Analyze This, That, And The Other Thing
Last night I dreamed I had a cat named October. It was an all black cat with orange, yes orange, eyes. I remember thinking it looked really creepy with orange eyes, so I named it October (Halloween, don't you know).
Suddenly, I found myself at my grandmother's place up north, only it wasn't her house, yet I strangely enough knew my way perfectly around the place. Melissa was with me, and the whole family was making a big fuss over her.
Then, the scene shifted to a huge dinner table, where everyone was sitting, including my Grandpa, who died two Septembers ago. It didn't dawn on me that grandpa was actually dead until I noticed that he was blowing spit bubbles out of the side of his mouth while he ate. Grandpa never did that (actually, no one I know does that). That's when I remembered that grandpa was actually dead, so I decided that grandma must have met another man that looked remarkably like him. An imposter.
Flash to the next scene: I'm outside playing with October, when suddenly his tail falls off. I try to re-attach the tail, and initially I'm successful, but it falls off again a little while later. October gets suddenly pissed at the world and starts going all Pet Cemetery on me, his eyes glowing orange as he digs his claws deep into my arm, hissing the whole time. I manage to get the deranged cat off my arm and throw him as far as I can away from me, and then I dash into the house to safety.
October then keeps everyone inside the house by patrolling the outside, occasionally jumping up against a window and banging up against the door. I mean, this was one pissed off cat. Shortly before I awoke, I had another scene change, with Melissa and I driving home from my grandmother's (which, in my head, was a nine hour drive, which it isn't), and I was struck by a big realization that the cat was an analogy for Saddam Hussein. Then I woke up.
Anyone want to take a stab at dream analysis on this one?
Anyone?
Bueller?
A New Approach To Fitness
I could, I suppose, join a nice health club where they have big, expensive equipment, and water fountains are plentiful. I could do that, but I'm deeply afraid I may end up accidentally enrolling in one of those newfangled dominatrix fitness centers.
According to an April 16 Reuters news article out of New York, Students at "Slavercise," a class in New York combining sadomasochism and exercise, get a physical workout by 'submitting' to the orders and whims of a dominatrix named Mistress Victoria.
I can just imagine myself unwittingly walking into such a place, you know, just to check things out, when suddenly I find myself being physically beaten and told to run in place and do jumping jacks, or else. . .
She orders the class around with a riding crop, dangerously pointed stiletto heels and, naturally, a dominating manner.
"If you don't keep up, you get punished," she warned her students at a recent class, which she oversaw with a nonstop string of insults and orders. "I don't want to hear any whimpering. You're here to suffer. I expect complete obedience, or I'll give you a good spanking. Do what I tell you to do. I don't care if it hurts."
Maybe I'm just being old fashioned here, but such an exercise routine simply doesn't sound like that much fun to me. It's hard enough to maintain a good pace during a five mile run without a woman chasing after me with a riding crop and pointed heels.
Clad in face masks, dog collars, rubber suits and other sartorial S&M paraphernalia, Mistress Victoria's students run through the exercise regimen, knowing any slacking off will bring her wrath down upon them.
You know, given a choice, I think I'll take my chances with my current exercise regimen. That Mistress Victoria just sounds kind of mean.
Operation "Iraqi Nickname" Underway
Complex Arabic Names Too Tough To Remember
WASHINGTON D.C. (Rhodes Media Services) -- Responding to repeated requests from coalition commanders in Iraq, the Pentagon today launched Operation "Iraqi Nickname" so forces on the ground can better identify top Ba'ath party leaders without having to remember difficult and long Arabic names.
According to anonymous sources, "Iraqi Nickname" has actually been in operation for some time, but it was only enforced in some of the more obvious cases. General Ali Hassan al-Majid, better known as "Chemical Ali," was one of the first individuals to be tartgeted by the operation, followed quickly by Muhammed Saeed Al-Sahaaf, now better known as "Baghdad Bob." Rihab Taha, now known as "Dr. Germ", was the most recently targeted individual.
"When you think about it, correctly pronouncing -- hell, remembering -- all those long Arabic names is probably more difficult than actually fighting a war," said U.S. Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld. "You should see the whiteboard in my office. It's covered with all these crazy names I can't even begin to remember, like Iraq's Minister of Agriculture, Abdallah Hamid Mahmud al. . .whatever. It's just easier to call him 'Abby the Farmer.' I, for one, can definitely say this has made my job a whole hell of a lot easier."
According to an updated list of targeted Ba'ath leadership, other renamed individuals include the former Iraqi defense minister, Lt. Gen Sultan Hashim Ahmad al-Jabburi Tai, now known as "General Tai Food," the former finance minister, Hikmat Mizban Ibrahim al-Azzawi, now known as "Money Man Mizban," and the former minister of oil, Amir Rashid Muhammad al-Ubaydi, now known as "Jed Clampett Amir."
Time For toilet Talk
I recently saw a commercial that asked the pressing question: "Do you know what is going on in your toilet tank?"
Well, no, not really. A party? A U.N. meeting? Somebody, please tell me what is going on in my toilet tank!
I probably don't spend enough time adequately worrying about my toilet. Granted, I'll clean it when it's dirty, and by dirty I mean it has given rise to eight new distinct life forms. But, overall, my toilet isn't generally a great source of worry for me. I use it for its designed purpose, and then I move on to other things.
However, the commercial I saw really got me thinking about toilets and the many available ways to clean them. It had never before registered to me just how wonderfully hysterical toilet cleansing advertising actually is. I mean, there are a LOT of toilet cleaners on the market, and each one has to distinguish itself from the competition. How many possible ways are there to distinguish yourself as THE toilet cleaning solution?
I have to hand it to toilet Duck, because they've been able to combine toilet cleaning with an adorable quacking duck. They make toilet cleaning seem almost cute. I remember one of the first toilet Duck commercials. It featured a computer generated animated rubber duck with a big smile on its bill. The duck quacked enthusiastically as it whirled around the toilet bowl. Quack, quack! Now THAT'S advertising!
Of course, this post was just to re-establish my love of potty talk. I'm so hopeless.
I Broke A Tooth Tonight, But It Wasn't Mine
I'm feeling strangely shitty right now, not that I should, because nothing that happened tonight was really my fault. In short, I broke the right front tooth of a high school girl tonight. Only, I didn't REALLY break her tooth, fate did, but I was fate's accomplice.
Of course, this was a hapkido incident, which is the root cause of pretty much every minor injury I've sustained for the last three years, from bruises to strains to sprains to groin kicks. But this was the first time I was partially responsible for another person's injury, even though, as I keep stressing to myself, it wasn't my fault at all. Small comfort, that.
Britta is a 17 year old sprite with an insane amount of athletic ability, and a sharp intellect that holds a bright future for her no matter what she decides to do. I like working out with her, because she's flexible as silly putty and her body has the resiliancy of tank armor. Sure, I outweigh her by roughly 50 pounds, but her technique is superb. Some of my best workouts are with Britta. I guess, in retrospect, we were due for an injury just by virtue of the fact that we work out so much.
We were working defense techniques against an opponent with a stick. The sticks we use are varnished maple, I think. Whatever they are, they're hard as hell. Britta had the stick and came at me with an overhand attack. I blocked, counter punched, and threw her down with an outer reaping throw, which is more or less a violent backwards trip. Nothing out of the ordinary. We work this stuff all the time, back and forth. Britta knows how to fall without getting hurt, as do I.
She fell, and slapped her hand to cushion the blow. However, her slapping hand was also the hand that held the stick. She slapped, the stick jolted loose, and cracked her right on the mouth. It made a sound that wasn't quite right, as if it met resistance, but only a little.
She looked up with a look of surprise mixed with pain, and then she spit out a piece of tooth, then another piece, and then another. And then the blood started to flow, and I wanted to crawl under a car and wait for it to back over me. No, it wasn't my fault, but the image of Britta spilling forth tooth and blood just still makes me feel guilty somehow.
One thing is certain: fight movies just don't reflect reality. I know, that's OBVIOUS. Still, here was a situation where a foot long piece of stick, barely glancing off a tooth, with very little force, effectively chopped the tooth apart. Now, consider the movie Bloodsport, where opponents take a jump spin kick to the chops and barely suffer a split lip. Here's the deal: one punch, or one kick, or even a well placed bitch slap, can tear a human face to pieces. It really doesn't take much.
I hope Britta is all right. This really sucks.
Cool Runnings. No, HOT Runnings
Yesterday was 80 degrees. And I went running in it. Is there no end to my stupidity?
Here's the deal. Minnesotans get downright giddy with the arrival of spring. For about a month or so, we don't function as normal people. We get unusually excited when we step outside in the morning and are greeted with warm sunshine and chirping birds. It's not our fault. After months of enduring biting cold and an eerie, omnipresent silence, we just kind of lose our minds.
Therefore, when I got home from work yesterday, with the sun shining, and the birds chirping, I felt obligated to go for a run. Now the last time I ran was Thursday of last week, when the temperature was a more moderate 60 degrees or so. It should be noted that 80 degrees is considerably warmer than that. Granted, I've run in even warmer temps, but making the jump from 60 to 80 degrees was something I wasn't prepared for. You should work your way slowly into such things, rather than foolishly galloping five miles in baking heat.
I'm building up to something that is actually anticlimactic. Yes, I went for an ill-advised five mile trek in unseasonably high temps, but I didn't die or anything. Mostly, I did a lot of sweating. Tons of sweating. Ridiculous amounts of sweating. Sure, the girls in my hapkido class call me "Puddles" for a reason, but I have NEVER had that much sweat pour from my pores before. It was INSANE. And, being that it's early in the season, none of the water fountains in the city have been turned on yet, and I wasn't carrying any money with me to buy water, so I just kind of had to suffer my way back home. Oh, man, did I want water.
And let me just state for the record that, when you're really thirsty, and I mean Sahara throat thirsty, there's nothing worse than water that's too damned cold. I grabbed my water bottle from the fridge and started drinking deeply, only to have the ice cold water actually hurt on its way down. My whole head hurt, a pounding, deperate hurt that originated deep within my skull. But, I couldn't stop drinking water, because my body simply demanded it. So, it was an Id battle between my head and body, and my body kept winning, only because my body is so much bigger than my head.
ME: Oh my God my head hurts! *glug, glug, glug* I can't stand the pain! *glug, glug, glug* I think my skull is about to crack open! *glug, glug, glug*
Eventually, I was able to re-hydrate myself, at the expense of roughly eight million brain cells, and I just kind of balled myself up on my bed, whimpering ever so slightly as the throbbing pain in my head subsided.
On a totally unrelated note, a friend of mine, Lisa (who introduced Melissa and me, so I'm obligated to like her despite strong reasons not to), is going to Maui in June, and she's preparing for the trip by tanning. I don't understand the whole tanning thing. Why do people feel they have to tan? I don't think tanned people look any better or worse than non-tanned people. In fact, in Minnesota, if you're tanned, I usually just assume you're a materialistic, superficial fuckwad with nothing better to do than obsess about your looks. Not that Lisa is a materialistic fuckwad or anything, but tanning just strikes me as a total and complete waste of time and money.
Of course, I'm naturally a smoking hot specimen of male hunkiness, so my opinion on tanning may be tainted by that. But, anyway. I've been to Maui many times, including just last Christmas, and I'm here to tell you that people on Maui don't give a flying fuck whether you're tan or not, and they don't care if you're 8,000 pounds or 80 pounds. Mostly, the people on Maui are interested in soaking up as much paradise as they can. What fun is a vacation if you're worrying about how you look? Especially when, by the very act of worrying how you look, you end up looking materialistic and superficial, if not downright silly. Just my opinion.
Now Let's Get This Part Right
By most estimations, the fighting in Iraq is pretty much over. One month, one fallen dictator, one liberated people. A pretty good scorecard by any measure.
Now comes the tricky future.
The naysayers, of course, are already saying "nay," which is to be expected from critics who can't see beyond their own small world. To them, everything that happens, has happened, and will happen, will simply lead to several more 9/11s. They're so scared of the world, they see disaster around every corner. To them, terrorists are everywhere and we shouldn't provoke them further. They can't see the big picture. They see only themselves, and not the smiling, jubilant people that have been liberated. They see the looting, not the hope. They are, in a word, pathetic.
As the war winds down, we look to the rebuilding process, a process that will undoubtably be more fascinating than the war itself, but will undoubtably be given only passing notice by a media still drunk on the drama of war. But, the rebuilding is the most important part, rebuilding not only structures, but trust. Trust in the U.S., trust in the West, trust in a world that has turned a blind eye to their suffering for a quarter of a century. No small task, that. But, I think we're up to the challenge.
Again, it won't be easy. There are so many Islamic religious sects in Iraq, particularly the Sunni and Shia, that deep schisms are only to be expected. Whether those sects can put aside their petty bickering in order to preserve their nation, and repair their national pride, remains to be seen. But, elections, true elections, where candidates don't automatically run unopposed and garner 100% of the vote, is an incredible step forward.
The Iraqi transformation will likely be lost to much of the rest of the Islamic world, a world that is so mired in its own propaganda there are those that honestly believe that the invasion of Iraq was meant to coincide with a Jewish holiday, apparently forgetting that Judaism has so many holidays you can't randomly point at a calendar without hitting one. Hate runs deep in the Islamic world, with 99.99 percent of that hate being focused on the nation of Israel. It's a conditioned response, really, stemming from a history of hearing their religious and political leaders blaming the woes of the people, their poverty and their hopelessness, on the Zionist nation that has the audacity to cling, rightously and legally, so tenaciously to the Holy land.
Hopefully, we can start to change that in Iraq. Hopefully, while rebuilding that country, and helping it to actually prosper, we can also help the people shed some of their hateful shackles. No, it won't be easy, but nothing so incredibly worthwhile ever is.
UPDATE: And this guy got everything soooo right.
UPDATE: So did this guy.
My Middle East Madness Menu c. Ryan Rhodes, Oct. 17, 2001
An Old Post That Seems Appropriate Once Again, And Again, And Again
After a long day of avoiding a U.S. led airstrike over your war torn country, hunger is no doubt the first thing on your mind. You desire something fast and inexpensive, something that the whole family can enjoy. So, come to Osama’s Fast Food Emporium, your Mecca for affordable family cuisine.
At Osama’s, you’ll be treated to a virtually bomb free atmosphere, and you’re encouraged to enjoy Allah you can eat. And, Osama’s extensive menu guarantees a pleasant and different dining experience every time you visit.
“Osama’s has declared a holy war on hunger,” said a satisfied customer. “When I first heard of a franchise in the area, I didn’t walk, Iran.”
Yasser, you betcha, this is no joke, this Israel. With Osama’s restaurants springing up throughout the Middle East, you’re probably just a camel ride away from a hearty Osama’s meal. So, make a pilgrimage to your nearest Osama’s today. Remember, a rolling stone gathers no mosque.
So, what culinary delights can you find at Osama’s? You’re encouraged, of course, to start off with a nice garden or caesar Saladdin before moving on to the main course. How about a nine piece order of Taliban Tenders. These tender white Gaza strips of chicken breast, rolled in Osama’s secret blend of herbs and spices, are sure to satisfy even the most hardlined fundamentalist. Or, enjoy a rosemary and Yemen chicken breast (with a slight sprinkle of Sultan pepper), a sure hit with your wives.
Feeling a little Mexican? Then order our delicious chicken El Queda Quesadillas.
But wait, you aren’t limited to chicken at Osama’s. You can also enjoy a vast assortment of mutton dishes. In fact, at Osama’s, our specialty Islam.
Osama’s also provides several side orders, including, for a limited time, ripened ears of Koran on the Kaaba.
“Oman, that Koran on the Kaaba was excellent,” said another appreciative diner. “I almost feel bad that I ate four ears. I sincerely apologize.”
No need to say you’re Saudi at Osama’s. At our affordable prices, we understand when you eat more than your share.
Of course, Osama’s didn’t forget the early risers. For the breakfast crowd, Osama’s provides small and large stacks of Pakistani Pancakes smothered in bin Ladenberry syrup. Other breakfast items include Hezbollah Hash Browns, Baghdad Bacon, Syrian Sausage, and Beirut Bagels.
Wash down your Osama’s meal with any of our beverages, including juices, sodas, and our famous Shiite Shakes. All refills only cost a Qatar.
So, you’ve finished your Osama’s meal, and you still have room for more? Perhaps something on the sweet side? Not to worry; Osama’s also provides a number of delicious desert desserts, including our Sahara Sundaes and Empty Quarter Eclairs.
Like most families, you probably have some unruly children who are hungry but difficult to satisfy. No problem. Simply load up your little terrors and bring them to Osama’s, where they can enjoy our low priced Angry Meals. Upon hearing that they’re headed to Osama’s, your children will no doubt start yelling and shieking with glee. You may have to Muslim.
Yes, Osama’s has lifted the veil on affordable family cuisine. See for yourself. Come to Osama’s Fast Food Emporium today!
L.A. To Re-establish Looting Supremacy
City Determined to Put Iraqi Looters in Their Place
Los Angeles, Calif (Rhodes Media Services) -- Reacting to the widespread looting occuring in Iraqi cities as the Saddam Hussein regime is swept away by coaltion forces, neighborhood leaders in Los Angeles today were rallying citizens to rise up and retake their position as the undisputed champions of the art of looting.
Veterans of past L.A. looting riots were outspoken in their criticism of Iraqi looting methods, calling them amateurish and lacking focus. Lawrence Whitmore, who "scored" a new color television, three pairs of pants, and five pairs of Nike Airs during the riots following the Rodney King verdict, scoffed when he saw liberated Iraqis making off with chairs and sinks.
"That shit is just weak," said Whitmore. "When the time and events present themselves like that, you just have to take better advantage of the situation. If I came out of a good looting rampage with only a chair or a sink, I'd feel pretty damned silly. If that was me, I would have had a list written up ahead of time so I could pounce as soon as the U.S. came into the city. You gotta grab the electronic stuff first. That's key. From there, you go after clothes, really good clothes. You can't waste time going after sinks. That's just stupid."
Although there has been no set time for when L.A. plans on retaking its looting crown, sources say that any minor small victory by any L.A. team would be sufficient fuel for a good looting endeavor.
To Boldly Go Where Bold People Go
I'm a chickenshit on rollerblades. I'm not sure why, exactly, but I am.
Melissa loves to rollerblade, so I, as a good boyfriend, decided to take up the maddening pastime. I mean, it seems easy enough. You take roller skating and combine it with ice skating. How hard can it be? Pretty damned hard, let me tell you.
I actually bought my own pair of rollerblades when Mel and I first started dating last fall, an expensive purchase that left me wondering why I should even bother dating in the first place. Mel suggested I buy a brand called K2, which frankly sounded like a new brand of dog food to me, but I bought them anyway. They cost about $300. I had never before spent that much money for something that goes on my feet. I'll easily pony up the dough for a better brand of beer, but footwear has always been something that I don't normally spend vast amounts of money on. They're just feet, after all. Why fucking bother?
I like to think that I was getting better with rollerblades before I put them away for the winter. I like to think that because I like to think I'm great at everything. But, I'm not great on rollerblades. I'm not even good on rollerblades. I'm not even all that fair on rollerblades. fuck it. I suck on rollerblades.
It's frustrating, really, because here I am, a guy who can hold a perfect side-kick for five minutes, balancing on one foot. But, put me on a pair of rollerblades, and I immediately look like a newborn calf trying to stand for the first time. I'll strap them on, stand up, and suddenly I'm frantically waving my arms as if I'm trying to fly and, quite frankly, there's a better chance that I'll eventually take wing than of me becoming good on rollerblades.
To be truthful, rollerblading isn't all that difficult. Gravity pretty much does all the work for you. If you aim yourself down a hill, the wheels will do most of the work. I may not look all that graceful doing it, but I guess it's considered rollerblading. The trick for me, and by trick I mean the impossible part, is stopping. I just CAN'T stop. I have literally jumped into a grassy lawn to stop myself from rolling down steep hills.
The rollerblade stopping mechanism consists of what amounts to an eraser stuck to the back of one blade. Theoretically, you stop by pushing down your heel on the eraser. Only, you don't stop. You just halt yourself from going any faster, with the added benefit of putting yourself even more off balance than you were previously. The heel eraser braking method does not work. It is simply an evil myth put forth by the makers of rollerblades so they can make their product sound as if it's safe. I have left long black eraser streaks down a hill 3/4 of a mile long, and I never even come close to stopping.
Instead, I've adopted a stopping method by which I drag one blade behind the other. This is only slightly more effective than the heel brake, with the added benefit of totally losing my balance while at the same time grinding my wheels down to the size of Matchbox car wheels. Plus, after dragging my blade behind me for 3/4 of a mile, I still haven't stopped. So, it's truly a brilliant method.
Aside from the difficulties, I do enjoy rollerblading, even though I'm resigned to the fact that I'll eventually fall down, hit my head, and lapse into a coma for seven years. It's a fun way to get around, and it is great exercise, particularly when I'm trying to go up a hill the size of Everest.
But I sure wish I could learn how to stop. That would be sweet.
UPDATE: Layne hasn't disappeared or anything. She's just doing some sort of blog spring cleaning. I think she changes her blog more than her underwear, but that's just a guess. Mmmmmmm, Layne's underwear. *grgglgllgggllgl*
UPDATE: Amish Tech Support has moved. Don't miss it. His blog is so cool, particularly his comment engine.
UPDATE: For those of you who can't get enough war coverage, you simply MUST bookmark the Command Post. It has been my bread and butter since Day 1. You also can't top the Instapundit, Glenn Reynolds, for timely news with a dash of humor. Yes, Glenn Reynolds, the man, the myth, MOAB (Master Of All Bloggers).
Layne. Plain Layne. Where Are you?
