There I sat, staring at the computer screen, my finger hovering over the mouse, wavering slightly as my mind teetered with doubt about clicking the "Submit" button.
*click*
My car is paid for. The Cadillac pimpmobile is now officially mine.
It wasn't an easy decision. But, according to my online credit union information, I had just received my latest paycheck. I had $3,000 in savings. I had $6,800 in checking. I owed just over $4,000 on the Caddy. Sure, the math was easy. I knew I had more than enough, but just clicking away $4,000 to the digital wind, without so much as a freshly salivated wang to show for it, was just difficult to do.
I don't part with money easily, particularly when the tranfer of funds exceeds the daunting $grand$ mark. $1,000 is a lot of money, according to all the zeros. And, $4,000 was four times that amount. I pondered sacrificing a spring lamb and reading its entrails to see if paying off my car was a good idea or not, but, lacking a spring lamb, or the ability to successfully read entrails, I simply opted to pay off the car.
It was a strange sensation, going out of debt on my car. I can't say the air smelled sweeter or my head felt clearer or anything, but I did feel pretty damned good about myself. I also feel quite a bit less affluent. Such is the trade-off when you're a middle-income grunt. Still, rich people, I believe, miss out on one of the greatest feelings on earth: paying the final installment.
On an unrelated note, it was brought to my attention this week that some unknown blogger has been plagiarizing my site now for quite some time. I received an e-mail from a concerned soul saying that a blogger from Norway at http://g-blog.net/user/smanchhey had been lifting my posts and claiming them as his own. Apparently, people from Norway think I'm funny or something, so please, take pity on Norway.
I checked out the site, but there were no posts to be found. I almost forgot about the whole thing until I checked my Site Meter hit list and saw an unknown URL, which I clicked. It brought me here. Apparently, it's true. I was being plagiarized.
I don't know how to feel about being plagiarized. On the one hand, it's annoying to think someone was taking credit for stuff I wrote, but since I don't make money doing this or anything, it's hard to feel anything more than annoyed. On the other hand, it's somewhat flattering to think that someone thought my stuff was good enough to claim as their own. Don't get me wrong, plagiarism is wrong and sneaky and pathetic and all that. But still. Now I can tell everyone I'm good enough to be plagiarized. And that's pretty cool.
But, please, don't plagiarize me. Think for yourself. If you want to copy and paste something I wrote, or something somebody else wrote, that's fine. But be sure to link to where you got it, or explain where you found it and who really wrote it. The important thing is to give credit where credit is due. Plagiarism in the blogosphere may not cost anybody any money (at least not yet), but don't try claiming something you didn't write. Eventually, someone is going to catch on, and other bloggers will come down on you with the wrath of Mars. That's almost worse than being sued.
Ah, the third installment of the Friday Five alternative that is sweeping the blogosphere. Let us begin.
1. If your house were burning and you only had time to grab three things (assuming kids and pets got out safely), what would they be?
Since I pretty much own jack shit due to a lack of interest in spending money on things until I have a more permanent address, I guess I would simply grab the most expensive things I own, which are, in order: My computer, my wallet, and, er, well, that's about it I guess, which is good, because that computer weighs a metric freakin' ton.
2. What's the age of the oldest piece of food(cheese maybe) in your fridge?
I have no food in my fridge, owing to the fact I eat out all the time. The only thing even remotely of a food nature in my fridge is a bottle of unbelievably hot sauce (called Endorphin Rush) that I bought in Indianapolis during a business convention in March. Trust me, this stuff is so hot, it will NEVER go bad.
3. Are you open, or do you lie about masturbation/digging your nose to others?
I'm of the firm belief that if someone says they don't masturbate, they're lying. Stroke em if ya got em, and I got em, so I stroke em. However. . . (NOTICE: embarrasing tale about to be related here) Just over two years ago, the urge to smack around dicky and the boys took over, so I dropped my pants ankleward in my room and started enjoying a nice wank. The phone rang. My roommate answered. The phone call was for me. My roommate came crashing into my room (DOES NO ONE KNOCK ANY MORE?) and I half dove, half stumbled into my closet, accidently bringing 3/4 of my clothes down on top of me. My roommate was remarkably cool about the whole thing, and he never even mentioned it. But he sure knocked every time after that.
4. Is the USA too deeply buried in consumerism and crass over marketing? What can be done about it?
Not necessarily. Granted, the omnipresent trademarked logos of the Pizza Huts and McDonalds and Targets of the world grow tiresome and tend to ruin the American landscape, but the products they offer, at prices most everyone can afford, keep people clothed and fed. If you have the financial means to shop elsewhere, more power to you. But, if your's is a family of four trying to make ends meet, a trip to Wal-Mart followed by Econo Foods is just what the doctor ordered. The solution for smaller businesses looking to escape the competitive prices of the uber-retailers? I'm not sure there is one beyond offering a product that people will want regardless of a higher price. Or, offer an atmosphere of small-business rebellion that appeals to neo-ultra leftists who believe everything in America is wrong. Then, charge the living the shit out of them. Other than that, it sure would be nice if the fast-food chains and mega-stores would tone down their signs a tad. I'm certain there are ways to announce the arrival of a Wal-Mart without polluting the landscape with numerous signposts.
5. What was the last lie you told and do you still feel okay about telling it? What would be the consequences if you were found out?
I lie all the time at work. Not in a Jayson Blair sort of way, but in a "oh, yeah, I did that yesterday" sort of way. I lie to buy time, mostly.
6. If you have to chop off a part of your body to live, what part is it going to be and how would you do it?
My penis. No! Wait! I take that back! Boy do I take that back. I'm going to have to go with my pinkie toe on this one. And, if you've ever seen my pinkie toes, you'd know why. They're anotomical afterthoughts, almost totally devoid of movement and almost feeling. A pocketknife and gauze are all that would be required.
As I labored shaving in the bathroom sink when I lived in my former apartment with my former roommate, he wandered in to grab his toothbrush. As he was leaving, however, he glanced up at the ceiling and blurted out "what the heck is that?!!"
My roommate was referring to a small (but growing) patch of mold that had found a home in a damp spot of sheet rock. The ceiling was kept perpetually wet by our upstairs neighbors, who either had some sort of leak or took part in daily watersports. In either case, the new strand of mold, which I dubbed "showercillin," apparently thrived in the damp environment. This new medical discovery growing on our ceiling was very disturbing to my roommate, and he put on quite a display expressing his disgust. He was even more angered by my apparent ambivalence toward the scruffy batch of showercillin.
The fact of the matter is, both overseas and in college, I've seen bathrooms that make ours look like a room at the Four Seasons. Bathrooms, I have found, vary considerably between cultures.
When I lived in Japan, for example, I was dumbfounded by the wide variety of bathrooms and bathroom appliances "overflowing" the country. The casual visitor may very well come away with the belief that the Japanese spend the better part of their lives in the bathroom.
In the apartment in which I lived, the bathroom consisted of three, yes three, different sections. There was a section for the toilet, a section for the sink, and a section for the shower and bath. It should be noted that the toilet was equipped with a special flusher that let the user dictate how big or how small of a flush to use. Just to be on the safe side, and because my mother insisted, I always opted for the largest possible flush.
The Japanese also have a rather different method of bathing. In addition to a typical shower, our apartment had a bathtub that measured about half the length of an American tub and about a foot and a half deeper. The Japanese, I learned, believe in showering first and then soaking in the cramped little tubs. The American method of simply jumping dry into a bathtub is considered unclean. Not bathing or showering for a week or more is still considered, by both cultures, to just be totally gross.
But, the Japanese fascination with toilet time doesn't end there. In many restaurants and shops, bathrooms are equipped with nothing more than a porcelain indentation in the floor. The first time I encountered one of these pseudo toilets, I thought the bathroom was under repair, until I moved in for a closer look and stepped on the flusher. I remember laughing uncontrollably as I repeatedly stepped on the magical little button. Despite the humor I derived from the device, I never used one. I think my sister-in-law summed it up best when she emerged from a Japanese restaurant bathroom and declared "I'm not going in THAT!"
But, it was my week-long visit to China for my Asian Studies class that afforded me a glimpse into the darkest bathroom culture I've seen to date. My teacher, Mr. Stern, a veteran visitor to China, wanted to take our group away from the sheltered and modern world of our deluxe hotel, and subject us to the working class reality of China. After touring Shanghai, including a visit to a Chinese elementary school, we were all deeply regretting the pitcher of tea we drank that morning.
We rounded a corner and saw a strange structure that looked like a collapsible tin shed (which it was). Standing outside of the shed was a gentlemen collecting money. Mr. Stern informed us that the structure was a Chinese outdoor bathroom and, if we had to go, this was going to be our only chance for awhile.
So, we all raced to the bizarre building and handed the gentleman a Jiao (pronounced meow with a "j"), which was the equivalent of less than one American cent. Once inside, it took every ounce of restraint not to go running out the door holding our noses and laughing for the rest of the day. The "bathroom" consisted of a three-foot deep trench about 20 feet long which accommodated a frightening number of Chinese bathroom-goers. The intense look of concentration on each face seemed to indicate that everyone felt it was their Communist duty to fill every such trench throughout China in a similar manner. As I struggled to complete my business, I could only hope that China didn't suddenly undergo another Great Leap Forward.
Emerging from the surreal world, one of my classmates joked, "Well, that was certainly worth a Jiao."
So, as I watched the thriving patch of mold form on my bathroom ceiling, I regarded it with a bit of indifference. Besides, if it got any worse, I could have always dug a trench.
I was hurting for a newspaper column this week, so I ended up mining this blog for something, ANYTHING, to send out so my consecutive streak of weekly columns would not be broken. I ended up recycling something I wrote a long time ago about a kamikaze instructor. Soooooooooooo:
"How Does One Train a Kamikaze Pilot?" c. Ryan Rhodes, June 11, 2003
This week, we travel back in time to 2002. You may remember that bygone year as the one when Enron discovered it had no money, a pair of snipers prowled the Washington D.C. Beltway, and a young columnist by the name of Ryan Rhodes continued his insistence that he was, in fact, a smoking hot specimen of male hunkiness.
Also, in October 2002, according to a Reuters new report out of London, "a man who had once trained Japanese kamikaze pilots had a friendly meeting with some of their former targets."
"Hichiro Naemura, who volunteered to be a kamikaze bomber pilot, but was ordered to train others before carrying out his own suicide mission, visited London's Imperial War Museum to help present a book in which he served as a source."
Now, here's a head-scratcher of a question for you: How does one train a kamikaze pilot? To me, this seems like an academic discipline that would be extremely difficult to excel in. Imagine you're a 17-year-old Japanese student, unsure of your future direction. So, you drop by the school guidance counselor for some advice. He tells you that you may have a bright future as a kamikaze instructor.
"Oh. Okay. I'll have think about that one for awhile. Thanks."
Just by virtue of the fact that the teacher was alive, that would seem to indicate that he was, at the very least, a failed, or substandard, kamikaze pilot, not the type of guy you want teaching a class filled with aspiring kamikazes.
Granted, it's probably much easier to learn kamikaze techniques from a living teacher than a corpse, but I'd prefer to learn from the best rather than some joker who didn't even have the common decency to fly an explosive-laden airplane into the broadside of a battleship himself. I can just imagine a classroom full of incredulous students, unwilling to listen to an instructor who had no firsthand experience as a kamikaze.
And, really, as a kamikaze instructor, what kind of disciplinary action would be at your disposal for dealing with rowdy students? How can you come up with a bigger punishment than successful completion of the class? Do you threaten to graduate them a month or two early? Let's imagine a hypothetical kamikaze class, shall we?
KAMIKAZE INSTRUCTOR: Now, pay attention class and open your kamikaze manuals to page 36. Read your books carefully because this knowledge could very well save your life one day. . .er. . . I mean. . .on second thought, let's put our books down and I'll write on the board.
KAMIKAZE STUDENT #1 *whispering to neighbor*: This guy doesn't know what he's talking about. Look at him up there, breathing air, with a pulse. He's no kamikaze pilot.
KAMIKAZE STUDENT #2: I know what you mean. My four brothers all died gloriously last week. Each one of them had more kamikaze knowledge in their little fingers than this guy will ever have.
KAMIKAZE INSTRUCTOR: Is there a problem back there? Maybe you'd like to come up here and teach the class. No? Then I suggest you pay attention. Now, as I was saying, the landing gear must be in a locked position prior to landing and. . . you know what? Now that I think about it, the landing gear really doesn't apply to this class.
KAMIKAZE STUDENT #1: Man, I can't stand this guy. I'd plunge a blade into my abdomen and sever my own internal organs right now if it were up to me. Just get me up in the air so I can crash and explode already. This class is so pointless.
KAMIKAZE STUDENT #2: I know, I know. Can't we just die for our emperor already?
KAMIKAZE INSTRUCTOR: Okay, I've had just about enough of your talking back there. There are some students in this class who really want to learn how to die properly, but you're disrupting everything with all your talk. Maybe you're telling me you want to take a test. Is that it? Well, I can certainly accommodate you.
KAMIKAZE CLASS: *groan*
Overall, I've tried to live my life under the philosophy that, since life is out to kill you from the moment you're born, it's best to live life cautiously.
Please note, I try to live life that way. It doesn't always work that way, such as the whole grenade in the backyard incident, or the numerous B.B. Gun fights I had as a child, or the time I went hiking and almost fell to my death from an 80 foot cliff, and on, and on, and on.
Beyond that, however, life has treated me very well up to this point, and by typing that, I fear I may have jinxed my existence until the end of my days. No, seriously, for as long as I can remember, just when I started worrying about the next stage in my life, my life just kind of went on cruise control and took care of things for me.
Just when I started worrying about college and financial aid, my parents landed teaching jobs in Japan. High paying teaching jobs in Japan. Problem solved. My parents paid for all my schooling, so I have no financial aid debt.
During college, as I floundered half-heartedly towards a teaching certificate with a major in English and minor in history, I realized I didn't want to teach, because that would mean standing in front of a classroom of younger versions of me. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Almost as soon as I realized that, I just happened to glance at the university handbook and realize that most of my credits would transfer over nicely to journalism. The book just happened to be open on my desk, on the correct page.
During my second year of journalism classes, I needed to find a job in the newspaper business to get my feet wet and help put a little more perpective into my classes. It turned out that one of my roommates was having sex with an editor at the local city newspaper. Problem solved. Within two weeks, I was working at the Winona Daily News from 6 to 10 p.m. each night, writing obituaries and other assorted grunt newsroom tasks.
After graduating from college, I was worrying about finding full time journalism work, and I was certain my search would take me far away from friends and family. Instead, I ended up landing a job within a 40 minute driving proximity. From there, the same roommate who was banging the editor who got me my first journalism job put in a good word for me at IBM. Within a year, IBM was calling and asking me to edit technical manuals. Well, that was nice and convenient, even though I ended up hating the job and hating my boss even worse.
The same week I was laid off from my first IBM job, I was contacted by a contracting company for, believe it or not, IBM. They saw my resume online and had a job offer for me within three weeks. So, I went from an IBM job that I hated, to one that I enjoy, at $3 more an hour than I was making previously.
Recently, I started thinking to myself that I may want to buy a house. A few days later, Melissa excitedly told me that her father was selling one of his rental duplex properties. I looked at the place, and I have to admit that I'm thinking about it with interest. Ryan Rhodes: property owner and landlord. I like the sound of that.
But, I must proceed with caution. Life could be setting me up for something here.
Heh, as an aside, over 800 visitors to this site today already, and it's not even noon yet. Tara Reid's breasts are apparently still a hot commodity on the Internet today.
Via leblanc, I was directed to this little bit of, well, I'm not sure what you'd call it, but they've taken to calling it unbrandamerica.org, or, The Resistance.
The gist of the movement, if you can call it a gist, or even a movement, is the typical ultra-left whining I've come to expect from an anti-globalization and "America is a cesspool" movement that really has no direction beyond e-mail newsgroups that make wayward members turn out en masse at such "evil" events as World Trade Organization meetings.
Let's go to the tape, Ryan. From the site:
In the end, the Resistance was known for one thing – they simply would not participate. Not in the 24-hour economy, the 60-hour work week, the flag-waving parades, the media manias, the permanent fear, the cheers for the troops. And then there was their mark, of course. It crept into daily life, until it became a constant reminder that these really were bleak times. Until one day you no longer knew who was in control - the empire that was everywhere - or this invisible revolution.
Well, at least they were only known for ONE thing. Sheesh.
So, they won't participate in the 24-hour economy, or the 60-hour work week. Fine. Neither do I. I wouldn't work 60 hours a week for anything. And, if they don't want to participate in the 24-hour economy, GREAT! No one is forcing them to go satiate their cannabis-induced hunger at 3 a.m. at the nearest 7-11. No one is forcing them to use ATMs at all hours. If they have a gripe against a 24-hour economy, let them boycott it on their own. But, they should keep their opposition down to a dull roar, because nationwide, there are fathers and mothers coming home from their evening jobs, jobs they take because they provide the money to feed their families while at the same time giving them the precious time they need to care and love and play with their children. You don't have to participate in the 24-hour economy, but don't sit on high in judgement of those that do. Chances are, you couldn't hack one day living in their shoes.
And then they won't participate in the flag-waving parades. That's fine, too. Now there will be more room to sit on the curb and watch the floats go by and watch excited children running out to get candy. And there will be more room at all the festivities and events while "The Resistance" sits at home patting themselves on the back that they're so rebellious and avant garde.
And, oh, wait, they won't participate in the media manias (even though, by organizing this movement, they're not only participating, they're knee-deep in it), the permanent fear (even though this movement is, in fact, a reaction to the permanent fear), the cheers for the troops (you mean those troops that were willing to put their lives on the line so you could sit back at home and conduct your little Resistance movement?).
But, it gets even better. From that opening paragraph of misguided righteous tripe, you move on to the real crux of their big "Black Spot" resistance movement. Ahem:
In the coming months a black spot will pop up everywhere . . . on store windows and newspaper boxes, on gas pumps and supermarket shelves. Open a magazine or newspaper - it's there. It's on TV. It stains the logos and smears the nerve centers of the world's biggest corporations.
So, in other words, this clandestine group is trying to raise money to place ads (but not just any ads; a big black spot! Oohhhhhh. Frightening stuff) in newspapers and magazines, while at the same time tacking up black spots all over the place, in essence adding further to the pollution they so decry. I'm sure the nerve centers of the world's biggest corporations will feel monumentally stained. No, probably not.
This is the mark of the people who don't approve of Bush's plan to control the world, who don't want countries liberated without UN backing, who can't stand anymore neo-con bravado shoved down their throats.
Ah, now we get to their true gripe. Once again, it's all about that evil man in the White House, BUSH. Who knew the man was trying to control the world? Maybe he has a secret lair from which he will demand a world payment of. . . one MILLION dollars. . . while stroking a bald cat. That's the beauty of the ultra-left: they're so focused on their hatred of the Bush administration, they come off sounding, and acting, woefully myopic, misguided, and just plain roll-your-eyes silly.
And they don't want countries liberated without UN backing. Well, gee, they had best not hold their breath then. The last time the UN agreed to a full scale liberation was Afghanistan, and that was only after 9/11. Up until that point, they were just fine with the Taliban and the terrorist training camps. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, the UN has become an ineffectual bureacratic monolith so hampered by the outside machinations of the countries it's supposed to represent, it's good for nothing but passing meaningless resolutions to other countries to please be nice or they'll be forced to pass another resolution. The UN is a feelgood institution that has so far failed miserably to live up to it's post WWII ideals. This is an institution with a human rights council headed by LIBYA, with CUBA as a member. Good Lord, why not set up a business ethics branch of the UN and head it with Martha Stewart and Sam Waksal.
This is the mark of the people who want the Kyoto Protocol for the environment, who want the International Criminal Court for greater justice, who want a world where all nations, including the U.S.A., are free of weapons of mass destruction.
Oh, well, why didn't they just say so. We'll just have the U.S. disassemble it's arsenal of nukes, and I'm absolutely sure North Korea, India, Pakistan and China will all just fall happily into line. Let's all hug, everyone, the nukes are gone. And the International Criminal Court? Isn't that same institution where the butcher Milosevic has sat unpunished, and instead has given him a soapbox from which to yell and scream about the illegality of the Court? I can't argue with the Kyoto Protocol. We should be working to bring down pollution and emissions, but then I would ask the "Resistance" to desist from placing countless black spots all over the place and buying ad space in newspapers and magazines, thus requiring extra pages of "waste."
This is our pledge:
Because my country has sold its soul to corporate power,
You mean the corporate power that allows you to keep your resistance movement online 24/7?
Because consumerism has become our national religion,
Heaven forbid people want to go out and buy clothes and gadgets by which to have fun and enjoy life. Perhaps we should all go out and start our own little gardens and weave pants out of long grass.
Because we've forgotten the true meaning of freedom,
Okay, folks, I'm calling your bluff on this one. What IS the true meaning of freedom? Waiting. *crickets chirping*
And because patriotism now means agreeing with the president,
Yeah, because everyone who voices dissent is being thrown in jail or "disappeared."
I pledge to do my duty . . . and take my country back.
Great, good luck with that. I'll be out in the backyard, sipping a beer and reading Time magazine, virtually oblivious to your meaningless "black spot."
Well, No fucking Shit
Here's a little piece of information I'm sure all of you probably already know, but the U.S. government decided was worth dedicating money to uncovering anyway.
First off. . . well, duhhhhh. If there's one thing all of America knows, it's that the batshit crazy al Qaeda organization is willing to try anything. I could hear the most outlandish claim ever uttered in the history of the world and not believe it for a second. But, as soon as I hear that Al Queda is somehow involved, I'll think, "Yeah, well, those fuckers would try anything."
UNIDENTIFIED INFORMANT: Did you know that Al Qaeda has plans to alter the gravitational constant of the universe in an attempt to pull the moon into a collision course with New York City.
ME: Yeah, well, those fuckers would try anything.
The report said the terrorist organization "will continue its efforts to acquire and develop biological, chemical, radiological, and nuclear (CBRN) weapons."
Yeah, well, those fuckers would try anything.
But, the point is that the Bush administration simply can't continue going to the Al Qaeda well any time it seems media emphasis may be shifting elsewhere, such as the highest unemployment rate in nine years. But that's exactly what they do, in my opinion. Granted, the Democrats, had Al Gore been in office, would be doing the same damned thing. For better or for worse, 9/11 provided the most powerful and ubiquitous political tool in modern history. So, I don't begrudge the Bush administration for using 9/11 for political gain.
Still, at this point, I'm pretty much resigned to living in the post-9/11 world fully expecting another terrorist attack to take place here at some point. Common sense just tells me that, if you manage to get a bunch of like-minded crazies together, eventually they're going to find some way to raise a little hell. And they don't get any crazier than militant Islamic fundamentalists. Take a crowd of angry poor people, give them somebody to blame to focus their rage, promise them riches and virgins in the afterlife and favor with their god, and suddenly you have a bunch of walking human bombs. As sad as it is to say, this is the reality to which I'm resigned. So, I don't need crap like this coming at me:
U.S. Defense Secretary Donald H. Rumsfeld said last year that searches of more than 40 sites in Afghanistan used by Al Qaeda yielded documents, diagrams and material that showed "an appetite for weapons of mass destruction." But it did not appear Al Qaeda had succeeded in making such weapons before the U.S.-led military campaign began in October 2001.
Who knew Rumsfeld was a Metallica fan?
UPDATE: And speaking of music, Strong Bad went and wrote a kick-ass song about Sibbie. Where's that beat coming from?
UPDATE: Oh, and Layne is back. Er, well, sort of. Congratulations Cassie, and welcome to the world David.
Mondayawn
Missing: one good night of sleep. Last seen three weeks ago between the hours of 10 p.m. and 8 am. Please return to Ryan Rhodes as soon as possible.
Mondays should not consist of exhaustion such as mine. Once again, I squandered a perfectly good weekend by staying busy when I could have simply stretched out on the couch watching the History Channel for 48 straight hours. That would have been ideal. Instead, I opted for the busy route, with golf, a street dance, running, a golf tournament and other such nonsense, which all cost me precious time that would have been better spent sleeping.
Friday night, however, I did briefly tune in to the opening few scenes of "The Terminator." Now, I realize this flick is considered a classic by people in my general age group, and I also realize that Arnold's career was built on this one movie, and it is not my intention at all to rip on a movie that many in my generation can recite verbatim.
But, come on, those SKULLS. I mean, I understand that, in order to show how ruthlessly efficient the killing machines of the future are, it's necessary to show some death and destruction, but those battle scenes of the future just consisted of entirely too many skulls littering the ground to be even remotely believable. Skulls everywhere. A five foot layer of skulls, skulls and more skulls. Then, to make the machines seem even more diabolical, they slowly rumble over the skulls, crushing them beneath their mighty tracks. Such indifference to the dead! How awful. How terrible. The machines! The machines are EVIL!
Ah, yes, "The Terminator." It was "The Matrix" of the 80s.
This week, I have to build a contact list both inside and outside of IBM for an article I've been assigned to write about spam. Finally, an article that I'll probably really enjoy researching and writing. My lead paragraph could revolve entirely around the piece of spam e-mail I received just now, not more than 20 seconds ago, that has the intriguing subject line "Re: Sexually Attract Men." But, I don't WANT to sexually attract men. Besides, when I think back to the times me and my friends dropped by the occasional gay bar (usually unintentionally), I think it's safe to say I don't need a boost in the man-attracting department. Not to brag or anything, but I imagine that, if I were to switch teams and start batting for the homosexual crowd, I think it's a safe bet that I'd have no problem attracting the men. That's right, I'm choice, USDA grade beefcake.
You know, I think I'm going to chalk that entire last paragraph up to my obscene lack of sleep.
Melissa's coming down to Rochester tonight, which is a good thing because A.) I'll be getting lucky and B.) I don't think I could have made it the full week without getting lucky. I would have exploded or something. Judging by the calendar, and my increased anxiety, she should be nearing her special time of the month. Sometimes, I think I'm more attuned to her cycle than she is. I wouldn't be so freakin' jumpy if she were on some sort of birth control, but because we rely solely on the latex baby batter blockers put forth by Trojan, Durex and the like, the arrival of Mel's period, for me, is a cause for celebration. "Yes! I'm not going to be a daddy! Let's go to the bar!" Last night when we spoke on the phone, she said she had seriously bad cramps the night before, so my hopes are high that this is her week.
A lot of folks have chimed in about Layne's sudden disappearance from the blogosphere, so consider me one of the folks chiming in. As sinfully guilty pleasures go, reading Layne was pretty high up on my list. At work, I kept one browser window open all day that was dedicated to her site. Every ten minutes or so, I'd click reload to see if another commenter dropped their two cents into the Layne psychiatric tip jar. So, yes, she's missed. But, I don't think she really owes anyone an explanation for her departure. We were simply virtual acquaintances, voyeuristic opinionists that really took more from Layne than we ever gave. Reading her heart and soul poured out daily on her site was something she gave us, and that was a gift infinitely richer than any comment or e-mail sent her way. Sure, writing ((hugs)) is cute and all, but that's not tangible or real, and I think it was obvious to anyone reading Layne that she needed a friend that was tangible and real, and she needed a real hug. So, she decided to unplug, which is totally fine. Bloggers are not required to blog, no matter how good they are.
Myself, I'll continue to blog unabated, because I'm a shameless self-promoting attention hog.
Now, in an attempt to boost Web traffic, I'll post a name that's been in the news lately: Laure Manaudou. Laure Manaudou. Laure Manaudou. Laure Manaudou. Laure Manaudou.
Taking Body Piercing To the Next Level
Last week I made a startling and disheartening discovery. I realized, as I watched people walk by me at the mall, that I am not "hip," I am not "with it," and Heaven forbid, I am not even "cool." And, I apparently won't be any of those things until I succumb to some form of body piercing.
You see, there's a very secret war being waged on the streets of America; and it's a war that's being fought exclusively with staplers and nail guns. The veterans of this secret war can be seen practically everywhere, their bodies riddled with shrapnel in all sorts of twisted and disgusting forms. They'll look you forlornly in the eyes, their faces dripping with metal, like some robotics experiment gone horribly awry. You can only guess what kind of horrors they encountered on the battlefield. But, just when you're going to ask some poor soul about their war experiences, you turn away in horror: their tongue took shrapnel too.
Okay, so there's not a secret war being fought with staplers and nail guns, but there is a current morbid fascination with body piercing that leaves me completely puzzled. I honestly can't fathom the appeal of sacrificing my body in the name of jewelry.
Don't get me wrong, I do find some piercings to be attractive. The ears, of course, are a time tested and approved appendage on which jewelry dangles almost seductively. The navel, too, is a saucy little spot from where a gem can twinkle. Beyond that, however, piercings just seem a touch bizarre.
I guess I can stomach eyebrow piercings too; they seem harmless enough. But, from there, metal protrusions just look out of place. I've seen cheek piercings, lip piercings, and nose piercings. And, I've seen people that feel they have to connect their earrings to their noserings with some sort of facial telephone wire. "Hello, nose, this is the ear. I'm just calling to see how your new job is going working at the ol' factory."
No part of the body is immune from the piercing phenomenon. There are nipple piercings, tongue piercings, and, for the real die hard piercing fans, genital piercings (don't try this at home, folks).
It's just a matter of time before all these pierced protrusions will be wired together in some sort of Pierced World Wide Web. "Hello, navel, this is the eyebrow, how are things going? Hold on, let me get a conference call going with the nipple and the tongue. Whaazzzzzuppp!! Whoa! We lost navel. Someone must have cut the cord."
Unfortunately, the pierced population is the cool population, or so they think. And, since I've never actually achieved cool status at any point in my life, getting a piercing may just be my ticket to acceptance within the pierced crowd.
However, I don't think I'll be able to infiltrate the pierced crowd with something as simple as an earring or a navel ring. Come to think of it, an eyebrow ring wouldn't be drastic enough either. Nose ring? No. Tongue stud? Still not drastic enough. Maybe a good nipple or genital piercing will do the trick. Oh, wait, that's just plain stupid.
No, I think I may have to invent a new and exotic brand of piercing so that I may not only be "cool," I'll also be the creator of a shocking new piercing style.
I can see it all now. I'll saunter up to a bevy of beautiful pierced women, roll up my pant leg, and show off my gleaming new leg piercing--eight inches of cold blue steel punctured through my calf. It will take a brutally sharp stake and a solid strike with a hammer to get the job done, but it will be worth it to hear all the women "oohh" and "ahhh" over my bold new piercing.
But, why stop there? My next piercing will be both shocking and useful. When I drop my drawers and show off my patented butt stud, the world will only be able to shake its head in absolute wonder. In addition to being a guaranteed conversation starter, people will also be able to hang clothing on it like some sort of anatomical coat rack.
Just as the world is ready to crown me the king of all piercing, however, I'll unleash my coup de grace. Curious crowds will gather around, their minds filled with wonder at the odd bulge protruding from my chest. With a flourish, I'll remove my shirt to unveil my fantastic torso piercing--20 inches of polished steel driven straight through my chest cavity, skirting my heart my millimeters. Sure, I'll suffer a punctured lung and life-threatening internal bleeding, to say nothing of the infection inflicted on my internal organs, but what a show stopper. I'm sure to be cool after that, if only for a very short time.
In the end, however, I think I'll pass on the new piercing craze. As appealing as a tongue stud-to-navel connection may sound, it's just not me. "Hello, navel, this is the tongue, I hear you can't stomach the thought of a piercing. Well, I've decided not to get a piercing either; I just don't have the taste for it."
