“We think they do, quite frankly,” Adm Mike Mullen, chairman of the US Joint Chiefs of Staff, told CNN.

[From BBC NEWS | Americas | Iran's uranium 'enough for bomb']

Oh, wait. Uh, maybe not:

Iran is not close to having a nuclear weapon, which gives the United States and others time to try to persuade Tehran to abandon its suspected atomic arms program, U.S. Defense Secretary Robert Gates said on Sunday.

[From Iran not close to nuclear weapon: Gates | International | Reuters]

It seems like we’re getting a lot of conflicting messages from the government recently. Like Obama saying we’re pulling troops out of Iraq, and then generals saying things like oh no we aren’t we’re going to be there for twenty years.

I guess we get to sit back and see how much change is actually going to happen.

I was once drunk and bored and without a lot of money, walking with a couple of friends in downtown Minneapolis. We were heading to a party, but we had plenty of time to get there. As we were walking, I said, HOLY SHIT, THE CHURCH OF SCIENTOLOGY! THEY HAVE FREE PERSONALITY TESTS! LETS GO!

One friend ducked out and went to have a cup of coffee. But me and Isaac, we bopped on in, where we were given a multiple choice test, in format almost identical to the standardized tests that represent the keys to the gates of education in America. Having been a washout from University, I wasn’t up for it. I always hated these tests, so I just did the random thing. I made nice patters; christmas trees and so on. Isaac, a graduate student, could take a test as well as he could take his liquor (provided it’s not cognac), and dutifully (but easily) answered all the questions quicker than I did.

The man, with gray/blond thinning hair combed straight back, wearing a gray sweater that I normally associate with librarians, came back and took our test forms to correct them. We assumed he would scan them through a machine and have our results in a moment or two. So we excused ourselves to the restroom, took a shot off of my friend’s flask, and then I stole some coloring markers (my Scientology markers, which I kept for a long time; I told people I was saving them to draw something crazy). When we returned to the table where we had taken the test, we waited…and waited…we finally noticed that he was entering the results of the test into a computer by hand. And the computer looked like a 386. Maybe a 486. This was in like 2004. I remember thinking, Jesus, Tom Cruise better make another movie, because the Church is really going to hell. What was Elron thinking, out there in Outer Space, on his non-corporeal research trip into the cosmos?

Also, why were taking the test, my friend noticed (I didn’t) that the phone had been ringing fairly frequently while we were there, and the man kept answering, Hello, Church of Scientology Minnesota. I thought nothing of it. But my friend (who is perceptive) noticed that was all he said. He just would hang up after that. Was it wrong numbers? Did they have a similar phone number to some very popular or well used number? Or were they people angry at the Church, calling and yelling expletives? But in that case, I’m sure they’d just block the number.

My theory was this: They had set up an automated calling machine, maybe inside the Church building itself, and had it calling the main number every five minutes or so. This way when people were in the building, it would seem even more busy than usual. Now, to pull this off, the person answering the phone should say something like, Hello, Church of Scientology, how can I help you? Why yes, we do offer that service! Would you like to make an appointment?

But it’s kind of a drag. I mean, every five minutes, having to have a fake conversation? It’s one thing to talk to a real person every five minutes, but it’s another to have to invent a person to talk to every five minutes. Even if you take away the constant invention and have a nice cheat sheet of scripts to use, it’s still boring to play the same role constantly.

So like every job, he was slacking. He was still doing his job, but you know, he wanted to get by as easily as possible. Yes, praise Lord Elron. May he be exalted, etc. I deem you Clear. And so on. But as far as he’s concerned, that first hour of work is his, Elron-dammit, and leave him alone until he finishes his first coffee, and he’s had a chance to visit his friends who are working in the education center on the third floor. He’ll wander down to the staff room, maybe grab a doughnut, lazily say whatever the Scientology version of Grace is, and then he’ll be more than happy to get to work, thank you so much.

(We can maybe imagine this is why after inventing the idea of plurality God had to go through with it and really create it. It was just to hard to imagine plurality all the time. The universe tends towards entropy because the agents of the universe tend towards laziness.)

After using the E-meter and the spiel that he’s given a hundred times before, and telling us how depressed we were, he could tell, oh yes, look it’s right here on the graph (as if not realizing that using graphs to make a point is a technique that died when Ross Perot used them in the longest infomercial in American television history, and convinced the American people that if Ross Perot stood for anything, it was that he was boring as fuck).

He asked us if we watched the news on TV or read the newspapers. We told him that we were, indeed, well-informed individuals, full of information about the world.

Well, he said, why don’t you try, just for a couple of weeks, to avoid this sort of information. It’s almost always negative, he said, and it’s what’s depressing you. He said, Do this, and come back in two weeks, and take the test again, and I think you’ll find that you’re a lot happier.

And because I was drunk (because I am not normally such a daring smart ass), I looked him in the eyes, with deep seriousness, into the pale and faded blue surrounded by pale and faded blonde hair, eyes that had the look common to both kinds of Catholics; practicing and non-practicing: When you ask about religion, you’ll find that ex-Catholics and Catholics answer in the exact same tone of voice, one of weary resignation. And they both have that look in their eyes, that says, yeah, yeah, I know. So here was this Scientologist, eyes saying, yeah, yeah, I know. And when I said (out loud and not with my eyes), “So…ignorance IS bliss?”

And he looked at me, with his yeah, yeah, I know eyes, and said earnestly, Exactly. Like it was the first time he’d had someone come in and who had actually got it.

And that’s Scientology.

But I’ve finally decided to reverse that decision, and now hereby call for the repeal of Roe v. Wade. As was explained by the Archangel Gabriel to me last night in a dream, while eating at a Dunkin’ Donuts, aborting a fetus before birth is reserved for God and God alone. For does it not say in the Gospel of Luke that the Lord “knew you even while you were in the womb?” For you are a person at conception, regardless of the opinions of certain Satanic jurists. And when God, in his total omnipotence, looks at you and lets you come forth from the womb and into the arms of your mother, it is God saying, “Alright, you’re cool.”

Or at least, it used to be. Now, having usurped God’s role, plucking fetus from womb like Eve plucking the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good & Evil, God has turned his back on us. God is no longer watching the door to Club Earth, people. They’re just letting anyone in now.

And this was abundantly clear to me yesterday, when I watched Paris Hilton show Ellen around her house. And in Paris Hilton’s house*, there is a picture of Paris Hilton. And it is made of thousands of little pictures of Paris Hilton.

How many Paris Hiltons will it take for you Godless bastards to let God cull the crowd with miscarriages again? You heartless sons of bitches, recant, recant of your Godlessness!

*A ‘house’ in the same way that the Mississippi is merely a ‘river’.

Note: Yes, I’m talking about miscarriage, which I realize can be an emotional subject. Paris Hilton makes me angry enough that I don’t care.

No, I’m talking about the class of married men who never say a single good word about their wives. Wives who are deficient in every possible way: stupid, lazy, free-loading, etc. At least if one listens to their husbands.

They talk and complain, and bitch, and in general are kind of a pain in the ass to be around, because their conversational turns are as predictable as a NASCAR track. “Hey, did you see that throw Ichiro made yesterday?”

“No. I told my wife to tape Sportscenter, but she didn’t. SHE IS A HORRIBLE CUNT.”

“Uh, you know, you could probably catch it on YouTube, or it might get played again later today on like ESPN News or something.”

“SHE CUNT AND ME HATE! RAH!”

And there it ends.

Because the universe is an ever recurring leitmotif of ‘STUPID CUNT’. All other melodies are relegated to playing counterpoint to that basic point. And I can’t understand why they think this way. I can’t even begin to wrap my head around the level of negativity and pettiness that’s necessary to look at the world that way. Thank the Lord.

Whenever I meet guys like this, and if there is no way for me to get out of the conversation, I always tell them that’s why I’m happy to be single.

But what I really mean is I’m happy I’m not a misogynistic douche bag.

“Guess what!” he said. “I traded the Husqvarna!” This was a motorcycle he’d fixed up. It was a special model that was designed for riding up steep grades. Very low-geared.

“What did you trade it for?”

“A cow!”

If he had said, “Magic beans!” I would have been less annoyed. As it was, I found myself uncharacteristically angry. A cow. A cow? A rage more intense and focused than my normal hormonal teenage brooding welled up inside of me. I now know what this feeling is: The feeling you have when your sense of reason is horribly violated. I felt the need to make my position on this development clear.

“I am not going to take care of a fucking cow.”

“What? No. I traded it to Jerry for some beef.” My father was so confused that he didn’t even comment on the fact I’d just dropped the f-bomb. Jerry was a friend of my father’s who owned a ranch down near the Coumbia River. He’d traded the motorcycle for the meat of a whole cow.

But what you have to understand is this: The idea that my father might buy a cow made perfect sense to me because thats the sort of thing my father might do. “I’m tired of paying for fucking milk! It’s bullshit! I’m gonna just get my own damn cow!”

The song is about a young woman, 22 years old, living in Saint Paul. Which is kind of weird, because I was about 22 when I moved to the Twin Cities. While I hadn’t just graduated from college, I had decided to strike out on my own.

(Okay, to be honest, I was gonna fuck around for a few months, then go home. Instead, I stayed for four years, splitting time between both Saint Paul and Minneapolis. Oops. This is probably how I’ll get married. I’ll meet some woman and think, eh, lets hook up for a bit. Next thing you know, we’ll be wearing matching running suits.)*

When I hear this song, it instantly brings up every memory of gray Minnesota winters. My homies know what I’m talkin’ about. The perma-snow that just turns gray after the first month, and the prolonged dusk that hangs over everything. The barren trees.

On the other hand, no homeless punk kids. Win some, lose some.

but home was a photograph you taped to your wall

it’s gonna be a cold white Christmas in St Paul

This lyric works for me. I’d lived in Ellensburg, but home was definitely still my parent’s house. When I got to Minnesota, that ‘home’ became a place I visited once a year. I didn’t have a photograph taped on the wall, but this is poetry, baby. It’s all about metaphor. Or something.

beer for breakfast who’s gonna scold

Okay, so I don’t think I’ve ever been that bad but a few times. That I say ‘a few times’ kind of bothers me, but not much.

& you trudge to work through the snow in a coat down to your knees

& you linger at the twinkle lights as you pass by the mall

& count the days to a cold white Christmas in St Paul

Since I took the bus to work, yeah. Totally get this one, too. Ever feel like your eyeballs are gonna freeze? Man, this is why as much as Alaska really kicks ass in the summer, no damn way would I live there.

And here’s the lines that I really dig, the ones that get down to it:

when you’re on your own you’ve got no one to please

in a Minnesota city just as bare & as mean as the winter trees

but you’ll be damned if you’re the one making collect calls

on a cold white Christmas in St Paul

I never felt exactly this way. But to a certain extent, it’s the reason I think anyone moves a thousand miles away from home. You want to show that they need you more than you need them. Because fuck these weird people who fate stuck you with. What in the world, beyond DNA, do you really have in common with them? And after a few cold white Christmases in Saint Paul, once you’ve stripped the sense of obligation that comes with family, you realize that you have everything in common with them.

Lindie, who recommended this band/album to me, opts for ‘New Year’s Kiss’ as her favorite song. I like it, too, but ‘Cold White Christmas’ just resonated on a more personal level. I’ve got both of them on my muxtape at the moment for you to listen to.

*I always imagine that if I have some sort of long term relationship, she will scream and yell at me until I become healthy. This is a great fantasy, because this way I can eat nothing but meat and potatoes, drink, and laze about the internet. “No matter,” I think. “Imaginary future girlfriend will sort me out.” Meanwhile, I lay the foundations for a second chin.

My grandmother is the one who helped steer me onto the path I’ve taken in life, when she gave me a radio drama presentation of ‘The Hobbit’ on my seventh birthday. This is what made me become the great honking geek I am today, and also meant that I would never date a girl until I was eighteen. Had she not given this to me, I may have perhaps gone on to be normal, perhaps even popular, at school.

Of course, I would also have been infinitely dumber.

I’ve told this little story to a lot of people, but like most stories, it’s just a short hand way of summarizing a complex and unwieldy string of memories, filled with so many details it would be impossible to take them out of your head in their entirety and make them sensible for others. It captures every encouragement she gave me, and every book she gave me, gently prodding me along the Right and True path.

I don’t really regret not finishing school anymore. I regret that I don’t have a degree that gets me paid oodles of money, but from what I hear, that’s a myth anyway. But I do regret the sound of my grandmother’s voice when I told her I’d been kicked out of school over the phone. I usually claim that I have no regrets, and that you should never regret anything, because that’s a terrible way to go through life. But this is the one I can’t dodge.

I went to Minnesota and then to Europe to make up for my lack of formal education. I went for a lot of reasons, but I’ll put the psychological desire down to a desire to erase that sound of regret.

(Yes, I know, you’re thinking, “Minnesota?”, but really it was a very educational time in my life.)

Then again, I was so far away, I never got to see my grandmother. Or really, any of my family, since they all live in Washington State. And it was painful, because as my grandmother was declining, I saw it in drastic, yearly increments. And, coward that I am, I tended to avoid it. It’s hard to see someone so vital and loved so reduced in stature.

I showed her pictures of my trips in Europe a few days before she ceased to be lucid at all. I felt better about it, but that’s what moments like these are all about: making us feel better. I don’t know what it was for her. I hope it made up for my past fuck ups. I hope it made her proud of me again. The next time I saw her she didn’t recognize me and thought I was just some nice young gentleman who was helping her with her popcorn while she watched Shirley Temple in ‘Heidi’.

But most likely, she was always proud of me. Disappointed, yes, but she was truly the sweetest of us. I think she wouldn’t have been able to not feel happy with me and my life. Certainly all outward signs would say so. She knew I still read voluminously, and that I was engaged and curious about the world. And as far as I could tell from anything she said to me, she was happy for me.

And that is all we have in life, those surface details from which we have to divine the inner feelings of others.

I’m writing this down because it’s the only way to remember. To try to pluck whatever fragments of memory can be saved from the tangled webs in our head and put them somewhere we can reclaim them should they ever get lost in our own minds. I don’t believe in an afterlife, so I don’t expect to have some sort of tearful reunion with her, bathed in the light of whatever higher power there might be. She’s dead, she’s gone, and I will never see her again.

But I’m writing this to leave a marker, a place to go back to when I find it impossible to navigate my own brain, a map to follow to lovely memories of watching the Disney Channel at her house, of the clothes she made me (the lovely blue corduroy outfit I wore until I just couldn’t fit into the damn thing anymore), of the time when she wrote my report on Virginia in sixth grade for me, because I was a terrible little child. Of every hug, encouragement, and laugh I ever heard from her. This is the treasure map of my brain.