Rambling Rhodes

Credit Card Wisdom and Political Fun

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.

Feds Raid Democratic Convention in Error

Presence of Obama mistaken for presence of Osama

BOSTON (Rhodes Media Services) -- Federal agents today, in a large scale raid, descended on the Democratic National Convention after numerous reports indicated Osama bin Laden was somewhere on the premises.

Following a lightning-swift raid that included a meticulous frisking of Theresa Heinz Kerry, embarrassed investigators had to conclude, however, that the reports had confused the al Queda figurehead with Illinois state senator Barack Obama.

"Osama. . . Obama. It's an understandable mistake, if you think about it," said FBI Director Robert Mueller. "You can't really hold this one over my head, can you? Seriously, we had reports that Osama bin Laden was present at the Democratic National Convention; how could we not act on that?"

Obama himself was shaken up by the whole ordeal, having been handcuffed and whisked into a van parked outside. He had been injected with sodium pentathol twice before federal officers realized their error.

"Well. . . that was. . . unfortunate," said a dazed Obama. "All I can say is. . . I really don't envy. . . that Osama fucker when they really do get him."

Blogger Talk

Hello, Mitch. Hey, Leblanc.

Hey, homeslice. What's goin' down in da hood?

Sup?

Oh, I was just passing by, and I thought I'd drop in and see what's new in your lives.

Oh, that's so sweet. You're the sweetest thing in all the whole world!

The girl speaks da truth! Y'all are sweeter than a 22-year-old chick's ass in spandex! Slip me some skin, bro!

Um. . . okay. You feeling all right today, Mitch?

Damn straight up, G! I can't yap it up about pol'tics all the time, y'know? Sometimes I gotta just chill out and try keepin' it real.

I think that's soooo cute! You're the cutest thing in all the whole world!

Oh yeah? How cute do y'all think I am? Maybe you want to show ol' Mitch how cute he is, eh?

Oh, maybe later.

All righty then. Well, I'll just leave you two alone. Maybe I'll see you two around later, huh?

Any time you sweet, wonderful, awesome guy, you!

I'll be here chillin' for awhile. Look me up any time, bro.

Okay. Bye guys. Now, I have to go bother Joshua and convince that paranoid man to put up a portrait of himself, even though I suspect that, after reading this, there's no chance in hell he will.

UPDATE: Oh, and I did this in tribute to the now-defunct Plain Layne:

Ehhhh, close enough.

UPDATE, THE SEQUAL: A Q&A that leaves one with more Qs than As. Joshua's on the case, though, so never fear.

Darth Vader Took Vacations?

Last week, I completed the latest in the Jedi Knight computer game line: Jedi Knight - Jedi Academy. It's your standard Jedi Knight story line: there's some Dark Jedi out in the galaxy that has to be stopped from completing some devious plot.

I've played every Jedi Knight game produced, going all the way back to 1996 and a game version that required a DOS prompt in order to get the game up and running. I played that on a 200 MHz computer with 4.3 GB of drive space, which was considered more storage than I'd ever use in a lifetime. The system today is a 2.6 GHz system with 80 GB of drive space, and half of that is already used up. amazing.

Anyway, there's this mission in Jedi Academy where you have to infiltrate Darth Vader's old palace. The wily Darth is long gone, of course, but his palace remains, apparently as some sort of tourist curiousity. "Oooh, look Mom, that's where the Dark Lord of the Sith used to brood and plot." *flashbulb*

Seriously, the palace stands as a useless relic, but there are nefarious evil-doers seeking to the drain the derelict palace of its residual force powers, kind of like a pot-head snuffling around the couch cusions for a renegade Dorito or two.

The aspect that I found interesting about the palace mission was that you're basically supposed to believe that Vader found time to take a vacation and relax. Watching the Star Wars movies, one got the feeling that ol' Darth was pretty much at his happiest when he was on the bridge of a ship, choking someone from afar. The idea that he occasionally took off to vacation at the Dark Side equivalent of Martha's Vineyard never really crossed my mind.

The folks who dreamt up and designed the palace mission really went all out to show just how bleak the Dark Side of the Force really is. For example, the palace is situated on a planet that regularly pours green acid rain. Now THAT'S evil! I could almost imagine Vader standing on a hilltop, with a stormtrooper holding an umbrella over the Dark Lord, when suddenly Vader has a Bugsy-Segal-in-the-desert-like epiphany.

"I shall build my palace here! It's just so perfectly bleak and evil! Now, my wondrous clone army, create for me a monument befitting your Leader!"

Upon completion, with the building still radiating that new palace smell, Vader kicked off his boots, had his deep breathing helmet suctioned up and out of the way and then he just sat there thinking deep evil thoughts, and maybe sipped on a fruity alcoholic beverage adorned with a small umbrella.

But it was too strong, so he choked the bartended from across the room. Ahhhh, that was the life.

I Outta Be In Pictures

This took awhile to create, but this is what I ended up with:

And, you know, I agree with Mitch, in that:

-- Yick, what a gross picture
-- Yick, what an accurate picture

West Circle Drive Me Insane

There is a road I drive each morning on my way into work, and then again from work back to my home, and this road is called West Circle Drive. It's not a particularly long commute, perhaps five miles each way. As commutes go, really, it's kind of piddly.

But West Circle Drive has these things, and these things are called stop lights, and there are an unsettling number of stop lights stationed on West Circle Drive.

Stop lights, as you may know, are lights that tell motorists to stop. They consist of three colors: there is a green color, which is every motorists favorite stop light color, because it means GO. There is a yellow color, which is a dangerous color, because motorists have different reactions to it, ranging from pushing the accelerator through the floor to slamming on the brakes so suddenly it causes tailing motorists to wonder if there is an emergency baby-delivery about to commence. Finally, there is a red color, also known as the *#^$%^@* color, which requires motorists to stop, and most motorists today will tell you they hate stopping, so the red color is not at all popular with motorists.

Now, I don't really have a problem with stoplights. They're necessary in today's automobile-laden world. However, West Circle Drive, quite simply, has way too many stop lights. In the span of about three miles, there are no less than seven stop lights. That, in itself, is not really the problem. The problem is that five of those lights are stationed within a half mile. It's like a stop light party or something.

And, I'm here to tell you, you can NOT catch all five of those lights. You WILL have to stop at least once and, more than likely, you'll have to stop as many as three times.

I have come to believe that each stop light has its own unique personality. The first stop light I encounter on the way to work, for example, is a laid back and easy-going stop light. It's pretty good about letting me get through. I think it recognizes my car and kind of likes me. I typically have no problem catching that light.

Light #2 is a little more finicky. If #2 is in a bad mood, chances are you won't have a prayer of catching it. Light #2 realizes that you're about to encounter hell's kitchen when it comes to stop lights, so it generally lets me go through unimpeded.

Lights #3 and #4 are the real stinkers. They're set up, I believe, to be completely unsynchronized. If one is green, the other is red, and vice versa and, since they're about 100 feet apart, this can drive anxious motorists to no end of crazy. You can be stopped at light #3, even if it's green, because there's traffic backed up thanks to light #4 being red. Or, you can be stopped at #3, while up ahead #4 is green, but as soon as #3 goes green, #4 clicks to red. It's enough to make you scream, and I've seen motorists punch the ceilings of their autos in impatient disgust.

Light #5 is located about one-third of a mile past light #4, and it knows when you're coming, let me tell you. I'll be coming down the hill at #5, and it will be green, but as soon as I get within an acceptable range, it clicks to yellow, just daring me to gun the gas, or wimp out and hit the brakes. I'm a hit-the-brakes kind of guy, and I swear I can hear that light laughing a little electronic laugh every time I roll to a stop before it.

Light #6 is located another mile down the road. I probably wouldn't have a gripe about #6, but I usually still have the taunting laugh of light #5 ringing in my ears upon my arrival at #6, so I get really agitated if that one clicks to yellow just as I approach it. I start to feel as if the world is conspiring to keep from getting to work on time.

Finally, there's light #7, which would probably bother me to know end, except that's my turn-off, and since I can turn right on red, there's really not much #7 can do to slow me down, and I think that probably bothers #7 just a little bit.

Then again, light #7 plays a much more significant role on the way home, but that's an entirely different story, which I won't bore you with today.

Such A Sad Start To The Week

Nothing sadder than a one-legged puppy named "Lil' Brudder."

Choices

Perhaps the most frustrating aspect of summer is that the season consists of such a finite number of weekends. I don't really notice the passage of summer much at work, or any season for that matter. Here, in the office, the current season is always "Flourescent."

But, the weekends? I notice the passage of those. And man do they pass fast. I find myself almost desperately clinging to my summer weekends, sitting outside at dusk just trying to soak in that last solar ray before the sun ducks down over the horizon. Sunday evenings always seem to be a bit of a bittersweet affair.

The toughest part of summer weekends is deciding what to do to fill them. Quite often, the decision is made for me, such as in the case of weddings. Other times, though, my weekend is spread before me, with a smorgasbord of options, all of them appealing, and I wish I could do all of them.

Last weekend, for example, I could have attended a blogger get-together and, truth be told, I was looking forward to it immensely. But then, a friend of mine called me up and reminded me that I was supposed to be his partner in a golf tournament. And not just any golf tournament: the Black Chad Open in my hometown of Harmony. It was one of those approach-approach conflicts that's so devilishly difficult to work through.

Ultimately, I opted to get together with my friends on the golf course, and I'm really hoping I didn't make the wrong choice, although I don't think there was a wrong choice.

A little history about the Black Chad Open, based entirely on my own faulty memory and the fact that some of the story is based on handed down information. According to local lore, a group of young men came together to play golf in Harmony about five years ago or so. One of the young men was named Chad, and he just happened to be black. The men had such a fine time golfing that day, they decided to come back the next year and organize a two-man best ball tournament and, for whatever reason, they named it the Black Chad Open. There's a $40 entry fee, which includes all the beer you can drink throughout the 18 hole tournament. It can become a pretty rowdy and hilarious affair.

This year was no exception. It was a laugh riot from the opening drive to the final putt. I can't say I made the wrong choice at all. I just made a choice on one of the remaining weekends of my fleeting summer.

But, damn it, from the sounds of it, the blogger get-together was a grand-old time in its own right. Couldn't they have tried to have a little less fun?

Crap.