Vote early, vote often.

In the interest of time, here's this week's column from the Gazette. Low on graphics, but hopefully the hilarity contained in the words will be enough to satisfy even the most demanding Admin Worm readers.

VOTE FOR ME
I’m running for political office. I’m not sure which office yet; dog catcher, Senator, whatever. It depends on the hours and benefits. Lest anyone attempt to derail my campaign before it begins by exposing skeletons in my closet, allow me to expose them myself right up front: I love pornography and I curse. A lot. Sometimes I indulge both vices simultaneously, usually during slow downloads.

I’ll outline my platform below and allow Gazette readers to determine what, if any, office(s) I’m best-suited for.

Transportation. My first order of business as an elected representative will be to have the traffic lights adjusted so that drivers going the posted speed limit don’t have to stop at every light. Traffic lights change from red to yellow to green with all the randomness—but none of the beauty—of Christmas tree lights. The St. Croix Valley is scenic, that’s indisputable; but not so scenic that I want to pause on every corner to drink it in.

Welfare. I am going to enact a Selective Service-type system for welfare recipients whereby the able-bodied among them will be randomly summoned to help taxpayers with household chores; lawn-mowing, spring-cleaning, washing the car, etc. After working 40+ hours per week, the last thing taxpayers want or need is to rake 20 bags of leaves over the weekend. It’s time for people living off the generosity of others to earn their keep via “sweat equity.”

Jobs. My opponent(s) will likely promise to create X-number of jobs. If elected, I vow to create no jobs; further, I will endeavor to eradicate all existing jobs. I have a job. Everyone I know has a job. We all hate our jobs and wouldn’t wish them on anyone. Unless PBS has lied to me all these years, our forest-dwelling counterparts, the apes, spend their days eating bananas, lounging in the sun and fornicating. They’re not wasting time generating spreadsheets and writing reports, and if I’m elected no one else will, either.

Term Limits: I’m a strong term limit advocate, but not in the classic sense. My opinion is if voters are stupid enough to elect the same people over and over again and then complain about them to pollsters, they don’t need term limits, they need an arithmetic lesson: Put two and two together, folks.

The term limits I support are for political bumper stickers endorsing candidates who lost—or died—years ago. Under my administration, you get 60 days to gloat, grieve or demand a recount: Then the stickers come off. Drivers who continue to display election 2004 bumper stickers—regardless of party—will pay hefty fines. And anyone musing “What Would Wellstone Do?” will soon be asking “Which Way to Traffic Court?”

Education. I saved the biggest for last. The recent Thandiwe Peebles saga in Minneapolis is a shining example of how not to handle the business of education. Under my administration there will be no $180,000 contract buyouts and certainly no $800 per month Cadillac SUV allowances. A school superintendent—whose job it is to manage a school system’s budget—can damn well budget two hundred bucks of their $13,000 monthly salary to lease a Ford Focus.

Any public school employee with more than one “vice” or “assistant”—or any combination of the two—in their job title will soon be looking for other work. At a time when teachers are buying pencils and paper for students out of their own pockets, it’s time to rethink the need for a $50,000 per year “Vice-Vice Assistant to the Administrator in Charge of Grief Counselors.” If the classroom guinea pig dies, the kids will just have to deal with it.

Graduation standards will be simple under my administration: Every high school senior will be required to take a brief “Their, there and they’re” test before graduating. We’ll discover right then and there if they’re ready to ready to receive their diploma.

In a Tom Bonnett administration, public school students won’t receive laptop computers, because that’s just ridiculous. Not that anything so crazy would ever be proposed, of course.

In closing, as a final incentive to garner your vote, public servants will be included in the aforementioned Housework Selective Service pool. Elected representatives might think twice before raising taxes if they knew you could summon them at any time to pump your septic tank.


I hope you will consider me for (insert office here). Now, as they say at Democratic Party headquarters, vote early and vote often.

I believe in dog.

I believe in dog.

I’ve mentioned before how some days, just as I’m about to give up hope, something happens to restore my belief that somehow, a greater power than I is in control of things and actually gives a crap about me.

This morning I was near the end of my rope. Yesterday was a stressful day at work and school, and things were equally stressful at home. You know how it goes. Yet another day gone by that—when your head hits the pillow—you realize with dismay but not surprise that you didn’t do a single enjoyable thing, nor accomplish anything of note.

On the way to work today I felt like crying. Like giving up. Like not showing up at work, withdrawing all the cash from my savings account, and just disappearing.

I got to work early enough to allow a trip to Caribou. I decided that even though I’m trying to budget money for a home purchase this fall, if a $1.50 cup of dark roast is necessary to make the day bearable, then dammit: I’m having it.

There was a dog at Caribou, tied to a railing. He was a big, blonde lab of some kind; a huge dog, yet with that puppy look in his face. His tail wagged expectantly as I approached, and suddenly I was eight years old. I hugged him and kissed him, scratched him vigorously, and allowed him to lick my face. After purchasing my coffee, I did it again. I wanted to cry again, but from delight rather than despair.

This event doesn’t make the specter of my day any more rosy; I still have a full day of work to contend with, I have an evening at school, and I unfortunately have matters to patch up at home. However, hugging that dog—receiving for just a few moments the unconditional love and complete trust of another creature—at least took enough of the edge off that I’m no longer on the verge of tears.

Thanks, God—or dog, whoever—for that moment.

(P.S. This post was for Jules, who's been a bit quiet lately 'cuz I know she's dealing with some stress that makes my own seem trivial in comparison. I envy you, Jules, for having a big, loveable dog in your office that you can hug anytime you want and tell your problems to. Love you.)

Death comes in threes.

A few weeks ago, Grandpa Munster died. Over the weekend, Don Knotts passed away. Today, we lost Dennis Weaver.

The last one reminds me of a great joke.

Mick Jagger hosts a dinner party and invites various Hollywood luminaries including Hugh Grant and Dennis Weaver.

After a few drinks, Dennis Weaver starts lambasting the new crop of Hollywood stars, including Hugh Grant. One things leads to another, and before you know it Hugh Grant is on top of Dennis Weaver, pummeling the living daylights out of him.

Mick Jagger storms into the room and shouts “Hey, Hugh: Get off of McCloud.”

Your homework assignment for the week: Rent “Dual” starring Dennis Weaver. Great movie.

Who's News.

It’s been a while since Who’s News appeared, and people have been clamoring for it. Actually, my site counter has registered negative numbers the past couple of weeks, but what the hell: I do this to amuse myself, anyway. To refresh your memory, these are real questions sent by real readers of the Who’s News celebrity gossip section of USA Weekend. Don’t worry, folks: The Earth’s complicated dance through the cosmos will continue unabated. You go on peeling your eyelids back and drinking in every ounce of pop culture you can squeeze into your 75 years. And hopefully the Buddhists are right and reincarnation exists, 'cuz then you can do it all over again...and again...

Please settle an argument. Has Dolly Parton been married to anyone but husband Carl Dean? –Michelle Knudson, Jonesboro, AK

Sadly, they divorced years ago, but thankfully Carl gets visitation with the twins.

Ha ha ha ha. Boy, those Dolly Parton/booby jokes never, ever get old.

Seriously, though: You’re arguing about this? With who? Your spouse? Co-workers? Are you sleeping on the couch because you and your husband have been battling for months about the Dolly Parton/Carl Dean saga?

Aaaargh. Look up, Michelle: You’re on a globe floating through space. And speaking of globes…

Globes: Get it? Ha ha ha ha ha!

Where is CBS's John Roberts, and why didn't he replace Dan Rather? Wasn't he heir apparent? –Valerie Morrison, Magalia, CA

What a tremendous opportunity for my “glass half-empty” and “glass half-full” characteristics to duke it out.

On one hand, yours is the only letter this week—out of nearly four million—that dealt with the news as opposed to vacuous sitcoms or movie stars. For that I should be grateful.

Yet rather than focus on content, you’re instead wagging your finger in my face wondering why one talking head was chosen over another talking head to replace a retired talking head.

Then you go and spring phrases like “heir apparent” on me. This is Who’s News and we have a well-established two-syllable maximum on words, thank you.

Try to focus on what’s being said on the news, Valerie, rather than who’s saying it. Iran is developing nukes. Iraq is on the brink of civil war. Species are being wiped out daily due to mankind’s encroachment. Riots are spreading worldwide due to a couple of political cartoons published in Denmark. This fragile, blue-green planet is hurtling towards certain—yet entirely preventable—destruction, and you’re concerned with the feather-haired pretty boy who's delivering the news?

And for what it's worth, I think John Roberts should have gotten the gig, hands-down. He is so...freaking...cute!!!

Forget Geena Davis. On Sci Fi Channel's "Battlestar Galactica," Mary McDonnell is great as Laura Roslin, the other female U.S. president on TV. But I thought McDonnell was a movie star. –Eleanor Grayson, Dedham, MA

Again, a mysterious "us" appears in a letter. Did all the cafeteria gals band together to churn out this letter, Eleanor? That would explain the grease stains...

Unfortunately, your question negates the answer. You told me at the beginning of your letter to “Forget Geena Davis.” Then you go on to compare her to another female television president. However, if I truly forgot Davis as instructed, answering the question becomes theoretically impossible. It's the chicken vs. the egg; it's Creationism vs. the Big Bang. That’s some crazy, philosophical shit and I thank you for a rare moment of Who's News head scratchin'.

What can you tell us about "Reba's" Melissa Peterman, one of the funniest people on TV? –Phyllis Frederickson, Glendale, AZ

Again with the "us." On the negative side, the meds clearly aren't working. On the plus side, all your personalities seem united towards a common, if ultimately meaningless, goal.

I can tell you that if Melissa Peterman were truly one of the funniest people on TV, she wouldn’t be derailing her career by appearing on that festering turd of a shitcom, “Reba.” Then again, you probably find Jeff Foxworthy’s musings to be the height of comedy, and you’re probably in stitches when Larry, the beloved Cable Guy, utters his trademark gem “Get ‘er done.” So "Reba" is, understandably, way up there on your list of mankind's greatest comedic achievements.

Here's a challenge, Phyllis: Download a couple of Bill Hicks’ comedy routines from I-tunes. Buy yourself a Mitch Hedberg CD. Rent a couple seasons’ worth of Arrested Development or Curb Your Enthusiasm.

If, after this homework assignment, you still stand by your contention that Melissa Peterman is one of the funniest people on TV, I am contacting the White House and requesting that I be included in Vice President Cheney’s next hunting party, and I am going to insist that he shoot me in the face because I’ll have lost my will to live.

Well, that wraps it up for this week’s Who’s News. Hopefully my remaining loyal readers got a kick out of it. Just think, if those two people tell two of their friends about my blog, and those two friends tell two more friends, before you know it enough people will ask “How can you read that shit?” and my remaining fans, embarrassed beyond words, will quietly delete me from their Favorites and I can move on to other things. Until then, see you next week for more Who’s News, and see you soon for more of the pointless rambling you’ve come to know and ignore from the staff of the Admin Worm blog.

The Road to Damascus.

Okay, it was actually the ride to work, but that sounded more dramatic. The following was transcribed verbatim from my voice recorder. This is the type of shit I think about while commuting.

Sometimes you discover little truths that, while though nothing is universal besides the laws of physics, nonetheless seem interesting enough to share.

First off, regarding prayer. Perhaps it sounds goofy, but I pray out loud on the way to work each day. It’s the usual litany of “problems” I deal with.

I watched the movie “Defending Your Life” by Albert Brooks this week, which is probably my favorite movie of all time.

I’ve said before that “Defending Your Life” is probably the best representation of what occurs in the afterlife. As time goes by, however, I realize that while that may not be true, the movie nonetheless gives the most sage advice I’ve ever heard regarding how to live one’s life: That the daily goal should be to overcome one’s fears.

The Bible says that with the right amount of faith one can literally move mountains. To me, this is one of the Bible’s (many) Catch-22’s. I don’t think anyone, even someone like Billy Graham, would have the necessary faith to command a mountain to move and expect it to happen.

A lot of people say “I prayed but didn’t get an answer,” but usually it’s more accurate to say “I didn’t get the answer I wanted.”

I find that when I pray I’m usually using God as a de facto therapist, telling him things I wouldn’t dare tell a mortal being. Most important, however, I’m asking for strength. Strength to pay attention at work despite not sleeping well. Strength to know how to prepare for a test in a subject I don’t understand. Strength to not strangle the myriad people who drive me insane on a daily basis with their endless personality quirks.

I’m really not asking God for anything more than I could find within myself. Does that mean God doesn’t exist or isn’t useful? No. But it makes me realize that all of us have within us what it takes to get through anything. There’s a verse in the Bible—I had it memorized once a long, long time ago—to the effect of “God won’t put anything on your plate that you can’t handle.” This means anything from not exploding at your spouse for leaving the toilet seat up to enduring bamboo shoots under your fingernails as a POW.

Another thing I’m realizing is the role of expectations in relationships. I consider myself a good husband, but mainly because I give my wife what I think she wants. Every day I get up early and offer to make her breakfast and I pack her a big lunch. This morning when I started packing her lunch, I discovered that most of the items I’d packed for her throughout the week wound up back in the fridge or cupboard. At first, my feelings were hurt. Then I realized that this was nothing she had requested; it was merely something I did because I thought she wanted it.

What constitutes a truly “good” spouse is giving your mate what makes them feel better, not what makes you feel better. And that’s really, really hard. It’s much easier to pack a lunch or clean house unexpectedly than to lend a sympathetic ear about the trials and travails of their day.

The only other thing I have to say is that today I discovered the pair of pants I was wearing had a hole in the pocket from the god-awful, bulky wallet I bought off the Target clearance shelf a few weeks ago. I hastily put on a pair of suit pants—very expensive pants by my standards, probably a hundred bucks—and discovered that they are brutally thin, offering no protection from the freezing cold wind. The $13 Kohl’s clearance rack pants are much better pants. This would probably serve as a wonderful metaphor for something, but I’ll leave that to you to figure out. It’s 8:30, and I need to get to work.

KISS and Ratt and the Big Bang.

Yesterday I checked some of my fellow bloggers’ sites for the first time in a long time, and I felt really bad. I see that my old pal Leab says that mine is one of the blogs he reads every day.

Sadly, not much to report today. Busy with school and the new job and not much wisdom or humor to impart.

Songs du jour: “Call it Love” by Poco and “You’re in Love” by Ratt. Downloaded them both from I-tunes last night and they rule.

Yesterday I was going to post a lengthy philosophical blog on the origin of life and coincidentally the PBS show “Nova” had a show about neutrinos last night. Many scientists now feel that life on Earth—all life—is a descendent of decaying neutrinos.

Fascinating shit. And I don’t believe a word of it. The show eluded many times to the Big Bang, but it (of course) never gave a mention to where the flaming ball of whatever came from that blew up and created everything.

We live in an infinite Universe, right? With an infinite number of planets? Wouldn’t the mass of all planets, therefore, have to equal infinity? But how is that possible with nothingness in-between? Wouldn’t the chunk of whatever that blew up in the Big Bang have to be infinite in size?

As you can see I’m no scientist. Just rambling.

Here’s a thought: Let’s just settle up this whole Iraq debacle and spend that money kicking the living shit out of the people raping and murdering people in the Darfur region of the Sudan? I’m not a U.N. flag-waving type, but what say we do something the whole world can rally around like feeding some people and killing some real bad guys?

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to put on headphones and practice songs off the KISS “Alive” CD in preparation for an annual jam session I enjoy with some friends.

Warning: Angry, defeatist rant ahead.

Tonight in Creative Writing class I laughed out loud because I realized that during my thoroughly jam-packed day—from before sunrise to well after sunset—I hadn’t done a single thing that I enjoyed. Quite literally, not one. I did nothing “for me,” took no breaks, did nothing creative. I don’t know if typing this blog feverishly before going to bed counts as fun, but it will give me an opportunity to vent. My wife went to bed within moments of my arrival home, partly because she was tired but probably partly because all I did was complain after walking through the door.

By the way, I’d like to go on record as saying I have no idea how you folks with kids do it. How do you get through an evening with your kid(s)—even a single evening—without blowing your stacks? My cat is bothering me right now; he’s pacing the apartment howling and he just left his traditional baguette-sized turd in the litter box to welcome me home. I cannot imagine having to feed and entertain a child at night. I am truly in awe of anyone who can pull it off.

Today we had Day One of three days worth of software training at my place of employment. I foolishly hoped that by working in a non-profit religious institution the focus on the business end of things would be secondary to the greater picture. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I have discovered that it doesn’t matter where you work—Corporate America or a Jewish temple—people crave business-speak.

This was a particularly instructive day because I think I discovered something about human nature and why I have such a tough time fitting in. It’s because I personally feel that nothing is important whereas others adamantly believe that they, or perhaps more correctly what they do, are/is important.

Regular readers know that I question mankind’s place in the great scheme of things and believe that we are indescribably insignificant. Contrast that with the fact that every single day I run into people who not only take tremendous pride in their careers, but they truly garner every shred of their self-worth from same.

I actually had a person suggest via e-mail that I “have a dialogue” with another employee about a project that’s in the works. It was all I could do not to reply with a sarcastic “I won’t ‘have a dialogue’ with him, but perhaps I’ll talk to him.” How much more pretentious can you get than use the phrase “have a dialogue” with a straight face? Squint your eyes and look heavenward. Make a circle between your thumb and forefinger. Count the pinpricks of light that fit there. Ten? A hundred? Two hundred? Now say “have a dialogue” to me and tell me you don’t feel like an utter fool.

Now I can hear my less-cynical pals saying “Geez, Admin: Cut the guy a break. Maybe that’s just how he talks.” Well, context is everything, and you’ll just have to trust me that the context of his multi-paragraph e-mail made it clear that he lives for this sort of thing. He was just itching for the opportunity to “mark his territory;” to prove his place in the hierarchy by sending a buzzword-laden e-mail to the new guy, establishing early on that he’s the king of his own personal (meaningless) fiefdom. "You're in charge?" I wanted to ask. "Guess what: You can fucking have it! I don't want it!"

It’s sad that even at the religious institution where I work, people try to outdo one another with their “on the cross” stories, which is an unfortunate phrase to use given that it’s a Jewish temple. Once a month they hold a Board of Directors meeting and people speak—hardly able to conceal their pride—about how late it went. “Last night it only went ‘til 10 p.m., but once it went ‘til midnight!”

Well, that’s just wonderful. We're all impressed beyond fucking belief. I’m sure your wife and children were quite understanding when you tip-toed into the house at 1 a.m., sad that they missed yet another evening with their spouse/parent, but happy that finally—after exhaustive debate—a majority of the Board finally approved the color of the company stationery.

My wife and I have talked half-jokingly about joining the Peace Corps. I’m glad we haven’t, because I have a sneaking suspicion—actually, I know damned well—that even the Peace Corps is awash in red tape. I’m sure that even an organization that is the epitome of selflessness and charity doesn’t make a move without endless meetings, incessant use of important-sounding business-speak (dialogue, database, organizational structure, blah blah blah), and all the other assorted horseshit that makes a mockery of the gift of life.

Sometimes the only thing that keeps me from pledging all-out belief in Christianity is my fear that, since God presumably created mankind in his image, heaven will prove to be nothing more than an infinite series of cubicles. St. Peter will show us each to our desks where we’ll have meetings, engage in dialogue, make important decisions, and create piles and piles of paperwork to notarize, photocopy, distribute, revise, resubmit, fold, spindle and mutilate. And when we look at the wisened Saint questioningly, he’ll shrug his shoulders and say “Hey, that’s how you spend your lives: We figured you enjoyed it.”

Column.

Today is President's Day. I forgot about that before leaving the house. I could have dilly-dallied an extra ten minutes at home and gotten some more squeezes and kisses from my wife, but foolishly didn't.

It sucks when it's a Federal holiday and the freeway is deserted, yet an alarming number of commuters still drive as if traffic is bumper-to-bumper. The stretch of Interstate 94 between Minneapolis and St. Paul could and should have been like the Autobahn today, but I had to maneuver between way too many people going 48 miles per hour in the passing lane.

State Troopers in Minnesota often have zero tolerance weekends where they proudly dispense speeding tickets to people going even one mile per hour over the speed limit. I think they should periodically have zero tolerance days for people going under the speed limit, particularly in the passing lane. It's not merely a nuisance, it's dangerous.

Anyway, no Who's News this week. I finished it but realized it was too mean. I'm trying to shy away from mean. So, here's this week's Gazette masterpiece instead.

By the way, blogger.com is being fussy about pictures today, so I'll try to pretty this up later.

CARTOONS
Muslims around the world continue to protest “offensive” editorial cartoons that ran months ago in a Danish newspaper. Demonstrations have been held, buildings have been burned, people have been killed and a $1 million bounty has been placed on the cartoonist’s head.

I’m of the mind that if people want reasons to riot over cartoons, they need look no further than the typical American comics page.

The Family Circus, for instance, is certainly protest-worthy and the children depicted in the strip should be the first to light torches. Allah only knows what horrific pituitary experiments are being performed under that misleadingly serene suburban roof, preventing those poor kids from reaching adolescence. For Pete’s sake, at least allow P.J. to graduate to big-boy pants. He’s been in diapers for 50 years. Can you imagine the rash?

Many classic comic strips are now being churned out by the spawn of the original creators. Hagar the Horrible, Hi and Lois, Blondie, Beetle Bailey; the common thread is that the most out-of-date strips are guaranteed a shelf life of another century. I don’t know what’s worse: The prospect of Iran leading the world to the brink of World War III or the knowledge that 50 years from now, when my obituary appears in the newspaper, Sarge will be on the next page throttling Beetle—again—drawn by the original artist’s great-great grandson who inherited both his predecessor’s fortune and embarrassingly antiquated sense of humor.

A growing number of classic comics inexplicably require two people to produce them. Apparently, one person handles artistic duties while the other swings a pocket watch in front of newspaper executives chanting “You are getting sleepy. You will continue to believe this outdated tripe is relevant. You will invest heavily in 3M stock because millions of stay-at-home moms who haven’t left the house in decades Scotch tape this crap to their refrigerators every day.”

Mark Trail is one of the few classic comics that have changed with the times, but in a disappointing way: Succumbing to political correctness. A few years ago the lead character gave up his trademark pipe when a young reader warned the creator of the risks of second-hand smoke. I guess the kid missed the lecture on the dangers of first-hand banality. It’s hard to believe that the nicotine patch could be a suitable replacement for one’s trusty pipe—particularly after an exhaustive day of shooing wily raccoons away from the campground trash cans—but Mr. Trail does his best.

Of all the classic strips, Hagar the Horrible is the only one I respect even slightly, and only because it practices truth in advertising. Others should follow suit: Family Circus the Irrelevant. Doonesbury the Unsubtle. Garfield the Is Jim Davis Even Trying Anymore? Blondie the Let me Guess, Today Dagwood Knocks Over the Mailman, Eats a Big Sandwich and/or Gets Yelled At by his Boss, Hey I was Right but That Doesn’t Make it Funny.

And just when a new comic strip emerges that might restore my faith in the funnies, the creator goes Hollywood. The Boondocks—touted as a pioneering African-American comic strip—is one of a handful of cartoons that can make me laugh out loud. However, immediately after the strip hit the big-time, the creator began outsourcing drawing chores to a lackey, too busy to waste time on the cartoon that made him rich and famous. Instead, he’s signing multi-million dollar television and film deals and delivering speeches and giving interviews explaining why black people can’t succeed in America.

If an enterprising syndicate executive would show some backbone, the current Muslim furor over cartoons could usher in a whole new era of comics; an opportunity to get people talking about the funny pages again. There’s an inane comic strip called Arlo and Janis that features a husband, a wife and their cat. It’s as funny as it sounds. I propose that Arlo and Janis be replaced immediately by a new strip, Allah and Jesus. Picture it: Two of the world’s most identifiable religious characters living under the same roof. Jesus, a fastidiously neat, uptight Tony Randall type who’s always cleaning up after Allah, a Fritos-munching, Judge Judy-addicted couch potato. Add a “Brokeback Mountain” undercurrent and you’re sure to generate some buzz. Oh sure, there’s bound to be complaints—boycotts, letters to the editor, beheadings—but if you wanna make a steak, you’ve gotta slaughter a few sacred cows.

Syndicates receive thousands of submissions each year from aspiring cartoonists and only a handful make the cut. If the recycled drivel we’re treated to day after day is any indication of the talent pool that’s available, I pray to God—or Allah, whoever is listening—that we’re never subjected to the rejects. Cartoonists, syndicates, newspaper editors, I implore you: Lambaste my religion if you wish, but please stop insulting my intelligence.

Hey everybody.

Today’s offering is a bit stream-of-consciousness. I’d hoped for more time to proofread and edit, but my wife got up earlier than expected. So, we’re heading out to brave the 20-below temperatures in search of coffee. Forgive any misspellings or poor grammar. My heart was in the right place, but my fingers were rusty.

STACY
She’s baaaa-aaaaack.

Stacy has been dragged kicking and screaming back into blogging. I’m glad. Since I’ve shirked my own writing duties on more than one occasion lately, she and I can now go back to tag-team blogging rather than feeling obligated to create 10,000 word, eloquent tomes each and every day.

Welcome back, Stacy. I trust you’re healthy and ready to go.

LINKS
Off to the right there are several links to fellow bloggers. I’d like to apologize to them because I haven’t been able to read their blogs nor comment lately. My schedule has been insane, and what’s more—like Stacy—I’ve grown burned out on blogging lately. It’s funny how the world is at a person’s fingertips on the Internet yet it’s still possible to grow bored with it. I experienced information overload and it was all I could do to periodically post a couple hundred words letting you know I’m not dead.

Read the links, these are all great writers and wonderful people.

Check out the blog of Art Howard while you’re at it. Like me, he’s a jaded former broadcaster who is eager to tell the world about his trials and travails in the radio industry. Like my own Internshit blog, Art’s blog is like a train wreck. He clearly went through some awful things during his attempt to become huge in radio, and he has some interesting tales to tell as a result. Too many broadcasters share "on the cross" stories, each eager to outdo the others with the humiliations they were willing to suffer in order to obtain a lucrative position as a $10 per hour graveyard shift board operator where their voice will never be heard by listeners nor the powers that be. Art is justifiably disenchanted and I for one find his writing fascinating.

ANIMAL CRUELTY
Yesterday I was listening to a popular drive-time talk show and the host mentioned a news story about a goat that was tied up in a frat house, trapped in a tiny pen wallowing in its own feces and urine. The truly “funny” part, according to the host, was that the goat was being held in preparation for a hazing event; frat boys had been led to believe that as part of the solemn ceremony leading to their acceptance into the organization, they would have to be “intimate” with the animal.

That, my friends, is comedy.

This is a talk show host I heretofore respected and admired greatly—in fact, I produced his show once while working as an intern at the station—and he thought this was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. His willing lackeys in the production booth guffawed right along with him. My stomach turned and I switched off the station.

There are two extremes when it comes to animal rights: People who take it so far that they stop at nothing, even damaging property and possibly hurting people, to further their causes; and people that care so little that they don’t think about what it must have been like for that goat, tied up in a filthy environment, any shred of dignity it could and should have felt stripped away so that spoiled frat boys could have a joke at its expense.

Me, I have no idea how the goat felt. For all I know it felt/thought nothing. It’s not a sentient being; for all it knows, being tied up in a frat house up to its knees in its own filth is the way life should be.

However, there’s the difference: Human beings know that’s not how you treat a living creature, regardless of how far down the food chain it is.

Therefore, morally who is worse? A person who is so blinded by their dedication to animal rights that they would do “immoral” or illegal things to further their cause, or a supposedly rational person who merely thinks a bona fide example of cruelty to animals is nothing more than fodder for a wacky drive-time radio show? I’m on the fence on this one. I’m historically a hard-core conservative and tend to side with the likes of Rush Limbaugh on such issues; that animals don’t have “rights” in that they don’t extend such rights to one another, and therefore aren’t deserving of “rights” from human beings. Rather, what they are entitled to is simply humane treatment. I really can’t argue with that logic.

Right now, however, I would almost argue that a person able to turn a blind eye to such a horrendous incident is a “worse” person than someone who identifies such a problem and is willing to go to any extremes to correct it. At least the latter person still maintains a shred of what sets them apart from our relatives in the jungle. Whether it’s a bullfight in Mexico, or cockfighting, or pitbull fighting, or having a laugh at the expense of a frightened, humiliated goat chained up in a frat house, I think we’ve crossed a dangerous line when life of any kind is exploited in the name of entertainment. Particularly on the one and only planet in the known Universe capable of harboring life. We should be cherishing it, but instead we put it on public display for ratings, money and radio hijinks.

My personal opinion is that anyone involved in the frat house incident should be forced to live under similar circumstances for a couple of weeks. Tie these frat boys up in a shower stall with a rope around their necks, and make them eat and sleep and shit and pee right where they stand. Let’s see how funny it is then, you spoiled little fucks.

There have been times—particularly when confronted by news stories such as that above—where I’ve wanted to drop all my hopes, dreams and goals and simply go to college to be a veterinary tech. I have a real soft spot for animals and often wish I could (or had) done something with my life to directly benefit them. However, I don’t have a gift for the hard sciences. I’m struggling with my Geography class, for Pete’s sake, and can only imagine how I’d do if faced with test tubes and formulas and such things.

Also, I know that veterinary techs make very little money. Now, that sort of flies in the face of benevolence, placing my own comfort above doing what’s “right.” However, I’m starting to realize that a person could do worse than using their skills and experience to earn a decent living, and then contribute to organizations that “do the dirty work.”

When I was recently working as a $9 per hour editorial assistant at the newspaper, my benevolence decreased markedly. I was contributing as little as $5 per month to the Humane Society and Animal Ark, two organizations I support wholeheartedly. This week I received my first paycheck from the Temple where I now work, and I got so excited at the prospect of earning a respectable living again that I immediately went online and made sizeable donations to both organizations mentioned above.

The last time I blogged about donating to such organizations, I had a couple of people e-mail me and say they can’t support such organizations because they don’t agree with their politics. I would argue that when dealing with issues such as the humane treatment of animals, politics is secondary to consideration of the organizations’ missions. Frankly, if I discovered tomorrow that the CEO of Animal Ark is a Communist dedicated to bringing America to its knees, it wouldn't change my monthly contribution one iota. If he/she is able to manage Animal Ark and provide food, shelter and ultimately homes to animals abused by extra-chromosoned morons in trailer parks, I say more power to them and I'll contribute whatever I can gladly.

WHO'S NEWS...???
Waddya think, Who's News tomorrow? Yes? No? Who gives a crap? We have a day-long family gathering in beautiful, historic Faribault, Minnesota tomorrow, but I'll see what USA Weekend has to offer and make the decision on the morrow.

Happy Friday.

I hate people that say that, by the way.

Today marks the end of Week Number Two of my new job at the synagogue. Actually, it's a temple. I should know the difference, but I don't. Sorry.

I'm at that awkward point in my job where people assume I know more than I do and start to express impatience when I haven't absorbed, via osmosis, every single detail of the position. By the end of two weeks I count myself lucky if I haven't accidentally stumbled into the women's restroom instead of the men's, yet today my direct supervisor has raised his eyebrow more than once, disappointed that his trusty sidekick isn't able to pull together all the info for next week's Board meeting. "It's just like we did it last month," he explained as patiently as he could. Well, I wasn't here. Remember?

It's really strange being a full-time student and a full-time employee. And a full-time husband, I almost forgot about that. I have "important" duties at my job that, if not accomplished, adversely affect a lot of people. My homework and class schedule is overwhelming. Not to mention crapping out a column every week.

I'm not trying to sound whiny, just trying to balance everyday demands with my nagging feeling that we're all clingingly miraculously and inexplicably to a chunk of rock hurtling through space.

Have a good weekend!

Stream of consciousness...

Taking a moment away from work to let you know what’s on my mind, because I know you’re wondering. Har-de-har-har…

Two interesting things happened at school last night. First, while I was waiting for my Geography classroom to be unlocked, I glanced downward at the floor outside the Biology lab. There was a little writhing pile of something. Further investigation revealed that it was a globule of food covered by ants. I watched the ants in orderly little lines file along the wall transferring their bounty from the hallway to their headquarters.

I considered with sadness the fact that when someone “in authority” witnessed the specter, the ants' work would soon be demolished. Some bug spray, perhaps merely the heel of a shoe; eventually a sizeable portion of their colony would be wiped out by either a member of the Facilities department or a cruel student.

Fast-forward to Geography class where we are currently discussing water and the fact that Earth is the only known planet where water exists in abundance, and water is (of course) crucial to the presence of life. Our instructor stated very matter-of-factly that the water “has just always been here.” Scientists don’t know where it came from; it’s just always been here.

As we get further into our studies I can understand how Evolutionists can justify their belief that planets formed over billions of years via gravitational pull sucking matter into spherical masses. At one point there must have been a pretty sizeable chunk of something broken off into smaller chunks resulting in the majesty we see around us.

However, now that the planets have formed, we’re told that collisions between planets and substantial wayward objects (asteroids, comets, etc.) are rare. Though there are an astronomical number of planets in existence, they’re spaced so far apart that the likelihood of collisions is rare.

So how did all those water molecules just happen to strike the Earth? Wouldn’t they have been dispersed equally in the vastness of space with a single molecule wandering aimlessly billions of light years away from the next? When the “Big Bang” occurred, did a wall of water travel through space until it miraculously struck and clung to Earth?

I hark back to those ants and realize what a miracle—and an impossibility—their existence is. They go about their business unaware and unconcerned by where they came from or why they’re here. They’re little computers, programmed to perform basic functions, but having just enough intuition that they can zero in on a new, unexpected food source and change their routine to take advantage of it. At least until an enlightened creature such as a human (or an aardvark) intervenes.

I laughed out loud this morning when I realized that my own existence mirrors that of the ants in a lot of respects. I go about my routine without really thinking about it, a mindless automaton performing tasks that matter not one iota in the great scheme of things. But amidst the monotony I am capable of pondering why I'm here. How I'm here.

Day by day I’m coming to the realization that I’m nearly ready—nearly—to stop believing in God and state unequivocally that I know he exists. The literal seven-day Creation story may be an allegory, Evolution may have occurred, there is literally an infinite number of possibilities explaining how we got here. However, the fact that matter even exists—a scientific impossibility—and the fact that sentient creatures exist alongside creatures that operate solely on instinct brings me this close (thumb and index finger a millimeter apart) to standing on a soapbox and saying “God exists. I don’t know in what form or even how, but he has to exist.”

Point to ponder: We’re told that there are quite possibly an infinite number of planets. If there are an infinite number of planets, why is their space between them? If there were truly an infinite number, wouldn't it be a solid mass? How can something infinite have nothingness in-between? Doesn’t the existence of space demand that there be a finite number of planets?

Happy Valentine's Day.

DAVE CHAPPELLE
My wife and I watched Chappelle’s Show for the first time recently, and I found it to be just about the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time. It’s “makes you think” funny, not “laugh ‘til you cry” funny like South Park, for instance.

I’m growing terribly weary, however, of seeing Chappelle being interviewed trying to explain his recent high-profile “breakdown.” Last night he was on the Actor’s Studio—which is strange, since he’s not really an actor—and while he made some valid points about stress in Hollywood making people do strange things, I nonetheless found his explanations and attitude wearisome. At one point Chappelle delivered a well-rehearsed diatribe against Hollywood, then kicked back in his chair and lit a cigarette. The audience stood and cheered; I rolled my eyes and wanted to gag.

I understand fully if Chappelle feels he was losing creative control of his television show. If the single show I saw is any indication of what he’s capable, the network would do well to leave him alone and let him do his thing. However, how many episodes of “Where are they now?” or “Behind the Music” need to be available before “artists” realize two facts of life about Hollywood: First, that everyone you encounter will try to screw you over, and second that you will be signed to a lucrative contract because they love your product, then they will do everything within their power to completely change that product.

For instance, as much as I rail against “According to Jim” starring Jim Belushi, I’m sure that the creative vision he had for the show was not the festering turd America is treated to each week. I’m sure he has to take a deep breath and steal a glance at his seven-figure paycheck for the week in order to summon the necessary courage to muddle through the week’s production. Last night while on the treadmill the person next to me watched “Two and a Half Men” (at full volume), and the weight I lost walking paled in comparison to how much weight I could have lost if I’d given in to my desire to vomit.

Chappelle is fortunate to have been offered such lucrative contract. He’s lucky that network executives have allowed him the creative freedom he’s been given. I’m afraid that Chappelle will have to swallow his pride and face the fact that the roomful of white men he referred to on the Actor’s Studio will continue to mess with the formula of his show. Yes, they will attempt to water it down, and yes in the name of courtesy—the courtesy of showing even a modicum of respect towards the people who are handing him tens of millions of dollars, and people who have been in the business considerably longer than he has—Chappelle will have to oblige. And still his show will remain one of the most cutting-edge programs available, and once his contract expires Chappelle will have resources at his disposal allowing him to produce the show he wants to produce, unfettered by the powers that be.

In the meantime, this whining multi-millionaire needs to stop complaining now, get the hell into the studio, and produce his show. We’re waiting.

COLUMN O’ THE WEEK
Dedicated to my lovely wife, whom I love very much.

Believe it or not, I’m a perfect husband. In theory. When my wife describes me to her friends they invariably respond “My God, you’re so lucky.” And that’s true insofar as I fit none of the typical male stereotypes, which should therefore translate to wedded bliss. As the saying goes, however, be careful what you wish for.

For instance, I do all the housework. Every woman’s dream, right? When we were dating, the fastidiousness of my apartment was a key reason my wife fell in love with me. Unfortunately I long ago crossed the line between neatness and a bona fide mental disorder. My wife discovered too late that my cleanliness is a manifestation of obsessive compulsive disorder; it represents the sole area in which I have control over my life. In all other respects I’m an absolute mess.

I possess a sense of humor which should make living with me a total scream, and it does. My wife frequently screams at me to “Stop making jokes, this is serious!” Humor is a deflection; a way to avoid confrontation. During arguments, rather than discuss issues like an adult, I lapse into Seinfeld mode: “Did you ever notice how when you’re angry, the vein on your forehead pulsates at the same tempo as ‘My Sharona’?” Not a good strategy.

I could also be considered a perfect husband because I’m emotional. I cry at movies. I cry if I see an animal dead on the road. I cry if I’m moody because it’s my time of the month. Seriously, I experience “phantom” PMS (Pansy Male Syndrome) during which I desperately need to be held. I’m more in touch with my own feminine side than I am with my wife’s, and there are times I’m sure she’d prefer I was an emotional rock rather than an emotional wreck.

More examples of my theoretical perfection: I shun—nay, despise—hunting and sports, staples of Minnesota male life. I don’t get together with the guys every Sunday and shout “Go Vikes!” at the hockey game on television, nor do I don blaze orange for weeks at a time returning home unshowered and unshaven, reeking of stale beer, with a dead animal in my vehicle. No, my wife gets to share each and every moment of her spare time with her neurotic, clingy husband, and each tick of the clock must bring to her mind visions of the pit and the pendulum.

My wife is perfect too—in theory—yet I still find things to nitpick about. I won’t recount them for fear of being labeled the Howard Stern of small town columnists, divulging every sordid detail of my personal life regardless of the consequences at home. Suffice it to say that countless things that went unnoticed or might even have been endearing while we were dating have, over time, developed into relationship-threatening issues.

Next to my computer there’s a photograph of my wife and I on our wedding day. It’s not one of those artsy photos where, for reasons known only to professional photographers, the subjects appear at best contemplative, at worst constipated. Rather, it’s a candid shot of us stealing a moment away from the hustle and bustle of the wedding, both of us in the throes of laughter, delighted to be in each other’s presence. On that day the quirks we find so annoying now went unnoticed or, perhaps more importantly, were simply unimportant.

Three years after that day, despite my growing list of shortcomings, she still adores me so much that she regularly and unflinchingly massages my sweaty feet after a 14 hour day of work and school. She sometimes surprises me at just the right time by stepping in and assuming housekeeping duties so I can focus on homework, or just collapse for a much-delayed respite. She bears the heavy burden of being the only person in the world in whom I confide that the middle-aged, bald shell of a man she’s married to is frightened to death that he’ll never find out what he wants to be when he grows up.

There are times I fear my wife will discover there’s someone better out there; a man who’s not just theoretically perfect, but truly perfect. And that’s the man I’m trying to become each and every day. I may not be perfect, but I hope I’m perfect for her.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Hello, it's me.

Okay, it was an awful week for writing.

I’ve decided that the best thing I can do for the blog is twofold. First, try to “free write” for perhaps ten minutes per day to stay in practice. Second, post my columns (as usual). Sunday is traditionally Who’s News day, but today I just couldn’t muster the time or vitriol to do it justice.

The big news: I left my position as Editorial Assistant for the Gazette. The full-time staff writer position I aspired to was put on indefinite hold and I could no longer justify commuting 60 miles each day for a 30-hour per week, $9 per hour position that would lead nowhere. Yes, you heard me right: $9 per hour. The experience was tremendous and I am still writing my column, so everything worked out well in that respect. This week’s column will be extra-special and I’ll post it tomorrow.

Last week I began a position as Communications Coordinator for a Minneapolis synagogue. I know what you’re saying: “But Admin Worm, you’re not Jewish.” Don’t tell them that. Seriously though, they have an open-door policy for Gentiles and while the position is stressful I think it might ultimately prove very rewarding. I’m responsible for updating their website, sending out newsletters; virtually every piece of public relations that leaves their doors will ultimately be my responsibility. Their material is very “dry” right now, and I hope to spice it up a little.

I’m somewhat of an armchair historian on the Holocaust and I therefore feel honored to work for such a place. I hope to learn a lot about the Jewish faith and about communications and I look forward to sharing that knowledge with you via my blog. The pay is awesome and the benefits are great. Combined with the sizeable tax refund I mentioned last week, my wife and I’s dream of owning home will likely come true this fall, though I screwed up the tax thing: Today I mailed the forms but forgot to include W-2’s and other attachments, therefore our refund will be delayed. I’m an idiot.

If you haven’t checked out my internship diary I encourage you to do so. I’ve received a surprising number of e-mails from all over the country about this. The host I worked for is apparently moving to Atlanta and I received an e-mail from the Atlanta Journal Constitution newspaper asking me to go “on the record” about my experience at the radio station. I’ll keep you posted on that. It’s funny, I long felt that I should beef up the journal and have it published, and all of a sudden it’s being circulated all over the place.

I’ll try to do better about writing this week, though with the full-time work schedule and crazy school schedule it will be difficult. Click on the links to my blogging pals, check back for my newspaper columns and feel free to chat amongst yourselves.

Column and forgiveness.

My apologies for the terribly sporadic blogging. I've gone through yet more changes lately that I hope to write about soon. To my three devoted readers and their 17 distinct personalities I express my heartfelt appreciation for your support.

Tonight I received a nice compliment. A little background: I'd heard rumors that the Dean of my college hates the school paper. He apparently believes much of it to be nonsensical, poorly-written, incendiary garbage...and I can't say I disagree.

My Creative Writing instructor told the class that for the first time - EVER - the Dean came out of his office and praised a column. Namely mine, the column "Non-Traditional Values" which I debuted in the first edition of the semester. Even though it was far from my best work, it nonetheless made me feel I was correct in my hunch that forsaking politics in favor of humor was a good move.

Which, ironically, leads to this Gazette column which I'm almost embarrassed by because it just doesn't "click." The good news is that this week my synapses have begun firing once again and I believe things will start to improve again.

So, there you go. I hope you're all well.

GAZETTE COLUMN

I’m a single computer keystroke away from $3,600.

No, I’m not forwarding a chain e-mail to 10 of my friends guaranteeing me financial prosperity. No, I’m not replying to a “spam” e-mail from a foreign corporation promising me a million dollars if I provide my credit card numbers and bank account information. And no, I’m not activating my adult website http://www.mediocre_columnists_gone_wild.com/ allowing you—for only $19.99 per month—the privilege of watching yours truly type these hysterical yet insightful columns wearing nothing but a smile.

Rather, I’m about to file my taxes electronically, and as I stare at the estimated refund of $3,600 I can scarcely believe my eyes.

That’s because this marks the first year my wife and I haven’t done “something stupid,” to use her words, resulting in us being burned by the taxman.

It’s important to note that the government’s definition of “something stupid” differs greatly from that of normal folks; i.e. people with hearts, souls and consciences. In our case, “something stupid” meant doing what we had to in order to stay alive.

For instance, two years ago I suffered a back injury that left me barely able to stand. For nearly six weeks, extending my arm in what looked unsettlingly like a permanent Nazi salute was necessary in order to alleviate pressure on a ruptured disc. This, of course, didn’t go over well in certain circles, but on the plus side it allowed me to work undercover for the Gazette exposing the seedy underbelly of the St. Croix Valley’s small but determined white supremacy movement. Needless to say I couldn’t work and therefore cashed in my meager 401K in order to survive. We paid dearly in taxes as a result.

The second year we were together it was my wife’s turn to do the “stupid thing:” She got laid off. This necessitated her liquidating her 401K, and being selfish we used the money for luxuries like rent and Ramen noodles rather than immediately set aside Uncle Sam’s generous portion of the loot. So again, at year’s end, we paid through the nose.

It’s the height of irony that government penalizes people for cashing in their retirement funds early, yet taxes capital gains and interest if those same people save and invest wisely. And it’s adding insult to injury drawing no distinction between people using their 401Ks to take a trip to Mazatlan vs. staving off homelessness.

As I face the prospect of a sizeable tax refund, I feel considerable guilt for previously scolding others for bragging about their refunds. “You’re giving the government a 12-month, interest-free loan,” I admonished, “If you’d have invested that money in an IRA—or even an interest-bearing savings account—you’d have come out further ahead.”

If. As my dad used to eloquently say, “If the dog hadn’t stopped to lick himself, he’d have caught the cat.” I’m the type of person who can’t keep a $10 bill in my pocket for 24 hours without blowing it at Starbucks on two Vente caramel high rises (with an extra shot of espresso, of course). If I’d have had access to $3,600 over the past twelve months, I’d have bought his-and-hers Ipods, several tattoos and all of Eminem’s concert videos and CDs. Well, maybe not that last one, but I sure wouldn’t have put any of it in the bank. I’m not recommending using the income tax system as a savings program, but if you have an immediate gratification problem like me, it’s a nice alternative.

As I prepared my tax return, I thought about how many times I’ve heard the “tax cuts for the rich” mantra over the past year. I wonder how many members of the class-envy crowd will discover, like I did, that tax cuts have indeed trickled down to the middle (in our case, lower-middle) class this year. I’m a proponent of a flat tax and look forward to the day when a single postcard will take the place of a voluminous, forest-depleting tax return. That said, I experienced considerable delight when discovering that apparently, some Senate sub-sub-subcommittee on taxation approved several deductions tailored specifically for yours truly during closed-door sessions last year. I may not be getting the same breaks as Bush’s oil company cronies, but I’m truly thankful for the $3,600 bone I’ve been tossed.

So here I sit—index finger hovering over the “Enter” key, one click away from a turning point in my life— wondering if it’s too good to be true. I’ve checked, double-checked and triple-checked every line and box. I’m relatively certain I haven’t lied intentionally. I have 90 days during which I can second-guess myself, or I can hit “Enter” and have three grand deposited into my checking account within weeks, hoping that if there are any discrepancies I’ll be looked at as a small fish and therefore be given a pass.

“Enter” it is. Let the Ipod shopping begin.

Who's News.

Sorry, busy week. Not a lot of time for ruminating, but there's always time for Who's News. After all, if people can take a moment out of their dreary lives and write letters asking nonsensical questions about pop culture, then I can surely take a moment or two to cut them down to size.

These are real questions sent by real people to the Who's News section of USA Weekend...

What is former Olympic skater Tara Lipinski doing now? ‑ Susan Salisbury, Palm Coast, FL

Tara Lipinski—who, as you may recall, had an embarrassing incident of drinking in public—is now focusing on her true passion: Drinking in private. Lipinski whiles away her time and the millions of dollars she amassed as a professional figure skater by ingesting alarming amounts of alcohol, watching old VHS tapes of her numerous appearances as an actress. She had appearances on such shows as Sabrina the Teenage Witch, Veronica's Closet, Early Edition and 7th Heaven.

Lipinski is shown here both in a 2001 Red Carpet photo taken at the Golden Globe Awards and in a 2005 mugshot snapped by L.A. police after Lipinski got her 17th violation for double-parking outside a liquor store where she loads up on her weekly supply of booze:

Is Chris Tucker planning to return to the big screen? ‑Catherine Berry, Belleville, MI

I assume you’re asking so that you can afford the theater at all costs, Catherine. Unless of course you’re the type who enjoys writhing through 90 minutes of Tucker’s incessant, tiresome mugging.

Anyway, Tucker won’t grace the big screen anytime soon. He has sequestered himself in South Africa where he’s taking an indefinite break from show business. I know what you’re thinking: That’s Dave Chappelle, you idiot. Give me some credit: I’ve been writing gossip for months.

Chris Tucker has a suite at the Palace of the Lost City resort where he is treated like a king, enjoying daily spa treatments and banquet-like meals, and he intends to stay there until just the right Rush Hour sequel script is created.

“I have some scruples,” said Tucker, munching grapes delicately placed into his mouth by a topless, tanned 17-year old resort worker. “I’m not going to put my name on the marquee on just any piece of Hollywood tripe, like ‘Daddy Day Care VII.’ Tell you what, let’s make a deal: You let me know when the script is ready, and I’ll tell you when I see Chappelle, the gloomy bastard. You hear those hammers pounding, Chappelle? That’s Hollywood reinforcing their levees, because everyone is crying a river for you, you pampered bastard.”

One of my favorite movies is "Ordinary People," for which Timothy Hutton won an Academy Award. Has he been in anything recently? ‑Sally Timmerman, Athens, GA

Yes, he's been in something: His palatial estate, polishing his Oscar to a lustrous sheen, waiting for the phone to ring. “I’ll do anything to get back in the public eye,” said Hutton nervously, “Anything. You understand me? I’ll even put on blackface and do ‘Daddy Day Care VII.’ Just find me a paying gig, for Christ's sake. I don't want to put my Oscar on Ebay.”

Author’s note: That’s the second reference in two weeks to blackface, and I only use it to make people uncomfortable. Plus, I love this picture.

With all the hurricane devastation in the South, I am surprised that we didn't see or hear from Jimmy Carter. Are he and his wife OK? ‑Julie Ferrell, Willowick, OH

Carter and his wife, June Carter, are fine: But their house is in shambles. Carter is more than a little pissed off by the fact that despite his years of service to “Habitat for Humanity,” a charity providing homes to the disadvantaged, he can’t seem to get anyone to commit to helping him rebuild. “I called six or seven Habitat recipients and explained my situation, and though they all sympathized I couldn’t pin them down on a day to come help me out,” said Carter bitterly, crossing another name off his list of potential helpers. “They all say ‘I’d love to, but I have to mow the lawn this weekend,’ or ‘We’re remodeling the kitchen.’ The lawn and kitchen of the homes I built for them, I might add!"

“Built for peanuts?” we asked wryly.

“It’s over for the peanut jokes,” seethed Carter, “I haven’t farmed peanuts for 30 years and I’m a little sick of the references. And Billy is dead too, so don’t ask how he is.”

If you would like to contribute to the Jimmy/June Carter rebuilding fund, go to Habitat for Humanity and click on “Down and out former presidents.”

Am I having a senior moment? I say that SAG Award nominee Ian McShane, star of "Deadwood," also was in "Lovejoy" in his younger days. Am I right? ‑Betty Nelson, Rock Hill, S.C.

Two answers, Betty. First, Ian McShane was indeed in Lovejoy when he was younger. Second, you are tragically having (yet another) senior moment. You don’t remember, but immediately after penning this letter to Who’s News you then mistook your male nurse for your high school boyfriend, chatting excitedly with him for a half hour about the upcoming senior prom. You then placed a box of old photos on the hotplate in your room at the assisted living center, nearly setting the entire place alight. Then you buried your face in your hands wondering why your husband hasn’t visited you recently, forgetting that he passed away 11 years ago.

Kind of a downer, eh? But chin up, Betty: You won’t remember it in ten minutes!

Special note: Regular readers of the Admin Worm blog know that my disdain for pop culture ends when I happen to like an artist, movie or television show. With that said, I’d like to express my true sadness at the passing of Al “Grandpa Munster” Lewis, who died yesterday at age 95. When I was a junior high school student I would rush home after school to watch Leave it to Beaver and the Munsters back-to-back. The Munsters provided me some of the greatest entertainment I ever enjoyed, and I wish Lewis’ family and fans the best as they grieve his passing.