Friday Slack Attack
It's almost 4 p.m., and I can't for the life of me find the ambition to perform work-related tasks. Somehow, sifting through press releases for the product news section of our magazine and writing an article on the role of instant messaging software in the workplace just don't strike me as entertaining in the face of a waning Friday afternoon that actually allowed the sun to shine for a change. Instead, I want to do pointless, non-productive things, like write dirty limericks.
There once lived a hot looking mama,
Who's fellatio could put men through trauma.
She'd nibble and bite,
And wrap her lips tight.
Who knew head could entail so much drama?
An old man had a very large nut sac,
So he had surgery to have it cut back.
As for the extra skin,
The Doc kept it for him.
And it makes just an excellent backpack.
Okay, I'm sufficiently disturbed by my disgusting poetry. Back to work.
Yes It's Cold, But I'm Still Running
It has been a cold October, even by Minnesota standards. The temperature read 26 this morning, and I'm betting it wasn't much warmer last night as the tots of the world wrapped themselves in their scariest best and begged for candy.
Still, I've had an unusually lazy week, despite a mid-week visit by the girlfriend that resulted in much sweaty sex (shhhhh, I may be falling for her). I ran five miles on Sunday and I did two hours of hapkido Tuesday night, but that's been about it. I was feeling guilty about my lazy approach to the week, but I still opted for a two hour nap last night after work.
I wrestled free from my bed's warm embrace at 7:30, cursing myself for my snooze button addiction. I hurriedly donned my warm running outfit, strapped myself with my mp3 player, and ventured outdoors. And it was fucking cold! Holy balls! Determined to head off hypothermia and/or frostbite, I started running at an unusually fast clip.
About a mile into my jaunt, I acclimated to my cold surroundings, and my body started generating enough heat to activate a few sweat glands. With warmth taking control of my body, I was able to look around and fully appreciate my Halloween run.
Vehicles loaded with eager children, decked out in costumes they no doubt obsessed over for the last three weeks, ambled from door to door, with a parent behind the wheel wearing the obligatory multi-colored clown wig. Older children, more experienced when it came to the art of trick or treating, went door-to-door without parents, loading their bags with enough sweets to make Willy Wonka puke for hours.
Three miles into my run, I felt something smack the dead center of my back. I wasn't sure what it was, and I was too intent on my run to really give it much thought, so I kept on running. By this time, my whole body was damp with sweat, so stopping would have been monumentally stupid because it would have given the perspiration the excuse it needed to freeze. I had flashbacks to the Loony Toons St. Bernard with the cask of rum under the neck trying to thaw me out. No thank you. Must keep running.
After completing my five mile jaunt, I walked the final two blocks to the house, my entire body steaming in the crisp Minnesota air. I walked into the kitchen and removed my sweatshirt, only to discover an egg yolk in the direct center of the back.
Trick or treaters can be such fuckers.
Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker. Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker. Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker.
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.
Pondering a New computer
I received my contracting paycheck in the mail yesterday, so naturally I started mentally spending it before I even put it in my wallet. I've become a bit of a shameless spender the past couple of weeks, a sure indicator that winter's icy grasp has two fingers tickling my throat. When confronted with the onset of long dark evenings, I start buying things to help me while away the interminable darkness, such as purchasing Sims Unleashed and Alien vs. Predator 2.
Alas, it's become painfully evident that my 450 MHz Pentium III machine, built over two years ago, is woefully unable to keep up with the latest slew of computer games, so an upgrade is a must. Unfortunately, the computer guru who was my roommate three years ago and who helped me construct my last machine, is now married and living elsewhere, and I'm a technological fool when it comes to tinkering with computer innards.
I'm not against buying store bought computers, but I don't care for how many machines have video cards built in rather than removable. You can extend a computer's life for quite some time if you can dig around and upgrade video and audio cards. Also, I can't stand all the extra software they cram onto store bought computers, so I end up wiping everything clean and just installing Windows XP plain, no chocolate topping, no sprinkles, no AOL v. 128.
But, in my current position as an independent contractor for IBM, my tax preparer has assured me that now is the time to buy things in preparation for tax write-offs. And, topping the list of "I want" is a new computer, right away, no waiting for it to be manufactured and delivered. So, to you computer know-it-alls out there, please suggest the best brand name to buy off the shelf. Remember my #1 requirement: it must have removable video and audio cards. Thank you for your feedback.
So Glad I'm Not a Trooper
I went out to eat with my former college roommate and best friend, Troy, last night in Winona. He's now a Minnesota State Trooper working Winona County after a two year stint patrolling the metro area around Hennepin. Talking with Troy always serves as a reminder why I'm actually content to sit behind a desk while he deals with the dregs of society and the daily drama that ensues on highways due to accidents or just bad decisions.
We went to a bar for a beer, and there were pictures of a former waitress adorning the walls in tribute-like fashion. She died a few months ago due to a motorcycle accident (she wasn't wearing a helmet). I sat there, studying her pictures. She was a pretty thing, with a stellar figure and a stunning smile, obviously a girl who made friends easy and sent male libidos into overdrive.
"I had to do chest compressions on her," said Troy as he sipped his beer and toggled his glances between the photos and Monday Night Football.
"Really? I didn't know that," I said. "I knew you were on scene but I didn't know you were so involved."
"It was pointless," he muttered. "I could see blood squirting out of the back of her head each time I pushed down. Turned out that she didn't have a back of her head. It was gone."
Troy has seen more death and gore during the past four years, I can't even imagine. He's cleaned up after suicides, wiped brain residue off light posts, and has seen the charred remains of a motorist who was unable to escape his burning vehicle. And yet, he maintains a detached aura about him, as if the stench of death ceases to exist once he's off duty. It's an amazing mental trick, and I admire that strength about him. Still, I had to ask how he deals with seeing people his age or younger with their life force snuffed out, usually in the most gory way imaginable.
"You have to believe that each person has their time," he explained. "If you dwell on it too much, it could really start to bother you. I've seen pukes that have no reason to live walk away from accidents, and I've seen good people with bright futures killed by drunk drivers. If you believe that each person has their time, it's actually pretty easy to work around it."
We sipped our beers and watched the Eagles beat the Giants, while outside a distant siren wailed.
One Born Every Minute
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: The Oxygen equipment comes in either Wednesday or Thursday
Ryan says: The idea is going to tank. No pun intended.
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: It's supposed to be up and running at the mall on Friday
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: don't knock it until you try it
Ryan says: It's common sense. People in Minnesota, particularly Rochester, won't pay for air.
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: we'll see
Ryan says: People in Vegas will do it because they have too much money.
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: why don't you try it once, then tell me how it's going to tank
Ryan says: I have tried it. My brother and I sat in an oxygen bar in Colorado when we were skiing once.
Ryan says: Whoopty do.
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: I like it. So, whoopty do right back at ya
Ryan says: Okay, but would you pay for it on a regular basis?
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: yeah
Ryan says: People will try it out of curiosity, but they probably won't be return customers.
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: well, we were return customers in Vegas
Ryan says: And you somehow represent the population as a whole?
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: yes. I do
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: if this thing flies... then great. if not, then, I'll be siting and having oxygen at Tim's house
Ryan says: And, I'm simply stating my opinion that it won't be a hot seller in Rochester.
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: I don't know how it's going to fly in this hole in the wall city but, I know that I like it. And, I think there are other people out there who will too. who knos
Ryan says: http://webmd.lycos.com/content/article/1668.51681
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: That's just one person's opinion
Ryan says: Did you even read it?
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: Yes. But, I don't think that he's trying to say it's a cure for everything
Ryan says: It's not a person's opinion. It's a news article fully explaining the pros and cons.
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: too much of anything is not good for you. People have died from too much water
Ryan says: Yeah, it's called "drowning."
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: I don't see anything wrong with it
Ryan says: I didn't say there was anything wrong with it.
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: I'm getting the vibe from you that you might think it's not that good of an idea
Ryan says: Not in Rochester, no. In cities where people have money to spend on recreational air sniffing, sure.
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: I think people will do the same thing here
Ryan says: My personal feeling is that any perceived benefits are a result of placebo effect. You're strapped with an oxygen mask and told it will make you feel better, so it makes you feel better.
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: that could be to a point, but, I think it does help
Ryan says: Ask youself: If sniffing oxygen actually provided health benefits, why doesn't the medical community promote its use?
Here's a little known fact. Oxygen is actually a poison. It's the reason we age.
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: Oxygen is used in medical purposes. there are people who have oxygen tanks
Ryan says: Yeah, because their lung capacity is such that they can't saturate their red blood cells with O2. The average healthy person already has as much oxygen as their red blood cells can carry.
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: thanks, Ryan
Ryan says: Go ahead and believe what you want. Just don't claim to be informed about it. My point is that oxygen bars are the equivalent of herbal remedies. They make health claims without medical testing or medical backing.
Ryan says:
If it makes you feel better, great, just don't expect me to pay for a snoot of oxygen ever again. Been there, done that, didn't do anything for me.
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: I don't think they are making medical claims at all. I just like how it helps me in a better mood
Ryan says: Try eating chocolate. It's cheaper.
lisaheins@hotmail.com says: it's more fattening. I like the idea of a possible way for weight loss without drugs.
Ryan says: Do you honestly believe that sitting and sniffing O2 will help people lose weight?
Let's Play Password
IBM does so love its passwords.
I've been wandering the hallways of Big Blue for three years now, and I've become accustomed to the company's near-schizophrenic obsession with passwords. I have to type in a password to access the Internet, the intranet and my e-mail. I need a password to access my voice mail, and I must remember a three-digit combination to enter the print room.
But, it's not enough that I have these passwords. No, every six months I have to come up with new passwords because my old passwords may have become compromised, as if there are outside hackers intent on crashing into my inbox to view my edits and comments to the last four magazine articles. As far as sensitive IBM material goes, I'm somewhere between a press release and a memorandum that smoking is only permitted outside the building. In other words, I don't have access to the design specs of anything even remotely valuable. So, why do I have to keep updating my passwords?
"Because," says IBM. "We think it's fun to torment you with frustrating shit like this that totally eats into your productivity."
So, I come into IBM today and am confronted by a sea of e-mails telling me that my passwords for the Internet and intranet will expire in 14 days. To head off the impending date, I was supposed to click the provided link, which I did. I was whisked away to a magical world where I entered my e-mail, current password, and a new password. I like to keep things simple, so I just kept the guts of my password intact and simply changed the middle number from "1" to "2." Well, IBM will have none of that, mister.
No, I was informed that new passwords cannot resemble old passwords. This must be a recent policy change by IBM, because I've been toggling between the same two passwords for the last three years without a hitch. So, I broke out a pen and paper and jotted down a new, totally different password, and tacked it on my desk so I don't forget it. Now, I realize that it kind of flies in the face of security to have my passwords tacked up on my desk for all the world to see, but I'm here to tell you that everybody does it. Peruse any IBM office and you'll see pictures of friends and family members interspersed with password reminders.
IBMer: That's little Kelly. She's four years old now. And that's Steven. He turned eight last week. And that's a piece of paper with my new passwords for the Internet and intranet: Kelly4 and Steven8.
Armed with a totally new password, I went back and typed in the information, only to be greeted by a warning that the password information I provided was incorrect. Incorrect? How the hell is that possible? I know what my current password is. I've been using it without incident for the past six months. So, I go back and try it again, only to be greeted by the same frustrating warning. Apparently, the password that I know is right is actually wrong, and I can't change my password until I enter the correct old password. So, now I'm getting pissed.
I click a different link that brings up a Web page where I have to enter my e-mail information, authorizing a machine somewhere to automatically change my password and send me an e-mail notice that will include my new password. No problem. If I can't change my own password, I'll let the Hal 9000 do it for me. I toggle back to my e-mail and get my new password, a nonsense jumble of numbers and letters that can only be memorized by Stephen Hawking and possibly a few idiot savants.
Back to the password change page I go. I re-enter my e-mail information, insert the new computer-generated password, and suggest a new password. And. . .
And the same damned warning page appears, telling me my password information is incorrect. What?! How can an IBM computer disagree with a password generated by another IBM computer? Come to think of it, how can any work be done anywhere within IBM when all the employees spend two hours changing passwords to no avail? I think it's all part of some strange test to see how much idiocy a person can endure.
Whatever the reason, I still don't have a new password, and I have no idea how to change it. There's only one solution.
I need to find a new job within 14 days.
"I Really Dig Kitty Litter" c. Ryan Rhodes, April 11, 2002
I experienced a groundbreaking revelation last week as I read the online news at MSNBC.com. According to one of their news reports, a county in Nevada is disputing the mining rights to a local rich deposit of kitty litter clay. Kitty litter is mined? I did not know this.
Now, I've never owned a cat, and aside from occasionally finding lumps of cat droppings in my sandbox as a child, I never really gave that much thought to kitty litter. Well, that's not entirely true. I remember laughing uncontrollably when I went to the neighbor's to play and their cat would go through the ritual of raking its cat box with its paws and then settling in with a "Do you mind?" expression on its face.
Little did I realize, however, that the dust free pebbles that absorb moisture and mask odors are, in fact, the result of extensive mining efforts of tireless men working in dangerous conditions at the bottom of massive kitty litter pit-mines. Intrigued, I decided to learn all I could about kitty litter mining.
My quest began on the Internet, where I logged onto Yahoo! and did a search on "kitty litter mining." The results were astounding.
Apparently, kitty litter was invented in 1947 by a man named Ed Lowe who suggested his neighbor try using clay instead of sand to fill her cat box. Mr. Lowe was a St. Paul, Minn., native, which begs the question why our license plates don't read "Birthplace of Kitty Litter" instead of "Land of 10,000 Lakes." Although I was pleased to know that Lowe was the founder of Tidy Cat, my thirst for kitty litter mining information remained unquenched. Back to the Web.
Although I was able to find all sorts of information about kitty litter -- did you know the name of a common kitty litter clay is Fullers Earth? -- I simply couldn't find out what type of techniques are used to unearth the precious poo clumping rock.
I don't know. I guess I always had a romantic notion of mining: rugged individualists fighting the odds, and nature, to locate a rich ore vein guaranteed to make them rich beyond their wildest dreams.
Myself, I would have a tough time admitting that I'm a kitty litter miner. Now, gold mining, that's different: the rugged look of a bedraggled gold miner hidden behind a thick beard, his eyes worn by countless dashed hopes; that's mining. Somehow, wielding a pick ax in the name of feline freshness just lacks something. Eureka, I have found a rich vein of Fresh Step!!
HANK: Hey, Jim, I'm a' going up into the mountains again. Probably be gone a few months. I have a good feeling this time.
JIM: Aw, what are you doing, Hank? Yer not chasing after that kitty litter dream of yours again, are ya? When you gonna give that up?
HANK: You watch your tongue, Jim, fore I go an' slice it outta yore mouth!
JIM: Look at yerself, Hank. Just look at yerself. Yer flat broke. Ya lost four fingers the last time ya went up there. Yer covered in cat hair. And, I gotta be honest, Hank, yer not smelling all that good lately.
HANK (faraway look in his eyes): Ya just don't get it Jim. Ya just don't know what I know.
JIM: And what do ya know Hank? Just what do ya know?
HANK: Thar's litter in them hills.
I would be most remiss if I didn't also present a dark side to the kitty litter industry. Apparently, environmentalists take umbrage with kitty litter, maintaining the mining is an affront to the landscape and that kitty litter dust itself is a health hazard.
So, the next time you refill Fluffy's cat box, take a moment to fully appreciate the magical rock into which your favorite feline relieves itself. Let the clay pebbles fall through your fingers; marvel at the super-absorbent nature of the clay. And remember the rallying cry of bygone miners who labored to bring you the precious substance.
Thar's litter in them hills.
