Archive for October, 2008

I’m an Environmentalist!

October 24, 2008

I’d like to take this opportunity to reveal a few of my hypocrisies. Now, I would claim to be an environmentalist; I recycle, I support alternative fuel sources, I use the special light bulbs that don’t harm the environment even though I didn’t know my previous light bulbs harmed anything other than the flies and moths that were too stupid to realize that those, in fact, are not the fucking moon, and should not be used for navigation. “OH NO! I’M SPIRALING TOWARD THE MOON AND NOW I’M BURNING! AAAGH!” Evolve. Jesus. Anyways, to get back to what I was saying, the light bulb companies could be lying to me for all I know. “Green” is the new “low carb.” 

You see what the spider has done here? He evolved! Why can't you?!

Coincidentally, the advent of the lightbulb coincides with gross arachnid obesity!

I suppose there are several things that keep me off of my high and environmentally-sound horse.

The first is that I hate environmentalists. I hate them so much. I guess I hate them in the same way that I hate missionaries. Do not try and guilt me into, or manipulate me into, believing your particular cause. That only makes me want to punch you and do the exact opposite of what you are saying. (Pretend that all human beings are smart, discriminatory persons, present them with facts, then let them decide. Your badgering is not required. Asshat.) Catholics and environmentalists use the same tactic. Fear. If you don’t do such and such you are going to hell/cause mass extinction. Then, if you don’t do whatever it is they tell you, they look upon you with disgust and disdain. “What, you can’t afford a Prius? Pfft, you, personally, are damning a child to a life of deformity and blindness in a loveless, burnt world where his parents tell him  that they wish he was never born, every hour on the hour, while giving clothing and food to their cat Fluffy and only feeding the child what Fluffy doesn’t eat. (Read: You aren’t as super trendy as me).”

Now, I don’t act on my impulses to wantonly destroy nature just to spite you goddamn fashion hippies and I don’t drive my SUV through a corn field while spraying aerosol cans into the air and burning Styrofoam and feeding cows beans so that they might aid me in destroying your precious ozone, because I actually believe that saving the environment is a worthwhile endeavor. 

However, here are a few reasons that you might not think that I was environmentally conscious. Also, as a reminder, I do not apologize for any of these actions. I merely find them entertaining.

For the last month, I have been carrying my bike, like a small child, in the back seat of my SUV, without any actual intent to ride it. It’s like I ordered a garden burger at a restaurant but still killed a chicken for the hell of it.

Also, I am wearing a kick-ass Captain Planet t-shirt right now that, more than likely, was made by small children in Indonesia, working in an unsafe environment, while their factory pumps hazardous chemicals into the air, streams, and earth.

Your powers combined are no match for the evil capitalist oppressor!

Your powers combined are no match for the evil capitalist oppressor!

Lastly, if I ever get the chance, I will buy a 1970 Mustang Shelby and feed it as much gasoline as she wants. I’ll keep feeding her and feeding her until she throws up. My pretty little girl. I will then proceed to waste said gas, do as many donuts as possible, while possibly flipping off a flower bed. I’m just saying. It could happen.

 

Why don't you cry, bush?

Why don't you cry about it, hedge?

 

I guess that’s about it. Soon, a rant about PTSD, and public nudity.

Don’t Call us Generation Y

October 17, 2008

I am sick to death of my generation being called Generation Y. It’s like the egocentric geniuses of Generation X couldn’t figure out that the world doesn’t revolve around them, and thought that any successor to them must in some way relate to them. And what’s the next letter in the alphabet? “Y” is the next letter in the alphabet. You are after us and therefore you are “Y.”

When asked to comment for this blog, one Generation X-er responded, “Why Generation Y? Because FUCK YOU, that’s why.”

Don’t call us Generation Y. Don’t call us the Echo Boomers. And don’t call us the Millennials.

The millennium just happened to be a date that we lived through, not a defining characteristic.

The Echo Boomers is just offensive. We don’t even rank as the voice, no, we’re it’s echo. You might try and draw a correlation between our birth rates versus the baby boomers, but, actually, don’t.

There are so many things wrong with Generation Y, it unnerves me that it has gained any sort of momentum in the media. Again, Generation Y implies that we are just the next generation after Generation X, like we don’t deserve our own distinction.

“Y” implies, at least homophonetically (yeah, that’s an awesome new word), the interrogative “why.” Which my sister pointed out (she’s a Gen X-er), “Yeah, as in, “why” were you born?” Which she thought very clever, and proceeded to laugh herself into a tizzy.

The letter “Y” is also the signifier for the chromosome that differentiates a male from a female. We don’t want our generation associated with the limited misogynistic view that somehow we are a male generation, or patriarchy. I’d like to think that in my lifetime, we’ll see the further breakdown of the male/female disparity experienced in the work place. Look at the students in medical and law school, you’ll see that my generation is making significant gains in equality in workplaces normally dominated by the masculine, although, there is still the glass ceiling to dispose of.

In short, there are very few reasons to be called Generation Y, and quite a few reasons NOT to be distinguished as such. It’s a lazy label given to a generation who was too young to have defined themselves.

In fact, if it were up to me, we wouldn’t be defined until well after our time had come and gone. It is up to the historians to look back on our contributions to society, to the earth, science, politics, etc. and then come up with an all-encompassing name for us.

However, since the media insists on labels, let me offer some alternatives to Generation Y. Why? Because I like you (saw that one coming, huh?):

The Communication Generation

OR

The Information Generation

Besides the obvious assonance and consonance that make those two monikers roll so easily off the tongue, there is a good reason behind these assignments.

In fact, what I am doing now is a great jumping off point for this discussion. Right now, just like most of my generation, I am sitting at home in front of my home computer (97% of us have personal computers), using the internet to communicate.

Of course, communication takes many different forms. Just thinking about ways of contacting any number of my friends, I could; post this blog, use a social networking site to message them, write on their virtual wall, comment on their status, instant message them, text them, call them, use twitter, email them etc. (Woah, you want to meet in person? Why don’t you just ding me on TeamSpeak and we’ll WoW) The point is, at any given point in a day, you will be able to find us, contact us, or track us via our cell phones. Yes, it’s much like an electronic leash… and the government could use all of these things to become Big Brother, but at this point, fuck it, we’ll take that risk.

Generation X may have been the first generation with a video game system and a personal computer, but our video games and computers talk to each other.

We are the first generation to be completely immersed in the technological revolution. We suckled at the technological teat, if you will. Even if you won’t, it still happened.

For most of us, an encyclopedia is a far inferior tool to the internet.

To us, the world is much smaller.

Although, to be fair, technology isolates us as much as it brings us together. Different communities have formed based on this new, anonymous form of communication, but we’ll take it. It gives us the chance to exchange ideas with people all over the world. To get unbiased and biased news from many different sources. It allows us a freedom unknown to the generations before ours.

I expect big things from my generation, and eventually I hope that we are remembered for our deeds as much as our culture, but for now, call us the Communication Generation, because nothing else makes sense.

Upcoming Updates

October 15, 2008

I apologize to my loyal reader(s?) for not updating more this week. I’m in the process of moving out of my apartment and haven’t had the chance.

What you can look forward to:

A blog on why you should never call my generation, Generation Y.

A blog on the best bar fight that I’ve ever seen (Better than the time I saw a bouncer hit a guy in the stomach so hard that he puked!)

And possibly a blog on me brushing my teeth (seriously).

On Violation -OR- My Taxidermist, My Gastroenterologist

October 9, 2008

The owl stared down at me, glassy eyed from its perch on the window sill, judging me, as the bespectacled and bearded man told me to drop my drawers and bend over his desk. “Mom,” I said, “Can you please leave the room?”

I disapprove.

I disapprove.

Perhaps this story requires some preface.

When I was 16 years old, I had a string of injuries and illnesses that sidelined my life until around the time I turned 18. In a six month period I had six surgeries, all completely unrelated. Though, this story only relates to one.

Sometime during sixth period newspaper, I discovered that I had several large, hard, lumps in my neck. If I lifted my head back, you could see them protruding. Of course, at the time, I only used them to freak people out and tap out complicated drum beats, but I figured that, even though I enjoyed them immensely, I should probably get them checked out.

The surgery was uneventful. They biopsied several enlarged lymph nodes, sent them to a research institute where they presumably gave it the official diagnosis of whatthefuckisthisosis, and sent me on my merry way.

Let me take a second to derail my story so that I can paint you a picture of the kind of people I was dealing with. The doctor who was to tell me the results of the biopsy sat me down and began explaining what was wrong with me. He told me that the lumps were benign. Good news, for sure, but there was obviously still a problem here. I stared at him expectantly, waiting for an explanation as to why my lymph nodes were growing to the size of large walnuts, but that elucidation was not to come. “Sooo…,” I prompted. “Well, it’s like this…,” he began. “Your lymph nodes are like red cars. Statistically, red cars get into accidents more often than other cars. Your lymph nodes are more likely to get in an accident, so to speak, except with cancer.” He smiled, proud of the way he explained it to me in a way I could understand. “So I’m statistically more likely to get lymph node cancer than the average person.” His smile went away. Apparently I had missed the subtle nuances of his simile. When pressed for further information, it turned out that there was no evidence linking cancer to my condition at all. They had no idea what the fuck was happening with my lymph nodes…

Anyways, several weeks later, my neck had swollen disgustingly. I looked like a pelican carrying a grapefruit in its mouth wattle (right in time for senior pictures!). After several calls to the doctor, and several brush offs telling us that we needed to calm down, this was part of the healing process, my mother (skilled in medicine herself) tracked down that sumbitch at his house. This was extremely lucky for me, because soon after the doctor agreed to meet us, my neck split open like a pair of jeans at a Big Mac eating contest.

The squeamish may not want to read the next paragraph…

I knew you couldn’t look away, you sick fuck! It turns out that I had a massive infection in my neck, and it had burst at the weakest point, my stitches. Most of you won’t appreciate this next detail, but I’m sure those of you who have had like infections will understand–I will never forget the smell. Puss and blood were leaking from my neck, and there was an overwhelming, sweet, putrid, stench of rot and decay coming from me. Unforgettable. The doctor quickly put me in a chair and lanced the bastard with no numbing agent. I’ve had several major injuries, and this is by far the most pain I have ever experienced, heightened, I think, by the terrible smell. After the doctor finished draining the rotten puddin’ from my neck (try to eat tapioca right now, I dare you), he prescribed several strong antibiotics and again, sent me on my way, though this time, he may have been apologetic. Actually, that may have been my imagination. Heartless bastard.

Now go eat this!

Now go eat this!

That is actually all preface for the main impetus of this story. We are just NOW getting there. Thanks for your patience.

As you can probably imagine, at this point, I distrusted most doctors (bolstered by another invasive surgery that I didn’t need). So, when I started bleeding out of my ass, it came as very little surprise. They had already screwed up in every other way conceivable. Why not this?

I’m not talking about a little bit of blood. I thought I was going to bleed out in one of the most embarrassing, and perhaps most hilarious deaths of all time! How do you rig a tourniquet in your colon? You don’t! Time for more doctors!

I was referred to a gastroenterologist in a shady part of town, bars on the windows. Looking back, I wonder if they were to keep people out, or keep the “patients” in. But, whatever the case, I went in anyways, my mother there for moral support.

I knew what to expect, or at least I thought I did. But if all went well, this was only going to be a consultation and not a prostate poking degradation. I was so, so wrong.

I entered the “doctor’s office” and immediately had to suppress the urgent need to flee. Dead animals stared at me with their glassy, all seeing eyes. Noting, it seemed, with pleasure, my discomfort. The floor was covered in brown shag carpet. The walls were faux wood. The chairs were brown leather. And the man behind the mahogany desk looked as if he had just recently stepped out of 1974.  I don’t know the rules of propriety from the ’70s, but polyester suits aren’t considered “professional attire” anymore.

Probably this guy. Note his interest in the child.

It was this man. Note his interest in the child.

Your anus is the gateway to your soul!

Your anus is the gateway to your soul!

After a couple of minutes of friendly chatter and describing my symptoms.  Doctor Beard-n-spectacle was fairly certain what had happened. You see, the doctors who had cut the lymph nodes out of my neck, the ones who didn’t clean themselves well enough? The ones who had given me an infection? They poisoned me with antibiotics. The dosage was so high, that not only did it kill the bacteria in my neck, but it killed all the good little flora (I picture flowers in my colon) in my intestine as well. The ones that help you digest things properly, and more generally, not die.

I’m fairly certain that this is the medical equivalent of being fucked in the ass by my doctors without lubrication.

Speaking of lubrication. That’s what our polyester-blended friend pulled out of his desk. “Drop your drawers and bend over the desk please!” I froze. Blood rushed to my head. I could hardly think. “What, uh, I though we already knew what was wrong?!” I stammered. “Oh, I’m just going to take a sample to put on a slide in order to be safe.” I looked at him blankly. The prostrate probing. There was no escaping it. I decided to put on a brave face for my mother, who was looking at me nervously. “Mom, can you please leave the room?” Looking a bit alarmed, she replied, “Are you sure?” Hell yes I was sure.

She left. I pulled down my pants. He put on his glove (I think. The next few minutes were blurry.) Lubed up. Bent me over his desk. And deflowered me. Would you like to see my view while all this was going on? Of course you would.

This is what I saw.

This is what I saw.

Did I mention that he had abnormally large hands?

Yeah, it was like that.

Yeah, it was like that.

Ouch.

That's gotta hurt!

That's gotta hurt!

It did mister owl. It did.

Needless to say, I never went back to that doctor again. I did need a follow up appointment, however, with another gastroenterologist. This time, the appointment was actually in a real doctor’s office, where I was up on a table. He lovingly draped a paper blanket over me so as to protect my modesty, and apologized for what he was going to do next.

It was at that moment I knew the last “doctor” (read: pervert) had violated me. Violated me hard. And that’s why it takes me a six pack of beer and several sedatives to step foot in a doctor’s office.

Part one of one (RIP Ghost Pilot)

October 8, 2008

Well… the three part story experiment failed miserably. We’ll never know whether our brave young aviator manages to kill the unkillable pilot, or if he is destined to be destroyed by him.

I imagine this story being the first step to becoming Robert E. Howard-like… not the suicide part… I’m talking about story fragments! Famous with story fragments! God! Why do you always take my similes and run with them!

Anyways, if any of you writers out there feel the need to finish the story, I’d love to read your endings!

Check back later tonight for a blog on something completely different!

PART ONE (of three)

October 2, 2008

Well hello there, friend! So glad that you could join us! Now that you’re here, I’m going to subject you to an experiment! No, don’t try the door, it’s locked! You think I would just let you walk out? I didn’t think so. You might as well sit down and get comfortable and let me explain what this experiment is all about.

Myself, and my fellow bloggers, Mark Hirose and Madam von Sassypants, are going to tell you a story. I will tell you part one today, then, Mark picks up the baton tomorrow with part two, after that, the Madame continues the story the following day, with the part three finale. Our only ground rule going into this event was that there would be no preplanning. Mark and the Madame are reading this part of the story just as you are. Tomorrow, it will be up to Mark to steer this story anyway he sees fit. It could become a comedy, drama, porno, satire, who knows? The options are limitless.

Enjoy part one, and brace yourself as part two stretches your imagination to the breaking point and beyond…the breaking point. In which case your imagination will be broken!

PART ONE: The Ghost Pilot

“I don’t care much for dyin’, miss, but I wouldn’t mind wakin’ up to your face every day.”

Captain Eddie McCullen winced as the nurse wrapped his abdominal wound, applying a bit more pressure than necessary.

“Pardon me, ma’am, I seem to have overstepped my boundaries.”

The nurse raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, you have. It’s bad enough that I have to spend my time piecing you fly boys back together, I didn’t realize I’d spend most of my time warding off your advances. Now hold still.”

The nurse gingerly removed the soiled bandage from his head. Scab clung to the wrappings, and, when pulled away, caused new bleeding. She daubed the wound with cotton soaked in alcohol, causing tears to brim Eddie’s eyes. He pretended they didn’t exist, and she pretended she didn’t notice.

“Not to be contentious, but I have eighteen confirmed kills. I think that may bump me from fly boy to Ace.”

The nurse rolled her eyes, but allowed herself the hint of a smile at his effort.

“Well, Mr. Ace, you’re a lucky man. Shrapnel just missed your stomach and right lung, and your landing nearly scalped you. There was skull showing when they rolled you in here, you know.”

Eddie propped himself on one elbow and looked at the nurse full in the face–his brows furrowed, and offense spread across his features.

“I can see by your name tag that your last name is Brown, what’s your first…?”

“Amanda.”

“Look Amanda, I know you don’t think much of us pilots, but luck generally doesn’t have anything to do with whether we live or die. If I had to put a finger on it, I’d say it’s one part skill and three parts spite.”

Eddie leaned back in his bed and stared through the wall across from him–out into the open sky.

“By all rights I should be dead. My bird was so fulla’ holes that, well, I imagine that’s what flyin’ a screen door might feel like. You know what kept me alive?”

Amanda sat down cautiously at the end of his bed now, genuinely interested, but still guarded to his probing advances and piercing stare. Playfully, she chaffed him.

“Thoughts of a girl back home? Patriotism?”

Eddie laughed appreciatively.

“Hate. It was hate. You see, this is the second time I’ve encountered the ghost pilot. I call him the ghost because twice now, I’ve looked right down my sights at his tail rudder, and twice he’s disappeared, only to reappear right behind me. The first time, I got lucky. The German’s bugged out once they saw our numbers. This time though… I saw him smile and give me a mock salute while I was going down. As soon as I’m healthy enough, I’m going to go back up there and kill him.”

Amanda was taken aback a little bit by his intensity, and angry at herself for feeling something towards the young pilot. Still, she had to know.

“How do you kill a ghost?

Tune in tomorrow when Mark answers that and many other questions at http://www.markhirose.wordpress.com (It’s also in my blogroll).