Anti-Social Studies?

If you read right-leaning blogs, you're most likely aware of parents' complaints concerning the deranged classroom rants of commie school teachers like the "Geography" instructor Jay Bennish in Colorado.

Pretty & I send BENRY to a Catholic school, but it's for reasons other than the supposed leftie indoctrination the public schools offer. In fact, as a product of the very school district in which we currently reside, I'm convinced that my boys would do wonderfully in this system and will eventually attend high school where I did. (As long as the district stops herding kids into Special Ed programs to secure additional funding, but that's a subject for another post.)

I find it interesting that the primary segments of productive society in which one finds bona fide moonbats are Education and Law (and in a particular personal instance, Educational Law). I honestly don't know why it is, but it is very rare that I run across a Production Manager, a Sales Rep, a dock worker or heaven forbid a small business owner who has adopted the strident "corporate imperialist Bushitler Haliburton Rove cabal" mindset. They could, of course, keep their beliefs to themselves, but I visit hundreds of people a year on sales calls and have yet to hear Air America on a single radio.

But I digress. What motivated me to post today was learning that my 7th grade Social Studies teacher, Roger Cuthbertson, was recently arrested while protesting at a fundraiser featuring Dick Cheney. The event was held at a lakeside estate - the protesters were on a pontoon in the bay, shouting anti-Cheney slogans. Mr. Cuthbertson then boarded a smaller boat with his hippie friend and (according to the Star-Tribune):

"...tried to paddle the raft to shore so they could speak with Cheney. A sheriff's boat intercepted the men, but not before Cuthbertson jumped into the bay and tried to swim toward the reception."

Hilarious. Sneak a peek at this photo of Mr. Cuthbertson (he's the bearded guy in the blue jacket), cropped from another Strib article about a weekly peacenik party held outside a prominent local defense contractor. I remember him as a disheveled, long-haired dude who wore plaid shirts and his Levi's well below his hips long before "jailing" was in. In his class, I recall listening to Garrison Keilor, performing a mock trial and watching him furiously scrawl a detailed chalkboard sketch of how the atomic bomb worked. Nothing unreasonable.

Who knows? He may have thrown hysterical tantrums about Pershing missiles in Europe and "Evil Empire" speeches... I just don't remember them. But if he did, his rhetoric certainly didn't affect me as he'd hope it would.

My point (if I have one): Schools should certainly do their best to evenly portray all sides of any issue, but maybe we should all lighten up a bit. Kids will eventually find their own ways in the world, regardless the crap any strangers try to fill their heads with.

A Meek Return

Yes, it's been awhile. Family events, a funeral and a reunion, have kept me away.

My grandmother passed on last month. She was 95. Growing up, I always looked forward to the end of my long baseball season when my family would pack up and drive to western Montana, where we would spend weeks with my grandparents splashing in a cold mountain lake, fishing mountain rivers and generally enjoying a taste of Mountain Life.

I remember the giant zucchinis she grew in her garden, picking raspberries at the house and huckleberries in Glacier Park, long, slow walks through pine forests with her pointing out Indian Paintbrush and Oregon Berries, endlessly jumping off rocks and docks into that aquamarine lake under her watchful eye, browned butter (it's the Polish way, she would say) poured over fresh green beans and that huckleberry pie which no earthly words could describe.

But what I will take to my grave is the way she always, regardless of how badly I felt I was screwing up my life at any given time, made me feel like the most important person in the world. Without fail.

I miss you, Grandma.

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.

Friday Movie

It was a tough week at work, which contributed to my posting lethargy. So to take my mind off of things I went to a movie Friday afternoon. Alone.

This was only the third movie I've attended alone. My first solo flick was during my watermelon days in Seattle, when I skipped work to see "Bob Roberts" - Tim Robbins' mockumentary lampooning a folk-singing, conservative politician. Walking out, I remember feeling quite smug about indulging in such irreverence on company time. Stickin' it to the man!

My second was "Miracle" - Minnesota boys taking on the Soviet Red Army. This was pure red meat for a Minnesota boy who always wanted to take on the Soviet Red Army.

Yesterday was different. It was a murky, sodden day, and after my week I was in dire need of some inspiration. So I trudged to the theater and bought a ticket to "Benchwarmers".

I did so hoping to witness a duplication of Jon Heder's rousing role as maladjusted hero; however, five minutes into the movie a sullen dread seeped into my conscience. Wasn't it too soon for another Heder "teenage outcast turned hero" film? What about Napoleon - what would he think of my attending this movie a mere two years after his triumph? Quickly overcome by feelings of betrayal and exploitation, I stood up, yelled "Not Now!" and marched out. The two stoners I shared the theater with must have shared my angst - they stumbled out and straight into "Scary Movie 4".

Lost, confused, but still yearning inspiration, I scanned the cineplex movie roster for something that would start shortly - "Larry the Cable Guy", "Failure to Launch"... Both seemed like strong candidates, but I just wanted something... more. I settled on "United 93", and stepped into the theater just as the opening credits were rolling.

There, I spent two of the most searing, agonizingly poignant hours of my life.

Psssst, Buddy. Spare a Planet?

I just visited an official Earth Day website and completed an Ecological Footprint Quiz, which supposedly measures the extent to which I abuse Our Mother. If the results are indeed accurate, the Menendez Brothers have nothing on me.

I knew I was in trouble after reading the first question - How often do I eat animal based products? Growing up, my parents walked a side of beef through a warm room and called it dinner. Or breakfast. Unfortunately, I've yet to kick that habit, so I undoubtedly started off in ecological chaos.

As I progressed through the exam, I learned that I'm a garbage-spewing, space-hogging, fuel-wasting brute. And if everyone lived like me we would need 12.8 planets to sustain our collective lifestyle - quite the footprint.

Just call me Sasquatch.

Pee Wee, Meteorologist

Without a doubt, the most grating Minneapolis media personality is meteorologist Paul Douglas.

For those reading this post who are not "one of us", I should explain that Minnesotans don't want someone to simply recite the day's events to them -- we want to be tucked into bed, given a cup of warm milk and softly hummed to sleep by our newscasters. This is why, in the mid-'80s, our local NBC affiliate changed its call letters from WTCN to KARE (get it?).

KARE's production featured down-home, hug-a-bear cute anchorfolks and Paul Douglas, who fed this nauseating mush by pioneering the "Let's step out onto the patio and have a look" weathercast. Sure, he was creepily effeminate, but gol' darnit he was one of us and look -- he's outside!

Minnesotans devoured this tripe & catapulted KARE to perennial ratings dominance. Unsatisfied, Paul seized on his saccharine celebrity and left us for the big bucks of WBBM Chicago, where he was slapped down like a Durham stripper and within months crawled back to the safety of "We Like it Here" Minneapolis.

He's as queer as ever (queer means many things, people), performing his schtik at another Minneapolis station, but the ass-pounding he received in the big time changed him. Yearning to be taken seriously, he has fervently adopted the Global Warming cause and incessantly proselytizes about upcoming environmental upheaval.

I don't monitor the tv ratings much, but I don't think we're buying into the New Paul. Minnesotans are suckers, but like the nation as a whole, we will not stand for our peculiar Pauls overstepping their bounds.

By air...

Gainesville, Fla. (AP) - A small plane crashed into a sport utility vehicle parked outside an airport Sunday, hurling it through a terminal wall, officials said. Three people in the plane were killed.

Apparently, had the SUV not selfishly positioned itself at that very spot, those poor folks would be alive today. Not to mention that helpless terminal wall...

Murder by land, sea, air, rail... If we're not vigilant, they may become accomplices to psychopaths committing unspeakable atrocities.

What next, I ask you. What next?

Easter Insight

I don't understand why infrequent churchgoers select Easter as one of their "must see" masses.

Christmas is easy to get -- it's a birthday party. And you can derive a fair understanding of the holiday by watching the Charlie Brown special.

It's tough to deduce much from The Easter Beagle.

This morning, we got all dolled up and went to church. Since we send BENRY to the church school, we're common fixtures in the back row and recognize many of the parishioners. We of course arrived late (Pretty worked really hard to look, well, pretty), so the usher herded us into the balcony, where I recognized no one.

Now standard Catholic proceedings are difficult enough for children (Stand up, Sit down, FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT!); however, Easter is a different gig altogether. The hymns are longer (Look at me, I'm playing the piano!), the homily is insufferably drawn out (Listen to me, I know my book!) and simple prayers & responses are transmogrified into torturous sing-song that doubles the length of the entire event.

It's a production not unlike the Super Bowl. Except no one really knows why they're there because Linus never explained the meaning of Easter in the first place. At least before the Super Bowl, Dad will make it clear to his unknowing kid that he has a hundred bucks on the blue guys so root for them, damnit.

At Easter mass, children hopped up on a breakfast of jellybeans and chocolate are supposed to figure it out themselves. Like the squirt in front of us. I'll say he was four years old and had not attended church since his baptism -- the little shit was a whirlwind of kicking, jumping, banging, squirming and chattering. Finally, after slapping his sister and pulling his mom's hair, he stood up during the homily and screamed, "I AM THIRSTY! I WANT SOME WA..."

He never completed his thought. Dad's hand came out of nowhere, and, with the force of a cruise missile cupped the kid's mouth vacuum-tight. Clearly startled, the guttersnipe looked wide-eyed at Dad. Then, at Mom, who was staring back, aghast, at Dad. Then this kid, who couldn't or wouldn't display a rudimentary understanding of civilized behavior before this occurred, showed the social moxie of Dr. Phil. He cried. Screamed, bawled, flailed and let Mommy and everyone else around know what Daddy did to him. Mom angrily gathered their belongings, grabbed their coats and said to Dad, "Are you happy now?"

As the family shuffled out, I smiled reassuringly at the dad while recalling the great line from "Vacation" - "Are you happy now, Clark? She's deaf." Ahhh, marriage.

I don't blame the dad. I don't blame the mom. Hell, I don't even blame the bratty kid.

I blame Linus.