this ain't livin'

1995 | 31Dec05

“AN ISOLATED THUNDERSTORM OR TWO CAN NOT BE RULED OUT,” says the National Weather Service. Perhaps it’s just me, but I find that statement rather humorous in the context of the rest of the forecast. Maybe someone in the office does have a sense of humor.

A lot of people have been comparing this “storm” with 1995, and so far I have been unimpressed. Yes, it has rained. Yes, it has been windy. But that’s been about it. A fair amount of rain, for sure. But giant trees haven’t been uprooted across the road like matchsticks, the power has yet to go out, it’s still possible to leave town, and, altogether, I remain in a state of non-awe. This is not a storm as I remember storms. This is just winter.

The wind did come up a bit this morning, and it reminded me of an incident that occurred in 1995, when we lived in Caspar, the Tin Palace days. This was on the second or third day of the storm–the power had not actually gone out yet, and my father had gotten home late from the hotel. (And encountered a lot of danger, too, like live power lines across the road.) In these days, I still slept on the couch because my bedroom on the north side of the house was freezing.

I woke up because something felt…wrong. I heard something dripping and felt more exposed than usual. The Tin Palace is a lot what it sounds like–a house built of tin. And the roof was composed of single sheets of tin nailed onto braces (a thoughtful soul interspersed corrugated plastic sheets here and there which acted like skylights). In the winter, the rain sounded like nails on the roof–sometimes it was so loud, you couldn’t even hear yourself shout. So I lay on the couch, awake, and I looked up at the familiar and soothing pattern of the roof, wooden braces and metal and…clouds? A section of the roof had come off.

At this point I was up like a shot, onto the heavy Persian carpet next to the couch, which was soaking wet. More than soaking wet, really, a pool of water stretched out across the floor into the dim reaches of the house. A well trained bibliophile, I promptly began to rescue books from low shelves and pile them on the table, while shouting upstairs:

“Dad! DAD!”
“What? I know it’s stormy, go back to sleep.”
“No, GET UP!”
“We’ll do something in the morning, I’m exhausted, go back to sleep.”
“No, get up, there’s a lake in the living room!”

At this, my father must have rolled over and looked up, and then recoiled in horror, because most of the roof over his upstairs bedroom was…gone.

“Are you saving the books?”
“YES!”

As I recall, after moving the books to safety, we stretched a tarpaulin over the roof in the pouring rain and wind, and went to the hardware store the next day for new sheeting during a break in the storm. We crawled back up on the roof, hammers in hand, and replaced the missing portions in the howling wind. We also took a walk around Caspar that day and found many pieces of our roof scattered about. One was surrounded by a group of cows who appeared to be engaged in some sort of worship behaviour. It was the last car ride we took for a long time–a tree came down square across Caspar Road, the power went out, and the bridge flooded, as did the duck pond, so we had nowhere to go for over a week. During brief breaks in the storm, we would wander around Caspar and survey the damage, which was quite impressive, and then we would go home and make hot chocolate on the gas stove with our dwindling milk supplies, and then wash the dishes in water we collected and stored on the woodstove. It was quite cozy, actually.

Now that was a storm.

[storm]
[Caspar]

Sticker Shock | 30Dec05

So we went out to the Mac House for drinks when I got off work. I feel so silly saying that. I guess that’s what people do, though, they go out for drinks. Only I didn’t get anything to drink because I hadn’t eaten all day and my tummy was angry. My tummy actually prevents me from enjoying a lot of social events, and I would have begged off, but I didn’t want to be an asshole. So I went and had soup while other people had drinks. After work. Only everyone is home for winter break, so I was the only one who worked.

Anyway.

There we were. Drinking. This whole scheme was originally hatched by my best friend and I, who had resolved to go out for girlie drinks (this is still a pending plan, since I didn’t drink and she didn’t have anything girlie). The weather is foul, the lights were flickering, and she ordered a hot chocolate with Bailey’s. And another, because it was that kind of night. I think my big city friends who go to real bars can imagine what was coming. The bill arrived, and she owed an obscene amount of money.

And here is where the really amazing part of the story lies. Had that person been me, I would have bitched. I am well known as a bitcher and complainer, that’s what I do. I’m also notoriously tightfisted, so a tear of frustration probably would have escaped my eye as I pondered the bill. But not her. She was a fucking trouper, man. I could tell because I know her that she was pissed, but she knew it would be pointless to fuss because really, what’s the use? And that is one of the many reasons she is a better person than I am. At any rate, I now owe her a compensatory girlie drink, because, really, the amount of money she had to pay was outrageous. I wasn’t even paying and I flinched in misery. What is it with bars and not, you know, posting prices? Anywhere? Is it because they know that you won’t order two of something when you realize how expensive it is…

[Mendocino]

A few thoughts on piercing and the workplace | 30Dec05

I am, as they say, lightly modified. This is to say that there are objects on and in my body which I was not born with, and most of them were intentionally introduced for personal reasons too complex to delve into here. I am in an odd position, though. I don’t have enough modification to work in a tattoo parlor or hipster store, yet I have just enough to give conventional employers pause.

For this reason, when interviewing for jobs, I remove my facial piercing which is the most visible and potentially offensive piercing I have. After securing a job and going through probation, I find out if it’s ok to wear in the workplace. Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t, and that’s ok. I respect the needs of my employers. For me, it is a piece of jewelry which can be removed, although it’s somewhat more time consuming than changing earrings.

Yet, I notice something interesting.

For some reason, people seem to think I give excellent customer service. In every job I’ve had, people have talked to the manager about my exemplary service, and my tendency to go above and beyond the basic requirements of my job to keep people happy. I’m really not trying to boast here, that’s just how I am. Tonight, for example, a woman almost cried when I told her that if I found her earring, I would make sure it got mailed back to her. To my mind, this is what customer service is. Customers and clients should be happy with their experiences in my workplace. They should want to come again. They should remember me as a cheerful, helpful, and wonderful person, not as a surly clerk who discoloured their experience. Indeed, at a previous job, I had a loyal client base of older Jewish ladies who would always ask if “the sweet girl with the thing in her face” was available–and if I wasn’t, they would leave.

Tonight as I was working, it occurred to me that I often work extra hard when I leave my facial piercing in at work to please customers. I’m not sure if this is because I’ve hated the few jobs where I was forced to take it out, or if it’s part of some inner desire to put my best foot forward as a member of the modified community. It is important to me that people not make judgments about others based on something as trivial as personal decoration. I work with a lot of wealthy people, I work with a lot of judgmental yuppies, and I work with a lot of people who are just plain assholes. I have yet to receive a single customer complaint. Sometimes my first interface with customers is a little stilted, and I believe that this is because they are perhaps put off by my appearance. This saddens but does not surprise me. However, I’ve had many more very positive interactions with customers, even those bold enough to ask about it, and that makes me happy. I want someone to see a modified person and think “oh, look, another human.” I want someone to walk into a business with modified employees and think “hooray, a wonderful person who will assist me with what I need today.” I understand that sometimes we seem scary, and that’s ok. We might pleasantly surprise you by being willing or even eager to talk about our modifications with you, because we, like you, want to be comfortable wherever we go. Sometimes we fear the unknown, and that’s alright, but take the opportunity to make the unknown a part of your life.

Try it. The next time you interact with a modified person in a workplace, say “that’s a really lovely labret you have in,” or “I am really impressed with the gauge you have your ears stretched to,” or “who did your tattoo, it’s superb” Research. Learn. And through knowledge, perhaps we won’t seem so scary to you–maybe we’ll just seem like ordinary people who want to make your day positive and excellent wherever you are. While I realize that complete acceptance of the modified is a day far, far away, I do what I can to bring it closer.

[body modification]

Omnis animales post coitum triste sunt | 29Dec05

As I completed my right turn on red, my god given right as a Californian, I pondered what makes a successful annual exam. And boys, don’t think you can weasel on to some other post–it’s important for you to read about this stuff too, whether you have a girlfriend or not. (Gay men, you are exempt from reading, proceed directly to go, collect $200.)

Starting with:

My appointment was at 2:40. For once, intake actually took about twenty minutes. So, once I finished filling out the silly family history form and telling the nurse what I ate yesterday, I was whisked into the back to be weighed (hah) and have my blood pressure and temperature taken (double hah) and then I was dumped in the nearest bathroom to produce urine for the nice nursie.

As anyone can tell you, I drink a lot of water. Yet, for some reason, whenever I got to the clinic, my normally exploding bladder clams up, negating the “clean catch” scenario. I’m lucky to get a dribble of first stream urine in there, let alone a “mid stream” sample. This time, however, I came prepared–I drank two glasses of water at 2:30, thus guaranteeing that something would have to come out on command.

So I sat on the toilet for a moment. I read the ingredients on the gynaecological wipes. I studied a container of dixie cups. I read the Spanish version of the clean catch poster. I thought about how clean the bathroom was. I tried to ignore the doctor making fun of a patient on the other side of the door. And then…suddenly…I urinated. It was a miracle. My cup ranneth over. I pranced out into the hallway with glee and was ushered into…the room.

A moment of aside here. Boys, I know that getting your prostate checked isn’t the most awesome thing in the world, especially if you are a smidge homophobic. But here’s the thing–a fair number of healthy and well adjusted males in the world have a “stick your finger in my butt and stimulate my prostate” fetish. So I don’t have a whole lot of pity for you and your whining, especially since every woman I know can tell you in excruciating detail exactly how not fun an annual exam is—gyn fetishes are rare in the female community, let me tell you. And I’ll tell you why: because gyn exams suck.

At any rate, the room. The table. The tray with the implements of torture laid out causes my teeth to clench even thinking about it. And then, of course, the two sizes too small “exam gown” neatly laid out. So I change. And fold my clothing neatly and put my Danskos under the chair, because I am anal that way. I also hide my underwear under my pants, so that Dr. Bush* won’t know I am wearing Wonderwoman underoos. And then I sit tensely on the edge of the exam table to wait.

Now, this is the part when an annual usually starts to really suck. You are all dressed up and there’s no one to party. You stare aimlessly at the posters on the walls, trying not to let your eyes drift to the exam tray. Your throat dries. You search for a clock. So, this time, I came prepared with a book (it should be noted that I have actually finished several books waiting for doctors at the clinics, so I brought a nice fat book—The Deptford Trilogy, .

Imagine my surprise when I had barely cracked the spine and Dr. Bush* charged in. And let me tell you, she got right down to business. We went over the family history form (if I answered yes to anything, I was obligated to explain). Then we talked about my level of satisfaction with my current method of birth control (high) and my general health (er, decent, considering). She listened to my lungs and heart and made little murmering noises, which is common in my case. And then the real excitement began.

As any lady worth her salt knows, the gyn, much like a high school boyfriend, warms up with the breast exam. While smalltalk is made, you lie back and think of England as she…palpates. And then, without warning, the bottom half of your gown is whisked up and she…palpates some more. This is when I am glad my gyn is a sweet little old lady. All of this, of course, is merely the prelude to the major action which is, of course, the pelvic exam.

Now, I am a pro at avoiding pelvics. I think most women are. But eventually the pelvic police catch up with you and you pay your dues, oh, do you. For my first pelvic, the gyn neglected to warm up the (metal) speculum. Then she forgot to close it before retracting it. Once bitten, twice shy. To my astonishment, however, Dr. Bush* not only set out an array of sizes (long story) but also warmed them all. She’s done my last three annuals, so she kind of knows the score with me at this point. Most speculums these days are plastic (i.e. disposable), people. I appreciate the children of oil that died for my pelvic comfort. So anyway. There we are. Everything is warm and lubed. And…you know the rest.

I was somewhat surprised when she asked halfway through if I wanted to be checked for STDs. Well, uh, yeah. Isn’t that the point of an annual? I’m mean, I’m not exactly little miss risk taker here, but I do take advantage of my annual to be tested for…everything. Because it can’t hurt. And might be enlightening. I’m also glad that she’s a rapid player. None of this earth mother crap for you. In fact, it went a lot like this:

“S, how does this feel?”
“Well, to be honest, Dr. Bush*, it feels a lot like you are sticking a large piece of plastic in a naughty place.”
“Fair enough. I’m going to remove this now.”

I don’t know if she has tentacles or what, but she got in, got what she wanted, and got out. And then palpated my ovaries. A lot of palpating goes on. And then you can get dressed and leave, but not before a nurse lectures you about your diet. This is the first year, in fact, that a nurse hasn’t lectured me about my diet. A morbidly obese woman came in, studied my “what I ate yesterday” list, and said “well you obviously eat better than we do, so we can skip this.”

Thank. You. Jesus.

A number of friends of mine have been to Dr. Bush*, and most of them have mentioned some problem they had with her. This confuses me, because I think she’s totally awesome:

1. She actually listens to me as a patient. When I tell her something hurts, she stops. When I tell her about my needs, she meets them. And I appreciate this.

2. I often have…unusual presentations during a physical exam, because of personal lifestyle choices. She does not comment on these choices. She asked me once in one of our early exams what the deal with (X) was, and I told her, and she more or less said “ok, cool, I assume you know how to play safe.” Which is a nice change from being lectured about my personal life. I would certainly recommend her as a poly/BDSM friendly practicioner, because she’s a sharp cookie. She doesn’t need to tell me what to do, comment on my choices, or make me feel like a terrible person for being who I am.

3. She is sensitive to basic patient needs. She alerts me to what she’s going to do, and when. She warms speculums. She gets the lay of the territory before sending troops in. I appreciate that. For that alone, I would recommend her to young women getting their first annuals.

4. She answers my questions honestly and frankly when I do ask them.

5. She moves things along. She understands that you don’t want to be in there forever, and she facilitates the process. Yay!

So that’s my annual exam story. The best one yet, I must say, the sort of thing that makes me say “now, that wasn’t that bad, was it.” Although I am a little sad.

*Yes, that is her real name. Seriously. Sometimes the stories write themselves, people.

[annual exam]
[grand rounds]

A few thoughts on anatomy | 29Dec05

“This may be because I’?m an inexperienced young man, but I had always assumed that you washed your vagina in the shower. Or with a bidet, whatever the hell that is.”

This priceless quote occurs courtesy of “Christopher” over on “I Blame the Patriarchy.” I’m sure he’s a lovely boy, but his woeful knowledge of anatomy troubles me greatly. Perhaps I’m just fired up because I have to visit the pee-pee poker today and that always puts me in a bad mood. Twisty’s original post was about douching, which I believe is a barbaric practice. Rather, the promotion of douching to young women is barbaric. I’m sure there are occasional applications for which douching may be necessary, but I have the feeling there’s a lot of contraindicated douching going on out there, girls. I am of the firm opinion that the female reproductive anatomy in a natural, healthy, and well maintained state does not smell bad. Certainly not bad enough to be inundated with questionable chemicals. Douching bothers me on a number of levels:

1. It’s unhealthy. Even your friendly neighborhood patriarchy representative, the doctor, agrees with this. Ob/gyns around the world are trying to convince women that douching is a bad idea (when they aren’t practicing their love, of course). A lot of the ingredients in commercial douches are questionable. Also, your vagina is self cleaning. (And not like a “self-cleaning” oven, we’re talking fully self cleaning here, people.) It naturally generates mucus to keep things tidy and healthy up there, and douching disturbs the balance, opening things up (so to speak) to oppurtunistic infections.

2. It enforces a message that women are somehow “dirty” and need fixing. I don’t see any mass marketed products aimed at reducing smegma. I do see a lot of products telling women that they need to get their boxes fresh and clean with a bouquet of piquant scents. Things like “summer’s eve fresh scent,” in fact. This troubles me.

3. If you have noticed (or been informed) that your vag isn’t smelling so fresh, it might be due to an infection, in which case you should visit the pee-pee poker too. You should certainly not swish the contents of a glade plug it in up there and hope for the best–usually body parts smell bad when they are sending out a cry for help. Contrary to popular belief, the vagina is not in a state of constant distress. Usually it’s quite happy hanging out down there, doing its vagina thing.

Now back to the anatomy bit. For the love of god, people, go study some anatomy. The above comment made me visualize women thoughtfully removing their vaginas and rinsing them under the cleansing stream of a bidet (which, by the way, is a low mounted plumbing fixture resembling a sink, designed for cleansing external genitalia and the anus. Although I do know some men who pee in their bidets. For shame.) In fact, I should confess, but for my knowledge of anatomy, I would have gone to see if my vagina was removable too, and I had been missing out on all the fun–however, I realized that young Christopher was probably thinking of the vulva. A knowledge of reproductive anatomy can’t hurt, and might come in handy as well in the future. I’m shocked at the number of women who don’t know their own anatomy, and although I’m hardly the touchy feely type*, I think it’s a good idea to be aware of the workings of your own body. If you already have a working knowledge of anatomy, disregard the above. The rest of you: go do your homework.

*An exchange with a pee-pee poker past, who was subsequently fired, went like this:

“Would you like to see your cervix?”
“No.”
“Are you sure, I can just angle the mirror this way and…”
“No.”
“Most women want to see their cervix.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“It helps them get in touch with their bodies!”
“Look, can you just take the damn speculum out and let me get dressed? This is humiliating enough as it is, lady.”
“Oh.”

[feminism]

The lady with the fake baby | 28Dec05

While wandering through the aisles of Racines today searching for someone who turned out not to be there, I saw a peculiar thing.

A well dressed woman in her thirties carrying around a fake baby. She looked far too hipster to be the mother of a child, which perhaps explains the fake baby. And she was accompanied by a younger blonde woman, who looked tolerantly on as fake-baby-lady quizzed Becky about paintbrushes. As I slunk around the folder endcap, I couldn’t help but look back every now and then in an attempt to figure out what, exactly, was going on.

Why a fake baby?

School’s out, so it’s not as though she’s some mature looking high school student doing some sort of arcane home ec assignment. No one else seemed to have any issue with the strange scene, so perhaps I was merely hallucinating. Yet, her hand was clearly supporting the fake baby head, which lolled back suspiciously from its body. The fake baby hair was wispy and perfectly arranged, and fake baby was wearing a pink warm up suit. (Which is a deeper issue in and of itself–what sort of baby, fake or otherwise, would require a warm up suit? For heading off to baby yoga?) I realize that some women are, for some reason, desperate to spawn, and that they express this in strange ways, but usually they get dogs or something. Had she perhaps stolen the fake baby from younger blonde lady?

I read somewhere that babies born to deaf parents don’t cry after the first few weeks, because they learn it’s sort of a pointless endeavor. I’m wondering if maybe there could be some sort of deaf parenting foster market, where they could keep the newborn for the first few months, just to get it accustomed to the idea that crying is a terrible, terrible idea. But I digress.

Was she considering pregnancy, and trying to get accustomed to the concept of carrying around a leaden weight? But can’t you borrow other people’s children for that, to get a more realistic idea? Was she just hoping for attention? If so, it was an utter failure, because no one mentioned the baby. Usually people are all over babies. But maybe it’s only real babies that extract that reaction. The rest of the time, people are thinking “uh, ok, whatever, it’s a fake baby. Good for you, lady.”

I ruffled through a display of miniature journals made out of recycled banana mulch while I pondered the issue. Perhaps it was performance art, and she was intending to throw a dramatic scene in a few moments, declaring that her baby was dead! Maybe fake-baby-lady’s own child had just died, and, consumed by grief, she decided to carry a fake baby around for awhile in a transition stage. Or could it be possible that she was the victim of some rare mental illness, which compels the victim to…carry a fake baby around?

What is it with babies, anyway? Everyone seems to find them so fascinating–to me they just look like skinned monkeys. They squirm and wiggle and make terrible sounds and awful smells, two of my pet peeves in life. Humans have the longest developmental period of any animal known, and to what end? To turn into adults? You’d expect a result that was a little more exciting after that long, like wings or maybe amphibian tendencies. Plus, babies aren’t cute. Baby animals are cute. Babies=not cute. Babies=gross.

As I peered at fake baby lady through a forest of gently waving feather quills, the baby suddenly moved, revealing its true colours at last. The baby was not fake, only sleeping. If all babies were that relaxed, I’d be a lot more into them.

[Fort Bragg]

Stormy | 27Dec05

I see lightning and thunder! What does this portend for tomorrow’s adventures?

A few thoughts on privilege | 27Dec05

In my first week of classes at (famous university), I struck up a friendship with a girl from Russia, who was seated on my right in a course. The two of us decided to go out to lunch, and were joined by two boys who had been seated behind us. We were all white–three of us were from California.

So we duly all trooped off to lunch, and talked about our classes and why were taking them and how we chose (famous university) while we waited in line. Our lunching spot was the kind of place where you went through a line, ordered what you wanted, waited a few minutes, and grabbed it from the cook. I was first up–I ordered mixed steamed vegetables in rice. The boys behind me also ordered vegetable dishes. The Russian girl seemed a little bit bewildered by the menu. She turned to me and whispered in her flawless English: “where is the meat?” The restaurant we had chosen was vegetarian–a natural choice for the boys and I, all vegans. But, for her, it was a totally alien concept. Eventually she settled upon a dish, which she ended up greatly enjoying, but it got us talking about vegetarianism.

I had been vegetarian since the age of 12 at the time, and vegan since I was 15. It was a natural choice that I made–a lot of my friends were vegetarian, I thought it was a healthier diet, I didn’t want to hurt the animals, and so forth. The boys made similar arguments about their vegetarianism. Our Russian companion, who had been in America all of a week, said:

“This is what is amazing about America. I love it and am simultaneously terrified by it–the thought that you get to make choices about what you do.”

We asked her to elaborate.

“In my part of Russia, meat is all there is. Vegetables don’t grow that well and they are expensive. So you have to eat meat. It wasn’t until high school that I found out there were vegetarians, but it was something none of us could even consider! The price! And even if you had that kind of money, the vegetables aren’t that good or varied, so I don’t think it would be healthier. Thus, you eat meat all the time.”

I’ve spent a fair amount of time living and traveling in less privileged countries. I am aware that people don’t get to choose their diets a lot of the time, and as a traveler I was sometimes frustrated by the lack of options. But I had always returned to America, land of supermarkets and plenty, and my diet had readjusted myself. It was a very eye opening moment to actually stop and consider that what I considered a matter of personal choice was largely a matter of privilege. It wasn’t that I examined all my options and decided to go vegan, it was that the options were there, and I took them. I was lucky enough to live in a society where my choices could be accepted. At that moment, I felt sort of frivolous for being vegan*.

There’s a lot of discussion in the world about privilege–white male privilege, first world privilege, and so forth. I think that it’s day to day experiences like this, though, that give me a deeper understanding of how lucky I am, in many ways. I may bitch and complain about my poverty, but I am ashamed when I stop and consider all that I have despite that poverty. I chose to become vegetarian and later vegan and had access to the foods I needed to succeed, for example. While I might like to think otherwise, my life has not been characterized by wants and needs which weren’t being met. Compared to most Americans, I am poor. Compared to most Americans, my childhood was characterized by poverty and…Peculiar…living conditions. But compared to the rest of the world, I’m not doing so badly. It’s a strange feeling to have–that I got grants in college for not having enough money, but that many people elsewhere in the world would be happy with a quarter of my resources. I think it’s easier for us to see disparities in our own society than for us to compare across societies, and that’s a pity. There certainly are disparities in American life between different races and sexes, but sometimes these disparities seem to pale to me when compared to the rest of the world. I rather wish it was easier for us to think about these disparities, because it might drive us to take action, rather than just writing about them.

*A particularly succulently prepared wild boar served on a bed of wild rice with chantrelle cream in the fall of 2003 wooed me firmly back into the pro-meat camp, and I haven’t looked back since, although I do tend to eat/cook vegan most of the time because it’s healthier, and cheaper, than eating dead animals.

[poverty]

A few thoughts on the flu | 26Dec05

“The flu” seems to be a hot topic in the news these days. We have the bird flu, for example.

It’s important to take a moment and differentiate what I am talking about here. The influenza virus is a contagious disease which affects the airways and lungs. The flu is not a cold. I have a cold. Likewise, there is no such thing as “the stomach flu.” If you are vomiting, what you have is a stomach virus, not the flu, as the stomach is not related to the lungs, or the airway. The flu is a nasty little bugger. Often appearing in epi- or pandemics, the flu means business. There are several basic strains of the flu, but each one breaks down even further into subsets. The flu mutates well, and it mutates quickly. This is why your flu shot never seems to work. It’s also getting nastier–its antibiotic resistance is growing, which is a cause for worry.

The thing is, most people who contract the influenza virus are fine. They feel bad for a week or so (aches, pains, sore throat, dry cough), etc, and then they get better, usually on their own. (Especially if they stay hydrated and rested.) However, the very old, immunocomprimsed, and the very young are susceptible to more virulent strains. A few thousand probably die every year. This is unfortunate, but not unfortunate on the level of, say, drunk driving accidents. (Which is presumably why there isn’t yet a “war on flu.”) Americans do go to the hospital for flu symptoms, and they are treated there, but it’s not usually a crisis disease like, say, necrotizing fasciitis, which should be dealt with rapidly for best results.

However, sometimes the flu mutates into a particularly…unpleasant…form, which attacks and kills people of all ages. Some famous outbreaks include the Spanish Flu, which killed more soldiers during the First World War than the War did, the Hong Kong flu of the 1960s, and the Swine Fever scare. Now, it seems that another flu lurks on the horizon–avian flu. For those alive and in flu research in the 1950s, the “bird flu” may have more significance. For those of us who weren’t, here’s a quick rundown. Scientists believe that the strain of flu in the ‘18-’20 flu was a swine flu–it originated in pigs and jumped species, and that was one of the reasons it was so virulent, because humans had no antibodies to this strain. In the 1950s, the Swine Flu scare raised concerns that the virus could jump species at any time, with devastating results. Thus, all the fuss over birds and their flu.

But how serious is the avian influenza threat? I’ve noticed that reportage on avian flu bears a direct relation to what sort of other news there is going on. I am inclined to believe that the talk on avian flu is a scare, and I think the World Health Organization would be wise to carefully consider how they want to report the flu. I believe that AIDS is a greater international threat than influenza–infection rates are going back up again, did you know that? I’ll bet you didn’t. I also think that Hepatitis education is more important than the flu. I would also like to point out that in the last few months, according to the WHO, there have been outbreaks of Yellow Fever and Plague. There is an area in Australia that has endemic dengue. There was an outbreak of Marburg in November, which interested me, because Marburg is imperfectly understood and has a terrifyingly high mortality rate. Likewise Ebola–with a mortality rate of close to 100% This is not to say that some virulent strain of flu is even now breaking loose on a path to worldwide infection. Flu is an issue, and a pandemic could become globally serious very quickly, what with the speed of air travel and all. But I’m not sure that strain is avian flu. I’m also not sure, frankly, that it would be such a bad thing to lose 20% of the world’s population. This planet is overloaded–it’s time to trim down, and the flu seems like a very democratic way of accomplishing that goal.

[flu]

Merry Christmas | 25Dec05

And merry Christmas, you little bastards. Now go forth and protect the earth so that future generations of children can look at pretty sunsets.