Random Thinks
Here's my question for the day: What in the heck represented an idea before the light bulb was invented? Nowadays, if you see a picture of someone with a light bulb over their head, you know they've just had an idea. I like to think that, before the light bulb, ideas were represented by a cow. When someone had a big-assed brainstorm, say in 1738, you would immediately know it because of the big cow hovering over their head. People would say, "Charles just had a great idea. He was sitting there, when suddenly a cow came on." Seriously, Rodan's statue "The Thinker" takes on a whole new meaning when you realize that he's actually sitting in the nude pondering a cow. That's right, nude. Totally nude. Nude rocks.
I followed yesterday's horrible Butterfinger experience with an equally horrible McDonald's experience. I haven't eaten McDonald's in about five years and this was a harsh reminder of how bad fast food actually is. Apparently, the fast food chain has eschewed McNuggets in favor of some sort of chicken strips, and I was foolish enough to give them a try. It was like eating shingles dipped in BBQ sauce. Horrible. Just horrible. I guess the fries were okay, although there was enough salt on them to make my heart skip for two hours afterward.
My Cadillac is due for an oil change. I suppose I could do it myself, but that's what Jiffy Lubes are for, right?
Butterfinger Blues
In an uncharacteristic move for me, I walked past the local vending machine and decided to treat my sweet tooth. I was really in the mood for a Kit-Kat, but that was the one confection lacking. How come they stock machines with awful snacks like vinegar and onion potato chips but they can't throw a Kit-Kat behind the glass? Anyway, I opted for a Butterfinger. It's been about a year since I last ingested a Butterfinger, and I didn't remember the experience being all that fulfilling, but I figured my tastes may have refined over the last 365 days. After all, we're talking about Bart Simpson's candy of choice. It's the "crispety, crunchety, peanut-buttery bar," for crying out loud. It has to be good. Just for the record, "crispety" and "crunchety" aren't actually words. For that matter, I'm not sure "peanut-buttery" is a word either, but I'm giving the good folks at Butterfinger the benefit of the doubt. I was okay with the first bite, mainly because it assuaged the sugar craving that prompted me to purchase the bar in the first place. The second bite, on the other hand, was immediately tiresome. Butterfingers cling to teeth the way barnacles cling to whales. Plus, the texture reminds me of layers of limestone, hardened sheets of brittle peanut butter stacked atop one another and encased in a chocolate sock. Bart Simpson or no, this candy sucks. Damn I wanted a Kit-Kat. *sigh*
"Putting Your Pet Through the Wringer" c. Ryan Rhodes, May 1, 2002
Every once in awhile, I'll come across a news item that definitively indicates we human beings may be becoming a bit too reliant on technology. I came across just such a news item last week regarding a product called the Lavakana side loading pet washing machine.
Now, a side loading pet washer is not, in fact, a revolutionary new weapon capable of firing cats and dogs at the enemy at a rate of 6,000 rounds per minute, although that would be just too cool for words.
No, the Lavakan is a 5 ft. x 5 ft. appliance specifically designed to lather, de-tick, de-louse, and blow-dry your pet in just under half an hour. And, for you pet owners out there who are wary of leaving your cat or dog unattended during the spin cycle, not to worry; the Lavakan comes equipped with a porthole which you can use to peruse your pet's purifying process.
I know, it sounds too incredible for words, so I went searching for more information. What I found was pure comedy gold. You folks with Internet access can read along here.
Invented by Eduardo Segura and Andrs Diaz of Spain, the Lavakan (which roughly translates to "dog washer") looks a lot like a typical washing machine, except you throw your family pet inside rather than dirty clothes.
Once inside, the animal in question is subjected to a series of water pressure nozzles designed to spritz every inch of your pet's exterior (and possibly some interior spritzing, depending on the angle of the nozzle). And, to quote directly from the article, "operators use the Lavakan's touch panel to choose the best wash cycle for the animal's size and dermatological needs." Is it just me, or is there something odd about knowing what kind of wash cycle is best for your pet.
"Let's see, I bought Rover about two months ago. What were his washing directions again? Better check the tag. ‘100% dog hair. machine wash warm. Tumble dry.' All right, Rover, in you go. Be a good boy!"
So, how do dogs and cats respond to being cleansed within a 5 ft. x 5 ft. box? Let's ask the inventors. According to the article, most dogs are pretty calm while enduring their prescribed wash cycle, except, of course, for a certain degree of lost canine dignity. Cats, on the other hand, don't take kindly to the contraption at all, at least not initially.
"The first four to five seconds, they freak out," Diaz said, according to the article. "But once they're wet, they instinctively sit and lay down. It's much better than having a cat attach itself to your face, which is what can happen when you try to wash one by hand."
What can I say? Sometimes even I can't improve on the humor of an original statement.
Perhaps the most amusing aspect of the Web site article are the pictures provided of the Lavakan in action.
The first picture, of course, is of the Lavakan machine by itself, an intimidating machine that must strike absolute fear into the heart of any pet that has experienced its thorough cleansing.
The second picture, and perhaps the most hilarious, is a before and after comparison of an unidentified canine. In the before picture, the dog is impossibly filthy, as if it had been shaken vigorously in an Etch-a-Sketch. But, after a ride through the Lavakan, the dog is snowball white, with a somewhat nervous expression that seems to say, "you would never believe what I just went through for the last half an hour!"
There are two other equally hysterical pictures, but I'll let you experience those for yourself.
The final picture is of a Lavakan executive locked in one of his own machines, smiling bravely for the camera as he is showered in his own personal wash cycle. His right thumb is extended in the universal symbol for "I truly enjoy being bathed in this claustrophobic contraption where, just moments before, a German Shepherd forcefully vomited due to nervous stress."
For those of you who are thinking of buying your own personal Lavakan, you may want to consider the cost. You can own one for the paltry sum of $20,000, or you can lease a machine for $500.
Or, you can wash your pet by hand and have it attach itself to your face.
It's entirely up to you.
Playing with Writer's Block(s) and Building a Column
I managed to overcome yet another bout of writer's block and put out this week's column. What did I write about? Well, wouldn't you like to know. I don't publish columns online until they've gone to print, and even then I usually don't, because papers pay me, the Web does not. However, truth be told, I'm far more honest on the Web than I am in my column, so you people (all two of you) are getting quite a bargain.
Here's my lip biting dilemma: ever since I graduated from college (May, 1998), during my four month job searching nightmare, I developed a horrible lip biting habit. I started nibbling my lower lip as I perused the newspaper want ads; wondering whether I wanted to work here, whether I'd get a job there, etc. Finally, I got a job at a newspaper about an hour drive away, and it was a great start, despite the tough hours and constricting writing content. As I worked at that paper, I found myself biting my lip as I worked on stories. Now, about four years later (and I still write a column for that paper), I'm biting my lip as I work at IBM, and I really want to stop nibbling. It's not a major thing, but I'd like to rid myself of it nonetheless. Suggestions?
I think Sheryl Crowe is about the hottest thing ever when she sings. She's 40, which is actually 20 with wisdom and honesty. In her case, she has a stellar voice, a brilliant jazz feel, and she can make everyone feel the same age when she sings. Sheryl, if you're listening, I'm listening, and I think you're lovely.
I ran tonight, well, after a 30 minute nap and about 23 minutes of self-chastising to get me going. I credit the run for this week's column idea, and I highly recommend running, and exercising in general, to those of you who have difficulty figuring things out. The blood runs, and so does thinking about other than the "woe is me" category. The "woe is me" stuff keeps you on the couch. Go walk. Go run. Go out. Do Hapkido (or maybe not, that's just me). Do something.
Brain Empty; Insert Thoughts Here; Unleaded Neural Impulses Only
Well, it's Wednesday, and I have no idea what to write for my weekly newspaper column. My well of ideas is dry, and there are two papers desperately awaiting this week's installment. Okay, truth be told, if I didn't write this week, they'd probably find a 1/4 page ad to fill the gap, so I could afford to take a week off. But, I hate to end my consecutive streak of weekly columns. Perhaps when I go running tonight my mind will unclog and the wheels will begin spinning.
There's this Mitsubishi commercial that I've been admiring for over a month now, perhaps you've seen it. This techno music comes on, a hot girl in a little pink beret leans over to turn up the car stereo, and suddenly she starts spasming all over the passenger seat like she's being jolted by a cattle prod set to rhythm. I don't know why, but I think she is just so damned hot when she starts doing her robot dance routine, I feel as if I have to go out and smoke a cigarette each time I see the commercial (and I don't smoke, so that's saying something). So, I went to my computer this week and downloaded the techno song "Days Go By," but it's just not the same without some girl wearing a pink beret gyrating on my bed. Actually, the pink beret would be optional at that point, but the gyrating would be a MUST.
Well, that was a nice 10 minute work distraction. Time for a teleconference.
Waking Up is Hard to Do
6 a.m. - My alarm goes off. I look groggily at the clock, and then reset it for 8 a.m.
6:01 a.m. - I amble into the bathroom to dispose of hours worth of bladder liquid.
6:04 a.m. - I crawl back into the warmth of my bed, close my eyes, and. . .
8 a.m. - My alarm goes off. I look groggily at the clock, and then hit the snooze button.
8:09 a.m. - My alarm goes off. I look groggily at the clock, and then hit the snooze button.
8:18 a.m. - My alarm goes off. I look groggily at the clock, turn it off completely, and drag myself to a sitting position.
8:19 a.m. - I finish wiping away the remaining eye boogers, and start making my bed.
8:23 a.m. - I brush my teeth and then put in my contact lenses. I then cuss about the amount of painful crap that has apparently built up on my lenses. I remove them, wash then, and place them back in my eyes.
8:28 a.m. - I begin shaving my face and head. Yes, I shave my head. Why? Because I like looking like an escaped convict on a vendetta.
8:35 a.m. - I enter the shower, where I spend two minutes debating whether to lather with Dove soap or Herbal Essences. I usually opt for Essences, because it's a totally organic experience.
8:45 a.m. - I skitter back to my room, neglecting to wrap myself in a towel, careful to ensure neither of my female roommates are anywhere to be seen.
8:46 a.m. - I dress myself, usually in jeans and some sort of shirt that complements the weather. I'm not particularly picky here, because I'm usually running late.
8:50 a.m. - I'm out the door to work. I'm still tired, so I give my bed a last, long, wistful glance. And I'm gone.
Cat-apulted From the Home
>From news of the odd today, we learn that a "Cat Goes on Rampage, Evicts Owners." I was left with an image of a tabby wearing glasses perched on its nose, a clipboard grasped in one paw, completing the necessary paperwork to legally evict the owners. In actuality, "A Canadian family had to flee for safety after their pet Siamese cat went on a rampage, tearing at clothes and skin and driving them out of the house, police said on Monday." I was reminded at this point of a corny horror/comedy show I saw awhile back about a family that was terrorized by a monkey that was dynamite with kitchen cutlery, dicing up any unsuspecting people that came within range of its primate rage. Seriously, how would you explain to your neighbors that you had to evacuate the house because the family cat developed an attitude?
"What's up, Fred? You doing a fire drill or something?"
"Er, no. Not exactly."
"Fumigating, then?"
"Well, John, no, not quite."
"What's with all them cuts on your back? You okay there, Fred? You look a little shaken. Is everything all right in the house?"
"For the love of God, don't go in there, John!! You'll be torn to shreds for sure. The cat!! Oh, the cat!! It's gone crazy! Save yourself!!"
"Cat? You evacuated because of a cat? *snicker*"
Okay, apparently this cat was a dynamo, because "it took police officers, armed with a blanket and a clothes hamper, 20 minutes to corner the cat. One officer said Cocoa the cat was eventually secured in a pet carrier and handed over to the family who took it to the veterinarian."
What's funny here is the specialized gear that had to be used, a blanket and clothes hamper. You know you're really in for trouble when you've been pulled over for speeding and the officer has to dig in his trunk for a blanket and a clothes hamper. At that point, you're better off making a run for it.
Although it wasn't known what caused Cocoa's frenzy, one astute officer made the observation that it was "a Siamese cat with an attitude problem." This, of course, conjures images of a bad crowd of Siamese cats that hang out behind school smoking cigarettes and roughing up other cats after class.
Michelle Trachtenberg nude. Michelle Trachtenberg. Michelle Trachtenberg. Michelle Trachtenberg.
Mila Kunis. Mila Kunis. Mila Kunis. Mila Kunis. Mila Kunis.
Tripping on Tokyo
Last Sunday, I accidently tuned in to King of the Hill, because nobody in their right mind would intentionally tune in to King of the Hill. Anyway, the Hills were visiting Tokyo, and even though it's only a cartoon, it prompted all sorts of flashbacks to the year I lived in that sprawling city. More specifically, it reminded me of the first couple of weeks I spent acclimating to the Tokyo environment. I was raised in a small town of only about 1,000 people. Suddenly, I found myself totally surrounded by people. People everywhere. Even when I thought I was all by myself, I could hear voices all around me coming from builldings, from behind fences and gurgling up from canals. Here in Minnesota, we have Wal-Mart; in Tokyo, there were shopping streets jam packed with small specialty stores with names like "Big Time Super Happy Fun Knitting Shop" and "Tasty Yummy Hunger Eliminating Open Mouth Pastry Place." Of course, I didn't learn the names of these places until much later in the year because everything was written in Japanese (in Japan? Go figure). Another thing I quickly discovered in Tokyo: everything makes a noise. Walk signals would play loud music while you crossed the street; vans selling flowers or food would go by with the driver singing strange, almost mournful, sales pitches; all around me, ambulances and other emergency vehicles were constantly blaring their way down the street; bikes would go by with the rider jingling his or her little bike bell. It was a cacaphony of noise for a small town lad who was used to hearing, at the most, a cow moo two miles away. I had many adventures during that year, some good, some bad, but the most fond memories are those from those first weeks, when I was shit scared of everything, curious about everything, homesick, excited, and full of wide-eyed wonder. Will I ever feel that way again?
Flying with Towels
I slept luxuriously last night. It was one of those slumbers where you sleep for four hours and it feels like 12. I also had one of my recurring flying dreams, which are just super fun subconscious excursions. This time, I discovered I could fly if I wrapped my legs in towels and kicked like I was swimming. Don't ask me what electrical brain impulses made this seem like a viable flying solution, but it made perfect sense to me as I slept. And, of course, everyone was in total awe of my ability to fly with towels wrapped around my leg. I woke up at about 4 a.m. to, um, perform bathroom duties, and I discovered that my waking self is still governed by the force of gravity. I was walking back to my room, missed the doorway, caught my foot on the door frame, and promptly fell, face-first, into my desk chair. That never would have happened if I only had towels wrapped on my legs.
Ghosts of IBM
There's an eerie feeling permeating the air at IBM today. Two familiar faces in my hall are no more; their desks, once bedecked with photos of family and loved ones, are now empty, undecorated reminders of their presence. The layoffs have apparently begun. Will I survive this latest round? Hopefully. But even if I do, the damage done to others is incalculable. And my beloved Diet Pepsi 20 oz. quenchers have increased in price by a dime to $1.10. That's just unforgivable.
Sleeping the Day Away
Whoever said "getting there is half the fun" has never awakened after four hours of sleep following a bachelor party, hung over, exhausted, and facing a two hour drive home. Let me tell you, getting there (there being home) was not the least damned bit fun. I pulled into the driveway at about 2 p.m. and I've been sleeping ever since. I'm just now starting to feel somewhat alive. Note to self: I can't endure those all night festivities any more. That's a very tough admission for a 27-year old to make. Next thing I know, I'll be shuffling around the kitchen in ratty slippers and pee-stained pajamas lamenting how old I am. Okay, the pee-stained pajamas may be stretching it a bit, but I think it augments my point brilliantly. And what bachelor party wouldn't be complete without nearly getting into a brawl? Here it was 5 a.m. and the radio was just blaring. There was no way I could fall asleep with bass pounding in my ears, so I went downstairs to find one guy, eyes half open, sucking on a cigarette. So, I explained the situation to the lone music enthusiast and turned it down. Well, three minutes later, the music got loud again, so I went back downstairs and turned it down. Once more, the cigarette smoking man deigned to turn it up again, and I was plenty angry at that point. So, I went downstairs, turned the radio off completely, and told the infidel that if I had to come downstairs again, he was going to go through a window. At this, he grabbed a bottle and tried to smash it on the counter, only it didn't break, but the resounding *whack* brought everyone running to the kitchen. In a move of dexterity I didn't know I was capable of at 5 a.m., I swiped the beer bottle out of his hand (managing to catch and hold onto it in the process, which had to look just incredibly cool), and he was left with a "I don't have a weapon anymore" look on his face. Now, I'm not a violent guy, but I'm fairly convinced that, if he had been able to break the bottle, he would have come after me with it, and this made me so unbelievably angry, I was practically seeing red. However, I managed to bring myself down and simply threw the bottle behind me, at which point the rest of the party-goers got between us. Of course, I couldn't sleep at all after that, primarily because the guy apparently grabbed a butcher knife and was going to come upstairs to deal with me. However, his brother talked him down and I didn't hear from him again. Now I'm back to being mild-mannered reporter, Ryan Rhodes. And I need a shower like no man has ever needed a shower before me.
