Keep Your Facebook, I'll Keep My Mixed CDs

I’m continually amazed by and possibly jealous of the cool gadgets kids have these days. I’ve noticed myself uttering the phrase when I was a kid… all too often these days; I’m making myself feel old. For example, I was telling my students the other day about gasoline prices and how, even as recently as 1998, they used to be less than a dollar. The look in their eyes was asking me if my 1912 Stutz Bearcat got more than 3 tobacco tins of petro per 100 paces back then.  This feeling of being an anachronistic character from The Great Gatsby occurs on a daily basis. One of the lame background characters, too – not Gatsby.

The students I teach right now were born around 1992-1993 – I was 13 when they were born. There have been some many crazy technological advances since then that I DO probably seem like a toothless, turn-of-the-century prospector to them. I could go on and on about all of the changes that have happened since I was their age, but there is one change that makes me happy to have not gone through. I am SO happy that Facebook and MySpace didn’t exist when I was in high school – and college for that matter. Well, MySpace did but I wasn’t computer savvy enough to use it.

I imagine that I would have posted the dumbest, most embarrassing comments. I think about all of the just idiotic things I said to girls over the phone because I wasn’t face to face with them. I can’t imagine what I would have done or said if I didn’t even have to SAY these things. I bet young, impulsive high school boys are getting in trouble on a daily basis for leaving long love notes on girls’ walls, and then are being ridiculed when all of their friends see these asinine comments. I’m not even talking about cyber-bullying – I’m talking about cyber-dumb-ass-ery for everyone for all eternity to see.

I imagine there is quite a bit more of this happening in college. Boys aren’t any smarter then. Tell me that this scenario isn’t plausible: College boy goes out with his buddies to a local college bar. He drinks a few drinks and meets a girl. He is charming and she is interested. Girls leaves. Boy stays out with his buddies. Inebriated boy gets home and posts that he found his future wife on her wall (“Jsst wantedd tooo said heyy to me future wife. Holllla at cha boy!”). Girl makes a point to never cross paths with this pathetic, over-eager misspeller ever again. Next weekend: same thing, different girl (“Babby, you’re a firrwrrks! Yoo compete me1 Holllla at cha boy!”).  

This has to be happening every night, all over the world, right?

I’m happy that I was able to avoid this hornet’s nest. My wife just gets mixed CDs filled with Bone Thugs and Harmony and Lou Bega (his b-sides, not even Mambo No. 5) when I want to let her know I truly love her.  

Well, It's Kind of Like Herpes - Part II

Welcome back to the exciting conclusion of Well, It’s Kind of Like Herpes. If you’re reading this and have no idea what I’m talking about, read this first.

My friend was in a state of misery. He finally found the magical (or is competent the right word?) doctor who could diagnose the problem. The doctor gave him a quick once over and solved the curious case of the incredible Mr. Itchy. My friend had scabies. Scabies is probably best compared to body lice. Basically, little parasites had been burrowing into his skin for 3 or 4 months. They were making his skin their home and apparently, living quite nicely. Maybe having tiny dinner parties and taking their kids to soccer practice.

To be honest, I don’t know much about scabies other than the symptoms; therefore, I will go to the easiest (though possibly inaccurate) source. According to Wikipedia, scabies is a condition that is best associated with poor hygiene and overpopulated areas. I’m going to give my friend credit and assume he took regular showers in college though I never actually saw him in the shower; he might have just turned on the shower for effect. As far as overpopulated situations go, the University of Texas was 55,000 people strong when we went there. If you’re not from Texas, you might not know this but Austin is basically the largest hippie commune in the south. I took a class called Anarchy and Socialism in Brazil in college, and I was the only person who wore shoes to class and wasn’t accompanied by a stink cloud (a la Pig Pen from Peanuts). I imagine every one of them had every itchy bug in the medical textbook playing hacky sack on their grass. UT’s parking situation is a nightmare, so most people ride buses to and from campus. We lived off campus, so we all rode the bus at least twice a day – and so did the hippies. We all hypothesized that he got scabies from utilizing public transportation. Some hippie’s dirty bugs took a ride on the bus and hitch-hiked a ride on my buddy.

On the bright side, this doctor gave him a prescription for some scabies killing lotion. He literally went home, put the lotion all over his body, and within 24 hours, he was cured. Literally, 4 months of this problem and, POOF, it’s gone. This was just in time because some of us in the apartment felt like his scabies were gunning for us next. I guess it is human nature to see someone constantly scratching and just imagine these little bugs burrowing, crapping, and procreating in their skin. I could just feel them in my arm hair, my chest hair, my… well, you get the picture. Consequently, everyone took a little scabies lotion bath. The problem was finally solved. Scabies finally left our lives after creating so much misery and devastation. My friend could finally sit on the couch with the rest of us.

Well, It’s Kind of Like Herpes

In my second year at the University of Texas, one of my roommates (he’s also one of my best friends, so I’ll try to be delicate) somehow contracted some sort of skin ailment. It started with a few itchy bumps and then it quickly spread across his body. As group of college-aged guys, we, of course, thought this was a God sent joke for our own amusement. Sometimes, I would just sit and face him as he watched TV, just to giggle every time he scratched himself. In hindsight, I feel for the guy; I can’t imagine itching day and night.

When we were in college, no one in our apartment (and there were four of us) had any idea how to go to the doctor alone. I mean, directions, finding the right office, using insurance, paying a deductable, we weren’t college educated yet! Just like the rest of us, he was a mommas’ boy, too, and this mommas’-boy-itis prevented him from going to the doctor on his own. He had to wait until he went back to Houston for the weekend, so he could go to the doctor with his mom.

The first diagnosis was that he must be allergic to the fabric on our furniture. The furniture especially made sense because it was also the furniture that came with the apartment. When I reflect on the things WE did to those couches, it’s a wonder how many other people did the same, if not worse. His solution to this was to always sit in a dark green, plastic lawn chair. While we all sat around eating our cheap Totinos pizzas watching Dawson’s Creek on our comfy sofa, he sat in his cold, plastic posture-pedic chair constantly scratching – always scratching.

After a few weeks of trying out the chair, he realized it must not be the fabric that was causing his sleepless nights. The next time he went back to Houston, he and his mother went to another doctor. The second doctor diagnosed the problem as an allergic reaction to our cat, Solo. Everyone always assumes that his name derives from Han Solo of Star Wars fame. This is untrue. We actually named him after a drug dealer in our apartment building that lived just below us but above the grimiest strippers in Austin. The guy was a 5’4”, black dude and our pet was a black kitten, so we didn’t have a choice. Sometimes fate reveals knowledge so clearly that we cannot ignore it. Regardless, he should have considered it an homage (if he knew, which we took painstaking efforts to make sure he didn’t).

The cat issue was a problem because everyone loved the cat and didn’t want to have to get rid of it. Luckily, Christmas break came around and we all went back to our respective parents’ homes in Houston. My brother and I took Solo to our house. My friend had a whole month to be away from the cat. His skin didn’t get any better. At this point, the problem had been going on for 3 months. The bumps had now completely covered his body besides, luckily for him, his face. It had gotten so bad that even between his fingers had been hit by the problem. He rubbed his fingers raw by interlocking his fingers, straightening them, and moving them like little itching saws. The problem had reached an irritating crescendo that needed to be solved immediately, for his sanity was at stake.

Part II – Next time!

Trees, I Love You But You're Bringing Me Down

In elementary school, I was introduced to environmentalism. I have vivid memories of Earth Day in the 80’s where we planted a tree on the fringe of our playground. It was a nice feeling that we were doing something to help Mother Earth. Now let me begin this post by saying that I’m not political when it comes to this subject. I get the complexities of the liberals and conservatives who are in favor or against environmentalism for their various reasons. Both have valid viewpoints as far as I am concerned. What I am not in favor of is the intimidating propaganda directed at impressionable 8 year olds.

Back then, I remember sitting in my classroom listening to doomsday talk from my teacher. I remember there being a distinct connection between trees and oxygen. Trees take in carbon dioxide and let out oxygen. I am no scientist, but this is right, correct? Well, when all the rain forests were harvested, we’d all be out of breath – literally! In fact, when my family took road trips for vacation, I remember looking at the trees thinking: You poor bastards. You’re all going to be cut down soon and you don’t even know it. I had visions of lumberjacks with red eyes, salivating at the mouth ready to cut down these trees – all trees – even the trees in my front yard! One day I would wake up and the trees in my yard would be gone. I would only have the street lights to climb. The trees were going to all be cut down soon, and it was up to the 4^th graders at Youens Elementary to make a difference.

Soon thereafter, I made the connection that all plants give off oxygen and soon other plants would be next on the chopping block. Big companies would come to take the grass from our lawn. I didn’t know what the grass would be used for, but I thought it had something to with skirts and Hawaii. Soon, we would live in a world with only gravel and dust.

Well, now as an adult I welcome this idea because I have two giant pin oaks in my front yard, and it sucks more than anything in the world raking those damn leaves up! It’s back breaking work that is completely not worth doing. It is impossible to get these stupid leaves up, and even if I do, more leaves just fall. So, I call upon you bloodthirsty bastards to come and harvest the trees from my yard, so I don’t have to freaking rake the leaves up anymore. Take my grass and make tea from my flowers. I’ve been saving oxygen in balloons in my house anyways, so we’ll be okay.