Matt the newspaperman (newswebsite man does not sound as cool)

A friend posted to Facebook an e-mail she got that was a copy of a letter to the editor in the Star-Tribune of Minnesota in which Satan takes Pat Robertson to task for blaming the earthquakes on a pact with the devil. Satan points out that is not how he works.; "I'm no welcher," he says. Satan is also obviously no fan of dictionaries, where he would have learned the preferred spelling is "welsher."

Satan also suggests that Pat and he have a deal, telling Pat to watch out or "we may need to renegotiate your own contract."

Now I knew this letter wasn't really from Satan -- no way he goes through a Minnesota newspaper. But I doubted it was actually from the paper. Sure it is funny and all, but the Star-Tribune is a good paper. It wouldn't print a joke letter that even says Robertson has a deal with the devil. It wouldn't stoop that low, right? Please, my journalistic ethics have taken enough blows lately.

If the Star-Tribune wanted to get involved in this fight, which I have no problem with -- newspapers should not let vicious lies be told -- it could have printed a point by point rebuttal of Robertson.

Instead, it stooped.

And it is working. The page with the letter is one of the most popular on the Star-Tribune's website. I am going to propose a U.S. version of Page 3 Girls for the money section of our website.

On another note, I wondered what Kevin Roose would say about the letter. Roose wrote The Unlikely Disciple: A Sinner's Semester at America's Holiest University. He was a student at Brown who decided to take his semester overseas at Liberty University in Virginia on the theory that Jerry Falwell's evangelical school would be as foreign as any college across an ocean.

I really wanted to use the words "snot-nosed punk kid" to describe Roose. I mean he has a published book before he finished college, but he made me laugh. I read the book because Roose worked for A.J. Jacobs as a slave, or unpaid intern.

But I read it quickly because it was fun and interesting.

After his semester he is changed. He did not become an evangelical. But he did
become sympathetic, or compassionate, to people who hold beliefs he doesn't. He even winds up defending Falwell once or twice.

I don't know where he would fall on Robertson. I hope, though, he would come down against a newspaper printing a joke.

No more catheters!

The good news is that I do not have to have the test where my bladder is filled via catheter and the bladder is watched for developments.

The bad news is that we didn't make this decision until after I had fainted because of the catheter that drained my bladder.

More bad news is that we can't be certain this medicine I got prescribed will help or that my bladder truly is fine. It was decidedly unfine Thursday after I got home from the urologist, which is why this did not get written yesterday. I'd write a sentence,have to pee, get up, really have to pee, pee, change clothes after not getting there in time, repeat. After the third time, I just went to bed.

But, and I am not sure I can stress this enough: No more catheters.

I say that now, but Thursday night as I was lying in bed listening to the clock chime, all I could think of was: What if they broke me?

Truth be told, I didn't quite faint. I was in the middle of stage one: the bladder emptying, and I just felt really clammy. I told the doctor who lowered the head of the bed and started bathing my neck and cheek with a cold cloth.

What I told her was: "It's probably par for the course but I am pretty clammy."

Afterward she found this cute that I was so calm and polite. She also treats my brother, and after grabbing Dad from the waiting room to tell him I fainted, she said: Your boys are so sweet.

Maybe she wouldn't think that if I said what I was really thinking: GIVEN THAT YOU ARE RAMMING A GODDAMNED HOUSE UP MY PENIS, I FEEL A LITTLE CRAPPY!

What I dislike about feeling faint is that the doctors want you to talk. Now, I am not loquacious. After a spell, I just like to recover quietly. But, no, it was like after I dunk my head under water at swimming. MATT, ARE YOU ALL RIGHT? TALK TO ME! It's always like, do I have to?

But I survived. I worked from home today to make sure I was OK and I was. So now I can rejoice: No more catheters!

I could be Twilight sexy

I am so bummed out.

Last night I was googling to find the best video game system for those of us with Friedreich's ataxia. Since we'll have a Wii hooked up to the huge TV in the house, I was considering options for the slightly less huge TV in my room. It occurs to me I miss the good old Atari joystick, not these controllers with 37 buttons and keypads. Not of course, because I am old, but because I have FA.

In my googling, I came upon an MTV article that mentioned this movie coming out in March starring Kristen Stewart of Twilight fame that is about Friedreich's ataxia.

Before I get to the meat of what the article says about the movie The Cake Eaters, I can't continue without slamming MTV for using the word "affliction" to describe FA. Ugh. That it is a yucky word. I would not want to get close to people with afflictions even if they are Kristen Stewart. It's just a disease, not even contagious.

Anyway, It calls her performance of someone with the "affliction" as wonderful and even "sexy."

My ears perked up at sexy. I could be sexy. I pictured myself engulfed by Twilight fans who find me disarmingly sexy. Plus, I'm all about that whole sexy celibacy vampires got going on. And I am not even a threat to bite or kill.

But then I saw the date on the MTV article: March 2009. The Cake Eaters came out last year! I did not get engulfed by Twilight fans. No one found me disarmingly sexy. Damn.

Why buy the cow ...

Other than my self-esteem, Marcus was the first real victim of my Friedreich's ataxia.

I didn't kill him, but as it got harder and harder to carry liquids, I stopped bringing him fresh water.

Marcus was my first parakeet, a lovely blue and white bird that my sister and I bought when I was in like sixth grade. In retrospect, it seems silly for two people to buy a bird because the ones I have known generally bond with one person.

Marcus chose me, maybe because I let him do unmentionable things to my thumb. (I can't believe I wrote that. It is one of my deepest, darkest secrets. Perhaps having that as my worst secret proves that I am really a milquetoast. Either that or that I should have been born a female parakeet. Do they get FA, I wonder.) Having written all this, I have a tremendous urge to go wash my hands like Lady MacBeth.

Actually, he chose me, I am sure, because I was around a lot and took time to play with him, or at least let him sit on my shoulder while I played computer games.

In hopes of keeping my thumb attractive for marriage, I bought first Layla, who was quite tame from the start. Anne and Nancy, aka Lily and Roxanne, came later. Someone gave them to the pet store I worked at, and I brought them home. I was never real sure of their names. I liked Anne and Nancy after the Wilson sisters of Heart. My brother suggested Lily and Roxanne. They were never tame, Nancy, or Roxanne, wasn't afraid of me. She would sit on my finger if there were a reason to, like food.

I was a good owner for many years, changing the paper towels on the bottom of the cage, bringing new food and water. I even counted the number of droppings on those paper towels to make sure there were no dramatic intestinal changes.

Then I stopped. If you had asked me then, I would have said it took too much time to clean the bird cages and feed and water them. But I remember just being pissed off that I would leave the bathroom with a full water dish, and 15 feet later I would get to the cage and there'd be as much on the floor as in the dish. Eventually, I changed the water as little I could.

All my birds died when I was away at school, so I have airtight alibis.

What really pisses me off looking back is that we weren't concerned by this lack of balance. I know that I did not advertise my incoordination and I had other issues to deal with in high school, so I guess I am not that surprised. It is not like it would have changed anything even if we did know.

Well, no difference as to the disease. But maybe I'd be better adjusted now and would not admit in a blog that my male parakeet used to take advantage of me.

When you just can't reach

When I was little, I remember a PSA that ran on TV. My brother will probably remember exactly what it was for, but a I remember is the tag line: "When you just can't reach."

As I recall, it showed a little girl reaching for something on top of a pillar that was just a little too high. Then these tall H.R. Pufnstuf-like guys came out, reached what she needed and gave it to her.

I suppose it is all about how people sometimes need help and I totally would like to credit this PSA for teaching me that lesson, even while my brother, Robert and I mocked it mercilessly.

I was thinking of this ad when I got to work today and needed tea bags and sugar. I managed to snag a few packets of sugar. But the tea was just out of reach, no matter how hard I stretched. It's not that they were high up; it was just that my chair couldn't get close enough.

I was able to get some in the second break room I went to, but come one. Give me a freaking break. No one should have to hunt caffeine early in the morning.