"The Lighter Side of Funerals" c. Ryan Rhodes, Sept. 23, 2002
It's widely understood that there's very little to laugh about when it comes to death and funerals. Traditionally, funerals are somber affairs, with all sorts of weeping and emotional memorial tributes.
According to a Sept. 17 Reuters news item out of Rome, Italy, however, there are apparently some enterprising individuals determined to put the fun back in funeral.
To quote the article, death is hardly something to look forward to, but one Italian funeral home is trying to make the afterlife a tad more tempting by using bikini-clad women to sell its coffins. Cisa srl, a Rome-based funeral home and coffin factory, features its hand-crafted caskets alongside models sipping champagne or reclining seductively on the lids.
Now, when I first read this story, I could scarcely believe it. So, I logged onto the Cisa Web site to see for myself. I assure you, my desire to peruse the site had everything to do with journalistic curiosity and nothing to do with my desire to see bikini-clad women sipping champagne and reclining seductively.
Lo and behold, with a couple clicks of the mouse, I was confronted with exquisitely carved coffins complemented by women wearing next to practically beckoning me to the afterlife.
One casket, called the Madonna, includes brilliantly chiseled features and perfect flowing curves. And the casket really isn't that bad either.
Upon closer inspection, it was revealed that the images of female models are, in fact, superimposed over photos of the caskets.
With a little more journalistic sleuthing, I discovered that at least one model, Asia Carrera, is a big name in the adult film industry. I won't say exactly how I uncovered this tidbit of information. Suffice it to say, it was some of the most fulfilling research I've ever done in my entire life.
"We wanted to make the whole idea of picking your coffin less serious, maybe even make people laugh a bit," Giuseppe Tenara, one of the partners, said.
I don't know if Cisa's unique casket marketing strategy will be successful, but if it is, I'm relatively certain the enterprise will ensure a long line of happy stiffs, er, customers. Then again, I could be wrong. Still, not all clients have been charmed.
"Some people are scandalized, but we just explain that we're trying to make people laugh," Tenara said.
For those corpses that really want to see the world rather than scantily clad women, we turn to yet another Sept. 17 Reuters article, this time out of San Jose, Calif.
The body of a California man headed for burial in his native Mexico mistakenly ended up in Greece and weeping relatives only discovered the mix-up when they opened the casket and found a stranger inside.
Now, this is no minor-league misplacement of Delta Airlines luggage. In this columnist's opinion, a mix-up such as this requires a monumental level of incompetence.
BAGGAGE HANDLER #1: So, anyway, Chuck. There I was in a traffic jam yesterday when this one guy cuts me off. I was so mad, I got out of my car and. . .
BAGGAGE HANDLER #2: Whoa! Hold on, Tony! Did you check the destination on that casket? I think it's supposed to go to Mexico, not Greece.
BAGGAGE HANDLER #1: Greece. Mexico. What's the difference? So, anyway, I got out of my car and. . .
Delta spokeswoman Peggy Estes said on Monday the airline was conducting an investigation to determine whether proper procedures for transporting human remains were followed.
I haven't really been brushing up on my procedures for transporting human remains, but I'm pretty sure that, if a body ends up half-a-world away from its intended destination, someone took some liberties with the procedures somewhere along the line.
Or, perhaps the wayward corpse was once heard to say during his living years that "I'll journey to Greece over my dead body."
Then again, maybe, just maybe, he had heard that there's some pretty racy coffins in Italy.
I guess we'll never know. But will Shakira know? Here's a list of celebrities in the hopes I boost my Web traffic. Sarah Chalke. Sarah Chalke. Ciara. Carrie Underwood. Carrie Underwood. Catherine Zeta Jones. Catherine Zeta Jones. Alison Angel. Dawson Miller. Raylene Richards. Sarah Chalke. Sarah Chalke.
blogging? It's Like This. . .
I feel compelled to splash yet more black text against this monotonous turquoise background, and I have no idea why. Well, part of the reason is because it's one of a multitude of distractions that beckon me away from actual work productivity.
ME: Okay, I must focus. I must complete this 3,000 word article about a META study that features favorable findings about iSeries and pSeries and. . . hmmmm, I wonder what the news headlines are today. I think I'll check. Huh. We're still talking about invading Iraq. We've been doing that for how long? I know the pen is supposed to be mightier than the sword, but it seems like we're wasting a lot of money on ink here. Hmmm, as long as I'm online, I should check to see what Lileks and Layne and Minx and Tammy and all the other bloggers have to say today. Oooh, I should quick catch up on Dave Barry and see what his latest column was about. Ah, that was funny. Where was I? Oh, yes, work. I was going to do some work. But first, I should quick check my blog for comments. You know what? As long as I'm here, I think I'll click on the Blogger link and write something. I'd hate to deny my writing muse. There, I updated my blog. Huh, would you look at that, it's time for lunch. I'll really focus on work when I get back in the office, but I'm hungry right now.
And so it goes. I think it's a fair estimation that my workday consists of 70 percent slacking and 30 percent actual productivity. But hey, I guess I get all my work done by deadline, so I must be doing something right.
Girlfriend haiku
Her hair crimson red
Emerging from the shower
Yes, she is stunning
Arrrrr, Blow Me Down
I'm a print journalist. I've always been a print journalist, an unseen apparition conjuring the written word for newspapers and magazines, preferring to remain anonymous while my writing speaks for itself.
I'm often perplexed by the antics of broadcast journalists. I'm not talking about the revered and stoic talking heads like Tom Brokaw, Peter Jennings and Dan Rather. They at least have the common decency to sit in one place and read the day's news to us, an eager tribal crowd gathered around the flickering flames of the television campfire, soaking in the wisdom and words of our beloved tribal elder Dan "Speaks The Truth" Rather.
It's the stunt journalists who bother me, the Ashleigh Banfield's of the world, shameless self-promoters who will do practically anything to get a dramatic shot of something that is, by and large, not that dramatic. In Banfield's case, she climbed the Brooklyn Bridge in a pathetic attempt to show the Banfield-starved masses that American suspension bridges are *gasp* vulnerable to terrorist attack. I really didn't have to see Ashleigh huff and puff her way to the top of a bridge to know that bridges are potential terrorist targets. Although, truth be told, I probably had several small sexual fantasies as I watched her huff and puff. She is disturbingly cute after all.
But, we don't have to just look and gape and ogle and drool over Ashleigh Banfield to see pointless stunt journalism in action. Take the huge, massive, terrifying currently unfolding story of the minor hurricane Lili. No sooner had the storm hit U.S. shores, than news crews were standing on the wharves, intent on getting that wind-blown, driving rain camera shot that proves, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that hurricanes consist of strong winds and driving rains. Um, I actually already knew that. I don't need to see a poncho-wearing newscaster with rain spattered spectacles telling me exactly what I already know. Yet there they stand, wind whipping by so fast, you can barely hear what they're trying to scream into the camera.
DRENCHED NEWSCASTER: As you can see behind me, Lili is a truly dangerous storm! I was almost decapitated a moment ago by an airborne cat clawing desperately at the air! You'll notice that my poncho is flapping violently! That's because Lili is packing strong gusts of wind! Wind, as you know, is air moving at a high velocity in a certain direction! I'm able to stay firmly planted on this wharf because I have lashed myself to this wooden pole! As an added precaution, I hammered a 30 inch spike through the pole and inserted it into my anus! You can't take chances with powerful winds like these!
Can't they just set up a camera on the beach and deliver the news from the warmth and dryness of the newsroom? It seems perfectly reasonable to me. I mean seriously, if they're going to go to such extremes to show us a powerful maritime storm, they should pull out all the stops and start talking like an old salt of the sea.
DRENCHED PIRATE NEWSCASTER: Arrrrr! We be having a bit of what me mateys call a gale! Ye see behind me an angry sea, a sea that eats sailors for dinner the way a scurvy dog that hasn't eaten in days laps up its own droppings. Arrrrr! Thar be a lot of wind a'blowin here. The last time I got blown around like this at sea was when that saucy little whore tried stowin' away on me ship. Lili was her name!
"Wart of the Worlds" c. Ryan Rhodes, Sept. 30, 2002
When I was in elementary school, I forget which grade exactly, I had 32 individual warts on my left hand. You read that right. I had 32 individual warts on my left hand, all at one time. My left hand looked more like a miniature mountain range than a human appendage.
I won't lie to you, it was difficult to traverse the brutal cultural landscape of elementary school while sporting a left hand that looked fresh from a toxic waste accident. Even peers sporting childhood warts of their own were shocked at the sheer number of warty bumps decorating my hand.
It was my own fault, really. When my first wart sprouted in the direct center of my palm, just under the middle finger, I regarded it as a novelty that needed to be played with, and by played with I mean I jabbed at it repeatedly with a sewing needle. In my mind, I figured that, if I poked deeply and frequently enough, and drew a satisfactory amount of blood, the wart would simply surrender and leave my hand. It was this type of reasoning that ensured I would never, in any way, shape or form, enter the medical profession.
As it was, all my incessant jabbing and poking apparently just made the wart mad. It grew to astounding dimensions, so much so that I sometimes wondered if I was sprouting a new finger.
Eventually, I became aware of other warts springing forth from the base of Mt. Wartmore. In a few short months, entire communities of warts took hold on my tiny hand. No portion of fleshy hand real estate was spared. I had warts all over my palm, on my fingers, and even on the webbing at the base of each finger. In all, 32 warts called my hand home.
How do I know I had 32 warts? Because, one day during school, I took a black pen and put an X over each wart as I counted it, ensuring each wart would be counted once. If only the state of Florida had access to my state-of-the-art wart counting system, we never would have had the whole presidential election debacle of 2000.
I was actually more amused by my 32 warts than anything else. At that age, the wives' tale about toads peeing on you being responsible for warts was not so much a deterrent as it was an invitation to pick toads up and squeeze them. Therefore, I was actually somewhat proud of my warts for awhile.
It wasn't until we started our dance unit in gym that I realized girls did not want to hold hands with Warty McWarts-a-Lot. Suddenly, my hefty handful of warts didn't seem quite as cool. So, my mother bought me a product called Compound W in a belated attempt to combat my wart infestation.
Because covering 32 warts with Compound W would have been a Herculean task, and because coating them all on a regular basis with the expensive liquid would have surely put my family in bankruptcy, I opted to concentrate my efforts on the mother wart that started all the madness in the first place.
Slowly, very slowly, the great wart volcano in the center of my hand started to shrink, and it eventually disappeared all together. The rest of the warts, now without a larger-than-life leader, just kind of laid down their swords and vanished as well.
I remained wart free from elementary school on. . .until about two months ago. As I sat at my computer one night, I realized I had a strange bump on my right thumb. I inspected the yellowish bump and dismissed it as a callous, the result of repetitive tapping of the space bar.
As the callous became larger and more uncomfortable, however, I started to suspect the mother wart from all those years back may have migrated to my right thumb, intent on re-establishing her 32 wart empire.
Determined to settle my own personal argument as to whether the mound on my thumb was a callous or a wart, I consulted numerous medical Web sites until I found a picture of both. Imagine my surprise when I saw an exact replica of my thumb bump, apparently on someone else's hand! There could be no doubt about it. The mother wart had returned.
So, I went out and purchased a bottle of trusty Compound W, intent on doing battle with the mother wart before she could spawn 31 offspring.
As I unscrewed the cap and the familiar alcohol-heavy odor of the wart weapon wafted noseward, I knew I was going to win this war before it started.
And even if Compound W doesn't work, I think I have a sewing needle sitting around here someplace.
Message Sparring With Mandy
Mandy says: your blog does not like me any more
Mandy says: never mind--it finally let me in
Ryan says: It was giving me problems earlier today, but it's fine now.
Ryan says: I activated the patented Mandy filter.
Mandy says: that's not very nice
Mandy says: i even left a comment
Ryan says: I see that. Your spelling has improved dramatically.
Mandy says: i have always known how to spell
Mandy says: it's typing that causes the problem
Mandy says: i was spelling bee queen
Ryan says: Yes, but Texas spelling is totally different than regular spelling.
Mandy says: oh sheesh--and btw, does the gf know about the blog?
Ryan says: Normal people spell things like "PROFESSIONAL"
Ryan says: In Texas, however, it becomes "PROFESSIONY'ALL"
Mandy says: are you ragging on my texan status now?
Mandy says: is nothing sacred?
Ryan says: Indeed.
Ryan says: Hmmm, this conversation would make a great blog entry.
Mandy says: next thing i know, you are going to make fun of republicans
Ryan says: Don't even get me started on those environmental rapists.
Mandy says: or our very own Dubya
Ryan says: The W stands for WAR!
Mandy says: maybe he wasn't the best example.
Ryan says: Is he the best example for anything?
Mandy says: um, we make damn good bar-b-que and i don't have to scrape my windshield in winter. 2 points for texas
Ryan says: You have scorpions and the Dallas Cowboys. Points nullified.
Mandy says: Dallas has the Cowboys, no one else here claims them.
Mandy says: and we don't have scorpions in the city
Mandy says: are we back to the stereotype of tractors, boots, hats, oil rigs, etc.?
Ryan says: Don't forget chewing tobacco and shotgun racks in trucks.
Mandy says: how could i forget?
Mandy says: the aforementioned requirements only apply to the country folk as stated in the rulebook on page 37, clause C
Ryan says: Ah, yes, in the classic book, "Texas For Dummies," which is a redundant title when you think about it.
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I've never been in debt. Okay, that's not entirely true. Yes, I've been in the kind of debt where I had to make car payments, and I'm currently in the kind of debt that says I have to make house payments.
I've never been in credit card debt, however. Truth be told, I've never even owned a credit card. I don't trust them. I've been conditioned not to trust them thanks to many years of living with college roommates.
Most of my college roommates had this weird outlook on credit cards. Basically, they thought credit cards were magical pieces of plastic that just magically paid for things and that they were somehow immune from the the ensuing debt that came about due to excessive credit card spending.
I'll admit it: I was sort of jealous of my roommates and their magical credit cards. After all, they always seemed to have money and, if they didn't, they just whipped out their credit cards. Books? Put them on the credit card. Food? Put it on the credit card. Night out at a strip club? credit card.
And yet there I was writing checks and budgeting like a fool. I remember thinking that I was doing everything all wrong. I mean, there I would sit, meticulously lording over my finances, while my roommates went waltzing all over town swiping their credit cards with the careless glee of a six-year-old with a loaded pistol.
Then, one year, I was a roommate with a guy named Chad. Chad was actually a former high school classmate of mine. He was, and is, a tech-head. He's one of those guys who was born to know technology. Way back in elementary school, he taught me how to write simple programs for the Apple IIc, and he always just seemed to know everything about computers.
But he didn't know shit about personal finances. He whipped out any one of his many credit cards with the swiftness and ease of a Old West gunslinger. By the time we became roommates, he had already accrued over $10,000 in credit card debt.
I remember thinking what an incredibly large amount of money that seemed to be, especially when I factored in the understanding that he also received financial aid, and that he also worked. Granted, he worked at the local Brach's candy factory on the Gummi Bear line, which paid about as well as you might imagine, but it was still money, so I came to the conclusion that old Chad was a pretty carefree spender.
Well, one day, I popped into Chad's outrageously messy room where I noticed, tucked between two huge bags of pilfered defective Gummi Bears, a credit card notice that was slugged "Urgent!" and another that was slugged "Immediate Payment Required" and still another that read "We Break Fingers And Toes."
Then the calls started coming in, usually two or three a day. "Is Mr. Haugen available? We really need to speak with him." No, he's not here. "Are you sure you're not really Mr. Haugen?" Yes, I'm sure. "Well, when he comes in, have him call Mike at Discover immediately." *sound of shotgun cocking* Will do.
Chad was masterful when it came to avoiding creditors. He always seemed to leave the apartment just two or three minutes before a creditor called. It was like he had some sort of sixth sense. Which was all fine and dandy, except that I ended up being the intermediary between Chad and the creditors, so I got to absorb all the impatient anger and suspicion of basically every credit card company on the planet.
It was the day a creditor appeared, in person, at our doorstep that I realized Chad's debt situation was probably more dire than Chad cared to admit. There was a knock at the door, I answered, and a gentleman in a suit that looked both impressive and threatening stood before me. He asked to see a Mr. Chad Haugen, at which point I heard a little scuffling emanating from Chad's room as Chad scurried out the back entrance which, conveniently, was located at the far end of his bedroom.
We chatted together, the ominous creditor and me, for about an hour, waiting for Chad to get home, even though, of course, there was no way in holy hell Chad was going to make an appearance while that guy was in our apartment. I even had to produce my ID, so the creditor was satisfied that I wasn't, in fact, Chad Haugen.
After that, I believe, Chad ended up getting a loan from his parents, or somebody, so he could pay off his credit card debt at least enough to keep the creditors at bay. He eventually got a job working at IBM, which was a long-assed commute from Winona to Rochester, but paid a whole lot more than the Gummi Bear line.
As for me, Chad's experience with credit cards pretty much scared me away from plastic for good.
The Problem With Staying Current
I had to mess up some time.
I've been scoring major guy points with the redhead I've been seeing for about three months. I've gotten her flowers for no reason (good points), I've spent a couple weekends in the cities with her and went to her friend's birthday celebration (decent points), and I remembered her mentioning that she was trying to build a Disney DVD collection and her next purchase was going to be Monsters Inc., which I bought for her and surprised her with (mega super good points).
Then, she started sniffing around, asking me how many of my friends knew about her. As far as I know, all my friends know about her, though most have not yet met her. That pleased her. Then she asked me if my parents knew about her, which they do. But. . .
Refinancing.Discover New york city attorneys.
"Oh, yeah, my parents know all about you," I said as I tapped away at my computer.
"And what do they say?" she asked, obviously fishing for some sort of affirmation that my parents living in Tokyo approve of her or something.
"They said it sounds like my current girlfriend sounds really nice," I said, and I immediately knew which word I uttered totally did not belong.
"Current girlfriend? Oh, that's real nice," she said, obviously miffed. I dropped my chin to my chest, frantically thinking of some way to rectify the situation.
"Well, currently, you're my girlfriend, right?" I asked as I turned to look at her, lying naked on my bed beneath the sheets. I left my desk and joined her under the covers, hoping my close proximity would somehow defuse her agitation.
"Current just kind of lumps me with all the other women," she said, and I had to smile as I imagined a Ryan Rhodes harem of 30 women lumped together in an erotic game of Twister. Granted, saying she was my current girlfriend really didn't sound good, but at the same time it was totally true and honest. She is my current girlfriend. The more I thought about it, the more justified I felt, so I pressed the issue once more.
"Think about it," I said. "We could be going out for three years, and you'd still be my current girlfriend."
"I just don't like the word current," she shot back. "It diminishes my importance."
This was a very good point, but since I had pretty much erased all the points I accrued with the flowers and Monsters Inc., I thought I'd go further in the red.
"So, how should I introduce you to people?" I asked. "Should I say, 'this is Melissa, she's the successor to the throne of my previous girlfriends.'"
She dug her toenail into my calf.
"You're not being funny," she warned, and I knew I was treading dangerously close to an unknown precipice.
So, I flipped on the TV and turned to "Trading Spaces" on TLC and I actually enjoyed watching it. I think I earned a few points with that.
As current girlfriends go, she's easy to please.
