Hello, Valentine, it's me, the one you so adore
I know you love me, that I see, and that you love me more and more.
We've been together now, you and I, for what seems like my whole life,
And during that time, I cannot lie, there has never been much strife.
I love you so, my Valentine, more than mere words can ever say
Love like this is almost a crime, and I should be put away.
We've shared a lot, during our many years, and we have laughed, and we have cried.
And, my love, you who I hold so dear, if you had perished, I, too, surely would have died.
We are one, the two of us, and our lives are forever intertwined,
Without you, I'd turn to dust, because another you, I'd never find.
So I say to you, my Valentine, that I love you, and always will.
I am yours' and you are mine, and for you my love does spill.
Because, truth be told, I should confess, for all the world to see,
My Valentine, if you've not yet guessed, is and always will be. . . me.
Far be it for to brag about something I've done, but I couldn't let this little gem I conjured just go softly into that good night. I took part in a let-off-some-steam-at-George-Lucas-and-his-shitty-Star-Wars-Remakes poetry contest yesterday. I only offered up a couple of poems, but I was really proud of my second one, which I'm reposting here, because I can.
Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native Han!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As he watched the footage Lucas hath turn'd
>From a masterpiece to something bland!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him there's but Jar Jar in Star Wars hell;
High though he his, he points no Lucas blame,
Boundless his denial as wish can claim;
Despite those bong hits, and action figures on shelf,
The wretch, content to be a mental elf,
Living, shall forfeit Han's renown,
And, content with Greedo shooting first, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
(With apologies to Sir Walter Scott)
Wow, I'm great!
First, we had the heart-breaking end of Bennifer, and I'm sure all of you haven't recovered significantly from the severe depression that accompanied that. But, sadly, I have to also report the end of Kenarbie, as well. Tis a sad, sad, sad, sad day.
Unless you've been living in a spider hole for the past month or so, you should be aware that NASA has successfully landed two rovers on the surface of the planet Mars. So, Saddam Hussein, if you're reading this, and I know you are, you are excused for not knowing about the Mars rovers.
The Mars rovers are amazing machines, capable of toddling about on the Martian surface with an impressive array of scientific equipment intended to perform important and valuable scientific things. For example, the two rovers, which cost a combined total of $820 million (which, according to statistical reports, is a heck of a lot of money), have confirmed that the surface of Mars contains such substances as hematite and olivine.
You and I, and maybe even you, too, Saddam, would likely refer to hematite and olivine more colloquially as "rocks." Sure, they're rocks with important sounding names but, let's face it, they're still rocks. So, to recap: two rovers, at $820 million, sent millions of miles through space, combined their efforts to find. . . rocks.
I kid, of course. I think the Mars rovers are amazing technological achievements, and I think space exploration has been, is, and always will be, a worthwhile human pursuit that will no doubt continue to find more and more impressively-named rocks throughout the galaxy. And I think it's exciting that we're on the verge of sending actual human beings, otherwise known as "people," through the vastness of space to land on distant planets to verify, without a shadow of a doubt, that what the rovers deem to be rocks are, indeed, rocks.
Still, I worry about sending people to Mars, and not because of the inherent dangers and unknowns of prolonged space travel and the very real possibility of dying en-route. I mean, I'd personally consider it an honor to be sent to Mars and be the first human being, or "person," to verify the presence of rocks. That would be pretty cool.
But, no, my worries stem more from a language point of view. After all, once we start plopping people on Mars with any regularity, our language will no doubt be vastly changed.
For example, nowadays, we commonly hear the phrase "men are from Mars, women are from Venus." Heck, there's even a book with that title, I think, although I wouldn't be caught dead reading the thing. Still, what happens when we have both men AND women living on Mars. You can't quite say that men are exclusively from Mars any more now can you? No, you'd have to be all politically correct about it.
You'd start out saying "men are from Mars, women are from Venus," but then you'd have to stop and correct yourself by saying something like "well, I guess there are SOME women on Mars, too, but you get my meaning, don't you?" See? That's just messed up. Here we have a nice little linguistic method for outlining the differences between men and women, and suddenly we're all poised to discard that all in the name of the scientific pursuit of rocks.
Or, consider the whole concept of "Martians." Sure, we've pretty much established that there are no Martians on Mars, but it's still fun to think about Martians. Now, however, we really have to pause and consider the ramifications of having habitable colonies on Mars and how that will affect our use of the word "Martians." Think about it: let's say a human being is born on Mars. Well, that baby certainly isn't an earthling, at least not by the strict definitions set forth by my own mind. No, that baby would be a Martian. It would still be a human, but it would be a Martian human. That's really just too confusing.
Which brings up another thing. In today's language, if you want to point out to someone that they're totally out of touch about something, it's kind of hip to taunt them by saying, "Dude, where have you been? Mars?" But, see, in a post-Mars colonization era, you couldn't say that to someone, because there'd be the possibility that they have, indeed, been on Mars. And, holy smokes, how awkward would THAT be? It would just totally backfire on you, and then you'd be left standing there feeling all stupid.
So, although I think pursuing a manned mission to Mars is a worthwhile pursuit, I think we had best put a lot of thought into who we want to send there first. It has to be someone expendable, because there's a really good chance they'll die. And, it should really be a male, so we can maintain the "men are from Mars, women are from Venus" meme for quite some time yet. It should also be a person who we're comfortable referring to as a Martian. And, utimately, we should send someone who we're just fine with living out his final days carefully scrutinizing rocks.
Yeah, I'm looking at you, Saddam.
>From Johnny, by way of Tom, by way of Courtney comes a nice new idea. Name five blogs you read and think everyone else should too and then also five songs everyone else should hear. (That sentence was basically plagiarism from Johnny's site, but oh well, I'm lazy.)
Blogs:
A Small Victory -- Michele is one of the most well-known bloggers out there. And she occasionally runs goofy poetry and limerick contests, which keep me coming back. She's thoughtful, passionate, funny and smart, and she's basically discovered the formula for turning a blog and the Internet into a lucrative venture, which I admire. Plus, her content regularly rocks.
Intellectual Poison -- Johnny and I have something special, but which I mean we have amazing ass sex. Okay, not really. Truthfully, Johnny is a great guy and a fun read, and he finds daily news items that I otherwise probably would miss. Oh, and he's helped me out on a couple of articles, which makes me beholden to him in a knight/squire sort of way. By the way, Johnny, you're off the hook on that one article we talked about awhile back. It won't be timely enough by the time I get to it.
Strip Mining For Whimsy -- My daily source for frustration and pissiness. I could be in the best mood in the world, and one visit to Joshua will ensure a return to my dour, pissy self. Okay, it's not all that bad. I'm not sure, exactly, how Joshua and I came to know one another, although I'm relatively certain it was through some sniping political debate in some comment section somewhere. We disagree on pretty much everything you can imagine, but our paperback novel-length comment wars have been among the most useful mental exercises I've experienced since college roundtable discussions. Visit Joshua only if you can endure hard-assed diatribes mixed with statistics mixed with pounding liberal logic that grates against my modest right-of-center idealogies. And yet, I really like the guy. Joshua, you fucker. *hug*
Instapundit -- This is where I go to wash the taste of Joshua out of my mouth. Gah, that doesn't sound so good, does it? Glenn Reynolds is probably the most widely-read blogger on the Net, which makes him far more influential than a lot of media outlets in the world. He's not just my daily read: I hit refresh on his page basically every hour.
The Daily Bleat -- Again, James Lileks is a giant in the blog realm. Plus, he's a fellow Minnesotan, with a column in the Star-Tribune and everything, so I'm required to like him. It's a Minnesota-nice rule, you betcha. Lileks can go into realms I don't particularly care for, such as architectural ruminations, and ponderings about old movies nobody has ever heard of or wants to, but when he talks about his daughter, or when he goes on a screed, or when he takes a political tack, he's one of the best reads on the Net.
Songs:
Five For Fighting: 100 Years. God, it's a sappy little song, but I like it.
Pretty much anything by Green Day.
Pretty much anything by Nora Jones. Note to self: buy her damned CD.
The Milkshake Song: Kelis. Yeah, just kidding here. This song blows the sacs of a thousand goats, but I heard the damned tune on my way into work today and it's bouncing through my skull relentlessly. Yeah, great, make a song about your blow job skills, and then market it to a bunch of early- and pre-teen girls who wouldn't know how to give a blow job if Jenna Jameson showed them personally. Now, every girl with braces and zits is convinced the best way to bring boys to their yard is to do something called a "milkshake," even though they have no clue what the hell a milkshake actually is. Argh!
Pretty much anything by Fleetwood Mac.
Ryan says: Christ I'm sore!
Caroline says: No, I'm Caroline.
Caroline says: Christ is my homeboy.
Ryan says: He's a good homeboy to have.
Caroline says: He keeps it real.
Ryan says: And loyal. That guy would take a nail for you.
Ryan says: I'm so going to hell. In a handbasket even.
Caroline says: Don't cross him.
Ryan says: Jeez, so are you.
Caroline says: I thought we were in hell already.
Ryan says: Nah, just IBM.
Caroline says: Oh, wait, it's just Minnesota.
For the last couple of weeks, I've been getting whiffs and sniffs of something rather unpleasant. I mean, the odor hasn't been destructive or anything. It's subtle, but definitely not pleasing. I realized just now where the odor has been coming from.
It's been coming from my work chair.
I wasn't sure at first. Well, I had a hunch because, although the smell wasn't extremely powerful, I recognize the odor of butt sweat when I smell it. It has a unique odor signature, kind of like a fingerprint.
So, I started doing some quick Sherlock Holmes type thinking. Firstly, I've been sitting on the same cushioned chair now for three years. That's a lot of eight hour days planted almost exclusively on a sweat-absorbing cushion. Let me be clear here. I'm not a chronic butt sweater.
It's not like I have a tropical rainforest syndrome cooking away in my butt crack or anything. However, a little toast of warm cheeks on the same surface for eight hours a day for the last three years has apparently taken an odiferous toll. Of course, I wanted to make absolute sure before I gave up my comfy chair. So, I took the obvious course of action: I got down and smelled my chair seat.
Oh. My.
It wasn't an appalling odor, which is to say the chair shouldn't be burned with high heat or anything like that. But, it most assuredly did not smell as pleasant as I would like. I want my chairs to be as butt sweat odor free as possible.
So, I switched chairs. I am now officially on day one with my new chair. I anticipate needing a new chair sometime in 2007.
I'll tell you something. Of all the commericals polluting the airwaves today, when it comes to pure freakish, creep out, what-the-fuck did I just see, advertising awfulness, nothing compares to the recent Quiznos commercial I just now saw.
Let me get this straight: somebody in some marketing think tank thought it would be a great advertising idea to try to sell toasted subway sandwiches, which is a food item of some renown, through the medium of singing MICE (or at least I think they're mice), with uneven nasty teeth and googly meth-influenced eyes. And these deranged, dentally-challenged mice sing in choppy verse that can only be described as disturbing.
Gah. It's enough to make the Arby's oven mitt seem like a brilliant idea, and that's saying a whole bunch.
UPDATE: Ugh. The hamster creatures can be found here, if you can stand it. Thanks Rob, um, I think. *shudder*
So, I was just sitting here, toggling between work and news reports, and I came across this little item. Apparently, al Queda operations in Iraq are failing to garner the following they require. But, that's not the part that caught my attention:
It even laments Iraq's lack of mountains in which to take refuge.
To me, that's a fascinating thing to mention, and I'll explain why.
First off, I should note that, if you're one of those people who steadfastly refuse to acknowledge that the world is at war with terrorism, this stuff will probably leave your mouth sour with bile but, then again, I don't really care. Anyway, back to my musings.
It's been widely understood, in the lead-up and the aftermath of the Iraq war, that Islamic fundamentalists and terrorists were filtering their way across the border to fight American forces. Some intercepted memos even indicate that bin Laden himself encouraged al Queda to take the fight to Iraq, abandoning Afghanistan.
In the context of the war on terror, Iraq has therefore been an outstanding strategy for the coalition of the willing. In Afghanistan, we had to slog through mountainous crapland to root out terrorists. Now, they're coming to the coalition, on flat terrain, with a local population that is hesitating to assist them. Early on, this was referred to as the "flypaper strategy," and I think there's some truth to it.
The situation sucks for the Iraqi people, obviously, and it's hindering the rebuilding effort, but I for one sleep a little better each night. Because, if terrorists are intent on slugging it out with American SOLDIERS, in an environment that puts the terrorists at a severe disadvantage, in a country several thousands of miles away from American soil, so the terrorists are not flying planes into buildings here at home, well, then I'd say we're doing a bang-up job in the war on terror.
Of course, you may disagree. . .
Saturday afternoon, my girlfriend and I, while visiting my hometown, noticed that a wrestling event was taking place at my old high school. Now, I hadn't been in those halls for ten years or so, so we decided to take a quick trip back through Ryan Rhodes memory lane.
It was strange, in a very surreal sort of way. There was a time when those halls very much defined who I was. Small town schools, I think, have a way of shaping individuals that larger schools just don't. Harmony High School was, for me, everything. There was a strict unspoken code of expectation. You were expected to take part in sports, for example, so that's what I did. I played football, and I played golf, and, more than anything else, I wrestled.
Touring those old hallways Saturday, however, I was struck by how detached I've become from those expectations that so directed my early life. I mean, I could see my younger self, absorbed in those walls, but the present me regarded that school with non-nostalgic indifference. I don't know what I expected, actually. Some sort of epiphany, perhaps? Some unknown closure?
I have dreams, occasionally, that I'm back in high school. I'm either trying to remember what my next class is, or I'm standing in front of my locker unable to recall my combination. Or, sometimes I'll just be perplexed why I'm there at all, because I KNOW I already graduated, and that I went to college, and that I have a job and life. But still I dream of high school. I sometimes chalk those dreams up to an unconscious feeling that I never really finished high school. Because I left Harmony High School right before my senior year to finish school in Tokyo, I think there's something underneath that believes my Harmony schooling was left incomplete.
But, you'd never guess that from Saturday's visit. Any old ghosts that I may have left behind have long since vanished. I may have been able to find my way around just fine, but nothing felt familiar, not even the classrooms my parents taught in for nearly 20 years.
Except for the wrestling room. The wrestling room brought back a flood of memories. Memories of endless workouts, and of my father scratching his head in frustration when I couldn't figure out a particular throw, and of dry heaves, and sweat, and an explosive pride I felt after every practice. It's funny how much I hated wrestling practice, but how much I loved wrestling. My picture is still on the wall of tournament champions, a picture taken my junior year. I was pretty scrawny then, 130 pounds of developing youth who desperately wanted to eat until he died.
And then we walked outside, and I was back in the present, with a girl I love and a life that is mine to decide and that will no doubt, ten years from now, be just as alien as those high school hallways.
