October 31, 2005
October 28, 2005
Don't Tempt The Onion
So, earlier this week, the parody news site, "The Onion," was requested by the Bush White House to stop using the Presidential seal in its political content. Yeah, I know, it was a pretty dumb request, and I remember thinking "Yikes, you shouldn't really tempt The Onion, because, man, they could rip you a new one."
Well, guess what.
Just For the Hell of it
Note: Extra points taken down, because the long title was screwing with the blog layout, or at least my layout.
Nick Coleman. You know him. You love him. And fisking him is my hobby.
MY SYMPATHIES TO THE PEOPLE OF BURNSVILLE AND BLOOMINGTON AS THEY COME UNDER THE FLIGHT PATHS! HOW'S IT GOING, FOLKS?
FINE, NICK! HOW ARE YOU? ARE YOU STILL A CYNICAL OLD BASTARD WHO HATES AND EXPECTS EVERYONE TO FEEL GUILTY ABOUT EVERYTHING AND CAN'T WRITE?! YOU ARE? OKAY!
WHAT?? WHAT DID YOU SAY?!!
FINE, NICK! HOW ARE YOU? ARE YOU STILL A CYNICAL OLD BASTARD WHO HATES AND EXPECTS EVERYONE TO FEEL GUILTY ABOUT EVERYTHING AND CAN'T WRITE?! YOU ARE? OKAY!
Oops. Sorry for shouting. People who live in the jet canyons by the airport -- I spent 18 years near Lake Nokomis in south Minneapolis (I KNOW STUFF!) -- shout a lot. It's the only way we can get anyone to pass the salt.
Wha? Pass the salt? That's the best he could come up with?
I SAID, "PASS THE SALT!"
PEPPER?!
As a Ryan-Rhodes-Knows-Stuff aside, I'd like to note that two summers ago, my cousin was married in a Twin Cities suburb where airport traffic buzzed overhead with regularity. It was unusual at first, but I became used to it pretty quickly, like within an hour. I asked several other wedding attendees who lived in the area what they thought of the noise. Their answers were pretty much universal: "You get used to it, and it's a great neighborhood even with the planes."
Thursday the Metropolitan Airports Commission opened Rolling Thunder, a brand-new $800 million runway that will send thousands of jets a year screeching over Bloomington. Apparently the commission was unhappy with being hated only in Minneapolis, Richfield and Mendota Heights.
Gee, either that, or they recognized that one of the few ways to expand an airport in the heart of the Metro area was to open a runway that would inevitably inconvenience SOMEONE. I imagine in Nick's mind, the obvious and best course of action would have been to open a new runway in Iowa somewhere. Damned if he could explain how best to get there to catch your flight, but that's fodder for another Crappy Coleman Column (CCC).
The complaint number is 612-726-9411. But don't bother calling. They play recordings of citizens' complaints at cocktail parties, just to laugh at us and make funny telephone jokes:
This is what passes as Nick Coleman humor, in case you didn't get it. . . you know, ALL OF YOU.
"Airport Complaint Department here. What? What was that you said? Hello?! Sorry, I can't hearrr you! What's all that racket in the background? It sounds like airplanes! Ha Ha!"
Nick is an interesting man to talk about flippant feedback. My co-worker, Caroline, once asked him (before we knew he was a dink, by the way) if he'd be willing to speak to a class of journalism students. He responded to the tune of: "I don't think my editors would appreciate me taking a day off." Which, you know, fine, but do you honestly think what Coleman writes takes anywhere near a day? I could scrawl out his meandering nonsense in 20 minutes. Hell, it only takes me 10 minutes to fisk the man, which sounds kinky, but you know what I mean. For other examples of Coleman's flippant response history, see here and here.
You may think I'm being cynical.
SCREEEEEEEEECHHHHHH! Nick Coleman? Cynical? No way! In other news, water is wet, the sky is blue and humans breathe air!
But these are the same political cronies and has-beens who burned $100,000 of public funds last month on a party to celebrate the new runway.
Has-beens? Since they're currently on the Metropolitan Airport Commission, wouldn't they be considered "Are-Nows?" Hard to completely defend the $100k party, I'll admit, but a little pomp and circumstance is warranted after the completion of such a project, and since $100k comes in at about .00125 percent or so of the total project cost, well, I tend to give it a little leeway.
UPDATE: As reader Mr. Cranky points out: Nick should check his facts. The MAC had a bit of help paying for their opening. He presents this.
Ready for Takeoff is being coordinated by the MAC with sponsorships by Piper Jaffray, Bear Stearns, ABM Janitorial Services, HMS Host, Faegre and Benson LLP, Northwest Airlines, Sun Country Airlines, HNTB and Padilla Speer Beardsley.
It was pretty hard to find - it's from a list of the MAC's press releases. I can see how Nick missed it. After all, why look something up when you *Know Stuff*.
"Whoo-eee! Wait'll Eagan gets a taste of cargo jet fumes at midnight! Take that, suckers!"
Whoo-eee! Wait'll the Twin Cities starts realizing the financial benefits of increased airport revenue and efficiency due to an expanded airport! Take that, er. . . suckers!
The commission is tone deaf. The rest of us are getting deaf the old-fashioned MAC way:
"Tora, Tora, Tora!"
What the fucking fuck? Does Nick even know what he's mad about any more? I imagine him in his Star-Tribune office, gazing out the window, watching humanity bustling about, and he just kind of picks at random what he's decided to hate that day:
"Dagnabbit, I hate how people spit their gum on the street!"
"Consarn it, people who smoke are sure smoking smokers who smoke!"
"Airplanes make noise, damn it. Noise, I tells ya! Pass the salt!"
Plus, I used to have nightmares about a 200-pound chunk of blue ice from a 747 biffy coming through my roof, crushing me in bed: "Minneapolis man killed by falling doo-doo."
Biffy? Doo-doo? Ah, right, this is a CCC. Such fantastic, humor-filled prose is expected whilst reading a CCC. Still, can you imagine the Strib reader suffering that could have been avoided had Coleman been taken out by a frozen chunk of airplane waste years ago? Such a pity.
The new runway opened with a replica of the plane Charles Lindbergh flew to France. How long will it take Minnesota to get over the philandering fly boy who left illegitimate kinder all over Der Fatherland?
Those damned American icons! I hate 'em! I hate 'em so much!
How, exactly, did the runway open with a replica of a plane, by the way? Did it cut the ceremonial tape? Did it give a speech? Coleman's not much on explaining such things; he's more interested in calling down fire and brimstone on an American icon who helped usher in the era of international aviation. Coleman is a sad, angry little man who's not even sure what he's sad and angry about.
I really hope people write letters to the editor regarding that horrendous, spiteful, paragraph.
They also had a symbolic take-off by a Northwest jet with no passengers. Hmm: An empty Northwest flight to nowhere?
Maybe that's too symbolic.
Kind of like an empty Coleman column that goes nowhere, which is probably symbolic of the man himself. Maybe TOO symbolic.
Still, I have fond memories of my years under the bombing run. Such as the Sunday barbecue when an elderly relative dived beneath the picnic table to escape what he thought was a Japanese Zero at Pearl.
Ahh, so Coleman's codgerly antics are genetic! That explains a lot. Not to engage in too much speculation here, but does anyone else think that Coleman's anecdote seems a little too. . . oh, I don't know. . . unbelievable?
And I raised my first three kids under the flight path, and watched them grow. I wish I could have heard what their names were.
Oh, come on Nick. You know their names: SALT! PEPPER! PEAS!
Oh, well.
I live in peaceful St. Paul now. Sometimes, at night, I hear the whistle of a far-off freight train.
Oh, for those halcyon days of the iron horse. . .
I love that. No freight train ever flies over my house.
Perhaps someday, Nick, if we're lucky, one will fly INTO your house in a fantasically ironic and improbably coincidence. Hey, at least then your name will be in the newspaper and people will actually WANT to read about you.
October 27, 2005
Breast effect
Heh, over 800 visitors to this site today already, and it's not even noon yet. Tara Reid's breasts are apparently still a hot commodity on the Internet today.
October 25, 2005
It's Electric
For several months now, I've noticed that my heating and air-conditioning have been unreliable. Sometimes they would work, while other times they wouldn't.
This would irritate me in various ways, depending on the weather. If, for example, it was 70 degrees and not humid, I could care less if my air-conditioning worked. However, if it was 88 degrees and humid, I was more than a little bit miffed when the A.C. refused to click on.
Likewise, as we journeyed towards the winter months, it unnerved me that the furnace wouldn't kick on to ensure a toasty home temperature in the upper 60s. Sometimes it would work, but mostly it wouldn't. When you're talking about a state were -30 degrees isn't unheard of, the possibility the furnace won't kick on is a real threat.
I weighed my options over the recent weeks. Should I call in a heating and cooling expert to assess my situation? That sounded expensive, and I'm a man who is chronically short on finances for such things. So, I decided, based primarily on my financial self-interests, that the root cause of my heating and air-conditioning woes was the thermostat.
It was just a guess, of course, but in my mind it made the most sense. If it was just the furnace that wouldn't click on, I would have suspected a furnace issue, but this was a problem that affected heating and cooling alike, so it just made sense that it was the thermostat.
Off to Menards I went over the weekend, where there's a surprising selection of themostats available, ranging from $20 to $120, with the most expensive models offering such features as week-long varying temperature controls, back-lighting for those times you find yourself cold and stumbling around in the dark, and the capability to recognize and taser intruders, which is a nice feature.
Interestingly, no matter which thermostat I was looking at, the packaging on the front always proclaimed "Installs in minutes," while on the back, in fine print, they warned "Should only be installed by a professional."
Once again, I decided that hiring a professional sounded expensive, particularly for an installation that should only take minutes, so I went ahead and opted to install the thing myself.
A little known fact about electricity and me: we don't get along all that well. Oh, sure, I use electricity with reckless abandon daily but, every once in awhile, electricity likes to let me know who's really the boss.
Before installing the thermostat, I made sure to cut power to the part of the house I was working in. Unfortunatly, the thermostat wires ran to an entirely different part of the house. So, as I worked to remove the old thermostat, I happened to touch a couple of the wires and. . .
A funny thing about electrical shocks: you kind of stand there and just take it for a moment before you jump back and start cursing. Such was the case with me. I knew I was getting zapped, but there was a part of my brain that still was focused on completing the task at hand, so I just kind of stood there, holding on to those hot wires, until I finally acquiesced and jumped back, frantically waggling my hand.
As for the rest of the installation, I can only say this: "Installs in minutes" is a wildly variable claim. Oh, sure, it only took minutes for me to install the thermostat, but it took 78 of those minutes which, if you'll notice, is over an hour.
However, having now officially and successfully installed a thermostat in my home, I now consider myself a professional.
I charge $120 per installation.
The State of the World, As I Understand it
- The weather forcast for Florida and pretty much most of the South is: hurricane.
- Valerie Plame was the most well-known covert CIA operative ever, who was also working on a secret mission to bring down every government in the world, and she would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren't for those meddling kids, whoever the hell they were.
- Harriet Miers is, apparently, the worst possible nominee for a Supreme Court post ever in the history of the world. Reasons for this vary, but I'm told it's because she bears a striking resemblance to Emperor Palpatine, or at least that's what numerous Fark photoshops indicate.
- Somewhere in the realm of 70,000 dead due to an earthquake in India and Pakistan is infinitesimal compared to the 1,000 or so dead from Hurricane Katrina, if my reading of the news media is correct.
- FEMA is responsible for everything, including bad breath and your wife cheating on you.
- Bush's current poll numbers apparently negate the results of the November 2004 election.
- The Minnesota Vikings will forever be tainted by their sex boat antics, so clever headlines like "The Love Boot" will apply to every game won by a field goal from here on out.
- The Green Bay Packers are capable of imploding to a degree once reserved entirely for the Minnesota Vikings, and that's very amusing.
- Rosa Parks apparently did two very important things in her life. 1) She sat at the front of a bus, in defiance of discriminatory laws. 2) She died.
- Bird flu is going to kill everybody, everywhere. fucking birds.
Aw hell, I may as well list a bunch of celebrities in the hopes of boosting traffic:
Beyonce Knowles. Elisha Cuthbert . Mandy Moore topless. Kelly Clarkson. Rachel Hunter. Topless. Ann Coulter. Carmen Electra. Tina Fey. Jaslene. Jordin Sparks. Jenny McCarthy. Beyonce Knowles. Beyonce Knowles. Elisha Cuthbert . Mandy Moore topless. Kelly Clarkson. Rachel Hunter. Ahmo Hight. Ann Coulter. Carmen Electra. Tina Fey. Jaslene. Jordin Sparks. Jenny McCarthy. Beyonce Knowles. Beyonce Knowles. Elisha Cuthbert . Mandy Moore topless. Kelly Clarkson.
October 24, 2005
October 21, 2005
Jiu-Jitsu Perils
I continue to learn more and more as I train in Brazillian Jiu-Jitsu. It's a great martial art, unlike any other martial art I've ever trained in. The training is intense, and so far I'm enjoying it.
As with any martial arts training, there are risks, but it's particularly true in Jiu-Jitsu, where your goal is to make your opponent tap out by applying a variety of particularly nasty chokes, arm bars, knee bars and other assorted submission holds that aren't all that enjoyable to be on the receiving end of.
In other words, the potential for knee injuries and other joint-specific injuries is a definite possibility, so caution is required on the part of both opponents, and so far, aside from the usual aches and pains of intense workouts, I've escaped any serious injury.
Oh, and also, a little background on Jiu-Jitsu. It's a grappling form of self-defense, which means you're inevitably going to take a shot to the testicles. You kind of put that towards the back of your mind, but you just know it's going to happen some time.
Well, on Wednesday this week, I realized there is another peril to the Jiu-Jitsu martial art.
So, I was working Jiu-Jitsu drills with a partner of a similar belt rank, Pedro. We were working a technique called the "triangle," a technique that has the potential to both choke out an opponent while also applying an arm bar. I get caught in the triangle during live sparring so much, I'm thinking of lobbying to have the technique name changed to the "Rhodes."
Anyway, the triangle involves one person basically scissoring their opponent's head and arm between their legs and applying more and more pressure until the unfortunate recipient (usually me) starts to lose blood flow to the head, and also can't breathe. It's not a particuarly pleasant technique to get caught in.
Well, while Pedro and I were drilling the triangle, Pedro abruptly moved away and gently clutched his gut. I thought he had strained an abdominal muscle or something, not uncommon. Pedro mumbled something about eating spicy food prior to class and was experiencing stomach pains as a result of so much activity. He clutched his gut for a few seconds more and then returned to continue drilling the triangle.
And it was then, with my head locked in Pedro's legs, that I realized Pedro had released one of the most toxic blasts of flatulence to be unleashed by a living creature since brontosaurus walked the earth.
It was a horrifying odor, like something long since dead had decided to issue forth one last gasp of decaying smell. And there I was, trapped, my nose mere inches from the sphincter from whence that foul air had escaped.
And Pedro just laughed. He laughed, and continued to apply pressure to the triangle technique, drawing my head even closer to that stinking Sarlacc pit of his.
And then, mercifully, Pedro relinquished his hold on me, and I scuttered away to a safe distance, where I gulped down as much clean air as my lungs would allow.
And Pedro just continued to laugh.
So, I guess my point -- not that I really have one -- is, DON'T VOTE FOR PEDRO. Vote for Summer.
October 20, 2005
Is it sad. . .
. . . that cartoons like this make me literally laugh out loud?
Via.
UPDATE: Thanks to visitor Ernst Stavro Blofeld, I was steered to the true source of the comic featured above which, if you can believe it, is called The Perry Bible Fellowship. There are some hit and miss cartoons there, but there are also gems like:
Go on and peruse the others, and maybe you'll find a few that make you laugh, like this one:
October 19, 2005
Pondering the Powerball
Last night, I almost won $340 million. OK, I didn't come close. But, a man can dream, can't he?
I'm usually oblivious to the Powerball lottery, mainly because I'm smart enough to know that I have a snowball's chance in hell of actually winning. Come to think of it, how would one manage to transport a snowball to hell? What unlucky courier was tasked with delivering a mass of compressed frozen water to the underworld of the damned just to verify the accuracy of that cliché? I'm betting it was a UPS guy. Poor fellow; those trucks don't even have doors to shield out the heat. He must have been sweltering. . . and scared out of his mind.
Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. . . Powerball. As I said, I typically don't pay much attention to the lottery, because I understand that the odds are entirely stacked against me. As far as likelihoods go, there's a better chance that I'll discover oil, gold and a mummified Egyptian pharaoh by digging in my basement than winning the Powerball. So, I don't participate in the lottery all that often, because I'm obviously too busy digging in my basement for that elusive mummy.
But, when I'm driving home after work, and I see one of those Powerball billboards proclaiming that the winnings have ticked up to $340 million, well, my usual inner rational Scrooge becomes a sudden spend-head who says "Oh, what the heck. It only costs a dollar. In fact, buy five; improved odds!"
Of course, I wouldn't have actually won $340 million. The actual estimated cash value after Uncle Sam steps in to collect the "You're-Too-Lucky Tax" was about $164.4 million, which is still a respectable sum that could buy a few trinkets here and there.
I'm not totally naïve. Becoming a $164.4 millionaire over night would completely change me. I readily admit that. I'm not strong enough to say "I'm just a simple Minnesota boy who would never change." Of COURSE I'd change. Man would I change. I'd even stop buying Levi's jeans and upgrade to those Guess jeans that, for no particular good reason I could fathom, were so popular in the late 80s and early 90s. I'd also have all my teeth replaced with diamonds because then, man, I could chew anything, and I'd have the most sparkly smile in the world.
But, I'm getting ahead of myself here. I have to actually win the Powerball first, and I already touched on the snowball in hell aspect of those odds. But, let's say I actually did win. I've pondered what it would be like, to suddenly be standing in my living room, having just realized I hold a ticket worth millions and millions of dollars. There are not enough psychiatrists in the world to talk me down from the sheer paranoia I'd feel at that exact moment.
I once thought I had won $10,000 on a scratch-off lottery card and, man oh man, was my mind racing, creating all sorts of scenarios of how best to get that card to the lottery office in the Twin Cities. I was all set to take off work the next day and stay at a hotel that night. My hands were shaking, and there was a slight ringing sound in my ears. Ten minutes later, I realized I had only won $10, and the letdown, shall we say, was considerable.
And that was only for $10,000! Imagine my bowel-loosening paranoia if I actually won the Powerball! You couldn't pry that ticket out of my hands with a team of horses. It could very well be that I'm not genetically prepared for dealing with sudden, obscene wealth. I'd certainly like to test that hypothesis, of course.
But, anyway, I didn't win. Some person in Oregon did, and that person is no doubt right about now making a dental appointment to have diamond teeth put in, that lucky jerk.
Or, at least they should be making that appointment because, man, then they could chew ANYTHING.
October 18, 2005
Nonsense
Caroline says: There's a nerve or something just a-twitchin' away in my back.
Caroline says: Feels kind of funny.
Ryan says: Is that a country western song?
Caroline says: No, but it should be.
Ryan says:
There's a nerve or something just a-twitchin' away in my back.
And the guv-mint's getting ready to send me to Iraq.
My girlfriend has left me for my best friend's cousin, Joe.
And my dog ran off, where he is, I really do not know.
Ryan says: My talents are wasted at this job. WASTED I tell you.
Caroline says: Mmm, I love guvmints.
Caroline says: I'm WASTED at this job, WASTED I tell you.
Ryan says: Guvmints are bureaucratic-tacular!
Caroline says: Tasty too
October 17, 2005
October 16, 2005
It's Sunday, And Nick Coleman's Still An Idiot
As columnists go, you'd be hard-pressed to find any more moronic than Nick Coleman. This is a fairly well-established fact. But, sometimes, Coleman will write something so completely stupid, it even prompts me, the laziest weekend blogger in all of Blogger-ville, to rumble forth and fisk the man's complete idiocy on a SUNDAY.
A recent letter to the editor suggested that the Minnesota Vikings are cursed. Here's what is amazing: The letter was published before the Vikings plundered Lake Minnetonka.
Unless you've been living under a rock, on Pluto, wearing ear-muffs, you'll know that the Lake Minnetonka line is a reference to the now-infamous "Vikings Sex Cruise," which, though hilarious, has cast a dark pall over the Vikings' franchise, at least for those people who actually give a shit. Nick Coleman is one such person, and he believes the Vikings team should be disbanded, individuals flogged and clamped in irons in the public square.
Reader K. John Bradley traced the team's troubles to the day that Coach Mike Tice gave a Vikings jersey to George W. Bush during a 2004 campaign rally at Target Center that included a stirring attempt to make the knuckleheads of Minnesota throw off their liberal chains and put on bow-ties.
Nick Coleman does this sometimes. Okay, Nick Coleman does this ALL THE TIME. What the hell does being a conservative have to do with wearing bow-ties? Is the bow-tie now the replacement of the previous incarnation of all things evil and conservative: the fat cat?
At least Coleman admits that the state of Minnesota is awash in liberal ideology, to such an extent that we have such an inviting welfare system in place, people swarm in from Chicago and other locales to take advantage of low-income housing and other such pat-the-poor perks. Result? *gasp* A growing poor class in Minnesota, complete with all the crime and societal morass that that entails! We're not necesarilly helping the poor, but we sure make it a lot easier to BE poor. Well done, liberal Minnesota!
I wrote about this ill-fated mingling of politics and pigskin back then because it backfired: Minnesota voted Democratic by more than it had in 2000, and even Edina went blue.
Even Edina went blue! Oh, heavenly stars! EDINA! That crown jewel of. . . wait a minute. . . what the fuck? Who cares about Edina? More importantly, if I go back and check my calendar, I see that Bush still won re-election. If that's the result of an ill-fated mingling, I'll take mine with cherries on top.
I didn't blame Tice. The Vikings always welcome visitors heartily, be they presidents or exotic dancers. Nor did I blame Bush. He was just being a good sport, and the Vikings' troubles began way before he took the purple.
Oookayyy, so that pretty much negates everything that comes after that paragraph, but that doesn't stop Nick Coleman. No, Nick Coleman loves to set the bar nice and high so he can clothesline himself when he runs smack dab into it.
But we have had nothing but trouble ever since.
Yeah, they're the VIKINGS. We're talking about a team that trades Randy Freakin' Moss because he's a PR pain in the butt, but then the rest of the team goes and does something that makes Moss seem like an alter boy. We're used to this kind of thing with the Vikings.
Looking back, it would've been better for us if Tice just jimmied open an Egyptian crypt and pried a golden asp from a mummy's cold, dusty hands.
Did I mention that Bush won re-election?
Bush got his Vikings jersey on the eve of All Hallow's Eve (Oct. 30, 2004), a time of year when the ancient Celts believed spirits could slip through a crack in the universe and cause havoc on Earth.
You'd think a man like Nick Coleman, who is so adept at impromptu history lessons via Google, could go back just one year (just a few days after Oct. 30, 2004, in fact), and see that BUSH WON RE-ELECTION! Oh, the horrible, HORRIBLE curse!
Something sure spooked the Vikings: They have won only five times since that day - once this year and four times last season, including a wild-card playoff win over Green Bay before bowing out to Philadelphia.
Yeah, dammit! If Tice hadn't handed out that small-pox infested jersey, the Vikings SURELY would have won the Super Bowl!
The team is 5-11 since the Curse, a pitiful victory ratio of 31 percent.
Yeah, they're the VIKINGS! Without Randy Moss, our biggest threat and brightest (albeit pain in the ass) star. And Nick Coleman, moron that he is, was one of those insisting Moss should go.
But don't waste your worries on football. Bush didn't curse the Vikings. It could be the other way around: After all, a 31 percent success ratio is where Bush's ratings seem headed.
Which would maybe matter a little more, you know, if Bush were seeking re-election. But, as I think I may have pointed out here, BUSH WON RE-ELECTION, even after the "Curse."
What if there is a creepy connection between that Vikings jersey and Bush's misfortunes? What if it is a Vikings curse that has led to Bush's problems with Katrina, Iraq, earthquakes, Karl Rove and gas prices?
Wow. Just. . . wow. Let's see, Katrina is proving, more and more, to be a major case of media exaggeration. Iraq just voted on a referendum for its new constitution, with only extremely limited and basically unsuccessful violence. The recent earthquakes, as far as I know, didn't hit anywhere near the United States, and hasn't had much in the way of any political repercussions for the Bush administration. Karl Rove hasn't been indicted on ANYTHING, despite a rush to judgement by most of the media. And, just yesterday, I fueled up my car, and the price of gas was almost .50 cents less than it was a month and a half ago. Some fucking "Curse."
Maybe a Vikings jersey is the modern equivalent of a gnarled old monkey paw, a token of malevolence that brings only grief to its owner.
Maybe having Nick Coleman on your newspaper staff is the modern equivalent of having a three-year-old writing for you, a token buffoon who achieved his place in journalism largely through nepotism by marriage.
All I know is there sure seems to be something to this curse thing, and it seems to go the opposite way than our reader suggested.
Finally, a little honesty from Nick Coleman. He actually admits that that's all he knows. Granted, all he knows is entirely incorrect and stupid, but at least he's admitting that it's all he knows. Also, he seems to be suggesting that the Strib only has one reader, which may be entirely correct.
I don't even want to mention what happened in St. Paul when the mayor over there played footsie with the same dark forces.
Ah, so, the Bush Administration = dark forces. Duly noted oh unbiased one, thou non-monkey boy. Oh, hey, did I mention that Nick Coleman's brother, Chris Coleman, is running for St. Paul mayor? Did I mention that he's a Democrat?
Even the media have been off their game.
Yeah, for about 20+ years now. And, as long as Coleman is within their ranks, the media will continue to be off their game.
When Vikings quarterback Daunte Culpepper was irritated by questions about the boat cruise, he walked out of a news conference, snarling that he would only talk about today's game with the Chicago Bears.
Yeah, I know when people ask me about my past sexual endeavors, I just stand my ground and answer truthfully and honestly, with nary a hint of embarrassment or indignation.
Beyonce Knowles. Elisha Cuthbert . Mandy Moore topless. Kelly Clarkson. Rachel Hunter. Topless. Ann Coulter. Carmen Electra. Tina Fey. Jaslene. Jordin Sparks. Jenny McCarthy. Beyonce Knowles. Beyonce Knowles. Elisha Cuthbert . Mandy Moore topless. Kelly Clarkson. Rachel Hunter. Ahmo Hight. Ann Coulter. Carmen Electra. Tina Fey. Jaslene. Jordin Sparks. Jenny McCarthy. Beyonce Knowles. Beyonce Knowles. Elisha Cuthbert . Mandy Moore topless. Kelly Clarkson.
Not one of our local flowers of journalism had the wits to shout back:
OK, Culpepper: If the Bears took a boat cruise, do you think they'd make the crew want to jump overboard?
Yeah, that's what the reporters should have asked! Additionally, they should have asked similar dumbassed Nick Coleman-esque probing questions. Like, "OK, Culpepper, boxers or briefs?" "Okay, Culpepepper, is your pee pee hard right now?"
By the way, if Coleman is so incensed by the inaction of the local flowers of journalism, why didn't he attend the press conference and offer up his own Nick Coleman-inspired questions? If he's so mad that local journalists dropped the ball when it came to questioning Culpepper, what does it say about local flower Coleman THAT HE WASN'T EVEN THERE?
But don't cry for the Vikings. We have much bigger problems. Our purple curse has touched the president.
Oh, that's right. This column was about the President. Or was it about the Vikings? Or was it about bad local journalism? Or was it about Halloween? Or was it about a cursed jersey? Who fucking knows?! It's a Nick Coleman column. Like Seinfeld, it's about nothing. Only, unlike Seinfeld, it's not even remotely funny.
So Mr. President, please listen to Minnesota. We didn't vote for you, but we are pulling for you. And we beg you now: Burn your Vikings jersey!
Uh. . . huh. So, Coleman's pulling for the President, eh? Bullshit! *cough, cough* Bullshit! And, no, Minnesota didn't vote for Bush, but unless you didn't hear, BUSH STILL WON RE-ELECTION.
We already have disposed of ours.
Actually, I've been watching the game, and the Vikes are losing 14 - 3. And I'll be a love-hate Vikings fan no matter how many sex cruises they go on. Hey, they're the VIKINGS! This is the kind of season and scandal we've grown to know and love about them.
October 13, 2005
Inevitable Irony
Apparently, the bird flu has been detected in Turkey.
Which is sobering, but also deliciously full of word-based irony. I mean, if there's one place you'd expect there to be a bird flu, it would be a country named Turkey.
Katrina and the Media
Up to 10,000 dead in New Orleans!!
Okay, Katrina">less than 2,000 throughout the coastal states.
Murder, rape, anarchy rampant in the Superdome!
Okay, mostly rumor. Six died.
New Orleans water is a soupy, toxic mix that will kill you if you look at it funny!
Okay, that may be a Katrina tad of an exaggeration.
I expect to see more of this downgrading in the coming weeks and months.
Don't get me wrong, Katrina was a disaster that wrought devastation along the Gulf Coast (it was a hurricane. . . HELLOOOO!), but I really have to wonder how much of a role the media played in making it sound like far more of a hell hole than it actually is turning out to be, and is hence responsible for a lot of the early hysteria.
October 12, 2005
Maybe Some Potty Talk Is What I Need
So, I just took a gi-normous poop. It was one of those bowel creations that can actually fill one with pride. It was so massive, in fact, that I carefully dropped the toilet paper around the specimen so that, when I stood up and turned around, I could inspect my work in its entirety, unimpeded by any visual distractions like toilet paper. It was truly gargantuan. I felt almost guilty about flushing it. Seemed like such a waste.
But, that's not the point of this post.
When I finally acquiesced to the pressing release needs of my digestive tract, I already really had to go. So it was a little bit irritating when I arrived at the bathroom, only to find both stalls already occupied. The only other bathroom on this floor is on the other end of the building, which, if you know the IBM Rochester facility, you know it's a good distance to hoof it. But, I really had to go, so. . .
About halfway there, I started wondering if I was going to make it. I even had to adjust my walking style to ensure no fecal escapees would attempt to jump the rectal fence. And I really started to worry that, upon arriving at the alternative bathroom, the stalls would be occupied. THEN what would I do? I mean, things were getting pretty dire.
And it occurred to me, as I entertained thoughts of possibly having to crap in a urinal, that human beings are the only animals on earth that actually have this problem. I mean animals, by and large, basically shit when and where they want. If you've ever passed a group of cows in the countryside, you'll see about 1/10 of them either pissing a stream or releasing large, ploppy masses on the ground, totally at ease with their public excretions. Now THAT'S freedom.
Now, I'm not advocating some sort of excremental anarchy for the human race. Of course not. That would be gross. The current system, as it stands, is both wise in terms of sanitation and societal acceptance. Still, it seems a touch unfair that we humans have set such restrictions on ourselves. Just minutes ago, I was in considerable discomfort, simply because we humans have dictated that there's a time and a place for expelling bodily waste, and those places sometimes exist entirely too far apart, particularly when the need for release is greatest.
I guess it just would have been nice if, during our evolution and rise to civilization, we humans had experimented with other options for bodily waste disposal.
I mean, consider our nearest genetic cousins, the primates. They share about 98.5 percent of our genetic make-up, yet monkeys are free to do simply fantastic things with their excrement. Visit any monkey exhibit in a zoo and, in addition to fornication that would make Hugh Hefner blush, they also fling poo with near reckless abandon. What is it about that 1.5 percent genetic differential that makes us so particular about where we deposit our waste?
Back in 1994, during a visit to the Ueno Zoo in Tokyo, my family and I were standing behind a large glass observation window overlooking the gorilla pen. Magnificent beasts, gorillas. Large and intimidating, with thoughtful-looking eyes. And a near-Freudian fascination with their own feces.
In just the 10 minutes of us standing there watching them, we saw gorillas pick deeply into their own anuses, roll little balls of poop in their hands and throw said balls at one another in what I could only surmise was a primitive form of balloon fight.
And then the gorilla handlers released the feared alpha-male, silver back gorilla into the pen, sending the lesser gorillas scattering and abandoning their poopy balloon war. The big silver back stood there proudly, alone in front of the admiring human throng behind the glass shield. He cut quite a fiercesome figure there in the gorilla pen. He was the master!
And to apparently prove his point, that proud, powerful silver back gorilla. . . cupped his right hand below his butthole, and proceeded to crap a very flourescent green soft serve into his awaiting mitt. Which he then placed, quite unhesitantly, into his own mouth.
There are some sounds that stick with you all your life and, let me tell you, the sound of over thirty Japanese onlookers groaning in disgust, with the audible retching of your brother mixed in for good measure, is one such sound.
For his part, the mighty silver back seemed quite pleased by the crowd reaction, and he continued to squish his own feces in his mouth for many more seconds, before I, too, turned away from the disgusting spectacle. To this day, I'm not sure whether that gorilla swallowed his poop or not, but I tend to suspect that he did.
Which, you know, GOOD FOR HIM! That gorilla was an innovator! A trailblazer for his kind! Several hundred genetic mutations from now, he and his ilk will inherit the earth, what with their larger brains and their ability to continually eat and recycle their own poop. Costly water treatment facilities will be an unheard of concept for gorilla sapiens, and all will have more than enough to eat. Hunger will be as alien to them as diapers and toilets.
And all because one brave silver back gorilla in a Tokyo zoo said "I'm going to try this," and ate his own green poop. Would that we humans had tried something like that during our own early development, we never would have had to worry about losing out to the gorilla sapiens 4 million years from now.
Overload
One of the numerous disadvantages of having a desk job--in addition to the lack of exercise and mind-numbing sensory deprivation of not having a window--is that you just get too caught up on current events.
You wouldn't think that's a bad thing, but it kind of is, because I find myself developing opinions on things that have practically no bearing whatsoever on my existence.
Why, for example, should I trouble myself and waste perfectly good neurons on anything remotely related to the daily goings-on of Britney Spears? Why would I care what Kanye West has to say about anything? So what if Katie Holmes is having Tom Cruise's child? And yet I find myself clicking on and reading such stories.
And then there's politics. If there's one thing that's become crystal clear to me over the past couple years, it's that politics have become almost a religion for a LOT of people. Mostly people who are online. And a LOT of those people take themselves entirely too seriously.
So it's been lately that I find myself at work, with about eight work-related programs running, from Word Pro, to Lotus Notes, to Adobe and several SameTime and MSN windows, and about three Internet Explorer windows open to varying pages ranging from popular nonsense like TomKat to MSNBC.com news, to political pages like Instapundit and Daily Kos and the infinite flame wars on Fark.com.
And, the thing I'm finding is, I'm not sure all this electronic information flow is all that good for me. I almost feel unhealthy at the end of any given work day. Granted, part of that is the sedentary lifestyle of the office workplace, even though I sneak a few sets of push-ups when I'm alone in my office.
It's just too much, quite frankly. And I find that it's not simply a matter of "not tuning in," because the temptation of having the world of information at my fingertips is just too great, and if I didn't have it I imagine work would be that much more unbearable.
Still, at the end of the day, I have about eight million things going through my head, none of which is all that useful. None of which give me the skills I need to remodel my basement, or re-grout the soap dish I accidently yanked out of the bathroom wall last week. In other words, despite all this information I'm privvy to, I don't think I'm becoming all that much better of a person. I'm just kind of sitting here, wasting away, absorbing gobs of online information that, when I boil it down, is basically just garbage to me, personally.
I sometimes find myself driving home after work, and I'll see construction crews working on the highway project through town, and I'll think "you know, that really doesn't look all that bad." At least they're outside. At least they're doing work that seems more tangible than most of the stuff I do. At least their thoughts are probably more focused on their own lives, rather than on Karl Rove's role in the Valerie Plame "scandal," or whether Jessica Simpson is back on the market.
Sometimes, I think my mind really starts screaming at me that I need some kind of change. A new job? A new hobby? Less Internet? I don't know. But, SOMETHING has to change. I don't know how to describe exactly how I feel. Overloaded? Broken?
Something along those lines.
October 10, 2005
Best. Work. E-mail. EVER.
So, I just received this e-mail from the main guy at the company I work for. Keep in mind, I work offsite from MSP Communications, down in IBM Rochester, so I'm not the culprit.
Will the individual reading New York magazine in the men's bathroom please return and clean up after yourself?
Thank you!
G
October 09, 2005
Leaves Are Leaving
It's fall, or autumn or, as they call it in Hawaii, "sunny, with a chance of rain."
Yes, it's that time of the year, once again, when we Minnesotans must steel ourselves for the coming onslaught of winter. Before the first frozen flakes of snow descend and begin to blanket our fair state, we have to address an annual inconvenience that affects almost all of us.
I refer, of course, to leaves. Oh, sure, in April, we simply can't wait for those tentative tree buds to soak in the requisite amount of sun-given heat for them to burst forth in a green celebration of spring. We thirst for that moment of nascent greenery.
Come June, however, we've already become indifferent to the leaves we so yearned for just a scant couple months earlier. Yeah, they're green. Yeah, they're everywhere. Yeah, they're better than snow and ice. Booorring!
By August, leaves just seem like they'll always be there. Plus, it's swelteringly hot out, so we spend most of our time indoors, bathed in air conditioned splendor. We no longer go out and visit the leaves. We don't even call. This makes the leaves sad.
After one final grace month of September, the leaves, now deeply depressed by our lack of attention, and determined to wow us one last time, start to change color. Suddenly, we all remember the leaves again. We marvel at the majesty of their newfound hues. No longer simply green, they blaze forth in bright yellow, orange and red. And we also realize that the leaves are planning on leaving us, like they're going off to college down south somewhere.
And boy do they leave us. They plummet to the ground practically over night. It's like they all get together, plan a date and time, and on the prescribed date, they hold hands and just jump. And you walk out of your house the next morning, and you think "awwww, NUTS!"
I hate raking leaves. As household chores go, raking leaves ranks just above cleaning the litter box with my tongue, and just below cleaning the toilet with my tongue. Not that I actually do either of those things, but if I did, raking leaves would fall between those two distasteful imaginary chores.
Last year, on the weekend when I finally got around to raking my lawn, it was roughly 40 degrees out, and we had just experienced a fairly large rain. For those of you who don't know leaf math, wet leaves have about three times the mass of dry, crunchy leaves. Plus, I had to scoot along my rooftop, cleaning the gutters of over seven months of icky detritus, 70 percent of which consisted of new species of life, 100 percent of which felt suspiciously like phlegm.
When the last leaf was raked, I had 16 huge lawn garbage bags packed to their tops with leaves, and I STILL had to transport those bags to the dump. And, I'm here to tell you, 16 lawn garbage bags stuffed with we leaves looks NOTHING like the much-welcomed leaves of April and May.
Of course, come January, I'll be looking out the windows at the frozen earth, wishing for all the world that there are leaves on the trees. And, come April, the cycle will begin all over again.
We Minnesotans are kind of dumb that way.
October 07, 2005
Argh! That *Effen* Nick Coleman
There is a saying that people who live in glass houses should not throw stones. So, considering that Nick Colemen, through dozens if not hundreds of crappy, brain fart columns, has proven that he not only lives in a glass house with eggshell windows, he probably has no business throwing stones and crowing in his Mrs. Doubtfire "Heloooooo!" way when Minnesota Governor Pawlenty (a Republican, naturally) accidently lets an expletive fly.
But, not only does Coleman throw stones, he devotes an ENTIRE COLUMN TO IT.
Gov. Tim Pawlenty was just supposed to drop the puck, but he dropped something else at Wednesday night's return of professional hockey to the Xcel Energy Center in St. Paul:
The effenheimer.
Oh no! Won't somebody think of the children?!! Burn him! Burn the governor!
The governor and First Lady Mary Pawlenty were in the crow's nest, high above the crowd of 19,000 fans ready to celebrate the resumption of hockey after a year's hiatus. His task was to intone the Minnesota Mantra that has been said before every Wild game since the team had its first regular season game on Oct. 11, 2000:
"Let's plaaay hockey!"
Quick, pick out the sentence rragment that drips with typical Coleman disdain. high above the crowd of 19,000 fans
Why, that uppity Pawlenty, thinking he's so much better than the fans. He's practically Caligula up there, sitting on high. He'll probably decree a rash of random beheadings between periods.
But the governor tripped on his tongue. TV reports had to bleep Pawlenty when he led up to the Minnesota Mantra with an introductory line: "The time has come to drop the puck."
Pawlenty bungled it:
"The time has come to drop the (bleep)puck," he said, with "bleep" used here in place of a word that rhymes with duck but which wasn't puck.
It RHYMES with duck, people! *hint, hint* It also rhymes with truck, and pluck, and muck and schmuck, as in: "I'd like to pluck myself a truck, and drive that Coleman schmuck into the muck."
Remember now, this is the same Nick Coleman who proclaimed that he knew, with absolute certainty (he said it was "unmistakable), that George W. Bush flipped off reporters, despite nearly exhaustive evidence that Bush was, in fact, giving a thumbs up.
Given Coleman's history of seeing fingers where they don't exist, it's reasonable to assume that he hears words where they don't exist. For example, I think it's entirely likely that Pawlenty had a stumbled tongue moment wherein he briefly choked on the word puck, said fuck, and then corrected himself by saying puck. But, what does old wolf-eared Coleman hear? "fucking puck." Whatever inspires a column out of the old boy, I guess.
You can take the boy out of South St. Paul, but you can't take South St. Paul out of the boy.
Ooh, it's a class column! And we all know how drippingly empathetic Coleman is when it comes to those with roots in the lower classes.
Pawlenty is the son of a truck driver from the earthy slaughterhouse culture down Hook 'Em Cow Way, as they used to call South St. Paul, where "Bleep you" is a term of endearment.
Now, if Pawlenty were, say, CURRENTLY a truck driver from the earthy slaughterhouse culture down Hook 'Em Cow Way,' I'm sure Coleman would devote a column to this middle-aged salt of the earth, trying to scrape his way through existence, being kept down by the man. I'm sure Coleman would write something along the lines of: "This Pawlenty chap, his faced lined with the concerns of making it through every day life, proudly spews expletives like a Greek orator. It's inspiring in a way, like he's talking back sourly at the society conspiring to keep him down."
But, because Pawlenty is Minnesota's governor, what do we get?
He also is a born-again Christian and smooth-talking politician, a guy who plays nice in a suit but hard-nosed on the ice. A guy who can sweet-talk you into a budget deal or run you into the end boards.
A guy who can convince you to buy a bullet and then shoot you with it. A guy who'll screw your wife, and convince you the kid is yours. A guy who shakes hands with God, while giving Satan a reach-around. Man, I could do this all day!
It can't be easy to reconcile all those pieces, the high sticking with the backslapping. Something has to give. Wednesday, it was the mouth.
Yeah, all those years of political chess-playing. All those years of making political connnections and running compaigns. It all came to a stressful head during an unfortunate hockey night. "Behold the beating of the hideous heart!"
Oh, time for a patented Nick Coleman history lesson, by the way.
The Minnesota Mantra -- Let's plaaay hockey! -- was coined by Bob Utecht, the rinkside announcer for the North Stars club during the first 14 years of that since-departed franchise. One night, Utecht had an inspiration and spoke to the ref just before game time. "Don't drop the puck until I say something," Utecht told the ref.
By the way, I'm sure you've noticed, all the way into this column so far, that there is nothing, NOTHING, even resembling a point. Nada. Zilch. Zip. Zero.
Voila!, as they say in Quebec when they aren't swearing a blue streak in French: "Let's Plaaay Hockey!" was said at the start of every North Stars game until Utecht and the franchise parted company and Bob refused to let the team keep it up. Years later, Utecht revived the Mantra when the Wild first took the ice in 2000, getting the honor, at age 80, of bestowing his phrase on our new team.
Zzzzzzzzzz. . . hmm? Wha? Zappening? He's still doing history?
It's corny, and it's us.
But maybe Gov. Effinator has stumbled upon something besides his tongue. Maybe the Mantra needs a modern edge, a profanity update to give it some bleeping muscle.
You can just about imagine Coleman, chortling away at his Star-Tribune desk, a jiggly hula girl dancing on his monitor (covered conservatively in construction paper, so you don't see her *gasp* legs), really thinking his column was going to be a major political blow to the governor. "I'm gonna get you this time, evil governor!"
Just to prepare you, Coleman's about to dabble in what he thinks is humor. Ready? *deep breath*
Instead of "Lets's plaaay hockey!" How about if we just say:
"Drop the freaking puck!"
ROTFLMAO!
So let's cut Pawlenty some slack. I never trust a governor who doesn't cuss.
So, what's the fucking point of your fucking stupid fucking column! You fucking dumbass!
Besides, it was refreshing: It was the first thing Pawlenty has said that might make Phyllis Schlafly red in the face, even if it was just a tongue malfunction.
It's like two completely different columns crumpled clumsily into one. The first part is dedicated to making Pawlenty into a jerk who has swearing engrained in his dark, fork-tongued soul. The second part is dedicated to saying "Oh, that Pawlenty! I wouldn't trust him if he DIDN'T swear. I don't know what I'm talking about! I'm OLD!"
"I realized that as I was starting to say 'puck,' other sounds were coming out of my mouth," an abashed governor told reporters Thursday. "It was an unfortunate slip of the tongue. ... It just came out wrong. I apologize for that."
Wow, a politician who slipped up and apologized. Sounds pretty cool to me.
Let's not make a bleeping mountain out of @###!! molehill.
Or, for that matter, dedicate an entire @###!! column to it.
Hockey and the F-bomb always have gone together in hotbeds of the game, and I have heard many a puckster swear like a meat packer with a dull cleaver and a shaky hand.
That, ladies and gentleman, goes into the Nick Coleman analogy/metaphor/simile hall of fame, along with his all time one liner about Ann Coulter: What have we learned, class, about free speech after listening to Coulter call Democrats traitors to the country, threaten to give a Muslim student's name to homeland security and toss insults faster than a kid with a Dixie cup full of fish parts can toss herrings at a seal exhibit?
Pawlenty's locker-room language rang true to fans who went without hockey for a year because of a stupid standoff between players and owners.
Ohhhhhh, so it's a column about last year's hockey standoff! Now he's found his point. Just in time for his last fucking paragraph!
You're damn straight it's time to drop the bleeping puck, governor. Jacques Lemaire couldn't have said it better.
Or taken as fucking long as Nick Coleman to say it.
BY THE WAY: Yes, overall, I realize Nick was kinda, sorta, in a roundabout way, being nice to Pawlenty. But, given his past diatribes against the governor, I'm pretty sure he did so grudgingly, at best.
By the way. . .
I routinely find myself arguing with people at the Rochester Post-Bulletin's blog, Furst Draft.
If you're interested, you can take part in the debate unfolding right now over running anti-war and pro-war advertisements in a newspaper.
October 04, 2005
Mangled Lyrics
Ryan says: I was just reading an article about Gwen Stefani's "Hollaback Girl."
Ryan says: "The first thing you should know, though, is that Gwen is not singing 'I aint no Harlem fat girl,' at least, we dont think she is."
Ryan says: That's EXACTLY how I sing along with it every time it comes on and I'm in my car.
Caroline says: well you're not alone
Ryan says: I thought I was the only one with that piercing lyrical insight.
Caroline says: It's kind of like CCR's "Bad Moon Rising." How many people sing "there's a bathroom on the right."
Ryan says: Or Steve Miller Band "Bingo, Jed Had A Light On."
Caroline says: huh?
Ryan says: It's "Big Old Jet Airliner," but I was in a bar back in college and some guy was singing it as "Bingo, Jed Had A Light On."
October 03, 2005
Bullet Shortage
Ryan says: Headline on MSNBC.com: "Palestinian cops fire into air to protest lack of bullets."
Ryan says: Kind of defeats the purpose, doesn't it?
Caroline says: a touch
Ryan says: "We're running out of bullets!" *rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a* "Now we're really running out!" *rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a* "Holy hell, we're really running out now!" *rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a* "We're almost out!" *rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a* "I'm down to my last round!"
October 3rd, and 80+ degrees
It's warm today. Very warm. Like, cook-bacon-on-the-sidewalk-warm. It's an extension of the weekend weather, really, where temps were in the 70s+.
And boy howdy are the bugs enjoying the extended summer. The Japanese beetles, of course, are out in force, although not nearly as thick as they were during last year's Indian summer. There are a lot of them, to be sure, but not the thick, choking hordes we've endured over the past few years.
This year, it's apparently the Box Elder bugs' time to shine. Good God there were a lot of them on the side of my house Saturday afternoon. I mean, there were literally hundreds of the creepy crawlies.
They don't bother me. Mind you, I don't necessarily LIKE them, but they don't unnerve me or anything. Melissa, on the other hand, reacts as if they're the spawn of Satan. I like to tell her there's a bunch of them in her hair, and just sit back and watch the show.
Yeah, I'm an ass like that.
Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker. Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker. Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker.
October 01, 2005
Hippie
Sorry for the light posting. My Dad had hip replacement surgery yesterday, which was kind of a sudden procedure, seeing as how just one month ago he was pretty much just fine. I guess this stuff hits like a sudden shit sometimes.
Both my folks are back from Tokyo now, and Dad was about as out-of-it as you can imagine after invasive surgery. Helpless, too. Never saw him like that. Fed him ice on a plastic straw. Love him enough to do that for the next 40 years, if he decides to live to 105.
Being human and fragile sucks.
Bias?
I don't know if this shows bias, so much as a photojournalist trying to get THE interesting photo, but it sure is misleading, and it certainly doesn't convey the whole truth.
Overall, I think most rallies and marches nowadays are more theater than is probably healthy for whatever cause is supposedly being advocated, with too many competing idealogies vying for attention.
