plug in the area code and first three digits and we get the city it originates from. With any luck, it’s not NYC, NY or Los Angeles, CA. If so, may the God of your fathers be with you.

Assuming it’s not, we take the city information and go to the Dominos store locator page. Plug the city and state in there and we get the stores in that service area.

Now the fun begins.

Start calling the stores with your Caller ID blocked (*67 then the number). When Joey Zitface answers at the Bugtussle, OK location, he’ll be dumbfounded that their Caller ID database didn’t generate a number and address for him. Tell him this is for delivery, and he’ll ask the magic question:

“Can I have your phone number?”

Yes, Joey…yes you may…

Give him the suspect number and Joey will dutifully ask if you live at 123 Pretext Lane like the good little lemming he is.

Or maybe he won’t. Apparently, there are still two to three people on God’s green earth who have never ordered from their neighborhood Dominos. Or maybe their town doesn’t have a Dominos (I know…I know). Fine, hit any internet yellow pages and find every pizza joint in town. Call them up with the same spiel and eventually you will get a hit.

Or, maybe not. But trust me, you will.

You people don’t deserve me…

My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys

2006-01-26T09:12:00.000-08:00

But ‘Brokeback Mountain’ cured all that.

This site is in my links on the right there, but I use it so much I thought I’d showcase it. Fone Finder will let you input a number and tell you where it originates geographically. But, far more importantly, it will tell you under the “Telco Type” heading if it is a cell phone or a landline.

For PI’s, this is important to know because if the number we have is a cell phone, we can’t assume that the person is home just because they answer the phone. Because cell phones are…you know…portable.

As far as what application it has in your lives…beats me. But you wanted to know about private eye related crap, right?

Link to Genius

2006-01-26T09:00:00.000-08:00

Sites like the following are why God and Al Gore created the internet:

http://www.subservientstickman.com/

Sometimes You Feel Like a Nut

2006-01-25T14:29:00.000-08:00

Some people are wealth magnets, some people are drama magnets, some people are chick magnets.

I, Faithful Readers and Captivated Disciples…am a nut magnet.

Evidence:

Sine the inception of this blog, I keep getting e-mails from Ty in New Jersey. Ty writes in all caps, which should always be your first clue, greenhorn investigators. His e-mails vary slightly, but always follow this consistent theme:

“HEY JOHNNY, SEND ME SOME YOU KNOW STUFF FOR MY PI PROGRAM.”

Having ignored the first sixty three thousand two hundred and forty seven of his e-mails along those lines, I decided one day to toss Ty a bone. I sent him this response:

“Ty,

Try starting here:

http://www.schizophrenia.com/ami/

Hugs & Kisses,

J. Undercover

PS: They’re WATCHING!!!”

Feeling empowered by the smarmy sounds of my own jackassery, I proceeded to celebrate with the adding of Jack Daniels to Coke, oblivious to the fact that yonder tower bells did nigh yet toll noon.

And then the barrage started…

“JOHNNY, I CAN’T HANDLE THIS S**T. PLEASE TAKE THE MESSAGES DOWN”

‘What messages, Ty? The blog? I can’t, its part of my court mandated therapy program.’

“JOHNNY, STOP CALLING ME, I CAN’T HANDLE THIS S**T”

‘Okay.’

“JOHNNY, THE MESSAGES ARE STILL THERE. I CAN’T HANDLE THIS S**T”

‘Yeah, Ty. I tried Tide with bleach but they just won’t come out.’

“JOHNNY, WHY ARE YOU SAYING ALL THIS S**T? I CAN’T HANDLE THIS S**T”

‘I dunno, Ty. You seem to be handling it pretty well.’

And so on and so forth, ad infinitum.

The point is, I’m sorry, Ty. You win, and I’m sorry. You want the messages to stop? They’ll stop. Henceforth, I shall discontinue living…or at least blogging.

Any posts you see here from this day on, while they may bear the name Johnny Undercover, will not be from me. From this day forth I entrust the care and maintenance of this site to my faithful disciple, Squire John. The mantle of the pseudonym Johnny Undercover, and all the awesome powers and responsibilities therein, I entrust to him.

As for me, I shall retire to my château in an undisclosed location. One can never be too careful about revealing one’s specific whereabouts with a fan base like mine, can we Ty? Suffice it to say my remaining days will be spent as a man of leisure and luxury, both impervious and oblivious to all that surrounds me.

But, Ty? Just one last request…

http://www.schizophrenia.com/ami/

Letters...I Get Your Letters

2006-01-24T13:02:00.000-08:00

One of the biggest complaints I get from you, my gentle readers and spellbound disciples is:

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? THIS IS MY HOUSE!! WHO ARE YOU?!? GET OUT!!!”

But all that is a matter for the courts to decide…

The second biggest complaint I get usually revolves around these lines:

“Okay. You talk about being a PI. You whine and complain about being a PI. But you never actually tell us how to DO the things PI’s do.” This is usually followed by a string of expletives and suggestions that I do things to myself I know full well are impossible.

Well, not impossible. Nothing is impossible. Possibility is never the problem. It’s probability that rears up and bites you in the ass.

Man, I’m easily distracted. Hey, look at that shiny thing over there!

What the hell were we talking about? Oh yeah, your whiny e-mails.

Well, gentle reader, there’s a good reason I don’t disclose many tricks of the trade. For starters, being a PI is a lot like being a magician. If everybody knew how we did what we do, no one would pay to see the show. And Daddy’s got bills, Shorties.

Secondly, I don’t want to suggest that I don’t trust you…but…uhhh…well, hell…I don’t trust you. For all I know, you want to track down your ex-wife living in Paducah, Kentucky and show her what you think of all those so-called ‘restraining orders’.

But, for the sake of shizzles and giggles, here’s a little trick I use often for reversing phone numbers.

Call 1-888-735-2872. This is the number to a company called Visit Florida. The good folks at Visit Florida have apparently spent a lot of money buying residential data information in an effort to get you to…well… visit Florida. Anyways, when the sexy computerized voice answers, press one for English. A not so sexy voice will then come on and ask you to enter you phone number to verify they have your address in their system. Assuming the number you enter is in their system, they will then read back the numerical portion of your address (but not the entire address). I’ve found that their database frequently includes unlisted numbers, but not always. And cells are a no go.

To which you reply, “What the hell good is this trick?”

Well, angry reader, let’s say you find a suspicious phone number on your hubby’s cell bill. Not that you’d ever snoop like that, but hypothetically. You don’t recognize it, and when you ask directory assistance to reverse if for info, they say the number is non published.

So you do the old Visit Florida trick and get a street number of 239.

Hey wait, doesn’t your former friend Stacy live at 239 Sleazy Lane? You haven’t talked to her since that Christmas party when she got drunk and kept hitting on your husband. THAT BITCH!!!

See how that works?

PS: While you’re out tooling around the web in lieu of gainful employment, check out my buddy Hector’s band’s website. They gig around in the Austin, TX music scene and have a cool Texas Music sound. Plus, they’re called Sigmund Fraud, which gets extra points for cool namage.

Rookie Errors

2006-01-23T07:27:00.000-08:00

Man, faithful readers…Daddy really pooched one up royally yesterday. Really waded off into the stinky end of the bull pasture this time, if you know what I mean.

You do know what I mean, right? Good.

I mean, I haven’t screwed up this bad since that time I made the mistake of thinking that state appointed shrink was my friend. We were having such a nice conversation full of witty banter and open dialogue. Then we get in front of the judge and she starts throwing around terms like “paranoid schizophrenic” and “imminent threat to society”…

Whatever.

Where was I? Oh yeah…yesterday.

By now you’re probably asking yourself, “What could Johnny, whom we believe to have been born without sin and perfect in all his ways, have done that was so bad? Is the end now here? Is the Apocalypse upon us? Are there seals breaking and vials being poured out in the heavens? Doth the pale horse now rideth across yonder bleak sky?”

Jeez, calm down Drama Queens.

Okay, here it is…I screwed up the date and time shot on my camcorder.

You don’t get it, do you?

You see, when PI’s are out stalki…Oops! Careful with the wording there. Daddy had those records expunged.

You see, when PI’s are out conducting lawful surveillance, the evidence that we collect generally is in the form of video. After all, the camera is hard to argue with. Especially when the prosecuting attorney shows the jury the widescreen glory of you “borrowing” a few hundred dollars from the cash register while your manager is at lunch. You were gonna pay it back, right?

But…and this is a big huge badonkadonk but…it’s important that the investigator have accurate information contained within his evidence. You know, like the CORRECT DAY AND TIME. Otherwise, defense attorneys tend to ask you tough questions that lead off with, “If you’re too stupid to even set the day and time right on your camera…”

What happened was, I had to change the nicad battery in the camera. The nicad is the little marvel that keeps the date and time accurate even when the master battery is unplugged or being charged. But even the nicad must be changed on occasion.

And for future reference, greenhorn investigators, it is very…very…very…extremely…exceptionally…tremendously…very important that you reset the date and time after changing it. Otherwise, you wind up with video evidence that appears to have been collected on January 1, 1900. And any evidence collected that appears to violate the laws of quantum physics is, for all practical and legal intents, useless.

Having said all that, it’s happened before and it will happen again. For, I…gentle readers…am not that smart.

Playin’ Hookey

2006-01-20T14:04:00.000-08:00

Well, faithful readers, yet again I have lived to tell the tale. When I woke up this morning, I was relieved to learn that my innards had begun to solidify (you’ll be thrilled to learn, no doubt). In fact, I felt sooooooo good, I did the only thing a sane person would do in that situation.

I called in sick to work…

No spying, no lying today. Nope, Daddy’s staying home with his progeny. And what have we accomplished today?

We’ve watched cartoons. Lot’s of ‘em.

All frickin’ day.

Now, I’ve always been of the theory that any day in which you gain knowledge is a day worth living. And you know what? I’ve gained knowledge today. For today, I discovered Cartoon Network's Boomerang.

Does your cable or satellite provider have Boomerang? If not, call them up and demand it. If necessary, threaten them with physical violence until they provide it. Tell the cops I said it was okay when they kick your front door in.

Cause you got-ta' got-ta' haaaaave you some Boomerang.

What is Boomerang? It’s nothing but old school cartoons all day long. By old school, I mean Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Popeye, Scooby Doo, Speed Buggy (HAH! You had forgotten about Speed Buggy, hadn't you?)…you name it.

Now, I’m not a hater when it comes to new cartoons. I love the little guy who Lives in a Pineapple Under the Sea (Absorbent and Porous and Yellow is He) as much as the next emotionally underdeveloped male in his early thirties (and if you don’t know whose theme song that is…you DEFINITELY don’t have kids).

But there’s just no substitute for the classics.

For example, today I seized the opportunity to explain Reichenbach's Common Cause Principle to my toddler age children by utilizing the example of Popeye the Sailor Man.

Simply put, Reichenbach's Common Cause Principle states that a correlation between events A and B indicates either that A causes B, or that B causes A, or that A and B have a common cause.

This of course is evidenced by the fact that Popeye:

A). Is strong to the finich (effect)

- Because –

B). He eats his spinich (cause)

Furthermore, as Popeye appears to become strong to the finich each and every time he eats his spinach, we can rule out any possibility of anomalous causality.

Now, what I couldn’t explain is what would cause him to pick a fight with a man 2-3 times his size over what is arguably the ugliest woman to ever walk the face of the earth (no offense, Olive Oil).

But Daddy can’t know everything, can he?

We Who Are About to Die Salute You

2006-01-17T13:31:00.000-08:00

Man, I feel like crap.

No, I take that back. I’ve felt like crap in the past, and it felt much better than this. I’d have to characterize my current feeling as some sort of genetically altered and superior strain of Mutant Supercrap…squared.

You see, faithful readers and captivated disciples, when I got back home from Hurricane Tour ’05, all of my kids had the stomach flu.

Did I ever tell you I have three kids?

Well, I do. All with the stomach flu.

But they’re feeling better now, thank goodness. Apparently because they all three passed their particular cases of Malaysian Nuclear Hyperflu on to Daddy through some sort of Vulcan Virus-Meld process.

But what can you do?

I’ll tell you what you can do…You can Yakkity Yak Don’t Talk Back.

And you can do plenty of it.

This morning’s session of Kneeling at the Porcelain Confessional produced results that looked suspiciously like pizza, which wouldn’t bother me so much if I hadn’t had chicken for dinner.

But here I am, as always…sitting on surveillance…sweating out a fever with a temperature somewhere between nuclear fission and the fourth level of hell…praying to the God of my father and his fathers before him for death or 2 PM, whichever comes sooner.

Hail Caesar.

2005 Really Blew

2006-01-03T13:19:00.000-08:00

Well, well faithful readers. Did you think Daddy abandoned you?

Well….I did. But I did it for the greatest, noblest, purest reason of all…

Money.

I’ve been on the road working as a hurricane adjuster since…ohh…the dawn of time, it seems like. You may have heard that there was some minor hurricane activity along the US Gulf Coast recently. Or, maybe you didn’t. Your paper probably buried it behind the tragic news of the Nick and Jessica breakup.

Anywho, I’ve been in the thick of the disaster since then. Because, as Almighty God is my witness…Wherever there is tragedy…Wherever there is suffering…Wherever my fellow man is in need…I’ll be there.

Finding a way to profit.

And yes, I’ve seen no small amount of craziness to report to you, my devoted and faithful disciples of the Church of Nosiness. Check back soon for some road warrior stories. Your hypnotically enigmatic cult leader commands you.

Right now, I must reunite with the love of my life…

Drinking.

Captain’s Log - Supplemental

2005-07-05T14:54:00.000-07:00

9:08 AM

Subject’s door opens. I hit the camera and get some film of him standing on the porch looking down the street…waiting for his package…you know, the one with the check in it (see previous post).

Hilarious.

10:19 AM

Speed Freak comes out on his porch and tries to look menacing while he smokes a cigarette. Might be more impressive if he weighed more than 150 lbs and had some teeth.

11:23 AM

Subject comes back out talking on the phone and looking down the street. He’s calling the number on his Caller ID trying to find out where his check is. I film him while I chuckle to myself thinking how the number he’s calling is telling him the call was from a calling card. PI’s use prepaid calling cards to mask their numbers when doing pretexts.

You’re now that much smarter for knowing that.

12:42 PM

Subject gives up on waiting for his package and goes to the grocery store. I throw on my sunglasses with the concealed wireless camera in them and follow him in. I score some thrilling footage of him in the produce isle squeezing melons (no, dirty mind…real melons).

Once he gets to the checkout line I abandon my cart full of items I was throwing in at random and head back to my surveillance vehicle. How cool must I have looked wearing sunglasses in the grocery store?

Don’t answer that.

1:32 PM

Subject returns home. I obtain video of him lifting a 50+ pound bag of dog food in spite of his debilitating back injury that has forced him out of work. What an animal lover he must be to endure such excruciating pain for Poochie. Especially since he claimed to be unable to lift more than 10 pounds.

He better hope that check comes, because his insurance benefits are about to come to a raging halt.

2:00 PM

Well, kiddos. The eight hours my client paid for are up. Time to head for the Ponderosa. Don’t you wish your day was as exciting as mine?

Was the sarcasm there obvious enough? Because I can reword it, if not….

Captain's Log

2005-07-01T23:56:00.000-07:00

4:45 AM

Alarm clock goes off. I try not to think about the fact that people in China are still up and being productive at this hour.

5:55 AM

Arrive at my Subject’s supposed residence. The tags on the vehicles in the driveway don’t come back as registered to him. This is known as a bad start to a PI’s day.

6:07 AM

The Subject’s neighbor is already on his front porch eyeing me. Long, scraggly hair, tattered shorts, no shirt, prison tats…Speed Freak. Oh, great.

6:14 AM

Speed Freak neighbor is real spooked. The speed makes them hyper aware and super paranoid, neither of which I care to deal with at this time of the morning. He saw me pull up, so he knows I’m in the van. He's probably been up all night scratching the bugs under his skin. Just a matter of time before he comes over.

6:23 AM

Can I pick em’, or what? Speed freak walks up to the van and knocks on my window.

Asks if he can help me.

I somewhat impolitely suggest that as he appears to be unable to help himself, he certainly is in no position to help me or others similarly situated.

I’m a bear before I finish my first cup of coffee.

Speed Freak adopts a very un-Christian attitude towards my endeavors and makes salacious and unsubstantiated claims about my mother. This prompts me to exit the vehicle to request further clarification; however, Speed Freak wisely opts to return to the cozy confines of his meth lab. I knew there was a reason God made me 6’2.

6:43 AM

Speed Freak lets his yap mutt out to bark at my vehicle incessantly. I reach into the back seat for a box of doggie treats I keep for such occasions. I throw Fido a Milkbone and he decides I’m a friend worth having. Try again, Speed Freak.

8:45 AM

Still no sign of the Subject. I place a call to his number to verify I have the right address. I tell him I’m with a courier company and I have a package to deliver to him. I must have the wrong address, though, because there’s no such house number on this street.

Subject becomes suspicious and says he’s not expecting a package.

I suggest that it is not so much a package as a small envelope…the kind with a window…looks like it might possibly have a check inside…

Subject suddenly feels incredibly cooperative and proceeds to give me his complete name and address. Now I know I’m at the right place and that he’s home.

Gordon Gekko was right.

Greed is good.

To Be Continued…

Feeling Hot Hot Hot

2005-07-01T10:19:00.000-07:00

Okay. I think I’ve beat the point to death that there’s TV private eye work and there’s reality PI work.

TV PI’s drive sweet cars around exotic locations and fall bass ackwards into clues and evidence.

Reality PI’s drive minivans with dark tint and sit all day in one spot, just praying that their subject becomes active so they can turn on the engine and the air conditioning.

That’s right, kids. They have to sit there with the engine OFF. You did realize that, right?

I mean, what good does it do to have dark tint and window curtains if you leave the motor running, announcing to the world that someone is sitting inside that blacked out van?

So you sit and you sweat. Just a trickle at first as the sun makes its slow climb over the horizon.

Then around 10 am your van begins to transition from surveillance vehicle to Crock Pot. You turn on your battery operated fan, which only succeeds in circulating the sweltering air around, causing you to sweat out of literally every pore in your body.

Sound fun yet? Hey some people pay good money for a nice hot sauna.

God forbid your subject is still inactive come Noon.

Now granted I live in Texas, where Christmas is the day you only turn the AC down to 75. It’s hot in the Lone Star State. But I’ve done surveillance all over the country. Trust me folks, it’s hot ANYWHERE in a surveillance van at high noon.

And just when you’re sure your seconds away from succumbing to a massive heat stroke, your subject comes outside and hits the street.

You jump into the front and hit the ignition, cranking the AC knob up to stun as the Freeon Goddess blankets you with her icy mercy.

Ahhhhh, merciful air conditioner. I am thy servant…

Shhhhhh…Be Vewwy Vewwy Quiet

2005-06-23T12:50:00.000-07:00

It’s around 10:30 in the morning...

I’m in the kind of neighborhood that bad neighborhoods don’t want to be associated with...

There are three guys who look like they just got out of prison yesterday standing around my vehicle talking…

My tint is so dark that it’s nothing but a reflection…

I have a sunshade up in the windshield…

One of the guys starts eying my vehicle…

Looks once…

Looks twice…

Third times the charm. He comes over and sticks his face in my window. Hands cupped over his eyes….

I’m quieter than a church mouse walking on cotton balls…

After a few seconds of looking at his own face in my window, he goes back to talking to his friends, satisfied that no one is in it…

Just then, my subject comes out of his house and gets in his car to leave…

As he drives off, I rip the sunshade down and hit the engine, then roar away tires squealing…

The look on Mr. Nosy’s face alone when I Bo Duke outta there is worth the price of admission…

I love this job…

How'd he do that?

2005-06-16T06:54:00.000-07:00

The number one question I get from people is, “How do you become a PI?”

Alrighty then. Let’s chat.

PI’s aren’t like the other kids. Remember the old Electric Company song?

“One of these kids is doing his own thing…”

Or was that Sesame Street?

Who cares. The point is, as a Private Investigator, you move in an entirely different realm than the average cat.

By the time most people are slapping the snooze bar, you’ve already been at work for an hour.

While everyone else is in the bar to have a few drinks and unwind, you have a concealed camera strapped to you watching Johnny Adulterer ply his paramour with wine. (Want a concealed camera? Check out this site)

Some days you’ll drive fast and punch red lights trying to keep up with the person you’re tailing.

Some days you’re in a three piece suit testifying in court, others you’re in a tank top and gym shorts sweating it out in the back of a surveillance van.

You’ll drive more than most truckers, and fly more than some airline pilots.

You’re able to come up with a cover story for any situation off the top of your head.

You’re vehicle is your rolling office/restaurant/hotel/second home. You spend more time there than anywhere else.

Get it? It’s not for everyone. I’ve seen guys come in for training gung ho as a boot camp Marine. A week later they’ve quit.

The can’t take the solitude. Or the travel. Or the weird hours. Or any of it.

Some folks just aren’t cut out for it.

But some are. I personally believe being a PI is the greatest job in the world. The money is good. There are no specific training or educational requirements. Heck, I drug through night school finishing my Bachelor’s Degree, and make the same or less than some guys with GED’s.

Why?

Because there is no degree in street smarts. It only comes with time and experience.

So don’t be fooled by PI training courses you see on the web. No one in the industry cares about them.

If you want some free training, I have a buddy who puts out a newsletter on being a PI. He’s at http://www.youcanbeapi.com/. He’ll tell you everything you need to know.

So what do you think? Wanna be a part of our deviant subculture?

Operators are standing by…

Dear John

2005-06-10T11:54:00.000-07:00

You learn a lot of things as a PI that the average guy would never know.

For instance, you learn to always park on the next block up while doing surveillance. The average person knows what vehicles belong on their block, but has no clue about the next block over.

You learn how to comb public records at the courthouse for uncollected judgments that you can assume ownership of and track down the debtor on, making a pretty penny in the process.

You learn to keep a box of doggie treats in the backseat to throw the neighborhood yap dog that’s threatening to give away your position.

But most importantly…you learn where to use the bathroom in public.

Face it, kiddos, field investigators have to go like everyone else. The difference is desk jockeys have the luxury of hitting the head down the hall.

But if you want to be a professional PI, you have to accept certain realities. And going potty where you can is one of those harsh realities.

Now, there are certain acts you can perform from the comfort of your surveillance vehicle. An empty Gatorade bottle or two will get you through most cases. Not the most pleasant subject to discuss over dinner, but necessary.

Then again, there are times when only porcelain will suffice.

So get out your notepads and learn from the master, cause here’s the comprehensive list of the best places to find relief from life on the street.

#5 McDonalds – Accept no substitutes if you must resort to fast food potty palaces. Mickey D’s are generally cleaned several times per day. Always well stocked and stalls are roomy and comfortable. You deserve a break today.

#4 Wal-Mart – Wally World’s omnipresence and global dominance works to your advantage, greenhorn. Here’s the trick that separates the rookies from the seasoned pros. Never, NEVER go for the front of the store location. Waaaay too much humanity in and out of there. Head for the rear near customer service/layaways. Much lower traffic and generally better conditions overall.

#3 Starbucks – Coffee being a diuretic and all, the folks from Seattle have planned appropriately. Sparkling clean facilities and smooth jazz in the background. Added bonus, you’re generally never more than a quarter mile from one of their locations.

#2 Hotel Lobbies – The swankier the better is the key to these gems. Just stroll straight in like you’re a guest and find the lobby level privy. Hit the head early enough and you can swipe a Danish and cup o’ joe from the continental breakfast room.

#1 Hospitals – The Holy Grail/Cadillac/Mount Olympus of public toilets. Clean, cool, clinical and antiseptic. You usually leave feeling cleaner than when you walked in. Note – Try to avoid the emergency room facilities, heavy traffic can detract from the overall experience. Hit the elevator and head up a few floors. You’ll undoubtedly find a quiet little gem where you can contemplate the universe and all its glory for a few minutes.

There you have it. Feel smarter?

You’re welcome…

You Can't Handle the Truth!

2005-05-11T02:09:00.000-07:00

Pretexting.

That’s what we call it in our little tree house. Pretexting. In elementary school when I told the teacher the dog ate my homework, they called it lying. When a candidate for the Presidency of the United States looked at the camera and said he didn’t inhale, they called it lying. When the son of the Nigerian Treasury Minister sends you an e-mail promising to deposit money in your account but first he needs your account number and a good faith deposit, it’s lying.

But in my job, it’s pretexting. And let’s face it; it’s part of what private investigators do. We obtain information that someone wants, but cannot get through conventional channels. Usually because the other party does not want our client to know said information. So how do we get it? By lyin…uh, pretexting.

An old PI buddy of mine has a saying: “Never resort to the truth if a good lie will get it.”

Now, believe it or not, there are rules to pretexting. There are things you can and cannot say to obtain information. For example, you can’t represent yourself as an agent of a real company. So if you are trying to locate Mr. So-and-So, you can’t call his Mother’s house and say you’re a UPS driver trying to deliver him a package. Another no-no is representing yourself as a law enforcement officer of agent of the state. That should go without saying, but so should “Clorox is not meant for human consumption”. Some people need the rules spelled out in painstaking detail.

And of course there are assorted other rules, but other than that PI’s are limited only by their imaginations as to how they develop information. There are a few “standard” or “classic” pretexts, but most investigator’s come up with their own spiel that they know and are comfortable using. It’s also important to come up with a pretext name. This is your fake name you use while spouting out your fake spiel. I can’t stress enough the importance of using the same name every time. Otherwise, you get into situations like this hypothetical phone locate:

PI: “Hi, this is Jimmy Dale McGillicutty. Is Steve in?”

Clueless: “No, Steve doesn’t live here anymore.”

PI: “Oh really? Well I run a temp agency and someone referred him to me about taking a possible work assignment from us.”

Clueless: “Oh! Well I’ll take a message and have him call you when I see him. What was your name again?”

PI: “Uhhhhh…Stevie Ray Mcgregor.”

(Not So) Clueless: “Didn’t you just say Jimmy Dale Something-or-other?”

PI: “(Panicked) Uhhhhh…Jimmy Dale McMahon?”

(Not So) Clueless: “No, I wrote it down. I just wanted to make sure I spelled it right. You can’t remember your own name?”

PI: “Uhhhhh…(Panic)….I, uhhhhhh….(Megapanic)…That is, I, uhhh…(‘Click’)

There you have it. Pretext blown. Practice using the same pretext name until you learn to answer to it like the one your Momma gave you. It’ll save your skin in the long run.

There you have it, troops. Now get out there and start lying…I mean…pretexting…

Magnum P.I., You Lied to Me

2005-05-10T01:20:00.000-07:00

Ohh, Thomas Magnum...Why did you lie to me? Don’t you know I worshipped the Hawaiian ground your sockless penny loafers walked on? As a young boy, I could aspire to no greater heights than to lead the life you led. So cocky, and yet down to earth, you made me believe that being a PI was the coolest job on earth.

Cooler than astronaut…

Cooler than rock star…

Cooler than third string middle linebacker making league minimum for my beloved Houston Oilers, who’s day in the sun would certainly come. If not this season, then surely the next….

You lived in an opulent Hawaiian mansion. For free, I might add. No, scratch that. You got paid to live there! Perks? You had a few. I’m not sure what HMO or dental plan your boss Higgins provided you, but I am sure he gave you a megasweet Ferrari to tool around in. And tool around you did. Hither and thither, coming and going, investigating various crimes and personal dramas in the greater Honolulu metro area. But wait, what if the case was on another island? What if special guest star Farrah Fawcett was being held hostage by an evil gun-runner in his highly fortified complex on Maui?

“No prob”, you’d say. “My man T.C. has got a helicopter, for chrissakes! We can be over there in a jiffy. Hey, I’ll probably solve this entire case in 44 minutes, allowing for commercial interruptions. I’m Tom Magnum, Baby! Who wears short shorts? I wear short shorts!”

Ohh, but you lied to me, Tommy Boy. I’m not the bright-eyed kid who trusted your every word that I once was. Where’s my Ferrari, Magnum? You know what kind of vehicle my employer provides? A MINIVAN. That’s right, a nondescript Dodge Caravan with blackout tinting and a tripod set up in the back. You know why, Magnum? Because you can’t do surveillance in a Ferrari!

Oh sure, you did every week and now every day in syndication. Ohh, but you lied to me, Magnum. Because, you know what? There are certain behaviors in the human animal that are predictable. By that I mean that most people will react in basically the same way to a particular stimuli. One such stimulus in this crazy world of ours…IS A FERRARI!

People the world over tend to notice Ferraris. They’ll say things like, “Hey, look. A Ferrari.” Or, “Wow, sweet Ferrari”. Or possibly, “Hey, is that Ferrari following me?”

That’s why there are no Ferraris in this industry, Mr. So-Called P.I. And if you think a Ferrari will catch their attention, imagine what a freakin’ HELICOPTER will do. So you lied to me, Magnum. You took a young boy’s hopes and dreams and smashed them like a coconut against the jagged Hawaiian lava rocks.

How do you sleep at night in that lavish mansion of yours?

If Loving You is Wrong, I Don’t Wanna Get Caught

2005-05-09T19:26:00.000-07:00

PI’s separate their case types into several categories. Today I’m on a domestic case. As opposed to a claims (insurance) case or a legal case. A domestic case is what most people envision when they think of PI work. It’s tailing a cheaty wifey or hubby around to see what kind of trouble they get into. Fun, fun.

So here I sit in the parking lot of a major chain store whose name you would doubtless recognize, but whose lawyers I don’t wish to receive Cease and Desist paperwork from, so they shall heretofore remain nameless. But let me tell you this. Their parking lots are like fertile breeding grounds for low rent rendezvous. They tend to be huge, with lots of recessed corner areas where conspirators and like-minded co-conspirators can meet, steal a quick kiss and get down to the business of flagrant adultery.

Now, listen. Nobody puts much thought into an affair. They aren’t the most well executed crimes ever devised by the criminal mind. They tend to be planned on the fly and in the heat of passion, which is why the injured party usually catches wind of the whole debacle. Because the affair-or and affair-ee suddenly turn into mindless, hormone driven teenagers again.

Suddenly there are abrupt hang-up calls at all hours of the night.

Suddenly the significant other has an insanely busy work or travel schedule.

Suddenly your mate either starts picking fights at random or can’t enough of your love, baby (Sing it, Barry). Both of these behaviors stem from the guilt associated with rampant naughtiness.

Suddenly, something just feels wrong.

That’s when I go to work. Now, back to that parking lot. I followed my subject from work to here on her lunch break. She was completely clueless as to who was behind her. She was too preoccupied as to who was waiting in front of her. Let that be a lesson to the chaste and unchaste alike out there; always maintain 360-degree awareness of your surroundings. The person tailing you might not be as charming and harmless as me. But I digress…

So into the parking lot we go, and I immediately knew the drill. Heck, I knew where she was going before she did. I found a nice surveillance position nestled amongst several inconspicuous cars and watched my subject act out a drama as old as time itself.

Act 1, Scene 1:

She sits alone in her car, waiting with anxious anticipation. Checks her makeup in the rearview and looks around for the vehicle she’s expecting. Where is he?!? Doesn’t he know she only gets an hour lunch break? Oooohhhh, she could kill him! No, she couldn’t…she luuuuuuuuuuuuvs him! And he’s going to leave his wife and family to be with her and they’ll live happily ever after in La La Land because she honestly and sincerely believes he would never cheat on HER...You know, like he’s doing to his current wife...

Didn’t you hear that they were in luuuuuuuuv? Luuuuuuuv means never having to be sorry, or something like that. What movie was that from? You know, that one where she died at the end…

Oh…WHERE IS HE?!?!

Cut to the scene of his late model luxury sedan casing the parking lot. My subject looks down and answers her cell phone (thanks for leaving that paper trail on the cell bill, by the way). Even from this distance I can make out her words. “Where ARE you?” I can imagine his slick, Fonzie-esque response…

“Look beside you, baby.”

To his credit, the paramour actually scans the parking lot before getting out. He’s smart enough to look for someone like me…he’s just not smart enough to actually find me. This ain’t my first rodeo, Cowboy. Let’s see if it’s yours.

Yep, it’s his first. He bebops out with a swagger worthy of Saturday Night Fever era Travolta. Oh man, if my video camera could talk. She’d tell you some stories from over the years. My subject pops out and rushes over like its prom night. She wants a From Here to Eternity rolling on the beach kiss, but cooler heads prevail. A quick hug and a smooch and off they go in his love wagon. Even a casual observer could tell that wasn’t her husband. She was just flat out too happy to see him. At this point, I could attach my van to his bumper and let them tow me to where they’re going, that’s how clueless and preoccupied they are with one another now. Doesn’t matter, though. I know where they’re going.

I’ve seen this movie a hundred times.

There’s a no-tell motel two blocks up. The kind where you can park in the back and not be seen going in from the street. What they don’t know is you can park at the strip center next door and see everything that happens in the back. Good thing I know that, huh? ‘Cause I’m set up and waiting there when they pull up. My tape is rolling as she gets out of his car and follows him into the room.

“Mr. Demille, I’m ready for my close-up”.

He apparently paid for the room ahead of time, which probably makes him think he’s smart. I’d tell you what it makes me think, but we’re amongst such polite company and all. By my watch they have about 38 minutes left on her lunch break, which is about 37.5 more than they’re going to need in their excited states.

Time passes…empires rise and fall…the tides ebb and flow…you get the point.

She makes it back to the office with three minutes to spare. I make it over to her husband’s office shortly thereafter.

Another day, another dollar…

Have you been injured on the job?

2005-05-08T20:52:00.000-07:00

You’ve seen ‘em. The ads on daytime TV for clinics that treat work related injuries. They’ll do your paperwork for you, give you a nice a Chiro back pop and maybe even refer you to Cousin’ Henry, who’s a lawyer when he ain’t bartending.

God love, ‘em, these people pay Daddy’s mortgage.

You have a lot of time to think on surveillance. Now thinking was never my strong suit, but I do a little here and there. So as I sat in the back of the Stealth-150 with the blackout curtains and assorted forms of gadgetry scattered hither and fro, I started thinking about the insanity of it all. Now granted, people do get hurt at work and need help. I neither doubt nor debate that fact. But when, pray tell, did medical professionals start specializing in WHERE you received your injury.

Re-read that last line, I’ll wait.

Not WHAT kind of injury you have, but WHERE you received it. “Were you injured on the job? Were you in an auto accident? Did your mama drop you on the head? We can help!” So if I’m getting this, these guys should be able to handle pretty much any malady you present, as long as you got it at work or in a low speed fender bender. So if a missionary in Papa New Guinea comes down with work related leprosy, you can help…right Doc? How ‘bout Liver Flukes? What about auto accident related gingivitis?

Someday, in a fit of boredom (work related, naturally), I’m gonna hit the door at one of these joints and test a theory. Consider it my Master’s Thesis in Racketology. I imagine the conversation will go something like this:

Me: “Yep Doc, I really throwed my back out but good this time.”

Quack: (Hearing a faint but distinct sound of ‘Cha-Ching’) “Really, where did you hurt your back at?”

Me: “Shower.”

Quack: “You have showers at work?”

Me: “Naw.”

Quack: (Growing Desperate) “Soooooo…You have a shower in your car where you had a wreck and hurt your back?”

Me: “No. My shower. You see, I was singing along to my shower radio when ‘Country Boy Can Survive’ came on. I dove for the volume knob to crank up the part where ‘Ol Hank spits the Beechnut in that dude’s eyes…and well…there was a slick new bar of Irish Spring on the floor. Well, the luck o’ the Irish wasn’t with me that day, Doc, ‘cause I took a tumble like Cooter Brown on a rickety bar step. And now my back is ‘a hurtin’ like tarnation!”

Quack: “Get out.”

Me: “Say again, Doc?”

Quack: “Get out, I say! How dare you defile this sanctuary with your non work or auto related injury! A pox on thee and thy house!!! Now get thee behind me, Satan!”

Yep, I’ll bet that’s what they’ll say…

"Today (day...day...), I feel (eel...eel), like the luckiest...

2005-05-07T22:40:00.000-07:00

I got burned today.

Let me hip you to a little PI shop talk. "Got burned" means the subject caught wind of my state sanctioned stalking activities. He got wise. The jig was up, the news was out, they finally found me...

Now getting burned is fairly commonplace in this industry. Happens to the best of them (not that that has anything to do with me). Hey, it's HARD to follow someone around all day and not let them be upwind of your scent. Usually the subject will do a few quick U-turns, maybe pull over to the side of the road and watch you pass, yadda yadda.

Not this clown.

Nooooo, he wants to play Roscoe to my Bo Duke and run me 'plum outta Hazzard County. So off I go...Eastbound and down...with a highly agitated insurance claimant on my bumper. These things happen, but they're rare. Don't let The Rockford Files fool ya', there ain't all that much burned rubber in my job.

But there we were...face to face...a couple of Silver Spoons...

So anywho, I see a DPS unit under the next overpass in Full Lurk mode. I punched the Stealth 150 up to 85 in a 70, figuring my gentleman caller would either back down or nut up in front of Smokey. We blew by Los Federales like Burt Reynolds circa 1977, and the Christmas lights flared up in the rearview. I watched with more than my share of the giggles as my boy prepared himself for a Come to Jesus meeting with The Man...

Works every time...