Ramble ramble ramble...

WARNING: no rhyme or reason to the following. Still fighting the ravages of a monster cold.

Well, I’m back at it today. Still not 100%, but much better. That was just an amazing cold, and I hope none of you get it. Wednesday I was sneezing a little bit, but nothing too alarming. When I got home from work, within the space of an hour I was down for the count. Thank God it was just a 24-hour bug. Now I can get back to what’s important, which is…well, you know my views on what’s important: nothing, in the great scheme of things. So, if anything, I can get back to focusing my brain on the meaningless of it all rather than dwelling on the fact that my sinuses were at full refining capacity for 24 hours.

Don’t get all mad at me for the “meaningless” thing, by the way. I’m joking. Lighten up.

My cold made me think of the bird flu. Have you had about this bird flu thing? Apparently, if this flu mutates into the type of virus that can be transmitted from human to human, our species is screwed. Some estimates of the death toll have been as high as 150 million, but today the Center for Disease Control lowered that to 2-7 million.

You all know I’m not a Michael Moore fan, but something he said in his documentary “Bowling for Columbine” is really ringing true right now: the fact that the media really thrives on perpetuating utter fear in the populace. We’re all acutely aware of the inaccuracies reported about Hurricane Katrina: 150,000 dead. Rapes and murders in the Superdome. Police officers sodomizing children stranded in daycare centers. Okay, I made that last one up, but it’s not too far off the mark.

Then there were gas prices: If Hurricane Rita strikes the coast with full force, gas prices will skyrocket. I heard conservative pundit Sean Hannity prodding a governmental official to come out and say gas prices could top five dollars per gallon. “Could it happen? Huh? Pretty please? Please, please, please tell me we’ll be paying five dollars per gallon for gas.”

It was like hearing a five-year old badger his parents for a trip to Disneyland. He seemed to be deriving genuine pleasure from eliciting some acknowledgement from an official source that people would experience genuine suffering.

Of course, we’re all hearing that heating prices will be increasing two or even threefold this winter, which brings to mind the Boy Who Cried Wolf story. I’ve become so desensitized to the media’s incessant claims of catastrophe that if and when it occurs, I’ll be wholly unprepared. And besides, what can I do about it? Like very other working person, I'll simply shrug my shoulders and make do somehow.

The thing is, while new doom and gloom prophecies are tossed out on a daily basis, very real things are happening that should give sober men pause. The Saint Paul Pioneer Press reported this week that city residents are facing a 20% property tax increase. Read that again: a 20% property tax increase. While forecasters say that natural gas prices will double or triple, I can guaran-damn-tee you that low income folks will continue to be immune from the higher prices. They’ll continue to receive heating assistance from the government (i.e. that big pot of magical money delivered daily to the state capitol by unicorns) while working stiffs scratch their heads seeking ways to make ends meet without declaring bankruptcy. And the federal government, despite a call for a quarter billion dollars in aid for victims of Hurricane Katrina, nonetheless continues to dole out pork-barrel money by the trillions for unnecessary roads, obscene artworks, and countless other projects guaranteeing Congressmen and Senators continue to get re-elected year after year.

I’m fearful, but not of the bird flu, nor of natural disasters. I’m fearful that we’ve reached the genuine point of no return as far as common sense in government. The fact that the City of Saint Paul is willing to increase property taxes by an incredible 20% and not address spending problems is unconscionable. Forgive me for mentioning it again, but it brings to mind the book Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand, wherein out-of-touch government officials place Herculean taxes and restrictions on businesses and working folks, then express genuine puzzlement when productive members of society begin dropping out.

A local newspaper ran a story this week about affordable housing. They spotlighted a 24-year old single mother who has been on a waiting list for affordable housing for three years. For three years she’s waited patiently for a handout. There was no indication of whether she had sought other means to provide for herself and her child. Rather, the reader was to pity her for not receiving a cheap apartment compliments of the Saint Paul taxpayer who, as mentioned above, will soon be forking over an additional 20% in property taxes on top of God knows how much more in energy costs.

We’re reaching the point where the working man can no longer sacrifice. I know that in my own life, I’m making decisions based on rising taxes and energy costs. My wife and I will be moving to the cities, closer to our jobs and my college. I will be seeking employment closer to my home, given that my daily 60 mile round trip commute is eating me alive in fuel costs. I’ll be keeping a close eye on the thermostat this winter, probably buying an extra sweater or two rather than pay through the nose for natural gas and electricity.

And yet there are those who needn’t sacrifice. The welfare checks will continue to be printed. Single moms will have their stipends increase with each child, receiving subsidized food and housing. Government officials, who have no idea what a loaf of bread or gallon of milk costs, will continue shelling out money to non-producers so their lucrative government jobs are secure. And folks like you and I will continue to cut corners wherever we can, but when we get to the point of no return, what then?

I foresee a rebellion in this country. A rebellion by productive citizens against over-reaching government and non-producers. I don’t know how it will manifest itself, but if my own frustration is any indication I think it could get quite ugly, and perhaps it’s about damned time.

Oh my aching head...

Home with a killer cold today, so nothing much interesting to say. How much mucus can a single human head produce, anyway? Too bad it's not a renewable energy source. I'd have solved America's oil problem overnight.

So, entertain yourselves commenting back and forth, go visit one of the links to the right, or even try something crazy like working instead of surfing blogs all day.

Miracle cold cures accepted, by the way.

What the hell?

I'm really going through some soul-searching lately. There's lots of big changes on the horizon. My wife and I will be moving closer to the Twin Cities; I need to decide whether to continue school or go back to working full-time and focusing on my writing; there's just a million decisions to be made and quite frankly sometimes I get fearful about the future.

Then I log onto the Internet and get a banner ad for this fucking caveman's new TV show:

His new show will be on the Learning Channel, irony of all ironies.

Who is it exactly that clamouring for more of Adam Corolla, for Christ's sake? I know many people who have more talent in their bowel movements than Corolla has exhibited in his entire life, yet they're working 9-5 jobs barely earning a living while this knuckle-dragger wipes his derriere with C-notes.

On one hand Adam Corolla is a symbol of what's great about this nation; a testament that truly anyone can achieve success, extra chromosone or not.

On the other hand, he's a symbol of what I loathe about America. Millions of morons continue to funnel money to this buffoon, their glazed eyes glued to the Man Show, or Loveline, or whatever new turd Corolla chooses to drop on an unsuspecting public.

I really don't even have a point except to say he's a moron.

Important stuff.

I think it was the stupidest thing ever to name an office product supply company "Staples." Every time I want staples for my stapler, I grab a box labeled "Staples," and it turns out to contain binder clips or paper clips or some other product from "Staples," but never staples.

This is the type of crap I deal with as an administrative assistant. My life is the worst life ever.

They're words. No more, no less. Get over it.

Here's a crazy thought.

How 'bout we agree that for 30 days following a natural disaster, people aren't allowed to be offended by words?

How 'bout we agree that while child pornography continues to be a growing epidemic, people aren't allowed to be offended by words?

How 'bout we agree that while soldiers are risking their lives a half a world away, people aren't allowed to be offended by words?

How 'bout while the Minnesota Legislature has the audacity to suggest a special session to discuss public financing of three, count 'em three, sports stadiums, people aren't allowed to be offended by words?

How 'bout while Washington refuses to slash the budget and threatens to repeal tax cuts, people aren't allowed to be offended by words?

They're words. Merely words. They cannot hurt you. They may offend you. But it is not your right not to be offended. You are not guaranteed the right to go through life without your own beliefs being challenged by words. If you cannot muster words of your own to counter words that offend or challenge you, that does not give you the right to censor other people's words. If you're so sensitive that mere words affect your ability to function, then you're the type of person who deserves to be offended.

If you are still offended by mere words while people are starving...

If you are still offended by mere words while rapes are occurring...

If you are still offended by mere words while people return to New Orleans and discover all their belongings destroyed...

And for that matter, if you are still offended by mere words while we cling to a chunk of rock hurtling through space with no clue how we got here or why we exist...

If you still have the unmitigated gall to be offended by mere words, let me offer a suggestion:

Latest Column.

Here's my latest column for the Stillwater Gazette. To be more specific, my latest submission to the Stillwater Gazette; it hasn't been accepted yet. I'm hoping it doesn't go "too far," because you all know I hate to push the envelope.

Every Sunday morning I diligently scour the department store circulars that arrive with the newspaper, wire-framed reading glasses perched studiously on the tip of my nose, rubbing my chin reflectively. If my wife asks what I’m shopping for, I have a bevy of boiler plate replies at the ready. “My cardigans are pilled so I’m seeing what’s out there,” or “The elbow patches on my tweed jacket are becoming weathered and it may be time to replace it.”

And of course the truth is I’m looking at the bra and panty ads.

To illustrate just how well I know these ads, I can tell you that they’re invariably located after jewelry or shoes. Marshall Fields has the best-looking models and the perfume samples contained with the ads make it seem like the women are actually in the room. Sears ads feature robust women possessing an unsettling German female Olympian vibe. Kohl’s ads boast a grainy, non-airbrushed quality reminiscent of burlesque, eliciting a vaguely oedipal response, while J.C. Penney is all about the close-up, just in case one wishes to discover firsthand the thread count of their unmentionables.

Wal-Mart ads feature no underwear models at all since their circulars feature actual employees and, well, who wants to see a Wal-Mart employee in their underwear?

Send those letters to the Stillwater Gazette, attn: Editor.

I asked a female acquaintance if she’s ever been directly influenced by an underwear advertisement. She replied that the ads unfailingly depict women at least ten years her junior who are obviously childless as illustrated by the lack of stretch marks and defiance of gravity. In short, these women can get away with wearing undies that amount to a $40 strip of dental floss. So, the ads have indeed influenced my friend, albeit to initiate a vigorous letter-writing campaign to resurrect the petticoat.

It’s evident that female underwear ads are geared towards men. Madison Avenue research has apparently proven that viewing photographs of scantily-dressed nubile nymphets bearing come-hither looks causes men to purchase the hand tools featured elsewhere in the circular. This stands to reason, given that much of the underwear featured, after being worn for any length of time, could only conceivably be extracted with needle-nosed pliers.

It’s no exaggeration to say that underwear advertisements are every young boy’s initiation into the wonders of the fairer sex. They’re a gateway drug to pornography. I vividly recall being a youngster and thumbing spellbound through my grandmother’s Sears catalog while the rest of the family slept. I was enchanted at just how different those garments looked when not hanging from a clothesline. Having been raised during the heyday of the feminist movement, I heard rumors of women burning their bras, and I desperately sought Smokey the Bear’s direct number to plead “How can I help?”

Department stores can always find reasons to expand their underwear ads. The annual President’s Day sale on push-up bras is a personal favorite. Twelve years of public school somehow glossed over depictions of Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin, in matching baby doll tops, enjoying a playful pillow fight, feathers seductively alighting on their powdered wigs. Some merchants even pay tribute to the Founding Fathers by offering free bra fittings performed by highly-trained specialists, a job which is never advertised, by the way. If anyone needs an apprentice, I’ll bra fit for food.

Father’s Day is ironically the one occasion when a voluminous women’s underwear advertisement is remotely justifiable. After dad has graciously accepted his annual barrage of flannel shirts and Aqua Velva after shave, who could begrudge him for picking up the paper and enjoying photographs of a fetching young lass wearing next to nothing? Someone who doesn’t pester him to take out the trash, who didn’t buy him a size XXXL shirt despite his 140 pound frame, and who didn’t follow up “Happy Father’s Day” with “Can I borrow some money?” No, the only gift provided by the anonymous model is her lithe, minimally-covered frame. “The chores can wait,” she whispers. “this is our time.”

Happy Father’s Day indeed, this will go under the mattress ‘til September when it will be replaced by the 20-page Labor Day bra and panty spectacular.

Underwear advertisements are the last lingering vestige of publicly-acceptable patriarchy. Despite headlines proclaiming continuing advances in women’s rights, newspapers still manage to quietly slip page after page of fantasy fodder into their publications. Don’t let the wafting scent of burning bras fool you. Countless photographs of young women squeezed into breath-constricting brassieres and wholly impractical panties prove it’s still a man’s world after all.

Who's News.

Back by popular demand…okay, I received one e-mail, and it was Spam…but I’ll take that as a sign you’re all craving your pop culture fix for the week. So, here’s the Admin Worm take on Who’s News, the weekly celebrity gossip section of USA Weekend. Again, these are real letters sent by real people who really care about this tripe.

Don Johnson is still a heartthrob for me. What's the latest on him personally and professionally? -Susan Williams, Lake Havasu City, AZ

Well, Susan…do you want the bad news or the bad news?

First, Don Johnson got hitched in 1992, so he’s officially off the market romantically. Sorry to burst your bubble. However, if it’s any consolation, he wasn’t likely to take a wrong turn in Albuquerque and park his BMW roadster in front of your trailer house asking for directions, so you probably did well marrying Hank from Jiffy Lube.

Second, Johnson isn’t only off the market, he bats for the other team. He married none other than his Miami Vice co-star Philip Michael Thomas in a private civil ceremony in Hollywood, where the two share a small bungalow. Two strikes, Susan: light in the loafers and an incurable case of Jungle Fever.

Professionally, Johnson is experiencing a career boost, riding the wave of 80’s nostalgia that is sweeping the nation. He has re-released his 1987 single “Heartbeat,” remixed for our hip-hop culture by none other than Chuck D, formerly of Public Enemy.

When can we expect a new season of Larry David's "Curb Your Enthusiasm" on HBO? -Marilyn Kelly, Chicago

Who’s News staffers worked diligently this week to answer your question, Marilyn. Numerous calls to Larry David’s publicist yielded no response. Our “mole” at the HBO network was unsuccessful in obtaining inside information on the show. In a move we’re not proud of, the Who’s News staff even went so far as to approach several cast members—including Cheryl Hines, Jeff Garlin, and Richard Lewis—at their homes, like common paparazzi, to get the inside scoop. No luck.

Finally, our intern Jeremy said “How ‘bout we look in TV Guide?” We did, and discovered the new season begins tonight.

What happened to Patricia Richardson, who was on Lifetime's "Strong Medicine?" Did she not renew a contract, or did she go to a new TV program? -Gina Johansen, Bossier City, LA

There are several relief organizations that can help, Gina. The Red Cross, for example, has set up numerous places in your area where you and your family can obtain food, water and medical supplies. The critical step in rebuilding your lives, of course, is to…

Whoops, sorry. We thought your letter was from the half of Louisiana that was dealing with real problems, Gina, not the half that can still afford to piss away their lives watching made-for-television pap on the Lifetime Network, eating Häagen-Dazs by the gallon.

Here’s a thought, Gina: how’s about you turn off the tube, load up the station wagon, and head to New Orleans to lend a hand? Patricia Richardson makes a couple million a day off Home Improvement reruns so she needs neither your money nor adoration.

I am a fan of Fox's medical show "House" because of Robert Sean Leonard. Info, please. -Renee Russel, Olympia, Wash.

Okay, Renee: here’s some info. First, here’s a Community College in your area:

South Puget Sound Community College.

Here’s a link to some attractions in Olympia which may save you a bedsore or two:

Shit to do outside your trailer.

Here’s a link to the Big Brothers Big Sisters program in your area:

Get the hell out of your house.

Finally, if those don’t work, try this:

Quit wasting precious oxygen.

Probably not the “info” you had in mind, Renee, but it may ultimately prove more useful to you than watching the exploits of a crabby TV doctor week after week.

Is that horsemen in the sky? No? It’s a plane? Crap. Well, I guess that means your letters will keep rolling in, so unless my Russian Roulette club holds an emergency meeting next weekend, Who’s News will once again provide its unique insights into the world of pop culture, or as we call it The Devil’s Cesspool.

Quick and Dirty.

I know you like it that way. Oh, yes...

Yesterday's blog caused a bit of a stir, which surprised me to a degree (though I did entitle it "Against my better judgement").

I disallowed comments for a while. Nothing huge, just a comment made that I felt might rub people the wrong way.

A former co-worker e-mailed me to say that the ladies in her office were not pleased by my piece. They felt I took every stereotype of pregnancy and made it seem like the rule. They say I failed to point out the positive aspects of pregnancy.

To which I replied: Please tell the ladies in your office that the column was humor.

I got very discouraged until I remembered another e-mail I received. A woman I respect greatly, who has several children, e-mailed to say (I'm paraphrasing) that mine was the best piece she'd ever read on pregnancy. When I pressed her for details, she nailed it. By "nailed it" I mean she communicated to me that she understands what humor is all about.

Sometimes I get discouraged because I thought that by moving to the "Big City," people would be a little more accepting of humor that approaches or even crosses "the line." Then I realize that either I or the rest of the world doesn't understand what humor is. Ironically, the person who wrote me the cautionary e-mail also sent me a link to an organization in Minneapolis that offers writing workshops. I believe I'm going to take a course in humor writing to see if I'm funny, or just a dick.

Anyway, comments will be back up next week. I hope everyone has a dandy weekend.

And, who knows...Who's News???

Don't panic.

I can just hear everyone: "There he goes again."

Please don't worry. I'm not in the depths of depression or anything like that. No window ledges, no Russian Roulette with all chambers full. I appreciate (as always) the kind comments and e-mails.

It's circumstances, plain and simple. There are a lot of things that have suddenly blown up in my life the past week or so. For all intents and purposes, everything I heretofore took for granted as being stable has been rendered quite the opposite, and I don’t know which way to turn. I do know that posting a nutty blog every day currently ranks 100th on a list of 50 things to do. Not that this isn’t important, but I’m recalling a quote from the book “The White Mountains” by John Christopher which encapsulates a view of psychology I learned about recently:

“While it’s true that man does not live by bread alone, nonetheless it is bread he must have first.”

In other words, I have other needs which require more immediate attention than the blog.

On the plus side, my “real” writing has, in my opinion, started to take off. I’ve discovered that when real life gets out of my control, the one thing I can control—my writing—becomes even more precious to me. I’ve got an unprecedented four columns for the Stillwater Gazette in the can, which means even if I do get utterly depressed or experience mega-writer's block during the next month, I’m covered.

Monday was my first official “group meeting” at Bible study and I became quite frustrated. I was surrounded by about a dozen men who are clearly “filled by the Spirit,” whatever that means. They refer to the Bible as “the Word,” they talk about being “receptive to the Holy Ghost,” and to my dismay I’ve discovered that the moderator of the group has clearly been given a “pat” answer when anything remotely philosophical comes up:

“We’ll just have to ask God about that when we see him.”

Now, I can hear my Christian brethren saying “Admin Worm, that’s the way it’s supposed to be. There are mysteries that the human brain was not created to ponder. Let go and let God.”

To which I would reply that I am quite aware I will never solve the mystery of life. However, I firmly believe that if God was kind (or cruel) enough to provide me a brain capable of at least realizing such mysteries exist, then he sure as heck wouldn’t begrudge my desire to discuss them with other rational adults. I don't want or intend to solve it, I just want to talk about it.

Yesterday was just an awful day. I thought Tuesday was officially the worst day of my life, and then yesterday happened. I was near the end of my rope. I am hereby confessing to you all—yes, all four regular Admin Worm readers—that I literally got on my knees and cried to God. I told him (yes, him…get over it) that I needed him to toss me a bone yesterday. Some clue that he knew how I was feeling and gave a crap.

So, yesterday I received my monthly copy of “Decision” magazine, a Billy Graham Ministries publication, which my mom has been providing me for years but I never really read, being a little nervous about all that “God stuff.” I read an interview with a psychologist named Larry Crabb who founded New Way Ministries. I was expecting the typical feel-good Christian spiel: “Accept Christ in your heart and your life will be changed immediately!”

I was stunned, therefore, to read that Crabb fully acknowledges that life (I’m paraphrasing) sucks. Plain and simple it sucks, and may very well suck ‘til the end of your days. Some people experience epiphanies, other people struggle through life never even being convinced that God exists, let alone cares.

Here’s an excerpt that I found particularly enlightening:

“In some ways, I think the Christian who is disappointed with the Christian life is on the way to true maturity. Paul, in Romans 8, talks about groaning. I think if we met the Apostle Paul, he might say, 'Yes, the power of Christ moves through me, but don’t assume that that is an ecstatic experience…. I’m lonely. I’m cold. This is really hard. But I’m deeply content in any circumstances.'”

Crabb goes on to say that the word content “doesn’t mean feeling good. If you look at the Greek for the word, it isn’t an emotional word. It is a purposeful word that says ‘I have the resources within me to persevere, no matter what.’ The person who is not groaning is not facing reality, because the Bible says that the whole creation is groaning.”

Jackpot.

For years I’ve wondered just what the hell is wrong with me for not feeling the joy normally associated with being a Christian. I wondered why God didn’t give a crap; why he allowed me to spend entire days, weeks, and months with barely enough energy to survive, let alone live. Reading that interview made me realize that maybe I’m not alone after all. That for whatever reason, the strength (albeit seemingly minute) I’m receiving is all I’m entitled to right now.

I think of countless days from the past decade that have been nearly unbearable; numerous trips to the restroom to cry my eyes out during work; performing with my bands after spending pre-show time weeping and cutting my wrists; or times alone cradling my cat, his fur absorbing my tears, wondering why he was seemingly the only creature in this world that cared about what happened to me. Now I realize that it’s an imperfect world, and for whatever reason(s) the connection from God to me is a tenuous one, so the most he can manage for me is to help me take my next breath. And the thing is, that may be all I ever get. Realizing it, though, seems half the battle.

The movie “Fight Club” talks about the necessity of “hitting bottom” before any real progress can be made in a person’s life. These last couple of days have proved that to a degree. I’ve no doubt I can sink even lower and probably will, but for the first time in my life I’m able to look in the mirror and know that the balding, jaded, angry person reflected isn’t in control of anything. No amount of worry or thinking or planning will change that. In a span of two days I’ve discovered that relationships, jobs, health, and life are fickle things, and no amount of worry or effort on my part can make a whit’s difference either way.

I leave you with two quotes from Fight Club. Two weeks in Bible study and I’m quoting Fight Club. Now that’s progress:

“It's only after we've lost everything, that we're free to do anything.”

“Congratulations. You're one step closer to hitting bottom.”

Leave of absence.

You likely won't hear from me much for the near future. Sorry.

Just a thought...

Let me preface by saying I'm an animal lover. Moreso than a people lover, actually.

That said, today's Minneapolis Star Tribune has an editorial about yet another "mutant" frog being found in our fine state. This one has six legs, and is being cited as yet another cautionary tale against mankind's pollution of waterways.

However, as I understand the theory of Evolution, isn't the history of life replete with mutations that ultimately led to stronger species? Why is it that when it suits a particular ideology, such an occurrence is seen as yet another example of mankind's (and specifically capitalist's) destructive nature, yet on the other hand we're to believe that millions of years ago, similar mutations led to useful traits that eventually led to what you see in the mirror each day.

Just a thought.

Monday, shmonday.

Hi, kids.

Boy, I got nothin' here.

Well, I got somethin', but nothin' blog-worthy. Truth be told, I've been writing like a mother f-er, but everything I've come up with recently has proven to be good fodder for my newspaper columns. I hate to post them before they've been re-worked to as close to perfection as the written word can get.

Sure, there's crap in the news capturing my attention, but I have nothing to add. You want politics, check out the Exile. You want a hot conservative babe, check out Stacy. You want good, old-fashioned intellectual rambling, check out Leab. You want Natalie Portman, check THIS out.

GARRISON KEILLOR
My wife and I saw Garrison Keillor at a St. Paul Restaurant on Saturday night. I may write a column about it.

Regular Admin Worm readers know I'm no fan of Mr. Keillor for any number of reasons, but I must say that seeing him in the flesh, so to speak, was very interesting. I imagine my feelings were akin to what I might experience were I to meet Hillary Clinton. "Oh my God, I can't stand you, can I have your autograph?"

He's tall, very tall, very quiet, and avoided eye contact, and I'm assuming the latter is to prevent a chance encounter with a rube. He looks a bit disheveled yet I must say possess an air of dignity. He commands respect.

As much as I disagree with his politics, and much as I lose sleep over the possibiliy that even one penny of my tax money goes to grow his empire, I nonetheless found it fascinating and humbling to be in the presence of someone who through blood, sweat, and tears is fulfilling his dream. A childish part of me secretly hoped that one day someone would see me that way, but that they would have the courage to approach me. Rube or not, I'd love to speak to them.

DOOR DINGS
So this morning I'm sitting in my truck before school, and a car pulls up beside me. Two young ladies get out, and the one on the passenger side swung her door open very hard, smashing it into my truck. She registered no acknowledgement of the incident; in fact, she took her sweet time collecting her personal effects. When she went to shut her door, she looked at the "contact" point, then into my glaring eyes. She gave me a sheepish smile and a slight wave, which I acknowledged with a titular smile.

Over the weekend I saw a Cadillac with so many door dings it looked like it had endured a hail storm lying on it's side. My wife's pride and joy, her brand-new Mini Cooper, already has several dings and scrapes, despite her best efforts to park far away from other cars.

This is just another glaring illustration of how our society is plummeting irreversibly towards complete doom. People have zero respect for other people's property.

Just kidding. Wanted you to think I'd lost my mind again!

Politics.

Click on the Exile's link to the right (FAR right) for your daily fix of politics. He is SO da' man for political diatribes.

Say, am I alone in thinking the now infamous "Bush Bathroom Note" is much ado about positively NOTHING? I heard a pundit say yesterday that this event will "hurt Bush even more" in the wake of supposed failures like the War in Iraq, Hurricane Katrina, etc.

The guy had to pee. He slipped someone a note requesting a break. How many of us have done the same thing at a meeting? Or wished we had the balls to do it? People seem to be implying that it's insensitive of the President to dare suggest he answer the call of nature when there are important things to discuss. Well, I don't know about you, but when I'm at a meeting and my bladder is full, the last thing I'm thinking about are the issues at hand. All I'm thinking is that "If I don't get to the can, and quick, we'll need clean-up with a mop in the Conference Room."

My God, our president PEES. I'm so ashamed. Of the press, that is.

More stuff.

DODGED A BULLET
I am officially 99.999% certain that there will be no repurcussions for the "Anger Blog" I posted last weekend. The person I wrote about did not see it, nor did anyone else in class. You can't imagine how relieved I am, for myself and her.

I spoke with the instructor about the situation, and he helped me do the detective work to determine whether or not anyone had seen it. He was mercifully non-judgmental, and commented that I seemed to turn the situation into a positive. I told him, however, that I'm loathe to pat myself on the back since any "growth" I experienced was at the expense of another person.

My writing has taken a different turn this week, more towards humor, less towards anger. I've got a couple of lengthy pieces at the ready, but am trying to decide whether to submit one or both to the Stillwater Gazette. I'm trying to avoid politics altogether, but can't help noticing what's going on in Washington...

FOR INSTANCE
If you're paying attention to the John Roberts confirmation hearings, then you're aware that he is wiping the freaking floor with the folks on the committee. They would be utter fools not to confirm him.

Is anyone but me a little tired of Teddy Kennedy of all people wagging a finger of admonishment? I guess it makes sense that Kennedy would worry about the future of Roe vs. Wade. After all, what better advocate of abortion than a Senator who knows the going rate of the procedure?

Kennedy has really been quoting up a storm (no pun intended) about the Bush Administration's handling of the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, and he's using the disaster as an opportunity to draw attention to the plight of the poor.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but...hasn't Kennedy been in office for nigh on four decades? Hasn't he had ample opportunity to correct these supposed injustices? In fact, can it not be argued that a sizeable portion of the problem is directly attributable to a miserably failed welfare state, which Kennedy and his ilk have advocated for years?

Here's a two-fold solution to poverty: finish high school and don't have a child before you're married. That won't erase poverty, but it will provide a damned good head start and will give the folks paying the bills an indication that those affected by poverty are willing to do at least the bare minimum possible to help themselves.

Sex, poop, and intimacy.

The state of a nation can be easily measured by the questions sent to its advice columnists.

For instance, the Who’s News feature which is a semi-regular feature on the Admin Worm blog is culled directly from the pages of USA Weekend. It never ceases to amaze me that whatever is occurring in the world—war, famine, hurricanes—there is never a shortage of people whose greatest worry is whether George Clooney intends to direct some day.

This morning was the piece de resistance of advice columns. The Advice Diva in the St. Paul Pioneer Press is dealing with fallout for her earlier advice to a female writer who expressed concern that she was about to take the first weekend trip of a new relationship, and was mortified at the thought that she might actually have to poop during the trip. “How do I deal with it? What if he finds out I poop? What if he breaks up with me?”

What’s particularly disheartening is not just the question, but the answer provided. The Advice Diva recommended any number of “covers,” including scoping out public restrooms in the vicinity, wedging a towel between the bottom of the bathroom door and floor to contain the scent: anything to avoid letting the cat out of the bag that she is a human being who ingests food then must dispose of the remnants.

This flabbergasts me for any number of reasons. First, I’m apparently alone in the world feeling quite sad that certain behaviors are a given in relationships these days. The Advice Diva speaks very matter-of-factly about “the jitters of sharing a hotel room (with a new partner) for the first time.” This is all part of our society’s insistence that nothing be off-limits, or God forbid reserved for a marriage (shudder). Let high school lovers stay in a hotel on prom night; if the kids are going to have sex, they should do it at home where they're "safe;" as long as they're protected with a condom, no worries. Sex is, after all, merely a physical act.

Someone very close to me told me that it’s not uncommon for people to share a bed after only a week of dating nowadays. This floored me. Yes, it’s positively Victorian of me, but I personally feel there should be some sort of “phone number memorization rule” before engaging in such an intimate act with someone.

People argue that you wouldn’t purchase a car without test-driving it first, but that contention must be qualified. For instance, if you’re finally in the market for a $75,000 Jaguar, you might resign yourself to the possibility that another serious customer been behind the wheel. However, you would think twice about purchasing the car if you discovered 300 miles on the odometer, and the salesperson told you that neighborhood teenaged boys had taken regular joyrides in it.

The other thing that really bothers me about the Advice Diva’s response is the mixed message it sends. Think about it. On one hand, the woman writing the letter is so comfortable with this person that she’s intimate with them, meaning the most private of her parts are regularly exposed to the gentleman in question. On the other hand, she’s embarrassed beyond comprehension that he may discover the orifice he’s poking around is used for its intended purpose.

This is akin to an argument used frequently by pro-choice folks about teens and sex. Teenagers are apparently embarrassed to go to the pharmacy and purchase condoms; therefore abortion must remain safe and legal “just in case.” Let me get this straight: you’re perfectly fine with a hormonally-charged 16 year old boy, whose name you barely know, sniffing around your crotch like a mongrel dog, but you’re mortified at the prospect of purchasing from a licensed professional a product that will not only prevent pregnancy, but possibly save your life? Further, we're to accept that it's less of an affront to your dignity to undergo invasive surgery than to plop five bucks on the counter and say "Condoms, please"? And finally, if the maturity level of the persons involved is not adequate to cause them to take precautions, perhaps someone close to one or both could gently suggest that they're not ready to take the step.

Part of my new lease on life is trying not to point the finger of judgment. The downside of this is it lends itself to sadness rather than anger. It just makes me plain sad that we’ve become a nation where the most physically and emotionally intimate act imaginable is seen as no more sacrosanct than dropping trow and taking a leak on a camping trip. People who barely know each other traverse the hurdle of awkward conversation by immediately leaping into bed, and this is frequently mistaken for love. And that’s understandable: when sex is done “right,” for lack of a better term, it strengthens the bond between a man and woman; hopefully a husband and wife. Who wouldn’t feel remarkably close to someone if, after only one week, they’re comfortable enough to “make love”? As I’ve witnessed in the lives of countless people around me, however, the initial euphoria is quickly replaced by disappointment. Soon the intimacy digresses to pure physicality, and the relationship quickly burns out. Years of seeking true love often result in a person feeling even more alone, and what’s more having a lot of explaining to do with the person they finally settle down with.

A little advice for the Advice Diva: take the high road and assume, just for a lark, that the majority of newspaper readers are more mature than you give them credit for. Perhaps a weekend trip should be reserved for after the moment the couple is able to look into each other’s eyes and admit that “I poop.” Rather than recommend coy means by which the young lady can mask the fact that she is a biological creature, say something to embolden her to look her lover in the eye and say “If you’re willing to engage in an act which will bond us emotionally and physically, an act which could result in the creation of life or any number of diseases, then you should be mature enough to accept the fact that my body, as attractive as it may be to you, also produces substances and smells you would find repugnant.” Whether the result is acceptance or rejection, the young lady is much better off for it. Better to find someone who accepts her for who and what she is than do everything possible to fashion herself into a Stepford Wife.

Tasteless.

My friend Julie sent me this, and you know me: staunch right-winger. That said, I laughed out loud for a long time when I saw this picture.

Update.

My pal Jules wrote to say she likes the lighthearted nature of yesterday's “Neighbors” blog, and she likes all the comments people are leaving. I am, too. It’s funny how a lot of people who heretofore only wrote to leave scathing comments about my right-wing political beliefs have left comments and sent e-mails offering incredible support. This morning I received a link to a great blog that I haven’t had time to check out at great length, but from what I’ve seen it’s quite enlightening. Thanks to Mont D. Law for sending it.

BIBLE STUDY
Last night was the first night of Bible study, what will be a weekly event for a long time to come. I don’t like to pat myself on the back, but walking through that door may just be the single bravest act of my life. I don’t know what it is with me and church, but just being in the parking lot makes my heart palpitate. Watching 200 Dockers-clad men snaking their way towards the door, Bibles in hand, made me want to jam the key in the ignition and burn rubber to the nearest Starbuck’s.

What made me go in was thinking of my wife. There’s been a lot of struggle and tension in our household lately, and I felt that by leaving that parking lot I would in essence be turning my back on my marriage. I don’t know that church or Bible study will be what makes me a well-adjusted human being, but I do know at this point I need to consider and pursue all available options.

What was not surprising though still disappointing was the fact that there was no “bolt of lightning” making me better instantly. I guess I’ve watched too many made-for-television movies (curse you, Lifetime), but a part of me hoped that as I passed the threshold, all my anger, resentment, and sadness would be lifted from my shoulders. Quite the contrary, being in a church again nearly sent me screaming. And of course, Mr. Germaphobe was forced to shake hands with 20 people (none of whom wash after peeing, I’m sure), and endure HYMNS of all things. Egads. Needless to say, it was quite trying, but hopefully worth it in the end.

The focus of the next year’s worth of Bible study is the Book of Genesis, which is fortuitous because as regular readers know, I’ve struggled greatly in recent days with philosophical questions. The person leading the group made allusions to the fact that they do a truly in-depth study of Creationism. It won’t be the standard “God created everything in six days, let’s go have punch.” No, for the next year we’ll be studying Biblical texts IN CONTEXT, which is very important. For instance, last night the instructor said that the Book of Genesis uses several different Hebrew words for “Creation” which in fact all mean very different things. Some words mean created from whole cloth, whereas other words mean created from other things. This should be interesting and should provide me ample fodder to debate folks who hold steadfastly to non-Faith based theories of creation. You know, those people who believe fervently that all this something “just happened.” Talk about faith.

So, I’ll keep you posted on that. If I can continue to make that 50-yard walk every Monday night from my vehicle to the church, that in and of itself will be an accomplishment.

FALLOUT
This is a “teaser” in reference to the now-legendary “hella mean” blog I posted and retracted over the weekend.

Today was the first day back to the class in question, and though it is unlikely, there is still a very small chance that I will suffer some fallout for my rash words. I’ll blog more about this tomorrow (time permitting), but suffice it to say that given my history as a “personal responsibility” right-winger, I will accept any and all repercussions. I hope and pray there will be none, not for my own sake, but rather for the sake of the person I blogged about. Honestly, it kills me to think that there’s even a one-in-ten-million chance that the words of a jaded, callous 40-year old would burst the bubble of a bright-eyed, optimistic teenager who has everything in the world going for her, and everything in the world to look forward to.

Neighbors

My latest column from the Stillwater Gazette. More non-political crap. Sigh...

I don’t have good luck with neighbors.

It began in a trailer park in Nebraska, stereotypically a Petri dish for human despair. The neighborhood was a prototype of a Fox Network “Cops” theme park, complete with costumed characters Mr. Mullet, Crackhead Suzie, and Billy the eerily docile, web-toed 14-year old third-grader. If Al Qaeda had targeted this trailer park rather than the Twin Towers, the War on Terror would have amounted to a shrug. Loud music; drunken brawls; starving, inbred animals wandering the streets: the place had it all, if by “all” you mean a loophole in God’s suicide prohibitions. When a neighbor’s station wagon crashed into my living room one evening, I took that as a sign it was time to move on before a tornado mercifully leveled the place.

After moving to Minnesota my luck changed. I moved into a beautiful apartment building along the Mississippi River and was surrounded by neighbors the likes of which I’d never seen before. They were employed. They had children one at a time, not in litters. People recognized me as a neighbor, not as a witness, delivering cookies rather than subpoenas. So it was somewhat disheartening when six months later two neighbors simultaneously took up the organ.

Next door, a young professional on the fast-track at 3M played majestic hymns at full volume which would have been moving had it occurred in a cathedral rather than one thin wall away from my bedroom. Conversely, the man across the hall was more of a blue-collar guy, so he stuck to the standards: polkas, waltzes, and the like. A Lutheran church service on one side, Lawrence Welk on the other: suddenly I found myself sandwiched between “Dueling Wurlitzers,” the Norwegian version of “Deliverance,” if you will.

Fast-forward several years to a duplex in South Minneapolis. Everything was peaches and cream until the landlord reported that four college students were moving in downstairs. Of course, the phrase “college students” brings to mind visions of Animal House; drinking, debauchery, and the washer and dryer perpetually stuffed with beer-stained togas. To my relief, however, my landlord further explained that they were medical students. Between residency, class, and studying I figured they’d barely be home enough to snatch a couple hours of sleep here and there, let alone have an opportunity to party.

To my dismay, not only did they have time and wherewithal for non-stop revelry, they apparently received a government grant. Obviously they were an integral part of a University of Minnesota cirrhosis research project. The driveway became a gauntlet of bare-chested, inebriated, posturing fraternity boys, their baseball caps positioned at strategic angles as dictated by FredDurst.com, the lawn strewn with enough Blatz cans to cash in for a semester’s worth of tuition. After countless nightmares of the reprobates presenting me with a group prostate exam on my 40th birthday, I succumbed to the lure of the suburbs and moved to Woodbury.

Imagine my delight when I discovered that the man in the adjoining town home was amazingly quiet. It turned out this was in order to maintain a low profile, since he hadn’t paid rent for months. Overnight he discovered tribal music, and staccato beats and chanting began emanating from his town home at all hours. This white, middle-aged man suddenly turned his back on his Methodist roots and discovered voodoo. I pictured the worst: necklaces fashioned from the skulls of neighborhood children; blood guzzled from the necks of chickens sacrificed to some heathen goddess; worse, he might be a registered Democrat. He was asked to leave, and as a final middle-finger to management, painted all his walls dark brown before moving out under cover of night. Peering through closed blinds, witnessing him and his friends loading the moving van, I turned my back on both evolution and Intelligent Design, not wishing to insult either God or apes.

The carnage has been cleaned up and new neighbors have moved in. They seem to be the very epitome of responsibility and courtesy; two young women, gainfully employed, quiet as church mice. That doesn’t fool me, however. It’s only a matter of time before they recognize a void in their lives that can only be filled with gangsta’ rap or midnight skeet-shooting fueled by cheap beer. You see, insanity is a virus and I’m a carrier, infecting entire neighborhoods before moving on in search of peace and quiet which will forever elude me. On the plus side, my broker tells me the toga and Blatz stock he’s invested in on my behalf are going through the roof.

Stuff du jour.

IRONY
Saw the definition of irony graphically illustrated this morning. A young lady, probably in her teens, driving a car that sported a Playboy emblem on the back windshield, and a "CHOICE" sticker on the bumper. LIBERATE ME. SUBJUGATE ME. Which is it?

GIDEON SIGHTING
I can now say without a doubt that Gideons exist. I thought they were gnome-like creatures who, under cover of night, left Bibles in motel rooms across America. This morning, however, three well-dressed elderly gentlemen were handing out New Testaments outside my school.

I accepted one gratefully, but can't help but wonder how many students will not only refuse, but complain. My guess is that if the Gideons have not obtained the proper permits, they will politely but firmly be asked to vacate the premises.

Which is fine: if they're not allowed to be there whether by City ordinance or school policy, that's the way the ball bounces. However, given the anti-Christian sentiment I've seen illustrated on campus, particulary at the college newspaper, the Gideons may very well be ridden off campus on a rail.

BIBLE STUDY
Tonight I'm attending a Bible study that was recommended by a former co-worker. We'll see how that goes.

FORGIVENESS
Does anyone have any tips on how to "let go"??? As I mentioned in yesterday's post, I have a lot of anger inside and a lot of it is due to ridiculous grudges I'm holding against people. Aside from "leaving it at the Cross," as I'm sure many are tempted to suggest, are there any practical methods by which a person can shed anger?

WHO'S NEWS
USA Weekend didn't give me much to work with this week, but I hope to post something anyway. Tonight, Bible study. Tomorrow, bitch-slap pop culture. Perhaps my problem isn't depression, but rather schizophrenia.

Comments.

I didn't intentionally remove the commenting feature. Something is up with the template. Hopefully it will work now...

Dry.

In his book “Dry,” author Augusten Burroughs details how he went through alcohol treatment at the behest of his employer. Of course, Burroughs didn’t feel he had a problem, but went anyway in order to retain his job.

When he got home from treatment, he was shocked to see that his apartment was filled with hundreds of empty Dewar’s bottles. Literally hundreds. He had been in the habit of drinking a full bottle each night, but never got around to discarding them. Even after a month of treatment, it took seeing that apartment full of empty booze bottles to truly impress upon him he had a serious problem.

Today I saw an apartment full of bottles.

It came in the form of a blog I posted yesterday. I won’t recount it here. Suffice it to say it was a piece that I considered to be funny, but numerous commenters wrote to say it wasn’t funny, it was mean. I didn’t see it that way. Then my wife read it, and in very diplomatic terms let me know it wasn’t funny. Rather, it was very, very angry.

You’re all aware I’ve been dealing with a lot of issues lately. Depression, religion, and now anger. I believe I have a lot to offer the world, particularly in the realm of humor, but it’s clear that until I’m able to let go of this palpable anger I feel during every waking moment, my ability to distinguish between what’s funny and what’s outright cruel will be seriously impeded.

One of my idols—perhaps my biggest idol—is Charles Schulz, the creator of Peanuts. Every biography and interview I read made it clear that up ‘til the day he died, Schulz internalized all the pain, anger, and depression he’d ever felt and he channeled it through his absolutely delightful comic strip. As several people correctly pointed out, I’m clearly internalizing a lot of pain, anger, and depression, but rather than let it out in a constructive, humorous, thoughtful manner I’ve resorted to lashing out.

They say the first step towards recovery is admitting you have a problem. So, I have a problem. Another step is making amends. I would therefore like to offer a heartfelt apology to anyone I shocked, offended, or criticized.

I’ve no idea what the rest of the steps are, but imagine I’ll find out as time goes by. In the meantime, I’ll try to ensure that future attempts at humor are actually funny rather than hurtful. I’m sorry that the heretofore entertaining Admin Worm blog has become a public forum in which to exorcize my personal demons. I wouldn’t blame any of you were you to find somewhere else to surf, because this is certainly rapidly losing its entertainment value, except in the rubbernecking sense.

So, there you have it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have bottles to throw away.

A pretty flower.

Here's a pretty flower for everyone.