Admin Worm

FYI.

2006-08-16T07:14:00.000-07:00

Admin Worm now posts exclusively at the My Name Is William Smythe blog.

Hola, Juan!

2006-07-21T08:28:00.000-07:00

This is a special shout-out to my pal, Juan, who sits next to me in Spanish class.

I returned to the classroom after completing my test this morning and discovered that Juan had arbitrarily decided to start calling me "Worm." The odd thing is that Worm has been my nickname for time immemorial.

Most of the regular visitors to this blog know that Admin Worm is a now-defunct cartoon character I created several years ago; a sarcastic human/worm hybrid who was supposed to earn me millions but just sort of fizzled out.

Anyway, most of my writing now appears on the William Smythe blog, so click that link, Juan. And if you want to send me an e-mail, do so to this address: rottemeister@yahoo.com.

Column.

2006-07-17T08:33:00.000-07:00

I'm going to try to start posting my William Smythe crap here so that Admin Worm viewers have something to see.

COLUMN OF THE WEEK
I’m not mechanically inclined.

To further clarify, I’m not mechanically inclined in the same way Israel isn’t inclined to tolerate kidnapping.

And much as the Middle East currently erupts in plumes of smoke and flame, so does any mechanical project I attempt usually result in fountains of motor oil, sparks or noxious gases.

My dad died a year ago and I’m sure he passed with some regret about having never seen his youngest son fix anything. I’m not talking “wimpy chores;” the type that can be accomplished by silicone-enhanced hostesses of home-improvement shows without breaking a sweat. No, I’m talking bona fide repairs, like having a non-functional automobile roar to life after hours of intensive labor.

An opportunity to test my mechanical mettle presented itself in the form of the duplex my wife and I recently began renting. It’s a beautiful place, historic and well-maintained, but like many places of similar vintage it has some mechanical quirks.

The washing machine, for instance.

One night I put a load of laundry into the machine and upon returning 45 minutes later, discovered that not only was the load not done, but the tub hadn’t filled yet. It took nearly three hours to complete a single load of laundry.

I realize that with World War III brewing half a world away, a slow washing machine is near the bottom of the world’s priority list. Still, I was miffed.

My landlord was reticent to address the problem. “Sure, it’s slow,” she admitted, “but it works, doesn’t it?”

Well, technically, yes, but in the same sense that government “works;” slowly and inefficiently to the point where it might ultimately prove more time and cost efficient to simply generate a report explaining why it shouldn’t have been attempted in the first place.

Not wishing to spend 20 hours per week doing laundry, I requested my landlord’s permission to tinker with the machine, and to my amazement she acquiesced. I fully disclosed my lack of mechanical skills, warning her that she might soon discover an unwanted indoor pool where her basement used to be. Still she agreed.

I grabbed my toolbox—yes; I have tools, all in their original packaging—and set to work. My first act was to remove two brackets I assumed must be removed in order to get at the machine’s “guts.” The washer’s lid promptly clattered noisily to the floor. Thus I learned to distinguish between brackets and hinges. Once they were reattached I found that the top of the machine is designed to lift open like a car hood. It’s pretty slick.

Then the troubleshooting began. I dissected the machine, carefully labeling each removed part—remembering my father doing the same—to ensure that they returned to (roughly) their original locations. “This doohickey clamps to the green thingamajig near the rubber deal,” my notes read. Dad would have winced, but I’m comfortable working within my own limitations. For good measure I labeled several parts “solenoid” because I heard dad use the term frequently and it never failed to impress. I’ve long suspected that “solenoid” is Latin for “I don’t know what this part is.”

The process of elimination revealed that the water pipes feeding the machine were fully operational. The hoses were unobstructed. The culprit appeared to be a small but imposing-looking contraption which, upon closer inspection, mercifully revealed an embossed identification number. I then used my favorite tool—the Internet—and found that the part was readily available and affordable. I drove to Sears, purchased the part, sped home, attached the part, re-assembled the washer, rolled up my pant legs, shielded my eyes and held my breath.

The machine roared to life.

While packing up my tools I reflected that the rusty old machine could—and probably should—have been replaced with a more modern, efficient model, saving me a lot of labor and stress. What’s more, we’re renters; it’s our landlord’s responsibility to address such issues and she probably would have, with prodding.

It was clear, however, that the dysfunctional washing machine was my white whale; an opportunity to prove to my father—albeit a year too late—that I was paying attention after all.

A ghostly, comforting silence enveloped the basement; the sound of dad finally resting in peace.

With newfound confidence, my mind reeled with other projects I could tackle. Maybe it’s time to give oil changing another shot. Perhaps now is the time to address the wobbly table leg that’s been driving my wife insane. I may even attempt an electrical project.

On second thought, nothing electrical. I miss dad, but not enough to hasten our reunion by sticking a screwdriver in a toaster.

New Link.

2006-06-01T18:56:00.000-07:00

New link to the right. My Name is William Smythe is clearly written by a talented bastard who is going places, mark my words.

Where is Admin Worm?

2006-06-01T08:37:00.000-07:00

He is alive and well but blogging elsewhere? Where could he be?

Blogger comes slamming home!

2006-05-30T18:49:00.000-07:00

I gave up the Admin Worm domain, and within minutes a Spammer took it over. I petitioned Blogger...and got it back!

And now I have nothing to say. Weird.

There's got to be a morning after.

2006-04-12T13:53:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-04-07T13:51:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-04-03T11:22:00.000-07:00

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.

Friday.

2006-03-31T08:45:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-27T11:40:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-24T10:24:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-24T06:21:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-22T09:35:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-21T11:40:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-20T20:05:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-16T19:08:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-13T10:24:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-13T10:16:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-12T06:15:00.000-08:00

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...

2006-03-09T13:08:00.000-08:00

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:

“In the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth.”
“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.

2006-03-09T09:52:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-08T10:29:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-06T13:52:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-05T08:05:00.000-08:00

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.

Vote early, vote often.

2006-02-28T18:38:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I believe in dog.

2006-02-28T07:54:00.000-08:00

I believe in dog.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Death comes in threes.

2006-02-27T11:06:00.000-08:00

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

The last one reminds me of a great joke.

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

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

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

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

Who's News.

2006-02-25T10:54:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Globes: Get it? Ha ha ha ha ha!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Road to Damascus.

2006-02-24T06:27:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

KISS and Ratt and the Big Bang.

2006-02-23T18:24:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warning: Angry, defeatist rant ahead.

2006-02-21T19:56:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Column.

2006-02-20T06:10:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey everybody.

2006-02-18T06:21:00.000-08:00

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

STACY
She’s baaaa-aaaaack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That, my friends, is comedy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Friday.

2006-02-17T07:54:00.000-08:00

I hate people that say that, by the way.

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

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

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

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

Have a good weekend!

Stream of consciousness...

2006-02-16T09:57:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Valentine's Day.

2006-02-14T03:58:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Hello, it's me.

2006-02-12T16:12:00.000-08:00

Okay, it was an awful week for writing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Column and forgiveness.

2006-02-07T19:33:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

GAZETTE COLUMN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who's News.

2006-02-05T07:07:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Built for peanuts?” we asked wryly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Letters to Untambe.

2006-01-30T14:57:00.000-08:00

This week's column for the Gazette.

LETTERS TO UNTAMBE...PART TWO.
It’s been a while since I published my latest round of letters to Untambe, the African child I sponsor. For the price of a cup of coffee each month I provide food and medicine to a disadvantaged child and get a tax deduction.

Dear Untambe,
Thanks for your letter. Sounds like you had a good Christmas; as good as it could be with your family missing, that is. I’m glad the additional five dollars I donated in December convinced Santa to bring you some rice for Christmas. Sorry about the bugs in it; I have no control over that.

Do they just give you regular rice? Have you tried Rice-A-Roni? It’s the San Francisco treat!

I’ve been working and studying hard. Even though I recently took a huge pay cut, I’m still sacrificing several dollars each month to sponsor you. It’s worth it, though. The thought that I’m helping someone will look great on my transcript.

If the relief agency were smart they’d have corporations sponsor you. That way, every time Sally Struthers put you on T.V., you could wear a hat with the STP logo on it and make some money, like on NASCAR.

Just joking. They say laughter is the best medicine, which is a good thing since that truckload of antibiotics got bombed before it reached you.

Dear Untambe,
It’s January and 50 degrees here. How cool is that? Or warm, I should say. People complain about global warming, but speaking on behalf of the quarter million Twin Cities’ SUV drivers who commute 100 miles round trip each day, I say bring on the springlike weather!

I do miss the snow sometimes, though. It’s such a powerful feeling driving through a foot of snow at 70 miles per hour three inches from the bumper of a hybrid car. They usually have a Wellstone bumper sticker, the sissies. What would Wellstone do? He wouldn’t go 50 miles per hour in the passing lane, that’s for sure.

You’re all about carpooling there, aren’t you? I saw news coverage of a village near yours being evacuated and there were like 100 of you per flatbed truck. It’s considerate of you to think about the environment like that. I tried carpooling, but me and the people I rode with could never agree on what DVD to watch on the way to work.

Dear Untambe,
Stillwater is abuzz with fallout from newspaper coverage of a high school “Battle of the Bands” contest. Or should I say non-coverage? Kids and parents are upset because a picture of the winning band wasn’t featured in a newspaper story. I personally think the band got robbed and have good reason to be up in arms.

Speaking of up in arms, robbed and bands, I’m really sorry that armed bandits robbed the relief caravan before it reached your village. Civil war sucks. You’ll be lucky if you starve before you become a teenager. Take it from those poor kids in Stillwater; adolescence is tough, especially if you’re the sensitive musician-type.

Do you like bands? Has Bono visited you because of your starvation thing? Frankly, he gets on my nerves with his holier-than-thou attitude. I think Bono could single-handedly solve the world hunger problem by teaching people how to be full of themselves.

Dear Untambe,
Boy, new condominiums are sprouting up everywhere here. Sometimes I envy you, living in a thatch hut. It must be like living on Gilligan’s Island. My favorite Gilligan’s Island episode was the one where Russian cosmonauts landed there. I thought the space capsule was cool.

I never understood why the castaways wanted to leave the island, did you? It was like a tropical paradise and there were good-looking chicks there, too.

What do you think, Untambe: Maryann or Ginger?

Every time you send me pictures of your village—or wherever you happened to be displaced any given week—I think that it looks just like Gilligan’s Island, except with no water. Or trees. Or papayas.

Papayas is a fun word. Say it: Papayas!

Do the women in your village carry baskets on their heads like on PBS? Do they have those neck-stretcher things? I’m surprised neck-stretching hasn’t caught on here since tattoos and piercings are so passé.

I’ve always found it ironic that people here protest the female circumcision occurring in your country, but half of the protestors have piercings you-know-where. Ouch!

Well, I have to go. Tonight is Geography class. Last week I found your country on a globe, and I think I discovered your problem. To paraphrase the late comedian Sam Kinison: YOU LIVE IN A DESERT! GO WHERE THE FOOD IS!

Just kidding! Talk to you later.

Benevolently, Tom

Who's News.

2006-01-29T06:33:00.000-08:00

Oops, they did it again. The folks at USA Weekend have failed to update the Who’s News section of their website for two weeks straight, meaning this morning I had to walk out to my porch—like a commoner—pick my paper up off the stoop, brush the snow from it, and read Who’s News in hard copy. That means no preparation; so what you’re about to read is a stream-of-consciousness rant against the societal cancer that is pop culture.

To reiterate for the two regulars—who obviously have poor memories because they keep coming back—and the one or two accidental viewers of this blog per week, these are actual letters sent by actual readers to Who’s News, the celebrity pop culture section of USA Weekend.

The Palestinians elected Hamas in a staggering and overwhelming victory last week; Hamas, of course, being a radical wing bent on the destruction of Israel. And Iran continues developing nuclear weapons, in defiance of the U.N., moving closer to its goal of wiping Israel off the map.

With that in mind: Let’s find out what’s happening in Hollywood as requested by couch-bound, morbidly-obese, trailer park dwelling Americans from across the fruited plain!

We loved The Closer, with Screen Actor’s Guild (SAG) Award winner nominee Kyra Sedgwick. When will it be back? — Susan Erickson, McAlester, OH

Yet another “we” letter. Apparently everyone in the assisted-living facility chipped in to ensure all the I’s were dotted and the T’s were crossed, but Susan was the only one capable of signing her name.

To answer your question, Susan, The Closer will not be back anytime soon due to the fact that as is so often the case, something embarrassing was drudged from Kara Sedgwick’s past and she is no longer welcome in the public eye. We refer to her role in the 2003 film Secondhand Lions, starring Robert Duvall, Michael Caine, Sedgwick, and inexplicably a post-pubescent Haley Joel Osment, best known for his role as the cute young boy who saw dead people in The Sixth Sense.

Osment, who once delighted audiences as a soft-spoken, physically-adorable little boy, repulsed audiences worldwide when he appeared on screen in Lions as a post-pubescent adolescent. What’s more, he played a role better-suited to a younger actor, which made many people wonder if the contract was executed before his pituitary kicked in and producers were obligated to use him in the role.

Regardless, everyone associated with the film—Duvall, Caine, Osment, and Kyra Sedgwick—have been blacklisted in Hollywood. The Closer may be back after an actress with some scruples is found to fill the starring role.

S. Epatha Merkerson was magnificent in HBO’s Lackawanna Blues and plays a wise lieutenant on Law and Order. But I’ve seen little about her background. — Beatrice Berry, Lakewood, NJ

Your letter presents a unique “teachable moment,” Beatrice.

Here’s your letter before Microsoft Word’s Thesaurus feature:

“S. Epatha Merkerson was really good in HBO’s Lackawanna Blues…”

And after…

“S. Epatha Merkerson was magnificent in HBO’s Lackawanna Blues…”

Before:

“…plays a really smart lieutenant…”

After:

“…plays a wise lieutenant…”

Microsoft: Helping people seem smarter for 20 years!

Anyway, S. Epatha Merkerson is from Alabama, an area known for its widespread poverty and lack of opportunity, particularly for people of color. Merkerson packed up her few belongings in 1991 and moved to Hollywood where she landed a bit part as a high school guidance counselor on The Cosby Show. After several more years of increasingly prominent roles she landed her big break: A starring role on Law and Order. Later she graduated to movie roles like Lackawanna Blues. Merkerson is seen as a role model for African-American actresses who all-too-often find the odds stacked against them in Tinsel Town.

My Internet connection is really slow today so I was unable to look that up. That’s probably pretty close, though.

Is Reese Witherspoon favored to win a SAG Award Sunday because she played against type as June Carter in Walk the Line? — James Berriman, Milwaukee, Wis.

“Against type.” You mean like Charlize Theron playing a repulsively ugly woman in “Monster”? Like Martin Sheen playing an educated man capable of rational thought and leadership in the West Wing?

Walk the Line presented Witherspoon simply the first in a string of projects guaranteed to break her history of playing stereotypical “dumb blondes." Here she’s shown as Adolph Hitler on the set of “The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich,” a 12-part HBO series about Nazi Germany:

And here’s Witherspoon on-set of the Miramax production “Mother,” a dramatization of the life of Mother Teresa slated for release in 2007 (with a cameo by Gary Coleman, his first acting role in 13 years):

Finally, here’s Reese as a tree in an educational program she’s producing for PBS, teaching children about the dangers of global warming:

The SAG folks will probably be only slightly disappointed to discover that Witherspoon is also working on Sweet Home Alabama II and Legally Blonde III, but hey: A girl’s gotta eat.

Here’s a rare Who’s News interview with Jeff Margolis, the wizard behind the SAG Awards. He’s the producer who puts together the two-hour show. Here’s how he does it:

Who’s News: “What’s the secret to a great show?”

Jeff Margolis: “Cocaine. Just kidding: Meth is where it’s at in Hollywood now. Besides voluminous amounts of crystal, however, it boils down to shiny things and lots of motion. We’ve conducted eye movement tests on typical SAG viewers and found that their attention wanes after mere seconds without a sparkly gown or a dance number to hold their attention. We figure if a viewer clicks over to CNN for even 60 seconds and discovers that the Mideast is about to blow up, our goose is cooked. We need to make Mr. and Mrs. America believe that at least for that two-hour span, the SAG Awards are all that matters on this earth.”

Who’s News: “The show is known for its produced pieces. What do you have this year?”

Jeff Margolis: “This year we’re doing a musical number dedicated to Lackawanna Blues, featuring 40 dancers in blackface. We think this will be a great way to connect with black audiences and—” (At this moment Margolis’ assistant pulled the producer aside and frantically whispered into his ear)

“Right now,” Margolis continued sheepishly, “we’re sort of starting from scratch.”

Who’s News: Have you ever thought about having a single host, like the Oscars?

Jeff Margolis: No, God no. Again, in our rapid-fire culture people expect constant variety. This year we have an unprecedented 124 stars assuming hosting chores, some even taking over for others mid-sentence.

Who’s News: From nominations ‘til showtime you have just three to four weeks. Do you sleep?

Jeff Margolis: Nope. Two words: Methamphetamine. Is that two words? Or is it hyphenated? Regardless, by the end of this thing my bloodstream is so toxic that the Betty Ford Clinic won’t let me flush my stools: They have to be collected in plastic bags and disposed of as hazardous waste lest they release psychotropic substances into the water supply. That’s all we’d need is for half of Hollywood to be under the influence of drugs, right?

Well, there you have it. Print out this page and keep it handy during the SAG Awards tonight, highlighting the parts about Hamas and Iran. If you see flashes of light outside your living room window, don’t automatically assume its celebratory fireworks in honor of another awards show well done; it could be mushroom clouds signaling the end of Israel and the beginning of the End of All Things.

On the off-chance we survive another week, we’ll be here next week—same time, same place—with another mind-numbing edition of Who’s News.

Q & A.

2006-01-25T20:56:00.000-08:00

Leab at Ironic Teachings posted his answers to the following and I couldn't help but follow suit. I find things like this fascinating. They're a great way to get to know others, and yourself for that matter.

Your name spelled backwards. Mot.

Where were your parents born? Wow. I think my dad was born in West Virginia and my mom in Lincoln, Nebraska. I’m such a good son.

What is the last thing you downloaded onto your computer? Besides voluminous amounts of pornography which I (hopefully) deleted from my history before the wife logged on, it was a picture of a person falling from the World Trade Centers used for Sunday’s Who’s News.

What is your favorite restaurant? It depends on my mood. If I want to feel comforted, I go to the Modern in Minneapolis when it’s snowing outside. If I want to know I won’t leave disappointed, Café Latte in St. Paul. If I want the best fast-food in the world, Chipotle.

Last time you swam in a pool? My God, it was several years ago when I lived in a condo in Stillwater. It was a gorgeous indoor pool, but one night as I swam I thought of the other residents—the fact that the majority were elderly retirees, many of whom brought their grandchildren to swim—and the germaphobe in me won out. I’ll never swim again.

Have you ever been in a school play? Never. Was too shy.

How many kids do you want? This might get me in Dutch with the wife, but I have to say at this point zero. I actually had a vasectomy 10 years ago in June but have since considered reversal or adoption, but as time goes by I become more and more convinced that parenthood is not for me. Or for the kid(s) for that matter.

Type of music you dislike most? The English language doesn’t have adequate words to express my utter disdain for rap and hip-hop.

Are you registered to vote? No, I always procrastinate and register at the polling place. It’s never so busy that it’s inconvenient, tragically.

Do you have cable? Funny story. We’ve lived here for a year and recently moved the television to the other side of the living room. We plugged the set into the cable jack to see if it improved our reception (we previously used rabbit ears) and lo and behold: We have cable. And I’ve discovered in the subsequent two weeks that now, rather than nine channels of crap, we now have 60 channels of crap. Though it is nice to finally be able to watch the Daily Show on Comedy Central.

Have you ever ridden on a moped? Never.

Ever prank call anybody? Probably. I do vividly recall my friend Tim and I ordering a pizza for my neighbors and we sat on my picnic table and watched the delivery guy knock on their door. After several minutes of conversation with the driver, to our utter surprise my neighbor wound up buying the pizza. I’m still scratching my head over that one.

Ever get a parking ticket? Yes. My last two parking tickets occurred on my birthday one year apart. One parking, one speeding.

Would you go bungee jumping or sky diving? No. I have a tremendous fear of flying and heights. Plus, though I’ve long professed to entertain suicidal thoughts, tempting fate for a short-lived thrill just doesn’t make sense.

Farthest place you ever traveled? What’s further from the Twin Cities: New York City or San Francisco? Either way, I’m utterly pathetic.

Do you have a garden? I have a townhome, so no.

What's your favorite comic strip? I think Dilbert is the most consistently funny. Get Fuzzy is the best when it’s “on,” which isn’t near enough. The Boondocks consistently makes me laugh out loud. I read Peanuts for nostalgia’s sake. The Family Circus needs to die an immediate and painful death.

Do you really know all the words to your national anthem? My ancestors are French, so I believe the words are “Don’t shoot, we give up.”

Best movie you've seen in the past month? Crash was good.

Favorite pizza topping? Mushrooms.

Chips or popcorn? Salt and vinegar kettle chips. I can eat a whole bag no problem.

What color lipstick do you usually wear? Whatever my wife is wearing, the location varies depending upon her mood.

Have you ever smoked peanut shells? I’m not even sure what that means.

Have you ever been in a beauty pageant? Yes, until security escorted me out.

Orange Juice or apple? Orange.

Who was the last person you went out to dinner with and where did you dine? My wife. We went to Savories Bistro in Stillwater, the most romantic place in the world unless you get stuck with the table overlooking the gas station across the street. That was a really dumb zoning move on Stillwater’s part.

Favorite type chocolate bar? Snickers. No question.

When was the last time you voted at the polls? The 2004 presidential election.

Last time you ate a homegrown tomato? I don’t eat tomatoes.

Have you ever won a trophy? Yes, I won many trophies as a child performing in piano competitions.

Are you a good cook? I’m by no means a chef, but I like to cook and believe I’m getting better all the time. I love cooking. If I’ve had a stressful, long day at work and school, somehow I can always manage to spend an hour or more in the kitchen. That’s not work to me. It’s so satisfying doing something that results in such a wonderful finished product.

Do you know how to pump your own gas? These days, who doesn’t? Come to think of it, a surprising number of people don’t given the innumerable times I’ve heard a voice say “Go ahead on pump nine” through the crappy Super America intercom system.

Ever order an article from an infomercial? Oh Lord, no.

Sprite or 7-up? Makes no neither mind to me. I only buy it when my tummy is upset, so price dictates the choice.

Have you ever had to wear a uniform to work? Yes. I worked at “Pizza by the Slice” just out of high school and wore a green polyester apron, beret and bow tie. There was something unsettling about working near a 500-degree oven in a highly-flammable outfit.

Last thing you bought at a pharmacy? Prescriptions.

Ever throw up in public? No.

Would you prefer being a millionaire or find true love? True love, of course. Money comes and goes, true love is presumably forever.

Do you believe in love at first sight? Maybe not “love,” but I believe it’s possible to get a feeling that communicates that something special could happen.

Have you ever called a 1-900 number? If we’re talking sex lines, I’ve called the numbers in the back of City Pages that give “free samples,” and of course they weren’t terribly alluring. Just a husky-voiced recording asking for my credit card number so that an overweight mother of six pretending to be a barely-18 college coed could tell me she’s been a bad girl.

Can exes be friends? Yes, but only ‘til you meet the next future-ex.

Who was the last person you visited in a hospital? My friend Amy when she had her baby a year ago.

Did you have a lot of hair when you were a baby? Probably more than I have now.

What message is on your answering machine? Hi, this is Tom, leave a message and I’ll call you back.

What's your all time favorite Saturday Night Live Character? I’ve never really been a fan. I didn’t watch it in its heyday and find it to be brutally unwatchable now.

What was the name of your first pet? The one I remember is “Mother,” my family’s cat who died at age 22. I grew from five years old to 27 during that cat’s life; she was like my little sister.

What is in your wallet? Six dollars, a check card, several library cards, a Juut Salon gift card, my car insurance card, two movie rental cards and my driver’s license. The picture holder broke, so it’s time to get a new wallet.

Favorite thing to do before bedtime? Read. I'm currently muddling through "The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich" by William Shirer.

What is one thing you are grateful for today? That it’s the last day of school ‘til Saturday so I have time to rest and recuperate.

Another quick and dirty encounter.

2006-01-25T14:55:00.001-08:00

Blogging from school again. Tonight is the end of my school week, but it's a killer. Class is from 6-9:30, and by that time I'm dizzy with weariness. I grabbed a cup of coffee, a rare thing after 2:00, but then remembered I took a Xanax earlier so the two are probably canceling themselves out.

I think it's official, I've been starving myself and my body is telling me "Enough." Today I packed enough calories in my lunch to fuel Iran's nuclear weapons program and it still wasn't enough. I grabbed a bowl of chili in the college cafeteria (my first experience there and it was pleasant...not great, but not awful) and I'm about to head to the Student Center and microwave some lasagna.

I need carbs: STAT.

The high point in my week will be tomorrow when I work 8-2, go home, work out, shower, put on my jammies, cook dinner for my wife and I, then collapse on the couch with her to watch a DVD. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder and familiary breeds contempt, and I think both are apt. I never appreciate my wife so much as on Wednesday afternoon around this time, when all I want to do is bury my face in her hair inhaling her Aveda products and remember what it's like to squeeze her.

I blogged earlier this week about the fact that I was assigned my first official story at the newspaper as opposed to obituaries and wedding announcements, and today was the day of truth. I was pleased that my editor changed only one minor detail, otherwise it will run tomorrow word-for-word. Granted it was a "puff piece" about a pastor-turned-author, but still...when you bat a thousand in both grammar and content, that's a damned good feeling.

I'm a little sad that my dad didn't live to see me achieving tiny bits of success with my writing (he died the day before news of my "Columnist of the Year" award arrived in his mailbox), so I intend to stick this week's column and story in the mail tomorrow afternoon for mom to see.

Sorry, nothing controversial or meaningful today. Just another "Dear Diary" entry.

I will, however, say something about Kanye West. He's the rap superstar who became famous overnight last year for saying "George Bush doesn't care about black people" on a live televised awards show. Of course, he immediately became a media darling and spokesperson for the left. West is going to be on the cover of Rolling Stone Magazine wearing a crown of thorns, ala Jesus Christ. All I have to say is that if the left wants to use people like Kanye West as their spokespersons, have at it. You can have Michael Moore...Al Franken...Bruce Springsteen...Billy Jo Armstrong...you can have all these pop culture dunderheads who between them don't have the I.Q. of George Will's pinky finger. You can have Teddy Kennedy...Al Gore, who recently discovered that Hillary-esque shrieking is the key to communication...Jesse Jackson...

The more you throw your lot in with people like these, the less hard the Republicans have to work to continue to kick your asses election after election. And I say this as a born again Libertarian. It's like the people who have "IMPEACH BUSH" bumper stickers on their cars. How many of them would purchase a sticker that says "ELECT PRESIDENT CHENEY"??? Same difference, and they're too blinded by abject hatred for our president to know...or care.

Slander ala Admin Worm.

2006-01-24T15:25:00.000-08:00

My buddy Leab over at Ironic Teachings has taken it upon himself to shoulder the burden left behind when the Slanderous Minneapolis blog stopped posting local gossip. So, below is my attempt at a little good-natured ribbing of the fine state of Minnesota.

STATE CAPITOL ABUZZ WITH NEWS OF FORD PLANT RESCUE
ST. PAUL, Minn. – Workers at the St. Paul Ford plant dodged a bullet Monday when Ford Motor Company officials announced that the plant—where Ranger pickup trucks are built—would not be closed immediately.

Ford, as part of its “Way Forward” plan, is eliminating some 30,000 jobs as part of a long-term cost-saving plan, and two as-yet unidentified plants remain on the chopping block.

Fearing that the St. Paul plant might be on the short list, Minnesota lawmakers sprung into action. At 12:01 a.m. on Tuesday, Governor Tim Pawlenty signed into law a bill authored by Sen. Becky Lourey, DFL-Kerrick, requiring all Minnesotans to purchase a Ford Ranger by Dec. 31, 2005.

“This is a great day for Minnesota,” declared the governor, giving the ceremonial pen to a child in a wheelchair who had no clear connection to the event, “this is a great day for Ford, this is a great day for the citizens of St. Paul, this is a great day for incumbents, it’s a bit of a drag for the middle-class.”

Under stipulations of the law, anyone with a combined household income of $45,000 or more is required to purchase a Ford Ranger by the end of the year. Households earning over $100,000 per year are required to purchase two Rangers. Anyone making more than $1 million annually must buy three Rangers and a Ford Focus, the latter conveniently fitting in the back of a Ranger serving in lieu of a spare tire.

Sen. Lourey included provisions providing taxpayer subsidized Rangers for people below the 45K mark. They will receive vouchers redeemable for seven Ford Rangers per household.

“We feel it’s important for the disenfranchised to share in this bounty,” proclaimed Lourey, as she embraced a woman who has breast cancer and AIDS, clutching a handmade placard reading “My Body, My Choice.” Lourey then spoke extemporaneously for a half hour about illegal wiretapping.

Benjamin Gross, a Ford employee and member of UAW Local 879 who earns $27 per hour screwing nuts on bolts, was jubilant over the news.

“This is great,” he said, sipping coffee 20 minutes into his 15-minute break, “Looks like the wife and I can hit the casino after all this weekend.”

The public relations executive who named the “Way Forward” plan earns $332,000 per year.

Elo Kiddies.

2006-01-24T14:14:00.000-08:00

A little Cheap Trick reference there for you. Best band you'll ever see live, by the way. Loudest and the best.

Not much time to write today. Busy day at the newspaper. Today I conducted my first official interview and am writing an actual story, not simply formatting wedding announcements and obituaries.

Some people would say those are the same thing...

RADIO SHOW
On Sunday morning, while diligently writing Who's News, I was listening to a local talk radio program called "The Polichicks." It features two women—one liberal, one conservative—who talk in shrill voices about the news of the day.

That particular morning the subject was the Ford plant in St. Paul; specifically the fact that vultures were circling for dibs on how to use the property if the plant were closed. Never mind that several thousand people would lose their jobs. Also, Eminent Domain would have to be used because private homes were in their sights as well.

One of the suggestions for the site was a recreation center for poor children. You heard me right; on the heels of one of St. Paul’s largest employers potentially closing its doors, do-gooders wanted to build a recreation center for poor kids.

I called the show and said that the issue isn’t Eminent Domain, but rather whether my tax dollars should go to fund yet another feel-good establishment to support children who aren’t mine. I said that providing endless programs to cushion the blow experienced by poor parents can hardly be considered an incentive to curb reckless behavior. There are a dwindling few of us out here who still hold to the outdated notion that one should not have children until one has the financial wherewithal to support themselves and those children.

They disconnected the call and the left-leaning Polichick said “I find it interesting that it’s people like that caller who invariably vote against family planning and abortion rights.”

Let’s take those one at a time.

Regarding family planning, I don’t know how many more billions of dollars it will take to impress upon people—poor and otherwise—of the veracity of the following equation:

Unprotected sex = pregnancy

There, I just saved you a billion dollars. Super-size your meal tonight.

A couple weeks ago while driving from one job to another (there’s a suggestion for the poor folks, work two jobs) I felt the call of nature since I’d consumed 12 cups of coffee that morning. I stopped at a Super America store. In the bathroom was a machine that dispensed three types of condoms. For 75-cents a person can purchase a product that could save their life and prevent unwanted pregnancy.

If two people—again, poor or otherwise—are too stupid or irresponsible to drive half a block to the nearest convenience store and plop down less than a dollar on a product that could conceivably (pardon the pun) save them endless financial and emotional hardship for the rest of their lives, then I sure as hell don’t want to build a recreation center for the child that may result.

Regarding the second point made by the Polichick—abortion rights—think about that statement for a moment. This person prides herself on being compassionate; certainly much more compassionate than right-wing zealots who call her program and preach intolerance against irresponsible behavior.

Yet her final solution—pun intended—to the problem of poor children is to kill them. If all else fails—if mom and dad won’t spend 75-cents on a condom, or if they happened to miss the lecture in third grade that taught them about safe sex—then we need to ensure that the “problem” can ultimately be eradicated with a safe and legal medical procedure.

I found her comment very disturbing and was disappointed that the right-leaning host didn’t take her to task for it. To me that’s simply proof that both sides of the abortion debate realize deep-down that it isn’t about women’s rights and it isn’t about life and health of the mother: It’s about ridding ourselves of burdens and keeping the option available for ourselves "just in case."

I’m adamantly pro-life, but not for the same reason as most of my pro-life counterparts. Most of them are against abortion because they consider human life sacred. I’ve blogged before about how I don’t understand some people’s veneration of childbirth. That said, I detest abortion because it’s the easy way out; it’s the failsafe that people keep tucked in the back of their brain, “just in case.” I firmly believe that most women (and men, frankly) who say “I support abortion rights but would never have one myself…” actually want abortion legal because in the event they slip up, there remains one final solution—again, pun intended—to bail them out.

ATMOSPHERE
Last night in Geography class I learned about how the atmosphere works, and it blew my mind. I’ve always wondered how and why it exists, and now I know. I won’t bore you with details because you either already know or couldn’t care less. It’s just one more reason, however, for me to scratch my head over the sheer impossibility and wonder of it all.

DOLPHINS
Thanks to Ms. Amber for reminding me about this.

My wife got mad at me the other night for yelling at the television.

Recently a baby dolphin died at the Minnesota Zoo. He was learning to swim and in his zeal jumped out of the tank and fractured his skull.

The story made me very sad. Dolphins are said to be only slightly below humans in the intelligence category—actually, I support Douglas Adams’ view that they’re way ahead of us—and I wondered if the mother felt sorrow at the loss of her baby.

My wife and I had the news on the other night—a rare occasion in our home—and they were covering the story. I was horrified that they showed footage of the event captured on a video camera that constantly monitors the tank.

The baby dolphin was reeling in the water, blood making the water murky. I watched about two seconds of it before screaming “You fucking voyeurs” and angrily shut it off.

I suppose in a world where reality television continues to attract people by the millions and Faces of Death and rotten.com are booming businesses, I shouldn’t be surprised that the news would show such a thing. However, I couldn’t help but feel that the tragedy deserved a bit more dignity. I was already sad that the dolphin died. It didn’t help me or the story to show footage of it. Now I’m left with this horrible image and it makes me angry. Angry that animals have to be kept in cages in the first place; angry that the mother is now without her child and no one can communicate to her why; and angry that the prurient interests of the viewing public have once again been placed above decorum.

Column and some other stuff.

2006-01-23T15:09:00.000-08:00

Hey, gang.

What am I, Archie?

Anyway, not a lot of time to write something original this afternoon. Homework to do. I would like to say that I finally stumbled across a fresh copy of Who's News, so I'll likely post a double-feature next Sunday. Given the hundreds of comments following Sunday's commemorative 9/11 edition of the feature, next week's offering should be a home run.

Sigh.

I was just in the Student Center eating my tiny portion of lasagna and in the room next door, separated from me only by a pane of glass, a group of teachers was wrapping up a meeting. They had a table full of cookies, and I desperately wanted to run in there and steal as many as I could before they called security.

I'm losing a lot of weight - too much, probably - and I need to find a happy medium between complete caloric deprivation and sheer gluttony. My Nutrition course will likely prove helpful in my quest; I just hope I don't lose 80% of my body weight in the meantime. I'm below 129. This is crazy.

That's it except for my column and to tell you that I'm sitting at a computer desk that is built such that the keyboard is approximately shoulder high. This is ridiculous. I demand ergonomics. People may be starving and getting raped in the Sudan, but the conditions at this desk are inexcusable.

By the way, someone shoot me an e-mail at rottemeister@yahoo.com and remind me to blog about dolphins tomorrow.

Peace, grout.

COLUMN O' THE WEEK

Every year my mom renews my subscription to Billy Graham’s publication, “Decision” magazine, so once a month I fill the bathtub to the brim, immerse myself in the latest Bath and Body Works concoction and dutifully read the inspirational tales of faith contained therein.

The common theme is how just when people reached rock bottom—as they transferred their last dollar from savings to checking to cover rent—their prayers were answered. The job offer of a lifetime. A $10,000 bank error in the writer’s favor. Aunt Mildred died and left enough to pay off the credit card debt. And all because people trusted Jesus to come through in the nick of time.

Come to think of it, Jesus probably wouldn’t off Aunt Mildred, so scratch that one.

It brings to mind casino billboards featuring beaming seniors proudly holding oversized novelty checks. “Gladys from Oak Park Heights won $5,000 playing the nickel slots.” The photos would have you believe the only thing standing between you and financial independence is feeding coins into a one-armed bandit for a couple hours.

Much as casinos don’t publicize the 99.9% of people who nickel and dime away their childrens’ inheritance without seeing a payoff, magazines like “Decision” never feature folks who, despite their best efforts and intentions, never get a break. The writers of such publications have the greatest minds in Christendom at their disposal, yet their advice often consists of little more than “Jesus loves you, therefore things will be all right;” a millenniums-old sacred text synopsized into Cliff’s Notes.

Jesus may love me, but there are times I think he forgot me. I can picture him checking his voicemail and discovering four decades worth of missed prayers from yours truly.

July 17, 1977, 9-year old Tom pleads with Jesus to help him through his piano recital. Result: Piano bench required professional stain removal.

October 21, 1987, 20-year old Tom requests guidance on whether or not girlfriend is “the one.” Result: Marriage dissolved in ugliest manner possible 11 years later.

May 2, 2005, 37-year old Tom asks Jesus to “Bless my mom and dad.” Result: Dad dropped dead of a heart attack the next day while digging a trench.

And so on. Christ would fast-forward through the messages in a panic, realizing he’d totally dropped the ball. He’d page his secretary and ask “Can we arrange for Bonnett to win the next Powerball or something? Toss him a bone, for Christ’s sake. For my sake, I mean.”

Most people are familiar with the “Footprints” story; how the single set of footprints in the sand represents when Jesus carried you through times of trouble. In my case I wouldn’t put it past Christ to say “Sorry, dude: While you were swept away in the tide, I caught the most awesome wave. Cowabunga!”

Sorry, but Westernized portraits of Jesus lend themselves to liberal use of the words “awesome,” “dude” and “cowabunga.”

In all honesty there are times when I’m reading “Decision” that I get resentful at mom for sending it. Much as I wouldn’t send pictures of food to the African child I sponsor, I wonder why mom sends her struggling son a glossy magazine featuring people who are not only spiritually fulfilled, but seem determined to rub it in.

Just as I’m ready to call mom and ask her to stop sending me the theological equivalent of Army recruitment literature (which stresses scholarships, not death and dismemberment), I remember what I know about her life.

Mom isn’t one of those insufferable specimens, pampered from cradle-to-grave, who have never experienced a shred of adversity and can therefore afford to exhibit blind faith. You know the type: A burned hot dish is cause to rend their garment and cry “My God, why have you forsaken me?”

To the contrary, my mom has experienced things in her life that, but for her dignity, would have fueled scripts for countless Lifetime Network movies. Yet despite enduring trials and tribulations that would make even the most stoic Oprah audience shed tears, she maintains the unshakeable belief that ultimately, Jesus loves her and things will, therefore, be all right.

Maybe my problem is that I’ve been seeking the spiritual equivalent of a giant novelty check when what I’m really doing is wasting my life at the nickel slots. Next time I hop in the tub with the latest “Decision,” I’ll ask Jesus to toss me a bone. Give me something—anything—that remotely applies to my life. Hopefully he's not screening calls that day.

Who's News Flashback.

2006-01-22T07:02:00.000-08:00

It’s a conspiracy!

Usually I cut and paste the week’s Who’s News questions from the USA Weekend website on Fridays. Then I allow my subconscious to mull them over until Sunday morning at which point I unleash my anti-pop culture fury.

However, the USA Weekend website hadn’t been updated yet on Friday. I checked on Saturday, same thing. Sunday, nothin’. I finally went “old school,” searching for the hard copy of USA Weekend in this week’s newspaper, but guess what: It’s not there.

My first thought was that celebrity gossip columnist Lorrie Lynch had gotten word of my weekly parody of her column and decided to cease publication altogether rather than risk further humiliation. It’s more likely she’s still sponging vomit off herself from Golden Globe after-parties, but a guy can dream.

Then the solution to my dilemma struck me like a bolt out of the blue: Back issues. Specifically, I decided to go back in time to September 16, 2001, the first post-9/11 edition of Who’s News. These are actual questions asked by actual readers the week the Twin Towers fell.

We begin with USA Weekend’s Tom O’Neil giving his predictions for winners in the 53rd annual Emmy Awards. Two office towers lay in smoldering remains as Mr. O’Neil shared his thoughts on a celebrity awards program.

BEST COMEDY SERIES ACTOR: Frasier's Kelsey Grammer will win a fourth Emmy for the episode in which Frasier, on the eve of a career tribute, tells his college mentor, "I feel empty!" Too bad the Twin Towers weren't empty when those jets hit: Then there would be 3,000 more people to watch Grammer accept his Emmy Award!

BEST COMEDY SERIES ACTRESS: My pick is Jane Kaczmarek of “Malcolm in the Middle." I'd rather than be on "Malcolm in the Middle" than in the middle of Manhattan right now!

BEST COMEDY SERIES: I’m sticking to a theme here: “Malcolm in the Middle” will prevail. Last year, it won for best comedy writing and directing when it was not up for this top award. It should clobber the competition like those planes clobbered the Twin Towers! Ker-POW!

BEST DRAMA SERIES ACTOR: Martin Sheen of The West Wing was so amazing in the season finale that he'll surely win. If he were our real president, those terrorists would never have attacked us. He'd have chained himself to their cave 'til they agreed to stop the madness!

BEST DRAMA SERIES ACTRESS: Lorraine Bracco of The Sopranos should rub out all Emmy rivals with her amazing rape episode, which left viewers stunned and devastated. Remember the photos of people wandering the streets of New York City after the 9/11 attacks, looks of utter dispair and agony on their faces? That’s the impact Lorraine Bracco’s performance had on viewers. It was hard to believe that what I was watching was a performance, unlike the 9/11 attacks when 3,000 real people actually died!

BEST DRAMA SERIES: Expect another election landslide for the White House gang. Get it? That’s a pun! Gossip columnists love puns. Last year, “The West Wing” set a record for most Emmy victories in a single year (nine). This year, thanks to star Martin Sheen’s vacuous ramblings against homelessness and poverty set against the backdrop of his lavish estate, “The West Wing” is sure to win the “votes” of Emmy “voters.”

Thanks for your insights, Tom. Now, Admin Worm answers questions sent by readers the week after the 9/11 attacks.

Why do great movie actors take roles on TV (in series that so often turn out bad)? Is it the money? ‑ Gail Thomas, Chicago, IL

Thanks for your letter, Gail. Boy, you had to be relieved when Chicago’s famous (and tall) Sears Tower escaped unharmed this week, eh? Hopefully the terrorists won’t hatch a plan to fly Cessnas into mobile homes, or you’re in big trouble!

To answer your question, Gail: Yes, it’s the money. It’s certainly not the opportunity to spew sitcom-formula pap week after week. Be honest, Gail: If someone offered you the opportunity to earn $60,000 per week—even to appear on According to Jim—wouldn’t you take it?

Then again, perhaps you wouldn’t. You may very well be earning an even better living bilking the Unemployment Compensation system.

Frankie Muniz, an Emmy contender for comedy actor, is great as Malcolm in Fox's "Malcolm in the Middle". He's cute, too. Does he date? ‑ Claudia Cuevas, El Centro, CA

You’re right, Claudia: Frankie Muniz sure is cute! Child actor cute, not Oliver Twist cute. Are you familiar with Oliver Twist, Claudia? It’s a book—that’s those paper things that hold up the short coffee table leg—written by Charles Dickens about an orphanage. Orphans are children without parents. You know, like the several thousand children left parentless after the attacks on the Twin Towers?

Oh, I’m sorry: There I go putting things into perspective again! Anyway, Frankie Muniz is rumored to be dating adult film star Jenna Jameson. The two are even said to be hatching a plan to capture on film Muniz’s deflowering at midnight on his 18th birthday. The two lovebirds are considering donating half the proceeds to 9/11 survivors, ensuring an adequate supply of gruel to families devastated by the attacks.

I've heard this will be the last season for my favorite comedy, "Friends". Tell me it's not true. ‑ Tara McKenzie, Tucson, AZ

Hi, Tara. I heard that 9/11 was the last day of life for 3,000 people in the Twin Towers: Tell me it’s not true!

Oh relax, I’m just joking with you. I realize that by living in Tucson you’re a little sheltered from events that cause the rest of the nation considerable consternation. Hell, the biggest thing to hit a building in your town is a tumbleweed.

But alas, the rumors are true: Friends, like the majestic Twin Towers, will soon be a distant memory. However, due to the miracle of syndication, you will be able to catch the show upwards of 30 times a day, reliving the joy and heartache that characterized the groundbreaking sitcom over its 10-year run. Much as families of 9/11 victims will be able to remember their departed loved ones by looking at photographs and viewing home movies, you can enjoy the wanton sexuality and insipid dialogue of the Friends’ cast thanks to the magic of reruns.

Well, that’s it for this week. Or rather, the week of 9/11/01. I suppose it should be heartening that we live in a country so privileged and pampered that pop culture remained a hot topic of discussion even as the collapsed wreckage of the Twin Towers was searched for the remains of 3,000 innocent people. One can almost see Osama in his cave throwing his turban on the ground in anger: “What? A coordinated attack bringing down the two tallest buildings in New York City and these people are talking about Friends? What the hell will it take to get their attention?”

Should have flown the jets into the NBC Studios, I guess.

Confessions of an amateur rock and roll star.

2006-01-20T16:20:00.000-08:00

Like last night, I do not feel like writing tonight. After working at the newspaper all day writing at night seems like a busman’s holiday, but I’m going to give it a shot.

By the way, when I was much younger, a band I was in—“Those Guys”—opened for a touring band called Busman’s Holiday. Our singer intentionally told the crowd “Stick around for Busboy’s Holiday” just to rile them up. It worked.

That gig was at the Drumstick Lounge in Lincoln, Nebraska. The Drumstick was a legendary place, right up there with the Zoo Bar, also in Lincoln. I had the privilege of playing both places. Don’t ask me how or why we played at the Zoo Bar which is a blues bar, but we did: A three-piece punk outfit.

The Drumstick, though…wow, what an honor to say I played there. What I remember most about the Drumstick is that the dressing room contained the locally famous “autograph wall.” Touring bands, many of whom went on to become huge, signed the wall. I remember seeing REM’s autographs, Soul Asylum, and I think even the Clash might have played there and signed the wall. Hell, my signature was there. The wall bore hundreds of autographs and I often wonder what happened to it. Did the owner salvage it? Or was it leveled with the rest of the place? Regardless, what stands on that legendary spot now is the Golden Arches.

If there’s anything in my brain that is my ticket to riches it’s my band memories. Seriously, I’ve got 20 years worth of gold sitting in this brain. Did you know that yours truly worked with Matthew Sweet—semi rock star—in the studio? It’s true. Sweet hails from Lincoln, Nebraska and apparently my guitarist went to high school with him. Sweet produced a song for us at Master Tracks studio in Lincoln. I remember that we were freaking out given that it was our first “real” studio experience, and Sweet kept saying “Be cool guys: Just be cool. It’s all going to work out.”

My best story surrounds my first and only experience in Percival, Iowa. Someday I’ll recount it in detail, but I’ll give you a synopsis now. Again, it’s a classic case of our band being booked out of its element. What better place for a three-piece, angry punk band from Lincoln, Nebraska to perform than at Percy’s Bar in Percival, Iowa?

It wasn’t as bad as it sounds, it was far worse. We performed for two people maximum—including the bartender—and he kept pointing to his ears in a vain effort to have us lower the volume. Finally, he told us to pack up and leave early. As we did so, the town’s softball league players started entering the bar in droves. Drunk, burly farm boys started harassing us, demanding that we set up our equipment again and play for them. It got ugly and threatening and I vividly recall grabbing a broken pool cue to defend myself if need be.

We hit the road, utterly defeated, in our guitarist/singer’s large white van. We discovered to our dismay that a fuse had blown and we had no headlights. Therefore, we drove the winding, narrow Iowa roads using nothing but the hazard lights for illumination. It was maddening; the Iowa countryside flashed around us as if bathed in a strobe light. About halfway home we pulled over so Darren—or “Shmoo” as he was known—could rest his eyes.

I sat in front of the van on the shoulder of the road with Pat, the drummer. Darren dozed in the driver’s seat and except for the faint tick-tick-tick of the hazard lights all was silent on the deserted country road.

Then, on the horizon: Headlights. Pat and I looked with interest, given that this was the first vehicle we’d seen in ages. As it approached we saw that it was a bus. And not just any bus. As it sped past we saw the sign in front bearing what would usually be its ultimate destination, and it read “Rockin’ and Rollin’.” Children of the 80’s will recall this from rock music videos, because this was none other than supergroup Journey’s tour bus on its way to who knows where from a gig that night in—ironically—Lincoln.

I pictured what must be occurring in the bus; professional musicians having just performed for 20,000 screaming fans, retiring to a plush motorcoach, drinks flowing and music playing, groupies succumbing to their every whim. It must have truly been a jubilant scene; a stark contrast to the situation I found myself in.

The roar of the bus engine faded quickly. The dust and gravel whipped up by its passing settled, leaving just the ticking of the hazard lights to break the silence once again.

The strange thing is that even given to oddity of the situation Pat and I remained silent. You might have expected us to jump up and down screaming “Did you see that? That was Journey!” Instead, we simply looked at each other with a look of…well, of resolve, I suppose. Resolve to keep trying to succeed in music despite setbacks like we experienced that night. Resolve to keep polishing our songwriting and performances so that eventually our signatures on the wall of the Drumstick might mean something. But most of all, we resolved to go home.

Without a word, Pat and I roused Shmoo to continue our journey, pardon the pun. I don’t recall a word being said for the remainder of the trip. All I remember is the hum of the van’s engine, Shmoo’s intense look as he tried to navigate within the limited, sporadic glow of the hazard lights, the smell of Pat’s omnipresent marijuana, and the thought of how for a fraction of a second the lives of two very different rock and roll bands converged on a desolate Iowa road. Looking back, it was almost the cliché crossroads written about for time immemorial, and I often wonder what might have happened if I'd gone a different way.

What a glorious day.

2006-01-19T15:15:00.000-08:00

I don’t feel like writing today, but the feeling of guilt if I don’t would likely be much worse.

It would break my heart if this blog degenerated into a journal or a diary. That said, today’s post (like yesterday’s) might seem like it, and if that bugs you I apologize and encourage you to read elsewhere.

Today I’m sort of at the end of my rope. A little tired and stressed. Work at the newspaper was nearly unbearable today because I got stuck with a project that was reminiscent of the sludge plant manual that was the beginning of the end of my tenure as an administrative assistant at another company.

I believe I blogged about the manual at the time. The engineering firm I worked for was preparing an Operations and Maintenance manual for the very first wastewater treatment plant in Venezuela. It was a 200-page manual about sludge treatment. Sludge is the stuff that results after the poop, pee, tampons and condoms you flush get processed at a wastewater treatment plant. I picture a Dr. Seuss like creation with pumping smokestacks and fart-like noises, with a conveyor belt bringing the aforementioned waste products into the plant. At the other end, neatly-wrapped bundles of the finest candy emerge. So, I guess it’s not so much a Seuss-like plant as a Willy Wonka plant. Given corporations predilection to merge, maybe I’m picturing a Seuss-Wonka joint venture.

Anyway, today I had a similarly mind-numbing project, though not as voluminous. My editor gave me a 25-page document containing all of Washington County’s arrest and conviction records from the past two weeks, and it was my job to format them to Associated Press (AP) style.

At first it was kind of fun; I felt a little like the neighborhood gossip stumbling across inside information. It’s interesting to see what types of people get busted for what; 23-year old females popped for identity theft, 50-year old men with no auto insurance, driving drunk, 18-year olds nailed with drugs.

The number of drug arrests and convictions was staggering, by the way. My guess is that a third of them were drug-related. I couldn’t help but do the math in my head, wondering just how much money went into delving out “justice” for these poor saps possessing a joint. And being an ultra-cynic, I picture the sheriff, judge and bailiff heading to the local watering hole at the end of the day, clinking 20-ounce mugs of beer patting each other on the back for “A job well done.”

Anyway, it didn’t take long for the task to become a terrible chore. The document never ended; I kept thinking I was near the end, but when I looked at the bottom of my screen it read “Page 4 of 25,” “Page 6 of 25,” and so on. I couldn’t help but think that this is what Purgatory will be like. I’ll be on the last page of the document and Satan will tap me on the shoulder and say “Hey, I just saved ten more pages to your folder. Be a doll and format them, then call my masseuse and tell her I need a hoof massage tonight.”

Usually what keeps me going at times like this is a twofold thought. First, I try to remind myself that this job is an important step towards my eventual career goal. Today this tack failed miserably for two reasons. First, I’m reasonably sure at this point that being a reporter at a small-town newspaper is not my dream job. It’s all well and good that the local senior center just opened an audio-visual room and Tuesday is movie night, but with Iran giving the finger to the U.N. and furthering their nuclear weapons program (again, in a Seuss-Wonka type factory with steam and flurgle-burgles and blenga-shmingees), I find my mind drifting to more pressing matters, like survival.

Second, as I mentioned previously even if I entertained notions of becoming a staff writer there, it’s not going to happen. There’s a hiring freeze instituted by the new parent corporation that recently acquired us, and besides over a dozen better-qualified (and more interested) writers applied for the position.

The other thing that entirely failed to get me through this task was the reassuring thought that “Well, at least it’s paying the bills.” Again, as I mentioned on a previous blog, I am not even breaking even with this position. I’m hemorrhaging money. A third of my daily income is spent on gasoline for the commute. Today I got home from work and found that Xcel Energy—who I trashed in an earlier column and can’t help but feel they’re now out to get me—slapped a $3 late fee on our monthly bill. This seems like a very low amount, but I have to work 20 minutes to earn $3. $3 will buy me the gallon of gas I need to travel to my low-paying job. $3 is around $10 more than I have.

Adding further insult to injury is the fact that the Gazette has hired (“hired” is a strange word to use when columnists are unpaid) a new columnist named Larry. Larry has tugged the heartstrings of editors and local residents with countless letters to the editor illustrating that he cares. For those unaware of how the world works, caring is a convenient loophole allowing one to get out of actually doing anything about the issues one cares about. Anyway, my editor spoke with Larry and invited him to be a weekly columnist.

Larry was supposed to continue the trend he began in his letters: Exuding compassion and wisdom. Unfortunately, once Larry got in print “officially” he went Hollywood. Both of Larry’s columns have been attempts at humor, and I have to say as a person who enjoys humor—both writing and reading it—Larry’s attempts fell sadly short of the mark. That’s being kind; the brutal truth is that his humor columns are festering turds.

Larry’s column this week was written from the perspective of our editor, and it proclaimed that so negative was the reaction to Larry’s debut column that she fired him, anyone remotely associated with his hiring, and even the paperboys who delivered the papers. At the end of the column was a disclaimer stating quite clearly that the column was written in jest by Larry, not in seriousness by our editor. Please note that in my opinion, any humor requiring a disclaimer that it is humor is not humor in any way, shape or form. It’s like movies featuring animated chickens flashing the obligatory “Any resemblance between the characters in this film and real people is unintended and wholly coincidental.” Just how stupid are people?

Well, surprise: They’re really stupid. The phone was ringing off the hook at the newspaper today and my editor’s e-mail box was full. People were up in arms over the fact that the editor would dare fire Larry and the people who distributed his column. “Don’t you know there are seniors reading your paper?” asked one letter-writer, “How are they to know it was a joke?”

Well, for starters, how about because it said it WAS a joke?

People canceled their subscriptions over this and the fallout continues. What bothered me the most was that after my editor told our publisher about the incident, he appeared excited to the point of giddy. People were reacting—albeit negatively—and any pub is good pub, apparently. He approached me in the hallway and we had a brief, foreboding conversation.

“Do you get much reaction to your column?” he asked me.

“Not really,” I replied, probably too honestly in hindsight. “I’ve gotten a couple of e-mails, but other than that, nothing much.”

I realized at that moment that, though my column is the best-written column in the paper (forgive my immodesty, but it’s true) the lack of reaction to it could very likely prove to be the ultimate death knell.

Bear in mind this is the perception of a guy who was already having a really bad day. Still, life has taught me that if death comes in threes, then pains in the ass come to the power of ten. Not that losing my column would be the end of my world by any stretch. I’ve begun writing for the school paper again, and if my faculty adviser’s reaction to my debut column is any indication, good things are in store on that front. Also, I received word that my school is going to begin publishing a magazine, so tomorrow I hope to attend the kick-off meeting for that venture.

Books about writing say that ultimately, if you’re writing for feedback and accolades rather than for yourself, then you’re not really a writer. I believe I do write for myself; if I didn’t write, I would probably go crazy. It’s so much a part of my days now that I couldn’t imagine not sitting down at the computer for a half hour each day and just spewing my deepest, darkest thoughts.

That said, however, it does grow frustrating not getting much feedback. My pal Leab over at Ironic Teachings has expressed similar sentiments. I know that he pours his heart and soul into his work and when his lengthy, articulate posts garner only one or two comments, it at the least makes him scratch his head in puzzlement, and at worst makes him want to throw up his hands and scream “What the hell do you people want, anyway?”

I know that when I churn out what I believe to be a good Who’s News, a regular Sunday feature on Admin Worm, I get frustrated when it generates only one or two lackadaisical comments. My profile count just surpassed 1,000 this week, and that’s only due to the fact that after being linked on The Crallspace (thanks, Dan) I got 300 hits in one week. Crall has been online since June 2005 and has over 5,000 profile views. Not that he hasn’t earned them, but I can’t help but wonder “Why aren’t people looking at my blog in those numbers?”

I recently purchased “The Writer’s Market” book after a friend who earns his living freelancing recommended it. One thing is clear: I can’t and won’t change my writing; therefore maybe it’s time to change my audience. I hope to begin submitting pieces to larger, more reputable publications, and if I don’t get published at least perhaps I’ll get an idea of what I’m doing wrong, or right.

I’ll close by saying that I recently began taking medication for anxiety and one of the potential side-effects is increased appetite. I’ve written recently how I’ve changed my eating habits and begun exercising and thus lost over 10 pounds rather quickly. The past couple of days, thanks to this medication, I’ve consumed more food in 48 hours than I am accustomed to consuming in a week. I ate lunch at work at noon, and when I got home at 2:30 I had a full can of soup, and for desert chocolate frosting out of the container washed down with a glass of milk. When my wife gets home at 6:00 I’ll sit down and have dinner with her and I’m hoping she’ll bring a brownie mix home.

That medication is getting flushed down the toilet. It’s clearly not helping the anxiety, and gaining the weight back is guaranteed to increase my feelings of unease.

Have a good evening, people.

Dear Diary...

2006-01-18T13:36:00.000-08:00

My creative writing instructor encourages her students to keep a daily journal. My blog is my journal and here are some random musings for you to chew on.

WEIRD
Today I pulled into Caribou Coffee in Stillwater to grab a depth charge and the Stillwater Gazette newspaper machine was right in front of my truck. Yesterday’s paper was in there and my mugshot was staring me in the face. That struck me as really strange.

It’s funny how technology has advanced exponentially in every area except newspaper machines. One quarter will buy you the whole stack. It’s the last vestige of man’s trust for his fellow man.

CARIBOU COFFEE
Given that I’m currently earning single-digits per hour and am thus hemorrhaging money, I’m strictly limiting my coffee purchases. Today I allowed myself a depth charge from Caribou Coffee.

For those unaware, a depth charge is a cup of coffee with a shot of espresso. I usually get a medium with dark roast because that allows just the right mix of coffee and espresso.

Today was the Holy Grail of depth charges; they did everything exactly right, which only happens once every 10 attempts or so. The coffee was obviously fresh-brewed and unbelievably hot. The espresso was added after the coffee was poured, which is crucial. If it’s added beforehand, the resulting depth charge simply looks like a cup of coffee. The drama is thus sucked unceremoniously from the moment.

However, when the espresso is added afterwards, it’s a thing of beauty. I’m not kidding when I say when the depth charge is perfect I stare at it for several seconds before adding cream.

A perfect depth charge has a layer of what I call “loam” on it. Loam may not sound very appetizing because it normally describes dirt. However, when I think of loam I think of the Lord of the Rings (the books, not the movies) when Pippin and Merry wind up in the care of Treebeard the Ent. Treebeard and his fellow Ents eat soil, and there are different soils for different occasions and tastes.

J.R.R. Tolkien’s description of the soil is such that when I read it (or even think about it) my mouth waters. There’s a description in the book of Pippin and Merry being so enamored with the sight of the dirt that they have a taste of it, but they discover that it tastes—predictably but disappointingly—like exactly what it is: Dirt.

If I’m not mistaken Treebeard even uses the word “loam” in his description of the dirt he and the other Ents eat. The very word starts my salivary glands working immediately. I know I’ll never visit the Ents except for between the pages of Tolkien’s book, but a perfectly-made depth charge is my rare occasion to enjoy, if only for a little while, the wonder that Pippin and Merry must have felt among those enormous, wise and gentle creatures.

If you haven't read the Lord of the Rings, that's one of those "Things to do before I die" you need to put on your list. At night I listen to a "sound soother" with the sound of rain, and when I hear it I'm transported to Tom Bombadil's house where nothing evil ever ventures and nothing could harm me.

"A door opened and in came Tom Bombadil. He had now no hat and his thick brown hair was crowned with autumn leaves. He laughed, and going to Goldberry, took her hand. 'Here's my pretty lady!' he said, bowing to the hobbits. 'Here's my Goldberry clothed all in silver-green with flowers in her girdle! Is the table laden? I see yellow cream and honeycomb, and white bread, and butter; milk, cheese, and green herbs and ripe berries gathered. Is that enough for us? Is the supper ready?'"

BOOKS
My wife and I have both officially found the books of our dreams on clearance shelves.

My once-in-a-lifetime occurrence happened almost 20 years ago. I was walking through the Gateway Mall in Lincoln, Nebraska during “Lemon Days,” their twice-annual clearance sale. Vendors in the mall would put their misfit toys, clothes, etc. out in the mall and people would pick through them and elbow each other if the deals were particularly good.

I perused the clearance rack of a bookstore and found a cartoon book called “Macdoodle Street” by Mark Alan Stamaty. If I recall correctly it cost 99 cents. I’m sure you’ve never heard of it, and if you search for it on the Internet you’ll be sorely disappointed: There’s very little written about it out there.

However, it’s the most incredible cartoon I’ve ever read. It’s a lengthy tale that’s far too complex and ingenious to adequately describe here. Suffice it to say that when I read it—which is often—it’s one of those rare literary experiences, like the aforementioned visit to the Ents, that all but literally transports me to the setting of the book.

I’ve never seen another copy. For all I know I own the only one. And the thing is, for some reason I don’t treat the book with kid gloves. Normally when I have something of such sentimental value that is utterly irreplaceable I panic and tuck it away someplace safe. For instance, I have a first-edition printing of the original KISS comic book (printed with real KISS blood!) wrapped in plastic stored securely in my garage. However, Macdoodle Street sits proudly on my bookshelf exposed to the elements, the cats, wayward cups of coffee, etc.

My Macdoodle Street book is my prize possession. If someone were to offer me a million dollars for it I wouldn’t sell it. It’s the thing I own of which I’m the most proud, probably because by owning it I feel entirely unique in the world.

My wife’s book find is actually a recent publication called “Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.” She borrowed it from the library recently (the waiting list was months long) and said it’s one of those books that she wants to read again and again, but would probably wind up disappointed if she did because the magic of “the first time” might never be recaptured.

Recently she was checking out the “Books for Sale” cart at the library and found the book for two dollars. It’s a recent best-seller, the waiting list to borrow it remains long and it was in perfect condition, but it was sitting there waiting for my wife for two dollars.

I’ve said before that God isn’t in the miracle business anymore but he does periodically toss us a bone. I believe that instances like this, seemingly trivial and coincidental, are actually the Man Upstairs’ way of telling us that he’s unable to speak to us directly, but he is thinking about us.

Hello from Normandale Community College.

2006-01-17T13:27:00.000-08:00

HOWDY
I'm writing this in the computer lab of Normandale Community College. It's so nice to use a computer hooked up to an actual network. It's so fast, unlike the computer at my job which I have to restart 50 times a day because if I accidentally open two applications at once, it freezes.

I got sucked into a pretty good debate on homosexuality on Crall’s blog. Check it out if you're so inclined. By "inclined" I don't mean inclined, wink wink. I mean inclined to have your synapses awakened.

COLUMN
It's probably cheating to fill half my blogs with my columns, but that's the way it goes. The following is my debut column for the school newspaper: Non-Traditional Values. My former column, Neocon Carne, bit the dust when my political apathy set in. The faculty adviser to the newspaper suggested that I create a column offering the perspective of a non-traditional student, and I think that was a great idea. Enjoy, or not. Your choice.

As I’ve written before, I’m a non-traditional student; i.e. middle-aged, bald and directionless. As an angry white male I’m conditioned to rail against political correctness but in this case I accept the toned-down moniker gratefully.

What may not be widely known—or cared about, I’ll concede—is that I’m already a college graduate. What’s more, I was non-traditional the first time around, too.

Over a decade ago at age 27 I forsook Nebraska for the “big city,” lured by the sales pitch of a recruiter from the illustrious Brown College. Her business card said “Admissions Representative” but I may as well have been kicking the tires of a slightly-used Yugo. Promises of a comprehensive education and fulfilling career—coupled with her very short skirt and low-cut blouse—were something a man entering the early stages of male pattern baldness and a raging midlife crisis couldn’t possibly resist.

Brown College is a Brady Bunch school, meaning they air their television commercials during reruns of 1970’s sitcoms in the middle of the day. For some reason these schools believe they’ll be the catalyst for shut-ins—living in their parents’ basements, splitting time between video games, television and online porn—miraculously discovering the necessary inspiration to peel themselves off the sofa sleeper and obtain a veterinary technician degree.

A good rule of thumb is to be leery of a college where, if a graduate from each discipline were deposited on a desert island, it would make a good reality television show. In the case of my graduating class a disc jockey, fashion photographer, French chef and refrigerator repairman would have vied for the prize. Who will be voted off? Who will earn immunity? The true winners would be commuters since there would be four less unemployable people holding “Brown graduate: Please help” signs at the side of the road.

When I attended Brown College it was located on Lake Street in Minneapolis, not an area prominently featured in Chamber of Commerce literature. A body was found in the parking lot once. On one occasion, a man breached security and sold laptop computers from a cardboard box (I declined the offer, unsettled by the thought of a Best Buy truck driver bound and gagged, his cargo stolen). It was not uncommon to hear gunfire outside the school.

The nine-month program cost $6,000 and the graduation commencement was fittingly held on April 1, 1994. I didn’t attend the ceremony, not wishing to draw attention to the fact that I’d been lying to my first wife by telling her I was a U of M student. It took 10 years of pleading to convince Brown College to send me my certificate. If I was going to be paying student loans for the next decade, I wanted something with calligraphy on it, by God.

My Brown College radio broadcasting education didn’t get me far in the Twin Cities. I worked overnights for an oldies station—playing Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald and Satchmo—but grew disillusioned when 3 a.m. phone calls revealed that most if not all my listeners were insomniac seniors whose kids never called them. The calls diminished over time and to my horror I realized it was nothing personal, they were simply dying. Thus I abandoned my short-lived stint in radio for an administrative career.

Just over a year ago I realized I had untapped potential and decided that returning to college—a real college—would be a logical step towards finding my place in life. I chose Normandale because the admissions representative didn’t try to sell me a used car nor did she rely on a push-up bra to seal the deal.

Recently I nearly transferred to a different community college for the sake of convenience. I went so far as to stand in line for 10 minutes at their SOAR event before running out the door; that’s all it took to convince me that Normandale is where I belong. It’s clean. It’s welcoming. The instructors are outstanding. There’s no gunfire except from the shoot ‘em up games in the Student Center.

When I arrived at Normandale the first day of this semester I paused a moment and mentally kissed the ground. I walked the familiar corridors and saw a face or two I recognized. I perused the bulletin boards advertising countless organizations available for students. I observed conspicuously nervous freshmen, the low-rise jeans of girls half my age and the balding pates of fellow non-traditional students. And I knew I was home.

I realized at that moment that I fully intend to participate in my commencement ceremony, whenever that may be. I will covet that piece of paper not just for the calligraphy but for the fact that it will represent an accomplishment and an institution that I can truly be proud of.

Column of the week.

2006-01-16T13:40:00.000-08:00

Here's my Gazette column for the week. I like this one. I have a column due at school this week as well and will post that when it's done.

CHILDREN'S BOOKS

A sign of the impending end of all things has to be Sen. Ted Kennedy publishing a children’s book.

Kennedy is just one in a series of luminaries making the leap from pampered icon to children’s book author. “Real” writers labor at their computers 24/7 endeavoring to create children’s literature that will endure for generations, their odds of publication less than those of purchasing a winning Powerball ticket.

Meanwhile Teddy Kennedy—who already possesses untold wealth and power—feels the insatiable urge to stick his rosacea-tinged nose into other people’s careers, and of course there’s no shortage of willing publishers eager to bid for his work. Strangely, Sen. Kennedy’s incessant anti-Bush tirades have never mentioned his own contribution to the growing unemployment rate among authors.

Who knew that while Sen. Kennedy appeared to be diligently taking notes during the Alito confirmation hearings he was actually setting himself up to become the next Dr. Seuss?

“I will not drink ‘fore 10 a.m.,
I will not drink it, Sam I Am,
I never drink ‘til noontime’s bell,
I will not drink—ah, what the hell.”

Kennedy’s book is entitled “A Dog’s Eye View of Washington,” which is fitting given that the Senator spends an inordinate amount of time crawling through the streets of Washington D.C. on all fours. It’s safer than having him drive; at least for the nubile Senate pages accompanying him home for a little pork-barreling, if you know what I’m saying.

Kennedy’s book chronicles a day in the life of a Senator as told by his dog, Splash. I’ll give that a moment to sink in: Teddy Kennedy owns a dog—a Portuguese water dog, no less—named Splash. With all apologies to the surviving Kophechnes. It would seem more fitting for Kennedy to own a St. Bernard, if only for the barrel of brandy hooked to its collar for emergencies, but I digress.

I wonder what’s next. “A Debutante’s View of Chappaquiddick,” perhaps. If the trend continues, maybe Sen. Robert Byrd of West Virginia could write a book on race relations for children. “Kids, it’s Kool to be Kultural!”

The esteemed Senator from Massachusetts is not alone. Former-Beatle and current-billionaire Paul McCartney recently penned a children’s book entitled “High in the Clouds.” Contrary to its name, it is not a child’s primer into the world of psychotropic drugs, encouraging the development of Flintstones chewable LSD tabs, for instance. Rather, McCartney’s book is inexplicably a cautionary tale about unchecked Capitalism.

Paul McCartney writing an anti-Capitalism book is akin to Pat Robertson shopping a title called “The right thing to say for every occasion.” It grows tiresome having insanely wealthy people like Paul McCartney preach the perils of Capitalism. Sir Paul likely dictated his book to a fetching young secretary in the study of his lavish estate, inspired by the expansive view of the English countryside. I’ll thank him to allow me to discover for myself just how evil money can be.

Rounding out the list of celebrities tossing their hats into the children’s book ring is none other than Madonna. Of all the “authors” mentioned here, the Material Girl is the only one I’m willing to give a pass, if only because I’m surprised and delighted to discover she can read and write.

To illustrate how out of touch I am with popular culture, my last memory of Madonna is her circa-1985 appearance on the MTV Music Awards, when she writhed on the floor in a white wedding dress tunelessly warbling “Like a Virgin.” It’s disconcerting for me to picture her contributing in any manner whatsoever to the development of children, except in the context of a “scared straight” presentation.

There are doubtless other celebrities who will follow the precedent set by Kennedy, McCartney and Madonna. Rosie O’Donnell is probably slamming her hamhock-like fists onto a computer keyboard writing “Heather has two eerily manlike mommies.” One can picture Angelina Jolie churning out her freshman effort “Can I adopt you?” Pete Townsend of the Who might soon be promoting his anti-kiddy porn book, “It was for research, I swear”—pop-up style, of course—co-authored by Gary Glitter.

Celebrities mean well but I daresay I’m not alone in wishing they’d stick to what it is they do well—whatever that is—and leave the writing to the experts. In lieu of that, hopefully parents will have the good sense to support writers who are truly dedicated to the craft of educating and entertaining children through literature, rather than throwing money at millionaires who see writing a best-selling children’s book as just another check box on their list of things to conquer.

What's the deal?

2006-01-15T19:19:00.000-08:00

Who's News has been posted for 24 hours and not one comment. You people disappoint me.

CALVIN
Some days it’s interesting, if not enjoyable, to be alive.

Today was one of those rare “count your blessings” days; an opportunity to look around me and see that as much as I bellyache, things really aren’t so bad.

My wife went out and about while I stayed home and did homework, and before she left we took inventory of our foodstuffs, anticipating a large grocery store trip.

To our amazement we actually have a lot of food on hand. Enough for several meals; plenty to take to work for lunch, lots of healthy snacks, etc. There's no better feeling than having food in the house.

I cleaned house today and was struck by the fact that we have a nice home. A bit small, particularly in the wintertime when cabin fever sets in, but clean and solid and quiet. We have a vacant unit on one side and respectful neighbors on the other. That could change tomorrow—avid death metal fans could move in next door—but for tonight we’re guaranteed peace, and as much as I rant about mortality and the great scheme of things, you’d think I’d understand by now that tonight is all we have.

We had a great dinner: Pasta with seasoned chicken, peppers, broccoli and carrots. For dessert, a brownie with Hagen Daas. Afterwards my wife and I sat on the couch and I gave her a back rub. We kissed and touched and remembered what it’s like to engage in innocent physical contact; we reveled in a rediscovered knowledge that we’re allowed to enjoy the comfort of each other’s touch, going no further than a couple of chaste teenagers might on their second or third date.

I went to the workout room across the street and walked a couple of miles, watching “The West Wing” for the first time. The show really sucked me in, which is saying something given my general disdain for and distrust of popular culture, television in particular. As I stretched after my walk a man, woman and small child entered the room.

Normally I’d get worked up over this. I enjoy having the exercise room to myself, particularly because when others are present they invariably turn the television on full blast, oblivious to the fact that others are present. There’s one man I’ve dubbed “Malcolm” because he watches back-to-back episodes of “Malcolm in the Middle” with the volume cranked, his face two inches from the screen, as if receiving orders from Big Brother in Orwell's "1984."

Tonight, however, my workout was over and the intruders seemed friendly enough, so my blood pressure remained surprisingly low. The man asked how often I work out and made other overtures of small talk, and I followed suit. He got on the treadmill and I gave him a tutorial on how to use the machine, stressing that if he felt tightness in his chest or shooting pains in his left arm he should hit the big red “STOP” button immediately.

Before I left I introduced myself, and he told me his name is Calvin. He introduced the woman and child, but I don’t recall their names. If I ever see him again, I’ll be able to say “Hi, Calvin,” and he'll say "Hi, Tom."

As I wrote last week, I’ve struggled with the whole Christianity thing recently. I seem to have it down pat except for the whole “Love thy neighbor” thing, which is pretty important. Tonight it dawned on me that Jesus said “Love thy neighbor” because he knew that loving the whole of humanity all at once would be impossible, so it's best to go one at a time, or "Bird by Bird" as author Anne Lamott (wonderful lessons on life and writing) might say.

Think about it. Jesus was not always the friendliest human being around. He used the phrase “You brood of vipers” once, he overturned tables of merchants: Jesus had a temper. Sometimes I think I’m living a more Christ-like life than I might think in that I’m very impatient and disgusted with humanity as a whole, but I find that one-by-one people are able to capture my heart, or at least prove tolerable. Jesus himself only let 12 people into his inner sanctum, and one of those betrayed him leading to his death. You can’t tell me he didn’t die a little pissed off.

As I walked across the street to my town home I looked up at the sky and saw the moon shrouded in clouds. The sky was crystal-clear and I saw stars. First one, then two, then suddenly it hit me that there are hundreds, even thousands of them. They’re further away than I could visit in a hundred lifetimes. Those tiny pinpricks of light are actually enormous balls of fire that are so large they would engulf our entire solar system if they were closer. None of those points of light are orbited by planets that harbor life. Ours is the only one.

Tonight I watched 60 Minutes and there was a sobering segment on how North Korea is preparing for what it believes to be an inevitable war with the United States. The West Wing graphically described the atrocities occurring in the Darfur region of the Sudan. People are killing one another, raping one another, stealing from one another, and all the while the infinite cosmos continues a silent, majestic, unimaginably complicated dance, unconcerned that the billions of inhabitants of that odd little blue planet can’t grasp that in the whole of the Universe they are the sole representatives of life and sentient thought, and should therefore be owning up to that tremendous privilege and opportunity by treating one another with dignity and respect. Dare I say love.

I now know Calvin and Calvin now knows me. That’s one less potential conflict the world has to worry about.

Four billion to go.

Who's News.

2006-01-13T19:34:00.000-08:00

Sunday looks to be a homework marathon, therefore I'm providing Who's News a little early. I'll try to post something on the Sabbath, but if not, hopefully this'll do ya' for now.

WHO'S NEWS
What? Sunday already? That means it’s time to loosen the noose long enough to dig through the trash bin—excuse me, mailbox—and answer this week’s letters to Who’s News.

A reminder—and I’m not kidding here, folks—these are actual letters sent by actual people to Who’s News, the celebrity Q & A section of USA Weekend. Iran broke the seals of its nuclear facilities this week in order to produce nuclear weapons to “blow Israel off the map.” Meanwhile, people took time out of their oppressed American lives to pen the following monosyllabic masterpieces to a gossip columnist.

Former president Bill Clinton was a Rhodes scholar. Did he finish all the requirements for a degree? ‑ Tim Wilson, San Mateo, CA

If Bill Clinton is so smart, Tim…then why didn’t he wait 'til after Paula Jones got the nose job to proposition her?

Just kidding! We here at Admin Worm are fully supportive of the women's movement. It's important for women to break through the glass ceiling. It's easier to see up their skirts that way!

Bill Clinton did indeed finish the requirements for a degree, Tim. Specifically, he:

Completed all required credit hours.
Performed 1,000 hours of volunteer service in the community.
Banged the entire cheerleading squad.
Maintained a cumulative 3.5 GPA throughout his tenure in college.
Consumed the required 6,000 gallons of Old Milwaukee via homemade beer bong.
Completed 2,080 hours of an internship in his field.
Harvested six hymens.
Completed his thesis.
For extra credit, he married a lesbian.
Graduated Magna Cum Stain.

Does Larry Joe Campbell, who plays Andy on the ABC comedy According to Jim have any relatives who were in show business? ‑ Kevin Morris, Maple Valley, WA

Oh…my…God. This is so…freaking…awesome!

You, Kevin Morris of Maple Valley, Washington, win this week’s—nay, this YEAR’S—coveted WHO GIVES A RATS ASS award! And it’s only January! That’s saying something, baby!

According to Jim is the television program I use as a reference point to communicate my utter disdain for pop culture. Fat dad, bitchy mom, petulant kids, antagonistic yet loving relationship, yearly appearance by Dan Akroyd and John Goodman during Sweeps Week to resurrect the Blues Brothers, you get the idea. The three F’s of comedy: Formula, formula, FORMULA.

And you, Kevin Morris, come right out and admit that you not only watch that turd of a show, but you care enough to scrawl a letter for the whole country to see asking for details on one of its stars. Amazing. Simply amazing.

Wow, I have to tell you that as a blogger, it doesn’t get any better than this. If a doctor told me today that I have hand cancer (which runs in my family) and that my blogging days are over, I could retire a very happy man. My love life would be shot to hell, but it would be worth it.

Masturbation joke: Ba-BOOM-boom!

I hear there is going to be a sixth Rocky movie. Details, please. – Ann Mitchell, Bellingham, MA

Gee, Ann. Mum’s the word in Hollywood regarding the latest Rocky movie, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that Sly Stallone will portray an aging prizefighter who faces seemingly insurmountable obstacles but then, against all odds and towards the end of the movie, ultimately proves victorious in a bloody, courageous battle to a backdrop of triumphant music.

Again, that’s merely a hunch. Do not—I repeat, DO NOT—place any wagers on that in Vegas, or at the Indian casino you’re more likely to visit, pissing away your children’s’ inheritance waiting for the big payoff.

Was your question serious, by the way? Did you honestly think that Rocky VI would be a science fiction movie or something? Or did you think that maybe Michael Moore would direct this one and it would be about how George Bush was responsible for the demise of Dolph Lundgren’s career? Toss me a bone, Ann: Give me some reason to believe that you had your tongue firmly in cheek when you wrote that letter. I have a razor blade to my wrist and anxiously await your reply.

I am a huge fan of John Travolta. Will there ever be a Welcome Back, Kotter reunion? ‑ Jamie Christenson, Bridgewater, NY

You’re a huge fan? You should try Weight Watchers.

Admin Worm is environmentally-friendly: We recycle jokes as often as possible!

Anyway, I’m sure there’s nothing multi-millionaire movie star John Travolta would rather do, Jamie, than have a reunion to remind himself and the world of his embarrassing, humble beginnings on the abysmal sitcom Welcome Back Kotter. And since the careers of everyone else on the show have been on fire since the show’s demise, it wouldn’t be awkward in the slightest for them to be in the same room together!

Gabe Kaplan, for instance, could take a leave of absence from the Blockbuster he manages in order to appear. Horshack might just be able to pull himself away from his lucrative porn career (billed as Hung like a Horshack) long enough to catch up with his fellow sweat hogs. And who could forget the other ones, what’s-his-name and whosit, the Hispanic and the black guy. You know, the ones who sign glossy photos at auto shows near the General Lee exhibit.

Yeah, Jamie, look for a Welcome Back Kotter reunion right about the time Tom Hanks announces a Bosom Buddies retrospective. Next on the Actor’s Studio, we feature several Oscar winners writhing uncomfortably as we show clips of their commercials and sitcom appearances.

Well, as my wife says after our intimacy, “I’m glad that’s over for another week.” Thanks to everyone who wrote for putting that extra chromosome to good use by penning letters to Who’s News. Your homework assignment for this week: Watch a half hour of news for every hour of sitcoms.

Quick and dirty.

2006-01-13T14:36:00.000-08:00

Maybe I'll post a bit more at length later, but for now I wanted to ensure that I stick to my vow to blog something, regardless of how insignificant, each and every day.

Today is a milestone, for this afternoon I weighed myself after exercising, and I have suddenly found myself at the weight I set as my goal: 129 pounds.

I'm not sure how it happened, except quickly. Stress was part of it, I'm sure, but I've also watched what I ate and exercised regularly. However, I didn't lose it exactly where I wanted to. I still have an annoying little roll over my belt. The old Special-K commercials warned consumers that if they could "pinch an inch" they should mind their weight. I find I can still pinch at least an inch, if not more.

However, here's something exciting: Earlier this week my lovely wife remarked that my abdomen is starting to look toned. That's historic, because I didn't know she was there. Why is that significant? Because I wasn't "holding it in." When she's around I suck in my gut, when I'm alone I let it fly. She observed me voyeuristically from the next room and noticed that my efforts are paying off.

There's still a long way to go before I have Tyler Durden abs (Fight Club reference there) but at least it appears attainable. I guess good things can happen on Friday the 13th.

Who's News and all sorts of other delightful crap for you this weekend. Stay tuned.

A THOUGHT
Say, I just thought of something.

Would anyone be interested in reading my internship journal on-line? I could create a blog especially for that and post one entry per day.

Let me know if you'd be interested.

Krok Talk and other pressing matters.

2006-01-12T18:26:00.000-08:00

NOTE: To those of you referred by the Beltway Young Republicans, greetings. Please note my entire internship journal is being published piece-by-piece at www.internshit.blogspot.com.

I’m trying to do better about writing every day, even if it’s crap. I’m going through a barn-burner of a bout of insomnia which isn’t helping matters, but hell or high water I’m posting something tonight. Also, if I wake in the middle of the night—even if it’s after only a couple hours of sleep—I’m getting up, by God, and writing. I know I won’t get back to sleep anyway, so why not be productive.

By the way, last week I recorded a voice note at 12:30 a.m. about insomnia, and when I listened to it later it sounded like one of those records played backwards back when people were trying to convince us rock and roll was the devil’s music. I couldn’t make out a single identifiable word, at least in English. Scary crap.

DINNER
This is my first night at home in quite a while and I’m celebrating by doing several loads of laundry and cooking dinner. Tonight’s menu is baked chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, broccoli and carrots. It feels good to be home again. I was going to try to do some homework, but then I saw my wife and thought I’d much rather reconnect with her than stick my nose in a geography book.

MEN IN SUITS
Today a man in a suit came to the newspaper. He’s the new head honcho at the monolith that bought our company, and he has all sorts of lofty ideas for it. His company owns about 3,000 small-town newspapers, and here’s an indication of what type of shrewd businessman he is: He wants our local news to increase by several pages per issue, and he instigated a hiring freeze meaning the full-time staff writer position that was dangled in front of me upon hire is now history.

I’m starting to think there might be something to some of my fellow bloggers’ distrust of Corporate America. Companies like the one I mentioned are doing for newspapers what Clear Channel did for radio, and if you wonder what I mean just turn your FM dial to the nearest “Jack FM” station. This is a station that prides itself on having no DJ’s; just a sarcastic, pre-recorded voice that announces commercial breaks. Makes sense. Why have anything remotely human doing the announcing?

Anyway, this big-wig used lots of important-sounding polysyllabic words like “revenue” and “projections” and “intellectual property.” Sometimes I think that before you can walk out of Men’s Wearhouse with a suit they make you take a “big word” quiz. Anyway, he seemed to think himself very important, as did several other people there if their cow-towing to him is any indication, but I wasn’t terribly impressed.

CHRIS KROK
I’m going to use his name. What the hell.

My pal mntwinmom commented after my last post that Twin Cities’ talk show host Chris Krok announced that last night’s broadcast was his last for AM 1500 KSTP. He claims that he received an offer he couldn’t refuse, and this may be technically correct. My guess is that the new Program Director offered him the opportunity to quit with dignity or be forcibly removed by security.

Anyway, I have a special place in my heart—the place that harbors all my grudges and hate—for Chris Krok. Chris Krok is one of the four people walking this planet that I must unfortunately admit that I hate.

Regular readers of my blog might recall that just about a year ago, I worked an internship at AM 1500 KSTP that nearly destroyed my already fragile mental health. The reason for my resulting nervous breakdown was largely due to my frenetic schedule. I was working full-time as an administrative assistant, working 20 hours per week at the station and attending school full-time. However, another part of the equation was Chris Krok’s attitude.

He had a reputation of being hard to work with. That’s putting it mildly. He regularly heaped impossible demands on me, his intern, and his producer, young Jason. Jason, it must be said, has what they call in the business “balls of steel,” because he remained with Krok up until the end. More on Jason towards the end of this post.

Chris needed his microphone adjusted to a certain angle before he arrived. I needed to adjust his chair height. Brew a fresh pot of decaf. Turn on his laptop, arrange the guest microphones just so; the list of tasks was endless.

I took the internship for college credit and part of my responsibilities was keeping a daily journal of my activities at the station. I’ve read it several times since then, and frankly I should have it published because it is a day-by-day chronicle of a gradual, complete mental breakdown. Here’s an excerpt from Day One:

This was the first day on the job, and it was great. If Day One was a harbinger of things to come, I am very optimistic indeed.

Here’s an excerpt from a little further on:

I nearly lost my mind yesterday. I essentially had a nervous breakdown, probably the third in as many years. I cried, broke things, and injured myself. But for a promise I made my wife a couple years ago in a moment of weakness, I would probably have killed myself.

Chris and I had a bona fide run-in once. He used to hate it when Jason and I would talk in the control room, because he couldn’t hear what we were saying. He used to ask that we please cease all non show-related conversation. Well, I arrived at the station the day after my father’s funeral, and to kick things off Chris offered no condolences nor did he ask how I was doing. Instead, he was in a surly mood, and Jason and I committed the Cardinal sin of talking during the broadcast. During a commercial break, Chris asked me to come to his studio. When I did, he asked that I excuse myself to a different room and listen to the show; that my presence in the control room was distracting him.

I had just planted my dad in the ground and this petulant little shit was giving me a time-out.

I left, all right. I left the building. A producer approached me the next time I was at the station and said, in an awe-struck manner, “You’re my hero.”

There were a few other instances like this, but the piece de resistance was for a public appearance that was to be held the Monday after Easter 2005. Chris was hosting a “Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em” promotion at a local bar to commemorate the Minneapolis smoking ban, and he had the bright idea that Tom the intern should appear in a giant cigarette costume. It was to be a team effort; Chris, Jason and I were to meet that weekend and spend a day working on it.

However, neither Chris nor Jason returned my e-mails or phone calls the week before regarding the task, and on Good Friday Chris sent me a brief e-mail saying that he and Jason were opting out: It was up to me to create a functional cigarette costume by the following Monday. Here’s an excerpt from my journal:

The excitement I felt for the promotion has all but evaporated completely.

The creation of the costume was originally to have been a team event. I was to have provided details to Krok and Jason as to what type of materials were available. After they gave their blessing, I was to purchase the materials and we were going to meet at Krok’s house and build it together on Saturday.

However, after I provided extremely detailed information to them on Thursday, I heard nothing for 24 hours. Even after explaining to them that the one place that had exactly what we were looking for was closed for Good Friday, neither Krok nor Jason would take five minutes to give me the “go ahead” so I could (hopefully) excuse myself from work for an hour to pick it up. Jason merely sent me a short “go for it” e-mail on Friday. Friday night, after the show, both of them sprung the fact on me that it was all up to me; they weren’t going to lift a finger.

I told them it would take a tremendous amount of work, and I might have to work from home Monday night rather than be in the studio. They approved this, then started getting somewhat demanding. “We don’t think it’s too much to ask that you come to the studio on Tuesday so we can approve the costume.” So, we went from a “team effort” to essentially pointing the finger at the $6.00 per hour intern and saying “You’d better come through.” Krok said that the Tuesday deadline should be adequate, because I would have “all day Tuesday” to work on it. I looked at him and said “Yes—except for my job.”

They either don’t understand or simply just don’t care that I have a life beyond the fucking Chris Krok show. This is taking its toll on my life and my marriage. I’m at the point of a nervous breakdown attempting to juggle work, school, internship, and my marriage. My wife and I were at each other’s throats yesterday, mostly due to the fact that I’m nearly apoplectic at the thought of having to create a goddamned cigarette costume on Easter weekend. No stores are open, I’m supposed to spend the day at my in-laws, and I am likely going to cancel this (much to the chagrin of my wife, I’m sure) in order to ensure I create the stupid thing on time.

This could go on forever, but suffice it to say that after one failed attempt, I lost my mind and I lost my day job. I then gave it one last shot and came up with something that worked, and in fact I was featured on the 10:00 news that night. Remember that, because it factors into the end of this post.

My tenure with Krok Talk ended prematurely because he sent me to a man-on-the-street broadcast from the premier of the last Star Wars movie, and after promoting my appearance incessantly for a week, he never put me on the air. He jeopardized the station’s relationship with the movie theater—a brand new client—and screwed over several kids in Star Wars costumes that had called their families and friends to tell them they were going to be on the radio. After the show I called Jason, the producer, and used more f-bombs during that five-minute conversation than I probably had in my previous 37 years combined. I called the Program Director and left him a voice mail stating that I was done: Chris Krok was officially no longer a part of my life.

A couple nights ago I was listening to Krok Talk on the way home from school, and he happened to be touching on the subject of religion. I thought I’d call in; what the hell. I told Jason the purpose of my call, and after a few words he asked “Is this Tom?” I told him that indeed it was. He then proceeded to tell me that “Chris is going to recognize your voice if I put you on.” I asked if that was a problem. He said “Well, I told you about how he forbid me to talk to you after you left, right?”

No, I had never been made privy to that piece of information. I was taken aback, frankly. For starters, I couldn’t believe Chris could be so petulant. Second, it disappointed me that Jason would follow those instructions; that if Chris Krok dictates the terms of your personal life, it is your duty to follow orders. Still, Jason is a young guy with firm career aspirations; I wouldn’t expect him to jeopardize his lofty plans for the opportunity to befriend a 40-year old former $6 per hour intern who once wore a ridiculous cigarette costume in a cold, Easter drizzle.

Then, last night I heard Chris tease that he had a “big announcement.” My first thought was that he’d been fired. My wife thought he was going to announce that he was having another baby. Well, we all know what transpired: An offer he couldn’t refuse, whatever that means.

Earlier I mentioned my appearance on the 10:00 news in my cigarette costume. Well, last night as Chris took calls from his “fans” reminiscing about his tenure at AM 1500, a guy named Inge called in. Inge is a talk radio junkie; he calls all the shows and he turned up at the smoking ban promotion that night. He had created a generator-powered cigarette in the back of his pickup truck that glowed and smoked. It was very impressive, and his truck combined with my costume attracted quite a few people to the promotion.

As Inge talked to Chris, Chris thanked him for his contribution to the promotion. “You brought people in,” Chris said, “and you got on the news, brother.”

That statement hammered home to me what sort of person Chris Krok is. He didn’t give me a single mention for my part in the promotion, and even fabricated an ex post facto tale about what aspect of the evening wound up on the television news. It’s a little like “1984” by George Orwell, frankly; the truth is whatever Chris Krok remembers it to be, or perhaps more sinister what he deems it to be.

This post may seem like sour grapes, and I apologize if I come across as petulant. The internship was valuable, and it was by no means all for naught. It was extremely instructive and fascinating, and in fact was at times fun. And the funny thing is, two nights ago when I turned on Krok Talk on the way home from school, I had a thought that was similar to the sentiment expressed by Linus on the Peanuts Christmas Special regarding Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree. Linus looked at the pathetic little thing and said “You know, I never really thought it was such a bad little tree.”

As I listened to Krok Talk, completely unaware that 24 hours later it would be history, I thought to myself “You know, it’s really not such a bad little show.” I wish Chris Krok the best in his career. I know that it’s tough on him and his family, moving every couple of years as his career progresses (or regresses, as the case may be). One thing I’ll say for him, though: He’s passionate. He believes not only in his opinions but in his chances as a talk radio show host. He’s a hell of a lot further along in life than I am—than I may ever be—and at the very least I respect him for that.

Hello, everybody.

2006-01-11T15:28:00.000-08:00

Lots of good comments after yesterday’s posts.

I miss having a computer at work that allowed easy commenting. Honestly, the machine I have at work is…abysmal. There’s just no other way to put it. I think it’s on the version of Internet Explorer that came with it upon delivery in 1985.

Not much of consequence to write about today. Tonight is Geography with a lab. I wrote on Monday that this class would be a snooze-fest, but the instructor is actually quite engaging. Good sense of humor, and what’s more he treats us like adults, which is not the norm around here.

I miss my wife and cats, though. Seems I get home just in time for us to have our ten crabbiest minutes of the day together. We’re both exhausted and stressed by that time, so there hasn’t been a lot of good rapport around casa de Admin Worm this week.

That will hopefully be remedied tomorrow when I have no classes. The ringer will be turned off as will the computer: I intend to lavish my wife with affection, and that will take any form your imaginations care to invent.

I found out today that the instructor of a different creative writing course here at Normandale uses "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" as a textbook. Dammit.

EMPLOYMENT AGENCIES
I’m seeking a job to supplement my income, since my wage as an editorial assistant is meager, to say the least. Actually, when all is said and done I’m probably losing money. I drive 15 miles to Stillwater, then 40 miles to Bloomington, then 25 miles to Woodbury each day. That’s a lot of gas and a lot of wear and tear on a vehicle that has recently showed signs of being on its last legs.

Anyway, today I went to an employment agency. I used to work for an employment agency, therefore I need to be careful; a couple of those people read my blog.

That said, whenever I walk into an employment agency, I think about the novel “Atlas Shrugged” by Ayn Rand. In the book, a dollar sign is slapped on everything. When I meet with recruiters, I feel like I’m being viewed as a commission, nothing more and nothing less.

Their offices were nice, but I got a rare back-room view that was pretty entertaining. On the face of it, it’s a gorgeous, modern office with spacious conference rooms, expensive furniture, the whole nine yards. However, someone left the door open between the reception area and the phone bank sweat shop, and I nearly ran screaming. Remember those Time-Life commercials with the friendly operators standing by to take your call? That’s what I saw, except rather than actors they were real-life salespeople.

I wanted to shower with all my clothes on.

Anyway, I met with a young (very pregnant) lady named Liz, and if her manner of speaking is any indication Liz’s baby won’t sleep for the first couple years of its life due to the fact that mommy’s blood is 99% caffeine. She was a little hyper, that Liz. Liz will be lactating cappuccino with extra whip.

Anyway, I put my financial future in the hands of a woman 15 years my junior and I cringe at the thought of the calls I’m in for. “Tom, do I have an opportunity for you! How does two months of data entry in a windowless basement sound to you, Tom? Tom, are you beholden to earning actual money, or would you consider working for trade? I’ve got a business owner with a 1980 Honda Civic to unload, and word on the street is that you’re after a fuel-efficient vehicle.”

God.

I dunno. This week seems to be all about taking one day at a time. I claim not to care about anything or anyone, but that flies in the face of my incessant worry. If my worst fears are true—if we’re nothing more than the figment of the imagination of an infinite consciousness that dreamed us up as a result of eating pizza too close to bedtime—then who gives an RFA (rat’s f**king a**) what happens two weeks from now? A week from now? Tomorrow? Tonight?

That was a whole lotta babbling for no money shot, eh? Sorry for that. Like I said from the get-go, not much of consequence to say today. For those of you who get the privilege of spending your evening with loved ones rather than listening to a lecture on polar ice caps, land forms, and the earth’s molten core, do me a favor and shut off the television long enough to just hug them. Don’t talk and jinx it; just “shush” them and hold them for a few minutes, because if I had my way I’d be in the rapt embrace of my sweetie tonight, watching a bad movie.

Insomnia-fueled blog.

2006-01-10T20:59:00.000-08:00

I’m a little tired, literally and figuratively, of going to bed at 10 p.m. sharp only to lie awake for hours, take sleeping pill after sleeping pill, only to wake in a fog at 5 a.m. and face another 14 hour day.

So tonight, rather than give in to the little man in my head shouting “You need eight hours sleep” (even though I never get eight hours sleep, the lying bastard) I’m instead going to treat you to a late night blog.

By “you” I mean literally the one person who reads this crap regularly. You know who you are.

Hi, mom.

SUPREME COMPLIMENT
Tonight was the first night of my Creative Writing course at Normandale Community College. You might think someone like myself, who blogs nearly every day and writes a column for a newspaper, would be busting at the seams over this opportunity. However, it scares me a bit silly, frankly. Taking a class means structure, weekly deadlines, reading, and worst of all…gasp…PEER REVIEWS. Peer reviews are bad enough when they’re truly your peers, but I’ve found that at school, “peers” are actually 18-24 year olds fresh out of high school, living with their parents. I’m not saying I’m above the fray, I’m merely saying there’s a bit of culture shock there.

That said, I’m a bit excited. We’re covering poetry to begin with, and poetry doesn’t do it for me, which is why I’m glad to get the opportunity to give it a shot. Our teacher is a published poetry author, and she made the prospect of writing prose sound interesting because poetry seems to be a bit of a free-form type of deal. No real rules, at least for the stuff we’re writing. So what the hell, maybe we’ll discover the heart of a poet lurks beneath this jaded shell.

That of course assumes there's a heart to begin with. I am conservative, after all.

Part of tonight’s festivities was the obligatory class introductions. The instructor had us write about ourselves and read it to the class. I was very pleased that my recitation elicited frequent bursts of laughter from the class. The teacher said that I have a gift for humor, and I told her “You call it humor, I call it just plain sad.”

One gentleman suffers from panic attacks and had one as he gave his presentation. I wanted to hug the guy and let him know he's not alone. He was incredibly brave to finish his introduction and I hope he does well in the class.

I received a tremendous compliment from a classmate who sat next to me. Her name is Lea. She’s a 20-year old native of Africa. During class break, she said that she loved my speech. “I learned English from the British,” she said, “and your writing reminds me of them. You have a very British sense of humor and vocabulary.”

I was enthralled and humbled. For those who aren’t aware, I discovered science fiction writer/humorist Douglas Adams when I was a teenager, and I have consciously or unconsciously tried to emulate his style at every turn. To hear that I’m pulling it off from someone who “knows” was an awesome feeling the likes of which is hard to convey in words.

It’s funny, just today I was shaking my head over some of the utter crap that passes for writing these days. The newspaper I work for has several other columnists, and frankly I just don’t get most of them. Any of them, in all honesty. Not to say I’m any better; I count myself as a nobody working for nothing just like everyone else. But at least I try to inject a little personality into my writing, even if no one in the St. Croix Valley “gets it.”

Tonight made it clear that I’m on the right track, and even if I’m not currently writing for what will ultimately be my target audience. To know that even one person appreciates what I’m trying to accomplish means the world to me.

To those of you out there in blogland that have encouraged me, I thank you as well. And to my wife, who had a grand total of 30 minutes with me today and I still managed to be a crab, I express my utmost appreciation and love.

THE CAT
Yesterday a fairly prominent website featured a photograph of a kitten that was born with one eye and no nose. He was in a person’s hand when the picture was taken. He lived a day.

The cat pictured here is a different cat. I don't want to further exploit the cat in question.

The picture made me extremely sad. I e-mailed my pal Jules (whom I haven’t seen in way too long and I ask to forgive me, I still love you Jules) and asked if it affected her like it did me.

She wrote back and said that it didn’t really bother her; that it was a freak of nature and things like that happen every day.

I thought about it some more this afternoon on the way to school, and in fact was in the middle of recording a voice note about it when I started crying. It probably had more to do with the stress in my life than the plight of a deceased kitten, but still, I just couldn’t stop bawling. I thought about this little guy, not 24 hours in this world, born in a hopeless, helpless state. Did he feel pain? Are cats even sentient? Did someone cradle him in their hand until he passed so he at least knew that while he was here, even briefly, someone cared? Did the fact that they plastered his picture on the Internet convey that they were the types of folks who wouldn’t have comforted him and instead took the opportunity of his short life to get their 15 minutes of fame?

When I was a kid, my grandpa died. My dad was very upset about it and hopped in the van and drove to West Virginia for the funeral. I recall that I wasn’t really affected by it; I didn’t know my grandfather well and didn’t really share my dad’s grief.

That afternoon my cat, Fireball, brought a gift to our back door. It was a tiny baby rabbit that Fireball had hunted down. As is a cat’s wont, he laid it at my feet proud as could be. The problem was, the rabbit wasn’t dead. He was immobile, gasping for breath, and his insides were coming out of a hole in his side.

I was beside myself. I showed him to my mom who said there was nothing we could do. I remember that I took him to a nearby park and sat under a tree, stroking him and talking to him, trying to let him know that someone else on the planet cared about him, even if I couldn’t possibly understand his pain. He died and I buried him.

Another time, much later in life, I was playing a gig in Hopkins on a stormy night. Rain was falling in torrents. As I loaded up my truck at 1 a.m., I saw a small object moving on the ground. To my horror, it was a baby bird—quite literally not a day out of the egg—struggling for life. He had apparently been washed out of the nest by the rain. He had no feathers; he was merely a writhing, helpless little baby.

Not an hour before that I was onstage blasting 80’s metal to a crowd of friends and strangers. Suddenly I was faced with the prospect of wondering how—if—I could keep this bird alive. That was all that mattered and I rushed hom.

I tried to keep him warm during the trip. I remember that I reeked from cigarette smoke and sweat, was saturated by rain, and was overcome with unbearable sadness and futility not knowing what I could possibly do for this precious little life that had been entrusted to me.

I got him home and put him in a shoebox with some towels to keep him warm and I stayed up with him as long as I could. The next morning I awoke, and unsurprisingly but still horrifyingly he had passed during the night.

I buried him in a secluded spot near my apartment and a friend was kind enough to join me for the occasion.

You’re all aware that sometimes I’m overcome with the futility and meaningless of life. One moment I’m writing a sarcastic essay about the failings of the Post Office, the next minute I’m in a fetal ball wondering how we got here and why we exist.

Sometimes, though, it’s the little things that really throw me for a loop. Just like the rest of the world, I trust the earth to continue its complicated dance through the cosmos day after day, year after year, for millenniums innumerable. But when I’m faced with the death of a tiny, helpless, seemingly insignificant creature, that’s when I truly question my place on this earth and the meaning of life. It sounds insane, but sometimes I’d rather that Creation had never been conceived if only to spare one more innocent creature the pain and puzzlement of a short life ended under catastrophic but unpreventable circumstances.

Sometimes I don’t want to feel so much. I want to anesthetize myself and just take solace in the moment; enjoy a little peace for a change. In the movie “American Beauty” a character sheds tears as he tells of how sometimes he sees so much beauty in life he can hardly stand it.

Sometimes I see so much sadness it and pain it seems to be more than my heart can possibly take.

Even if I couldn’t be there with him, I want that kitten to know that he was loved. That even if I didn’t know of his brief existence while he lived, that I do now and I loved him and I would have comforted him if I could.

Like Natalie Portman’s character said in the movie “Garden State” as she buried a departed hamster, “Goodbye, Jelly Bean. I hope you liked me.”

I like all of you and value you more than you can imagine. Be good to the people and pets in your lives.

Column, etc.

2006-01-09T14:59:00.000-08:00

NOTE: Blogger is not allowing me to post pictures tonight. Pardon the text-only post.

Tonight is first day of spring semester. I'm taking all night courses this semester. I thought that might work out better with the job schedule. Tonight it's Geography. Gimme an M...A...P...S...waddya got? 90 minutes of dozing.

It's been a rough week in all honesty, and yet another opportunity for my wife to prove how amazing she is. She's dealt with my tears, my outbursts, my anger, my depression and my hopelessness for the past week.

Things never seem to work out exactly as you hope or plan. My intention was to work part-time at the newspaper, part-time at my previous job, and switch colleges so my commute would be shorter.

As I posted last week, my previous job let me go a little sooner than expected. Also, last week I went to a different college with the intention of transferring, but couldn't do it. I just got a "vibe." I've been at Normandale for over a year now and it feels like home. It's clean, modern, I know people here, the computers are fast and the instructors are by and large of exemplary quality, so I figured why ruin a good thing?

I've been struggling with financial, personal and spiritual issues recently. My mom sent me a book by Billy Graham, and as is normally the case there was no blinding light on the road to Damascus. The book did, however, do a pretty good job of describing precisely where I'm at spiritually at the moment. It rightfully described me as being "book smart" about Christianity but not feeling it in my heart.

There were four characteristics of a Christian described in the book, and though I don't recall the three I exhibit, I do recall the one I do not: Love. Christians are supposed to exude love for their fellow man. It doesn't take a theologian to know that yours truly does not always, if ever, exude love for his fellow man. Quite the opposite.

The question is, how does one change the very core of one's being? I'm already trying to quickly make up for four decades of career and financial stagnation. Now I have to renovate my soul?

It's going to be a busy week and I'll do my best to post regularly. If not, I beg your forgiveness.

COLUMN
The following is this week's offering to the newspaper. You'll note that it's little more than a beefed-up version of last week's Pat Robertson post. My editor told me that if I would care to write something specifically geared towards eliciting reader reaction, I could do so. Since the Robertson post garnered quite a few comments, I took that as a good sign.

Pat Robertson is taking heat for yet another presumably irresponsible statement he uttered on the 700 Club.

Robertson dared suggest that Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon’s stroke was punishment from God for ceding land to the Palestinians in the name of Mideast peace, which by the way is an oxymoron.

Folks on all sides of the political and religious aisles are up in arms over Robertson’s statement. In the ensuing furor the question no one seems to be asking is:

What if Robertson was right?

Somewhere along the way God apparently became a wizened, white-haired grandfatherly type dandling us on his knee for all eternity. Religious folks have fostered this portrayal to keep pews and collection plates full, as is evidenced by Catholic and Protestant churches alike accepting every imaginable form of deviancy regardless of its 180-degree departure from Church precepts. A parish for every perversion is their motto.

Non-religious types perpetuate the God-as-grandfather image because, on the off-chance he actually exists, such a kindly old gent would never dish out eternal hellfire. A wagging of his mighty index finger in the face of transgressors coupled with a stern verbal admonishment would be as bad as it gets, followed by ions of dandling.

For Pat Robertson to suggest otherwise is sacrilege, at least according to armchair reverends throughout the nation. These are people whose exposure to current events is limited to news teasers aired during sitcom commercial breaks.

I was raised in an Evangelical church which described itself as “charismatic,” but my mom described it best as “charis-maniac.” The Sunday service consisted of 90 minutes of singing, foot-stomping and speaking in tongues followed by an hour of fire and brimstone washed down with cookies and punch afterwards. Nothing gets the taste of sulfur out of your mouth like watered-down Kool-Aid.

This church, for all its shortcomings, at least instilled the fear of God in parishioners. The Good Book is chock full of plagues, pestilence and wrath. It’s all judgment all the time, like a 24-hour cable channel with locusts, frogs and hail.

Sodom and Gomorrah were wiped out by a vengeful God. Jonah was swallowed by a fish sent by God. Moses served up the plague du jour until the Pharaoh let his people go. And don’t I recall something about a flood that made Hurricane Katrina look like a water park attraction?

Sounds like a certain omnipotent being is in need of serious anger-management counseling.

The Bible also makes it abundantly clear that Israel is God’s chosen land and the man upstairs deals harshly with folks who seek to destroy her. God drowned the Pharaoh’s armies in the Red Sea, brought down the walls of Jericho and committed countless other acts of vengeance that, if replicated in Hollywood, would merit an NC-17 rating for violence.

If God is not above exacting retribution on outsiders who seek to destroy his chosen land, why was Pat Robertson out of line for suggesting that the leader of Israel would be at risk for weakening it from within?

Predictably, in their rush to judgment, none of Robertson’s detractors have bothered to learn what he actually said. He merely quoted the third verse of the Book of Joel that says God reserves the right to smite those who “divided up my land,” which is precisely what Sharon did.

Golly, a Christian preacher quoting a Bible verse directly related to current events in God’s chosen land. Not exactly the Webster definition of unmitigated gall.

Hal Lindsay, who has built a cottage industry on Biblical prophecy, recently predicted that “something would happen to Ariel Sharon” necessitating his removal as prime minister of Israel. Why didn’t Lindsay get the same negative press as Robertson? Perhaps because he’s not part of the supposed right-wing cabal manipulating marionette strings over the White House.

I’m not a fool. Ariel Sharon’s stroke was more likely attributable to age and a fast-food diet than an act of God. It makes me nervous, however, to discount out-of-hand the possibility that God might choose to directly intervene in the lives of men, particularly men who seek to parcel out his chosen land to sworn enemies.

It seems ironic that the very folks who point to the lack of modern-day miracles as proof of God’s non-existence are the same people who scoff at the idea of Divine intervention of the vengeful sort. You can’t have it both ways.

If given the choice to throw in my lot with blow-dried talking heads who decry Pat Robertson’s words or a man well-versed in Scripture who’s willing to tell the world that like it or not, God has a proven track record of kicking butt and taking names, I’ll side with the latter. And I’m buying up locust repellant stock like you wouldn’t believe.

Who's News.

2006-01-08T15:38:00.000-08:00

Boy, try as I might I just couldn’t muster the hate this week. Maybe I’m going soft. Maybe I’m just over-stressed from the prospect of returning to school this week. Whatever, this may be the first Who’s News in history to feature not one f-bomb.

To reiterate, these are real letters scrawled by real readers to the celebrity Q & A section of USA Weekend: Who’s News.

What do you know about Rhona Mitra, the sultry detective on "Nip/Tuck?" ‑ Lance Samuelson, Oakland, CA

Well, for starters, I know she’s not a sultry detective, but a sultry actress. I realize you think you’re watching reality television, Lance, but it remains as make-believe as Mr. Roger’s world. And oddly enough, as illustrated in this photo, the Nip/Tuck star has had a little nipping and tucking done herself, adding a couple doses of make-believe to her own physique.

Usually I take the opportunity of the end of my answer to utterly shred any remaining dignity of the letter-writer, Lance, but I’m going to do something unprecedented in the annals of Who’s News: I’m going to give you a pass. Why? Because your letter gave me my first exposure to Rhona Mitra. And I like it.

I miss the character Kate, who was written out of "NCIS." Can you tell me why she's gone? ‑ Paul Richards, Horseheads, NY

NOTE: The following answer was provided by The Real Mark Harmon. I knew he’d come through. He can come across as a bit arrogant, but I think we can all give him a pass if only because of his excellent work as a thespian.

I'll tell you why Kate got written off, you juvenile titty twisters! Because we're a team and she didn't fit the team mold! That's right! She was a cankerous, cantankerous sore on the weasel putz of life! I PERSONALLY gave her the heave-ho! It was like slopping Peppermint Preparation H on a boiling anal wound! It felt great, Paul, and you know what? If I could have butt-sex with anyone in the world, it would be Angie Harmon, that two-faced hag! Thanks for asking!

What ever happened to Lisa Beamer, wife of Todd Beamer, who was on Flight 93 when it crashed in Pennsylvania on Sept. 11, 2001? ‑ Cindy Edwards, Sun City West, AZ

Lisa Beamer, who staved off her grief long enough to attempt copywriting the phrase “Let’s roll,” has embarked upon several business opportunities. She opened a bakery called “Let’s Roll;” an actor’s studio called “Let’s Role;” a skate park called "Let's Rollerblade;" and a health-conscious deli featuring wraps called “Lettuce Roll.” She's also in negotiations to endorse an antacid, the theme of the campaign being "Let's Rolaids."

As Beamer recently said while interviewed on NBC’s Today show, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. When terrorists kill your husband, make a killing.”

With a new "American Idol" getting underway, I got to wondering: What happened to Bo Bice, who was runner-up to Carrie Underwood last time? ‑ Mary Victors, Colfax, WI

You’re kidding me, right? For God’s sake, Mary, I can’t walk by a Sam Goody store without a life-sized cardboard cutout of Bo Bice staring me in the face. My first reaction is always that I’m either being stalked by the scary Oak Ridge Boy or that a wayward Yeti, buzzed from use of medicinal marijuana, accidentally stumbled into the mall.

Here’s a fun matching game. Match the following names with the pictures:

1. Bo Bice

2. Scary Oak Ridge Boy

3. Yeti

4. Rhona Mitra

Forget about Bo Bice, Mary. It’s over for Bo Bice. Bo Bice will be back to selling tambourines, tasseled jackets and bongs at the flea market soon enough. It’s all about Carrie Underwood at this point. And Rhona Mitra.

Wow, my most heartfelt apologies. Money problems, stress and lack of sleep obviously wreak havoc on the cynicism center of my brain. Hopefully things will straighten themselves out soon so that next week we can get back to some good, old-fashioned vitriol.

Let's take a breather.

2006-01-07T14:07:00.000-08:00

There's been too much serious talk on this blog lately. How 'bout a fresh Who's News on Sunday, and in the meantime a picture of the best band in the world, the Darkness.

Also, a lot of people have asked that I post a "real" picture of myself, so here's a picture of me in a cigarette costume at a radio station promotion last year. I'm being hugged by a guy I really don't care too much for.

Follow-up.

2006-01-06T10:40:00.000-08:00

The computer at my new job is so crappy I can't even post a comment on my blog.

So here's my comment:

He he he...the battle lines are drawn. The earth continues its complicated dance through the cosmos and complete strangers argue about a televangelist on a blog read by five people a day.

I love it. I love how everyone knows "the truth." Pat Robertson knows his version...Clint knows his...Crall knows his...MsAmber knows hers (and obviously learned it from the Graduate)...

Our very existence is utterly impossible from any vantage point, yet beings whose existence is completely insignificant on a cosmic timescale claim to know the truth.

We are all...and I include myself at the top of the list...very, very vain.

Pat Robertson.

2006-01-05T17:40:00.000-08:00

I’m making it a point to blog before checking anyone else’s, because I want to make a prediction.
My guess is that at least one of my fellow bloggers is nailing Televangelist Pat Robertson to the wall for his comments today. If you don’t follow the headlines, here’s the gist: Robertson suggested on his television show that Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon’s life-endangering stroke might have been the result of God’s wrath, given that Israel recently ceded a considerable amount of land to the Palestinians. Israel is, after all, God’s chosen land, so according to Robertson the Almighty might just be a bit miffed that Sharon would give up even a single square inch in the name of peace, especially given that Mideast peace is an oxymoron.

To all those folks who are outraged over Robertson’s statement and for everyone who thinks they know what a “real” Christian is and that Robertson isn’t one, I pose this question:

What if he’s right?

I studied the Bible quite thoroughly in my early years and I seem to recall an inordinate amount of smiting, plagues, and general wrath on the part of the man upstairs. For those folks with a Pollyannaish view of God - a wizened, white-haired, all-loving God sitting on a throne not wishing ill to anyone - I’d suggest you re-read the Old Testament before ridiculing Robertson for his words.

Israel has miraculously survived as a nation for the past 60 years despite being surrounded by enemies. Recently the President of Iran stated that he thinks the Holocaust was a hoax and that Israel should be “wiped off the map. "Iran is diligently seeking to enrich uranium so they can produce a nuclear weapon. Recently I commented that I fully expect a nuclear warhead to be launched at Israel any moment at which point UFOs will descend upon the Mideast and the Apocalypse will begin.

I wasn’t joking.

The Book of Revelation mentions “144,000 who had his name and his Father’s name written on their foreheads.” These 144,000 people are those “who had been redeemed from the earth.”

There’s been a lot of speculation about that number. People scratch their heads over the math; four billion people on the earth and only 144,000 will be saved?

Sometimes I think it’s entirely possible; in fact I wonder if 144,000 righteous men will be found. I can't envision 144,000 people with the necessary courage to stand on a soapbox and, despite the cries of “intolerance” and “extremism” hurled upon them, speak what they believe to be the truth.

I hope and pray that George Bush doesn’t cower to pressure if and when America is needed to help defend Israel from an attack. I’m not hopeful, however, given that the entire Book of Revelation contains not one reference to the lone superpower left on the planet. Sometimes I wonder if we’re not mentioned because God will turn his back on us when we turn our backs on Israel.

When I first heard about Robertson’s words, I cringed. Now, I applaud him. It's about time someone stood for something.

Let the slings and arrows begin.

Non-human resources.

2006-01-04T17:34:00.000-08:00

This is one of those blogs that could well have become a bridge-burning type of thing, but thankfully a hot bath and a Xanax put me in a more reasonable state of mind.

I’d simply like to say that my two decades of experience in the workforce have impressed upon me that there is nothing more ironic than the phrase Human Resources. I’ve discovered that invariably people in Human Resources are anything but human, or at least ultimately incapable of behaving in a humane fashion.

Human Resources people care about people. Specifically, these people:

Anyone else is secondary. What matters to Human Resources people is the bottom line. If a human being happens to adversely affect the bottom line, they are summarily discharged. And I don’t even refer to sub-par behavior or a demeanor unsuited to the workplace on the part of the employee. What I mean is that Human Resources people sit in their offices late at night with adding machines, reading glasses perched studiously on the tips of their noses, and if the bottom line can be improved by removing a name from the payroll, so be it.

Note I said name, not human being. Because in the eyes of Human Resources people, a name is merely a random assortment of vowels and consonants that adds up to a particular dollar figure. A name does not represent a human being who relies on their job to keep a roof over their head or food on the table; a name merely represents a cog in the machine, one that will be removed post haste if said machine can run reasonably well in its absence.

I read Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand during the summer, and as I mentioned previously it was a watershed event in my life. If you can read Atlas Shrugged and walk away without your life and outlook either radically changed or dramatically reinforced, then you should sell the book to a used book store and go back to peeling your eyelids back and watching hours of wholesome, hilarious prime-time television. I think According to Jim is on tonight.

Atlas Shrugged is an unapologetic homage to capitalism, and the book had a twofold effect on me. First, it made it painfully clear that capitalism is vital to the survival of our nation, indeed our world, and that anyone who seeks to sidle the successful with insurmountable hurdles is shooting themselves and their fellow man, whom they profess to love and respect, in the foot. I have blogger pals who make a cottage industry of bashing "big business" and the "evil rich," but I hope and sometimes even believe that eventually they'll understand. The poor may be deified in certain circles, but after 20 years of labor I can honestly say I've never had a paycheck signed by a poor person.

However, the other effect that Atlas Shrugged had on me was creating anger. Anger that this is how life has to be. In the book, as in our society, a dollar sign is slapped on everything. Literally everything. Atlas Shrugged makes a wonderful point about money; money is a tangible representation of the labor of an individual. I’ve long scratched my balding pate over the whole money thing and about how complicated economics can be. Reading Atlas Shrugged made it clear that money is a useful thing.

My contention, however, is that when a society gets to the point where human lives are literally viewed in strictly monetary terms, then that society is not long for this earth. A good case and point was a recent radio show about the Avian Flu in Asia. A caller suggested that an immediate quarantine on flights from Asia should be enforced to prevent the possible spread of the disease to America. The host laughed the caller off and said “Yeah, we want to lose China as a valuable trade partner.”

In other words, millions dead from Avian Flu is one thing. Ensuring that we have an adequate supply of Tickle Me Elmo’s (assembled for slave wages by children younger than the ultimate recipients, ironically) for next year’s holiday rush is quite another thing. Yes, the human toll would be staggering, sobering and saddening, but more detrimental still would be disrupting our precious economy.

Today I learned that when push comes to shove I am a series of figures on an Excel spreadsheet. I am not a human being; I am a number that affects the bottom line. Late night number-crunching and covert meetings resulted in the removal of a column from a spreadsheet, a column that represented yours truly, a living, breathing human. The bottom line is healthier now and I am suddenly much wiser, though as this blog has illustrated for time immemorial, wisdom is not always a pleasant thing.

To paraphrase the movie American Splendor, I’d trade some of this character for a little happiness.

By the way, lest regular readers be concerned I am not without an income. I am now with a significantly smaller income, but I am working.

Stream of consciousness.

2006-01-03T19:04:00.000-08:00

I haven’t gone stream-of-consciousness on your asses for quite a while, so here goes…

TELEVISION
My pal Leab over at Ironic Teachings blogged about Arrested Development last night and there’s not much I can add. Last night’s program was nothing short of brilliant, as is the show as a whole. It breaks my heart that it might be leaving network television for a couple of reasons. First, my wife and I have a cable-free household and therefore wouldn’t be able to watch it if and when it makes the move to HBO or Showtime. Second, I’m afraid that the show would lose what makes it special if it moved to cable. Half the pleasure of the show is the fact that they push the envelope, bleep obvious obscenities, etc. etc. It reminds me of Howard Stern moving to satellite radio; his show was only popular because of the controversy. In a forum where there are no limits and thus no controversy, I’m afraid the charm may be lost forever.

WRITING
Anyone vaguely familiar with this blog knows I hope to be a professional writer someday, though in what capacity I’m not yet sure. I think I’ve blogged before about a book called “Bird by Bird” by Anne Lamott. Much as angry loners are stereotyped as having dog-eared copies of “Catcher in the Rye” in their pockets, so should no aspiring writer be without a copy of Lamott’s book.

I was reading “1984” by George Orwell in the tub tonight, and I’d like to paraphrase something the main character said about trying to write:

For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper. It was curious that he seemed not merely to have lost the power of expressing himself, but even to have forgotten what it was that he had originally intended to say. For weeks past he had been making ready for this moment, and it had never crossed his mind that anything would be needed except courage. The actual writing would be easy. All he had to do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless monologue that had been running inside his head, literally for years. At this moment, however, even the monologue had dried up. The seconds were ticking by. He was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page in front of him…the blaring of the music, and a slight booziness caused by the gin. Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imperfectly aware of what he was setting down. Winston stopped writing, partly because he was suffering from cramp. He did not know what had made him pour out this stream of rubbish.

That about sums up writing for me in a nutshell.

WHO’S NEWS
Someone commented after Sunday’s Who’s News post that they weren’t exactly sure what they had just read, or something like that.

Who’s News is my weekly opportunity to express my utter disdain for pop culture. It’s my favorite part of this blog, and if people don’t like or don’t get it, I can live with that.

COLUMN
The following is this week’s column from the Gazette. I continue to work as an editorial assistant there. My life is a series of constant change, as is everyone’s, I suppose. However, why do none of the changes ever seem to be for the better? Not that the job is awful, but I am really, truly, completely, unabashedly broke. Tomorrow will be a watershed day in my life; I have several important decisions to make in a single day, and I’m so tired and stressed that I fear I’ll be flying blind as I make them.

The only thing worse than being the new guy at work is being a middle-aged new guy.

I’m what’s diplomatically called a late bloomer which in layman’s terms means I wasted the first 20 years after high school trying to become a rock star. As a result I worked a series of jobs that while not quite humiliating were nonetheless completely unfulfilling. Accentuating my social and financial insecurity is the fact that I’ve been back in college for a year, a balding 40-ish sophomore amidst kids who despite not being of legal drinking age somehow manage to show up to class hung over each morning.

I mistakenly thought that my most recent administrative position was my last “job” before earning a degree and embarking on a bona fide career. However, word came down that the company I worked for was up for sale and yours truly, the part-time office assistant—whose most notable accomplishment was negotiating two-ply toilet tissue for the price of one-ply—was not part of the deal.

Thankfully I had the presence of mind to grab enough office supplies to get me through the remaining three years of school.

Serendipitously, I received a tantalizing entry-level job in an actual career. It could well prove to be a gateway to bigger and better things, but for the time being it’s a trifle humbling. To begin with, my computer is comprised of cast-off parts from other machines—my mouse is actually an old Atari joystick—and adding to my feelings of inadequacy is the fact that my co-workers and boss are all nearly 20 years my junior.

Not that they haven’t been amazingly gracious, mind you. I often find that my self-consciousness about my age is unfounded. People don’t look at me as an old, directionless failure, but simply as a directionless failure. Still, when my co-workers excitedly discuss the latest hip-hop artists while my musical knowledge hits the ceiling at Dexy’s Midnight Runners, it’s quite easy to feel conspicuously ancient.

Exacerbating matters is the bathroom mirror. The lighting in the restroom at my new job is such that the mirror provides not just a reflection of one’s face but a window into the soul; it’s a State Fair funhouse mirror sans levity. The evil mirror exaggerates every wrinkle, magnifies the bald spot expanding like the hole in the ozone layer, reveals graying temples which would be distinguished if they reflected accomplishment and exposes four decades of mediocrity manifested in a slight but telling slouch.

The mirror taunts me: “You may be fooling them,” it hisses, “but I know the truth: You’re on the brink of tears from long-term worries such as having no retirement and short-term woes like the fact that the ‘w’ on your second-hand keyboard doesn’t work so you have to use an upside-down ‘m’ just to type ‘woes.’”

Mirror, mirror on the wall, how much further can I fall?

My dad died recently and if there can be said to be an up side it’s that he no longer has to recount my professional retardation to his family. Dad’s siblings incessantly regaled him with tales of their children’s unbridled success while his own kid stagnated. Thankfully dad is spared reporting that his son is earning a six-figure salary but that two of the six figures are after the decimal point.

My family hails from West Virginia which is coal mining country. Many of my predecessors toiled deep underground for nominal wages, breathed soot, were deprived of daylight for days at a time and grieved canary after canary that always passed just when they started bonding. They faced hardships I can’t begin to fathom.

What drove these people? Perhaps the fact that they were literally living hand-to-mouth, something I often claim but have never actually suffered. Or maybe the light from their mining caps made them look really good in the bathroom mirror belying the physical toll the job took on them.

Regardless of their motivation, the fact that I have a second (or third, or fourth) chance at success at an age when many of my ancestors were painfully wasting away from Black Lung Disease is humbling. My computer “problems” suddenly seem very manageable if not embarrassingly trivial.

So I will continue to walk into work every day with my head held high, greeting everyone with a firm handshake and holding their gaze confidently. Well, everyone except for that guy in the bathroom mirror; he’s the one person who can shake my confidence. I’ll avoid eye contact with him ‘til I’m a little closer to my degree, until I’m more comfortable in my new surroundings or at least until the custodial staff replaces the bulb over the sink.