I Owe My Life to Video Games
For those of you out there who believe video games are a one way ticket to nowhere, with a left turn toward geekdom, let me just tell you, I owe my life to video games.
No, I don't mean video games saved my life in some sort of freakish scenario where, if I hadn't been playing video games at 4 a.m. that one night, I never would have smelled the smoke and evacuated the apartment complex before it burned to the ground, although that would really be sweet.
Rather, I owe my current state in life, complete with technical writer geek work, to my love for video games. I started out as most people my age did, with hazy memories of playing Pong at a relative's house. I didn't understand everything involved, but I knew I was controlling the action on a television set, and that in itself was pretty amazing. From Pong I graduated to Atari, and from Atari to my neighbor's Texas Instruments computer that played a hokey game called "Buck Rogers." It was the first computer I had ever seen. It looked like a TV, but not quite. I was intrigued.
I then went through the transition from Nintendo, to Sega, to Sega Saturn, but it wasn't until I saw "Command and Conquer: Red Alert" being played in college that I fully started to understand how important computers were if I was to continue killing time in a high tech way. So, I traded in my Macintosh Performa 305, a machine that was primarily only good for word processing, for a Compaq Presario with a 200 MGhz processor, considered screaming fast at the time.
So, if it weren't for Red Alert, I wouldn't have explored Windows-based PCs, and I wouldn't have learned all the nuances of the maddening operating system, and I wouldn't have picked up all the required skills that allowed me to waltz into my last two jobs. So, here I am at IBM, writing technical articles for a geeky magazine, installing software occasionally for my co-workers, marveling at the strange back-door method by which I was able to turn a journalism major into a potentially lucrative career.
So you see, I owe my life to video games. I just really wish I was playing one right now.
Here's a list of celebrities in an attempt to boost traffic:
Tyra Banks. Adriana Lima. Heidi Klum. Kate Moss. Cindy Crawford . Rachel Hunter . Gisele Bundchen . Jessica Alba . Jessica Simpson . Namrata Singh Gujral. Cerina Vincent. Lauren Lee Smith. Tawny Cypress. Jayma Mays. Rose Byrne. Natalia Tena. Carice van Houten. Sonya Walger. Michelle Ryan. Alice Braga. Kristen Stewart. Katie Leung. Vera Jordanova. Mia Maestro. Ninel Conde.
Safety First
I am by no means complaining here, but it sure seems as though kids today have things a lot safer than when I was their age. When I was twelve, there were skateboards, and there are still skateboards today, but today the riders are more heavily armored than most Abrams tanks.
When I hopped on a skateboard in my youth, I only had my skin and perhaps a tee-shirt to cushion any potential falls. Wearing a helmet or shin pads or elbow pads was a sure indicator that you were at best a wussy and at worst a momma's boy geek nerd. So, I would hop aboard, roll down a large hill, attain speeds that would rip the wings of a stealth bomber, hit a pebble, and do my very best to keep my head from smacking the concrete, dashing what little brains I had onto the street. Then I would run home, pour hydrogen peroxide on all my fresh wounds, and go bolting out the door for another trek down the hill.
And that's another thing. We just had hills. Oh, sure, if we were lucky we had a couple of cinder blocks and a warped piece of plywood to create a makeshift ramp that would cause Evil Knievel to cringe in horror. But kids today have entire skate parks to play in. I mean, come on! Skate parks? Why, back in my day, all those 15 years ago or so, the concept of such a niche park built for kids was unheard of.
In fact, parks of yore in general weren't particularly safe for kids. Nowadays, elaborate jungle gyms are so well protected with padding and fences, they could be used to house the mentally insane. But back when I was crawling around park equipment, such safety measure were not enforced.
Indeed, you had to absord a certain amount of schoolyard wisdom to know where on the merry-go-round a jagged piece of metal jutted forth, causing nasty rips in both clothes and skin. It was just generally understood that you didn't ride or approach the merry-go-round at that dangerous spot. Nothing was every done about the metal. No janitor ever came by to hammer it away. That would be too sensible.
It was just there, an angry rusted metal tooth just waiting for an unwary child to wander within range. Of course, it's not dangerous enough as it is. No. You have to get the merry-go-round spinning, so now you have what amounts to a kid-sized rotary saw. The rest of us would just watch, unable, or unwilling, to say anything. It was a rite of passage to be bitten by that particular spot on the merry-go-round. It was just a matter of where and when you were bitten. The deeper the gouge, and the more exotic the locale, the more playground respect was bestowed upon you.
And slides! Was there ever a more notorious playground invention than the slide? Here's an idea, let's take a child, perhaps seven or eight, and tell him or her to climb a ladder to, well, nowhere. You just climb, and when you get to the top, at a height so daunting for a youngster you think you can actually touch the face of the sun, you're given two choices. You can either wuss out and climb back down, which isn't really an option because you have extreme playground standing due to the massive merry-go-round gash you suffered only inches from your groin. As far as the the other kids are concerned, you're practically a god. You can't back down the slide ladder. Gods simply don't do that.
So, you opt to sit down and propel yourself down the slide, on a gleaming metal surface so hot it was actually used by cafeteria staff to cook pizzas. Despite your sizzling skin, you remain stoic, because, remember, you're still a god. With a massive push-off, you try to slide down the stove-top, only to stop about two feet later with a "squeek" as your shorts ride up and you're brought to a halt by the friction of butt-cheek on metal. So, you scoot forwared a little bit, push off, and two feet later repeat the prodedure. At the bottom, with the majority of your legs and behind now suffering third-degree burns, you run back to the ladder to start the process all over again.
And that's if you were lucky! One of the slides in my neighborhood, which was about 15 feet or so high, had no barriers at the top preventing a child from plummeting into thin air, which is exactly what I did. I just remember I was at the top, and I was getting into the squat position to ride down, when suddenly I just kind of felt myself falling through space. After a brief 15 foot fall, I landed flat on my back, on a child-trampled ground that was so hard it might as well have been concrete. My tiny body let out a terrific "WHOOF!" as all the air was pushed out of my lungs.
I had never before suffered the ordeal of having the wind knocked out of my body and, as I crawled around below the slide, strangely unable to suck in even the smalled whiff of air, I believed for all the world that I was just seconds away from death. My life flashed before my eyes, and all the visions had to do with merry-go-rounds and slides. After several seconds of total panic, I was finally able to suck in a few painful gasps of precious air, at which point I started one of the most mournful, wailing cries of my entire little life. I walked home, crying all the way, and I trie to explain my ordeal to my father, who kissed my forehead and told me to wash up for dinner, because he had cooked hamburgers. "But, but, but. . . I almost DIED!!! Still, hamburgers sound pretty good actually."
And don't even get me started on swingsets!
Now, in an attempt to boost Web traffic, here's a list of famous women:
Christina Aguilera. Jessica Alba. Lindsay Lohan. Jenny McCarthy. Christina Hendricks. Kate Hudson. Christina Hendricks. Christina Aguilera. Jessica Alba. Lindsay Lohan. Heidi Klum. Angelina Jolie. Christina Aguilera. Jessica Alba. Lindsay Lohan. Jenny McCarthy. Christina Hendricks. Kate Hudson. Christina Hendricks. Christina Aguilera. Jessica Alba. Lindsay Lohan. Heidi Klum. Angelina Jolie.
What Was He Thinking?
I know, I know, the story of Michael Jackson dangling his youngest son from a fourth floor balcony has already been done to death. However, I simply can't help myself because the visuals are just too rich. So, let's play a game called "What's is Michael Saying or Thinking." Simply click Yahoo.com/news?tmpl=story&u=/021119/170/2pxkm.html">this link, study the picture, and come back and comment what you think The Gloved One is saying or thinking in the photo. Winner gets the glowing satisfaction of being a winner. I'll start us off. . .
"God, I'm such a great father!"
"I wonder if his head can fit in my mouth."
"Hey, you people down there! Catch!"
"Do you like my little Klansman?"
"At-choo!"
"Oh, his mother is going to chew me out for this one."
"And I remove the handkerchief and *poof,* the baby becomes a rabbit!"
"Yes, world! I really am this fucked up!"
"Gosh, it sure feels good to be out of that courtroom and endangering the life of my child."
"AHHHHHHHH! I'm such a freak!"
WOW! Those Chips Are Good
For those not familiar with WOW! potato chips, let me explain why I think they're just totally super awesome. In short, they make you poop suddenly. I'm not kidding. I was sitting at my desk yesterday afternoon when, out of the blue, I realized I had to crap really, really, really bad. I briefly considered hunkering down over my trash can because I wasn't sure I could make it down the hall to the bathroom.
WOW! chips are cooked in Olestra, a funky oil-like substance that isn't absorbed by the body. Therefore, they're virtually fat free and they honestly taste like regular potato chips. However, right there on the bag, the consumer is warned that ingesting the chips "May Cause Loose Stools and Fecal Urgency." I want to know what politically correct genius conjured the term "fecal urgency," a benign wording that really means your ass becomes a cannon in the blink of an eye. Apparently, all that free-flowing Olestra swimming in the gut greases the chute, making a frictionless surface that acts as a fecal water slide.
So, I ate an entire bag last night. I'm anticipating something ugly to happen in about an hour.
Tyra Banks. Adriana Lima. Heidi Klum. Kate Moss. Cindy Crawford . Rachel Hunter . Gisele Bundchen . Jessica Alba . Jessica Simpson . Namrata Singh Gujral. Cerina Vincent. Lauren Lee Smith. Tawny Cypress. Jayma Mays. Rose Byrne. Natalia Tena. Carice van Houten. Sonya Walger. Michelle Ryan. Alice Braga. Kristen Stewart. Katie Leung. Vera Jordanova. Mia Maestro. Ninel Conde.
"Rhodes Versus the Rodent" c. Ryan Rhodes, Nov. 10, 2002
A couple of weekends ago, I was visiting my girlfriend in St. Paul and, for a brief moment, I genuinely believed my car was about to be stolen. . . by a squirrel.
I know, I know; squirrels can't steal automobiles. However, the next time you endure a traumatic rodent takeover of your vehicle, you just see how much common sense you display.
So, there I was, sitting in my car, preparing to go to a gas station. I was just about to close the driver's side door when I heard a commotion outside that involved screeching tires. I like to think that a wayward squirrel was almost run over in the street and became disoriented and stressed out. I like to think this because it makes what happened next seem a little less surreal.
Perhaps a split second before my door slammed shut, an agitated squirrel came cruising from out of nowhere, jumped into my car just as the door closed, and perched in the back seat, barking in that unique squirrel fashion that sounds like they're about to barf up something truly ugly.
I whirled around, and I found myself locking eyes with the furry intruder. We were face-to-fuzzy-face and, at that moment, I realized that I'm a really poor excuse for a swaggering male. I mustered my most girlish shriek, fumbled for the door handle, opened the door, and scrambled frantically to put distance between myself and the barking menace in the back seat.
Once I was safely outside the vehicle, I tried to take stock of the situation. "Okay," I thought. "There's a squirrel! And it's in my car! What do I do? Is this covered in the owner's manual?"
I cautiously crept up to the back window and peered in. The squirrel was on the floor of the back seat, apparently sniffing around for something to eat. "What if it finds something to eat in there?" I mused. "Will it ever leave? The door is open. Why doesn't it leave?"
As if sensing my presence, the squirrel jumped back up on the seat and started barking at me again, and I leaped back a safe distance, just in case it had some special power that allowed it to hurtle through auto glass and attach itself to my face.
It was at this point that I did something I still can't totally understand. Seeing that the squirrel was intent on barking at the back window, I seized the initiative, ran to the open driver's side door and. . . grabbed the keys out of the ignition.
It was only after I retreated back from my car that I realized the idiocy of my action. What the heck did I grab the keys for? What good were the keys possibly going to do me? Did I secretly believe that a squirrel could somehow manage to start the car and drive it away to a rodent vehicle chop shop somewhere in downtown St. Paul?
With my pride and male bravado now at all-time lows, I started taking a more analytical view of the situation. Exhibiting the first clear thinking of the ordeal, I opened the passenger side door, thus giving the tiny hijacker two avenues of escape.
However, rather than taking the hint, the squirrel opted to hop atop the passenger seat and further voice its displeasure with me, prompting me to once again run away screaming. This was just becoming too embarrassing, and I was getting mad. So, I started yelling at the squirrel.
"Get out!" I demanded, only to be rebuffed by an onslaught of raspy barks.
"Get out now!" I yelled again, this time waving my arms to augment my point. But the squirrel only scurried once again to the back seat.
I briefly searched for a long stick or a rod, something that I could shake at the squirrel to prompt it to exit the vehicle. Finding nothing of adequate length, I decided to try a different approach. I went back inside the house. I figured that, if I was out of sight, the squirrel would be more apt to leave.
As I stood in the doorway, peering out at my car, I started to feel like an absolute failure.
"That's it," I thought. "The squirrel has forced me indoors. The squirrel has won. This is truly a sad day for Ryan Rhodes."
Finally, I had had enough. I was determined to rid my car once and for all of Bullwinkle's sidekick. I threw open the door and went running toward my car, yelling expletives all the way. Apparently shaken by my renewed bravado, the squirrel scurried out the passenger door, climbed a nearby tree, and started taunting me once again with its incessant barking.
What the squirrel didn't know was that I had won the game early on. After all, I had the car keys.
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Oh, Those Chicken McNuggets
I recently rediscovered the magic of McNuggets. I'm not sure why or how, but the misshapen bits of compressed chicken parts have once again become a fairly regular part of my diet. Maybe it's the unknown origin of the chicken meat, or the fact that 80 percent of them roughly resemble small boots, but whatever the reason, I'm eating more than my fair share of them.
When it comes to fast food, there are few menu items that attract the derision of the mass media more than McDonalds' McNuggets. They're the Saddam Hussein of the fast food world. Any time a bone or a human finger is discovered within the hard crust and the squishy meat of a nugget, it's almost always front page news. When a patron discovered a perfectly formed and deep fried chicken head in her value meal awhile back, you'd have thought she had found the eyeball of Hitler himself. Come on, mistakes happen when you're dicing up a pen of poultry. So, a head snuck into the batch. So what? It's not like she ate it.
I kid, of course. If I were to unearth a chicken head from a batch of McNuggets, I'd probably hurl vomit a distance of five buses parked end to end. But, until that day, I'll happily scarf down chicken bits with the best of them.
My first long-term love affair with McNuggets began when I was living in Tokyo my senior year of high school. The wrestling season had just wrapped up, and I was very eager to start packing on the pounds that were denied to me all season long as I battled to maintain my weight. So it was, the week I became free to ingest all that was before me, I entered a local McDonalds and ordered a 20 piece McNugget meal.
Thirty minutes later, with my stomach coated with McNugget oil and chicken slurry, I genuinely believed I was going to suffer some horrible death due to over-ingestion of mushy chicken. It was all I could do to keep the pullet parts from coming up to take a bow. Three hours later, the danger subsided and, the next morning, I deposited a truly disturbing quantity of bird butt in the commode.
>From that day on, until I flew back to the U.S. to attend college, I ate about one 20 McNugget box a week, and each time I suffered the same uncomfortable ordeal, but I just couldn't stop. Whatever drug Ronald McDonald injects into those nuggets, it kept me coming back for more. I couldn't help myself. Finally, I left Tokyo and started the life of a college student, abandoning my strange love affair with McNuggets for several years. . . until this fall.
Maybe it's the encroaching winter, or the cold short evenings, but I just don't have time to think much about mealtime, so McNuggets have begun to fill the void. I've done the 20 nugget meal three times since October, including once last night, and I don't like how the rest of the winter is shaping up. Sure, I exercise almost religiously and will probably suffer no physical decay due to my shoddy eating habits, but this still can't be a good thing. I must fight the draw of the evil McNugget goodness.
Just as soon as I go take a massive shit.
Tyra Banks. Adriana Lima. Heidi Klum. Kate Moss. Cindy Crawford . Rachel Hunter . Gisele Bundchen . Jessica Alba . Jessica Simpson . Namrata Singh Gujral. Cerina Vincent. Lauren Lee Smith. Tawny Cypress. Jayma Mays. Rose Byrne. Natalia Tena. Carice van Houten. Sonya Walger. Michelle Ryan. Alice Braga. Kristen Stewart. Katie Leung. Vera Jordanova. Mia Maestro. Ninel Conde.
