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 →

I was a teenage Elvis impersonator. There are worse things.

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.

An exhibit of photographs, called “Architecture of Silence – Cistercian Abbeys of France“

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.