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Last Updated : Monday, 02 September, 2002 at 1:05 AM -0500
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| Daynotes On a Budget Hosted By... Last Updated : Monday, 02 September, 2002 at 1:05 AM -0500 |
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Monday, August 26, 2002 |
Bye-Bye, Summer
Well, it's the final week of summer. The Minnesota State Fair (second biggest in the country, behind Texas - of course, if you discounted 50% for hot air,
like everything else in Texas, Minnesota would be first by a good chunk), reknown world over for it's "... on a stick" foods (this year -
"Deep-fried Macaroni And Cheese on a stick". It brings a shudder to me just thinking about it - and imagine the grease) is into now Day 5 of the
12 greatest days of summer (notwithstanding, of course, the aquatennial, which is another one of those "...best days of summer" things). And, of
course, my favorite State Fair ad - seen on the side of a double-length or "bendy" bus... "Pigs the size of This Bus".
Puts the fear of God (or at least pork) into one... Though just imagine the rack of ribs on that monster...
Yeah, I know. Trying to wax poetic about a season at the end of it is a bit like trying to tell someone the quality of the horse whilst standing in the manure pile the horse left. Shit's shit, ain't no two ways about that. And at the end of the summer we are, indeed, afflicted with more plagues than the Egyptians - well, all except for that last one. You doubt me?
We've got mosquitoes about the size of dimes (no shit). Their big cousins, the Northern Minnesota Mosquitoes (the ones that dogfight with 747-400s) are as yet staying north of Brainerd, but it's only a matter of time. Once the tourists and summer vacationers close down the cabins and stream south next Monday, it's all over for us down here except for the anti-aircraft batteries.
We've got crickets by the boatload. I'm used to hearing the occasional chirp at dusk, but these things are constantly chirping. There are so many that instead of hearing any sort of distinctive chirp at all, you have this undertone of constant chirp - like a monotone "chiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirp". If you concentrate, you can identify the occasional individual, but overall, there's this tone.
We've got the cicadas - you know, the buzzing bugs? Really loud, you can hear them for blocks, and they only come out in hot weather.
We've also got heat and stinking humidity. We've got kids who have worked all summer and are spending their hard-earned money on huge power-amps for their vehicles and big super-bass woofers so loud I can hear them from my basement with TV on. I wonder if those kids know about the ability sound has to stop the human heart. Then again, I make the assumption that because they look vaguely humanoid, they might be human - fatal flaw in that bit of reasoning, I guess. No "sane" human would be carrying around as much hardware as they do pierced through the skin without some incredible compensation for it - and these kids PAY to get pierced, believe it or not.
Of course, we also have the inevitable - pool and beach closings, fall clothing sales, and school's return.
All of this is a mere prelude to the event we all fear, but do not, yet, talk about, due to an irrational belief that it will delay the arrival of said "event". That event is WINTER. We all know it's coming. Heck, I've been bitten by mosquitoes in December, and I've trick-or-treated in three-foot snowdrifts. Winter has a way of arriving when it wants to (last year, it showed up in April), and leaving when it's damned well good and ready. Typically long after we're fed up with it.
Sort of a well, duh, except for one thing. Those of us who have been here long know that there is always a balancing of the books, come post-fall. Regardless of the weather you've previously experienced, Winter is nature's way of saying "all right you fools, you think you belong here? Guess again." Long-time residents also know that the previous winter is completely useless in predicting the following one; unless, of course, it was a warm, unusually mild, and relatively snowless winter. In which case, pack your bags, get out your flame-throwers, and pray that you aren't the last one left to slide down the streets to the airport - we're gonna get slaughtered.
The upcoming Labor Day holiday weekend bookends the summer opposing Memorial day. Most native Minnesotans know that spring starts with the fishing opener on Mother's day, and ends with the Memorial Day weekend a week or two later, that last Monday in May. They also know that summer ends with Labor Day, and the "short" fall can start the day after (first day of school, traditionally, around here), and extend to either A) Viking's Home Opener, B) Twin's elimination in the pennant race (which leads to the occasional and paradoxical end of fall in early August when the Twins are 195 games out of first place - and yes, a baseball season is a full 162 games), C) Goldie Gopher's tail freezing off, or D) St. Patty's day in March (as happened last year).
What with the NFL's relatively-recent extension of the season from 14 to 16 games, plus the addition of a "bye" week, we're often looking at the Vike's first game being in August now. The Twins, this year, are still in the running for the pennant (though their magic number is now something like 15, and they're something like 14 games up on their next-closest rivals, I refuse to claim victory until they have the pennant in-hand. You do realize, though, that in my adult lifetime, the Twins have only succeeded in winning the division twice. Of course, they also won the league championship twice, and the World Series twice as well. So there are some lofty expectations - as are the expectations that 90% of those fellows wearing Twins blue this year will be elsewhere next year - but this is no place for a baseball rant when I'm still frothing over seasonal inequities). Which means we might have a fall that lasts through October at least.
As Goldie has played in the Metrodome ever since the fine leaders of the University of Minnesota decided that their old on-campus stadium, one of the best venues for watching outdoor football in the country, was "outmoded" and had it torn down, Goldie's tail has not served as an accurate indicator of the onset of winter. Further speculation on Goldie's tail and it's various activities would be inappropriate here.
So we will enjoy this upcoming Labor Day weekend, knowing full well that the grass I mow this week may well be the stuff buried by the snow in a week or two hence. You just never do know around here.
Good Grief
The Spam Of The Day award today goes to Nazmeen Fortune (riiiiiiight). "JDominik, Amazing Breast Enhancing Capsules". How nice.
Apparently I've been judged to grow unacceptable man-tits as I grow older, and I now should take this presumably herbal supplement to increase their size.
Just another hazard of aging, apparently. There's the hair in unexpected places, the sudden dysfunction of previously-perfectly functional systems, and the slow, general breakdown of others. There's the unpleasant surprises category, where you find yourself looking in the mirror (or just in the shower) saying, again, loudly, "Now just what the hell is THAT?" And my personal favorite, needing a list of questions because you can't remember all of the things you want to ask the doctor about, and then finding yourself just too embarrassed to discuss them.
With, I might remind you, a person (your doctor) who will soon be gripping your most private of parts and probing you with what one is forced to hope is clinical detachment (if you are a male above the age of 40 years with adequate health insurance in this country, you know what I mean).
Lovely. While boobs are fun, I think having a pair of my own to play with would eventually get boring. I mean, utter fascination with my penis only lasted, what, twenty years? So how long would infatuation with boobs run?
Oh well. I think this year I'm going to prepare by eating about six orders of onion rings a few hours before "the exam". Seems only fair that I get my ... no, I don't think so. I was going to say "get my licks in" but I think not.
Turnabout is fair play. Yes, that's about as close to a pun as I want to go with this one.
That Little Demon
After his nap today (both children complained they didn't feel well), Jack came out and we cuddled for a bit. I was struck by how mature, yet child-like,
he still is. I can still see a prominent bluish vein running down the left side of his face - I noticed it just after his birth. I'd expected it to
disappear years ago, but it's still visible under his skin. It's a reminder of his infancy, and the struggles we had with that.
There was also a maturity that came from knowing that next week he will, as we all do, leave that glorious, free, and wild period of true childhood behind and enter one where there is responsibility to other than one's parents or playmates. I felt melancholy when Rhiannon started kindergarten. I feel quite depressed that my little boy is now entering that same period. Cares. Worries. Demands. Requirements. Orders. Instructions. Responsibilities. Maturity.
But his round face with that pointy little chin looked up at me, and I was just taken, again, by how handsome a man he will be when he grows up. A heck of a lot better looking than his old man. Yes, the nay-sayers have all now said "couldn't help but," thank you very much.
Anyway, Jack was stumbling around, still only half awake, as I came out of the kitchen, and I held out my arms. "Cuddle?"
In a moment, he was up in my arms with his thin but strong little arms around my neck, his legs on either side of my rib cage, just cuddling down. Then he pulled down his arms, to keep them warm, and just lay with his head on my shoulder. Utter, total trust. He knew he was safe.
It was a wonderful moment, one I wish I could have made last for about twenty years. He knew he was safe. I thought I was.
The moment was broken, as most moments are, by Jack. There was a shy little giggle, a tensing, and then a loud, trumpet-like noise and a shock to my forearm.
"Did you fart?" I refused to believe that the elephantine bellow I had just heard was produced by an apparent humanoid not quite four feet tall, much less a sub-four-foot quasi-humanoid related to me, and in my arms.
He was laughing too hard to lift his head. This I took as a guilty plea. Ever the fool, I waited until the fourth blast of the crescendo (each louder than the last, which shook pictures from the walls - both my children might have their mother's face, but they got their father's colon. You would think I would be proud), and then I set him down. He floated down (hot air rises), lay on the floor, and dissolved in helpless giggles.
I could only stare through teary eyes as I donned my gas mask and my way through the haze to open the windows and see about construction-type ventilation units for my home. Even that's not a bad price to pay for time with my children. Smelly though they can be.
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Tuesday, August 27, 2002 |
| The Forgotten Dwarves | ||
| "Real" Dwarves Grumpy Sneezy Sleepy Bashful Happy Doc Dopey |
"Forgotten" Dwarves Gropey Sleazy Creepy Peeper Wheezy Cheesy Horney |
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Perhaps it's better this way. You can see why a number of them failed to make the cut... Why? Well, this is what happens when your kids ask you to name the Seven Dwarfs, and you get six and miss Bashful. I think Gropey is Grumpy and Dopey's brother (the third child, obviously. Papa dwarf was sick and tired of hearing Mama dwarf yell "Gr-opey" and "Dumpy" a lot, and named the last one out of the chute "Gropey"). Sleazy is the dwarf that ran off to found Las Vegas, Creepy works in horror films, Peeper is currently a guest of the State of California Penal System, Wheezy is Doc's last patient (before he became a miner, of course), and, well, we all know Horney.
Project Ends...
I've been working on a web site for a friend of mine. The site is for a construction firm, and it's nearly done. When we get it officially out
there, I might toss a link out to show you what I did. Truth be told, all I did was translate the image that they had created for a brochure into
something that worked on the web.
That's often the case, though. Most people have the skills to do something, what they lack is the knowledge - they CAN, they don't know HOW. So that was my contribution to the world at large. Well, that, and a lot of time spent coding, recoding, defining, redefining, and redoing a lot of stuff. Then there was the long wait for the graphics to get worked out. Ugh.
Miserable
Damned pollen. The good news is that I fought it off, and I've actually reached late August without medicating. The bad news is that I think I
waited too long. At this exact moment, I'm up to fourteen sneezes in a five minute period (yes, I'm counting), I think my throat is bleeding from the
rubbing my tongue is doing to itch the back of my throat, my eyes feel like 120-grit sandpaper's been rubbed across them, and my nose? Let's just leave
that out of it.
I gotta get Zyrtec tomorrow. Good thing I still have the prescription.
I Swear...
This is not my bellybutton. Really it's not.
But you know, it's been that kind of a day.
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Wednesday, August 28, 2002
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Bike Nazis
When I was a kid, I was taught the "rules of the road" when bike riding. Granted, I was out "in the country" but the rules were, at
that time, universal.
I suppose it would help if I noted that my Eagle Scout project was a bike "Roadeo" - I had a bike inspection, a police officer who came and gave a safety talk, some games for the kids to participate in, and a film on bike safety. I had 30+ kids go through the thing. I'm by no means an "expert" (in the sense of a has-been drip under pressure), but I do think I know what I'm talking about here.
Today, while dropping Ann off in St. Paul, I had to dodge a bike-rider who was in the traffic lane, was weaving in and out of traffic, not following the rules, and generally obstructing traffic.
Personally, I have no personal hatred against bike riders. But what I do hate is people who will deliberately block traffic and get in the way - you're not a car, you're a FREAKING BIKE - someone will eventually turn you into bug-paste on their windshield if you don't watch out.
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Thursday, August 29, 2002 |
ZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzz
Sorry about that. Started the medication route yesterday to resolve the hay fever issues. I knew I needed help when I looked at the yard I mowed
Tuesday night, and found quite a few squiggles in the lines. That would have been me, sneezing.
Of course, the was also the inevitable "Frog incident". About every three or four years when I was a kid I'd hit a frog whilst mowing. Obviously, they're not the brightest of species, if I'm going back and forth over the same area, getting closer and closer, using a big red noisy mower, and they're surprised when I hit them... Oh well.
Tuesday's victim hit the corner of the shed and was easily and quickly wiped away. It was, however, a rather bloody carcass back on the woodpile. Yuck.
The side "benefit" of my current medication of choice (Benadryl's generic form) is that I'm quite severely fogged when wandering through my days. My choice, of course, is to try to avoid the medication on those days where I must interview (if they ever come).
But it sure is pleasant not to have to sneeze every other breath. And not those little "choo"s, either, but those great, body-wracking, full-boat-inhalation, three-stop and burst monsters - you know the ones that half the time fizzle out rather than burst forth? Oh well.
Busy busy busy...
Tonight is back-to-school night, followed by
company, who will be attending the state fair as she
has won a local talent contest to make it to the big time, and he is, well, tasked with herding the
children.
Then, we're following the sleepover with a Day Off for my wife, a long weekend (with a St. Cloud trip thrown in), and the dread "first day of school for the baby." The trauma will, no doubt, be horrendous.
War With Iraq
I was listening to MPR on the way home this morning after dropping off Ann. Seems General Zinni, Ret., has spoken out against US involvement in Iraq just
yet. Then I got home and looked in Time Magazine - the last-page editorial was about how Saddam had to go before he develops or obtains nuclear weapons.
I can't help it. I get the distinct feeling that this is a "I'm agonna finish what mah daddy started!" type of thing. If GWB was a brighter fellow, or if he'd listen to the people who haven't lately been bitten by rabid monkeys, or aren't teetering on the edge of heart failure, I think he'd see the problems in Iraq go a lot deeper.
Let's be honest. Sure, we don't like Saddam. Sure, he's not the most stable of influences in the area. Sure, he's just a little bombastic and just a little on the far side of sanity, from our view.
But from all reports we get here, the general population of Iraq isn't protesting down the streets daily (whether that's from armed suppression, having too much work to do to keep themselves fed, or they really don't care, I don't know). But it seems to me that if we're looking to replace the ruler of another country, we should have a couple of ground rules.
First of all, there should be an international consensus on the fact that the leader in question is a seriously big problem. We don't have that.
Next, we should have some sort of idea that the people will support the change in leadership. Otherwise, we could end up with another Viet Nam - which is not good.
Next, we should have people right next door to the big problem that are willing to do whatever it takes, including putting their own butts on the line, to protect themselves. This is just not happening here.
Finally, in an ideal situation, we'd have some sort of smoking gun or incident which would finally polarize the situation. Again, it's not present.
The bottom-line truth is that Bush Sr. did not do the job when he had the manpower, the alliance, and the reason (Kuwait). Now, his son wants to take care of it - and hasn't got any of the tools his father did.
Until the conditions above are present, I don't think it's appropriate to risk American lives (or anyone else's) because the President doesn't like someone. However, the good news is that if Bush does this, we could always hand him over to an international tribunal for war-crimes against the Iraqi people for all the civilian deaths he'd cause.
Let's face it - if Saddam really wanted nuclear weapons, he'd have them by now. He has oil, he has the ability to sell, somewhere, that oil to get money. He then has money which he could use to hire or purchase the knowledge needed. Unless the American intelligence community managed to get a couple of wildly incompetent scientists hired into the Iraqi nuclear program, Saddam might well have "The Bomb".
But do we have the right to say "I just don't like you" and make him go away? Hell no. And if Bush had studied anything about the history of the country he's purporting to lead, he'd know it.
Will his advisers, et. al., encourage him to blow us off and do the deed? Most likely. Will they regret it? Doubtful. They'll stand up, pat themselves on the back, and say "we made the tough decision."
Unfortunately, the rest of us will be paying for that "tough decision" with the rest of our lives. And I don't think that's an appropriate response.
Baseball...
Yup. In a few hours it will all be over one way or another.
Most of the current Twins players weren't even born when I started following the Twins. I was, in fact, about five or six, playing in the yard, listening to the radio in the garage where Halsey Hall was broadcasting Twins games.
There were years when I was a kid that I read more books than the Twins had wins. And I'm talking about first and second grade. The Twinks tried, but the bottom line was that prior to 1985 or so, the Twins were owned by the only baseball owner who had no income OTHER than the team.
Yes, Calvin Griffith. The man who "traded" Rod Carew to the California Angels for CASH. There was some talk of the commissioner barring the trade, but it didn't happen. It went through, and the Twins lost their major player draw.
I can remember some years watching the Twins bumbling along, acting as the minor league team for the rest of the league. At one point, just about every other major league team had a player who came up through the Twins, but was a star on their team.
Then came those magical days of 1987 and 1991. Andy Macphail, the Twins GM of the time, managed (under new ownership, of course) to build a nucleus of young, talented, energetic guys into a solid club - brought in a few free agents and some last-minute end-of-season stretch-run talent, and you had a "worst-to-first" story that belongs in the record books. The Home Team won every game in that series - fortunately, the Cardinals were on the short end of the stick that year, and the Twins had four home games.
They also had Kirby Puckett's memorable Game 6 home run to tie the series, and send it to a seventh game.
To prove 1987 wasn't a fluke, the Twins went toe-to-toe with the Atlanta Braves in 1991. You don't hear much about that World Series, but as I recall, there was one game the Twins lost badly in, and the rest were extra-inning or one-run games. I remember watching the final game of that series and thinking after the ninth inning ended that it was too bad they couldn't just call the game and split the trophy.
Good thing they didn't.
Those were glory days, all right.
Of course, then came the 1994 season when the player strike cut short both Kent Hrbek's final season and quite a few dreams. And I was sick of baseball.
Then came the Twins whining about a new stadium. At first, I was in favor of it, because indoor baseball's just not the same as sitting outside, in the sun, smelling the grass, and watching them play ball. Then again, we often have snow in both April and October - both months that baseball could be played here. Or snowed out, as the case may be.
But between all of that and contraction and everything else, I've watched this team. Now, however, if these players and owners cannot agree on the terms of a new agreement without striking, I, for one, will stop worrying about baseball. Frankly, I'll be glad to forget about it.
Pro sports seems to have forgotten what made it special. Not the money, the contracts, the endorsements, the glamour and hangers on. What made it special was that there were grown men who could do things that the rest of us couldn't, and because they could, we'd watch. But they had to be likable - no thugs. No prima donnas. No jerks. Sign the autographs. Thank the people for coming out. Be nice, because they're paying your salary.
I guess when they lost site of the fact that it was only a game, I should have lost sight of them. My problem is that I'm too loyal. Oh well. I learn.
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Friday, August 30, 2002 |
Yesterday afternoon, as I was driving to pick up Ann from the bus stop, there was a report on the radio about a 13-year-old boy dying during cross-country practice with the Burnsville Cross-Country team. I thought to myself "oh, how horrible. A family of a kid who was just starting to move into junior high, just a little more than four years older than my daughter. That's very sad."
I mentioned it to Ann last night.
After our guests arrived, I flipped the TV over to the evening news. A few minutes later, they started the story.
Back a couple of employers I worked with a fellow for six straight years - he and I were pretty good friends. We went our separate ways, as people do, after we both left the place, but we still saw one another occasionally.
This summer, when the kids switched daycares to the "Summer Daycare" I looked down, and sure enough, there was his youngest son, in the same group as mine. We ran into each other a couple days later, and we sat together at the Dan Patch Days parade earlier this summer.
I'll never forget his story about how he came home and got the news that he'd managed to purchase his first house. He'd been fortunate enough to work for B. Dalton in their corporate office when it was closed down here and moved to New York. I'd worked for Software Etc., which was a bastard-stepchild-subsidiary of B. Dalton. The "bastard stepchild" portion came from the fact that the fellow owning B. Dalton owned a number of other bookstore chains - and Software, Etc., fit into that chain like a size 43 foot fits into a size 9 shoe.
Anyway, I use the term "fortunate" because after a number of years there, he qualified for an exceptionally generous severance package - one that paid, regardless. And then, two weeks later, got a job. So for six months he was getting double paychecks.
He said he'd come home, set down the baby, and checked the answering machine - the call was there. And he danced around the room while the kid giggled.
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Saturday, August 31, 2002 |
An Ugly American...
I will confess to, at times, a rather unhealthy and ego-centric pride in my nationality. I'm not quite sure how it works in other countries, but there are
occasions when people will ask you "you are?" and you start spouting off. "Prussian, Silesian, Swiss, German, and that's about it".
My wife, on the other hand, can claim to be a "Viking Nazi" by birth (Norwegian and German), and Irish, German, and Luxemburger by influence. Which means our children are a mixed-up hodge-podge which frankly comes down to "American".
So yes, I'm aware that we as a nation come from elsewhere. And I also appreciate the differences. In my neighborhood, there are at least four different languages, as the Russian immigrants, the Hispanics, the Hmong, the Vietnamese (two different nationalities, most definitely), and of course, the American English as spoken in these parts of Minnesota, all get hollered up and down the street on a regular basis.
And I do appreciate that.
But there is a fine point at which I'm afraid I must insist that people assimilate. One of the things that has made this country what it is (not necessarily great, mind you) is the ability to work together and exchange ideas. It seemed that everyone wanted to "be American".
Somewhere along the line, "being American" changed to "being IN America". It was fine to be here, and then create your own "little your-country-name-here" enclave. Ok, fine. Happy to have you. But let's not exclude the other folks, shall we?
If you are proud of your heritage, your culture, your habits/procedures/ceremonies/celebrations/activities/what have you, fine, do so. But please, have someone who is literate in the American English of the general vicinity to translate for you, please. Otherwise you're not being "inclusive."
You're "invading."
Sunny Saturday
Busy day. Of course, last night we were up until well past midnight - our houseguests who arrived Thursday night returned from the State Fair and then
departed on their own personal three hour tour back to Monte and points west. We settled down the hoodlums that remained (regretting, again, our inability
to drug and disguise at least one of our own as luggage for the time it would take for them to reach the half-way point plus one mile, where they'd end up
keeping said hoodlum for a few days - oh well), and then toddled off to bed ourselves.
Which led in turn to a regrettably late morning rising, and a late trip to the Farmer's Market, where the catch of the day was beef Jerky, and a planned acquisition next week or the week after of a box or two of tomatoes for ketchup production (God willing I'll find the damned recipes again).
Then to the library, backtrack to pay the storage locker, forth again to the grocery store, and then home - where we killed the afternoon in a long, drawn-out luncheon and movie watching.
Then dinner with a friend over (no, we didn't eat her, we did feed her however, and I grilled "cut up fryer" - face it, folks, I'm a wimp. When I open the marinade bag and am faced with the ribs-up "chicken back" and on top rests the chicken neck, well, yeah, I'm a bit off my feed. Trust me, I did return to full bore later in the evening, but the chicken was most definitely NOT on my menu). I'm assured by both wife and guest that the chicken was "excellent". And, what's more, the leftovers were saved for future meals.
Other than that (he says blearily), not much else going on.
Almost Forgot
The State Fair ends Monday (which will be "tomorrow" by the time most of you are destined to read this) and that means that the Champion Boar can go
back to his relatively anonymous life.
No, before you leap to conclusions, it's not me. First of all, as the Champion Boar at the Minnesota State Fair weighs in at a healthy 1100 pounds (that's over half a ton, ladies and gentlemen), I'm not even in the same weight class as that feller.
And, while it is true that such large animals are no longer as prized as they once were (smaller pigs fit into the processing plants better), the simple fact is that it takes a lot of time, money, and feed to grow an 1100 pound pig.
Secondly, the simple fact that someone made a study of the most-often-asked question about the Champion Boar might give you a clue as to how seriously we here take this sort of thing. Unfortunately, as the question is of an indelicate and ... well, intensely personal nature, one is loath to repeat it in such genteel company. So we won't fool around either.
Unfortunately, neither is Mr. Boar. And as the answer to the question one will not ask is "between a soccer ball and basket ball in size", the fellow does many things gingerly - one must, when one's squishy bits are dragging everywhere one goes (I'm told, as I lack direct experience in such matters).
So let's be careful out there, OK? At the very least, you could run into a barrel of pickling solution labeled "Rocky Mountain Oysters" and a pair of them might turn up larger than your head.
In any case, when someone refers to seafood from the interior of the continent, one is well-advised to avoid it. Just on general principles, if for no better reasons (such as the desire to go to the grave not knowing just exactly what pig testicles taste like).
Consider yourself warned. And next time you're inflating a basket ball or soccer ball, consider the alternatives.
Cojones, indeed.
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Sunday, September 1, 2002 |
Occasionally I get e-mail from people that just has me rolling on the floor. Sometimes for the humor value. Sometimes in agony.
There once was an American tourist in Mexico. He checked into a hotel in a small, way-off-the-beaten-track town, intending to stay for a few days.
At the restaurant, he noticed a man eating an entree that consisted of two large round pieces of meat and a bunch of vegetables. He inquired what the man was having, and the waiter replied, "Señor, that is the special."
Interested in the local food, the tourist asked for the special. "We're all out."
"You're all out of the special?"
"Sí, señor. The special is the balls of the bull killed in today's bullfight. I can put you on the waiting list for next Tuesday."
So, on Tuesday, the man shows up, orders the special, and is served. The meat consisted of two pieces about the size of a small grape.
"What is this? I ordered the special!"
"Señor, that is the special."
"What kind of a bull has balls that size?"
"Señor, the bull . . . does not always lose."
Your guess is as good as mine.
Well, DUH
Yeah, I know, I ought to know better, but when I saw "Kentucky Prison Suspends
Satanic Services" it was really a "and just how are you going to get out of that one?"
Federal law states that prisons cannot show favoritism in religious observances allowed behind bars. And the Constitution also has that pesky little "freedom of religion" part.
Folks, the bottom line is that like it or not, those prisoners are allowed to practice their satanic rituals, no matter how uncomfortable it makes us. Because if we stop them from practicing, then we're going to face a long, ugly run ending somewhere we really would rather it didn't.
Regardless of the originating location (you've all heard the Kentucky state slogan - "Five million people, five last names"), limitation of their rights is wrong. I don't like the idea of satanic services, but if I want to be able to attend my service of choice, then the Satanists must be allowed to practice as well.
What will be interesting is seeing how Reichmarshall Ashcroft deals with this one...
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P. Dominik. All rights reserved. No reproduction without express
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