And the Sound Barrier is Avocado
Ryan says: I'm jamming to a little Chopin, Bach and Mozart today on Live 365.
Jen says: sweet.
Jen says: I'm jamming to pink noise.
Ryan says: ????
Jen says: that's what they have down here in the "open landscaping". it's like white noise, only softer. it's supposed to mute people's voices a little, so it doesn't sound like you're at a cocktail party.
Jen says: but I still here a general cacophony.
Jen says: hear, even.
Ryan says: Everything is color-coded nowadays. Even sound apparently.
Ryan says: An infant crying because of a soiled diaper is considered "brown."
Jen says: where did you hear that?
Ryan says: From the fanciful world of my warped little mind.
Lileks is Terrific, But. . .
I must preface this entry by saying, I LOVE THE DAILY BLEAT. I don't normally take umbrage with Lileks, primarily out of fear of being mentally squashed like a neural mosquito. The man could screed me into oblivion, but I must proceed.
James Lileks is a major proponent for a war against Iraq, and I don't begrudge him his position. Usually, when I read his justifications for pummeling Saddam, I think, "Yeah, he's right again. Curse his rational mind!"
But, today, I squirmed when I read this: It was possible to type bellicose words about Vietnam from the distance of Minnesota without considering that Charlie would empty a pillowcase of anthrax into the Mall of America ventilation fans. I'd say that's unlikely to happen tomorrow . . . but all of a sudden, everything's possible.
Yes, everything is possible after 9/11. But, at the same time, nothing is possible. We could, possibly, never endure another terrorist attack ever again. Hey, it's possible. If you want to sit and ponder every apocalyptic scenario imaginable, I guess that's your right. There are plenty of Chicken Littles decrying the fall of the sky to make that justification. Myself, I prefer to greet each day and appreciate it for what it is: namely, a terror-free segue into another terror-free segue into another terror-free-segue into. . . well, you get the idea.
What I disliked most about that excerpt is that it implies Iraq has operatives skulking around unseen, pillowcases of anthrax at the ready. He's making the leap that a war against Iraq is a war against those responsible for 9/11. And I still don't buy that. Remember, the bulk of those who hi-jacked the planes on that fateful day were from Saudi Arabia, and nary a one wielded a pillowcase. Iraq does not equal 9/11, or at least a strong enough link hasn't yet been established to make me a believer.
Saddam must go, but don't pull the trigger under the auspices of 9/11. If we do that, there's no telling how many other wars will be waged in the name of anti-terrorism.
"Obituaries for a Furry Farewell" c. Ryan Rhodes, March 5, 2002
As if we needed more proof that Americans hold their family pets in just a tad too high of esteem, the Philadelphia Daily News last week announced that it would start running monthly memorials under the heading, "A Fond Farewell to our Beloved Pet." That's right, for the paltry sum of $52.08, families can now bemoan the loss of anything from turtles to terriers, complete with picture.
And, because I'm always on the lookout for a lucrative endeavor, and because I have a fairly strong obituary writing background, I'm considering offering my writing expertise, for the right price, to families wishing to posthumously praise their pets. Consider the following examples.
Rexvold "Rex" Nelson, 7 (49 in dog years), a golden retriever, passed away Monday, March 4, 2001 at his master's feet in Rochester, Minn., following a two month battle with heart worms.
Rex was born Dec. 29, 1995 at a puppy farm outside Des Moines, Iowa, where he lived in a cardboard box with his three brothers and two sisters before being sent to "Puppies -N- Stuff," where he was purchased by the Nelson family for $356.
Rex enjoyed chewing cool grass on a summer's eve, fetching sticks, and barking at the family of squirrels nested in the big oak in the backyard. An avid hunter, Rex was credited with countless pheasant retrievals, both on land and in ponds.
He is survived by his adopted family, one brother, one sister, and a special friend (the hydrant on the corner of 24th St. and Harriet).
Brief funeral services were held in the Nelson backyard shortly after the kids got home from school on March 5, with their father Bob Nelson officiating. Interment was under the big oak.
Fluffington "Fluffy" Michaels, 4, a common tabby, died early Monday morning, March 4, 2002 at her home in Stewartville, Minn., after being backed over by the '98 Chevy she was sleeping under.
Fluffy was born June 21, 1998 under a stack of hay bales in High Forest Twsp., where she lived for three months before being brought into Stewartville by farmer Hank Mathews, who gave her, her two brothers, and two sisters away for free. Fluffy was the first to be selected by the Michaels, with their three year old daughter, Hannah, having the final say.
Fluffy enjoyed playing with the assortment of toys provided by her adopted family. She was also fond of sleeping in sunlit windowsills and under the left rear wheel of the family's '98 Chevy.
She is survived by her adopted family, her mother, her father (that dang cat that kept climbing over the fence each night), all her brothers and sisters, and Fluffy 2, the identical tabby selected by Mr. Thomas Michaels at the local humane society to prevent his daughter from learning of her his mistake while running late for work that morning.
No funeral services were scheduled for Fluffy. Interment was the local Stewartville landfill.
Jacintha "Jaws" Henry, eight months old, a goldfish, was discovered belly up in the Henry aquarium in Wabasha, Minn., Friday, March 8, 2002 after being fed repeatedly by young son, Thomas.
Jaws hatched July 1, 2001, after being spawned and fertilized at the Fins and Gills tropical fish hatchery in Miami, Fla. She was quickly transported to pet supply stores nationwide, during which time three-quarters of her siblings perished and were processed into Friskies and Fancy Feast. She was given away free to the Henry family four months ago after they paid $35 for aquarium cleaning supplies.
Jaws deeply enjoyed swimming, a pastime that constituted most of her life. When not swimming or eating, she liked exploring the castle and the wrecked ship at the bottom of the aquarium.
She is survived by her adopted family, countless remaining siblings, and her genetically engineered mother (capable of producing 25 times more eggs than regular goldfish).
Brief funeral services were held in the Henry bathroom March 9, with mother Jane officiating and conducting appropriate flushing ceremonies. Interment was in the Wabasha municipal sewage treatment facility.
Attack of the Slack
For some reason, I've really felt compelled to slack at work lately. I have tons of writing to do, and I mean tons. If it were somehow possible to weigh the tasks I'm keeping balanced in my head and scattered on my desk, and those that I've forgotten about completely, I'm pretty sure it would all weigh many tons.
Still, I find myself shrugging my shoulders and thinking, "Eh, I'll be able to get it all done in one day, probably between 4 and 5 p.m. No problem." And so I slack. And it feels really good to slack, to read other blogs, catch up on current events, and download Robin Williams comedy clips and watch them. It's self-destructive as hell, and it will almost certainly come back to haunt me, but I just can't help myself. I think part of it is the change of seasons. It's dark, cold and gloomy outside, so I feel dark, cold and gloomy inside, and my productivity suffers as a result. At least that's the excuse I'm relying on right now. Why can't I just get paid astronomical amounts of money to blog? Curse the unfairness of this cruel world!!
Mainly, I think I'm slacking because I don't want to dive into an article about "The Impact of OS/Platform Selection on the Cost of ERP Implementation, Use and Management." Holy crow that's boring shit. Then again, I have all the information in front of me and my interviews are all complete. I could, in theory, have it all written in a few hours.
Or, I could read Lileks.
IRAQ = Invasion Required. Any Questions?
I somehow feel left out when it comes to this whole "attack Iraq vs. don't attack Iraq" debate. By glancing at the daily headlines, you'd think we're already at war, even though no shots have been fired. I find myself straddling the fence on this whole hawk vs. dove issue, but I do have some questions for those advocating a regime change at the barrel of U.S. guns.
Since 9/11, the majority of the American public, terrified that tomorrow a jetliner will come crashing from the sky loaded with nukes, have signed a blank check to the Bush administration, more or less saying, "Here, make things better. Things don't have to make sense, because we'll back you without question because we're scared."
I'm not arguing the fact that terrorists still exist, and they will most likely find some other way to sting us and make us pause to slap the little rascals before lumbering ahead again. It's simply a fact of life in this post 9/11 world. Our towers fell, so we crushed the Taliban like a rotten grape, installed a regime more to our liking, and then ambled on, leaving the impoverished nation bereft of the billions of dollars in aid they were promised.
Why did we do this? Because our jets were revved up and our guns were all nice and warm, and there was this festering wound called Iraq that's been asking to be kicked in the groin for the past 11 years. Who has the time and money for a petty humanitarian cause like helping to rebuild a worthless country like Afghanistan that doesn't even have the common decency to have a few rich deposits of oil under its barren soil?
Now, Iraq, there's a country more to our liking. It has oil. Lots of oil. And, it has a despicable puke of a dictator at the helm who has proven time and again he has no respect for life save his own. Saddam would gas his own mother if she had the audacity to tell him not to go outside without a coat. Saddam = evil monster. That's a universally accepted equation. Does the man have to go? Absolutely. Would Iraq and the whole Middle East in general be a better place without him? Perhaps. Is it America's responsbility to knock him from power? Hmmmmmm.
The Bushies would have us believe that Osama bin Laden and Saddam have been playing a game of tickle the scrotum, that they've been terrorist bedfellows since they were two years old. They point to sketchy and questionable meetings between Iraqi officials and al Queda operatives that occured prior to 9/11. Did Iraqi cash find its way into al Queda coffers? Probably, although not likely through official government channels. What government would leave a paper trail implicating them in the most high profile terrorist attack in history? I'm pretty sure the same could be said for many Middle Eastern countries. You don't think Qatar, Yemen, Saudi Arabia and even Kuwait special interests didn't find ways to filter money to al Queda? Which one of these do we hit after Iraq?
If the Bush administration could make a compelling argument that Iraq = 9/11, then lets get the tanks rolling. There's no doubt in my mind we'd steamroll the country and be home in time for "Friends." But Iraq is not our fish to fry alone, and without strong links to 9/11, we're stuck with Iraq's refusal to allow UN inspectors into the country, a tough card to play to rally a coalition of international allies.
Ah, yes, UN inspections. Lacking a 9/11 angle, we've been treated to the oft-repeated phrase "weapons of mass destruction," of which Saddam must have hundreds because he doesn't let the UN inspectors in. Is Iraq working to develop weapons of mass destruction. I would put money on it. But seriously, what country on earth doesn't have a vested interest in building a military? Hell, even India and Pakistan, two countries that can scarcely feed their populations, have the Bomb. But, they're more interested in eradicating themselves, so we don't pay them much attention.
Now, Iraq. There's no telling what that bat-shit country would do if it got the Bomb, although a betting man would say Israel would be a prime target. It's the delivery mechanism that would be used to catapult a chemical, biological or nuclear warhead that's in serious question. Iraq has freight vehicles, and it has SCUD missiles, and it has really athletic camels, but none of these can really threaten US interests beyond US bases or embassies in the area.
Some of the more frightened people in America believe Iraq could detonate a nuke in downtown New York, a pretty lofty technological achievement for a country that has been firing at US jets over northern and southern no-fly zones, for over 250,000 sorties, and has, at last count, brought down a total of zero aircraft. That's a pretty lousy firing percentage for a country targeted as the #1 threat on the planet. As for dropping a nuke in New York? Fah-get a-bout it.
For all you people reading this, rolling your eyes and saying "this idiot just doesn't get it," I fully admit that my reasoning is flawed at best, but it's simply my opinion, and I'm entitled to it no matter how flawed it may be. It doesn't make me unpatriotic or anti-American. I'm neither a hawk nor a dove on the issue. There are solid arguments supporting both sides. It's just too easy to see things in black and white, to blindly follow the whims and wishes of those in command because we're scared and want to feel safe again. But to do that, without asking questions, can lead to dangerous myopia, such as that illustrated in these two recent MSNBC.com letters to the editor:
I consider every Muslim I see a terrorist until proven innocent. I am not ashamed of that opinion. Deal with it.
Jason Wunneburger
Denver, CO
Are you kidding me? Who cares how President Bush says "nuclear"? The only thing I care about is when we will use them on Iraq.
Kenneth Thoman
Shrewsbury, MA
If this is the prevailing wisdom that justifies war, then God help us all.
Involuntary Volunteering
The martial arts facility where I train is holding a martial arts and Asian culture retreat this weekend. I honestly don't understand why they call these things "retreats," as the word always conjured images of frightened soldiers turning tail and running home. Really, why would you want to retreat from Asian culture?
"Ahhhhhhh! Kimonos and chopsticks and temples and really cheap mass produced plastic goods! Retreat! Retreat!"
Anyway, the retreat will be held this Saturday afternoon and will include martial arts classes and demonstrations, Asian culture classes, a potluck dinner, and a whole lot of meeting and greeting. I thought it sounded like a good time, so I decided I was going to go.
Then came the sign-up sheet.
After my hapkido class one evening, the instructor announced that he needed people to demonstrate hapkido techniques during the retreat and that a sign-up sheet was on the table for anyone interested. For some reason, I figured a whole slew of students would clambor to include themselves, so I plopped my name on the sheet, imagining that I'd be one of many students demonstrating. As of yesterday, six people had signed up.
The instructor pulled me to the side during class and informed me that, since I was the highest ranking belt on the sign-up sheet, I would be leading the demonstration. But, that's not what I signed up for. I wanted to be just another face in a sea of hapkido demonstrators. I didn't want to actually lead anything. Putting me in a position of leadership is foolhardy at best, and disastrous at worst. Granted, I'm a high ranking belt, but I find more ways to fuck things up than anyone else I know.
Then, the instructor pulls me to the side again and asks me if I'd also be willing to teach a hapkido class during the day. Me? Teach? Was he insane? I couldn't teach someone how to change batteries in a flashlight. So, of course I said I'd be happy to. I'M SUCH A MORON!
So, if you hear news reports coming out of Minnesota about a martial arts retreat that went horribly awry, with several broken bones, countless internal injuries, and possibly a couple of deaths, you'll know why.
Ryan Rhodes was put in charge.
Condoms Under Glass
There is a list of items that, although not taboo, men have a tough time buying. In no particular order, they are:
> tampons
> potpourri
> laxatives
> condoms
> enya CDs
> Thelma & Louise (DVD or VHS)
There is, of course, more to the list.
Now, I must stress here that, although I may have just now compiled the list, that does not in any way mean that I have purchased all or any of the above. Well, except for condoms. Because the rest of this entry has completely to do with condoms, I have to admit that I purchase these items.
I've purchased condoms from an assortment of establishments; from mom and pop drug stores, to Walgreens, to Target chain stores, to condom dispensing machines in the bathrooms of bars. I've even had to purchase them from buddies for the astronomical price of $3 a piece, just because I didn't have any on hand. Some buddies. jerks.
Anyway. . .
My biggest beef (no pun intended) with condom-dealing outlets rests with the establishments that feel they must keep the sperm barriers behind locked glass, as if they're some valuable commodity, like gold or diamond watches.
I once bought condoms from a Rainbow Foods grocery stores. I'm not kidding when I tell you that the only items under lock and key were the condoms. The store safe could have been sitting out in the open with a fresh layer of C4 explosive wrapped around it, but the condoms had to be locked behind glass.
ARMED DUDE: Now listen up!! Everyone get on the floor, hands behind the heads. I want everything in the safe! Now!
MANAGER: Yes sir, yes sir. Whatever you say. Would you like small or large bills?
ARMED DUDE: What are you trying to pull here, fucker? On second thought, I want the good stuff! Get me the Trojans and Lifestyles behind that locked glass over there!!
MANAGER: NEVER!!
*scuffle ensues*
Well, locked glass or no, I had pressing concerns that night, and Rainbow was the only place open, so I set about finding someone with a key to open the golden gate to Trogan-valia. I found a rotund (and by "rotund" I mean unable to squeeze between aisles) woman, perhaps 63-years old, who probably last saw Dick during the Nixon administration.
CONDOM NAZI: What do you want condoms for?
ME: Um, well, hell. I guess I need them to do the dishes. What business is it of yours?
CONDOM NAZI: You know they're not 100 percent effective, right?
ME (getting annoyed): No shit. Well then, maybe I better not buy them.
CONDOM NAZI: Let me know if you need anything else.
ME: Get back here!! Open the damned glass! I want a 36-pack of Lifestyles! (actually I only needed a three pack, but she was really pissing me off, so I wanted her to think I was going to get laid so much that night, I'd be in a coma until the next election.)
CONDOM NAZI: Okay, fine. But don't come crying to me if she gets pregnant.
She handed me the condoms, and I just sort of stood there in numb silence, unable to even conjure a suitable comeback to the most comeback-inviting bitch ever to spew forth a retort. How did this woman ever get a job wielding the keys to the condoms? How many other men had she shamed into celibacy? How many men strangled themselves with a complicated noose consisting of a 36-pack of Lifestyles?
I didn't want to know.
From the Book I've Been Dabbling In For, Like, Forever
Sept. 17, 1993
I didn't write an entry yesterday because, aside from the usual classes, I didn't have much to write about. Today, however, I have a doozy to relate.
After my fencing class, I caught the bus back to Lourdes, showered, and fell in for a much needed nap. I figured I had, at least, two hours of deep slumber to indulge in.
Well, about halfway into my nap, and a nice little dream involving me, Cindy Crawford, a clown, and a stellar orgasm. Okay, there was no orgasm (and truthfully, no clown), because before I could attain that wondrous state, the most God-awful music ever to assail the ears came blaring from across the hallway from the room of Wuss 1 and Wuss 2.
I'm a happy person. A laid back person. A person you would like to meet and probably trust with your children should you go away for awhile and need a babysitter. There are, however, two things you should know. Number 1: do not wake me up unless you have a damn good reason. You will regret this. Number 2: if I'm having a Cindy Crawford nocturnal emission, there is no such thing as a damn good reason. If you see me sleeping and I have a smile that spreads from ear to ear, and my blankets appear to be hovering mysteriously around the groin area, you should let me sleep.
Thus, when I was awakened by a blaring stereo, the good-natured Ryan Rhodes you would be pleased to meet was nowhere to be found. Instead, I was filled with blind rage. There could have been two little old ladies listening to Big Band music and I still would have ripped into them.
As it was, I stormed across the hall into the room of Wuss 1 and Wuss 2 (their door is always fucking open), and I let loose a string of expletives that had the resident assistant running down the hall to find out what was wrong. Wuss 1 got right into my face and started screaming back at me.
"It's fucking 10:30 in the morning, you fucking wussy!" he shouted. "We can play any fucking music we want! Go back to your fucking room and shut up!"
"You'll turn that music down right now, or I swear I'll toss that stereo and all your speakers off this third floor and won't think twice about it!" I responded, throwing in a good chest push on Wuss 1 to augment my point.
"Ooooh, big fucking words, asshole!" he said, pushing back. "You don't see anyone else upset about the music do you? Go fuck yourself!"
With that, I sprinted down the hallway, knocking on 12 dorm room doors. Eventually, 16 people emerged from nine rooms, including the greasy guy I yelled at on the bus two days ago (he has since trimmed himself up and looks respectable) and I asked them to join me outside of Wuss 1 and Wuss 2's room.
"Who here is really annoyed by the music coming from the dorm room of these two monumental assholes?!" I asked the bewildered throng.
As proof that I'm probably the luckiest son of a bitch ever, everyone raised their hand, including Mr. Greasy, although I think he was just stunned that I was mad enough to rally half the dorm wing wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts with a smiley face on them. Like I said, don't wake me up during a wet dream. Ever.
Confronted with a unanimous vote, and a resident assistant now aligning himself with my superior numbers, Wuss 1 and Wuss 2 capitulated to my demands. My demands were as follows:
"Now, turn that fucking thing down, for now and forever, and if I ever have to come out of my room again because your music is too loud, I'll wake the entire fucking dorm to make my point. Thank you all, for coming out to support me. I'm going back to sleep."
I stood there, locking eyes with Wuss 1 as the rest of the crowd disbanded.
"You just made a major fucking enemy today, wussy," warned Wuss 1 as if I cared.
"Yes, and I'm sure you're a real threat to me," I retorted. "Go crawl back with your little buddy there and engage in whatever ass sex you two dabble in. And keep the music down."
I went back to into my room, certain that I had made the biggest mistake of my infant college career. I was about to crawl back into bed when there was a knock at the door. I swallowed hard, grabbed the doorknob, and swung open the heavy metal door, fully believing I was about to suffer the most insane ass kicking of my life. Instead, I was greeted by Mr. Greasy who was standing there grinning with his hand extended.
"Dude, that was the coolest thing I've ever seen anyone do," he marveled as I shook his hand. "I really, really want to party with you some time."
"Oh, um, look me up this weekend," I responded, somewhat blown away. "Sorry about the whole thing on the bus a couple days ago."
"No you're not," he said smiling. "But, you got me thinking. Besides, it's a good policy to keep crazy people like you on my side."
With that, we shook hands again, and I went back to sleep.
After that, the rest of my day was gravy.
When Cooler Heads Prevail
A couple recent MSNBC.com letters to the editor:
I consider every Muslim I see a terrorist until proven innocent. I am not ashamed of that opinion. Deal with it.
Jason Wunneburger
Denver, CO
Are you kidding me? Who cares how President Bush says "nuclear"? The only thing I care about is when we will use them on Iraq.
Kenneth Thoman
Shrewsbury, MA
