Monday, October 31, 2005

This is not April Fool's Day.


See my "Mad as hell" post below. This is not a joke. Read for yourself...and weep:

Ashlee Simpson has trumped Rod Stewart by landing the second US Billboard Top 200 No. 1 of her career this week.The pop featherweight bows in with "I Am Me", the follow up to 2004's "Autobiography" to lead a number of veteran acts into the top ten, reports Nielsen SoundScan/Billboard.

I find it interesting that Simpson, who is all of 20 years old, uses such introspective titles for her albums. Autobiography. I am me. This is apparently to hammer home the struggle that has characterized her life. And in her defense, I can only imagine the stress involved when you're not only selling millions of albums, but expected to actually fucking sing when people pony up a hundred bucks to see your sorry ass perform "live."

About a week from now, Ashlee Simpson will receive the first of many royalty checks to come for her album "I am me." It will likely be well into the six-figures. She'll celebrate by spending more on an evening-long bash than you or I earn in a year. Remember that when you're paying 50% more for natural gas this winter. As you sit huddled in front of the fire, thermostat turned down to 50 degrees, just remember that somewhere, Ashlee Simpson is deciding which $1,000 Coach handbag to buy, and sister Jessica will remind her "You can afford both, silly" and they'll titter and giggle and stop for even bigger implants on the way home, and ain't life in America just grand!

Mad as hell.


I was working on Who's News which is a popular feature that's been conspicuously absent the past couple weeks, and during my research discovered to my horror that Ashlee Simpson's new album, "I am Me," is number one in the nation.

No amount of my dripping sarcasm could possibly top that. Shame on anyone who bought that piece of crap. Shame on anyone who allowed it into their home.

How fitting that this news would arrive on Halloween. I'm scared out of my wits.

Friday, October 28, 2005

Take this job and love it.

Let's move away from the cycle of hate and intolerance, and instead focus on happy things, like my job.

Wait, shit...I hate that too.

My current administrative position primarily involves two things: reception and accounting. I was talking to a co-worker this morning, and told him the two things I hate most about my job are answering the phones and crunching numbers.

Dammit, that's all I do.

Not that phones are a huge deal. I actually like talking to people, the problem is when you work with people who...how do I put this...procrastinate, it gets to be a full-time job explaining to clients that "Your project is extremely important to us, and I realize it was due last week, but as soon as we wrap up the projects that were due the week before that, we'll plunge into yours wholeheartedly. Next week."

Click.

As far as the numbers, I'm hopeless. Thankfully my boss has a great sense of humor. Rather than get angry with me for my seemingly inexhaustible capacity to miscalculate payroll, accounts payable, and accounts receivable, she has instead learned to appreciate the sheepish grin that instantly communicates that "Believe it or not, I've done it again." We share a laugh, she uses her executive privilege to erase any vestiges of my mistake(s), and I try again.

And again. And again. And again. And her smile becomes a grimace, and I can hear the machinations in her brain, "Would it be cheaper to train his replacement, or roll the dice that he'll get it right sometime this week?"

As a ten-year veteran of the administrative biz, I can tell you without question that the best part of my job is the mini binder clips. I live for mini binder clips. A fresh package of mini binder clips makes it Christmas every day. It's a tiny box, maybe one inch by two, and when you pop the lid and see the clips resting in there so peacefully and symmetrically; it’s like stumbling upon a dozing litter of twelve tiny, identical kittens. And they’re useful too, like for clipping together lists of clients we’ve blown off today, or accounting stuff Admin Worm has fucked up.

It could be worse. Much worse. My pal Jules is a receptionist at a collections firm, so you can imagine the type of stuff she endures. She’s incredibly good-natured about it; much more than I would or could be. My problem is I take every angry call as a personal rejection. Sometimes after they hang up on me, I call them back and say “Look, I know we’ve sorta screwed you over, but…you still like me, right?”

Click. Fuck.

I hope and pray this is the last office job I ever hold. Don't get me wrong; it's a great way to make a living. Where else can you put in a hard day’s work without ever really breaking a sweat? Still, when I’m on my third attempt at balancing the day’s bank deposit—it’s three freaking checks, Admin Worm; pull your head out of your ass—and I look outside and realize it’s one of the few remaining perfect Autumn days before the temperatures plummet and the snow flies, I start to realize that there’s a void in my life that even a limitless supply of mini binder clips cannot fill.

Y'all are crazy.

Please read the following comment posted by my good pal Echotig in response to yesterday's brief post about Harriet Myers:

DANG. You may not like her and all, but to say she's merely a stenographer totally belittles what she is. At least she finished college. This comment shows how little you think of women. But then, I should have known what you think of women after the first post of yours that I read.

Is there anyone left on earth that has any clue what constitutes humor? Is something only funny until it skewers something important to you? I would ask Echotig or anyone else remotely offended by my Harriet Miers joke: have you ever watched the fucking Tonight Show? Ever logged onto the Onion?

Echotig's comment is particulary frustrating because she's been a regular Admin Worm reader and commenter. I have done nothing but express utter reverence for women. I adore my wife, all of my close friends are women, and I identify more with women than I do men.

For anyone to suggest I don't respect women is a slap in the face and an utter show of abject ignorance. I have thus far had two (supposedly) grown men petulantly leave my blog forever due to offense at what I wrote. I encourage Echotig and anyone like her to do the same. If you crave being offended that much, why don't you watch the news and drink in the incessant tales of gang shootings, rapes, cruelty to animals, and pillaging of the environment? It seems to me that these things merit offense more than a one-liner on a fucking blog written by an administrative assistant.

Thursday, October 27, 2005

Which dysfunctional Care Bear are you?

My pal Stacy posted something fun today: Which dysfunctional Care Bear are you?

My profile is below, and it’s eerily accurate.

A moment of silence.


Let's have a moment of reverent silence for Harriet Miers. What a shame that her years of experience as a courtroom stenographer were all for naught.

I'm a Ford truck man...

I’m extremely busy today so this will be short.

This morning my 1997 Ford Ranger reached 100,000 miles. I’ve known this milestone was coming and was really looking forward to it, as strange as that may sound. In fact, I treated the truck to $600 worth of minor repairs last weekend. This truck has served me well for nearly eight years; not a single major breakdown, unless you consider a flat tire—at which time I discovered both the spare tire and jack were the wrong size for the truck—a problem.

Anyway, the 100,000 mile mark happened on the overpass marking the intersection of I-35W and I-494. I found it rather serendipitous that it occurred there. That junction holds special significance to me. I remember it vividly from 11 years ago when I first arrived in the Twin Cities. The I-35/494 junction marked the point where the Cities truly began, in my mind, and I white-knuckled my way down the freeway in true wet-behind-the-ears Nebraskan fashion. Now I drive the stretch like any other Minnesotan; at 90 MPH, two inches from the bumper of out-of-town idiots actually going the f-ing speed limit.

It was upon moving to the Minneapolis/St. Paul area that my life truly began. A lot of things have happened since then; some wonderful, some truly awful. If I had it to do over again, I would do so in a heartbeat, skipping the parts where I hurt other people. Life is still a tremendous struggle, but progress is being made and I attribute it largely to my decision to leave my hometown and begin life anew in the Big City.

Reaching the 100,000 mile mark was bittersweet. On one hand it provided a wonderful opportunity to reflect on the progress I’ve made. On the other hand, I was really hoping I could call my dad today and tell him the news; that one of his mechanically-inept sons had actually kept a vehicle alive to see the six-digit mark.

Oh well, I’m sure he knows. And now you do, too. You probably didn’t care, but too late. Ha ha.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Thanks, Leab.

Leab from Ironic Teachings asked 30 questions today. His responses are hilarious, and mine follow.

1. Name someone with the same birthday as you.
Tommy Lee of Motley Crue, and my personal idol the Reverend Al Sharpton.

2. Where was your first kiss?
On the cheek. Seriously though, I received a covert peck on the cheek from Carmen Canfield in the sixth grade at Pioneer Park in Lincoln, Nebraska. My first “real” kiss was with Gretchen Zwetzig in 10th grade. We were in her room listening to the Doors and she asked “Have you ever kissed a girl?” I replied “No, have you?” Yes, that really happened.

3. Have you ever seriously vandalized someone else's property?
I have broken items belonging to others during fits of rage, but only because they were handy, never to deliberately piss someone off.

4. Have you ever hit someone of the opposite sex?
No.

5. Have you ever sung in front of a large number of people?
Yes, for nearly two decades.

6. What's the first thing you notice about the opposite sex?
The face. Then the belly and butt.

7. What really turns you on?
When my wife bites my ear.

8. What do you order at Starbucks?
Medium dark roast with an add-shot.

9. What is your biggest mistake?
It’s hard to narrow it down, but I’d have to say the circumstances under which my first marriage failed is way up there.

10. Have you ever hurt yourself on purpose?
Yes.

11. Say something totally random about yourself.
I sleep with a stuffed lion.

12. Has anyone ever said you looked like a celebrity?
When I was younger and had hair, someone compared me to Woody Allen. More recently someone said I look like a straight Michael Stipe. Oh, and Jules says I look like a “cute Rob Halford,” and that’s my personal favorite comparison.

13. Do you still watch kiddy movies or TV shows?
I never miss the Peanuts Christmas special and Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, and the former is the one and only opportunity I grant myself to cry because of a TV show.

14. Did you have braces?
No.

15. Are you comfortable with your height?
Yes.

16. What is the most romantic thing someone of the opposite sex has done for you?
After a gig one night, my wife braved a monsoon to leave a single rose under the wiper blade of my truck. When I got to her house at 2:00 a.m., I was delighted to find that she had left me roses by the stairs, which is a line from “Small Things” by Blink 182.

17. When do you know it's love?
When you…uhhhh…fantasize…only about your spouse.

18. Do you speak any other languages?
No.

19. Have you ever been to a tanning salon?
No, but I did use a tanning bed once.

20. What magazines do you read?
The New Yorker, the Limbaugh Letter.

21. Have you ever ridden in a limo?
Yes.

22. Has anyone you were really close to passed away?
Yes, my father.

23. Do you watch MTV?
I enjoyed MTV during its heyday in the 80’s, before it became a soft-core channel.

24. What's something that really annoys you?
30 goddamned questions in a row. Seriously though, loud neighbors.

25. What's something you really like?
My cats.

26. Do you like Michael Jackson?
No.

27. Can you dance?
No.

28. What's the latest you have ever stayed up?
‘Til dawn.

29. Have you ever been rushed by an ambulance into the emergency room?
Yes, I succumbed to food poisoning while attending a rock concert. The ambulance attendants and emergency room staff kept asking “What are you on, son? We can’t help you if you don’t tell us what you’re on.” I was on bad pizza rolls, that’s what.

30. Do you actually read these when other people fill them out?
Yes, Leab’s answers stirred some vivid memories of my own, for which I’m grateful. This will provide wonderful future blog-fodder.

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

Watch out.

KICKING ASS AND TAKING NAMES
Well, to contrast yesterday’s syrupy-sweet post, today I’m in a surly mood so be forewarned.

ABOUT LAST NIGHT
Well, okay. Today’s first subject is actually good news. As I reported last week, my good pal Jules (a Heather Graham look-alike) and I have designated Monday nights as our weekly foray into the Twin Cities’ arts and entertainment scene.

Last night we patronized a local hole-in-the-wall coffee house in downtown St. Paul. How long this place will exist remains to be seen; it’s in a building which is loft-worthy, and as we all know it’s crucially important that every fucking square foot of downtown St. Paul be converted to lofts immediately.

Anyway, not many people attended; I counted 15 at one point. We were accepted more than I thought we would be, given we were “outsiders” and were therefore viewed with a bit of a wary/skeptical eye when we first arrived. It quickly became a community of sorts, however. We enjoyed various essays and poems, and one young man read a portion of a monologue he’s writing which I found particularly intriguing since the monologue route is one I’ve considered.

I summoned the courage to read a portion of the “Finding a Public Restroom in Minneapolis” essay I mentioned last week and it was received well. The big surprise of the evening, however, was when Julie read a poem she wrote. I know Julie well, but I must confess I had no idea she was a poet, nor that she possesses the kahunas to read in front of a group of strangers.

All in all a wonderful evening. Next Monday is Halloween, therefore Tom and Jules’ Most Excellent Adventure will be on hiatus, but our next foray is on the docket for Monday, November 7.

ROCK YOU LIKE A HURRICANE
This morning it was graphically illustrated yet again why I’ve given up politics. In Public Speaking class, the teacher picked an arbitrary speech subject: global warming. He further narrowed down the topic by saying a student could give a speech on whether or not global warming causes hurricanes. Note that the point wasn’t to engender a political discussion; it was merely to point us in the right direction towards choosing speech topics. However, the classroom quickly split into global warming believers and non-believers.

The instructor bravely said something to the effect of “I don’t care what your views on global warming are; I just draw the line at people blaming the president for hurricanes. If you believe that the president was responsible for Hurricane Katrina, you are insane.”

A 19-year old tattooed, pierced young lady shouted “But he did!

Yes, this young lady—of legal, voting age—firmly believes that the President of the United States, George Bush, caused a hurricane.

That’s why I’ve had mental constipation at the school paper for going on two months. That's why I couldn't muster a 700-word political column if you had a gun to my fucking head. Because no amount of reasoning or facts can sway the mind of someone who is utterly ignorant.

I am no advocate of a poll tax, but I do think that election judges should periodically put their own ear to the ear of a random voter, and if they can hear the ocean, that person cannot vote.

ROSA PARKS
Rosa Parks, civil rights pioneer, died at age 92.

Parks, if you’ll recall, refused to give up her seat on the bus to a white person, and is therefore universally seen as an icon of the civil rights movement.

Rosa Parks was one person who made a decision based on principle and thus changed the world.

Please remember that the next time you consider belittling someone for voting Libertarian.

KIDS
What the hell is the deal with people having kids, anyway?

This morning I was in Starbucks and a young mother, oozing moxie from every pore, stood in front of me in line. While she ordered her Venti low-fat mocha half-caf with an add-shot and low-cal whipped cream, her two young sons—who admittedly were otherwise very well-behaved—nonetheless stood at the cooler and touched every single item contained therein. At this moment, people are purchasing sandwiches, juices and yogurts at the Eagan Starbuck’s that have been touched by snotty little fingers. Just thought you should know.

PRUSSIAN BLUE
Click this link.This was all over the news yesterday, but I really think you should devote a moment or two to this site. This is a 13-year old twin sister duo and they sing “white power” music.

I hope there’s a special place in hell for anyone who raises their children this way. They’re not only brainwashing their children into hate, but they’re sexualizing them at age 13. Adoption standards are so stringent that Americans have to go overseas to find children, but every piece of white trash in the country has the right to squeeze a pup any time they feel like it.

EVOLUTION UPDATE
The current edition of the New Yorker contains yet another lengthy story about evolution. It seems that every other issue is hell-bent on further convincing the Intelligentsia that there’s no place for Intelligent Design or Creationism when the fossil record clearly indicates that evolution is 100% gospel. None of the stories have, as yet, explained where that big chunk of shit that exploded in the Big Bang came from, but this is apparently a minor detail.

Here's a thought. Many evolutionists cite imperfections in the human body that belie the possibility of Intelligent Design; the gall bladder, the appendix, various impractical functions, etc. “If there truly were a designer,” they reason, “then said designer would never have created such imperfect, impractical creatures as human beings.”

However, doesn’t the Theory of Evolution, with its tenets of Survival of the Fittest and Natural Selection, also dictate that such impractical features shouldn't exist? What purpose could there possibly be for evolution to leave us with an appendix, a gall bladder, or a little toe?

As I said, just a thought. I would never dream of arguing against something as clearly demonstrated as evolution and the lack of a God.

ONE-LINERS.
Bono could solve the world hunger problem by teaching people to be full of themselves.

How come by the time people say “To make a long story short…” it’s already way too fucking late?

It’s ironic that one of the Jackson’s is Germane but none of them are relevant.

If a tree fell on a member of Greenpeace, would they appreciate the irony?

DAMMIT
Today I brought more of that soup that I raved about yesterday, and thus far I’ve bitten into two chicken bones the size of drumsticks. Dammit.

THE WHITE HOUSE
Cindy Sheehan is threatening to tie herself to the White House in protest. I vote she ties herself to a fucking railroad track.

Speaking of the White House, the news is abuzz over whatever the fuck this most recent scandal is all about. I wish I were more informed, but my head swims when trying to comprehend it all.

And by the way, Rush Limbaugh is into his second hour of defending the White House, comparing the current scandal (or non-scandal, in his opinion) to the Clinton/Lewinsky scandal. He’s currently contrasting degrees of perjury. Clinton’s perjury: bad. Republican perjury: a-okay. And if you disagree with my assessment of today's Limbaugh show, let me head off any heated comment exchanges with a big old middle finger:


I don’t know if there’s any teeth to these accusations, but you’d better fucking well bet that if any Republican did anything untoward, I want their goddamned heads to roll, just as I would if a Democrat were in the White House. Yet another reason I fully intend to wipe my fanny with my election ballot in November 2008 and flush it down the toilet by voting Libertarian.

Monday, October 24, 2005

Stuff.

Note: I tried to publish this post three times, my computer froze, then the blog showed up three times. Hopefully that li'l snag has been corrected.


I GOT A GREAT WIFE
Something I do periodically is share with the world how much I love my wife.

We’ve gone through some genuinely rough times during our 2 ½ years of marriage. There were times we didn’t think we’d make it, quite frankly.

Recently, we’ve begun to learn how to communicate. We’ve both historically been the types of people who clam up rather than engage in confrontation, but recently we’ve learned that it’s possible to talk, to argue, even shout if necessary, and somehow not have your world fall apart. Even grow stronger as a couple, believe it or not.

I feel closer to my wife right now than I’ve ever felt to another human being. Not just sappy, head-over-heels infatuated love that will carry us up until the next argument, but a visceral, almost painful closeness. We watched a movie this weekend called “The Notebook” which is a fairly formulaic love story, but it impacted me because it portrays the relationship of a couple from their youthful courtship through their death in each other’s arms as an elderly couple.

As I watched the movie, I would periodically look at my wife and realize that someday, that beautiful, radiant woman will be old, as will I. And it struck me that if history is any guide, and if she keeps getting more beautiful in my eyes each and every day, by the time we grow old together she will be so beautiful that I will scarcely be able to stand it.

She’s funny, smart, and talented and works her butt off every day. Before I ever spoke to her, I would hear her laugh at the workplace we shared, and I secretly longed to make her laugh that way. Now I hear that laugh every day, and instead of the longing feeling I felt when I worshipped her from afar, I feel a sense of satisfaction and contentment that I hope everyone reading this will experience at least once in their lives, if only briefly.

FAMILY
Yesterday was the monthly gathering of my aforementioned wife’s immediate family. In all honesty the event is not always a barrel of laughs. Don’t misunderstand, they’re wonderful people. I’m a rare person who can state unequivocally that he truly appreciates his in-laws. They have jobs. They’re responsible. They raise their children well. Given the state of the world, it’s a monthly reminder that people are not universally horrible.

The thing is, I’m just not a terribly sociable person. An hour anywhere and I’m searching for the door. So four hours somewhere, anywhere, makes me terribly anxious.

That said, yesterday’s event was actually quite enjoyable. The food was wonderful, a soup buffet at which I gorged myself and just finished ingesting some leftovers. Also, I discovered pool yesterday. I sucked, but nonetheless my wife and I engaged in some playful competition with each other and have resolved to find somewhere nearby we can play periodically. Plus, she looked really, really sexy chalking her cue, if you know what I’m saying.

My life has been a series of trying new things recently, and they’re invariably proving to be either beneficial or fun or both. I’m starting to discover that the secret to overcoming depression is twofold: staying busy and actually finding things to make life fun rather than ruminative.

Column

Feeling lazy today, so I'll merely post this week's Stillwater Gazette column. My dad was a letter carrier for decades, so hopefully he won't come back to haunt me for this piece.

Benjamin Franklin became the first Postmaster General under the Continental Congress in 1775. Several invitations to the “Congratulations Ben” party were lost in the mail, which sets the stage for myriad things that frustrate me about the monopoly—excuse me, business—that is the United States Postal Service.

For starters, it’s long been my contention that the post office should provide a “One minute or less” window at each location, with the understanding that anyone exceeding the time limit will be summarily executed in front of other patrons as an example.

The worst offenders are elderly women for whom the daily foray to the post office constitutes their sole source of social interaction. They don their Sunday best, wrap their hair tightly in plastic despite no signs of wind or precipitation, and monopolize a full ten minutes of the clerk’s time, oblivious to impatiently tapping feet behind them. They seek not just postage, but a stamp that will adequately express their social conscience. Breast cancer awareness? I have a dream? By the end of the transaction Gertrude will have purchased a stamp letting Xcel Energy know she not only pays her bills on time, but that she cares, dammit.

And the postal clerk will know that her kids never, ever visit.

The post office could make things easier on patrons by providing all necessary forms up front. Complete one form and another is requested, necessitating surrendering one’s place in line and then wrestling with the decision to reclaim the top slot or go back to square one. This is no laughing matter; the former option can set the stage for Anarchy depending on the number of old ladies buying stamps that day. The endless red tape can cause a once-confident patron to prostrate themselves before the clerk and simply plead with their dying breath that the item be sent somewhere, somehow. “Just tell those who follow me that I tried to do it by the book, but you crushed my spirit,” they gasp.

“Certainly,” deadpans the clerk, “simply fill out this form.”

At some point the post office began offering patrons products and services they neither want nor need. “Any shipping supplies today? Stamps? Priority mail? Undercoating?” The one option the post office doesn’t offer is “intact” since they know this is the one thing they can’t quite pull off.

For instance, my mother called me shortly after Mother’s Day and awkwardly thanked me for the box of porcelain shards I sent. I explained that it left my house a Precious Moments figurine. Well, at least next year’s gift is a no-brainer: a bottle of Elmer’s Glue, though I’ve no clue how to get it there.

Despite growing dissatisfaction with the post office, people never give up on them and patronize the competition. Oh, wait. That’s the dirty little secret of the U.S. Postal Service: they enjoy a monopoly on first class mail. I often wonder if postal employees who have gone berserk have done so from sudden realization of the awesome power they wield. Misplace an electric bill and someone could freeze to death. A shredded Christmas card could reduce a patron’s share of their parents’ estate. This type of responsibility could easily send an otherwise rational person over the edge.

Or maybe they just go a little nutty because those blue polyester uniforms chafe.

Regardless, you’d think that a fair trade off for their monopoly status would be having all service windows fully-staffed at lunchtime and around holidays. In fact, the only day of the year the post office is fully-staffed is on tax day. You know, the day they collect millions of envelopes containing money for the very entity that grants them their monopoly status.

Coincidence, I’m sure.

Every so often it’s reported that a letter, postmarked ages ago, finally reached its destination decades or even centuries late. These will remain great human interest stories until one surfaces addressed to Lee Harvey Oswald reading “Lee, for the time being put the kibosh on the whole Dealey Plaza thing. We were behind you ‘til JFK sent us the most lovely fruit basket. From Russia, with love.”

Oops. Should’ve sent it Priority.

Still, despite the complaints, the post office remains a tremendous value. Where else will 32…wait, 37…hang on, soon to be 39 cents…almost ensure that there’s an approximately 50/50 chance of something possibly arriving within a forty mile radius of its intended destination by some arbitrary date, give or take a century. And if not, just imagine the delight of your great, great, great grandchildren when they receive, as if from a time machine, a smashed bottle of glue postmarked 200 years previous; tangible evidence that while Postmaster Generals may come and go and non-postal technology improves by leaps and bounds, no legacy will outlast that of good, old-fashioned mediocrity.

Friday, October 21, 2005

Creative Pursuits.

As I told you, last Monday night my good pal Jules and I attended amateur night at a local comedy club. Stand-up is something I've always wanted to try, but I've yet to develop suitable...uhhhh...well, kahunas...to go for it.

By the way, if you're wondering how Jules and I became pals, we both got fired from the same place years ago. We share a kinship in that we were both mercifully turned loose from Corporate America just before an Enron-esque stock scandal tore the company asunder. I find it ironic and strangely satisfying that I was canned for writing a parody of the company newsletter in which I painted the CEO as a greedy, impersonal shill for big business. Months after my dismissal, he was found to have inflated stock prices to enrich himself, and served a few years in the big house. Albeit the white collar big house.

Jules and I were hoping to attend amateur night again next Monday, but my wife happened to mention that in the past she enjoyed attending readings at a local beatnik hangout. So, looks like instead of enjoying guffaws on Monday, Jules and I will don our rattiest Bohemian gear and sit in the corner of a dank, smokey (wait, there's a smoking ban in the Twin Cities) coffee house and enjoy poetry, essays, and whatever else Minneapolis and Saint Paul writers can come up with. I need to find my bongos.

I'll probably bring an essay or two of my own just in case I feel brave. Otherwise, I'll play the role of wallflower yet again.

Eleven years in the Twin Cities and only now am I exploring all it has to offer in the arts department. I'm ashamed.

I'll keep you informed as Tom and Jules' Big Adventure unfolds. Our goal is to try something new and exciting each week. Stay tuned.

Doomed, doomed, doomed, doomed.


LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION
Earlier in the week I blogged briefly about how I drove to work on the morning of the lunar eclipse, and spent a full half hour staring at a basketball-sized moon, so huge that the craters were clearly visible to the naked eye, the earth’s shadow carving out a portion of the moon's luminescence.

Today I saw this story about how a United States company is selling property on the moon. The entrepreneur behind this travesty—I mean, business—is named Dennis Hope. He has found a “loophole” in a 1967 U.N. treaty banning governments from owning extraterrestrial property. The treaty does not ban individuals or, more importantly, corporations, from staking claims on the moon. So it's a lunar land rush.

Last year I wrote a lengthy research paper on space exploration for a Composition class. In that paper, I stressed that space exploration is not only mankind’s one shot at long-term survival, but also the best way for humankind to finally leave labels at home and actually pursue a goal...together...that might actually leave a lasting legacy. Sure this reeks of sitting around the campfire singing Kumbaya, but I'm growing tired of mud-slinging.

Now, what I see on the horizon now are moon condos. Moon McDonald’s. Moon malls and amusement parks where spoiled rich kids like Paris Hilton can visit on the weekends, moon illegal aliens serving her drinks with umbrellas in them. Millions of years from now, when our species has long since (mercifully) died out, archaeologists from distant galaxies will sift through the remains of our “civilization,” both on the earth and the moon, and discover that we were a selfish, money-grubbing, twisted anomaly in an otherwise beautiful universe. We slapped a price tag on absolutely everything and squandered away any chance we had of proving to extra-terrestrials, to God, to ourselves, that we at least tried to do the right thing.

I foresee an inordinate number of comments stating “That’s what Capitalism is all about, Charlie Brown,” and I ask you to spare me. Allow me this day to mourn for the fact that the very same moon I viewed with absolute awe earlier in the week is already becoming another chunk of valuable real estate for sale to the highest bidder.

MOVIES
If you're in the market for good, wholesome family entertainment this weekend, might I make a couple of suggestions:

National Lampoon’s Barely Legal
Underage kids start a pornographic movie business! The advertisement features a hot, scantily-clad (faceless) woman squeezing her gigantic boobies together. Looks like the feminist movement still has its work cut out for it. This film just exudes hijinks, and hopefully it will reign at the box office, or will at least beat movies like Good Night and Good Luck and Capote that feature...yaaaawwwwn...acting and plots and other features that American movie audiences clearly aren't interested in.

Kids in America
Like Barely Legal, Kids in America's promotional shot features a scantily-clad young lady, and like the Barely Legal chick there's no need for her to have a face: a crotch will do, in this case a young, teenaged midriff in a cheerleading skirt. Gentlemen, here's a web-surfing tip from your old buddy Admin Worm: why risk incarceration surfing for bona fide child pornography? The sexualization of underage girls is just a click away on mainstream sites like those above! And since, as I mentioned, the females pictured have no faces, you can imagine a face as young as you like atop that supple, unsullied body.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

Miscellaneous crap.


YOUNG REPUBLICANS
I have a friend who is active in the Young Republicans. She and I had an interesting e-mail exchange today about our respective views of the state of the world.

Suffice it to say she has hope, and God bless her. As I told her, "I hope you're right." Me, as you're aware I've become a Libertarian. Not because I smoke pot, nor because I want to "throw my vote in the toilet," to paraphrase a commenter. No, I've simply given up on the major parties. I won't say "They're all the same," which is the copout of the apolitical. Rather, the results are the same, and that's the problem.

And I can hardly wait for the enlightened comments that will inevitably follow, questioning my patriotism for giving up on the Republican Party. Do me a favor and please don't bother. I'll just toss out a bunch of f-bombs and alienate even more people. I'm still a conservative, but as I've stated ad nauseum recently, I'm sick of attempting to legislate against people's own stupidity. Want an abortion? Have at it, doesn't matter who's in power anyway. Want welfare? Go for it, doesn't matter who's in power anyway. The Republicans will continue rampant cronyism, the Democrats will continue to scream for stringent environmental laws while continuing to live in palaces, and in the end it will be the unwashed masses who will suffer, as always.

WRITING
This morning I had no class. Nothing new, I'm sure you're thinking, so let me clarify: no classes at school. Instead, I sat at home like I did all summer and wrote for three hours straight.

I forgot how much I love it. The sun was streaming into the study, the cats were asleep at my feet, and I wrote a 3,000+ word essay about attempting to find a public restroom in downtown Minneapolis, which when finished I hope to either post on my blog, or submit to a local publication.

The irony is, my restroom search occurred yesterday while in Minneapolis for a second interview for an administrative position. As I wrapped up the first draft, I received a call from the place stating that for the time being, they've decided not to fill the position. Rather than be disappointed, I thought instead how everything in my life lately, from school to interviews to work itself, serve as little more than fodder for writing ideas. Combine that with the joy I experienced at the comedy club this week and the seemingly never-ending stream of ideas I keep spewing into my voice recorder, and I feel that I'm as close as I've ever been in my 40-year tenure on planet Earth to discovering my purpose.

Pity it comes now, at the end of all things.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

Dammit.


I had a lighthearted post floating around my brain this morning, but then I responded to some comments on yesterday's post and got all pissed off.

Maybe I'll have time to post something later, or tonight. In the meantime, enjoy the fireworks.

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

Rush Limbaugh.


I listen to Rush Limbaugh while at work. I've done so since the late 80's when he began his now-legendary program.

Regular readers are aware of my concern that Rush has become somewhat of a shill for the Bush Administration. He accuses Democratic supporters of receiving daily "talking points" from party leaders and/or moveon.org, yet Bush can do little if any wrong in Rush's eyes. Earlier, I mistakenly misrepresented a Rush-penned editorial as praising Bush's Supreme Court nominee, Harriet Miers, for which I apologize. This is one instance where Rush, in fact, is not towing the party line.

Rush has made a cottage industry of pointing out the moral failings of the Democratic Party, essentially portraying the G.O.P. as above reproach. I find it disappointing, therefore, that whenever a Republican scandal or failing rears its head - the current Carl Rove scandal, the War on Terror, hurricane preparedness - Rush's immediate and incessant reaction is to point out similar failings on the part of Democrats.

But wait a second...haven't you been telling us for years, Mr. Limbaugh, that Republicans are morally superior to the Democrats? Why then is it acceptable, when the G.O.P. is caught with their hand in the cookie jar, for us to point out similar behavior by Democrats and say "They do it too!"

Let's see how many Rush fans accept a similar response from a misbehaving child.

There are those of us out here who want to clean house in government, regardless of political leanings. If a Republican is a bum, get 'em out. If a Democrat is a bum, get 'em out. You've got to start somewhere, and if that means starting with high-ranking Republicans, so be it. And if the Republicans (as always) don't have the balls to use similar tactics to rid Washington of similarly morally bankrupt Democrats, that's their own damn problem.

Another reason I'll be voting Libertarian from here on out.

Thought for the day.

Compliments of a co-worker:

Obscenity is the crutch of the inarticulate motherfucker.

To choose or not to choose?


Usually I let my pal Stacy handle abortion chores, but a letter to the editor in today’s Minneapolis Star Tribune caught my attention:

The parents of a 17-year-old are suing Planned Parenthood for performing an abortion on her without informing them, and a judge has found that the organization violated Minnesota's parental notification law (Oct. 13).

If a girl is old enough to become pregnant, then she is old enough to make up her own mind. The Legislature should be ashamed for passing such a cruel law, which puts such a heavy burden on a young person who is already in a desperate situation.


This contention was particularly interesting to me: If a girl is old enough to become pregnant, then she is old enough to make up her own mind.

Even a casual observer notices that girls are maturing much sooner these days. Girls as young as 10 or 11 years of age are exhibiting signs of puberty, and are therefore in the letter-writer’s words “old enough to become pregnant.”

Does physical maturity automatically equate to the mental and emotional capacity to make such a life-changing (some would say life-ending) decision? As the writer correctly states, an unplanned pregnancy at a young age would certainly be a heavy burden. However, would the burden be eased by making a weighty decision without the consent of adults (presumably) involved in the child’s life?

I realize it’s a different world now and that laws are passed to protect the minority. For instance, pro-choicers invariably hide behind the rape, incest, and life of the mother justifications for the 1.5 million abortions that occur in our nation annually, without every providing statistics on the percentage that actually occur due to those reasons. I realize also we are to assume that all parents are ogres ready to throttle a young lady who finds herself pregnant out of wedlock.

My question is, why can’t we just once assume that the parents would step up to the plate and provide support when it is most needed? I’m not even suggesting (much to the chagrin of many of my pro-life comrades) that the decision will or must ultimately be life. It simply seems unfathomable to me that anyone, regardless of their near-rabid support of “choice,” would suggest that simply because a girl possesses the physical capacity to become pregnant, she must therefore have the maturity to make a life or death decision on her own.

Women’s rights indeed. On one hand we’re to assume that women are strong, able to handle anything. On the other hand, we don’t trust the mothers of pregnant teenagers to lend support in a time of crisis.

I hope women’s rights advocates stumbling upon my blog realize that those who presume to speak for your movement do your cause irreparable harm each time they speak.

A funny thing happened on the way to the comedy club...

COMEDY
Last night I did something I’d wanted to do for a long, long time. I attended amateur night at a local comedy club.

No, I didn’t perform. I haven’t been able to muster the necessary courage to do that, but thanks to the coaxing of my good friend and frequent commenter Jules, I made a rare foray into Minneapolis—on a weeknight, no less—and enjoyed around 20 amateur comedians.

A couple people bombed, predictably. Around three people left a lasting impression. Regardless of performance, however, the entire two hours was a pleasure and the audience was very polite and respectful. The drinks were cheap, too: two beers for $5.50.

I’ve long been seeking some sort of creative release and was hoping a bolt out of the blue might strike me soon telling me exactly what my niche is. I felt no revelation last night, nor did I sit there chomping at the bit thinking “I could do better than this.” Instead, for a change I simply enjoyed the moment and am now thinking and hoping that this will become a regular part of my life. I’m reasonably convinced that at some point I’ll give it a whirl (after a shot or two of brandy), and if I do I’ll give you a full report.


HOW CAN YOU LAUGH WHEN YOU KNOW LEAB'S DOWN?
My friend (I hope we’re still friends) Leab over at Ironic Teachings seems to be a bit depressed today, so drop by his blog and lend a comment or two of support. I fear I’ve taken him to task a bit strongly the past couple of days and hope he’ll forgive me. It’s funny how people can have a spirited debate even if their beliefs are not so different from one another’s. Our recent exchanges are somewhat of a microcosm for the state of the world. Perhaps if people quit yappin’ and started listenin’ they’d realize that but for differences in syntax and language, we’re all basically the same.

Anyway, here’s my latest column from the Stillwater Gazette. My column has yet to garner even one indication that someone is reading it. No e-mails, no letters to the editor, nothin’. I haven’t been fired yet which is a good sign, so I guess it’s true that no news is good news.

AVON CALLING
The “No Soliciting” sign recently disappeared from my company’s window and it was the equivalent of a drop of blood hitting a shark tank. The only distinction between door-to-door salespeople and sharks is that the latter skip the foreplay and go straight for the throat rather than make small-talk about the weather.

Replacing the sign would be simple enough but its absence has proven to be a mixed blessing. The never-ending stream of solicitors is incomprehensibly annoying, but it’s a constant reminder that my career could certainly be on a worse track.

Some door-to-door solicitors are clearly attempting scams. One gentleman drops by every week offering to audit our company phone bills to “see where I can save you some money!” Sure, it’s tempting to provide employee and client phone numbers and account information to a complete stranger, yet somehow I’ll resist. This is the type of guy who could offer college coeds a glass of punch from a bowl clearly labeled “Spiked with roofies” and still get some takers. Finely tailored suits, exquisite dental work: all signs point to the fact that someone is providing this man a living, and a generous one at that.

Recently, a car pulled tentatively into the parking lot, inching forward then inching back, pulling into a space, pulling out. Finally, the driver—a fresh-faced, 20-something kid—mustered the necessary resolve to exit the car and enter the lobby. Wielding a smart-looking portfolio, he asked to see the person in charge of hiring.

“Aaaah,” I thought. “An industrious college grad seeking that first job.” I asked him what type of work he sought and he clarified that he was not seeking work. Rather, he represented an administrative staffing agency.

“You poor guy,” I thought, then more correctly thought “Your poor parents.” How do they explain this at cocktail parties?

“So, what’s your son up to?”

“He’s a door-to-door solicitor for an administrative staffing company. And yours?”

“Serving 25 to life for a double-homicide.”

“Lucky.”

I explained to the lad that ours is a small company, and I in fact comprise the entire administrative staff. Undeterred, he stuck to the script, countering “But if something happens to you, surely your superior should have a back-up plan.”

“Son,” I said, “if something happens to me, our back-up plan consists of propping me up with a broomstick. The only discernible differences would be a marked decrease in my typing mistakes, less sarcasm and a few more flies.” He laughed nervously and gave me his card, which I shredded. I do that with all solicitors’ business cards. It’s quite cathartic.

One solicitor wished to provide a quote on cleaning services. His visit was akin to a pop-in by one’s mother-in-law. He eyed the dusty floorboards disapprovingly and ran his finger along the tops of doorframes. “Your clients deserve to visit a spic-and-span office,” he insisted. I hadn’t the heart to tell him that our only visitors are door-to-door solicitors, and a cleaner office would only encourage them to stay longer. I shredded his proposal, card and brochure page-by-page, pushing out nagging thoughts that shredding has become a “problem.”

Another regular visitor wishes to sell us “document imaging solutions.” I suffer his visits but never long enough to find out what his company actually does. It’s enough to get a weekly reminder that my job, thankfully, doesn’t require consistent use of the phrase “document imaging solutions.”

The piece de resistance of door-to-door solicitors is the duos consisting of a handsome young man and a pretty young woman employing a tag-team approach that would be envied by the World Wrestling Federation. The female half of the duo always bares just enough leg and/or cleavage to stave off a forcible removal from the premises. While politely declining their product or service, I muse that within a month she’ll be pole-dancing for two grand a week, and he’ll return to college, like dad wanted him to in the first place, resuming his role of spiking the fraternity punch with roofies.

Things certainly go full-circle. It began with the Fuller Brush salesmen peddling their wares door-to-door. Soon thereafter the only folks who came a-knockin’ were those selling religion. Now the salesmen are back, and there are apparently enough lonely or naïve consumers to keep them in business. If the avian flu is truly going to reduce the population by 150 million, it could do worse than to target both camps.

Monday, October 17, 2005

Question.

My wife and I had a chat the other night about what we’d do if we won the $300 million Powerball jackpot. We both agreed we would travel extensively, buy a modest home here in the Twin Cities and a loft in Soho, and be benevolent as hell.

The question is: what would you do with your life if you suddenly found you never had to worry about money again?

Your answer to that question is supposedly what you’re supposed to be doing with your life.

Now there are those, of course, who would reply that they’d sit around their house in boxer shorts and play Game Cube. I don’t want to hear from those people. I want those people to go away. Shoo.

My answer to the question is that I would immediately quit my job and take a full credit load at college. I’d likely steer towards a Communications major with a Philosophy minor. I would then work for or start a non-profit group benefiting animals. I would write on the side.

Leave a comment and answer the question:


What would you do with your life if you suddenly found you never had to worry about money again?

Random crap.

WHO’S NEWS
I worked on Who’s News a little bit yesterday, but couldn’t make it funny. At least not yet. Someone actually wrote a letter to USA Weekend inquiring about Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie, so my numerous attempts at an answer invariably ended with the violent death of the letter-writer.

ASHLEE SHITSON
Is everyone all set to hand your hard-earned money to Ashlee Simpson on Tuesday? She has a new album coming out, you know. Oh, and she was recently afforded the opportunity to redeem herself with another appearance on Saturday Night Live, this time actually singing rather than lip-syncing.

It’s sad, really. Ashlee Simpson is what, 20 years old, and already sits atop a pile of money that will last her ‘til the end of her days. She is a celebrity intentionally created and molded by faceless individuals in a board room. Her job is to shake her tits and ass and sing computer-generated bubblegum horseshit written by people who know the psychology of pop music. Simpson’s awful vocals are rendered passable with technology, and teenaged girls across America will flock to record stores tomorrow in order to shell out $15 for her latest, immediately-forgettable release.

Meanwhile, real bands comprised of real musicians playing real instruments still struggle to survive. They play dive bars in the middle of Iowa to a bunch of unappreciative farmers, they get bent over by record companies making impossible demands but offering no support, and they eventually leave the music business utterly jaded and crushed, donning ties and obtaining “real” jobs, getting married and having children, giving the children an allowance, with which the brats have the audacity to purchase the latest turd popped out by Ashlee Simpson and her corporate masters.

Do yourself and your family a favor. If you have a youngun tugging at your coattails begging you to take her to Sam Goody so she can purchase Ashlee Simpson’s album, sit them down and explain the facts of life. “When a record company and an overbearing stage parent meet and experience a connection, they get together in a board room and sign a contract. Then, several months later, they squeeze out a being devoid of all conscience and talent, created in a sterile marketing department for the sole purpose of earning millions of dollars for everyone in on the cruel joke.”

Then buy your kid an album with some fucking guitars on it, for crying out loud.

MOON
Did anyone catch the partial eclipse of the moon this morning? I have a 30-minute commute straight west, and observed this phenomenon, and it was simply incredible. The moon was the size of a quarter on the horizon, the craters clearly visible to the naked eye. A portion of the specter was blotted out by the Earth’s shadow, and I was of course struck by the fact that while the Universe continues it’s impossibly complicate dance, me and millions of other people were on our way to shuffle very important papers all day.

OUTSIDE THE BOX
Perhaps I’ll have more of consequence to add later. In the meantime, I want to direct your attention to the Outside the Box I’ve linked to. I know little if anything about the author, all I know is I wish they would post more. She’s very introspective and not afraid to take on weighty subjects. Her recent post on “Never Debate Evolution” was just a delight to read.

Friday, October 14, 2005

Good night, and good luck.


PERSONAL HYGIENE
Am I alone in showering and using deodorant? My wife and I went to a movie last night, and we had to switch seats because the man in front of us stunk to high heaven and farted constantly, but to our chagrin the new seats were perilously close to yet another person who reeked of body odor. And this morning, I’m in the computer lab at school, and the person who sat here before me must have farted continuously for his entire duration at the computer, because I am still getting wafts of an unbearable stink.

Judas Priest, people: take a shower. Use soap. Use deodorant. Take some pride in yourself.

HOLY WATER, BATMAN
Here’s a conversation I had with two clerks at the concession counter of the movie theater last night:

ME: I’ll take the cheapest, smallest bottled water you have.
CLERK 1: This is the only water we have and it’s $3.25.
ME: $3.25?
CLERK 1: $3.25.
ME: That had better be some water. That water better cure my glaucoma.
CLERK 2: When you drink that water, it reveals the secret of life. It’s quite cathartic.
ME: Geez, then I won’t even have to see the movie.

$3.25 for water. For $3.25, it should be a bottle of the sweat collected off of Heather Graham’s elliptical machine.

GOOD NIGHT, AND GOOD LUCK
No, not another depression post, but a movie review of sorts.

Yesterday I won tickets to Good Night and Good Luck, the George Clooney written and directed film about journalist Edward R. Murrow who took on Senator Joseph McCarthy back in the 50’s. This was during the Red Scare when there was thought to be a Communist around every corner.

I strongly recommend this film with two caveats. First, see it in a theater with surround sound so that you can truly enjoy the music featured prominently in the film. Second, see it in a “neutral” theater; that is, in a part of town not dominated by left-leaning folks. The sneak preview was in the Uptown area of Minneapolis which I have long-deemed “Berkeley Lite,” and I have found that Uptown movie theaters feature an alarming degree of movie chatter. Leftists in attendance cannot help but lend their schooled opinions to what’s occurring on the screen, and it quickly becomes quite distracting.

Good Night and Good Luck is being touted as controversial, mainly because it’s felt that the word “communist” in the film could easily be replaced with “terrorist” and thus be applicable to modern times. My personal opinion is that comparing the two detracts from the serious nature of the Cold War. McCarthyism is roundly criticized as being the fruit of McCarthy’s paranoid mind, but the fact is Communism was (and still is) ugly and threatening, and we did well to bring down the Soviet Union. One can certainly argue against McCarthy’s tactics but not with his goal.

Numerous characters in the film gave heartfelt speeches on the importance of civil liberties which were roundly cheered by the audience, and as usual I noted the irony. Once again, a roomful of fat, spoiled Americans, free to speak their minds at any time, sitting in an air-conditioned movie theater stuffing popcorn into their privileged faces, are first to hop on the “Give me back my rights” bandwagon. No wonder the rest of the world loathes us.

There’s an awful lot of talk these days about civil liberties being trounced, but I’ve yet to encounter a person bellyaching about it who has actually experienced it. Yes, we can talk about Guantanamo Bay, yes we can debate the Patriot Act, but when you leave a movie theater chatting with your leftist pals about how much the president sucks, get into your SUV bearing "Vote Green" and "Kerry Edwards" bumper stickers, and then drive one block to a coffee shop where you'll drink $25 per gallon cappucinos, spare me the drivel about your rights being quashed.

Good Night and Good Luck is more of an indictment of pop culture than it is of an oppressive United States government, an important point which I feel was lost on most people in attendance. The movie ends with a sobering speech by Murrow expressing his fear that television would become little more than an “idiot box;” a device by which to merely entertain, not inform people. In fact, Murrow’s groundbreaking program which led to McCarthy’s demise was ultimately canceled to make way for game shows (not because of his reporting!). He points the finger squarely at the American public saying that the choice is theirs: inform yourselves, or sit drooling in front of the tube lapping up mindless pap. Sadly, it’s fairly clear that America, by and large, has chosen the latter.

What is made clear in Good Night and Good Luck is the Edward R. Murrow was an outstanding journalist. A journalist the likes of which America hasn’t seen since, nor likely will again. As a conservative, I would give my left arm for a journalist like Murrow to surface in our modern times. It seems that both the right and left are deluding themselves, the former believing that folks like Rush Limbaugh are the modern-day equivalent of Murrow, while leftists believe Michael Moore is Murrow’s reincarnation. Meanwhile, “real” journalists like Dan Rather create phony documents, and the evening news consists of five minutes of hard news, ten minutes of medical news (Does aspirin prevent heart disease?), ten minutes of pop culture (Clooney writes and directs!), and finally a five-minute feel-good capper about a child with Leukemia collecting money for hurricane relief. Sweeps week invariably focuses on strip clubs and pit bulls rather than in-depth investigations of wasteful government spending. Opiate of the masses, indeed.

I encourage people of all political stripes to see Good Night and Good Luck with an open mind. I implore you to drink in the larger point, that while America gathers around the television to watch According to Jim week after week, an ever-increasing percentage of your paychecks are being confiscated, pork-barrel projects dominate federal and state budgets, cronyism is destroying the foundations of government, and the press is more concerned about the impending Cruise/Holmes nuptials than they are exposing fraud and largesse in government.

POSTSCRIPT
It struck me this morning that the movie contained zero obscenities and zero gratuitous sexual content. In fact, the only couple shown in bed was a married couple. Further, the reporters were never caught without a necktie and always exhibited decorum.

Our society has certainly degenerated since those days, and strangely this thought brings this post full-circle. As I mentioned at the beginning, people should exhibit pride in themselves. Perhaps if they did, perhaps if flesh-bearing clothing weren't the norm, perhaps if we didn't glorify sexual deviancy, maybe this would have a trickle-down affect on society.

Just a thought.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

Just some crap.

I’ve sort of rediscovered the joy of the blog lately. For a while there I thought about dumping it altogether, but I realized I’d miss the forum to spew my musings and I would miss the “community” we’ve created here.

Not much of consequence to say today, really. Rumor has it my pal Stacy is working on a barn-burner of a post about an emotional subject, and frankly I hope she posts it soon ‘cuz I’m sick of logging onto her site at work and having that picture of the half-naked guy pop up.

FINANCIAL PLANNING.
If you’ll recall, months and months ago I wrote about the fact that my wife and I met with a financial counselor, but we couldn’t bring ourselves to commit to the follow-up appointments; namely a three-hour seminar and then a one-on-one wrap-up with the counselor himself.

Well, last night we succumbed to the latter. He graciously allowed us to bypass the seminar, and the reason for this was made clear (albeit between-the-lines) during our meeting: it’s because my wife and I are broke. We have nothing to offer this guy’s company, and they have nothing to offer us. He did everything shy of saying “Admin Worm, you stand to enjoy a lucrative retirement…that is, if you can manage to work ‘til you’re 107 and die at 110.” He seemed genuinely uncomfortable at times, tugging his collar and laughing nervously. There were times I had to place my hand reassuringly on his shoulder and say “There there, son. I know you did your best. We know we’re fucked.”

As a result, I’m a trifle depressed today. Depressed because it’s all well and good to philosophize about life’s greater issues; it’s fun (to me) to secretly hope I live to see the end of all things; but it’s quite another to realize that maybe—just maybe—I might live a normal lifespan, and unless I win the Powerball drawing I may just be living in a cardboard box when I turn 65.

If I only had the past 20 years to try again, I would…well, truth be told I’d probably fuck it all up again. All I can do is keep going to school and keep hoping that I discover what I want to do with my life and can then manage to start socking away money like there’s no tomorrow, which is ironic because I would then be planning for the likelihood that there would be a tomorrow.

DEPRESSION.
One thing our financial guy impressed upon us was the importance of life insurance. I have none, and it’s because of my history of depression. I applied for life insurance a couple years ago, and my agent told me “You’re screwed.” I’m too high-risk. Not only that, but I’m very likely blacklisted by every insurance company on the planet.

Depression is a Catch-22. If I had just clammed up, obtained a million dollars worth of life insurance, then stuck a shotgun in my mouth, all would be peachy. However, because I have had the audacity to actually—shudder—seek treatment for my condition, I am being penalized. And to add insult to injury, there seems to be no criteria for deeming a person healthy enough to obtain life insurance. It’s not like a smoker, who one year after becoming tobacco-free can get the non-tobacco rate for life insurance. No, it seems that for the remainder of my life I’ll be stuck with the stigma of being a depressed person. I could be a healthy, happy 90-year old, and the insurance companies in their infinite wisdom would say “Sorry, but when you were 30 you told your family doctor you were feeling glum.”

Yes, I know what you’re saying: the whole “personal responsibility” thing has come back to bite me in my ass. To which I would reply that you’re correct, to an extent. However, by seeking treatment I was endeavoring to do just that: take personal responsibility. And by doing the right thing, it is my wife who will ultimately suffer.

And on that positive note, let’s hope Stacy gets her uplifting blog posted soon.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

Are you ready for some football?

Forgive a brief foray back into the world of politics, at least to a degree.

Non-Minnesota residents may not know the absolute mess that characterizes our state budget. Last year saw an unprecedented government shutdown while legislators of all parties argued like petulant children over whose pet projects would be funded at the expense of working folks like me.

Now, certain legislators are calling for a special session to be called by the governor. For what purpose, you may ask? To discuss plans to build three—yes, I said three—sports stadiums. One for the Minnesota Gophers football team, one for the Minnesota Twins, and one for the Minnesota Vikings. Hmmmmm….let’s take a look at each of these institutions individually.

MINNESOTA GOPHERS
First, the Minnesota Gophers. The official U of M sports website states the following:

From 1924 to 1982, Memorial Stadium provided thousands of Minnesotans with the excitement of Big Ten, campus football.

The question in my mind is, of course, if Memorial Stadium was such a godsend, why did you tear it down in the first place? You had your chance, the U of M campus is a palace already, and if this wanton spending keeps up tuition will soon be $500 per credit hour. Let the alumnus, with their cardigans tossed jauntily over their shoulders, whip out their checkbooks and pay for Memorial Stadium II.

MINNESOTA TWINS
The Twins just finished a particularly abysmal season, even for them. For the first time in ages, they didn’t make the playoffs. So, it stands to reason that the legislature would leap into action in order to build them (and their billionaire owner, Carl Pohlad) a stadium. Stadium supporters claim that the Metrodome is no place for baseball. “Bring back Met Stadium!” they cry. Well, Met Stadium was torn down to build the Mall of America, and the Metrodome was heralded as the greatest thing since sliced bread. And may I remind dome detractors that when the Twins won the World Series in 1987 and 1991, they were playing in the Metrodome?

If Carl Pohlad—billionaire Carl Pohlad—and his players (average yearly salary of professional baseball players is $2,555,476 ) want a new stadium, they can pony up the dough.

MINNESOTA VIKINGS
So much to say, so little time.

The Vikings alone are reason enough to make me call my legislators and say “Special session NOW.” New owner Ziggy Wilf wasted no time in holding taxpayers hostage for a new, palatial stadium. After all, a group of millionaires needs a suitably extravagant location to display their talents.

Their talents have thus far garnered them an impressive 1 and 3 record this season, by the way. Go Vikes!

When that special session is held, the following story needs to be cited in detail:

Football Players: what wonderful role models!

What you’ll discover is that several Minnesota Vikings chartered a boat on Lake Minnetonka, and the cruise became a condensed version of Sodom and Gomorrah, complete with drinking, drugs, lap dances, prostitutes, and sex acts. Some highlights:
  • A woman called Mound police Thursday night to report “possible prostitution, drugs and live sex acts” on the two boats.
  • “Some of the Vikings are yelling at the waters and waitresses… and wanting drinks faster and trying to take over parts of the bar…”
  • “There are people doing sexual acts with toys in the middle of the floor.”
  • We’re talking about a scene with used condoms on the boats laying around…drinks thrown and poured in places.
Where do I sign up? Please, please, please tell me that Hennepin County will enact a 1.5% tax so I can help fund this upstanding behavior!

Minnesota residents, I give you a homework assignment which I intend to perform myself. Contact your legislator. Demand an immediate special session. Insist that your representative read the aforementioned news story in full view of their peers and the media. Then see if they have the audacity to still believe that one cent of public money should go towards funding—or even debating—sports stadiums for spoiled, amoral, barbaric Cro-magnons.

LINKS
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Contact Minnesota Governor Tim Pawlenty

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

Intelligent Stapler Design.

Evolutionists say “If there’s a God, who created Him?” Since there’s no rational answer, Creation is therefore bunk. However, ask an evolutionist where that big ball of gas came from that exploded in the Big Bang, and they either have no reply or say “It just was.”

So much for evolution being a non-faith based belief.

I’m starting to accept the fact that I believe in God, mainly because all this something had to come from somewhere. Science has a lot of great theories for how we evolved, but as far as I know they’ve yet to prove that something can come from nothing. Of course, this re-opens the “Who created God?” question, but I think I’m beginning to realize that God, or the concept of Him, is completely beyond the comprehension of physical beings. This may seem like a cop-out, but it is no more bizarre a concept than the sub-atomic world would have been to people living 200 years ago.

Last week I blogged about the Infinite Monkeys theorem. The more I think about it, the more I think it’s a good argument for God, or at least Intelligent Design.

In fact, leave the monkeys out of it. Let’s say you hit all the letter keys on your keyboard at once. I’m sure there’s a mathematical equation governing how many possibilities there are. Let’s say your first attempt results in absolute gibberish, which is likely. Then let’s say your second attempt results in the alphabet. The odds are astronomical.

However, on an infinite timeline, both results will eventually occur. Further, in a mathematical sense, the gibberish is just as unique as the alphabet. Smack your hand down on your keyboard and observe the result. Now, do it again. The odds of coming up with exactly the same result despite the same action is incredibly minute.

It’s only our sense of order that would make the alphabet result particularly meaningful, however.

Of course, in an infinite Universe, statistics would seem to dictate that somewhere, somehow, the planets would align (pardon the pun) and allow some repository of life, which I guess is my way of saying when given the spectrum of infinite time and space, the cosmic laboratory could result in a molecule encountering a bacteria mixing with a dash of oregano, and presto: life. I’ve read books detailing just how unique circumstances are on our planet—in our entire Solar System, in fact—to allow life. There is a symbiotic relationship among the planets of our Solar System, and one tiny shift in Jupiter’s orbit would result in a chain reaction rendering life on Earth impossible.

So, it boils down to where the initial “stuff” came from comprising…well, everything. Think about it. Look out the window. Hell, look at your desk. In fact, look at your stapler. It’s a fairly rudimentary object. If you have some time, disassemble it. Now, toss the parts in the air and see if when they hit the ground, they assemble themselves into a useable stapler. And if they do, try it again…but without the parts. Wave your hands in the air and see if a stapler, or its component parts, miraculously appear out of nowhere.

Then consider the fact that in order to comprehend the existence of a stapler and attempt to muster its materialization, a sentient being was required. A consciousness desiring a stapler was an integral part of the equation. A being finding a stapler useful was required as well.

I have friends who scoff at the prospect of a God. These are 20-something people who sit at desks all day, their personal lives in shambles, who don’t know much but they do know the greatest mystery of the Universe. Sometimes I envy their faith. They know that I struggle with my beliefs and feel I’m naïve in even considering the possibility of a Supreme Being, much less the voracity of the Christian faith.

It seems to me that the very definition of naiveté is blindly accepting a theory, or summarily rejecting another, giving the matter not one more thought for the rest of your days. I prefer to think--more than think, obsess really--and the irony is that as a person who leans towards faith, I’m supposedly the sheep.