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.
A Haunting Feeling
Maybe it's the encroaching Halloween holiday, but I find myself feeling more and more certain that some sort of entity inhabits my still freshly-purchased home.
It's not that I'm a staunch believer in ghosts or anything. I don't hang garlic over my doors to ward off the undead, or spend my spare time trying to build a replica of the nuclear accelerator ghost-trapping rifle like those used in the movie "Ghostbusters." Although, now that I think about it, that would be pretty cool.
So, no, I don't spend a lot of time worrying about a visiting apparition. If it happens, it happens, and it will be at that time that I'll drastically have to alter my understanding of life and death and the afterlife. Until I actually SEE a ghost, and sit down and do an extensive Q&A, Barbara Walters-type interview with said ghost, I'm going to err on the side of disbelief.
But, still, my house consistently provides me with my share of both heebies and the occasional jeebie.
There was, for example, the evening when I was happily playing a computer game, and I could have sworn I heard somebody fall UP the basement stairs. I was just sitting there, engrossed in my game, when I plainly heard a *thump, thump, thumpathumpathumpathumpa!* Except, instead of the sound of descent, the thumps seemed as if they came in an ascending crescendo.
I mean, it would have been disconcerting enough to have heard someone possibly falling down my basement stairs (think of the lawsuits!), but to fall UP a flight of stairs must take some serious effort, even for an apparently clumsy poltergeist.
Then there was the evening, just as I was about to fall asleep, when my bedroom door popped open. And, let me be clear here, that my bedroom door is not the kind of door that can just be popped open. It's a tight closing door. You have to turn that doorknob with a little bit of authority to convince it to release its grip. Therefore, having my bedroom door pop open in the middle of the night kind of had an effect on me, in that I refused to walk to the bathroom for the rest of the night and wrapped myself up so tight in my blankets, my circulation was probably in danger.
It's tricky to balance my belief that ghosts probably don't exist with the realization that I know, KNOW, I heard something fall up my basement stairs and that something made my bedroom door pop open. But, until I actually see a ghost, I simply cannot make the mental leap to admit that ghosts exist.
Which of course brings me to the inevitable question: what would I do if I actually see a ghost? What if I wake up to go to the bathroom some night and I see a shimmering sillouette going through my closet. What if I'm doing laundry down in the basement and I see a disembodied head hovering above the water softener? What would I do?
I'm not sure, but I'm sure screaming would be involved. And I'd probably fall up my basement stairs to get away from it.
I'm amazed, sometimes, at the conflicting power, and non-power, of horrific images.
I could, for example, watch stock footage of mountains of stick-like dead concentration camp victims of World War II stacked up like firewood and think "wow, that was bad," and keep watching anyways.
But, I can't bring myself to watch a bunch of black-hooded thugs hack another man's head off while he screams in agony. I just can't do it.
I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I'm more at ease seeing people who are already dead, with their lifeless eyes staring into infinity, but seeing the actual instant of helpless death is more troubling. Maybe because I can imagine myself actually getting my head lopped off more than I can imagine what might be done with my body once I'm gone.
I find it odd is all, that repeated viewings of WWII concentration camp horrors, or the killing fields of Cambodia, or the mass graves unearthed in Iraq, illicit murmurings of remorse, but not much else; yet footage of a kidnapped man about to lose his life at the hands of thugs can actually affect governmental policy.
Terrorists may be a blight upon this planet, but I have to give them one thing: they know how to manipulate the media. It's more than just a little creepy.
Pressure by Kerry forces president to show his hand
WASHINGTON D.C. (Rhodes Media Services) -- Responding to a speech in Wisconsin by Democrat presidential candidate John Kerry, President Bush today came out and publicly acknowledged his secret plan to hurt milk producers after the election.
The plan, dubbed "Operation Cow Tip," is a deviously constructed strategy to contaminate the nation's milk supply so that anyone who drinks milk after the election will immediately suffer explosive bouts of diarrhea.
The ensuing public backlash would have caused a nationwide boycott of milk and other dairy products, thereby destroying the dairy industry and hastening a switch over to Milk II, a dairy substitute created from petroleum and developed by Halliburton.
"You gotta admit, as secret milk plans go, this one was pretty cool," said Bush, standing outside on the White House lawn. "I came up with the explosive diarrhea angle because, let's face it, millions of people crapping themselves senseless would have been laugh-out-loud funny."
The Kerry campaign has also spoken of several other secret Bush plans, but the President refused to elaborate on them.
"A fella has to have some secret plans that stay secret, you know," said Bush.
I didn't much like Star War Galaxies after I bought it, but I figured I had better play it a little bit, because I did, after all, spend over $30 for it.
As games go, Galaxies is pretty boring. I spend most of my time doing missions to build credits so I can afford better armor and weapons, which are astronomically expensive, if you want GOOD armor and weapons.
It pretty much goes like this: I need 40,000 credits for a new helmet, so I go to a mission terminal and select two missions that, when completed, will result in about 3,000 worth in credits. So, I pretty much have to do that 14 times so I can buy a freakin' helmet.
During those 14 missions sequences, I get all injured and wounded, so I have to go to a medical center in the off-beat chance there's a medic there. Then I have to go to a cantina to sit on the floor and watch dancers and musicians, which is just bout the most boring thing in the world. Then, I have to swing by a garage to repair my speederbike, which usually costs around 3,000, which means I have to tack on yet another couple missions to pay for that.
Along the way, I keep bumping into creatures that can kill me by means of a gentle breath of air, which makes me want to buy an armor chest plate costing 125,000 credits to protect me. Which of course means a lot more freakin' missions.
Thing is, despite the unbelievable overall boredom of this game, I can't stop playing it. I'm completely addicted to this freakishly boring game. There's something about the advancement set-up of the game that just keeps me glued to the screen.
I hope this gets out of my system pretty soon, because, honestly, this just can't be healthy.
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