Rambling Rhodes

MasterCard Versus Visa, or Neither

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.

Ah, Sweden You know, if

Ah, Sweden

You know, if there's one thing I always want after a long day of work, it's a fresh pair of undies, preferably of the paper variety. Actually, no it isn't, but according to a recent Reuter's news report, we men are hankering for an undie change on a regular basis, and so are you ladies out there.

STOCKHOLM (Reuters) - Europe's biggest fashion retailer, Sweden's H&M, has launched wear-once paper panties for the summer.

Although I have never heard of H&M, I can only assume they know fashion, mainly because they profess to be experts in fashion. Regardless, they're "launching a new line of panties," which immediately conjures images of the shuttle carrying Victoria's Secret to the International Space Station.

RUSSIAN SASHA: Ah, zank you, Comrade. My once white pantiez are now deep yellow, so zis pair of paper pantiez iz much appreciated. Zank you for making my ztay on zis zpace ztation more comfortable.

Anyway. . . "They are on sale now. They are good to have in your handbag if something unexpected happens, if you lose your luggage, or you exercise and forget to take a change of underwear with you," H&M's spokeswoman Anna Carin Bjorne said.

"Oh, shit! I lost my luggage. It's a good thing I have a crumpled pair of paper undies in my purse! Whew! *crumple, crumple" Sure, they feel like origami, but at least I'm wearing something!"

By the way, I'm not a woman, but do "unexpected things" happen to you females of which I'm not aware? Do you get abducted by aliens on a frequent basis, or do you just pee yourself all of a sudden? Granted, I'm aware that menstruation can happen at unexpected times, but is it frequent enough to require paper panties?

The panties are designed as one-size-fits-all "G-strings" and sold in small packs of three in red, green and black.

Ah, good, different colors. Because most people wearing temporary paper panties want to be wearing them long enough to a) have someone see that they're wearing paper panties and b) comment on their color. The only saving grace is that most men will be looking at the ass cheeks exposed by the thong rather than perusing the texture to decide if the underwear is paper or elastic. But wait, these aren't yet for men. . .

There are no paper underpants for men, but designer Camilla Thulin was quoted by tabloid Aftonbladet as saying the idea could appeal to many men.

"Many guys don't change their underpants every day. It would be perfect to sell paper underpants at petrol stations," she said.

"Um, yes, I had $18 in gas, and could you give me a Diet Pepsi, a lottery card, and, oohhhh, I need some of those paper undies. Why? Never mind that you curious jerk!"

Seriously, what's going on in Sweden that paper underwear would be perfect for the male population? These are things investigative journalists should be pursuing.

According to a test group assembled by Aftonbladet, the paper thongs are strong but uncomfortable.

No shit.

Beware the Letter to the

Beware the Letter to the Editor

I'll be the first to admit that I probably shouldn't have sent it. I should have sat on it and let it stew and settle. But, no, I had to write it then and there and send it without hesitation.

The "it" I'm referring to is a letter to the editor I wrote to Rochester's bastion of local news, the Post-Bulletin. I was a little perturbed that the P-B had dedicated front page, weekend edition space to an article about a cat that had been doused in some sort of flammable liquid, set ablaze, and left to die near a dumpster outside a local mall. Was this news? Perhaps, but definitely not front page, weekend edition news. This was something that should have been buried in the E section, just under a story about unclogging toilets with chopsticks, or some other such drivel.

So, with a head full of half-formed thoughts and a whole lot of irritation, I drafted a letter to the editor that went something (okay, exactly) like this.

Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me my vision is terrible. Tell me I didn't see a story about a cat as front-page news in the weekend edition.

Rochester

My mother was quick to call me when she saw this in the paper, and she said, "people reading this would never guess you write for a living." Uh, oh.

I'm currently being lambasted by several area residents who are outraged that I'm such a moral demon. I'm being held up as a pet hater of the highest order. Granted, I am having a great time reading their responses in the P-B's letter to the editor section, but I'm thinking I'd like to see the letters subside. I like stirring the pot from time to time, but I'm starting to feel as if I jumped into the pot and am busy marinating in it.

Just for the record, I am not a pet hater. I actually like animals. As a child, my family kept two dogs and I like both of them immensely. I was simply trying to state my displeasure at seeing a story about a cat on the front page. Instead, I've prompted such angry responses as:

'Just a cat' attitude is saddening

Rochester

I think Bruce is telling me that I'm the most advanced creature on the planet, which was really nice of Bruce to say.

Animals need compassion

Wabasha

D'oh! Why did I say "blazing cat?" Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.

There were many other such letters bashing my poorly thought out letter, but these give you a general idea of where I'm at.

Fun With Geology There's was

Fun With Geology

There's was a solid relationship, based on years of building a foundation of familiarity. Yes, Kimberly and Steve had a rock solid love that could not be shaken, and they knew their feelings for each other could move mountains.

"Ah, my little Kimberlite," said Steve over breakfast one morning. "I can look at you for hours and marble at your beauty. I love to bury my face deep into your crenulation cleavage and work my hands gingerly over your skin's palisades texture."

"That's gneiss, Steve," said Kim, batting a coy eye. "And I would like to rip that chert off your body and work my tongue over your whiteschist. Yes, I would truly enjoy ravaging your muscovite body. Perhaps dunite I'll allow you to satiate your volcanic libido."

"I can't wait until dunite!" exclaimed Steve, his calcite vein pulsating noticeably. "Even now my hands tremolite in anticipation. It's obvious that we both want it, that we share the same sediments, so let's not talc anymore."

"Patience Steve," teased Kim. "You've obviously built up quite a sexual apatite. I'm sorry to put you through this, but you must sulfur through until dunite."

All right, all right people. I can hear your groans and hisses from here. I'll stop already.

When Dodge Ball was Dodge

When Dodge Ball was Dodge Ball c. Ryan Rhodes, Oct. 24, 2001

This column is not about anthrax. While I sat and pondered the topic for this week, I dismissed anthrax both because it's tough to think up a good anthrax joke, and because you can find out everything you never wanted to know about anthrax pretty much everywhere else. I'm fairly certain I heard Barney the Dinosaur singing a little diddy about anthrax early last week: "Infect you. . . Infect me. . . Infect one more, so now there's three."

No, I decided to dedicate this column to the disturbing trend in America's schools to ban the time-honored grade school activity of dodge ball. Apparently, jittery school officials and parents of less-than-athletic children have managed to curb the dodge ball practice in several grade schools nationwide. This deeply saddens me. The reasoning, according to dodge ball detractors, is that the game instills violence in students and enforces the mentality of jocks versus nerds, with the jocks being those who hurl the balls, and the nerds being those struck by them.

Now, I'm a product of the dodge ball era. What's more, I'm a veteran of the era when dodge ball was dodge ball, when the game was played with debilitating rubber balls, not the Nerf contraptions of today. We used thick, rubber, half-inflated burgundy spheres that included a slightly raised star pattern, presumably for a better grip. Any face unfortunate enough to come in contact with a high velocity sphere would wear a painful star pattern for several hours. It was generally believed in school yard circles that these balls were originally created as top secret World War II weapons that mysteriously found their way into our classroom toy boxes.

I realize the absurdity of a 26-year-old male invoking the phrase "back in my day," but back in my day, dodge ball was the passion of the morning and afternoon school yard. Sides were quickly organized through the demeaning but necessary practice of team captains picking members. I can honestly and proudly say I was rarely the last one picked. In fact, I was often in the middle of the pack, which, oddly enough, is where I find myself today. Anyway, I attribute my dodge ball skill to my early realization that it stung like crazy to get hit by an oncoming projectile. Ducking and dodging came naturally after that.

I was also quite good at catching, which was a highly sought after skill because, if someone caught a ball, his or her team was able to reclaim one of its tagged out members, while at the same time disposing of the person who threw the ball. Therefore, I commonly heard the phrase, "We gotta get Rhodes out early." I hated that.

In addition to the use of rubber weapons of death, my school was chock full of farm kids and kids who developed physically way, way, way ahead of schedule. I knew I was in trouble when lunch boxes included Gillette razors so my buddies could shave at noon. In other words, there was some dangerous muscle behind roughly 80 percent of every hurled ball.

Each game started out tentatively, with no one really wanting to charge the line and throw their ball at a team consisting of well-armed opponents. So, we normally would huddle up and think up a strategy involving the sacrifice of a team member to draw the enemy fire. Usually, the sacrificial lamb would have a name like Erwin, a poor soul who wore taped glasses because he had been nominated for the same task several times before. Poor Erwin.

Once Erwin exited with a star pattern emblazoned on his face, the real fireworks ensued.

There was some real bravery exhibited on the dodge ball field. Team members would sacrifice themselves to save a good catcher, or to simply retrieve a ball bouncing uselessly in no-mans land. The sharp smack and howl of soldiers being tagged by rubber torture devices reverberated throughout the game, and games could last an entire hour if you had good catchers on your team.

I learned a lot by playing dodge ball, namely that I could be smacked in the groin by a ball thrown by someone who professed to be my friend just half an hour earlier. It was a school yard version of the corporate ladder, where you could trust no one.

In addition, after playing dodge ball for hundreds of mornings and afternoons, and getting hit countless times by speeding rubber projectiles, I'm really not that scared of anthrax.

Know When to Zip Up

Know When to Zip Up

So, I decide that, before this weekend starts, I'm going to ask Melanie for her phone number. I pop into her office at 4:50, ask what her weekend plans are, make little jokes, and finally ask for her number, which she gives me. Woo Hoo!! I drive home, I'm feeling good, and I have the whole weekend in front of me.

That's when I realize my zipper has been down for the past hour, maybe more.

Good God, I hope she didn't see that.

Enjoy your weekend all. I require a tall, cold, frosty beer.

A little nude Lanny Barbie should improve my mood. Ahhh, Lanny Barbie. Lanny Barbie is hot. Naked Lanny Barbie.

Necessity is the Mother of

Necessity is the Mother of Getting One's Ass in Gear

I've allowed my Cadillac to sit without air conditioning for the past month. It needs to be recharged, but I'm fine with driving with the window open, so why bother?

Well, it turns out I've been nominated to drive our editorial team to Minneapolis on Tuesday, so that means I have to scramble and get my car into the shop so my passengers (a.k.a. superiors) don't swelter and die of heat exhaustion. Oh, woe.

I knicked the back of my head as I conducted my usual cranium shaving routine today (it happens about once every two months), so I had to nurse the unseen yet profusely bleeding slit for about half-an-hour before the crimson flow subsided. Such are the hazards of maintaining a gleamingly shaven head.

New items purchased yesterday during a spendy shopping spree: Polo Jeans Khaki Cargo pants. Gap Khaki Cargo pants. New wallet, very cool. Claiborne dress shirt. Three new pairs of boxers, a Bud Light pair, a hot pepper pair, and a pair I can't recall, but they, too, were cool. Two new belts to keep up two new pairs of pants. Two towels. Roberto Amagi dress shirt. Calvin Klein dress shirt. Large expensive bottle of cologne (Ralph Lauren Romance). Ah, it's awesome to be decked out in new duds.

Ladies, you can commence with your drooling.

Lavakan Madness Okay, over the

Lavakan Madness

Okay, over the past two days, three people have visited my site seeking information about the Lavakan pet washing system. How can that many people be seeking a side loading pet washer? Given the amount of free advertising I've apparently provided to the people over there at Lavakan, I feel it is only fair that I get a percentage of their sales. If you need to know more about the Lavakan, it's somewhere in my archives. Damned if I know where.

Who's Reading This Site? Meet Mandy

Ryan says: You're a paradigm of excellence in an uncertain world. But, you have toilet paper on your shoe, so it all equals out.
Mandy says: no toilet paper on thge shoe, but i did tuck my skirt in my undies once. oh, the horror!
Ryan says: Have you ever noticed that when "underwear" becomes the two syllable "undies" it becomes 10 times as funny?
Mandy says: well, i actually didn't want to say what kind of unerwear so "undies" is all-encompassing
Ryan says: Unerwear? Is that German?
Mandy says: you like funny words, huh? wallow & undies
Ryan says: I also like to wallow in my own undies when possible.
Mandy says: actually, it is from the Typo region of Scandinavia
Ryan says: LOL
Mandy says: Congratulations on still having a job.
Ryan says: Hey, thanks. You too.
Mandy says: i have gotten super stressed over company buyout & all that fun stuff before & it sucks
Mandy says: well, thanks
Ryan says: And what do you do pray tell?
Mandy says: be careful and try not to get too jealous or over excited
Ryan says: Is that part of your job description?
Mandy says: i run a construction office during the building of luxury apartments
Mandy says: my company builds, leases, & manages property
Mandy says: i am also still a student, majoring incorporate communications
Ryan says: Wow! So you're sort of important and stuff.
Mandy says: my job description is to play yahtzee, read blogs, talk on messenger, etc.

May You Live in Interesting

May You Live in Interesting Times

For the past couple of months, I've been acutely aware that some sort of shake up was imminent at the IBM magazine for which I write. Talk of budgets and outsourcing, and a whole bunch of other terms that bore me to the point of taking a hammer to my head, have been tossed around like a nerd during lunch break. I've known something was going to happen, but I didn't know what.

Well, it looks like I'll be retaining my job, which is great because I enjoy the work and the pay makes me happy, and I'll still be able to work in the same building. The only change, as far as I can see, is that my employment status will change from being a vendor for IBM to being a full employee for a company in Minneapolis. I'm not sure when this transition is to take place, but I'll be able to rest a little easier knowing that I still have a job.

However. . .this whole experience has given me yet another reason to dislike the way IBM operates. I don't quite understand how they can function with such an obviously defunct system of operation. Prior to this job, I worked in another area of IBM. I was then laid off, only to be hired one month later at this IBM job, for three dollars more an hour than I was making previously. Does this make any sense to anyone? Not that I'm upset to be making more, but you'd think, if they valued their employees at all, they'd look for other positions where workers could make a nice fit rather than dropping them and then going through all the work of hiring them back elsewhere. That costs money, and that takes time.

And yet, through it all, IBM preaches the importance of employee loyalty. Hmmmmmm. Well, IBM, from this loyal employee, let me just extend my middle finger in gratitude for your fine human resource expertise. I figure I need about two more years of experience before I can start picking and choosing my own employment, preferably as far away from Big Blue as I can get.

A Little Odd News Finally,

A Little Odd News

Finally, news of the odd produced something that can be considered comedy gold. First off. . .

Will 'Tooth Phone' Take Bite Out of Mobiles?

LONDON (Reuters) - British engineers say they have invented a revolutionary tooth implant that works like a mobile phone and would not be out of place in a James Bond spy movie.

The 'tooth phone', designed by James Auger and Jimmy Loizeau, consists of a tiny vibrator and a radio wave receiver implanted into a tooth during routine dental surgery.

As if cell phones aren't rude enough, now they're working on a way so normal face-to-face conversations can be interrupted by a ringing tooth. Of all the places I've ever wanted to jam a cell phone when someone starts talking on one in a restaurant, the tooth was the last place on my list. Now, an ass cell phone would be acceptable, because people trying to talk into their asses would look just about as ridiculous as walking down the street with a matchbook to the ear, or the "hands free" systems that make it look as if they're having conversations with thin air. Anyway. . .

Sound, which comes into the tooth as a digital radio signal, is transferred to the inner ear by bone resonance, meaning information can be received anywhere and at any time -- and nobody else can listen in.

The invention raises the prospects of financial traders receiving the latest stock market bulletins while at the cinema and politicians tuning in to secret briefings from advisers while being quizzed by opponents.

Now, I'm obviously not a phone fan. I view them as a necessity only for making appointments. I don't like walking around yapping with someone on a phone for hours. I like actual conversation with a human being directly in front of me, or, if the person happens to be a chatty attractive woman, directly on top of me. The thought of being medically altered to forever have a phone in my tooth is totally disturbing to me. No thanks. Elsewhere in the news. . .

Truancy Sweeps Reveal Scores of Bad Excuses

Amongst the excuses given for missing school were: "because of a spot on my nose," "not liking Mondays," "because it's my birthday" and "my hamster died and I need to buy a new one."

I wish I could avoid work because "I don't like Mondays." That would be so sweet. Beyond that, I really don't have much commentary since it pretty much mocks itself.

UGH Yet another reason to

UGH

Yet another reason to stay as far away from drugs as you possibly can.

From The Institute of Really

From The Institute of Really Obvious Things Comes. . .

If you can believe it, the following headline appeared at MSNBC.com, an otherwise good source for quality news:

Super-size meals mean super-size fat
Common fast-food practice leads to overeating, study says

Okay, everyone together now: Nooooo shit!

This groundbreaking study was reportedly conducted by the National Alliance for Nutrition and Activity. Among the findings unearthed by NANA?

The practice of fast food chains pushing full meals or upgrading the size of side dishes like french fries and soft drinks encourages overeating and obesity, the study said.

So, to recap: eating too much food will result in being overweight. I have to know what egghead within NANA conducted this study. I could have come up with a moronic study like that and earned thousands of research dollars to discover something totally obvious. Perhaps a study to find out if people who can't swim are more likely to drown than people who can. Or maybe a study to determine once and for all whether not eating or drinking anything eventually results in death.

At 7-Eleven, it costs only 37 cents more to purchase a Double Gulp instead of a Gulp, but that adds more than 400 calories, according to Tuesday's report by the National Alliance for Nutrition and Activity.

amazing. You'd think a drink called a Gulp would somehow be chock full of health benefits. Obviously, a Double Gulp should be double healthy. Thankfully, the article also points out that EXERCISE COMBATS EXTRA FOOD. Excuse me while I put my fist through the computer screen.

Researchers on the study recommend buying smaller meals or sharing with friends.

My head. . .it hurts. . .trying to cram it with too many blindingly obvious facts.

Rochester Dog Poop and Horns

Rochester Dog Poop and Horns

I saw a curious thing today as I went for my run. Actually, I saw two curious things. The first thing I saw was, about one mile into my run, a carfull of youths with an air horn that blared me down despite my headphones. They stopped, went in reverse, stopped again, and asked me why I stopped. I told them because they blared an air horn.

"You mean this?" they asked, and I quickly snatched the horn from the passenger's hand (he was stupid enough to wave it outside the vehicle), much to his absolute surprise. I've gotten remarkably good at this snatching thing lately. Okay, I was shocked I nabbed it too. I then broke off the horn part of the canister by stomping on it, and it started letting out the air with a loud *shhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!* They peeled out so fast, I thought I would see flames. Am I that intimidating?

After that, I was feeling pretty cocky, so I was in a pretty much dead sprint. Regardless, as I ran, I saw a couple with a dog. This dog was squatting in a very, um, pooping position. Even though they were far away, I saw a guy pick it up with a plastic glove. I ran past them. I looked back. I saw the guy with the plastic glove drop the dog turd in a different lawn. I started jogging back to ask them about it. The guy with a plastic glove picked it up again and started carrying it once he saw me coming back. How pathetic are we human beings?

Otherwise, it was a good run.

How I Spent My Israeli

How I Spent My Israeli Vacation

I honestly can't fathom how the Israeli population can face each new day with the ever-present specter of being atomized by a peeved Palestinian detonating a belt of TNT. How can you go about your daily routine knowing that the person next to you buying a Snickers and a bottle of Gatorade may be a suicide bomber enjoying his or her last meal? Therefore, I find it amazing that people continue to tour the Holy land despite the threat. Which brings me to today's odd news snippet.

Apparently, Israeli tourism has been sluggish since people started exploding in crowded marketplaces, dropping their yearly tourist revenue from $4 billion to $2 billion. It seems some wimpy people out there actually fear for their lives or something. How odd. Anyway, according to a Reuters report coming out of Jerusalem, Israel is trying to woo tourists back to the holiest of holy lands using, and I swear this is not made up, stickers, flowers and certificates.

A Tourism Ministry spokeswoman said Monday it had launched a "thank you" campaign in which tourists receive a sticker reading "Israel loves you" and a red rose when they arrive and a certificate of appreciation when they depart.

Honestly, why didn't they consult me for some truly brilliant tourism marketing ideas. How about tee-shirts that say, "I was nearly torn asunder by flying shrapnel from a suicide bomber during my trip to Israel, and all I got was this lousy tee-shirt." Granted, that may not fit on a single tee-shirt, so maybe they could give away nice coffee mugs that say "Tanks For Coming."

But seriously, a sticker that says "Israel Loves You" simply wouldn't tilt my scales in favor of an Israeli vacation. "Hmmmmm, I could go to Hawaii, but I hear Israel has nice stickers and flowers this time of year."

"We wanted to thank every tourist who comes here to support us, as not everyone comes these days," the spokeswoman said.

No shit. Still, I love the line "as not everyone comes these days," because it sounds like a grandmother in a nursing home wondering why the kids don't visit any more. "My daughter has kind of avoided the home since the orderlies started firing random rounds down the halls. Ingrates!"

Basement Living and Difficult Dreams

Basement Living and Difficult Dreams

Despite an overall fun weekend, it was one of those weekends that left me feeling as if everyone around me is living life whilst I continue to spin my wheels. My friends are marrying, which I could care less about because marriage, for me, shouldn't happen until I'm 34. At 27, there's just too much I want to do, and I think I can do it all more effectively single. Rather, I'm watching my friends buy houses. Nice houses. And I continue to pay rent. I don't mind paying rent, and I totally love my current abode in the basement of a really nice house. Clean living. Nice roommates. But, I can't shake the feeling that it would be nice to drive into my own garage, and saunter into my own house, and go into debt for 50 years.

I'm now in my fourth year out of college, laboring in the real world, and every job that piques my curiosity requires a minimum of five years experience. I rent now because I really believe I won't be sticking around once I can start picking and choosing my employment. I'd like to move to Pennsylvania or, ideally, return overseas in some writing capacity. I don't want a house to hold me down, and my current worldly belongings can pretty much be transported in one truck and one car. I keep things simple to aid my nomadic lifestyle.

Had some demented dreams last night, with one consisting of a Scream-like chase in which I was pursued by a knife-weilding assailant. I woke up from that one with a brow covered in sweat and bladder full of whizz. My next dream was, um, even more bizarre. I was with the cast of Friends, and I was acting out a scene in which I was supposed to tell Rachel that I loved her (and I don't even watch Friends). So, we're standing there, Rachel and I, under a starry night sky and I was pointing out certain constellations. Finally, the big kiss scene. I angle in to tongue lash Mrs. Aniston, when suddenly she morphs into one of my roommates, and we kissed very passionately for quite some time. And then I woke up with a sweaty brow and a full bladder.

Again with the serious blogging. I promise, promise, promise to write something of a more humorous nature later.

What is IBM Trying to

What is IBM Trying to Say Here?

I just saw something quite strange here at IBM, and I'm not sure what to make of it. I had to run over to the Rochester main IBM blue buildings to visit the credit Union. So, I was walking the labyrinth of hallways, making my way to the credit union, when I came upon a most unusual sight. There, bolted up against the wall, was a blue metal box with white lettering that read "Cyanide Antidote." Cyanide Antidote? I can understand the occasional fire extinguisher or first aid kit, but what necessitates a metal box loaded with cyanide antidote?

IBM Worker: Oh, my God! I've just ingested cyanide from an unknown source. Where's the cyanide antidote when I really need it!? Gaaghh! Argh!

Perhaps even more disturbing is the fact that the box was padlocked shut, so even if you were to ingest cyanide and find a box of antidote, you sure as hell better have the right key to open the padlock. I am most perplexed as to why there was a metal box of cyanide antidote bolted to the wall. If anyone reading this knows the answer, I would really like to know.

Some Self-Analysis Okaaaaayyyy, I'm not

Some Self-Analysis

Okaaaaayyyy, I'm not sure what black cloud is hanging over Bloggervania today, but all the blogs I've visited seem to have a self-analysis theme where people try to justify why they think they're bad people. Does that make any sense? No? Tough shit.

I don't dabble in self-analysis very often, because it's almost always depressing. "I'm miserable today, and I think it's because my alcoholic fifth cousin, Melvin, whom I've never met, once sent me a bithday card when I was five but it arrived three weeks late. I've never been the same since, and I think that's why I'm single, with a big wart on my nose, and six fingers on both hands. I just can't get close to people, and I push them away, because I don't want them to find out the real me, the real me that sits in cemetaries each night looking for a fresh grave to unearth."

Here's my gripe. People sit and search for reasons why they're the way they are without doing a damn thing to change the things about themselves that irritate them, as if coming up with reasons justifies them being less than stellar human beings and they can go on their happy little way without putting any effort into changing. I could sit and come up with reasons all day long why I haven't reached my ideal employment status, but coming up with reasons really doesn't change anything, does it? Here's a novel thought, why don't I actually update my resume and start job searching rather than filling up my latest blog entry with reasons why I'm miserable? Shazam!

I know, I know, an unexamined life is not worth living, or some such smarmy tripe like that, but the fact is that, despite all the hardships people believe they've endured during their lives, they're ultimately responsible for who they are now. People that simply sit back picking through their childhood looking for reasons why they can't hold a job, or can't focus, or can't maintain a relationship, are just being lazy. Make a mental effort to change rather than throwing up a shield that protects your scared little world.

Easier said than done, I know. But most things worthwhile in life are.

It's Friday, and I'm Sore

It's Friday, and I'm Sore

Well, I made it to the end of yet another work week. Unfortunately, I feel as though I've been tumbling in a dryer all night. Why? Because I was stupid and decided to stay for two hours in my hapkido class last night. I guess the first hour wasn't too bad, but the second hour was a lot of kicking, 40 minutes of kicking, followed by 20 minutes of grappling. It was the grappling that did me in. I love to grapple, but by the end of 20 minutes, I was shot. Pooped. Exhausted. Almost threw up in the parking lot. Twas brutal. So, I'm pretty much insanely sore today.

I'm throwing out the dress code book here at IBM and I'm taking a risk. I'm wearing a goofy tee shirt that shows the bare torso of a very defined male body, both front and back. It always causes people to do a double-take, and I just felt like attracting attention to myself today. Hey, it's Friday. I need some entertainment.

Still haven't bought anything for Father's Day, and time is running out. Must think fatherly gifts. Any suggestions, world?

Yes, this post sucked and is devoid of humor, but I'm not entirely awake yet. Perhaps I'll post something of a more knee-slapping nature later.

Yet Another Lazy Post Ryan

Yet Another Lazy Post

Ryan says: I was just sitting out on the grass, soaking in the sun, writing an article. I'm going to miss this job if I'm laid off.
Mark G. says: blow me
Mark G. says: you have it made
Ryan says: Shlurrrrp.
Mark G. says: this is the first time in 8 months that I am actually behind on my work
Ryan says: I'm always behind on my work.
Mark G. says: I hate this
Mark G. says: you cant stop for a minute
Mark G. says: and I found out that I have to go to PA in a few weeks
Ryan says: What's in Pa?
Mark G. says: East coast
Mark G. says: the State
Ryan says: No shit.
Mark G. says: Pensylvania
Ryan says: I'll rephrase smartass. Why are you going to Pa?
Mark G. says: oh
Mark G. says: is that how you spell it?
Mark G. says: I have to go set up some systems
Ryan says: Pennsylvania. You missed an "n."
Mark G. says: ahhhh
Ryan says: So, you're actually bragging to me in the guise of bitching about your job.
Mark G. says: no
Mark G. says: not at all
Mark G. says: the trip should be ok
Mark G. says: today sucks
Ryan says: Man, I hate my job. They're sending me to Hawaii to test surf boards and a new woman attracting pheremone. This just sucks!!!
Mark G. says: LOL
Mark G. says: I will be meeting up with some people from IBM out there
Mark G. says: they will be helping with the setup
Mark G. says: or I will be helping
Mark G. says: however you wish to look at it
Ryan says: You can tell the IBMers right away. They're the ones with the protrudruding craniums and the knuckles dragging on the ground.
Mark G. says: LOL
Mark G. says: and no personality
Ryan says: "Me fix machines. Make them not do bad things."
Mark G. says: they just grunt and click
Ryan says: I did that in the bathroom today.
Mark G. says: your an IBM'r
Mark G. says: thats normal
Ryan says: I'm a VENDOR! Get it right or get the hell out.
Mark G. says: ooops
Mark G. says: sorry man
Mark G. says: didnt mean to hit a nerve
Ryan says: You're such a nerve hitter.
Mark G. says: must go back to work
Mark G. says: must fix computers

Hello, I'm. . . I

Hello, I'm. . .

I meet new people on a daily basis; it's the nature of the journalism profession that you meet new people, whether for interviews, or to verify something, and countless other reasons. I meet people by phone, by e-mail and of course in person. I do it without thinking about it, because it's part of my job, and I get paid for it. However. . .

Meeting people just for my own personal interest is an entirely different experience. I refer, of course, to meeting women who catch my wandering eye. I go through what amounts to a ritual (stopping before I sacrifice a chicken) before I saunter up to a potential female. Yesterday, for example, I decided it was time to introduce myself to the stunning vision I routinely see vivaciously slithering down the IBM hallways. She has one of those walks that has a magnetic effect on my groin. Anyway. . .

I studied up on Ms. X for about a month; finding out which office she's in, whether she's wearing a ring on the taboo finger (no ring), determining whether she's extremely involved or just slightly with a different guy to estimate my odds. Armed with this important information, I dropped by her office unexpectedly.

ME: Um, hi. I've, um, seen you around the building for awhile now and, um, I just thought I should stop by and, um, introduce myself. I'm Ryan. *extend hand*

MS X: *shaking hand* Oh, hi. It's nice to meet you. I'm Melanie.

ME: (Awesome, she has a name! We have something in common!) Hi, Melanie. It's nice to finally put a name with the your face (or stellar butt as the case may be). So, what do you do here at IBM (And how the hell did you get an office with a window while I work in a flourescent cavern?)? (Note to self: no pictures of boyfriend. No pictures of family either, so that's not saying much.)

MELANIE: *Explains what she does at IBM, while I do my best to maintain eye contact*

All told, my initial conversation with Melanie lasted about ten minutes, during which time I dutifully broke every rule of etiquette, including leaning on the door frame and putting my hands in my pockets.

The amazing thing is that I'm still this shaky about introducing myself to women even though I've done it countless times before. My first impression with the ladies must be sub-par at best. But, I can't just sit back and wait for fate to cause a jeep full of bikini clad models to break down outside my house, so I have to continue with this embarrasing introduction dance. It would be so much easier if the female gender simply had a light that flashed from the forehead every time they talk to a guy that interests them. My kingdom for a forehead flashing female!

Now I have to bide my time and get Melanie's phone number and ask her for a date. I hate this game.

Officemate On My Nerves My

Officemate On My Nerves

My officemate read my last post and she sat there and pointed out that I mentioned I was "sweaty" and "without a shirt" and "half naked" numerous times. She's right, of course, I did do that. Yes, I was sweaty. Yes, I was without a shirt. Yes, I was half naked. But, no, it was not my intent, as my officemate implied, that I was somehow augmenting my oft repeated phrase that I'm a "smoking hot specimen of male hunkiness." Rather, I was trying to explain why I didn't want to go ambling off on my own, strolling around Rochester wearing nothing but a ratty pair of denim shorts and sandles. Sheesh.

On a totally unrelated note, I strongly feel that I'm a smoking hot specimen of male hunkiness.

More Random Thoughts Okay, odd

More Random Thoughts

Okay, odd news simply is not odd enough for me to poke fun at today, and this deeply saddens me. Actually, I'm not saddened, but I am hurting for something to write about. So, if this sucks, I apologize.

So, I mowed the roomie's lawn yesterday after work, and I was quite pleased with the result. The result, of course, was a mowed lawn. At any rate, while I was mowing, my other roomie, Emily, stopped by briefly to change clothes. She came bounding out of the house about 10 minutes later, waved happily at me, and drove off to do whatever it is Emily does. I finished mowing the lawn, put away the mower, pulled some long grass from around trees and walked back to the house.

However, Emily had locked the door. And I didn't have a key. And none of the windows were open. For the second time in the nine months I've lived there, I found myself locked out of the house. So, there I stood, sweaty, without a shirt, no wallet, no keys with which to start my car. Just sweaty me locked out of the house. I made a mental note to give Emily no end of shit when next I saw her. I'm also planning on locking her out of the house when she least expects it, preferably when she's half naked and sweaty.

There was nothing I could do but skulk around outside the house and await the return of either Amy or Emily. I cared not which, so long as I regained entrance. For about an hour, I tried to find activities to keep me busy, such as playing darts in the garage, trying to figure out the Nordic Trak (which is really hard to do, by the way), and sitting on a lawn chair feeling very much like Forrest Gump.

Finally, Amy pulled into the driveway, and I started dancing happily. I have yet to see Emily again, but I have plans to de-short her when I do.

When Cars Become Prisons I

When Cars Become Prisons

I revere my father. Everything I do or accomplish, I put under the microscope of how proud my father is of me. My mother is the doting and caring yin to my father's stoic, silent, larger-than-life yang. And yet, every so often, my father does something that makes me question my unwavering reverence toward him.

After I picked my parents up from the airport on Friday, I drove them home and my father immediately began his annual routine of starting the vehicles that have sat dormant during their nine month absence in Tokyo. He got the truck started without a problem, but the cranky Buick had a dead battery, so I pulled my car up close to jump start his car. The jump went flawlessly, so I went into the house to chat with my mother, leaving my dad to putter around in the garage.

I talked with my mother for about five minutes, at which point I could have sworn I heard someone knock on the garage door, but my mother assured me it was probably just Dad working on the car. I shrugged it off and continued yapping with my mother and helping her unpack. After about 15 to 20 minutes, I poked my head into the garage to see what my father was up to.

What my father was up to, if you can believe it, was yelling and waving frantically from the passenger side of the Buick, sweat streaming down his face in the 90+ degree heat of the car. He was mad. Damned mad. I could tell this because spit was flying from his mouth as he waved me over to the vehicle. I asked him what was wrong, and he yelled, "What do you mean, 'What's wrong?' I'm locked in the car!"

Now, I didn't think such a thing was possible, and I found the situation to be hysterical, so I started laughing at my caged father, which only served to enrage him further.

"Stop laughing and get the extra keys and get me out of here!! It's hot as hell in here!!" he screamed, although it could barely be heard through the excellent Buick window seal.

I could barely walk into the house I was laughing so hard, and I had to call Mom over to see the ridiculous predicament Dad was in. She just stood in the doorway, silent at first, but then she started howling just as loud, if not louder, than me. She told me to get my camera, but by this time Dad was beside himself with anger, so I didn't want to push my luck. I unlocked the driver's side door and Dad came cruising out, gasping for cool air, and swearing more than I've ever heard him swear in his life.

"What kind of fucking design flaw is that?! The battery went dead and the doors just locked up on me. I was sitting there fucking screaming for 20 minutes! Couldn't you hear me?"

By this time, my sides were splitting with laughter. I seriously couldn't take it any more. But the more Dad went on his rant, the more Mom and I felt obligated to laugh at him. Dad's face got even more beet red when I showed him how to manually unlock the Buick doors from the inside. Just like all cars, there's no possible way to get locked inside. Granted, the manual locks were a little hidden, but the fact he thought he could actually get trapped inside a vehicle was absolutely ludicrous, and it just made me laugh at him all the harder. His agitated state was made even more comical by the sweat drenched shirt from his harrowing ordeal.

"This isn't funny," he screamed, although it was obvious he was starting to come to his senses and he saw the humor despite his waning rage. "What if the car had burst into flames? How was I supposed to get out of there?"

So, my father is human after all, and I guess this is good to know. Still, I was going to buy him a DVD player for father's day, but I'm not sure he's ready for such a technological advance. Certainly not if the concept of manual car locks escape him.

That's My Secret One of

That's My Secret

One of the drawbacks about going to my hometown, even for a short stint, is that I have to remember to pack the bare essentials, such as deodorant, contact solution, and other such things. Well, I awoke today, scuffled around in my duffel bag, realized I did not pack my deodorant, and was forced to use my mother's Secret. It's a real blow to the male ego to run a stick of Secret under the pits, particularly when it's your mother's Secret. Sure, it may be strong enough for a man, and made for a woman, but it smells like extra perfumed ass. Men have a wide assortment of fragrances to choose from to cleanse the armpit. I'm partial to Right Guard XTreme Sport Clear Stick: Cool Peak fragrance. I also like the Fresh Blast smell, although I've been known to cheat and use Speed Stick: Aqua Sport, just to mix things up a little. See? Men's deodorant makes it seem as if slathering your pits is akin to climbing Everest or bungee jumping. Who would have thought that covering up body odor could be so cool?

"Oh, wow! This stuff is XTreme! It simply has to be good! I'd better buy a case of this stuff."

But, alas, women do not have the luxury of a tough sounding deodorant. Rather than a visually loud stick of pit paint, with a super cool sounding name like Mega Super Power Blast Estrogen Stick: Thong fragrance, women have to settle for hush hush options like Secret, Soft and Dri, Arrid, Lady Mitchum and Clear Gel Powder Fresh. Where's the excitement in these products? Where's the outrage?! Where's the equality?! Come on ladies, get out there and demand a more entertaining line of female pit sticks!

If for no other reason, do it so I never have to use my mother's Secret ever again.

Picking Up the Parents: Just

Picking Up the Parents: Just Not In "That Way"

Well, it's that time of year again. The leaves are on the trees, flowers are in bloom, and my parents are returning from their teaching jobs in Tokyo to while away the summer months in my hometown of Harmony, Minn. And, since I live in Rochester, I get to pick them up at the airport and cart them to their final destination. It's always nice to see my parents after such an extended absence, but they're going to talk about jet lag, and they're going to talk about the flight, and they're going to give me a detailed report of everything leading up to the flight. It's mind-screechingly boring stuff to sit through, and I'm usually the one who starts it all off:

ME: Hey Mom, hey Dad. It's great to see you. How was your flight? *D'oh!*

DAD: Oh, it was longgggg. I was up at 3 a.m. today getting ready. Getting to the airport was a bear because of the traffic. Ohhhhh, gripe, gripe, gripe.

MOM: But we got upgraded to business class, so that was nice, but there were these loud people behind us, so that wasn't so nice.

However, we go to a Chinese restaurant each year, so that translates into a free meal for me. Plus, I get to leave work early. Plus, it's gorgeous outside. Plus, I'm just an impossibly good looking young man.

Now, In Salons: The Bin

Now, In Salons: The Bin Laden 'Do'

Travel with me, if you will, to the wonderful world of odd news. From Hong Kong we have:

Woman Loses Case Over 'Bin Laden' Hairstyle
A Hong Kong woman lost her case for compensation against a hair salon which she claimed made her look like Osama bin Laden when she wanted a hairstyle like Hollywood actress Julia Roberts.

I'm curious if this is a common phenomenon in Hong Kong salons: you ask to look like Julia Roberts and you come out wearing a turban and wielding an AK-47. "Oh, those idiots! I distinctly said Julia Roberts, but this is obviously the Bin Laden look."

After the judgement was handed down, she refused to leave the Small Claims Tribunal and had to be taken away by ambulance following a standoff of more than an hour with court staff, the South China Morning Post reported on Thursday.

Must have been a terribly slow news day for the South China Morning Post.

EDITOR: Hey, Hung Wan, there's a report coming in about another Bin Laden hairstyle. Go cover it, and do a good job this time or I'll turn you over to the local Law Enforcement Severe Beating Brigade (LASBB).

Hung Wan: I'm on it, Chief.

Chu Ieu complained her hair was seriously damaged by two perms she had done at the New Idol Hair Salon last July and August.

"Do you mean you did not get the Julia Roberts look after the perm?" adjudicator Yuen Chun-kau asked her during the Wednesday hearing.

Now that's good cross-examination.

"Not just that. It was like a broom. Every hair struck out and it looked like an open umbrella which could not be shut. It was horrible. I looked like Osama bin Laden," Chu replied.

Ah, yes. Most FBI and CIA pictures and description of Bin Laden plainly state that he has hair that resembles "an open umbrella which can not be shut." Sheesh.

Yuen dismissed her claim for HK$50,000 (US$6,410) in compensation as she had offered no evidence to prove her hair had been damaged. "You've only shown the court that the hairstyle did not look good," he said.

It's at this point that I have to ask: What are they smoking over there in Hong Kong, and where can I get some?

But Chu said that Yuen was not sympathetic to her claim.

"He's bald. Of course he would not know the pain of having damaged hair," Chu fretted, sitting on the floor of the courtroom in protest against the judgement.

Now, I shave my head, so this last sentence stings. Okay, no it doesn't. However, I love the phrase "Chu fretted." I don't know why; I think it's because it sounds like some new brand of potato chip. "Try new "Chew Frets" today!!"

I need a nap.

To Bagel or not to

To Bagel or not to Bagel

Tall Girl: I ate all day yesterday
Tall Girl: I had some pretzles this morning
Tall Girl: went to Dos for lunch
Tall Girl: and my officmate was eating this yummie looking bagle thing, and there's a lot left.
Tall Girl: I want it
Tall Girl: I am not even hungry
Tall Girl: I just want to taste it
Tall Girl: are you even there?
Tall Girl: tell me not to eat it
Ryan: Don't eat it. Dumbass.
Ryan: I ate French silk pie during lunch today. To die for.
Tall Girl: ooohhhhh
Tall Girl: lord
Tall Girl: I might just eat it
Tall Girl: no
Tall Girl: no no
Tall Girl: bad girl
Tall Girl: is that all you had for lunch?
Tall Girl: French Silk Pie
Tall Girl: I love that pie
Ryan: I also had chicken casserole, green beans and a roll.
Tall Girl: oh my
Tall Girl: did you go to Baker's Square?
Tall Girl: gggeeez
Tall Girl: I feel like pigging out
Ryan: But I run and do hapkido, so I can get away with sneaking goodies like that. Just think, if you started running with me, you'd be eating that bagel right now.
Tall Girl: if I do run with you, can I have the bagel?
Tall Girl: damnit
Tall Girl: I thought my stress would eat it away
Ryan: Yes, but you'd HAVE to run with me the whole three miles; no chickening out.
Tall Girl: *L*
Tall Girl: what? you mean I can't just run a block?
Ryan: Nope.
Tall Girl: I don't think I can make it
Tall Girl: I guess I won't be getting the bagel afterall
Ryan: Well, no bagel for you.
Tall Girl: ;(

*ten minutes pass*

Tall Girl: I ate the bagel

A True Blogger Flows With

A True Blogger Flows With the Text, Yes?
Forgive the Yoda speak. It's Wednesday, my column writing day, and here I sit yet again without ideas. Actually, my column ideas tend to wane the longer I wait for newspapers to send me a check. It's been about two and a half months since I received my last check so, even though it will be a whopping cash influx when it does arrive, I just don't feel the incentive to be wildly creative. Show me the money! Ah, greed, where would I be without you?

For some reason, the term "identity theft" is very amusing to me. I know, I know, it's actually a very serious problem in today's Internet world, but the concept is entertaining. Imagine waking up, and you have no idea who you are, like amnesia. Your window is broken, there are footsteps leading to your bed, and your head hurts. There can be no doubt about it: you're a victim of identity theft.

Motorcycle Common Sense
Mark G. says:
I had to order a new back tire for my bike last night :(
Mark G. says:
ran over something and put a huge slice in it
Mark G. says:
thank god it didnt blow out on me
Ryan says:
You know what would put your mind at ease about that? Let's say you were using a vehicle that had, oh I don't know, four tires. So, when one blows, you have three more to count on. I know, only in a perfect world would such a vehicle exist, but that would solve that problem.
Mark G. says:
LOL
Mark G. says:
nice reply
Mark G. says:
can alway count on you

Come to This Blog to

Come to This Blog to Find. . .
Well, it's time once again to visit my site meter to find out what people are seeking when they visit my site. All of these searches were done via Google:

- "Detonation devices"+suicide: Well folks, this can't be good. I'm a little concerned about this hit. Quick, contact the CIA and FBI! Oh, wait, never mind. They wouldn't do anything about it anyway.
- Green+Beret+Hapkido: Must be a little known branch of the military I haven't yet heard of.
- Shower+Pecker+Blog: Well, this one is anyone's guess. Any blogs out there about showering peckers? Tell us. We must know!
- Ryan+Rhodes: Now, there's a good old common sense search. When people want to find me, they look up my name. It's nice to see that people are searching for me.
- Fruit+Cake+Recipes: No clue on this one. I've never even eaten a fruit cake, let alone seen a recipe for one.
- IBM+Layoff: Another topic near and dear to my heart. Three people came by looking for this one.
- Fake+Pictures+of+Lance+Bass+Naked: This just offends me, mainly because Lance Bass is stealing my rightful seat on the space shuttle to the International Space Station. I should totally be going instead of him. Totally.
- Britney+Spears+Shower+Nozzles: Am I to assume there are such shower nozzles on the market today? Two solid streams of water spew forth from Britney's nipples, massaging your shoulders while a recorded voice sings "Wash me Baby One More Time." Actually, that sounds pretty cool.

Writing My Wrongs Well, last

Writing My Wrongs
Well, last night, as I battled a strange bout of roving depressive thoughts, I got back in front of my computer and started work, once again, on a book about my college years. I've tried off and on to get this off the ground for the past four years, but I think I may have found a narrative voice that suits me. It's a factual/fictional account of my college life, drawing on things I experienced, saw others experience, and some is just pure made up silliness. I decided to approach it in journal format, much like this blog, starting on Sept. 7, 1993, my first night in the dorm. I managed to pound out 10 pages last night, and it has a lot of the same tone that comes through in my weekly column, which is exactly what I've been striving for, so this could be a very good thing. It's not award-winning material, but it makes me feel good. I'll post excerpts on this blog once in awhile to gauge reader interest.

I've been feeling really crappy the last few days, and I'm not sure why. Well, I have a good idea why, but it's not something I feel like expounding on here.

On a totally unrelated note, I finally found out where the disturbing odor was originating in my room. About two weeks ago, I thawed out my mini-refridgerator, and I thought I caught all the water on the towel I laid down underneath. Well, apparently quite a bit of water soaked into the carpet, where it sat in damp pleasure under the refridgerator. Now, the previous room occupant owned a dog, so my room started to emanate with a wet dog/mildew repugnance that made me question my own hygiene. Last night, I discovered the smelly little source, so I moved my fridge and coated the area with Carpet Fresh, so my room smelled like Carpet Fresh and wet dog/mildew. Hopefully, the carpet will dry now that I've moved the fridge and things will return to normal. I can't stand stinky carpet. Nasty stuff, that.

Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker. Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker. Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker.