Mary Ann caught with Mary Jane?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let us now praise the Government

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unto the next generation

by the Night Writer

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

— Thomas Jefferson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially not if I can help it.

Trip update: just deserts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wonder what the poor people are doing tonight?

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

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

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

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

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

“Would you like some crab cake?” she asked.

Here I am

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

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


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

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

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

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

Ouch, that’s not going to leave a mark

UK shaken by ‘significant’ earthquake
PA
Wednesday, 27 February 2008

A “significant” earthquake shook the UK in the early hours of this morning, causing damage to buildings and leaving at least one person injured.

The tremor hit at around 1am and was measured at 5.2 on the Richter scale.

Its epicentre was near Market Rasen, Lincolnshire, but the effects of the quake were felt throughout the country.

HT: b3ta.com (and Uncle Raven)

If wishes were fishes

I wish…that every time I see someone with a Hispanic name in a crime report that I didn’t automatically wonder if they were an illegal alien.

I wish…that every time I see a dominating performance by an athlete that I didn’t wonder if he or she was on steroids.

I wish…that if I have to read a story about an athlete being arrested that it didn’t always mention a strip club.

I wish…that when overpaid athletes complain about their contracts that they didn’t claim they just want what’s fair.

I wish…that every time Bill Clinton wags his finger that it didn’t make me laugh.

I wish…that every time the Minnesota legislature is in session that I didn’t think about moving to South Dakota.

So There!


You Are a Super Diva


Some may complain about your diva ways, but you brush them off.

You simply demand the best – and there’s nothing wrong with that.

Don’t stomp on the little people too much though!

You still need them to get to the top.

Note: Questions may or may not have been answered in order to fit characterization.