Rambling Rhodes

Credit Cards and Buyer's Remorse

I've never been in debt. Okay, that's not entirely true. Yes, I've been in the kind of debt where I had to make car payments, and I'm currently in the kind of debt that says I have to make house payments.

I've never been in credit card debt, however. Truth be told, I've never even owned a credit card. I don't trust them. I've been conditioned not to trust them thanks to many years of living with college roommates.

Most of my college roommates had this weird outlook on credit cards. Basically, they thought credit cards were magical pieces of plastic that just magically paid for things and that they were somehow immune from the the ensuing debt that came about due to excessive credit card spending.

I'll admit it: I was sort of jealous of my roommates and their magical credit cards. After all, they always seemed to have money and, if they didn't, they just whipped out their credit cards. Books? Put them on the credit card. Food? Put it on the credit card. Night out at a strip club? credit card.

And yet there I was writing checks and budgeting like a fool. I remember thinking that I was doing everything all wrong. I mean, there I would sit, meticulously lording over my finances, while my roommates went waltzing all over town swiping their credit cards with the careless glee of a six-year-old with a loaded pistol.

Then, one year, I was a roommate with a guy named Chad. Chad was actually a former high school classmate of mine. He was, and is, a tech-head. He's one of those guys who was born to know technology. Way back in elementary school, he taught me how to write simple programs for the Apple IIc, and he always just seemed to know everything about computers.

But he didn't know shit about personal finances. He whipped out any one of his many credit cards with the swiftness and ease of a Old West gunslinger. By the time we became roommates, he had already accrued over $10,000 in credit card debt.

I remember thinking what an incredibly large amount of money that seemed to be, especially when I factored in the understanding that he also received financial aid, and that he also worked. Granted, he worked at the local Brach's candy factory on the Gummi Bear line, which paid about as well as you might imagine, but it was still money, so I came to the conclusion that old Chad was a pretty carefree spender.

Well, one day, I popped into Chad's outrageously messy room where I noticed, tucked between two huge bags of pilfered defective Gummi Bears, a credit card notice that was slugged "Urgent!" and another that was slugged "Immediate Payment Required" and still another that read "We Break Fingers And Toes."

Then the calls started coming in, usually two or three a day. "Is Mr. Haugen available? We really need to speak with him." No, he's not here. "Are you sure you're not really Mr. Haugen?" Yes, I'm sure. "Well, when he comes in, have him call Mike at Discover immediately." *sound of shotgun cocking* Will do.

Chad was masterful when it came to avoiding creditors. He always seemed to leave the apartment just two or three minutes before a creditor called. It was like he had some sort of sixth sense. Which was all fine and dandy, except that I ended up being the intermediary between Chad and the creditors, so I got to absorb all the impatient anger and suspicion of basically every credit card company on the planet.

It was the day a creditor appeared, in person, at our doorstep that I realized Chad's debt situation was probably more dire than Chad cared to admit. There was a knock at the door, I answered, and a gentleman in a suit that looked both impressive and threatening stood before me. He asked to see a Mr. Chad Haugen, at which point I heard a little scuffling emanating from Chad's room as Chad scurried out the back entrance which, conveniently, was located at the far end of his bedroom.

We chatted together, the ominous creditor and me, for about an hour, waiting for Chad to get home, even though, of course, there was no way in holy hell Chad was going to make an appearance while that guy was in our apartment. I even had to produce my ID, so the creditor was satisfied that I wasn't, in fact, Chad Haugen.

After that, I believe, Chad ended up getting a loan from his parents, or somebody, so he could pay off his credit card debt at least enough to keep the creditors at bay. He eventually got a job working at IBM, which was a long-assed commute from Winona to Rochester, but paid a whole lot more than the Gummi Bear line.

As for me, Chad's experience with credit cards pretty much scared me away from plastic for good.

Buyer's Remorse

So, over the weekend, my girlfriend and I hopped across the border to Wisconsin (okay, we didn't hop, we drove) in search of fireworks. Granted, you can buy fireworks in Minnesota, but they're the uber-wimpy kind, the kind that spark and fizzle like wet road flares. Still, I guess I have to give Minnesota a little credit for making SOME fireworks legal. Even sucky fireworks are still fireworks.

Well, it's a funny thing about fireworks' laws in Minnesota and Wisconsin. You see, Wisconsin, too, has restrictions on the type of fireworks Wisconsin residents can buy. If you're a Wisconsin resident, for example, fireworks that explode in the air, like bottlerockets, and dynamite, are illegal.

However, if you're a Minnesota resident buying fireworks in Wisconsin, well, you can buy whatever the hell you want, even though those fireworks are mega-illegal in Minnesota. The only catch is that, even though Minnesota residents can buy the illegal fireworks in Wisconsin, they can't light them off in Wisconsin.

So, basically, you can buy all the illegal fireworks you want in Wisconsin, but if you ever intend to actually light them off, you're going to have to break a law somewhere along the line.

I have no problem with that.

So, I bought the big stuff on Saturday. I bought the artillery shells that go boom in the air, and I bought bottlerockets so complex, they look like they were constructed for space flight. And I bought firecrackers, and I bought Roman candles, and I bought sparklers (okay, that wasn't my choice, that was the girlfriend). I bought about $100 worth of pyrotechnics.

And now I'm left thinking, "why the hell did I blow $100 on shit that's just going to blow up and disappear?"

I go through this every year. I get all excited about buying fireworks. I buy the fireworks. Then I wonder why I bought the fireworks. It's a nasty cycle. Thank goodness it only happens once a year.

Well, at least my 4th of July will be bright, colorful and loud. I sure could use that $100 though, because I'm kinda hungry.

UPDATE: Remember, folks, be careful out there with your fireworks and, for God's sake, don't play with grenades.

Dave Barry's at it again, needling the folks over at Poetry.com. For a reminder of one of his previous jabs at Poetry.com, go here.

Well, this time around, it appears the theme is to conjure a poem about a pustule or numerous putules, and sign each poem with the last name "Pustule" so people can view your creative genius. I'm nothing if not a sucker for pustule poetry, so here are my submissions.

"Pus Comes From Behind" by Freemont Xavier Pustule

I awoke today, as I often do, and felt a pain on my posterior
So I hopped up on the bathroom sink, and aimed my butt right at the mirror.

What I saw there frightened me, and it would have frightened you as well
A pus-filled mound was rooted there, but what it was I couldn't tell.

It was large, golf ball in size, and it was slightly leaking.
There wasn't much that I could do, except start pinching and start tweaking.

I cannot lie to you my friends, each pinch was filled with pain.
Shooting shocks went seering up, from my butt up to my brain.

Yet valiantly I pinched and tweaked, until finally I felt it,
The pustule popped with surprising force, and suddenly I smelled it.

My mirror was all splashed with pus, and the odor was intense.
So, I hopped down off the bathroom sink, and lit up some incense.

Now, of course, the mirror's clean, and my butt now sports three stitches.
But I can tell you, without a single doubt, butt pustules are real bitches.

Dang it! That one was denied! I'll have to try again.

"Farewell To Pustule" by Freemont Xavier Pustule

A pustule sprouted upon my thigh
Dribbling a white, foul juice
The pain was enough to make me cry
As if I needed an excuse.

To the sewing room I ran
Intent on only just one thing.
Find the biggest sewing needle I can.
And forget about the string.

Armed with a three inch needle lance,
Sharpened to perfection,
I proceeded to quickly drop my pants
And said a prayer against infection.

I jabbed the pustule through and through,
And the pain was just exquisite.
Like I was giving myself my own tattoo,
Or the In-laws paid a visit.

It was over quick, the deed was done
And the pustule diminished.
I can tell you though, that wasn't fun,
And I'm glad the thing is finished.

Posted by Ryan at June 30, 2004 10:17 AM