This Friday (October 9th) I will begin publishing a column for the Forces of Geek website (forcesofgeek.com) that will cover 4 decades of Pop Culture and my obsession with consumerism/memories of owning things that have little-to-no value in the real world.
I will also be stepping up my bitch-fest here on this site to accommodate my huge ego now that I am on the cusp of what can only be stardom.
Thanks for your undying devotion and come visit my incrediblt talent on Friday.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Joe Wilson is an Asshole: A Look at Contemporary Civility Today (complete with incivility)
Civility: Courtesy; Politeness; a polite action or expression.
Asshole: (slang) A stupid, mean, contemptible person; the worst part of a place or thing
Even though I am unpleasant in nature and most people who know me would say that there is a lot to be desired by being my friend, I am, now and forever, a civil person.
Which is why when Rep. Joe Wilson from South Carolina yelled out “You Lie” from the Republican crowd during President Obama’s address to Congress, I was at first shocked by his display of assholeness, then slowly filled with a desire to beat him to death with the limbs I would tear off “Text Master” Eric Cantor’s body. (I said I was civil, not unviolent)
After a summer filled with the rampages of Ideologues who have never once taken it upon themselves to crack open a book, I was tired of listening to the right wing fringe freaks and was hopeful that once the cool air of fall began to hit their desiccated mummy skin, they would retreat back into their trailers and begin a long winter filled with reality television and bags of cheese doodles. This, of course, was not meant to be.
Spurred on by their belief that the taking care of another human being is Socialism (never mind the that most every program run by the government is, in essence, a form of Socialism) these blobs of ignorance and their gelatinous leaders have continued onward toward a total embrace of stupidity that has not only gotten the media’s attention but has also made it chic to be a butthole.
Case in point:
Rallied together by the talking heads of right wing media, tens of thousands of people spilled out onto the streets of Washington on September 12th to protest the reform of healthcare, Obama’s birth certificate, and the fact that Whitey has to listen to a Brother for once. And, of course to display the incredibly thoughtful and articulate signs of misspelled words and poorly Photoshopped pictures of Obama as Hitler, Che Guevara, and the devil. With the cries of “No Obamacare!” piercing the sky, they marched forward, a sea of Wal-mart shoppers gorging on their own fecund feeble-mindedness, achieving nothing of substance or enlightenment and finishing their march probably winded by the exercise and ready for some beer and light spousal abuse.
And what did the march accomplish?
Nothing more than allowing the media to air yet another round of unsubstantiated shinola and giving the right wingers another glorious moment in a sun that they believe rotates around a five thousand year old earth.
So what does this have to do with the collapse of civility in a country is increasingly uncivil you ask impatiently?
Well, for one, it indicates that we, as a civilization, are dissolving into some kind of primordial Neanderthalism that will eventually leave us naked and covered in offal, as well as an indication that we have no use for one another, nor that of anyone who is willing to make significant strides toward a more civil Star Trekian lifestyle. (I’m talking of course of a time in the future when people never have to worry about going bankrupt when they get a migraine and can order an Earl Gray Tea hot from a replicator).
Don’t get me wrong, I am not talking about the freedom to dissent or impugning the 1st amendment rights of our mentally impaired brother and sisters, what I am talking about is the inability of those people to engage in a civil discourse or to allow thought and the growth of oneself into the equation. The loud obnoxious hollering during town hall meetings, carrying guns to rallies, and yelling at the President of the United States during a speech in which he is trying to dispel the rumors that you, yourself have created are not Freedom of Speech, it is, simply, you being an asshole.
And now that incivility has jumped the political ship and has entered into the realm of award shows. This week at the VMAs Kanye West stormed the stage as Tyler Swift was accepting an award and declared that Beyonce should have won it. He later apologized for his actions but the problem remains, what gave him the right?
Apparently, Joe Wilson.
As incivility makes its way through the American landscape I fear more people will begin to take the same actions as Wilson and West and soon no one will be able to have a conversation without having to be ready to throw down.
In a sociology class of mine, my professor relayed a story that seemed to stoke my shriveled heart. Apparently during the seventies at the height of America’s disgust with Nixon, the president went down to the Jefferson Memorial, alone, and confronted a group of protesters who wanted Nixon dragged through the streets of Washington. The confrontation was not bloody, nor filled with the vitriol of today’s protestors; instead the people who thought Nixon was evil treated the man with reverence and respect, not because he was Nixon, but because he was The President of the United States. Did they come away with a newfound approval of him? No. They hated him as much as they ever did but that did not stop them from acknowledging his status as President and treating him with the respect that the position demands.
Standing up to Government and being able to question politicians openly is an American tradition and should remain as precious to us as breath and blood, but it disgraces that right when people act like mental patients and start to barter in rumor and lies rather than trying to discover fact.
As Wilson made his half-hearted apology and money poured into his re-election chest from fellow nimrods, it stands to reason that the America that the Republicans are creating is one filled with ignorance and incivility that will not stop until blood has been shed by those willing to remain unenlightened.
From tea baggers, to religious zealots, the New Republicans are becoming less a political force and more a burning ember of Fascism. I hope the leaders of the party take note and begin embracing the ideals that the party was founded on. If not, they may only be able to fondly remember the time when they were simply assholes.
Asshole: (slang) A stupid, mean, contemptible person; the worst part of a place or thing
Even though I am unpleasant in nature and most people who know me would say that there is a lot to be desired by being my friend, I am, now and forever, a civil person.
Which is why when Rep. Joe Wilson from South Carolina yelled out “You Lie” from the Republican crowd during President Obama’s address to Congress, I was at first shocked by his display of assholeness, then slowly filled with a desire to beat him to death with the limbs I would tear off “Text Master” Eric Cantor’s body. (I said I was civil, not unviolent)
After a summer filled with the rampages of Ideologues who have never once taken it upon themselves to crack open a book, I was tired of listening to the right wing fringe freaks and was hopeful that once the cool air of fall began to hit their desiccated mummy skin, they would retreat back into their trailers and begin a long winter filled with reality television and bags of cheese doodles. This, of course, was not meant to be.
Spurred on by their belief that the taking care of another human being is Socialism (never mind the that most every program run by the government is, in essence, a form of Socialism) these blobs of ignorance and their gelatinous leaders have continued onward toward a total embrace of stupidity that has not only gotten the media’s attention but has also made it chic to be a butthole.
Case in point:
Rallied together by the talking heads of right wing media, tens of thousands of people spilled out onto the streets of Washington on September 12th to protest the reform of healthcare, Obama’s birth certificate, and the fact that Whitey has to listen to a Brother for once. And, of course to display the incredibly thoughtful and articulate signs of misspelled words and poorly Photoshopped pictures of Obama as Hitler, Che Guevara, and the devil. With the cries of “No Obamacare!” piercing the sky, they marched forward, a sea of Wal-mart shoppers gorging on their own fecund feeble-mindedness, achieving nothing of substance or enlightenment and finishing their march probably winded by the exercise and ready for some beer and light spousal abuse.
And what did the march accomplish?
Nothing more than allowing the media to air yet another round of unsubstantiated shinola and giving the right wingers another glorious moment in a sun that they believe rotates around a five thousand year old earth.
So what does this have to do with the collapse of civility in a country is increasingly uncivil you ask impatiently?
Well, for one, it indicates that we, as a civilization, are dissolving into some kind of primordial Neanderthalism that will eventually leave us naked and covered in offal, as well as an indication that we have no use for one another, nor that of anyone who is willing to make significant strides toward a more civil Star Trekian lifestyle. (I’m talking of course of a time in the future when people never have to worry about going bankrupt when they get a migraine and can order an Earl Gray Tea hot from a replicator).
Don’t get me wrong, I am not talking about the freedom to dissent or impugning the 1st amendment rights of our mentally impaired brother and sisters, what I am talking about is the inability of those people to engage in a civil discourse or to allow thought and the growth of oneself into the equation. The loud obnoxious hollering during town hall meetings, carrying guns to rallies, and yelling at the President of the United States during a speech in which he is trying to dispel the rumors that you, yourself have created are not Freedom of Speech, it is, simply, you being an asshole.
And now that incivility has jumped the political ship and has entered into the realm of award shows. This week at the VMAs Kanye West stormed the stage as Tyler Swift was accepting an award and declared that Beyonce should have won it. He later apologized for his actions but the problem remains, what gave him the right?
Apparently, Joe Wilson.
As incivility makes its way through the American landscape I fear more people will begin to take the same actions as Wilson and West and soon no one will be able to have a conversation without having to be ready to throw down.
In a sociology class of mine, my professor relayed a story that seemed to stoke my shriveled heart. Apparently during the seventies at the height of America’s disgust with Nixon, the president went down to the Jefferson Memorial, alone, and confronted a group of protesters who wanted Nixon dragged through the streets of Washington. The confrontation was not bloody, nor filled with the vitriol of today’s protestors; instead the people who thought Nixon was evil treated the man with reverence and respect, not because he was Nixon, but because he was The President of the United States. Did they come away with a newfound approval of him? No. They hated him as much as they ever did but that did not stop them from acknowledging his status as President and treating him with the respect that the position demands.
Standing up to Government and being able to question politicians openly is an American tradition and should remain as precious to us as breath and blood, but it disgraces that right when people act like mental patients and start to barter in rumor and lies rather than trying to discover fact.
As Wilson made his half-hearted apology and money poured into his re-election chest from fellow nimrods, it stands to reason that the America that the Republicans are creating is one filled with ignorance and incivility that will not stop until blood has been shed by those willing to remain unenlightened.
From tea baggers, to religious zealots, the New Republicans are becoming less a political force and more a burning ember of Fascism. I hope the leaders of the party take note and begin embracing the ideals that the party was founded on. If not, they may only be able to fondly remember the time when they were simply assholes.
Monday, August 17, 2009
High School Musical 3: A Movie That Makes It Worth Dropping Out of High School
You know that awkward feeling you had the first time you had sex and it was over and you didn't know what you were supposed to say to the other person? Well that's what sitting through High School Musical 3: Senior Year was like. A long horrific pause that brings with it the realization that you had just made a huge mistake.
HSM3 (as it is affectionately known to legions of mentally stunted sixteen year olds everywhere) is the story of a group of privileged youths who break out into song for no apparent reason, have really good skin, and seem to have the kind of life I can only experience when I am hopped up on goofballs. The two main characters are Pretty Boy and Non-Whorish Brunette. Two teenagers who love and respect each other completely and whose biggest problem in life is their impending separation from each other when Non-Whore goes off to an Ivy League school and Pretty Boy gets stuck with a full ride to a state school for his basketball prowess, (which, incidentally, is where he dances and sings his way to a state high school championship in the beginning of the movie).
Now perhaps I am tainted by my memories of high school seeing that I dropped out at sixteen to pursue college and all of college's wonderful mandatory activities like sex and drug usage, but I can not for the life of me remember one instance when anyone broke out into song or when the drama department kept the entire play viewing audience enthralled through student choreographed dance numbers. I do, however, remember members of the drama club getting beat up or belittled by closeted homosexual football players who laughed anytime anyone used the word "Thespian" in front of them. But I digress, back to the flick.
So during the course of the film we learn that Pretty Boy is up for a scholarship to Julliard, even though he never applied (spoiler alert: his drama teacher did it because she wanted him to have opportunities...whatever). That he resents that his life is laid out for him and his future is filled with only good things. And that in the end what he really wants is to major in theater AND play basketball for the University of California, Berkley. Non-Whore is all depressed because she is leaving the love of her life to pursue pre-law at Stanford and, oh my God, she has to attend some early entrance thing because she is so smart and awesome and well, she might have to miss being the lead in the play and when she is alone, by herself, at college, the pain of missing Pretty Boy is too much so she bails out of prom. Then there's some singing and dancing and then Pretty Boy drives up to Non-Whore's college because, and I am paraphrasing here because it is too fucking depressing to write, "...you are where the prom is."
After that you are subjected to some awkward open mouth kissing, then scenes from the high school play where audience members are practically having orgasms in their seats, and then Pretty Boy and Non-Whore show up at the last two minutes and end up singing some love song that brings the house down that causes the audience to go into hysterics, where I half expected to see colored jets of come emitting from the slightly erected penis' of the fathers in the audience as the dying notes of the song evaporated into the ether like a dream.
Upon completion of this movie I am left feeling soiled, not unlike that of a used tissue on the floor of a porn theater. Where was the angst and betrayal of friends? Where were the geeks? The outcasts? The pimples? Where, for the love of God was the teenage pregnancies and the yearbook pages dedicated to the kids that committed suicide or drove off the road drunk killing themselves and six friends? This wasn't high school...this was High School on Ritilan. In my day (said the thirty-five year old high school drop out) movies about High School were filled with pain and Molly Ringwald. They had soundtracks that featured alt. rock superstars like the Psychedelic Furs, The Plimsouls, and Modern English. Not craptastic mouth breathing movie characters named Sharpay.
Alas, I am too old to understand the plight of today's youth I guess. Perhaps the days of the John Hughes teen is over and we are now entering the bland social experiment known as High School Musical 4: The Next Generation of Plastic Lameness...No Fatties Allowed. But at least I will always have those special moments of teen horror forever transposed on celluloid that remind me of one thing...at least I wasn't a Heather.
HSM3 (as it is affectionately known to legions of mentally stunted sixteen year olds everywhere) is the story of a group of privileged youths who break out into song for no apparent reason, have really good skin, and seem to have the kind of life I can only experience when I am hopped up on goofballs. The two main characters are Pretty Boy and Non-Whorish Brunette. Two teenagers who love and respect each other completely and whose biggest problem in life is their impending separation from each other when Non-Whore goes off to an Ivy League school and Pretty Boy gets stuck with a full ride to a state school for his basketball prowess, (which, incidentally, is where he dances and sings his way to a state high school championship in the beginning of the movie).
Now perhaps I am tainted by my memories of high school seeing that I dropped out at sixteen to pursue college and all of college's wonderful mandatory activities like sex and drug usage, but I can not for the life of me remember one instance when anyone broke out into song or when the drama department kept the entire play viewing audience enthralled through student choreographed dance numbers. I do, however, remember members of the drama club getting beat up or belittled by closeted homosexual football players who laughed anytime anyone used the word "Thespian" in front of them. But I digress, back to the flick.
So during the course of the film we learn that Pretty Boy is up for a scholarship to Julliard, even though he never applied (spoiler alert: his drama teacher did it because she wanted him to have opportunities...whatever). That he resents that his life is laid out for him and his future is filled with only good things. And that in the end what he really wants is to major in theater AND play basketball for the University of California, Berkley. Non-Whore is all depressed because she is leaving the love of her life to pursue pre-law at Stanford and, oh my God, she has to attend some early entrance thing because she is so smart and awesome and well, she might have to miss being the lead in the play and when she is alone, by herself, at college, the pain of missing Pretty Boy is too much so she bails out of prom. Then there's some singing and dancing and then Pretty Boy drives up to Non-Whore's college because, and I am paraphrasing here because it is too fucking depressing to write, "...you are where the prom is."
After that you are subjected to some awkward open mouth kissing, then scenes from the high school play where audience members are practically having orgasms in their seats, and then Pretty Boy and Non-Whore show up at the last two minutes and end up singing some love song that brings the house down that causes the audience to go into hysterics, where I half expected to see colored jets of come emitting from the slightly erected penis' of the fathers in the audience as the dying notes of the song evaporated into the ether like a dream.
Upon completion of this movie I am left feeling soiled, not unlike that of a used tissue on the floor of a porn theater. Where was the angst and betrayal of friends? Where were the geeks? The outcasts? The pimples? Where, for the love of God was the teenage pregnancies and the yearbook pages dedicated to the kids that committed suicide or drove off the road drunk killing themselves and six friends? This wasn't high school...this was High School on Ritilan. In my day (said the thirty-five year old high school drop out) movies about High School were filled with pain and Molly Ringwald. They had soundtracks that featured alt. rock superstars like the Psychedelic Furs, The Plimsouls, and Modern English. Not craptastic mouth breathing movie characters named Sharpay.
Alas, I am too old to understand the plight of today's youth I guess. Perhaps the days of the John Hughes teen is over and we are now entering the bland social experiment known as High School Musical 4: The Next Generation of Plastic Lameness...No Fatties Allowed. But at least I will always have those special moments of teen horror forever transposed on celluloid that remind me of one thing...at least I wasn't a Heather.
Monday, August 3, 2009
The Great Fly Massacre of 2009
I am not a dirty person, nor do I live in a garbage house. Sure, occasionally, there is a weird funk that will permeate my home that I am forced to seek out and smote with lemony goodness, but you will never find cans of opened beans, mangy dogs missing limbs, or packs of Lucky cigarettes littering my lovely abode.
That said, what happened on the night of August 2, and the terror that ensued will be forever branded in my memory as The Great Fly Massacre of 2009.
That evening myself and my significant bother returned home from Philadelphia having spent the day among friends and, more importantly, Rita's Italian Ice. Our bellies full, we settled in as we usually did, in front of the television waiting for our brains to turn into jelly and finally die for the night, when we noticed two large black flies settling onto the screen of our abnormally large LCD. Steve, my significant whatever, yelled at the cat to, "Get the flies Mimi" to which our overweight cat looked straight at us then promptly fell asleep. Upset that our cat is as lazy as we are, Steve walked over to the television to smack away the flies when he noticed six or seven more buzzing contently in a lampshade near the bulb.
"What the hell?" He asked trotting over to the lamp with nothing more than his bare hands and the willingness to destroy life.
"They must have come in when I let Mimi out on the balcony." I answered, not really paying attention as True Blood was about to begin.
"I'm getting a towel" Steve said walking toward the kitchen.
It is at this point that he let out a strangled gasp and then yelled, "OH. MY. GOD!!!"
I ran into the kitchen and was immediately confronted by hundreds of flies swarming around the kitchen light. Their buzzing menacingly taunting us into submission.
"Who did you kill?" I asked, angrily accusing Steve of murder. (My only point of reference of fly swarms comes from Grissom on CSI).
"No one." He answered after an awkward pause that I interpreted as being slightly alarming.
"Start slapping." he yelled tossing me a hand towel and going after a tightly balled swarm that had begun making their way to the living room.
Let me explain something; I am, by nature, a lover of all things non-human. I once spent an entire after noon removing a cocooned yellow jacket from a spider web with nothing more than a safety pin and patience. I have never killed a spider or a cockroach. I will remove all creepy-crawly insects from my home and put them outside because the idea of killing something makes me sick. So the idea that I was now about to embark on a killing spree the likes of which have never been experienced outside of the Holocaust made me want to hurl.
"Would you get a move on?" yelled Steve as he ran around the kitchen like a schizophrenic.
With a great heaviness I zipped around the kitchen, blindly slapping at the flies and apologizing out loud every time I snuffed one out. With the carcasses piling up on the floor, their little legs twitching in one last effort to survive, Steve began vacuuming up the piles of dead and stunned flies while tears rolled down my face, ashamed that I was a murderer.
"It's us or them." He stammered, "If we don't kill them here, we'll have to kill them over there (pointing in the direction of the living room)...it's preemptive, really, they could go after us in our sleep...eat our face, maybe..." His sentence drifting away as shell shock settled in.
After 3 hours of continuous genocide the fly count diminished and we fell onto the couch, exhausted and covered in sweat. Every couple of minutes one of us would swear we could hear buzzing and begin to tense up, flailing our bloodied and soiled towels at the air, slapping away imaginary flies like soldiers suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Shaking, I excused myself to the bathroom to throw up bile, while Steve stayed on the couch, mumbling incoherently about the End of Days.
That night we didn't speak, nor did we touch each other once we had finally showered and retreated to bed. We had gone to war and survived, but not without losing part of ourselves in the process. My dreams that night were fevered, the flies had come back for revenge. I woke up in the wee hours of the morning, my throat raw from silent screaming. I watched Steve thrash around, his hands batting away what I could only imagine as mutant flies punching his face in. I laid back down,trembling, and watched the sun rise.
It has been days since the massacre. We both still aren't sleeping well. We spend our days making polite conversation and trying not to speak about what we did. It is an unspoken bond between us and as long as neither of us makes any sudden movements all is fine in our world.
But the time will come, we know, when we will hear the buzzing of a lone fly on the window sill and our time will be up. The retribution will be bloody.
But it won't be quick.
And the last thing I'll hear is the snapping of a towel and the high cry of a fly screaming in victory.
That said, what happened on the night of August 2, and the terror that ensued will be forever branded in my memory as The Great Fly Massacre of 2009.
That evening myself and my significant bother returned home from Philadelphia having spent the day among friends and, more importantly, Rita's Italian Ice. Our bellies full, we settled in as we usually did, in front of the television waiting for our brains to turn into jelly and finally die for the night, when we noticed two large black flies settling onto the screen of our abnormally large LCD. Steve, my significant whatever, yelled at the cat to, "Get the flies Mimi" to which our overweight cat looked straight at us then promptly fell asleep. Upset that our cat is as lazy as we are, Steve walked over to the television to smack away the flies when he noticed six or seven more buzzing contently in a lampshade near the bulb.
"What the hell?" He asked trotting over to the lamp with nothing more than his bare hands and the willingness to destroy life.
"They must have come in when I let Mimi out on the balcony." I answered, not really paying attention as True Blood was about to begin.
"I'm getting a towel" Steve said walking toward the kitchen.
It is at this point that he let out a strangled gasp and then yelled, "OH. MY. GOD!!!"
I ran into the kitchen and was immediately confronted by hundreds of flies swarming around the kitchen light. Their buzzing menacingly taunting us into submission.
"Who did you kill?" I asked, angrily accusing Steve of murder. (My only point of reference of fly swarms comes from Grissom on CSI).
"No one." He answered after an awkward pause that I interpreted as being slightly alarming.
"Start slapping." he yelled tossing me a hand towel and going after a tightly balled swarm that had begun making their way to the living room.
Let me explain something; I am, by nature, a lover of all things non-human. I once spent an entire after noon removing a cocooned yellow jacket from a spider web with nothing more than a safety pin and patience. I have never killed a spider or a cockroach. I will remove all creepy-crawly insects from my home and put them outside because the idea of killing something makes me sick. So the idea that I was now about to embark on a killing spree the likes of which have never been experienced outside of the Holocaust made me want to hurl.
"Would you get a move on?" yelled Steve as he ran around the kitchen like a schizophrenic.
With a great heaviness I zipped around the kitchen, blindly slapping at the flies and apologizing out loud every time I snuffed one out. With the carcasses piling up on the floor, their little legs twitching in one last effort to survive, Steve began vacuuming up the piles of dead and stunned flies while tears rolled down my face, ashamed that I was a murderer.
"It's us or them." He stammered, "If we don't kill them here, we'll have to kill them over there (pointing in the direction of the living room)...it's preemptive, really, they could go after us in our sleep...eat our face, maybe..." His sentence drifting away as shell shock settled in.
After 3 hours of continuous genocide the fly count diminished and we fell onto the couch, exhausted and covered in sweat. Every couple of minutes one of us would swear we could hear buzzing and begin to tense up, flailing our bloodied and soiled towels at the air, slapping away imaginary flies like soldiers suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Shaking, I excused myself to the bathroom to throw up bile, while Steve stayed on the couch, mumbling incoherently about the End of Days.
That night we didn't speak, nor did we touch each other once we had finally showered and retreated to bed. We had gone to war and survived, but not without losing part of ourselves in the process. My dreams that night were fevered, the flies had come back for revenge. I woke up in the wee hours of the morning, my throat raw from silent screaming. I watched Steve thrash around, his hands batting away what I could only imagine as mutant flies punching his face in. I laid back down,trembling, and watched the sun rise.
It has been days since the massacre. We both still aren't sleeping well. We spend our days making polite conversation and trying not to speak about what we did. It is an unspoken bond between us and as long as neither of us makes any sudden movements all is fine in our world.
But the time will come, we know, when we will hear the buzzing of a lone fly on the window sill and our time will be up. The retribution will be bloody.
But it won't be quick.
And the last thing I'll hear is the snapping of a towel and the high cry of a fly screaming in victory.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
If I Don't Get Some Healthcare Soon I Will Be Forced to Marry My Boyfriend for His
Once again I awake with a slight twinging pain located in my sphincter and I know it has to be cancer. Like all pains I feel now, it is just a matter of time before I am riddled with mutated cells eating away at me until all that is left is a shell of a human being with really bad cancer breath.
As a hypochondriac with no health insurance, I suffer from a multitude of aliments that I know in the end will kill me: Cancer, Lou Gehrig's, Parkinson's, and of course the Swine Flu. When my boyfriend was recently diagnosed with Epstein Barr(which is the absolutely best disease a Jew can get) I was slightly more jealous then concerned. After all, all of my diseases have been self-diagnosed off of Web MD and he just gets to walk into a doctor's office and be given the horrible life-changing-tv-movie-of-the-week news. Of course, his disease is simply a virus that makes him tired all the time whereas my imaginary ones will produce blood gushing out of my orifices.
With all of this talk over a new health care initiative and my excitement that one day I might be able to just walk into a doctor's office and finally confirm my suspicions that I have the Ebola virus, I am also a little disappointed that the politicians are trying to keep me away from the doctor because they believe we are heading for Socialism. Let me put it to you in a way you all can understand...I don't care.
That's right, I don't care.
Medicaid, Medicare, VA Hospitals, and the Health Care of politicians are all government run programs that are paid for by tax money. The police, firemen, libraries, public schools, and national parks are all tax paid, government run programs that the American people can use for little or no money. We are already utilizing Socialist systems in our Democratic government so why are we stuck on this little issue?
Because Insurance companies want to make a profit.
It's that simple.
And now, with all my imaginary daily heart attacks and strokes that I suffer from, I am seriously contemplating marriage so that I can get on my boyfriend's (soon to be fiance, apparently) health care plan. Yes, for my own health I have to get married so I can go and get weighed on a scale that is improperly calibrated, sit in a freezing room for three hours waiting for a person in a white coat to tell me nothing is wrong, and be charged $100 for the visit.
Is this what America is coming to? Health care marriages? Will I have to say "I do" because, as a teacher, my boyfriend has access to great coverage? Will I be forced into registering at Target for towels just to have access to a pap smear? Will I have to drag myself down to the DMV, the Social Security Office, and call the credit card companies just to change my name so that I can refill my prescription for Extra Strength Midol? And, if the marriage starts to fall apart, do we have to go to couple's counseling, not to save the marriage, but to save our coverage?
Is this my future?
For the love of a tongue depressor, please pass the health care reform bill so I can go get my nether regions checked out for venereal diseases without me having to make a commitment to another person. Please?
It really isn't all that much to ask.
As a hypochondriac with no health insurance, I suffer from a multitude of aliments that I know in the end will kill me: Cancer, Lou Gehrig's, Parkinson's, and of course the Swine Flu. When my boyfriend was recently diagnosed with Epstein Barr(which is the absolutely best disease a Jew can get) I was slightly more jealous then concerned. After all, all of my diseases have been self-diagnosed off of Web MD and he just gets to walk into a doctor's office and be given the horrible life-changing-tv-movie-of-the-week news. Of course, his disease is simply a virus that makes him tired all the time whereas my imaginary ones will produce blood gushing out of my orifices.
With all of this talk over a new health care initiative and my excitement that one day I might be able to just walk into a doctor's office and finally confirm my suspicions that I have the Ebola virus, I am also a little disappointed that the politicians are trying to keep me away from the doctor because they believe we are heading for Socialism. Let me put it to you in a way you all can understand...I don't care.
That's right, I don't care.
Medicaid, Medicare, VA Hospitals, and the Health Care of politicians are all government run programs that are paid for by tax money. The police, firemen, libraries, public schools, and national parks are all tax paid, government run programs that the American people can use for little or no money. We are already utilizing Socialist systems in our Democratic government so why are we stuck on this little issue?
Because Insurance companies want to make a profit.
It's that simple.
And now, with all my imaginary daily heart attacks and strokes that I suffer from, I am seriously contemplating marriage so that I can get on my boyfriend's (soon to be fiance, apparently) health care plan. Yes, for my own health I have to get married so I can go and get weighed on a scale that is improperly calibrated, sit in a freezing room for three hours waiting for a person in a white coat to tell me nothing is wrong, and be charged $100 for the visit.
Is this what America is coming to? Health care marriages? Will I have to say "I do" because, as a teacher, my boyfriend has access to great coverage? Will I be forced into registering at Target for towels just to have access to a pap smear? Will I have to drag myself down to the DMV, the Social Security Office, and call the credit card companies just to change my name so that I can refill my prescription for Extra Strength Midol? And, if the marriage starts to fall apart, do we have to go to couple's counseling, not to save the marriage, but to save our coverage?
Is this my future?
For the love of a tongue depressor, please pass the health care reform bill so I can go get my nether regions checked out for venereal diseases without me having to make a commitment to another person. Please?
It really isn't all that much to ask.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Moments as a Teenager in the 80’s as Captured through Clumsy Poems
Poem #1
On the state of the world after Chris Moore refused to check off whether or not he liked me on the note I left him on his desk
Darkness falls,
And gleams through eyes
Unwilling to spare a moment
Any moment
Pens stay immobile, resting on your desk
Still as souls
And you laugh like Russians invading Afghanistan
Should I have included a “maybe” instead?
Poem #2
The Rise of Jenny Root: Junior High Thespian while I Remain Unsung, Yet Again
Bitch.
Always the favorite
Singing through your nose like
A musical cold
And the lead goes to you
Amid much smiling on your part
And I didn’t even get to be a dancing stalagmite
Backstage again,
I am regulated
With the rest of talentless souls who took Drama instead of Home Ec.
Your costumes will have piss on them
Sister,
Mark my words
Poem #3
The Imagined Vengeance on Jamie Nyquist: Locker Terrorist
One day it will be I sir
Who will keep you from getting to Biology on time
One day it will be I sir
Who will slam your locker door right when you get it open
One day it will be I sir
Who will grab your stunningly ample breast and twist it until you fall to the ground
One day
Oh but,
One day
I will come for you when you least expect it and,
Burn your body with the flame thrower I saw at the Army/Navy store
And dance on your smoking corpse until
All that remains is skin stuck to the crevices of my
Shoes.
Poem #4
I didn’t know you were cool Chad Nesland until I broke your heart
I ended it before the dance
Saying that I needed space
And you almost cried in front of me
Then Bon Jovi came on and you were lost
In a sea of moving bodies
After that they all wanted you
And you became worthy of my time
And I remember kissing you on top of my mom’s waterbed
Only I forgot about the swallowing your spit part
But you didn’t want me back
Because you were cool
And so I moved on to someone else
Whose name I forget
And you never talked to me again
Although I did see you smile
When I kicked Chris Daugherty in the balls
Hope springs eternal
Poem #5
On Discovering Joni Mitchell’s Music and Thinking How Deep It Makes Me When I Talk about It
Blue
Is it the color or the feeling?
A Case of You makes me long
And yearn
Do you know Joni’s music?
Well it’s really good
But,
You have to be in touch
With your own depth
And be willing to bleed
When listening to it.
Don’t worry if you don’t like it
You have to be
Mature to get it.
Poem #6
Why Can’t You Love Me Greg Ryerson? (The Longest Poem)
How can you ignore me when I am rubbing your leg
During Major League?
Or when I sexily suck
The salted butter off my fingers
With my tongue
The way I imagine sexy
Would look to you
Even with popcorn kernels stuck in my teeth
How can you ignore the way I rub the fabric
Of your acid wash jeans
Between my thumb and forefinger
While I pretend not to be doing it
And after the movie
After my mom drops you off at Josh Brown’s house
You never call
Never tell me you want me too
And I figure
That you’re too overwhelmed by my
Womanly charms
And I’ll try again tomorrow
But another chance doesn’t come
Because you end up
At the Sadie Hawkin’s Dance with
Michelle Daquilanto
While I stay home brushing my hair
And crying to the song
Groovy Kind of Love
On the state of the world after Chris Moore refused to check off whether or not he liked me on the note I left him on his desk
Darkness falls,
And gleams through eyes
Unwilling to spare a moment
Any moment
Pens stay immobile, resting on your desk
Still as souls
And you laugh like Russians invading Afghanistan
Should I have included a “maybe” instead?
Poem #2
The Rise of Jenny Root: Junior High Thespian while I Remain Unsung, Yet Again
Bitch.
Always the favorite
Singing through your nose like
A musical cold
And the lead goes to you
Amid much smiling on your part
And I didn’t even get to be a dancing stalagmite
Backstage again,
I am regulated
With the rest of talentless souls who took Drama instead of Home Ec.
Your costumes will have piss on them
Sister,
Mark my words
Poem #3
The Imagined Vengeance on Jamie Nyquist: Locker Terrorist
One day it will be I sir
Who will keep you from getting to Biology on time
One day it will be I sir
Who will slam your locker door right when you get it open
One day it will be I sir
Who will grab your stunningly ample breast and twist it until you fall to the ground
One day
Oh but,
One day
I will come for you when you least expect it and,
Burn your body with the flame thrower I saw at the Army/Navy store
And dance on your smoking corpse until
All that remains is skin stuck to the crevices of my
Shoes.
Poem #4
I didn’t know you were cool Chad Nesland until I broke your heart
I ended it before the dance
Saying that I needed space
And you almost cried in front of me
Then Bon Jovi came on and you were lost
In a sea of moving bodies
After that they all wanted you
And you became worthy of my time
And I remember kissing you on top of my mom’s waterbed
Only I forgot about the swallowing your spit part
But you didn’t want me back
Because you were cool
And so I moved on to someone else
Whose name I forget
And you never talked to me again
Although I did see you smile
When I kicked Chris Daugherty in the balls
Hope springs eternal
Poem #5
On Discovering Joni Mitchell’s Music and Thinking How Deep It Makes Me When I Talk about It
Blue
Is it the color or the feeling?
A Case of You makes me long
And yearn
Do you know Joni’s music?
Well it’s really good
But,
You have to be in touch
With your own depth
And be willing to bleed
When listening to it.
Don’t worry if you don’t like it
You have to be
Mature to get it.
Poem #6
Why Can’t You Love Me Greg Ryerson? (The Longest Poem)
How can you ignore me when I am rubbing your leg
During Major League?
Or when I sexily suck
The salted butter off my fingers
With my tongue
The way I imagine sexy
Would look to you
Even with popcorn kernels stuck in my teeth
How can you ignore the way I rub the fabric
Of your acid wash jeans
Between my thumb and forefinger
While I pretend not to be doing it
And after the movie
After my mom drops you off at Josh Brown’s house
You never call
Never tell me you want me too
And I figure
That you’re too overwhelmed by my
Womanly charms
And I’ll try again tomorrow
But another chance doesn’t come
Because you end up
At the Sadie Hawkin’s Dance with
Michelle Daquilanto
While I stay home brushing my hair
And crying to the song
Groovy Kind of Love
Things I Would've Liked to Accomplish Had I Not Taken That Final Hit of "X" That Destroyed My Desire to Be Something Better Than This
I entered the nineties in my sixteenth year all fresh and innocent and ended the decade in my mid-twenties bitter and with a ceaseless craving for high-grade weed. This "lost" decade as it were has become, as I make my way through my thirties, a period of reflection upon which I am determined to discover the origin of my incredible apathy and/or laziness.
Before the decade I had plans for a career as a writer/adventurer. A sort of quasi-anthropologist-slash-chronicler in the vein of Tim Cahill or Wade Davis. I would travel the world writing biographical, yet humorous, essays and books about my experiences. I would eschew the suburban lifestyle and all of its trappings for a one-room abode in some cosmopolitan city (Manhattan, Buenos Aires, or Paris) which I would use only as a stopping point between assignments and adventures. I would have lovers, eat exotic foods, drink wine, and be the envy of every cubicle dweller who read my work.
Unfortunately, in the nineties, I discovered the wonders of hallucinogenics and the hypnotic pulsating BPMs of raves. This, coupled by low paying retail work and a new interest in writing poetry, constructed an alternative dream life that has all but evaporated my adventure streak and, instead, built a life of laying on the floor of my living room watching television and yelling at Dr. Phil.
From the moment that I was introduced to gel acid, X, pot, and the 'o so delicious mushroom bag my life became freelance work and erotica stories. The all-night dance-a-thons which mixed Herbal Ecstasy and copious amounts of Whiskey Sours ended a decade later with essays on the virtues of the Jizz mopper at porn stores and my irritable bowl problems. Instead of spending my twenties traipsing the world with a backpack and a notebook I spent it as a used book buyer in Texas living off of cheese samples at the grocery store and writing chapbooks of self-published poetry of which I sold three copies and were about my "milky moonlit thighs"...dear God.
My thirties, it seems, has evolved into something much, much, worse.
I am boring.
Having given up on drugs, adventures, and illicit sex with dangerously dark foreigners, I have instead embraced the act of staring at squirrels, writing novellas that are never published, and creating paper goods to sell at craft fairs where I am constantly criticized by blue haired Mennonites who hate my secular sense of humor. Instead of writing about the ritual circumcisions of young tribal boys in Africa, I watch television, read comic books, go into minute detail on the brilliance of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Firefly, spend horrific amounts of time on Facebook, and wear sweatpants out in public because I am no longer interested in presenting myself in the best light. Instead of running with the bulls in Pamplona, Spain I am running to the grocery store for hummus because I have decided to eat that and trail mix for dinner. Instead of drifting down the Nile River underneath the moon, I am drifting to sleep after re-reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone for the tenth time because tackling the catalog of John Grisham seems too taxing...well you get the drift.
So, was it the drugs that destroyed me or was it inevitable that I became this lump?
After careful evaluation and the countless conversations with my friends I met in the Nineties it has become painfully obvious...I was to always become a lump. And, apparently, it was the drugs that made me more interesting. So here I am, Thirty-five, and a boring lump with very little in the way of a career and/or talent, staring at the precipice of my Forties without hope that I can "turn this thing around." So I will do the only thing one can do when presented with such facts...return to drugs.
Yes, I will be scarfing down bag fulls of pills, licking toads, eating peyote buttons, and loosening the constraints of consciousness through pharmaceuticals all in an attempt to regain my teenage sensibilities when I thought I had all the time in the world. I will finish out my thirties writing in a drug-induced stupor and thinking I am brilliant even though I am only typing the number 4 for 600 pages. I will pretend that I am twenty-two again and act accordingly. I will drop acid, stare at a wall for twelve hours, and think that the word "warble" is the password to get into the garden of Eden. I will listen to Phish and Dave Matthews and become all faux-hippy. It will be great.
I will hit the do-over button and start over again.
I don't see how it can go wrong.
Before the decade I had plans for a career as a writer/adventurer. A sort of quasi-anthropologist-slash-chronicler in the vein of Tim Cahill or Wade Davis. I would travel the world writing biographical, yet humorous, essays and books about my experiences. I would eschew the suburban lifestyle and all of its trappings for a one-room abode in some cosmopolitan city (Manhattan, Buenos Aires, or Paris) which I would use only as a stopping point between assignments and adventures. I would have lovers, eat exotic foods, drink wine, and be the envy of every cubicle dweller who read my work.
Unfortunately, in the nineties, I discovered the wonders of hallucinogenics and the hypnotic pulsating BPMs of raves. This, coupled by low paying retail work and a new interest in writing poetry, constructed an alternative dream life that has all but evaporated my adventure streak and, instead, built a life of laying on the floor of my living room watching television and yelling at Dr. Phil.
From the moment that I was introduced to gel acid, X, pot, and the 'o so delicious mushroom bag my life became freelance work and erotica stories. The all-night dance-a-thons which mixed Herbal Ecstasy and copious amounts of Whiskey Sours ended a decade later with essays on the virtues of the Jizz mopper at porn stores and my irritable bowl problems. Instead of spending my twenties traipsing the world with a backpack and a notebook I spent it as a used book buyer in Texas living off of cheese samples at the grocery store and writing chapbooks of self-published poetry of which I sold three copies and were about my "milky moonlit thighs"...dear God.
My thirties, it seems, has evolved into something much, much, worse.
I am boring.
Having given up on drugs, adventures, and illicit sex with dangerously dark foreigners, I have instead embraced the act of staring at squirrels, writing novellas that are never published, and creating paper goods to sell at craft fairs where I am constantly criticized by blue haired Mennonites who hate my secular sense of humor. Instead of writing about the ritual circumcisions of young tribal boys in Africa, I watch television, read comic books, go into minute detail on the brilliance of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Firefly, spend horrific amounts of time on Facebook, and wear sweatpants out in public because I am no longer interested in presenting myself in the best light. Instead of running with the bulls in Pamplona, Spain I am running to the grocery store for hummus because I have decided to eat that and trail mix for dinner. Instead of drifting down the Nile River underneath the moon, I am drifting to sleep after re-reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone for the tenth time because tackling the catalog of John Grisham seems too taxing...well you get the drift.
So, was it the drugs that destroyed me or was it inevitable that I became this lump?
After careful evaluation and the countless conversations with my friends I met in the Nineties it has become painfully obvious...I was to always become a lump. And, apparently, it was the drugs that made me more interesting. So here I am, Thirty-five, and a boring lump with very little in the way of a career and/or talent, staring at the precipice of my Forties without hope that I can "turn this thing around." So I will do the only thing one can do when presented with such facts...return to drugs.
Yes, I will be scarfing down bag fulls of pills, licking toads, eating peyote buttons, and loosening the constraints of consciousness through pharmaceuticals all in an attempt to regain my teenage sensibilities when I thought I had all the time in the world. I will finish out my thirties writing in a drug-induced stupor and thinking I am brilliant even though I am only typing the number 4 for 600 pages. I will pretend that I am twenty-two again and act accordingly. I will drop acid, stare at a wall for twelve hours, and think that the word "warble" is the password to get into the garden of Eden. I will listen to Phish and Dave Matthews and become all faux-hippy. It will be great.
I will hit the do-over button and start over again.
I don't see how it can go wrong.
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