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.

Here’s a report of trash in the Arizona desert apparently left behind by would-be immigrants crossing the border. I gather the traffickers insist that no one take anything with them–no extra clothes, backpacks, or family photos. I keep thinking that only a few time and location details would need to change to make this an old story about slavery. This looks like evidence of a preparation for their exploitation. Who could defend this?

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.

Illinois man wants to change his name to ‘In God We Trust.’