Rambling Rhodes

Credit Card Thoughts and Office Drilling

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.

Drilling

I came into work this morning, and I could have sworn on my grandma's panties that my office was having invisible drilling work being conducted on it. An omnipresent buzzing sound was echoing all around. I walked around the building to try and find the source of this distracting noise, including going upstairs to investigate. I found nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Around 11 a.m., the noise stopped. BUT IT'S BACK! AND I CAN'T CONCENTRATE! AND I JUST HAD THIS CONVERSATION WITH MY BOSS VIA MSN!

Doug says: What really happens in bldg. 107, I wonder... God I hate it here.

Ryan says: It really has been the most distracting, annoying place we've been plopped.

Ryan says: Plus, I had two years upstairs with the ITSO to add to my resentment.

Ryan says: Decent parking though, so there's that.

Doug says: Sure. Hell sandwiched between good parking.

Ryan says: What a great slogan. IBM: Hell Sandwiched Between Good Parking.

Ryan says: Make the drilling stop, Caroline. Please.

Caroline says: I wish I could. I just walked down the hall and I can't figure out where the noise is coming from. It sounds louder across the way, in the E hallway

Ryan says: Really?

Caroline says: It did to me, anyway.

Ryan says: It's very loud in my office. Like, distractingly so.

Ryan says: Keeping in mind, of course, that I'm easily distra. . . Hey, a penny!

I used to like her, but. . .

Gwen Stefani is now officially annoying the hell out of me right now. I mean, please, world, there are other musical artists out there you know.

Did I mention that Rochester radio stations suck the big one?

But, Gwen Stefani is all right to look at. Gwen Stefani. Gwen Stefani. Gwen Stefani. Gwen Stefani. Gwen Stefani. Gwen Stefani. Gwen Stefani.

Winning An Election

It was because he "had a plan."

Important News You May Have Missed

In today's mad, 24/7 news cycle, where you're subjected to news and commentary from every possible medium, including the schizophrenic on the bus wearing underwear on his head who is certain Richard Nixon was actually Elvis (their famous meeting was just a ruse), it's difficult to sift through it all and find the stories that really matter; the stories that make a difference.

Thankfully, being the journalistic paradigm of excellence I am, I take it upon myself to snatch important news items from the ether and bring them to your attention, complete with snarky commentary.

For example, if it wasn't for me, you may not know that recently a woman tried to open an airliner door in mid-flight so she could have a quick smoke.

According to a Nov. 21, Associated Press report out of Brisbane, Australia, "A French woman who is terrified of flying admitted in an Australian court Monday that she drunkenly tried to open an airplane door mid-flight to smoke a cigarette."

Now, fear of flying is a pretty widespread phenomenon, which even affects those of questionable intelligence, like John Madden. However, this woman has singlehandedly spawned a new and deep-seeded phobia within me: namely, a fear of flying with those afraid of flying.

"Defense lawyer Helen Shilton told the court Sellies was terrified of flying and had taken sleeping tablets with alcohol before takeoff."

I mean, seriously, the next time I'm on a plane, I won't be nervously looking for the next potential shoe bomber. No, I'll be scanning the passengers for those with a drowsy look to them and smelling of Jack Daniels. You never know when they'll whip out a Winston and start fumbling with a door.

In other booze news, we turn to a Nov. 22, Reuters news report out of Berlin, Germany, where we learn that "a German man drank too much, wet his bed and set fire to his apartment while trying to dry his bedding, police in the western town of Muelheim said Monday."

Sometimes, snarky commentary actually writes itself. I mean even I, the snarkiest snarker in all of snark-opolis can't improve on the paragraph that followed that stellar lead:

"'He was too drunk to go to the toilet,' said a police spokesman. 'The next morning he put a switched-on hairdryer on the bed to dry it and left the apartment.' When the 60-year-old returned, his home and belongings were in flames."

The good news? His bed was dry. Granted, it was reduced to a pile of blackened ash, but it was DRY blackened ash.

Finally, we turn to Florida, a state known for hurricanes and difficult voting ballots, and also a state where a naked man was accidently tasered in the genitals by a law enforcement officer.

According to a Yahoo.com/s/ap/20051122/ap_on_fe_st/naked_taser;_ylt=Ai87oicKdzJSmmFCEaWOVhXtiBIF;_ylu=X3oDMTA5aHJvMDdwBHNlYwN5bmNhdA--">Nov. 22 Associated Press report out of Ft. Myers Beach, Fla., "Police accidentally hit a naked man in the genitals with a Taser after he was caught breaking windows and asking women to touch him, authorities said."

Now, let's be honest, if you're running around naked, breaking windows and asking women to touch you, a timely genital tasering would probably do you a world of good. I'm not saying it should be a national policy or anything like that. I'm simply saying that it might provide the jolt you need to realize you're dabbling in some pretty offensive behavior.

In fact, I think genital tasering may be in order if you're trying to step out of an airliner in mid-flight for a smoke, or if you're trying to dry a urine-soaked mattress with a hair dryer.

Rome Season (Series?) Finale

Sadly, my most favorite series on television, HBO's "Rome," had its season finale last night, about the only television show my girlfriend and I have ever agreed on.

So, anyway, I realize that Caesar had to die. You can't rewrite history and all that. But why would ANYONE want to kill off Niobe? How could you possibly dispose of eye candy that looks like THIS? Sweet mother of pearl, what a travesty.

Shameless Plug

If you're in the Twin Cities/Rochester area, and you have the interior design eye of Oedipus after the realization he'd been doinking his own mother, and you kind of need a professional interior designer to assist you with anything from home layout to paint color consultations, I hereby suggest. . . Melissa Whited Interiors.

A Minnesota weather Report

There's something both exciting and foreboding about the first snowfall of the season.

On the one hand, everything's gray and dead and exhausted, and you're kind of craving a nice white blanket to erase all that gloom, like Mother Nature shaking an Etch-a-Sketch, only totally different.

On the other hand, you know that the first snowfall signifies the start of the tunnel, the long creeping crawl through the dark months of winter.

Onto this conflicting stage enters the Minnesota meteorologist, a person who believes it's their mission in life to make even the most mundane weather report sound like the impending invasion of Normandy.

Take this week, for example. It's cold right now. This cold snap hit suddenly, like a surprise bout of diarrhea. Just one week ago, we were flirting coyly with 60 degrees. Now, 50 of those degrees left the dance with that better-looking jock with the square jaw and rippling pectoral muscles.

Oh, and we also had our first snowfall.

Which, to hear the local meteorologists tell it in advance, you'd think we were about to experience Snowfall Katrina. What follows is a completely made-up report that accurately reflects the weather news broadcasts we were treated to this week.

NEWS ANCHOR: We turn now to our own meteorologist, Sam Snow. Sounds like we have a bit of cold weather coming in, Sam.

SAM SNOW: You have no idea! I was just at my computer, and the monitor actually cracked, CRACKED, when it simulated just how cold it's going to be in the coming days. The only other time I got results like that was when I was messing around with possible weather conditions on the planet Pluto. People, do NOT go outside unless you really have to. You WILL die! Instantly! If you absolutely have to leave the house, bring a bucket of lava with you to pour over your head. That should give you the precious extra seconds you need to make it to your car.

NEWS ANCHOR: And I understand we have some snow headed our way, as well.

SAM SNOW: Oh, jeez, I forgot about the snow. SNOW! Frozen water particulates sent forth by a vengeful God! We shall see snowfall in quantities not seen since the great glaciers shaped our land!

NEWS ANCHOR: And how much would that be?

SAM SNOW: Anywhere from three to six, or four to eight inches! That may not seem like a lot, but when you consider it takes earth's tectonic plates roughly a year to scrape along about one inch or so, you realize that, overnight, we could experience eight years of tectonic movement in snowfall.

NEWS ANCHOR: I'm afraid I don't understand.

SAM SNOW: Who can fully understand the weather we're about to experience?! Since the dawn of mankind, we've struggled to understand why weather acts the way it does, all culminating with this one final broadcast about the most dire winter storm ever to hit anywhere. I'm honored, frankly, to even have been a small part of it.

NEWS ANCHOR: What should people do to prepare, Sam?

SAM SNOW: Pray! Pray until your knees are scuffed and your palms are rough and calloused! And, as I said, don't go outside, for death surely awaits someone so foolish. Spend time with your loved ones, and ration your food, so hopefully you can make it through these next impossible days. If need be, you can even eat your loved ones.

END BROADCAST

Oh, and in closing, if you're an area resident, you know that we had about an inch of accumulation, which made local meteorologists seem kind of like silly hype-mongers.

Bleh

What can I say when I have nothing to say?

Really?

From the Minneapolis Star-Tribune's Letters-to-the-editor:

Undisputed facts

KEN LESSLEY, NEW HOPE

I could be wrong here, but I'm pretty sure the people who "hit us" on 9/11 didn't live much beyond .0001 seconds after they hit us. Airplane fuel burns pretty hot, from what I understand.

Overheard

Last night, I was in a local gas station, stocking up on Diet Pepsi, and while in line I listened to two young men talk about the current geo-political state of the world. They were basically in agreement with each other, and they seemed to feed off their own agreement, culminating in an exchange that stuck with me:

GUY 1: And really, 9/11 wasn't even that bad.

GUY 2: I know!

Now, I understand it's been about four years or so since that morning, but I remember it pretty vividly. In fact, it's probably one of the most vivid mornings I can recall. Ever.

So, I was standing there in line, thinking back to that morning, trying to imagine myself standing amongst a sea of IBM co-workers huddled around a television kiosk and saying something to the tune of "Well, you know, it's really not that bad."

I probably would have been punched in the stomach, and then the face.

Nowadays, there are some people who are apparently okay with what happened on 9/11. In fact, they think we should absorb even more going forward.

For some reason, I'm not even surprised.

Now for a list of celebrities in an attempt to boost traffic: Hilary Duff. Kiera Knightly. Amanda Bynes. Lindsay Lohan. Jessica Alba. Britney Spears. Kelly Clarkson. Christina Aguilera. Emma Watson. Ashley Tisdale. Amber Tamblyn. Kirsten Dunst. Kristy Lee Cook. Jessica Sierra. Eva Mendes. Hilary Duff. Kiera Knightly. Amanda Bynes. Lindsay Lohan. Jessica Alba. Britney Spears. Kelly Clarkson. Christina Aguilera. Emma Watson. Ashley Tisdale. Amber Tamblyn. Kirsten Dunst. Kristy Lee Cook. Jessica Sierra. Eva Mendes. Hilary Duff. Kiera Knightly. Amanda Bynes. Lindsay Lohan. Jessica Alba. Britney Spears. Kelly Clarkson. Christina Aguilera. Emma Watson. Ashley Tisdale. Amber Tamblyn. Kirsten Dunst. Kristy Lee Cook. Jessica Sierra. Eva Mendes. Hilary Duff. Kiera Knightly. Giorgia Palmas.

Crack of Dawn. Lousy Crack.

Caroline says: What's up, early riser?

Ryan says: Keer-riist.

Ryan says: Was here at 6:30 to prep.

Ryan says: Ended up saying one sentence during a 40 minute call about NOTHING!

Caroline says: That's usually how it goes.

Ryan says: I was hoping to get some potential content for March/April. Nothing.

Caroline says: BUmmer

Ryan says: Man, there were people from Germany and Italy and Australia on that call.

Ryan says: I think France, too.

Caroline says: bien

Ryan says: It was boredom and pointlessness on an international scale.

Caroline says: And you were part of it.

On a call, and not paying much attention

People often ask me:

"Ryan, you're a damned fine looking man."

I love that question.

Oh, yes, Tubby.

Too funny.

Via.

Biting my lip

Last night during jiu-jitsu, the instructor was demonstrating a technique on me, and accidently bumped my chin, resulting in one of my upper teeth sawing across my lower lip. It sliced, basically, my entire top layer of skin off my lower lip.

After class, I went to a Mexican restaurant with my girlfriend.

NOTE: Salsa absolutely BURNS an exposed, sliced lower lip.

Starting a Trend

I'm a fan of the HBO series "Rome" which, sadly, only has two episodes remaining.

In tribute to the terrific series, I'm going to start saying "Nay." In the series, characters say "nay" to basically augment a point. It's kind of like saying "Right" in modern times. So, instead of saying "Salma Hayek is one hot female, right?" I'm going to start saying "Salma Hayek is one hot female, nay?"

This is a good idea, nay?

Okay, fine, Kari Byron is one hot female. Kari Byron. Mmm, a Kari Byron. A Kari Byron would be fine.

Feeling Distressed

If there's one thing my girlfriend and I disagree on, it's everything. Therefore, decisions regarding house decorating and furnishing can be knock-down, drag-out affairs.

For example, she'll want a nice, comfortable couch in the living room, while I'll want a Lay-Z-Boy recliner with a built-in refridgerator and laptop computer, universal remote control and large treaded wheels for transporting me from the television to the bed. Those are our battle lines, and we defend them vigorously.

I kid. . . sort of. I generally don't care about a lot of furniture decisions she makes. So long as it's comfortable, or functional, and looks pretty good, she typically gets her way about 70 percent of the time.

Well, last week, she approached me in that coaxing, coercive way of hers' that just screams that she wants something. She then showed me a picture of a console table she fell in love with and just totally, totally, TOTALLY had to have.

I looked at the picture for a bit. It showed a white console table with a finished hardwood top. However, just as I about to admit that I had no problem with the table, I noticed something.

"Wait a minute," I said. "The paint's chipped all over that thing. It looks like it was dragged behind a car."

"No, it's supposed to look like that," she explained. "It's 'distressed.'"

I pondered this for a bit, wondering why a console table would be distressed--I mean besides the fact it had been sawed off at the trunk, been planed into boards and then tacked together to serve the human purpose of holding up candles and lamps. All that would be distressing, I suppose.

But, no, "distressed," as it applies to furniture means that the piece is lovingly crafted, carefully painted, and then attacked by a sander to give the furniture a worn, used look.

Now, maybe it's just me, but I like new furniture to look. . . well. . . NEW. I've had years and years of experience giving furniture a distressed look, and I'd like the opportunity to have at least a few months or so of enjoying a pristine piece of furniture before I put the first inevitable ding in the finish.

These were the battle lines we drew regarding the console table, and we both started piling sandbags up to protect our positions. She insisted that the distressed look was in, and I fired back with my .50 calibre "I Don't Care" sniper rifle.

There was no way I was going to start moving in furniture that basically came pre-damaged. Damaging furniture was MY job, and no one was going to deny me my responsibility.

"You don't have an eye for decorating like I do," she protested. "This will look great in here. People like the look of distressed furniture!"

"Hey, remember how I accidently ripped the soap dish off the bathroom wall?" I asked. "I was going to replace it, but I think I'll just say the bathroom simply has a distressed look to it. Duct tape and plastic are CHARMING!"

This line of argumentation went on for a couple days, not necessarily non-stop, but pretty close to that. I think I heard her making an argument for distressed furniture in her sleep, but she may have just been snoring, which would be about as convincing.

In the end, she finally understood that there was simply no wiggle room when it came to my complete distaste for distressed furniture, and she agreed, reluctantly as all hell, to look for an alternative console table.

All of which makes me simply dread purchasing an entertainment center.

It's all very distressing.

And now for some shameless name dropping in the hopes of boosting Web traffic: Alexis Bledel. Alexis Bledel. Alexis Bledel. Alexis Bledel. Alexis Bledel. Alexis Bledel. Alexis Bledel. Alexis Bledel.

Say Cheese-er-ARGH!

Taser to offer stun gun cameras.

*sigh*

By the way

What the heck is up with France?

Lazy blogging

Inspired by Steve:

1. What is your occupation? Managing Editor, IBM eServer Magazine, Mainframe Edition

2. What color is your underwear? I wear boxers. Right now, I'm wearing World Poker Tour boxers that are red, white and blue. And, no, I don't watch WPT, but the last time I went shopping for boxers, that's pretty much what was in stock.

3. What are you listening to now? My computer fan, and the buzz of flourescent lighting, and some guy on a conference call speaker phone in the adjoining office (I hate this place).

4. What was the last thing you ate? Hunan chicken.

5. Do you wish on stars? No, because if I ever find myself on a star, chances are good I'll be all burned up and shit, because stars are hot.

6. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Mauve

7. How is the weather right now? It was sunny last I checked, but that was two hours ago, and now I'm in my windowless office (I hate this place).

8. Last person you spoke to on the phone? My Dad.

9. Do you like the person who sent this to you? Nobody sent this to me. I had to steal it from Steve's site, but my understanding of Steve is that he's kind of a dick.

10. How old are you today? 30

11. Favorite drink? Crown Royal and Coke.

12. Favorite sport to watch? Curling.

13. Have you ever dyed your hair? No, although, to be fair, for over a decade now I've been shaving my head. Lousy genetic propensity for premature balding. *shakes fist*

14. Do you wear contacts or glasses? Contacts

15. Pets? Two annoying cats that would be better off as landfill.

16. Favorite month? July. Fireworks, brats and beer.

17. Favorite food? Chicken korma with naan bread for dipping.

18. What was the last movie you watched? Oh, God, last night I watched "Roadhouse" on cable. There's a lot more titties in that flick than I remember, not that I'm complaining.

19. Favorite day of the year? I'd have to say Christmas.

20. What do you do to vent anger? Shouting and swearing seem to be my default methods.

21. What was your favorite toy as a child? Transformers (Good Lord did I own a bunch)

22. Fall or Spring? Spring.

23. Hugs or kisses? Depends who it is. . . and if I'm horny.

24. Cherry or Blueberry? Cherry.

25. Do you want your friends to email you back? Indifferent.

26. Who is most likely to respond? Some dude named "Herbal Viagra."

27. Who is least likely to respond? My many entreaties to Julia Stiles continue to be unanswered.

28. Living arrangements? House.

29. When was the last time you really cried? Probably my grandfather's funeral, although I did choke up a bit during the movie "Million Dollar Baby."

30. What is on the floor of your closet? A lot of dirty laundry.

31. Who is the friend you have had the longest? Wow, that's kind of a tie between a lot of people, most of them from childhood.

32. What did you do last night? Took an unexpected nap. Watched "Roadhouse." Ate leftover Hunan Chicken.

34. What inspires you? Apparently, Steve Gigl's blog posts.

35. What are you afraid of? Working too long in a job I don't like.

36. Plain, cheese or spicy hamburgers? Spicy, although I've never actually had a TRULY spicy hamburger.

37. Favorite car? Whatever's paid for.

38. Favorite dog breed? Cocker Spaniel.

39. Number of keys on your key ring? 7

40. How many years at your current job? Going on four.

41. Favorite day of the week? Saturday.

42. How many states have you lived in? One.

43. How many cities have you lived in? Four. Harmony (hardly a city, really, but whatever), Tokyo, Winona, Rochester.

What? Turkey isn't Good Enough?

Celebrities!

Yes, I'm shamelessly repeating female celebrity names to boost traffic. That's what I do.

Kiera Knightly. Amanda Bynes. Lindsay Lohan. Jessica Alba. Britney Spears. Kelly Clarkson. Christina Aguilera. Emma Watson. Ashley Tisdale. Amber Tamblyn. Kirsten Dunst. Kristy Lee Cook. Jessica Sierra. Eva Mendes. Hilary Duff. Kiera Knightly. Amanda Bynes. Lindsay Lohan. Jessica Alba. Britney Spears. Kelly Clarkson. Christina Aguilera. Emma Watson.

Now, in an additional bid to boost my site traffic, I'm going to repeat the name Hanna Montana a few times. Hanna Montana. Hanna Montana. Hanna Montana. Hanna Montana. Hanna Montana. Hanna Montana. Hayden Panettiere. Hayden Panettiere. Hayden Panettiere. Hayden Panettiere. Hayden Panettiere. Hayden Panettiere. Hayden Panettiere. Hayden Panettiere. Amanda Overmeyer. Amanda Overmeyer. Amanda Overmeyer. Evanna Lynch. Evanna Lynch. Evanna Lynch.

In case you were wondering

Yes, I've backed away from political blogging for the most part, and here's why:

- Burnout, basically, because I can only state and defend my opinions so many times; past that point, it becomes pretty much yelling at the wind.

- For too many people right now, politics has become a religion, and I don't feel like being one of those people.

- No side is 100 percent right or 100 percent wrong, and I'm tired of pointing that out (and, yes, I realize I'm more conservative than liberal: thank God).

- I have a house that needs serious attention.

- Let's face it, political discussion isn't one of my bigger strengths. Now, bathroom humor, that's where I shine.

- It doesn't pay.

- E-mail and comment trolls annoy me.

- Joshua Norton.

- It detracts from my awesomeness.

- It's not an election year.

- I largely don't care right now.

- Karl Rove told me to stop, and I always listen to Karl Rove, as should you.

- disappointed that there was a high ranking White House staffer nicknamed "Scooter."

- Mitch Berg, James Lileks and Glenn Reynolds continue to largely speak on my behalf, as per our contractual agreement.

- I'm kinda into Jiu-Jitsu right now.

- Impending snowfall sucks.

- Hey! Look over there! A duck!

*runs away*

Feeling Blog Old

You know, I've seen my share of regular blog reads go the way of 60 grit sandpaper condoms. Even my blog-mother, Jen, hung up her blogging hat long ago. I understand why; blogging's not for everyone, and for every 10,000 or so curious blog tourists, maybe about 100 or so stick around for any mentionable amount of time, according to my entirely own made up guesstimate.

blogging takes work, time, a moderate amount of creativity, the capability to put up with continual trollish criticism, a complete lack of revenue (for most) and a stick-to-it-iveness that would make ants envious.

All that said, I feel all sorts of blog old now that my blog has outlived A Small Victory.

To liven myself up, I'll think about Andrea Rincon. Andrea Rincon. Andrea Rincon. Andrea Rincon. Andrea Rincon. Andrea Rincon. Andrea Rincon. Andrea Rincon. Andrea Rincon. Andrea Rincon. Andrea Rincon. Andrea Rincon. Andrea Rincon.

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