A List of Things America is not Prepared For
As if the vast majority of the American public isn't scared to the point of shitting themselves about additional terrorist attacks, we learn from the level-headed reporters at MSNBC.com that Agriculture Seen Vulnerable to Attack. Yes, according to the opening paragraph of the article, which must have gone through several drafts to optimize shock value, The United States is vulnerable to bioterrorism aimed at farms that produce the nation's food, the National Research Council concludes in a new report.
Now, before you race home to torch your refridgerator and try planting a quick garden before the encroaching onset of the Minnesota winter, let's ask an expert what he thinks of the situation.
"It's not a matter of 'if.' It's a matter of 'when,"' said R. James Cook, a council member from Washington State University. "While there may be a very low probability now, what about in 20 years?"
Okay, Mr. Cook isn't apparently the soothing voice I should have consulted. The point it this: Of fucking course there will be a higher probability in 20 years. There's also a higher probability that I'll develop cancer, or at the very least a debilitating venereal disease, after the passing of 20 years. There's a higher probability of anything happening anywhere in 20 years. Hell, Lance Bass could actually fly in space in 20 years. Who knows?
I'm in no way trying to downplay the significance of 9/11. It truly was a national tragedy, and it still leaves me teary eyed when I see footage of that horrible day. However, it just seems as if news agencies have embraced 9/11 as an excuse to let their paranoid minds run wild. Granted, anthrax gave us all a nice little scare, but in the end it proved to be a highly ineffectual means of attack, causing five deaths. Compared to the 3,000 that died when the planes struck, that's nothing.
The council report released Thursday said an attack on food production probably wouldn't lead to famine or malnutrition, but it could hurt public confidence in the food supply and disrupt the economy, costing millions if not billions of dollars.
Shit, is that all? Public confidence in the food supply could be hurt? Hell, my confidence in the food supply was hurt when I saw that the cuisine at the Minnesota State Fair included deep fried Twinkies (and, no, I'm not kidding). My advice to MSNBC.com, however, is that, if the worst case scenario is shaken confidence, perhaps they could run a complementary photo of someone about to eat a hot dog with a worried expression on his or her face, rather than the disturbing image of a ditch full of bovine being torched (a stock photo from Britain's foot-and-mouth disease woes from a year ago).
Although Veneman's department commissioned the report, it had sought to withhold its release, fearing it could be used as a resource for terrorists planning to attack the nation's food supply.
Oh, yeah, media outlets and government offices have shown remarkable restraint in keeping a lid on potential terrorist targets. In the days following 9/11, we've been treated to a smorgasboard of potential terror strikes, some targets that may not have been even entertained in the minds of terrorists until they saw it on TV.
TERRORIST 1: Man, I really feel like spreading some good ole' fashioned terror today, but I just can't think of what to do.
TERRORIST 2: Hmmm, well, turn on the TV.
ANNOUNCER: A government spokesmen today, speaking on condition of anonymity, said that America's water supply is dangerously at risk to terrorist attack, saying that a five gallon mixture of the following chemicals: cyanide, potassium, Tidy Bowl toilet cleaner and Diet Coke, poured into the New York City water supply, could result in millions of deaths in a 24 hour period.
TERRORISTS 1 and 2 (biffing themselves on the forehead): Why the hell didn't we think of that?!!
I know, I know. I learned early on in my mass communications classess that the journalist's credo is "If it bleeds, it leads," or, alternatively "If it shocks, it rocks." Still, I think the media's infatuation with potential attacks somehow takes focus away from the fact that America has been a pretty quiet and safe place to live in the year following 9/11.
Yesterday, a suicide Palestinian bomber killed six Israelis in Tel Aviv, a reality of daily life no matter where you're at or what you're doing in Israel, whether you're Israeli, Palestinian, American, or other. Now that's living in terror.
Now, in a 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. Oh, and Amanda Overmeyer. Amanda Overmeyer. Amanda Overmeyer. Evanna Lynch. Evanna Lynch. Evanna Lynch.
I Missed My Trip to Mars Last Night
Thanks to the random neural firings of the subconscious brain during slumber, I experienced yet another totally tripped out dream just prior to my alarm clock blaring me to reality.
So, there I was, sitting on a bus bound for somewhere. I was wearing this un-Godly heavy suit, complete with an unweildy helmet and an air-conditioning unit strapped on my back. Well, obviously, I was all decked out for my upcoming trip to Mars. This is what my brain told me anyway, totally pushing aside reality, and the fact that, just one day before, I was sitting in an IBM office writing an article about electromagnetic radiation. Details, details.
How is the brain able to totally wash away waking memories like that? If it can do it during sleep, what keeps it from just clicking off during a waking day? Just imagine, you're out for a run, and suddenly *BAM* you think you can breathe underwater because you've been genetically altered by German scientists, so you jump in the lake and swim to the bottom. . . and then you die. Perhaps it's best not to think about the power of the brain.
Anyway, when it dawns on me that I'm on a bus bound for a rocket bound for Mars, I naturally start to panic, because I know that a trip to Mars is probably a tad dangerous. After all, my brain decided to remember that a manned trip to Mars had never been done before -- this was the first. Oh, shit. It's a seven month trip to get to Mars! What am I going to do aboard a rickety ship for seven months? What if something goes wrong? Why me?
But, at the same time I'm working myself into a massive panic, I'm also incredibly excited that I was selected for such a historic and unique mission, totally dismissing the fact that I'm about as unqualified as an earthworm to undergo inter-planetary travel. As far as my brain is concerned, there must be SOME reason I'm headed for Mars, and that's all I need to know.
I get off the bus at the base of an insanely large rocket booster. My family is waving and blowing kisses from a distance (can't have germs you know). I take an elevator to the top of the rocket, where I'm informed we'll be docking with the larger craft once in orbit around earth. Oh, I guess that makes sense. I'm strapped into my seat, my heart pounding furiously with the knowledge I'm pretty much sitting atop a controlled bomb. 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2. . .
I'm woken up by Shakira, and now I'm at work. I'd rather be on my way to Mars.
"Keeping it Zipped Up," c. Ryan Rhodes, Dec. 3, 2001
I'm very easily distracted. As long as I can remember, my attention span has been woefully short term. Every little thing that can divert my attention diverts my attention. I could be concentrating on diffusing a ticking time bomb, and the ticking would distract me. I'd eventually start humming a tune along with the ticking beat, forget that I'm supposed to diffuse a bomb, and "BOOM!," no more marginally humorous columnist.
For example, I recently attended a meeting at work, and despite my best attempts to pay attention, I was distracted the entire hour because one of the meeting participants had his zipper down. And I don't mean slightly down either. This zipper was unzipped down to the last metal zipper tooth, and I could think of nothing beyond that unzipped zipper.
I'm still pretty new to my job, and it's important that I learn as much as I can during every meeting, but all I managed to learn during that meeting was that an unzipped zipper, though silent by nature, is deafening due to its very presence. He just sat there across the table from me, his pants in a perpetual yawn, oblivious to his open fly and its debilitating effect on me.
I think my boss was discussing magazine content, but I wasn't sure, because all I could hear was: "Now, for the next issue zipper, we should have a zipper article about zipping unzipped zippers. Our magazine needs more exposure, like an unzipped zipper. Isn't that right, zipper? Zip zip zipper zip zip."
I really should have mentioned something, but I just assumed a more senior member of the staff would speak up, the zipper would be zipped, and I could focus on something important. Alas, no one said a word. And I know everyone saw the unzipped zipper. It was obvious, oh so obvious. I'm fairly certain people in Afghanistan knew about the open zipper.
Rather than say something directly, I opted for subtle hints, like adjusting my belt and dropping my pen on my own crotch, anything to get his attention focused on his own
groin and open air vent. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his head and stretched out, giving the world an even better view of his zipper problem. This was not happening.
How could everyone stay silent about this? The quality of the meeting was surely suffering, yet no one would put an end to the madness. His tucked-in shirt was even
sticking out of the hole, as if waving a small flag of surrender.
About halfway through the meeting, I realized that the zipper stress was starting to take its toll on me, and I felt a small bead of sweat trickle its way from my armpit and down my side. No anti-perspirant in the world could hold up to this kind of pressure.
"Now if we look ahead to the February zipper issue, we'll see zippers, and of course zippers. We have to take steps to prepare for these zippers. Zipper zip zipper, zip zip."
Another bead of sweat made its way down my side, and I found myself trying to understand how his zipper had managed to descend to its current position. Maybe there
was a strong magnet under the table, capable of tugging zippers all the way down, placed there by a prankster with a weakness for the old "unzipped zipper" gag. No, that couldn't be it. Otherwise, all our zippers would be down.
Maybe he was in the bathroom prior to the meeting and realized he was going to be late: "Holy smokes, look at the time! I'm going to be late for the meeting! I can maybe quick wash my hands, but I just don't have time for my zipper."
After 45 minutes, the stress had become unbearable, and I hadn't been able to follow much of the meeting at all because of that accursed zipper. To alleviate some of the
pressure, I gazed briefly out the window, and when I turned back, the zipper had been zipped.
I should have been monumentally relieved, but I wasn't. I was actually kind of mad. After all, for 45 minutes I had endured the zipper nightmare, and I had earned, at the very least, the satisfaction of seeing his face when he finally realized his zipper was down. But, no, that little glimmer of satisfaction was denied me because I allowed my vigilance to falter and I looked out the window. It just wasn't fair.
The more I thought about it (and trust me, it dominated my thoughts for hours after the meeting) the more I came to believe that he was waiting for me to look away so he could zip his zipper. That way, he could pretend his zipper had never been down, and I'd be forced to dismiss everything as a figment of my imagination. But, his ploy didn't work.
That zipper was down, and I have the sweat stains to prove it.
On Death and Dying
Oh, man, if I didn't have a round of golf to go to in a few minutes, I would soooooo write something funny about these two stories. A definite column for next week. For sure.
Sexy Pin-Ups Model Coffins for Funeral Home
Cadaver Takes Unexpected Detour
Serves Him Right
Earlier this month, the now famous Qatar-based news agency Al Jazeera (roughly translated as "This Will Really Piss the Americans Off"), ran exclusive interviews with a couple of al Queda operatives who took credit for orchestrating the 9/11 attacks. Well, lo and behold, one of the operatives, Ramzi Binalshibh, was identified and captured shortly after the broadcast (hey, no one said these terrorists were smart).
BINALSHIBH: You know what sounds like a good idea? I should expose myself to the television watching world and take credit for coordinating the 9/11 attacks. Doesn't that sound brilliant? What could possibly go wrong with that? A little publicity could do wonders for our crazy-as-batshit cause. Right?
After a lengthy extradition process, Binalshibh is now on his way to U.S. custody, for what intelligence officials say will be a long, intense interrogation.
LONG, INTENSE INTERROGATION: (n) -- To have the piss literally beat out of you in the pursuit of information. To willingly spew valuable information to avoid prolonged exposure to fists and boots and truth extracting serums. To sing like a plucked canary.
Not surprisingly, given the impending interrogation awaiting him, Binalshibh has refused to admit his identity, insisting his name was Abdullah, Pakistani official said. But U.S. officials in Washington said they were convinced the man seized Wednesday — the anniversary of the Sept. 11 attacks — is Binalshibh.
BINALSHIBH: No, no, no! You have the wrong man! My name is Abdullah and I am a simple goatherder. I know nothing of the Sept. 11 attacks that killed 3,000 innocents, or how, through careful planning and disbursement of funds, our great al Queda organization was able to. . .oops, I mean. . . my many goats say "Baaaahh" when in need of water.
Our foremost gifted orator, one President George W. Bush, even chimed in to praise the capture and extradition.
"Thanks to the efforts of our folks and people in Pakistan, we captured one of the planners and organizers of the September 11 attack that murdered thousands of people, including Italians," Bush said before meeting at Camp David with Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi. Mr. Bush did not elaborate on the apparent distinction between "folks and people."
"One by one, we're hunting the killers down. We are relentless, we are strong, and we're not going to stop," Bush added. The last part of Mr. Bush's speech was reportedly inspired by one of the Borg episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation.
Ye Ole' Hangout. Well, One of Them
I capped a very busy weekend with a trip to Lewiston to visit my good friend and former college roommate, Troy. His job schedule as a Minnesota State Trooper pretty much ensures that the only time we can get together for a couple of beers is on strange days and times like Sunday at 7:15 p.m. or Tuesday at noon, or possibly sometime during the Ides of March.
We sat and watched the Vikings play a typically stupid Vikings game, consisting of all offense, with a defensive game plan that is apparently designed to exhaust the opponent's offense by repeatedly making them run 80 yards downfield in four or less plays. It worked. By the end of yesterday's game, the Buffalo Bills were pooped, mainly because they chalked up 45 points to the Vikings' paltry 39. But, that's neither here nor there.
Troy and I decided to drive to Winona to eat. Winona, of course, is the home of Winona State University, our alma mater. Winona is a pleasant Mississippi River community, situated on a giant sandbar, tucked within a protective barricade of majestic bluffs. As we descended into the valley, I experienced the typical wave of nostalgia I feel each time I find myself driving the old familiar streets. It has only been four years since I graduated, but everything seems strangely distant, strangely old.
"I don't know why, but the women going to school here now seem like they're so young," said Troy as we watched a pair of female joggers gallop past. I explained to him that the freshmen this year are about a decade younger than we are, and we both looked at each other in disbelief, as if that realization had escaped us until that very moment. We groaned.
We ate at the Great Hunan, a Chinese restaurant that was, without a doubt, my most favorite place to eat when I was in college. They have since remodeled the inside, and I'm fairly certain they were able to afford to do so primarily due to vast amounts of money I deposited in their coffers. I ordered Hunan Chicken and crab rangoon, and I ate it with gusto, despite Troy's on-duty Trooper story about cleaning bits of brain off a telephone pole after a motorcycle rider with no helmet forfeited his cranium while traveling at an excess of 100 mph. Boy those crab rangoon are tasty.
After eating, we stood outside the restaurant, breathing in the cool pre-autumn air. The street looked the same, and it felt the same (if such a feeling is possible), almost as if a shade of my former self walked by and brushed my shoulder.
"I've got an idea," said Troy, as if he had the same feeling. "Let's drop by Bull's Eye for a beer, just for old time's sake."
Bull's Eye Beer Hall is located about 20 feet from the Great Hunan, a dingy little drinking station that hasn't changed a nail in ten years. There's no atmosphere. Students pretty much go there to get drunk. We sauntered onto a pair of worn bar stools and noticed that the bartender was the same guy from six years ago. Even the old and unused Ms. Pac Man game still sat forlornly in the corner, with the images of Inky, Pinky, Blinky and Clyde forever burned into the screen. Ghosts of ghosts.
"I got drunk there, and there, and there, and there, and there," said Troy, pointing at each table down the wall behind us. "Oh, and I got drunk in that corner, too."
The scary thing was, I was with Troy during all those times, drinking right alongside him. How the hell did we manage to graduate anyway? Yet, there we sat, the State Trooper and the journalist, two professionals that normally distrust one another, gulping a beer and watching the Vikings lose in overtime.
We finished our beers and exited back into the early evening air. Back to reality. Back to real life.
