Rambling Rhodes

Climate of Haze

I'm a journalist, sort of, which means I have to keep a rigorous eye on the big issues confronting the world today, as well as the big issues that confronted the world going back millions of years. Basically, journalists like me know everything about everything, so you should sit back and believe anything I write.

Deal? Deal.

Of course, one of the biggest issues that has the collective world's undies in a bunch is global warming, or global climate change, or unpredictable weather, or scientific malfeasance, or whatever it's being called on any given week. Whatever it's called, it's generally believed to be a pretty big deal.

How big of a deal is it? It's such a big deal, even dinosaurs had to deal with it. In fact, they may have caused it.

According to a May 7, Reuters news item out of Washington, "in a major new climate finding, researchers have calculated that dinosaur flatulence could have put enough methane into the atmosphere to warm the planet during the hot, wet Mesozoic era."

Because I'm me, I'm going to sit here for a minute and adequately absorb the awesomeness of a "news" lede that includes "flatulence," "hot" and "wet."

“'A simple mathematical model suggests that the microbes living in sauropod dinosaurs may have produced enough methane to have an important effect on the Mesozoic climate,' researcher Dave Wilkinson of Liverpool John Moores University said in a statement."

I have it on good authority, mine--and remember, I'm a journalist, so you have to believe me--dinosaurs were keenly aware of their emissions, much like humans today, and the Mesozoic political climate very strongly reflected that.

It's a little known fact that Mesozoic carnivores were extremely environmentally conscious, and they recognized their herbivore counterparts were far more egregious methane contributors due to their high vegetation diets. One carnivore in particular, Algoreasaurus, are known to have been staunch spokesreptiles for the global warming phenomenon, going so far as saying herbivores were emitting an inconvenient fume.

Mezozoic herbivores, understandably, objected to being singled out simply because they chose to live a more sustainable vegetarian lifestyle. Thus, the battle lines were drawn, much as they are today. Carnivores accused herbivores of being in the bag for Big Methane, while herbivores responded by pointing out increased temperatures had helped Mezozoic dinosaurs flourish. Further, herbivores insisted the carnivores were misrepresenting the available data, while the carnivores simply took big, exaggerated breaths through their noses and roared "PHEW!! How can we misrepresent THAT?!!"

The Mezozoic political landscape was made all the more partisan due to the carnivores' propensity for killing and eating herbivores, which the herbivores insisted was obvious evidence of extreme prejudice on the part of the carnivores. The carnivores responded by saying the herbivores were blatantly advocating carnivore extermination through starvation.

Now, I'm not going to draw too many parallels or conclusions about the dinosaur's Mezozoic climate debate and the human climate debate of today, because this post is running long.

I will say this: dinosaurs went extinct.

Think about it.

Or don't.

Moving Floors

One aspect of operating a furniture store with my wife that's particularly exhausting and exasperating is a phenomenon known as a "floor move."

Now, if a floor move actually entailed, you know, moving a floor, I probably wouldn't mind it so much, because that sounds pretty straightforward. Sure, it sounds like a lot of work, but at least it would just involve moving a floor from Point A to Point B.

However, a "floor move" as it exists in my wife's mind, is this recurring monumental undertaking that requires massive amounts of patience, and spinal fortitude capable of enduring moving multiple pieces of heavy furniture as much as 20 times per floor move.

Basically, a floor move starts with my wife standing in the middle of the store for about ten minutes, unmoving and unblinking, until her eyes start to glaze over and then tear up. I know then, at that exact moment, the seeds of a floor move have been solidly implanted.

"We need to completely change things around," she'll say, although the wording changes slightly from floor move to floor move. For example, she may say, instead, "I hate that chair there" or "that couch needs to be moved a few inches to the right." Whatever the wording, the eventual result is a complete and total floor move, because as soon as we do something as simple as move a couch a few inches to the right, ten other pieces of furniture instantly become totally out of place. And, once we move those pieces, all the art on the walls doesn't look right, and suddenly I find myself with a tape measure and hammer, tacking pictures in place a mere 20 inches away from where they existed previously, all according to my wife's exacting instructions.

As I said, the necessity for a floor move exists entirely in my wife's mind. If it were up to me, everything would stay exactly where it all is into perpetuity. I lack the necessary mental switch that says "that dresser would look better over there." My mental dialogue simply says "that dresser would ideally hold my boxer shorts and tee shirts and is perfect right where it is and will always be perfect there."

Once a floor move is in full swing, the store basically looks like a particularly severe episode of "Hoarders." It's pure chaos every time. My wife will assure me she has no intention of moving anything on a certain wall, but within minutes that wall will be completely deconstructed and I'll be standing there, sweat pouring off my head because I will have moved the same couch 18 times, at least, and there's every expectation on my part that I'll be moving that couch 18 more times, at least, before it's all over.

To my wife's credit, gradually, glacially, incrementally, a floor move starts to show hints of progress and then, almost magically, we find ourselves standing in a store that looks completely different than it did a mere five hours earlier.

I would almost feel a deep sense of accomplishment if I didn't know, in the back of my mind, we'll be doing the same exact thing in a few short, recuperative weeks.

Court Is In Session

This week, President Obama stepped in front of his favorite audience, cameras, and asserted confidently that the Supreme Court would rule in favor of the Affordable Care Act and the individual mandate on which the law financially hinges.

Setting aside the President's prescience on how the nine judges may be pondering on a ruling set more than two months in the future, he also uttered something most peculiar:

"Ultimately I'm confident that the Supreme Court will not take what would be an unprecedented, extraordinary step of overturning a law that was passed by a strong majority of a democratically elected Congress."

Somewhere, probably about six feet or so underground, former Chief Justice John Marshall rolled over in his grave and groaned "Arruray Ersus Adison." He said this because his lips have long since decayed away, but I'm assuming a small army of worms have teamed together to act as his tongue. What he meant to say was "Marbury Versus Madison," the 1803 Supreme Court case that set the precedent of judicial review, which the Court has invoked countless times since then when ruling on a wide spectrum of cases.

Of course, President Obama--who is widely regarded to have once been a professor of Constitutional law--simply had to have known this elementary aspect of American judicial history. Right?

For the sake of this blog post, I'm going to say "no, he didn't," because it's so much more hilarious to think in such terms.

Now, I can in no way profess to be a Constitutional law professor. At most, I can say I slept through a semester of mass media law classes en route to an eventual mass communications/journalism degree. Still, I think I was able to pick up on enough notable Supreme Court case precedents to put me in a position that's apparently at the same level of understanding as our sitting Commander in Chief.

Take, for example, Mayberry Versus Madison, the 1960 Supreme Court ruling that decreed the fictional town of Mayberry, N.C. would host the iconic "Andy Griffith Show" instead of Madison, Wis. Writing the majority 7-2 ruling, then Chief Justice Earl Warren wrote:

"While Madison may be an actual community and even a state capitol, it's our belief that the fictional community of Mayberry simply came up with a far more infectious, jauntier tune that also happens to be ridiculously easy to whistle."

The following year, in 1961, the Supreme Court heard the civil rights case known as Spy Versus Spy. In this Mad case, it was argued that a white spy racially targeted a black spy when he detonated a spherical black pipe bomb directly below the black spy's genitals. Ultimately, the Court ruled 8-1 that the assault was not racially motivated, and was instead the white spy's revenge for previously having had the black spy drop an anvil on the white spy's head from atop a high rise apartment complex. Wrote Chief Justice Warren for the majority:

"It can be easy to let prejudices obscure justice in these racially charged times, and to let preconceptions lead to hasty conclusions. At first glance, and taken as a single act, the white spy clearly seemed to target an innocent black spy. However, once we took a longer view, it became clear this was but one incident in an ongoing string of back-and-forth assaults perpetrated between the white spy and the black spy. While we don't condone the wanton use of explosives and other assorted weaponry utilized by the white spy and the black spy in their perplexing vendetta against one another, we see no reason to ascribe racial motivations to their malicious actions."

Of course, as President Obama could easily tell you, there was the landmark 1994 ruling Ali Versus Frasier, wherein a Pakistani American, Choudhry Ali, claimed to have suffered considerable emotional and psychological distress after receiving on-air psychiatric advice from a popular Seattle, Wash., radio personality. In that ruling, then Chief Justice William Rehnquist wrote for the 9-0 unanimous majority:

"While we agree the radio personality in question is undeniably a pompous douchebag with an incredible narcissistic disorder, Mr. Ali nevertheless called into the radio show of his own accord seeking advice. That he undertook this action and subsequently accepted the advice of the radio personality and approached and was rejected by the female object of his desire in a local coffee shop, was not, in our opinion, the fault of the radio host."

Most recently--again, as I'm sure President Obama is intimately aware--there was the 2008 ruling, Man Versus Food, which declared a disgusting man with no discernible sense of humor, yet with an excess of misplaced personality, was free to damage his body in unspeakable ways by ingesting a disturbingly copious amount of food for the amusement of a television audience. While the man won his case in a closely contested 5-4 ruling, justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg wrote for the minority:

"In this case, food desperately needs an advocate. There is no earthly reason that perfectly good food should be subjected to such a pointless fate as to be ingested by a man who is clearly only a handful of heartbeats away from a major and disastrous coronary event. In one episode alone, the food this human garbage disposal packed away could have easily fed a small African nation for a week or more. Several times while watching his show, I threw up a little in my mouth and had to swallow it back down for the sake of Court proceeding decorum."

I fully expect President Obama knows all about these and other Supreme Court cases and understands the ramifications they hold for the future of his signature healthcare reform legislation. Man Versus Food, particularly, should be weighing heavily on his mind.

I know it sure weighs heavily on my mind. That man is a pig.

You Gum Talkin'? Yeah I Do!

I'm going to take a moment to expound here about something of incredible importance to our nation. It's bigger than the impending presidential election. It's bigger than the ongoing economic downturn. It's bigger than the combined posteriors of all the Kardashian women.

I'm talking, of course, about gum.

There's been a quiet revolution taking place in the gum industry, and nobody seems to either have noticed or cared. That such a subversive revolution can take place with nary a hint of outcry is deeply disturbing to me.

Think about this for just a moment. When was the last time you saw a traditional pack of gum? I'm referring to the old pack of gum where you unsheathed a stick as if unleashing an arrow from a quiver. I honestly can't remember the last time I saw such a pack.

Almost overnight, gum just started arriving in stores packaged like old time cigarette cases. Seriously, you now flip a gum package open just like you would a cigarette case, and you're confronted by three lines of sticks of gum. It strikes me as almost completely pointless, until I consider that it probably appeals to the legions of people who are attempting to quit smoking and appreciate the nostalgia of seeing gum packaged like their old friends: cigarettes.

Also, gum commercials have themselves become ludicrous. I mean, I don't care how good a stick of gum may be; there's no way the taste experience is in any way tantamount to the experiences portrayed in the commercials. Granted, the Wrigley's Double Mint gum commercials of yesteryear that featured all those identical twins were pretty hokey, but they at least augmented the "Double" message of the brand, while also featuring hot identical twin girls. Wrigley's "5" gum commercials are just insanely impossible by comparison.

There is NO WAY, for example, that chewing a stick of Wrigley's 5 "Rain" gum is like sprawling out half naked in a sea of Pachinko balls while being buffeted by huge stereo speakers. Also, I highly doubt chewing a stick of "Solstice" is akin to high diving from a platform into a rapidly-melting iceberg. You think I'm kidding about these ads? I'm not. Check YouTube. We're being blatantly lied to about what it's like to chew gum. I'm chewing a stick of Wrigley's 5 right now, and I can only report a slightly tired jaw.

For that matter, the flavor names themselves just plain don't make any sense. Remember when it was just "mint" or "fresh mint" or "spearmint" or "govmint" or "U.S. Mint?" You could reasonably expect some sort of "mint" taste encounter. But "Solstice?" "Rain?" What do they even mean? If you chew "Solstice" in the spring, is that your cue to start the planting season? Is "Rain" like catching drops on your tongue, or slurping out of a mud puddle filled with dead worms?

While I can't speak for what "Rain" or "Solstice" actually taste like, right now I'm chewing on a stick of "Elixir," and I'm here to tell you, it's just FRUIT JUICE. Oh, and "Cobalt" is not like chewing on a lustrous, silvery metal; it's FRESH MINT. Stop exaggerating, Wrigley's!

Just bring back all the hot identical female twins. That's all I'm asking.

MN-DOT Cram Session

A few months ago, I wrote about the large box truck my wife and I bought for the purposes of transporting furniture to our home in preparation for opening a secondhand furniture, home decor and design store in Rochester.

In the time that's since elapsed, I'd become much more comfortable driving the behemoth 20-year-old vehicle that has more miles on it than the International Space Station.

Now, I say "behemoth," but in actuality it's only about a 15-foot-long box truck that we chose very carefully so as not to run afoul of any MN-DOT regulations. We ascertained that our box truck weight limit was such that we could transport furniture without being considered a commercial vehicle.

Which was true, except for when it wasn't.

Last month, I found out when it wasn't.

As I drove our box truck back from the Cities with a load of furniture acquisitions, I happened to have earbuds in both ears, primarily because the box truck roars so incredibly loud, you can't hear the radio, or your own thoughts. I knew earbuds in both ears was a "no no," but I weighed that against maintaining my sanity. The trade-off seemed fair, to be perfectly honest.

Anyway, the earbuds were a secondary reason I was pulled over by a Minnesota State Patrol commercial vehicle inspector. The primary reason was a non-functioning rear brake light. Hey, when you're dealing with a 20-year-old box truck, you're going to have some technical hiccups.

After being pulled over, the officer asked me a very specific question right off the bat: "Are you driving this vehicle for a business?"

This was a key question, which I of course didn't know at the time. Having driven the box truck for the last four months thinking I wasn't in violation of MN-DOT regulations, I told him I was driving to our store. This was an incorrect thing for me to say.

Now, remember when I said we could transport furniture without being considered a commercial vehicle, which was true, except when it wasn't?

Well, it turns out, back when we first purchased the box truck and used it to transport furniture to our house, that was just fine, and didn't violate any MN-DOT commercial vehicle regulations. The second I said I was taking our box truck--which weighs just over 10,000 lbs--to our store, it magically transformed from a personal vehicle into a commercial vehicle. Just like that. The clouds didn't part and the angels didn't sing, or anything dramatic like that. It just *POOF* became a commercial vehicle, and I, by extension, became a commercial driver.

Which. . .

Did you know, as a commercial driver, you have to obtain a very special MN-DOT number? I certainly didn't. Did you know NOT having a MN-DOT number is a misdemeanor? I certainly didn't. Did you know, as a commercial driver, you must obtain and have on person, a medical card? I certainly didn't. Also a misdemeanor. Did you know, as a commercial driver, you have to keep a journal of your hours behind the wheel? I certainly didn't. Also a misdemeanor.

Did you know, once a box truck magically transforms from a private vehicle into a commercial vehicle, it's subjected to a very thorough inspection right there on the spot? Well, it is, and you probably won't be surprised to learn that a 20-year-old box truck has a few problems that run afoul of ALL SORTS of MN-DOT commercial vehicle regulations. And, until you get those problems fixed, that commercial vehicle cannot be driven ANYWHERE.

Did you know it costs $160 to have a box truck towed from Hampton to a Cannon Falls repair shop? Well, it does, just in case you find yourself in a similar situation. A little knowledge never hurts.

I learned all of this and much, much more during one snowy afternoon in late February. I haven't had a cram session like that since college. I also learned State Patrol commercial vehicle inspectors aren't keen on the concept of giving out warnings. At least, this one particular inspector wasn't. So, I get to go to court to explain my MN-DOT ignorance to a judge who will hopefully appreciate the hilarity of my extenuating circumstances and show some mercy.

Unless she doesn't.

UPDATE: She did. My oratory sucked, but she got the gist. I only got knocked for the ear buds. Still cost over $100.

Short, Sweet and Hellbound

Ryan: I'm going to hell, in case you didn't know already.

Caroline: That was solidified a looooooooooong time ago

Ryan: I just saw a guy drive by in a pickup, and he was missing his left arm at the elbow, but he had his arm stump propped up on the open window, and I was laughing as I thought he should be careful or he'll get "farmer's stump tan."

STUMP POETRY:

And the stump, it was propped. Oh, yes, propped the stump was.
Why was it propped? The stump was propped, just because.

When properly propped, a propped stump looks quite proper.
When improperly propped, a propped stump's a jaw dropper.

With a dropped jaw and propped stump, people just stop and stare.
Propped stumps and dropped jaws, just aren't seen everywhere.

A slut tutorial

When it's funny:

When it's in "twat" form:

When it's acceptable:

When it's cause for national debate:

Good Lord. Have we really gotten this thin-skinned? Name calling is prohibited?

We're all sluts to political correctness, apparently.

In my lifetime, I've been called everything and anything, and that just covers elementary school. Where's my overdue consoling call from the President?

PS: I didn't post video of Louis CK calling Sarah Palin a C-word, because that's apparently the female equivalent of the N-word. Besides, I generally think Louis CK is extremely funny.

PSS: You ever notice there's no word for white males that's considered too derogatory, even though being a white male is increasingly becoming the worst thing in the world? You know, next to RICH white men.

We Have Crawling!

Unfortunate photo

Don't get me wrong, tornadoes are awful. But dealing with your shock by sexually assaulting a clearly distraught dog seems entirely unnecessary.

It's Appreciated

Today is "Blogger Appreciation Day," and I can't think of a blog I appreciate more than mine.

You can appreciate my blog, too, but you have to sacrifice a chicken and invoke the spirit of Bhaal.

Hey, these aren't my rules.

It just doesn't register

At the risk of sounding like an octogenarian with an ear trumpet, vigorously waggling a cane at some teenagers traversing my lawn, I have to say: the Internet is really starting to annoy me.

Not the Internet in general, mind you. I actually love the Internet. But, there's one aspect of the Internet specifically that has me on the edge of insanity.

Registration.

Not a day goes by, it seems, that I'm not requested to register online for SOMETHING. Web pages want me to register. Computer applications I'm not even aware exist on my machine suddenly pop up and ask me to register. E-mail services I haven't used in years manage to locate me and ask if I'd be so kind as to re-register. Online registrations are basically replacing the previous scourge that was junk mail.

Honestly, I wouldn't mind registrations all that much if they each didn't require me to come up with a unique user name and password--and yes, they have to be unique, because using the same information over and over opens you up to identity theft, and I don't want thieves stealing my identity; mostly because I'm interested in protecting the thieves from a lifetime of embarrassment.

Now, I'm not what you'd call an elephant when it comes to my memory. I've pretty much forgotten what I wrote in the previous paragraph, although I vaguely recall it had something to do about online registrations. My point is, I can't be expected to conjure and then REMEMBER countless user names and passwords for every Web page, computer application, e-mail address and whatever else prompts me to register online.

There was a time, about 10 years or so ago--back when Google didn't quite yet own our online souls--when I actually kept a notebook filled with user names and passwords for such sites as eBay and the like. But now it's as if every entity that maintains a Web presence wants a registration pound of flesh if I want to simply read a single page about anything. There's just no way I can maintain an accurate log of that many user names and passwords. I'd have more success trying to memorize all the names on "Schindler's List" or the ingredients comprising a Twinkie.

Of course, the online registration world isn't entirely stupid. Web entities at least realize people are annoyed by online registrations, so some try to sweeten the deal by offering goodies if you'd just be so kind as to register. My own unintended research into this has revealed most Web entities think a two GB USB key is the necessary carrot to entice people to register. On a typical day, I'm offered about three USB keys if I'd just take the time to register.

Now, there was a time, 15 years or so ago, that two GB of storage was considered more data than a person would ever use in his or her lifetime. Nowadays, a two GB USB key is the equivalent of a 1.4 MB floppy disk. If you don't know what a floppy disk is/was, then you managed to avoid a data storage era that involved hundreds if not thousands of saved disks that are now basically worthless.

Anyway, 2 GB today really isn't all that much storage, but it occurs to me that a 2 GB USB key is probably ideal for maintaining a database file of all the user names and passwords I've accrued over my digital lifetime.

That's pretty sneaky, when you think about it.