Rambling Rhodes

Credit Card Anecdotes

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.

She. . . Just. . . Won't. . . Die!

Soooo, go read the comments from my Nick Coleman post. Pay particular attention to commenter #6, Deb.

Then go to her site. And view the picture to the right.

And, well. . . will Plain Layne ever totally go away?

In A Galaxy Far, Far, Away, Another Terri Schiavo

Greedo needs your help.

Of course, the life of a tauntaun isn't valued as much as a Rodian bounty hunter.

Nyooooooooo!

You might be a Sand Person if. . .

My Political Statement For The Day

A Pre-Emptive Nick Coleman Column

Based on this bit of news, I figured I'd be a nice guy and write a Nick Coleman column so Nick doesn't have to. You're welcome, Nick.

Light Rail Claims First (Of Many) Walking victims
Ventura's Folly A Scourge To Downtown Pedestrians
By Nick Coleman

The light rail tracks near 26th Street and Hiawatha Avenue S. in Minneapolis should still retain the gleaming glint of new steel but, alas, today those tracks are stained crimson by the blood of an innocent. Their only possible crime? Walking. You can't even walk nowadays without getting hit by a train, it appears.

And if you're poor, your chances of getting hit by the 5 p.m. Express are even better, because poor people are outside more, doing those outdoor things poor people do because they're poor. You could bet your jodhpurs that a modest bump up in taxes could prevent people, especially poor people, from getting hit by trains, but don't expect those fat cats in St. Paul to do anything like that.

Take heed, Minneapolis pedestrians, because the next train you catch could be your last. That faint "I think I can, I think I can," you hear riding on the winds may be the local #5, and what it thinks it can do is, it thinks it can kill you.

I stood idly by on that hallowed spot where the life was snuffed so cruelly from the now-broken body of the Unkown Pedestrian. The trains continued to whip past at 55 mph, their conductors refusing to even slow down out of reverence for the fallen. No time for the dead. The dead can't pay for train fares, so who cares about them?

As I stood there at that fateful crossing, a light mist washed over my face, as if God alone were weeping, when trainloads of commuters can't be bothered with such a somber observance. Places to go, you know. People to see.

The Unknown Pedestrian, however, will go to no more places, or see any other people.

I watched God's tears trickle down into the gutter, into the storm water drains that everyone has to pay a fee for now, which makes me mad for reasons I'm not entirely clear on.

While lost in thought, which isn't tough for me, because thought is such an unfamiliar locale, I was approached by an individual who asked me if I had a light for his cigarette.

No doubt he was going to go into one of those bars that isn't supposed to allow smoking, and smoke his little smokey smoke while not thinking adequately enough about the poor and the Unknown Pedestrian. He must not have realized he was talking with a Star-Tribune columnist, someone who knows stuff.

I didn't have a light for the cigarette-weilding lung assassin, but I engaged him in a little conversation. It turns out that Puffy McSmokesalot was actually Randall Simmons, 37, a nightwatchman for a local TCF Bank affiliate. I imagine that Simmons is probably on good terms with those wingnuts over at Powerline. Man I hate those guys, with their small manhoods and big cushy jobs. I'll never be their monkey. I'm nobody's monkey.

I asked Smokey Simmons about the Unknown Pedestrian who had been struck down and thrown 30 yards by a hunk of commuter metal that Governor WrestleMan Ventura shoved down Minnesota's throat all those years ago.

"Somebody died here?" asked Simmons in bemusement, sucking a long drag off his death stick, its cherry tip glowing like the hot tip of a lit cigarette. "Huh, I didn't know that. Bummer man."

Bummer man, indeed.

Mark my words, people of the Twin Cities--and you know who you are, because you live in the Twin Cities--there will be a lot more bummer men slated for the slab thanks to the rumbling commuter death wagon that is the Twin Cities light rail system.

All aboard, my faithful reader. All aboard.

UPDATE: It appears even I can't write Coleman copy quite as "uniquely" as Coleman can. From Coleman's column today:

What have we learned, class, about free speech after listening to Coulter call Democrats traitors to the country, threaten to give a Muslim student's name to homeland security and toss insults faster than a kid with a Dixie cup full of fish parts can toss herrings at a seal exhibit?

What the hell?

Inevitability

Ever since I was moved back into the main IBM Rochester building, I've been expecting to bump into my previous manager, Jenifer, who, as I've discussed here before, is quite probably Satan's mistress.

Anyway, I finally bumped into her today as she exited, and I entered, the cafeteria. It was one of those icy encounters where you can actually feel the air stiffen slightly. She gave me a glance that said "I can't believe someone hired you," while I returned a glance that said, "I can't believe somebody hasn't killed you yet."

I did manage to say "Hey, Jenifer," while she didn't say anything at all, so I guess that means I'm the better person, or something.

Jedi Poetry

Not that I have enough of a readership to warrant a poetry contest, but I figure, "so what?"

Your mission, should you choose to accept it: write a Star Wars poem, in anticipation for the upcoming Episode III Revenge of the Sith. It can be in any form, including haiku, limerick or whatever other form you come up with. The winner, selected by me, based on whatever ridiculous criteria I want, will receive. . . well. . . nothing. Except for the eternal glow of knowing that I chose you as a winner, which counts for a lot. I'll start things off:

There once was a young lad named Anakin,
Who, thanks to Lucas, was almost a mannaquin
With his Jedi man meat,
He gave Padme a treat,
And out popped Leia and her whiney-assed twin.

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He kills young and old
And is the emporer's bitch
Vader's a pussy

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Oh, and if my comment filter won't let you comment, e-mail me at yossarian9 (at) hotmail (dot) com, and I'll post your unedited submission.

UPDATE: Thanks to a heads' up from David, we can also now enjoy Darth Vader's own personal blog. Some of the comments, I have to say, are a freakin' scream.

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There once was a droid named Threepio
Who whined more than The Matrix's Neo
We were often annoyed
With this protocol droid
But he's still better than Caption E/O.

Although some might think me uncouth
What I say is just a simple truth
If I ever met Lucas
I'd kick his damn tuchas
And say, "Thanks for destroying my youth!"

If you wonder what sparked my outburst
It's changes he made for the worst
His "special edition"
Had left me wishin
They didn't make Greedo shoot first.

Author: David, a.k.a. Ted Rall.

Don't you just hate when that happens?

Ryan says: Funny thing is, if you take away the earring, you could almost SWEAR that's Vits.

Caroline says: Um, that guy is kind of large.

Ryan says: Oh, I was assuming that the back part was the back of his chair.

Ryan says: More to the point, you don't think 6'6" is large?

Caroline says: check out his arms

Caroline says: I meant, beefy

Ryan says: I don't know. They look like Vits arms to me.

Ryan says: Maybe not as long.

Caroline says: You couldn't pick Vits' arms out of a lineup ... of .. arms

Caroline says: an armup

Ryan says: Up in arms.

Caroline says: This guy's arms are just beefy looking. Not like Marc's arms at all.

Caroline says: and, by "beefy," I mean fat

Ryan says: I know what "beefy" means.

Caroline says: I'm just saying.

Caroline says: You said something about them being long.

Ryan says: Vits has long arms.

Caroline says: I know, but not beefy. Like this guy.

Ryan says: If Vits were to bury his head in his arms, they'd take on a beefy appearance.

Ryan says: You know what I hope? I hope it turns out that this guy actually IS Vits.

Caroline says: No, I don't think beefication would occur if he were to bury his head in his arms.

Ryan says: The scrunchification of his head pushed against his arm would totally beeficate the appendage.

Ryan says: So there.

Caroline says: But he's not resting his head against his left arm, which has been beefified without scrunchification.

Ryan says: That's not the debate. We're talking about the scrunchificationess of Vitse's potential beefitude.

Caroline says: His potential beefitude doesn't lie in his arms or legs. Lankification has taken affect.

Ryan says: Lankification can still be nullified by the appropriate amount of scrunchification, thus creating a beefified appearance.

Caroline says: There would have to be a perfect ratio of lankification to scrunchification in order for that to happen.

Cycles

I remember a time, not that long ago, really, when regular unleaded fuel was hovering just about $1 a gallon, and sometimes even dipping below the $1 mark. Good times. And we're talking just a few years ago.

So SUVs became this huge deal. Sure, they average 1 mile per gallon on the highway, and zero miles per gallon in the city but WHO CARES, because gas was soooooo cheap.

And thus the SUV market boomed, culminating in the most useless vehicle on the road: the Hummer. Nothing screams worthless status symbol to me worse than seeing a Hummer navigating a city landscape. I mean, seriously, COME ON.

And so now the price of gas is very high, higher than I can even remember. And there's this part of me that thinks, "even I could see this coming."

But, there's also a part of me that realizes that some good can come from high gas prices.

Until, of course, hybrid cars drive the price of gas back down, and everyone starts buying SUVs 2.0, and the cycle begins anew.

Yeah, it's a simplistic world view, but that's how I see things. I'm simple like that. Simple like Wanda Nara.

Missed it by that much

For those who don't know about an Instalanche, it's what happens when this guy links to you, and what happens next is a phenomenon during which an outrageous number of page hits ensues. They say that the influx of visits is so monstrous and sudden, even Site Meter has a hard time keeping up.

Today, I was one degree of separation from scoring the coveted Instalanche.

Instapundit linked to this particular post from this particular blogger.

The post right below the linked post linked to one of my recent entries.

The result? 883 page views by 6:22 p.m. Not bad for a Sunday. Not bad at all.

Someday I'll get that Instalanche directly. Some day.