life

46 posts

On Being Bullied

Author’s Note:
I’ve added some links throughout this post to bring a little levity to a serious subject.

There has been much in the news in recent times regarding the increase in bullying in schools. My heart goes out to the children of this generation, because with text messages, Photoshop, Facebook, Twitter and YouTube (among many others), the possibilities for being tormented have drastically increased since I was in high school. This is my recollection of being harassed and intimidated in a time before technology made life utterly unbearable for the bullied.

When I was fourteen, I attended a progressive high school in New York City for my freshman year. While I loved the unusual format and variety of the classes, I was something of a social outcast and a hermit. When I did interact, I usually hung out with other socially inept nerds who were also good students. But mostly, I ensconced myself in self-imposed isolation.

Unbeknownst to me, I had a stalker, a girl in my grade who would follow me around and try to make friends with me. My intuition said to avoid her, but I quickly learned that this was not appeasing her at all. Stacey got progressively more aggressive as a result of my ignoring her, to the point where she scrawled “Witch! 666!” all over my hall and gym lockers. She repeatedly tried to take pictures of me undressing in the locker room. I received several late-night phone calls from her where she would whisper in sinister tones that I, the “stuck-up bitch” was going to “get what I deserved.” Things came to a head in gym class, when she hurled a basketball at my stomach with such force that I spent the rest of the day under observation in the nurse’s office.

Fortunately for me, my mother became aware of what was going on. (I was too mortified to tell anyone.) She made an appointment with the Assistant Principal and calmly informed her that she was going to sue the school system if my tormentor was not expelled. My mother’s ire was effective, and Stacey was indeed expelled. I later learned that her entire motivation for trying to get my attention – including her extreme tactics – was because she had an unrequited crush on me. I had been completely clueless that this was even a possibility.

As a result of the trauma I’d endured at my Brooklyn high school, I moved in with my grandparents to their house in Sullivan County (roughly 75 miles north of NYC). For my sophomore year, I enrolled at the local school, which — given the much smaller population — was a combination of junior and senior high school, which encompassed grades 7 through 12. Given the lack of stimulation of the rural area, many of the students entertained themselves with drugs and promiscuous sex. It was tremendous culture shock to be around so many decidedly non-serious students. One of my 10th grade classmates, a charmer named Butch, was eighteen years old at the start of the school year. He would routinely serenade the class by pounding on his desk and singing the chorus of “White Lines”, a cautionary song about cocaine abuse. (Butch had clearly missed the cautionary part.) His disparaging nickname for me was “Goody Two Shoes.”

I befriended my teachers and a couple other nerdy/smart kids in my class, and I thought I was doing fine. In fact, I was doing fine, until I encountered the wrath of a classmate who appropriately shared a name with the killer car in the Stephen King novel. Christine was a pretty and popular but less-than-bright girl who hated me on sight. She scorned my big city background, my large vocabulary, my comparative innocence — I didn’t drink, smoke, do drugs or have sex — and my fondness for the lone Asian kid in our class (who was one of only a handful of minorities in the entire school). In addition, Christine openly mocked my favorite light pink hooded sweatsuit that I wore to gym class. This quickly earned me my second nickname: “The Pink Panther.”

One day, in the soccer field during practice, she kicked the ball and deliberately hit me in the face, resulting in a déjà vu visit to the nurse’s office. The gym teacher chalked it up as an accident, but I knew it definitely hadn’t been one. It wasn’t until Christine pushed me down a flight of stairs that the administrators finally acknowledged there was a problem. (Thankfully, they were stairs with a landing in between floors, so I was bruised but not seriously hurt.)

My grandparents took me out of school, since expelling Christine only solved part of my problems with the school. My teachers helped me out by arranging a home-school program for me to finish out the school year. In the summer, I returned to Brooklyn, and I nearly kissed the ground there when I arrived. The experience taught me that it was far better for me to live in a challenging but intellectually thriving place than to try to retreat to rural isolation. After that point, I was fortunate in that I never had another problem with bullies or mean girls.

I have tremendous compassion and empathy for all the kids who have to deal with unprovoked attacks on a regular basis just to get through the school year. I hope that some of these children are fortunate enough (as I was) to have parents and family members who are advocates and supporters. To any of you who’ve dealt with similar difficult circumstances, I hope that it’s helped you and in some way made you a stronger person. As always, you are welcome to share your experiences and thoughts in the comments.

In closing, the following clip is a beautiful, gently cathartic song designed to raise your self-esteem. (You may be crying by the end of it.)

“How could anyone ever tell you
you were anything less than beautiful?
How could anyone ever tell you
you were less than whole?”

The Nor’Easter

My upper arms ache all the way up through my shoulders. It hurts to sling a pocketbook over my arm. My hips hurt. My lower back hurts to the extent I can’t sit in the same position for more than ten minutes. My thighs? Fuhgettaboutit.

God Bless You, Advil. Because tomorrow, I’m going to do this to myself again.

I don’t look like a fighter. I’m female. I’m fat. My boobs are more suited to Playboy (trust me) than the ring. I’m clumsy—my body currently bearing the scars of a recent bike crack-up. I fall off curbs and down stairs. I have spatial problems and can’t quite remember what is left and what is right. I know jab and cross, through.

I started boxing a few years ago, as a joke. My husband was taking classes, and the instructor was offering a try-it-free session. He wrapped my hands, and I fell in love.

Throwing a punch felt very foreign, and very wrong, at first. I was the kid on the playground who usually got tripped or smacked or tortured. “Stand,” the instructor said, his gold teeth glittering under the fluorescent lights of the gym, “with your left shoulder forward, your knees only as wide as your hips.” Karim said, “bend those knees. Lower your head. Twist your torso. Now hit, baby girl. Hit.”

I threw like a baby girl at first, too, embarrassed that the heavy bag barely trembled, let alone swung, under the laughable non-force of my sad jab-cross combination. I kept at it, even when I was pretty sure the big boys with the barbed wire bicep tattoos at the gym were laughing at the fat girl attempting to become a fighter. “Don’t look at them,” said Karim. “You and me, we’re the only ones who matter here.” He’d put on the punch mitts and have me aim my punches at them, not getting pissed off when I accidentally hit him in the face. “That was a good one, baby girl!”

I didn’t get hit by an instructor until I’d moved on to Church Street Boxing, an old-fashioned boxing gym by the World Trade Center site with actual spittoons placed around the floor so the Golden Gloves contenders had a place to spit their blood after being hit in the mouth. Antonio hit me after I didn’t leap back to action at the sound of the bell, because I was engaged in conversation with a fighter with a nose as flat as the floor about the condition of Farrah Fawcett. “That bell goes, you go,” said Antonio, “or you get smacked.”

This was no girly kickboxing class. Church Street was another universe.

I thought I’d feel uncomfortable there, at Church Street. I have never felt more welcome at a gym in my life. Usually, as a chubby female not known for my grace, I feel like a pigeon among blonde birds of paradise with eating disorders. Not here. This was a land of broken noses, of dreams that had fallen in the ring and gotten right back up, of careers that had collapsed on the ropes and untangled themselves. This was a gym that kept a mop handy to soak up the occasional bloodstain. This was a gym where Golden Gloves contenders threw punches next to people like me attempting to learn the art; where taut 19 year olds readying for the featherweight title trained next to amateurs, like the 76 year old man who said he liked to feel powerful.

The trainers at Church Street coaxed the tiger in me to the surface. You must run, they said. You can’t last a round if you don’t run. So I ran. I put my fears of being humiliated aside, laced up my New Balances, and ran as far as I could. At first it was half a block. Then an entire block. Then two. I’m up to three and half miles now, which is nothing compared to a marathoner, but is a miracle for me. What astonished me is that I wasn’t a laughingstock as I ran down 35th Avenue in Queens, from my place in Jackson Heights to the edge of the Grand Central and back. The occasional truck full of landscapers or electricians would slow down next to me, the elephant lumbering along as the gazelles sprinted past. “Good for you, honey!” I’d get a thumbs up. The men doing maintenance at the housing project by the highway said they wished they had the motivation to run. When I said it wasn’t far, they pointed out a marathon is run one mile at a time. Wise men.

Now I do my rounds on my own back patio. I bought a stand up bag, the type you fill with sand, to beat up several days a week. I named him Karim, in honor of the man who introduced me to boxing.

I put on my t-shirt that says FIGHTING SOLVES EVERYTHING across the back, roll the bag, filled with about 200 pounds of sand and gravel onto the cheap faux grass carpet I bought to cushion it against the concrete, clip my portable Everlast round timer (three minutes on, one off) to the laundry line, crank up the headphones heavy on the gangsta rap, and get to punching.

I gave myself a boxing nickname, drawing on my New England roots and my history of covering snowstorms. The Nor’Easter.

The kids at P.S. 212 next door are fascinated by the Crazy Fat Lady Boxing Show. They were first drawn by the slamming sound of the bag rocking back from my cross, coming down on the concrete. They press up against the wrought-iron fence separating our properties, watching as I work through combinations and grunt with the force of the punch hitting the bag. I took off my headphones fast enough as the timer went off to hear one kid yell to his friends, “she’s got a TIMER!”

The people in my building have gotten used to my odd hobby. Some have had to learn about it the hard way—the building’s super once tapped me on the shoulder to say hi when I was mid-round. I came thisclose to clocking him. My husband knows to get my attention from the far side of the patio. The neighbors who live right above the patio are tickled, often leaning out the window and their pumping their fists. The man who lives next door stopped me in the street and said he couldn’t figure out what those long strips of cloth—my hand wraps—were, until he saw my gloves.

I love it when the sweat pouring from my head splashes against the bag. I love it when a kick ass song by NWA pops up on the headphones and I throw punches like the world is about to end. I love it when I have 20 seconds left in a round and despite my pain, I keep going. I love it when I’m rolling up my wraps at the end of 12 rounds and my shoulders ache like I’ve been battered myself.

Sometimes I beat up my husband. I’ve beaten up my boss. I’ve beaten up my editor and various co-workers. I’ve beaten up former and current friends. I’ve beaten up my mother. I’ve beaten up my father. I’ve beaten up Julie Gallagher, who made my life miserable in second grade. I’ve beaten up ex-boyfriends. I’ve beaten up the economy.

A remarkable thing happens when you’re able to do that. Another boxer at Church Street told me that people who don’t box don’t understand. It’s not about aggression. It’s about being able to leave everything you’re angry at on the floor, letting you be a calmer person.

Intellectually, I know I look like a four-star dork in my workout gear—complete with nerd sweatband!—when I box. I know I probably look somewhat silly, especially when I really get into it and start screaming my way through punches. I know it’s geeky to have the theme from Rocky on my boxing playlist. I know being proud of a strained shoulder and sprained wrist is a little ridiculous.

I don’t feel that way, though. I feel strong, and tall, and powerful. For the first time in my life.

A Mind with a Mind of Its Own

The worst time to get stuck behind the Waterfall was right before a newscast. There I’d be, ready to go on the radio, and I’d be unable to do anything besides stammer as I’d reached for words. My program director would come in after one of those disasters and ask what the hell my problem was, and I couldn’t tell him.

The cornerstone of my life is writing. I’ve kept a journal since I was a girl. I write short stories and essays. I crank out buckets of copy every shift I work, breathing life into the clay that is radio, making people see, feel, taste, and experience a story they can’t see or touch. However, I couldn’t explain an epileptic seizure to my doctors. Those epilepsy junkies at New York Presbyterian told me, as I sat before them with electrodes glued to my head, that no one describes a seizure the same way. Fyodor Dostoevsky—one of Western literature’s finest scribes—was an epileptic, and wrote:

“For several instants I experience a happiness that is impossible in an ordinary state, and of which other people have no conception. I feel full harmony in myself and in the whole world, and the feeling is so strong and sweet that for a few seconds of such bliss one could give up ten years of life, perhaps all of life.

“I felt that heaven descended to earth and swallowed me. I really attained god and was imbued with him. All of you healthy people don’t even suspect what happiness is , that happiness that we epileptics experience for a second before an attack.”

Well, close.

Stand at the edge of a flight of stairs, let go of the banister, and look up. That sense of vertigo is the first sensation. Then the water begins to fall. It’s almost like I’m standing behind a waterfall, thick and fast, trying to reach through it, trying to speak through it. I can’t walk through the water; it would knock me down. I can’t hear you, as the water is too loud. And you can’t see the waterfall at all, so you have no idea what the hell my problem is.

When the strange feelings started in high school, I attributed it to my consume-nothing-but-Dexatrim-and-then-eat-dinner-with-the-family-diet. (NOTE: Not a good idea.) Sometimes the Waterfall came several times a day, always followed by a spectacular headache. Doctors said, it’s most likely a migraine aura. I dealt with it. I dealt with it when the Waterfall showed up while I was driving. I could feel it starting, and always had enough time to pull over. One time, it showed up at a job interview. I didn’t get the gig; I can only imagine the poor woman thought I was drunk. I’ve missed my stop on the subway because I couldn’t get up and make it to the doors. The waterfall showed up once while I was en route to work in Midtown Manhattan. I stood quietly at the intersection of 57^th Street and Broadway, in my high heels and holding my pocketbook, until the water stopped. It was not an easy shift.

I dealt with it, until I awoke with a goose egg on my head and a broken toilet seat in the bathroom, not long after I’d moved to New York. “What the hell did you do?” I asked my now-husband. “You tell me,” he replied. “I’m not the one with a bump on my head.” “My insurance doesn’t kick in for another two weeks,” I said, “I can’t go to the doctor.” “You’re going,” he said.

Thus was triggered the yellow brick road of medical tests. Brain tumor? Some other form of cancer? Minor stroke? All would very rare in the case of relatively healthy 28 year old. Are you sure you weren’t drunk? High? Enough blood was taken to sate any vampire. The blood pressure cuff was wrapped on often enough to leave bruises around my bicep. The mystery persisted, until my now husband saw his future wife suffering a grand mal epileptic seizure in her sleep. Having lived alone for ten years, there had never been anyone around to witness me shaking in my sleep.

Seizures vary, a veritable rainbow of brain problems. My usual choice in seizures—The Waterfall—are classified as partial seizures, where I simply slip away for a few seconds. The Grand Mal, which I’ve only experienced in sleep and never fully remember, are the full-on shake, rattle, and roll routines. In both cases—and this is an extremely amateur assessment—the brain’s neurons misfire, skipping over the brain the wrong way, requiring the brain to kind of reset itself, like a computer that must be restarted. The partials are the sneaky little bastards, the unschooled not recognizing them as seizures.

My last seizure was a grand mal. I don’t remember the seizure itself, but, for the first time, I remember awakening from it. I was at my sister’s house in Massachusetts, and for some reason I insisted on working through the incredibly dizziness and standing up. I had to pull myself up using the ironwork on the dresser like a ladder to get from the bed to a standing position. The floor rolled like a ship; the room spun. I felt like I was going to be sick. But I stood. Worse came to worse, I probably figured my sister’s St. Bernard could drag me to help.

The treatment has been relatively simple and cheap — two pills, popped twice a day. It took some time to find the right dosage and only now, about seven years after being diagnosed, have I gone a year without a seizure. My memory has improved, because my brain isn’t going postal anymore.

All is not rosy. I’ve had to cut off my career at the knees, because I can’t work overnights anymore. Not good for a freelance broadcaster. But having a work schedule snake all over the clock isn’t good for becoming and staying seizure free. I’m going to have to give up the work I’ve always loved. I’m networking, building contacts, and moving towards public relations.

We don’t know where the epilepsy comes from. It could be genetic; it could have come from an old head injury. No one on either side of the family confesses to be epileptic. Then again, I didn’t know what the odd sensations were; perhaps they don’t either.

When I was last in the hospital for testing, with electrodes glued to my head so computers could capture my brain’s every move, New York Presbyterian’s head of epilepsy came to tell me they think they found the problem — neurons in the left temporal lobe that appeared to be behaving differently than the rest of the brain. I asked him to pause while I, ever the reporter, reached for my pen and notebook. He laughed.

“What’s so funny? I want to make sure I got it right,” I said

“I’m not laughing at you,” he said. “I’m laughing because I know I’ve got it right. People with left temporal lobe epilepsy will take notes on everything.”

I looked at the three notebooks I’d brought with me for my four day hospital stay. Well, I said, I am a reporter.

He said that cinched it. “People with your type of epilepsy usually work as writers.”

Yes, I made a note of that.

Life, Death and Violence: A Study of April 12

Memories fade, minds decay, and still we go on with the recording of history. We don’t remember much though. Hell, we forget more about ourselves as we grow old than we do the facts that we’re taught, that we learn and absorb. The episodic memory is faulty because it causes us to add and remove details as we see fit, but what is deemed important enough for history is written down so that we will never forget, even if we almost always forget. Will we know who, say, Madonna is in a hundred years? It’s possible, but we know we can’t name a singer from 1911, nor do we really care. Cher, of course, will be remembered forever because she will never die. We believe she’s strong enough.

From WCRS in Detroit, it’s Life, Death and Violence brought to you by coffee. Coffee, it’s damn good! Join us and Life, Death and Violence Crush Object™ Janice Fronimakis as we delve into Wikipedia and discover the people that we’ve forgotten about. It’s your day in the sun, April 12.

Janice Fronimakis — Janice Likes to Think About the Stuff that Society Forgot

LIFE!

(You think someone’s going to care about you when you’re dead? Ha!)

1705: William Cookworthy: Cookworthy? Not according to his wife! He did, however, kill scurvy by telling those saucy seamen to make sure to eat their fruits! The seamen, naturally, misinterpreted his dietary suggestion and continued to succumb to the disease until sometime later. Always carry Trojans and a bottle of orange juice, boys!
He also discovered kaolinite in Cornwall and figured out how to turn it into porcelain, thus allowing the English to make fine bone china. Bilking the Chinese out of their profits? How dare you Cookworthy! In this case, Bill’s surname is apt as he did know how to operate a kiln.
Wikipedia has a whole section dedicated to Cookworthy’s friends. His dinner party guests included James Cook (couldn’t even scramble an egg), John Jervis (there’s no pun here), Doctor Solander (who?) and Joe Banks who is a god in our book for giving us mimosa. Oh wait, upon further review, he found the plant, not the drink. There’s a mimosa plant? Wow, we guess you really do learn something new every day. Maybe the seamen Cookworthy advised invented the mimosa. Hell, maybe that explains all the orange juice. Prevent scurvy! Go to brunch!

: You snooze, you lose! English bone china? More like English bone China! Hey-Oh!

DEATH!

(In memoriam: Forever or for thirty days, whichever comes first)

1684: Nicolò Amati: Amati made violins, but no one can name a single luthier (that’s violin-maker) other than Antoni Stradivari, so, better luck next time Nick! Still, Nick’s violins are generally agreed to be the best in his family, at least for modern violinists and who can afford a Stradivarius anyways? Those things cost more than a one bedroom apartment in Chelsea. We’d rather have the apartment and use the savings on an Amati if we played violin. However, we don’t. We started taking lessons briefly after hearing Neon Bible but we didn’t really take it seriously and quit after a month or so.
But wait, there’s more! It seems that Antoni Stradivari was an apprentice of Nick Amati! This isn’t confirmed, but it’s on one of the guy’s violins, so it might be true. He at least liked Nick’s fiddles. Nick Amati: Historical footnote, overshadowed by a student. Isn’t that what we all worry about?
He also taught Andrea Guarneri, but, once again, we must ask, does anyone outside the music world know these names other than Stradivarius? Maybe that’s the key to history. No one is really forgotten, just by those outside their field.

Aw shucks, now we’re starting to get it and so is Janice, who’s so excited about unraveling the threads of time that he’s hopped on a horse and is preparing for war!

: Giddyup!

VIOLENCE!

(The blood no one remembers)

238: The Battle of Carthage: Led by the father/son empiric duo of Gordian the First and Gordian the Second, the Romans fell to the Numidians (modern-day Libya). Gordian the Second was killed in battle, and upon hearing the news, Gordian the First, who was 80 at the time, killed himself.
Interestingly enough, the Gordians were only emperor for twenty days and presided over Rome in what is now termed “The Year of Six Emperors” so don’t feel bad about losing that battle Gordie Sr. and Gordie Jr. Everyone had a bad year. At least the Roman Senate made you gods!
Seriously though, even though the blood was shed in vain since we no longer remember you, take solace in the fact that the modern world has exalted another Gordie to the pedestal of divinity. Gordie “Mr. Everything” Howe. Go Wings!

: That battle, man. I’m exhausted.

OTHER NEAT STUFF THAT HAPPENED!

(This stuff’s notable)

After that battle, Janice is tired of talking about things that no one remembers anymore. Frankly, we’re tired of it too, so we thought we’d let you guys know that:

In 1606 the Union Jack became the official flag of Great Britain.
Unfortunately, that didn’t help Galileo. Italy’s formal inquest into his heretical science stuff began in 1633. Oh, the Inquisition!
In 1861, the Confederacy fired on Fort Sumter, sparking the Civil War.
And in 1917, Canada took some German land during World War One. Wait, Canada has an army?
1955: The polio vaccine is certified safe!
Too bad it came too late for FDR who died exactly ten years earlier in 1945.
1961: Bang! Zoom! Straight to the moon! Or, well, at least to orbit as Yuri Gagarin becomes the first man in space. No one will ever remember a single other Russian cosmonaut.
1992: EURODISNEY!
Bill Clinton is cited for contempt of court for not knowing what the meaning of ‘is’ is in 1999
And last, but not least, Zimbabwe abandoned their money in 2009! It’s not like it was worth anything anyways. We’re quattuordecillionaires by their standards.

That’s all folks! Until next time: Don’t worry, you’ll forget everything bad in twenty years! Drink up. We’re going to go take a nap outside with Janice now. Bye!

Back In Black

If you were a betting type, you could invite me to a social event and be certain I’ll show up in black. I have worn black almost exclusively for the last two decades, ever since escaping from my parents’ home. I almost bought a black wedding dress.

I was not tapped by the beauty fairy with her magical wand of loveliness. I’ve always leaned toward the chubby. I have a round face, with a soft jawline. My hair is thick and frizzy, reminiscent of a dandelion in July.

In school, I longed to slip away from elementary society and find a nice corner in which to read, rather than present my bulk for bullying to my classmates. This was not okay for my social butterfly mother, who wanted her daughters to sparkle and not take after her introvert husband in any way. I was forced into tap dance lessons, led by a man called Mr. Bill who adored costumes so bright they could be seen from Venus. My mother loved neon pink shirts and teal pants and anything that deposited a kitten or a puppy on my early-developing chest.

We really entered the canyon of horror when my mother, who never trained or worked as a hair stylist, thought it would be a fine idea to perm my hair. I wound up spending several years with burns on my neck and scalp, and being the only Irish Catholic girl in school with an Afro. Even the parochial school uniform didn’t give me a chance to blend in with that hair.

One of my most vivid school memories is showing up for a field trip in a lime-green tennis dress – with matching shorts! The top was too tight, as my mother refused to believe her baby was developing, making my panic-attack breathing even harder to pull off.

Things descended in high school, where the fashion stakes were raised. I observed, like Margaret Mead, other girls actually going to the mall to buy their own clothes. They picked them out! By themselves! I was given a pink button-down shirt – even the collar buttoned down – to wear with purple corduroy pants and a purple sweater vest. That earned me the title of Grape Ape. I was given a weird stretch knit unitard item, styled with a turtleneck and wide green stripes across the chest, which really did wonders for my D-cups. My mother was like a mad scientist, cruising K-Mart and Bradlees and Sears for clothes: More polyester! More ruffles! More flowers! More stripes! Ooooh! Polka dots!

Years after my escape, years after I started earning my own money and doing my own shopping, filling my closet with black sweaters, and skirts, and boots, and tights, my mother was still giving me hideous bright clothing, trying to lure me into her toxic rainbow. On my 25^th birthday, I opened a box of pink flowers, meant to be worn as a shirt. My grandmother could take no more. “Noreen,” she said to my mother, taking a long drag on her Tarryton 100s, “she doesn’t wear that shit, for Chrissakes. Give her money.”

Now, I dip my toe into the color pool every now and then. At the age of 37, I have purchased a purple dress. And a blue one! Even though my husband tells me I look beautiful in color, I feel gigantic and swollen in color, like I’m lumbering through my day. I can’t shake that girl in the lime-green dress, and how she felt, and how she yearned for a dark suit of armor.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0fSEjlLQcRY

It’s Never Too Late To Deliver the Perfect Retort

The situation happens faster than you can blink; someone says something or does something so awful to you that you freeze in shock, anger, or both. Much as Betty eloquently described, your face turns red, you feel that hot embarrassment flush across your face, and you mutter some quick reply and the situation dissipates and the moment is over.

Hours later, or even minutes later, the perfect retort comes to your mind. You want to run back and find the insensitive prick that insulted you, mocked you, or annoyed you, and shout at them your perfectly formed, scathing, ego-bruising remark. Unfortunately, they are long gone.

Here is your chance, fellow Crasstalkers, to join me in “What I Wanted to Say.” Below are some situations in the past couple of months that have truly annoyed me (some less than others), and what I wanted to say:

To the Girl Who Always Takes My Spot at Gym Class

I hate you. I put my water bottle down, I go get my step, and I come back and you are a foot away from my spot. Do you not see my water bottle there? Why are you so rude? Why can’t you just have basic gym etiquette like the rest of humanity and respect the water bottle markage? What do I have to do? Pee on my spot? Please go away.

What I Wanted to Say: “Hey, I was here first. That’s my water bottle. (Bitch)”

What I Actually Said: Give a dirty look (that she doesn’t catch) and move my spot.

To the Girl Who Told Me “This Is My Seat.”

I hate you too. I’m sure this is your seat – IN THE FOLLOWING CLASS. I’m sorry I take too long for you, princess, to gather up my belongings and move my rotten ass out of the way, but I’m SLOW, okay? And not just MENTALLY. Please, just stand there an extra thirty seconds, and I promise I will be out of your way.

What I Wanted to Say: “Great, BITCH.”

What I Actually Said: “I’m in the previous class. I’ll be out of your way in a second, honey.”

To My Mother Who Made Me Feel Like Shit For Being Financially Irresponsible

Mom, I’m sorry I have no money management skills and have no money to pay for my cell phone bill right now. You’re right – if you weren’t paying it, it would be turned off. You’re right, I did buy a new dress for my friend’s engagement party. No, I shouldn’t have charged on my credit card. Yes, you are enabling me.

What I Wanted to Say: “When you said you would support me no matter what my decision was regarding law school, I guess that didn’t mean financially.”

What I Actually Said: I left and went back to my apartment in NYC instead of talking about it.

To the Hot Boy That Returned My Cell Phone

This guy found my cell phone, hung up signs around the school until I saw them, and then gave me my cell phone back. He was also smoking hot. Did I take this opportunity to form a connection with another human being in law school? Absolutely not.

What I Wanted To Say: “Hey, thanks! Where did you find it? Do we have any classes together? We should get together some time and study. And bone. Either or! Call me!”

What I Actually Said: “Thanks so much! I didn’t even know I lost it.” (truth)

To the Dumb Sales Guy at Lush Who Said “Oh my GOD I love your BAG!”

Hey, buddy. Relax. I’m going to buy some bubble bath, don’t worry about your sale. The bag is hideous, and it’s a typical black tourist bag with “Amsterdam” written over it. I’m pretty sure they have them in Times Square and they say “New York City “ all over them. Mine is not any prettier than those. Please cut the phony sales routine and give me my damn bubble bath.

What I wanted to Say: “Thank you!”

What I Actually Said: “Thank you!” – after all, it’s a compliment, no matter how phony, no need to be excessively rude.

To My Leasing Agent Who Said You’d Take Care of My Broken Mirror

You said that the super would come fix my mirror a month ago. Nothing has happened, and my mirror is still cracked. When it shatters and I cut my foot on glass, I will have malformed feet and I will sue you for pain and suffering. I will theoretically also not be able to practice my future career, and will request compensation for that as well.

What I Wanted To Say: “Dear Rude Ass, my mirror is still broken and I have no fucking hot water in my kitchen except on random weekend mornings. Can someone please fucking fix this so I don’t have crusty ass dishes?”

What I Actually Said: Nothing. I’ve had to call the super twice, once to let me in after I locked myself out of my apartment, and once to turn my oven off when I left it on and went back to Long Island for the weekend. I feel like I’ve used my quota up.

* * *

Okay! Now your turn! Share your most infuriating story in the comments below, and tell us what you said – and what you really wanted to say. Or, if you’re one of those people who never hold back, give us your best retort – tell us about the time you put that douche bag right in his place – and be sure to describe in detail your smug satisfaction for all of us to take vicarious joy in.

No One Here Gets Out Alive: The Thrilling Conclusion

In Part One, we examined the need for choosing a Health Care Proxy and making decisions about your Advanced Directives. In Part Two, we examined the realities about CPR and artificial nutrition. Those are the big decisions that you need to make, but there are other things you may want to consider and put in your Advanced Directives/Living Will.

Hospital Transfers (Do Not Hospitalize order): If you are in a nursing home or even receiving treatment at home, you or your HCP can request a Do Not Hospitalize (DNH) order which is basically what it says. If you were to become acutely ill, you would not be sent to the Emergency Room for evaluation and treatment, but be treated where you are, non-aggressively. Hospitals can be a crappy place to spend your last hours. Busy, noisy and intrusive not to mention frightening to someone with dementia or really anyone in crisis. Hospitals are not the place for a peaceful death – if that is your goal. However, without an explicit order, it’s possible that you may get sent in by a skittish provider who is not familiar with you or your wishes.

No Diagnostics or Treatment: You can also ask to have no diagnostic work – blood work, x-rays etc. And request not to be treated for such common ailments as a urinary tract infection or respiratory infection. You may decline surgery, dialysis, blood transfusions and medications.

Organ Donation: Please, please, please be an organ donor. Let your family know of your decision and register as an organ donor. Even if you or your loved one has been sick for a while, they may still be eligible to donate skin, tissue or corneas. There is a myth that if you register as an organ donor, the ER staff will not work as hard to save you. Nothing could be farther from the truth. ER doctors and nurses live to save lives. It’s what they do, it’s who they are. Trauma unit staff take it personally if they can’t save you. It’s all they think about. They are not going to let you die if there is a single thing they can do about it. So please don’t not register because of this urban legend.

There are always going to be situations that don’t fit into the categories we have discussed. Again, I will recommend Five Wishes. This tool helps you think about life and death and what you priorities are. You can also use it to think about what a loved one may have wanted, if they haven’t expressed their wishes beforehand.

Nothing is harder than to have to make these decisions for someone you love. Please try to talk about this with you loved ones. Even if you can’t talk about it directly, try to understand and appreciate what makes life worth living for them, what their spiritual beliefs are so you can make the best decisions should you ever be in that position. And always remember it’s about the person who is sick, not about you. What would they have wanted? How would they want to live or die? What was important to them?

For anyone who is going through, or has gone through this, you have my deepest sympathy. I hope you are able to find peace and feel that you have done the best for your loved one.

As promised, an excerpt from my own advanced directives:

In the event that I

a) Am in a terminal condition caused by illness or injury and have no reasonable hope of recovery or becoming aware of my surrounding or being able to use my mental abilities and/or;

b) Have a progressive illness which will continue to worsen and result in my death and which cannot be improved or cured –including, but not limited to, progressive neurological diseases including, but not limited to: Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, ALS, MS, or any form of dementia and/or;

c) Have any condition that makes me unable to recognize people or to speak understandably and this condition is permanent and cannot be improved or cured, but is not considered in and of itself to be terminal, including, but not limited to, a persistent vegetative state, coma, severe stroke, injury or the progressive neurological diseases or dementias listed above, my wishes regarding medical intervention are the following:

No resuscitation (no manual, electrical or chemical cardiac resuscitation)

No intubation or any form of respiratory support (see below re: oxygen

No dialysis, no blood transfusions

No surgery for any reason or condition

No oral or IV/IM antibiotics or any other medications given with the intent of saving or prolonging my life. Any underling medical conditions such as (but not limited to) diabetes, hypertension, DVT should not be treated, nor do I wish to be treated for any acute illnesses including (but not limited to) urinary tract infection or respiratory infection.

No artificial or supplemental nutrition or hydration in any form or via any mode of delivery.

No diagnostic testing or monitoring whatsoever. No blood work, no imaging nor any other test invasive or non-invasive to diagnose any illness or condition.

If I am in a skilled nursing facility, sub-acute or rehab hospital, no transfers to any acute care hospital or emergency department for care or evaluation under any circumstance.

I DO, however, wish to be given any medication, including, but not limited to, narcotic and/or non-narcotic pain relievers, benzodiazepines, anticonvulsants or similar medications IF the sole purpose is to decrease pain and/or increase comfort. As a nurse, I fully understand that these medications often, when used in amounts necessary to fully ease suffering, may hasten or even cause my death. I also authorize the use of oxygen so long as it is being used for comfort measures and not for prolongation of life.

Life, Death and Violence: Dream On

1 comment

From WCRS Detroit and Public Snark International, this is Life, Death and Violence. Every week on our program we choose a theme and research a number of people and events that fit that theme. Today on Life, Death and Violence: Paradise. Imagine, for a moment, if you will, that paradise is exactly where you are right now, only much, much better. This is the land in which we will be traveling to today. Paradise though, is merely a dream, a hope, and, naturally we’ll be discussing the very nature of hopes and dreams today as well. I had a dream last night. I dreamt that I was about to be murdered in old Tiger Stadium, but, at the last minute, I was saved by this week’s Life, Death and Violence Crush Object™, Diana Rigg.

Diana entered from the visiting dugout, dressed, obviously, as Mrs. Emma Peel in a bright orange jumpsuit. She shot my attacker’s knife out of his hand and proceeded to dispatch him in a brief battle in hand to hand combat. Diana and I then rode out of Old Tiger Stadium on a beautiful white stallion which we rode across the pond and into Paris.

It seemed like an instant, that ride, and I found myself transported from urban decay to a quiet little cafe in Montmarte drinking coffee delivered by our waiter, a centaur. The centaur began to tell a long story, which I will summarize in brief. His utopian home had been ravaged by humanoid goats and all the centaurs were forced into exile by the king of the goats, a potbellied pig named Phillip. Our waiter, Brian, then took my name and number when I asked if there was anything I could do to help and Diana and I each received a letter shortly after enlisting us as Generals in the Centaur Army. We went to Centauristan, kicked some goat butt, made delicious bacon out of Phillip and returned the land to the centaurs. Brian, for enlisting us who saved the nation, was named King and we all had a champagne toast in their golden palace. I woke up just as my gift from the centaurs, Joseph Gordon Levitt, leaned in to kiss me. I hate dreams. They always shatter.

Our show today, in four acts.

Act One: Trouble in Paradise: She was on top of the world, but found herself ready to snap.

Act Two: The Fulfillment of Dreams: The story of a writer who hit the big time and stayed there.

Act Three: The Death of Dreams: A disastrous failure shocks the nation.

Act Four: The Birth of Dreams: How one nation’s discovery changed the world, but was it for the worse?

Act One: Trouble in Paradise

The Carpenters: Top of the World

I remember, being a little kid in Metro Detroit, when I heard my first Carpenters song. I was, maybe, four, and having trouble going to sleep. I’d gone to sleep for a little bit, but had had a nightmare and was too afraid to try again. I called out for my mother around 1AM. She got me a glass of water and sang me “Close to You,” which calmed me down enough to fall back into the land of good dreams, where the impossible becomes possible and everything is made of rainbows. The next morning, I asked my mother to sing the song for me again, but, instead, she pulled out a vinyl copy of the Close to You album and played it for me while she got ready for work. At the time, she was working the afternoon shift at the local hospital, so my sister and I got to see her in the morning as our days were starting, which I really liked. I wasn’t in preschool at the time. I’d dropped out because the other kids were being mean to me and I had massive separation anxiety. Karen Carpenter’s voice reminded me of my mother, even though my mother didn’t sing nearly as well, so I played that record over and over and over again. We got rid of it a few years later when my parents switched from vinyl and tape over to compact disc, but it was fairly well worn anyways. Who knows how much longer it would have lasted.

The devastation felt when I found out Karen Carpenter had died before I was born was heartwrenching. I wasn’t blind. I understood from the copyright on the album that the record was released in 1970, but the girl on it looked so young. She couldn’t possibly be dead. People only die when they’re old. Such is the naivete of youth, I suppose. And when I found out she died because, as I understood it, her heart stopped, I was even more confused and all my mother would say was that Karen stopped eating. My mother doesn’t eat a lot, so I didn’t really understand that. Why had she stopped eating? Was she on a diet? Why would she be on a diet? She looked pretty. I was too young to understand media blitzkrieg, so I just sat there for years questioning what happened to Karen Carpenter.

Karen left my thoughts and my music collection for about a decade, until I found myself in New York City. It was big, scary, unknown. I felt alone. I didn’t know anybody. I was living with strangers I’d met on Craigslist and had planned to get an apartment with since they were moving out of theirs. After that plan fell through (which I find to be the worst thing to happen to me: a true 3br with a fireplace and a big kitchen, lots of light and in a pre-war building for 1400/month fully furnished was lost because one of the girls I was going to live with decided Bed Stuy was too dangerous for her and she’d find another apartment for 450/month elsewhere. As if, woman. I was too weak and insecure to find two other people to take the apartment with me and I ended up in a bedbug ridden hellhole in Sunset Park before moving into the dorms at Pratt Institute), Karen came back into my life. I was depressed and lonely, feeling the peak of my suicidal wishes. Rainy Days and Mondays, I decided, was what I’d kill myself to. It wasn’t a very happy time, until, I started re-listening to the happier music, going out and feeling better about myself. I can’t say that Karen Carpenter saved my life, but she did play a part in making me feel sane again, even if that sanity is still frequently challenged. I’m grateful for that, and I’m grateful that even though I didn’t get the chance to ever see her live since she died before my birth, that at least there’s a recording of her voice in every record store across America. The voice of an angel ready to change another person’s life, ready to make the world seem full of hopes, dreams and possibilities yet again, even in our darkest hour.

The Carpenters: Close to You

Act Two: The Fulfillment of Dreams

Today is the deathday of famed comic book artist Hergé. I first wanted to start writing watching the adventures of his famed Parisian journalist, Tin Tin and his dog, snowy. Let’s watch some of it together.

That Tin-Tin! Always getting into some sort of misadventure. This must be what it’s like to work for the New York Times! Right?

Act Three: The Death of Dreams

I wasn’t born during the Challenger Incident. It predated me by three years, but I did feel a closeness to the incident once I’d found out that our middle school principal, the only principal I’ve ever liked, whose name was, and if I’m lying about this may the Flying Spaghetti Monster strike me dead, Dr. Freeze, was one of the runner-ups for the Teacher in Space program. Someone I knew could have been killed in a massive space-oriented explosion, which horrified me as a space-obsessed tween who’d gone to Space Camp a few years earlier. This event was revisited shortly after the attacks on 9/11, which, naturally, my awful middle school neglected to tell us about causing me to come home all happy-go-lucky because soccer practice was cancelled and I really didn’t want to go to soccer practice that day. My sister, in response, snarled at me viciously and directed my attention to the television. It felt weird to watch an explosion over and over and over again and I got the sense that this is what my parents were doing in ’86, not knowing that someone they would soon know was almost on that shuttle. This week wasn’t the 25th Anniversary of the explosion, that was a few months ago. Instead it contains an even sadder bit of emotional violence: The discovery of the crew cabin in the Atlantic Ocean.

Challenger Crew

These “what if” fascinations haunted me for quite some time, especially once the Columbia shuttle exploded on reentry. I kept thinking to myself. What would I do if someone I knew died in an explosion that was plastered all over national television? How would I react? I never came up with an answer, simply because I understood that I couldn’t empathize with anyone involved in such an incident if it didn’t happen to me. I could sympathize. I could say “I’m sorry this happened to you. I’m here if you need me,” but I couldn’t say “I understand. It’s going to be okay,” because I didn’t understand, I didn’t know if it would be okay. Months later, I experienced my first death, that of my grandfather/puzzle partner. Even then, I still felt I couldn’t empathize with a death so sudden. My grandfather had been ill for months from lung cancer and we weren’t surprised when he finally passed. I think that, as crushed as she was, it was a bit of a relief for my grandmother. That year was very stressful in my family because of my grandfather’s rapidly deteriorating health, but if he had died in, say, a car crash, things would have been a lot different. The mourning would have lasted much longer, just as I’m certain that Christa McAuliffe’s family is still morning her loss, after that fireball in the sky, and having a record of her exact moment of death on hand has to be a surefire way to make it impossible to move on. For that reason, as easy as it may be to post, I’m opting to not post a video of the Challenger Disaster. I’m not going to promote the fetishization of death. All those disasters and space misadventures though did nothing to halt my love of space and desire to be an astronaut. That’s the responsibility of my complete hatred of Algebra 2 which led to my complete hate of Chemistry which led me into the arts.

S Club 7: Reach For the Stars

Act Four: The Birth of Dreams

In 1938, Saudi Arabia discovered oil in its borders, launching the 20th Century Mideastern Oil Boom and creating a dependence on the region that, nearly a decade ago, led to war, yet again, over the black, golden syrup. I’m not an expert on Mideastern Affairs and I’m not going to pretend to be. We all know that our over-reliance on oil is bad for the future of the planet. I’m going to leave Act Four up for discussion in the comments. Would the world be any different if that level of oil was, say, discovered in Western Europe, or would we just be at war with the French instead (oh what an easy war that would be!?) Can tension ever be resolved so as to lighten the stress on our ever dwindling oil reserves? What is there to be done? Let’s talk oil.

Salt n Pepa: Let’s Talk About ~~Oil~~ Sex

No One Here Gets Out Alive – Part One

2 comments

The most awkward and painful discussions health professionals have is the conversation about end of life care. Working in Geriatrics, I often have this conversation with family members or even friends of patients who are not able to make their own decisions. Even in the best of circumstances, when the patient’s wishes are generally known, it is a difficult call to make. In the absence of any idea of what that person may have wanted, it can be heart-wrenching. In America, which is an especially ‘death denying’ culture, most people don’t want to think about, never mind plan for, their own death. But without clear Advanced Directives and and a Health Care Proxy you can trust, you risk having your final days be everything you never wanted – including a protracted, bitter battle amongst family members, a la Terri Schiavo.

The first thing you must do is admit that you will die. And it may not happen the way you would like or when you expect. You may become incapacitated for a period of time before death and be unable to direct your care or make decisions. This may happen from an accident or a heart attack or stroke. You may also develop dementia or another neurological condition that impairs your cognition. Any of these situations may happen at any time, so even if you think you are too young to think about this – you’re not.

Secondly, you must find a Health Care Proxy. A Health Care Proxy (HCP) is a person you appoint to make decisions about your care on your behalf. It is, in most cases, extremely simple to do this. Your doctor or hospital will have forms or you can find the forms on the internet. You simply fill out the forms, have them signed and witnessed and give copies to your HCP and your alternate, your health care provider, attorney and/or any one else who will be available to provide these forms to your medical providers if you become ill. There are also online registries, which for a fee, will archive your HCP paperwork or Living Will. Generally speaking, without an HCP, most hospitals and facilities will default decision making to your next of kin. However, that can easily get sticky and complicated should there be disagreement among family members or if long term relationships are not recognized by the laws of the state in which you become ill and seek care. It is not unheard of for facilities to seek to have a legal guardian appointed, should the family situation become unstable. Then you may end up with a stranger making decisions for you.

I will note here as well, that you do not have to appoint your legal next of kin as HCP. If you are not appointing your spouse, I would recommend that you have that discussion with them and involve an attorney in drawing up the papers.

Choosing an HCP should be done with care. You want to pick someone who will follow your wishes. It is important to note that your HCP does not have to abide by your wishes. The HCP you choose should understand and accept your wishes regarding end of life care and promise to act accordingly – even if your medical providers or other family/friends do not agree and pressure them to act otherwise. Also make sure you are using the appropriate paperwork for the state in which you reside or frequent. State requirements for HCP and Advanced Directives do vary. If you travel frequently, a trip to an estate attorney may be in order to obtain a durable power of attorney for healthcare decisions that will be iron clad wherever you roam.

Which brings us to Advanced Directives. I will go into great detail about all the decisions you will need to make in my next post. As a general overview, Advanced Directives are your written wishes about what kind of care you would want if you were unable to make your own decisions. The more specific, the better. Simply saying ‘no heroic measures’ is way too open to interpretation. In my next post, I will review the options and share with you my own Advanced Directives document.

The problem with Advanced Directives, however, is that they do not carry the force of law. It is simply a statement that you make regarding your philosophy of care for yourself. I have unfortunately seen clearly written and properly notarized Advanced Directives ignored, because the HCP or legal guardian had different ideas. But don’t let that stop you from writing them! The more information that is out there about what you want, the better. And all the more reason to pick your HCP with care and discuss your wishes with them

You don’t need an attorney to fill out paperwork for an HCP, however if your situation is complicated (e.g., not appointing your spouse, same sex couple in most states, long term unmarried couples) you may want to consult an estate attorney. It’s also a good idea to appoint someone to be responsible for your finances as well and draw up a will while you’re there.

My next post will explore the decisions you need to make – DNRs, feeding tubes, etc. Also, please let me know if there is any other information you would like to know.

Cartoon from jakejacob.blogspot.com.

UPDATE: I fixed the linkies.

Life, Death and Violence: A Study of March 1

There’s been a debate in the art community for quite some time now regarding a work by Duccio, known as the Stroganoff Madonna and features a baby Jesus Christ playfully tugging at his mother’s hood, in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It’s a small piece, about 8.5 by 11 inches, in egg tempera and with a gold leaf background. The Museum asserts its authenticity, but others, notably the late art historian James Beck, disagree. It is highly unlikely that the work, which has been analyzed over and over again by the Met’s crack team of forensic artists, will be declared illegitimate, but if it had, it would be devastating to the Met’s credibility, especially since they paid an undisclosed sum that has been rumored to be as high as 45 million USD, the highest sum they have ever paid for a work of art. For now, since Professor Beck is dead, the matter is certain to now be a moot point, but it does give us the opportunity to debate about pigment qualities and, more importantly, the importance of the artist in regards to the work. Would it have sold for 45 million USD had the work not been a Duccio, but had been attributed to a lesser artist of the proto-renaissance, even if it had been identical to the piece currently housed in the museum and preserved to the exact same condition?

From WCRS Detroit and Public Snark International this is ~~This American~~ Life, Death and Violence. Each day on our program, we choose a theme and incorporate a series of people and stories that fit that into theme. Today: Idolatry. Why does name matter and what happens when we go too far in our idolatry? Our program today, in four acts. Act One: Life (Never Say Never), Act Two: Death (Model for Success), Act Three: Violence (Bombs in the Men’s Room) and Act Four: Other Neat Things That Happened (Yahoo? Yahoo. Yahoo! You?), but before we begin, we must pay our respects to Life, Death and Violence Crush Object™ Sufjan Stevens:

LIFE!

(Never Say Never)

1449: Lorenzo de’Medici: Lorenzo, whom Wikipedia says was born January 1, but is technically born on March 1 as he was born before the advent of the Gregorian Calendar (the Julian Calendar started its year in the month of March), was not only worthy of idolatry, he essentially created the idols that we know and love today, notably Life, Death and Violence Obsession™ Michelangelo Buonarotti, who sculpted the visage of the intellectual Italian statesman to your right.
The peasants referred to him as Lorenzo the Magnificent, which is just majorly cool and total idolatry, and many scholars mark his death as the end of the Golden Age of Firenze (that’s Florence) and with Lorenzo the Magnificent no longer around, the fractured Italian states began fighting with each other, once again. The loss of an idol can be a tragic event, indeed.

1886: Oskar Kokoschka: When I was in art school, we had a thing wherein we’d go behind someone, push them lightly on the shoulders, not enough to make them fall down, but enough to scare them, and scream Oskar Kokoschka’s name. It was an act of absurdism in the name of the master of German Expressionism and the idol of myself and several of my friends. The painter, poet and playwright was originally told that he was mentally unstable after being injured in World War One, but aren’t all the greats? I know that I’m pretty mentally unstable. Who wants to be stable? Perhaps its my idolatry of Kokoschka that has led to my allowing myself this instability. Anyways, the Nazis deemed him and his work degenerative, so he escaped to Prague, until the Czech began to mobilize for an invasion from Germany and he escaped to the United Kingom. His style was very nervous, but filled with great motion and intrigue and his play is considered the first Expressionist drama. The individualism displayed by himself and Max Beckmann created one of the greatest offshoots of the Modern Art movement, though Kokoschka saw himself as a footnote in the annals of art history towards the end of his life which made him bitter. Here’s an example of his work: The Red Egg, 1941, currently in Prague’s Narodni Gallery:

1987: Ke¢ha: That girl who always looks really dirty and sings about brushing her teeth in the morning with a bottle of Jack Daniels because she’s a complete alcoholic turns 24 today! Ke¢ha is a terrible idol, mainly because while she’s had great success, she’s not particularly talented. I like Ke¢ha when I’m driving and not wanting to listen to WRCJ or WOMC, but that’s about it. There’s no substance. Still, she has more money than we could dream of, but hey, I like her better than Gaga so there’s that.
Seriously though, girl, take a shower and go to AA. I don’t know if you actually have a problem, but from your lyrics and from your hair, it definitely seems to me like you need to just take a chill pill before the tabloids start turning you into the next Lindsay Lohan and we wouldn’t want that because then who else would we dance and sing to in our car, besides Katy Perry whom I totally do a solo performance for an audience of myself of Fireworks in the style of Ann Liv Young every time that stupid song comes on. You guys are catchy!

[slideshow id=3]

1994: Justin Bieber; Are you a belieber? This teen idol wants you to know that its his world (2.0) and to never say never. With his luscious locks and girlish face, this little lesbian (can you spot which is the real Bieber in the slideshow to your left? Can you?!) took the world by storm last year after being discovered in 2009 on that site that all the young people love called “The YouTubular Video Sharing Website” or something like that. Anyways, the Biebs, the ultimate in idolatry, turns 17 today which makes him legal in New York. Get on that Beliebers! But, remember, you may have to fight off Selena Gomez. He never said never, and now he’s an international Canadian pop star.

DEATH!

(Model for Success)

1244: Gryffydd ap Llywelyn Fawr: Ashlee Simpson’s baby naming idol was kidnapped as a kid by the King of England as a pledge for the continued good faith of Gryffydd’s father Llywelyn the Great. Griffid. Gryefehd. Gryffindor.
Gryffydd’s brother Daffyd imprisoned Gryffydd until King Henry III invaded Wales and made Daffyd give him Gryffydd and so Gryffydd became imprisoned in the Tower of London where he remained until he died trying to escape in 1244. He was fat and the rope he was using to escape snapped. Looks like he shouldn’t have used Blondin’s rope supplier! What I’m saying here is that the Welsh have weird names.

1980: Wilhelmina Cooper: An icon amongst models and the idol of every aspiring girl, Wilhelmina Cooper, founder of Wilhelmina Models, and the woman with the most Vogue covers: 28. She appeared on 255 covers during her career, launched Naomi Sims, the first black supermodel and was portrayed by Faye Dunaway in the movie Gia about another model Wilhelmina’s agency launched to stardom, Gia Carangi who later died of AIDS.
She died of lung cancer at the age of 40, which, for the second day in a row, marks yet another death from cigarettes. I’m glad I quit when they were fourteen bucks a pack because now that I can get them for about seven, I don’t really care to because it’s just not something I need anymore. Wilhelmina Cooper is great and all, but here’s a photo of my favorite model:

1984: Jackie Coogan: A comedic idol! Jackie Coogan was a stah! A child stah! With all the child stah problems like having his parents steal his earnings. Naturally, he sued them, got very little of the money he earned and got a bill named after him that requires 15% of child star earnings to be placed into a trust. He’s best known as Uncle Fester on The Addams Family, but he was also Oliver Twist.
Storytime! Here’s what happens when you mess with your idols: In 1933, just after Coogan turned 18, one of his friends was kidnapped and the kidnappers demanded 40k. The police got involved, arrested the two men who admitted to killing Coogan’s friend Brooke Hart the night of the kidnapping and threw them in the clink. Shortly after, a mob, rumored to have been organized by Coogan, broke into the prison, snagged the kidnappers and lynched them in the park across the street. Don’t mess with Uncle Fester.

VIOLENCE!

(Bombs in the Men’s Room)

1847: Michigan bans capital punishment. Go Blue!
1910: AVALANCHE! Train buried in Washington State, killing 96 people. Sufjan! You get your butt in here right now, mister. This is your fault, isn’t it!?

1971: BOOM! BANG! POW! Weather Underground explodes a bomb in the men’s room at the US Capitol Building. Bad weather, indeed!
2008: POP! POP! SHOOT EM UP! 10 people peacefully protesting the allegedly fraudulent elections in Armenia are killed by Armenian police.

OTHER NEAT THINGS THAT HAPPENED

(Yahoo? Yahoo. Yahoo! You.)

1565: Rio de Janeiro is founded, paving the way for the ultimate in beach watching for years to come.
1803: Ohio becomes the 17th state, paving the way for the ultimate in corn fed Midwestern guys and roller coasters for years to come.
1867: Nebraska becomes a state, paving the way for the ultimate in farmer’s tans for years to come.
1936: The Hoover Dam is finished, paving the way for the ultimate in ‘kids getting away with saying damn’ situations for years to come.
1962: American Airlines 1 crashes upon takeoff, paving the way for the ultimate in last minute plane crash avoidance for years to come.
1995: Yahoo! is founded, paving the way for the ultimate in search engines for years to come. Oh wait: Google. Sorry, Yahoo!

That’s it for today’s program my little birds. ~~This American~~ Life, Death and Violence will be back tomorrow, for yet another look into the past through this Vaseline coated lens of ours. Remember, idolatry is all fun and games until someone’s lynched in a park. Have a great day.