Poor Little Fool.

About the time I started college I began to not believe in things. I had an Ancient History teacher at Augsburg College named Rick Nelson who often cautioned against accepting historical "facts" at face value. There were so many points of failure when attempting to learn about history: political revisions (including lies), details lost in translation or interpolated incorrectly from incomplete records (or even from paintings or other physical artifacts), technology used in dating that can be less than accurate; the list goes on.

Then came other courses: Logic, Argumentation, Media Ethics, Public Speaking, each with its own new way to pick and sort facts and formulate interpretations. Each teaching a strange new precision: precision in the Humanities.

Since receiving my Journalism degree in the winter of 2000 (at age 26), I've been unable to believe in much that can't be proven. I must have been in the perfect malleable, freshman state when I walked into that Ancient History class and I'm sure Rick Nelson knew that. He was an incredibly nice old man, loved all around campus, but sometimes I think he ruined my life.

It was like I was suddenly cursed with the ability to see in another dimension. Like those irritating Magic Eye illustrations in the 90's that suddenly popped out at me when I finally learned to dislocate my eyes.

Magic Eye flap copy:

"Stare into these seemingly abstract fields of color, and an enchanting 3D image will materialize, all from an abstract, seemingly random field of color!

Once you discover your Magic Eye, a whole new world of experience will open to you. You will be astounded by the depth and clarity of the totally hidden image that develops before you like an instant photo! Discover and train your gift of deep vision!"

I discovered my co-worker in the college's A/V department was a pathological liar. And so was my friend Matt who I'd met that year. Everyone had ulterior motives, nothing was as advertised, everything was a trick, nothing deserved to be taken at face value unless it was undoubtedly simple and true. Like hobos, 78s, my Navy pea coat, and my Polaroid camera.

I became extremely critical of everything, especially advertising and art. I spent hours at the Hard Times Café on Riverside Avenue taking a Hi-Liter to my hard-back copy of the Warren Commission's report on the assassination of JFK. I scribbled little notes in the margins like "why?" and "doubtful."

I'd take breaks to play backgammon with homeless guys while they blew smoke everywhere. The large windows out to the street were foggy and icy against the Minneapolis night air. I drank lots of strong coffee even late at night and I had dread-locked hair.