Rambling Rhodes

What The Hell?

Let's see if I have this straight. Iran's president goes on record declaring that the Holocaust was a myth.

And now Iran's parliament votes to make the country's non-Muslim citizens wear insignia indicating they're Jewish, Christian or Zoroastrian.

I mean, it's one thing to call out the Jews and Christians, but can't you just leave those poor Zorastrians alone? What did Ahura Mazda ever do to Iran?

UPDATE, IN ORDER TO PRESERVE MY JOURNALISTIC STREET CRED: The non-Muslim insignia news report is likely bullshit. My most humblest apologies for posting something in error. I must now go flog myself 56 times as penance.

I can't believe I knew about Ahura Mazda without Googling.

Thin Skin, Thy Name is Nick Coleman

Here in Minnesota, a stadium debate rages. Or so I've been told. I haven't followed it much. But Nick Coleman has! Rather than take sides on the stadium issue, I'd much rather pick on Nick Coleman for his crappy writing and even crappier journalistic acumen.

According to our electronic library, Sid Hartman has written almost 200 columns for this newspaper in which the name "Carl Pohlad" has been mentioned in tandem with "new stadium," and 167 columns in which the words "Twins" and "Las Vegas" have been linked -- as in "Las Vegas would love to lure away the Twins," (Sid, on May 4).

Classic Nick Coleman "research." From the same guy who once quoted a commenter on Craigslist.com as evidence of ANYTHING, Nick now utilizes his newspaper's electronic library (newsroom Google, basically) to start off his column. One wonders if he stretched and then visited the coffee machine while he waited for the search results to come up.

By contrast with my older friend, I have written fewer than two dozen columns in which the word "stadium" has appeared in any context, whether I was referring to plans for a new Twins stadium, a new Vikings stadium, a new Gophers stadium or some combination of the $2 billion worth of stadium plans the Legislature has been smoking.

The Legislature has been smoking stadium plans? I wonder if Nick hear's the youth of today ask each other "Dude, what have you been smoking?" and in Nick's walnut of a mind he thinks "STADIUM PLANS! THEY'RE SMOKING STADIUM PLANS! I AM SO SMART! I AM SO SMART! S-M-R-T! I MEAN S-M-A-R-T!"

Before proceeding, let me explain that I refer to spry Sid as "older" only to acknowledge his 86 years of accumulated wisdom, and to infer that, by contrast, I am but a pup.

Nick's adult ADD, however, is far more advanced than anything an 86-year-old can conjure. This column's about stadiums! No, this column's about how old Sid is! No, wait, this column is how old I am!

My prematurely naked head has led some to believe that Sid and I enjoy a brisk game of shuffleboard.

This column is about male pattern baldness!

I am, in fact, 30 years his junior and in all ways inferior.

This column is about how inferior Nick is! Finally, something we can agree on.

I only hope to grow up to be like Sid.

Oh, gawd, another 30 years of Nick Coleman columns? Perish the thought.

Despite my puny output of stadium columns, it is I who stands accused of harping.

*pressing the Nick Coleman "Whine Alert" button*

"You are a first-class idiot," a reader named Joe wrote to tell me. "Quit your whining."

*Salutes Joe*

"I am sick and tired of hearing you spout your mouth off," wrote another named Neil.

*Salutes Neil*

There have been many more,

*Salutes Many More*

and all this vitriol has made me wish I was more like Sid. After all, it appears the people of Hennepin County, despite opposing a stadium that will cost them almost a billion dollars while costing Twins owner Pohlad nothing he won't recover the day the park opens, are going to get a stadium.

Um, why would that make Nick want to be more like Sid?

Drink the Kool-Aid

That's a sub-head, by the way.

We have the best pols money can buy, and they stay bought: By a Twins lobbying campaign that has spent millions; by hundreds of thousands in campaign contributions from the Pohlads and their minions, and by the constant cheerleading from the Chicken Littles who have warned -- without any credible evidence or threat -- that the Twins will pack up and dump us if this very bad plan does not ooze through to passage.

Nick is an odd one to cluck about Chicken Littles and no credible evidence. He's the same guy who wrote that a Craigslist.com commenter was evidence that a lynching almost erupted in the Twin Cities.

Read the rest of Nick's column at your own peril. For a 56-year-old, he sure sucks.

Out on Patrol

I live about half a block away from an elementary school, which generally doesn't bother me, beyond the fact that I'm super-legally bound to keep my sidewalk clear and safe at all times, lest one of the passing youths slip and crack their head open and their parents sue me for roughly eight bazillion dollars and 22 cents.

And, oh yeah, also? Because the city in which I live doesn't trust me to completely keep my sidewalk safe, the city takes it upon itself to check my sidewalks periodically to ensure there are no dangerous cracks, or that any of the sidewalk blocks may have risen too sharply. Heaven forbid that ever happens, or the city will come in—AGAIN—and knock out the offending blocks and re-pour them. And then a couple months later I'll get a bill in the mail from the city asking for eight bazillion dollars and 22 cents for sidewalk repairs.

Other than that, living so close to an elementary school doesn't bother me IN THE LEAST!

Stepping away from my grumpy landowner persona, I shift now to my youthful nostalgia persona, which four out of five friends and family members agree is my more endearing persona.

One novelty of living so close to an elementary school, at an intersection, is that each morning during the school year, my corner is dutifully guarded by school patrol guards. Decked out in their bright yellow torso garments and wielding their authoritative school patrol flags, these guardians of all things traffic ensure the crossing safety of their younger elementary school counterparts.

Watching these State Patrol officers of the future, I'm reminded that I, too, was once a member of the respected ranks of the Minnesota School Patrol. I once donned the tattered yellow torso garments and wielded the authoritative school patrol flag which, when no one was looking, also made a great bo staff for dueling other patrol members.

I also had the heady power of being able to report nefarious wrong-doers TO THE PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE. Yes sir, my powers ran deep. I could even report license plate numbers if a motorist deigned to ignore my authority and brazenly drove through an intersection when I so obviously stood there with my flag unfurled, requiring traffic stoppage. From my fifth grade point of view, I could do practically anything under the protective cloak of the Minnesota School Patrol.

Anything, that is, except adequately deal with kindergarten students.

On a rotating basis, each school patrol officer was required to ferry morning kindergarten students across a trifecta of intersections for the duration of one week. For one week, I excused myself from my late-morning class, clad myself in my school patrol wear, and walked down to the kindergarten room to meet my throng of young protectees.

And they were the most horrible group of subversive little beasts ever to walk the halls of my elementary school. Keeping order amongst these miniature devils was a task so Herculean, Hercules himself would have opted out. I only had to walk the kids a distance of about four town blocks, but it may as well have been 125 miles. Every rock, every feather, every insignificant distraction of any kind, was an excuse for those kids to go toddling off to investigate. It was like trying to corral an ant colony.

And the never-ending litany of questions!

"How old are you?" "Why are you wearing that?" "Why can't I eat this dandelion?" "Why do dandelions taste so bad?" "Why is this doctor pumping my stomach?"

The most irritating of the lot was a boy named Kevin. Kevin wore circular little glasses and he had an almost monotone kind of voice that I secretly believed he practiced just to make it that much more annoying. Kevin's tactic was to engage me in conversation while the other children branched out to pursue their own areas of interest, whether it was a dead bird, a car's side mirror, or, in a couple cases, taking a bathroom break beneath a pine tree.

By the middle of my assigned week, I was at my wits end. If I let things proceed as they were going, I strongly believed one of the kids would get hurt, because I was pretty close as it was to whacking them collectively over their heads with my flag. In desperation, I turned to bribery.

As I picked the kids up from their classroom, I got them all together and explained that, if they were good for the rest of the week, I'd give them each some candy. It was, of course, a mistake to be so vague, because I was immediately bombarded with questions as to what kind of candy they could expect in return for good behavior.

The general consensus was that it wouldn't be worth being good for something as miniscule as a Tootsie Roll. The candy had to be something of some heft. Eventually, everyone agreed on Jolly Rancher sticks. It was going to cost me about 10 cents a stick, which was going to run me over a dollar overall, but it genuinely seemed worth it.

Of course, being "good" was a generally loose term. I had hoped it would mean strict obedience and complete silence, but I basically had to settle for a slightly diminished level of chaos.

Come that Friday, as I handed out their Jolly Rancher rewards at the end of our final journey together, Kevin informed me that I had been the best patrol guy they ever had.

As I walked back to the school that fine sunny day, I pondered the events of that week and assessed my situation. Sure, I was out $1.20, but I hadn't physically assaulted any kindergarten students, either.

It seemed like a decent trade-off, overall.

Why I Love The Internet #3298

People pretending to be me, calling myself a Nazi.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some goose-stepping to attend to.

UPDATE: Then, of course, there's the ever-reliable Jimmo providing such gems as:

The Internet, man. Without it, I'd probably die.

Scruples

Ryan says: You know, if I could just shake the last of my moral scruples, I could offer my writing services to college students and write their papers.

Caroline says: Moral scruples? You?

Ryan says: Whoops. That shouldn't have an "s."

Ryan says: I only have one scruple.

Caroline says: Scrupli

Ryan says: I call it my scrupe.

Caroline says: scruplium

Ryan says: Scrupe, scrupe a doop, scrupe a doop a doop a doop.

Caroline says: I've got the scrupe!

Ryan says: You should have that looked at.