"Put up your dukes" c. Ryan Rhodes, Feb. 8, 2001
I'm not a very confrontational person. If a situation develops into something that may turn into a fight, I'm the first person who usually wets his pants and starts crying like an infant. This may not be the most masculine approach to fighting, but I can often run away when my opponent looks away from me in disgust.
Okay, I don't really wet my pants. . . much, but I do utilize everything in my vast repertoire of cowardly tactics to avoid getting my face punched. Unfortunately, my tendency to visit drinking establishments during weekends occasionally conflicts with my desire to avoid altercations. Eventually, I'll meet someone who is just itching to throw a punch at me.
I really don't understand what it is about me that flips the violent switch in some people, although I suspect they're enraged about being in the presence of someone so much greater than themselves. Overall, however, I think some people are just incurable jerks.
When someone decides they want to harm me, they really don't put much thought into explaining why they want to harm me. I remember one fairly inebriated gentleman who simply sauntered up, looked me in the eye. . . almost, and slurred "I don't like you." Now, I think I'm a very likable guy, and I always wear deodorant so as not to offend people, so this argument just didn't make sense to me. Still, his intent was very clear. In the face of an inevitable challenge, I mustered the most masculine aura I could, and I deftly talked my way out of it.
I explained that I was sorry that I offended him, I offered to buy him a beer, and I more or less praised him to the skies until, thankfully, a bouncer escorted him to the exit. I then drank the beer I bought for him. It was a great almost-fight. Despite my cowardly brilliance, I'm not always able to weasel my way out of a fight.
There were two incidents, both in college, where I was unable to use my English skills to talk my way out of a beating. Both incidents resulted because I mistakenly began talking to females who, according to their boyfriends, "were taken." For all you cowards reading this column, I should warn you that female-related fights are almost impossible to talk your way out of. You've dug your own grave, and it requires a weasel rating of at least a nine on a ten point scale to dig your way out. In other words, prepare to "put up your dukes."
My first fight really didn't last that long. I felt a tap on my shoulder, turned away from the female vision in front of me, and promptly saw a fist in my gut that wasn't there before. I never actually saw the guy who did the deed, although some bystanders told me that he was quite large and very mad. The only consolation I brought away from the whole experience was that I puked on his shoes on my way to the ground. After roughly 10 minutes of laying in a puddle of stale beer, I scraped up what little dignity I had, and made my way to the door. It was not a great fight.
My other fight took place outside of a bar appropriately named "Bulls-Eye." It was nearly closing time, and I had been inside enjoying a pleasant conversation with a young woman who insisted on saying every five minutes that "my boyfriend would kill you if he saw me talking to you." But, since her boyfriend was nowhere to be seen, I felt pretty safe, and just a bit cocky. Unfortunately, her boyfriend was nowhere to be seen because he was standing outside waiting for me to come out. Even more unfortunately, all my friends were at a bar about a block-and-a-half down.
As I stepped outside into the crisp winter air, I heard a voice to the right of me say, "I'm going to kick your 'buttocks'" (with buttocks being substituted with a familiar expletive). I was again forced to "put up my dukes."
I always have to laugh when I see fight scenes in movies, where one guy punches, the other guy's head snaps back, then he throws a punch, and the other guy's head snaps back, and so on. Yeah, right!!
In a split second, I was blindsided by a grazing punch that landed on my right cheek and sent me staggering to my left. I turned to face my opponent, who had, by that time, planted a fist squarely in my gut. Just a note, I speak from experience when I say that gut punches really, really, really hurt. By this time, I was at a severe disadvantage, but I managed to fight off nausea long enough to barrel ahead and tackle the jerk in front of me.
We rolled around in a violent hug for several seconds before I managed to call on my wrestling experience and place him on his back, where I quickly punched him three times in the gut, jumped up, and ran for my life. After running about five blocks, I ducked into an alley and threw up for about four minutes before walking the rest of the way home. It was not a great fight.
Putting my illustrious fighting career into perspective, it's no wonder why I choose to try and talk my way out of trouble. If given a choice between cowardice or a cut cheek,
raging gut pain, and vomiting, I'll take cowardice any day.
Running in the Rain
August has been "get out there and get rained on" month here in Minnesota, or at least in Rochester, Minnesota. It's almost as if Seattle and Rochester have exchanged locales for the past couple of weeks. In other words, it has rained a buttload. Uck, there's something disturbing about the concept of a buttload of rain. How hard must it rain for the drops to force their way into the rectum, while keeping someone pinned down long enough to fill up their colon? Anyway. . .
Last night I finally made a purchase that's been nagging at me for well over a year. I stopped at Best Buy, perused their selection of portable MP3 players, picked out a $200 unit and drove home to figure out the new little piece of technology. For the past two years, I've been undertaking my ritual 5 mile run while carrying a clunky walkman. I carry it because the belt clip just can't hold up against my steady strides. Carrying a walkman for a five mile run is awkward, to say the least. Plus, I've been hankering to listen to some different music, and the chance to mine my considerable hard drive cache of MP3s was too appealing to ignore any longer.
The MP3 player is the size of a Zippo lighter, and about as heavy. I fired 22 songs onto the unit through a USB port and gave a listen: perfect CD quality sound coming from a Zippo lighter. Ain't science somethin'? I was pumped to go for a run, with my new MP3 player strapped on my arm like a blood pressure gauge. I looked out the window and, much to my dismay, I saw that it was raining out. Nay, twas pouring out. Here I was, all decked out to go running, with my Zippo lighter strapped to my arm streaming out a quality tune by Jack Johnson, and Mother Nature was conspiring to keep me indoors. I will have none of that, Ma'am.
Throwing out all common sense, and putting my new MP3 player at considerable risk to soak in water and fizzle and pop into a damp oblivion, I opted to go for a damn run anyway. When I started my run, there was a slight drizzle. By the halfway mark, hurricane Andrew had blown in. I was drenched, cold and miserable, but my new player was still jamming out the tunes, so I pushed on despite the deluge.
Not surprisingly, I had the entire running path all to myself. No one save Noah was dumb enough to be outdoors, let alone running on a path. Suddenly, I became aware of a frothy white foam running down my legs. It didn't take me long to deduce the source either. I frequently wash the spandex that I wear beneath my running shorts, mainly because any material that hugs my genitalia during a sweaty five mile run demands frequent washing attention. Well, apparently, a considerable amount of Tide detergent had taken up stubborn residence in the spandex stitching, and it was just waiting for me to run in a downpour to release itself. So, imagine if you will. . .
There I was, drenched from head to toe, a hazy figure barely visible due to the sheets of falling rain, with handfuls of white foam dropping from my shorts with each running step, as if I was experiencing the most stellar orgasm of my life, or suffering severe venereal disease discharges. I hazarded a quick glance behind me and saw white foamy piles extending as far as I could see. Worse than that was the large, angry Canada goose bearing down on me.
You see, Rochester's Silver Lake is known as a haven for Canada geese. They stay on the lake year round because it's quite warm and people are always feeding the stupid birds. Occasionally, a goose will develop an attitude and focus its displeasure at the nearest human being. Seeing as how I was the only human being, I also was the nearest human being, and this particular goose had a bone to pick with the foam dropping interloper.
As my MP3 player whirred a rendition of K's Choice "Not an Addict," I let out a startled goose-fearing yelp and quickened my pace to put some distance between me and the attacking fowl. However, with a few quick beats of its evolutionary-superior wings, the goose was upon me, falling heavily on the back of my knees and savagely beaking my leg hair, causing me to panic. I swung around, kicking wildly, catching the goose squarely on on the side of its head with my right foot and sending it skittering into the lake where it lay motionless. This was not a good thing. Killing a Canada goose is not looked favorably upon in Rochester. Thankfully, my unexpected bird abuse was likely obscured from view due to the pouring rain.
I advanced cautiously to the water's edge, where the crumpled bird floated. Just as I was about to reach in and grab the insane goose, it's head shot forth from the water and it started honking at me in a most irritated way. Once again, spooked out of my mind, I went sprinting down the trail, convinced that, at any moment, a rabid goose was going to fly into my face and start pecking out my eyes. As it was, I'm pretty sure the goose remained where it was, honking its displeasure at having been booted in the head.
The rest of my run was uneventful, and I eventually worked out the last of the Tide hidden in my spandex. And my MP3 player survived the wet run no worse for the wear. Still, I made sure to lock the door once I got home.
Never underestimate the tenacity of a pissed off goose.
Defining a Shitbag
Troy (State Trooper friend of mine) says: i had another fatal motorcycle crash last night,,,the guy crashed at 530 AM and we didnt find him until 630 pm,,, what a mess
Ryan says: Pretty mangled?
Troy says: just his head it hit a pole,,,,but he was there for 13 hrs getting rained on and it was hot yesterday,,,,he was blue. not good
Ryan says: Yuck.
Ryan says: No helmet?
Troy says: no,,,its not cool to wear a helment,,,,he was a shitbag anyways
Ryan says: Was he wearing a "I'm a Shitbag" tee shirt?
Troy says: no but he stole a motorcycle and had several warrants for him,,,so i guess that makes him a shit bag
Rambling Rhodes = Exposed Thong and Some Other Crap
Without a doubt, the most visits to my site have come from people doing Google searches on "Yahoo.net/lib/babybrazil/thong-bikini-back-white-250x400.jpg">Exposed+Thong," "Exposed+Thongs," Thongs+Exposed," or any other such exposed thong permutation. Just for the record, this site has no exposed thongs. No thongs are exposing themselves here. Of thongs that are exposed, this site has nada. Please stop searching this site to catch a glimpse of an exposed thong. There are no exposed thongs, and I'm sorry. Got it? No thongs.
On a similar note, to the person who conducted a Google search on "barely+legal+thongs+for+men," let me just offer up a grimacing Sideshow Bob shudder.
*shudder*
Now that that's out of the way, I have to ask: are there illegal thongs for men? Granted, I'm skipping the issue of male thongs completely; I'm just going on the assumption that they must exist. But an illegal male thong must be an intimidating piece of underwear! I'm envisioning something with barbed wire sliding into a butt crack, and a front side that is equipped like a Swiss Army Knife. Imagine getting pulled over for speeding and you end up getting written up for a #1897, covering one's genitalia with a controlled undergarment. That's at least 90 days in jail.
Other than that, it's Wednesday and I still haven't written my weekly newspaper column. I've kinda, sorta, started on it, but I'm not happy with what I've written thus far. It's a column about my new toilet, for crying out loud. It should really write itself.
Being a Real Sport in the Workplace," c. Ryan Rhodes, Nov. 15, 2001
Professional athletes really have it made. Besides the fact that athletic stars make more each year than the gross national product of many third world countries, they have the opportunity to play the games they love and refer to it as "going to work."
And, boy, do they have fun at work. Football players, for example, conduct perversely immature dance routines in the end zone after a touchdown, and they get to taunt each other, and, after the game, they get to whoop and holler, conduct interviews, point their fingers in the air and maintain they are "number one," and say "Hi, Mom," on national television. Good times. Lots of fun.
In contrast, I arrive at work at 8 a.m., sit in front of a computer screen for several straight hours, and return home at 5 p.m. Where's the fanfare? I want to whoop and holler and say "Hi, Mom" after a long day's work. It seems only fair. So, here's how I envision an ideal workplace.
At 8 a.m., I want to run through a tunnel with the rest of my co-workers and be greeted on the other side by a throng of scantily clad cheerleaders. Our names would be called and we'd growl and howl and give high fives or slap briefcases together. We'd shout inane blabber like "Let's go get 'em baby!" and "Who wants some?!"
Once in the building, everyone would huddle up and commence with a rigorous round of butt slapping intended to rouse enthusiasm for the tasks at hand. Once our game plan for the day was decided upon, we'd jog to our offices or cubicles and begin vigorously tapping our keyboards and filling out forms.
After successfully completing a task, I'd shout "Who's your daddy?!" and make my rounds from office to office, where I'd give co-workers additional high fives and head butts. For an especially fine piece of work, I would expect to be pig-piled or carried throughout the building on people's shoulders.
Employees would also be encouraged to engage in immature dances, such as "The Paperwork Shuffle" and "Coffee Breakdancing." Hip thrusting and general bodily gyrations would also be allowed. I think announcers would be a particularly nice touch, especially after completing a tough assignment.
"That was an excellent completion by Ryan Rhodes, the three year veteran out of Winona State University. Rhodes has been impressive this year despite his continued problems with injuries, including eye strain and carpal tunnel syndrome."
Razzing and taunting would replace office politics. Instead of manipulative back-stabbing, co-workers would trash talk one another, face to face, and occasionally have to be restrained by others.
"You call that a report!? That's nothing! You're nothing! Your momma was a temp! You want a piece of me?! Huh?! Huh?! Come and get it you low paid pencil pushing geek!? That's right, bring it on you worthless chair warming, coffee swilling, brown noser!?"
Penalties would also be assessed in five, ten, fifteen, and twenty minute additions to the work day. Referees could penalize workers for coming in late, sleeping at their desks, taking extra pens, taking excessive coffee or bathroom breaks, or simply slacking off without bothering to disguise their inaction.
Trading office cards and playing Fantasy Workplace would be the passion of the outside world.
Workdays would conclude with even more high fives, butt slaps, head butts, handshakes, and, of course, dousing the boss with five gallons of Gatorade. Office workers would be revered and frequently interviewed following a rigorous workday, at which time they would spew forth meaningless and canned statements that would be lapped up eagerly by the press.
"We knew going in that it was going to be a tough day," said Rhodes, the sweat dripping from his brow, and his muscles clearly defined beneath his Men's Wearhouse sport coat. "But we're a solid office team and we don't back down from a challenge. We just take it one day at a time and give it 100 percent when the time comes. We know our jobs and we go out and do them, and we'll be back out there tomorrow doing the same. Hi, Mom."
The End of Summer
For the past 10 years, the end of summer, for me, has been symbolized by the departure of my parents back to their teaching jobs in Tokyo. It's become a ritual of sorts: I talk with them into the evening prior to their departure, and then I load up their bags and cart them to the airport. Along the way, my father bemoans the fact that they hadn't been bumped up to business class and they would have to endure 14 hours in coach, as if that somehow represents a serious injustice. There's the hurried farewell hugs and the stern warnings that I should "be careful" and "watch yourself." As long as my parents breathe, I will forever be seven years old in their eyes, requiring their warnings and doting parental habits that, I learned long ago, will never be broken, nor do I want them to.
I left them at the airport and drove away, my thoughts already focused back on my own life while they no doubt did the same. My summer is over; no more gofling with my father on the weekends, no more reading on the deck while my mother pokes her head out asking if I want anything to drink, no more of my mother's insistence that I "have something to eat." Returning home is to return to my carefree youth, with my life set on auto-pilot for a short while as my parents shower me with the countless little things that make worries fly out the door and I'm able to relax. Now I'm back to living my life, with my folks half a world away. It leads to a strange lonely feeling, but it quickly passes.
Where did the summer go?
.jpg){kind=link}
