"Oh, The Things I've Inhaled," c. Ryan Rhodes, Dec. 16, 2002
A friend of mine recently related the harrowing tale of how his young son accidentally got a pen cap stuck in his nose.
I won't go into all the details, because the process of getting a pen cap stuck in one's nose is really pretty self-explanatory. You take a pen cap, place it in your nose, and inhale. Everything from that point on is a doctor's visit followed by heaps of embarrassment.
I didn't pass judgment on my friend's young son, primarily because, even though I've never gotten a pen cap stuck in my nose, I live with the daily belief that it's just a matter of time before I do. I'm only partially kidding here. Given my track record for inhaling stupid things, I don't think getting a pen cap lodged in my nose is that big of a stretch.
When I was fairly young, well, old enough to know better, but fairly young all the same, I briefly got a button stuck in my nose.
I was with my mother grocery shopping, and I was enduring the interminable waiting process of going through the check-out aisle. For a child, waiting in the check-out aisle is akin to time standing still. When I wasn't asking my mother to "buy me this," I was fidgeting with everything and anything within reach.
Well, on that particular outing, I noticed a loose button on my shirt, and with a few quick tugs, I liberated it from its few remaining threads. I contented myself with my new toy as any male child would: I repeatedly placed it in my nose and huffed it out forcefully back into my palm. For me, this qualified as great fun. Of course, you can see the inevitable conclusion of such a pastime.
Sure enough, as I got braver and braver, the button went further and further up my nose, until. . . voila, it wouldn't come out. Despite my best nasal wailing, I couldn't dislodge the button from my left nostril. My mother eventually asked me if everything was all right and, even though I had my pinkie buried knuckle deep in my nose trying to pick out the button, I would admit to nothing.
Finally, as my mother and I made our way to the exit, I closed my right nostril, said a silent prayer, and initiated the hardest farmer blow I could muster. A two second high-pitch squeak ensued, followed by the glorious release of the button, which launched about six feet and came to rest in a candy display. I like to think it settled in amongst the Snickers bars, but I'll never know.
Not all inhalations are necessarily of the hard plastic kind, however. No, I was also guilty of a far more dangerous form of inhalation, even though I had no idea at the time just how dangerous my actions were.
As a very young child, I totally loved the smell of Endust, although I don't know why exactly. I think I liked it because it reminded me of freshly dusted furniture. Whatever the reason, I enjoyed dropping my nose on a newly dusted surface and sniffing the lingering aroma of Endust. I decided, however, that this simply wasn't enough.
One day, I pilfered the Endust from my mother's cleaning closet and steeled myself in the back room den, where I perched in front of a window, removed the Endust cap, and promptly sprayed the cap halfway full with Endust.
Here was pure, undiluted Endust for my smelling enjoyment. I could hardly wait. I dropped my nose into the capful of Endust and took a long, long sniff. What happened next was something that my small mind and body could not totally understand.
I lifted my head from the cap, only to realize that things weren't quite right. My field of vision was just a haze of blinking stars, and I remember things going suddenly black before I toppled backward off my perch near the window. I didn't realize it at the time, but I probably killed about a quarter of my fledgling brain cells.
What I did realize was, after I came to and found myself lying on my back, and after an intense wave of nausea finally passed, I no longer liked the smell of Endust. I despised the smell of Endust. I wanted nothing more to do with Endust. In fact, to this day, I can't even stand the thought of dusting, although that may not have anything to do with Endust.
In order for me not to do something stupid, I apparently have to do it first. So you see, it's probably just a matter of time before I get a pen cap stuck in my nose.
And Just To Augment My Point. . .
For those of you who totally disagreed with my last post, I offer up this opportunity to sign a petition against war with Iraq, but at the same time I feel I should poke holes in the petition, you know, because I'm a total asshole like that.
We the undersigned members of the academic community are opposed to an invasion of Iraq by the United States. The decision to start a war is perhaps the most significant decision the leaders of a democracy can make.
Agreed, which is exactly why it has taken so long for the U.S. to act thus far, and exactly why Saddam doesn't at this moment have an American flag sticking out of butt-cheeks. We're continuing to dance to Saddam's tune because, yes, war is a drastic step not to be taken lightly. But how long do you want to sit smoking your peace pipe while nuclear weapons are being developed in a plush Iraqi palace? Yes, North Korea has the bomb already. Yes, we know that. But they'll also think twice about using them once we roll into Baghdad and drag Saddam kicking and screaming from his hole. The threat of imminent regime change can have a calming effect, particularly right after seeing it done to someone else.
We oppose a U.S. invasion of Iraq for these reasons:
Invasion to replace the Hussein regime is not in the best interests of the United States, the region, or the world. An invasion of Iraq and destruction of the Hussein regime may lead to prolonged instability in Iraq; destabilization of the wider Middle East including the possibility of a prolonged and heightened conflict between Israel and the Palestinians; increased popular appeal of radical Islamic movements and increased anti-Americanism worldwide; and increased terrorism in the U.S. and abroad. Invading Iraq therefore will probably make both the region and the world less secure, not more secure.
Oh, save me from the prolonged instability of the Middle East! I don't know if you've noticed lately, but instability in the Middle East is actually the norm. In fact, instability in the region has become so commonplace, we're starting to mistake it for stability. Pakistan? Yup, they're nice and stable. Iran? Pure stability there. Afghanistan? Now there's a picture of stability. Just because Saddam has been killing his own people by the thousands for the past 20+ years does not in any way mean that Iraq is even remotely stable. Yes, and you simply MUST call attention to the heightened conflict between Israel and the Palestinians, even though Saddam has been openly compensating the families of suicide bombers to the tune of $25,000 a pop. How can you, in all good conscience, advocate a continuance of the status quo when the status quo is incredibly dangerous up to begin with?
Key U.S. allies do not support an invasion of Iraq. Many governments allied with the U.S. are urging restraint, demanding more evidence of an Iraqi threat, or opposing a U.S. invasion of Iraq. Governmental and popular support in Great Britain, the most stalwart U.S. ally, is weak at best. Any military action against Iraq should have the moral force of international consensus behind it.
Yes, history has shown that countries the world over have quaked in their boots at the thought of a "moral force of international consensus." Oh, and as for the cry for "more evidence," I have an idea about how we could attain that evidence: we'll slip into Iraq, say, with military force, explore a few underground labs and opulent palaces, dig the scientists from their holes as they toil to create a nice shipment of anthrax, and wave the smoking gun for all the tentative world to see. You're simply not going to see the evidence until you get access to the evidence. It's not like Iraq is going to fax Washington a memo saying, "Oh, yeah, we forgot to mention, we're a threat, and here's why (followed by an itemized list of weapons)."
The U.S. Government is not unified in support of invasion. Some senior elected officials, including members of President Bush's own Republican Party such as Rep. Dick Armey (TX) and Sen. Chuck Hagel (NE), do not support a U.S. invasion of Iraq. Secretary of State Colin Powell, a retired four star General with 35 years of military service who was Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff during the Gulf War, is known to oppose a U.S. invasion without broad international support. Major media outlets have been reporting for several months on widespread opposition to an invasion of Iraq among senior officers in the Pentagon, including several or all of the Chiefs of Staff. The decision to go to war should have the clear support of the U.S. Congress, the Secretary of State, and the commanding officers of the armed forces.
Um, yeah, Congress gave that support already, remember? Big vote prior to the midterm election? Ring a bell? As for dissenters, even Gulf War I wasn't unanimous, or a slightly forgotten operation in Yugoslavia that eventually served to oust a troublemaker named Slobodan Milosovic for that matter. Opposition is good, because it leads to informed discussion, but don't wave opposition voices as vindication, because even the most vocal of us can be horribly wrong.
The Iraqi threat is not credible. The opposition to an invasion among senior U.S. government and military leaders as well as most U.S. allies in the Middle East suggests that the Iraqi threat is not credible. The Bush Administration has presented no credible evidence of Iraqi progress toward making nuclear weapons. If they have such evidence, they should have presented it by now in the face of mounting international and domestic opposition to an invasion of Iraq.
See previous rant about procuring evidence.
An invasion of Iraq would be illegal under the Charter of the United Nations, to which the U.S. is a signatory. According to the Charter, only the Security Council has legal authority to start wars, with the single exception of national self-defense against armed attack. If the U.S. is indeed a land of laws, then our government should adhere to the basic principles of the Charter, which are intended to govern the relationships between nations for the collective security of all people.
Actually, as it stands now, the continued stonewalling on the part of Hussein gives us full justification to take matters into our own hands. Yes, I know the UN would prefer to hand the matter down to its specialized Committee on Further Talking and Mulling and Pondering, which would then hand it to the Committe for Deep Thought and Reflection, which would then hand it to the Committee That Holds Onto Things for Four Months Before Handing it Back to the Committee on Further Talking and Mulling and Pondering, but we could act on this now if we so choose.
For these reasons, we oppose a U.S. invasion of Iraq and urge others to do so also. Although we recognize the Hussein regime is reprehensible, the war being planned will not decrease and MAY increase the suffering of the Iraqi people for many years to come.
Oh, well, it "MAY increase the suffering of the Iraqi people for many years to come." Well, then by all means, stop those tanks! Then again, it MAY liberate the Iraqi people from a "reprehensible" regime that manages to hold on to power through intimidation, execution, censorship, brutalility and overall not-niceness. What these folks are really saying is "Yes, Hussein is reprehensible, and the Iraqi people are suffering, but Iraq is so nice and far away, and really none of our concern." Well, no, it's not, until you're jolted by the morning news telling of a nuclear strike in Tel Aviv.
But, really, go ahead and sign the petition. After all, over 32,000 people can't be wrong. Well, yes they could, but go ahead and sign it anyway.
No Peace in Our Time
I'll admit it, peace is a fine idea. I truly like the idea of everyone coming together for on big sloppy hug, with Palestinians and Israelis sitting side-by-side in the Dome of the Rock spinning draidles and laughing, and Saddam Hussein suddenly changing his blackened heart 180 degrees and stopping his mad quest for weapons of mass destruction and instead using his oil-laden wealth to construct a huge amusement park open to the world, including weapons inspectors, that features peace-themed rides like the Peace On Earth Tilt-O-Whirl, and the Power Tower of Peace and Love and Friendship and Cute Little Puppies and Kittens Playing In Meadows.
But the reality is that this world is not yet conducive to an all-encompassing peace. So long as the Israelis live and breathe, the Islamic world will hate them, and so long as the United States continues to be the wealthiest nation on the planet, we'll have enemies. If you're a disenfranchised, poor and uneducated soul living in Saudi Arabia, or Iran, or Yemen, and the only voice you hear is the local mullah telling you that the source of all your misery is the West, eventually you're going to hate the West, and no amount of common sense reasoning is going to sway you. You won't ask why. You'll just want to seek revenge. Enter al-Queda, and Islamic Jihad, and the Jihadists of Islam, and the Islamic Jihadists of Jihadist Islam, and the Jihadist Islamics of Jihadist Islam Who Are Better Than the Jihadists of Islam and the Islamic Jihadists of Jihadist Islam Combined.
It's not easy to go up against a religious culture that, at its most fundamental core, is an outdated throwback to a belief that women are submissive slaves to the whims and wishes of their male masters. Yes, there are Islamic offshoots that extend tentative arms into the realm of women's rights, but for the most part, it's the veil and home for most women of Islam. It seems each week that I venture into news items coming out of Iran, I'm treated to yet another story of a woman being stoned to death for infidelity. Or, consider the male theif who was sentenced to being thrown off a cliff in a sack who, if he survived the plummet, would be hanged to finish the job. Much of the world of Islam is an alien culture that simply can't be bargained with.
My parents teach in an international school in Tokyo, a school that teaches some Islamic students who come from insanely wealthy families. My father, during his sexual education class, tries to explain the virtues of a husband and wife partnership team, but his teachings are often met with puzzled looks by the Islamic students who are pretty much destined, through the huge inheritances they're going to receive, to have as many as three or four wives. The concept of a single wife for them is as alien as having four wives is to us, although I have to admit that it holds a certain amount of charm. The point is, because massive wealth equals more wives, you can kind of see why brainwashed fundamentalists will fly airplanes into buildings with the promise of 21 virgins awaiting them in the afterlife.
In third-world Muslim countries, where the vast majority of the wealth and power is held by a scant few shieks and mullahs, it's a tricky business to keep a firm grip on power while also keeping the poor masses below them from outright revolt. So, they twist the situation to their favor, pointing accusing fingers to the wicked West, a culture that allows women to go about in revealing clothes, and permits adultery with only minor repurcussions. We truly must represent a very real threat to them, even though we mostly want to establish more McDonalds and Starbucks rather than obliterate their precious way of life. But try convincing your run of the mill fundamentalist of that. As far as he (or she in some cases) is concerned, we want to deconstruct Islam and pollute their cultures with our infidel ways.
The only way to truly slice the head off the hateful snake slithering its way through third-world countries is a sustained, expensive, and admittedly difficult campaign of reprogramming their societies to understand that the West isn't out to destroy them. It would require tons of financial aid to keed the poor at subsistence levels enough to find the time to become educated to a point that would elevate them beyond their seething hatred of all things Western, a hatred fueled mostly by ignorance. It would require that Islamic countries institute a broader import/export policy that would include goods beyond oil. Seriously, when was the last time you bought something stamped "Made in Yemen" or "Made in the United Arab Emirates."
I know, it sounds fanciful, and incomplete, and arguably laughable to the core, but here's the deal. Without a viable peaceful plan, the only bargaining chip we have left when it comes to dealing with pukes like Saddam Hussein is the threat of a good old-fashioned ass whupping. America has the capability to wipe out every country it doesn't like with a few strategically placed nukes, and we've shown considerable restraint from doing just that. The biggest and most glaring rebuttal to the Islamic fundamentalist belief that America is out to destroy Islam is the fact that their countries aren't at this very moment smoldering heaps of radioactive heat. If we were really out to stamp out Islam, we wouldn't have allowed a shipment of SCUDS to continue on its way to Yemen. What does Yemen need SCUDS for anyway? A super cool fireworks display? As the Daily Show with John Stewart pointed out, Yemen isn't our enemy, it's just an anagram of ENEMY.
Which brings us back to Iraq. I don't like the thought of war with Iraq. I don't like the thought of American soldiers and innocent Iraqi civilians being killed. But, seriously, what are our options? You have a scheming dictator, still smarting from an embarrassing military obliteration 11 years ago, who is, pretty much without a doubt, working tirelessly to build and arsenal of weapons of mass destruction. To what end? Building such an arsenal is not something you do in your spare time, for fun, just to see if you can do it. These weapons will have a purpose and, even though striking America with them is extremely unlikely, striking the American air base in Saudi Arabia is not. Saddam would be hailed as a hero for freeing the holy soil of Saudi Arabia of the American infidels. And he'd do it. He'd do it in a beat of his demented black heart. Any leader who announces his intent to carry out a scorched earth policy on his own country in the event of an invasion, and blame it on the West, is frankly capable of anything.
Ours' is a dangerous world, and the deep political and religious divides can't be smoothed over with a big smooch or a poorly made quilt. There's a reason America maintains a military edge in the world, and it's not so rag-tag orgazinations like al-Queda can buzz and sting us, or so Hussein can eventually launch ebola into Israel. We have this military so we can protect outselves and the fragile institutions of democracy and freedom. We have this edge now, and as distasteful as it may seem to the Sean Penn's of the world, there are cases when its use is justified, even if it means acting without a world theater opinion backing our actions.
Sure, there are peaceful alternatives, and they could bear fruit in two generations or more. The question is, given the stage we're playing on right now, and the actors involved, is it really wise to wait and see? I tend not to think so.
That was too serious. Here's a list of famous hot chicks to hopefully boost my Web traffic:
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.
Oh, Pepsi, How I Love Thee
As I sit here, happily sipping my ritual morning Diet Pepsi, I drink the caramel colored concoction with just a tad more delight knowing that Pepsi has dropped its Britney Spears ad promotion. No more will I have to watch that despicable blonde floozy hawking the soda product I love the best. Good-bye, Britney, you no-talent, eye-candy hack. Write when you get work, preferably in the amateur porn industry where you belong.
Granted, I'm holding judgement on Pepsi's decision to adopt new pitch-woman Beyonce Knowles, a name that sounds like some sort of French genital rash. Again, she's stellar eye-candy, and she has the whole Austin Powers thing going for her, but it would be kind of neat if Pepsi took the time to find an unknown talent, a shy girl-next-door who can still stir the raging teenage male libido enough to prompt the acne-laden lads to jump forth from their Playstation consoles long enough to purchase a Pepsi product.
Sure, celebrities have their place in society, albeit a small self-absorbed place, but I just can't stand it when their tired mugs start saturating the marketplace promoting everything from soft-drinks to automobiles. Just because Summer Glau appears in a commercial for Pepsi Twist, does not mean the vile lemony brew approaches anything even bordering on tasty. Now, if she had been drinking a Pepsi Twist while getting it on with Billy Bob Thornton in Monster's Ball, I could possibly have a different opinion on the matter.
At any rate, Britney's gone! And my Diet Pepsi tastes better because of it.
Now, if they had Julia Stiles as a spokesperson. . . Mmm, Julia Stiles. Even better, a Julia Stiles. A Julia Stiles would make me drink even more Pepsi. Mmmm, Julia Stiles. *drool*
Thunder in December and Condom Shopping
Until last night, a thunderstorm in December in Minnesota would have been unthinkable to me. But, come about 10:30 p.m., lightning flashed across the sky, followed by thunder's booming report. It was like a visit from an old friend, listening to the windows gently rattling as the storm rolled through. I sat at my computer and closed my eyes and, for a brief moment, I genuinely believed I could step outside into humid summer air and breathe the smell of ozone. It was a nice escape, brief though it was.
I had to go condom shopping last night, and I chose Uber Target as my retail outlet because it's so huge you're guaranteed a certain degree of anonymity. Standing in front of a condom display is not something I particularly enjoy, especially if there's an audience. Condom pondering is best done in solitude. One thing I knew for certain: I did NOT want LifeStyles. I recently finished fighting my way through a 36 pack of LifeStyles. Sure, I should have tried a sample pack of 3 or so but, being the raging libido freak I am, I just HAD to grab the big box. I don't know where LifeStyles got their idea of Ultra Thin, but apparently they took a few pages out of the Hefty trash bag book. My girlfriend and I both gave them a big thumbs down, but we were determined to sex our way through the box. Mission accomplished. Never again.
Last night's condom sampling featured a 12 pack of Durex Ultra Thin, a tried-and-true brand that I heartily recommend. I also bought a six pack of Trojan Supra, whatever that means. Throw the word Supra on the end of a product, and customers flock. "Try new Depends: Supra, for when life's loads get to be too much." I often try to imagine what the check-out clerks think when someone buys condoms, particularly when, like me, you go through the check-out with two boxes of condoms, two Totinos pizzas, and a shower luffa. "What kind of freaky shit is this guy into?" At any rate, I am now re-stocked with baby blockers, which is a good thing because the girlfriend just finished her fall semester at the university, so she's going to be around a lot.
Just to boost traffic, I thought I'd repeat the name Vida Guerra. Vida Guerra. Vida Guerra. Vida Guerra. Vida Guerra. Vida Guerra. Vida Guerra. Vida Guerra.
A Microcosm of Marriage in American Society?
Melinda just got engaged last night, and she's all excited. I'm trying to withold my scathing judgment from her. But, I'll let you decide based on a recent conversation I had with her. Names have been changed to protect the innocent and the stupid. Well, except me.
Melinda says: We all went out on Saturday night - was having fun, around 11:30, Bart showed up, so we left. Tina told Bart that Tony was going to ask me to marry him. Bart flipped out. He keeps calling me today telling me that I have to give the pictures of him back to him, all of the letters he's written me, etc. I told him no, but he's threatneing to tell Tony all kinds of things
Ryan says: So let him tell Tony all he wants. Big deal.
Ryan says: Bart is just being a baby. A big, fat, drug-addicted, anchor on society baby.
Melinda says: that's what I told him
Melinda says: he told me that I was cold hearted
Ryan says: That's what he does. He tries to make you out to be the bad girl.
Melinda says: yeah, when I know that I'm not. The way he's acting just verify's why he and I would NEVER work out
Ryan says: I will never, ever, understand why you feel you have to keep that guy in your life. Aren't you going to be getting engaged soon? Why do you care that he may find someone else? Come to think of it, why do you care about anything he says or does?
Melinda says: It's not easy because I love him.
Ryan says: Fine, you love Bart. You've been singing that song for two years. Is that fair to Tony?
Melinda says: Tony doesn't have to know that.
Ryan says: Well, that just leaves you with your decision whether to marry Tony or not.
Melinda says: yeah, down to just one situtation to deal with
Ryan says: And where are you at with the situation?
Melinda says: I feel more relaxed thinking that we can have a long engagement. Time enough for me to decide if that is what I want or not
Ryan says: Still seems odd to me that you can't have the same time to figure that out without having a diamond on your finger.
Melinda says: I could
Ryan says: Okay, so why rush the engagement?
Melinda says: I'm not rushing
Ryan says: Fine, so why is TONY rushing the engagement?
Melinda says: who knows... I told him that Bart wasn't happy. And, that he wanted his stuff back.
In other news Luciana Salazar is hot. I like to see Luciana Salazar nude. A naked Luciana Salazar would be pretty awesome. Mmm, Luciana Salazar nude.
Holiday Greetings From a Fan
Yesterday, I received a Christmas card in the mail from a die-hard fan of my weekly newspaper column. That has never happened before, and I was very touched by the gesture. I rarely receive any column feedback at all, save for a jar of pickled peppers that was given to me three years ago in tribute to a column I wrote about my love for hot and spicy food.
The card I received included a picture of my fan and her husband and son. It put a face on a fan I had never met, and it sort of sunk in that there may actually be people out in the world who enjoy my writing, and who actually think I'm funny from time to time. It was probably the best Christmas card I ever received. So, a thank you goes out to you, oh fan of mine. Thank you for your kind words and the nice card.
If Only Each Hit Was a $1 Bill
Today I shall surpass the 5,000 visitor mark. I would like to thank the one person who made this milestone possible. Me.
Okay, I guess I have to extend thanks to Jen for designing my site and pretty much showing me how to do everything short of typing, but mostly I just want to pat myself on the back and marvel at how great I am.
That is all.
Chronologically Impaired
It has been one of those Mondays where I don't function normally. My alarm went off at 6 a.m., as usual, and I apparently clicked the snooze button for an hour without realizing it. I stared blankly at my clock, made a mental note that I still had just over an hour to enjoy slumber should I wish it, shuffled into the bathroom to tinkle, and returned to the warmth of my bed and fell asleep almost instantly, forgetting, of course, to reset my alarm for 8 a.m.
So, 9:17 a.m. rolls around, and I awake by pure luck, look over at my clock and think, "Hmmmm, it's only 9:17. That means I can sleep about. . . wait a minute. . . 9:17? Awwww, damn it! I'm late!"
First things first; I leaped to my computer and logged off MSN Messenger, and then I logged back on. Why? Because, my co-workers and bosses all use MSN at work, so, by logging on, my bosses will see a flashing sign appear on their screens telling them I just logged on. I cling to the hope that this throws them off into thinking I'm actually in the office, rather than scurrying around in my boxer shorts at home. I know, it's a long shot, but can it really hurt?
Then it was into the bathroom where I brushed my teeth and perused my head and face stubble. Both surfaces had not seen a razor in two days, but I opted to save time by simply shaving my cranium and leaving my face as it was. So I look like a vagrant. So what? I work in an IBM office all by myself. Who is really going to care? At least I showered. I can at least claim three out of four hygiene accomplishments for the day.
In my haste to get to the office, however, I forgot to put on my watch. My watch!! I didn't notice its absence until I was almost to work. Once again, I uttered "Awwww, damn it!" I hate, hate, hate not having my watch on hand, er, so to speak. I'm a notorious clock-watcher. Sure, there's a clock next to my computer, and sure I could rely on the clock right there in the lower right hand corner of my computer screen, but those aren't on MY time. I need to know what time it is in MY time. My watch is set ahead exactly nine minutes from computer time. I understand MY time. I'm used to automatically subtracting nine minutes from my watch to ascertain the correct time. If I subtract nine minutes from computer time or clock time, I'll end up throwing myself all off. I'm not sure if I can endure an entire workday without my watch.
Now, if you'll excuse me, it's almost time for lunch. I think. I can never be sure unless I know what time it is in MY time.
If only Natalie Portman would bring me my watch. Preferably, a nude Natalie Portman. If Natalie Portman delivered my watch in the nude, this day would be perfect. Mmmmm, Natalie Portman nude.
A Column From Late May, Can't Remember When Exactly
I recently donned a tuxedo and stood front and center as yet another of my good friends surrendered to the institution of marriage. And, although I could expound endlessly on my own proud status as the last living single man on earth, or on how smoking hot I looked in a tuxedo, I'm opting instead to recount the four-and-a-half hour journey to Milwaukee, where the wedding (a.k.a. crime) took place.
Milwaukee is a large city situated on the eastern border of Wisconsin, a state known for cheese, bitter beer, and a religious devotion to The Church of Favre (there are lesser denominations established for Lombardi, Holmgren and Starr). If not for the Green Bay Packers, I believe, Wisconsin-ites would actually be able to evolve beyond their current Jeffrey Dahmer and Ed Gein developmental status.
Thankfully, I did not have to traverse the vast Wisconsin expanse by myself. A fellow groomsman, Chad, accompanied me on the lengthy drive from Rochester, Minn., to Milwaukee. Therefore, I could engage in conversation whenever the Wisconsin countryside grew tiresome. In other words, I engaged in conversation pretty much the entire trip.
The fastest and most direct route between point A and point B is to link up with I-90 and keep the speedometer latched at just shy of 10 miles above the speed limit. Once this is accomplished, it's simply a matter of watching time drag by as the wheels drone on in perpetuity.
11:30 a.m.: Chad and I depart. We both agree that we need to stop for pop, and soon.
11:35 a.m.: We stop at Kwik Trip to buy pops. I buy a 20 oz. bottle of Diet Pepsi. Chad buys a much larger bottle that resembles the shells fired from U.S. battleships. I think Chad will regret this purchase within an hour.
11:37 a.m.: After leaving Kwik Trip, Chad and I talk about our jobs for about 15 minutes. Eventually, the topic starts to irritate us and we fall into sullen silence for about five minutes.
11:58 a.m.: Now firmly on I-90, Chad begins talking about money and investing and tells me I should roll my savings into tax-free municipals and. . . and. . . I escape into my mind where I imagine scantily clad women chasing me down a sandy beach.
12:15 p.m.: I emerge from my beach fantasy briefly to acknowledge that Chad is now talking about the volatile economy and how it has a negative effect on overall investment returns. I revisit my fantasy, only this time there are more women chasing me.
12:20 p.m.: Desperate to change the topic of conversation, I ask Chad about his Harley motorcycle. This pleases Chad to no end and he begins a lengthy discussion about his bike and how he wants to buy a newer one. Compared to investment strategies, this is highly entertaining conversation.
12:35 p.m.: We reach LaCrosse, where we cross the Mississippi. No matter how many times I cross the river, I'm awed by its timeless beauty. It drifts lazily along, unconcerned about current events, interested in nothing. It's like a giant liquid teenager.
12:50 p.m.: Once outside of LaCrosse, I become aware of a disturbing number of dead deer littering the side of the road. I make a mental note of the carnage but remain silent.
1 p.m.: "Man there are a lot of dead deer on this road," Chad and I say practically in unison. There are deer carcasses to the right and the left. And where there are no deer bodies, there are massive red stains painting the pavement for about a quarter of a mile. It's like a demented marriage between a slasher movie and Wild America.
1:30 p.m.: We reach a truck stop in a town called Mauston. Chad hurries to the bathroom to dispose of his giant Diet Pepsi mistake. I'm amazed he made it two hours. We decide to eat at the truck stop. We're surrounded by truckers, all of whom have the tired, grizzled look of someone who has seen all of America 10 times over at 65 mph.
2 p.m.: We resume our journey. Aside from the continual string of smashed deer, the only thing to delight the senses are interspersed billboards advertising Wisconsin Dells. I'm trying to imagine a family vacation under the surreal conditions.
MOTHER: "Look kids! Noah's Ark! You'll be playing in the water in just a couple of hours!"
CHILDREN: "Mommy, why isn't Bambi moving?"
4 p.m.: We arrive in Milwaukee, having spent the last two hours counting deer carcasses.
Who says Wisconsin is boring?
Now, in a bid to boost my site traffic, I'm going to repeat the name Hanna Montana a few times. Hanna Montana. Hanna Montana. Hanna Montana. Hanna Montana. Hanna Montana. Hanna Montana.
