The Next Level

Very Short Stories (Remastered with Bonus Features)

2011-11-07T18:33:00.003-06:00

This week's Next Level column has been digitally remastered. We have attempted to preserve, as closely as possible, the contents of the original work. Because of the high resolution of your computer monitor, limitations of the source document can be revealed. In storing and handling this article you should apply the same care a hemophiliac would employ while carrying a glass jar full of razorblades down a Crisco-soaked stairway to a banana patch. Should this page become soiled by fingerprints, dust, dirt, blood, Malt-O-Meal, Play-Doh or Marilyn Manson, it can be wiped (always in a straight line, from center to edge) with a squeegee or a freshly cut slab of veal. If you follow these suggestions, the Next Level column will provide a lifetime of pure reading enjoyment.

The Disappointment

When he made it home, he kicked off his shoes and went straight to the kitchen. There was a familiar shape under the oven light.

“Mmmm,” he said. “Someone’s baking banana bread.”

He walked over, opened the oven door, inhaled deeply, and leaned in for a closer look.

“Oh,” he said. “Someone’s baking a meatloaf.”

Sunrise at the Campground

Light breaks through the insect screen overhead. Dew runs down the sides of the tent. Birds begin singing and roosters begin crowing. Cigarette smokers begin hacking and spitting.

Kate’s Positive Attitude

Kate: Let’s play hockey.
Paul: We don’t have any equipment.
Kate: I have a hockey stick!
Paul: That’s broken.
Kate: Then we have TWO hockey sticks!

Depth-perception Etiquette

When walking past a stranger, it is considered normal and polite to say hello. From a distance greater than fifty feet, it is not.

Format Change

Jeff had been working with computers all day. It was nearly midnight when he got home. He was so tired, he headed straight to the bedroom, where his wife, Hannah, was already asleep. When he turned on the light, she opened her eyes.

Unfortunately, Jeff forgot he had changed the type style, or font, on his face to Times New Roman. Normally, he kept his face in Helvetica. Not recognizing him, Hannah assumed he was an intruder and screamed.

Jeff was trying to decide whether to explain the situation or change his facial font back to normal when Hannah threw her clock radio at him and his system crashed.

The Unfinished Sentence

The amount of pubic hair in the sink seemed to indicate

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His book, “The Spowl Ribbon,” is available online at paullundgren.com.

Attack on America

2011-09-11T18:20:00.002-05:00

It’s Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001, 10:30 a.m. I’m standing in my kitchen munching on an apple. Suddenly, a huge man who looks like the pro wrestler Razer Ramon comes thundering through the front door announcing that he is an employee of the Water and Gas Dept. and needs to read the meter.

Without asking for identification or taking any security precautions whatsoever, I show him to the basement stairway and resume chomping on my apple. Soon, my basement housemates greet Razer Ramon and he starts talking to them about how the country is at war.

“We’re at war, dude,” I hear him say. “Haven’t you turned on the TV or the radio yet?”

I turn on the television and see a huge cloud of smoke and debris where the World Trade Center once stood. The news anchor explains that two hijacked passenger jets smashed into the towers, causing them to collapse.

Razor Ramon seems to be less shocked about what happened in New York than he is that no one in my house has turned on a television or radio yet. He repeats at least three times, “I can’t believe you haven’t had the TV on yet.”

After a few seconds Razor Ramon and my housemates join me in the living room to watch the news coverage. Ten minutes later, Razor Ramon decides he better get back to work. Shortly after that my housemates break off to go grocery shopping.

I’m transfixed, and stay on the couch watching the live broadcast and repeated crash and collapse videos. I’ve seen enough death on the news to be somewhat desensitized to it, but this is different. It’s death on a grand scale, through bizarre tactics, with remarkable and chilling results.

As much as I want to take what’s happening seriously, though, the various TV stations keep attempting to over-dramatize what’s happening (as if it isn’t dramatic enough on its own) by coming up with awesome titles. “Attack on America” is the first one I notice. Then I turn the station to see “Day of Terror” — which takes the word tacky to a new extreme.

As the clock creeps past noon, I decide to report to work at the local weekly newspaper, where I’m being phased out of employment. As I walk down Superior Street, everything looks normal in Duluth, but it feels really weird. Everyone is watching each other for clues about how we are supposed to behave. The assumption at this point is that everyone knows what has happened, and the world is supposed to have changed, even though nothing has really changed in Duluth. It’s a normal day, except for the news.

At the Ripsaw office, the television is on for the first time I can remember. I go into the lounge area every 10 minutes, watch a few replays, sigh, shake my head and go back to work. Everyone else does the same thing.

It’s Election Day, so when I leave work I have two hours to vote in the City Council races before I’m due at a dinner party. Because I have recently moved to a new precinct, I have to find a registered voter in my neighborhood to vouch for me at the polling place. None of my housemates are home, so I end up going door to door, wondering if people will be suspicious of me under the circumstances. Eventually I find a guy who is willing to go vote with me if I’ll wait until he finishes dinner.

I end up arriving late to my scheduled dinner party, where a guest is informing everyone that her brother works in the World Trade Center. She woke up this morning to her sister screaming at her through the telephone about what might have happened. Later in the day they were told their brother was not at work and is alive and well.

Despite the good news, this dinner guest is obviously still shaken by the day’s turn of events. She expresses relief about her brother’s safety, but she is noticeably hurt that many of her brother’s coworkers — one of which is his best friend — are probably dead. Within two minutes, the dinner conversation changes to a new subject and the whole table is loudly laughing and joking as if no one died today.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His book, “The Spowl Ribbon,” is available online at paullundgren.com.

Speech to the Denfeld Class of 1991

2011-06-27T21:36:00.001-05:00

Here we are at Mr. D’s Bar & Grill for our 20-year high-school reunion. I’d like to say right off the bat that this place has never stopped playing music from our generation, but go ahead and lose your mind when Tone Loc’s “Wild Thing” comes on the sound system, as if it’s a really special moment that’s taking you back to the old days for the first time since our 10-year reunion.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could possibly escape the music from our high school days at some point, maybe just for a month or so, to allow us the opportunity to legitimately get nostalgic about it at our reunions?

It seems that making fun of our era has actually become its own cliché. Protruding bangs and curly mullets! M.C. Hammer! White Lion! Zubaz! Winger! Pinning pants at the ankles! Church Lady! Vanilla-freaking-Ice! Our high-school years are indisputably cheesy when we focus on popular culture, because popular culture is always cheesy, whether it’s sock hops and poodle skirts, disco and bell bottoms, or sexting and Justin Bieber. Those are not the things that bind a class together.

Having been sequestered in the same building for a handful of formative years is what makes us brothers and sisters. We certainly didn’t all get along and love each other unconditionally — that’s for sure — but a great number of friendships were forged around that clock tower, and that’s what we celebrate tonight. Professing Denfeld exceptionalism and calling upon our “Hunter Pride” are not really necessary.

On a side note concerning the bonds of our shared experience, it’s interesting to consider that some of our classmates actually managed to marry each other. Though most of us had to move on to find long-term requited love — or are perhaps still searching — it’s nice to know some of our Denfeld family’s incestuous romances continue to this day, producing inbred children who will soon have their own chances at finding high school sweethearts. Hopefully they’ll be sparking on each other to a better song than Motley Crüe’s “Without You.”

High school is but a microcosm of our lives, of course, and I have little doubt that all of us have at some point been on both ends of the bullying that occurs as we joust for status throughout our existence. When reunions roll around it can bring up yearnings for atonement. Let us forgive our 20-year-old trespasses. You shouldn’t have called me a dork, and I shouldn’t have dropped a spitball down the back of your pants. I’m glad we can move on now.

Five of our classmates are deceased, and as the old joke goes, some of you aren’t feeling so hot yourselves. I’m relieved to say I feel fantastic at age 38, and if any of you are taking what you have for granted, I have a pair of slippers for you. They’re Doug Bragg’s slippers.

Doug died from leukemia 17 years ago, and his slippers have been making the rounds ever since. I’ve had them for about two years now. When something silly starts to upset me, I put them on. About three seconds of that straightens me out.

Though I am sentimentally attached to Doug’s slippers, I’ll pass them on to you in a minute if you’d like them. You are part of the family, after all.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His book, "The Spowl Ribbon," is available online at paullundgren.com.

Trespassing

2011-05-27T21:29:00.002-05:00

One summer night in 1992, when I was 19 years old, I came home from doing something forgettable and found three of my friends waiting for me in the parking lot. They said I should grab a flashlight and come with them on an adventure.

We drove across town to a building on East Fifth Street, tucked in a residential area. It was called Old Main, centerpiece of the old Duluth Normal School campus, which later expanded to become the University of Minnesota Duluth.

I was well aware of UMD, but I didn’t know about Old Main, which was built in 1901 and closed in 1985. It consisted of classrooms, administrative offices, a library and an auditorium. Two neighboring buildings were still in use by the university as office and research space, but Old Main was dark and boarded up.

Jeff, the leader of our expedition, brought us to the west side of Old Main and pointed at an open window on the second floor.

“That’s where we get in,” he said. “All we have to do is climb up this fire escape and shinny along that ledge.”

The windows on the upper floors weren’t boarded, so some of the rooms were dimly lit by the streetlights outside. We mostly kept our flashlights off to avoid drawing attention to ourselves, but when we came to darker rooms we used them.

It’s a little nerve-wracking to wander into an unfamiliar building at night, but we weren’t overly frightened. When we entered one room and flushed some pigeons, however, there was a split second we all thought death was upon us.

Eventually, we found the way to the attic. Although we weren’t afraid of most of the building, we couldn’t bring ourselves to go up there. It might have been the amount of pigeon dung, it might have been that gaining access was tricky, or it might have been the notion that attics are extra spooky. It was probably all three.

We left the building with no injuries and no police attention. A few days later, we decided to return in broad daylight and go up into the attic. It was a large space and proved to be the highlight of the Old Main experience. We found a box of enrollment cards up there from the early 1900s. Had we found it at night, ghosts would have stolen our souls for sure.

Jeff discovered the building’s telephone system was still wired up, so we came back again with a boombox and connected it. Then we made a mix tape of creepy sound effects and invited some girls to come into the building with us at midnight on Halloween.

Our plan worked at first. We managed to get the girls into the building, and Jeff was able to sneak away from the group to activate the sound system, but the music ended up making it obvious that we were trying to scare the girls, which made the whole experience entirely not scary for anyone.

Halloween 1992 was the last time we were inside Old Main. A developer announced plans to convert the building into apartments shortly after, but on February 23, 1993, a fire gutted it. A different group of young people had gained entry, and one set fire to a seat in the auditorium.

The remains of Old Main were mostly demolished and removed, with some of the bricks sold as a fundraiser, but the red sandstone arches are still there … memories of sweet, glorious trespassing.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. This story is excerpted from a longer version on Perfect Duluth Day, which contains photos, more info about the building, and comments from other hooligans who entered the building.

Things She Said, Part Two

2011-02-12T10:40:00.000-06:00

Cammie said she has mice in her basement. She told me she catches them in sticky traps and takes them to more upscale neighborhoods to set them free.

"I want them to have better lives," she said.

* * *

Christine said she has mixed feelings about guys who drive pickup trucks.

"On icy winter days, when they race past my car at dangerous speeds, it pisses me off," she said. "They think they're so high and mighty up there, with their four-wheel drive, extended cab, gas-guzzling beast splashing slush up onto my windshield.

"But when I get stuck in a ditch and a guy with a pickup shows up with a tow chain and voluntarily crawls around in the dirt to hook up my car and pull me out for free, he gives all the pickup truck guys a good name."

* * *

Stephanie said a lot of bizarre things in her sleep. Suddenly she'd sit up and look at me with disgust, then blurt out something confusing.

"Why are you green?" she asked one night. "Are you full of crayons?"

* * *

Billie Jo said her dog took off after a rabbit one morning and chased it around the yard. In a state of panic, the rabbit tried to smash through one of the two-inch-square holes in the chain-link fence to escape.

"Being thicker than two inches, the rabbit got stuck in the fence," she said. "Its little head and front legs made it through, but its hind legs and ass were trapped inside the yard. Morgan was so stunned by this she didn’t even bite the rabbit and rip it apart like usual. She just stood there and sniffed its butt. The poor rabbit kept trying to run, but it was like it was on a treadmill -- those little legs kept chugging along, but that rabbit wasn’t going anywhere."

Billie Jo spent 15 minutes trying to figure out how to free the rabbit from the fence.

"I didn't know whether I should just squeeze his little hind legs and shove him through or what. Eventually I grabbed some wire snips and cut the fence. The poor thing hobbled away and probably got mauled by something else before noon."

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His book, "The Spowl Ribbon," is available at the Electric Fetus and online at paullundgren.com.

Things She Said

2010-12-12T10:32:00.003-06:00

She said, "Hi, my name is Angel. I smell like the Thanksgiving dinner you haven't eaten all summer long." That was a weird way for a stripper to start a conversation.

Perhaps a man might expect to meet a woman at Centerfold's Cabaret who smells like green-bean hotdish, but that wasn't the case with Angel. She had just returned from the alley, where she held the hair of another stripper, Ashley, who was puking into a garbage can.

"Is anyone ready for a lapdance?" she asked.

"You are," my friend Chris said to her.

* * *

Joyce said she's been good friends with Eli for many years. "Back when he was chief of police, he gave me a great piece of advice. He told me if I ever had to shoot an intruder I should aim to kill. That way there would only be one side to the story."

* * *

Connie said every time her family had a party there was a cake, and her grandmother always took a picture of it. "After she died we had to go through all her photographs and divvy them up," Connie said. "No one wanted the cake pictures, but we all thought we'd like to have pictures of Grandma taking pictures of cakes."

When Connie graduated from college the cake at her party came from the grocery store in a box. A sticker with the order printed on it in fuzzy dot matrix read, “full sheet decorated buttercream cake.” Her younger brother took one look at it and called it “shit-decorated buttcream cake” for the rest of the day. Connie said her grandmother didn’t like that.

* * *

Chelsey said the various rocks of the world have different psychological affects on people -- particularly agates, which are an aphrodisiac. "That's why people around Lake Superior are always thinking about sex," she said. "There are all these agates driving us crazy. It makes it hard to think about anything else."

She presented this bit of information as if she read it in a scientific journal. At first I considered searching the Internet or going to the library to see if I could find data to support or refute the claim. Then I decided it didn’t matter either way. Knowing the truth wouldn’t change my life at all.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His book, "The Spowl Ribbon," is available at the Electric Fetus and online at paullundgren.com.

Abduction

2010-11-17T17:22:00.002-06:00

Todd Franik pleaded guilty last week to abducting a West Duluth girl. The incident happened three months ago, within a block of my home. I was working at my desk when Franik grabbed the girl and shoved her into the trunk of his car.

If I had looked out the window at the right moment, I might have witnessed the abduction or perhaps even prevented it. Whenever Franik's case pops up in the news, I think about the extremely peripheral role I've played in his life.

Franik is four years older than me, and we lived less than three miles apart as kids. I have no memories of him, but the odds are pretty good that we crossed paths numerous times. We certainly had some of the same influences.

My fiancé's uncle remembers Franik attempting to steal his cap when they were kids. "I went after him and punched him in the face," he recalls. Uncle Lennie must not have punched Franik hard enough to make the lesson stick.

Franik took more from me than a cap. He abducted one of my neighbors. I never got the chance to punch him in the face for it, but I don't let that bother me much.

What bothers me is that I really don't have any attachment to the kids in my neighborhood. I don't know the names of any of them — not Franik's victim, not any of her friends, not one single kid out of the dozens I see playing outside.

When I was a kid, I knew the names of all the adults on my block, and they knew mine. That didn't protect me from potential abductors, but at least I felt like grownups were moderately interested in my life.

Now, I'm the adult, and one of my neighbors is taken to the edge of town against her will, sexually assaulted, and left bound and gagged in the woods. My reaction is to become temporarily interested in her welfare, then quickly go back to paying no attention.

I doubt any of the neighborhood kids know my name, but I'm sure they're aware of me. I'm the guy with the mean dog. That's not who I want to be, but it's what circumstances turned me into. Who am I to go against circumstances?

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His book, The Spowl Ribbon, is available at the Electric Fetus and online at paullundgren.com.

Suicide Note

2010-10-11T12:22:00.000-05:00

If you find me dead, it wasn't suicide. This is the opposite of a suicide note. I'm making a public announcement that I’m basically happy and have no plans of taking my own life any time soon.

Sure, I might seem down at times. Like anyone, I wish I had more in life. I'd like more money, more free time and a garage door that actually closes. But I do have a lot in this world — a steady income, people who love me, my health — so I can't really complain.

If anything tragic should happen to me, the potential of foul play having been involved should be thoroughly investigated. I'm not saying that I have more reason to fear for my safety than anyone else, but one can never be sure about these things.

Keep in mind that accidents do happen. Sometimes I like to go for long walks and I usually wind up on the edge of a cliff at some point, which has resulted in a few close calls over the years. It gets slippery on the top of Casket Quarry in winter, for example.

If you said something unkind to me recently, don't feel bad about it. I can honestly say I'm not holding any grudges. It would be a shame if I were to accidentally plunge to my death and leave you thinking you were responsible in some way.

If circumstances change, and I decide to kill myself, I'll be sure to compose another note clearly outlining my rationale. So remember, if there's no note accompanying my remains, I guarantee an accident or homicide has occurred.

I am a writer, after all. How could I just stick my head in a gas oven without saying goodbye to this cruel world in roughly 400 words? Such an assignment would certainly put the "dead" in deadline, that’s for sure.

Of course, I'd probably get writer's block and have to keep living for years and years, agonizing over draft upon draft of my final composition, until I'd finally succumb to that most dreaded of all fates — natural causes.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His book, The Spowl Ribbon, is available at paullundgren.com.

Back to School

2010-09-13T17:11:00.000-05:00

This is not your ordinary back-to-school article, boys and girls. This is practical advice from a class clown who went on to graduate from a middle-of-the-road university, almost with honors. So pay attention, my horny little pizza-faced friends.

First and foremost: There is a common misconception that the best time to misbehave is at the end of the school year. The theory, apparently, is that if you follow the rules at the beginning of the year, you can expect some slack if you screw up in the spring. Nothing could be further from the truth.

If you behave well at the beginning of the year, you raise the faculty's expectations of you and provide evidence that you know right from wrong. Also, you risk having a whole year of work pulled out from under you by zero-tolerance policies. You don't want to become another horror-story-kid who didn't get to graduate because of indulging in senior skip day or flunked a final.

Clearly, if you confine your most serious rule breaking to the beginning of the school year you'll have much less to lose, particularly if you attend a public school. Remember, the school district gets money from the state based on the number of students enrolled. It is simply not cost-effective to expel you at the beginning of the year.

A few other random bits of advice:

• Your teachers will think twice about busting you for cheating on a test if you go so far as to have the answers tattooed on your forearm.

• Keep in mind that, though it is illegal for anyone under the age of 21 to buy beer, it is perfectly legal for anyone to buy barley, hops and yeast. Also, the easiest day to get into bars with someone else's I.D. is Halloween. Plan ahead.

• While we're on the subject of alcohol: If your friends are pressuring you into heavy drinking — beer bongs and whatnot — and start calling you a wimp, there is a solid way to fight back. Invite them over for what you promise will be a wild party. Tell them you are making a wopatusi, or "wop," which is a punch made of fruit and vodka. When your friends show up, lead them to the bathroom, and show them that you have prepared the wop in your toilet. When they refuse to drink, tell them they are lightweights who don't know how to party.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His fascinating book, The Spowl Ribbon, is available at the Duluth Electric Fetus and online at paullundgren.com.

Wrong Target

2010-08-16T14:16:00.000-05:00

Dear guy who was snooping around outside my house last week,

Are you serious? You're thinking about breaking into my house? Obviously you aren't very far along with your research. For starters, why don't you just look at my house? Don't you think you can do better?

You should be able to determine from across the street in broad daylight that anyone who lives in a house like mine has less than $100 cash on hand and absolutely zero diamonds or precious emeralds.

If you're so poor that my spare money sounds attractive, perhaps I should inform you that I keep it in one of those giant Schmidt beer-bottle coin banks. Have fun making a speedy getaway with that.

Perhaps you haven't noticed the "Beware of dog," sign on my fence. I know, that isn't always a cause for concern, but in this case it is. I guarantee that if you enter my house a 96-pound Doberman will eat your face.

Allow me to offer you some helpful advice, since I have a college education and am not presently under the influence of methamphetamines. Breaking and entering is a dangerous and serious crime. If you're going to take the risk, give yourself a chance for a big score. In other words: Go steal from the rich, you moron.

Those people who live in big castles outside normal neighborhoods like mine have a lot of nice things you can make off with, and there are fewer neighbors nearby to catch you in the act.

Wealthy people go on long vacations, allowing you to take your time and do the job right. Many of their houses have driveways that allow you to pull right up to giant double doors for easy loading.

Even if I had an awesome widescreen digital TV -- which I obviously don't -- getting it through my narrow hallways and doors would require solving the kind of complicated geometric equations that led you to drop out of school and go into thievery in the first place.

So, the next time you put on that hooded sweatshirt of yours and go lurking in the night, use some common sense. Find a nice suburb or lake property to target. Leave your neighbors alone. Pawning compact discs is just not lucrative in today's market.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

Vulgar Graffiti

2010-07-23T10:26:00.002-05:00

The most common word in graffiti is "fuck." It often appears by itself — a single word left for others to ponder for decades or else paint over. It is probably meant to express general dissatisfaction with life. An expanded version of the sentiment might read: "I wish to say 'fuck you' to every random person who passes here. Such is my anger with the state of affairs in this world and the specific circumstances I deal with in my personal life. Though most people are not necessarily responsible for the things that upset me, I nonetheless hold everyone in contempt."

It is also not uncommon to see the word "shit" spray painted as a one-word message, which leads me to believe the act of graffiti is more about exercising the ability to be profane in a public and semi-permanent way than about getting across an idea. At least, I hope so. It seems unlikely that graffiti artists write "fuck" and "shit" as instructions to encourage public fornication and defecation. If they did, they could be much clearer by writing, for example, "shit here."

It's quite common to share ones appreciation for hard rock music through spray paint. Black Sabbath and Slayer seem to be the most popular. Rap and hip-hop are also associated with graffiti, but pop music seems to be virtually unrepresented. One would be hard pressed to find the names Gloria Estefan or Toby Keith spray-painted anywhere.

Although spray paint was around in the 1950s, it seems like honoring musicians through graffiti must have started in the late '60s, since the appropriate music styles were not available before then. It's hard to imagine "Carl Perkins rulez" or "Nat King Cole kicks muthafucking ass" on the side of a warehouse.

Song lyrics also show up in graffiti from time to time, like: "Break on through to the other side." Psychedelic sentiment seems to be the most popular. There are plenty of people who express their love for someone through graffiti, but it usually takes the form of a direct declaration — "Matt loves Cammie" or "M.P. + C.S." — rather than lyric quotations like, "Lady, I'm your knight in shining armor, and I love you."

More often than lyrics, vandals use a direct message to express their appreciation for rebellion, simply painting the words "smoke dope" or "get high." Other times it's just a simple note to let you know that "Brad smoked weed here: 3-21-99." This graffiti would be more useful if it were written in the future tense.

Dates are also used to commemorate sexual acts, usually fellatio. It's common to use the letters "B.J." to denote "blow job." Considering that it must be difficult to negotiate oral sex under bridges or on the sides of cliffs, it is perhaps an event worthy of marking the area with "B.J. 3-14-2010" when it happens, but I tend to think this type of graffiti more often reflects wishful thinking than reality.

Perhaps these people should start painting their bedroom walls with dates, like notches on a bedpost. There would be no fear of being caught by police, so they could be specific, without the need to abbreviate: "Mary Dittburner bent me over the dresser and pegged me with a dually inserted boomerang, Election Day 2008."

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is mail@paullundgren.com.

Should Oberstar bother with debates?

2010-06-23T10:22:00.000-05:00

Democratic Congressman James Oberstar is up for reelection again. He's been representing Minnesota's Eighth District since 1974. That's 18 terms, going on 19. In 2008 he won with 78 percent of the vote and declined all invitations to debate his opponent.

Allow me to repeat, in case the part of your brain that processes civic pride missed the key part of that opening paragraph: Oberstar was overwhelmingly reelected to the U.S. Freaking Congress, even though he refused to attend a single debate.

Prior to Election Day 2008, Oberstar appeared on WDSE-TV's Almanac North program and made a statement that should have been jaw-dropping to anyone who tuned in. Julie Zenner, co-host of the show, asked the congressman why he refused to debate Republican Michael Cummins.

"He claims that he's offered to debate a number of times and that your campaign has refused," Zenner said. "Is that a fair characterization?"

Oberstar responded: "I don't recall. That's a standard gimmick by challengers. (They say) 'I want to have a debate every day.' There's not much to debate with him, frankly. He's a nice fellow. I've met him. I met him up at the Chisholm Fire Days parade. We had a picture taken together with him and his daughters, and he's a very nice fellow. But I don't think there's anything of substance to debate."

Now let's review. First, Oberstar claimed to not remember if Cummins wanted to debate at all. Then, he suggested that Cummins wanted to "have a debate every day."

After declining to participate in any debate, Oberstar actually referred to his opponent's desire to debate as "a gimmick." The public exchange of ideas between political candidates is apparently not something a high-ranking member of the United States Congress should feel obligated to respect in the interest of informing voters, it's just a scheme his opponent used to get attention.

Oberstar also said he didn't think there was "anything of substance to debate," as if there were no issues in contemporary American politics that citizens should have been concerned about.

Has anything changed since then? Will Oberstar give his opponents the time of day in 2010? Will voters even care? Probably not.

Still, a handful of candidates have entered the race. Democrat W.D. Hamm will face Oberstar in the primary election August 10. The winner will go up against Independence Party candidate Timothy Olson, Republican Chip Cravaack and the Constitution Party's Richard Burton in the general election Nov. 2.

Maybe one of those guys will come up with the right gimmick.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is mail@paullundgren.com.

Somnambulism

2010-05-23T10:17:00.000-05:00

Honey, something bad happened last night while you were asleep. Calm down, it's nothing major, but I feel like you should know about it. If it happened once, it could happen again, and it could be worse next time.

I had a dream that we were outside on the porch having a barbecue. You were sitting on one of those plastic chairs at the table, and I decided to walk over and put my arm around you. Everything was perfectly normal.

At the same time that I put my arm around you in the dream, however, I also put my arm around you in bed, while we were sleeping. I didn't get my arm up high enough though, so I elbowed you in the forehead.

You slept right through it, so obviously I didn't elbow you very hard. I woke up right away and felt really weird about what happened. I asked you if you were awake and you didn't say anything, so I guess it's no big deal.

I saw a TV news report a long time ago about sleepwalkers that I'll never forget. One old guy put his wife in a chokehold. He was dreaming that he was wrestling a deer. He said in an interview, "I could've broken her neck."

Another guy had a dream he was playing football. He got out of bed and tackled his dresser. I think there was another guy who woke up standing on his dresser, ready to jump off, not quite knowing why.

That's some creepy stuff, honey. I've never done anything like that before, except last night with the elbow. I don't think it will happen again, but maybe you shouldn't sleep so close to me at night.

Have you ever heard of that syndrome where people sleep for days and days at a time? If I have to have a sleeping disorder, that's the one I want. I mean, I'm tired and could use the rest, and it sounds like no one would get hurt.

One time I was camping in Montana and this guy wigged out and started flopping around in his sleeping bag and screaming in the middle of the night. When we told him about it in the morning, he said he was having a dream that he was flopping around in his sleeping bag and screaming on purpose in order to scare us. It worked.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His book, The Spowl Ribbon, is available at the Duluth Electric Fetus and online at paullundgren.com.

Never Learn

2010-04-30T10:14:00.000-05:00

There are some lessons in life that we'll just never learn. Over and over, we make the same mistakes, wondering all the while how we manage to repeatedly be so stupid.

Even when we recognize our own poor judgment in time to prevent potential mistakes, we often find a way to rationalize going ahead with foolish behavior, as if we have no self control.

Some mistakes are big mistakes, like driving drunk, having unprotected sex or getting into a knife fight. Although we sometimes get away with those mistakes, there are long-term consequences when we don’t, so there is greater incentive to correct those types of behavior.

The damage caused by small mistakes, however, can exist only briefly -- maybe a matter of minutes or hours. Even though we regret what we’ve done, it's easy to do it again and again, because there is no lasting scar.

Take, for example, burning your mouth. How many times have you done that? Anyone with even a shred of intelligence should have figured out by the age of six that hot soup scorches the human tongue.

Yes, there is immediate gratification in not waiting an extra two minutes for your pizza sauce to cool. But that gratification is quickly lost, along with layers of skin from the roof of your mouth, if you don’t have patience. We all know that. We've all made that mistake before, probably hundreds of times. When are we going to learn?

Another food-related mistake is overeating. Just because there's a lot of food on our plates, and it's delicious, doesn't mean we have to hurt ourselves and ruin the experience. But, for some reason, we do it over and over again. We even look forward to special days like Thanksgiving, when we can gorge ourselves sick.

Maybe there's something deep in our animal mind that remembers hunting and gathering and how food can be scarce, so we stock up whenever possible and cram it down quickly.

That's obviously irrational, though. We've all had a few French fries swiped from our plates, but when was the last time someone came sprinting by and stole your burrito while you waited for it to cool?

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. Getting sunburned every spring is his favorite little mistake. Buy his book, “The Spowl Ribbon” at the Electric Fetus or online at paullundgren.com.

The Greatest Inventions of All Time

2010-04-20T04:38:00.002-05:00

It's difficult to pick one invention to stand out as the greatest of all time. There are so many man-made wonders that enrich our lives every day and make us question how we ever lived without them. For example: the wheel, the flushable toilet, the bikini, beer, Velcro, eyeglasses, the atomic bomb and plastic storage containers.

The printing press and the Internet are certainly great inventions, but they make it just as easy to spread lies as the truth, so I can't rate them high on my list. They certainly don't rate above plastic storage containers, which have brought society nothing but positive outcomes.

It wasn't long ago that people had to go to grocery stores and beg for flimsy cardboard boxes whenever they needed to package their belongings. It was difficult to get a good grip on those boxes and you never knew when the bottom would fall out and all your Smurf glasses would smash at your feet. But plastic storage containers are lightweight, sturdy and stackable, with easy-to-grip handles on the sides. They are one of the greatest inventions of all time.

I think there are only maybe a dozen inventions I would list ahead of plastic storage containers, and all of them are forms of contraception. I'd even put the withdrawal method near the top of the list. I know it's not very effective, but it was a good start.

Computers might rank high on many people's list, but not mine. I know computers often make our lives easier, but they also drive us nuts.

There is a computer-related invention, however, that I think has potential to become the greatest of all time. It's the keyboard command "Control + Z." That is the magic key combination which allows you to undo your previous action. Say, for example, you are composing your master's thesis and accidentally delete the entire text. All you have to do is simultaneously press the Control key and the letter Z to restore it.

The most impressive thing about Control + Z is that it is still in its infancy. There are countless other real-life uses for this technology that haven't been perfected yet. We're only a few years away from being able to take back the stupid things we say out loud with Control + Z.

When that spurned ex-lover of yours cries out, "I thought you said you loved me," you'll soon be able to reply, "Sorry baby, Control Z" and wipe the slate clean. You could undo a whole relationship -- so it never existed.

It's along those lines that Control Z will one day become the greatest invention of all time. It will put any other form of contraception to shame.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His book "The Spowl Ribbon" is available online at paullundgren.com.

Sympathy for the Ball Slasher

2010-03-13T09:24:00.001-06:00

One of the most bizarre news stories of 2009 involved a guy who broke into a health clinic and slashed exercise balls with a sharp knife to fulfill a sexual urge. The story landed on the front page of the Duluth News Tribune, and the guy soon became well-known around town as the "Ball Slasher."

Something about the story has bothered me for months. No one, not the media and not the various people talking about this in barrooms and barber shops or anywhere I've been, have been able to explain exactly what could go on in the process of slashing an exercise ball that would produce sexual gratification.

How does an exercise ball fetish work? Does he penetrate the ball? Does it pop and snap back, so it's like a whips and chains thing? Does it deflate like a farting whoopie cushion, giving off a little tingling sensation to the ol' genitals?

Where is the media when the people have questions they want answered?

I am perhaps bothered more by this than most people, because I have an exercise ball. It belongs to my fiancee, but she keeps it in our home, in my office. So there I am, working alone each day with this sweet voluptuous exercise ball -- this big, glowing fluorescent blue bulb calling to me from across the room ... all ... day ... long.

Of course, I'm not really tempted at all by that seductive orb in the corner because I don't even understand what I would do to act on my impulse. Would I slash it slowly or with a violent stabbing motion?

Of course, while I'm sitting in my office thinking about this, I'm constantly aware that just down the hall is a wide array of kitchen knives. If I'm going to write about this, certainly I should do some research and slash a ball, right?

There's really only one thing stopping me: What if I really enjoyed it? I have seen this story play out in the media, and it is not an outcome I would choose for myself. Clearly there is a lot at stake.

Some people react to this subject with disgust, but I'm not sure why. As weird as the fetish is, and as much as I don't understand it, I have sympathy for the ball slasher. He has a history of mental illness that influenced his exploits, for starters, but what people should also realize is that his kink couldn't have been easy to keep private.

Most people have weird sexual desires of some kind, and it's generally preferred that we not get into those details in newspapers. It should be noted, however, that ball slashing is a difficult hobby to sustain. Exercise balls cost about $10 each on the low end. Even if you can afford them, you'll look kind of suspicious going into Kmart every day buying the same thing.

Once you break into a fitness center, you kind of have to do the slashing on site, because you can't really steal a dozen exercise balls. What are you going to do, juggle them on the way out? You can't take them out the door one at a time; they'd probably roll down the avenue. You can't drag them out in a giant mesh bag; there's no way you'd get that through the door.

The main reason I have sympathy for the ball slasher is that he tends to get lumped in with another bizarre sex-related crime story. I'm referring, of course, to the guy in Superior who had sex with a dead deer he found on the side of the road.

Yes, Duluth has the exercise ball slasher and Superior has the deer carcass molester. These are our people. This is our heritage.

Superior and Duluth have had a long standing rivalry, spending the past 150 years trying to one up the other. This time, Superior has finally won.

Mental illness was involved in both cases, as I guess it would have to be, but I still think it's fun to imagine the ball slasher and the deer carcass molester in prison together.

"Hey buddy, what are you in for?"

Although the deer carcass molestation wins in terms of being icky, I have to say that all points for sheer innovation have to go to the ball slasher. Most people were familiar with the concepts of bestiality and necrophilia before hearing about what happened in Superior. But I doubt many considered they could get their jollies slashing exercise balls.

Again, though, I should emphasize that it is wrong to lump these two crimes together. The ball slasher turned himself in and faced charges of first-degree damage to property. We think his fetish is weird, but we wouldn't lock him up for that alone. On the other hand, someone who humps a dead animal needs to be carefully monitored.

One thing I wonder about the ball slasher, though, is whether he could have patched balls for reuse rather than seeking out new ones. Then he could have been considered a nice, normal person who happens to have an exercise ball covered with duct tape and shoe glue.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is mail @ paullundgren.com.

Still Seeing Ghosts

2010-02-21T15:32:00.000-06:00

Dr. Joseph Goebbels, propaganda minister of the Third Reich, is reported to have said or wrote at some point in his miserable life: “Repeat a lie a thousand times and it becomes the truth.” That quote and attribution have been repeated well over a thousand times.

Another version of the quote goes like this: “If you repeat a lie often enough, people will believe it.” There are at least another dozen versions of Goebbels’ quote floating around. I like to believe that he never said or wrote any such thing. That would make for good irony.

It has always been interesting to me how easy it is to spread a rumor and build or destroy someone’s reputation. It’s as easy as opening your mouth or moving your fingers.

The truth should be enough to destroy anyone’s reputation, but the truth is generally hard to come by. It’s much easier to lie, exaggerate or guess than to search for the truth. What’s the difference anyway?

One day the world is flat, the next day it’s round. One day the universe is contracting, the next day it’s expanding. One day there isn’t a god, the next day there is. If we can’t figure out the big questions, good luck proving your spouse is cheating on you or that it even matters.

I wrote two stories in 2001 about how I see ghosts. The stories were complete and utter baloney. I made them up. I wouldn’t recognize a ghost if it jumped out of my cereal bowl and stole my nose. I mean, what is a ghost anyway?

Years later, a woman approached me and asked if I was the guy who sees ghosts. She had read my stories and really enjoyed them. I told her that I don’t actually see ghosts, but she refused to believe me. As if she knew better than I did!

Well, the truth is, it doesn’t matter whether I’ve seen a ghost or not. I can easily lie about it either way and no one will ever prove the truth. If you want me to see ghosts, then I see ghosts.

A special note to that woman: Thanks for continuing to read my column. By the way, not only do I see ghosts, I a ghost. I’ve been watching you for a long time now, and I think you have some atoning to do.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is mail @ paullundgren.com.

Anny's Journal

2009-12-19T15:06:00.005-06:00

On Oct. 10, 1909, Axel and Anny Lundgren, my great grandparents, began their 14-day journey from Sundsvall, Sweden to Duluth, Minn. Anny kept a journal of the trip that was translated in 1998 from Swedish to English.

Axel and Anny began by train, traveling through Sweden on their way to catch a ship to Grimsby, England, and eventually to America. I've gathered for this column some excerpts of Anny's now-100-year-old account. It begins with a bit of comedy.

Oct. 11
It got real crowded in the Gothenburg wagon [train car]. We were 32 people in the same group going to America. When we came to Storvik, a man who was a bit sour came in. It started to smell worse and worse. He had messed in his pants.

We had to run into the other wagon, where we had to stand. The wagon where the man was became empty. When soldiers came on, they ran into the empty wagon, but they soon ran out of there in different directions.

They crossed the Atlantic on the RMS Lusitania, an ocean liner that was famously sunk by German torpedoes six years later -- an act which led the United States into World War I. Axel and Anny's trip wasn't quite as bad, but it had its moments.

During the first days of ship travel, there were terrible storms and seasickness. During a nighttime storm off the coast of Ireland a fireman died of mysterious causes that Anny is only able to describe by writing, "They say he had a cramp." The next day, she wrote about the fireman's funeral.

Oct. 18
They swept him in a tarpaulin and carried the American flag. There were so many people, we couldn't see or hear the ceremony, other than that they blew in a horn and placed the body in a casket to put in the sea.

We had lunch at noon. It was mutton, green soup, pickles, egg omelet, pudding and oranges.

The transition from a funeral straight to a mutton lunch probably wasn't intended to be comical, but I get a kick out of it. This next excerpt has a similar thing going for it.

Oct. 19
Now begins the most terrible storm. But now in the afternoon it has become totally calm. It's now more beautiful than ever before. It's time for vaccinations now.

I don't really understand this part, but it's my favorite.

Oct. 21
Yesterday they gave a man delirium and a little was buried in the sea. A woman became insane.

The ship finally reached America at New York. Anny noted that "It went good. We didn't have to pay any taxes." The train to Duluth passed through Montreal, Canada. Things didn't go well there.

Oct. 23
We were not allowed inside any station. They want nothing to do with immigrants. When we arrived, a fine gentleman came and showed us to the worst joint there is.

We had to go down into a cellar, which had three big halls. In the first hall there were only Chinese people. In the second, it was Italians and more Chinese, who were as good as naked. It smelt so bad that we were almost poisoned by the air.

In the third hall, to which we were heading, there was commerce going on, but [few people] bought anything.

The Norwegian gentleman treated dinner. It was ham and eggs with coffee, which tasted terrible. The girls said it was root coffee. We left it, because it was horrible. We've never had such a day. We had no choice but to hold our noses.

And, of course, it had to end this way:

Oct. 25
The conductor says that we'll be in Duluth at 10 a.m. It's been snowing here.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is mail @ paullundgren.com.

Only the Paranoid Shall Survive

2009-10-07T04:54:00.003-05:00

Here I go, strutting down the street with my earphones pounding some good rock and roll. It's a beautiful day, and I'm feeling fantastic. I might just break into some air guitar and not care if anyone is watching.

Suddenly, I hear shouting. A wild-looking old man is screaming out his kitchen window at me. He looks kind of like a cross between Albert Einstein, Christopher Lloyd and Studs Terkel.

I pull out my earphones to hear what he's yelling. "Come in here and plug in my phone!" he says. "It came out of the wall and I have to make an emergency call! Please help me!"

Of course, it would be my pleasure to help an old man who needs my assistance, but I do live in a world that requires caution in these situations. This guy looks totally insane, and even though any number of neighbors might watch me go into his house, they might not be concerned enough to make sure I come out.

I approach the window seeking repetition of the facts, hoping it will provide me some clarity. "Your phone came unplugged?" I ask.

"Yes, will you plug it in?!?" he shouts. "Please help me. I can't plug it in because I shake too much."

The man lifts up his hand, which trembles wildly, as if he has Parkinson's Disease or some other motor-skill impairment. I'm pretty convinced I should help him, but I ask one more question just to prolong things, hoping someone will come along and give me the confidence of knowing there's a witness to this.

"What is the emergency?" I ask.

"My phone is unplugged!" he yells back.

"You said you have to make an emergency call," I explain. "Who do you need to call?"

"I need to call my son! I want him to come over!" the man says, as if that's a legitimate emergency by itself.

Although I'm not satisfied with his answer, I decide to give in at this point and help. As directed, I enter the fence in the backyard and go in the house through the porch. A dog at the end of a chain barks at me the whole way.

The old man is sitting at the kitchen table with his back to the entry. I seem to startle him when I walk up, asking where the phone connection is. He points to the wall on the other side of the table, where the cord is indeed unplugged.

I move very cautiously through the kitchen, expecting someone to emerge at any moment to attack me with a rag of ether. In a few hours I'll wake up in the basement to find out I'm starring in the new Saw movie.

Plugging in the phone, I notice the plastic tip that locks the plug into place is broken, which means the plug will easily slide out again soon.

"The little tab jobby is broken on the plug," I say.

"What?!?" he shouts.

"It's plugged in now, check for a dial tone," I say, deciding not to complicate things.

"Yep, it's working now! Thank you very much!"

"You're welcome."

So there was nothing to it. I just helped an old man plug in his phone. It was a simple good deed that I had feared might be a foolish risk to my life.

Part of me feels bad about not trusting this helpless old man, but part of me realizes that paranoia -- perhaps in some situation in the past that I never fully understood -- could be the reason I'm alive today. Perhaps it pays to err on the side of caution.

The thing is, it's generally not screaming lunatics that try to lure you into a trap. They just run up to you on the street and start biting your face apart into chunks. It's the people who go out of their way to be friendly and normal looking who utilize deception. When dealing with crazies, it's probably better to beware of the obvious.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is mail @ paullundgren.com

Liquor Store Math Revisited

2009-08-20T11:24:00.005-05:00

A few months ago, I used basic mathematics to answer an important question: Is it worth driving to Superior from Duluth to take advantage of lower sales taxes and save money on off-sale alcohol purchases?

My answer, based on a sample story problem, was that Duluthians only save money shopping in Superior if they buy a lot of booze -- like $45 or more, at least.

Since that column ran, a number of people have suggested I publish an official equation for this problem, so they can simply plug in the appropriate numbers for their circumstances.

Normally I don't take requests, but this is an important subject for which I feel obligated to share my knowledge. The equations below will allow any Duluthian capable of passing high school algebra to calculate the real cost of choosing a neighborhood liquor store vs. crossing a bridge to Superior.

MN equation -- [r + r (0.10375)] + [d (0.24)] + [x (t/60)] = c
WI equation -- [r + r (0.055)] + [d (0.24)] + [x (t/60)] = c

r = retail price of liquor purchase

0.10375 = sum of Minnesota sales tax, Minnesota alcohol sales tax and Duluth sales tax

0.055 = sum of Wisconsin sales tax and Douglas County sales tax

d = roundtrip distance in miles between your house and the liquor store

0.24 = IRS standard deduction rate for miles driven for "medical" purposes

x = hourly compensation for time spent driving (It's up to you to decide what your time is worth, but for reference Minnesota's minimum wage is $6.15.)

t = minutes it takes to make the roundtrip

60 = total minutes in an hour

c = actual total cost of your purchase

Certain variables, of course, cannot be included in an equation but should be considered with the equation results. For example, the economic concept of "opportunity cost," factors in things such as the attractiveness of cashiers. The importance of such things varies from person to person, but the potential effect on the bottom line should also be noted. A person could save a significant amount of money by either obtaining a discount through a relationship with a liquor store cashier, or lose even more money by marrying and divorcing one. Such things are difficult to predict.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is mail @ paullundgren.com.

Liquor Store Math

2009-05-26T09:43:00.007-05:00

Is it worth driving to Superior from Duluth to save money on off-sale alcohol purchases? Old-fashioned mathematics has the answer, and the short version of it is this: It's only worth it if you're spending more than $45.

There are a number of variables in the equation used to solve this problem. Gas prices change frequently, some vehicles get better mileage than others, distances between homes and liquor stores vary, and people assign different values to their time. So, the magic number of a $45 purchase is really a low-end estimate.

A closer look at the numbers -- a story problem approach, so to speak -- may be useful for examining the accuracy of this figure pertaining to the unique circumstances of any individual. It's also helpful to math teachers who always say "show your work."

Let's say you live in West Duluth and want to buy a 12-pack of Bud Light. (That's who you are, isn't it?) The base price is generally the same. For example, on Memorial Day weekend Liberty Liquor in Duluth and Keyport Liquor in Superior both priced that 12-pack at $9.99.

Minnesota has a 6.5 percent sales tax and another 2.5 percent tax on alcohol sales. Duluth adds an additional 1 percent to the sales tax, bringing the total tax to 10 percent. So your $9.99 12-pack of Bud Light becomes $10.99 in Duluth.

Wisconsin has a 5 percent sales tax, with no extra tax on alcohol. Douglas County adds another 0.5 percent to the sales tax, bringing the total tax to 5.5 percent. So the same $9.99 12-pack of Bud Light becomes $10.54 in Superior.

By crossing the bridge, you saved 45 cents. But if gas is $2.25 per gallon and your car gets 20 miles per gallon -- and your proximity to a Superior liquor store amounts to an extra 8-mile round trip -- the gas amounts to 90 cents. So instead of saving 45 cents, you've lost 45 cents.

Also, an 8-mile round trip to Superior takes about 10 driving minutes. Minnesota's minimum wage is $6.15, so you should make sure you save at least $1 on your alcohol purchase in Superior, on top of the gas cost, before it's worthwhile.

Therefore, the trip to Superior starts to be worthwhile when the purchase reaches a savings of roughly $2 or more. This is achievable with a $45 purchase, which totals $49.50 in Duluth or $47.48 in Superior.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is mail @ paullundgren.com.

Cleaning

2009-02-06T08:39:00.006-06:00

I'm a neat freak, but I'm not a clean freak. The difference is, while I spend time each day keeping things generally tidy around the house, I have no interest in how thick the exploded food goop is on the inside of the microwave.

My girlfriend is not a neat freak, but she is a sporadic clean freak. What I mean by "sporadic" is that she's just as likely to ignore the mildew on the bathtub as I am ... until there's company coming over. That's when the clean freak comes out.

In some ways, this is a good thing. It means the dog waste in the yard gets picked up. It means the stinky bag of soda and beer cans in the back hall gets moved to the garage. It means the green olives floating in a jar of bacteria finally makes it out of the refrigerator.

When my girlfriend is in clean freak mode, I am inevitably drafted into duty and told to help out. This is not something I willingly enlist for. It's not that I'm lazy or totally indifferent to filth, it's just that I disagree with the philosophy behind these missions.

I believe that when a group of people are coming to my home, the dumbest thing I could possibly do is clean it before they arrive. I mean, if I'm only going to vacuum once a month, why would I do it right before 15 people track dirt on it?

Does it make any sense at all to scrub a toilet until it's sparkling clean if it will be caked in stray urine and gonorrhea drippings a few hours later? I say no. Save the cleaning until after the party.

The worst part about the sporadic clean freak mentality is that it undermines my general tidiness. For some reason, things that are consistently useful around the house seem to get moved to the most inconvenient places.

A few hours before any guests arrive at our home, a conversation like this is inevitable:

Me: "Honey, have you seen my wallet and keys?"

Girlfriend: "Well, where did you leave them?"

Me: "On the table by the door like I always do."

Girlfriend: "Oh, I needed to get that stuff out of the way for the party so I put it in a storage unit I rented in Hermantown. Can you go get it on Monday?"

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is mail @ paullundgren.com.

Winter Whiners

2009-01-03T23:43:00.005-06:00

It happens ever year, usually just after Christmas, sometimes sooner, but always when you most expect it. And it becomes increasingly formidable with every drop in temperature, until finally it becomes intolerable.

It is the incessant complaining of people not hardy enough to live in Minnesota. "Oh my goodness, it's sooooooooo cold out!" they moan. "I'm freeeeezing! Why do I live here? I'm moving to Florida."

"Please do," I like to tell them. "Move to Florida or shut your pansy pie hole. We all know it's cold. Put on some long johns and deal with it. If you need help getting dressed, ask me. I'll be happy to wrap a wool scarf firmly around your skinny neck and stuff the slack down your throat."

Winter lasts a long time, and being a sniveling crybaby about it doesn't help anyone. Violence toward whiners, on the other hand, can be incredibly satisfying, warming both body and spirit.

The next time you hear, "For crying out loud, I could freeze to death just going out to get the morning paper," show that bellyacher how much colder the experience could be. Drag him outside and administer an old-fashioned whitewashing.

Keep in mind that, although winter whiners are afraid of cold weather, they are more terrified of messing up their pretty hairstyles with a good hat. Make sure all whitewashings include a thorough monkey scrubbing.

There is simply no reason to put up with chicken hearts, who (need I remind you?) also complain all summer that it's too hot, and usually never go outside anyway except to walk from their houses to their cars, then to their offices and back.

Essential chores force them outside from time to time, however, which allows them to not only complain about the cold, but how sore their backs are from shoveling snow. It's a wonder they recovered from raking leaves.

You won't find these people out in the open air enjoying life, that's for sure. When you do find them outside -- perhaps on the side of an outdoor hockey rink complaining about how obligated they feel to attend their child's game -- you have an opportunity to set things right with nature and plug their whining mouths with a fluffy ball of the white stuff.

They have it coming, after all.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is mail @ paullundgren.com.

X-mas FAQ

2008-12-12T12:14:00.006-06:00

Should my family make a photo holiday card or just do the classic Hallmark thing?

No matter how crappy a photo card is, 90 percent of recipients will save it their entire lives. Hallmark cards are completely pointless and will be in the recycling bin on Dec. 26 by noon.

Kids are so cute. Should I just use a picture of my children on my card?

Your kids are indisputably adorable. There is no question about that. The thing is: Christmas is not the time of year to flaunt the loveliness of your offspring. It's time to show off what a square, grown-up dweeb you are. That's why the whole family needs to be in your photo.

The holiday season is a time of giving, and what you have to give is how stupid you look in that awful sweater your mom bought for you in the early stages of her dementia. Put it on. Make sure your kid is dressed in something that advertises a fad that will be over by next Christmas.

If your family photo doesn't invoke a hard belly laugh at your expense, and get funnier with each passing year, you are doing something wrong. Don't let your public down.

I don't have kids. Should I send out a picture of my dog?

Only if you dress up your dog and pose with it.

Should I write a letter to enclose with the card, detailing our family vacation and information on junior's grades?

Make sure it's several pages long and doesn't leave out a single detail. Also, I highly recommend writing your letter in verse with a lot of forced rhymes in it.

I feel overwhelmed by the number of gifts I'm expected to buy. What can I do to simplify?

People who love you don't depend on you for gifts. The only reason to give them something is because you want to. If you find it stressful, don't do it. Or, just buy a lot of socks. You can buy a sack full of socks at one store in 15 minutes. Everyone needs new socks.

What about my kids?

Kids are easy. Buy them anything you see advertised on television. They will love it.

What about my wife?

According to Jewelers of America, the national association of retail jewelers, you should spend 93 percent of your annual income on a present for your wife. What's complicated about that?

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is mail @ paullundgren.com.

Debate? What for?

2008-11-10T21:26:00.003-06:00

One of the quieter races of the 2008 campaign season was Democratic Congressman Jim Oberstar's reelection over Republican Michael Cummins in Minnesota's Eighth District. Oberstar will soon begin his 18th term, having served since 1974.

The margin of victory in the race was huge, with 78 percent of voters agreeing to send Oberstar back to Washington. Don't worry about the power of that mandate going to his head, though, because it's too late. His arrogance is already out of control.

Days before the election, Oberstar appeared on WDSE-TV's Almanac North program and made a statement that should have been jaw-dropping to anyone who tuned in.

Julie Zenner, co-host of the show, asked Oberstar why he never debated Cummins. "He claims that he's offered to debate a number of times and that your campaign has refused," Zenner said. "Is that a fair characterization?"

Congressman Oberstar responded: "I don't recall. That's a standard gimmick by challengers. (They say) 'I want to have a debate every day.' There's not much to debate with him, frankly. He's a nice fellow. I've met him. I met him up at the Chisholm Fire Days parade. We had a picture taken together with him and his daughters, and he's a very nice fellow. But I don't think there's anything of substance to debate."

The interview went on as if the congressman's haughty response was no surprise. Maybe it all went by too fast, and a replay is in order.

First, Oberstar claimed to not remember if Cummins wanted to debate at all. Then, he suggested that Cummins' wanted to "have a debate every day."

After declining to participate in any debate, Oberstar actually had the nerve to refer to his opponent's desire to debate as "a gimmick." The public exchange of ideas between political candidates is apparently not something a high-ranking member of the United States Congress should feel obligated to respect in the interest of informing voters; it's really just a trick to get votes.

Oberstar also said he didn't think there was "anything of substance to debate," as if there are no issues in contemporary American politics that citizens should be concerned about at this time. Well, if that's the case, there isn't much to lose by voting out the incumbent. Maybe next time.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. He'll take back everything in this column if Oberstar will pose for a picture with him at the next Chisholm Fire Days. His e-mail address is mail @ paullundgren.com.

Joe the Plumber

2008-10-28T16:51:00.001-05:00

You might not be aware that I moderated the final debate between Barack Obama and John McCain. Bob Schieffer of CBS News handled the job on TV, but in my living room things went more like this:

MCCAIN: Senator Obama was out in Ohio and he had an encounter with a guy who's a plumber, his name is Joe Wurzelbacher. Joe wants to buy the business that he has been in for all of these years. He looked at your tax plan and he saw that he was going to pay much higher taxes.

OBAMA: Let me tell you what I'm actually going to do. If you make less than a quarter million dollars a year, then you will not see your income tax go up, your capital gains tax go up, your payroll tax. Not one dime.

LUNDGREN: So, if Joe the Plumber buys the business and his annual profits are over $250,000, then his taxes would go up under the Obama plan, otherwise they wouldn't. That seems simple enough to understand.

OBAMA: Not only do 98 percent of small businesses make less than $250,000, but I also want to give them additional tax breaks.

LUNDGREN: Joe the Plumber must be part of that 98 percent, because if he makes a quarter mil from a year of plumbing ... well, that would be kind of incredible.

MCCAIN: When Senator Obama ended up his conversation with Joe the Plumber, he said, "We need to spread the wealth around." In other words, we're going to take Joe's money, give it to Senator Obama, and let him spread the wealth around.

LUNDGREN: Well, yeah. That's how it works. Citizens pay taxes, and whether it's Barack Obama or John McCain, someone in the government will decide how to spread it around.

MCCAIN: I want Joe the Plumber to spread that wealth around.

LUNDGREN: We've already established that Senator Obama is not going to raise Joe the Plumber's taxes. He said he's going to lower them.

MCCAIN: The whole premise behind Senator Obama's plans are class warfare -- let's spread the wealth around.

LUNDGREN: It seems like you want to say Senator Obama would take from the rich to help the poor and middle class, but you don't think making that statement would help you politically. I've got to hand it to you, though. Putting the name of a plumber on the rich, even if it doesn't make sense, seems to be working for you.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul @ geekprom.com.

Cash Back

2008-09-29T02:18:00.001-05:00

I've given up on trying to stop telemarketers. I thought perhaps the National Do Not Call Registry could help me, but it didn't. I thought the Federal Communications Commission could help me, but it didn't.

The fact is, I just have to accept people constantly trying to deceive me. It's not just on the telephone, but on the Internet, on television and in person. They sound so ridiculous, it's hard to imagine anyone falling for them, but they wouldn't keep doing it without a payoff.

The latest call I got, pitching satellite TV, bordered on hilarious:

"Free installation, free activation, three months of free movie channels, free receivers and remotes for up to four rooms, and a free DVR. If you don't know what a DVR is, press 1 on your phone and our reps will tell you all about it. It's awesome technology that will change the way you watch TV. Basically, if you still have a cable provider, we want your business and we're going to great lengths to get it by giving you all the equipment free. That's right, over $2,000 worth of equipment free, and we're going to save you money every month. We'll even give you an additional $100 back if you sign up today. So, with no obligation, give us a chance. Press 1 now. Or, if we've reached your number in error, please press 9 to be removed from our list."

The "additional $100 back" is my favorite part. They're giving me equipment, saving me money, and promising to return money to me without even mentioning the need to pay anything in the first place.

But even seemingly reputable companies aren't afraid to offer "cash back." General Electric does it. Home Depot does it. Dodge and Hyundai do it. Well, what the hell is cash back? Am I a moron, or could they just sell me a truck for $500 less?

For some reason, the word "rebate" has been replaced with "cash back." Whatever word you use, this age-old concept is generally tolerated by consumers, though it's utterly asinine in nature.

I'm not sure why people accept treatment from Menards that they wouldn't accept at a garage sale. Can you imagine someone telling you he'd sell you his old record collection for $50, but you can fill out a form and mail it to him to get $10 cash back?

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul @ geekprom.com.

Final Warning, part three

2008-08-15T16:37:00.001-05:00

When I had my telephone number added to the National Do Not Call Registry, it was mostly out of curiosity. I didn't really believe it was going to stop annoying telemarketing calls, but there wasn't much to lose in trying.

What I liked about the registry was that, once I was on it, those unwanted calls would clearly be illegal. With a little ambition, perhaps I could seek remedies for my suffering. It seemed to be worth a shot.

I filed my first complaint using the Federal Trade Commission's automated telephone service. Since there was no response, I used a form on the Internet the second time.

"Thank you for filing your complaint with the National Do Not Call Registry," read the automatic response. "Do not call complaints will be entered into a secure online database available to civil and criminal law enforcement agencies. While the FTC does not resolve individual consumer problems, your complaint will help the agency investigate the company, and could lead to law enforcement action."

I translate that to mean: "We probably aren't going to do anything, but if we do, you will never know."

It seems the response to receiving illegal calls should be to hang up and get over it. Still, when I got my next call I couldn't resist continuing my investigation.

"It is urgent that you contact us concerning your eligibility for lowering your interest rate to as little as 6.9 percent," the recorded message told me. I pressed 1 to speak to a representative.

"Hi, this is Naomi with card services," the friendly voice said. "I understand you are interested in lowering your current interest rates. Can I have your first name please?"

I informed Naomi that my number is on the National Do Not Call Registry and I shouldn't be bothered. I asked her to identify the company she works for, and, to my surprise, she happily told me.

"The name of my company is IXE Banking Centers," she said. "We got your information through the credit bureau Experian."

This came as quite a surprise to me, because the last time I pressed 1 to speak to a representative, an angry woman refused to give me information and then hung up. Now, I had Naomi killing me with kindness.

It made me realize that hanging up is the best thing she could have done for both of us. The more information I have, the more capable I am of wasting time.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul @ geekprom.com.

Final Warning, part two

2008-07-08T09:13:00.000-05:00

After receiving numerous "final" warnings that the factory warranty on my vehicle "may have expired and should be reactivated," I decided to contact the Federal Trade Commission and file a complaint. It seemed like the right thing to do.

The FTC's answering service required me to report the telephone number of the company that called me and the time the call was made. I was pretty sure the most recent call came on Saturday, July 26. As for the number, I was clueless.

An Internet search on warranty scams showed one number this type of call originates from is 973-328-7372. So I entered that information, hoping it would lead a human being from the FTC to contact me about this. No such luck.

Then, at the carefully documented time of Tuesday, Aug. 5, at 12:38 p.m., there was a break in the case. I received another final warning call from the warranty scammers, and was home to answer. I decided to press 1 to speak to a representative.

"Warranty Activation Department," the female voice said. "May I have the year, make and model of the vehicle?"

"I'm wondering how many of these final warnings I'm going to get," I said in all sincerity.

"Sir, did you need a warranty on your vehicle? Yes or no," she replied sternly.

"I'm asking you a question. How many of these final warnings am I going to get?" I asked again.

Before I could finish repeating my question, she hung up. Any notion that I could have a future as a hostage negotiator was quickly shattered. I had no new information for the FTC.

Then, one week later, my answering machine recorded a new scam:

"Don't be alarmed, but this is your final notice for lower interest rates on your current account," the message said. "This offer expires today. Press 1 and speak to your account manager and reduce your rates. Again, press 1 now; this is the last offer of the season. Or, press 2 to discontinue further notices. Thank you, and have a great day."

This time, I decided to go ahead and pay 95 cents and use my phone company's last-call-return service to get the number that called me. Armed with the proper digits (954-925-0717) I could now file an accurate report with the FTC.

That's right, now I'm spending money to keep people from trying to rip me off.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul @ geekprom.com.

Final Warning, part one

2008-06-25T19:06:00.000-05:00

As of April 18, 2008, my telephone number has been listed on the National Do Not Call Registry. Telemarketers -- except for political organizations, charities and telephone surveyors -- are required by law to leave me alone.

Unfortunately, I'm still getting endless "final warnings" telling me the warranty may have expired on my laughably old car. One of these calls was captured by my answering machine, so I can provide a transcript, though the first few words were cut off.

"... factory warranty on your vehicle may have expired and should be reactivated to protect you against the cost of repairs. If you have not responded to this notification, it's not too late. Please don't make the mistake of driving without a warranty. You are still eligible to reactivate warranty coverage. This is the final call before we close the file. Press 2 to be removed from the follow-up list or press 1 to speak with a representative now about your vehicle."

I can't decide which is more asinine: the notion that my 1990 Ford Taurus should be under warranty or the suggestion that I should attempt to remove myself from a "follow-up list" despite the assurance that "this is the final call."

A quick Internet search indicates I'm far from alone in receiving these calls, and attorneys general in some states are issuing warnings to avoid buying expensive service contacts from scoundrels who target random suckers.

I thought it would be fun to contact the Federal Trade Commission and file a complaint, since this company is obviously not supposed to call me and has no intention of removing me from its list. For my patriotism in reporting this willful disregard for Federal law, perhaps I'll receive a medal and/or a check from whatever legal settlement might occur.

"We need the date that the company called you, and the name or phone number of the company that called," a friendly recorded voice told me when I called the FTC. "If you do not have this information, we cannot take your complaint."

Since I don't have caller I.D., and the company did not identify itself, I decided to do the honorable thing and provide the FTC's answering service with false information. My hope is that maybe this will trigger an investigation in which a human being will talk to me.

That's right, in order to prevent certain machines from calling me, I'm calling other machines and asking for more calls.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul @ geekprom.com.

Online Social Networking

2008-05-16T08:38:00.003-05:00

Though I created a Facebook profile of my own free will, I nonetheless have no idea how it is supposed to serve or entertain me in any way. I joined because several people suggested I should, and I thought I might as well find out what the big deal is.

Here's what has happened so far:

Various people have requested to be my "friend," and I have chosen to "confirm" their friendships. Many of them are people who have been friends of mine for years, though we never formally announced our friendship on the Internet until Facebook came along.

Some friendship requests have come from people I am only remotely connected to, such as some guy who went to college with some woman I dated eight years ago. Other requests come from people I'm not sure I've ever met in my life.

I have chosen to confirm all of these requests. I don't want to be rude and "ignore" people who want to be my friend, even if I'm sometimes not sure who they are or what their motivation is.

Sometimes I visit the profile pages of mysterious people who seek my friendship and try to figure out if I've ever met them before, just in case the clerk at my neighborhood grocery store expects me to acknowledge that we are now "friends" since she found me on Facebook.

Usually, once I become Facebook friends with someone, nothing else happens. They become a name and picture on a list. If I want, I can read their "status update," so I know if they're "restocking the refrigerator" or "recovering from a great weekend!"

Some of my "friends" invite me to play games on Facebook. They want to "see how alike" we are or challenge my knowledge of "animals in movies." I have no interest in that, because I completed junior high school in 1988.

Other people try to "poke" me, "high fiiiive" me or "use the force" on me. I don't know what any of that means, but it nonetheless makes me want to use Facebook to invite them to "drop dead."

Maybe the reason I don't get any enjoyment out of Facebook is that I can't even imagine how it could possibly be useful to me. I simply don't understand it. All I know is, with "friends" like these, who needs the Internet?

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address, paul @ geekprom.com, works just fine, so there is no need to write anything on his Facebook "wall."

Critical Reviews for April 2008

2008-04-26T09:31:00.002-05:00

As an informed, articulate member of the media it is my responsibility to provide well-reasoned, unbiased analysis on topics relevant to modern society. I fulfill that duty by occasionally writing brief, critical reviews.

Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton continue to vie for the Democratic nomination in the presidential race. Critical Review: Clinton is far more annoying than Obama, so it's surprising that she's not winning.

Gas prices have hit a record high. Critical Review: Something needs to be done about this, not because of the financial implications, but because talking about gas prices was already boring two years ago.

Crystal is out of the office and cannot reply to my e-mail. Critical Review: Oh, like Crystal is so important that I'll be totally lost if I don't receive an out-of-office reply from her telling me she won't read my e-mail until tomorrow.

Authorities in Texas removed more than 400 children from a polygamist compound based on allegations of a pattern of sexual abuse by the sect. Critical Review: Sure, the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints is composed of inbred loonballs, but there's bound to be sexual deviance anywhere sexy prairie-style dresses are worn.

According to a recorded message that automatically dials my telephone four times a week, the warranty on my automobile is about to expire. Critical Review: Although I've never had a warranty on any car I've owned, the fact that I received dozens of "final warnings" about this leads me to believe I should take action.

A simple, free call to the National Do Not Call Registry will prevent telemarketers from bothering me. Critical Review: I can't believe I waited so long to do this. It takes less than 30 seconds to register.

On Feb. 17, most television stations will stop broadcasting in analog format. People who don't have cable, satellite or a digital television need to buy a digital-to-analog converter box to watch TV. Critical Review: Having purchased my converter, I now have four remote controls, my VCR doesn't work unless the converter is tuned to the channel I want to record, and, when the reception is bad, the sound and picture completely cut out. On the other hand, when it works my picture is slightly improved. Also, in addition to the standard five channels, there are seven new channels with programs as scintillating as reruns of The Cosby Show and hours upon hours of hunting and fishing.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul @ geekprom.com.

Fwd: Fwd: Fwd:

2007-11-12T12:28:00.000-06:00

If you do not ever forward anything else, please forward this to all your contacts. This is very scary to think of what lies ahead of us here in our own United States ... better heed this and pray about it and share it. This was checked out on Snopes.com. It is factual. Check for yourself.

Who is Mike Huckabee?

Probable Republican presidential candidate Michael Dale Huckabee was born in Hope, Arkansas, to Dorsey Wiles Huckabee, a white BAPTIST, and Mae Elder, who openly attended a NON-TRADITIONAL Christian church.

Huckabee's parents held normal middle-class jobs in Hope in an effort to hide their RADICAL beliefs. Huckabee attended a PUBLIC high school that permitted students of any religious background to attend, including MUSLIMS.

Huckabee takes great care to conceal the fact that he is a Muslim, but he has been quoted to have said, "Politics are totally directed by worldview. That's why when people say, 'We ought to separate politics from religion,' I say to separate the two is absolutely impossible. We must all follow the perfect word of Allah."

Since it is politically expedient to be a CHRISTIAN when seeking Major public office in the United States, Michael Dale Huckabee served as a pastor at several Southern Baptist Churches in an attempt to downplay his Muslim background.

Michael Dale Huckabee will NOT recite the Pledge of Allegiance, nor will he show any reverence for apple pie. Let us all remain alert concerning his presidential candidacy. The Muslims have said they plan on destroying the United States from the inside out, eliminating American's ability to reproduce by promoting the consumption of soda pops that contain Yellow Dye No. 5, a known contraceptive.

ALSO, keep in mind that when Huckabee was sworn into office -- he DID NOT use the Holy Bible, but instead put his hand on a 12-pack of Mountain Dew.

Please forward this to everyone in your address book. Would you want this man leading our country?...... NOT ME!!!

If you forward this to all of you contacts, Bill Gates will send you his entire wallet. Also, Applebee's will send you a $50 gift certificate. Just send this e-mail and you will receive an e-mail back with a confirmation number to claim your gift certificate.

This is absolutely true!!! I thought this was a hoax until I tried it myself.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. He has decided to not print his e-mail address with this week's article.

More Advice

2007-10-06T14:12:00.002-05:00

Career Advice

There are a lot opportunities in the field of welding, but you should consider becoming a kissing bandit. You'll find a never-ending supply of people who would benefit from being grabbed at the biceps, kissed softly, then run away from.

Relationship Advice

You can always decorate your car, paint "Just Married" on the back, and drive around by yourself.

Voting Advice

According to a talkative customer at Spirit Valley Paperback Exchange: "God will always vote for you. The devil will always vote against you. That makes you the deciding vote."

If I were you, I'd demand a recount.

Motherly Advice

Concerned about over-population and the vast amount of land occupied by cemeteries, my mother suggests that a giant tower should be built to house the caskets of the future.

"It could be called the Leaning Tower of People," she said. "It would be a tourist attraction."

Then she says the bodies of murders and rapists should be piled up in something called the "Awful Tower."

I told her she has good ideas, and that I had a one for her: "Lay off the booze."

Football Advice

Football is a fun game, but llabtoof is better. It's essentially the same as football, except the offense tries to avoid scoring while the defense tries to force the offense to score.

Body Art Advice

If a pierced nipple is so cool, imagine how awesome you'd be if you had a door knocker screwed into your chest.

Major Motion Picture Advice

Sooner of later, someone is going to make Smurfs: The Movie. When that happens, it will be essential that some new Smurfs are added to the cast. I recommend the following:

Itchy Smurf, Bloody Smurf, Stinky Smurf, Horny Smurf, Paraplegic Smurf, Tickly Smurf, Suicidal Smurf, Klepto Smurf, Battered Smurf, Cannibal Smurf and Well-endowed Smurf.

Advice for Women

If you're trying to convince a man to drink a lot of whisky, try sitting on his lap.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul @ geekprom.com.

Hating Kmart

2007-09-12T17:16:00.000-05:00

I've heard that Wal-Mart is pure evil. I've heard that Target donates vast sums of money to Republican politicians. I don't pay much attention to those stories, because I shop primarily at Kmart.

The reason I shop at Kmart is because the West Duluth store is about a mile from my house. Target and Wal-Mart are over seven miles away. I've been to Target many times and Wal-Mart maybe twice. Both of them are much better than Kmart.

I have not traveled the world evaluating department stores, and I don't want to exaggerate, but I can't help from stating this as plainly as I can: The West Duluth Kmart is the worst department store in the entire world, ever.

Whatever you need, West Duluth Kmart always seems to be out of it. Most of the prices are always high. Some products have no price sticker at all, leaving you to turn the item over repeatedly and study the shelf edge in frustration.

Don't try to ask a salesperson/clerk for help, because finding an employee roaming the aisles of Kmart will be about as easy as finding a Liberace album in prison.

Get this: If you do find someone, and receive the help you need, the employee will actually hand you a ticket that says "Glad I could help!"

That's right, helping a customer is so out of the ordinary at Kmart, they made special tickets for customers to bring to the cashier so the employee can be commended. Apparently, the Kmart way to solve a customer's problem is to offer him a task.

If you manage to find something you need to buy, have fun waiting in the one or two checkout lines that are between six and infinity customers deep, and move as fast as turtles having tantric sex.

If another clerk comes to the front, you might think she'll open a new checkout aisle. Well, occasionally she will. So be ready to jump into the new line. Other times, however, she's just up there to empty a register out for the night. So don't leave the spot in your established line until you know for sure.

If you ever manage to purchase what you need, you'll be treated to a two-foot long receipt for your one item. About one-third of the receipt is information on store specials, as if you can't wait to come back. Another third asks you to complete a customer service survey. Consider mine completed.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. He recommends driving the extra six miles to Target. His e-mail address is paul @ geekprom.com.

Garden of Eden

2007-08-25T13:43:00.001-05:00

Back when God created the heavens and the earth, he planted a garden in a place called Eden. Today, no one is really sure where Eden was, despite the strangeness and historical significance of events which took place there.

It was in this garden where the first man lived. His name was Adam. God made a variety of beautiful trees in the garden, which produced food for Adam. There were also two special trees: the tree of life and the tree of knowledge of good and evil.

The Lord God put Adam in the garden to dress it and keep it. He told him to eat freely from all the trees but one. Adam could snack on the tree of life all he wanted, but the knowledge tree was off limits.

"Thou shalt not eat of it," God said. "In the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die." God apparently wanted to test his latest inventions: free will and poison. He must have also simply enjoyed taunting Adam.

Nonetheless, God soon decided it was time to create a woman, since watching Adam gorge on the tree of life all day by himself must have been about as interesting as the infinite time God spent in whatever mysterious nothingland he hung out in before deciding to create life.

Rather than just make a woman appear up from the dust, God decided it was time for some real performance art. Not wanting to show off, however, he first made sure he had no audience by causing a deep sleep to fall on Adam. Maybe he slipped a little flunitrazepam into the tree of life, but it was probably just simple Godly magic that got the job done.

Reaching through Adam's flesh, God pulled out a rib and made a woman out of it. This must have been pretty awesome, leaving Adam quite upset about having slept through it. Still, he had a woman now, so things were looking up.

"This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh," Adam said. "She shall be called woman, because she was taken out of man." A sense of superiority was certainly appropriate for Adam to have. Like father, like son, as the saying goes.

The woman's name was Eve. Adam cleaved unto her, and they were one flesh. They were both naked, and were not ashamed. Those were the good old days, before there were any better looking people around.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul @ geekprom.com.

Story of Creation, pt. 2

2007-07-09T14:03:00.000-05:00

In four days, God created the earth and separated the water from dry land. He created heaven, the sun, the moon and the stars. He had looked on all of it and saw that it was good. Things were shaping up nicely heading into the weekend.

On Friday, God said, "Let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that hath life, and fowl that may fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven." This command brought forth many creatures that swim and fly. Hunting and fishing season wouldn't start until Saturday, though.

God blessed the fish and fowl, telling them to, "Be fruitful, and multiply, and fill the waters in the seas." He looked at the lower part of the food chain, and saw that it was good. With the right spices, it would later prove delicious.

On Saturday, God said, "Let the earth bring forth the living creature after his kind -- cattle and creeping thing, and beast of the earth." And so it was that creeping beasts were born of the earth.

"Let us make man in our image, after our likeness," God said next. He obviously didn't need help from his creatures to spontaneously generate new life forms, so it can be concluded that God began talking to himself in the plural or "editorial we" at this time.

And so God created mankind in his own image. It wasn't a physical image, of course, because God has no body. He created the first man with an immortal soul resembling his, and he granted mankind dominion over the other creatures. Those creatures, by the way, had no souls but were blessed by God anyway.

God said, "I have given you every herb bearing seed, which is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree, in which is the fruit of a tree yielding seed; to you it shall be for food."

God looked upon everything he had made and saw that it was good, which couldn't have been much of a surprise. Beholding a job well done, he decided to take Sunday off and contemplate what he had done. He blessed this day off and sanctified it, so that humankind should also rest on Sunday and honor his work.

That's why, to this very day, people don't work on Sundays unless they are part of the lower class and are unable to find employment that doesn't require them to serve those who have the day off.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul @ geekprom.com.

Story of Creation, pt. 1

2007-06-17T10:03:00.000-05:00

In the beginning, God created the universe. Before that, there was nothing -- not even an infinite galaxy of darkness, which would be something. God must have been around before the beginning, but it's not something he likes to talk about.

At first, the earth was without form. Everything was dark and void. This was apparently depressing to God, so he said, presumably to himself, "Let there be light!" And a light appeared. It wasn't the sun, though. God waited a few days to create the sun. At this moment he needed a special light for creating other things before the sun.

When God saw this light, he thought it was good. It wasn't too dim or too bright. No adjustment was necessary. God decided to separate the light from the darkness, though, calling them "day" and "night." Apparently they were all tangled up at first, causing a sort of swirl effect.

On Tuesday, God decided to divide the waters, so he said, "Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters." God called the firmament "heaven." Many years later, people on earth would start calling it "outer space."

On Wednesday, God gathered the waters on earth together in pools, so dry land could appear. He said, "Let the earth bring forth grass, the herb yielding seed, and the fruit tree yielding fruit after his kind, whose seed is in itself, upon the earth." He had a way with words.

By Thursday, God was unsatisfied with the light he previously let be. So he said, "Let there be lights in the firmament of the heaven to divide the day from the night; and let them be for signs, and for seasons, and for days, and years: and let them be for lights in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth."

This was strange, because God was already using the other light to count days and nights. Nonetheless, a spinning ball of very hot gas fueled by nuclear fusion reactions appeared about 93 million miles away. God called it the "sun," and ordered it to rule the day.

To rule the night, he created a lesser light, called the moon, along with many, many stars. God set these lights in the firmament of the heaven, then took a look around and saw that it was good. All that was needed was some life to appreciate the new scenery.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul @ geekprom.com.

Twins Cafe

2007-05-20T23:15:00.001-05:00

Cory: Hey, did I ever tell you about the time Ryan and I developed an idea for a Minnesota Twins themed restaurant where all of the dishes are named after guys from the 1987 World Series team?

Paul: No, I don't think you told me about that. What are some of the dishes?

Cory: One of the specialties is the Gary Spa-Gaetti with Meatballs.

Paul: That is one of the dumbest things I have ever heard in my life.

Cory: I know, isn't it awesome? Hey Ryan, come here and tell Paul about the Twins Cafe.

Ryan: All of the alcoholic drinks would be served at the Steve LomBARdozzi.

Cory: Yeah, you could get a Randy Busch beer or a Randy Busch Light.

Ryan: We'd also serve a full line of Kent HrBECK's beer. If you'd like to order five bottles at once, just ask for the Kirby Buckett of beer. We'll also have a Kirby Buckett of chicken.

Paul: Will you have fish?

Ryan: Of course. Just order the Roy Smalleye.

Cory: My favorite sandwich is the BLTK -- bacon, lettuce, Tom Kelly.

Paul: How about a bowl of Rod Carutabagas?

Cory: Well, we wanted to stick with the '87 team.

Paul: Are you kidding? You'll miss out on all those great players like Harmon Killebrew, Jim Kaat, Tony Oliva, Zoilo Versalles ... you could have Zoilets in the rest rooms.

Cory: I suppose ... Tony Oliva Loaf sounds good.

Ryan: I'd like the Spicy Chili Davis.

Paul: Not to mention the Cesar Tovar Salad. And the Ron Gardenhire Salad. Either would be a nice side dish for a Carl Pohlad Sausage.

Cory: I'm kind of hungry for a Pepperjack Morris Cheeseburger.

Ryan: I could go for some Kevin Tapani Pasta.

Paul: You know what would be good with pasta? A nice glass of Butch WINEgar.

Cory: The only problem is that we don't have much of a breakfast menu.

Paul: Well, a nice breakfast side would be Mickey Hatcherbrowns.

Cory: That's kind of pushing it.

Ryan: Our Asian menu has Rob Wilfong-wong Chicken. There's no such thing as pushing it.

Cory: Then I guess we might as well have a Johan Santana Split for dessert.

Paul: No ice cream for me. I'll have Rich Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. He thanks Cory Ahlm and Ryan Van Slooten for inspiring this week's idiocy and hopes the general public will someday forgive him. His e-mail address is paul @ geekprom.com.

Letter to Sissies

2007-01-04T12:41:00.000-06:00

Dear people who usually play pick-up hockey on Sunday mornings,

I can't believe I'm the only one who showed up this week. Are you that afraid of a little bit of cold weather? Put on some damn long underwear and quit your bitching. Minus 17 degrees Fahrenheit is not that cold.

In the past, plenty of people showed up on colder days than this. I've noticed there have been fewer and fewer players each year willing to brave the harshest weather, but there has always been enough to have a game, until today.

I did not get out of bed this morning and climb into a union suit to go skate around in circles by myself for 45 minutes. I enjoy hockey, but taking slap-shots at an open net is not my idea of a good time.

I know it's Super Bowl Sunday this week, and you all plan to spend the day sitting on your asses eating fatty foods and watching other people play sports for you, but the football game doesn't start until 5:30 p.m.

Right now, my girlfriend is making chocolate balls out of Oreo cookies and cream cheese. I plan on eating at least a dozen of them during the Super Bowl, along with six bags of potato chips. I need some exercise today, and you ruined it for me.

I know it can be hard to get up early on Sunday morning, particularly if you've been enjoying convivial beverages the night before. Maybe the cold weather convinced you there's nothing better to do this weekend than get drunk, but I say that's no excuse.

A real Duluthian can drink the sun out of the sky and still get up to play hockey the next day. I'm embarrassed to write this letter for fear it will demoralize the next generation to know what a bunch of languorous cowards came before them.

It was only one month ago that you were all complaining about global warming and that there was no ice available for hockey. Now it's cold, and you're crying about that, too. Well, I'm sorry the planet doesn't have a thermostat you can adjust to your ideal temperature each day.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. He loves how, on particularly cold mornings, the puck hitting the boards sounds like a gunshot. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

Dog Etiquette

2006-07-12T11:21:00.000-05:00

You might think you have control of your dog, but you don't. You might think everyone else loves your dog, but they don't. You might think everyone wants to be licked and loved by your panting, begging, shedding, whining, crapping-all-over-the-neighborhood mutt, but they don't.

For the love of G-O-D, please keep your D-O-G to yourself. Don't just let it take off after people and wait to see if they enjoy a good crotch sniffing or not. Owning a pet means being responsible for it. That means you should restrain your dog instead of just apologizing after every mauling and pretending like it's never happened before.

Obviously you want your dog to jump all over people to find out if they are "dog people," like you. If you find another dog person, the two of you can blabber about how awesome dogs are for an entire afternoon. Apparently it's no big loss to you if a crotch sniffing happens to a non-dog person because you didn't sniff the crotch, the dog did.

If a human were to go around sniffing crotches, there would be violent consequences. It's socially unacceptable, however, to dropkick a dog for being playful. So, people have to act like they're not bothered at all, while waiting for you to finally perform the major favor of calling off Sheba.

Another important duty you have been neglecting as a dog owner is muzzling that barking little bitch. If your dog spends a large part of the day sitting by the screen door waiting for someone to walk by, or worse yet, runs at the end of a chain or along the inside of a fence, following passersby from one end of the yard to another just barking, barking, barking -- you have a nuisance animal. You need to either 1) move to the country, 2) give the dog away to someone who lives in the country, or 3) never leave your dog alone and unattended for one second. Don't just come out yelling at the dog, acting like this hasn't happened nine times in the past hour. We all know better.

Most importantly, if you have a little rat dog that does nothing but yap yap yap, though it has no ability to be legitimately ferocious, you have an animal that needs to be set free in the woods so it can finally go extinct.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

Negative Voting

2006-05-28T10:04:00.000-05:00

It's been six years since I first announced my idea to change the American electoral process. Since then, my negative voting movement has gained absolutely no momentum, while election results have only affirmed my position.

In the summer of 2000, anyone could see the country was headed down the crapper. George W. Bush and Albert A. Gore -- two of the country's most hated men -- were the favorites to become president. No one else stood a chance.

I didn't know that election would end up as controversial as it did, but obviously the result wasn't going to be popular. Obviously our voting process was backward. Obviously it was time for negative voting.

When I launched the negative voting movement in June of 2000, I declared it was too late to save that fall's election, but there was plenty of time to plan for 2004. Now, the 2008 campaign is fast approaching, and my warnings continue to be ignored.

The negative voting process is a simple reversal of the traditional way of voting. Instead of selecting the least objectionable representative of a major party, Americans would instead vote for the person on the ballot they dislike the most. The candidate with the fewest votes would win.

Under such a system, George Bush, Al Gore, John Kerry and anyone like them would have no chance of winning an election. They would be simply too unpopular for the office. Americans couldn't resist voting for them.

Celebrities like Arnold Schwarzenegger would be impossible to elect because of their name recognition. Only common people would stand a chance of not getting enough votes to win.

Campaign finance reform would no longer be an issue because candidates would have no need for money. Keeping a low profile would be the only way to avoid getting votes. Also, term limits wouldn't be necessary because getting re-elected to any office would be nearly impossible.

More Americans would vote because there would be no sense of responsibility for electing anyone. No matter what the results would be, everyone could say they voted against someone.

Clearly, negative voting is America's opportunity to turn its political frown upside down. And all it requires is reversing the system completely.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His favorite kind of politics is the politics of dancing and the politics of ooo feeling good. His e-mail address is paul[at]geekprom.com.

Satan is Lord

2006-04-01T09:14:00.000-06:00

I love Satan. It's about time I came forward and stated it plainly. I think it will come as no surprise to fans of my writing that I engage in more devil worship than J. K. Rowling, Ozzy Osbourne and Marilyn Manson all twisted together in a group-sex pretzel. Their mixture of semen and urine is my holy water.

I bite the heads off teenage acolyte boys. Spells, white and black magic, omens, blood sacrifices, time travel, candle ceremonies, incantations, conjurations and invocations are part of my daily life.

I believe in the use of the mystifying oracle, the Ouija Board. It is not a toy, but a great tool for communicating with disembodied species. My mastery of the art of necromancy will bring me greater power than Mephistopheles himself.

I believe we all have needs in life, and magic can fulfill those needs. Whether it be power, money, fame, revenge, love or hate -- I can bend the universe to achieve any means through spells and magic.

I believe genetic engineering and nanotechnology will end all suffering. My army of satanic clones will overthrow the Christian empire of fear. I am the Devil's secretary of war. I will join Hell's Army in the march to the gates of Heaven, and we will burn those gates to the ground. The Children of Set are destined to rule a thousand worlds.

I am the chosen one. I am the Black Pope of the Church of Lucifer, and my mission is to convert children to the side of evil. I will corrupt the American continent by manipulating the First Amendment and using the liberal media as my enabling force.

I want to bring eternal fire to the land and turn our oceans to blood. The only survivors of my nuclear winter will be deranged, satanic drug addicts feasting on LSD and flying rodents. The sun will set forever and I will illuminate my wicked path with the purple light bulbs I screw into my butt.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. Read this article in reverse to hear its hidden message of wholesome Christian praise of our Lord and Savior Jesus the Christ. And feel free to send your comments to paul[at]geekprom[dot]com with no fear of becoming a victim of cyber voodoo.

Celestial Chariot

2006-03-17T18:48:00.000-06:00

I am your celestial chariot. Don't second-guess me when I tell you to eat my drugged pudding. It was made with fresh blueberries and is absolutely delicious. I know you will enjoy it.

You probably think I can't provide you with any of this mouthwatering pudding because I don't know who you are. I don't know when and where you might read this, or when and where I might be able to make a delivery to you.

You don't really know me either, but you've read my columns and believe that I am your celestial chariot. You understand that a lot of time may have passed since I made this succulent pudding. These words are more easily preserved than pudding.

It was precisely 8:15 p.m. on Sunday, July 22, 2001, when I finished my batch of tasty blueberry pudding. I wrote most of these words shortly afterward. That pudding is long gone, but my wish for you to have some lives on. Isn't time travel interesting?

I made this delectable blueberry pudding because I am your celestial chariot. Though you can't actually eat the pudding, I can still share it with you. I can share the idea of pudding. Heavenly blueberry pudding.

You've probably been busy lately. You don't always hear the blueberries when they call out to you. I don't always hear the blueberries either. But I heard them on Sunday, July 22, 2001, and I still want you to hear them.

Sometimes, when I walk through the woods, I think about my problems, and I can't hear the blueberries. If I am carrying the weight of some mistake or another, some sadness, some loss, some evil, I can't hear the blueberries when they call out to me. I walk right past them.

If I go for a long enough walk, however, all my sins are eventually forgiven. Then, I can hear the blueberries. They say, "I'm right here, and I won't stay this ripe and flavorful for long." I find it hard to believe I didn't see them in the first place. They were right there!

The blueberries are trying to be your celestial chariot, but you are too overwhelmed by your daily struggles to listen for them. That's why I'm here. I am your celestial chariot and I always have sumptuous drugged pudding to share with you.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul[at]geekprom[dot]com.

Eat Yourself Help

2006-01-18T13:46:00.000-06:00

The biggest mistake you can make after deciding to eat yourself is to start with the hands. The hands are the easiest part of the body to eat, so they seem like a good place to begin. But that is exactly why you should save them as long as possible. Remember, once your hands are gone, those hard to bite areas become an even bigger strain.

I suggest you start with your thigh, just above the knee. Chew through both legs, severing them. This allows you to eat your calves and feet like two big sloppy corncobs. (Should you begin choking on an Achilles tendon, remember that a self-applied Heimlich maneuver can be just as easily performed when you are rolling around on the floor with severed legs as when you are standing on your feet.)

You might find the area from your thighs up hard to reach with your mouth so it's important that you still have your hands and arms. Don't eat them yet! After you have chewed open your legs, you will easily be able to use your hands to scoop out heaping portions of the rest of your body.

Many people ask me, "Paul, how do I eat my own mouth?" The answer is simple. Just swallow. It's that easy.

Others ask, "What should I serve with myself?" What these people don't realize is that the human body is a complete five-course meal. Appetizer: toes. Salad: tossed hamstrings. Soup: cream of kneecap. Main course: rump roast ala moi. Dessert: brains. (I like my brains topped with maple nut ice cream.)

While you are eating yourself, you might decide you want to wash yourself down with something. Allow me to suggest black cherry spritzer.

Once you have finished, you will no doubt desire to eat someone else. I recommend short women with round features. They are the juiciest.

Infants are to be avoided. They are too small. Throw them back.

The elderly are generally pretty dry, but if you saute them in butter and garlic ... well, even a roller skate is tasty if it's been sauteed in butter and garlic.

And do not forget to save your cartilage. In my next column: pepperoni recipes.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. He is what he eats, so he eats what he is. His e-mail address is paul[at]geekprom[dot]com.

Sweater Vest

2005-11-20T22:28:00.000-06:00

I wear my sweater vest with pride. I know it makes me look like my mommy dressed me for Sunday School, but I won't let that stop me. I'm not trying to be cute or sexy, I just recognize what a smart piece of clothing the sweater vest is.

It's about practicality, you see. The sweater vest keeps the core of my body warm while allowing my arms to move freely, without restriction. Plus, it comes with handy pockets that, OK, I admit I never use, but it's nice to have them.

My other shirts are manly enough -- mostly lined flannels and hockey jerseys in dark colors -- so I think I deserve a break if I occasionally decide it's an even more beautiful day in the neighborhood than Fred Rogers did.

In general, I think I have a healthy balance of machismo. I like sports, but I don't like motor sports. I enjoy the fine arts, but I've never been to a ballet. I like meat and potatoes, but I also think some sushi rice with shitake and oyster mushrooms would be delightful.

People should learn more about me before assuming that my wearing a sweater vest is some sort of plea for homosexual intercourse. If they would just sit down and watch The Rocky Horror Picture Show with me, they would see that I simply do not understand that movie at all.

I have always had a healthy desire, however, to share my heterosexual passion with compatible members of the female gender. And if I'm wearing nothing but a sweater vest.in the process, well, deal with it. My bedroom gets a little nippy on winter nights.

Admittedly, one thing about me does send the wrong message. There is simply no excuse for it -- and I don't know how or why I started doing it -- but sometimes, instead of saying goodbye to people, I say, "toodle-doo."

For some reason, no one objects to me using this expression, which should be reserved exclusively for 60-year-old Tinker Bells. But when I wear a piece of very functional clothing, everyone feels the need to question my sexuality.

Well, go ahead and say what you want. If you've never had your ass kicked by someone wearing a sweater vest, maybe your time has come. That's all I'm saying. Thanks for reading this week's column. Toodle-doo everybody!

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

2006 Resolutions

2005-10-06T10:21:00.000-05:00

A lot of people make resolutions for themselves at the start of a new year. I'm not one of those people. Acknowledging any personal ineptitude would not be in accord with the standards of sardonic newspaper column writing.

Instead, I'm listing a few things that really annoyed me in 2005, with the hope that the people responsible will change their ways in 2006. My goal is to make the world a better place -- not just for me, but for people who are like me.

This first resolution is for the ladies, concerning the company Princess House and its "elegant, exclusive products." Having a Princess House party and referring to yourself as a "lifestyle consultant" because you sell crappy teakettles will not be tolerated in 2006.

Anyone with a car alarm should resolve to have it removed and destroyed as soon as possible. The next one that goes off for no reason will be just cause for anyone to vandalize the offending car with any available weapon until the honking is silenced.

"What about alarms that go off for legitimate purposes?" you might be asking, if you are someone who has too much money and keeps a lot of expensive items in your automobile. "Too effing bad," the rest of us answer.

Keeping with the subject of automobiles: Manufacturers of car stereos should resolve to never again make a model without a CD player, or at least a cassette player. No human being should be at the mercy of radio stations, ever. Driving requires music, not the repeated playing of the same highlight from a morning show.

It would also be nice if installing a new car stereo was slightly less complicated than installing a kidney. Could we at least resolve to create a simple, uniform method for setting the car stereo's clock? The average person should not have to consult an owner's manual whenever daylight savings time begins or ends.

And this last resolution is for Target stores: No, I would not like to save 15 percent on my purchase by signing up for a Target card. Please resolve to stop asking me. No means no, damn it. No means no.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. You can call him Pauly, if you feel Don Ness has left a hole in your life. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

Domain Revisited

2005-09-09T10:53:00.000-05:00

In the spring of 2000, I wrote a column about the many unused domain names available on the Internet. It was surprising to me at the time that so many great options were still purchasable despite the growing popularity of the medium.

Now, over five years later, a majority of the domain names I referenced in that article remain unclaimed. Considering that there are about 45 million domain names in existence, it's remarkable how many good URLs are still available for the virtual taking.

My updated research, conducted on Monday, Dec. 5, 2005, concluded the following:

* Many obvious and practical uses for the Internet are still not being utilized. For example, no one has registered havemybaby.com, anyoneneedakidney.com or howdoifixthisdamnthing.com.

* Planning ahead for Valentine's Day, I noticed that iloveyou.com is available. When I checked five years ago, there was a site there that allowed you to "post your personalized message over the Internet for the world to see and express your feelings for someone you love." The site had a pop-up with the header "sex sex sex sex sex sex sex nude girls nude shows nude men young teen." It may seem pointless for me mention that pop-up in this article, but my own Web page could use some extra hits from people searching the Internet for "sex sex sex sex sex sex sex nude girls nude shows nude men young teen." Are you listening, Google?

* On the subject of pornography, picsofmyexgirlfriend.com and picsofmyexwife.com are still available for registration. Somewhat ironically, picsofmygirlfriend.com and picsofmywife.com are in use, but each is designed to direct people to other sites.

* For those with non-pornographic intentions, totallyclothed.com, respectfulphotographs.com and hotwetandamish.com are all available.

* Somethingintelligent.com is also available, but let's face it, that's not what the Internet is for.

* Five years ago, bestsiteontheweb.com and bestsiteontheinternet.com were both taken, but nothing was posted on them. Now, bestsiteontheinternet.com is available, and bestsiteontheweb.com is still promising content "coming soon."

* Worstsiteontheinternet.com and worstsiteontheweb.com have both been claimed, but they still have no content, which puts them on a par with the best.

* Anyone looking to create a Web site that all other Web sites can be judged against should know that averagewebsite.com is still available.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com. Paullundgren.com is still available for anyone wishing to start a fan site, hint-hint.

Tickle Torture

2005-07-13T13:32:00.000-05:00

The alley was a dead end. No place left to run. Turning around, Manny saw the gang closing in on him. They slowed to a stop about ten feet away and carefully positioned themselves in a semi-circle, penning him in.

The gang leader let out a devious cackle and reached slowly into the breast pocket of his jacket, then quickly pulled out a feather. "OK, boys -- off with his shoes," he said. "If Manny wants to be on the Tickle Posse's turf, he has to pay the toll."

"No! Noooooo!" Manny screamed, but it was no use. He was defenseless as the gang leader closed in and spoke the words that will forever haunt him: "Gootchi-gootchi-goo." The sound of Manny's uncontrollable laughter echoed through the city night.

The tickle torture is a unique form of physical attack. Essentially, it pleasures the victim so intensely that it causes pain. The pleasure can be so powerful that the whole body spasms as if the victim is experiencing an orgasm. The shame of being pleasured against one's will, however, is what makes the tickle torture a feared weapon.

Above all, it is a way to assert dominance: male over female, older sibling over younger sibling, the stronger over the weaker. The tickle torture can be compared to rape, though it is almost always less violent, and much, much funnier.

Still, to be dominated in such a way can be humiliating, all the more so because the attack is usually rationalized as innocent fun. Seeking justice from an authority figure will only result in further embarrassment for the victim.

Attempts at revenge will be viewed as unjustified unless the revenge is taken in the form of a counter tickle torture. Since the victim is usually of inferior physical strength, the counter attack can only take place when the person of superior strength is using both hands to carry something heavy.

It should be noted that committing a tickle torture could have serious repercussions if the victim is not judiciously chosen. When the manager at work says, "These sales figures are unacceptable," the response, "Sounds like someone needs a tickle torture," will not result in positive outcomes.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. He would like to tickle torture Donald Trump, the entire Supreme Court and your mom. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

My Gay Valentine

2005-06-15T10:48:00.000-05:00

Lately I've been thinking about my heterosexuality. Specifically, I've been wondering if nature hardwired me to want to have sex with women, or if it was societal influences that persuaded me to lead a straight lifestyle.

Looking through a box of old things my mother saved for me from my childhood, I found a stack of all the Valentines I received in the first grade. Some of them were a little surprising.

Back then, every first-grade student had to give all the other students in the class a Valentine so no one would feel less popular than anyone else. That meant the boys had to give Valentines not just to all the girls, but to all the boys, too.

That, of course, was really, really gay. "Be mine," is not a message my friend Dave would write to me these days, but he did in 1980, and I blame it on my school's homosexual agenda.

Other cards I got from boys include one that reads "You score big with me, Valentine," featuring an illustration of a little boy holding a football. Another one with a fish on it reads "I'd sing a tuna if you'd be my Valentine." Even giving these cards to someone of the opposite sex would be gay.

Of course, I don't really believe my first-grade teacher was trying to turn me queer by forcing me to give Valentines to boys, but it got me to thinking about nature vs. nurture and my own sexual development.

By the ninth grade, my school was pushing a heterosexual agenda. A computer program called Data Match was using information from questionnaires to provide students with a list of their most compatible classmates. It only matched boys with girls and girls with boys.

Whatever society was encouraging me to be, I ended up straight, and I'm quite happy that way. But I still have to admit that I'm a strong proponent of the gay agenda. The way I see it, any time two men get together, they leave more women for me to hook up with, and I certainly approve of that.

And when two women get together, well, that's just hot. What red-blooded heterosexual man wouldn't want two women to get together? So, I can't help but see homosexuality as a win-win situation.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

Dogs

2005-05-30T18:22:00.000-05:00

I like animals, but I don't like pets. I have never understood why people invite animals into their homes. I think it has something to do with the desire to be involved in a manipulative relationship.

"Come here, come here and let me pet you ... oooooh, yes ... mumma loves you soooo much ... roll over and I'll give you a treat. Now go away, I'm trying to read the paper here."

My least favorite pets have always been dogs for one simple reason: they bark. Cats, ferrets, iguanas and most other pets are nice and quiet, so I never have to deal with them. But dogs are always disturbing the neighborhood with their incessant woofing and growling.

So, it was upsetting to me when I fell in love with a woman who has a dog. See, falling in love with a woman who has a dog requires falling in love with the dog, too. And, I should point out, my girlfriend's dog is a 90-pound Doberman.

In the past nine months, I've had to learn a lot of new things. For example:

* Not only does going on vacation require consulting several friends to see if they are available to let the dog out, so does simply going out after work without coming home first.

* Leaving the gate to the fence open will result in a lawsuit.

* The first step in cleaning up a pile of vomit the size of a 16-inch deep-dish pizza is scooping it up with a dustpan. And that is the easy part.

* If there is a skunk in the yard, the dog will always attack it, no matter how many times he gets sprayed directly into his mouth.

* Tomato soup baths don't work these days because the acidity of tomatoes has changed over the years, so I'm told. A product that comes highly recommended on the Internet for removing skunk odor is Massengill douches, but they don't really work well either. A concoction of hydrogen peroxide, dish soap and baking soda works best, and also provides the added joy of turning your dog into a blond.

Clearly there are a lot of responsibilities that come with having a dog. But I've finally learned the joy that pet ownership can bring. My friends, you haven't really lived until you've douched a dog's face.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

SpongeBob SnotRags

2005-04-16T17:20:00.000-05:00

Dear Proctor and Gamble,

You might remember me from when I wrote to you about how bars of your Ivory For Baby Smooth Skin soap crumble apart too easily. Or maybe you don't remember that. The truth is, I occasionally write crabby letters for my newspaper column, but I never actually mail them.

Today I'm upset about the packaging of your Puffs Plus facial tissue. But before I get into that, I just have to say wow, it sure is something that Proctor and Gamble happens to own both of the products I've decided to complain about this year. Somehow you've managed to really capture the Paul Lundgren market, though it remains a hostile one.

The reason why I buy Puffs Plus instead of regular facial tissue is because I have allergies and blow my nose a lot in the fall. Because Puffs Plus is fortified with lotion, my nose stays smooth and beautiful instead of red and flaky. For that, I must thank you, Proctor and Gamble.

What I'm upset about is the new marketing collaboration between Puffs and the Nickelodeon cable TV network, which has resulted in cartoon characters appearing on boxes of Puffs Plus. As a grown man, I do not want SpongeBob SquarePants on my facial tissue boxes.

Don't get me wrong; I understand the importance of enforcing in the minds of children that blowing one's nose is super fun like a wacky cartoon. And I have noticed that the cartoon characters only appear on some boxes of Puffs Plus and not all boxes, giving consumers an option to choose a normal box.

The problem is that, at my neighborhood store, single boxes of Puffs Plus are $2 and packages of three boxes are $4.99. I have to buy three boxes because, as mentioned before, I blow my nose a lot. And, of course, I want to save the extra dollar by buying the three-box package.

Well, the three-box packages all contain one box with a cartoon character on it. So, as you can see, I'm screwed. Please get the damn cartoon characters off your Puffs Plus boxes or at least arrange through your vast corporate network for me to get free cable so I can find out who the hell Jimmy Neutron, Boy Genius is.

Somewhat sincerely,

Paul

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

Adventures of Mintman

2005-03-05T12:21:00.000-06:00

Here he comes, bounding down Raleigh Street with Kentucky-style bourbon clutched in one hand and a box of Dots candy stretched over the other, nearly splitting at the folds.

His face is hidden behind a black mask, but his big, bloodshot eyes and gleeful, tooth-decay-ridden smile are proof that he is no imposter. His aerodynamic fiberglass helmet has one letter spray-painted on each side: M.

Inside his trademark skin-tight, mint-green suit, his undershorts have slid down and clumped up at crotch level. Every stride he takes stretches the waistband further and further.

On the chest of his suit is a plastic horn of plenty. Fake pears, bananas and other fruits bounce gently off his round stomach as he slowly trots toward the scene, sweating profusely and hacking up phlegm-wads layered with bits of sunflower seeds.

"It's a bum!"

"It's an escaped mental case!"

Nope. It's Mintman.

Little Billy was on his way home from school when he decided to take a shortcut through a secluded back alley. What he didn't know was that three bullies from school had followed him.

One of the boys rushed Billy from behind and pushed him to the ground. The others began stomping on him and pelting him with crab apples and taconite pellets. Then they spat on him and ran away laughing.

Billy was curled up on the gravel road, bloody and teary-eyed, when, like a rampaging moose on Quaaludes, our hero staggered onto the scene. A sandwich popped out of his belt and fell apart on his feet as he exclaimed, "This looks like a job for -- Mintman!"

"Go get them, Mintman!" little Billy shouted, pointing in the direction of the bullies' escape. "They beat me up and spit on me!"

"I know," Mintman confessed. "I watched from behind the bushes over there. Those kids were scary."

"But you're a grown man!" Billy shouted.

"There were three of them," Mintman explained. "I didn't want my suit to get torn. Do you know how hard it is to find a skin-tight mint-green superhero suit? It's not easy, I'll tell you that.

"You should probably have that thing laundered," little Billy said, wiping the tears from his eyes. "You smell like hot garbage."

Paul Lundgren is a mild-mannered newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

Tips for Teens

2005-02-21T16:24:00.000-06:00

This is not your ordinary back-to-school article, boys and girls. This is practical advice from a class clown who went on to graduate from a middle-of-the-road university, almost with honors. So, pay attention, my horny little pizza-faced friends.

First and foremost: There is a common misconception that the best time to misbehave is at the end of the school year. The theory, apparently, is that if you follow the rules at the beginning of the year, you can expect some slack if you screw up in the spring. Nothing could be further from the truth.

If you behave at the beginning of the year, you raise the faculty's expectations of you and provide evidence that you know right from wrong. Also, you risk having a whole year of work pulled out from under you by zero-tolerance policies. How many horror stories have you heard about kids who didn't get to graduate because they indulged in senior skip day or flunked a final?

Clearly, if you confine your most serious rule breaking to the beginning of the school year, you'll have much less to lose, particularly if you attend a public school. Remember, the school district gets money from the state based on the number of students enrolled. It is simply not cost-effective to expel you at the beginning of the year.

A few other random bits of advice:

* Your teachers will think twice about busting you for cheating on a test if you go so far as to have the answers tattooed on your forearm.

* Keep in mind that, though it is illegal for anyone under the age of 21 to buy beer, it is perfectly legal for anyone to buy barley, hops and yeast.

* While we're on the subject of alcohol: If your friends are pressuring you into heavy drinking -- beer bongs and whatnot -- and start calling you a wimp, there is a safe way to fight back. Invite them to your parent's house for what you promise will be a wild party. Tell them you are making a wopatusi, or "wop," which is a punch made of fruit and vodka. When your friends show up, lead them to the bathroom, and show them that you have prepared the wop in your toilet. When they refuse to drink, tell them they are lightweights who don't know how to party.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

RSVP

2005-01-11T07:32:00.000-06:00

Dear Every Couple That Is Even Remotely Acquainted With Me,

I want to thank you for inviting me to share in the most important day of your young lives -- your wedding day. Apparently you do not know what an immature jackass I am.

Please be aware of the following:

1) If you are going to have your wedding on a nice sunny Saturday afternoon, I am going to either not show up at all or arrive late wearing Bermuda shorts and a tank top.

2) Your gift will still be in the plastic Big K bag. I am not going ten miles out of my way to where you are "registered" and I will buy you whatever I want and I will do it ten minutes before the wedding and there will be no card.

3) I am going to laugh out loud during your wedding. Churches are hilarious. And church figures are even more hilarious. Ministers, priests, rabbis, nuns, popes, cardinals, archbishops and monsignors are all uproariously funny and deserve to be laughed at. At the last wedding I went to, the minister kept referring to the Son of God as "Jesus, the Christ." I kept imagining a professional wrestler: "From Bethlehem, weighing in at 127 pounds ... JEEE-SISSS -- THE CHRIST!"

4) Justices of the Peace are even funnier.

5) If your wedding lasts longer than seven minutes, I will noticeably express my restlessness.

6) I will not tell you afterward that the ceremony was wonderful when it was, in fact, comparable to waiting for a dental appointment.

7) At the reception I am going to drink a lot of wine and eat a lot of cake. I deserve it.

8) If you schedule the reception for immediately after the wedding, but you show up for it an hour and a half late because you were out getting your precious pictures taken, I will be very drunk and very belligerent when you finally arrive. When was the last time I invited you to a party and left you to mingle with my Uncle Jerry while I went out to run errands? Oh, yeah, that would be never.

Good luck with each other,

Paul

P.S. Thanks for the totally confusing hand-drawn map that leads me to believe Our Savior's Church is either behind the Lake Superior Zoo or somewhere in Proctor.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. He'd like you to start calling him "Paul, the Lundgren." His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

Walking

2004-11-08T08:05:00.000-06:00

I went out to meet some friends for drinks the other night and decided to walk to the bar instead of drive. When I got there and mentioned that I had a nice walk, one person looked at me like I said a stork had delivered me there.

"You walked here all the way from downtown?" she asked, as if she expected I might pass out at any minute from the strain of sauntering across the city. "Why didn't you drive? We could have picked you up if you needed a ride."

I'm always surprised when people suggest that walking is a weird thing to do. I sit at a desk all day because I earn money that way, and I sit on a barstool occasionally because I enjoy good company, but I consider both of those activities far stranger than walking.

Truth be told, walking to the bar is the highlight of the day. I could probably walk all day long, if I really set my mind to it, but it's not as easy as it sounds. Basically, it requires being homeless and broke.

So, I sell the better part of my day in order to walk the way I want to for a brief hour in the evening. Whether I'm deep in the woods or out on the busy city streets, as long as I don't have a purpose, I'm happy.

I enjoy walking in the woods the most, but the longer the walk becomes, the more necessary it is to bring food and water. Carrying enough rations to walk as far as I want to walk would spoil the walking.

That's the burden of balance we all face in our lives. If we didn't have to eat and drink, we could just walk forever. If there were never bad weather, we wouldn't need houses. If we didn't work so much, we wouldn't need to relieve ourselves by getting drunk and making love. We could just walk forever.

Few of us will ever be ready for a truly Thoreauvian walk. "If you are ready to leave father and mother, and brother and sister, and wife and child and friends, and never see them again -- if you have paid your debts, and made your will, and settled all your affairs, and are a free man, then you are ready for a walk."

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

Changing a Flat

2004-08-28T20:08:00.000-05:00

The most I have ever paid for a car is $4,000. The six other cars I've gone through over the years each cost about $1,000 or less. Every one of them was a bargain, but involved a bit more maintenance than newer cars.

I've never driven on a new tire in my life, and the old ones have given me my share of roadside adventures over the years. As a public service, I've compiled a list of advice about changing flat tires.

* Always have a four-way steel lug wrench in your car. That flimsy wrench-like object that comes with the car is about as reliable as a drummer in a funk band.

* Always consult the manual to find where the jack slot is. Auto manufacturers NEVER make the slot easy to find, and it ALWAYS is in a different spot than it was with the previous car you had. Finding the jack slot is not at all like having sex. You can't just slide up and down until you find the right spot. If you are in a hurry and try jacking up from any old surface under the car, the jack will ALWAYS slip and you will have to start over after getting up and referring to the manual anyway.

* Understand from the very beginning that there is NO CHANCE that you will change your flat tire without lying down on the filthy street at some point. Changing a flat is not a stand-up-and-bend-over job. If you try to avoid lying down because you are dressed in pretty clothes, you are just wasting time. Either resign to getting your clothes dirty right away, or leave your car where it is and call for professional help.

* If you keep a lot of stuff in your trunk, be prepared to hate yourself when you get a flat. Whatever you will not be taking out to help change the flat will become a major annoyance as you wrestle to keep it out of the way while you wiggle your spare out of its tight compartment.

* Most importantly, you should know that every fifth time you get a flat, one of the lug nuts will be stripped. When that happens, you are totally helpless and should immediately give up.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. He wrote the sexual metaphor in the fourth paragraph on purpose, but the rest were happy accidents. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

Soft Drink

2004-05-15T10:33:00.000-05:00

I'm in the market for a soft drink. It's a nice day, I'm out having fun, and my thirst is the kind that water simply cannot remedy. A nice bottle of soda pop is just what I need.

There are a lot of different soft drinks to choose from, so I will have to first pick what flavor I want. Colas and root beers seem a little heavy for a warm day like this, so I'm going to eliminate those first.

There seems to be a flavor of soft drink called "doctor." It's not a cola or root beer, nor is it a fruit flavor. I'm not really sure what it is, but there are at least three different doctor brands: Dr. Pepper, Dr. Thunder and Dr. Chill. There is another similar-tasting soft drink called Mr. Pibb, which apparently doesn't have its PhD yet.

Most fruit-flavored soft drinks, like grape and orange, are just as heavy as colas and root beers. I think what I want is a clear, refreshing, potentially lemon-lime flavored soda pop. Now all I have to do is sort through the brands: Mountain Dew, Mellow Yellow, 7-Up and Sprite.

If I went to a grocery store, I could buy a bargain brand that doesn't advertise, like Shasta Moon Mist. Because Shasta doesn't have enough of a price mark-up to be sold at convenience stores, however, I will have to buy a heavily marketed brand.

Besides, Shasta doesn't come in bottles, and I don't want my soft drink in a can. I want my soft drink in a long, 16-ounce glass bottle like "Mean" Joe Greene used to drink before tossing me his sweaty jersey in the early 1980s. Unfortunately, nobody makes those bottles anymore.

When I was in Seattle, about ten years ago, I found a soft-drink vending machine that had the usual assortment of brands available, plus one "chance" option. That's right, the machine would randomly pick a soda for the customer.

I wish I had the "chance" option more often in life. I don't like picking things out of simulated police lineups, based on looks and advertising campaigns alone. I want my soft drink to step forward and say, "My name is black cherry spritzer, and I'm just what you've been looking for."

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

Baby Smooth Skin

2004-04-25T18:36:00.000-05:00

Dear Proctor & Gamble,

I recently purchased a 12-bar package of your new Ivory For Baby Smooth Skin. My decision wasn't based on my skin not being baby smooth enough, but rather that this soap seemed to be the cheapest available.

I don't have any brand loyalty when it comes to soap. I don't get all excited about aloe and its ability to let me "rediscover the mildness." I just want to wash the stink off my body as quickly and inexpensively as possible.

Sure, if a "gentle combination of mild soap and pure aloe" will leave my skin baby smooth, that's a bonus, but only if the soap effectively performs the core function that inspired its purchase. Sadly, I can't say that it has in this case.

So far I've used half of the package, and all six bars have prematurely broken into tiny pieces while in use. I know that all bars of soap eventually crack into pieces, but Ivory For Baby Smooth Skin does it way too soon.

See, most bars of soap, when they become thin and wafer-like, break into two pieces. Those two pieces can then be used until they become too small to hold on to, and ultimately slide down the drain.

Ivory For Baby Smooth Skin, however, breaks in half while it's still relatively thick. Then the half pieces each break into four chucks that must be carefully cupped into my hand. When they slip out, they're at first too big to go down the drain, so I can scoop them up and reuse them.

Needless to say, however, I don't like picking up the little soaplings. Not when I can buy other brands that will stay together so much better. Between the inconvenience of scooping up the pieces, and the extra amount of soap going straight down the drain without cleaning me, I'm just not getting a bargain.

I'm also troubled by the claim that Ivory For Baby Smooth Skin will make my skin "naturally clean." Looking over the list of chemicals in the ingredients, I find that hard to believe. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind the chemicals, I just don't like the claim. If I wanted to be naturally clean, I'd go dip my crotch in the crick.

Sincerely yours,
Paul Lundgren

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

Wet Dogs

2004-03-04T16:00:00.000-06:00

What are you thinking, wearing those cutesy little boots? There's deep snow out there. You can't go for a winter walk in the woods of Superior, Wisconsin in those things! All the snow will slide down your ankles and melt at your feet!

Are those cotton socks? Oh boy, are you ever in trouble. Did you think we were just going for a quick one-mile loop along a cross-country ski trail? Jeez. You don't know me very well, do you?

Let's walk across the bay and visit that island before they turn it into a golf course. What do you mean the ice isn't safe? There's a guy driving his Chevy Suburban on it. You weigh 96 pounds.

OK, fine. We'll turn around. Your feet must be really cold. We need to get you out of those wet socks. Tell you what, since my feet are perfectly dry, why don't I let you wear my wool socks?

No, I'll be fine. My boots have a nice lining and it's not too cold out. It's going to take us a while to get back to the car, and I think we'll both be more comfortable if you have dry feet. Here's a tree stump we can sit on.

See? Look how wet your socks are! Here, put these on. Hey, look at that little doggie. He's coming straight for us, and he sure looks excited. Holy moly, look at all the mud on his paws. Watch out for your white pants!

I'm sorry. I know it's not funny. Well, I don't know why he won't stop jumping on you. Maybe you should throw a stick or something. Careful now, don't put your bare foot down in the ... never mind.

I know, I know. It's not funny. That little mutt just won't leave you alone will he? I think that guy over there is the owner; maybe he'll ... DON'T THROW YOUR BOOT AT THE DOG! Oh, boy. Now you've done it.

Don't cry. I'm sure the dog will come back with your boot. I'll go see if that guy's the owner. You just sit on the stump for a minute. Everything will be fine. I'm sure the mud will come out of your pants.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. He dedicates this story to Renee for her 30th birthday and congratulates her on becoming a little more assimilated to the outdoors over the years.

I Have a Girlfriend Now

2004-02-21T13:32:00.000-06:00

Listen, I know it's wet T-shirt night, but I'm going to have to say no thanks. I have a girlfriend now, and we've planned a quiet evening together. You should get a girlfriend, too. Maybe we could all hang out some time.

By the way, if you could stop telling people about how you could always hear me masturbating in the top bunk when we lived in the dorms together, I'd really appreciate it. The same goes for those anecdotes you love to share about the times I've been so drunk that I lost control of my bowels.

Yes, I know, I've had girlfriends before, but this one is special. That girl last fall was just a fling. By the way, if you see her, please ask about my grandmother's ring. I'd like that back.

We should also have a talk about your blog. There are a few things in the archives that I think should be deleted. First and foremost would be the infamous "Spaghetti & Meatballs" picture in which I appear naked with a dozen Italian prostitutes. It's not that I didn't think that was a good time, it's just that we need to live in the present, man. I mean, that was, like, so nine months ago.

I also think the "Tell Your Wildest Sex Story" Internet forum you host just isn't as funny as it used to be. Don't get me wrong; I'm not saying you should take the whole thing down, I just don't think anybody's interested in the posts that I made. My stuff was kind of boring. Maybe you should cut those parts out.

Oh, and about last Monday, that was just out of my hands. It's a real shame that Valentine's Day happened to fall on a Monday and interrupt our ritual of watching WWE wrestling. I know I told you that I would make it up to you by buying the beer for this week, but it turns out that my girlfriend and I are really into "Everybody Loves Raymond" now, and we've decided to make it a new Monday night ritual. Sorry.

Don't look so down, dude. I mean, think about it. I might pop the question soon, and you know what that means: Stag-effin'-partaaay!

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. This is his 200th column. Send him a JPEG of yourself holding out a congratulatory bouquet of flowers. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

Delinquents

2004-01-03T16:22:00.000-06:00

So there I was, walking past a group of sixth-grade boys. One of them asked if I could give him some money for his school's field trip. I knew right away that he wasn't really asking me for money. He was challenging me to tell him that I knew he was lying. He was looking for some attention, and perhaps some entertainment at my expense.

"Sorry, I can't help you," I told him. As I walked away, a rock whizzed past my head.

Turning around, I saw three of the kids running away, while one just stood there, about 30 feet away from me. I glared at him for a moment, thinking about what I should say or do in response.

There was a lot of information I didn't have. Was this the kid who threw the rock or was he pleading innocent by not running away with the guilty party? Did the kid who threw the rock intend to miss me, or hit me? Either way, what should I do in response? Should I chase down and beat up a bunch of kids? Should I yell and scream and put on a show for them? Should I just walk away and let them infer that I'm afraid of them? There seemed to be no intelligent solution.

"What are you looking at me for?" The kid finally shouted. "I didn't do anything."

"Do you hang out with those other guys?" I asked.

"Yeah, they're my cousins," he said. "We're tight."

"You're tight, huh?"

"Yeah, we're pimps."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"It's something old people don't understand," he told me. "Why don't you just keep walking?"

"You mean like I was doing before one of your pimp friends threw a rock at my head?"

There was little doubt in my mind that the best thing I could do for these kids would be to punch their obnoxious little faces in. There was also little doubt that I would go to prison for doing it. I chose the road of self-preservation, as usual, and walked away.

There are, of course, nonviolent solutions to this type of situation, like calling the police. Doing that, however, would involve a potentially fruitless time investment that I'm not willing to make. So, when that rock hits your head, you can blame me as much as those kids and their delinquent parents.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

The Bird is the Word

2003-12-03T16:17:00.000-06:00

What good is having a middle finger if you don't use it? It's the longest, most important finger on your hand, and it's there for a reason. Yet sadly, many people are not making use of this easy-to-use communication tool.

I make it a point to flip off at least three people every day, and you should, too. It's the easiest way to suggest to others that they should sexually penetrate themselves. And let's face it, there are a lot of people out there who should sexually penetrate themselves.

Indeed, there are so many people out there who deserve to see your middle finger, if not your entire fist, that you'd be remiss of your civic duty as an American patriot if you didn't frequently stand tall and proudly unfurl your center digit on the slightest whim.

Start with me. I love being flipped off. It keeps me humble. There are a lot of people walking around thinking they are so high and mighty that you can't flip them off without suffering consequences. That alone is enough of a reason to introduce them to Mr. Flip Wilson.

The president, the police, the pope, your boss and your grandmother are all perfect examples of people who should immediately be informed that you think they are number one.

Don't save your middle finger for political "hot-button" issues like abortion, war and religious freedom. The common everyday annoyances of life are great opportunities for you to brush up on your sign language, and you shouldn't let those opportunities go by.

Say, for example, you are at a birthday party and there is one of those people there who has to take a picture of the cake. Give that dingbat the ol' one-finger salute and tell her to take a picture of that instead. She won't thank you for sharing your opinion, but someone will.

Or, maybe you're at the library and some guy is talking way too loudly about his family's fascinating genealogy. Make sure to shush him with your special finger, and then follow through by pushing up your glasses.

The bird is the word, people. Be generous, and share it with others. It's easy, it feels good and it improves society. Just make sure you don't overdo it. Maintain a balanced diet, with frequent mooning and crotch grabbing mixed into your daily routine.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. E-mail him a JPEG of your middle finger. His address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

Political Compromise

2003-10-13T11:07:00.000-05:00

A lot has been written about political divisiveness lately and I'm tired of it. I'd like to do something to help bring Americans back together again. So, I've drafted a compromise that I think should help us put two burning issues to rest, at least for a while.

I'm not claiming that I can solve all the world's problems. I'm not even claiming that I can solve any problems. I'm just proposing a plan to make two of the most annoying and divisive problems go away for a while.

I don't really have much to say about the war, the economy and health care at this time. They are indeed complicated issues, and I don't pretend to know the answers. Americans will just have to continue bickering about those subjects.

I do, however, have a strong opinion about abortion and gay marriage. And I think I speak for a strong majority of Americans when I say that what we want the most is for everyone to just shut up and give us all a break.

Abortion is (for the most part) legal and gay marriage is (for the most part) illegal, so let's just call it a draw and not change anything. That seems like a fair trade to me, since there are very few people who are in favor of one and not in favor of the other.

Of course, there are people on both sides of both issues who will never give up the fight, and that's just fine. I don't think we have to table both issues forever. Let's just choose a nice resting period, like maybe five or ten years.

You might wonder where I stand on these issues, thinking I have something to gain by this plan. Well, let me tell you, the only thing I have to gain is peace and quiet. I'm not a homosexual, nor am I pregnant, and I have nothing against those who are.

If it were up to me, I guess I'd keep abortion legal. Sure, it is murder, but I'd rather be dead than unwanted. As for gay marriage, I can't support it. I don't even approve of straight marriage.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

Donald Bloomer

2003-09-29T11:27:00.000-05:00

If you follow the news in Duluth, you know who Donald Bloomer is. This past summer he was arrested and charged with murder in connection with the 1980 disappearance of his girlfriend. After denying any knowledge of her whereabouts for 24 years, he now says that he accidentally shot her.

When I first heard Bloomer's name and saw his mug shot, I thought there was something familiar about him. Since his name is similar to Donald Blom, a man already convicted of murder in a high-profile case, I figured that was why I thought I'd heard of him before.

As the Bloomer case progressed, however, I saw TV news footage of him and knew immediately where I thought I had seen him before. I may never know for sure if it was really him, but it makes the story I'm about to tell a little creepier if you pretend it stars Donald Bloomer.

About four years ago I was shopping around for an inexpensive place to live. The classified ads in a local newspaper led me to a man who had an upstairs bedroom he wanted to rent. He sounded strange over the phone, but I figured I'd drive over and have a look at the place anyway.

A thin, 60ish-year-old man answered the door wearing nothing but his tighty whiteys. When I told him I was there to look at the house he made a big deal about how he totally forgot I was coming. Then he put some clothes on and showed me around the place. It was pretty normal, except for the bed in the living room, which he explained was there because he has an injury and has trouble climbing stairs.

"I don't get out much," he told me. "I have a lot of girlfriends that come here to see me though. They range in age from about 16 to 60." I thought that was a strange piece of information for him to offer without being asked.

He also told me that he would be a good resource if I had any problems because he has a book that explains "the way things really are." He took the book down from a shelf and held it up, but I couldn't see the title. Since I was eager to move along, I didn't inquire about it.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

The Abandoned Car Test

2003-07-25T16:16:00.000-05:00

Although there are many unique neighborhoods in Duluth, the city is essentially divided into just three sections: West Duluth, Central Hillside and East Duluth. Perhaps the reason for this is that there are three high schools - Denfeld, Central and East - which cater to each section of the city. Whatever the reason, the fact remains that Duluthians are raised three different ways.

Below is a little role play situation to illustrate the differences from one section of the city to the next. I offer it as a public service to future Duluthians who are trying to determine which part of the city best suits them. Here we go:

Say you notice there is a strange car parked on the street you live. The car has a flat tire and a smashed windshield. A few days go by and the car doesn't move at all. How do you want your neighbors to react?

If you live in East Duluth, a few days wouldn't even go by before the car would be towed. The first person to notice it would call the police immediately and report the nuisance vehicle.

In the Central Hillside, everyone would ignore the car and it would sit undisturbed until winter, when the snowplows need to get through. Then, the city would have it towed. Although many people would notice the car for several months and recognize it as abandoned, it would never even become a subject of conversation.

In West Duluth, the car would go undisturbed for a few days, and then everyone would start talking about it. Theories of where it came from and what happened to its owner would abound. No one would call the police though. After a month or two, little kids would start playing inside the car until a few older kids would eventually come along and push it down a hill into a crick.

I was raised in West Duluth, but now I live in the Central Hillside. That car is not hypothetical; it's been outside my apartment all summer. It's really starting to bother me that my parents haven't stopped by to comment on it, and my brothers haven't stopped by to help me push it into a crick. It just goes to show that I'm living in the wrong part of town.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul[at]geekprom.com.

Losing It

2003-06-11T03:20:00.000-05:00

It's not easy to report to our jobs and go on with business as usual when problems emerge in our personal lives. The normal daily chores of the work world can seem quite trivial when compared to the bigger picture at home.

Such situations happen more often than we think. It can be anything from a family quarrel to a sick friend in the hospital. Sometimes we take a little time off from work when these things happen, but it never seems like enough.

Right now, I have an unresolved issue in my life that's making it very difficult for me to be productive on the job. I'm going to write about it in this column, because focusing on any other subject right now would be futile.

Something happened during today's lunch break that has stirred up a great deal of confusion, anger and sadness in my life. The short version of the story is: I set my plate down when I was done eating, and now I can't find it anywhere.

I had been sitting in my reclining chair watching television while I was eating. When I finished my meal, I set the plate on the floor next to my chair and continued watching TV. I didn't realize at that moment that I would never see it again.

My first thought when I noticed it was missing was that perhaps I had already brought it to the sink and forgot that I had made the trip, but it wasn't in the sink. Could I have washed it and put it away? Am I that forgetful? No, it wasn't in the cupboard.

I checked to see if I brought it into the bathroom with me without thinking. I checked and rechecked the floor on every side of the chair. I checked to see if I had went to brush crumbs into the garbage and just threw the plate away by mistake. No luck.

Eventually, I had to give up my search and go back to work, but it makes no sense for me to be here at all. How can I concentrate on my job while items in my apartment are vanishing without explanation?

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. He's less concerned about things disappearing as he is about the potential for them to suddenly reappear. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

Pooping on the Clock

2003-01-07T11:19:00.000-06:00

Most people don't like using the toilet at work. It just doesn't provide the same comfort and privacy as having the home-lavatory advantage. Because we have little control over when the need to defecate will strike, however, and because most of us spend a majority of our daytime hours at work, dropping a deuce at the office is difficult to avoid.

We all know what the cons are to doing our business at our places of business. The issues of comfort and privacy have very little to do with the quality of the toilet and more to do with the presence or lack of video cameras. It's all about personal anxiety.

First of all, there's the fear that someone might walk in on you. Even though the door is locked, you can't help but question whether that lock will be enough to keep your co-workers from catching you with your pants down. Did you engage the lock correctly? Could the lock be broken? Even if the lock is working, the person outside might knock and make you have to shout something to let him know you're in there, as if there's some chance the door locked itself or you passed out in there and are in need of medical attention.

Then, there's the very real fear that the toilet might clog or even overflow. This could happen just as easily at home, but if it happens at work you'll have to cover up the evidence quickly so that no one will think you produce massive turds that modern plumbing cannot withstand.

There's also the fear that you'll foul up the air and everyone will know it's you. You know firsthand what others will think because you've thought it yourself every time you've gone in after someone else stunk up the shitbox.

Lastly, if you pinch one out at work you'll have to deal with that cheap 150-grit toilet paper your boss so graciously provides. That may be reason enough to hold it in until you get home.

There is really only one benefit to emptying your bowels at work, but it is a very empowering one. There's nothing more satisfying than sitting on the toilet and thinking to yourself, "I'm getting paid for this."

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

Panhandling

2002-09-25T15:39:00.000-05:00

"Hey, my old lady's bleeding. Can you give me a few bucks so I can buy her some tampons?"

That's the best panhandling line I've heard during the two years that I've lived in the Central Hillside of Duluth. It made me actually consider giving money away on the street. I ultimately decided not to because the last thing a person should do is develop a philanthropic reputation in this neighborhood. If I had a dollar for every guy who has asked me for a dollar, I'd have enough money to move to Lakeside.

I have developed a few simple guidelines for avoiding panhandlers over the years. First of all, I recommend having a standard response for them that is well rehearsed. Mine is, "Sorry, I can't help you." If you don't have a standard line and have to stop to think, it can appear like you are considering making a donation. The most important thing to do is to keep moving and never stop and engage.

I also recommend projecting bogus politeness and creating the perception that you would love to help, but you don't have any money. That should help keep you out of any irate confrontations.

Whatever you do, avoid attempting to humiliate panhandlers. Remember, whether they are legitimately trying to feed themselves or just looking to get drunk, they don't like asking you for money. Don't play games with them like the ol' "Preemptive Strike," where you see them coming and go on the attack by unexpectedly asking them for money first.

The most important thing for you to keep in mind is that if you are on the edge of poverty, but still keeping a roof over your head and food on your plate, you better be on guard. You are the first rung on a ladder that many people are desperate to climb.

The truly destitute are not Robin Hoods. They don't have the means to beg and steal from the wealthy. As the disparity of incomes continues to widen in the United States, the battle lines will not be drawn between the rich and the poor, but rather between the poor and the poorer. Only the paranoid shall survive.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

Shopping Inhibitions

2002-07-18T18:45:00.000-05:00

Shopping for clothing is a humiliating experience for men. It's easier for women, because the female gender has a reputation for recreational shopping. When a woman is out searching for new clothing, she is basically telling everyone around her: "I have a credit card and some free time."

When a man is found wandering around the local department store like a lost child, he's basically saying to everyone around him: "I do not own any presentable clothing whatsoever."

Because shopping for clothing is so emasculating, men tend to wear the same shirts and pants for decades. Undergarments wear out too quickly, however, and require more frequent shopping trips. Fortunately, socks and skivvies are sold in bulk, making it possible to buy a very manly six-pack.

Still, shopping for a "six of socks" can be a confusing and embarrassing experience. First of all, there's the math involved in determining that the six-pack is indeed a better deal than the four-pack. Then, the size information can be difficult to interpret. I once read a package that noted, "Size 10-13 fits shoe size 6-12." Well, what does "Size 10-13" represent if it isn't shoe size? Sock size?

Some socks are treated with "antibacterial properties" and are extra absorbent. That sounds great until you realize that the person at the cash register will immediately associate you with sweaty feet if you buy those socks.

Once you start thinking about foot sweat, it's easy to get a sick feeling in your stomach while looking at a store display of several hundred socks that don't belong to you.

In an effort to cure myself of my own sock-buying inhibitions, I recently decided to confront the situation head on. I went to the store, identified the best deal, and confidently brought the package to the pretty young female clerk. I looked her straight in the eye, and explained exactly what my intentions were.

"I'm going to take these socks home and put them on my feet," I told her. "They will absorb sweat and slow down the process of my shoes developing a foul smell."

When the purchase was complete, I strode out the door with my head high, swinging the plastic bag of socks with pride. My sock-buying fears were conquered. Unfortunately, I'm still out of underwear, condoms and toilet paper.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.

The United Ten Commandments of America

2002-06-11T18:51:00.000-05:00

This week's Next Level column was handed down to its author by the Lord our God, and was later approved by Congress despite fiery opposition from fanatical Democrats.

1) Worship no god but Me. Oh, and the almighty dollar.

2) Do not worship false idols. If you see someone worshipping something other than Me, forget the rest of my commandments and kill him immediately.

3) Do not use My name for evil purposes. I'm always willing to endorse any war for your country, so go ahead and tie My name into that.

4) Observe the Sabbath and keep it holy. If you are a real go-getter, however, you should work seven days a week. Those minion employees of yours should also understand that this commandment does not apply to them if they want to get ahead in the world. Sure, I know My original set of commandments made it clear that even your slaves should not work on Sundays, but you shouldn't take the Bible literally, and you are free to determine which commandments you obey and which ones you think are just some archaic foolishness.

5) Respect your father and mother. Make all the same mistakes they made.

6) Do not commit murder, unless you have a really good reason. I can't possibly outline all the justifiable causes for icing someone, so let's just say that the passwords are, "Hey, an eye for an eye."

7) Do not commit adultery. If you do commit adultery, well, you're still better than those monogamous faggots.

8) Do not steal, unless you're already rich and have developed a clever scheme to fraud less fortunate people. There is a difference between being a common crook and being a savvy businessman.

9) Do not accuse anyone falsely. There are obvious exceptions to this commandment, of course. If someone is poor or funny looking, for example, they are already guilty. Also, if you believe you can achieve a great political gain by distorting facts and calling people names, well, that's just good politics.

10) Do not desire another man's stuff. That is a waste of time. You should already be planning a way to obtain better stuff than he has. The guy with the biggest house, hottest wife and most toys wins, as long as he goes to church occasionally.

Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.