“Marxism is the opium of the intellectuals.”

- Edmund Wilson

This was one of the surest bets you could have made a year ago:

Smoking ban has apparently cut into revenue from charitable gambling
The statewide ban, which began late last year, is tied to a significant decline in bar pulltab and bingo receipts, according to a study by the State Gambling Control Board.

By MARK BRUNSWICK, Star Tribune

Affirming what American Legion hall operators and mom-and-pop bar owners had warned, a new report shows that the statewide ban on smoking enacted last year appears to have cut into charitable gambling revenues from bar game pulltabs and bingo.

Gross receipts from charitable gambling were down 12.8 percent in the last three months of 2007, which correlates with when the statewide smoking ban took effect. Even taking into account a weakening economy, the ban is likely to be responsible for a decline in gross receipts of 7.5 percent to 8 percent, or a loss equal to $95 million to $105 million a year, according to the report.

The overall 12.8 percent drop represents the largest decline in receipts since lawful gambling was first regulated in the state in 1985, according to the report released Monday by the State Gambling Control Board, which regulates the industry.

...

The new report shows that towns close to states that have not enacted a smoking ban appear to have been more affected. Sites near tribal casinos, where smoking can be permitted, have seen receipts decline more than the state average for several years, an apparent trend that began before the ban.

...

Charitable gambling officials predict revenue declines of 16 percent to 18 percent through this year. Anticipating the effect, the industry has been pushing for several pieces of legislation that would give them more flexibility in their operations.

So now, what do you want to bet that we'll have legislation liberalizing (good word, that) or expanding gambling to more venues to make up for the shortfall? After all, it's for the children! And the vets! Or are you some unpatriotic child-hater? Come on, everybody pull(tab) together!

The lobbyists and our legislature have focused on getting everyone to kick their Camels ... while letting another camel get it's head further into the tent. (But hey, it's a big tent!)

Great testimony from King David over at The Far Wright today. It reminded me of a song we sang in church yesterday that goes, in part, "God will make a way, where there seems to be no way."

What I saw in that song is that when there seems to be no way it really means that there seems to be no way to me. God always knows and sees the way — and usually I'm bogged down right smack in the middle of it (the way, that is).

We all have had the experience of trying to do things "our way" (thanks, Frank), the "worldly" way. If we're blessed, or not too stubborn, we get hooked up with a good church and start to see God move and do things in our lives (He was doing them all along but we usually didn't recognize them for what they were). We get a new idea of God's power and mercy and we believe it and experience ... yet we get comfortable or when a new challenge comes we still put ourselves in the position of saying or deciding what God can, or cannot, do. Even though we've seen that there were things we didn't know before that have since changed our lives, we may yet assume that now we know it all ...

"Oh yeah, God will do that, but He wouldn't do this" or ...

"If I do this, then God will do that, ...

or the reverse, "God can't do this because I didn't do that..."

"God no longer speaks to us...or heals...or delivers...or opens doors that no man can close..."

Maybe it's because our fear trumps our faith; we fear our faith is not even as big as a mustard seed, or we're afraid that God won't come through, or we're afraid we somehow haven't "earned" His grace — even if we've had hours, years, even decades of sound teaching that tells us His grace is a gift that no one can earn...

We cling to our doctrines and our own understanding, lovingly polished over the years, and fail to see or remember the underlying Word that they were based on. We're afraid to just let go and put it in His hands, as if His plan isn't sufficient for our needs, as if our senses are the sole arbiter of what makes sense.

God still speaks. He still heals. He still provides. If you don't believe me, go talk to King David.

At the Harvest Moon Coffee House on Mtka. Blvd. in Mpls
Info:
Coffee: Good, not as good as Black Sheep
Pastries: WONDERFUL!!!!
4 out of 5 stars.

Skinny girl walks by.
TL: That girl is tiny.
RM: She looks like she's 6.
TL: A very tiny 6 year old.
MD: That girl who just walked by? She's not 6.
RM: I was actually joking.

TL: Can I have a bite of your cinnamin roll?
RM: No. There's not enough.
TL: You know how much you ate last night?
RM: I ate half of a dinner. I also walked 7 miles.
TL: I'll give you a bite of my banana choclate muffin.
RM: It's too good. How 'bout if I take the bite, and if I think it's worth a bite of this, I'll give a bite to you.
TL concedes.
RM: Mmmm... All right, fine. *tears off a tiny bite*.
TL: splits puny bite with MD
MD: Thanks!
RM: You're so nice.
TL: I know.

RM: Can I have a sip of your mango smoothie?
TL: No. It's too good.
RM: I paid for it.
TL: takes mango smoothie and sucks on it endlessly.
MD: *laughs*
RM: *sighs*
TL finally hands over smoothie.

MD: Mom, did you see Hannah's braces?
RM: Hannah who?
MD: Hannah Gullickson. (With a roll of the eyes.)
RM: We know 16 Hannahs, I'm supposed to know which one you're talking about.
MD: She's so sad, she can't chew gum anymore.
RM: Did she chew gum a lot?
MD: She did the last two weeks before she got her braces on. If she wasn't addicted already, that was a good way to become addicted, and then she had to stop cold turkey!

TL: C'mon! We have to think of something really funny and witty to say!
RM: Yeah.

MD: So Jackie had like 13 of her girlfriends go to Florida with her for her birthday last year.
RM: Wow, 13? I don't know if I could list 13 women I would consider my girlfriends. (Starts making a list and gets up to 9).
MD:...I think that Princess Flickerfeather and Anna are my closest girlfriends...The Queen of Inver Grove Heights, Anna, Ruth, PFF,...Julie, definitely....
TL: Yeah, I've got maybe 5... Angelina, Hannah, Hannah Gullickson, Jessica, Haylee....

TL: So, we're going to Oppitz Outlet for $10 prom dresses! I'm excited.
RM: You just bought a dress.
TL: You can never have enough dresses, Mom. You never know when you might need them.
RM: Yeah, some guy might call you up and say, 'Hey, tonight, formal party! Bring your prom desses!'"
TL: That'd be the day.

Fin

There was a classic Saturday Night Live sketch where Chevy Chase was interviewing Richard Pryor for a job (transcript here, blurry video here). The last step was for Pryor to take a word association test where he'd say the first word that came to his mind after Chase read a word from a list. The test is innocent enough at first, but soon the words — initially ambiguous — start to take on racial overtones: "black" = "white", "tar baby" = "ofay", "jungle bunny" = "cracker" as each man gets a little angrier and more confrontational. Ultimately Chase drops the "n" word, not even looking at his list, and Pryor responds menacingly with "Dead Honky." This was way back in the 70s when SNL was a startling new phenomenon, pushing the edge of satire and taste. To dare to use the "n" word in a humorous context to satirize the volatility of the race issue and the absurdity of the language was to also push the nuance envelope. The skit confronted the words rather than running from them and drew them out into the light so their bulbous ugliness could be punctured and deflated by the sharp needle. It was ground-breaking, it was liberating, it was as if it were prophesying a new day where we could at last talk.

That glimmer of hope appears long gone. I doubt that skit could run today. In fact, many of the links I originally found to the video now have messages about "video removed for content violation." Whether it was for language or copyright violations I don't know, but it makes me wonder. Yesterday's satire is now reality, as any racially-tinged language provokes instant word association-type reflex responses of reaction unfettered by reason. "Racism" has become such a loaded word that no one can pick it up without getting a hernia. It even occurred to me after I posted the Tom Lehrer video earlier that some might watch that and fail to see the irony and would instead react with, "That's mean" or something worse, missing the satire completely. No emails like that yet, fortunately.

Ultimately, racism can't be changed by talking about it, but by living without it. I know, that sounds impossible, especially since I concur with what Mitch Berg had to say earlier his week:

I’m going to start out with a very broad statement: “Isms” are part of the human condition. All people are conditioned to favor people who are like them, and to suspect people who are different from them, whether tangibly (skin color, language, accent, smell, dress) or subtly (class, education, geography). Many white people get uneasy around many black people, sure, but that’s an easy one. Middle-class white people get uneasy around mullet-headed bikers; New Yorkers sneer down their noses at Arklahoma accents; light-skinned blacks disdain darker blacks (or so said Spike Lee); farmers roll their eyes at people in suits and ties and clipped city accents and manners.

This is true across every culture on this planet.

In many of those cultures, that suspicion is codified in the language. In many languages, the word for “Human” varies, depending on how closely-related or situated the subject is to the speaker; for “humans” whose tribe is closer to that of the speaker, it’s a fairly benign or amiable term; the farther afield the subject, the less-benign and more derogatory the term will get.

To say “everyone’s a racist” is itself simplistic; it would be fairer and more accurate to say “we are all we-ists”; all of us, black or female or suburban or mentally ill or urban or atheist, are more comfortable around people who are like us. And every single one of us practices “profiling”, whether you’re a black couple “profiling” some agressive drunk rednecks, or a Xhosa turning on a Bantu in anger, or Molly Priesmeyer “profiling” white males, or even the stereotypical white middle-class guy sizing up…anyone else.

We separate ourselves in countless ways, not just by skin color. I was just back in my rural hometown the other day, a small community of about 3,000 people, almost all caucasian. I saw a list of the churches serving this small community. There were 13. Among that 13, there were seven varieties of Baptists. We all pretty much use the same Bible, know that we're called to join and knit in the Body of Christ, and yet even in a small community that would appear to have so much in common, we can't help but separate ourselves.

We are all "We-ists" by nature. As a Christian, however, I know that that our basic nature is essentially base and sinful. It is natural to identify with "our" group, to get beyond that we need to begin seeing ourselves as a member of wider and wider groups.

I fellowship regularly with, and minister occasionally to, a group of men overcoming addictions in their lives. The group is roughly 50/50 blacks and whites, and range in age from their 20s to their 60s. Some are from the south, some from the north, some are from the country and some have lived in the city all their lives. There are any number of reasons for individuals in this group to stand apart from other members and perhaps some do. Greater, however, is the overall sense of what we have in common, including our purpose. One of our preachers is a fiery black man who knows first hand what it means to beat up on someone, and to be beat down. If anyone could righteously spout the things that Rev. Jeremiah Wright says, it would be this man, yet he preaches that our enemy isn't some person or some group - our enemy is ourselves.

About 10 years ago part of this group went on a weekend fishing trip. One of the young black men who came along was just out of prison, and he didn't have a very favorable opinion of white folks. Early Saturday morning I went down to help out in the kitchen and found this man working by himself on the bacon and eggs. He was large and imposing, the size of an NFL linebacker. I asked him I could help him by turning the bacon.

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. "No."

I tried again. "How about I stir up the eggs then?"

"Nope. I got it." We could have been ice-fishing for the chill in that cabin.

"Oooh-kaay," I said, looking around and spying about a dozen loaves of bread on the counter, waiting to be toasted. "I think I'll just hang out over here with all this white bread."

It was very quiet, except for the sound of the bacon sizzling. "I am about to die," I thought to myself.

"HAWW!"

Ever since then we've been buds. My friend still comes often to the Saturday meetings, and I ran into him last week as the meeting was ending. The message had been about discipleship, and about whether you are a follower or an imitator of someone else. I hadn't seen him come in earlier so I gave him a big hug, which he returned. He then turned to introduce me to the man he had brought with him, who turned out to be his brother.

"This is John," he said as I shook the other man's hand. "He's somebody I've been trying to imitate."

I couldn't make out the look in his brother's eyes, because my own eyes suddenly got kind of misty.

Ben's post, Perpetuating Racism By Talking About It reminded me of a Tom Lehrer classic, of how much I love Lehrer's music — and how great it is that we have YouTube.

Lehrer, the predecessor to Mark Russell (though much funnier and not as smarmy as Russell), used to appear on national television in the 60s in a show called "That Was the Week That Was" (scroll down for details about the American version) where he would do a satirical song about something in the news that week. I had an album of his best from TW3 when I was in college that I soon had memorized, but I'd never seen a photo of the reclusive Mr. Lehrer until I saw this YouTube video. As funny as Lehrer was as a songwriter and vocalist, he is incomparable when you can actually see his facial expressions.

Now, ripped once again from the headlines, Tom Lehrer and "National Brotherhood Week" (the screen is black for several seconds at the beginning of the video):

Here is more perfidy from the ninja cow conspiracy!


Ninja Cow Knocks Guy Out - Watch more free videos

My friend was also attacked by a ninja cow. She told me that she was petting a cow, and it leaned up against the bars of the pen, squishing her arm. Debauchery!

Keep your eyes peeled! They strike when you least expect it!

Ciao for now.

One of the reasons I went down to Missouri last week was to pick up my father's pick-up truck, which is now my pick-up truck. It's a 1998 Dodge Dakota extended cab (V6, 2WD), and the odometer didn't turn 51,000 miles until I was somewhere in Iowa on the drive home. It's in great shape, and my mom had had it detailed before I came for it so the interior was in like-new condition. In fact, the steering wheel was kind of slippery.

I had sat in the truck last November when I was home for Thanksgiving, only a few weeks after my father died. I rifled the glove box and center console, finding miscellaneous to-do lists and receipts, half-a-roll of Life Savers, and a few pipe filters in the ashtray; I could smell the old tobacco. Pictures of his grandchildren were clipped behind a visor, and the dashboard was coated with dust. When I climbed in the other day everything was wiped down, polished and antiseptically clean without a trace of him, except for a Shriner's medallion on the back window. I'm not a Shriner, so I'll have to find a way to remove that and mail it to my brother.

The truck had been parked on the carport, behind the section of garage that had been turned into his re-upholstery workshop. I climbed down from the truck and then down into the shop, looking around for a screw-driver. The shop has barely been touched in the last few months, other than to remove the unfinished projects that had been waiting for him to feel better. Scraps of fabric, several extension cords hanging from straps, a workbench, some stools, the heater I had bought him for Christmas several years ago, some photos of he and some friends taken at the golf course and tacked to the wall. There were two calendars, one featuring a picture of Ronald Reagan. Both were turned to May, 2007; he had been diagnosed in June. My mother came in and joined me. "I'm not changing a thing," she said.

As I drove back to Minnesota I took stock of my new ride. I liked the above-the-traffic driver's position. The truck drove true, without shimmy and the only strange noise was a brief turbine-sounding whine when the speedometer moved between 45 and 50 mph. Hmmm. How does it ride? *BUMP* Like an empty truck. I started a mental to-do list of tasks and upgrades: a little wobble in the brakes when coming down from highway speed, perhaps I should get the rotors turned; new wiper blades; add a tonneau cover; replace the AM/FM/Cassette with a new stereo with CD-player and iPod port; perhaps new speakers since these seemed to buzz with any significant bass tones. I'd only driven about 180 miles since I filled the tank; I looked at the gas guage; 1/4 tank left. YIKES! I added "tune-up" to my mental list, but I soon realized that the engine was turning at 2100 rpm at 70 mph in overdrive without a hitch or falter, and the old man had been pretty methodical about his maintenance. It could well be that 17 mpg was all I was going to coax out of the truck on the highway.

I had an older model Dakota several years ago when the responsibilities of home ownership had shown us the value of having a pick-up truck. Granted, there may be only a few times a year when you need one, but when you need one you really need one. Nevertheless, I'd foolishly let that earlier truck go, and it created a gap that has taken me this long to fill. Given the circumstances, I could have waited a bit longer.

Related posts:
In My Father's House, Part 1
In My Father's House, Part 2
In My Father's House, Part 3
In My Father's House, conclusion
Turning Toward the Mourning
Shifting the Sun

... Deep, too!

From NPR:

The Mystery of Global Warming's Missing Heat
by Richard Harris

March 19, 2008 · Some 3,000 scientific robots that are plying the ocean have sent home a puzzling message. These diving instruments suggest that the oceans have not warmed up at all over the past four or five years. That could mean global warming has taken a breather. Or it could mean scientists aren't quite understanding what their robots are telling them.

This is puzzling in part because here on the surface of the Earth, the years since 2003 have been some of the hottest on record. But Josh Willis at NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory says the oceans are what really matter when it comes to global warming.

In fact, 80 percent to 90 percent of global warming involves heating up ocean waters. They hold much more heat than the atmosphere can. So Willis has been studying the ocean with a fleet of robotic instruments called the Argo system. The buoys can dive 3,000 feet down and measure ocean temperature. Since the system was fully deployed in 2003, it has recorded no warming of the global oceans.

Missouri, the birthplace of Mark Twain, is a river state. Or, more accurately, a "rivers" state. Some 120 rivers — each with its share of streams and creeks that feed it — flow, course or meander across the state. And sometimes, they rise up.

Missouri absorbed at least 10 inches of rain between Monday and Tuesday this week, especially south of St. Louis which also happens to be the area we (myself, the Mall Diva, Tiger Lilly and Ben) are visiting. When we first drove through here Wednesday, however, the skies had cleared and everything looked normal. Until, that is, we got to the place on Highway 63 between Vichy and Vienna where the road passes over the Gasconade River. At this point the road and the river were vying to see just who would pass over whom. The roadbed was still high and dry, but the fields on either side were flooded nearly to the shoulders for about half a mile. People were stopping, gawking and taking photos.

We made it the rest of the way in to my mom's house without incident or seeing serious water, but in a county that features the Meramec, Huzzah, Courtois (coat-a-way), Bourbeuse and Gasconade rivers and their tributaries such as Turkey Creek, Mill Creek and Bonne Femme (Ben liked that one) Creek, we were in the process of being surrounded. Nearer to St. Louis the rising Meramec closed Hwys. 40 and 149 and threatened Interstate 44, where sandbagging crews were busy lining the highway with sandbags in hopes of keeping this major artery open heading into the holiday weekend.

Closer to us, my brother spent the day on his cellphone, coordinating with the drivers of his four FedEx trucks, trying to keep them on the right side of the rising rivers so the trucks and drivers could sleep at home last night, even if the deliveries had to wait since most of these absolutely, positively wouldn't float. We drove down to Steelville to visit my grandmother once we heard that MODOT, which had been watching the Hwy. 19 bridge over the Meramec, was going to leave it open for the time being. Crossing the bridge over what is normally a ravine we could see the water nearly up to the deck. One one side of the road there's a local float-trip operation, and its campground and recreation area had water up to the basketball hoops and only the peaks of the green roofs over the picnic pavilions were showing.

It was kind of a strange experience. The day was beautiful, warm and sunny yet all around southern Missouri bridges and roads were closing as the waters kept rising slowly but inexorably, with the rivers yet to crest in several areas. Our own route into the area finally went under yesterday as well, leading me to map out an alternate way home for Ben and the girls, who had to head back this morning. As a bonus, this way takes them through one of their favorite little towns, Hermann, which also happens to rest beside the Missouri River. It's a very high bridge, however. I told the girls that if the bridge is closed at Hermann they should just turn-around and come back because I'll need Ben's help to build an ark.

If you're looking for posts by Ben over at Hammerswing the next couple of days you might be disappointed. I've dragged him off to Missouri to meet the family and whatever misadventures that might entail.

Even though Ben and the Diva are a ways from getting married, there might be some back here in the hills that might want to do a trial-run on the custom of the "shivaree" while he's in range. In some places, the shivaree consists merely of shooting off guns and fireworks near the couple on the wedding night. Perhaps another form could be the ritual of "decorating" the groom's car. Around these parts the fellas have been known to be more creative. Like the time 25 years ago when a young groom was kidnapped from his bachelor party the night before the wedding and taken to the nearby town of Steelville, stripped to his jockeys and left to make his way home.

That was 25 years ago, though, and in that time certainly even our little town has come into modern, more enlightened times. Or, maybe they've just had more time to think of things to do. I don't know because I don't live around here anymore. I guess we'll just have to wait and see.

Rich Karlgaard is among those pondering a return of the religious left:

Yet while secular politics are unwelcome in our church, I have noticed subtle shifts of late. The mood of the ministry and congregation is moving left. The music is moving toward a folk-rock sound of the 1960s and 1970s. Youth ministers wear berets and soul patches. The younger ministers don’t identify themselves as “Christians” but as “Jesus followers.” I would guess that most of them are Obama supporters, but I don’t ask.

To my thinking, "Christian" is ideally something that other people should call you because of what they see in you, rather than something you'd necessarily call yourself. "Follower of Christ" doesn't do much for me, since Jesus had a lot of people following him around during his ministry, perhaps just for the food. Personally, I like "Imitator of Christ" myself (more on that later).

America’s religious left seems to be mounting a comeback. I’m happy for this development, even though my own tilt is to the right.

The religious left has a distinguished past in American history. It led the abolition fight in the 19th century. It led the civil rights movement in the 20th century. Organizations like the Red Cross grew out of progressive Christianity.

Yes, and I think the basis of America's welfare program appealed to our country's Christian heritage and the well-meaning desire to do good and to help the poor. That welfare has had the un-Christian effect of destroying families and perpetuating multi-generational poverty also has to be acknowledged — something the religious left is loathe to do. It has also been, at best, ambivalent about abortion, and its infatuation and even outright embrace of communist and socialist totalitarianism from the Soviets to Castro, Ortega on through Chavez, and it's apparent commitment to replacing God with Government throughout U.S. policy is also disturbing. (That's not to say the Religious Right hasn't supported it's share of dictators and made its own alliances of convenience).

The strange disappearance of America’s religious left during the 1970s has been noted but not examined much. My own guess is that drugs, music, sex, New Age religions, body worship, tree worship, earth worship and so forth, siphoned off an entire generation of seekers who had previously found their mystic/activist fulfillment in the left hemisphere of Christianity.

Now one detects that many old hippies, and sons and daughters of hippies, are returning to progressive Christianity.

We’ll see how this plays out politically. If there must be a left, then let's cheer for a religious and not an atheistic left. However, I do think the trend benefits Democrats and is one reason why Democratic primary voter turnout has far excelled Republican voter turnout this year. The mainstream secular media, as usual, has utterly missed this story.

I think I agree with Karlgaard that if there's going to be a left let it be a religious left rather than an atheistic one. My caveat, and especially my prayer (for both the left and the right) is that the focus is on seeking and doing God's will, ideally by trying to be like Christ.

Earlier I mentioned being an "imitator" of Christ. Because we're all human (left and right), it is an easy step to try and move from "imitator" to "impersonator", wherein we try to rule by proclamation as if we, ourselves, were God. That's certainly long been a fear and a warning from the left side of the church aisle regarding the motivations of the right, while the left's own similar tendencies are ignored or attributed to "doing good" or "meaning well."

My belief is that any "theocracy", whether left or right, is fatally flawed by our own human imperfections and tendency to turn moves into movements; movements into monuments; and, ultimately, monuments into mausoleums. By all means, we should pursue faith in our lives and we should hope that our personal beliefs will be reflected in our public behavior individually and through policy. Our responsibilities to the poor (and the poor's responsibilities to God and others); to be stewards of the earth; to deal ethically and compassionately with others are all things that must be done and honored by individuals, not discharged to a collective or government to be taken care of while we blithely go our own selfish way. As I've written here before, if God asks me if I helped the poor (as if He doesn't already know) I don't think He's going to be impressed if I say, "Well, I paid my taxes." Being religiously left or right, highly taxed or not, doesn't lessen our responsibilities to do something on an individual basis, no matter how many marches, protests or church services we go to.

We often hear the phrase, "What would Jesus do?" as a guide to behavior. I suppose that's all right as far as it goes. A better statement might be, "What is Jesus doing?" and then trying to line up with that. If we believe Jesus is still at work around us, and not that He's gone off and left us to our own freedom-eroding devices, we can purpose to look for those things and and align ourselves accordingly. I urge those of the religious left, and my friends on the religious, to put our focus on glorifying God, not our own group or idealogy. If we can do that — though we may disagree from time to time — I think we'll be all right.

Back in the day, and I mean really back in the day when I had an Apple IIe computer and a computer game called Castle Wolfenstein. The game was on a 5" floppy disk and was essentially a puzzle maze where you were a WWII Allied prisoner trying to escape from the lowest dungeons of an old castle turned Nazi fortress. Graphically it was about as crude as it could be, and by crude I mean laughably simplistic by today's standards. It was a one-color, two-dimensional, third-person shooter where the game characters were essentially stick figures whose arms would only extend at 45 and 90 degree angles to shoot at other characters. To "kill" a Nazi guard you had to maneuver around the screen and try to plink him before he got you. If you succeeded, your victim fell over like a tree in the forest. Nevertheless it was hours of fun as you worked your way through various rooms, traps and puzzles while searching crates for keys, ammo, grenades and bullet proof vests.

A few years later I was using a company laptop and one day in a clearance bin I saw an updated version of "Wolfenstein" on a diskette advertising new, 3-D graphics. "Cool," I thought, and plunked down the $5, took the game home and loaded it up, finding myself in a full-color dungeon, armed with a Luger. I worked my way around a corner and a uniformed guard came rushing at me. I raised my gun and fired and — HIS HEAD EXPLODED! Blood, meat and brains went flying and I actually felt a little ill. In this case the graphics were, well, graphic and unbelievably "crude" but not in the same way as the first game. I later learned that the updated game was based on the "Doom" game engine — quite a leap forward from the tin-man stick figures of my old game. I decided it was too intense for me and turned it off, never to go back to it.

Even then, of course, the "new" graphics were still not as realistic as they are now; the game, after all, was on a little 3" diskette, running on a computer with a processor that would embarrass a calculator today. Today's games and game engines are highly advanced, technically, but some are still as base as they can be in their renderings of violence. I've changed, too, of course and I don't mind a little of the ultra-violence in a game as long as it's not too real. I've hacked and slashed my way through orcs, trolls, bug-bears, goblins and fire-breathing demon dogs without flinching (Baldur's Gate II) or sniped German storm-troopers (Brothers In Arms) while still looking forward to lunch, but while these games are well-rendered the "dead" aren't excessively gory and they thoughtfully disappear soon after falling. I've even played these with my youngest daughter, a sweet-natured girl who used to cry if someone fell off a horse in a TV show, but who now snickers if she gets the drop on a mummy and dispatches it with a spinning kick.

Perhaps this isn't the nicest daddy-daughter activity we can engage in, but I know that there are games out there that are much worse and that strive to outdo each other in replicating the most realistic dismemberments. These games typically have "M" for "Mature" ratings. These games do not come into my house. I was thinking of this today when I read the news story that the 8th Circuit Court of Appeals had struck down (how violent!) a law banning selling "mature" or "adults only" video games.

Minnesota may not enforce a law restricting the sale or rental of "adults only" or "mature" video games to minors, according to an opinion issued Monday by the 8th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals.

A three-judge panel said the court previously has held that violent video games are protected free speech under the First Amendment of the Constitution. For that reason, the law can only be upheld if it is proven "necessary to serve a compelling state interest and ... is narrowly tailored to achieve that end," the panel ruled.

As I read it I was also thinking about the day a few years ago when I went into the video arcade at Valley Fair and watched an expert player using both pistols on the big-screen "House of the Dead" game to mow down realistic, nearly life-sized zombies and monsters. He was fast and unhesitant. He was accurate and stylish, often using the turn-the-gun-sideways grip so popular in today's action movies. He was about eight years old. I wondered then if maybe something inside a young person doesn't get seared a bit from playing a game as graphic as that (or even an older person for that matter). Could you "play" enough so that the real thing wouldn't seem like that big of a deal?

About 15 years ago I was at a conference where we were all taken out to a dude ranch for the evening's entertainment. One of the things you could do was engage in a quick-draw contest with a friend. In this you each had an authentic style and weight double-action revolver in a leather holster. You actually faced each other from about six feet away and when the cowpoke "referee" gave the signal you'd draw, work the double-action, aim at your opponent and pull the trigger. Sensors determined who fired first, while the referee determined if your gun was pointed in an "effective" manner. My friend Nick and I faced off three times; each time he won. The ref looked at me and shook his head. "Dude," he said (it was a dude ranch, after all), "you're clearing leather and cocking the gun ahead of him every time, but you don't pull the trigger fast enough.

"Really?" I said. "I don't feel like I'm hesitating." We tried three more times, each time I focused on pulling the trigger with grim resolution. Three more times I died. I just couldn't overcome the split-second hesitation, even though I knew the gun was fake and the action wasn't for real. The ref just shook his head. "You're a cold-hearted bastard, Nick," I told my partner. He rather enjoyed that.

Somehow I don't think the little kid I saw playing the game at Valley Fair would hesitate. This is a good thing, perhaps, if you're under zombie attack for real but since that doesn't happen much when the legislature isn't in session I wonder if, all in all, it's not such a good thing. I also wonder at the bizarre reasoning of the 8th Circuit Court which based it's ruling in large part that graphic violence is protected as free speech and therefore can't be restricted, even by age. Which, in turn, makes me wonder if the Court will now repeal motion picture ratings and allow over-the-counter sales of pr0n magazines to 10-year-olds under the same logic.

I'd like to be just as sophisticated and blasé about the potential impact of the CG-enhanced violence in games available to kids and the TV shows and movies that are so accessible. The scientists, after all, assure us that there's a negligible effect. "Tosh," I'll think to myself, "the schools and parents are doing an excellent job of teaching manners, respect and impulse-control to today's young men. What's the worst that can happen?" And then I'll turn from the comics page to the local news section.

A young man upset about a girlfriend issue takes a rock in a sock to a knife fight and is killed by two other young men. Another man beats his friend to death with a baseball bat. A five-year-old boy takes a knife to school in order to threaten his gym teacher. A 15-year-old boy points a replica gun at police officers, who respond with real bullets. The last article appeared in the paper two days ago, the first three articles, along with the story about the court ruling, were all in today's paper. I'm sure it's all just coincidence.

Let's play two.

Update:

Then there's this: Five arrested with weapons outside St. Paul school. Three of the five are minors.

Some are concerned that buying military air refueling tankers from a foreign power will have a harmful effect on our national defense and security. It certainly raises some interesting issues for consideration, so let me see if I've got this straight:

We import the oil from foreign powers so we can make the jet fuel our planes will use.

We borrow money from foreign powers so we can buy the oil from other foreign powers so we can make the jet fuel our planes will use.

And now you're concerned about our national security?

This weekend was the first one since the Super Bowl where I had the opportunity or inclination to park my butt in front of the TV to watch some sports. My butt didn't necessarily stay there, though.

Friday night, for example, I didn't turn the set on until pretty late in the evening. I did some quick channel-surfing and came across the Big Ten channel with six minutes left in the Gophers-Indiana game in the Big Ten Men's Tournament. I hadn't watched much of the Gophs this season, but I knew the names of the players and that senior center Spencer Tollackson was out of the game with a sprained ankle. Given the team's history in recent years and the fact they were missing their big man, I was surprised to see that the Gophers were leading. Not-so-surprisingly, they went into epileptic chicken mode, letting the Hoosiers hang around and eventually take the lead with 1.5 seconds left. The way they put Indiana at the foul-line twice with less than five seconds left was shocking only if you hadn't once watched the football team mishandle a punt snap a couple of years ago to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory in the closing seconds of a conference game.

Friday night, anyway, I had noticed that freshman shooting specialist and ESPY-winner (for famously hitting a last-second, game-winning shot from the seat of his pants in high school) Blake Hoffarber wasn't in the game. Not having followed the team closely I didn't know if it was because of other deficiencies in his game, but when Tubby Smith called timeout and sent Hoffarber in with less than two seconds left I figured there was no way you could ask the kid to come off the bench cold and take a shot to win the game. Absurd. So there I was, sprawled on the couch as the long throw-in crossed mid-court and went into a tangle of arms and bodies, only to deflect into Hoffarber's hands with just enough time for him to turn and shot-put a left-handed shot at the rim — where it disappeared along with the breath of every Hoosier fan in the Fieldhouse. As for myself, I found myself totally and automatically levitated from the couch while a loud "D'oh!" was yanked uncontrollably from my lips. It was a magical and exciting moment and I had witnessed it with my own eyes!

Then this afternoon I turned on Arnold Palmer's Bay Hill Invitational shortly after Tiger Woods had separated himself from the other leaders on the front nine. I stuck with the event through the afternoon as Tiger looked as if he was going to run away with it until he inexplicably took a page from my game and three-putted from six feet on number 10. The rest of the tournament was tense as several people stayed in contention until finally a relatively unknown pro forged a tie with the Great One and headed for the scorer's tent as Tiger prepared to assault Bay Hill's challenging finishing hole, ultimately leaving himself with a 25-foot downhill slider of a putt to win the tournament. This time I was on the edge of the couch, both feet on the floor, elbows on knees, leaning forward toward the set as the putt started on its long, slow, curving patch before dropping into the cup in much the same way my briefcase hits the floor when I come home from a long day's work.

Rather than levitating, however, I flopped backwards, hands on my forehead at what I'd just seen, nearly unnerved by the fact that someone like Tiger Woods now strides the earth.

For all the excesses and scandals in pro and "amateur" sports these days that can leave you jaded, it's great to not only remember but experience the sheer drama and unscripted displays of skill and will that ultimately make our games so compelling.

Rev. Jeremiah Wright, Obama's pastor, has had several interesting sermon excerpts broadcast recently, including this snippet on Hugh Hewitt's show yesterday:

I’m still in Bible country. I’m still in the text. Jesus was a poor, black man who lived in a country, and who lived in a culture that was controlled by rich, white people. The Romans were rich, the Romans were Italians, which means they were European, which means they were white, and the Romans ran everything in Jesus’ country.

I suppose that's why Jesus could never catch a break, and why the scriptures describe him always going around being obsessed with being a victim. Rev. Wright said he was working from the Bible text, but when I read the Bible it strikes me that Jesus didn't focus on Affirmative Action, he was Affirmative Action. I also recall that he didn't seem to agree very much with the actions and interpretations of Pharisees and Sadducees or, as Rev. Wright's interpretation would presumably have it, the leadership of his "black" people.

After three years of doing this blog thing I don't know that there are six little known facts about me left undisclosed, but I'll see what I can do with the meme that Jroosh tagged me with.

Six Little Known Facts About Me:
1. I hate most vegetables, especially green beans, beets and brussel sprouts. One time I was grievously deceived when I what I thought was a bowl of fried, diced potatoes was actually parsnips. I still shudder at the recollection.

2. I couldn’t wait to sign up for band in 6th grade because I really wanted to play the trumpet. Somehow or another I let the band instructor talk me into playing the tenor saxophone. Five years later I finally quit (probably about the time my parents finished paying the damn thing off).

3. As an adult I also took banjo lessons for awhile. I concluded that banjo players aren’t really as happy as they look.

4. The greatest days of my life were October 10, 1987; August 18, 1988 and February 10, 1994.

5. So far I have only discovered three games in which I have a natural aptitude: football, bumper pool and Trivial Pursuit. Now I’m too old to play football, I haven’t seen a bumper pool table in 35 years, and no one who knows me will play Trivial Pursuit with me anymore.

6. I will turn 50 on Thursday, April 3. Coincidentally, this “little known fact” also lines up with Trivia Night at Keegan’s, which I will be attending. Show up and see if an old dog has learned any new tricks.

A politician caught cheating on his wife with a prostitute?
Ho-hum.

China abusing human rights only months before the Olympics?
Shocked, I'm shocked, I tell you (not).

Someone with the Hillary campaign caught saying something negative about Obama?
Yeah, never saw that coming.

An Obama staffer calls Hillary a "monster"?
Paging Captain Obvious.

A Minnesota DFL legislator's knee jerk reaction to a problem is to ban something?
Is the Pope Catholic?

But Mary Ann from Gilligan's Island gets caught with dope?
Ok, let me off here, this world is getting way too weird.

Well, I put it off as long as I could, but finally I had to go to the DMV today to renew both my license tabs and my driver's license. That's kind of like waiting to go to the dentist until you need a root canal and bridgework. Anyway, I hoofed it over to the Hennepin County Government Center at lunchtime today, anticipating a gulag-like shuffle as if in leg-irons from one counter to another while hoping the re-education wouldn't be too painful.

The first thing I noticed when I got there was that the HCGC has changed quite a bit in the four years since it last darkened my soul. The main reception area has been re-designed, and is airier, even bright. Rather than a bunker, the lady in the information booth was in a half-moon shaped desk that looked almost conceirge-like. When I asked where I needed to go she gave me directions with what almost appeared to be a smile.

I got to the motor vehicle area a little later than I had hoped to, and was thus expecting a long line. Instead, this reception area was also well-lit and pleasantly decorated and there was only one person ahead of me and he was quickly dispatched. I stepped up to where the state employee was conducting bureaucratic triage and distributing waiting numbers. This fellow as even jovial as he confirmed that I could get both of my missions accomplished by the same person at the same time, then he gave me my number and the form I needed to fill out and pointed me to a comfortable waiting area, around which were 19 service windows arranged in a semi-circle. Regularly a pleasant voice on the intercom would say "Number such-and-such, now being served at window 18" or similar. Did she say served?

A few minutes later my number was up and I went to my assigned window where the woman there was bright-eyed and smiling. In less than a minute she had done what she needed to with my forms and had me standing on the little blue line, looking into the camera. The bright flash left a dinner-plate sized spot in front of my eyes, but I was still able to examine my new photo. Something was wrong, however. "I don't know who that old guy is on the screen," I told the woman. "But I've never seen him before." She actually giggled.

After blinking several times I was able to autograph the last document and then she handed me my brand new license tabs. Just like that I was on my way, my head swimming at the ease of the experience (and a little from the after-effects of the flash). I wasn't so discombobulated, however, that I didn't see the table of cookies and juice that had materialized in the waiting room. Blinking a few more times, I confirmed that, yes, there was a table full of cookies there - chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin and sugar - and a juice dispenser. No camera crews were in sight, either, as I surveyed the room. I considered the tray of cookies the way a cautious bear might sniff at an unexpected honeypot in a clearing. "What the heck," I thought as I grabbed a chocolate chip cookie. It was soft and delicious.

Now that's what I call my tax dollars at work!

“We are now trusting to those who are against us in position and principle, to fashion to their own form the minds and affections of our youth... This canker is eating on the vitals of our existence, and if not arrested at once, will be beyond remedy.”
— Thomas Jefferson

I just spent a week away from my children. Curiously enough, I spent a surprising amount of this time thinking and talking about home education.

One afternoon I played golf with a fun couple who have two boys, aged 4 and 2, who are nicknamed "Search" and "Destroy." The mom had learned from my wife the evening before that we home educate and was interested in what was involved. I heard the usual questions from her about college admissions (colleges are now, in fact, actively recruiting home-schooled teens) and socialization (personally, I'm more concerned about socialism).

I told her that my children had always had a wide circle of friends their age, either cousins or kids from church or even the neighborhood, but also had had the experience of talking to and working closely with adults on a one-on-one basis. One of the results of this, in my opinion, is that my daughters have always been poised and comfortable whenever they speak with non-parental adults. They are respectful, but not awed or overcome with shyness or cupidity. In short, they act as if talking to other, older people is completely natural (imagine that!). Interestingly enough, the woman I was talking to and her husband spend a great deal of time (and earn a fair amount of money) trying to teach adults to regain or re-engage the child-like creativity and imagination they had had before years of education and "socialization" had beaten it out of them.

Two days later I was in the home of my wife's cousin Kay and her husband, Adrian. With us were, I think, 9 of their 11 kids, plus a few sons- and daughters-in-law (and a prospective daughter-in-law) and their own children. We were enthusiastically and effortlessly added to the dinner table where our presence scarcely created a ripple. I think that with this many kids and grandkids around on a regular basis, most of Kay's recipes start with "Take one whole cow..." One of the things you can't help but notice, besides the number, is how fresh-faced and attentive all the young folks are, even the ones that have married in. Kay home-educated all of her children, some of whom are currently pursuing college degrees.

Normally when I'm around a family gathering of this size the rising clamor will eventually start to get to me, raising my blood-pressure and level of discomfort. This night, however, though there was a steady hub-bub, I had nothing but a feeling of peace, though I'd scarcely met any of these people before that night. Several of the children cycled through our table talk as the evening rolled on, with every age having something to contribute to the conversation.

The next morning we met Adrian, Kay and their oldest son, David, at their favorite local restaurant for breakfast. One of the topics that came up was the recent California appellate court ruling requiring home-schooling parents to have a teaching certificate. More compelling was one judge's written opinion:

"California courts have held that ... parents do not have a constitutional right to homeschool their children," Justice H. Walter Croskey said in the 3-0 ruling issued on Feb. 28. "Parents have a legal duty to see to their children's schooling under the provisions of these laws."

Parents can be criminally prosecuted for failing to comply, Croskey said.

The ruling sent shock waves throughout the estimated 166,000 home-educators in California as well as through the California legislature and even Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, who said, "Every California child deserves a quality education, and parents should have the right to decide what's best for their children. Parents should not be penalized for acting in the best interests of their children's education. This outrageous ruling must be overturned by the courts, and, if the courts don't protect parents' rights, then, as elected officials, we will." Interestingly enough, Schwarzenegger's signing of SB777 last year may be one of the things that have led many parents to abandon the public schools. Give the Governator credit though; he may not be great at logic but he definitely knows how to count votes and probably realizes that whatever other political beliefs a homeschooling family may have, telling them that they have no right to educate their own children trumps them all.

Personally, I'm not shocked. California has long been the most overtly hostile state toward home-educators (ironically it's own school system struggles to place a certified teacher in every classroom, yet would seek to mandate it in every home-school). Similarly, Education Minnesota has no love lost for home-educators and my hunch is that they wouldn't mind if their pet DFL pupils in the Minnesota legislature were to bring them a similar bill as if it were a bright, shiny apple.

Of course, it takes a real socialist mentality to proclaim that the State is the rightful owner of your children, as I've documented before regarding events in England and Germany. The Germans, in fact, are still embracing the 1937 law instituted by a certain mustachioed megalomaniac that mandates compulsory state school educations. Seventy years later they're still enforcing it by forceably taking kids from their homes to school in police cars or even removing children from their parents' homes and hiding them in psychiatric hospitals for evaluation.

Many home-school parents in California are having to consider possibly leaving the state. That's a drastic measure for sure, but one that has had to be taken by many German parents, as described by Sheila Lange in her blog, Trying to Homeschool in Germany, which details the personal struggles of her own family (now living in South Africa) and other home-school German families.

Of course, that's all happening very far away, in Germany or even California, right? Closer to home, former Nebraska state senator Peter Hoagland is on record as saying, "Fundamentalist parents have no right to indoctrinate their children in their beliefs. We are preparing their children for the year 2000 and life in a global one-world society and those children will not fit in."

Especially not if I can help it.

That is, if three a gang does make.

The thoughtful Night Writer suggested I spend a day at the spa during our recent Arizona odyssey. I looked at the price of a day at the spa and decided that was ridiculous. Especially since I am the Finance Minister at our house. Then he suggested I rent a Harley Davidson. I'm not a big fan of Harleys, but I discovered you can rent pretty much any kind of bike you want, if you're willing to pay the price. And it was about the same price as a day at the spa, but a much better value, if you ask me.

There I was on the beautiful morning of Wednesday last, picking up the BMW 1200 RT which I had reserved before leaving MN.



It's a huge bike, the biggest I have ever ridden, weighing in at 600 lbs, wet. Did I mention it's a bit top heavy? At one time in my life I owned a BMW motorcycle which was probably almost as heavy as this one, but it was shorter and had a much lower center of gravity. Does it sound like I'm defensive at all? I hopped on this thing after being briefed on its various accessories (heated seats, heated hand grips, car-like cruise control, vertically adjustable windshield) and functions (LED screen that lets one scroll through more information than anyone could possibly want to know). The owner and his admin. assistant had gone back in the building and, hopefully, weren't watching me because I couldn't get the monster upright off its side kickstand. Boy, did I feel stupid. Then I realized I had my foot too far away from the bike and if I moved it in as close to the bike as I could get it, I could gain just enough purchase to shift the bike upright. I took off looking, I think, exactly like I knew what I was doing.

I rode around the block and started to get the feel of the bike. I could tell it was weighted differently than what I used to ride, but other than that it felt like riding a BMW. It felt great. The BMW shifting has always sounded a little clunky, and still did with this model, so that was normal. I rode out of town on a route that would take me into the mountains.



It was a gorgeous day, about 65 degrees, clear and sunny. Why had that couple who had rented a bike just ahead of me put on all that gear? Nylon pants over their jeans, heavy jackets, big gloves. Jeeez, it was a nice day. I began going up, up, up, into the mountains and, oh my goodness, the temperature started going down, down, down. Still, I didn't feel cold until my first stop at Jake's Corner Store, after riding about 60 miles. I got off the bike and went into the store to get coffee and check out the facilities. And I started shivering. I hadn't even realized I was cold until I stopped riding. The coffee felt really good going down. As I was standing by the bike drinking coffee and eating a banana I saw two bikers I had passed earlier at some wayside stop pull in. They didn't stay, however, and pulled right out and drove away. I noticed, however, they were both riding BMWs. I got back on, managed to right the bike, turned on the seat and hand heaters, and took off.

Another thirty or forty miles through the mountains and I came to the Roosevelt Dam, where I decide to stop for the view. I took a right into the parking lot and, lo and behold, there were the other Beemer riders and a few other bikers, as well. Of course, I wanted to look very cool as I pulled around gracefully into a spot, positioning myself so I would be pointed in the right direction when it was time to leave.

Just as I came to a full stop, however, my balance shifted slightly left and ... the bike and I went down. As my (helmeted) head hit the pavement the thought ocurred to me to just lay there till I died of embarrassment. I didn't think it would take too long. But I heard the bike was still running so I leapt up and hit the kill switch. At that moment another rider ran up and said "Let me help" and lifted the bike up for me. I was mortified. I started chattering about how I hadn't ridden, really, for years, and was rusty and anything I could think of that would make me look less of an idiot. But he, and his friend who also came over, said this could happen to anyone. They were very gracious and did their best to make me feel better.

We began admiring each others' bikes (turns out they were the guys on the BMWs) and just talking motorcycles, my recent lack of knowledge of which would fill large volumes. We rode together to another view of the dam from the other side, and then, because we were going the same direction we all rode on in a group. Thus, a gang. Of three. All on BMWs. Pretty cool. Especially since I had the biggest bike. If you're wondering how intimidating a gang of BMW riders, picture this: "Hello, we are Hans, Franz und Eva, and we are here to ... pump you up!"

We stopped in Superior, AZ for lunch and got to know each other better. I found out Leon was a retired ironworker, living in Scottsdale and Doug was a Baptist missionary on sabbatical for one year from his work in Taiwan. I knew that God had sent them to watch over me and I was very glad of that.

We continued on after lunch, heading back in the general direction of Scottsdale where I had rented the bike. At some point, Doug had to leave us and head home, but Leon stuck with me all the way to the rental agency. When we stopped at a gas station so I could refill the tank I actually had to have Leon lift the bike to upright for me because the combination of very smooth cement, my very smooth-soled boots and a small amount of weariness from riding 200 miles all left me unable to raise the machine to vertical.

Here's a photo of me and my guardian angel and his immaculate (1976, I think) BMW 1000.

No, I don't mean "just desserts"; I mean we drove from Scottsdale to Las Cruces, New Mexico on Thursday, and it was mostly just deserts, with a lot of rocks.

The landscape is very different here. It reminds me of how weird it all seemed when I moved from Phoenix to Minneapolis nearly 28 years ago. After living in Arizona for a year it was almost overwhelming to see so much green everywhere and all at once. It was probably a good thing that I arrived in Minnesota in June, however; if my first impression was 12 degrees with an icy wind I might have turned down the Minny job and stayed in Phoenix, and who knows what effect that would have had on my life (not to mention the lives of my wife and daughters)?

We drove the scenic route from Scottsdale, which took us through the dramatic, rocky passes around Superior and Globe. The rugged slopes converge at different angles around the highway, almost tilting your perspective and perception, especially when the horizon is blocked and the road is twisting. The Reverend Mother rode through here on Wednesday with the motorcycle gang she joined (I'll leave it to her to post that story) and said the effect was even greater on a bike than in the car. I wouldn't say it was beautiful, exactly, but it was very distinctive, unusual and fun.

The purpose of the trip was to visit the Reverend Mom's cousin and her family, but we were also looking forward to seeing New Mexico, which we've heard is beautiful. Actually, I know it's beautiful, because I've driven through the state before. Apparently the stretch we drove through today, however, is not going to make it into the brochures. Right at the state line the pavement changed to a darker, more rumbly surface and the scenery began to take on certain moonscape qualities as we drove along state highway 70 toward Demry.

It looked as if a nuclear bomb had gone off — nothing grew that was more than 3-feet tall and there were no buildings or structures for miles. In fact, if we came across a structure it was most likely dilapidated - windows missing, roof fallen in, or possibly an abandoned, sand-pitted mobile home. All it would take to complete a classic "desolate West" scene would be a bleached long-horn skull or two. Instead we saw the modern equivalent: rusted out frames of an occasional vehicle, including an old 1930s or 40s-era pickup that had been left where it died on the ranch, stripped of tires and interior and left to rust and blow away bit by bit. Given the age of the vehicle, I wondered how long it had been sitting there within sight of the highway.

Amazingly we even saw occasional small herds of cattle, including the dreaded black ninja cows conducting desert manuevers. Most were eating the desert scrub grass and foliage. Somehow, I don't think these cattle will make it to Kobe-beef status on the Bourbon Steak menu.

Even the first town we came across, Lordsburg, looked dessicated. Good Lord, Lordsburg. Literally half the businesses and buildings along the main drag were boarded up, and the windows to the lobby of the Luxury Hotel revealed metal folding chairs for furniture. One dedicated car-dealer featured about a dozen new cars and trucks aimed at the road, prices marked on the windshields in optimistic neon colors. I think the marketing theme for the dealer should be, "Leaving town? Why not do it in a BRAND NEW CAR!"

Other than that about the only maintained structures we saw until we got to Demry was a series of about two dozen billboards placed close together Burma-Shave style promoting the Continental Divide Trading Post. Each billboard promoted another rare, not-to-be-missed product; everything from snake eggs (not sure if these were pickled or not) to saddles, whips and, probably, mounted jack-a-lopes. They probably had beef jerky, too, and out here I bet it comes directly off the slaughtered local cattle without need for drying or processing.

So last night, MD and I headed out for a movie (Spiderwick. It sucked. Read the books, and you'll feel so much better), home to change into pajamas, them off again to Princess Flickerfeather's house.

A bunch of MD's friends were there. We're sitting around playing Loaded Questions (awesome game), which took a long time. At about 10:45, everyone decides that they're hungry. So we debate about ordering pizza, where to get it from, what to get, all that jazz. This is the ensuing conversation:

MD: Let's get pizza!
Murmurs of assent
TL: What kind?
MD: Sausage with black olives. Mmmmmm.
Anna: No, I hate sausage. I'm ok with mushroom.
TL: Eww, yuck.
Donny: What are you on? You don't eat beans, mushrooms... (Donny had previously made refried bean dip).
TL: I'm on the beanbag.
MD: How about a split pizza?
Ruth: We could get half sausage w/ black olives and half mushroom.
TL: Anna, do you like pepperoni?
Anna: Nope.
TL: Darn.
Ruth: How 'bout just cheese?
*Great enthusiasm.*
PFF: There's a phone book in the kichen. Order from Domino's.
*Anna is on the phone oredering pizza.*
PFF: Make sure to tell him the address is Summit Ave, South Saint Paul, otherwise he'll go to St. Paul.
Anna: He's like, 'So St Paul, So St Paul. Hold on,'
MD: Haha! 'There's a South Saint Paul?'
Anna: Alright, he'll be here in 40 minutes.
*Groaning.*
TL: 40 minutes?!
MD: I thought they had a 30 minute policy.
Donny: Or, you could just cancel that, and we could put in a frozen pizza.
O_o
Anna: Donny!!! Why didn't you tell us?!
Donny: Well, it's pepperoni!
Sam: They could've lived with it!
Anna: Yeah, I wouldn't have minded!

So we decided to just live with the cheese pizza.

What seemed like a long while later:

TL: How long has it been?
Anna: About 15 minutes.
TL: WHAT?!

The pizza finally arrived at 11:35 and was greeted at the door by Sam and his beer stein hat. That hat was at least a foot and a half tall. I can only imagine what that pizza guy was thinking.

The pizza was almost instantly devoured.

We didn't end up getting home until 12:something.

Our travels today took us from Red Wing, Minnesota to Scottsdale, Arizona and a very nice room at the St. James Hotel to a palatial villa at the Fairmont Princess. In between I was a somewhat uncomfortable guest of Northwest Airlines, sandwiched into a middle seat (though my original seat reservation was for an aisle) while the guy in front of me reclined into my lap so far that he blocked the light from the reading lamp so that I had to hold my book up over his head in order to read. Which I was happy to do, while also summoning up the juiciest coughs I've had in days. He was unmoved.

Meanwhile a mother seated behind me read an endless series of Curious George books to her toddler daughter who showed her delight by happily kicking the back of my seat. I was also four rows from the back of the oversold flight, which meant a long wait to "de-plane". Once out into the concourse I had to take several deep breaths to re-inflate to my normal body size. Things definitely started to turn for the better when my wife and I got to the rental car counter and found that the full-sized car she reserved had been replaced with a brand new Suzuki SUV (so new it still had a paper license plate in the window). Not only that, it was in my wife's favorite electric blue color!

Still it was 9 p.m. 'zona time by the time we got to the hotel, where we found that I had been upgraded to a villa suite by the resort. Apparently my name on the contract for the conference my company is hosting made them feel especially warm and friendly. The accomodations are very nice; the bathroom "suite" alone is nearly the size of the very nice room we had had over the weekend at the St. James. In addition we have a sitting area, two large plasma-screen TVs, a private patio and a king-sized bed ideal for playing Marco Polo with the Reverend Mother.

We had to hustle, though, to get something to eat before the restaurants at the resort closed, and around 9:30 we made it to Bourbon Steak, a very, very nice place where the staff was very, very pleased to see me after tapping my villa number into the computer a the hostess stand. We were seated (in a small booth with real fur pillows!) and then our waitress approached and addressed me by name ("Mr. Night Writer"). It was late and we wanted to eat lightly, but the menu was awesome, though some of the entrees were well north of $45. I finally settled on a Kobe-beef hamburger (only $22) topped with fennel slaw and water cress while the Reverend Mother ordered a salad and crab cakes (you don't want to know how much, though Accounting might ultimately take an interest). After we ordered our waitress brought us a selection of duck-fat fried french fries (some coated in smoked paprika, another variety in a truffle seasoning, and a third, savory option that I can't remember), all with different dipping sauces, plus some fresh from the oven buttermilk foccacia bread, all compliments of the chef.

A short time later they brought our food, and it was almost too beautiful to eat. Almost, but we were really hungry (and it was all delicious). We did pause long enough, however, for the Reverend Mother to take pictures of our food and the fur pillows. I told her I thought I could get used to living like this, and she said that no, I'd probably die from a heart attack if we ate like this all the time. I reminded her, though, that if I had a heart attack while on company business my life insurance pays off triple — which would mean that she could then live like this for some time.

"Would you like some crab cake?" she asked.

In case no one's noticed, posting has been kind of light of late as I've been in the final days of a huge project. Light posting is likely to continue for the next week or so as I'm traveling (though road trips have been known to generate some posts).

This weekend I'm with my sweetheart at our church's annual Sweetheart Weekend. We're having a very good time, thanks for asking.


Then on Sunday we're off for Arizona for a week as the Big Corporate Event I've been working on since last June has finally arrived. For me it means long hours of double- and triple-checking menus, AV set-ups, tracking the whereabouts of our big-name guest speakers — and about 54 holes of golf. Meanwhile, the Reverend Mother (not one to sit around the spa eating bon-bons served by cabana boys) is renting a BMW motorcycle for a ride through the Sonoran Desert, and is going to spend another day with one of her best friends who moved to Arizona a couple of years ago. Finally, once I've got all the executives fed and sent off to the airport we'll be driving over to Las Cruces, New Mexico to visit one of my wife's favorite cousins.

With all that going on next week we were thinking we'd skip the Sweetheart Weekend, but the Mall Diva insisted that we go so we can learn even more about how to have a good marriage and so she can pick up the tips from us second-hand. And when I say she insisted, I mean that she actually paid for us to go. Aww, isn't that sweet? Did we raise her right, or what?

Then again, perhaps she just wanted to get us out of the house over the weekend. Hmmm.

Kevin, you know where we live. Feel free to make an unannounced visit. Don't bother knocking.