I've never been in debt. Okay, that's not entirely true. Yes, I've been in the kind of debt where I had to make car payments, and I'm currently in the kind of debt that says I have to make house payments.
I've never been in credit card debt, however. Truth be told, I've never even owned a credit card. I don't trust them. I've been conditioned not to trust them thanks to many years of living with college roommates.
Most of my college roommates had this weird outlook on credit cards. Basically, they thought credit cards were magical pieces of plastic that just magically paid for things and that they were somehow immune from the the ensuing debt that came about due to excessive credit card spending.
I'll admit it: I was sort of jealous of my roommates and their magical credit cards. After all, they always seemed to have money and, if they didn't, they just whipped out their credit cards. Books? Put them on the credit card. Food? Put it on the credit card. Night out at a strip club? credit card.
And yet there I was writing checks and budgeting like a fool. I remember thinking that I was doing everything all wrong. I mean, there I would sit, meticulously lording over my finances, while my roommates went waltzing all over town swiping their credit cards with the careless glee of a six-year-old with a loaded pistol.
Then, one year, I was a roommate with a guy named Chad. Chad was actually a former high school classmate of mine. He was, and is, a tech-head. He's one of those guys who was born to know technology. Way back in elementary school, he taught me how to write simple programs for the Apple IIc, and he always just seemed to know everything about computers.
But he didn't know shit about personal finances. He whipped out any one of his many credit cards with the swiftness and ease of a Old West gunslinger. By the time we became roommates, he had already accrued over $10,000 in credit card debt.
I remember thinking what an incredibly large amount of money that seemed to be, especially when I factored in the understanding that he also received financial aid, and that he also worked. Granted, he worked at the local Brach's candy factory on the Gummi Bear line, which paid about as well as you might imagine, but it was still money, so I came to the conclusion that old Chad was a pretty carefree spender.
Well, one day, I popped into Chad's outrageously messy room where I noticed, tucked between two huge bags of pilfered defective Gummi Bears, a credit card notice that was slugged "Urgent!" and another that was slugged "Immediate Payment Required" and still another that read "We Break Fingers And Toes."
Then the calls started coming in, usually two or three a day. "Is Mr. Haugen available? We really need to speak with him." No, he's not here. "Are you sure you're not really Mr. Haugen?" Yes, I'm sure. "Well, when he comes in, have him call Mike at Discover immediately." *sound of shotgun cocking* Will do.
Chad was masterful when it came to avoiding creditors. He always seemed to leave the apartment just two or three minutes before a creditor called. It was like he had some sort of sixth sense. Which was all fine and dandy, except that I ended up being the intermediary between Chad and the creditors, so I got to absorb all the impatient anger and suspicion of basically every credit card company on the planet.
It was the day a creditor appeared, in person, at our doorstep that I realized Chad's debt situation was probably more dire than Chad cared to admit. There was a knock at the door, I answered, and a gentleman in a suit that looked both impressive and threatening stood before me. He asked to see a Mr. Chad Haugen, at which point I heard a little scuffling emanating from Chad's room as Chad scurried out the back entrance which, conveniently, was located at the far end of his bedroom.
We chatted together, the ominous creditor and me, for about an hour, waiting for Chad to get home, even though, of course, there was no way in holy hell Chad was going to make an appearance while that guy was in our apartment. I even had to produce my ID, so the creditor was satisfied that I wasn't, in fact, Chad Haugen.
After that, I believe, Chad ended up getting a loan from his parents, or somebody, so he could pay off his credit card debt at least enough to keep the creditors at bay. He eventually got a job working at IBM, which was a long-assed commute from Winona to Rochester, but paid a whole lot more than the Gummi Bear line.
As for me, Chad's experience with credit cards pretty much scared me away from plastic for good.
Words of Wisdom
"And I looked at him, and I realized that, fuck, he wanted to beat the piss out of me, and that's never a good thing. -- Troy Christianson (college roomate and close friend).
"What you have to remember, Ryan, is that there will always be people who disagree with you. I call those people 'assholes.'" -- Jon Rhodes (my father).
"I just got so flustrated. Wait, is flustrated even a word? Well, damn it, I don't care. I was flustrated." -- Marc Vitse (childhood friend).
"I can't remember why it is that I hate you so much, but don't worry, I'm sure it will all come back to me." -- Ryan Rhodes (speaking to my manager at the time).
"Selma my dear, how are you? Uh huh? Uh huh? Uh huh? Listen, shut up for a second." -- Homer Simpson.
UPDATE: And perhaps the best words of wisdom EVER when it comes to Internet file swapping.
First, a little background. Back when I worked as news editor for the Stewartville Star, I unwittingly became acquainted with a local crazy who sat in on every school board meeting. And, I'm not kidding when I call this man crazy. Each meeting, he would address the board and spew forth some of the most bizarre, disjointed, meaningless speeches ever conceived by the mind of man. After each meeting, I would practically sprint out of the school to avoid being trapped by the nutball: sometimes I was successful, other times not. He creeped me out. The story was that, at some point in his life, he struck his head with a chainsaw, and if you ever saw the man in person, you'd probably believe it. I sure did.
I continue to write a weekly humor column for the Star, and I get a complimentary subscription as well. For about a year now, the paranoid schizophrenic entity from the school board meetings has found a new venue from which to spew his creepy musings. Each week, he pays $12 or more for advertising space in the Star, and his blurbs run right alongside other, more coherent, ads such as apartment listings and job openings. The poor staff at the Star has had no option but to run the schizo's rants under "Miscellaneous."
So, starting this week, I have decided to reprint the crazy's ads exactly as they appear in the Star. This weekly sojourn into insanity will be dubbed "Schizophrenic Screeds."
So, without further ado, here is this week's installment. *ahem*
MACHEYE. Now for the update on the drought of SE MN for there is no drought. The only thing that can be said is nuclear hot fire blight. The opposite of this is called nuclear cold freeze blight. Now you got the whole story. As far as the master cell of the human body, left shoulder, 2 moles & on 3rd clear mole gives you adrenaline roll back. So now as we look at past wars like the blue and gray Civil War the biggest war now to come will be called Pink Pinion -vs- Green Valley C31. Now for the combinations for Pink Pinion: R13 Fail Command Freeze. Short form: R13FCF.
I'm not an angler. When it comes to fishing, I have about as much skill with a pole as a Republican Guard soldier has with an AK-47. I don't know the correct speed for reeling in lures, and I have no idea how to play the line to give lures a more realistic movement.
So, I fish with worms and bobbers.
Well, that's somewhat inaccurate. I should say that, the last time I fished, which was many, many years ago, I fished using worms and bobbers. And I loved fishing using only worms and bobbers. I loved it because it was so easy.
I was spoiled because my aunt and uncle had a house on one of Minnesota's not-so-famous Crow Wing Lakes, a collection of lakes strung together by, you guessed it: the Crow Wing River. The only mentionable aspect of the Crow Wing Lake #? was that, according to local legend, a meteor splashed down in it sometime in the 1980s. I don't know if that had anything to do with anything, but it sure sounded kinda cool.
The other metionable aspect about the lake was that it was alive with bluegill, perch and assorted other fish that are known for their tendency to bite on anything you offer on a hook. Seriously, I caught fish using corn, hotdogs, and chunks of fried chicken. Now that I think about it, the state fair food vendors are all excellent potential bluegill bait outlets. Overall, though, my bait of choice was nightcrawlers.
There were walleye and northerns, too, but those fish were just too finicky. I preferred the instant satisfaction inherent in bobbing for bluegills. Drop your line, pull up a fish. Drop your line, pull up a fish. You could set your watch to it. Fishing off my aunt and uncle's dock, I think, built up, in my mind, a sense of entitlement when it came to fishing, and I'd start to get impatient if more than four minutes passed without a nibble.
Fast forward to last Saturday afternoon, when my friend Marc and I decided to do some fishing at a local reservoir known for bass and bluegill. Now, the bass end of things didn't interest me. They're too smart to get caught and I'm too stupid to catch them. But bluegill? Now there's a fish I can catch.
Of course, seeing as how I haven't gone fishing in just about forever, I had to buy a pole. A trip to Gander Mountain underscored just how in-depth fishing can be. They have poles for EVERYTHING. Poles for panfish. Poles for icefishing. Poles that specifically cater to your nationality. I'm pretty sure they had Polish poles, so if you ever have to buy a Pole a pole, you can go to Gander Mountain. Tell 'em Ryan sent ya, even though they'll have no idea what that means.
I opted for a $20 pole that came with a reel and a small tackle box full of assorted tackle, so it was a pretty good deal. Granted, I have no idea what spinners and jigs are for, but at least I had some. Appropriately armed with fish enticing equipment, we set out for the reservoir (Chester Woods Bear Creek Reservoir, for those of you familiar with the Rochester area).
Out on the canoe, setting up my trusty pole, I was reminded of one of the more gruesome aspects of fishing: tearing a worm in half. I used to think nothing of it. You just grasp the worm somewhere in the middle, and give a tough quick tug apart. Mission accomplished. You decide which end you want to skewer on the hook and drop the discarded end back in the styrofoam container where it writhes and twists and spews blood and an unknown yellow ooze all over its intact brethren that have yet to be split. Like I said, I used to think nothing of it, but now apparently I do. Granted, I got over it after the third bifurcation or so, but it still creeped me out for some reason.
I learned rather quickly that the reservoir bluegill are a far more particular lot than their brothers living up north in Crow Wing Lake #?. Despite a thick, juicy, recently-yanked-apart worm right there for the taking, they weren't all that interested in the offering. I tried different bobber depths. I tried casting out to areas beyond the canoe. I even tried swearing at the finicky fish. What was their fucking problem? Don't they recognize a fucking free meal when it's offered? Do they fucking think worms grow on trees and then magically cut themselves in half and then mysteriously hover right in front of their noses? Do they. . .
The bobber went down. Oh my God! Oh my God! What do I do?! What do I do?! Well, you overreact, of course. I yanked the line to set the hook so hard, the fish's skeleton was probably on the verge of coming out of its mouth. I always wonder what the fish thinks when the hook jams them in the lip.
FISH: Huh, a worm. A worm that's cut in half and coiled around a strange metal object. I know this looks too easy, and maybe a bit suspicious, but I'm a fish, so I don't think in suspicious terms. I'm going to eat this worm before somebody else does.
*chomp* *yank*
FISH: Ahhhhhhh! What the fuck!? The worm! It's evil! It has a sharp tooth! Wait a minute. . . I'm being pulled around by some strange force! What kind of sorcery are you up to worm!
WORM (dazed): Don't ask me. I was just laying there eating newspaper and dirt, when suddenly I was ripped in half, stuck on a hook, and dropped in the water to drown. The way I see things, I'm having a hell of a lot worse day than you.
FISH: But, if you're not doing this, who is?! Ahhh, it's a giant hairless monkey-like creature! Not that I know what monkies even look like, but I've heard tales.
Or. . . something like that.
So, there I was, eye to eye with my bluegill catch, confronting the other harsh reality of fishing: removing the hook. You see, although bluegills may appear pretty helpless out of the water, they're armed with some of the sharpest, pointiest, skin peircing fin quills ever to adorn a fish. Great care must be taken to comb back the dorsal fin so you can get an appropriate grasp on the fish. The problem is that any grasp you apply to a fish is tenuous at best, owing to a particularly slimy exterior. The fish will take advantage of this by lulling you into a false sense of fish complacency, acting all dead in your hand until just the right moment.
That moment comes when your attention is focused on prying the hook out, at which point the fish will violently spasm, momentarily giving the fish enough wiggle room to redeploy its spiny dorsal fin and stab all of your fingers at once. It's a pretty tricky maneuver, and it happens. Every. Damn. Time. Without fail.
Come to think of it, I can't understand the appeal of fishing at all. Lousy fish.
Reader Joey B asked me to look into the fascinating world of a missing $1.1 trillion bit of government mis-dollaring, or whatever made up word you want to attribute to it. Being the curious fool I am, I looked into it as asked.
First and foremost, it should be noted that this isn't an actual news story. Rather, it's an item from ipetitions.com, which also features such noble petition campaigns as "Remove The Republican Burka," and "Petition in favor of a dog park in Vallejo." In other words, this is a forum for moonbat ultra left AND right wingers, and people with way too much time on their hands.
But, getting back to the supposed missing $1.1 trillion dollar thing. About the only useful link on the ipetitions.com page, led me here, a housing and urban development (HUD) report that outlined the why's and wherefore's for accounting adjustments totalling $59.6 billion, a substantial amount, to be sure, but nowhere NEAR $1.1 trillion. Then, if you look closer, you realize that the page provided stops at page four of the HUD report. In order to see the actual reasons for the deficiencies, you have to go here. For the person, or persons, who authored the petition, this is referred to as "selective listening," paying attention only to the facts that most support their cause.
Although the HUD report doesn't, and can't, go into a detailed item-by-item listing of where $59.6 billion in 1999 actually went to, it does do a fair job of explaining WHY they had difficulty tracking the dollars. Here's the deal, brought to you courtesy of the raking rectal rod of reality: HUD is a huge government department, responsible for a massive amount of building and construction. Given the auditing problems outlined in the report, and the un-godly amount of money the department processes each year, you can kind of see how the dollars slipped through the cracks. Granted, some of the cash may have been pilfered, but the petition makes it seem as if a single fat cat Congressman sucking on a big cigar loaded up the billions in his gilded briefcase and slipped away into the night. Give me a break.
Besides, that only accounts for a drop in the bucket compared to the rest of the supposedly missing $1.1 trillion.
Keep in mind, I do not discount for a second that the U.S. government is a wasteful entity that throws money down the toilet with a flippant attitude that makes Mike Tyson look frugal, and I'm not condoning budgetary malfeasance. However, I do know how difficult it is for me, Ryan Rhodes, to keep track of my own budget, which doesn't exceed $50,000 a year (though I wish it would, 20 times over). Given that, I can understand how the U.S. government loses track of the occasional buck or two, or $1.1 trillion. Okay, that's excessive, I know.
In a report issued by Sen. Fred Thompson (R-Tenn.), who was ranking minority member on the Senate Governmental Affairs Committee in 2002, he said "Because of its size and scope, and the terrible way it is managed, the federal government wastes billions and billions of your tax dollars every year. The waste, fraud and abuse reported to the Governmental Affairs Committee each year is staggering. Of course, no one knows exactly how much fraud, waste and mismanagement cost the taxpayers because the federal government makes no effort to keep track of it."
A damning assessment, to be sure, and I don't doubt it. But, here's the deal: how much money do you think would be wasted trying to track down $1.1 trillion? I mean, think about it. Again, you have to remember that the money isn't sitting under couch cushions somewhere. That's an incredible amount of money to track down, and quite possibly most of it found its way legitimately to the hands of companies and individuals who earned it by providing goods or services, but their involvement simply didn't make its way onto the books, because government financial mismanagement is atrocious.
My point is, do you really think it's justified to try accounting for $1.1 trillion in a fruitless endeavor that will probably cost the government half that? All to find money that has already been spent and in all liklihood can't be retrieved. Or, is it wiser to get a petition, or better yet a lobby, organized that will try to address the spending mess in the future?
You decide. I have work to do, because I don't have $1.1 trillion to fritter away. But, you know, if I did, this blog would be WAY cooler.
I had a great idea last night. Despite sweltering temperatures hovering near 100, and despite humidity that could single-handedly keep Lenin's remains soft and pliable, I still decided to go for a run. I decided to run because I like to punish my body.
I crossed the busy road near to where I live, and I started a nice leasurely lope down the sidewalk, en route to my typical 5 mile jaunt. Just as I was about to settle in to my standard pace, I noticed a yellow Jeep Cherokee roaring up the busy road, rapidly overtaking the dark minivan in front of it. Suddenly, the dark minivan changed lanes (the road is a four lane), revealing a small car in front of it pulling into a driveway. Well, the stage was now set. I had a small car pulling into a driveway, with its ass end sticking out into the street, and a Jeep Cherokee moving at Mach 2 directly behind it.
"Hey," I thought, "I think they're gonna. . ."
*CRASH!*
The collision sounded like a cannon going off, and it looked pretty damned nasty from my point of view, so I sprinted back across the street to ensure that everyone was okay. The smaller car, loaded with four older folks, was pretty much missing its trunk after being rear-ended, and the two ladies in the back seat were brushing shattered glass from their hair. Everyone was wearing their seatbelts and, upon asking if everyone was okay, they assured me they were. On to vehicle number two.
The driver of the Jeep was dazed and bleeding from his left eye, owing to his forehead getting up close and personal with the steering wheel. Summoning my latent Red Cross first aid training, I tried to get him to sit down on the grass and not move. One thing they don't teach in first aid is how to deal with a young, know-it-all, bone headed male who refuses to fucking sit still. A quick perusal of his vehicle revealed an open 12 pack of Miller Lite. My assessment of the situation was that he was pretty much fucked.
Okay, everyone was up and around and spooked like horses during a thunderstorm. I needed a phone. The old driver of the rear-ended vehicle had one, as did the boneheaded young man bleeding from his eye. I instructed the bonehead to call 911.
"Uh, no man," he said, "I gotta call my girlfriend, because this is her car."
Jeez. Priorities.
So, the old driver used his phone to call 911, while the bonehead argued with his girlfriend about the crumpled Jeep, which had a stuck horn that was blaring in a most monotonous and annoying fashion. I noticed that the rear-ended vehicle was slowly rolling backwards back onto the busy street, prompting me to quickly slam on the parking brake.
As things settled down a bit, I took a closer look at the people involved in the accident. I was both amused and embarrased for one of the old ladies, who had a most noticeable damp spot on her pants, indicating a bladder release at some point during the collision. Or perhaps after. You can never be sure about bladder releases.
Then the circus began. Two police cars roared to the scene, as well as a fire truck and a first response vehicle. The shock and surprise on everyone's face gave way to a shaking release of relief and "it could have been so much worse." My role in the whole thing was nearing its end. I had rendered what aid I could, which was pretty much none, so now I just had to give the police a quick run-down of the accident as I saw it, which was pretty straightforward. Then, I was free to go.
I felt somewhat guilty leaving the scene after my debriefing, but there was really no more reason for me to be there. So, I went back across the street and continued with my run, which was the most sweltering hot exercise I think I've ever endured. Shit it was hot. I should have stayed at the accident and saved myself dehydration.
