Rambling Rhodes

For Crying Out Loud

When I was going through elementary school, my class took great pride in its ability to make teachers cry. Okay, we weren't necessarily proud of it, but we did acknowledge the fact that, for some reason, we made a lot of teachers cry.

I understand that teaching can be a stressful profession, particularly in elementary school, and that was before teachers started handing out Ritalin to any child that exhibits a hint of personality. So, it was easier for my generation to make teachers cry. Even so, we did have a remarkable track record.

One teacher in particular, our third grade teacher, Mrs. Rattering, was particularly liberal with the waterworks. If she couldn't get the class settled down within ten minutes or so, chances were good her voice would start to break and her eyes would moisten, and she'd try any number of standard pleas:

"Why can't you children please listen?!" Or, "You children are so difficult!" Or, "In the name of the Lord, I cast thee out, vile demons!!"

Now, most of the kids in my class were unaccustomed to seeing grown-ups cry, so most of us didn't know quite how to react when we ended up making Mrs. Rattering, or any other teacher, cry.

Some of us would sit quietly and observe the phenomenon, like scientists observing an important experiment. Other students would start to giggle, while still others would whimper along with the teacher. In retrospect, it was probably an excellent opportunity for social phychologists to study.

Typically, getting a teacher to cry required a concerted and prolonged effort on the part of the class, repeatedly ignoring requests and demands to sit down, or to be quiet, or to put those matches away, or to stop hiding that body.

Although it usually required the rambunctious chaos of the class, I once made Mrs. Rattering cry almost completely on my own. And the amazing thing was that I didn't even try to do it.

Back in my elementary school, they either had the hottest room heaters on the planet, or the boiler room was experimenting with nuclear technology. Whatever the case, the heaters in the classrooms shot forth air so hot, it could cauterize wounds. That hot air, in turn, transformed the metal heater shells, essentially, into hot plates.

My classmates and I played a game during which we'd try to see how long we could sit on a heater before we simply couldn't take it any more and hopped off, buns sizzling. Those heaters could burn you right through your jeans. Many was the day I went home with little red lines grilled into my butt cheeks. And we considered that FUN!

Well, one day, I came into the classroom and I, along with the rest of my classmates, became immediately aware that it smelled like smoke in there. In fact, it smelled like someone had recently blown out the biggest candle known to man.

You see, the day prior, during the last hour of the school day, the class was working on a coloring project. Which. . .

For some reason, upon entering that waxy, smoke-heavy room, I intuitively knew that I was responsible. I wasn't sure, but there was a faint recollection in my mind that, before I left school the day before, I had absent-mindedly placed my 54-set box of crayons on one of the heaters.

I looked over at my desk, which was next to one of the heaters, and then I looked on past the desk to the heater, on which sat my smoldering box of crayons. They weren't on fire, or anything like that, but they had most certainly melted down into the innards of the heater.

For her part, Mrs. Rattering took the whole thing pretty well, considering. And she only allowed her voice to crack just slightly as she admonished me for my carelessness. For my part, I was totally bummed out, because, man, I was out 54 crayons.

But then I inadvertently made a fantastic discovery.

I went to retrieve the sopping box of crayons from the heater, which I intended to throw away. Instead, however, I put the box on my desk while the class recited the pledge of allegiance and completed other such morning rituals.

When I returned to my desk, I discovered that the remnants of the crayons had solidified, so what I basically had was a honeycomb box of 54 wax-coated tubes which, to any elementary school student with half a functioning imagination, made perfect fake cigarettes.

Well, one student saw me fake smoking a fake Crayola cigarette and asked if he could have one, followed by another student, and another student, and kind of on and on like that. If R.J. Reynolds had been in the room that day, he would have been a proud, proud man.

So, when Mrs. Rattering stood up from her desk to begin the class, she was confronted by an entire classroom puffing on paraffin Lucky Strikes. It was more than poor Mrs. Rattering could handle, and she started crying almost immediately, so much so that she had to go into the hallway to collect herself.

We pondered the situation, my classmates and I, as we twirled our wax Winstons thoughtfully in our mouths, until Mrs. Rattering came back in and had everyone dispose of our fake cigarettes, one by one, in the trash can by her desk.

And, from that day on, until the day I graduated from sixth grade, and possibly even to this very day, that classroom smelled faintly of crayon wax whenever the heaters kicked in.

Me And Joshua, In Joshua's Words

I was at this party and there was a lot of drinking and dancing and then Ryan Rhodes walked up and handed me a salt lick. Maybe I should have been suspicious, but I just didn't think. The next morning I woke up face down in a puddle. Naked. Legs spread.

I... I feel so used.

Joshua

Nick Coleman. . . ARGH!

I won't rip, entirely, on Nick Coleman's latest bit of literary crapishness. Rather, I'll just excerpt certain portions while cross-checking it with this item.

So, in Coleman's column today, Nick sprays his readers with the following:

The Twin Cities bishops were touring the West Side in an attempt to convince state legislators (none showed up to join the tour) that balancing budget deficits on the backs of the poor is immoral.

Got that? balancing budget deficits on the backs of the poor. Nothing to back up the claim, mind you, save for the outraged voices of a few bishops. In Nick's tiny little mind, legislators get together, snag a couple of poor people off the street, and start balancing budgets on their backs just for the sport of it. It's like a game of Jenga, really. Why, the bishops say it's so, so it must be true!

Cross-check that with this little bit of gold from the Editor & Publisher piece:

"Readership and power of the blogs is increasing." He also claims that the blogs are dangerous because they are not under the same ethical restrictions as mainstream media and seek to stay on the attack, facts be damned.

Ethical restrictions, eh? Such as making unsubstantiated blanket statements that Minnesota legislators are balancing budgets on the backs of the poor, based entirely on the pontifications of a bunch of bishops. Facts be damned.

Let's grab some more unsubstantiated bilge from Coleman's ethically restricted pen:

But these days, with the poor being scapegoated and Social Security under attack by sharks who can smell money from a mile away

Yup. You can see the scapegoating of the poor all over the place here in Minnesota. Huge billboards proclaiming that the poor are actually the cause of the Asian tsunami, as well as halitosis. Yes, and social security is under attack by sharks. Money-smelling sharks, no less. Dontcha' just hate those genetically-modified money-smelling sharks? Didn't Dr. Evil want a couple of those to complement his collection of sharks with head-mounted lasers?

This is why Nick Coleman bothers me so much. He gets paid, probably fairly well, to write this kind of crap. And he doesn't do research or investigative journalism of any kind, save for a quick Google search, and to take, at face value, the word of a few bishops, and maybe the occasional person on the street (usually a poor person). It's just aggravating to me, because he writes for the biggest newspaper in Minnesota, and it's just lazy, self-righteous (to say nothing of poorly-written) nonsense that can probably be written in an hour or so. It's like he got his journalism degree (if he has one) out of a box of Lucky Charms.

And then. . . AND THEN, Coleman has the audacity to ascend a soap box and declare that bloggers are:

"rottweilers in sheep's clothing". . ."reliable partisan hacks." He claimed that the site (Power Line) and others like it "are dominated by the right and are only interested in being a megaphone without oversight, disclosure of conflicts of interest, or professional standards,"

Honestly, ready something, ANYTHING, written by Nick Coleman, and then read something, ANYTHING, written by the Power Line guys, and decide who comes across sounding more professional, and who comes across as a megaphone without oversight. It's like Coleman is incapable of acknowledging his own glaring hypocrisy.

Again, Nick probably wouldn't bother me so much, except that the Minneapolis Star-Tribune is a pretty big newspaper, with a fairly wide circulation, with enough readers mentally numb enough to read a Coleman column and think "Damn those money-sniffing sharks and poor-hating legislators!"

If the Star-Tribune were a small-town newspaper, I wouldn't give Coleman much thought. Because, honestly, Coleman is writing for a newspaper that's far bigger than his skills (a term I use quite loosely) permit.

It's like Joshua said, in Mad-lib fashion:

Otherhow, I obviously disagree with the meat of what Coleman's saying. I think it actually springs from a problem that seems to be rampant among hometown columnists: they write formulaically about things that actually require original thinking. So you get one column after another that goes:

The other day I was walking down the street and I saw an old homeless lady with a thick moustache begging for change and it made me think of Aaron Burr. Aaron Burr is, as I'm sure you know, the man who killed Alexander Hamilton in a duel. Hamilton invented our banking system and might have gone on to do other important things if only Aaron Burr hadn't shot him. The lesson of Burr and Hamilton is that many people are cut down before their prime. Or during their prime. Or sometime shortly after their prime, when they still have things to offer. And it applies to welfare reform because this poor woman was clearly cut down before her prime by the deadly bullet of poverty. If only George W. Bush would acknowledge this morally unambiguous lesson, he would realize that he's, well, wrong.

All of which is why Nick Coleman bothers me, and it's disturbing, perhaps, that I spend so much time tearing him apart. But, this is my blog, my megaphone without oversight or professional standards, if you will, so I don't feel all that bad about it.

This Just Makes Me Laugh

Computer Geezer

It's been estimated that for every human year, a dog or a cat ages, physically, seven years. It's a wondrous little bit of relativistic calculation. I imagine scientists got together one fine day, looked at a one-year-old dog, and decreed "Well, it LOOKS like it's seven," and so it was.

Of course, the calculation flies out the window when a dog or cat lives for 20 human years or so, and suddenly you have to step back and think, "jeez, Rover doesn't LOOK like he's 140 years old."

At any rate, it's not my intent here to tear apart the physical age calculation between man and pet. Far from it. Rather, I'd like to see even more chronological guesswork done on other, inorganic, items. Specifically, I'm referring to computers.

Let the record show that I, Ryan Rhodes, hereby decree that one human year of existence equals, roughly, 40 computer years. After over a decade of owning and operating personal computers, I feel I'm especially competent to make this calculation.

My current home computer is two years old in human years, but I can say, without hesitation, that it now functions as if it's 80 years old.

When I had my PC built back in 2003, it was a dream machine. I could ask it to perform almost any computer task, and it would perform like an athletic 16-year-old. No task was too demanding for my wonderful new machine.

Then, it started getting older. Within a couple of months, the digital read-out that kept track of the computer's internal temperature went on the blink which, in human terms, is kind of like requiring glasses. It wasn't a major malfunction, but it was a benefit that was no longer available.

About one year into its existence, my computer started rejecting certain software applications, informing me that, in order to install a given application, I had to first install all sorts of patches and fixes. In human terms, this is like changing your dietary habits, because your system just can't handle pizza and beer all the time any more. You have to get some fiber and greens in there to keep everything working okay. Again, it wasn't a huge deal, but it was an indication that things were starting to falter.

Now, two years into its existence, my computer is the human equivalent of an octogenarian trawling an oxygen canister behind them. There are viruses it just can't quite get rid of, its DVD drive doesn't work, its main Web browser can't browse the Web and its incapable of installing required updates.

Its latest and, quite frankly, most devastating failing, is that it can't install DirectX 9.0c (required to continue playing Star Wars Galaxies) because, in its own words, "A cabinet file necessary for installation can't be trusted."

So, there you have it. Not only is my computer a physical wreck, it's also paranoid. If my computer were a human being, it would be an 80-year-old, sitting on the porch, waving a threatening cane at people passing by, saying "I know you're from the Andromeda galaxy, come to steal my precious penguin dust!"

All of which simply means it's time to reinstall Windows XP, plug in some additional RAM, maybe buy a new DVD player, and basically start from scratch. At least I don't have to put it in a nursing home, because that would be sorta sad. Sexy chick. Another damned sexy woman. Sexy, sexy, sexy. I guess Alicia Silverstone is kind of sexy, too.

Big Number

Whilst I was out with a sore throat yesterday, my site meter went and tallied my 100,000th visitor. Chances are, it was some sad soul doing a Google search on some sort of permutation on "exposed+thong," but I'll take what I can get.

Oh, and yesterday, I finished reading a sci-fi novel called Revelation Space. What started out as an intriguing and deep narrative, devolved into a bunch of nonsense and hurried conclusions and, after 500+ pages, dammit, I deserved better. For shame, author Alastair Reynolds. For shame.

Ill

Sore throat.

Very sore throat.

It hurts my throat to even think about speaking these written words.

Yes, it's that sore.

Back to bed now.

Have a nice day.

My Key To A Better Personality

Via Machelle, I found 20 Questions To A Better Personality.

My personality is as follows:

Wackiness: 70/100
Rationality: 62/100
Constructiveness: 50/100
Leadership: 44/100

Of the 80298 people who have taken this quiz since tracking began (8/17/2004), 2.6 % are this type.

2.6% out of 80298? Jeez, I really am an oddball. An oddball who thinks Gwen Stefani is hot. Okay, that one was obviously PhotoShopped. Here's a non-PS shot of Gwen Stefani.

Not that there's anything wrong with Sanja Matice, of course. Sanja Matice. Sanja Matice. Sanja Matice. Sanja Matice. Sanja Matice. Sanja Matice.

http://imstars.aufeminin.com/stars/fan/D20050830/1522_603232979_lindsay_lohan_nude_mean_girls_H165919_L.jpg">Lindsay Lohan. Lindsay Lohan. Lindsay Lohan. Lindsay Lohan. Lindsay Lohan. Lindsay Lohan. Lindsay Lohan. Lindsay Lohan.

Prom Dress?

A) God DAMN! Where was this kind of thing when I was in high school?!

B) If I ever have a daughter, I'm locking her in a special, sealed basement shelter until she's, roughly, 34 years old.

‘clump in the cat-litter box’

Yup, pretty much.

Photo Caption Contest!

Submit your captions. The winner gets to take a breath!

In The Presence Of Greaterness

When it comes to mingling, I be not good. Of mingling prowess, I am of diminished proficiency. My mingling skills are lacking.

Therefore, when I was at Keegan's Irish Pub on Saturday night for the big blogger get together, I apologize for my poor mingling abilities. I did my best. Honestly, I did. And Melissa did, too. In fact, she was probably a better mingler than I was, but she credited that to the strong Bacardi Limon/cranberry juice cocktails that Keegan's mixed for her.

First off, I met Cathy, from Cathy In The Wright. She was dressed in pajamas, which I honestly didn't even notice until she pointed it out.

Then, charging from the crowd came Mitch Berg, who introduced me to a dizzying number of Minnesota bloggers. He was like a rolodex when it came to introductions. His mingling skills far surpassed my own. He was the enthusiastic MC for the event, and I was mighty grateful for his superior mingling skills.

According to some estimates, as many as 80 bloggers were in attendance, which isn't hard to believe. I met a staggering number of local blogging enthusiasts. I can't possibly list everyone I met, because quite honestly I can't remember everyone I met.

I did meet Doug, from Bogus Gold. I also met some of the guys behind Frater Libertas. I shook hands with Flash from Centrisity. I also met a couple of folks from the Pioneer Press and the Star Tribune, although I can't remember their names. Nick Coleman, I'm sorry to report, was not in attendance.

From the "A-List" bloggers, I briefly met James Lileks who--although I was aware of this ahead of time--was still a lot smaller than I had ever even imagined. He wasn't Vern Troyer, or anything like that, but he was a tad on the diminutive side, that's all I'm saying.

I also shook hands with Scott Johnson of Power Line. It really didn't register at first that I was meeting one of the guys behind Time's Blog of the Year and the whole Dan Rather shake-up. It wasn't until later that I starting thinking "wow, that was pretty cool."

Like I said, I met a LOT of other bloggers, but I can only really remember those who I actually read with some regularity, so I apologize if I did meet you but didn't mention you here.

As an aside, I should note that a lot of people knew my name and my blog largely because of the Dirty Mushroom. It was kind of disconcerting to know that my posterior is the driving force behind my online fame, such as it is. Then again, I shouldn't really be surprised by that, especially in light of the hi-jinx that went on over the weekend by folks with entirely too much photoshop time on their hands.

Hat tip to Etienne:

Hat tip to Jimmo:

I hesitate to encourage such activity, but. . . okay, I fully endorse such activity because, let's face it, that's some funny shit right there.

Unfortunately, Keegan's isn't the biggest venue in the state for hosting such large numbers. Mel and I went to the get together under the impression that we'd be able to sit down and order some food, so we went there with empty stomachs. Upon our arrival, it became very obvious that we wouldn't be sitting down and ordering food any time soon. Therefore, we had to make a discreet exit after about an hour so we could fill our rumbly tummies.

Overall, it was a good time, and I hope to attend another blogger bash sometime in the future. At least then I'll know a few faces, so my mingling skills will be a little better. Maybe.

UPDATE: Pictures of the Keegan's attendees can be found here.