ennui

mere mortals

2011-12-21T20:37:00.000-08:00

After winning 19 straight dating back364 days, Aaron Rodgers and the Packers were reminded by the KansasCity Chiefs that it's hard to win football games in the NFL. Pressure on Rodgers and no takeaways were the key factors in theloss, and injuries on the offensive line look to make thingsdifficult for Rodgers down the stretch.

Much of this season, Rodgers has hadthe luxury of time in the pocket to wait for a receiver to get openor for a running lane to develop to scoot through. On Sunday, theChiefs were able to pressure Rodgers, due in some part to injuries totackle Bryan Bulaga, followed by Bulaga's backup, Derrick Sherrod.Bulaga is out for Sunday against the Bears, and Sherrod for theseason with a broken leg.

Against the Bears this weekend, Rodgerswill likely face more pressure than he's used to, and he'll be forcedto get rid of the ball sooner. If he does, the receivers need tocatch them. Drops against Kansas City might have lost the game. Jermichael Finley, with four drops, especially did himself no favorsin his quest to open contract talks with the Packers. Hopefully heturns it around on Sunday.

The injuries on the OL will probablylimit the rushing game, as well. Though the Packers are definitely apass-first team, the run game has been productive enough to keepdefenses committed to stopping it. If the running game totallystalls, the play-action won't work, and the Packers' big-play offensebecomes limited. Maybe the “next man up” mantra will work somekind of magic, and third-year pro Evan Dietrich-Smith plays like aman possessed, but don't count on it.

The defense failed to take away theball from an opponent for the first time this season against KansasCity. Just one turnover could have been the difference. This isprobably a fluke. The Packers defense will continue to give upyards, but they should continue to take the ball away, too. If theydo, the Packers will continue to win.

Even after this loss, the Packers arethe team to beat in the NFL. They can lock up home field through theplayoffs on Sunday at home against the Bears. After that, thestarters probably come out of the game early at home against theLions in a game that should bear no weight on the standings. Then,it's a measly three game winning streak to their second Super BowlChampionship.

quickie wins the super bowl

2011-02-09T11:50:00.000-08:00

The Packers' 31-25 victory over the Steelers in Super Bowl XLV was truly a microcosm of their 2010 season:

The team battled through injuries to key players. When Donald Driver limped off the field, my heart sank because Quickie is the man, and he deserves a championship. When Charles Woodson and Sam Shields went out, my heart sank because Jarrett Bush and Pat Lee aren't that good. Bush's excellent play on punt coverage and impressive interception don't change the fact that Hines Ward juked him out of his cleats, then his jock, then pantsed him in the end zone in front of 111 million people, all on the same play.

The defense played great in the first half, intercepting Ben Roethlisberger twice and keeping Rashard Mendenhall in check, but allowed the Steelers to score late in the second quarter and allowed them to make a game of it in the second half. It didn't help that kickoff coverage was weak, giving the Steelers good starting position most of the game. Once again, Clay "Bloodline" Matthews III bailed the defense out by knocking the ball loose from Mendenhall, ending a Steelers' drive that was making Packers' fans nervous. If Woodson is the spiritual leader of the defense, Bloodline is its enforcer.

The running game showed some sparks, but never caught fire. It really only served to keep Troy Polamalu guessing. Thankfully, Aaron Rodgers again played lights out football. If his receivers hold on to a few more of those perfect passes, the babbling heads on ESPN and NFL Network wouldn't be talking about one of the best performances by a quarterback in Super Bowl history. I'm talking 400+ yards and four or five touchdowns; maybe one on foot. They wouldn't have given him the MVP award, they would have named it after him. And he still had to answer stupid questions about the hillbilly from Kiln with the bad judgment. Ridiculous.

This is a team that was favored to win the Super Bowl before the season started, but lost numerous starters to injury, and struggled to find an offensive rhythm without running back Ryan Grant and tight end Jermichael Finley. It got so bad that they couldn't score a touchdown against the lowly Lions in week 14, and had to win their last two games to even make the playoffs (with some help from DeSean Jackson and the Giants' punt coverage team). That's five straight elimination games to get to the Super Bowl. They became the first #6 seed from the NFC to even make it to the Super Bowl, let alone win (the Steelers won it for the AFC in Super Bowl XL).

And while it's nice to bask in this win, Packers fans have reason to be excited for next season (if there is one). This is still the second youngest team in the NFL, and the way the young unkowns stepped in to play when starters went down makes Ted Thompson look clairvoyant. Driver indicated that he's coming back (go Quickie!), and Woodson will be back if he has to put screws in his broken clavicle himself. With Grant back, the backfield should be a little more worrisome for opponents, if not altogether formidable. Most importantly, Finley will be back, giving Rodgers another dangerous weapon in the passing game, and that's frightening. Defensive coordinators on the schedule next season are already having nightmares.

how far the mighty have fallen

2010-11-22T09:38:00.000-08:00

After returning the Green Bay Packers to glory in the 90s and riding his gunslinger style and youthful exuberance to almost Olympian status, it appears Brett Favre has hit bottom, his cock and his Crocs aside. And he has brought the Minnesota Vikings head coach, and possibly the entire franchise, along for the fall.

I didn't get to watch (or even listen to) the Packers' dismantling of the Vikings yesterday, but by all accounts Favre and company hardly bothered to play the game. In post-game comments, Visanthe Shiancoe, Jared Allen, and Adrian Peterson couldn't definitively state otherwise. Tight end Shiancoe* was the most emphatic. When asked if he felt like his team is putting forth the necessary effort, he replied pointedly, "Nope. Nope. Nope." No players were named, but one can't help but assume that Favre, who famously skipped yet another training camp this season, was at least one target of those comments.

With the firing of head coach Brad Childress by the Vikings today, Favre's status as the starter is in question, and one wonders if he would continue with the team if benched, or if he would slink off to Hattiesburg in ignominy. My guess is ignominy. And for a man who could have been the hero of the greatest football story ever told, that's sad.

*With the spate of injuries to Packers tight ends this season, I would be thrilled to see Shiancoe in the Green and Gold. At least when his junk gets in the media, it's an hilarious accident, not a creepy incident.

a moot point

2009-12-10T17:50:00.000-08:00

Charles Woodson made an MVP statement on Monday night against Baltimore when he knifed through the offensive line on first and goal to drop Willis McGahee for a loss. Tramon Williams intercepted a Favre-like pass by Joe Flacco on the next play to preserve Green Bay's lead at 10 points. On a defense that has steadily improved since switching to a 3-4 base, Woodson is the clear-cut leader. But on this play, he really stole the show in an already stellar team performance.

Check out the slow motion video at Cheesehead TV.

Ryan Pickett shoves the center into the path of the pulling right guard, which allows A.J. Hawk to beat the guard to the hole, and forces McGahee to bounce outside. Woodson never lets him get there.

But if Woodson misses that tackle, Collins has already shed the block of the fullback and is in good position to make a tackle himself. Which he probably would have.

If he didn't, B.J. Raji, who had previously engaged two offensive lineman on his own, and Brad Jones, who had crawled under the right end on the far side of the play, were both closing on the ballcarrier. Clay Matthews looked like he was held, otherwise he might have been in pursuit, too. Barring some kind of Keystone Kops routine, I don't see anything better for McGahee than sneaking out of bounds at the two or three yard line.

But Charles Woodson is a god. He made the tackle. The point is sort of moot.

just a thought

2009-08-03T07:28:00.000-07:00

Has anyone thought to tell the birther clowns that if the President is deemed ineligible for the office we don't get a new election or McCain in the White House, we get . . . President Biden!

Careful what you wish for, jerks.

hometown blues

2009-08-02T00:03:00.000-07:00

The people who built it they loved it like I do
There was hope in the trainyards and something inspired
It once was ionic, but it's been painted shut
I found passion for life in Tacoma

From "Thrice All American" by Neko Case

Sure, it's about Tacoma, but that song brings tears to my eyes every time I hear it. Especially the last line of that verse.

I found passion for life in Tacoma

I envy people who have a sense of place, and that line expresses a sense of place so simply and beautifully. No matter where she finds herself, Neko Case knows she belongs to Tacoma, and Tacoma belongs to her.

As for me, I hate the question "Where are you from?"

I live in Seattle, but I'm not from there. As much as I loved living in Minneapolis, I never belonged to that city. I have a tattoo of a Wisconsin state highway sign on my chest, but I'm no more a 'Sconnie than I am a Minneapolitan.

My life has been spent adrift in geographic impermanence; never anywhere long enough to get a sense of place and always knowing that sometime sooner than I would like, the time would come to hang my hat somewhere else.

It's one thing to have a home, and I've had plenty, but it's another to belong to a place. That, I never have.

my best friend

2008-12-12T11:00:00.000-08:00

Ordinarily sparse, the kitten cages in the cat room at the Humane Society in Golden Valley, Minnesota were full of kittens this visit. A scraggly-looking brown tabby with a giant head sat at the front of his cage, mewing plaintively and poking his huge paws between the bars, while his ink-black litter mate napped indifferently in the back. I stopped at the cage to tug at his paw, and he immediately purred, loudly and intensely, and his plaintive mew turned to a contended chirp. I was struck. This was my cat.

Castor and his brother, Pollux, came home to live with me in my little apartment on Hennepin Avenue in Minneapolis. They followed me to an apartment on Lyndale Avenue, and finally to Seattle, where they settled in to Liberty House like it was built for them.

Knowing Castor as I do now, I know he wasn't unhappy in that cage in Golden Valley. He wasn't begging to be adopted, or clamoring to be let out; he simply couldn't understand why, in a room full people, he wasn't getting any attention. It was the only thing he really craved.

After four years of a beatific life, my best friend passed away yesterday. I don't believe in the afterlife, but if I'm wrong, I hope Castor's is a perpetual Indian Summer with plenty of falling leaves to chase, lots of squirrels to stalk, and a warm lap to nap in whenever he wants one.

I'll miss him.

Fitzgerald for Attorney General

2008-12-10T10:00:00.000-08:00

Patrick Fitzgerald, the U.S. Attorney who caught Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevic allegedly trying to sell a U.S. Senate seat,is the same attorney who sent Scooter Libby to jail for covering up for whomever in the Bush Administration leaked Valerie Plame's name to Robert Novak (we're all looking at you, Mr. Vice President).

I'd piss my pants with glee if President-Elect Obama makes him Attorney General.

good fucking god

2008-09-17T09:55:00.000-07:00

Gov. Palin credits a witch-hunting African pastor with praying her into the Alaska Governor's office. No, seriously:

At a speech at the Wasilla Assembly of God on June 8 this year, Mrs Palin described how Thomas Muthee had laid his hands on her when he visited the church as a guest preacher in late 2005, prior to her successful gubernatorial bid.

In video footage of the speech, she is seen saying: “As I was mayor and Pastor Muthee was here and he was praying over me, and you know how he speaks and he’s so bold. And he was praying “Lord make a way, Lord make a way.”

“And I’m thinking, this guy’s really bold, he doesn’t even know what I’m going to do, he doesn’t know what my plans are. And he’s praying not “oh Lord if it be your will may she become governor,” no, he just prayed for it. He said “Lord make a way and let her do this next step. And that’s exactly what happened.”

And back in Kenya, Pastor Muthee was busy gettin' all 17th Century on old ladies:

The pastor speaks of his offensive against a demonic presence in the town in a trailer for the evangelical video “Transformations”, made by Sentinel Group, a Christian research and information agency.

. . .

According to accounts of the witchhunt circulated on evangelical websites such as Prayer Links Ministries, after Pastor Muthee declared Mama Jane a witch, the townspeople became suspicious and began to turn on her, demanding that she be stoned. Public outrage eventually led the police to raid her home, where they fired gunshots, killing a pet python which they believed to be a demon.

high life

2008-08-25T12:28:00.001-07:00

We do it for the candle in the sky
Here's a toast goes out to those
That can't handle they high
--Atmosphere
"The Arrival"

I'm now two weeks into my return to the trudge-through-the-mud that is life in corporate America, and I just can't get my motor running. My body might be at my desk, but my mind is still sharing a 32 ounce High Life with evil cat while we sit on a rock overlooking the Pacific.

Which is where my body really ought to be, as well.

black helicopters

2008-06-12T08:43:00.000-07:00

Dave Neiwert at Orcinus has been chronicling and examining the various activities of extreme right wing groups for some time. He writes in this post about racists on the internets hoping Senator Obama wins in November, then fails as a President so that white folks learn once and for all that we can't trust the darkies:

If you thought the far right went nuts in the 1990s -- when the Democratic president was a white Southern male -- just wait till there's a President Obama. Progressives should be bracing for it.

Remember all the black helicopter loonies from the 90s (Hank Hill's loony neighbor on King of the Hill, Dale Gribble, is a dead-to-rights satire of the type)? The end of the Cold War took away the bogeyman they needed to feed their wierd fantasies of manliness and glory, so they turned their energies to hating the Clintons, the U.S. Government, and the U.N., while Rush Limbaugh and others in the talk-radio echo chamber provided plenty of fodder. It was the crazy-ass rumor mongering that turned me off of politics in the 90s.

When a Republican took the White House and started a war in the Middle East, these loonies had a new, Islamic bogeyman and their mistrust of the government changed to lock-step approval of warrantless wiretapping, indefinite detention in Guantanamo and ohter such threats to American civil liberties. They especially won't be happy if a President Obama manages to end the war and take away their new bogeyman. And, as Dave points out, it'll be much, much nastier than it was in the 90s.

The good news is that liberty held on in the 9th to win 5-4.

re: small ball

2008-06-11T14:10:00.000-07:00

So much for that...Chicago swept the Twins, and Cleveland shut them out yesterday. Oh well. Maybe next year they'll have some pitching.

i'll whoop 'em

2008-06-06T11:36:00.000-07:00

Senator Obama threatens Congress with a stick. Seriously. Crooks and Liars has the video.

small ball

2008-06-06T10:21:00.000-07:00

Ty Cobb, enormous prick that he was, pretty much invented the modern game of baseball. Then came Babe Ruth, an enormous prick of a different kind, who changed everything. Their legacies have been slugging it out ever since. Generally, Ruth's wins.

Not an overly talented athelete, Cobb played an aggressive game based on speed and hustle. Put the ball in play, and run like hell. Once on base, steal. Challenge the defense. Distract the pitcher. Cobb played small ball. And he cheated.

First basemen were sometimes afraid to keep their foot on the bag long enough to record an out for fear of getting Cobb's spikes, sharped with a file before each game, in the calf. Second basemen and shortstops faced those same spikes in the face if they dared lay a tag on him as he slid into the bag on a steal. That Cobb's career batting average of .366 still leads the Major Leagues, and that he's still fourth all-time in stolen bases owes a little to the fact that that shit don't fly anymore in the Majors. But that doesn't change his legacy.

Babe Ruth, on the other hand, had loads of talent. A dominanting pitcher early in his career, his explosive bat became too valuable to his managers to have him in the lineup only once every four days. In the last fifteen years of his career, Ruth only pitched in five games. Meanwhile, he racked up homeruns like no other player before him.

Before Ruth, the homerun was rare. Ruth himself hit more in one season than most other teams before him. Other ballclubs started looking for their own sluggers. The homerun ingrained itself in baseball's culture, and the Cobb-style small game was slowly pushed aside. Too bad. Except for the cheating.

The Twins head into Chicago tonight for a four game stand against the Central Division leading White Sox. Sitting in second place two and half games behind the Sox, if they take all four, they'll lead Chicago by half a game. If they lose all four, they'll be six and half behind Chicago, and probably in third place behind Cleveland. The Twins are one of the few teams left that play small ball. Sluggers are expensive and the Twins are famously frugal. Their pitching is too weak for them to do anything in the playoffs this year if they make it, but its nice to see a team in contention that doesn't rely on homeruns to be there.

Maybe next year they'll have pitching.

useless

2008-06-05T11:08:00.000-07:00

In a post about the source of the racism and sexism memes in the Democratic primary (How Right Wing Crap Polluted the Democrats), Dave Neiwert at Orcinus gives me the springboard for a post I've been wanting to write for some time:

That's how right-wing crap works. It's not meant to advance or even partake of discourse; it's meant to end it. One can argue the worth of Hillary's policies or her voting record or her position on the war till the cows come home; but when she's reduced to being a bitch, that pretty much ends the discussion. And when it's as pervasive as it's become in the past decade, its effects are paralyzingly toxic.

Professional conservatives like Rush Limbaugh and Ann Coulter have blown a lot of hot air over the past four decades in a deliberate effort to rob the word "liberal" of any real meaning. They have managed to turn it simply into a caricature of an elitist America-hating snob living in hypocritical splendor while trying to take away our guns, force us all to have abortions, get gay married, and give all of our money to lazy, Cadillac driving welfare queens. The right wing noise machine has been so succesful in this campaign that formerly self-described liberals have attempted to flee to the shelter of the less loaded word "progressive," and liberal politicians have bent over backwards to avoid the liberal label, when, as Daniel Larison at The American Conservative Magazine's blog, Eunomia, states, they ought to embrace it:

That means that a nominee who is running on the most left-wing platform of any candidate since McGovern (as is Clinton, as was Edwards!) is effectively pretty far to the left. If you’re a liberal or an Obama supporter, there shouldn’t be anything wrong with that and presumably it is the reason why you’re supporting him (conservatives who are supporting him primarily because of the war are obviously the radical exception).

Now, at the same time these unprincipled, blowhard footsoldiers of the right wing noise machine have turned the word liberal into a useless descriptor of actual political thought, they have managed to rob their own word, conservative, of any of its usefulness as well (with the help of some opportunistic Republican politicians, of course). The conservatism of William F. Buckley and Barry Goldwater has morphed into a strange coalition of warhawks, religious "family values" voters, corporatists, and middle-Americans whose only real shared value is that of American Exceptionalism: If America is doing it, it's right, and to suggest otherwise is un-patriotic (and by extension, liberal).

The end result of all of this is that the two most common words used to describe political thoughts and ideas in America have been rendered effectively useless, other than to tar a political opponent. And for the Limbaughs and Coulters, that's mission accomplished. Poisoning the discourse and muddying the waters has been their goal all along.

In the introduction to his 1964 treatise, A Liberal Answer to the Conservative Challenge, former Minnesota Senator Eugene McCarthy addresses a little of what I have addressed here. He suggests that,in the absence of a clear definition of what liberal is, we abolish the use of the word as a noun and embrace it as an adjective:

In religion one could not simply be a liberal, but would be a liberal Baptist, a liberal Anglican, a liberal Catholic, or a liberal of some other denomination. In politics he would be a liberal Republican, a liberal Democrat, or a liberal Vegetarian.

Putting aside that odd reference to vegetarians (seriously, what?), the Senator is on to something. I have as many beefs with the far left of the political spectrum as I do with the right. I'm not a communist or a socialist anymore than I am a corporatist or a nationalist. Applying Senator McCarthy's rubric, the closest descriptor I can come up with for my political beliefs is that I'm a liberal libertarian (gotta love the Latin root!): I don't believe that liberty comes in the absence of government, but in the strict accountability of government to the governed.

Somehow, I doubt the term liberal libertarian will catch on. I dearly hope the accountability thing does, though.

patriotism as a bludgeon

2008-06-05T10:47:00.000-07:00

Watched Senator Obama's victory speech last night, and this bit toward the end stood out (gotta give a hat tip to Annie Wagner at Slog, too):

But what you don’t deserve is another election that’s governed by fear, and innuendo, and division. What you won’t hear from this campaign or this party is the kind of politics that uses religion as a wedge and patriotism as a bludgeon. What you won’t see from this campaign or this party is a politics that sees our opponents not as competitors to challenge, but enemies to polarize, because we may call ourselves Democrats and Republicans, but we are Americans first. We are always Americans first.

Don't let the idiots in the right wing noise machine define your campaign, Senator. This is a good start. Keep this up, and you can't lose.

under the flag of the greenback dollar

2008-05-29T10:17:00.000-07:00

Kelley Vlahos at @TAC sums up some of the accusations against Blackwater Worldwide, which was just awarded an extension of its contract to provide security for the State Department in Iraq.

My only quibble: the use of the word contractor. Contractors frame houses, hang drywall, and install plumbing. They don't carry weapons in war zones for money.

The word for that is mercenary.

indiana jones and the end of my boyhood

2008-05-23T11:03:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite scenes in all of movie history is in the beginning of Raiders of the Lost Ark, in which Indy's conniving South American guide swings on Indy's whip across a chasm, then absconds with the whip and the idol ("No time to argue señor, you throw me the idol, I throw you the whip.").

Indy is left with no way to swing across the chasm as the temple collapses around him. So he leaps. He barely catches a vine fortuitously hanging at the other edge of the chasm. After a tense struggle, Indy pulls himself to safety, and finishes the rest of his thrilling escape from the temple. He even manages to get the idol back. That scene gives me goosebumps to this day. It's just so cool.

There is no corresponding scene in Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, but there is plenty in the movie to enjoy. An early motorcylce chase where Indy and his new greaser companion, Mutt, escape a couple of KGB agents is especially enjoyable, and ends in one of the better one liners of the whole series. Harrison Ford delivers his best performance as Indy, and Shia LaBeouf as Mutt again proves why he was the most enjoyable part of Transformers. As the Commie scientist bad guy, Cate Blanchett is Cate Blanchett. Which is to say, great.

If you expect Kingdom of the Crystal Skull to top Raiders (good luck!) or Last Crusade, you'll be disappointed. If you liked Temple of Doom(and why wouldn't you?), Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is well worth seeing.

For me, it's just good to see an old boyhood friend in action again. Yes, Indy is a friend of mine. Leave me alone.

rhymesayers is on

2008-05-14T14:48:00.000-07:00

Nobody's drug-free; the streets would be hella bloody
Do you call yourself a patient or a junky?
The only thing that separates is who takes your money

--From "Panic Attack"

One of evil cat's favorite pasttimes is to make lists. On one of our long drives, we compiled a list of our favorite lyricists: Willie, John Prine, Steve Earle, Tom Waits, Eddie Spaghetti. . .you know, all the obvious ones. One glaring omission from that list, I must now admit, is Slug. That dude can rhyme, and last night at the Showbox SoDo, he showed he's got it live, too.

After getting warmed up at the McCormick's on 1st and Spring, evil cat and I wandered wandered down to the Central Saloon, where after a slight hitch in communications, we connoitered with Mr. Cowell and the Sarge for a couple drinks, as it was their last night in town before returning to Minnesota. They didn't have tickets (they were going for $100 each online, accoring to Mr. Cowell!), but decided to walk down to the club to see if they could get in. After a few minutes outside, they both managed to pick up tickets and joined me and evil cat inside.

Slug started off the night hosting Atmosphere karaoke by bringing a few fans up on stage, with Slug picking them up when they stumbled. It was surprisingly entertaining, and it was cool watching him interact with the young fans, a couple of whom held their own.

The opening act, Abstract Rude, was cool enough that I might check out their records, but the night was all Atmosphere. They played a good mix of older stuff with the stuff from the new record, which is seriously growing on me. The sound was good, Slug was on, and we were all drunk and rhyming along where we knew the words. I really can't recall ever having that much fun at a show, especially an all ages show.

additions to the blogroll

2008-05-06T12:40:00.000-07:00

Evil cat fires the first shots in her war against Seattle's invading condo hoardes at Keep Seattle Seedy.

I've been reading the Cunning Realist for about two years now, and have just been lazy about putting him on the roll. He's been warning about the mortgage melt-down and inflation for some time now, but I'm sure he'd hate to say "I told you so." He's also an occasionnal columnist for The American Conservative.

The Cunning Realist lead me to The American Conservative's blog @TAC. Don't let the name fool you, The American Conservative is not a typical movement conservative cheerleader where ideology trumps reality.

More on the uselessness of the words "liberal" and "conservative" to delineate ideology soon.

willie!

2008-04-30T13:50:00.000-07:00

My hero turned 75 today. Happy Birthday Willie! Here's hoping for many more!

just a thought

2008-03-05T21:54:00.000-08:00

Favre's retirement makes me feel the same way I did when I finished reading The Lord of the Rings.

damn

2008-03-04T12:52:00.000-08:00

Last night I was telling evil cat over beer and sliders at the Jolly Roger that I had a feeling Brett Favre would call it a career. Then, what do I see when I open up the internets this morning?

Favre's hangin' up the cleats. Must have been a disturbance in the Force, or something.

I can't really add any more than I already wrote here. I've had a hell of a good time watching him play all these years. It might sound stupid (and I'll be roundly mocked by the anatomist for writing this), but it feels remarkably like a good friend packed up and moved away over night. And I know that feeling well, believe me.

I guess all I can really add is . . . damn.

precinct 1330

2008-02-09T17:31:00.000-08:00

Walked down the my caucus place with Evil Cat and Corneilius this afternoon. Corneilius was feeling a bit under the weather, and took off after he signed up and registered his vote. We crowded into an elementary school gym and separated into about eight, maybe ten precincts. Of a hundered people in my precinct (three times more than in 2004), five were undecided. The rest went to Senator's Clinton and Obama. No Edwards voters at all in my precinct. I caucused for Dodd.

Of the six delegates up for grabs in my precinct, Obama took four and Clinton took two in the first tally. As I was leaving the gym, I heard another precinct announce 5-1 for Obama.

Evil Cat stuck around in the gym to wait for another tally while I wandered out to the PTA bake sale and bought some cofee. I hung out in the hall reading a class project of short biographies of civil rights leaders stapled to a bulletin board. The one about Medgar Evers was my favorite. After a few minutes without any change in the delegate split, we took off for the safety of Liberty House. We didn't stick around long enough to see the final tally, but I'm pretty certain Obama won big at my site.

All in all, it was a great experience. I hope Washington continues to be a caucus state.

just a thought

2008-02-05T19:05:00.001-08:00

Presidential politics is like a teevee in a bar. We all sit and stare at the fucker while more important things go on all around us.

prediction

2008-01-31T14:24:00.000-08:00

Senator Obama will win the Democratic nomination. No clue as to whom he will pick as a running mate.

Senator McCain will will win the Republican nomination, and pick Senator Lieberman as his running mate. That Senator Lieberman is a de facto Republican (and has been since at least 2004) will not stop the bobble heads in our political media from praising the Senators for "reaching across the aisle." This will challenge any advantage Senator Obama might have regarding his theme of unity and bipartisanship, making it a tight race that I think Senator McCain will win (not saying I'll vote for him, just that he'll probably win). But that's not necessarily the end of the world. Here's why:

President Bush, by his own admission, has been treading water in Iraq. The surge was designed to calm things down in Baghdad long enough that the Decider could pass his fuck-up on to the next administration, who will have their hands full figuring out how to clean up the mess. Just like Lyndon Johnson's war became Richard Nixon's in 1968, this war will become the next President's.

At the same time, the Administration (with the help of the Federal Reserve) has been playing a game of field position with the economy in an attempt to punt the coming recession into 2009.

If it's Senator Obama's job to clean this up starting in 2009, it likely means four-years-and-out for the Democrats as the Republicans sweep back into the White House and Congress by blaming Democrats for a Republican mess. And don't count on the political press to look back farther than four years (that is, unless Bill Clinton's dick is involved). This will be even more likely if the Democrats fail to increase their razor-thin majorities in Congress, as the Republicans will obstruct any and all meaningful legislation.

On the other hand, if Senator McCain rides a bipartisan promise to the White House, he inherits this mess with what will probably be a Democratic Congress. If, by some miracle, this mess is all cleaned up by 2012, McCain runs again and wins. The Democrats in Congress will share in this success and hold on to at least one house. If this mess is not be cleaned up by 2012, the Democratic candidate for president runs on McCain's failures, and probably wins.

Plus, as Dan Savage pointed out yesterday on Slog, a President McCain has every reason to just sit back and watch as a Democratic Congress investigates the hell out of the last seven years of misrule. I'm sure I'm not the only person who would frame Dick Cheney's mug shot and hang it over the mantle. Too bad he'll probably flee to Dubai once he's out of office.

But, whatever. I could be wrong. I'm just some chump with access to the internets, after all.

number four

2008-01-18T11:30:00.001-08:00

As young boy, I played a lot of sports.

In Oakland, I played baseball with the neighborhood kids in a small yard at the end of my block, and played football on the schoolyard at recess. As a middle-schooler in Philadelphia, I played Little League baseball in the Summer, and pick-up football and "Smear-the-Queer" on an empty lot across the street from my house.

I played football as a Freshman at a tiny high school in Northwestern Wisconsin in the days when Don "Majik" Majkowski was stirring the hearts of long-suffering Packers fans. I had moved from the east coast after the school year had already started (school started in August in Wisconsin!), and was a few months behind the team in practice. I never even received a copy of the playbook. But coach let me suit up for games, and even put me in at safety on a few plays here and there. I had to ask the other safety what my job was once the play was called.

I moved again after only a semester in Wisconsin, and headed to Vista High School in Southern California. Vista had the winningest high school team in California at the time; a team full of guys twice my size, who had been playing together since their Pop Warner days. I never even considered trying out. Sports mostly faded from my life after that, as I turned my attention to other pursuits. Mainly, my quest to be Kirk Hammett.

After high school, I packed my belongings into my '81 Malibu, and headed back east to a small college town in Northwestern Wisconsin. Once there, I unpacked my stuff into room 421 of Fourth North Crabtree Hall.

Fourth North was populated mostly by guys from around Wisconsin and Minnesota, and for the first time since middle school, I found myself with a group of friends large enough to get pick-up games going. Whenever it rained or snowed, we'd be out in the field playing football. Always tackle, never touch. The little kid in me was happy.

Most Sundays, I found myself sitting in my friend Cueball's room, watching the Packers with him and Ed. Cue never missed a game. Ever. When he couldn't watch the first half of a game because he had to drive back from Milwaukee on Sunday morning, he programmed his VCR to tape it, listened to the first half in the car, and arrived in time to catch the second half with us on television. He watched the first half on tape after the game was over. At the time, I watched more for the company than for the football, but it didn't take long before I was one of them: a Packers fan.

Even all the way across the state from Green Bay, the mystique and legend of Lambeau Field is evident. Every bar in every town has a team photo or a Packers "G" hanging behind the bar. Every other house has a green and gold flag flying below the Stars-and-Stripes. It's almost religious.

At the start of the 1993 season, some guy named Brett Favre, an impetuous gunslinger of a quarterback, had the state excited. After replacing the injured Don Majkowski early in the season before, Favre lead the Packers to a six-game winning streak (their longest since the Lombardi era), second place in the NFC Central, and just missed the playoffs.

But Favre also had a lot of doubters. He was wild, and improvisational. If a play broke down, rather than eat the loss and try again, Favre would often keep the play alive by somehow dodging a charging defensive end, then scramble out of the pocket to throw a laser. . .right to an opposing linebacker. Shouts for benching Favre in favor of Ty Detmer would echo through the halls of Fourth North, and through living rooms and bars across the State of Wisconsin.

I was never among the doubters, though. Sometimes, instead of a linebacker, Favre would hit Sterling Sharpe or Jackie Harris for a first down. Fourth North would erupt with cheers as Favre streaked down the field to smack his receiver on the helmet, or tackle him to the turf. He was still a kid having fun, and it rubbed off. "Stick with this guy," I thought, "and the Packers will get a Superbowl."

Three years later, Favre lead the Packers to their first Superbowl in thirty years, an easy win over the New England Patriots. So much for Ty Detmer.

After a disappointing loss in the Superbowl the following year, and the departure of his coach and mentor, the frequently red-faced Mike Holmgren, Favre's future in Green Bay was uncertain. A lackluster season under his new coach, Ray Rhodes left a bad taste in fan's mouths, and shaky playoff performances in the following years under Mike Sherman led to retirement rumors and talk of diminishing skills. But I was always happy when Favre would announce that he was coming back for another year. Until this year.

At the end of last season, I was certain he wouldn't come back. After a slow start, the Packers won their last four games to finish 8-8, finishing off with a home victory over the Bears. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than the 4-12 record the year before, and at least Favre could retire with a win at Lambeau.

When Favre announced that he was coming back, for the first time in fifteen years of watching him play, I was one of the doubters. As a fan, you're always optimistic in September. Any given Sunday, and all that. But I wasn't this year. I was afraid of watching him flounder on an unproven team. I was afraid of another 4-12 season with more interceptions than touchdowns as he tried in vain to win games on his own. I was afraid of watching Favre retire on a downer.

As Favre and the Packers prepare to face the Giants in the NFC Championship game, I'm happy Favre has again proved the doubters wrong. No matter what happens this Sunday, and in the coming off-season, it's been a great year, and one hell of a career.

So, thanks, Number Four, four fifteen years of memories. On every touchdown pass, every improvised first down, and every interception you played like any one of a million kids playing on vacant lots near their homes. I like to think you would have fit right in with us playing on the field across from Fourth North Crabtree Hall.

I wish you could play the game forever.

let's read nietzsche and cuddle

2007-12-13T19:07:00.000-08:00

PZ at Pharyngula posted this comic.

get your prairie harpy off my boat

2007-12-06T14:56:00.000-08:00

It's been awhile since I've watched any Firefly, but for some reason, that line above popped into my head today as I wandered the halls avoiding the work sitting on my desk. Gotta love a man who doesn't mince words, and Captain Reynolds doesn't mince words. It's something I've aspired to most of my life with results varying from nominally successful to abject failure.

"It's my estimation that every man ever got a statue made of him was one kind of son-of-a-bitch or another."

"You don't know me very well, son, so let me put this to you plainly: If I ever kill you, you'll be awake. You'll be facing me. And you'll be armed."

"A government is a body of men, most notably ungoverned."*

My New Year's Resolution is to no longer mince words, my Swedish/midwestern heritage be damned. Going forward, before any words pass my lips, I will think to myself, "What would Captain Reynolds say?"

Jayne, your mouth is talking. You ought to see to that.

*not a direct quotation, but Captain Reynolds quoted by Shepherd Book.

Bonus non-Firefly related quoation overheard just now by the kitchen: "I'd like to attribute all my mental lapses to things I took in the Seventies."

I'd like to attribute mine to things my mom took in the Seventies.

nothin' but sunshine

2007-11-20T15:00:00.000-08:00

That the sun has made an appearance here in Jet City on this Tuesday afternoon isn't particularly comforting when I consider that by the time I get out of here at 5:00, it will have just dipped below the Olympics on the other side of the Sound.

These early sunsets get to me every winter.

update: I noticed the other day that the sun does not, in fact, sink below the Olympics anymore. It has moved far enough south in the sky that it sinks below West Seattle. Not nearly as romantic.

friends, correspondence, and god-damn-motherfucking car accidents

2007-11-09T16:05:00.000-08:00

I wrote a letter to Carrie, a friend back in Wisconsin. I harbored a long distance crush that had developed in a fifth-period history class at Unity High in Balsam Lake. My family moved off to California by the end of the semester (my only semester at Unity), and Carrie made me promise to keep in touch.

I wrote "Elvis Presley" as the name on the return address. Months went by without a reply. I'd entirely forgotten about it when I found an envelope addressed to Elvis in our mailbox. I recongized the Centuria, Wisconsin return address, and my heart skipped the way it does when you receive mail you actually want. I paid passing notice to the unfamiliar handwriting, but brushed it aside in my correspondence inspired euphoria. I tossed the rest of the mail on the kitchen table, rushed to my room, and ripped open the envelope.

Inside was the unopened letter I'd sent months earlier accompanied by a short note addressed to Elvis, and a funeral program. The note was from Carrie's mom, regretting to inform me that Carrie had died in a car accident on her way to visit her older sister in Eau Claire. She apologized for not knowing who I was, and hoped I didn't take the news too hard. I didn't.

I was accustomed to friends fading entirely from my life. Kirk. Clint. Kyle. Rachman. Fahkrideen, Jacinda, Angela, Guy, Tina, Nathan, Josh, Sean, Lamarr, Joebert, Mano, Pam, Eddie, Olga, Dan, Shawn. All people who were in and out of my life before my freshman year of high school. All people I'd met before I met Carrie. All people I haven't heard from since the last time I saw them. And those are just the names I can remember.

Carrie's passing was treated no different in my mind from watching Joebert ride off to Virginia Beach in the back of his family's station wagon. Or watching from the back of the station wagon as the kids from the old neighborhood in Oakland waved to me as my family headed off to Wisconsin. It was as if Carrie had simply packed up and moved away.

Years later, I came across her mom's name in the student directory at the University of Wisconsin - River Falls, where I was slacking my way to an undergrad degree. She was a Master's candidate. I thought about calling her to tell her that I was Elvis. I picked up the phone, even, but never followed through.

six years on

2007-09-11T14:26:00.000-07:00

Suds and I were sitting in the cab of one of the company Chevys listening to Radio K (think low rent KEXP) when Danae came running over yelling "Turn on KQ! Turn on KQ! We've been attacked!" By "KQ," Danae meant the morning show on KQRS, Minnesota's most popular classic rock station, hosted by Tom Barnard.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Suds laughed. Danae was one of those semi-rural Midwestern women who like chincy Harley-Davidson accessories and smoke Marlboros on payday, but GPCs the rest of the time. Exactly the lite-beer demographic Barnard takes to the bank every morning.

"Turn on KQ!" she insisted, "They attacked those buildings in New York!" Danae leaned through through the open passenger window, and rested her elbows on the door, affecting the pose, as she often did, of the construction worker she so dearly wished she was.

"They attacked those two buildings. . ." Suds hushed her. As Barnard and his crew described what they, and the rest of the country, were watching on television. My first reaction was that is was a stupid shock-jock prank, but when Barnard described the second plane hitting the tower, reality finally sunk in, and there I was listening to Tom Barnard, professional bigot and towering jackass, as he reported the most horrific event on American soil since Pearl Harbor. Surreal.

That evening, my band played a show at Boomer's Bar in River Falls, Wisconsin in front of a thin crowd of locals and friends. Rumors had spread that gas would be $10/gallon by morning. Boomer's owner took off to wait in line at the gas station to stock up. Other people walked around stunned and staring down at their drinks, as if they weren't sure they should even be out. Some folks didn't want to talk about it. Some folks didn't want to stop talking about it. It was as if we'd all lost a parent or sibling in a sudden, unexpected accident right in front of our eyes.

The ensuing years are a study in national madness as fear of Islamic Terrorism became the focus of our lives, never mind that the last two terrorist attacks on American soil were committed by American right-wing lunatics, Timothy McVeigh and Eric Rudolph. Orange alerts, duct tape, the eerily-named Department of Homeland Security, shoe-bombers, dirty-bombers, anthrax, and a President determined to go to war with a tin-pot dictator, Saddam Hussein, spurred on this national insanity, as I watched, stunned.

Middle-Americans, who on September 10, 2001 probably shared with Osama bin Laden the same opinions of New York City's decandence and excess, conjured up their cheap sentimentality, declared their solidarity with New York, and threw their support behind the invasion of Iraq. Never mind that the mastermind of the attacks was still a free man, despite the President's macho "dead or alive" proclaimation, and was not, in fact, anywhere in Iraq.

Our Congress signed away our war-making powers to the President, and set about giving the President everything he asked for, all in the name of fighting "terror." The news media curled up in a corner, quivered in fear, and dutifully transcribed everything the President and his surrogates gave them, rarely raising a question or concern for fear of being branded a traitor or appeaser. You're either with us, or you're against us, after all.

Now, six years on, more Americans have died in Iraq than died on Septmeber 11, 2001. We have General David Petraeus giving a dog and pony show in front of Congress in support of the deeply unpopular and disastrous occupation. We have a President who, by his own admission, is merely coasting until November in an attempt to make the next Republican candidate more comfortable with staying in Iraq, and is openly speculating about the lucre he'll make on the lecture circuit once his term is over. And that's just scratching the surface.

Where the fuck did we go so wrong?

chatting up the evil cat of hell

2007-08-15T18:53:00.000-07:00

On St. Patricks Day, I was hanging out with evil cat and Groucho at the Five Point. A group of young guys, maybe ten or eleven of them, were acting drunk and boisterous in and around the booth by the jukebox. They were mostly in their early twenties, some just old enough to drink. They all had that tell tale Army haircut. It's odd how sometimes you can tell someone's branch by their haircut.

Groucho is an old Navy crank who favors kicking ass to taking names, and loves his country unconditionally. Saddam was a bastard, we kicked his ass, and that's good. End of story. He knew these kids were Army, too, and I could see it in his face.

Evil Cat wandered over to the jukebox to pick out some songs. Being chatty, social, and quite frankly, really fucking hot, it was pretty inevitable that a couple of the young Army kids would start a conversation with her. I believe the kids call it "chatting up." Or used to, anyway. I try not keep up with these things.

Anyway, they did, and they followed her back to our table. One of them had a tattoo on the underside of his forearm which read "I have seen hell" in an Arabic-styled English script. Groucho got excited by the military company, and laughed it up with the young kids, and offered up good bars to hang out in in Daytona Beach.

After her songs started playing on the jukebox, the conversation turned to evil cat's superhuman jukebox abilities (as it often does). Almost out of nowhere, evil cat piped up "I like your tattoo."

"Yeah, thanks." The tattooed kid replied, and quickly returned the conversation to the jukebox.

Later, while I was staring at the Space Needle through the periscope over the urinal in the men's room, one of the other Army kids from walked in. We did the customary nod and ignore greeting of the North American male, but I stopped on my way out of the bathroom.

"You guy's Army?" I asked.

"Yeah." He answered.

"Thanks, man." I said.

"I just do it for the paycheck, dude." He chuckled.

"Whatever. Thanks."

Back at the table, the two Army guys invited us all to hop on to the next bar with them. If I was 21, I might have joined them.

the ghost of the georgia peach

2007-07-20T14:01:00.000-07:00

Good news for Jet City baseball fans: Ichiro is here through 2012.

While I'm not a huge Mariners fan (go Twins!), I love baseball, and Ichiro is probably my favorite ballplayer to watch. I would have been disappointed to see him leave this city for Boston or New York, two teams that seem to chew up all of the talent in baseball come contract-time. God, I hate the AL East.

Ichiro plays an older style of ball, a style perfected by Ty Cobb before the homerun overtook the game. It's a style where hustle, speed, and guile (and in Cobb's case, violence) earn one base at a time, and power is less valuable than a good eye, a smooth swing, and swift feet. Ballplayers like Ichiro are a dying breed in the Majors.

Boston and New York can keep Manny and A-Rod. I'll be happy watching Ichiro swat Texas-leaguers into right and beat out infield singles for the next four years. It's the way the game was meant to be played.

I'll write more about why I hate the homerun later.

from the list of things I wish I'd written

2007-07-19T22:10:00.000-07:00

"Guns & Cigarettes"
by Atmosphere

Rappers steppin' to me
They wanna get some
But most of them should go and try to boost they monthly income
Speaking over beats is the only time I feel complete
I don't hear the weak and I don't fear defeat

So what you got?
Connect the dots, I'll raise the pot
Remove the blood clot from the brain of hip hop
The name remains in tip-top shape
I'm still the back rapper scapegoat in the aim of their hate

I came in late, took a chair in the rear
But my classmates were unaware how long I'd really been there
My peers have been held back for years, holding back the tears
Everybody knows our name like we was the cast from "Cheers"

So here's to the good times, tonight is mighty special
So fasten your seatbelts, cause I'm gonna launch this vessel
Ain't gonna land until I'm bigger than Expo
And bigger than ecstasy and bigger than techno

But I'm bigger than Jesus and bigger than wrestling
Bigger than the Beatles and bigger than breast implants
I'm gonna be the biggest thing to hit these little kids
Bigger than guns, bigger than cigarettes

A few years ago an ex-girl of mine
Asked me to keep her name out of my rhymes
So I said this rhyme that I'm about to say
It came from the heart and it went this way:

Go to hell girl, you make me sick!
I hope your new boyfriend gets cancer in his dick
What the fuck makes you think I'd put your name on my record?
there, now I feel a lot better

You know what?

I ain't drank a forty since I became old enough to drink
Not caught up in what the fuck these people think
Cause when I die they're gonna find the missing link
But tonight I'm gonna vomit it in the kitchen sink

I'm suprised more of y'all don't get hit by cars
Missing your surroundings, staring at the stars
I'm lonely without a woman that wants to spar
That's why I spend so much time in these bars

Drunk poolside, screaming, "Do or die!"
Looking at the water I ask it, "Who am I?"
Saw my reflection, Yes! I'm super fly!
And as you can guess again, I'm too damn high

(What'd they say to you?)

But they said, "Drop dead."
I can't, I got a lot left
More than just another arrogant, asshole pot-head
In the top ten, who you love to hear on tracks
Smiling for the camera while I surf upon your ear wax

This beer's flat and she kisses like a stripper
I'm coming to terms with my status as a drifter
Girl, I'm only in this town for one night
And these neon lights are keeping me distracted from my plight

I feel like a legend on a leash
Making an effort to break every piece that I can reach
Yeah, I got something to say, and even more to teach
But first let me scrape these feces from my cleats

Standing on the roof, complaining to the moon
The only time I tell the truth is when I'm naked in my bedroom
Soon I'm gonna reap the harvest of my struggles
But from now on, y'all can call me sluggles

Bigger than Jesus
Bigger than wrestling
Bigger than the Beatles
Bigger than breast implants

Bigger than guns, bigger than cigarettes

identity politics

2007-07-11T13:00:00.000-07:00

From Sadly, No!:

The organizing principle behind right-wing rhetoric is simple human spite: The political ideology of its rhetoricians is that somewhere in America, at all times, someone is stealing their parking spot or taking the last jelly donut, and someday there'll be hell to pay. Someday, as it were, a real rain will come and wash all the scum off the streets.

The Spite Caucus isn't particular about its methods. The more that 'liberals' revere, for instance, the Bill of Rights, the more they attack it under one pretense or another, but ultimately for that reason alone. It gives them the joy that a jerky twelve-year-old gets from jumping up and down on another kid's sand castle. . .

I was discussing something similar with the Evil Cat of Hell a few weeks ago; that right wingers tend to oppose or support people and organizations more than the ideas espoused by people and organizations. Sen. Clinton could be calling for privatizating the school system, health care savings accounts, and bombing Iran back to the stone age, and the usual pack of braying hyenas on the right would still invent droll puns on her name and call her a Socialist simply because she is Sen. Clinton, and a Democrat.

Which isn't to say that this type of thing doesn't exist on the political left (who have their own set of silly and annoying tics), but this type sillines really is most noticible on the right.

Also, I recommend reading Sadly, No! on a daily basis. It's some of the sharpest polictal humor on the internets.

ice

2007-06-13T14:41:00.000-07:00

Immigration and Customs Enforcement ("ICE") raided the Del Monte plant in Northeast Portland yesterday, detaining 165 workers, including a few from the staffing agency (whose offices were on-site!) for knowingly employing workers with fraudulent documents. Del Monte has released a statement claiming that they are cooperating with investigators and stating, brashly, that "Fresh Del Monte does not employ this labor force." In other words, if you contract out your Human Resources department, you can claim you don't employ your employees. I think Congress has a loophole to close.

Most of those detained will be housed in the immigration detention facility in Tacoma, Washington, which was apparently cleared out last week in preparation for the raid. The timing of the clearing of the detention facility combined with the fact that the American Immigration Lawyers Association is holding its annual conference in Orlando, Florida this week (about as far away as one can get without leaving the country) lead local immigration attorneys to presume as early as last week that ICE was planning a raid in the Northwest.

Something needs to be done with the immigration problem here in the United States, but as long as ICE keeps staging these useless red-meat raids while Congress lets companies like Del Monte off the hook, it'll be business as usual indefinitely. Like Mr. Freeman says, if a few CEOs spent some time in jail for labor violations, this problem would dry up.

In other...ummm...weird news, President Bush apparently got his watch snatched on his recent trip to Albania. The indispensable Crooks and Liars has the video (which I haven't been able to watch yet...stupid internets).

the devil is in the details

2007-06-12T15:16:00.000-07:00

In responding to the oblique assertions of some literary critic from the New York Times (hidden behind a subscription wall, naturally) named Stanley Fish, PZ Myers nails it:

Forget god, that empty hulk, that great vacuum that humanity has stocked with its fears and dreams, and look at what we have created and felt instead. When someone weeps over a dead child or creates a great poem, it should matter not at all what some priest imagines his pantheon is doing. Take your eyes off your hallucination of heaven—what's real are that woman's tears, that child's triumph, that grain of sand, that bird on wing. The meaning is derived from the reality of what we see and feel, not some convoluted vapor and self-serving puffery about an abstract concept like "god".

The rest of the post (well worth the read, by the way) addresses a specific passage of Mr. Fish's article (which I'm not able to read here on the internets), but I'm more intersted in the above passage from Dr. Myers. He often ably puts into words my own thoughts on the subject of god, and the above passage is a glowing example.

Before I realized I was an atheist,a friend of mine gave me a copy of "A Happy Death" by Albert Camus, who is sort of the Han Solo of the French existentialists. As a young, directionless near-graduate, I revelled in the hopelessness of it all. I idolized Mersault and his ennui. I idolized his cynicism and envied his leisure time. If only I could find an easy fortune, I too could quit my job, travel through Eastern Europe, and swim naked in the Mediterranean with three young French women with loose morals and perky breasts (not sure all those details are in the novel; I could be projecting). I completely missed the point.

Around the same time, I was introduced by a writing professor to the concept of existentialism. His distillation of the idea was "Complaining that life has no meaning is like complaining a Dictionary tells no story." While I loved this pithy statement (still do), and repeated it often to friends to show what a witty and intelligent person I was (still do), it wasn't until years later, when I gave up pretending I was agnostic, that it really settled in.

The problem with god is that it makes us seek external meaning for our lives, and implies that, by nature, life is miserable and needs god to give it meaning. Bullroar. And the same goes for the cop out of Deism, and its lazy-minded companion, spiritualism. These are all attempts to find an external solution to an internal problem. I prefer to know myself as I am, and to find meaning in the world around me: my friends, my family, the plants growing in my garden, my cats, the stars; the list goes on indefinately. None of those things need god to give them meaning, they require me to do so.

God is nothing more than an attempt by humankind to give life meaning. God did not create us, we created god. It's long past time for god to step down and let humankind take its rightful place in universe.

castor and pollux

2007-05-16T19:13:00.000-07:00

In Greek mythology, Castor and Pollux are the demigod sons of Zeus and Leda. They are twins (the Gemini of the zodiac, in fact), and are renowned warriors, womanizers, and troublemakers. Though accounts vary, Pollux is often portrayed as immortal, while Castor is mortal.

Either way, the myth goes that Castor fell in battle. Pollux, stricken with grief for his fallen brother, convinced Zeus to let him share his immortality with Castor; allowing Castor to spend alternate days on Mt. Olympus with the immortals in exchange for Pollux spending alternate days in Hades with the mortals. Brotherly love, indeed.

On a lighter note, cats don't hate birds.

nice shootin' kid

2007-05-11T09:39:00.000-07:00

This is the floor of my office at the largest software company in the world. Four of us are crammed in a tiny corner office that was probably intended to be a supply closet or printer room. Once in awhile someone will trip over the wires and disconnect the internets from our computers. It's kind of like going to work for Mercedes and finding out they have a fleet of Ford Tempos for company cars.

Anyway, I interviewed yesterday with a firm downtown, and as I was on my way to get some afternoon beers with Mr. Freeman, they called to offer me the job. I start on Tuesday. I'm taking my time getting in to the Evil Empire today because all I'm doing today is quitting.

scott h. biram

2007-04-29T20:41:00.000-07:00

If you haven't had the chance to yet, go see him live. You won't be disappointed. Not even if some dumb woman gets mad at you for no good reason and forces you to pour beer on her shoes. He's out on tour right now.

jesus christ died for nothing, I suppose (pt. 2)

2007-04-26T18:57:00.000-07:00

"You know what's worse than a soldier dying in vain? More soldiers dying in vain."

Mike Gravel is a former Senator from Alaska. I had not heard of the guy before today, and all I know of him is from this video from today's Democratic debate posted at Crooks and Liars.

He also states that the top-tier Democrats on stage with him are scary, and singles out that slimy twit, Joe Biden.

I might register as a Democrat just to vote for him in the primary.

jesus christ died for nothin', I suppose

2007-04-20T16:33:00.000-07:00

In March 1968, a company of U.S. Soldiers led by Cpt. Earnest Medina opened fire on a village full of Vietnamese civilians. As many as 504 were killed, many women and children. The company was acting on intelligence that civilians would have left for the market by 7 a.m., and any remaining would likely be Viet Cong, and were instructed to destroy the village. The event is largely remembered for the courts martial of Lt. William Calley, who was convicted, and Cpt. Medina, who was not.

What's not so well known is the story of Warrant Officer Hugh Thompson, Jr., an Army helicopter pilot and his crew, Spc Glenn Andreotta, and Spc Lawrence Colburn. From wikipedia:

After coming across the dead bodies of Vietnamese civilians outside My Lai on March 16, 1968, Thompson set down their OH-23. The three men began setting green smoke markers by the prone bodies of those Vietnamese civilians who appeared to still be alive, in order to call in medical assistance. Returning to the helicopter, however, they saw Captain Ernest Medina run forward and begin shooting the wounded who had been marked. The three men moved their ship back over the village, where Thompson confronted Lt. Stephen Brooks who was preparing to blow up a hut full of wounded Vietnamese. Thompson left Andreotta and Colburn to cover the company with their heavy machine guns and gave orders to fire on any American who refused the orders to halt the massacre. None of the officers dared to disobey him, even though (as a Warrant Officer) Thompson was outranked by the commissioned lieutenants present.

Hugh Thompson, Jr. and his crew are on my list of the 100 greatest Americans of all time. I don't think they deserved to be burned in effigy.

stupid and wrong

2007-04-20T15:30:00.000-07:00

As promised, though late:

The Evil Empire has eaten up much of my time in the last month, and left me grumpy (ask Evil Cat) and uninspired, so it's been difficult for me to express coherently exactly what is stupid and wrong about the burning of a U.S. Soldier in effigy at the protest in Portland last month.

I grew up around Sailors and Marines. Some are close friends of the family to this day. One in particular is like an uncle, though my siblings and I often refer to him a second dad, even. My little-league coach was a young petty officer from San Diego who I count among the most influential people in my young life to this day. Neither of those men deserve to be burned in effigy. And that's pretty much what happened in Portland.

I hate this stupid war as much as anybody who isn't living through it in Iraq. I've hated it from the first shot fired more than four years ago. But the men and women serving there do not deserve to be burned in effigy.

That, and fires should be lit in the spirit of fun, not in anger. Effigies are just stupid and wrong.

loss

2007-04-12T10:48:00.000-07:00

Kurt Vonnegut, 84.

magnetic yellow ribbons

2007-03-24T12:18:00.000-07:00

To those on the other side of the aisle who are opposed, I want to ask you the same questions that my gunner asked me when I was leading a convoy up and down Ambush Alley one day. He said, ‘Sir, what are we doing over here? What's our mission? When are these Iraqis going to come off the sidelines and fight for their own country?' So to my colleagues across the aisle - - - your taunts about supporting our troops ring hollow if you are still unable to answer those questions now four years later.

Representative Patrick Murphy of Pennsylvania spoke those words on the floor of the House this past week.

A bunch of assholes in Portland did this:

I'll write more about what's stupid and wrong about this later, but the salt mines beckon.

from the list of things I wish I'd written

2007-02-22T12:14:00.000-08:00

"Dry the Rain"
by The Beta Band

This is the definition of my life
Lying in bed in the sunlight
Choking on the vitamin tablet
The doctor gave in the hope of saving me
In the hope of saving me

Walked in the corner of the room
A junk yard fool with eyes of gloom
I asked him time again
Take me in and dry the rain
Take me in and dry the rain
Take me in and dry the rain
Take me in and dry the rain the rain
The rain the rain the rain now

Dusty brown boots in the corner
By the ironing board
Spray on dust is the greatest thing
Sure is the greatest thing
Since the last since the last

Walked in the corner of the room
A junk yard fool with eyes of gloom
I asked him time again
Take me in and dry the rain
Take me in and dry the rain
Take me in and dry the rain
Take me in and dry the rain the rain
The rain the rain the rain now

I asked him time again
Take me in and dry the rain
Take me in and dry the rain
Take me in and dry the rain
Take me in and dry the rain
The rain the rain the rain now

If there's something inside that you wanna say
Say it out loud it'll be okay
I will be your light
I will be your light
I will be your light
I will be your light

If there's something inside that you wanna say
Say it out loud it'll be okay
I will be your light
I will be your light
I will be your light
I will be your light

I Need Love, yeah
I Need Love

loss

2007-02-01T13:47:00.000-08:00

Molly Ivins has passed away. I only recently started reading her books and columns (I highly reccomend Shrub), but she immediately became one of my favorite writers. She will be missed.

From her last column:

We are the people who run this country. We are the deciders. And every single day, every single one of us needs to step outside and take some action to help stop this war. Raise hell. Think of something to make the ridiculous look ridiculous. Make our troops know we're for them and trying to get them out of there. Hit the streets to protest Bush's proposed surge. If you can, go to the peace march in Washington on Jan. 27. We need people in the streets, banging pots and pans and demanding, "Stop it, now!"

casa de libertad

2007-01-26T15:43:00.000-08:00

The last time I remember my life being what one could call settled was in 1985, just before the Navy gave my Dad orders to report to the U.S.S. Kitty Hawk (CV-63). We were in Oakland, at the Oak Knoll Naval Hospital, where Dad was the World's Greatest BMET, and I spent endless summers playing cars in the dirt, and baseball in the neighbor's yard.

I was ten when we left Oak Knoll. At the time, half of my life had been spent in that little military neighborhood on a hill above the MacArthur Freeway. What followed was a steady stream of new cities, new schools, and a self-imposed detachment from the outside world. By the time I was in high school in San Clemente, I didn't try to make any friends. I spent most of my time immersed in trashy sci-fi and fantasy novels, and trying to learn how to play guitar like Kirk Hammett (yeah, shut up). Oak Knoll was a lifetime away. Like it wasn't even my life.

A few places since have left their impression on me. Crabtree and 209 in River Falls are special. The Armada House is unforgettable (I miss the yard cars and the barrel fires). The Bistro in Minneapolis had it's charms. But those places don't have the same innocent, happy nostalgia of Oak Knoll. They don't have the same, ubiquitous effect on my identity; my personality. I suspect no place ever will, but oddly enough, I feel closer to Oak Knoll these days than I have since we moved away. Maybe it's because I'm playing in the dirt again.

churpita's

2007-01-24T15:47:00.000-08:00

It's a lovely place where the food is always great, wine and conversation flow freely, and bouzouki music floats into the candle-lit dining room from a portable record player in the kitchen. It's the best dining experience in Seattle. I suggest stopping by when there's minestrone on the stove.

wouldn't bother gassing up the plows in minneapolis

2007-01-11T13:00:00.000-08:00

In November, it was funny watching hapless Seattlites thrown into a nearly vaudevillian panic over a few inches of snow. They called it a "storm", and I chuckled. They abandoned their cars on the side of the road, and I pointed and laughed. The inability of Seattle (most notably the East suburbs) to handle what wouldn't engender a comment from the most pantywaisted Midwesterner was pure entertainment.

Until last night. What in god's name is wrong with these people?

I sat (as a passenger) in traffic for two-and-half hours to go no more than 12 miles. I watched light after light cycle from red to green to yellow and back to red over and over and over and over. I watched idiots putting tire chains on to drive on wet roads. Not icy. Not covered in snowpack. Just wet. Idiots

Where snow did accumulate on the road, I watched another idiot spin his tires (throttle wide open, no doubt), slide out-of-control until he hit the curb, and start all over again; throttle wide open, tires spinning, and going nowhere.

The weather is not the problem. It's the idiots who drive here. You'd think people who drive Outbacks and Explorers and live sixty-fucking-miles from a goddamned mountain would know how to drive in inclement weather.

monorail

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

I'm sitting in a coffee shop in the shadow of the monorail while hooked up to the internet on a laptop (thanks be to John) and staring at the Space Needle.

Ten years ago me would punch present day me in the nuts.

now what?

2006-12-08T16:39:00.000-08:00

November brought anxiety, unease, and indigestion. I was still unemployed, running out of money and discouraged. Evil Cat did what she could to unclench my jaw, but she was outmatched by cynicism and imagination. Seattle was gonna beat me, and I knew it.

At dinner one evening, while discussing the miseries and indignities of job hunting, ms. anatomist remarked "I wish someone cool would come work at my job! I think they're hiring soon."

"What a coincidence! I'm looking for a job!"

"Oh, yeah! You should apply!"

"Good idea!"

So...I started on Wednesday. It's a good job, and a good opportunity, but I'm making a wee bit less than I did in Minneapolis. My only consolations are good experience, good benefits, and having a desk near the anatomist. And walking to work in the morning, I guess.

But then...I got a call today from a potential employer I had given up on. An employer who will pay me twice what I was making in Minneapolis. I interview on Monday morning. I just have to figure out how to get out of work on only my fourth day of employment. Maybe one of my cats will be sick. . .

Anyway, much thanks to everyone who made this move less painful than it could have been: The Kaiser and John, the anatomist and her boy, Corneilius and the Berzerker...and of course, The Evil Cat of Hell. It's hard to be homesick when you feel at home.

saturday

2006-12-05T12:26:00.000-08:00

I went to the marina in Ballard with Evil Cat, her Godfather, and the one they call Snowball. We looked at boats and took some photos. Afterward, we stopped at the Jolly Roger for lunch and beer. It was a lovely afternoon for accomplishing nothing. Maybe one day, I'll go out on one of those boats. I've always wanted to be a Privateer.

a little bit like home

2006-11-28T16:13:00.000-08:00

So, it snowed in Seattle last night. And the Packers were in town and played a decent game in the snow against the Squawks. I made minestrone and pork chops for the Liberty House crowd, and we drank a lot of beer and wine. It might have been a scene from 209 House circa 2001, except the food wouldn't have been as good, the wine would have been boxed, and the beer would have been Leinenkugel's. Takes a bit of the sting out of Seattle breaking the single month precipitation record last week.

In other good news, I got a job in beautiful downtown Seattle.

two bells

2006-11-02T14:29:00.000-08:00

The two cooks are speaking only Spanish, and laughing with each other quite a bit. I catch a few words here and there, some English, some Spanish, but still don't know what's so funny. I haven't heard the words "pinche," "pendejo," or "gringo," so I assume they aren't laughing at me, though I might be wrong. I take a drink of my beer and look over the cook standing nearest to me.

He's a rotund man of about forty wearing a pair of denim Carhart overalls and a salt and pepper fu-manchu beard. His eyes smile when he laughs, and even though I have no idea what he's laughing about, I can't help but laugh along with him. Some folks are just infectious by nature. I think he knows I don't know what he's saying, but I think he enjoys my reactions.

A tall, skinny woman with mousy brown hair and waxy skin walks into the bar and hangs her camelhair coat on a hook by the door. The bartender mutters something to her that I don't quite catch, and she immediately begins talking about the coat. Loudly and incessantly. Louder and more incessantly than is necessary for a boring, brown coat I'd already seen on ten women on my walk from Pike back to Bell. And I'm not even sure that's what the bartender asked her about.

After the momentary and annoying distraction, I turn my attention back to my delicious, medium rare burger, but catch the eye of the rotund cook before I do.

"No body, No brains," is all he says to me.

That's right, I'm no gringo.

ten observations on the city of seattle (in relation to the hamlet of minneapolis)

2006-11-02T14:14:00.000-08:00

Because when you can't write, make lists!

1) It's very pretty.

2) Lots of people are committing crimes, dying, or on fire, because the first responders in this city drive around with their sirens on constantly. Though I admittedly live right by the firehouse in Belltown, this applies to every part of the city I've been in. I lived on the busiest part of Lyndale in Minneapolis for almost two years and I've heard more sirens in only a month here in Seattle. Seriously.

3) I'm rarely more than walking distance from a beer (though I might walk farther for a beer than most).

4) There is a beautiful woman at every bus stop.*

5) The busses are weird. Try riding in the joint between the front and rear sections and you'll know what I mean.

6) For every Northeast in Minneapolis, there are something like 9 Northeasts in Seattle. I think there might be two or three Uptowns, as well. There's also one Loring Park. It's called the City of Seattle.

7) Dan Savage lives here. That's cool.

8) John Hinderaker doesn't. That's cooler.

9) I'm still largely unemployed.

10) I'm growing quite fond of this place.

*There is some disagreement as to the cause of this phenomenon. John says it's because the women are prettier. The Kaiser says it's because there aren't as many of the crispy-fried fake blondes with big Lut'eran tits around here. I have to disagree with both (Minneapolis is a very pretty city, and I never spent much time around the cripsy-fried Lut'eran broads). It's simply because the women here dress better. Discretion is the better part of fashion, after all.

from the list of things i wish i'd written

2006-11-01T18:45:00.000-08:00

"Fisherman's Blues"
by The Waterboys

I wish I was a fisherman
Tumbling on the seas
Far away from dry land
And its bitter memories
Casting out my sweet line
With abandonment and love
No ceiling bearing down on me
Except the starry sky above
With light in my head
You in my arms

I wish I was the brakeman
On a hurtling fevered train
Crashing a-headlong into the heartland
Like a cannon in the rain
With the beating of the sleepers
And the burning of the coal
Counting the towns flashing by
In a night that's full of soul
With light in my head
You in my arms

Well I know I will be loosened
From bonds that hold me fast
That the chains all hung around me
Will fall away at last
And on that fine and fateful day
I will take me in my hands
I will ride on the train
I will be the fisherman
With light in my head
You in my arms

numbers

2006-10-24T09:10:00.000-07:00

It was suggested by an Evil Cat that I write about politics . . .

One of my fondest childhood memories is taking a bus from Philadelphia and meeting my dad and his ship, the USS Kitty Hawk, in Norfolk, Viriginia, then steaming up the Atlantic coast back to Philadelphia. Of course, I didn't get to see much of the coast; most of my time was spent exploring the grey bowels of the immense aircraft carrier. I ate like a sailor, slept like a sailor, and pissed like a sailor for three days. A twelve-year-old Navy brat couldn't have been happier. I loved it. I loved the Navy. I loved the United States Amed Forces.

My father served nearly twenty years in the Navy, most of it as the World's Greatest BMET. The whole of my young life was spent around sailors, marines, and soldiers. They were my friends' parents, my little league coach, dear family friends, and, well, my father. They were people.

I remember sitting at a company lunch in early 2003 and expressing confidence that there would be no war. I reasoned that a) it was implausible that, after a decade of sanctions and continuous bombing, Saddam was as heavily armed as was feared, and b) if he had anything, there was no way he would risk total destruction to hold on to a few SCUDS with mustard gas payloads. As it turns out, I was right on point a.

Since March 2003, more than 2,700 Americans have been killed in Iraq, and more than 20,000 have been wounded in a war with shifting rationale and an unclear mission. They are young men and women no different from the young men and women I grew up around. Except they had the misfortune of being in the military at the wrong time. Now they are numbers.

Of course, to their mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, spouses, children, and friends, they are memories.

I still love the Navy. I'm still proud of my father. I'm ashamed of my leadership. End the war. Bring them home. Please.

On the bright side, Pete Skilling got 24 years. Rot in hell, asshole.

a flying cat made of chocolate

2006-10-10T03:49:00.000-07:00

Right now, Wisconsin is likely awash in fall colors. Bright red, yellow, and orange leaves are warming the cool October air and filling the sky with...life. I've heard that the Northeast is the place to go to in Autumn, but unless pictures don't do it justice, the St. Croix River Valley* is just as gorgeous. Soon, the first winter snow will fall, and the air will become still and quiet, and if you stopped and listened carefully, you might actually hear the snow fall. With enough luck, the snow will fall at night and you could watch the flakes streak through the light of a streetlamp. Then the spring thunderstorms will come with anxious fury, beat back the last traces of winter, and usher in the heat and humidity of summer. When August arrives again, the skies will light up blue and electric with heat lightning, which is like no lightning you've seen in your life.

Few things are more beautiful than midwestern weather.

But certainly not nothing.

As I prod the seemingly friendly Seattle job market and dread the imminent drizzle, I'm finding this an agreeable place to be. I'm spending time with some friends I've missed over the last four seasons, making some new friends, and enjoying the complete lack of 1,600 miles between me and the woman I'm about to fall back to sleep next to. But I hope I haven't seen my last St. Croix fall, my last evening snowfall, my last furious thunderstorm, or my last heat lightning. I could wish for these here in the Northwest, but I might as well wish for a flying cat made out of chocolate.

*If you ever find yourself in Minneapolis/St. Paul in October with a free day, take a drive out to Hudson, Wisconsin and go up WI-35 to St. Croix Falls, then cross back into Minnesota through Taylors Falls and take MN-95 back down to Stillwater. Bring a camera.

shaking the foundations of my faith

2006-08-30T09:36:00.000-07:00

My life is changing in big ways right now. I'm leaving my job on Friday, and will be leaving my adopted city of Minneapolis for the drizzly city of Seattle at the end of September. And all of this for the love of a woman.

Which leads me to the 'faith' part.

I have long required that god give me some type of empirical evidence of his existence before I believe. No "mysterious ways," proxies sent from heaven to die for my sins, or images of the holy mother baked into pastries will do. I want evidence, and I want it delivered in person. No exceptions.

Then I met this woman. She's perfect in every conceivable way. She's beautiful, smart, and witty. There's always a hint of mischief in her eyes, and she can talk on all manner of high-minded and serious topics without achieving any level of actual seriousness, all the while relishing a can of cheap domestic beer. And she likes my cats.

It's as if someone made her with me in mind.

That we even met is a miracle in itself. Remove any single event from a long line of circumstances going back to about 1972 and I never meet this woman. I was stood up by a date to a friend's wedding in April. She was in town from Seattle for the wedding. I didn't know anybody who wasn't in the wedding party, so I parked myself by the bar and enjoyed several glasses of wine. She introduced herself to me at the bar, and we never looked back. Had my date not flaked out on me, I wouldn't be writing this. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. Seriously. I haven't done the math, but I'd bet it's a statistical impossibility that we met.

And that makes me wonder.

I will never meet a person like this again, I'm certain of that. That a random series of events managed to bring us together doesn't do it justice. Things this perfect can't happen by accident. I can't believe that two people so suited for one another can be separated by 1,600 miles of circumstances and just randomly bump into each other and fall in love. There must be some kind of design . . . some kind of interested party pulling strings and pushing buttons . . .

I guess there was The Kaiser and John, who told me repeatedly that I would fall madly in love with this woman if only I could meet her. And Alissa, who probably invited me to the wedding with the expressed purpose of introducing us. And the open bar, which the two of us naturally gravitated toward at the wedding. I'm thinking the bar had the biggest hand in it.

So, nice try, god, but it's not good enough. I still need a personal appearance, preferrably with two forms of government issued photo I.D.

2006-08-24T16:50:00.000-07:00

Wow. Two comments already.
It's like a party.

I've not read more than The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis. It's something I suppose I should correct sooner rather than later. Thank you for the recommendation. I'll write about it when I read it, I'm sure.

While we're quoting scripture, I'll share my favorite verse:

(KJV) Deuteronomy 23:1: He that is wounded in the stones, or hath his privy member cut off shall not enter into the kingdom of the Lord.

That's right fellas, mind your nuts or you might not get into heaven.

I also like the part where the jewish carpenter gets pissed off and casts the money-changers out of the temple of god. Kind of inspiring.

the holy writ of the church of ennui

2006-08-23T20:37:00.000-07:00

"Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then he is not omnipotent. Is he able, but not willing? Then he is malevolent. Is he both able and willing? Then whence cometh evil? Is he neither able nor willing? Then why call him God?" --Epicurus

I can't pinpoint when I became completely comfortable living without a god, but I know my descent into unabashed atheism started when I was a young boy. I would often lay in bed at night terrified that there was no heaven, no hell, and no purgatory. That there was no afterlife; just ashes to ashes and dust to dust. The end.

My childhood agnosticism festered in my soul until high school, where I discovered the serviceable, but ultimately pointless, waypoint known as Deism. From there, it was a short, effortless hop to godlessness.

My parents are lapsed Catholics, and never took their children to church. Not even at Christmas and Easter. My religious upbringing consisted of whatever I could glean from various sources, like Sunday afernoon movies on television, my grandparents, and the general, underlying Christianity of American culture. Somewhere along the way, I was instilled with a belief in God, but maintained a poor knowledge of the Bible he lived in.

A friend from the neighborhood once invited my sister and me to his church youth group that played dodgeball and talked about Jesus on Wednesday nights. We'd sit through a felt-board lesson about Jesus, then go throw balls at each other for a half an hour on the playground. After dodgeball, we went back inside for graham crackers, milk, and more Jesus-talk. It was like school, but stupid, so we quit going after two weeks.

By seven years old, I had already decided Jesus was not my answer. It wasn't anything in particular about him that turned me off (though his vengeful behavior toward a barren fig tree struck me as odd), but his most vocal followers just plain creeped me out. Even those whom I considered friends.

"If the Bible is true," I asked Nathan, "How come there's no dinosaurs in it?"

"Because they came before," he replied, cooly.

"Before God?"

"No! Before the Bible," a little less cool.

"God came before the Bible, too," I replied, "But he's in it. So how come he left out the dinosaurs?"

"Just because!" he answered with a dissmissive wave and a groan.

I knew that answer all too well. It was the same answer my mom gave me when I asked why I wasn't allowed to swear, or drink beer, or smoke cigarettes. It was the answer she gave when she just didn't want to bother explaining. It's an easy out for authority, but it didn't jibe coming from a follower. Unlike my mother, he wanted to explain, he simply couldn't. So he dismissed the question. Problem solved!

But, somehow, I held on to a belief in God above.

In high school, I found Deism in the writings of the Founders of the United States, and I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. Here was the exact theology I'd been tossing around in my brain for years spelled out and laid bare by the greatest thinkers of the time. It was simple, it was elegant. It allowed me to believe in a Creator without having to sit through all the Jesus mumbo-jumbo, and without worrying if God was pissed because I like bacon. It allowed me to have a faith without having to have any faith. It was my very own "Just because." Perhaps I couldn't prove God's existence, but nor could I prove his non-existence. Suddenly, I was able to cast my agnosticism into the back of my head and feel secure that some Creator somewhere didn't really give a shit what I was up to. Perfect.

Years passed before the next time I thought seriously about God, and I realized I didn't care if he existed anymore. Years of neglect in the recesses of my mind left him worn and useless; more impotent than omnipotent. In the end it really wasn't much of a descent into atheism at all, God just sort of faded away, like so many old friends. I still can't prove he doesn't exist, but it's not my job to do so anymore, it's his to prove he does. I am an atheist.

And I no longer lay awake nights worrying about the afterlife. The nowlife gives me plenty to worry about.

"And the day will come when the mystical generation of Jesus, by the supreme being as his father in the womb of a virgin will be classed with the fable of the generation of Minerva in the brain of Jupiter." --Thomas Jefferson