Friday.

Not that anyone gives a rat’s ass, but I’ve had too much happening this week to find time to blog.

A couple of interesting notes. First, I was preparing to register for another semester of college at Normandale and discovered that I have but eight credits to go before I can transfer to the U of M. I’m taking six credits over the summer and plan to take a foreign language (finally) in the fall, meaning spring 2007 I’ll be (hopefully) attending a “real” college.

This blindsided me because it means the clock is ticking for me to decide on a major. Everything I consider turns out to not interest me. I considered Communications, but I’m currently working in Communications and it sucks ass. It’s all about pleasing people, eight hours a day, day in and day out, and that’s not what I’m about. I hate dealing with people. I’m good at it, but it eats away at my insides like cancer. I’m not into faux cancer, so Communications is out.

I considered teaching, but just don’t think I have what it takes. A lot of my fellow Normandale students are planning on teaching, and most are fresh-faced 19-year old girls who have visions of construction paper and safety scissors in their pretty heads. I feel like providing them each a link to Leab’s website to give ‘em a dose of reality.

What I want to do is be funny, but as far as I’m aware no programs in “funny” are offered anywhere. A friend who makes his living as a freelance business writer suggested that I look into the University of Wisconsin-Madison since that’s where the Onion was born. He says there are genuinely funny people on that campus.

I’m not sure the wife would smile upon a move to Madison. Madison doesn’t exactly scream progress.

I don’t know, I guess I’ll just ride it out and hope something hits me like a bolt out of the blue.

How did you guys decide on your careers? Are you happy?

Column

This week's column is little more than a tweaked version of last week's rant about the murder in Uptown. I think it bears repeating.

MURDER
Recently a young tourist was gunned down near Calhoun Square in Minneapolis. Thieves demanded—and received—a woman’s purse. As an afterthought the miscreants put a bullet in the skull of the woman’s son before making their getaway, leaving the mother to helplessly cradle her boy as his limitless potential leaked from his head onto an Uptown sidewalk.

The victim’s body was scarcely cold before battle lines were drawn. Some folks favor the eye-for-an-eye strategy as a deterrent for future crimes. They want the perpetrators apprehended, flogged within an inch of their lives, revived, flogged again and then hung in the public square as an example. Again, “some” favor this plan; others feel its weak point is that it’s too merciful.

Meanwhile, some people are steering attention away from the victim and focusing instead on “understanding” the killers. One such person called a talk radio program and advocated “more social programs” in order to stop the cycle of violence. For instance, provide free movie theater admission to disadvantaged youth; the “Idle Hands are the Devil’s Tool” theory as it were.

Minneapolis Mayor R.T. Ryback is more concerned with secondhand smoke than he is firsthand bullets, therefore I would like to use my admittedly limited wisdom to present a multi-tiered solution to the growing problem of violence that plagues the city of Minneapolis. I have no degree in social science nor am I a licensed clinical psychologist. My sole qualification is that I have never robbed or shot anyone, so I hope that counts for something.

The first step towards not becoming a thug, thief and/or murderer—and it sounds terribly cliché—is education. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that the perpetrators of the above-referenced crime are not members in good standing of Mensa. It’s unlikely that a couple of bioengineering students from the University of Minnesota decided to wrap up Spring Break by popping a cap in an unsuspecting tourist for pocket money. No, I’m guessing that the cowards in question never got beyond eighth grade and spell everything fonetically like the gangstaz and thugz glorified in hip hop culture which is, incidentally, an oxymoron.

Education is only part of the battle. The next step is putting those smarts to use for the good of society. Another hunch: The perpetrators of the Uptown robbery and murder were not 9-to-5 types who understand and appreciate the feeling of satisfaction after a day’s honest labor. They’re more likely accustomed to rousting themselves from bed around 4 p.m., loading their weapons in their debris-strewn public housing complex and then preying upon productive members of society for the remainder of the evening. The benefits aren’t much but the hours are good.

The final tier of my solution to Minneapolis’ problems is benevolence. When a person reaps the benefits of a free society—education and employment—I believe they can’t help but feel not just the desire, but perhaps an obligation, to “give something back.” None of the assailants were described as wearing caps with feathers—and the murder weapon was not a bow and arrow—therefore it appears that Robin Hood was not involved, so we can safely assume that the motive was self-serving rather than benevolent.

The sad irony is that every character trait listed above describes the murder victim to a tee. This was no thug, nor even an ordinary, working stiff just wanting to be left alone, though the loss of such an individual would have been tragedy enough. He was a college graduate working towards his PhD. His college dissertation could have led to amazing strides in the field of medicine. He was active in a program helping minority children learn science. He was the type of person who, by all accounts, would have given up any money he had on his person to help someone in need. In fact, as a starving college student he took a carload of supplies to victims of Hurricane Katrina. Yet his life was worth no more to his assailants than the unknown contents of a handbag.

This is the obligatory part of a column dealing with tragedy where the silver lining is customarily discussed. “If there is to be a positive outcome of this atrocity,” it would begin, “then those left behind need to carry on the victim’s legacy by (insert platitudes here).”

But that’s bull. The fact is the victim is worth nothing to us dead. I’m saddened and infuriated that a person who was part of the solution was gunned down in cold blood by a couple of barbarians who epitomize the problem. One of the “good guys” was murdered by thugs whose collective class, intelligence and value as human beings would fit in the victim’s pinky.

I don’t wish to “understand” such people, nor do I intend to mark the check box on my tax return donating a dollar to the “Movie admission for thugs” program. I’ve tried to temper my beliefs in recent days, attempting to find a suitable middle ground, but regarding this crime I have to side with the folks in the public hanging camp, with a little extra flogging thrown in for good measure. The perpetrators of this act are responsible not only for the life they wantonly snuffed out on an Uptown street, but for the hundreds of lives that will now be less enriched by the victim’s absence, and for the myriad citizens whose lives are threatened so long as animals in human form are allowed to prowl our streets.

Hold on tight.

HOMELESS GUY
He’s from northern California.

He came to Minneapolis to visit his ailing mother, who tragically died in his arms shortly after his arrival.

To exacerbate matters, he was jumped by a group of people—“blacks,” in his words—who took his identification including birth certificate, driver’s license, etc.

He needs five dollars—just five dollars—which will provide him enough to find shelter tonight.

I dug in my pocket and pulled out five quarters. I had visited Caribou Coffee just moments before and received change. I always put all non-quarter change in the tip jar and keep the quarters for myself for emergency parking money.

But this guy approached me, and possibly because I was standing in the ominous shadow of my workplace—an institution which, after all, extols the virtue of Social Justice—I gave him my change despite the fact his story was clearly horseshit.

I tried to feel good about doing this. After all, as I blogged once a long time ago, it’s not up to me to decide how he spends his money, it’s merely my job to lend whatever assistance I can. This was a piece of wisdom imparted to me by the former editor of my college newspaper.

Then it dawned on me that I had just given an obvious liar more money than I tipped the three people who worked very hard to provide me my coffee at Caribou. Whereas the staff at the coffee shop greeted me warmly, provided me exactly what I asked for and put their all into serving me and earning a living for themselves, all this guy on the street did was put his hand out, lie to me, then: He had the gall to ask for more. He wanted the full five dollars from me. He didn’t get it.

My resolution is that from here on out, every bit of change I receive at the coffee shop—including quarters—goes into the tip jar. They work very hard, just as I do and just as everyone reading this blog does. I don’t know what the real story of this gentleman on the street is, but I do know it’s not the one he told me and I feel like a heel for giving him money.

PORN LOOPHOLE
This week’s edition of the New Yorker contains an article about the evolution of Playboy Magazine’s centerfolds over the years. They devote an entire glossy page to several decades worth of centerfolds presented in full-frontal glory. It’s not your typical New Yorker “artsy” nudity; rather, it’s the very type of stuff a “progressive” publication like theirs would normally profess to abhor: Good, old-fashioned objectification of women.

MORE NEW YORKER HYPOCRISY
I will likely explore the following in more detail at a later time.

The aforementioned edition of the New Yorker also contains a lengthy piece on global warming. It’s the typical hand-wringing journalism: We are perilously close to a worldwide catastrophe unless drastic measures are undertaken immediately to curb the use of fossil fuels.

By the way, I believe that global warming may indeed be happening, and what’s more I think it might be largely attributable to our insatiable use of petroleum. That’s not the point. The point is, the New Yorker article presents a wonderful, typical example of the gaping hole in the arguments used by—for lack of a better term—left-leaning folks.

The article paints a portrait of concerned people basically sitting on the edge of their seats waiting—oh so impatiently waiting—for a government decree that forces all of us to curb our use of fossil fuels. Raise gas prices to deter petroleum use. Enact rigid standards on fuel-efficiency for behemoth SUVs. Sign onto the Kyoto Protocol, for Christ’s sake.

The gaping hole in the argument, in my opinion, is the whole government mandate aspect. Every day I see a hundred cars on my commute bearing bumper stickers warning of the dangers of global warming. I read article after article like the above illustrating the problem and outlining the solution. The very place I work for is heavily into the global warming thing, going so far as to host a prominent person in the field at an upcoming symposium.

Never mind that the president of our organization—a four-foot-five, 80-pound woman—drives an SUV so large that she can barely reach the door handle.

If every person professing a belief in global warming were to “put their money where their mouth is,” a great deal of the problem could be curbed. Junk your car. Move close enough to your employer that you can walk to work. Only purchase goods that are made and sold locally, ensuring that fossil fuels are not consumed in order to ship them.

After all, the mantra of the same types of folks supporting drastic changes in our lifestyle seems to be “choice.” My body, my choice. Keep your laws off my body. Yet when it comes to choices that could very well save the earth—at least according to these folks—well, those choices need to be declared from on high. In the meantime, the hypocrites crying “The sky is falling” will continue to drive the half-mile to the convenience store to buy a loaf of bread, purchase baby carriages for their numerous spawn (who ironically will go on to consume fossil fuels themselves) made of plastic which comes from—surprise—petroleum, etc. etc. etc.

I love this planet and I marvel daily at its beauty and complexity. When I see what we’re doing to it I get sick to my stomach. However, I value freedom as much as I value Mother Earth, and I truly believe that persuasion, not coercion, is the key to making the changes that desperately need to be made.

ORIGINS
I had dinner with Jules last night and after my one beer my mind turned philosophical. Jules is used to that, and I thank her.

We got to talking philosophy and whether or not there is a God.

As you’re all aware, I’ve droned on and on about Origins and how nothing I read supporting the theory of Evolution bothers discussing origins. Recently it was announced that “in the beginning,” to coin a phrase, the Universe was the size of a marble. In a trillionth of a second it expanded to what we now see around us.

Well, that clears that up.

I just re-read “The Salmon of Doubt” by the late Douglas Adams and within that book is an extemporaneous speech he once delivered about life, the universe and everything. Within that speech he mentioned the “Tautology Argument” of Origins, and for whatever reason during my most recent reading of the piece—probably my tenth time through it—a light bulb went on.

Here’s what dictionary.com has to say about tautology:

Needless repetition of the same sense in different words; redundancy.

An instance of such repetition.

An empty or vacuous statement composed of simpler statements in a fashion that makes it logically true whether the simpler statements are factually true or false; for example, the statement "Either it will rain tomorrow or it will not rain tomorrow."

Adams’ point was that arguing Origins is meaningless: It’s here. Yes, it’s impossible whether you’re a Creationist, Evolutionist, or Intelligent Design theorist. The fact is it’s here, let’s just figure out what we can figure out.

I can hear my friends exclaiming “That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you all along, you moron,” and I can hardly blame them. Sorry I’ve put you all through the torment in recent months.

Anyway, reading Adams’ speech got me thinking about some Creationism vs. Evolution points. Here are some random thoughts:

According to Creationism, Adam and Eve were created in one fell swoop as sentient beings. Tracing their lineage points to a Creation around 6,000 years ago. Further, Adam and Eve ate from the Tree of Knowledge and were cast out of Paradise. Now, wouldn’t two sentient beings who had just partaken of the Tree of Knowledge—two physical beings who had walked on the earth alongside the Almighty himself—have had the presence of mind to record what they had observed? Would not such valuable information have been protected at all costs; perhaps a signed, notarized document from Adam himself stating “Sorry I fucked everything up”???

Intelligent Design theorists claim that a Designer had his hand in everything from the Beginning. How does that benefit the Designer? Are we simply a laboratory experiment in the eyes of the Creator? If He/She/It is capable of dictating the progress of Evolution over a period of billions of years, wouldn’t that same being have the power to simply snap their fingers and make it all happen? If we evolved under the watchful eye of a Designer, at what point were we deemed “worthy” of possessing a soul?

Given the Tautology Theory and simple common sense arguments, believe it or not Evolution currently makes the most sense to me. I do not currently see any way that a God exists, nor do I see why said God would continue to hide themselves. It seems to me that things have eroded enough here on Earth for the Almighty—if He exists—to intervene and clean house.

I will close with what I told Jules at the end of our philosophical conversation last night: “Space men.” I truly believe it is space men. This weekend, do yourself a favor and watch the movie “Contact” starring Jodie Foster. While she does not, unfortunately, bare her breasts in this film like she did in “Nell,” this movie nonetheless is fascinating to me because I think it presents the most likely scenario for the answer to life, the universe and everything: It’s just always been. There are civilizations out there that have been around for eons, and their purpose as they evolve is to spread the good news: That life is forever a mystery, but for whatever reason it has to continue.

Hello, everybody.

Slow week writing. Busy as usual. Columns to write, family to entertain this weekend, so we'll see what transpires.

Anyway, have a good weekend.

Murder.

A little stream-of-consciousness blog for you.

This morning, as part of my job as a Communications Coordinator position for a non-profit religious organization, I went to Kinko’s and created a poster for an upcoming “Million Voices for Darfur Action Night.” A week from tomorrow, a couple hundred concerned citizens will converge on this place and make phone calls and send postcards to the President and their legislators about genocide in the Darfur region of Africa.

Which is all well and good, mind you. I am steadfastly anti-genocide.

What tripped me out just a bit, however, is the fact that as I trimmed the edges of my poster, I looked across the street and saw Calhoun Square, which is Ground Zero for the fashionable, “progressive” Uptown area of Minneapolis. What chilled me is the fact that last weekend, a young tourist was murdered on the very corner I was looking at.

Here’s a link to the full story.

He was in town with his mom visiting friends. A couple of pieces of trash approached his group and demanded his mother’s purse. She complied. Then they shot her son in the head and he subsequently died.

This story has really bothered me the last couple of days, probably because I’m so familiar with the area. I work near there, just a couple weeks ago my wife went there—alone—to get a pair of glasses after work. This weekend my brother and his wife will be visiting from Lincoln, Nebraska and might very well end up on that very corner.

I had a friend e-mail me this week and tell me that she thinks about death a lot. She is “with child” and for some reason has what she seems to understand is an irrational fear that she might die during childbirth. No one has been able to quell this fear. “I’m scared to die,” she wrote. “I never want to.”

It’s hard for me to understand this point of view, because as a person who has claimed to feel suicidal at times, I do not fear death. There are times, frankly, I feel I would welcome it. I can tell you one thing for certain, however: I would rather face another 50 years of abject depression and misery than have my life snuffed out by a creature that cannot be labeled “human” like the pair of miscreants who murdered that tourist on the corner of Lake and Hennepin in Minneapolis.

I think about this young man’s brains leaking onto the sidewalk. He was an extremely well-educated individual; he had at least one degree and was continuing to pursue education. All of his efforts amounted to no more than a stain on the pavement, while at least two people—whose combined brainpower would fit in the now-deceased young man’s pinky—chose to remove him from this earth for nothing more than a purse containing an unknown amount of money: Perhaps none. That is what this man’s life was worth to these “people.”

How would I react if I got “the call” saying that my brother, visiting from out of town, had been gunned down in a robbery? What if my wife, on a routine after-work shopping trip, was approached by “people” like this and raped and/or murdered? Think of all the lives impacted by this senseless atrocity. Easily hundreds of people might be devastated by the domino effect of grief, all because two morons wanted to steal a purse.

Yesterday I was listening to a talk radio show and a caller suggested two things to prevent such events in the future. First, he suggested that Lake Street be renamed “Martin Luther King Boulevard” in order to give the residents of the area the dignity they deserve. Second, he demanded “more social programs.” This is a quote. Further, he said that young men such as the murderers need to be given cars so that they do not have to rely on buses to get to and fro, and they also need to be given “tokens” they can redeem for free admission to movies so that they don’t have time on their hands.

Sadly, I wish I could say the caller was being ironic; that he was actually a die-hard conservative trying to prove a point. However, this person is a regular caller and he steadfastly believes what he said. Yes, the shooting itself was a tragedy, but what’s done is done. What we need to focus on now is providing free movie admission to Somali gang members so that they don’t choose the obvious alternative: Gunning down tourists.

My mind is, of course, reeling with responses to this man’s suggestions. My first reaction is to simply respond to his suggestions for more social programs. As a struggling, middle-class guy I can tell you that nights out are a rarity for me. Going to a movie is a rare privilege, and to think that someone is suggesting that a portion of my wages be used to provide free admission to the “underprivileged” is an outrage to me. And my vehicle is a 1997 Ford Ranger that is on its last legs; I pray daily that it sees me through my remaining couple years at school. But of course, free vehicles need to be provided to people less privileged than me, because it is an affront to their dignity to resort to public transportation.

But the thing that really has me scratching my bald pate is the thought—the fear—that there are people who believe such programs would work. Like the mythical “lost chord” in music will open one’s mind to the wonders of the Universe, somewhere out there is the magical social program that will cure all our ills. All that is required is patience and the bottomless pot of money sitting at the state capitol.

I would offer that part of the answer to society’s ills bled to death on a Minneapolis street last weekend. A productive person—an increasing rarity in our society—was gunned down for a purse in front of his mother. All the good that characterized him, all the education he had worked hard to achieve, all the plans he had to make his own life count and thereby provide a trickle-down effect to society at large: All these things were hosed into the gutter by a clean-up crew after evidence was gathered.

One week from tomorrow “A Million Voices for Darfur” will ring out from a building just six blocks from where that young man was gunned down in cold blood. By that time his story will be relegated to a blurb on page 10. By that time I will be creating the next poster for the next cause du jour, and once again I will peer out the window and see that corner, and I will pray to God or whatever forces greater than me control this Universe and ask Him/Her/It to protect my wife, my family, and my friend who fears death. Comfort that family who will grieve the rest of their lives. Give wisdom to those who pity the perpetrators.

Wow, sorry.

Yesterday's post was angry, and I apologize if anyone was taken aback.

It was actually a great representation of what writing ideas look like raw, before the "funny" is later injected into them. Good humor is, in my opinion, based on anger. Arrested Development, for example, is angry...and funny. According to Jim is not angry, and thus not funny. Still attracts a million morons a week, though.

I'm hoping that the Sharon Stone bit will turn into my next column for the Gazette, but first I have to allow the Willie Wonka machine in my head work on it, extracting the rage and adding lighthearted humor. The result will hopefully be a piece allowing readers to share in my bemusement at the enigma that is Sharon Stone while belying the very real desire I felt to leap through the television screen and rip the jugular vein from her throat, spraying her $1 Million imported rug and adopted son with a steaming mist of her blood.

Anyway, here's this week's Gazette column. It's about drugs.

MEDICINAL MARY JANE
The Minnesota Senate Judiciary Committee passed a bill last week which would legalize medicinal use of marijuana in our state. I can picture the committee members adjourning after a long day’s debate, mopping sweat from their brows and slapping one another on the back exclaiming “Nice work, everybody: It’s Miller time.”

Democrats on the committee favored the bill; Republicans were agin it. I can only assume that this was due to differences in their respective experiences with marijuana back in the day. The Dems likely used pot as a gateway to free love and mind expansion while the Republicans simply clung to their beds for dear life while the dorm room spun, vowing to spare others similar agony.

God bless those brave Republicans for standing their ground. Nothing exudes family values like fighting tooth and nail to ensure that terminally ill people are prohibited from tolerating—if not enjoying—the remaining months of their lives. Buck up, GOP: You may have lost the medicinal marijuana battle but there’s still a chance to outlaw dandelions before a generation of impressionable youngsters begins wantonly experimenting to see if they like butter.

Perhaps we should outlaw the Make-A-Wish Foundation while we’re at it. Sure, eight-year old Billy paints a sorrowful picture wasting away in his hospital bed from the ravages of childhood Leukemia. But I for one don’t want it on my conscience if he breaks an arm during that trip to Disneyland he keeps harping about. Anyway, a week in the Magic Kingdom can’t hold a candle to the prospect of soon being escorted into Paradise by a God who—for reasons only He in his infinite wisdom can comprehend—killed an eight-year old boy slowly and painfully.

The question is not whether marijuana possesses medicinal qualities but rather what the definition of “medicinal” is in the first place. During my four decades on this orb I have been prescribed any number of medications. Some were to cure ailments while others simply eased the pain. Countless Baby Boomers can attest to Mary Jane’s prowess in the latter respect, and whether a dying person seeks such relief in pill form or swathed in Zig-Zag rolling papers hardly seems to be the business of Big Brother.

I’m of the mind that when it comes to perks for the terminally ill, medicinal marijuana should be the tip of the iceberg. Want to drive on the sidewalk? Go for it. Don’t want to pay income taxes? No problem. Always had the desire to “streak” a Ponies game? Be our guest; just let the Gazette know so we can have a photographer there. Want to do all of the above with lungs full of pot smoke so thick it could be sliced with a Ginsu knife? Knock yourself out: YOU’RE DYING.

I can hear the cacophony of voices from crotchety St. Croix Valley residents. “Bonnett’s a doper,” they mumble, and it’s understandable; drug use would go a long way towards explaining the content of my columns. Alas, my writing is attributable solely to little old me, not THC. Call me a doper, a pothead or a crazed left-wing bleeding heart, but I simply don’t lie awake nights worrying that we’re one step away from opening the Stillwater branch of Needle Park because a bedridden, terminal patient weighing 80 pounds—half of which is cancer—rolls a doobie under the watchful eye of their physician.

I propose we gather the volumes of evidence both refuting and proving the medicinal effects of marijuana, put it in a big pile, light it on fire and have a hog roast. We’ll invite the Senate Judiciary Committee and every terminally ill person in the state of Minnesota. Let’s make a quick detour to DFL Party headquarters to secure a couple pounds of Colombia’s finest, assemble the remaining members of Steppenwolf and then embark on a magic carpet ride together.

The Democrats on the Judiciary Committee fought for and earned their right to party like it’s 1999. And the Republicans—well; the GOP has provided an opportunity for a wonderful teaching moment about the medicinal affects of pot. Medicinal marijuana couldn’t possibly cure what ails the Republicans on the Judiciary Committee; that would require invasive surgery to remove the broomsticks from their collective derrieres. However, a puff or two of wacky bakky might help them realize that sometimes a person has to look beyond doing what’s righteous and simply do what’s right.

Anger.

Note: Surprise, Blogger is being picky about photos tonight, so screw it. I'm posting this and going the hell to bed.

ANGRY
Today was an angry and frustrating day.

I took my lunch break—and oh how I hate that phrase, by the way: “Here’s your one hour of time for you smack dab in the middle of eight hours of something you hate”—and fully intended to write a good blog. Instead I called to my wife and frantically babbled about how meaningless our lives are then cried for the remaining 45 minutes, wondering how on earth I would regain my sanity and make it through the afternoon.

Of course, I did…I always do…and my mom would attribute it to God. As the verse goes—I don’t remember which one and I don’t care to look it up—the Man Upstairs in his divine grace will never give you more than you can handle. We’re instructed by the Good Book to pray “Thy will be done,” “If it’s your will,” blah blah blah…and one day it struck me that I’m really praying for no more than I could accomplish by myself. By praying, I’m doing little more than going through self-affirmations: “Today you will encounter shit that will drive you crazy. Don’t let it. You’ve got through it before and you’ll do so again.”

Sometimes I look at my schedule and the demands I place on my brain and wonder how I do it, and how much longer I can last. It seems like a bona fide nervous breakdown is always just on the horizon and I manage to push it away long enough to get through the day at work, get through school, churn out another column or two, blah blah blah. Lately, however, it seems like the “sane” times are becoming fewer and further between.

I remember my band days and how when I was dealing with depression and insomnia I got through some gigs that I thought would drive me insane. There was a place we played in Elk River, Minnesota—Broadway Bar and Pizza—that was always particularly hard to play. It was in the boondocks necessitating a two-hour drive in the worst rush-hour traffic imaginable, and there were never—ever—good crowds there. It was a shitty bar.

Many was the gig night when, after setting up equipment and doing sound check, I would retire to my pickup truck and cry. Literally cry my eyes out until 8:55, and then I’d dry my eyes and go inside and play.

I remember vividly that the nights I felt the worst were invariably the nights I did the best. Playing ear-splitting rock and roll was the best outlet I had for giving a hearty middle finger to the Cosmos; to whatever Powers lurked out there that seemed bound and determined to make life as close to unbearable as it could be.

The thing that sucks about having creative hobbies—music and writing, for instance—is that you can’t do them brain-dead. You need your senses to be sharp in order to pull it off. Right now, for instance, I’m typing my fingers off but my brain isn’t sharp. My eyes are glazed over and I’ve no doubt that what I’m writing is shit that will matter little to me and less to others, and I wonder “What’s the point?” I’m excited about writing; I want to write plays, books, screenplays, columns, etc., but after working all day and going to school at night, my brain is drained. I can see how people fall into the couch potato routine. It’s so easy to say “Tomorrow I’ll write a chapter of my book, next week I’ll do comedy,” and before you know it you’re 55 fucking years old and have no options left other than to stick it out another 10 years at the job you hate, collect your gold watch and measly pension, and get a part-time job distributing carts at the local Wal-Mart in order to afford your 30 monthly prescription drugs.

I get angry. I’m angry at Sharon Stone for going on Dateline NBC last night and giving America an insider’s view into her life as a multi-millionaire single parent. Stone’s willingness to share her life just happens to coincide with her appearance in Basic Instinct II, a movie in which she proudly reports she shows the world her pussy again. She’s out to prove that women can still be desperate for attention—excuse me sexy—at age 50. She proudly displayed her young son and told America that “You can never really be sure if you’re ready for parenthood; you just have to throw caution to the wind and go for it.”

It might be more apt to say that “You can never really be sure if your housekeeper is ready for nanny-hood; you just have to throw caution to the wind, give her a raise, and hope she doesn’t smother the child.”

I cannot wait until her child grows up so that Sharon Stone has to explain how all the opulence surrounding them came about: “Because your mom showed the world her pussy,” she’ll explain, “Twice. Your schoolmates will snicker at you behind your back because your mom is the actress who took cinema down a notch by doing a gaping wide beaver shot in a mainstream motion picture.”

I hope to God Joe-fucking-Eszterhas is choking on his own vomit right now.

I’m angry at hypocrites. The place I work for pushes the idea of “sustainability;” they’re going so far as to host an evening with Arctic explorer Will Steger who will give a presentation explaining that global warming is real and is caused by the wanton consumption of fossil fuels.

The President of our organization, by the way, drives a Cadillac Escalade SUV to cart her 80 pound, five-foot frame around the Twin Cities. She consumes about 10 gallons of gas every day driving to the building for her daily five-minute appearance.

Also at my place of employment Social Justice is the order of the day. They are excited as can be that Al Franken, the writer and comedian, might become a member of their organization if and when he decides to make his Senate candidacy official. Al wants to repeal tax cuts, raise the minimum wage and provide more social programs, with no litmus test for the latter, of course: The poor are universally above reproach. The United States Treasury is little more than a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow where money magically appears to be distributed to the less fortunate.

Al Franken and his ilk never make the distinction between the rich and the producers. Teddy Kennedy is “the rich.” Senator Mark Dayton is “the rich.” Bill Gates is a producer. Even Al Franken is a producer. When the hell will people stop vilifying people who provide valuable products and services to the people of this world? I’m glad Bill Gates is rich; I thank him every fucking day for the computers I use. I learned to type on a typewriter and I would never go back to those days. I thank Mr. Gates for his contributions to my life and hope he enjoys every cent of the fortune he has earned.

I am angry at the people who are involved in the “Voices for Darfur” campaign where I work. Not angry because they want to help, but angry because they think their efforts will help. If a campaign of genocide, torture and rape isn’t enough to get the attention of the world community, then why the fuck will a postcard-writing campaign from Minneapolis, Minnesota suddenly do the trick? You want to make a difference? Why don’t you and your thousand cohorts who profess to care more than the rest of us put your money where your mouths are, purchase one-way airline tickets and go to Darfur? Put your bodies between the murderers and the victims just like brave protestor stopping the tank in the famous Tiananmen Square photograph.

And while you’re at it, why don’t you ask the folks in Darfur who are starving and being killed to help themselves by curtailing their breeding until matters are resolved? There are those who will think this is an utterly callous thing for me to say, and you can think what you want. Ever since I was a child I’ve been shown pictures of starving children in Africa in order to tug on my heartstrings and loosen my purse strings. It occurs to me that despite the fact that they still haven’t gotten the whole human-to-food ration thing figured out yet, they keep having children.

It's the same in our own nation: You can't cut off welfare. What about the children? Let the paternity tests begin. I will bet you a cool million dollars that not one of those children is mine. Now, if you want my tax dollars to help track down the fathers and make them pay, now you have my attention.

And for Christ’s sake, please save me the standard line of how evil Republicans have curtailed spending for family planning in the Third World. I for one am heartily sick of having our nation, Republicans in particular, blamed for every failing on the face of the earth. If you don't like us, fine: Quit taking our fucking money.

Told you I was angry.

Stream o' Consciousness.

The title is a little "shout out" to the Irish readers in honor of St. Patrick's Day.

If you want to know where I was one year ago on March 17, read my Internshit blog (http://internshit.blogspot.com/). It was a lot of fun, let me tell you.

WHAT'S MY MOTIVATION?
I’m tired and don’t feel like writing, but I’m trying once again to get into the habit of writing daily, regardless of my motivation.

It was an interesting week for my writing “career.” My last two Gazette columns were a true struggle. Two weeks ago I nearly quit my position as a columnist. Last week meeting my deadline was so stressful and the writing seemed so unrewarding that I e-mailed my editor asking if I could switch from a weekly column to once every two weeks.

She e-mailed me back to say that in her opinion, I’m one of the best columnists the paper has. One of the staff writers sent me an e-mail raving about my columns, particularly the most recent one dealing with gay marriage.

Finally—and this was the supreme compliment—another Gazette columnist, who once wrote a column that was an angry rebuttal of one of my columns, wrote to tell me that he felt my gay marriage column was the best editorial he’s ever read about the subject.

So, I humbly told my editor that I will gladly resume my weekly column despite the fact that it’s a struggle. And I have found that even the kind words and encouragement of my colleagues isn’t enough to make the ideas flow easily, nor do they give me the confidence I need to feel my writing is decent and that I make a difference in the world. I know damned well that 6 p.m. Sunday will roll around and I will be nearly apoplectic wondering how I’ll ever meet my deadline.

Yet somehow I know the idea(s) will come and that I’ll write a decent column. Not an earth-shattering one, nothing worthy of a Pulitzer Prize, but a column nonetheless that some people will enjoy, some will hate, and the vast majority will utterly ignore.

I truly believe it is a privilege to have words in print. The only thing that kept me from quitting my column was the fact that I am one of very few people granted that privilege and I would be a fool to throw away the forum. It is disappointing to me when I feel I don’t live up to that privilege, but I figure if even once a month I can churn out a column I’m truly proud of, that’s progress.

By the way, I’m not sharing this to pat myself on the back. I’m just trying to give you some insight—if you care—into what goes into this writing “process.” I always had illusions that the life of a writer was a rosy one; you lounge around the house in your jammies drinking coffee, and when inspiration strikes you do as the muse tells you. I’m discovering that writing is as laborious as any manual labor position, and there are days I wish I could leave it all behind and be satisfied with a mindless profession.

That will never happen, of course. And I’m grateful for the privilege.

CAGED HUNT
Tonight the Daily Show on Comedy Central sent a reporter to engage in the same type of quail “hunt” that Vice President Dick Cheney was engaged in when he shot his friend in the face.

I put “hunt” in quotes because it is anything but a hunt. It’s a slaughter. They are farm-raised birds, not wild birds. The “hunters” agree beforehand how many and what type of birds they wish to bag. The proprietors then take the birds to a field where they—get ready for this—shove them upside-down into bales of straw from which they can’t escape. The “hunters” then go to the field where their dogs dislodge the birds, and of course the “hunters” have their guns trained on the spot where the newly-freed bird will emerge, and they kill them one-by-one.

There is nothing sporting about this. I’m not a hunter, but I can at least understand how some people might enjoy the “sport” of a true hunt, particularly if the animal they kill ends up on their family’s table. However, the thought that people go on these excursions simply for the sheer delight of slaughtering animals just for the kill…I just don’t know what to say. I find it repugnant and what I saw tonight was enough to make me lose any shred of respect I may have had left for the Vice President.

SEAL CLUBBING
Speaking of cruelty to animals, it’s that time again: Join the seal club, the annual hunt has begun. People whose job it is to bludgeon Disney characters to death as the animals’ mothers watch in agony will once again be taking to the ice.

I was enlightened as to this practice as a child, and every year the thought of it makes me nauseous. I know that animal rights organizations attempt to disrupt the hunts, and frankly I’m of the mind that to make it fair, a certain number of hunting licenses need to be distributed to PETA members allowing them to club a few seal clubbers to death. There are those who will believe my stance to be extreme, and to these people I encourage you to watch a video the practice—I’m sure they’re available on-line—and tell me anyone that can participate in such a thing truly deserves to be called a human being.

THE WAR IN IRAQ
A new campaign has begun in Iraq; reportedly the biggest air strike since the first days of the war. It is expected to continue for days.

More death. More destruction. More money funneled into what could very well be an utterly hopeless cause.

As you sit in your homes tonight, or as you go about your business at work on Friday, pause a moment to think of what’s occurring half a world away. Planes are dropping bombs that are killing people. Each of these bombs is paid for by the sweat of your brow. This blood is in essence on your—my—hands. As you create spreadsheets, make sales, get things done…people in Ivory Towers are making decisions on your behalf that mean life or death for thousands of people.

God bless America.

DEMOCRATIC OPPORTUNITY
As a former die-hard Republican Bush supporter, I am begging the Democrats: Give me a reason to vote for you. Drop your impeachment campaign. You are wasting your time on bringing down a lame-duck president. This nation is disintegrating around us. The world has become a frighteningly unstable place. George Bush is a non-entity; he will be out of office in a very short time. Impeaching George Bush will accomplish nothing but the swearing in of President Cheney, at which point the "Impeach Cheney" rally cry can be sounded, and so on 'til we've impeached everyone down to the Secretary of Agriculture.

Balance the budget. Cut spending—ALL spending, from social spending to military spending—stop the madness in Darfur. Protect our borders. I have vowed to vote Libertarian which many have told me is the equivalent of throwing my vote away. The Republicans have proved they have no balls. What say ye, Democrats: Have you the balls to win my vote? I am listening. I am hearing nothing.

BLOODY REVOLUTION?
In my Geography class last night, we engaged in a brief discussion of revolution. The teacher has been to Latin America and told the class that one thing America doesn’t want is a bloody revolution.

Today the Senate passed a budget that allows the national debt to exceed nine trillion dollars.

Think about that. People who presumably represent you, for all intents and purposes, hijacked your future and that of your children, and great-grandchildren, by passing this monstrosity of a budget. They should be hanging their heads in shame, but instead they accomplished their task, got in their limos, and rode back to their million-dollar Washington D.C. condominiums with the satisfaction of a job well done.

What is more dangerous and harmful: A bloody revolution or a nation so apathetic that they will allow their government to confiscate their earnings to the tune of a nine trillion dollar national debt with nary a word of protest?

Thanks, Leab.

Sorry I haven't written for a while. Tonight I hope to go stream-of-consciousness on your asses. Lots of interesting things afoot. In the meantime, the following comes courtesy of Leab. I love these things, because even if others don't want to learn more about you, you inevitably learn more about yourself when doing these exercises.

9 Lasts:
Last ball to the face: Since I’m not a sports fan this joke lends itself to a crude double entendree. I’m trying to be less nasty on my blog however, so I’ll have to say never.

Last cheer: While doing laundry. It was all-temperature Cheer. Seriously though, I suppose it was the Judas Priest concert earlier this year.

Last kiss: About a half hour ago.

Last movie seen: Saw half of “Corpse Bride” last night but couldn’t get into it. Watched the Edward R. Murrow investigative piece “Harvest of Shame” today and it was wonderful.

Last phone call: My brother Fred yesterday, first time I’d spoken to him in six months.

Last CD played: D-Generation’s self-titled CD while working out. The perfect workout album, a great mixture of fast-walking, running, and cool-down songs.

Last bubble bath: Tonight. Nice and hot and read a book.

Last time you cried: Last Sunday, I think. Was feeling overwhelmed by life. Nearly quit my column at the Gazette due to stress.

Last beverage: Does milk in cereal count? If not, water.

9 Have You Evers:

Have you ever dated one of your best friends: Yes, my wife and I dated for a while…then became good friends…then married. She is still my best friend.

Have you ever skinny dipped: No.

Have you ever kissed somebody and regretted it: Yes.

Have you ever fallen in love: Well, duh…

Have you ever lost someone you loved: Yes, in death and love. One by heart attack, one by heartbreak.

Have you ever been depressed: Normally.

Have you ever been drunk and thrown up: Yes, the night before I proposed to my wife I drank a lot during a gig. When I got home the room was seriously spinning. I went to the bathroom and forced myself to vomit. I immediately sobored up and slept like a rock. Thanks for helping me through it, Cat.

Have you ever been in a fight: Sort of, when I was a kid. A couple of times. Once I ran up and down the stairs at my elementary school ‘til a fat bully got winded and gave up. Once I “fought” a dickweed from my neighborhood because I was sick of him being a dickweed. Didn’t solve anything. I think it was the first fight for both of us, so neither of us knew what we were doing, which is synonomous with many of life’s firsts…

7 States You've Been To:

1. Nebraska
2. Iowa
3. Minnesota
4. West Virginia
5. Colorado
6. California
7. Texas
(8. Apoplexia)

6 Things You've Done Today:
1. Wrapped up my Gazette column.
2. Went to Starbucks with my wife.
3. Bought socks and other items at Target.
4. Made tomorrow’s lunch.
5. Exercised twice.
6. Took a bath.

5 Things in No Order:

I don’t understand the premise so I’ll skip this.

4 People You can tell [Almost] Anything To:
1. My wife.
2. My mom.
3. My friend Julie.
4. My cat.

3 Wishes:
1. To do something I enjoy for a living (hopefully via my inherent talents).
2. That someone would discover definitively how everything came to be.
3. That people would figure out that life is too short for fighting and killing and spreadsheets.

2 Things You Want To Do Before You Die:
1. Perform a KISS tribute concert in full Gene Simmons makeup.
2. Live in New York City for at least a year.

1 Thing You Regret:The circumstances under which my first marriage ended. I am so sorry to everyone involved.

Column.

The following is this week's submission to the Gazette.

Unbelievable snowstorm this morning. A three-hour commute from Woodbury to Minneapolis: 20 miles. My wife got hit-and-run by a moron in a minivan; no injuries nor major damage, but still...

Anyway, here you go.

COLUMN O' THE WEEK
It’s inexcusable that in post 9/11 America politicians are more concerned with defending marriage than defending the borders. Osama bin Laden could have ridden in from Mexico City on a Macy’s parade float ages ago undetected by authorities, yet elected officials are debating more pressing matters, namely protecting marriage at all costs from pesky homosexuals.

Gay people can’t win. They were lambasted when going from one anonymous bathhouse tryst to the next in the halcyon days of the 70’s, and now they’re picked on for giving monogamy a shot. Wait a minute: A period of wanton promiscuity followed by a desire for lifelong commitment? Sounds like every heterosexual person I’ve ever known.

The arguments proffered by the defense-of-marriage crowd defy logic. One of these is the propagation theory: “Marriage exists to ensure the survival of the human race.” America’s spiraling single motherhood rate seems to indicate that a large number of sperm and eggs didn’t get the memorandum dictating that fertilization without commitment is prohibited. The absence of a wedding band has no demonstrated prophylactic qualities, so we can safely put that argument to rest.

I’ve yet to hear a single advocate of the propagation theory explain exactly what humanity has done to deserve survival in the first place. Our most notable accomplishment as a species is broadcasting 50 years’ worth of sitcoms into the Universe. Methinks that’s legacy enough. Many people believe that homosexuals’ biological inability to produce the next Jim Belushi should automatically guarantee them equal—if not special—rights.

Then there’s this pearl of wisdom offered by many defense-of-marriage advocates: “Gay marriage?” they ask with straight (pun intended) faces, “What’s next: People marrying animals?”

Incredibly, the “bestiality slippery slope” argument constitutes a valid defense-of-marriage stance, most notably on radio talk shows where the only evolutionary prerequisite for callers is having an opposable thumb allowing operation of a cell phone. As if human/animal unions are a logical leap from gay marriage. Mainstream America is still clutching the beads over the prospect of gay cowboys. Imagine the furor if one of them, at the pivotal moment, forsook his lover in favor of his horse. Move aside, Brokeback Mountain: It’s time for Bareback Mountin’.

It may surprise and anger some readers to learn that I in fact do not advocate gay marriage. Rather, I support some sort of civil union between homosexuals guaranteeing them all the legal, financial and survivorship rights and privileges granted to heterosexual married couples.

I don’t believe there’s anything sinful about love. Conversely there’s nothing hateful about tradition. Defining marriage as between one man and one woman does not equate to discrimination. Gay people are welcome to brainstorm a unique name for their brand of “marriage” at which point we can put it in Webster’s Dictionary and move on to the next social crisis.

Frankly I find it a bit queer—pardon the expression—that gays are so gung-ho about jumping on the marriage bandwagon in the first place. Demanding the right to participate in an institution with a 50% failure rate is like calling your broker and insisting he buy Enron stock.

If the defense-of-marriage people truly want to maintain the sanctity of the institution they should advocate a simple, twofold plan to reduce the divorce rate. First, enact a minimum age for marriage. This very newspaper regularly features photos of young couples marrying their high school sweethearts before they’re old enough to legally enjoy a champagne toast at their wedding reception. Here’s a news flash for you swooning kids: See those lights on the horizon? That’s not the Aurora Borealis. That’s the glow of two large cities with a combined population of a million people. Do yourself a favor and meet some of them before settling for Brad from Trigonometry class.

Second, the defense-of-marriage types need to realize that marriage is a contract, and as such should be renewable rather than lifelong. I propose five-year increments with contract riders added as the couple gets better acquainted. For instance: “(John Doe) agrees to leave the toilet seat down and empty the dishwasher thrice weekly, in return for which (Jane Doe) agrees to increase the potential for intimacy from twice to four times per week.”

Okay, okay: Three times. But I want an Internet pornography immunity clause added.

The bottom line is that gay or straight, anyone considering marriage should be committed. And just like the definition of marriage and the constitution, that statement can be interpreted any way you like.

Friday Night and other nonsense.

FRIDAY NIGHT
My wife and I went out for sushi and it was my first time. While I admittedly chickened out and had a “traditional” dinner, I nonetheless tried my wife's sushi (if you know what I'm saying) and it was really, really good. What’s more, I used chopsticks for the duration of the meal (with a “backup” fork handy, just in case), and though it was a struggle and my wife will probably be ashamed to be seen there with me again, I still managed to eat every scrap of food using just two sticks.

We capped it off at Starbucks, each having a coffee with steamed milk. This is a drink we enjoy periodically to remind us of our trip to San Francisco a couple years ago. We drank coffee at a café called Café Trieste which was the best part of our trip. That trip might very well be deemed a “bust” because nearly everything we attempted went awry; it didn’t feel like a vacation. In hindsight, it struck us that the reason it felt rather ordinary was because we could picture ourselves living there.

We may well become Californians someday after I finish college. In the meantime we’ll continue drinking coffee with steamed milk and pretend.

ORIGINS
One day I care about Origins/Evolution/Creation/Intelligent Design, the next I don’t. I do know damned well that people reading this don’t care a whit about my incessant rants wondering “Why are we here?” Most of you (rightly) say "We are here, just deal with it." I think my best course of action will be to hold my tongue until I finish two books. The first is the one I’ve been reading called “The Blind Watchmaker” by Richard Dawkins, and yesterday I picked up a used (but pristine) copy of “The Origin of Species” by Charles Darwin. Please don’t tell my mom, because she believes the only book on Origins a person needs is the Bible. My life would be much easier if I believed the same.

SCORE
At the same used book store we stumbled across a couple of real gems. There were stacks and stacks of Life Magazines arranged by year and we are now the proud owners of the following issues:

May 12, 1967: The cover features the banner headline “In Cold Blood is filmed on scene of the crime: Nightmare Revisited.” The photograph is of author Truman Capote standing alongside the two actors who portrayed the murderers of the Clutter family in the original film adaptation of “In Cold Blood.” My wife and I love the recent movie made about the subject and thus this magazine was a wonderful find, however that’s not the irony: What is terribly ironic is that one of the actors pictured is none other than Robert Blake, best-known as television’s Baretta and as real-life’s “White O.J.,” a clumsy but charmed wife-murderer.

When we buy our house—hopefully this fall, cross your fingers—we’re hoping to dedicate a small room to memorabilia and this will be proudly displayed.

August 1, 1969: The photograph depicts a handsome, impeccably well-dressed, clearly well-to-do young man gazing wistfully towards the water at Hyannis Port. The man? Teddy Kennedy. The subject? “The Fateful Turn for Ted Kennedy: Grave questions about his midnight car accident.” That’s right; we got the Chappaquiddick edition of Life Magazine.

Last night I turned to my wife and said “We may have just found ourselves a hobby.” It’s such an awesome feeling holding a piece of history in your hands; not that the magazines themselves are historical, but they’re a tangible record of the times and it’s a humbling—and almost eerie—feeling to thumb through the pages.

There are numerous advertisements in the magazines, by the way, that feature tear-off cards to purchase products. As a gag I’m considering filling out the Life Magazine subscription card from 1967—25 weeks for $2.95—just to see if they honor the price. There is no expiration date.

LOSS OF A LIFETIME
In the same vein as above, once I was antique shopping in Stillwater, Minnesota and stumbled upon a Time Magazine on which Charles Schulz, creator of Peanuts and my hero, was proclaimed “Man of the Year.” I passed it up, probably because it cost more than Mr. Frugal was willing to pay; likely a staggering sum of ten dollars or so.

Anyway, the next week he died and I wanted to vomit. Methinks the price probably went up a bit after that.

IS THERE A GOD OR MERELY COINCIDENCE?
Don’t worry. This is NOT an Origins rant!

My pal Tu wrote about pot smoking yesterday and it got me thinking about one of the times in my life (there have been two or three) when either the existence of God was graphically illustrated or I experienced very improbable coincidences.

One of those times was during my band daze (sic) in Lincoln, Nebraska. I was 19 years old and playing a sorority party in the basement of a hotel. It was as exciting as it sounds; for some reason, back in the late 80’s, fraternity and sorority parties were big business for bands. We would show up, play a couple hours’ worth of brutal punk rock songs no one but us had heard before, and the frat boys and sorority girls would gingerly sip beer and then disappear to propagate in the rooms upstairs.

Anyway, this gig was particularly depressing. The crowd was dead and the room was uninspiring; it was nothing more than a small, gray room normally used for businesspeople to discuss pie charts and workload projections. This was before the days of PowerPoint, so before we showed up the most exciting thing to occur there was likely an overhead projector presentation.

In-between sets we went to the parking ramp where the drummer fashioned a bong out of an empty Coke can. The drummer’s name was Pat and he was the MacGyver of marijuana; he could figure out a way to toke up under any circumstances. Pat could have been snorkeling along the Great Barrier Reef and still managed to stay high.

Anyway, we smoked some pot which was not unheard of in my life then. I didn’t smoke pot regularly by any stretch. I can say a couple things about my drug experiences and you can believe them or not. First, I never purchased pot: I always relied on the generosity of friends (and sometimes strangers, which was stupid). Second, I didn't do it often; there were no weekends of pot-fueled debauchery written in pen in my Day Planner. Once in a blue moon I would enjoy a joint or a bong with friends, but very rarely. Finally, I never got much out of pot. Try as I might, going so far as to suck on the bong ‘til the smoke was so thick it could be sliced with a Ginsu knife, I never really felt “high.” I loved the smell though, so I did it anyway.

The night of this gig the effects of the marijuana seemed to be no different. We returned to the dank room and began playing again. The first song of the set was “Trash” by the New York Dolls, and about midway through the song I started feeling…funny. My heart began racing, my brain suddenly became extremely paranoid, and the lights and sounds around me became exaggerated; every sound deafening, each light blinding. I felt I was losing my mind and I knew that I couldn’t finish the song, let alone the whole set, without things becoming embarrassing for me and my musical comrades.

I recall very vividly that during my last second of coherence, I silently prayed the following:

"God, please get me out of this and I will never smoke pot again.”

And a circuit breaker blew.

Yes, at that precise moment, the breaker supplying electricity to our amps and P.A. system blew leaving us in silence. Not in darkness, mind you; the only power to be lost was that fueling our music.

I ran from the room into the parking lot and gulped in fresh air (as fresh as air could be on a sub-sub-level of a parking garage). Power was restored and I managed to regain enough composure to return to the stage and finish the night though I remember very little about it. The next day, a Sunday, I remember sitting on a recliner in the basement of my parents’ home feeling lethargic, and I was scared to death at the fact that my legs underwent periodic paralysis throughout the day. It’s as if the nerves sending signals from my brain to my extremities had been damaged.

Thankfully I regained full use of my limbs and learned later that the pot in question may very well have been laced with Angel Dust; an ironically named substance. If that’s what angels are smoking, hopefully I’ll spend the afterlife in Hell playing Bridge with the demons.

I’ve had opportunities—some very recent—to indulge in pot-smoking again and in all honesty it was tempting. As I mentioned, even though I never really got the “buzz,” I love the smell. However, I remember that vow I made not to touch the stuff again “If you get me out of this,” and whether I made that promise to a Higher Power or the laws of random chance, nonetheless someone or something got me out of a hell of a bind and now I in turn feel bound by that promise.

More thoughts...

PICNIC LUNCHES
I treated myself to an impromptu picnic lunch outdoors today, given that it’s nearly 50 degrees out. However, picnics are best when planned, sadly. It’s impossible to transport microwave dishes outside and eat in a dignified fashion. It’s also utterly impossible to eat spinach without looking like a pig. The leaves are as big as rabbit ears and no amount of folding or cutting can stave off the inevitable: Shoving a forkful of leaves into your yap and—at least temporarily—reverting back to the days of our cave-dwelling predecessors.

SCORE
I am typing this from the most wonderful location imaginable. There is a small study set aside in the synagogue where I work that was created in honor of a woman who passed away far too young. It’s a small library for the school kids with tons of books, Microsoft Word and Internet access. I received permission to use the room during my breaks to write, and it’s a welcome departure from attempting to write at my desk. It doesn’t matter if you go so far as to stick a post-it note to your forehead reading “I’m at lunch, leave me alone,” people will still ask for “just a moment of your time” to discuss terribly important work-related matters.

HAVE YOU BEEN HERE BEFORE?
In my years of office life, I’ve discovered that at every company there is at least one office that is the equivalent of a black hole to a spacecraft: Try as you might to skirt the “safe” zone, if the occupant sees you walk by they beckon you into their presence and proceed to talk your ear off for a half hour about something that could have easily been handled in a two-sentence e-mail.

I am going so far as to walk down a flight of stairs, traverse the entire length of the building, and then climb the stairs on the other side in order to avoid this person.

ORIGINS
Caution, typical philosophical crap ahead. Nothing we haven’t covered before, but as usual my motto is “If I don’t sleep at night, no one sleeps at night.”

As I mentioned the other day I purchased…then returned…and tonight will be checking out from the library…a book by Richard Dawkins, a renowned Evolutionist, entitled “The Blind Watchmaker.” According to my favorite author in the world, the late Douglas Adams, Dawkins’ book proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that Evolution is gospel, pardon the term. That there is no Creator, no Designer, no anything beyond random chance.

I’ve been on the fence for some time about God, religion, and whether or not we even exist in the sense we think we do. I thought that Dawkins’ book might at least convince me that Evolution is total hooey, or something to ponder.

After reading the first few pages, however, it’s fairly clear that I’m not so much concerned with Evolution as I am with Origins. I’m sure there are countless books out there exploring the Origin of Everything, and I hope to get my mitts on one (or several) soon.

Dawkins’ explanation of Origins is very similar to that expressed by a former co-worker who is a die-hard Evolutionist. During a heated debate, I asked him “Where did all this stuff come from?” He impatiently waved his hand and said “Origins don’t matter.” My co-worker was more than comfortable simply taking it for granted that everything around us—not just what we see on this planet, but the spectacular images beamed back by the Hubble Telescope—“just happened.” My Geography textbook says that water, the crucial element for life, “has just always been here.”

Richard Dawkins, in the first couple chapters of his book touting Evolution, attributed a grand total of two sentences to origins. I don’t have it in front of me, but it was something to the effect of “Physicists are quite satisfied with the notion that everything we see around us could have stemmed from even a single particle, perhaps even nothing.”

Everything came from nothing. Everything “has just always been.”

Of course, when a religious person answers the “Where did God come from?” question with a simple “He’s just always been,” they’re greeted with snorts of condescension. “You believe in a Fairy Tale,” they chortle.

Pop Quiz: Which of the following is a Fairy Tale:

1. “In the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth.”
2. “Once upon a time there was an Infinite Universe. It just always was.”

It was a trick question. They’re both a Fairy Tale.

I want to know where we came from and I’m well aware of the Catch-22: That there is no way, shy of witnessing the events of the Book of Revelation, that I can ever know the answer(s) in my physical lifetime. I’m just a little tired of both sides of the debate ignoring the Origins issue. It seems as if there is any opportunity for common ground, that would be it. It’s the elephant in the room, and I'm growing a little weary of everyone scratching their heads pretending like they don't know where all the peanuts have gone.

Get it? Because elephants love peanuts. Never mind.

School column.

Usually I don't bother posting my college newspaper columns, but I thought this one might be worth sharing. My editor very wisely pointed out that this one could have easily crossed over into "sappy" territory, but I managed to avoid it. Phew...

That's all I have to say right now except for two minor things: First, I returned both books (see yesterday's post) and have one of them on reserve at the library. Second, I've been reading Douglas Adams voraciously the past couple of days and am only now realizing how much he shaped my life. I used to do a damned good Douglas Adams impression (in my writing) and I'm not sure what happened, but I sure as hell intend to try to recapture it.

There are three people I am very angry at for dying: Freddie Mercury, Douglas Adams and my father. I want to shake them all and scream "How dare you leave me here all alone?" I had the tremendous honor of meeting Douglas Adams and I am the proud owner of an autographed set of the Hitchhiker's Trilogy (yes, all five books). If someone offered me a million dollars for them, I'd tell them to take a hike, pardon the pun.

NON-TRADITIONAL VALUES
Recently I had the privilege of engaging in heart-to-heart conversations with two Normandale students—both half my age—who are genuinely struggling with the question that plagues everyone at least once, and more likely hundreds of times, during their lives:

What do I want to do with my life?

One of these people is a young lady who exudes utter joy at being alive and I envy her for it. She is a devout conservative Republican who is frustrated by the leftward bent of her classmates and thus wants to educate herself and others about all things political. She is considering a major in political science, but is hesitant because her parents aren’t crazy about the idea.

The other student is a young man who completely wowed me during his compulsory first-day-of-the-semester classroom introduction. Whereas most of the class—including me—gave halting presentations, avoiding eye contact at all costs, this young man had a genuine presence and commanded attention. Not surprisingly, he wants to be an actor. However, he’s struggling with an emotional tug-of-war, balancing what he wants to do with what is expected of him.

My advice to both of these young people, as well as to everyone who is reading this column, is simple:

Do what makes you happy.

This may seem like a Pollyannaish view, particularly from someone with a proven track record of cynicism. In fact, the advice may seem ridiculous. After all, who would do anything that makes them unhappy?

Most people, that’s who. The office towers comprising the Minneapolis and St. Paul skylines are stuffed full of thousands of people who wake up each and every day to the remaining vestiges of their souls being sucked out with a sound akin to the last quarter-inch of bath water spiraling down the drain. These are people who were very likely lured into their careers by promises of security, visions of dollar signs or simply a desire to not rock the boat.

As a person who has been downsized (actually, it’s called “right-sizing” now, but the most accurate word is “fired”) due to restructuring, let me assure you that there is nothing remotely resembling security in the business world. Human Resources people will assure you during employee orientation that you are an invaluable member of the team. And you are, at least until the figure at the bottom of the Excel spreadsheet column representing you turns red, at which point you will be summarily downsized, right-sized, or whatever the H.R. folks happen to be calling it that particular week.

Regarding dollar signs, during my tenure in Corporate America many was the time I stood at the urinal alongside executives who grossed in a day what I earned in a month. Despite the difference in our salaries, we had one thing in common: A look of abject misery on our faces at the prospect of wasting another 8, 10 or 12 hours per day on activities that meant little to us and even less in the great scheme of things.

But what of rocking the boat? I realize it’s hard to depart from the path that mom and dad have envisioned for you since you were a child. Perhaps neither parent is a college graduate and they simply want you to have access to a fine education and ultimately a “secure” career.

Look, I spent nearly 40 years doing everything within my power to rock my dad’s boat. There were times I successfully capsized him. Last year he passed away, and despite the fact that we butted heads for the duration of our relationship, I know one thing: He was proud of me, and he would have remained so had I been a corporate CEO or a dishwasher. But he was particularly proud of me because his terminally dissatisfied son was finally taking steps to—gasp—be happy. I may not have been what he wanted me to be, but I was discovering what I needed to be, and that meant more to him than any multi-hyphenated title on my business card ever would have.

Do what makes you happy. If the prospect of a career in political science starts your heart palpitating, that’s a sign. If, despite two years at Normandale completing the transfer curriculum, you find yourself wanting to wait tables in Manhattan and audition for acting roles, I implore you to do it. If being cooped up in an office tower dreaming up inventive terms for firing people is your bag, pursue a career in Human Resources and have a ball, and prepare to appreciate the irony when you’re the one down/right/whatever-sized.

Half of my life is over and I wasted a great deal of it being miserable. If that sounds like your idea of a good time, have at it and good luck, and when you turn 40 and realize you’re a miserable sod I won’t even bother to say “I told you so.” I’ll be too busy having the time of my life.

Another drive-by.

I’m covering the reception desk at work and decided to “treat” (i.e. subject) you to a quick, stream-of-consciousness rant.

By the way, I just witnessed something absolutely priceless. We have a daycare center here, and kids are running all over the place. A mother near the reception desk just repeatedly told her son, Rudy, to "Quit calling people names," which is sage enough advice. However, mom followed it up with "Quit being such a jerk." I kid you not. Take note, Alanis Morrisette: THAT is irony!

HELP ME
Yesterday I splurged and purchased two books that I couldn’t afford. One was recommended by the late Douglas Adams: “The Blind Watchmaker,” by Richard Dawkins, which is presumably the definitive guide for laymen on why Evolution is absolutely true.

Cursory examination, by the way, seems to indicate that while Dawkins is wholeheartedly pro-Evolution, "origins" mean little if anything to him. The stuff that eventually became what we see around us "just happened," it seems, which doesn't help me a bit.

The other book is called “The Singularity is Near,” a behemoth of a hard cover book suggesting that the next step in human evolution is from biological to technological beings. It was recommended by a friend of mine.

When I say “couldn’t afford” the books I mean I shouldn’t have bought them, not that I truly don’t have the fifty bucks. But that money could be spent on other things: Money towards the house my wife and I hope to buy this fall; my wife’s birthday present(s) next month, blah blah blah.

Consider this a poll: Do I do the responsible thing and return the books, or spoil myself a little and keep them? Let me know soon! I'm driving by the bookstore this afternoon!

KIRBY PUCKETT
I’m no sports fan, and it doesn’t matter to me one bit whether or not Kirby Puckett, during his short life and career, broke every touchdown record in the NFL.

However, I will say that his passing affected me. Say what you will about Puckett’s personal life, he seemed to exude a genuine delight to be alive. I’m sure he had his moments of moral failure, but caller after caller to radio shows are extolling Puckett’s generosity towards fans; how he invited complete strangers to his office and happily handed out autographed items.

One more thought on the moral shortcomings: Would anyone care to pit theirs against his? I sure wouldn’t. If my friends were pressed, they could come up with a litany of reasons why yours truly is no pinnacle of virtue. And let’s not even bring up my former spouse.

Puckett’s passing also affected the way I look at the Big Picture. There have been times recently I have woke up in a cold sweat realizing that my life is half over and I haven’t accomplished anything. Age 80 seems to be but moments away sometimes.

However, when I heard that Puckett died at 44, the six years I have before reaching that age seems—for whatever reason—to be an eternity. In six years I’ll have finished school. I will likely be on the ground floor of a new, exciting career. I will own a home with my wife. The future is unknown and wholly exciting.

May Kirby rest in peace, and may we all find even a sliver of happiness that brings to our faces a smile as wide as his.

Column.

You guys are awful quiet. Fine, be that way. Here's this week's stellar submission to the Gazette.

INSPIRATION
It’s amazing where inspiration can be found. I found it on PBS where, ironically enough, it took the form of an inspirational speaker.

A wizened man was onstage preaching the secrets to a happy life to an auditorium full of rubes. More accurately, he hinted at the secrets to a happy life. The complete secrets were available on five CDs for only $350. This was a bargain, explained the man, because to attend his seminar in person costs three grand.

Perhaps it’s judgmental of me to label the audience rubes; that was a knee-jerk reaction. It’s just that they looked exactly like the people I regularly saw leaving the Fitzgerald Theater after weekly performances of “A Prairie Home Companion” when I lived in downtown St. Paul. I remember well the hoards of fun-loving Lutherans exiting the theater, tittering excitedly about how Garrison Keillor—as usual—captured perfectly the quiet simplicity that characterizes life in Minnesota (while Keillor himself celebrated backstage with imported champagne and caviar).

The same type of humble folk drank in the words of the inspirational speaker on PBS. They were mostly older people with wanting looks on their faces. One could picture Winnebagos, sporting license plates from the 48 contiguous states, converging on the convention center the night before, their owners tailgating with like-minded seekers, resolving over brats that finally, this was it: Life would no longer be a fruitless search for ever-elusive meaning. If a long, unfulfilling career, alcohol and slot machines couldn’t quench their spiritual thirst, then this speaker—who admittedly was nobody before hopping aboard the self-improvement bandwagon—would change all that. For only $350.

As I watched, I could almost see how people might be seduced by him. After all, the CD art featured him in a white tunic, standing on a beach with the ocean stretching wide behind him to symbolize life’s endless possibilities, his distinguished grey hair whipping inspirationally in the breeze. Of course, if a cynic looked closely enough at the photograph, they might notice that other inspirational speakers had been airbrushed out of the background, since you can’t walk 10 feet on a beach without bumping into an inspirational speaker being photographed for a book or CD cover (at least the un-established ones who can’t yet afford private beachfront property).

He spoke gently, without reproach, a welcome departure from hulking, boorish inspirational speakers like Tony Robbins, the nine-foot tall Cro-Magnon that motivated a generation back in the 90’s. Tony Robbins had to shout because he was a huckster. Anyone confident enough to whisper the secrets to a happy life must be the real deal.

And as if that weren’t inspirational enough the speaker’s young, beautiful daughter took the stage and sang a song of inspiration, after which it was announced—to the rubes’ delight—that today only the $350 package included a bonus CD featuring songs of inspiration. The CD was entitled “Songs of Inspiration,” lest the crowd have trouble following the gist of the presentation.

The more I watched, the more transparent the man on the dais became. He was wearing ill-fitting slacks and what appeared to be a sweatshirt; he looked rather frumpy. Apparently one of the secrets to a happy life is not obsessing over clothing. Call me old-fashioned, but if people are dipping into their nest eggs to hear me impart the wisdom of the ages, then dammit: I’m wearing a necktie, if anything out of respect to their children whose inheritance I’m siphoning.

Also, the man had a pot belly, which doesn’t exactly exude control over one’s life. I’m leery of an inspirational speaker who isn’t inspired to visit the gym when he looks eight months pregnant. I’m sure it’s easy to fall into the fast food trap while on the road, but God forbid heart disease claim him before everyone hears the good news. For only $350.

Despite my cynicism, the man managed to inspire me in a couple of ways. First, though I feel overwhelmed by life right now, five minutes of the show was enough to convince me that as bad as things may seem, I will never, ever be so hopeless as to put stock in a modern-day snake oil salesman, particularly one with Filet o’ Fish stains on his sweatshirt.

Second, I found the man inspirational because now I know that one way or another, I’m guaranteed success in life. If, despite my best efforts, I reach retirement age without accomplishing anything of note, no problem: I’ve got a fallback. My hair is already grey, there’s no shortage of rubes seeking answers and if I have any talent it lies in my silver tongue. If someone reading this can sew me a tunic—size 30-inch waist, please—I’m in business. Come to think of it, make it an elastic waistband: I plan to hit every McDonald’s between here and Albuquerque.

Sunday rant.

A fellow blogger wrote to say that she can only read the “Vote for me” post so many times before desiring fresh meat, as it were. Today’s USA Weekend featured no questions for the “Who’s News” section; rather, it’s simply (and not surprisingly) an Oscar preparation piece. So, with nothing to parody, I’ll instead just give you a stream-of-consciousness rant.

I can't get pictures to load on Blogger, by the way, so forgive the lack of visual stimulation. If you need something to titillate your eyeballs, click here for a page of Keira Knightly pics.

SHOW US YOUR PLAN!
To everyone whose vehicle still sports a Kerry/Edwards bumper sticker:

Didn’t John Kerry say he had a plan for everything? He used the word “plan” so often that it became a running gag. Late night talk show hosts joked about it. Saturday Night Live parodied it. A plan for this, a plan for that.

After the election, though Kerry remained a Senator, he virtually disappeared except to periodically surface to bash the Bush Administration.

To John Kerry and his supporters, I pose this simple question:

Where are your plans? Are we to assume that your innumerable plans would only have worked had Kerry been elected president? Must these plans be scrapped because they cannot be used to create legislation in the Senate?

How stupid are people, anyway? More frightening, how stupid do people think we are? And why do we keep living up to their low expectations?

I implore you, people: Vote Libertarian. It will take years, decades, perhaps centuries to turn things around, but if people don’t start voting on issues rather than by blind party loyalty, before long there will be nothing worth turning around.

NICK COLEMAN
Nick Coleman is a columnist for the Minneapolis Star-Tribune. I’ve written about him before. The mugshot of Nick, featured with his columns, should have a caption: “Please don’t hate me because I’m rich and white. I hate me because I’m rich and white, but it’s very important to me that you don’t hate me because I’m rich and white.”

Nick’s column today is one of his finest, meaning a fine display of just how misguided those with chronically bleeding hearts can be. Nick is railing about the fact that the State of Minnesota is once again gearing up to discuss public financing of sports stadiums. “We are getting closer to that glorious day when Minnesota throws hundreds of millions of dollars at new sports facilities,” says Nick.

And guess what: I agree with Nick that the last thing we need to do is provide multi-million (billion?) dollar gifts to spoiled millionaire athletes and franchise owners.

However, Nick’s point is that providing money for stadiums takes it away from more valuable taxpayer-subsidized endeavors, namely daycare for "at-risk" children. According to Nick, “50 babies got thrown out of a preschool in north Minneapolis.” He continues, attempting to bring tears to the eyes of his readers as he types in the study of his expansive mansion, “There were tears of anger, and there were dozens of young families—many led by single mothers still trying to finish school or to beat addiction—scrambling.”

I am tired of the veneration of single mothers. I am tired of not being able to judge people for their stupid actions. I am tired of having led a responsible life but having all of society's sentimentality, pity and revenue funneled towards people who do not seem to understand that sex = children, children = monetary/lifestyle hardships, and children + gambling addiction + no education + drug use = supremely fucked.

Taxpayer money should not go to millionaire athletes, but nor should it be wantonly dispensed to generation after generation of 14-year old girls who view childbirth as no more sacrosanct than a bowel movement.

Tell you what, Nick: Let’s compromise. I’ll pony up a sizeable donation to the daycare center of your choice if you’re willing to write a column suggesting that the barely-pubescent girls in North Minneapolis would do well to open a textbook rather than hop into bed with every boy that expresses an interest in them. Perhaps if they had to pay the cost of daycare themselves rather than get a magical check from the bottomless pit of government money they would realize that investing 75-cents in a condom readily accessible in any Super America restroom is a preferable alternative to having child after child you can’t afford.

D-GENERATION
Yesterday while cleaning I rediscovered the 1994 self-titled album by a band called D-Generation. They were a short-lived band and I’ve found very little about them on the Internet beyond this brief blurb mentioning that the various members are still active in the music industry.

D-Generation’s song “Feel Like Suicide” sums up suicide as well as the movie “Fight Club” describes insomnia. Here are the lyrics:

I’d give it all for a good night’s sleep
And I’ve been crying every day of the week
And I’m feeling so unusual inside
This look upon my face I just can’t hide

Dying every day
Dying every night
And I feel like suicide

A give my love away for keeps
And I wear my heart out on my sleeve
And there’s nothing you can do to make me stay
Cause I can’t relate to anything you say

Dying every day
Dying every night
And I feel like suicide

Coming down again
I’m losing all my friends
Caught up in a dream
You don’t know what I mean
I’m all used up inside
Gonna kiss you all good bye

I feel like suicide

The album is a hard rock masterpiece. Do yourself a favor and scour the "used" bin at your local record store for a copy.

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING EVER WRITTEN
As I mentioned while commenting on Crall’s blog yesterday, I recently read “The Sirens of Titan” by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. It struck me while reading it that the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy—the book series that changed my life as an adolescent—owes much to Vonnegut’s work. “The Sirens of Titan” contains what I believe to be the most beautiful passage ever written. I believe I’ve posted it before but will do so again because it gives me chills:

“You come and tell me the big news,” said Boaz, “you say ‘we’re going to be free!’ And I get all excited, and I drop everything I’m doin’, and I get set to be free.

“And I keep saying it over to myself about how I’m going to be free,” said Boaz, “and then I try to think what that’s going to be like, and all I can see is people. They push me this way, then they push me that—and nothing pleases ‘em, and they get madder and madder, on account of nothing makes ‘em happy. And they holler at me on account of I ain’t made ‘em happy, and we all push and pull some more.

“And then I say to myself,” said Boaz, “I ain’t never been nothing good to people, and people never been nothing good to me. So what I want to be free in crowds of people for?”

“I found me a place where I can do good without doing any harm, and I can see I’m doing good, and they love me as best they can. I found me a home.

“And when I lie down here some day,” said Boaz, “I’m going to be able to say to myself, Boaz, you made millions of lives worth living. Ain’t nobody ever spread more joy. You ain’t got an enemy in the Universe."

Boaz became for himself the affectionate Mama and Papa he’d never had. “You go to sleep now,” he said to himself, imagining himself on a stone deathbed in the caves. “You’re a good boy, Boaz,” he said. “Good night.”

THE SADDEST MOMENT OF THE WEEKEND
The saddest moment of the weekend is the last cup of coffee on Sunday.

I get up early and write on Sunday and have three cups while my wife still slumbers. Then, I brew a couple more cups for each of us.

Every Sunday, around 10:30 a.m., I pour the last cup and it’s a bit murky from sitting so long. It takes additional half-and-half to lighten it up, and it tastes bittersweet not only because it’s past its prime and I’m already riding a caffeine high, but because I realize it’s the last “pleasure cup” of java I’ll have ‘til next weekend.

During the week I drink coffee—lots of it—but it’s “necessity” coffee, not “pleasure” coffee. It’s the difference between a recreational marijuana user and a meth addict. It’s now 10:44 a.m. and it’s all downhill from here.