What Day Is Today? Uday.
In honor of today's news that Uday Hussein may be in surrender negotiations with coalition forces, I offer up this little bit of nonsense song (sung to the tune of De Camptown Races).
The Iraqi people hate this man,
Uday, Uday
Olympic athletes died by his hand,
Oh, de bad Uday
Chorus:
G'wine to hide all night
G'wine to hide all day
I bet my money he's shittin' his pants
Knowin' he's gonna pay.
Oh, he lived a life of luxury,
Uday, Uday
All achieved through thuggery
Oh, de bad Uday
Chorus:
G'wine to hide all night
G'wine to hide all day
I bet my money he's shittin' his pants
Knowin' he's gonna pay.
Now he's looking to cut a deal,
Uday, Uday
On his father he'll likely squeal.
Oh, de bad Uday
Chorus:
G'wine to hide all night
G'wine to hide all day
I bet my money he's shittin' his pants
Knowin' he's gonna pay.
Where I'd Rather Be
It's gorgeous outside. Beautiful. I stepped out the door this morning and just felt compelled to stand still. I wanted to just lay down in the grass, close my eyes, and listen to the world spin. But, I forced myself to go to work, with a heavy heart, mind you.
I like cities. I live in Rochester, I spend about 30 percent of my week in the the twin cities, and I lived a year in Tokyo (which is such a gigantic city, you can't even imagine). But, in a small part of my heart, I'm a country boy. I don't want to be at work. I know, I know; who does? But today, as I stood in the driveway, soaking in the Friday sun, there was only one place I wanted to be.
There's this bridge, about 10 miles away from my hometown. It's deep in the country, pretty much an oasis in the middle of farmland. My friends and I called it Nort's Bridge, although I have no idea why. Talk about secluded, this bridge probably saw about two cars crossing it a day. In its heyday, it was a major high school party spot, with teens actually putting the keg in the direct center of the bridge. Yep, it doesn't get much more hickville than that. But, you know, whatever.
I favored the bridge because of its solitude. It was the one spot I knew of that you could sit and not hear the modern world. You couldn't hear cars, or airplanes, or the droning hum of electricity so prevalent in all cities. You could just hear the world as it would be without humans. That's where I wanted to be this morning, more than any other place. I wanted to rest my chin on the warm, rusted metal bridge cables, feel the sun on my face, and listen to the trees rustling with their newly unfurled leaves, and the birds singing, and the river lazily drifting below. Damn, I wanted to be there.
I forget, sometimes, that this life is mine for only a short while. I get caught up in the concept of getting ahead. I find myself wanting everything and I tend to look down on those who have nothing. And that's wrong. It's me, but it's wrong. Right now, at Nort's Bridge, there's no rich, and there's no poor, and there are no jobs to worry about, there are no relationships to maintain, there is no Internet, and there are no blogs. There's just the bridge, and there's the world, spinning. And I think I really might need that right now.
I always feel like I'm on edge, as if I have to be ready to respond to something. Respond to anything. Perhaps it stems from being attuned to deadlines, I don't know. In the ten years since I graduated from high school, I've become accustomed to this ambitious idea of being someone, and I've lost sight of just being, and I thought about that this morning.
But, I'm at work now, and I'm blogging, and the hum of the computer is to my left, and the sound of office activity is to my right.
And at Nort's Bridge right now, there's silence.
My Own Limerick Contest
Inspired by contests over at A Small Victory, I'm conducting my own limerick contest, even though I'm sure only myself and me will take part. Anyway, the theme for this contest is the recent news story about Michael Jackson checking into a hospital with an unknown illness. Shall we begin? Winner gets the scab off my elbow scrape.
Michael Jackson is a pop star of old
It's been ages since his records went gold
When he realized this streak
He felt incredibly weak
He's just sick that his career has gone cold
It's not my intention to be a big prick
But Michael Jackson's face just makes me say "ick."
They're not sure why he fell ill
And perhaps never will
But there's no doubting that the man is just sick
A Nooner And A Lottery Ticket
So, I went home for "lunch," and had a nooner with the woman. And I have the damn carpet burns on my knees to prove it!
Anyway, I was feeling lucky on my way back to work, so I stopped and bought a $5 lottery ticket. Follow along, if you will, as I scratch my way to financial freedom:
Five spins to win at slots. D'oh! D'oh! D'oh! D'oh! D'oh!
Find two matching cards, win $20. Get two aces, win $40. D'oh!
Match any number to the wheel number. Six chances. D'oh! D'oh! D'oh! D'oh! D'oh! D'oh!
Uncover three numbers; if they equal 7, 11 or 21, you win. Two chances. D'oh! D'oh!
Beat the blackjack dealers hand, win prize shown. Five chances to win. D'oh! D'oh! D'oh! D'oh! D'oh!
Back to work. *grumble*
Managing To Avoid Management
This morning we had our weekly editorial meeting for eServer Magazine. I usually don't say much during the meetings; I just give a quick update on where I'm at with the articles and other magazine content I'm working on, and I'll throw a snarky little one-liner in if something is spoken that amuses me. But, overall, I just sit there and let my publisher and managing editor discuss mundane things such as editorial calendars and IBM legal matters. It's fascinating in a "thank goodness I don't have to do that" sort of way.
When I first started as news editor for this magazine, there was only one magazine. In the year and a half since I joined the staff we've picked up three more publications without picking up additional staff. To say I have job security right now would be a major understatement, which is quite a relief in this trembling economy.
Well, anyway, our latest magazine addition needs a managing hand, and the forces that be briefly suggested that I take on that role. When that was mentioned in today's meeting, I was ready to shout "Noooooooooooooooooooo!" until all the air was out of my lungs and all you could hear was a choking gurgle. I don't want to manage, and I've never wanted to manage, ANYTHING. I'll write. And, I'll edit. But, I WILL NOT manage. I learned early on, way back in college, and probably even earlier than that, that my skills are that of a writer, not a manager. Take one look around my desk right now, and you'll agree that my organizational skills are not those of a manager-type person.
"I won't do it," I said, matter-of-factly, although my head was still screaming "Nooooooooooooo!"
My publisher looked at me with a cocked head, sort of like a quizzical doberman, but then he nodded and said, "Well, I told them (them being the publishing company I work for) that I didn't think you wanted to do that."
At that point my managing editor chimed in. I told her months ago that I never wanted to have managerial duties. "Ryan's explained his position on this to me before. I don't think he'd like this."
So, I get to stay in my happy writing capacity, and I'm so relieved right now, I think I'm going to pee.
Race Versus Lazy Greed
"I want to offer my experience as a lesson," Mr. Blair writes, "for the precipice from which I plunged is one on which many young, ambitious, well-educated and accomplished African Americans and other ‘minorities' teeter, though most, of course, do manage to pull back from the brink. That precipice overhangs America's racial divide; and the winds sucking us down into the chasm (cultural isolation, professional mistrust, and the external and internal imperatives to succeed, at all costs, to name a few) can be too strong for the troubled and unprepared—as I was—to withstand.
No, Jayson Blair, you're a liar. You're a liar and a despicable plagiarist thief. You made money by fabricating tales and passing them off as legitimate news, deeply shaking an already incredulous public faith in the machine of the modern media. And now you want a book deal so you can make more money trying to establish a tenuous connection to your race and your blatant disregard for the truth and journalistic integrity. You tout yourself as a well-educated and accomplished African American, thereby insulting those who are truly well-educated and accomplished African Americans. Screw you, Jayson Blair. The last second is ticking off your 15 minutes of fame, and I hope you forever suffer for your reckless and lazy approach to journalism.
Abstinence. It's Enough. NOT!
One thing that's driven me butt-assed buggy about the Bush II administration is their insistence that sexual education in schools should be limited to "abstinence only." To me, this makes about as much sense as ignoring something in the hopes it will go away.
For the past two mornings, while driving to work, I've heard the same commercial featuring young-sounding folks talking about how they're choosing abstinence. It's pretty catchy, in a totally shortsighted sort of way. "Holding hands. It's enough." Having fun. It's enough." Being friends. It's enough." "Smoking crack and having a threesome. It's enough." Whoops. scratch that last one.
Now, I'm not bashing on the idea of abstinence here. Obviously, it's the best choice if you want to ensure that you're not a father or mother at the age of 16. But, since when do 16 year-olds consistently make the best choice? When strange and wonderful hormones start swimming in the bodies of developing teens, common sense goes out the backdoor faster than a repairman from the house of a cheating wife when the hubby comes home unexpectedly. Abstinence. Yay. Great. But. . .
We're now far into Bush Jr's first term, and we learn that, shock and forsooth, Study: Teens not waiting to have sex.
Waiting to have sex is a nice idea, teenagers say, but they believe hardly anyone does it. Many teens, particularly boys, feel pressure to have sex, and they say drugs and alcohol often lead to sex — often without condoms.
Fascinating. So, in other words, not much has changed since I was in high school all those many years ago.
The problem with folks who rail against the concept of sexual education in the schools, I believe, is that they labor under the belief that sex ed somehow means the teacher stands in front of the class and pairs students up for some good old copulation, and then goes up and down the aisles pointing out faults in their technique.
Real, honest-to-goodness sexual education, education that doesn't just preach "Sex. You shouldn't do that," doesn't encourage sex, as many conservatives claim. I had sex ed in high school. In fact, my father was my sex ed teacher, so I was surrounded by sex ed material at school and at home, and I'm here to tell you that nothing takes the mystery and excitement out of sex faster than seeing pictures of assorted venereal diseases and having to take tests on the reproductive systems of men and women.
"Get those blasted mammary glands and areolas away from me woman! And, take your labia majora and labia minora and your cervix and your fallopian tubes and your whole freakin' uterus with you! Can't you see I'm studying here!"
Obviously, I'm being a tad silly here. No amount of sexual education can squash the reproductive urges of hormone-laden teens, but comprehensive sex ed does set reasonable common sense boundaries for teens who choose to wrestle in the bedsheets. Namely, it dispells all those sex myths like "occasionally going without a condom is okay" and that "pulling out prevents pregnancy." It explains the biology of sex and reproduction, and why little Richie has a face full of acne and a raging boner in math class. It takes the mystery out of sex and shows teens who don't choose abstinence how to take some semblance of control over their bodies even when they can't control their hormones.
Is sex ed foolproof? Of course not. Teens will continue to get pregnant. But, which would you rather have: a teen sent forth in the world knowing nothing but abstinence, or a teen who understands how sex and reproduction works and how to protect themselves should the need arise? Or, to put it another way. . .
Abstinence. It's enough
or
Comprehensive sexual education that explains sexual biology and the consequences of bad sexual choices and how to prevent them. It's enough.
Hmmmmmmmmmm.
The Law Of The Lawn
A couple of weeks ago, I called my parents who live in Tokyo. Conversation with my mother, as is often the case, centered around my life and their's. However, as soon as the phone was handed to my father, the conversation took a drastic, if somewhat expected turn.
"So, how's the lawn looking?" he asked.
My father loves his lawn. Nay, my father deeply loves his lawn. On a warm July evening, if the wind is just right, you can hear my father softly serenading his lawn with a lyre, lulling it to sleep.
Unfortunately, because my parents live in Tokyo nine months out of the year, my father is prevented from dedicating as much time as he would like to his lawn. Therefore, come April, it falls upon me to travel back to my hometown about once a week to ensure my parents' yard is kept trim and proper, which is to say I run over it quickly with a push mower and call it good. My father doesn't understand my lackluster approach to lawn care.
"You know, If you find the time, you should really look around and see if there's some crabgrass that needs to be pulled out."
I don't know what crabgrass is. I truthfully don't care what crabgrass is. And, I'm certainly not going to comb over my father's lawn looking for some strange grass that I imagine is crawling with tiny, angry crabs.
During the summer months of June, July and August, when my parents are home, it's common to see my father patrolling his lawn during the day, looking for rogue dandelions or any other weed that may catch his eye. Should he spot a nefarious non-grass growth, he'll drop to his knees and begin frantically tweezing at it with his thumb and forefinger. Once he rips the weed from the ground by its weedy roots, he'll immediately search the surrounding area for other weed spawns, slightly resembling an eager dog snuffling for gophers as he does so.
"Do you know if they came and sprayed the lawn last fall? If they did, there shouldn't be many weeds this year. But it wouldn't hurt to check around to make sure. You should do that."
My father and his lawn are the prime culprits behind yearly river fishkills, and the main reason why there's an annual spike in stock prices for TruGreen ChemLawn. If my father isn't on the phone calling a lawn service, he's out with his own spray bottle targeting weeds with more precision than any satellite guided missile in the U.S. arsenal.
On more than one occasion, my father accidently mixed the chemicals in his spray bottle way too strong, effectively creating a concoction that could kill a sequoia from 20 feet away. The end result was a lawn dotted with splotches of chemically-fried grass, much to the dismay of my lawn-loving father. Undaunted, however, he simply dug up the burnt patches and planted anew.
"If you find the time, you should also bring the hoses out and put them out near the facets. It could be getting pretty hot soon so you might want to get some water running on the boulevards. It's sandy and dry on that part of the lawn, you know."
Which brings me to my father's other main lawn-related pastime: watering. The man waters his lawn more than Nile farmers irrigate their crops. He buys sprinklers by the crateload. It's rare for me to drive home to see my parents in the summer and NOT see and arcing rainbow of water waving back and forth across the lawn. My father simply isn't satisfied unless his feet sink a quarter of an inch into the dirt. Then, and only then, is the lawn sufficiently watered.
"Don't let the mowed grass pile up on the lawn. If it's too long, you might have to rake it. Be sure to rake it."
Sure, Dad. I'll get right on that.
This Hermann Goering Quote Has Been Bothering Me
I try to keep up with the anti-Iraq-war and anti-war-on-terror viewpoints because, as much as I continually believe I'm always right, I'm willing to acquiesce that sometimes, occasionally, other people may have something compelling to say that could change my mind. I thought such an occurence came about about a month ago when this Hermann Goering quote started making appearances all over the blogosphere.
Goering, for those unfamiliar with history, was the Commander-in-Chief of the Luftwaffe in Nazi Germany during World War II. He said:
"Of course the people don't want war. But after all, it's the leaders of the country who determine the policy, and it's always a simple matter to drag the people along whether it's a democracy, a fascist dictatorship, or a parliament, or a communist dictatorship. Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism, and exposing the country to greater danger."
The emphasis here, of course, is usually provided by the folks who plop this quote on their blogs, and they wave this as proof that the Bush Jr. administration is dragging the U.S. along the same simple formula. As I've said before, I'm no huge fan of the Bush administration. Until they pull this economy out of the muck and start addressing, successfully, some of the problems here at home, that Texan won't earn my vote in '04.
However, the real Bush haters, the ones who feel he stole an election and simply wages war for oil, are determined to transmogrify the man into a short angry leader with a wispy cookie duster moustache and a bad combover. They cry fascism any time the terror alert system clicks up a notch or a celebrity is chastised for blowing their ignorant blather.
First, it should be noted that Goering was not a professional propagandist. That honor fell to Joseph Goebbels. Second, Goering did not utter that infamous quote during testimony at the Nuremburg Trials, as many believe. Rather, he was engaged in debate, while sitting in his cell, with an individual named Gustave Gilbert. Gilbert, who was given free access to the inmates awaiting sentencing, kept a journal of his conversations with the prisoners. So, in other words, you essentially have a condemned man, who is not a professional propagandist, lamenting his fate to whoever will listen, trying to deflect blame for his murderous role in history. Goering was not exactly an authority on anything at that point, in my opinion.
But, let me pick apart the quote itself.
Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders.
Well, not really. If there's one thing that Vietnam taught us, it's that people aren't necessarily mindless cows being trotted out to pasture and back. But, that was Vietnam. If we were to take Goering at his word here, today, with the Iraq conflict and the war on terror, we should have seen the resurrection of the draft with everyone clamboring to grab a rifle. But, that didn't happen.
All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism, and exposing the country to greater danger.
The major problem here is that we weren't just TOLD we were being attacked. We WERE attacked. 9/11 wasn't some fluke navigational error. It was a coordinated assault on our home soil and our very way of life, and if you don't believe that, you've been watching too much American Idol and refusing to acknowledge the realities of the world today. If you really, truly, honestly believe that dreadful day was an isolated incident that couldn't possibly happen again, you seriously need a big steaming mug of "wake the fuck up."
As for denouncing pacifists, the sword cuts both ways here. Well, yeah, pacifists have been denounced, but at the same time, war-proponents are subject to criticism, too. How many "peaceful" protests have turned ugly when the protestors tossed a rock through a store window sporting a "Liberate Iraq" sign, and how many 9/11 memorials have been defiled by the same?
The crushing of dissent in both camps is alive and well, but you primarily hear about anti-war folks being denounced because, more often then not, they're high-profile celebrities spewing ignorance. Where do they get the idea that they're somehow an authority on anything but acting? I can just about imagine the repercussions if I were to use this magazine's weekly editorial meetings to ascend the pulpit and use the entire hour to spout off about the war. I certainly HOPE my co-workers would tell me to shut up and sit down, because it's not my job to express my opinions on world affairs; it's my job to write about high technology news. The same goes for celebs. Their job is to act, not subject everyone to their half-formed ideas about how the government works or doesn't work.
Take the Goering quote however you will, but I tend to view it as a stream-of-consciousness uttering from a desperate and destroyed man, not as an ominious denunciation of the current war on terror.
"Golfing the Hawaiian Way," c. Ryan Rhodes, Jan. 14, 2002
One of the nicest aspects of my Hawaiian vacation this year was the opportunity to golf with my father on a pristine tropical golf course. Unfortunately, one of the most stressful aspects of my Hawaiian vacation was the process involved in actually arriving at a pristine tropical golf course with my father.
It should be understood that, even though my family and I have enjoyed many Hawaiian Christmas vacations, we have done so under the strict understanding that money does not grow on trees, palm or otherwise.
Therefore, when my father and I decided to test our skills on a Hawaiian golf course this year, I found myself on the phone for a full hour one morning calling golf courses around the island to ascertain the best rates. It turns out that afternoon rates are generally over $100 cheaper per person, and an overall round of 18 holes can be downright reasonable. So, on Christmas Eve day, I contacted the golf course with the best afternoon rates and set a tee off time for 12:15. Now, remember that time, 12:15, because my father certainly did.
Even though we had no idea where the golf course actually was, we had been on the island before and were relatively certain we could find it without a problem in plenty of time. What we did not count on was the streets of Kona being jam packed with Christmas Eve shoppers.
11:30 a.m. - My father and I get in the car and find ourselves in bumper-to-bumper traffic within three minutes. My father begins methodically chewing his nails. "This could be a problem," he says, and takes a break from chewing his nails in order to glance at his watch.
11:40 a.m. - We advance about four blocks in ten minutes, and my father's nail biting begins with renewed fervor. "Are you sure you know where the turn-off is to this place?" my father asks. I assure him that it will be no problem, and I hope his incessant finger gnawing doesn't result in bloodshed.
11:50 a.m. - In the distance, a green stop light has been looming for several seconds, yet traffic is at a standstill. My father says something under his breath, and I make a silent wish that we catch the green light.
11:52 a.m. - The light turns red just as we reach within three cars of the signal. My father throws up his hands and says, "Well, we're obviously not going to make it now! What time did you say our tee off is? 12:15?! No chance."
Noon - After making pretty good time following the stop light, I tell my father to take a right, and we drive, and we drive, and then we drive some more, all the while climbing higher and higher onto the volcanic slope. "Well, this can't be right," he says. "We're just driving up and up!"
12:10 p.m. - We turn around and go back. Then we take a right and drive for awhile. Then we turn around and drive back and turn back onto the rode that goes up and up and up.
12:20 p.m. - We're late. I ask my father to drop me off so I can ask directions. "What good is that going to do?!!" he growls. For one thing, it will get me out of the hostage situation I feel I'm engaged in within the vehicle.
12:25 p.m. - The gentlemen I ask directions from do, indeed, know where the golf course is, and they inform me we're on the right road and should just keep going up the mountain. I hesitate returning to my father with this information. "Well?" he prods when I re-enter the car. I tell him to keep going up the mountain. He growls and resumes his nail gnawing. I grow increasingly afraid.
12:40 p.m. - We drive past the turn-off to the golf course and have to journey about a mile before my father finds a place to turn around. His face appears to have changed eight different shades of red during the trip. I decide not to inform him of this.
12:45 p.m. - We pull into the golf course parking lot, and I can't wait to leap out of the car and put some distance between myself and my Tasmanian devil father.
Now, the journey itself was fraught with stress, but that didn't prepare me at all for the drama that awaited us inside the club house. I made sure that I raced into the club house to explain why we were late for our tee off time. The woman behind the counter seemed unconcerned that we were late for our tee off time. In fact, we could go golfing right away, except for one thing.
"We require all golfers to wear collared shirts on the course," she informed me. "I'm sorry."
Now, we weren't dressed like slobs, but neither were we dressed in collared shirts, and we didn't have collared shirts with us. I looked behind me to see my father standing rigid as a tree, seemingly lost in his own demented world of golf course mass murder.
Before he could let loose with whatever it was that was going through his mind, I told my father that we should just pick out a couple of nice collared shirts, and that I would pay for them. We had just about picked out our shirts when the clerk informed us that we were looking through the women's wear. It seemed fitting, actually, because by that time I was willing to wear lingerie so long as I was able to golf and that my father averted a major coronary.
I ended up shelling out $76 for two shirts, and I went outside to change. I went outside for two reasons. First of all, I didn't know there was a changing room inside. Second of all, I wanted to make sure I was close to the car in case my father decided to drive it through the front door of the club house.
My father emerged from the club house wearing his new collared shirt just as I finished changing into my own. We stood there, father and son, in nearly identical collared shirts, finally ready to take on the Hawaiian links.
At that moment, and I'm not making this up, two people who had just completed their round of golf drove by in a golf cart. Neither golfer was wearing a collared shirt.
