Today the temperature topped 60. We’re not fooled, mind you. We’re Minnesotans. We’ve been deceived too many times by Madame March to put any trust in her fickle promises. Tomorrow will be cooler (though not bad) and there’s a chance of some snow over the next few days.

But today it was possible to pretend the whole thing was over.

As I took my constitutional, I saw two people I also saw last night. Last night I took them for a mother and her little boy.

Today I got closer and realized the mother was a young guy. And the little boy was his girlfriend.

That’s pretty much all the proof I need, isn’t it? I’m officially a codger.

Movie advice (from a guy who almost never goes to them anymore): If you enjoyed 300 and want to find more of the same, and if you check out movies starring Gerard Butler on Netflix, and you see that he did one called Beowulf, and you think, “Hey, another great action movie with swords, starring the same guy!”—take it from me. Don’t waste your money.

My review of Beowulf is here.

I’m considering devoting the rest of my life to destroying the market for that particular irritating piece of political correctness.

Being a codger now, I have to take my pleasures where I can.

Sorry I’m late. I interviewed a prospective renter this evening (yes, I finally got a call). I’m not going to describe him, because he might be whacko, or he might be a saint. Or neither. But if he’s a saint I don’t want to be talking behind his back.

We ended the meeting on an ambivalent note. One of us may call the other, or not.

The weather has been beautiful, in terms of air-to-skin compatibility and sun-to-earth face time. It was my weekend on set-up team at church, which is always a drag, but when I came back from church on Sunday, my obligation fulfilled, I noticed the bank thermometer said 50°. I went to the local Chinese buffet I just discovered (not the one I told you about before, where the hostess is cute but the food marginal; the hostess at this one is less cute but the food is much better). Then, to make the day perfect, I noticed that the local Dairy Queen has reopened for the spring, so I was able to buy my traditional after-Sunday-lunch Dilly Bar (you’ve got to get the kind made in the store; the factory-made ones in cellophane wrappers aren’t worth the trouble). So the day was perfect. I love Sunday afternoons. I made a commitment years ago that, since I considered myself a professional writer, I wouldn’t write for money on Sundays. That makes the Lord’s Day a weekly break from (some) guilt for me, and I bless the Lord of Sinai for it.

When I got home from work today, most of the snow had already melted from my front lawn. And my basement hasn’t flooded.

It’s not spring yet, but I’ll take what I can get.

Tonight I shall not sleep in my own bed. I shall sleep in a bed in a sleep center, with electrodes stuck to my skull, to see if a CPAP machine will improve what is laughingly known as my quality of life.

Knowing me as well as you do by now, you understand that I’m worried about this. I have a hard time getting to sleep most nights in my own familiar bed, even if I’m tired. How I’ll sleep in a strange bed with an electronic snood hooked up to me I can’t quite comprehend.

I figure the technicians will wait in the next room behind a two-way mirror, cracking jokes about me in low voices, a green light from the control panel illuminating their pasty complexions (sleep technicians never see the light of day, after all). One of them—the muscular broad with the shaved head and the tattoos, will keep saying, “I hate this guy. Look at him. What a lump. What a loser.”

And the other one will say, “If he’d just fall asleep, we could catch that late movie on Lifetime.”

And the M.B. will say, “This one? He’s never gonna fall asleep. He’s gonna lie there all night, like the loser he is.”

And the other one will say, “Well, we could always use the Sleep Inducer.”

And the M.B. will say, “Sure. If any moron ever deserved the Sleep Inducer, it’s this creep.”

So she sneaks into the room very quietly, holding a great big mallet behind her back, and she smashes me over the head with it like Bugs Bunny in a cartoon.

And in the morning they’ll ask me how I slept, and I’ll say, “Great. I’m really surprised. But I’ve got this awful headache.”

And the doctor will nod and say, “That’s a common side effect.”

I’m [irony alert] hung over from my excessive Valentine’s celebrations yesterday [end irony alert], so I thought I’d upload another interesting old picture from my scans. Unfortunately I found that the picture I meant to use is in .tif format, which Photobucket is too good to associate with. So I’ll have to make a note to myself to convert that picture, and instead I’ll share this one:

This is one of my favorite family historical pictures. It comes from Mom’s side, the “disreputable” side. It was taken on the family farm, and I believe they were living in Hurley, Wisconsin then. That’s not something most people brag about (Back when I worked at the denominational headquarters, I once told one of my bosses that my grandmother had been born in Hurley. He looked at me and said, “You didn’t tell us that when you interviewed for this job”). I don’t know what year it was taken, but it had to be 1914 or earlier.

Reading from left to right, the fat lady we come to first is Elvira, (we pronounce it “El-VEE-rah” in my family) my great-grandmother. She was born in Trondheim, Norway in 1862. She may be part Sami (that’s Lapplander, but they don’t like to be called that anymore. Never did like it, actually), but I don’t know much about her background (nor her husband’s). She came to America in 1890. She is a devout and faithful Christian, and sometimes organizes Sunday Schools for immigrant children . She will die in 1914, aged 52.

Next to her is my grandmother, Hilda Johnson. She may not be as young as she looks in this picture. She was a very small person. On the other hand, that’s a little girl’s dress, so she’s probably not confirmed yet. She will die in 1959, at the age of 59. I remember her as an old woman with no teeth, but usually kind, and a faithful Christian. She and my Walker grandmother used to bring competing cakes for my and Moloch’s birthdays, which was great as far as we were concerned.

Next is the legendary John B. Johnson, scourge of the seven seas and northern Wisconsin. He was born in 1860. I’ve done some research based on hints my mother remembered, and I believe I’ve identified his birthplace as Grov on Hinnøy, which is almost, but not quite, in the Lofoten Islands. If this is true, he may be the Sami in the family (Grandpa said he thought there was some), since they were more common there than around Trondheim. But Elvira looks more Sami to me.

John B. has lived a colorful life. He worked on the restoration of Nidaros Cathedral in Trondheim in the 1880’s. He was a cook on a whaling ship, and is said to have once escaped a sinking ship, towing two drowning men behind him on a long swim. Blood was gushing from his nose when he made shore. He’s said to have sometimes taken bites out of porcelain plates when he was drunk (which was often). And a woman once appeared at the door of their house, asked for him, then handed him a baby. “This is yours,” she said, and walked away. He didn’t dispute it, and they raised the child as part of the family.

I don’t know when he died, but it was in Saxon, Wisconsin.

Just behind John B. is John A.—John A., my grandfather. He doesn’t even belong in this picture, properly. He isn’t part of the family—yet. Not many years later he will marry the little girl Hilda, who will be only 18 even then. What he was doing at the Johnson place that day, I have no idea. I’ve told you about him before. He will live a life of struggle and poverty until he lands a job with the Milwaukee Road. When he retires on his railroad pension he’ll find himself suddenly making more money than he ever did before in his life. He’ll die in 1976, at 79.

The other two young men are Hilda’s brothers, Jacob and Alfred, about whom I know little.

About the horse I know nothing.

Pictures like this—roomy images that show whole houses rather than just little clumps of people—please me very much. They give me the feeling that I’ve gotten a peek into the people’s lives. I’ve magnified this picture and studied it in detail without discovering any hidden secrets, but I still like to look at it.

Anna Nicole Smith is dead, according to the news. Bloggers all over the country are pausing at their keyboards, pondering whether to meditate on the tragedy/waste-of-life angle or just go with the cheap joke. And having decided, they’re trying to keep the option they chose from bleeding over into the alternative.

I know what to say. I knew a woman once, a relative, who was caring and giving in every way. She hated herself utterly and used various kinds of chemicals to kill the pain. She didn’t die young, but she died long before she had to, as a result of a life-long effort to get this torturous business of living over with, without actually committing the sin of suicide.

I don’t know much about Anna Nicole, but I suspect some of the same dynamics were at work here. So I say rest in peace, and pray she found it in the only place where it’s available.

I feel like I have a cold in my brain. Not in my head, except insofar as my head contains my brain. I’m not physically stuffed up, but my brain feels like it’s congested in a couple layers of cotton batting. I don’t have a headache but my thoughts hurt. I’m not coughing or sneezing, but that little guy with Tourette’s who lives in my skull is doing his Bobcat Goldthwaite imitation a couple clicks louder than usual.

And yet I persevere, because that’s the kind of mug I am.

Here’s a suggestion, for those of you who share my skepticism about Global Warming. Next time you get in a fight with a True Believer, ask them why they’re afraid of change.

“For years you liberals have been telling us that Change Is Good,” you can say. “The only reason anybody could possible resist any kind of change is because they’re bigoted and cowardly. So how come change became a bad thing all of a sudden?”

I offer you this gambit free of charge. Use it as you will, with my blessing.

Not that it will help. The argument will end with your opponent calling you a Nazi, because that’s how these arguments always end.

But at least you’ll have added a little variety to the script.

Unless you thought of this before me, of course.

Because I’m in that kind of mood.

I have to go back in to work for a meeting tonight, and on top of that I’m 56 years old, and a single guy can’t expect to live much longer than that, but that’s probably just as well because I’m likely to lose my home anyway, because my ad for a roommate has been out for two whole days and I haven’t gotten a single bite yet.

So I’m not capable of much more than rudimentary thinking. Therefore I’ll just share something I think I posted before, but that was long ago on the old site. I think it was one of the better quotations I’ve ever heard (or read).

It comes from Newton Minnow, who I’m pretty sure is no longer living. He was famous for having a very silly name, and also for being the chairman of the FCC long before you were born, back when Kennedy was president (but I was already old). He famously called television “a vast wasteland,” back then, and was remembered for it ever after. But this quotation is better. It’s a description of Europe back when it was Europe. Which it isn’t anymore.

I quote from memory.

In England, everything is permitted except for that which is forbidden.

And in Italy, everything is permitted, especially that which is forbidden.

That’s all I got, folks. Go read Lileks.

Had a disturbing message on my answering machine when I got home tonight. I heard the voice of an older woman, very muffled, saying something incomprehensible about snow, and being late for work, ending with “Help me out, here.”

I think.

I don’t know who she is, and I don’t know who she was calling when she accidentally dialed my number. Whatever help she wanted she didn’t get, and it’s all over by now.

But I still feel guilty.

It was almost as cold today as yesterday, but it didn’t feel as bad. That’s one of the great things about cold weather. Even a small improvement registers palpably. I remember a year when we spent several days around 20 and 30 below, and when we got back up to zero it felt positively spring-like.

It also snowed a couple inches, which pleases me because it protects the roots of my sick tree. (Yes, hard as it may be for southerners to believe, snow does actually protect the ground from hard freezing. It has an insulating effect).

I’m in low spirits tonight, and I have a dentist appointment coming up, so that’s about all I’ve got.

I’ll share this link for adult footy pajamas, shared with me by an online friend.

I could go off on a rant about the infantilization of our culture, but…

They look kind of neat, really. Especially on a night like this.

You want to talk about cold? It clawed its way up to 1° F. today. That was even colder than yesterday, when I had trouble starting my car after it had sat for about three hours in bright sunlight while I was in church.

And yes, I did go all France on the Viking Age Society on Saturday. I hope the guys are still alive.

I even lowered my sartorial standards today. Instead of a hat I wore a stocking cap, along with my faithful Air Force surplus arctic snorkel parka (the undisputed finest winter coat ever designed, imho). Instead of a coat and tie I wore a sweater and tie (a Norwegian sweater, of course). The sweater has a nice collar with a zipper. It converts into a turtleneck, and I made use of that option.

Man alive, it’s cold.

The air sucks the moisture right out of your skin, freeze-dries it, jets it into the stratosphere, and blows it to Greenland, where it falls to earth with a gentle tinkle.

And yet the days are getting longer. The sun shone cheerfully as I drove home from work.

They try to make us believe that this isn’t suspicious—this counterintuitive annual pattern where the sun shines more but the air gets colder anyway.

I know the truth. Haliburton conspired with the oil companies and the international bankers to artificially import cheap Canadian air, in order to raise oil and natural gas prices, swelling their obscene profits.

You can’t pull the wool over my eyes.

Actually, you can.

In fact I’d be grateful. Wool is nice and warm.

Thanks to Jared at the Thinklings for linking to yesterday’s post, and for flattering me. I can always use to be flattered.

Today was a little milder than yesterday, but it’ll clamp down on Friday. The predicted high temperature for Saturday is about 1° F. The good news is that I’ve found an excuse to wiggle out of the open-air ski event with the Viking Age Society. It’s my weekend on the church set-up team (we meet in a gymnasium, as I’m sure I’ve mentioned before). And the scheduled time conflicts with the race.

The Lord’s Church always takes first place with me.

Especially when the alternative is freezing my Asgard off.

I had a blinding flash of insight today.

And we all know what that means.

It means I’ve probably overlooked something.

Nevertheless I shall present it for your comments, criticisms and incredulity.

My thesis: There is a substantial element of racism and chauvinism in the doctrine of Multiculturalism.

This is confusing, because I believe that one cause of Multiculturalism is a loss of faith in our own culture and traditions.

But looked at from another angle, I see an element of cultural arrogance too (not surprising in a philosophy so avidly embraced in France).

Here’s my question: Why would a nation assume that bringing in a massive population of foreigners would not radically alter its own treasured traditions and liberties?

It seems to me the only explanations are either cultural arrogance or plain racism.

To attempt the Multicultural experiment, a country has to figure that the new immigrants are either…

a) so culturally impoverished that they will gladly cast aside their own traditions in order to embrace those of their new home (“There are only two kinds of people in the world; us and those who wish to be us”), or…

b) so stupid that they will soak up their new environment like sponges, without any will to resist (“They’re just little brown people, after all. They’re really like children”).

A culture of thought at once filled with self-hatred and contemptuous of others sounds like a contradiction, but we see it constantly in individuals. The greatest bigots are often the most insecure and self-loathing people.

That’s my theory, what it is. And it’s mine.