Rambling Rhodes

Hey, Look. . . A Moron!

It is time to cut down on crime and restrict guns to soldiers and police officers. There are other ways to settle disputes.

It's always nice to know there are people out there with such complete disregard of the 2nd Amendment, and who are apparently oblivious to the concept of maintaining a weapon or arsenal of weaponry for the possible event of armed resistence to government.

Hideys Disease

New Product

I should probably get a copyright or patent or whatever on this idea before I write about it, but I think a new type of mixed nuts called "Wingnuts," would probably be a major-hot seller.

Seriously

At what point was this man's appearance just taken as "a given?" Oh, sure, we've gone through all the "black now white," and "where's his nose," and "holy hell, what the fuck" stages. Now, we basically just think "huh, there he is again."

When and if aliens do actually land on this rocky orb of ours, I don't think we'll even be able to notice.

It must be said

Blogs, ThunderJournals, and other Web sites that leverage SNAP pop-ups are vying for, quite possibly, my new top Internet annoyance.

The Buck Stops Here

Dear United States Treasury Department:

Please stop trying to get Americans interested in adopting a $1 coin. The last time Americans took a $1 coin seriously was in 1921, the last year the magnificent Morgan Silver Dollar was minted.

Just so you know, the Morgan Silver Dollar was your last best chance to get Americans to eschew the paper dollar, and you blew it. And, no, the Peace Silver Dollars didn't even come close. In fact, I'd argue the Peace Silver Dollar probably played a role in the rise of Nazi Germany and WWII. I'm not sure how, exactly, but there has to be a historical link somewhere. Someone should commission a study.

Anyway, after the Peace Silver Dollar debacle, you apparently got wise for about a quarter century and didn't try for a $1 coin again until 1971, when the Eisenhower coin was all the rage, by which I mean people basically shrugged and continued to use the paper dollar. And, can you blame them? I mean, they hadn't seen a $1 coin in over 25 years, so it was kind of like dropping a black and white Betty Boop into an episode of "The Simpsons." Oh, sure, it was a novelty at first, but eventually people figured, "what's the point?"

Well, around 1978, even you realized the Eisenhower dollar coin was a flop, so what did you go and do come 1979? You went and started minting the most tragically stupid $1 coin ever conceived: the Susan B. Anthony dollar. Only Jimmy Carter could have approved such a coin, as it's no big secret he hated currency and believed all transactions should be conducted using peanuts as the medium of monetary exchange.

Americans rejected the Susan B. Anthony dollar in droves, and not just because Ms. Anthony reminded everyone of the strictest elementary school teacher they ever had. No, in addition to that, the coin was almost exactly the same size as a quarter and, as anyone will tell you, one incident of confusing a dollar with a quarter is one incident way too many. Still, you limped ahead with that colossal coin failure until 1981, at which point it was hoped you'd stop tinkering with the idea of a $1 coin. Alas, it was not to be.

For your next $1 coin, you did what any sensible person does when looking for the next bad idea: you turned to Canada. Canada was having success with their own dollar coin, because they came up with the groundbreaking idea of--in addition to it being substantially bigger than their quarter--making their dollar coin look gold.

So, come 2000, the American people were once again introduced to a $1 coin, this time in the form of the gold-looking Sacajawea dollar. These coins were an instant success, by which I mean they were widely used to fill graduation envelopes because they made otherwise cheap donations of $5 or less seem more generous for some reason.

Other than graduation donations, and as change from stamp machines, however, the Sacajawea coins just never caught on. Americans, once again. stubbornly refused to relinquish their beloved and comforting $1 bills.

Unfortunately, because you're a government entity, you apparently can't understand the concept of a bad idea that has been roundly rejected no less than four times in the last 100 years. The $1 coin is like a bad penny. . . or something like that. It just keeps coming around, despite the fact nobody wants it. It's like the flu of currency.

So, here we are again, in 2007, facing another round of dollar coins, complete with fresh promises that, this time, things will be different. And, just like ex-girlfriends who came back into my life promising they had changed, I simply don't believe you.

Okay, so, maybe no ex-girlfriends ever came back into my life, but I stand by the analogy.

Girls Kick Ass

Kedzie's affiliated with the Mario Roberto Jiu-Jitsu Association (MRJJA), which is headquartered here in Rochester--where I train.

Kedzie didn't win, but she showed a ton of heart, took some serious shots, and kept right on fighting. This was a great Showtime debut for women's mixed martial arts (MMA).

You'll shoot your eye out kid

So, I was just checking the weekend weather over at the Rochester Post-Bulletin's Web site.

Today: Partly Cloudy. High of 32. Low of 19.

Friday: Chance of snow. High of 32. Low of 25.

Saturday: Ice Pellets. High of 31. Low of 25.

Ice pellets? ICE PELLETS?! We're going to get hit with ICE PELLETS! That's a first. I've NEVER seen that as a forecast.

I can't believe I find myself looking forward to actually seeing an ice pellet storm. This can only be about the coolest thing to ever happen. EVER!

Coconut Talk

I don't like coconuts. There, I said it.

Oh, sure, I like some of what coconuts have to offer. I'm a big fan of coconut milk when it's applied to Thai green curry and other such edibles. On the other other hand, I despise the taste of coconut when it's in the form sprinkled on pastries. That stuff is horrid.

I know, I know: even uttering the word "coconut" is supposed to conjure images of tropical locales, sipping fruity beverages while lolling in a hammock strung between two palm trees, and a lazily rolling ocean surf tickling the ears. Fine. Whatever. You're entitled to your mental escapism.

For me, unfortunately, when I hear the word "coconut," I think of a musty basement and having my thumb smashed with a hammer. Hardly an idyllic coconut image.

As a child growing up here in Minnesota, a coconut, shall we say, was a bit of an oddity. A curiosity. Out of the ordinary. A tad alien.

So, when my neighbor friend, for whatever reason, managed to procure a coconut, it was the equivalent of finding a meteorite in the backyard. It led to one of those phone conversations that just sticks with you through the years due to its brevity and directness:

"Ryan, come on over. I have a coconut."

And so he did. It was a smallish sphere about the size of a volleyball, which looked like a ball of wood covered in spiny wooden hair. For some reason, my understanding of coconuts at that time was that they were considerably different than the odd item in front of me.

As most young males do when confronted with an unknown item, we decided the best course of action was probably to destroy the coconut. It wasn't just wanton destruction for destruction's sake, mind you. We somehow knew coconuts contained milk, and we wanted to sample that milk, so the logical means by which to get at the coconut milk was to smash it with a hammer.

So, we went down to the basement and took turns whacking at the coconut with a hammer. Unfortunately, since coconuts are round, it wasn't content to just sit still for its own destruction. If we hit the coconut even slightly off center, the mobile little nut would go skittering across the basement floor. So, we decided one of us would have to hold the dang thing still. You can probably guess who was the seleced coconut holder.

Now, I liked my neighbor friend just fine, but it occurred to me, despite having known him since I was one year old, I had never before actually seen him successfully hammer anything. And that realization came at about the same time he conducted a two-handed, come-from-behind-the-head hammer swing at the coconut, only to hit my left thumb so squarely, he couldn't have hit it so perfectly again in a million years and a billion tries.

My thumb, not surprisingly, was not in any way prepared for the pinpoint hammer assualt, and it made its displeasure known by shooting forth a geyser of blood directly into my neighbor friend's face, which of course caused both of us to start shrieking like banshees.

ME: AAHHHHHHH!

NEIGHBOR FRIEND: Eeeeeeeeeeee!

ME: Ooooooooooooo!

NEIGHBOR FRIEND: Gaaahhhhhh!

COCONUT: . . .

We finally collected ourselves enough to run upstairs, where we could continue shrieking, hopefully within the earshot of one of my neighbor friend's parental units. In this case, his mother arrived and tended to my squashed thumb, which a few weeks later would lose its protective thumb nail. Apparently, the thumb nail had decided, in the wake of such unwarrented hammer abuse, maybe my thumb wasn't the best place to be, after all.

As for the coconut, the mother was able to crack that puppy open for us and get at the milk, which we all tasted at the same time, only to realize too late that the milk was putridly sour.

So, yeah, coconuts. . . totally not worth it.

Oh, why not. . .

I should start this post with a preface:

Nick Coleman writes about people and events in the metro area. His column appears in the Metro section on Wednesday, Friday and Sunday.

So, with that in mind, consider the headline to his latest "column."

Nick Coleman: Illinois shows North Dakota what is the truly honorable thing

A Minnesota, Twin Cities metro columnist, writes about Illinois and North Dakota. Makes sense, I guess, in a totally nonsense sort of way. But, hey, it's the Strib, where nonsense is spelled N-E-W-S.

Chief Illiniwek gets the ax tonight. The Fighting Sioux nickname should be next. Sometimes, despite everything, there is progress.

Just not in anything Nick Coleman writes.

For 80 years, "Chief Illiniwek" has been what fans of the University of Illinois have called the barefoot white boys who have sported buckskin and feathers and aped American Indian dances during football and basketball games. The Chief is a throwback to the days when a conquering culture thought it could spoof racial stereotypes and "honor" people by making them into tumblers and clowns.

Yeah, like, say, the FIGHTING IRISH!

But after tonight, the Chief will be history.

In retiring him, Illinois will have succumbed to rulings from the National Collegiate Athletic Association (NCAA).

"Succumbed" is the right word here. Kudos to Nick for accidentally getting something right, at least.

More importantly, Illinois will have bowed to common decency: You can't "honor" people by offending them.

Heaven forbid, the horrible specter of "offense," should rear its ugly head. Offending people nowadays is easier than making fun of Nick Coleman's writing, which is REALLY saying something.

Chief Illiniwek makes his last dance when the Illinois men's basketball team hosts Michigan. The end of the road for this symbol of -- what, exactly? White boy nimbleness? -- has not brought out the best in the students and alumni of Illinois. But it has proved that the NCAA is on the right track.

See, now, I imagine if the chosen dancer in question has historically been of Native American descent, Nick would have no problem with this tradition? Right? Yeah, I didn't think so. It's because the nefarious dancin' injuns have more often than not been white that Nick is so indignant. I'm sure it doesn't bother Nick, though, that the "indian" who famously shed a tear over trash "Iron Eyes Cody," wasn't even an indian. Where's Nick's outrage about that? Why, there's a Sicilian, shamelessly stereotyping the Native American tendency to weep in the presence of garbage. FOR SHAME!

"If They Get Rid of the Chief I'm Becoming a Racist" was the name of an online site joined by more than 100 students, whose vile posts about Indians showed they didn't need to worry about becoming racists.

They are well on the way.

Oh, good God, there goes the Journalistic Investigator-In-Chief, Nick Coleman, consulting an Internet site to make his point. This is the same guy who once used a commenter on Craigslist.com to anchor his column. His research is just impeccable. A whole 100 students, eh? Of the three U of Illinois campuses, there are nearly 70,000 students. That means Little Nick is using a sampling of .0014 of one percent to make his case. BRA-VO.

Still, the disappearance of an obnoxious minstrel act will be good for Illinois, and it may be good for North Dakota, too.

Speaking of an obnoxious minstrel act, we're in the middle of a Nick Coleman column. Ironical.

With each cleansing of a racial caricature from the sports scene, the pressure mounts on the "Fighting Sioux" logo and name of the University of North Dakota, which finds itself in a small rump group of nickname offenders.

Yeah, because "The Fighting Sioux," is just so offensive. Perhaps they should be renamed "The Creampuff Reservationists." Honestly, if it weren't for some Native American mascots and symbols, some people wouldn't even know what an "Indian" is.

At this point, the arguments North Dakota puts forward for keeping the name aren't the issue. The question is what kind of university wants to put its name and reputation through the wringer in defense of "honoring" a tribe whose representatives have said time and time again -- despite bogus claims by those who deny it -- that they don't consider it an honor to be reduced to a nickname.

Yeah, even though the logo itself was designed by a Native American. That must be a bogus claim. In 1969, a band of Sioux Indians from the Standing Rock Indian Reservation formally gave UND the right to use the name Fighting Sioux for its athletic teams. Only into today's culture of ridiculously alarmist political correctness could Nick Coleman get away with calling that a bogus claim.

Last fall, using alumni donations that would be better spent in the classroom, UND took the NCAA to court, challenging the group's finding that the "Fighting Sioux" logo and nickname are "hostile and abusive." Since many of the Sioux tribes in the Dakotas have come to the same conclusion, it would have been civil to bow to the NCAA ruling.

You know what? fuck it. Nick's right. Let's get rid of the Sioux logo and mascot. In fact, let's get rid of all Native American imagery completely. Let's re-name Minnesota, and the Dakotas, and Missouri and every other state with Native American connotations. I mean, they must offend SOMEONE, right? And, we don't want to offend ANYONE, because if someone takes offense to something, well, that positively means it's a bad thing. I can just imagine the renewed offense when, suddenly, Sioux imagery is erased from UND, replaced by Flickertail imagery. Yeah, THAT will go over like a turd in punch bowl.

Forget civility. When North Dakota honors Indians, they better stay "honored." The only good Indian is an honored Indian. What a waste of time and money by a university that remains in the thrall of dead casino operator and Nazi memorabilia collector Ralph Engelstad, who gave UND $100 million to build the Taj Mahal of hockey arenas and festooned it with thousands of Fighting Sioux logos so it would be easier to tear down than to remove them all.

There goes Nick again with his odd tirade against Nazi collector, Engelstad. As if that has anything to do with ANYTHING. This is how I imagine Coleman's brain works:

Fighting Sioux bad. Fighting Sioux bad. Fighting Sioux bad. Fighting Sioux bad. Fighting Sioux bad. Fighting Sioux bad. Fighting Sioux bad. Fighting Sioux bad. Fighting Sioux bad. Fighting Sioux bad. NAZI. Fighting Sioux bad. NAZI. Fighting Sioux bad. Fighting Sioux bad. Fighting Sioux bad. Fighting Sioux bad.

Hmmm. Not a bad idea.

Yep, tear down a $100 million dollar hockey arena. That's Nick Coleman's idea of a decent idea. Thank God he doesn't have them very often.

Each time I write about this issue (I haven't since June), I am accused of knowing nothing about it.

Nick Coleman knows stuff, damnit! Now watch Nick hoist himself aloft upon his mighty high horse and snap into defensive mode.

Permit me: I have reported on racist nicknames and Indian issues for 20 years and wrote a lengthy magazine piece on the Fighting Sioux problem in 2001 that delved into the "Nazi memorabilia collector" (yes, I love to say that) part of Engelstad's past. You can find a copy online at: www.und.edu/org/bridges/coleman.html. Be sure to read about the matching life-size portraits of Hitler and Engelstad -- both in Nazi uniforms -- that Engelstad put on the walls at his secret Hitler birthday parties as a "joke."

Shorter Nick Coleman: I have written about Indian problems and a Nazi memorabilia collector, which I find to be inextricably related, for reasons that make sense only to me. I mean, seriously, what the fuck? The fact Engelstad was an eccentric Nazi-collecting nutjob has NOTHING TO DO WITH Indian problems.

You'll laugh yourself sick.

Hey, I do that when I read most of Nick's writing.

The university's misguided lawsuit goes to court in December. Even if it succeeds at overturning NCAA procedures, the NCAA says it simply will change its procedures and continue to enforce its eminently sensible and important conclusion:

The Fighting Sioux name and logo, like Chief Illiniwek, are relics of the past.

Not the honored past.

The shameful past.

One can only anxiously await the day when Nick Coleman is relagated to the same status.

Freedom for a Day

For whatever reason, I actually got President's Day off this year. Plus, the temperature finally decided to get above freezing for the first time this month. So, I'm enjoying a nice day off.

Of course, tomorrow, I have to fly to Chicago at 6 a.m., and then fly back to Minnesota at 3 p.m., so while I'm enjoying today, I'm dreading tomorrow.

A Lifetime of Pepsi Loyalty Deserves a Car

I’m trying to win a car from Pepsi, because I think it’s way past time for Pepsi to bestow a car upon me for all my years of Pepsi loyalty. When I think back on all the Pepsi products I’ve bought and consumed over the years, I feel a Lamborghini may be in order.

What few people know is that Pepsi is, in fact, a gateway soda, just like marijuana is a gateway drug. Oh, sure, I started on Pepsi as a child, but as I got older I was tempted to try Crystal Pepsi, which was an abomination against soda. What was Pepsi thinking?

Pepsi CHEMIST: Eureka! I’ve created a clear, caffeine-free cola that tastes pretty much exactly like regular Pepsi!

Pepsi EXECUTIVE: Um, why?

Pepsi CHEMIST: I have no idea! That’s the beauty of it! It’s revolutionary and completely unnecessary, like New Coke!

Pepsi EXECUTIVE: Excellent! New Coke was a success, wasn’t it? Nevermind. Let’s call this new clear soda. . . Crystal Pepsi!

And so a bad idea was born. And of course I had to try it, and of course I went right on back to regular Pepsi, and I stayed with regular Pepsi all through college, at which point Pepsi unveiled Pepsi One. Pepsi One, according to a very animated Cuba Gooding, Jr., packed all the goodness of regular Pepsi into a single, solitary calorie. And, being a recent college graduate who now concerned himself with things like “calories,” I made the shift to Pepsi One, which was followed several months later by the move to Diet Pepsi all together.

I’ve been a very loyal Diet Pepsi consumer now going on eight years so, as I said, I think Pepsi owes me a car, and quite probably a new stomach lining. I mean, seriously, have you ever looked at the list of ingredients in Diet Pepsi? What am I thinking? I’d be better off taking up smoking, or maybe Russian roulette.

But no, I’ll stick with Diet Pepsi, because I believe in a very slow, carbonated, caffeine-assisted suicide. That, and I simply can’t stand coffee.

Anyway, Pepsi is currently running a “Free Ride” sweepstakes, during which time one lucky winner each day will be selected to win a customized Subaru Impreza WRX, which sounds like a variant of the Asian bird flu, but is, in fact, a car. Or at least it better be.

To register to win a car, you simply have to have absolutely no life whatsoever. And, since I work in an office environment, I qualify! Basically, this is how it works: you buy a 20 oz. bottle of the Pepsi product you prefer, and unscrew the cap. Up to this point, it’s pretty much like a regular soda drinking experience. But here’s where it gets crazy insane, by which I mean monotonously boring. You look under the cap, where there’s a code (A code!). You then go to a very specific Web site, which requires you to register (which of course means junk mail and spam within a few weeks), after which you enter your code (A code!) to qualify for that day’s drawing. Of course, I’m up against over 10,000+ other people with no life and a Pepsi product addiction each day, but at least I have the glimmer of hope I’ll win a car.

This is what my life’s been reduced to. It’s kind of sad, really.

A Shout Out to VD

Today's a very special day. Today, you have yourself what is commonly known as VD.

Now, some of you are asking: "How the hell did I manage to get to the point where I have to acknowledge VD?"

Well, I'll tell you, it can happen to anyone, and more people than you think have arrived at VD and were totally caught off guard, unprepared for the realities of VD. It's understandable. Winter can be a long, boring, drawn out time, with each day resembling the one before it, and the one before that. Then, suddenly, it's the middle of February, you look in the mirror and realize "Oh, shit! It's VD!"

The most important thing to remember, if you find yourself unprepared for VD, is never, EVER, tell your loved ones, and most definitely don't tell your significant other. The last thing your significant other wants to hear is that you've managed to arrive at VD without at least getting something for it.

So, you simply HAVE to get something for VD. If you don't. . . well, let's just say the consequences can be dire. When it comes to VD, thought and action are a must. You have to be stealthy, so no one suspects you're one of those VD fools caught with your pants down.

I know it sounds bad, but I've found, when VD takes me by surprise, the best place to get something for it is usually a drug store. I know, I know; you cringe when you think of going to a drug store to get something for VD, but trust me, they have everything you could possibly need.

So, take heart, dear readers! VD doesn't have to be all bad. You have options for dealing with VD. So, let's get out there and celebrate VD together!

Did I Mention I Have A Blackbelt in Hapkido?

So does Nick Coleman, apparently.

A Taxing Time

I had my taxes prepared over the weekend, which kind of marks the start of the new year for me, since it's one of those first big things I have to get out of the way.

I used to like tax time. Whan I was going to college, working part-time jobs, and basically scraping by, I could expect a pretty good tax return. Tax returns are nice. But, I haven't seen a tax return in years, and in fact I've had to pay in over the last three years. It's deflating to find out you have to give Uncle Sam even more money than you already have.

Anyway, it looks like I'm poised to get about $200 back this year, which is better than nothing, but not exactly a windfall.

Oh well, maybe next year.

Lousy Cum-Guzzling Boozehounds

Remember when I wrote this post?

Good times. Good times.

Well, I spent some time surfing around to find some of the written wonderments that flowed forth from Amanda Marcotte's keyboard, and this bit was just too good to let pass:

I wish I wasn’t a cum-guzzling boozehound."

Now, I've known some cum-guzzlers in my day. They're like gas-guzzlers, only more whorish. I've also known some boozehouds. But, I don't think I've ever actually met a cum-guzzling boozehound, and frankly, up until the point I read Amanda's fervent wish not to be one, I didn't realize there even were cum-guzzling boozehounds.

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing but the utmost respect for cum-guzzlers and boozehounds, but I just didn't think it was possible to merge cum-guzzling and boozehounding. I mean, that's A LOT of liquid intake. When do you find time to do anything else? One minute you're guzzling cum, and the next you're taking a pull off a Jack Daniels bottle. What if you accidentally mix them up? What if you find yourself guzzling booze and hounding cum? How embarrassing would that be? Worse, what if you guzzled hounds? PETA would be all over your ass. Hound guzzling is only allowed in Korea.

I suppose it would be possible to be a cum-guzzling boozehound in a more sophisticated way, but I think it would require some pretty nasty mixed drinks, and I'd be terrified, personally, about going to a bar and having the bartender misunderstand me. Somehow, taking an accidental swig of a "seven-seven and semen" would probably put a real damper on my evening, all because Amanda and her fellow cum-guzzling boozehounds wanted to engage in their dual passions in a more sophisticated fashion.

UPDATE: Wow, there's nothing like being blatantly plagiarized by an X-rated porn site; by a random content search bot no less. Warning: do not click this link unless you and your employers/managers are okay with hardcore pornography.

Anna Nicole Smith = Dead

Caroline says: So, Anna Nicole Smith has been dead for probably an hour and Entertainment Tonight already has "her last interview before her tragic death" on the Web site.

Ryan says: "Call. . . 9. . . 1. . . 1 grgrgllllllll"

Caroline says: You win. Hell it is.

Ryan says: Yeah, that was pretty amazingly bad, but I'm strangely proud of it.

Caroline says: I think it's the grgrglllll that put it over the edge.

Ryan says: How poetic that she died at the Seminole Hard Rock Cafe.

Ryan says: You could do SO MUCH with that.

Caroline says: For real.

Ryan says: "Anna Nicole Death Hard On Seminole"

That Could Be a Sign of a Problem

Somebody just came to my ThunderJournal after doing a Google search on. . . "When you try to burp but you fart instead."

I'm no medical expert, but I would still like to advise this wayward soul, if I could.

"GET THEE TO A DOCTOR, NOW!"

I've farted while coughing before. I've even farted while sneezing before. Hell, I've farted AND crapped my pants while puking once or twice. But I've never, ever, NEVEREVER, farted while burping.

And, just so we're clear, I think it would be very humorous to both burp and fart at the same time. I think that would be a most awesome talent to possess. However, if you find yourself farting after trying to burp, that could be a symptom of something quite wrong. A burp should be mutually exclusive from any of the bodily mechanisms required for farting. For example, your anal sphincter should not in any way feel compelled to relax its grip while you burp. Likewise, a burp is a release of air from the upper torso, so it should play no role in expelling gas from the rear exhaust.

In fact, you know what? If you try to burp, but you fart instead, my guess is you're probably only minutes away from a major coronary.

Blogging. . . Er. . . ThunderJournaling is a Funny Thing

So, I've been watching this odd drama unfold, and I'm largely undecided. Were a lot of the woman's blog posts screechingly off-the-wall Chicken Little sky falling nonsense, complete with expletives? Oh, hell yes. In particular, her brain-dead prognistications about the end of birth control were so stupid and paranoid, they may have well have been ripped from the pages of "Tinfoil Hat Weekly."

Still, it hits to the heart of some of the things I've been thinking about this online personal journal craft. I've been doing it now for five years. I've had opinions I've shared that I've re-thought and re-considered, but I've still allowed my previous iterations to sit out there like old turds, because they represented my thoughts at the time, however much they may have changed or evolved.

I think about this site a lot. More than you may imagine. Every time I apply for a job, particularly locally, I wonder what employer is going to tap my name into Google, find my ThunderJournal, and think my personal politics and beliefs should preclude me from a job. They shouldn't. But those are the very real risks I take.

It's a tough paradox to tackle. On the one hand, I think this is an unfiltered, idealized venue for free speech, no matter how ill-conceived a post may be, but on the other hand I realize I have half a decade of free speech worth of possible consequences. Not a small obstacle to overcome in this rapidly evolving age of instant data recovery.

Still, I believe my opinions, no matter how fluid over time, have value, for me specifically, but also for for current and future generations. I may not get a job tomorrow because someone doesn't share my beliefs/politics, but at least I know I'm not getting a job where people are hung up on beliefs/politics rather than skills and abilities.

Because--and I know this is taboo--if there's a steady paycheck in it, I'll write whatever you want. I just may not vote for it.

Why I Love the Internet #3,987

Because other people tear Nick Coleman a new monkey hole, so I don't have to.

UPDATE: In an unprecedented act by the Star-Tribune, they filmed Mr. Coleman so they could document the creative writing process of Minnesota's premier journalist in real time. For the first time, you can witness what it's like to conjure the literary brilliance that shoots forth from Coleman's fingers like Dark Side lightning. Here's the actual footage of Nick Coleman writing his latest column:

I haven't posted about the weather in ages

Did I mention the weather still sucks? Oh my Lord does it suck!

It reminds me of the winter of 2000/2001. It seemed like it snowed every single day. I believe it was a record amount of snowfall in our area. The cabin fever was intense. So intense, it finally made me jump back into martial arts training just so I had something to do to fight back the depression of a winter without end.

That's kind of what it's starting to feel like again, except that I'm already in jiu-jitsu, so I'm not sure exactly how I'm supposed to fight back the depressive haze of consecutive days of cold with no end in sight. Knitting?

I'm the world's best archeologist

I found the world's first blog entry.

weather Update

Yes, it's still cold. My car temperature read -10 on the way into work this morning. That's very cold. That's 42 degrees colder than the freezing temperature of water. That's instant booger freeze cold. That's the type of cold that can cost you your extremeties in a very short amount of time.

And it's supposed to remain this way through the rest of the week, if not longer.

Ugh

I was up from 3 a.m. to 6 a.m. doing my level best to expell all stomach contents into the toilet via my mouth orifice. That, combined with a fevered sweat, means I'm out of comission today. I feel like death.

So Here It Is. . . February

This is just my opinion, but I really think the federal government should do more to make February a less terrible month. I think a special committee should be set up, with a fancy name like "The Committee to Make February a More Enjoyable and Patriotic Calendar Event For All Americans."

I say this because, as it is, February is just an awful month. And it doesn't help the 2007 version of February--Feb. V2R007--started off with a temperature of 1 degree. Honestly, what kind of cruel joke is a one degree temperature? It's like Mother Nature dangled that degree in front of me, saying "You'd like some more degrees, wouldn't you?" It's enough to make me want to buy a trainload of coal and burn it in my back yard to get a jump start on this global warming thing-a-ma-bob.

At any rate, where was I? Oh, yes, I was complaining about February. You know going into February it's going to be a terrible month, simply by looking at the way it's spelled. You can actually tell that the person who named the month of February was probably cold to the bone.

MONTH NAMER: Let's-s-s-s-s-s call it-t-t-t-t, Febr-r-r-r-r. . . Febr-r-r-r-r. . . Febr-r-r-r-r-uary.

SCRIBE: I'm sorry, what?

MONTH NAMER: Febr-r-r-r-uary.

SCRIBE: Okay, you're the boss.

But, even if you take the marrow-piercing cold out of the equation, February is still the worst month of the year. I mean, just look at it. . . February holidays are just pathetic.

Feb. 2--Groundhog Day. I don't care how many times I see that movie starring Bill Murray and Andie McDowell; I don't need a holiday wherein a varmint tells me what I already know: namely, that winter will be around for awhile. Gee, thanks Mr. Hibernating Rodent. I couldn't figure that one out on my own.

Feb. 14--Valentine's Day. Look, even forgetting a few less-than-stellar Valentine's Day fiascos in my past, this is still an irritating holiday. It's not enough that you simply love your significant other; no, there's a calendar day where you really have to ramp up the love. It's not enough that you're practically forced to watch home decorating television programs 364 days out of the year; there's also a day designated when you have to watch home decorating programs AND buy flowers and chocolates. Incidentally, Feb. 14 is also "Race Relations Day," so you should really get out there and have relations with somebody from another race. Granted, this could run counter to some of the concepts behind Valentine's Day, but if it means I have a chance of being with Salma Hayek and Tyra Banks, so be it.

Feb. 19, President's Day--As luck would have it, both Abraham Lincoln and George Washington were born in February. Unfortunately, they were born on different days. The U.S. government thought about this problem for years and years, and it was ultimately decided giving students two days off from school just wasn't acceptable, so they threw a dart at a calendar and decided on a single "President's Day." Now that I'm no longer in school, I don't even get this day off, so I could care less about President's Day.

Feb. 20, Mardi Gras--This holiday only matters to New Orleans, and college bars around the nation that hand out beads to women who flash their breasts. Seeing as how I don't live in New Orleans and am no longer in college, I spend this holiday in a particularly bitter mood.

So let's get out there and get this month over with! After all, March 1 is my birthday.

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

Things I Hate #6,907

I hate that guy. I hate how he dances. I don't have any idea who he is, or if he has any children, or if his children are also shadowy dance-bots. I know nothing about him, but I hate him. I hate how ubiquitous he is. I hate how excited he seems to be about a mortgage rate. Nobody's happy or excited about a mortgage rate.