My First Blog Rant

No cute anecdotes here - this has to be presented as the maniacal rant that it is. My apologies to anyone who takes offense.


To all of you bicycle club losers - GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE ROAD!!!!!

You are not Greg fucking LeMond. And when you dress like him, you are no different from that fat guy in shipping who wears eye black and his high school baseball pants to his bar's softball games. You do not look good in lycra. Nobody does, except Shania Twain. And even if a herd of Shania Twains decided to ride their bikes in the middle of the fucking road at ten miles per hour I would lay on the horn and flip them off, too.

Suburban Minneapolis is not the French countryside, and your little bike club is NOT the Tour de Fucking France. This is the United States of America, and people drive their cars to get places. Like work. And unlike France where nobody does anything productive, if we're late for work or a client meeting because a group of you morons takes up half of the fucking road, the government doesn't mandate that we keep our jobs.

So do us all a huge favor and either stay on the fucking sidewalk or shoulder so we can pass you without fighting the urge to run you down like feral cats. Or go find another cute hobby that encourages its participants to look like imbecilic halfwits but keeps them out of the fucking way. Like competitive fishing.


Phew. I feel better now.

Too Sexy for his Meat

Call me curious, masochistic, or just plain stupid, but I like to expose myself to a wide range of leftie thought. Daily Kos, Democratic Underground, MoveOn, International ANSWER... I love to poke around assorted websites just to remind myself of how certifiable I used to be.

One site on my list is PETA. When Al Gore first invented the internet, this URL was dedicated to People Eating Tasty Animals. It was a highly entertaining site that simply provided links to various meat & hide-producing associations like the Texas Cattlemen and featured the howling emails from dismayed vegans searching for their cyberhome. Very funny.

The URL now resides in the caring hands of the "real" PETA, where they promote silly acts of defiance like this.

Today I noticed a list of the World's Sexiest Vegetarians. Check it out. To be honest with you, I don't know who the hell most of these people are. But if the Veggies are pinning their recruitment hopes on the likes (or looks) of Chelsea Clinton, Grace Slick, Boy George and Leonard Nimoy, the movement is definitely in trouble.

Personally, my favorite is someone I wouldn't even nominate for the World's Sexiest Bespectacled, Curly-Haired, Mustachioed Performer of '80's Parody Songs. Yikes.

Comment Moderation

I'm sure you've noticed by the tragic state of my blog that I'm no technophile. On the blogway, I'm that old guy creeping along in the left lane, forehead barely visible above the dashboard that you want to flip off & hurl your slushie at.

Anyway, I think sometime in the past week I clicked the "Enable Comment Moderation" button on my Dashboard. My motivation? I dunno - maybe I subsonsciously wanted the final word on the stadium matter. Maybe I thought it was a magic tool that would spontaneously transform my readers' extremist positions into reasoned thought. And maybe I just thought the orange dot was pretty so I clicked on it...

Regardless, thanks to Sloanasaurus for alerting me to this matter. My apologies to anyone who attempted to post a comment this past week.

And thank you, Cynthia McKinney, for ruling out one possible use of the Comment Moderation tool (turning fringe diatribes into reasoned thought). I didn't realize you held such strong opinions on the Twins stadium.

A New Home

My favorite local sportswriter is Patrick Reusse. We used to have two terrific scribes, but Dan Barriero became sick of the Star Tribune's internal political petulance and took his act to the radio waves for good.

It appears as though our state legislature will soon pass a funding mechanism for a new outdoor ballpark for the Minnesota Twins. Reusse, who has refrained from commenting on this issue for years, finally broke his silence and summed up my feelings on the matter better than I ever could. Yesterday, he wrote:

"...The Twins and their backers have said this new structure is needed to make the franchise financially viable in Minnesota. They have said this will bring in the dollars to allow the Twins to be consistently competitive.

What has not been a significant part of their pitch has been this: If you're a person who wants to be proud of Minneapolis, this area's major city, you will be joyful when you see this gem appear in that vacant area on the edge of downtown.

This will be a place where you can feel a ballgame -- nine innings passing at their own pace, with their own cheers and hoots and distractions, with their small early dramas, building perhaps to a big finish. On some spring or autumn nights, a spectator will be required to show up in a parka.

On enough nights, the fans will be able to watch in shirtsleeves as the center fielder races across the emerald expanse, and makes a diving grab, and a roar explodes and someone nearby says: 'That Denard Span is almost as good out there as Torii Hunter.' ..."

Some of my libertarian-leaning friends will disagree vehemently with this post, but let me say this. I am fired up at the prospect of attending outdoor games with BENRY and my friends. And it is about freakin' time that my tax dollars will contribute to something that a regular guy like me will actually enjoy.

I'm absolutely aware that this could and probably will open the floodgates for even more profligate spending on social programs that don't work, schools that don't teach, trains that make no economic sense and other artsy toys for the pampered, screeching class.

However, allow me to sit back for just this moment, take a deep breath and envision myself right here on a warm summer afternoon. It may soon become a reality.

Metro Catcher

I'm entering into traitorous territory here, because I've been a Minnesota Twins fan ever since, well, ever since I became a twin. Which was five minutes into my life when my sister popped out of Mom.

However, what I'm about to say must be said. The Minnesota Twins will never become a gritty, scrappy, likable team as long as catcher Joe Mauer is its centerpiece.

This is very difficult to say as a huge baseball fan in general and a passionate homer in particular. Joe grew up in the Twin Cities and is a truly gifted player. I should love him, and would if he weren't devoid of all emotion on the field and so silky-smooth that he ostensibly puts no effort into his game. And it doesn't help his case that he looks like this:



I mean, look at him. That luxurious skin, those full, sensuous lips... I like my ballplayers to spit lightning and crap thunder, not wax eyebrows and exfoliate elbows. And don't get me started on those damned sideburns.

As far as home-town heroes, I'll take this big lug anyday.

Maybe he doesn't stink so badly after all.

#2 recently turned 7. I realize it's terribly trite, but it seems like yesterday he was just a little blob.

A sobbing little blob, that is. And it actually seems like four years ago because the only thing I remember from his first three years was painful, relentless wailing. Pretty & I joke that were it not for this tortured cacophony, we would've found the energy to make #2 a middle child.

It's probably a good thing; we all know what happens to middle children. Look at Peter Brady. At least I won't wake up thirty years from now to see my son hawking Ab Squeezers or Bun Munchers on late-night infomercials.

Needless to say, #2 is a sensitive little guy who's had to live in the shadow of #1 - the boy who knows all. I understand this must be tough on him, so I do my best to provide paternal encouragement whenever possible. Like peeing into the toilet, not around it. Or reading.

After years of trepidation in the face of incessant correction by #1, something recently clicked & he got his reading groove on. Cereal boxes, newspapers, magazines - the kid now bellows out multi-syllabic words at least as well as Patrick Kennedy on Ambien.

Last week, I was in our bathroom shaving and heard, "NWA (nwah) Pie-lot strike av-ert-ed". I smiled. #2 was watching the morning news. Then, "Twins sta-dee-um scores big run". Awesome, #2. Keep 'er going!

"Man sets fire to wife, child"

Oops. Gotta get in there before...

"Sex off-end-er on loose"

Shit. Must. Get. To. Tele...

"Child porn ri..."

Click. I frantically turned it to "George Shrinks", that bizarre PBS show about a dwarf kid who overcomes his physical insignificance by using household items like shoelaces and tampax to save his wack hippie parents from imminent doom. Long ago, #2 and I renamed it "George Stinks".

Blood coagulating in my fresh razor wounds, I then enjoyed 20 minutes of chicken soup for a dad's soul.

So what you're really trying to say is...

From the Star Tribune editorial page today, this headline:

"Martin Sampson: Iran's Confusing Threat to Israel"

Mr. Sampson is an associate professor of Political Science at the University of Minnesota. He doesn't actually reference a specific threat in his column, but I assume that he's referring to this head-scratcher from Iranian president Mahmoud AhmadRashadinejad:

Washington Post, October 2005: "There is no doubt that the new wave in Palestine will soon wipe off this disgraceful blot from the face of the Islamic world. Israel should be wiped off the map."

Perplexing, to be sure. But I also haven't a clue what Jack Nicholson means when he states, "Darling. Light of my life. I'm not gonna hurt ya... I'm just gonna bash your brains in. I'm gonna bash 'em right the fuck in. Ha ha ha..."

And to think I attained this level of intellectual sophistication with a mere Bachelor's degree.