It's Official

We are the dumbest nation on earth. This story proves it.

Heaven forbid we have journalists in this country who actually spend time studying candidates and their positions on real issues, giving us nuanced, intelligent writing about what we could expect under a McCain or Obama presidency, rather than soundbites breathlessly delivered on the moment. Instead we get dog owners saying they prefer McCain.

Jesus Christ.

This probably shouldn't surprise anyone; with newsrooms shrinking in step with circulation, papers are nearly to the point where only j-school grads are filling newsrooms. And while I'm not saying this is all bad, perhaps a little experience and perspective would help things out. Believe me - I used to be a j-school grad, and I didn't know a damn thing when I graduated. Still don't, but I probably would have thrown up in my mouth a bit when this assignment landed on my lap.

We've reverted to 1800, where people got their news from papers that were fronts and propaganda pieces from the political parties. And while we as a nation survived for 200 years, I'd like to see us maybe move forward rather than backwards.

According to the piece, only a few presidents haven't had pets of some sort, including Polk, Fillmore, and Arthur. Damn that Fillmore; I always thought he was shifty. All these presidents were one-termers; I guess we can now infer that an Obama presidency will end the same way.

At least that's what the tea leaves told me yesterday.

Newton is a Harsh Master

It seemed like slow motion - the soda bottle slipped from my grasping fingers, slowly turning over as it sped towards the floor.

I tried making the catch, hoping to stave off the inevitable, but my reflexes aren't up to gravity's inflexible standards. The bottle landed on its side and the cap shot straight off and under the vending machine. Soda fountained up over the machine, me and the floor, and the bottle rocketed across the floor, propelled by a shower of soda. Fortunately, a table stopped it.

So there I stood, covered in Diet Pepsi, surveying the trail of soda ending under the nearby table.

At least the people in the kitchen clapped after it was over.

When "I Love You" Is Not Enough

Police said the man they arrested lived a few blocks from Crystal and may have had a romantic interest in the girl.

I have to wonder about this guy's thought processes: send cute notes or flowers anonymously? Nah - too cliche.

Talk to her and ask her out? I want to set myself apart from the other guys.

Kidnap her dog, behead it and send the severed head to her in a gift box? Eureka!

Somehow I can't see this elderly couple staring into each other's eyes while reminiscing about how he courted her by acting like Kevin Spacey in Seven.

I suppose it could have been worse - he could have decided to kidnap her grandmother. I hope he's given a little quiet time as a guest of the state.

Much Ado . . .

Turns out I was wrong - it was a leaky water supply after all. Took five minutes to fix. My visions of cracked wax rings and cracked plumbing stacks weren't true after all.

I still don't trust the house. It's looking at me all shifty.

Huh

So I guess my computer thought it was being helpful when it deleted all the files off my iPod sometime last night. And while I appreciate initiative, I would have liked a little notification so I could have maybe, say - reloaded the roughly 19 GB of music and podcasts I had stored on it, instead of sitting here poking it, staring at it and wondering how in the hell I'm going to pass the time this afternoon.

Sweet Jesus, I may have to work.

Trash Talking

The gray skies reflected my mood perfectly; I wanted to crawl back into bed and sleep the day away. Unfortunately, the world still revolves despite my wishes otherwise, and so I had to emerge into it.

At the top of my errand list: the library. Generally, the library cheers me up - all those books, all those words, knowledge and characters hidden away, waiting to be discovered usually causes my heart to grow a size or two.

Why was I in such a funk? I couldn't say; the holidays were rushing up ever closer, and the fact that it was Sunday meant the weekend was drawing to it's inevitable close and the thought of a full week of work just made me want to curl up in a ball.

So there but for the grace of God I went, and of course I arrived ten minutes too early. So there I stood with about 20 other bibiophiles, students and wayward souls.

As I leaned against a pillar thumbing through a book, the voices rang out nearby:

"Is this yours? Here, I think you dropped it."

"What the hell are you doing?" replied a second voice.

I looked up to see a tall, lanky middle-aged man who looked as if he were still living in the '60s - and couldn't be happier, standing next to a dark blue, beaten-up sedan. The driver of the sedan shouted out.

"Don't throw things in my car, man. What's your problem?" And he threw a scrap of paper out the window at the aging hippie.

The hippie, nonplussed, picked up the scrap, tossed it back into the car through the open window. "I don't have a problem; I don't like litterers."

The paper shot back out the window. "You throw that back in this car again and you'll be sorry!"

Back in the window. "There's a bank of trash cans just right there. Use them!"

Out the window, and followed by the driver's side door opening. A younger, thick guy around my age stood up. He was wearing a shirt the same color his car once was and a deep scowl on his face. "Stop messing with my property, man!"

The hippie pointed to the ground. "This is your property too! I'm tired of people messing with my property! Why aren't you?"

The guy stomped around to the hippie and stood in his face. "I don't like litterers either, but I don't like you messing with my stuff."

"I'm just cleaning up after you."

At this point, a third man enters the scuffle. "Good Lord! Here -- I'll pick it up. Why are you acting like this? There's kids around! Just pick it up and let it go!"

He stepped between them and picked up the offending scrap and carried it to a trash can.

At this point, the car owner began appealing/attacking the crowd. "I don't like litterers either, but this is wrong. I'm going to have security ban you and you from the library!" he said this while pointing at the hippie and the samaritan.

People started giggling and rolling their eyes. "The holidays must be getting closer," a woman muttered - loud enough for everyone to hear.

"I don't like trash and litterers either! Why don't you just mind your own business?" the car owner stared whining.

The doors opened and he stormed into the library. Everyone else followed.

Throughout all this, I stood there, leaning against my pillar, trying not to laugh at the utter ridiculousness of the situation. I might have tried to stop the fight had it happened, but I didn't feel any need to get involved otherwise.

However, something cheered me about the exchange. Maybe it was the triumph of the rational people over the goofy litterer. Maybe it was the way the hippie handled the situation. Or maybe it was the fact that I wasn't the only one the holidays were apparently getting to.

In short, I think it helps to know that nothing helps a foul mood to know that there's always someone grouchier and moodier than you.

Or maybe I don't like litterers.

I followed the crowd into the library, took care of business and moved on with the beginnings of a smile on my face.

A Good Ocean View Can't Be Beat

What do you say?

We all put some money together and purchase a sovereign nation. I like it!

Oooh! Oooh! I want to be emperor!

Apparently, the Axe Handle Wasn't Available

Man attacks another man with antlers in a road rage incident.

I know of people who carry blackjacks, bats, heavy flashlights and even guns in their cars in case they meet some maniac some day. But carrying antlers? I'm all for self-defense, but antlers?

And how exactly does one deal with an antler-wielding attacker?

Reasonable Doubt

Woman shoots husband over a warm beer.

After reading this I have to wonder: was it because the beer was warm, because it was Stag, or because it was warm Stag? It sounds to me like he was asking for trouble.

Missouri DOR Can Lick My Balls

Copy of the e-mail I just sent to the state of Missouri:

I just spent more than 30 mintues in line only to be told that I could not renew my plates today. Why? Because apparently, I did not have my 2004 personal property tax receipts. That's funny -- and utter crap, because I did have it with me.

It seems that back in 2004 when I purchased my car, I was leasing a Honda Civic. As part of my lease, I had to pay the personal property taxes, which I did. My name is even on the property tax form as a c/o.

When I registered my car, they accepted it without any trouble. So EXACTLY WHY DID THEY NOT ACCEPT IT NOW?

Please answer this for me, because I really want to know. I don't understand how two years ago, they accepted this paperwork without any problems, but now it's a problem. The state didn't have any trouble cashing the check back in 2004, 2003, or 2002. I paid it. I have the receipts, which according to some arcane bureacratic rule, I can't use.

So now I have to go to another office to get a waiver, when in this golden year of 2006 AD, we have these things called computers that talk to one another via this magical invention known as the internet. In fact, I'm using it to communicate with you now! How hard is it to set the systems up so the ("extremely") helpful employee can go ahead and look the damned thing up, thereby taking care of the problem? I'm willing to be that an integrated system would save all sorts of time and money, which is probably why the state rejects that solution. Please explain this me, because I'm utterly confused about this.

But mostly, I'd like to know why is it that I can use a valid tax receipt showing I paid my property tax in 2004 is no longer valid. That doesn't make a lick of sense and right now, I'm so angry that my hands are still shaking. Because Monday, I now have to take time off of work, drive downtown and get a piece of paper (that they probably won't have - because I already paid my taxes) that merely repeats information that I already gave them. Please explain to me how this makes sense.

This state never ceases to amaze me. In the roughly 18 years that I've been driving, I have never had an easy time getting my plates renewed - no matter how many times I check the paperwork I have or how early I start, some new rule keeps springing up that keeps me from taking care of it without jumping through so many hoops that circus monkeys start shaking their heads in wonder.

Thank you for your time. I'm not really expecting to hear from you, since I know what a premium the state puts on its customer service.

Sincerely,

Brian McCown

Christ, I am pissed. My hands are still shaking. Needless to say, I plan giving my amigos over at the Missouri Dept. of Revenue a friendly call on Monday so that we may discuss my issues with them. I'm going to try not to use the word "fuck" as many times as I did when I sat down to write this, but I'm not promising anything. In fact, I was kind of proud that I only dropped one f-bomb when I was told I couldn't renew my plates.

Apparently, There WAS Something Left to Sell

If you thought major league baseball has sold out to ridiculous levels (AT&T Call to the bullpen, anyone?) and could go no further, you were wrong.

At this rate, it's only a matter of time before Jerry Reinsdorf sells that last shard of dignity on e-bay.

Wreckage

The car settled in the trees, gently rocking for a moment or two as if it wanted to get back up, then it settled into stillness. Steam hissed from the crumpled front end as I ran up to the car, briefly wondering if it was liable to burst into flames or explode (thank you, years of bad TV). The whole time, I dreaded what I would find.

Augusta is tucked away in the hills of Missouri, about 20 miles south of St. Charles. It’s a quiet, rural area of rolling hills and farms. It’s a stop along the Katy Trail, and it’s known for its wineries. Every October, a long caravan of cars full of wine-country pilgrims wind their way up and down the hills along the country roads.

Darcy and I were headed there Saturday afternoon, when we came to one of the steepest, most winding hills. A short line of cars had just started down the hill while we were starting our climb. The lead car in the downward procession suddenly tried jerking to a halt, juked right and left, spun out, sailed off the road, flipped twice and landed in the ditch not 30 feet from my car.

When you see an accident like this, time slows. It takes a second to register that lives – including your own – are potentially at risk. You feel like you’re watching something that’s going on somewhere else – thing like this don’t happen, they can’t. Something like this is too terrible to contemplate.

I told Darcy to call 911 as I jumped out – along with several others – to see what could be done. And really – there wasn’t much. Someone had already helped the sobbing seven-year-old off to the side. Two people were helping a forty-ish woman from the car as a girl climbed into the back seat to remove the baby from her car seat. I helped the woman from the car sit down on the embankment then started to go around to the other side to see about freeing the driver. With someone else’s help, he climbed out of the car and walked around to his family.

Glancing inside the car, I could see air bags limply hanging from the dashboard and steering wheel. Toys, pens, and all the assorted flotsam scattered throughout the passenger compartment. Had they not been wearing seatbelts, we’d have been carrying their bodies from the remains of the car.

Someone more knowledgeable in first aid than I started treating the victims, and the army of cell phoners finally reached emergency services. Help was on its way. Realizing that standing around and staring with ten other people would do little good, we returned to the road and headed onto our destination.

This summer and fall especially, it seems like tragedy and fear are lurking just a heartbeat away, ready to spring at a moment’s notice. Second chances are rare. Don’t let the piddling problems weigh you down – save that for the big ones. Hug your kids, kiss your wives (husbands, etc.), and revel in what you have instead of dreaming about what you don’t.