Unexpected Internet Porn
Last night, I fought with my computer as I tried to install Morpheus 2.0, because that's the tool I use to download music. As a side note, I'd like to say, "Hey, music industry, get a clue. There is no way in holy hell you're going to be able to stop people from accessing and downloading free music files. The Internet is your hydra; if you cut off one head (Napster), 20 more will spring forth from its severed neck." There, I feel better.
So, anyway, after probably the 18th attempt at installing the maddening software, my roommate popped her head in and asked if I could look up a couple addresses for her so she could finish up her Christmas cards. Yah, sure, you betcha. No problem. Just let me remove my foot from the screen.
I entered www.msn.com into the address bar and pressed Enter. I swear, that's all I did. I didn't actually type in www.megabighootersandgapingpussy.com or anything. Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, my screen came alive with all manner of Internet porn. Pop-up after pop-up featuring exposed female beaver and donkeys being sucked off by truly adventurous women with no self-esteem kept flashing before my eyes, and the eyes of my poor roomie.
I'm okay with Internet porn. As an avid Web surfer, I've grown used to the fact that a standard surfing session is bound to include the occasional click into the realm of penises and vaginas. You know, if I'm lucky. I'm pretty much convinced that, if it weren't for the proliferation of online porn, the Internet would be a hollow shell of its current state.
But, at least when I accidently, and somtimes purposely, peruse a porn site, I'm all by myself. Last night, with donkey sex and fisting and the use of carrots and cucumbers for far more than simple nutrition being broadcast, my roomie stood right behind me, soaking in way more than the addresses she came seeking in the first place. It was just a little bit embarrasing, to say the least.
I tried to commence with the standard game of digital whack-a-mole, closing down the pop-ups as they came onscreen, but that only had the cascading effect of prompting even more porn pop-ups. So many exposed beavers and raw sex. I would have been turned on if I weren't so embarrased. I should note here that I don't get embarrased easily (see previous post).
"Um, er, well. What the hell is going on?" I finally managed to stutter.
"I don't know, but there's a lot of it," said Amy.
I finally managed to cut down the final porn site, featuring vaginal views that even most gynecologists don't see, and proceeded to look up the addresses Amy stopped in to get.
She then left my room in a bit of a hurry, apparently eager to leave me by myself and my lecherous pursuit of all things pornographic.
This One Is Sorta Gross, Folks. Read With Caution
Ryan says: You need a big swift kick in the ass today.
Mandy says: what for this time?
Ryan says: *swuff* *whack!*
Ryan says: I don't need a reason.
Mandy says: well that isn't very nice of you
Mandy says: just as i was thinking what i should get you for xmas, you kick me
Mandy says: that's it! no gift for ryan
Ryan says: It was done out of love.
Mandy says: too late, you bruised me
Ryan says: Hrm. I think I may have just shit myself.
Ryan says: I had best go check.
Mandy says: lol
Mandy says: you have fun checking on that
Ryan says: Yep. I shit myself. Damn pseudo-farts.
Mandy says: that is horribly disgusting
Mandy says: *gag*
Ryan says: I had a rumbly tummy this morning, but I had no idea it was cooking up something like that.
Mandy says: please please please tell me you are kidding
Mandy says: you REALLY don't have to share that kind of info with me
Ryan says: That's the way it goes sometimes. One minute you think you have to fart, the next minute you're in a men's room stall taking off your boxer shorts and mopping up your backside. And, no, I'm not kidding.
Mandy says: i will remember this next time i am having my period & a little "accident" happens
Mandy says: ohhhhhhh, the stuff i can share
Ryan says: You gotta admit, there's a slight bit of humor inherent in the whole ordeal.
Mandy says: not even a little
Mandy says: yuck yuck yuck
Mandy says: mr. squirty fart
Ryan says: It wasn't like a huge spray or anything like that. Just a little seapage.
Mandy says: making it worse
Mandy says: brian & i share pretty much everything & i don't think he has ever shared that with me
Mandy says: so, are youcommando now?
Ryan says: Yep. I'm swinging free from the nut tree. Boxer shorts are in my coat pocket awaiting a cleanse.
My Inner Geek Shows Through
On Tuesday this week, I had to attend a meeting in Minneapolis to discuss magazine content, layout, and design. Despite my total distaste for meetings (see previous post), I actually enjoyed the face time with production editors, ad salespeople, and managers who I only see once or twice every three months, despite almost daily conversations with them via telephone. Plus, I was able to stroke my creative right brain leanings by offering up possible magazine design changes. Okay, so I enjoyed a meeting. Call me a hyprocrite if you will. You're all a bunch of assholes as far as I'm concerned. Assholes.
Well, anyway, the meeting in Minneapolis was well-timed because Tuesday was also my girlfriend's birthday, so I was able to celebrate her 28th year of existence without having to take the day off work. I took her out to eat at an Italian restaurant called Ciatti's, or at least I think that's how it's spelled. I guess it really doesn't matter how it's spelled. It was an Italian restaurant, and that's all you need to know. Actually, you don't even have to know that much. Quit being so nosy. Assholes.
As we walked to the entrance, I noticed an adjacent store that sold comic books and games. You know the type of place I'm talking about. If you don't, just think of the Comic Book Guy from the Simpsons and you'll get a pretty good idea.
More than just a shop for comic books and games, however, this place provided patrons with a large seating and snack area, offering area geeks a place to get together and play their games. I use the term "geeks" here appreciatively. There's nothing wrong with being a geek. Geeks will one day be responsible for writing all the code patches for the release of Windows 2010 XP. If I offend any geeks out there with this post, I'm sorry. Please don't throw your thick-rimmed, masking taped glasses at me.
What floored me about the comic book and game store was that it featured a huge window so outsiders like Melissa and myself could peer in and witness the secret world of the local gaming community. Table upon table was crammed with geeks playing Magic: The Gathering and Dungeons and Dragons and Star Trek and Star Wars role-playing derivatives. It was just so deliciously geeky, I couldn't help but stare.
Eventually, a few gamers became aware of our outside presence, and they cast us startled looks, as if we were unwelcome intruders into their little world. "Go away, non-believers, lest we vote you out of the continuum as per the rules laid forth in the Klingon tribunal." So, Melissa and I quickly scurried into the restaurant, leaving the gamers to their own little worlds.
The tough admission that I must make, however, is that I, too, am a geek, or at least I was. There was a time when I would have driven to the Twin Cities just to play for a couple hours in that comic book and game store. From 9th to 11th grade, I was a die-hard Dungeons and Dragons fanatic. I had three different sets of lucky dice, I had numerous D&D rule books, and I had countless characters. Hell, I even bought a miniature D&D village during a class trip and spent the entire bus ride home putting together a bunch of tiny cardboard buildings. I wasn't just a geek, I was a member of the royal family of geekdom.
But it gets worse. My little group of about five loyal gamers even transformed a room in our buddy's basement into a D&D gaming room, complete with posters and a Wall of Fame that held the names of our most successful and powerful characters. We had candles and a round table and an extensive library of D&D manuals. We would play for hours, often burning up our weekends by playing into the wee hours of the morning. If there is such a thing as a geek pheromone, chances are that we emanated it from our pores, in sufficient enough quantities to make the female gender cover their noses and run away screaming.
Thankfully, I went to live in Tokyo my senior year, leaving my D&D life behind me. In Tokyo, I discovered beer and parties, and I honed my skills in these areas the following years in college, effectively flushing my system of geek pheromones and briefly enjoying a status as a male whore. But those are different stories for different days.
So, there was a part of me, as I peered in and watched the next generation of Bill Gateses gaming away, that kinda, sorta wanted to run in, buy a set of dice, and join them. Call me a geek if you will.
You're all still a bunch of assholes.
I'm Just Not Corporate Material
I've worked at IBM for just over three years now, the first two spent editing mind numbingly boring technical manuals, the last year spent writing articles for a fairly technical magazine, a job that I actually don't mind, despite my chronic bitching.
I've noticed, however, that I simply don't want to play the corporate game. When it comes to my job, all I want is to be given a task, and then I want to complete that task. I then want to go on to the next task. I don't want to hype my work to those above me. I don't care about corny little awards that may be bestowed upon me. I'm not working to feel good about myself. I'm working so I can build experience so I can eventually get the hell out of here and start doing writing work that actually makes me deeply happy, like writing about bodily emanations for Maxim or something.
During my last job, people constantly walked all over me, taking credit for work I did, and I really didn't give a shit. Just give me the paycheck every two weeks. I didn't care when my lead editor held up the last two edited manuals that I did as some great accomplishment on her part. Whatever. My officemate constantly told me to stand up and take credit when someone tries to do that. When I explained that I really didn't care who was credited for editing a DB2 UDB manual, she said "You'll never get ahead here with an attitude like that."
Yes, but, I don't WANT to get ahead at IBM. The only thing that getting ahead gets you at IBM is more work, and possibly a shiny plaque that says, "Good Job." I was given three such awards during my last job, and they all promptly found their way into the trash the moment I got home from work. I don't need crappy trinkets cluttering my desk telling me I did a good job. That's what money is for. Give me money. I understand money. To me, money says "Good Job. Now go out and buy something."
I don't understand people that thirst for the next big corporate promotion, people that talk the lingo of business with all the enthusiasm of a small dog humping a leg. To me, sitting in on a meeting is, usually, wasted time. But, at every meeting I've ever attended, there's always a few people that can't wait to speak at length about nothing, expounding on all the tasks they completed, going into great detail about everything. "Well, yes," I think, "But, isn't that their job in the first place? To get things done? Do we really have to sit here and listen to how they do their job? What's the point?"
Thankfully, my current bosses seem to sense my distaste of corporate aspirations. They give me an article or two to write, and they leave me be, knowing that I'll get the articles done, and that they will be good articles. That type of autonomy speaks volumes about their faith in my abilities. They don't waggle meaningless promotions in front of me, offering to up my status from "News Editor" to "Primary News Editor." They give me work, and I do the work, and then I get a paycheck, and that's the way I like it.
"Why," you may ask, "don't I just get out of IBM and find work somewhere else then?" The answer is experience, or lack thereof. Almost every employer I've ever talked to is looking for applicants with five or more years of experience. They don't seem to understand that applicants can't get experience unless an employer takes a chance on a fresh-from-college newcomer. It's a vicious Catch-22, particularly in this job market. I'm just now nearing my fifth year of experience, spanning newspapers, magazines and those God-awful technical manuals. Hopefully, my experience base will help me to jump ship to something more entertaining.
It's not about getting ahead and grasping the brass ring. It's about finding a job that I truly enjoy and that doesn't feel like work. I'm not interested in trampling people to get ahead, which is a major component of being the traditional IBM employee, as far as I've seen. It really is true that, "even if you win the rat race, you're still a rat."
I'd just as soon stay out of the race and watch from the sidelines, writing about how stupid all the rats look.
The Start of My Great Leap Forward
I was patted down vigorously by an armed military officer who had apparently been specifically trained to administer the most vigorous human pat downs imaginable. Myself and my fellow classmates all endured the probing and patting hands, sacrificing our basic human dignity in the name of getting through China's strict customs and immigration procedures.
If the guard had found so much as a plastic dinner knife on my person, I'm relatively certain the rubber gloves would have been unleashed and a body cavity search conducted. Thankfully, the most lethal thing about me after the flight from Tokyo to Beijing was my breath. Whatever was in the strange beef jerky meal they fed us on the plane, it had effectively turned our exhales into leaf-wilting vileness.
When the chance to go to China as part of our Asian Studies class had been offered, I jumped at the opportunity. As a senior attending high school in Japan in 1993, I was determined to soak up as much culture as I possibly could. For some reason, having lived in affluent industrial societies all my life, I had naively assumed that China would be just as developed as everything else I had every experienced. It wasn't until we emerged from the airport and were beset upon by throngs of beggars that I realized that, for many countries, poverty is the norm rather than the exception.
Our teacher, Mr. Stern, a veteran of many China visits, and a slight Marxist, quickly ushered us into a taxi/van, and the eight of us wearily took in the bleak countryside as we made our way into the heart of Beijing to our hotel.
Christmas Cookie?
Well, with Thanksgiving now officially behind us, and the turkey leftovers now undergoing their 23 permutation to make them seem fun and exciting, and even perhaps palatable, we have now entered the home stretch to the true meat of the holiday season. Er, no pun intended.
How do I know that Christmas is now looming before me? What telltale signs do I rely on to foretell of the annual appearance of Old St. Nick?
Oh, sure, I could fall back on such obvious clues as omnipresent Christmas music, or the explosion of twinkling lights adorning houses. But, no, when it comes to ascertaining the impending arrival of Christmas, I consult fortune cookies.
Yes, you know Christmas has maybe, just maybe, become a tad too commercialized when even the sacred prophecies of Chinese fortune cookies bespeak of your guaranteed holiday bliss.
Although it's still somewhat difficult for me to believe, the fortune cookie that accomodated one of my recent Chinese food purchases actually told me I could expect a happy holiday season. Specifically, it read: "You will have a safe, carefree and fun holiday season."
In retrospect, I guess I should be rather grateful for my good fortune. Woe be it to the gentleman who was served after me who got the foreboding cookie that harbored the message: "Your holiday season will be filled with horror, dread and, eventually, your own ghastly demise."
Given that Christmas is widely considered a very depressing time for a lot of people, I should be pleased that my fortune cookie told me of my impending good cheer. Now I can gleefully walk past panhandlers without giving them a second thought, because, no matter what I do wrong, my Christmas season is set to be chock full of carefree safety and fun.
You know, now that I think about it, what would have happened if my fortune cookie had shifted down to the bottom of the crate and wasn't placed in with a Chinese meal until later in the year, like around Jan. 2 or so? Then what?
Would the prophecy of a carefree holiday carry over to next Christmas? If so, who wants to wait that long for a fortune to come to fruition? Honestly, I'd feel pretty gyped. What if the Christmas I just endured was an absolute ordeal, and it all could have been averted if only I had gotten the cookie earlier? That would seem like some sort of cruel cosmic joke.
The more I thought about it, and believe me when I tell you that fortune cookie pondering often takes up the majority of any given day for me, the more I tried to make sense of the holiday-specific fortune.
I'm still at a loss. Dumb fucking cookie.
An Unwelcome Blanket Arrived Today
I awoke groggily this morning, as is usually the case come Monday. My snooze button and I carried on our standard nine-minute game of "blaring radio and blind swat." I dragged myself into the bathroom and started my difficult morning ritual of improving on what could arguably be described as male perfection. I'm just that great.
With my face and head slathered in Dove soap, and my Mach 3 making short work of two days worth of cranial and facial stubble, I heard Amy, my roommate, come bounding down the stairs. She poked her head into my bathroom, grinning from ear-to-ear. Decked out in her impossibly cute white frizzy robe, I thought that there are definitely worse ways to start my morning.
"You might not want to go upstairs today," she said.
"Uh oh. Why not?" I asked, scanning down briefly to admire her legs.
"There's about three inches of snow on the ground," she chirped.
My heart sunk a tad, and I halted my shameless roomie ogling. Snow! No! Say it ain't so! I groaned audibly, and Amy laughed as she went back up the stairs.
It's no secret that I dislike winter very much. And, after a wonderful Sunday consisting of 40+ degree weather, I had sort of fooled myself into thinking that maybe we could escape the first snowfall until deep into December. Alas, it was not to be. Thankfully, Amy shovelled the driveway and sidewalks earlier in the morning, so I was saved that horrible task, at least for one day. So it begins, the daily vigil to see whether the snow gods will dump irritating flurries throughout the winter season.
Man, I hate winter.
"It's Purely Out of Habit" c. Ryan Rhodes, June 27, 2001
Overall, I see myself as a self-improvement type of guy. I'm always on the lookout for new and exciting ways to make myself even greater than I am, as difficult as that is to imagine.
As great as I like to think I am, I am willing to admit that I suffer from a few of the human shortcomings known as "habits." Now, I don't necessarily indulge in the more dangerous habits like smoking or chewing, but I've been prone to engage in some pretty unseemly repetitious activities at certain points throughout my life.
For example, I used to chew my fingernails on a daily basis. Granted, this is not an unusual habit but, on more than one occasion, I actually drew blood and kept right on chewing. I was probably two nibbles away from blood poisoning when I gave up the irritating habit my second year of college. Nowadays, rather than sheer my nails with my teeth, I use my dental dexterity to simply clean underneath them, which is just as gross, but it doesn't involve bloodshed. It's all about compromise.
There are, of course, some current habits I could stand to part with. For example, I could, just possibly, maybe, afford to cut back on my use of expletives. Although I am by no means a swearing machine, I have been known to let some verbal venom fly on occasion. Such occasions usually occur during rounds of golf, Vikings' games, whenever I hurt myself, and when I sit down to write a marginally humorous column. All of these are arenas for truly mind numbingly hot language, and it's a *&%$#*@ habit that I could probably do without.
Now, habits with which I'm aware are really not a big problem. I know they exist and I make a conscious decision whether to make an attempt at self-improvement and end them. However, I also have some habits that I refer to as "heartbeat habits." These habits are so ingrained, and so commonplace, I simply don't notice them, just like my heartbeat.
Examples of "heartbeat habits" include whistling at inopportune times, drumming my fingers to an imaginary beat on hard surfaces, and rambling on and on about mind numbing topics that really don't go anywhere, much like this column.
Last week, as I labored at my computer console, the young woman who shares my office called my attention to one of my "heartbeat habits." It had been a typically long day, and I stretched, grunted, and scratched myself, all of which could be considered bad habits. However, it was a far more common habit that drew the ire of my office co-worker (to protect her identity, I'll simply refer to her as Gretal). For the record, Gretal is an attractive German intern who will be working in my office for the next couple of months. I only mention this because I'll refer to these facts again later in the column.
The "heartbeat habit" Gretal called my attention to was, of all things, cracking my knuckles, an act that I perform countless times over the course of a day. Gretal insisted that the repetitious act would result in me developing arthritis, an insinuation that prompted me to search the Internet to prove her wrong. I won't bore you with the details of my search, except to say it involved the words "synovial," "gas," "crack," and "metacarpophalangeal." I also discovered that there is no definitive proof that knuckle cracking causes arthritis.
"Okay," countered Gretal (and I'm not making this up), "What about the way you suck snot into your throat?"
Now, this statement drew a completely blank stare from me until Gretal mimed exactly what she meant. In short, she was referring to the way that I, once in awhile I assure you, snorted snot rather than blowing it into a Kleenex. I'm a snorter, a snuffler, a sniffler, a snot sucker. Gretal had exposed me to yet another "heartbeat habit," and I was horrified.
Mind you, I wasn't particularly horrified because I was a "snuffler." After all, snuffling is simply less time consuming and frankly less gross than blowing my enzymes into a tissue. Rather, I was horrified that my snuffling was audible enough to irritate other people. What's worse, because Gretal is German, I'm actually guilty of being an international irritation. In other words, I managed to irritate a representative of a nationality that created such irritating things as sauerkraut and fahrferghnugen (or however that irritating word is spelled).
Although I probably have habits that are far more severe than snorfing snot, I made a vow then and there to take more conscious control of my snuffling. It's a habit I simply have to break. I don't want to spark an international incident after all.
Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker. Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker. Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker.
