And My Future Addiction? Command and Conquer: Generals
The Command and Conquer line of computer games has always stood head and shoulders above all other real-time strategy games, at least that's my opinion. Granted, I didn't care much for Tiberian Sun, but the original C&C, and Red Alert, and Red Alert 2 were all awesome and colossal time-killers. Each game holds special memories for me.
For the original Red Alert, I remember absentmindedly sipping a beer as I tried to pass an impossibly maddening level. A few hours later, finally victorious, I realized I had polished off a 12 pack. Drinking beer and RTS games do NOT mix. Do not try this at home. Actually, go ahead and try it at home if you must, but be sure you don't try it while driving. We'll all feel safer.
The original C&C was my very first introduction to playing somebody else on a networked computer. I wasn't very good, and I got my ass totally kicked, but I knew that the potential to play networked games, and games over the Internet, was something really special.
Red Alert 2 was pretty neat, definitely better than those that came before it, but it was still based on the same theme as the others without to much departure.
But Generals is amazing. You realize during the opening scene that you're about to play something beyond your wildest expectations. It's real-time war simulation with a modern kick. You can be the U.S., or you can be China, or you can be a GLA terrorist organization.
I wasn't sure what to think of the whole glamorization of the terrorists because, really, in this game, they're pretty hyped. This game doesn't quibble with political correctness. The terrorists are Muslim, right down to their bomb belts and turbans. This game is bound to piss a lot of people off, even though they'll be pissed off and unable to stop playing, because this game is digital addiction.
Even the first mission would have peace activists calling for a boycott of the game. Right off the bat, the U.S. is sent to encircle Baghdad. Right away. No waiting. Your tanks are at the gates of the Iraqi capital, dispatching a ragtag bunch of GLA armor shortly before they launch chemical-laden SCUDS right into a bustling bazaar, wiping out 30 civilians you've taken great pains to avoid squashing with your tanks. Sounds about right.
The graphics for Generals are enough to make Picasso drool. This is eye candy of the highest order, right down to the little puffs of dust that are swirled up by a soldier's feet and the way a body is flung 20 feet in the air when the truck he was riding in explodes. There are cut-scenes that are right of the Matrix, with 360 degree panoramas of exploding enemy units. I played the opening tutorial mission twice just to see the cutscenes over again.
I'll be away from my computer all weekend, but rest assured, come Sunday night, I'll be clicking my way through terrorists cells with U.S. heavy armor. If you want to see the next generation of RTS games, give Generals a whirl. But clear your calendar, because you'll be busy for the next couple of weeks.
Or at least I will.
Getting Totally Ripped Off By The Daily Show With John Stewart
Okay, I realize that it's all a big coincidence, but still, watching the Daily Show tonight, I couldn't help but feel that they owed me some sort of royalties for their piece on Korea's Taepo Dong missiles. Sure, I laughed, but the inner comedian in me cried just a little, because I reported it first, on January 13. Hell, I beat them by a whole stinking MONTH. *sniffle*
"Getting to Know Poo About the Internet" c. Ryan Rhodes, Feb. 12, 2003
I think there's something wrong with the Internet. The Internet has seemed distant lately, detached. I think someone should go check up on the Internet.
Okay, seriously, I think the Internet has gone astray. Don't get me wrong, I love the Internet. I use the Internet every day for both work and for play. For me, being without the Internet is akin to hacking off my right arm with an axe. The Internet is part of who I am.
Still, awhile back, I was reminded that for every useful aspect provided by the Internet, there are bound to be five or six useless or disturbing aspects. A friend of mine sent me a link to a Web page he thought I should check out. I don't know why my friend thought I should check out the site, but frankly I think he was just punishing me for some past transgression.
Now, I've seen some pretty amazingly disgusting things on the World Wide Web in my time. I've seen pictures of naked women, and I've seen pictures of naked men, and I've seen pictures of naked animals, and I've seen pictures of naked men, women and animals doing things you'd never see on Old McDonald's Farm. But still, even I wasn't ready for what my friend sent me.
I clicked on the link my friend sent me, and I was quickly whisked away to the magical world of "ratemypoo.com" (http://www.ratemypoo.com). For those of you not familiar with ratemypoo.com (and there's really no reason you should be, unless you have a vengeful friend sending you links), let me just fill you in.
Quite simply, if you visit ratemypoo.com, you'll be given the auspicious honor of being able to rate, on a scale of one to 10, the defecatory prowess of some very, very sick individuals. That's right folks, you just sit there and rank pictures of the poo of complete strangers.
So, what's wrong with that? What isn't wrong with that?! To start with, someone took the time to create a web site dedicated to the sole purpose of poo rating. Then, not only do people visit that site, they take the time to post their own pictures, so other people can rate their poo. What good can possibly come of this? What bigger purpose does it serve. What is this world coming to?
The logistics involved here are just staggering. First, a person has to go to the bathroom, which is a pretty universal urge I guess. But then, then, that person has to decide that his or her (really, though, I can't see women doing this) poo is worthy enough to be posted online. Then, then, they have to take a picture. Let me just repeat that so it sinks in: they have to take a picture.
Raise your hand if you've ever taken a picture of your "work" in the bathroom. Come on now, raise your hand. You there, in the back with your hand up, please remove yourself from my column, and close the door on your way out.
I simply can't fathom the concept of photographing my own poo. It's unfathomable to me. My fathoming ability can't function here. I'm totally fathomless.
Concerned, I decided to share the site with my good friend, B.J. Although he had a good laugh about it, he had to agree that it was pretty gross. But then, a few weeks later, B.J. told me that his three year old daughter loves the site and asks her daddy to go to the site whenever he's online. What? A three year old girl loves ratemypoo.com? Am I going insane?
Now desperate, I decided to run the site past one more filter, my cousin Skip. It was an easy moral decision to zap Skip with ratemypoo.com because he had been sending me links all afternoon whisking me off to sites related to flatulence. Skip's response was swift and concise.
"Now that's really disgusting. . . Ick," was Skip's reply, and I tend to agree with his assessment.
Now, I may be wrong here, and I may not be able to see the greater good being served by ratemypoo.com, but I stand by my opinion: namely, sitting and rating another person's poo is really disgusting.
Ick.
Re-Geography Lesson
This made me brush up. Thankfully, only two countries gave me pause.
Dr. Suess On the Sauce Makes People Snarf
Ryan says: A martini. So sophisticated.
Jen says: That's what I'd drink if I drank. Something swank. I rhymed!
Ryan says: Kind of an alcoholic version of Dr. Suess.
Jen says: I will not drink green ale and coke! *hic*
Ryan says: "And the drinkers, they drank, they drank something swank, and their breath bubbled and burbled and really just stank."
Jen says: *laughs*
Jen says: yay, I knew Ryan would come up with something funny.
Ryan says: Just a matter of time.
Jen says: 'Tis.
Ryan says: "And as the drinkers got drunker, the more that they drank, so their thinkers couldn't thunker, no matter how much they thank."
Jen says: LOL...that's awesome.
Ryan says: I'm in my office just twittering away.
Jen says: You do NOT twitter.
Ryan says: Oh, I twitter, baby. I TWITTER!
Jen says: *snarfs*
I Never Ever Smelled a Smell that Smells Like That Smell Smells
A comment left by leblanc, from Intellectual Properties, prompted me to do considerable surfing into the other world of differing opinions, a necessary exercise from time to time. I won't go into great detail about my surfing, because quite frankly I can't remember all the links I clicked and all the pages I read. And, really, I can't remember what page, or what paragraph, or what sentence, or what word, sparked an odd thought in my mind: "I wonder what war smells like."
Smell is one of those weird senses that is everywhere but goes largely ignored, unless you find your nose hovering an inch over a steaming pile of dog poo. Maybe it's because smells are so ubiquitous, we just kind of file them away and focus on the more immediate senses like sight and touch. Granted, some smells are etched forever in our minds, like how my parents' house smells in the morning when they're home: fresh brewed coffee, the lingering odor of toast, that sort of thing.
But, every day odors just seem to escape us. Still, whenever I access my memory archives, I'm always struck by how I remember a certain smell from a certain time, even though, at the time, the smell was just commonplace. When I think back to my college days, I equate each place I lived with a certain smell. So, what must war smell like?
Obviously, it can't smell very good. But even beyond the stench of death, I imagine there are a host of other war-related odors that are truly disturbing. I think this is true particularly for airstrikes. For all their touted pinpoint precision and destructive capability, U.S. missiles and bombs just HAVE to be the most horrible smelling things imaginable. The stench of atomized concrete, the burning odor of unrestrained heat, the smell of escaped chemicals both from the weapon and from the target. It has to be horrendous.
I had a dream once, a strange dream even by my standards. I found myself trying to defuse a nuclear bomb, standing over it without a clue as to which wire I was supposed to snip, or even if snipping a wire was at all a good idea. Still, there it was, ticking down in front of me, so I had to do something. So I snipped a wire. I knew I did something wrong, because the bomb started making an insane buzzing noise, and suddenly everything started moving in slow motion. All I could think to do was dive to the ground and await the inevitable, all the while the buzzing grew louder in my ears. The bomb when off, and everything went white, but I distinctly remember the smell of burnt arm hair just before I woke up. It's strange that I remember that, because I can't recall smelling any smells from any of my other dreams.
The point of this post? I'm not sure there is one. Just me rambling on about smells, for whatever that's worth. What does war smell like?
And Yet Another In A Long String of Bad Ideas
Sometimes, the capacity for human stupidity can dumbfound even the most strong-minded individuals. Here's an idea: load up a bus, Partridge Family style, and drive yourself and 50 or so likeminded folks into downtown Baghdad in an effort to deter war. Sound far fetched? Sadly, it isn't.
ANKARA (Reuters) - A group of around 50 Western anti-war activists received visas on Tuesday to enter Iraq where they plan to form "human shields" in an effort to deter a possible U.S.-led attack on the Arab state.
Somebody, somewhere, is guilty of some really poor planning. You'd think that, out of 50 or so people, one of them would have the common sense to see that a "human shield" initiative consisting of 50 people probably is the deterrant equivalent of toothpicks against a jackhammer. I'm thinking the leader of this gaggle of goons is going to have some explaining to do when they're round up by Iraqi secret police and placed before Saddam's propoganda machine. Seriously, what do they expect to accomplish once they're in Baghdad? Well, let's find out.
The volunteers said at an impromptu news conference in the Turkish capital they hoped their presence and the possibility of Western casualties would encourage U.S. political leaders and military planners to re-think any plans to bomb Baghdad for its alleged development of weapons of mass destruction.
Yeah, I'm sure military planners are going to lose a lot of sleep over 50 cultists who consciously decided to place themselves in the path of a cruise missile.
"I am an American human shield on this trip to Baghdad to try and stop this war," said volunteer John Rosse. "I ask American troops headed here...not to come, they have no business being here. They do not make good ambassadors. They are here to kill, murder, devastate the civilian population of Iraq. That is not an American thing to do."
Here that, troops? Better turn around. John Rosse said so. Still, he exposes the inherent fallacy that the U.S. is out to kill Iraqi civilians, as if our troops are trained to pick off anyone wearing a turban. I have to give anti-war protesters credit, however. They're remarkably adept at boiling down complex issues to standard black and white rants. No blood for oil, as if all the concern regarding weapons of mass destruction is somehow a ruse to hide a 100 percent oil-based agenda. We haven't found any evidence, as if a lack of evidence somehow exonerates Saddam. Let inspections work, as if a decade of inspections hasn't already been tried, and failed. Saddam will use weapons of mass destruction if we attack, which is interesting considering he's not supposed to have them in the first place.
For peace activists, it's somehow okay if Saddam has WMD, so long as he doesn't use them. Under that type of reasoning, men should be able to kidnap women, so long as they don't rape them. It's not as if Saddam is going to make nice soft fluffy pillows out of chemical and biological weapons and just sit on them. He intends to use them, whether on other countries or his own people, and neither is really that acceptable in my mind. Why is that so difficult for the John Rosses of the world to understand?
The group is traveling across Turkey in a convoy, including a red double-decker bus, that is expected to cross into Syria on Wednesday before entering Iraq. The volunteers left London late last month and headed overland across Europe. On arriving in Iraq, they plan to disperse to populated areas of Baghdad and other parts of the country.
I would like to see their reaction upon arriving in Baghdad, when they see firsthand how the Iraqi people live, and the perpetual fear they live under that the eyes and ears of Saddam will catch them saying or doing something of which he doesn't approve. I wonder what they'll think when they see their first Iraqi civilian arrested and carted off to prison, and very likely death. I wonder, after seeing all this, if they'll change their minds, if they'll suddenly realize that war may be the only way these people will ever actually be able to breathe freedom. I wonder if they'll realize that their noble "human shield" crusade will in the end hinder a military process that, in its bloodthirsty quest for oil, would also have liberated an oppressed society afraid to even speak.
I wonder if they'll be able to get out of Iraq to tell others what they saw without Saddam catching up to them first.
"Dude, Yer Goin' To Jail"
NEW YORK, Feb. 22 — Actor Benjamin Curtis, the well-known Dell computer Corp. pitchman "Steven" who says on television, "Dude, yer gettin' a Dell," was arrested for possessing marijuana in New York, officials said Monday.
Now, before passing judgement on poor Curtis, let's be honest: someone over there at MSNBC.com is also puffing the weed if they think today is Feb. 22. Oh, wait. . . I just hit the Refresh button, and they changed it to Feb. 10. That's right folks, Rambling Rhodes, reporting to you as it happens! But, I'm keeping it as Feb. 22, so their screw-up remains for all to see, well, at least on this site.
CURTIS, 22, WAS CHARGED with criminal possession of marijuana, a misdemeanor that carries a prison sentence of up to three months if he is convicted, a spokesman for the Manhattan district attorney's office said.
Seriously now, is there anybody out there who watched those commercials and didn't think, "Now that guy HAS to smoke tons upon tons of pot. He just HAS to." Anyone that panicky, with an insatiable jones for a Dell, simply can't be sober.
A spokesman for the Round Rock, Texas-based Dell said he was not familiar with the details and declined to speculate on future plans for the advertising campaign.
Oh, come on. This opens the door to some truly wacky Dell marketing. They can appeal to the pot smoking tech-heads of the world. "Dell, it's a bong of a computer."
World Shocked As Belgium Blocks NATO Defense of Turkey
Leaders From Around the Globe Ask: Where's Belgium? What's Belgium? Is That a Country?
Brussels, Belgium (Rhodes Media Services) -- Member countries of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) were shocked to learn that France, Germany and Belgium blocked a U.S. request to draft a plan to defend Turkey in the event of war in Iraq, sending diplomats scurrying to find maps and encyclopedia information about Belgium.
"I can understand Germany and France being sniveling cowards," said U.S. Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld. "They've been nothing but pansy milquetoasts when it comes to Iraq. But Belgium? Who the hell is Belgium? I have a hard time believing there's a country called Belgium. Still, I'll read up on this to find out more. I can't understand why anyone would want to be associated with France and Germany, but if there is such an additional country, it could only be named something stupid like Belgium."
Belgium, it turns out, is indeed a country, albeit a small one tucked between France and Germany. When reporters asked him if the country's convenient geography was a neat coincidence, Belgian Foreign Minister Louis Michel responded that Belgium had always been there, but it has just gone unnoticed.
"Seriously, Belgium is a country, and it has been a country for a very long time," said Michel to a throng of disbelieving reporters. "No, we were not recently carved from France and Germany so there can be an additional voice to back up their politcal push for appeasement of Saddam Hussein. Really, a major reason we sided with their view was so we could get some recognition on the world theater. Sure, it's embarrasing to be another wuss country, but we had to let the world know that Belgium does exist."
Following an emergency NATO meeting convened to deal with the tripartite block of a measure intended to draft a defense initiative to protect Turkey in the event of was in Iraq, reporters and world leaders alike delighted in using the word "Belgium" in conversation with one another. They all agreed that Belgium, though a wuss politically, was very fun to say.
"Belgium," said Nicolas Burns, U.S. ambassador to NATO. "Belgium, Belgium, Belgium. It's kind of like belch, only different. I guess that's appropriate."
15 Minutes of Fame. . . Er, Almost
I'm a huge fan of James Lileks and his Daily Bleat. But today's entry just astounded me. ASTOUNDED ME! He wrote about my hometown of Harmony. He even included a picture of the local theater, although it was polluted with war protesters. But, hey, it was still really cool. It was like having my 15 minutes of fame, except totally not even close to that.
It's the sort of town that creeps up on you - a gas station, a new motel - then it states its case with a four-block downtown, hands you off to the other side of town, gives you a park or a church to note then falls back and watches you go.
James Lileks drank at the Time Out sports bar! I can't believe it! I drink at the Time Out sports bar pretty much any time I go home. Now, the next time I drink too much at the Time Out, I can slur to any one who cares that "Jamesh Lileksh drank here people! Show some reshpect!"
I remember it differently. It was a warm October afternoon. The ceremony took place at the high school, which was larger than you'd think a town this size would have - but of course its students also came from the surrounding farmland. You crossed a long green lawn spattered with fallen leaves, and entered 1958.
I think I'll take the time to more fully appreciate Harmony the next time I go home.
Early Morning Helplessness
It was inevitable, I suppose. Since last weekend was wonderful, it only stood to reason that this one would be less than stellar.
I returned to my hometown on Friday night to check on my parents' house, ensuring that the pipes hadn't frozen and that everything was in order. It also gave me the chance to get my taxes to the local CPA. Good news: I only have to pay in $3,000 this year, as opposed to the $6,000 I was envisioning.
Saturday afternoon, however, I talked to Mel and she sounded strange. So, I decided to make the two hour drive to be with her. She seemed fine when I arrived, and we went out to eat at a Thai restaurant. Even as we ate, she started showing signs that things weren't quite right. She barely touched her food, and her eyes were taking on a reddish hue. She was sick, and whatever was making its way through her body was wasting no time taking control.
By 10 p.m., Mel was miserable, and her face was taking on the pale veneer that accompanied labored breathing and a whooping cough. Still, I wasn't too concerned. Colds are common this time of year in Minnesota. She fell asleep at 11 p.m., and I joined her a few minutes later.
Come 3 a.m., I awoke with a start, with Mel frantically pawing at my chest while making a gurgling sound that made my arm hair stand on end.
"I can't breathe," she croaked, and I saw lightning flash behind my eyes.
She couldn't breathe. What the fuck was going on? I violently grabbed her and brought her quickly to a seated position, with me seated behind her. She continued to gurgle and hack and wheeze and, worst of all, panic. I tried to tell her not to panic, that panicking would just make things worse, but it seemed hypocritical because I was almost blind with panic myself. I scanned for her phone, determined to call 911, but Mel just clung to me, refusing to let go. I couldn't leave her. I could just hold her to me and trust that things weren't as bad as I feared.
As her panic subsided, she started focusing more on breathing, and even as her tears dripped down on my arms, it was obvious that she was getting air, albeit in desperate gasps. Whatever had happened, it was going away. She sobbed softly as the panic subsided, nuzzling back into me, saying she was sorry for being sick, as if she had any control over that at all. I could only tell her to shush and to keep breathing deep.
After about half an hour, I put a stack of pillows against the wall and I laid back against it and had Mel lay back on me. It wasn't the most comfortable arrangement for me, but it ensured that Mel would remain upright, so the peace of mind was all the comfort I needed. She slept deeply for about 45 minutes like that, with me sleeping fitfully, if at all. I was mostly in an exhausted state of vigilance. Finally, with the frightful gurgling replaced by regular breathing, Mel slowly slipped down from my chest and slept soundly until the sun rose.
At 8 a.m., Mel was up and in the bathroom, vomiting for all she was worth, and I paced in the kitchen, feeling just as helpless as I had just a few hours earlier. She emerged exhausted, as is often the case after a 10 minute puke-fest. She moaned that she had thrown up in the sink and clogged it. I told her not to worry about it and to go back to bed. We slept into the afternoon, with Mel suffering a noticeable temperature and an inability to keep water down. Still, she was undeniably getting better, her body battling whatever strange soup of pathogens commandeering her body.
I got up for good at about 1:15 p.m., and I unclogged her sink with a knife, a most unpleasant task. I then did the dishes, checking up on the sleeping patient every so often. The worst was over. Now was the recovery project. Come 3 p.m., I went in and lay down next to Mel. She told me to get back on the road before it started getting dark, and she assured me that she was feeling better. I was dubious, so I stayed with her for another half hour before she insisted, once again, that I get going. The only thing she asked of me was that I not get sick. Gotta love her.
I kissed her good-bye at 4 p.m., and I stopped in Cannon Falls about 45 minutes later, ridden with guilt that I wasn't with her. I was about to start driving back to her, when I was reminded that, when Mel insists on something, like me going home, it was best not to second guess her. So, I continued on my way home.
I called her at 8 p.m., and she sounded better, though still exhausted. I told her that I almost turned back, and she sternly announced, with as much authority as she could muster in her beleagured condition, that it was a good thing I didn't, or she would have been very mad at me. Gotta love her.
I went for a five mile run tonight, taking advantage of what is likely my last few hours of being healthy. There's only a slim chance I'm going to avoid Mel's fate, and I wanted to enjoy being able to breathe deep while I still could. Now the countdown begins. How long before I fall ill? Any one want to place a bet?
