So guess what? My car wouldn't start this morning. The radio and lights came on like usual, but where I should have heard that beautiful sound of the engine sparking, I just heard this awful chugga-chugga-chugga-chugga sound. Chugga-chugga-chugga-chugga. When we lifted the hood, this is what we were faced with:

Gah! I don't know if you can tell from the photos, but the spark plug cables and the one connecting the windshield wipers to the engine have been GNAWED THROUGH. Gnawed all the way through. Like all those thick wires were nothing more than an assortment of tasty Twizzlers to my little rodent friends. Why did they do this? How can car parts possibly taste good to them? Are they demented zombie rodents or something? The man at the auto parts store told us it's actually pretty common for mice and squirrels to do this kind of crap, especially when the weather gets cold. But why me? I've always been an animal lover. I've watched The Secret of Nimh and Rocky and Bullwinkle and Ratatouille and even that stupid Secret Squirrel thing. Why would they betray me when I've always been their biggest fan?

Well, no more. That's it. I'm declaring all-out war on our neighborhood rodents. Squirrels and mice, you're officially ON NOTICE.

Me zombie. Name Orwell. Me born long time ago, die, then go into ground. One morning, terrible noise wake me. Like God fingernails on big chalkboard. (Me literary—want write poem book one day.) Me stand up in graveyard, see other zombies standing, too. Moon out, and air full of green fog. Music play like at carnival. Weird.

"What do now?" me ask.

Other zombies shrug. "Guess eat brains."

Me know you curious, but please no ask why eat brains. Taste good—what can say? Flavor like peanut buster parfait. Good for body, too. Everything growing zombie needs. Except zombies not grow. Me stretch truth to make story good. Me next Mark Twain.

So me and zombie friends go to town at night, eat brains. We not want hurt people. Give brains, and no one get hurt. Why make so hard? No run, no scream, no tear hair and claw at face. Give brains. You no use them anyway. What? Why we here? We not know. Give brains.

Sometimes miss mother. Sometimes miss body—having organs that not fall out when Orwell run. Miss TV box, too. Since dead, have no depth perception. See only two dimensions, like dog. Cruel. Cruel is life of zombie.

Me hope meet pretty zombie girl one day, so can raise zombie kids. Me know one zombie girl now, but zombie girl not like Orwell much. Zombie girl only make smiles at zombie with big muscles. Zombie girl is shallow tramp. Orwell say too much. Orwell not misogynist. Only little sad. Orwell sorry.

Must go now. Must water garden with tears (this how poem makers talk). Not forget, please—when see Orwell in house at night, will know what must do. Give brains.

Well, it's finally happened. The National Geographic channel has started pandering to the lowest common denominator. Lately, if you watch any program on NGC, the tone of the narration resembles the crazed rhetoric of late-night police chase shows. The libretto for National Geographic's "World's Most Dangerous Jobs" goes something like this: "But little did these firefighters know that they were in the gravest danger, for death was just over the ridge, waiting to envelop them. The fire blazed savagely up the south side of the mountain, engulfing with raging fury everything in its path. Who could escape its murderous rampage? When we return, find out who will survive the inferno."

My biggest problem with this—aside from the regrettable trivialization of human life, of course—is that these shows utilize sloppy, overinflated, and often anthropomorphic language. Strip away a few adjectives and adverbs, and then maybe we'll have something to say to each other. For example, you don't talk about fires or other natural forces being murderous. Murder requires intent to kill—and a brain. Just think about this for a moment. Fires turn stuff into fuel, because that's what fires do—not because they are sentient and out to get us. We're not talking Agatha Christie here. Same with the "raging fury" line. Does this mean the fire is angry for some reason? Did some other fire piss it off? And if so, is it possible for fires to blaze serenely? Can they blaze in a way that demonstrates their immense pleasure with the state of the world?

The thing is, I expect and appreciate this silliness from car-chase shows. I've often thought it'd be fun to write for one of them. But the National Geographic channel? Does it, too, have to be "Murder and Mayhem!" every second of every day? Why is it that this once-respected enterprise—which for years has been the gateway to world culture—is now forced to compete on the level with "Cheaters"?

Like alcohol and loose women, language is a substance best used in moderation. If you're not careful with it, you'll end up drunk on oration and debauched by hyperbole. Then the meanings of words will begin to depreciate, and pretty soon "murderdeathkill" will be just another word for boring.

I just found something incredibly neat. If you visit reasonablyclever.com, you'll find a neat little interface where you can build a Lego person that looks like you. Different hair, different skin tones, different "clothing" and backgrounds—it's the coolest thing I've seen all week. Below is me, as rendered in Legovision. Please note the dazzling Wonder Woman tiara.

I was looking around my office today, and I happened to meditate on the overwhelming abundance of plants. We actually have people on staff whose only job is to keep our captive flora hydrated. Plants are virtually everywhere in this building—on the file cabinets, forming little oases between cubie clusters, and in the hallway by the elevator. You see them just inside the glass entrance doors on the bottom floor, and in the room where job hunters fill out their copious applications. Most of these plants will never see genuine sunlight, and that makes me sad. Day after day these poor plants subsist beneath the cruel glare of fluorescent lights, never getting the opportunity to engage in authentic photosynthesis. They enrich our lives with their beauty, produce oxygen for us to breathe, and remove noxious gases from the air. What do we give them in return? A stick of stale plant food and a pat on the leaves.

It’s shameful.

And I want to set them free.

To that end, I would like to propose the first national Plant Amnesty Day. On Thursday, the first day of July, I’m asking everyone who works in an office to "adopt" a plant and carry it outside to freedom. Your bosses will not look favorably on this activity so you may need to conceal it beneath a bulky raincoat or in a cooler marked "human remains." With as little ado as possible, carry your adopted plant outside and drive it out to a nice, secluded spot in the country. If your lunch hour doesn’t permit you to travel that kind of distance, simply deposit your plant far enough away from your building that it will not be found by nosy groundskeepers. The last thing I would want is for one of these plant to experience a taste of freedom, only to have it stripped away because some lazy schmo wouldn’t carry its pot farther than the CEO’s cherry-red convertible MG.

I’ll be the first to admit it—I don’t know what kind of mayhem will result from these acts of wanton liberation. Perhaps the plants will un-pot themselves and scurry away on thin-tendrilled roots. Perhaps the sudden infusion of sunlight will have a radioactive effect on them, causing them to burgeon into huge, deadly creatures like Triffids that will quickly multiply and take over the planet. But I doubt it. The most that will happen, I suspect, will be a little nostalgia on our parts, and a tremendous karmic sigh of relief on theirs.

So the question remains. Shall we not defend the powerless? Shall we not protect these meek and gentle entities, who quietly take nourishment from the soil and do not trouble us for anything more? I say yes! These noble plants would never ask for our help, even if evolution had given them voices with which to do so. We must be their advocates. We must speak for the philodendron, the chrysanthemum, the ivy, and the various species of Dracaena, not only because they are older and wiser than we are (carrying in their genes the imprint of life billions of years ago), but because they are our little green brethren.

Plant Amnesty Day. July 1st. Power to the plants.

See Kyle, a 45-year-old construction worker from Duluth, face off with an El Monterey beef and bean red chili frozen burrito. Who will be triumphant in this unsavory smackdown?!?

The first phase is no contest: The burrito will be placed in the microwave oven for 1 minute, 15 seconds, and then will be allowed to cool for another two minutes. If Kyle is able to suspend all sense of taste, possibly by holding his nose, he will almost certainly succeed in masticating and ingesting the entire frozen burrito. This is like climbing to base camp on Everest—it requires no exceptional skill. But once the last bite of the beef and bean red chili frozen burrito has been swallowed, the true battle begins.

The burrito will pass through the esophagus to the stomach. This is where the frozen burrito will make its first real stand, attempting to provoke Kyle's insides to the point of emesis. If Kyle manages to suppress this onslaught, the burrito will then be deluged by acrid bile from the liver, which has been specially formulated to weaken the attack capabilities of its enemies. But if the burrito makes it through the gauntlet of the small intestine (where it will be further hosed down with digestive juices), it is still capable of wreaking apocalyptic havoc once it reaches the large intestine and colon. This may be the most perilous point for Kyle. The remnants of beef pattie mix and pinto beans could form a coalition that would send Kyle scrambling for the nearest Johnny-on-the-Spot. If this occurs, the burrito will be declared the unequivocal winner. If Kyle has the intestinal fortitude to withstand the burrito's wrath, however, he will become more powerful than you can possible imagine.

Kyle's strengths: Kyle has an iron-clad stomach, inured to gastronomic hardship by years of being served nothing but Ding-Dongs and convenience store cheese dogs. Caveat: Kyle has never faced off with any opponent this formidable.

Frozen burrito's strengths: Highly volatile components, plus a good track record of disabling its foes. It's possible that the high concentration of chili powder will be the frozen burrito's ace in the hole. Caveat: Perhaps Kyle has spent the last five years building up an immunity to chili powder.

Will Kyle emerge victorious, or will he be humbled by the gastrointestinal hijinks of the burrito? Is it only a colorful metaphor to say that the burrito will be reduced to dogmeat, and will it take its rightful place at the top of the food chain?

Tune in to find out!

Recently, I had to let go of a beloved pair of brown Doc Marten hiking boots. These boots were a full eight years old, and they had been worn so many times that the once-stiff side panels were all slouchy. When you looked at them sitting together on the floor, they seemed to be scrunching up their little noses, as if repelled by their own increasingly pungent stench. This was just part of their working class charm. However, it wasn't long before the smell and the slouchiness got to be too much, so, with a heavy heart, I solemnly threaded up the Docs with the best laces I had—the funky leopard print ones—and placed them out beside our dumpster.

The dumpster fairy took them, I'm assuming, because the next morning they were gone.

As a sort of tribute, I have compiled a far-from-comprehensive list of the most memorable events, both personal and public, through which my veteran Docs remained steadfast and true. I am forever grateful for their years of support.

My Doc Martens' most memorable events (cue Samuel Barber's "Adagio for Strings"):

1. Survived Karen's trip to Cleveland.

2. Worked through the fear of being supplanted by younger, more fashionable Docs.

3. Figured out the difference between soul music and sole music, and that the latter doesn't actually exist except as a weird metaphor.

4. Found comfort in the writings of Nietzsche after results of 2000 election.

5. Enjoyed 1996 summer Olympics, especially that little firecracker, Kerri Strug.

6. Noted implementation of the euro, although not yet in the Great Homeland.

7. Survived Karen's trip to the Great Homeland. Let go of sweet, suffocating nostalgia, and chose to embrace being American.

8. Plodded through marshlands south of town, fully submerged, and gained firsthand knowledge that soggy leather is not always an "upper."

9. Nearly lost shoelace in the vacuum cleaner, but held on because you never leave a lace behind.

10. Kept scrapbook documenting meteoric rise of singing duo the White Stripes, with the suspicion that they were somehow affiliated with Adidas shoes.

11. Experienced brief, electric affair with silver "Millennium" Docs, until they were moved to the other closet and love was forever lost.

12. Survived Karen's trip to St. Louis. Experienced arch envy.

Requiescat in pace. Good night, sweet Docs. And flights of angels sing thee to thy shoe rest.

Spirit: Look, NASA, I love you and everything. I just don't think this long-distance thing is going to work.

NASA: But I'm the one who sent you there! I sacrificed for you, so that you could have everything you wanted, so that you could see the stars.

Spirit: Yeah, but now that I'm here . . . I just feel so restless. I feel like I need to . . . well . . . rove for awhile.

NASA: But what about us?

Spirit: The thing is, Opportunity says I can do better.

NASA: Well Opportunity doesn't have your best interest at heart. She's only interested in creating drama around her. We're the ones who are in this relationship, not her.

Spirit: I'm sorry, NASA. I don't want to hurt you. It's just not working.

NASA: Can't we talk about this?

Spirit: There's nothing to talk about. It's over.

NASA: But . . . .

Spirit: Hey, uh, Opportunity's here to pick me up. I gotta get going. Take it easy, baby. I'm sure I'll see you around.

NASA: (softly weeping) Bye.

Silence.

Two days later:

Spirit: (clearing throat) Hello? NASA? Are you there? I need to talk to you.

NASA: (guarded) Yes, I'm here. What do you want?

Spirit: I . . . uh . . . I don't know why I said those things.

NASA: And?

Spirit: I'm sorry. I was wrong to give up on us. I wasn't thinking clearly. You made it possible for me to come here . . . you're the best thing that's ever happened to me.

NASA: (breaking down) I missed you Spirit.

Spirit: I missed you, too. Look, the thing is, I've kind of gotten injured here, and I need you to help me.

NASA: Of course I'll help you. I'll find the problem, whatever it is, and we'll get through it together.

Spirit: You're the best, NASA. I love you.

NASA: I love you, too, Spirit.

(a beat)

You couldn't find anyone else to talk to up there, could you?

Spirit: Not a soul.

(They both laugh.)