ABC News: Bush Nominates Alito for Supreme Court

Don't you get the feeling that all of a sudden, Bush and team have started to watch television. It's like each move and counter move is perfectly designed to integrate with prevailing wisdom of the press. The Harriet Miers nomination was kicked back by movement conservatives who thought she had no judicial credentials (because, well, she didn't...) ... here's Alito, with the mostest judicial credentials ever! Miers was too much of a blank slate ... Alito has lots and lots on his slate! It's like Bush is saying, "You want experience? You want a record? I'll give you the mostest ever!" And the media just eat it up. Having the newsmakers conveniently package the news into the storylines they've already written makes things so darned easy for them. The story just writes itself! Which, of course, is the problem...the nub, as it were.

One Minute Story: Comic Book Dreams

I was sitting on a park bench, dreaming.

In my dream, I was in the army. But when I fired my gun, I didn't kill anyone. They would just keep coming and coming, over the dusty, dirty hill that was dotted with patches of green and brown grass and wavy, straw-like grains. Then I'd look over the hill and they'd be gone, and the hill became an expanse, a valley, that went on forever. So I forced myself over the hill and then I fell and rolled, but I didn't feel like I was rolling and I couldn't feel the bumps and I should have been bruised but I wasn't, probably because I was dreaming.

And I stood up with my gun at the ready...but there was no enemy, only this empty plain that stretched on forever.

So I sat down and laid my gun on my lap and I had a smoke. Only I don't smoke. So I started coughing. So I dropped the cigarette and it set the grass on fire. And there was fire all around me like in a ring and I got up and gaped at it, open mouthed I gaped at it, standing, ready to shoot something. But nothing came and it was hot. And I was scared.

And then I woke up.

* * *

"So, what do you think, Doc?"

"What do you think, John?"

"I think I'm getting hot under the collar!"

"What is that, some sort of movie line?"

"I think so. Probably not."

"What do you think your dream meant, John?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you have some unresolved conflicts."

"Pffffft. Okay..."

"I think you're angry and helpless. And you realize your only enemy is the one you can't fight -- yourself."

"Well, yes. That's all true, but..."

"But what?"

"But I think it was about my frustrations..."

"Yes, that's what I said..."

"...about my inability to successfully gain super powers."

"That's funny..."

"You see, I tried to irradiate a spider. But it's not easy to find radiation. They don't sell it at Radio Shack."

"I'd imagine not..."

"Cosmic rays aren't easily available, either."

"I'm not familiar with..."

"So, I've been working in my garage on an exoskeleton. Mostly with scrap metal and transistors, some old machine tools and minimotors."

"And what will this exoskelton do for you?"

"The exoskel-e-ton will give me super strength, of course. and I'll be bulletproof. Mostly."

"So, when you say 'bulletproof' that's really a metaphor for ..."

"Protecting me from bullets, yes."

"And who would be shooting at you?"

"Villains. Look, if you're not going to take me seriously, I'm going to have to..."

"Are you threatening me?"

"... take you to my garage and show you. It's really cool."

"That's okay. I believe you."

"You do?"

"No, I don't."

Lines in the Sand

Some days I feel like I'm running around in circles. There's a starting line, just beyond the edge, but I keep circling just shy of it, every lap arcing so close that if I just stopped ... I could step right over.

But I can't.

Yesterday, I discussed with someone (OK... my therapist ...) what a thrill it might be to see what I can really get away with at work. Could I, potentially, finish a week's worth of work in one or two days, and then relax and enjoy the rest of the week. My answer: I probably could. What's scary about that? That I have no idea what I'd do with the rest of my time. But wouldn't it be fun to see if I could do it?

The problem is getting started. How do you get off the track? How do you 'just do it' when something, a little child inside you is screaming, "I don't wanna face this"?

So here's my answer: From hereforth, I'm going to take George Costanza's advice and 'do the opposite'. Whatever I want to do, I'm going to do the opposite. If I want to avoid work, I'm going to work. If I don't want to make a phone call, I'll make the phone call. If I don't want to write the article, I'll write the article. If I don't want to have lunch with my old boss, I'll call her and set it up.

God I hate this idea.

(which probably makes it a pretty good one).

My Perfect Day

As it happens, I hate my job. What would comprise my perfect day?

6:00 am -- Wake up. Realize it's 6:00 am. Go back to sleep.

6:45 am -- Shuffle downstairs. Get newspaper. Have cup of coffee from coffee shop magically appear in my hand. Drink coffee and read paper. Cook can of corned beef hash. Feed kids.

7:15 am -- Eat bowl of cereal, corned beef hash and orange juice. Continue reading paper.

8:30 am -- Shower and stuff. Get dressed: No suit...but lookin' sharp and comfy.

9:30 am -- Go to coffee shop. Drink more coffee. Write stories.

11:30 am -- Lunch! Gyro or falafel. Read magazine.

Noon -- Make phone calls. Take meetings. Do Emails. Do work.

2:30 pm -- Writing time. Another coffee shop. Don't bug me.

5:00 pm -- Dinner! Lots of delicious food! From a restaurant. How 'bout some ribs?

6:00 pm -- Play with kids.

7:00 pm -- Put kids to bed.

8:00 pm -- Watch TV. Zone out.

9:00 pm -- Work more ... send more emails ... while watching TV.

10:30 pm -- Seduce wife.

11:00 pm -- Read compelling novel. Or comic book.

11:15 pm -- Fall asleep.

Opening Lines

Someday, I'm sure to write a novel. Doubtless, I will choose from among the following opening lines:


Rene wasn't tired and she wasn't hungry. She wasn't anxious and she wasn't nervous. She wasn't happy and she wasn't sad. She was perplexed. And who wouldn't be: there was a sea lion in her living room.

* * *

Turbulence wasn't a word used lightly among pilots. "A little bumpy," they might say. Or, "we're hitting a rough patch." So when the speakers crackled with shouts of "Turbulence!" from the cockpit, Jack knew he'd best check the seat pocket for that little paper bag.

* * *

One thing I was sure about growing up: I would never be caught by an elephant with a pound of peanuts stuffed in my underwear. But here I am.

* * *

I like butter. A lot.

* * *

Swimming is easy. It's breathing that's the trouble. Always remember to breathe, my grandma told me and I took that advice to heart.

* * *

"Call me, Ishmael!" I shouted. But, alas, my love had gone to sea.

Thumbsucker - A Movie Review

Last night, I went to a free sneak preview of Pride and Predjudice, and, after a series of wacky mishaps involving my mother-in-law and a large, extra-spicy burrito, and upon discovering that Pride and Predjudice is based on a Jane Austen book, making it a movie which no self-respecting male should attend alone, I found myself $15 poorer balancing a Coke, a bag of hot, buttery popcorn, and a ticket to "Thumbsucker".

Thumbsucker is a movie about resolving the conflict between who you are and who you want to be. Seventeen-year-old Justin Cobb has an embarrassing habit: He picks his nose. Ha! Just kidding -- he sucks his thumb. He does it by himself, when he's stressed, or tired, or just wants to relax. Understandably, his unrequited jock dad doesn't thinks he's an idiot, and his celebrity obsessed, fantasizing nurse mom is enabling. Dad gets so upset, he writes his own initials on Justin's thumb -- MFC.

Justin is a nice kid, a little buck-toothed and a little mopey. He's on the debate team, where he's in love with Rebecca, who has big boobs. It appears we're headed for tender teen romance when, after their first kiss, Rebecca notices MFC written on his thumb and asks him what it means ... so responds, well, poorly.

So Justin goes on a journey to see how he can change himself -- to become the person he's supposed to be. He tries hypnosis, pharaceuticals and pot. He gets advice from his hippie, new age orthodontist (Keanu Reeves), a recovering addict TV-star (Benjamin Bratt) and his recovering teen debate teacher (Vince Vaughn).

And eventually, you know, discovers himself and stuff.

You know, writing reviews is hard, and I have to get back to work. It was a good movie. I liked it... go see it. Thanks.

Art for Art's Sake

Ahh...the glorious music of the keyboard...oh the art you can create:

l;aksdjfl;asdfja;sldjfasl;dfjka;sldfja;ldfja;ldfj;aldfj;aldfj;aldfjal;dfjal;sdfjla
;dfjla;dfjalsdf

Now, look how I start to mix in other rows... here's the middle row plus QWERTY! ...

aj;sdlkfjas;ldjfa;lsdfjqwoeituawoeitywoeitlkdfasl;dkfasodfjqopweityakdfj
aoetiuqwodfasdl;ufweijasdfwioetujawoeiuldkfwoe

And now, a little three-row action...

al;ksdjalkdjacm,v.x,cjgoeifnmaweoifnxcvkdhtiodnvawencvweopifnkl
d;vnaeiocvcmcxnwoehaxcvmnoer

And numbers!

;aklsdfl;aksj20935u239045lsdjf032459lksdjf23095ldsf340mncvc
gj3049lkdjeowkdac.,vcm409

With but a touch of the shift key...punctuation!

lka;sdnval;df()*#$@Y(*@NC@)#$*(SVMCXNGLDGC">NVEG@()$GNVDM<>SVMCXNGLDGC

(oops...CAPS LOCK! what spontenaeity!)

And now... the whole keyboard....!!!!!

lkajdlvna;lhgdkjh03489*()^(JHKDN(DS*Y983453mfdmnzxc,.vn48thasdklfzd90v8h4rtio

Thank you, thank you...yes I know... I feel blessed that we could be a part of this artistic experience together ...

How to Shoot an Apple off a Man's Head at 100 Yards

How to Shoot an Apple Off of a Man's Head At 100 Yards

If you enjoy nature hikes up easy rolling hills, antiqueing in an old river town, a variety of unique crafts by local artists, and teeth-rattling near death experiences, the Stillwaters Art Fair, this Saturday and Sunday, is for you. Here are some highlights.

Nature Hikes

Bring your backpack and take a hike! Trails will take you through historic Stillwaters and up the Lenaole Overlook, where there's plenty of space to spread out the picnic blanket, sip lemonade and watch the apple-shooting exhibition down by the river from a safe distance. Don't jump -- it's only gunplay!

Antiquing

If it's old, it's here! Stillwaters is known worldwide for its antique stores, where the motto is, "It may be 100 years old, but it's new to you!" The Stillwaters Musket Society has recently taken posession of a cache of vintage Civil War Benchrest Rifles, found just last month by a now-unknown Wisconsin antiquer, for the annual Apple Shoot. Polished and lovingly restored, these beauties were designed to be accurate from 1800 feet...but that was a long time ago!

Arts and Crafts by Local Artists

What is Art, and what is a Craft? Well, we'll let the philosophers sort out that timeless question! We've put Arts and Crafts together in a one-of-a-kind tent show sure to satisfy the aesthetic eye. Special this year is a piece of metal-craft by artisan Chris Crawford of Minnetonka, who has developed an ingenious apple holder that can be sized for the youngest and most ... ample ... amongst us. But don't clamp that apple too tight, Chris! It has to fall off!

Teeth-Rattling Terror...and Fun!

This year's 100th Anniversary Apple Shoot should be more thrilling -- and safer -- than ever, due to new rules that require at least three weeks of firearms training for all contestants. Also, men -- and women, too, for the second consecutive year! -- who wish to wish to be Apple Tablers will use Chris Crawford's Apple Holders in hopes that it will help avoid unfortunate incidents like the wounding of Johnny Smeltstrom by Steve Olson, who accomplished what everyone agrees was an excellent piece of shooting when he tracked the apple as it prematurely fell from Johnny's head and shot a bullet right through the apple as it passed Johnny's sternum. Ouch! The new safety measures have led to some grumbling from long-time Apple Shoot enthusiasts, but most everyone agrees that sometimes the "old school" isn't the best school!

Remember, early sign up for Apple Tablers begins tomorrow. Tourists welcome! See you there!

# # #

One Minute Story: Takin' it to the Streets

A One-Minute Story ...

"I'm mad as hell, and I'm..."

"Not going to take it anymore...yes, of course," I said drolly. This was becoming tiresome.

"But I really am. I'm ready."

"I'm sure you are," I said, and began packing up the assorted papers and file folders I'd spread across John's desk. The piles of papers and folders and magazines already heaped thereon made it hard to tell which papers were mine and which were his.

"That's mine," John said.

"Yes, yes, of course. I really have to go now. I have a meeting ..."

"I told you I'm ready to do something. What are we going to do?"

"What would you like to do," I said, sighing and sitting back down, briefcase closed upon my lap.

"Something. I'm going to quit. And tell the media. I've had enough of the lies, the deception, the sheer callousness..."

"Yes, well... I have to advise against that. You'd only find yourself alone. Ostracized. Jobless. Is that what you want?"

"Yes! I mean...no, not really," John looked sad, and conflicted, and I realized that he had told the truth the first time -- like Garbo, he wanted to be alone... but he wanted it to happen to him...not to happen because of his own actions.

"There are always consequences," I said. "Every action is a decision, especially when you can predict the outcome. What will you decide to do today?"

"I don't know yet. I have a lot of work to do."

"Don't we all..."

#

What I ate in Chicago

I spent a week in Chicago at a trade show in the massive McCormick Place. I'm back now and my feet still ache. The highlights of the trip hinged upon, as usual in my case, what I ate and where I ate it. Here, for your consumption (get it, consumption...'cause it's about food...get it? no, not tuberculosis...what are thinking? Anyway..., is a recap of my visit.

• Best cheeseburger -- the Boston Blackie at Boston Blackies. A half-pound of ground, grilled, cheesed deliciousness, washed down with a draft Sam Adams. Enjoyed with Travelin' Colleague Tony, who is from Boston.
• Best Steak -- The New York Strip at the Saloon. This also was the only steak eaten on the trip, but it was a good choice -- gigantic, moist and delicious all the way through.
• Best Spaghetti & Meatballs -- A little known fact about me is that I only order spaghetti and meatballs at Italian restaurants. However, I didn't go to any Italian restaurants in Chicago. After Friend Brian (one of the proud few that read this blog) blatantly ignored my plaintive cell-phoned pleas to attend his party, I walked Michigan Avenue, bought the Marvel 1602 graphic novel at Virgin Records, read more graphic novels at Borders, and even found time to pick up a bracelet for my lovely wife. Upon my return to the hotel, I ordered spaghetti bolognese from room service and dove into the world of 17th century superheroes. The spaghetti could have used some meatballs.
• Best Drink -- Gin and Tonic, Tavern on Rush. The drink was competent, the conversation, with Friend Nancy and later joined by Travelin' Colleague Tony, was delightful. Even more important was that while I waited alone at the bar for said Friend Nancy, I'm pretty sure that at least two attractive women gave me the eye and a little smile. I'm happily married with three kids, so just that's enough fantasy to keep me going for awhile.
• Best Sushi -- Mirai. I don't even like sushi. This sushi has left me craving sushi. The warm saki and Tsing Tao only embellished the experience.
• Best Pizza -- None.
• Worst Pizza -- Connie's at McCormick Place -- thick slabs of cheese covering bland red sauce and chunks of recently defrosted sausage.
• Most Average Burger -- The Big 'N' Tasty, McDonald's at McCormick Place. First off, the the McDonald's "Express" doesn't carry the Quarter Pounder. Secondly, "Express" in McDonald's language apparently means "30 minute wait". However, the Big'N'Tasty was, as expected, medium sized and OK.
• Best Pancakes -- Pancakes & Eggs in Rosemount. I didn't eat breakfast for the entire trip -- too lazy, too stressed. Until Thursday, on my way out of town, when Friend Colleen and Kid Will intercepted me on the way to the airport for delightful conversation and funny faces. Pancakes were fluffy, but small. However, two extra stars to the P&E for providing Corned Beef Hash as a side dish. It wasn't quite Mary Kitchen ... in fact, it might have been fresher than that... despite that, it was a delicious, welcome and stomach-filling treat, and I happily fell asleep upon takeoff.
• Best Homecoming -- My 16-month-old, who gave me just about the biggest hug ever. Awwwwwwwwwwww....

I'm back now...

Overheard at My Wife's 20th High School Renunion

Tall, blonde, beautiful former cheerleader from wealthy family to a gay man. Spoken with sincerity:

"You know, apparently some people didn't have a good experience in high school."

You think so?

# # #

Important Song Lyrics

Popular Musicians Can Teach You So Much! Here are some "nuggets" that I have found very deep and meaningful for my life! Maybe they can help you, too! They sure do help me!

"Sad songs say so much," Elton John. They do don't they? Much more than the happy ones.

"She steals like a thief but she's always a woman to me," Billy Joel. Billy Joel has a whole lot of what I like to call 'advice songs.' These have been very meaningful to me. I'm not sure what this one means. Perhaps women don't usually steal.

"Honesty. It's such a lonely word..." That's our friend Billy Joel again. I often feel quite lonely. Honest!

"But when you're born to run, it's so hard to just so down," Stevie Winwood. So true. I probably wasn't born to run, but I've kept this in mind!

Does anybody really know what time it is? Does anybody really care? If so I can’t imagine why? We’ve all got time enough to cry," Chicago. It took a band like Chicago to ask this timeless question. And to answer it. Indeed, we do all have time enough to cry, and shouldn't that be enough?

"I want a new drug...One that won’t make me sick...One that won’t make me crash my car...Or make me feel three feet thick..." Huey Lewis and the News. I think of this nugget as everytime I take my anti-anxiety medicine. Hee hee!

I'll probably think of more tomorrow! Oboy!

# # #

Folk Music

Folk music. The music of the folk. Storytellers. Tellin' stories.

If I could choose a new career, right now, money no object, I'd be a folk singer. And I'd move on this right away, if not for my distinct lack of talent on the guitar and ability to carry a tune further than I could throw one. Oh, and the fact that I write songs almost daily in the car on the way to work...with lyrics that are forgotten almost as soon as they are composed.

Be that as it may, I've come to realize that there is a whole population out there of middle class folk who lack folk music telling ther story of said folk. Woody Guthrie covered the Depression-era dust bowl, and a host of unwashed, pale, wide-eyed, patched-jeans wearing folkies covered the Baby Boom in all of its Magical Youth.

But where, oh where, is the musical chronicler of the modern office worker. The dull-eyed, fresh-air deprived worker who once counted on lifetime employment in loco parentis from his company now at the mercy of efficiency experts, automation and the rising tide of highly competent foreigners happy to do his job at a more reasonable rate for the shareholders.

I've only heard one song about an office layoff -- Ben Folds' "Fred Jones, Pt 2", a song as emotionally fraught as any for those of us who aren't sure what 'added value' they bring to make themselves irreplacable:

There was no party, there were no songs

'Cause today's just a day like the day that he started

Noone has left here that knows his first name

And life barrels on like a runaway train

Where the passengers change

They don't change anything

You get off; someone else can get on

And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones

It's time.

It's hard when you're so close to it. I'd squirm if I heard a singer wailing,

"Outsourced...what a terrible way to be...

Outsourced! Why'd it happen to me?

I gave all I had for the company,

now they've shifted my job off to New Delhi..."

Ouch.

Or maybe, if the lyrics were a lot better (and I meat A LOT better), like those Depression-era grape pickers in California gathered around the tractor trailer, you'd find people gathering around on the sidewalks downtown, munching on their Vienna Beef hotdogs and nodding their heads and smiling...knowing that someone out there knows what they're thinking could happen any day... and maybe a few more people will try a little harder to be irreplaceable.

Or decide it's time to see what that old dream was all about...

# # #

Impending...in the Dells!

No, no real disasters impending... but I'm blogging today from the gloriously tasteful environs of the Wisconsin Dells. A long-overdue family vacation, since I'm hopelessly burnt out at work...this may or may not help...I will admit to checking my work email here at the Route 12 Internet Cafe...my reward is...ta da!...I get to blog!

Getting here, was, as usual, half the fun ... a 3.5 hour drive from Minneapolis turned into about 6 hours, during which we were forced to pull over on I-94 due to a blinding rainstorm (and a near panic over my driving from a certain passenger...who insists that I was far closer to hitting that motorcycle than I possibly could have been...really! No...really!). We started driving again, and discovered we were still rain-blind, but were able to see well enough to inch the car to an off ramp and, as if called by a divine power, into the parking lot of a Burger King with a Play Place. Two cookies, one milkshake, a pair of Spider-Man goggles and a mini Optimus Prime Transformer, three bathroom breaks and one-and-a-half hours later we were back on the road.
If you've never been to the Dells, think Branson, MO, without the southern-fried tacky. More midwestern tacky...or... oh hell...it's hard to be cynical and aloof when you and your wife have three kids, five-and-under, in tow... When you have three kids, what's tacky about Pirate's Cove Mini-Golf? Or the Ripley's Believe it Not Museum? Or the Tommy Bartlett Water Show? Or the castle-themed Camelot Hotel, chosen to replace the campsite that was no doubt washed away in today's storms, which uses a castle shaped facade -- admittedly successful at delighting the kids -- to hide a perfectly lousy hotel where the wife and kids are trying to sleep while I -- assuming the traditional male role of hunter-gatherer -- head to the Wal-Mart for morning vittles -- a cereal variety pack, milk, bread and a squeeze bottle of jelly.

So, my loyal reader or two...wish me luck... in mending my jaded spirit...in fogetting the cares of the office...in relaxing enough to have a little fun...in getting a little sleep...and in stalking and capturing a delicious squeezable bottle of jelly before Wal-Mart shuts down for the night. It'll be a close one.

# # #

If I Were a SuperHero

I've been relying on the esteemed Prof. Scott Tipton to revive my knowledge of the past two decades of Marvel and DC superhero history, further fueling my descent into fantasy universes I'd left behind for friends and women.

More productive, perhaps, is that my five-year-old son wants to start a company with me, one that would publish comics and make superhero movies. We've created quite the superhero universe already...he takes them quite seriously. But he's also come up with some rather ... odd ... heroes...that would make for fun stories:

STATUE MAN! He's able to stand completely still...like a statue!

ODDBALL! He's big and fat and round, and he can...what exactly can he do?

DINO SIX! A member of the Fantastic Six, Dino Six can turn into any dinosaur. Or, any part of a dinosaur. Like with a Tyrannosaurus head and Stegasaurus tail and Triceratops' horns. A formidable hero.

YELLOW LIGHT! He can look into the sun...without blinking or hurting his eyes! Very useful, because his bad guys hide in the sun!

SLOW MOTION MAN! He's so coooool! He moves extreeemleeeeeeyyyy sloooowwwwwleeeeeeey...

# # #

One Minute Story: "Desperation"

He couldn't get rid of the feeling that there was so much left undone. It gnawed at his stomach, souring the fluids where he supposed his brain floated, untethered from his mind.

It was all very juvenile, really. Stack the boxes on the shelf. Check to be sure that the labels faced the aisle and like products were grouped helpfully together.

And the crates were empty and the labels were grouped, helpfully, and faced the aisles in a stunning display of All-American plenty. And yet, Jonathan sat on the floor and clutched his stomach, thinking of all that was left undone.

A cart peeked around the the aisle, followed by the slow shuffle of an older lady seeking Matzo ball soup mix, which was nearly invisible amongst the more gentile offerings. Then a boy of five or so rounded the corner, laughing. He stopped and ran back the way he came, his voice echoing across the aisle: "There's a grown-up on the floor over there. He has brown skin."

"Is he OK?" a woman asked.

"He's just sitting," the boy said.

"OK...you know, it really doesn't matter that he has brown skin, Jason."

"I know," Jason said.

But it does matter, doesn't it? Something has to matter, or nothing does, he thought. He thought about what his manager said that morning, when Jonathan asked him why his manager's new boss was arranging interviews with each employee.

"He wants to get a feel for morale. And productivity."

"Why?"

"Because that's what managers do."

"I'm not going to be here much longer," Jonathan said. "Can I skip this?"

"You've been here nine years. Where are you going now?"

"I've got a plan...there's so much..."

"Left undone...yes, I know. Look -- this job is what is it is and you are what you are..."

"What is that?"

"A very good stockboy."

"Don't you call me..."

"I know...it's the title..."

"I know...

"Do you want my job? You can do my job..."

"I don't want your job...thanks, though."

"It is what it is, you know?"

"You keep saying that. You know it makes no sense."

"I know, but it keeps you going, you know."

"Yeah, I know." Jonathan paused. "I'm going to go finish up now. Then I'm going to quit this job."

"Yeah?"

"For real."

Jonathan finished up. It took him two more hours. Then he punched out, took a deep breath of cool evening air, confirmed his schedule for tomorrow, zipped his coat and walked to the bus stop.

# # #

Space Knight!

My kids and I play this game were we make up superheroes and then I tell stories about them. They're utterly insatiable. Here's me coming home from work:

"Hi, guys! I'm home!"

>>continued reading of books or leaping upon couch-pillow mountains<<

"Umm...hello?"

"Daddy! Tell us a Fantastic 6 story!" says kid 1

"No, tell us an Awesome Eight story!" says kid 2

"Tell us a Space Knight story!" says kid 1.

"OK, wait, Daddy," says kid 2, who is older by a year and a half. "Tell us a Space Knight story now and then tell us an Awesome Eight story for our bedtime story."

"How about we tell no stories now and read books for bedtime?" I say, hopefully.

"No, Daddy," says kid 2, and then togther: "Tell us a Space Knight story! Tell us a Space Knight story! Tell us..."

"OK," I say, and fall in a bit of a heap on the couch. The kids, 5 ("and a half!") and 4, clamber up onto the couch, and wait expectantly.

"Tell us the story that happens after the last story!" says kid 1.

"What happened in the last story?"

"Daddy, you remember -- when Space Knight won the race around the moon," says kid 2

"Right. And there he was with friend, Gronk."

"Gronk is really fat," says kid 1, puffing out his cheeks.

"Well, yes, he's a very big guy. And as you know, he's kind of a Space Mechanic. Anyway, Gronk says, 'Space Knight, I have a mission. You should come with me.' Space Knight says, 'Sure...what is the mission?' and Gronk says, "Well, I have to go to the planet Serracloob...'"

"Serracloob? That's an odd name," says kid 2.

"That's the name."

"OK."

"So, Gronk says, 'We have to get there fast. There's a space bus stuck in the swamps of Sierraclawb...'"

"Serracloob!"

"Right, '...in the swammps of Serracloob where some school kids were on a field trip.'"

"Why did they go there on a field trip?" says kid 2.

"Because there's lots of natural beauty there."

"I think there's lots of doody there!" says kid 1.

"I said 'beauty', not 'doody'!"

"Doody Doody Doody!" kid 1 says.

"He said, 'doody'...that's funny..." says kid 1. "The school bus should be stuck in doody!" says kid 1.

"Hey! Who's telling this story?" I say, and that quiets them down. "So...Space Knight says he's happy to go with Gronk, and they agree that they would go there in Space Knight's ship, Alice. 'Alice, we're going to planet Serracloob. How long will it take to get there?'

'It's pretty close, Space Knight,' the ship says in a soothing female voice. 'How fast do you want to go?'

'We have to rescue a bus full of kids...pretty fast!' says Space Knight.

'Then we'd better get moving...it will take us no more than a day,' says Alice.

'Then let's go. Are you ready, Gronk?'

'Ready, Space Knight!'

'Alice, get set for Super Duper Super Duper Super Extra Hyper Warp Speed...go!' says Space Knight and he punches a big red button and the ship shoots off into space. Shhhszzzzzzooooooooooom!'"

"Gronk is going to sit in the doody. Because he's so fat!" says kid 1.

"Hey! We don't talk like that. And Gronk is just big boned. And enough with the doody!" I say, exasperated. "So anyway, soon, Gronk and Space Knight arrive at the planet Sierra Club..."

"Serracloob!" shout kid 1 and kid 2 together.

"Whatever. And they land their ship just outside the creepy swamp. 'Better bring my crocodile repllent,' says Space Knight. 'And alligator repellent, too,' says Gronk, who is carrying a massive box of space bus fixit equipment.'"

"And Space Knight brings his stunner stick and his jet boots!" says kid 2. "But, what if they meet a bear?"

"Bears don't live in swamps," I say. "So they squish and squarsh through the swamp...squish squarch....squish squarch...when suddenly, crashing out of the swampy forest comes... a bear!"

"Hey! But... you said!"

"I changed my mind...there was a bear!"

"But ... well ... OK," said kid 2. "So Space Knight takes out his bear repellent...?"

"No! He didn't bring it! So Space Knight and Gronk run away as fast as they can through the swamp."

"But Space Knight can just use his stunner stick," says kid 2.

"But he doesn't! He and Gronk run and run!"

"But..."

"Who's telling this story? Anyway, Space Knight and Gronk come to this big tree. And they climb right up it because..."

"Gronk is too big boned to climb a tree!" says kid 1.

"He...umm... he's wearing jet boots. And that jets him up the tree."

"Scaaarrrrryyy," says kid 2.

"And the bear swipes at them with his big claws, but he can't reach them, so he trundles off..."

"He went away?" says kid 1.

"Yeah. The bear goes away. So after awhile Space Knight and Gronk climb down, and they find the bus full of children waiting for them. 'Hooray!" say all of the kids. 'Who are you guys?' And Gronk says, 'Hi! I'm Gronk. I'm here to fix the space bus.' And then Space Knight stands up extra tall, puffs out his chest and says, 'I...' and he takes a deep breath, 'I... am SPACE KNIGHT!' And all the kids look around as his voice echoes around the swamp."

"Then what happens?" says kid 2.

"Then they fix the space bus and fly home."

"What about the bear?" says kid 1.

"Umm, the bear found a big berry bush and is eating it."

"What's the part that happens next?" says kid 2.

"Then they all go out for pizza and milk and they go to bed."

"Yay!" they say together.

"Now go to bed!" I say.

"Boo! Now let's do an Awesome Eight Story!" says kid 2.

"Enough with the stories!" I say, and trundle them off to bed.

* * *

So, ends the first odd telling of a Space Knight Adventure. Need there be more?

Comments are welcome!

Democracy In America (or, "your tax dollars at work")

-- Or, What I Believe...a Liberal's Case for the Vision Thing

There are times when a state ought go back to the beginning. Remind ourselves of what we're here for. Why we live together like we do. Why we have Government, and why it's important for us.

I'm not going to go into a history lesson. I just think it's time we remember what we've all agreed on here in America, and why we really are all in this together.

I think we argue so much about things like "taxes" and "education" and "welfare" and "defense" that we forget what we're arguing about.

Look...

* We all agree that we need a government. It sets the rules of acceptable behavior. It makes sure that contracts are enforceable. It keeps us from killling each other. It gives us an outlet for our agression.

* Government does more than that. It's not this amorphous "thing" out there. It's people who we've elected to help us make a better life for each other and our communities. And it's more people -- our neighbors and friends and people sitting in the car next to us on the highway -- who've taken jobs to help get this work done.

We have government because we've come together as a communities -- and groups of communities -- to do things together that we couldn't do on our own. To pool our resources and our energy to get things done and maintain the lives we like to lead.

What have we come together to do? What would you pay for? What is it that we have come together to do that makes you proud? Where should our money go?

That's what we should talk about...

I live in a suburb of Minneapolis. I walk around our parks and lakes on a beautiful day, and I hope my tax dollars are supporting this. I see a sign saying that the lake has too much bacteria for swimming, and I'm glad I pay for someone to check this, and would be happy to invest tax dollars in clean up. I drive on smooth roads, and am pleased to have been a part of this; I see potholes and am willing to invest my tax dollars to have them fixed. I hear our schools are suffering because they need more help from the state -- run schools responsibly, but raise my taxes if you need to -- education is important! People can't break out of the cycle of poverty -- we can come together and help ... I'm good with that. Should people die because they can't afford medical care? I don't think so ... let's do this right.

The list goes on -- I bet you can find "your tax dollars at work" in a lot of ways -- good ways ... lots of frustrating, head-scratching, cockamamie ways, too, and we need to keep working to fix that...

But as a country, states, towns, and communities we've come together to make where we live a better place. That's your tax dollars at work. Be proud of it.

Ignorant Man Returns, Part 3 -- The Ignorant Have Inherited The Earth

A SuperGuy Story

The Thrilling-ish Conclusion!

International Falls, Minnesota

The border crossing wasn't one of the better protected entries to Canada. A determined malefactor in a powerful sport utility vehicle might rush across the American and Canadian checkpoints at either end of the bridge that straddled the Rainy River. But why? To violate the serenity of the fictional home of Rocky and Bullwinkle? To disrupt the work of the massive Boise Cascade plants that turned the mighty North American forests into pulp and paper? To wake up sleepy Fort Frances, where, on a quiet, summer Sunday evening, Ignorant Man drove in his 1982 Ford Escort from street to street, searching for a an open bar. One that might sell him a Molson beer.

You are supposed to drink a Molson upon arriving in Canada, he thought to himself.

But he saw no open bars before him.

Curious, he checked his rearview mirror. No bars either, but he noted that a man on a motorcycle followed him. And, he recalled, this man had been following him for some time.

Very curious, thought Ignorant Man, and nodded to himself. Idly, he scratched his belly.

He turned right, onto a residential street. The motorcycle followed. The man's helmet, he noted, covered his whole head. His leathers were black and red.

He took his car on a left turn, and checked the mirror the instant his turn was complete.

The motorcycle...and the man...followed. Ignorant Man smiled. He bounced like a four-year-old in his seat. He parked the car by the curb and checked to be sure his cape was secure, and then got out of the car...quickly and dramatically, with a swish of his cape, which then fell to the pavement in a heap. Tying it back on in a more secure fashion, Ignorant Man turned to face the man on the motorcycle, who had parked a good two car lengths behind him and was striding purposefully toward him. The man removed his helmet.

Ignorant Man tilted his head to the side, quizzically.

The man's face was clearly green and decidedly scaly. His nose was elongated -- more of a snout really -- and trailed wisps of smoke. His eyes were a deep, beyond-bloodshot red.

"You're Dragon Bob," Ignorant Man said, unnecessarily.

The man, Dragon Bob, nodded.

"You're supposed to be in Montreal."

Dragon Bob nodded again. Ignorant Man had now exhausted his knowledge of this situation.

"Why did you want me here? Why did you send Billy Joe Bob-san after me?"

"You forget the most crucial question," Dragon Bob said in a deep, throaty hiss.

"Ahh...How much cash do you need?"

"Exactly."

Ignorant Man was puzzled.

"I need $100,000. In cash. By tomorrow night."

"I don't have $100,000 in cash. Nor can I get that money by tomorrow night."

"That is unfortunate."

"Why?"

"Why?" asked Dragon Bob.

"Yes...why?"

"Because," said Dragon Bob, leaning closer, his voice almost a whisper, "if you do not, I will lay waste to this entire town and everyone in it. He took a deep breath, turned toward Ignorant Man's 1982 Ford Escort and breathed a blast of fire across the car. Ignorant Man could see the vinyl seats melting just before the engine exploded, popping off the hood and sending it clattering just behind him on the sidewalk.

Ignorant Man remained calm.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I can!" shouted Dragon Bob. "I am born of human woman and the last living dragon! I command fire and rule men's minds! I fly on reptile wings and rend with fang and claw! I am power!" And Dragon Bob ripped off his leather jacket and unfurled a pair of great, green, scaly wings. And he looked to the sky and roared, jets of fire spurting out of his mouth.

"Yes, okay," said Ignorant Man. "But...why?"

"Questions! I was warned about your questions. Your questions never have answers, do they? I...I have answers!"

"Oh, good!" Ignorant Man said.

"First," Dragon Bob began to tick off reasons on his scaly claws. "I am going to build a secret sanctuary, in the wilderness. Then, through means both scientific and...er... traditional...I will create an army of beings like myself. More advanced, more powerful than mere humans. Next, the army of my children will fan out across North America. They will take jobs from humans, they will gain seats in city councils, work their way up the political hierarchy and, perhaps winning a governorship or two, and the odd congressional seat until, inexorably, over time, we will take over the United States...and later, the world!"

"Hmm, yes, okay...but why?"

"Why? Why what?"

"Why take over the world?"

"Why not?"

"Yes, but why?"

"The world needs taking over. It's a mess. It's chaotic. We shall rule with an iron fist, under the appropriate constitutional guidelines, of course. There will be order. There will be sanity."

Ignorant Man nodded. Unknowingly. "I see that yes, but I have another question."

"Yes?"

"Why?" and Ignorant Man's power was such that Dragon Bob was compelled to answer.

"Well...you know, that is a good question." Dragon Bob began to pace across the sidewalk, back and forth, venturing now and again into the street. "It does seem like an awful lot of trouble, doesn't it? And it will take quite awhile. My children will seem quite freakish at first, and so our campaigns will require a great deal of cash. Which means we'll be fund raising all the time. I hate all that glad-handing and small-talk...that 'hi-howya-doin' and the speeches and the chicken dinners. And the taxes! You take over the world and they'll get you, won't they? Dang-it, they will!"

Foundering in the depths of despair, Dragon Bob stood in the middle of the street and roared, and as jets of fire lit up the night sky over Fort Frances, a horn blared and an engine rumbled, overpowering the dragon's roar.

* * *

"Eugene, did you see that?"

"Nah, George. I was sleeping. What was it, eh?"

"Funny looking guy in the street. All on fire. Looked like something out of a circus."

"No kiddin', eh?"

"I think we hit it. Should I stop, then?"

"Nah."

"Oh good."

"I did hear a bit of a bump though, eh?"

"You know, just because we're in Canada, doesn't mean you have to say 'eh' after every sentence..."

"Eh?"

The semi truck and trailer roared on toward the Minnesota border.

* * *

A bruised and battered Dragon Bob dragged himself onto the sidewalk.

"What are you going to do now?" Ignorant Man asked.

"I don't know," Dragon Bob said. "Maybe open up a little gift shop. Or a B&B. 'Dragon Bob's Inn' -- I like the sound of that."

Ignorant Man opened his mouth to ask a question, thought better of it, and wrote Dragon Bob a check for $5,000. "Good luck," he said.

Dragon Bob smiled his dragon smile. It looked evil without even trying. "Why, with this I could create a labora-...Thank you, Ignorant Man."

"No, thank you."

Dragon Bob whistled, and a furry, stripled creature with sharp claws and teeth ambled down the street. It stopped next to Ignorant Man, hissed and jabbed a bite at Ignorant Man's booth, sinking its teeth into the thick leather. Frustrated, it shook its head, and let go. Ignorant Man stuck out his tongue at it, and leaned closer...then stopped.

"Is this a badger?" he asked.

"Why yes."

"Thank you." Ignorant Man watched the badger and Dragon Bob walk off into the sunrise.

He sat down by his still burning car.

"I wonder how I'll get home," he said aloud, but like so many of his questions, it was left unanswered.

# # #

SO, HE DIDN'T LICK THE BADGER...OR GO TO MONTREAL.

DOES THE AUTHOR EVEN READ HIS STORIES FROM ONE EPISODE TO THE NEXT?

WILL HE EVER GET BACK TO WORK?

OH, AND I LIKE ERIC BURN'S IGNORANT MAN A LOT.

THAT'S ALL FOR NOW... HOPE YOU LIKED IT...

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Anger Management -- A One Minute Story

Author's note... So, I'm in the elevator the other day, and this weird little drama starts playing out in my head ... what if...?

I walk on the elevator on the 53rd floor, hit the "L" button, and take my usual spot, holding up the corner with my back, hands gripping the brass bar just above my ass.

The doors close. The descent begins.

Across the car, I catch my reflection in the red plastic panel.

I fix my hair.

The elevator slows to a stop. I roll my eyes. Sometimes, working on the 53rd floor, you just feel entitled to an uninterrupted trip to the lobby. Once in a while. Every so often. When you want it.

The doors slide back into the shaft. This guy walks on.

He's short, a little stocky, but not too stocky. Older, probably in his fifties. Thin hair that fills his forehead. He's wearing a light blue shirt and a navy blazer. And he's carrying this briefcase...that's more like a ... a... a minature piano. It's this giant rectangular cube with a little briefcase clasp on top, black, all beaten up. Must be a lawyer.

I look at him and then at the case. What the hell is he carrying in there?

I look at him again. I bet I could take him.

"Give me your briefcase," I say, without moving.

"What?"

"Give me your briefcase."

He laughs, nervously. I don't. I don't blink and I don't look away. "Why should I?" he says, and his voice breaks a little, but he clenches his fist, too. I've got him -- he's considering it...

"I want it," I say. "I'm going to take it." And lean over and reach for the weathered black leather handle.

A meaty hand shoves me back. So I stand up and punch the guy in the gut. As hard as I can.

But it doesn't feel very hard. I must have held back. So I hit him again and again until the air rushes out of my lungs like an old accordian and in my head I picture a mighty pendulum swinging into my own gut and smashing me against the wall.

The man picked up his giant briefcase and left the elevator.

"I will have that briefcase," I tried to shout, but it came out as more of croak.

The elevator door closed.

I go back to work.

#