There's got to be a morning after.

On the way into school this afternoon I heard a young lady and two young men joking about the "morning after pill."

The girl, actually, seemed rather frantic. Either she or a friend was currently in need of the morning after pill due to an encounter a couple of days ago. One of the boys joked "It's not the morning after. Better get the 48 hours later pill."

When I was a devout Conservative Republican rather than a Libertarian, the thing that pissed me off the most about left-leaning folks' attitudes was not just their views, but their disrespectful attitude regarding sacred things.

The left has won the abortion debate, for instance, but that's not enough. Bumper stickers have to proclaim all sorts of in-your-face, pro-choice blather. "Keep your laws off of my body." "Don't like abortion? Don't have one." It's not enough that 1.5 million people per year are so fucking stupid that they can't or won't use birth control, but they have to make a mockery over their casual disregard for the sanctity of life.

I do not feel sorry for this girl or her friend, whoever is in such dire "need" of the morning after pill. I hope it is hard to find. I hope it causes her considerable emotional and physical pain. I hope that her mind-numbingly casual attitude about having to run to Walgreens and purchase a prescription that will kill a baby will make her suffer the rest of her life.

Of course, then there is the side of me that thinks "Go to it and good luck." Better that this child wind up spiraling down the toilet bowl in a bloody, unidentifiable mass than be raised by this brainless, immature whore. It's not like we need more people on the planet, anyway. Everywhere you look there are more of us fucking things up, being mean to each other, forming new and ever more ridiculous religions while God continues to hide his or herself. We're a useless species and we spend our days doing utterly meaningless things. The world will survive just fine without another Super America night manager which is likely what this young woman's child would have grown up to be.

The place I work runs an elementary school, and every day I see hundreds of kids and their proud parents entering the building. I see pretty moms playing dress up with their precious little babies, and I wonder: Did they once consider what this child will go through in 18 years, i.e. their first "need" for the morning after pill? Did they stop to consider that this child would not only have to choose a career that they would most likely hate, but also have to wrestle with whether or not they're willing to take the leap at age 38 and extend a middle finger towards the heavens declaring once and for all that they have decided that there is no God? That we are completely alone, the sole repository for life in the Universe, and we lead meaningless existences?

No, all they thought about was the fact that they could buy a stroller, cute clothes, and wacky child-sized sunglasses. That they could get family photos taken during the holidays and indoctrinate their child(ren) with the "one true religion," and hope beyond hope that bird flu doesn't mutate, that Iran doesn't lob nukes at Israel (or us), or that some sicko doesn't lure their child into a car and molest them and then bury them alive.

This blog has gone from a ringing endorsement for life to my views on why life is utterly worthless. All I know is that outside this school, at this very moment, is a young lady who is about to make a decision that will change her life and end another. And she and two friends were laughing about it. I want to cry at the thought of that, yet I also want to applaud her for unwittingly giving her unborn child the greatest gift imaginable: An escape from enduring this horrible, meaningless nightmare called life.

Shedding ballast.

As regular readers are aware, pickins have been slim on the blog lately.

Not sure when…or if…posting will resume.

This isn’t one of my old “blog suicide” deals. Just very busy and shedding ballast wherever I can.

If you don’t see anything new for a week or so, take that as a sign that I’ve decided to bid a permanent adieu to blogging.

Adios, amigos.

Wow.

Sometimes life just gets away from you.

On Friday I hit a brick wall at work. Around noon I suddenly lost my ability to cope with anything. Not like a "freak out" or anything; just a sudden inability to handle one more task or even engage in conversation.

So I went home and made banana bread, and on Saturday I fed some of it to the ducks and geese that use my college campus as a rest area on their way to wherever, and that was pretty cool. I even wrote about it for creative writing class. What the hell, I'll post that below as well.

There are a lot of things I want to blog about; how I miss the days of the stream-of-consciousness blogs where I can just sit for an hour straight and type two thousand words of nothing in particular.

There's just no time, though. My wife and I are both burning the candle at both ends. She's frantic with her job and I'm frantic with job, school and columns. Plus, I've added a new endeavor to my list: I'll be taking a ten-week Improvisational Comedy course beginning this Thursday.

The fun never ends.

A lot of people have given helpful advice on choosing my major. Leab was particulary helpful, as was Crowe. This weekend was interesting; I spent easily seven hours (if not more) working on two columns for which I don't get paid. I won't go so far as to say it's a "sign," but when a person is willing to devote hours of time and inordinate mental energy making sure something is absolutely perfect when they don't even get compensated for it, perhaps that says something about the direction in which they want to go.

So, writing it is. But the same dilemma faces me: Journalism? English?

Anyway, here's this week's column from the Gazette. With all apologies to baseball fans...

TAKE ME OUT TO THE CLEANERS
The telltale signs of springtime in Minnesota are in the air. The Boys of Summer return to the field. Carl Pohlad emerges from hibernation to discover he amassed another billion dollars during the winter. And the effort to shove a publicly-funded baseball stadium down the throats of taxpayers resumes in earnest. Toss in the continuing baseball steroid scandal, inevitable reports of ill behavior on the part of players and 8-dollar ballpark hot dogs and you have a recipe for wholesome entertainment the entire family can enjoy.

Take me out to the ballgame
Take me to the cleaners
Players and owners are worth a mint
Pohlad and company can’t take a hint

I hate to beat up on Carl Pohlad since—given his age and condition—even a scrawny guy like me could clean his clock, but he is the poster boy for why taxpayers, when confronted with this annual debacle, scream “No, no, no” while Pohlad and his willing minions insist “Yes, yes, yes” setting us up for yet another year of attempted big league date rape. If the Twins played as well as they begged, they’d need a new stadium just to hold the pennants.

It’s endearing, in a way, that Carl Pohlad clings to the dream of seeing his beloved Twins play in an old-fashioned, open-air stadium, but let’s be realistic: Even if Pohlad received tomorrow the go-ahead for a publicly-funded stadium it’s unlikely that the necessary permits could be obtained before he sheds his mortal coil. The ceremonial golden shovel is more likely to fill Pohlad’s grave than break ground for a new Twins’ stadium. Still, that won’t stop him from standing at the public trough with a longing look in his eye, hoping like hell no one noticed that he’s at Number 78 with a bullet on the Forbes 400 Richest Americans List.

Pohlad and his ilk love to use the civic pride argument to bolster their case: “Without major league baseball,” they cry, “Minneapolis would become a cold Omaha.” I’m from Nebraska: Don’t flatter yourselves, Minneapolis. True, Omaha may not play host to major league baseball, but at least its residents walk upright and proud, not permanently slouched from years of bending over and grabbing their ankles for a penny-pinching billionaire and his millionaire employees. Let’s make a deal, stadium proponents: Once folks can enjoy dinner and drinks in Minneapolis without returning home in a body bag, we’ll revisit the civic pride argument.

Then there’s the rallying cry of “Economic development!” Reams of evidence can be produced illustrating how similar stadiums built in similar cities reaped immeasurable economic benefits for the community. Only fools would deny such an opportunity.

The hole in the economic development argument is so gaping you could fit a steroid-swelled second baseman through it. If the proposed stadium would be such a boon to the community and the team itself, Carl Pohlad and his players could and would—with the backing of their similarly wealthy friends and business associates—finance the behemoth themselves, reaping untold economic gains. The fact that they won’t is proof positive that their contention is hogwash.

Carl Pohlad is a businessman and an extremely successful one at that. He knows that sacrifice and risk are the two main ingredients of success. Pohlad’s nest egg didn’t swell to nearly three billion dollars without him taking countless gambles, risking his fortune and the jobs of a couple—or a couple thousand—employees with every roll of the dice. How many anonymous administrative assistants were downsized; how many holiday bonuses were less than expected; and how many offices sported outdated décor—so outdated it became cool again—allowing Carl Pohlad to wheel and deal his way to billionaire status?

Yet for some reason, Pohlad is reticent to roll those same dice when it comes to the extremely well-paid players on the Twins’ payroll. Pohlad considers it the height of uncouthness that infielder Luis Castillo (2005 salary $5 Million) or catcher Mike Redmond (2005 salary a comparatively modest $900,000) should have to play in an outdated embarrassment like the Metrodome. How much more gauche to ask them to help finance its replacement, either through sacrifice or investment? Better to place the burden on faceless taxpayers, and if they complain just rehash the same, tired arguments until one day they give in from sheer exhaustion.

If Carl Pohlad’s personal assistant is reading this, please wake him up and read him this plea:

Mr. Pohlad, you have an unparalleled opportunity to be a hero. You could hold a press conference today announcing that you are building an outdoor Twins’ stadium at your own expense. You’re 90 years old, for Pete’s sake: You needn’t squirrel away any more pennies for retirement. Make this announcement and even I—an avowed sports hater—might be persuaded to don a Twins’ cap and attend a ticker tape parade in your honor.

If, however, you choose your standard modus operandi and simply make your annual plea for public funding before returning to cryogenic slumber, then I implore you to make your idle threats a reality and take the Twins elsewhere. Please drop me a postcard from wherever you wind up. Address it to Cold Omaha; that will be our private little joke.

"CREATIVE" WRITING
The presence of a Japanese Garden on the campus of the community college was very odd yet taken for granted.

Arthur hadn’t visited it since his initial meeting with an Admissions representative. “Before you go,” said the fetching young lass showing an inordinate amount of cleavage and calf, “let’s have a look at the Japanese Garden.”

And sure enough, there on campus—tucked away between the buildings churning out air conditioner repairmen and dental hygienists—was the closest thing to a bona fide Japanese Garden as a person could hope to find this side of the Land of the Rising Sun. It featured a soothing stream with an arching bridge spanning its width; an island frequented by ducks and geese enjoying a respite on their way north or south, depending on the month; and peaceful walking paths. The garden allowed even a jaded, middle-aged man like Arthur to feel vaguely Geisha-like, if only briefly. The Japanese Garden clenched the deal for Arthur and he signed up for classes that afternoon.

He found, however, that having a Japanese Garden on the campus of a community college is like having an exercise facility at an apartment complex. It’s a wonderful selling point but will never be visited again. After that initial walk through Paradise Arthur promptly forgot about the Japanese Garden.

Now, two years later, as he walked out of school on a brisk spring afternoon, he saw a sign pointing the way to the garden. On a whim he detoured towards it, pushed the creaking, wooden door open, and was reminded of the beauty of the place. It was akin to Dorothy entering the Technicolor world of Oz after living in the stark Kansas landscape. Arthur nearly gasped from the beauty of it and meandered his way down the winding path.

He noticed three geese and a duck paddling their way idly down the stream. Arthur remembered that he had packed banana bread in his lunch and decided that it would make a nice treat for the feathered travelers in the water. He took the bread from his lunch bag and began throwing pieces to the birds that—though they maintained a wary distance—nonetheless welcomed this departure from their normal diet of grass.

Across the garden an elderly man watched Arthur feed the geese and ducks with considerable interest. Arthur was aware of the man’s presence but was too fixated on the beauty of the garden and the grace of the birds to bother acknowledging the man’s presence. Gradually the man made his way down the path, nearer and nearer, pausing periodically to watch Arthur and the birds with growing intensity.

Finally he was directly behind Arthur. Arthur didn’t acknowledge the man’s presence, but he felt a familiar clenching in his throat; it was the same feeling he got at work when someone approached with a new task. It was the roll of the dice wondering if the encounter would be quick and amiable, or turn into a two-hour acrimonious power struggle.

“Shouldn’t feed the geese,” said the old man, almost spitting the words. “They shit on the walking paths.”

Arthur ignored the man and continued tossing small wads of banana bread into the water. The birds ignored the man too, for what it’s worth.

“It’s actually a misdemeanor now,” continued the man. “I could call the police and have you arrested.”

Arthur balled up another piece of bread and tossed it to the duck, which due to his comparatively diminutive size had ceded a lot of the food to the geese. Without so much as a glance in the man’s direction, Arthur spoke placidly but clearly.

“I read the newspaper this morning,” said Arthur casually, tossing another piece of bread into the water, “and read about a guy who works at NASA. His computer was confiscated. You know why? Because he was looking at child pornography on the Internet.”

The old man didn’t respond.

“Seems the guy had a real problem,” continued Arthur matter-of-factly, “He had hundreds of pictures and videos, most of really, really young girls, like four and five years old. Some were alone just spreading their legs, but others were forced to have sex with each other or with adults. Really sick stuff.”

“That made me feel so fucking helpless,” said Arthur to the old man, though he never looked in his direction. “Dealing with people like that is like playing whack-the-mole at Chuck-E-Cheese. The minute you hit one of them with the mallet, five more pop up. There’s no stopping them. The good guys can’t win.”

“I couldn’t handle it, so I decided to come out here and do the only bit of good I felt I could accomplish in the world today: Feeding some ducks and geese banana bread.”

“Then you approach me and tell me it’s a misdemeanor. You, a total stranger, approach me and feel completely comfortable snatching from me the only ten minutes of joy I might hope to extract from my day.”

“I should be angry, but you’ve actually made my day. Because now I know that even though right now—as you and I speak—somewhere a pre-pubescent girl is being raped on the Internet for profit, I at least have the comfort of knowing that for you, life is so perfect that your biggest problem is having to dodge bird shit on a walking path.”

Arthur turned to face the man.

“Thank you,” he said, “for putting things into perspective for me.”

The old man wandered away without a word, like a shell-shocked soldier in battle. Arthur turned to resume feeding the ducks and geese, satisfied that he had accomplished precisely what he had always wanted to do but hadn’t the courage: To perform the verbal equivalent of ripping another human being’s throat out with his teeth, unleashing a torrent of pulsating, living blood into his mouth, throat and face. Arthur took a deep breath as if to savor the coppery smell of a phantom mist of blood, and with that—the last of the bread distributed to the now satiated birds—he wiped the crumbs from his fingers and left the garden with newfound strength to handle the day.