It seems to me that one of the problems with believing in Karma (not that I’m seriously considering it) would be that most of us are prone to think we’ve earned less of the bad stuff, and deserved more of the good stuff, than is actually the case.

To choose an example entirely at random, take me. This was The Weekend of the Set-up Crew for me. As you know if you’ve been following my bellyaching, my church meets in a gymnasium, and we have five teams that rotate rolling out the tarps and setting up chairs, stage, sound system, etc. It usually only involves one hour on Saturday and another hour after church on Sunday morning.

This weekend was not my team’s turn. But a call went out that most of this week’s team had conflicts (crafty villains that they were), and could somebody help? So I agreed, despite my abhorrence for both physical work and the society of my fellow man. I then learned that this weekend would involve three hours. First there’d be the routine Saturday set-up. Then on Sunday, instead of tearing down after church, we’d have to move some stuff around and set up risers, because our school was having its graduation ceremony that night. And then we’d have to come in Sunday night, after the ceremony, to do the actual tear-down.

It’s with considerable self-complacency that I inform you that not one of the regular team was present for all three sessions. Only one, lone volunteer did that—Your Arrogant Servant.

In my mind, I’m paddling in the deep end of an Olympic-size pool of good karma.

Let me tell you—any enterprise that depends on the energy and industry of Lars Walker for its success is in a bad way. Any crew whose most reliable physical laborer is Lars Walker is clearly suffering from malaise, decomposition and decline.

It hope it’s not a portent of my church’s future.

This was the first perfect day of the year, from a weather point of view (or at least from mine). It wasn’t just “sort of warm if you overlooked the frigid undertones.” It was genuinely warm, without any equivocation or small print. You probably would have preferred yesterday, since my thermostat is set a little warmer than most people’s, but I think you would have agreed that today was nevertheless the caterpillar’s overcoat (1920s slang cribbed from P. G. Wodehouse).



If you’re deeply conflicted (like all good Americans) by my critique of reports on the Prince Caspian movie yesterday, and want a good reason to see the movie in spite of my carping, Dirty Harry at Libertas gives a strong argument here.

We are nothing if not openminded here at Brandywine Books. Our openmindedness is the same as that of America’s greatest educational institutions—we present a broad range of opinions stretching all the way from people who almost agree with me on the right to people who almost agree with me on the left.

It seems to have fallen off the news radar today, but I meant to mention this story yesterday. The wildfires described are located precisely in the area where I lived, when I lived in Florida. I had a mobile home in a park on US 1 in Malabar, and my parents lived in Palm Bay. I’m not actually in touch with anybody down there anymore, but I pray my old friends haven’t suffered any loss (assuming any of them are still in town).

It’s all Florida scrub down there, and from an ecological point of view a wildfire every twenty years is the best thing that could happen. I can say that, of course, because I don’t own any property there anymore.

I paged through WORLD Magazine yesterday, and saw that they published a big, vividly illustrated article on the new Prince Caspian movie.

The article was very positive, even boosterish, but it had the opposite effect on me than was intended. I’d been excited to see the movie, but after reading the article I made the sad decision not to go.

What set me off was a statement that director Andrew Adamson decided to make Susan Pevensey a warrior in the battle (in the film), though Lewis had made it a point to keep her out of it (in the book).

The more I think about this, the more it bothers me. I understand that I’m touchy and obsessive on the subject, but there are times when madmen (like me) can see the truth that sane people can’t, because we look where nobody else is looking. If it’s true that the truths that are most important to defend in any age are precisely those that are most despised, then madmen are sometimes the bloodhounds who smell out what the truth-hunters don’t see.

The decision to kick aside a plot point that mattered to Lewis, just because it’s unfashionable, is not a minor matter (or so it seems to me). In this situation it’s a declaration that there is no special calling for a man to be warrior and protector in the world. Nobody seems to see this, but to me it’s obvious—such a view has dangerous, catastrophic consequences, not only for boys and men but for society as a whole. It’s an assertion (one at which Lewis would have snorted in contempt) that there is no essential difference between men and women; that there are only interchangeable hominid units.

You think this doesn’t matter for society? Look at what happened at the California Supreme Court today, where the justices struck down the state’s marriage protection law. The court’s decision was based, at bottom, on the conviction that men and women are interchangeable. Marry a man. Marry a woman. Take your choice, it’s all the same.

If you think the court decision was good, you probably won’t understand what I’m talking about. But if it troubles you, maybe you’ll see what I’m trying to say.

Even if I’m nuts.

Finally got in a walk tonight. What with bad weather and uneven health, I haven’t been able to do that for a month.

I spent the morning with a salesman for the company that provides our library cataloging software. We’re essentially in the Bronze Age in our technology, and it’s going to have to be upgraded. Unfortunately, I fear we won’t be able to go with these guys anymore, because I suspect our schools won’t spring for the price tag.

But it was an enjoyable few hours. The salesman was an Englishman, transplanted to America, and in the dead spaces caused by some wireless connection problems we found that we have shared enthusiasms for Norway, Monty Python and Patrick O’Brien.

It’s a rare pleasure for me to spend time with someone who wants something from me, and so is forced to act if I were good company.

Here’s a story the Sons of Norway won’t be highlighting anytime soon. One of the noted Norwegian-Americans we don’t talk about much was an Indiana farm woman named Belle Gunness. She was a celebrity in her time—one of America’s first known serial killers, and an example of the rare female variety at that. The University of Indianapolis has exhumed the body identified as hers after her house mysteriously burned down in 1908 (evidence is strong that it was another woman Belle murdered to fake her own death), along with Belle’s children (named Sorensen and Gunness due to multiple marriages), whom Belle probably poisoned to death before setting the fire. They’re going to do DNA tests to see if they’re all related or not. Continue reading The bell tolls for Belle, the troll →

Since I know you’ve been following my health avidly, I ought to tell you that I heard from my doctor, and she says I don’t have an ulcer.

This is actually a disappointment. Not only for the stupid reason I mentioned last night, but because I actually haven’t been feeling well, and I thought the treatment for the ulcer would improve my general wellbeing.

But I’m back to square one. Next week, another blood test, and then we’ll see what happens.

Beyond that, I got nuthin’ tonight. Have a good weekend.

My final impression of my medical tests yesterday is this—if someday I were absolutely forced to acquire one chemical dependency or another, I’d definitely go for Valium.

I sat around for several hours without a care or worry. I’ve been trying to recall the last time I’d felt that way in normal life, and I don’t think there ever was one.

Nobody told me anything about what they learned—not that I asked. Hey! I was on Valium! But my in-depth research on the net (admit it—you do the same thing to when you get a health problem) indicates that I probably have an ulcer or two, and they’re testing biopsies to see whether it/they is/are caused by the coveted h. pylori.

Personally, I draw some satisfaction from the idea of having an ulcer. From childhood I’ve seen ulcers as a sort of red badge of courage, identifying really serious, responsible adults.

Today is Israel’s 60th birthday. Happy birthday, Israel. I’m not a devotee of Left Behind or The Late, Great Planet Earth, but I do believe that Israel exists for a divine purpose, and came into existence in fulfillment of God’s promises.



As it happens, this year is the 150th anniversary of Minnesota’s statehood. All across the state, you can see the celebrations, the decorations, the bunting, the fireworks.

I’m kidding. So far almost nothing has happened in commemoration of the date, as far as I can see, and I don’t expect to see much.

I remember the Centennial. I was seven years old that year. I remember special events in school, and a big parade in our little town, complete with celebrities from Twin Cities TV stations, riding on floats.

The difference is, of course, that back then we were proud to exist. Today we’re ashamed. If you took a poll, I suspect more than half of all Minnesotans would tell you that the only really appropriate way to celebrate would be to give all the land back to the Ojibway and the Lakota, and crawl back to Europe.

The only reason we don’t do that is because nobody would know what to do with the Hmong and the Somalis.

My submission for our official Sesquicentennial song:

I’m from Minnesota.

Where brave Paul Wellstone took a stand.

We stole it from the Native Americans,

Except for that little pointy chunk at the top, which we stole from Canuckistan.

I’m from Minnesota.

A very up-to-par land.

We are the source of the mighty Mississippi, according to traditional, Eurocentric map-making techniques,

And also of Judy Garland.

I’m from Minnesota.

Where we still root for the Twins.

Our winters are pretty uncomfortable,

But they help us begin to do penance for our numerous sins.

Update: It occurs to me that I might have subconsciously cribbed the above from a poem James Lileks posted a while back over at www.buzz.mn, and which I can’t find now. If that turns out to be true, let me know, and I’ll ritually disembowel myself.

For those of you who were wondering, the test went fine, and now I’ll have to wait for the results.

I had to take an anesthetic and a relaxant, and they warned me seriously not to make any important decisions today.

Well, what decision could be more important than settling on a subject for today’s post?

So no topic today, on Doctor’s orders.

I assisted the police with their inquiries last night.

If you read English mysteries, you know that’s a code phrase for sitting in jail. In my case, I mean the expression literally. A policeman asked me questions, and I answered them. Unhelpfully, but the best I could.

I noticed cops poking around a house across the street last night. I don’t generally watch what goes on in the neighborhood, because I don’t want to be one of those people. But when the police are prowling, it’s entertainment. (And, by the way, isn’t it nice to live in a country where, for most of us, the police are interesting rather than terrifying?)

One of them came over to my house and rang the bell. He showed me a picture on a police report and asked me if I’d ever seen this guy at that address. I told him I hadn’t. “Just a D.U.I. case,” he said.

Right. That’s what they wanted me to think. Probably so I wouldn’t panic, jump my mortgage and flee the local tax base in terror. I know how things work. I read thrillers.

Tomorrow I go in to the hospital for some tests. So if I never post here again, you’ll know the Mystery Psychopath tracked me down there, posed as a doctor, and tied up that loose end forever.