Additional facts, which you no doubt also know because of the aforementioned 24-hour news cycle: Ramsey has been charged three times, in 1997, 1998 and 2003, with domestic violence. 2003’s incident resulted in a felony conviction for beating his then-wife; he served eight months in prison. Curiously enough, the normally bloodthirsty American public appears to be nonplussed by this information. By and large, no one has denigrated his character in internet comment sections. A cursory glance at Twitter shows that, in spite of Ramsey’s violent past, the overwhelming majority of people are of the consensus that he’s a hero and nothing but.

To which I respond, well, duh. The fact that Ramsey’s sudden fame has put him in a position of power – I mean, he saved three people’s lives, for Christ’s sake – is why we’ve  chosen to ignore the fact that Ramsey has served jail time for crimes similar to (yet obviously not as heinous as) Castro’s. Who cares that he hit a few broads? He saved three of ‘em! And white ones, at that! Give him a break!

A man’s violent past or present, if presented under the right circumstances (i.e. if he’s well-respected or a celebrity), can be and often is expunged from the public record. Fame, time and time again, renders our moral compasses useless. Take, for example, Chris Brown, a.k.a. Entertainment’s top Woman Beater™ 2009-present. Even though his fists famously sullied the beautiful visage of former girlfriend Rihanna, he still has a tremendously successful career in pop music; his last album opened at number one on the Billboard charts. Granted, he’s also been the subject of a great deal of public vitriol, but that could probably be seen as more as a byproduct of his relentlessly shitty personality and less as an example of society’s collective righteous indignation.

Ramsey, on the other hand, has a fantastic personality. He’s warm, engaging, charismatic and humble. He rebuffs the label “hero,” reminding his fans, “I’m an American. And I’m a human being. I’m just like you.” McDonald’s, his gout merchant of choice, wants to work with him. Why wouldn’t they? He’s famous, bro, and rightfully so. He’s also the latest addition to a long list of lionized domestic abusers.

No one gives a shit about the fact that Sean Penn bound, gagged and beat Madonna when the two were married; after all, he’s the same guy who, a couple decades later, single-handedly “saved” Haiti from itself and compassionately played a developmentally disabled Starbucks employee in I am Sam.

In divorce paperwork, Bill Murray’s then-wife claimed he had hit her on several occasions, once telling her she was “lucky [he] didn’t kill her.” But, y’know, Murray was in Ghostbusters and all those Wes Anderson movies the twee kids love, so he’s given carte blanche to remain a living legend.

Charlie Sheen has been arrested multiple times for domestic assault; in spite of this, he was once the highest paid actor in TV, earning $1.4 million per episode of Two and a Half Men. Even after his much publicized meltdown, he recaptured his former glory by negotiating a ridiculously profitable deal with the inexplicably popular FX show Anger Management. The son of a bitch never stopped, and never will stop, “winning.”

Tommy Lee. Mel Gibson. Chad “Ochocinco” Johnson. Blah blah blah. Mike Tyson went to jail for raping a woman, for fuck’s sake, and then put on a one-man-show directed by Spike Lee. All of these men, and dozens more, are still high-profile celebrities. The only difference between them and Ramsey, however, is that they’re legitimate celebrities. Their star power has staying power. When Ramsey’s no longer a star, just a colorful character living in a shitty neighborhood in Cleveland, the vultures will circle. The claws will come out. Then, and only then, will society feel the need to once again judge him for his crimes. The shelf life of a meme is not long. He’d better enjoy this ride while it lasts. I get the feeling he will.

As the previous paragraph would imply, the job I have does not require a college diploma. I have seen the following things in the context of work this week.

1. A man wearing an American flag doo-rag fellate his own phallus

2. The same man, wearing the same doo-rag, attach electric toothbrushes to his aforementioned phallus with rubber bands for the purposes of erotic fulfillment

3. A man urinate in a Budweiser can and drink the can’s acidic contents

4. An obese man spray Reddi-Whip™ brand whipped topping all over his (extremely small and flaccid) genitals

5. A man with what appeared to be a whisper of a vestigial tail fuck himself with a novelty sized dildo, the likes of which one would purchase as a gag gift at Spencer’s Gifts

6. Two bears fuck in front of a professionally framed Logan’s Run poster

7. An extremely old man in a ski mask masturbate in a waterless bathtub and lick his own seed from his liver spotted fingers

8. A man continuously manipulate his mostly flaccid member for three minutes whilst intermittently eating bites of a banana

I am not a mother. I am not an actress. I feel, however, as though I can confidently project competency in both fields. Which is why I recently filled out a survey on Craig’s List [sic] for the opportunity to be a part of a focus group at Lil’ Cuties, Inc.

This isn’t the first time I’ve lied for fun and/or profit. I’ve committed return fraud. I’ve cheated on a partner. I’ve pretended to be fertile, for chrissakes (that experiment, however, ended in tears). This ain’t my first rodeo. Nevertheless, I’m paranoid. What do “real moms” really think of the real products they buy for their “real children”? How do they describe said children? Glowingly? Passively? I realize that, my own mom included, I have never met a “real mom.” Shit. Lil’ Cuties appears to be in the business of pacifier manufacturing; I Google the phrase “pacifier brands,” scribble down a few names, and attempt to dress as dumpily as possible. (“Real moms,” I assume, have no time for self-respect.)

Lil’ Cuties HQ is located in a nondescript, soul shatteringly bleak business park situated squarely within the asshole of the San Fernando Valley. I park my car in the lot, next to an SUV with a car seat in the back seat. I instinctively turn around to examine my own back seat. There is, unsurprisingly, no car seat present. I pray no one notices. I realize that I am acting needlessly paranoid. I continue acting needlessly paranoid.

Lil’ Cuties interior belies its nondescript surroundings. The clean, modern office is filled with expensive looking paintings, African fertility dolls and, bizarrely, a sculpture that creates and emits smoke every two minutes. The receptionist explains that I am surrounded by “the owner’s art collection.” If I knew being a “real mom” was this profitable, I would have gotten pregnant a long time ago. It’s close to Halloween; the receptionist brings out a trough of candy that the REAL “real moms” surrounding me eat with aplomb. They’re talking amongst themselves about their (presumedly real) children. I try to keep a low profile.

I tell the moderator of the focus group that my daughter is three months old and that the two of us live with my fiance. For reasons unknown, I feel as though it would be disingenuous to say that I’m married. I have actually been married. I have never been a mother.

In spite of it all, I do a perfectly fine job of pantomiming motherhood – no one bats an eyelash when I say that I prefer MAM brand pacifiers. The other mothers seem to be more into their own anecdotes than mine; this bodes well for yours truly as it means I get to spend the majority of time staring into space. My mind is elsewhere; as a “real mom,” however, I’m still expected to be emotionally present.

In much the same way people in lines will give each other a “Can you believe this shit?” look whenever they have to soldier through the same horrible experiences, these “real moms” collectively look at one another and nod whenever one relates a motherly anecdote. As “real moms,” we all fish from the same barrel of existence. In lieu of nodding, I make a point to swig from one of an ever-increasing pile of water bottles whenever a “real mom” says anything that appears to be “real.” My bladder quickly fills. I’ve read that pregnancy weakens the bladder – I’m method acting.

A woman in pink velour track suit, face pockmarked, a pair of enormous silver hoops hanging from her ears, yammers on for what seems like a gestation period. Her miscellaneous face piercings do an admirable job of distracting from her pockmarks. She, a woman with penciled-on eyebrows and a tattooed-on personality, informs us that breast milk makes children intelligent. In lieu of scientific evidence, she presents the fact that she fed her two kids breast milk. One has a 4.0 GPA; the other is, uh, also smart. She seems to think that breast milk is the solution to the world’s intellectual ailments. She appears to have been a bottle baby.

Two hours pass. The focus group is over. I made it. Before we leave, the gals gang up and insist we drink the glass bottle Diet Cokes in the conference room refrigerator. The moderator insists that said Cokes are property of the art-loving owner of Lil’ Cuties, who probably won’t want to part with them. The “real moms,” however, are real thirsty; they won’t leave empty throated. The moderator sighs and caves; the mothers snatch the Cokes up, giggling like school girls all the while. I’m not thirsty, but I take one anyway. I don’t want to rock the boat.

Stephanie’s auburn hair and fit physique belie her age; her inexplicably ragged face insults it. The photos she shows us of her as a young woman, looking beautiful at parties with a cigarette in her hand (because SHE USED TO SMOKE! SHE’S JUST LIKE US!) make me pity her – the parties are over. Her leisure time now consists of explaining to school administrators that, y’know, even though her son may not seem sorry for shitting his pants out of spite, he actually is…it’s the autism that makes him appear remorseless, not sociopathology.

Every day, without fail, Stephanie is late. And every day, without fail, Charles is early. Apparently the bus he takes across town to get here is the only punctual bus that has ever existed. Charles and I sit in the dank vestibule, staring at anything but each other. He sighs. He sighs a lot. He clears his throat. He’s preparing to speak. Fuck. I have nowhere to go; I’ve already pissed in the cup. We make eye contact. He dives into one of his trademark screeds.

“Young people these days are just getting stupider. And the parents are letting it happen! THEY’RE DEFENDING THEM! When I was teaching, there was this kid in my class, this teenager, who couldn’t read! A damn teenager! He couldn’t read! And the kid – whose ethnicity shall remain nameless –”

I cut him off mid-sentence. “I appreciate your restraint,” I say tersely. He stares at me for a beat, absorbs nothing, and continues, occasionally punching the tabletop in front of him for emphasis. I zone out, as per usual. Stephanie shows up, apologizing profusely. As per usual.

She flashes a disingenuous smile. “How you guys doin’ today?” she asks. “Fine,” I respond, like a decent human being. Charles sighs. “Terrible,” he says. “Oh, Charles, I’m sorry to hear that,” she replies. “What’s wrong?” “I don’t have any money!” Charles declares, throwing his flabby arms into the air like an infant. Charles throws his arms in the air almost as much as he sighs. He also enjoys putting his head in his hands, as long as someone’s looking at him when he does so. “A man works for a living for 40 years, goes to Westpoint – which was very hard – and look what he gets! NOTHING!” He puts his head in his hands. “I don’t have a job! No one wants to hire me! And I have no friends! All I do is sit at home, smoke cigarettes and play computer games on the laptop!” Stephanie turns the charm back on. She smiles. “Well, Charles, you know what? We’re here to make your life better! Once you kick the smokes, you can move out to the Philippines and start enjoying your retirement!” Charles sighs. “I CAN’T MOVE TO THE PHILIPPINES BECAUSE I DON’T HAVE ANY MONEY!”

Charles has had three heart attacks. According to him, he’s made (and lost) a fortune. He once told Stephanie and I that, “Eight years ago, I was living the American Dream. Had three houses. A million dollars in assets. ‘Then my EX WIFE DECIDED TO RUIN EVERYTHING!” It was at this point in the story, when the tabletop punching became particularly violent, that Stephanie and I first made genuine eye contact. For a moment, we bonded over our mutual fear of and contempt for Charles. The moment passed; we never bonded again.

Charles’ dream is to move to the Philippines and “fish everyday.” This is why he wants to quit smoking cigarettes. This is why he doesn’t want to have another heart attack. This is why he doesn’t want to die. “And it’d be real nice to find a little woman out there for me, too, if you know what I mean,” he’ll say to Stephanie while winking. The only person who wants Charles to live, however, is Charles. The fact that he continues to keep on keeping on, despite the fact that he “DOESN’T HAVE ANY MONEY” and “DOESN’T HAVE ANY FRIENDS” and “HIS KIDS WON’T SPEAK TO ME! SHE TURNED ‘EM AGAINST ME!” is bewildering. Given what I know about him, he’s staying alive solely to make everyone around him feel uncomfortable.

Approximately three times a day, Charles will remind us that “HE DOESN’T HAVE ANY FRIENDS!” On one such day, Stephanie decides to solve the problem. “You know what, Charles? Let’s get you some friends! Some nice, non-smoking buddies!” Charles looks at her incredulously. “How am I gonna do that, huh? All I do is sit at home, smoke cigarettes and play computer games on the laptop! I DON’T DO ANYTHING!”

“Well,” Stephanie begins, “do you like board games?” Once again, Charles looks at her incredulously. “What does it matter if I like board games? I’VE GOT NO ONE TO PLAY ‘EM WITH! I’VE GOT NO FRIENDS!”

Stephanie continues. “But…do you like board games?” she asks. “Of course I like board games!” he responds. “Well,” Stephanie says, “why don’t you put a sign up on the bulletin board in your apartment building seeing if anyone wants a board game buddy?” Charles looks at her as if she just suggested he go fuck himself. “The apartment manager won’t LET ANYONE PUT ANYTHING ON THE BULLETIN BOARD!” he responds. “Ok…well, why don’t you put a sign up on your door?” she asks. Charles shakes his head. “Nowadays, people think you’re a creep if you wanna know the people who live around you. I don’t know any of my neighbors. None of ‘em speak English anyway. NO ONE’S GONNA COME TO MY DOOR!”

This time, Stephanie the one who sighs. “Well, why don’t you put an ad up on Craigslist?” Charles throws his hands up. “I can’t put an ad up on CRAIGSLIST! YOU PUT AN AD UP ON CRAIGSLIST, ALL OF A SUDDEN YOU GET PEOPLE TRYIN’ TO SPAM SCAM YOU, GIVIN’ YOU VIRUSES ON YOUR COMPUTER!” He speaks with the authority of someone who has genuinely been “spam scammed” via Craigslist. I fantasize about shaking the hand of the spam scammer in question.

I show up one day and Charles isn’t there. I piss in my cup, sit down, and wait for Stephanie. She rushes in, her glasses askew. She looks worried. “Charles is in the hospital,” she says. I feign concern. “Oh, wow,” I respond. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know,” she sighs. “They won’t tell me. I hope he’s all right.” An uneventful session occurs and we part ways. The next day, a new man is sitting in Charles’ chair. He’s wearing a bluetooth headset and track pants. His gaze, which darts wildly around the room, resembles that of a caged animal. We’re introduced; I immediately forget his name. He is our new Charles. He is, however, the antithesis of Charles. Charles 2.0 isn’t a big talker. He never sighs. He has friends. He’s trying to quit smoking for the same reason he quit drinking – so his daughter will stop crying. His girlfriend drinks half a bottle of wine every night, but it “isn’t a big deal” because he hides the car keys when she does so. He tells me he sells pot, but that he “don’t smoke the supply.” He asks that I not tell Stephanie. I willingly oblige. Charles would hate Charles 2.0. I like him.

The last time I came home sobbing and covered in blood, feeling very Evan Dando-esque (“Why Do You Do This to Yourself?” indeed). I scoffed at the nurse when she told me hydrogen peroxide would get out the blood, my blood, she spilled all over my sweater – but it actually did. And that woman lived to see another day.

Our task, should degeneracy had forced us to choose to accept it, was to not smoke for one day. ONE goddamned day. I’m an alternate, who has already explained that I really can’t and shouldn’t be here, seeing as I have some temp work to take care of in Inglewood from 8PM to 12AM tonight (gotta pay off those student loans!). The American Hero I’m understudying for strolls in and takes the lung equivalent of a piss test. He has three times the amount of CO2 in his lungs as he’s supposed to. THREE goddamned times. It looks like someone can’t shake the dragon. “Have you been around secondhand smoke?” the girl behind the counter asks. He fervently nods – yes, yes, he’s been around secondhand smoke. “Everybody smokes,” he explains. His explanation is as empty as his promise not to smoke. I am no longer the alternate.

I’m taken to the basement, where I await my injection. The coed who’s running the show asks me what I’d like to eat for lunch; after a teeth-pulling analysis of what the VA Hospital’s cafeteria offers its fallen heroes, I reluctantly order a steak panini. Immediately afterward, though, I change my order to a tuna sandwich. I’ve eaten tuna sandwiches the previous two times; to shake things up would seem disingenuous. I am the same person, the same degenerate, who has allowed radiation to be put in my veins three times – since when do I deserve grilled sandwiches, let alone steak? This, exactly this, is my lot in life. And damned if I’m gonna pretend like it isn’t. She returns with a chicken salad sandwich.

The nurse, my former (and now present) nemesis, instantly makes me bleed. Thick drops run down my arm as history repeats itself. She is just as incoherent as I remember, and her smile as big. Nothing can get her down, lest of all the blood coming out of the tube that she has artlessly jammed into my vein. She laughs. “We take care of blood later,” she tells me. I nod silently and watch the blood continue its mad dash for freedom.

The bathroom is the same as I remember it – reeking of urine. The first time I go in, a fresh load of it is lingering in the urinal. I wrap what can only be described as a roll of toilet paper around my hand and flush it. Urine seems to permeate every surface and every molecule of air in this bathroom; it’s as if the entire hospital was built on an ancient diaper burial ground. Even the hand sanitizer dispenser appears to have a thick, crusty pool of dried urine below it. I leave the bathroom and walk down the hall back to my room. Terrified looking old men in darkened rooms stare back at me as I do it.

I sit down, nod off, and wake with a start. Someone in the hall is (loudly) extolling the virtues of sweet wine. I nod back off.

I use my computer to take a photograph of the IVs coming out of my arm. The image has a pornographic quality to it. I hastily delete it.

When I came in, it was light. When I leave, it’s dark. There’s blood on my shirt again. But I pour some hydrogen peroxide on it.

She wraps a flashlight around her forehead. What – is she going spelunking in my vagina? I have no idea; she and I exchange no words. The speculum the aide offers her is not good enough; she demands, in broken English, “the green one.” The aide pulls said speculum from a drawer; it is aesthetically identical to the first, the only difference being that it is wrapped in green cellophane. Upon unwrapping the green speculum, she says, “I go inside now.” She goes inside now.

The matriarch of a Korean soap opera is now foraging around in my secret garden. She is doing so sans delicacy. Her confusion is contagious; I am too bewildered by this chain of events to even get angry. I feel indigent. I feel impoverished. I feel humbled. After a minute or so of rooting, she says (to no one in particular), “Done.” She leaves without speaking to me or the aide. The aide leaves. None of my ailments have been solved; they haven’t even been acknowledged. I ask myself, “What – they don’t have vaginas in Korea?”

]]> http://i-gave-up.com/throw-both-your-legs-up-if-you-dont-give-a-fuck/feed/ 0 http://i-gave-up.com/tantamount-to-d-day/ http://i-gave-up.com/tantamount-to-d-day/#comments Sun, 14 Aug 2011 03:27:39 +0000 Megan Beth Koester http://i-gave-up.com/blog/?p=33 I’m sitting, naked save for a paper gown, in a windowless room. Korean language posters advertising cut-rate pap smears are my only source of entertainment – there isn’t even a three-year-old issue of Time (or something equally formerly topical) to peruse in here. I stare at the Korean characters – all of them look essentially the same. I wonder how Koreans can tell them apart. Basically, I wonder how Korean people can read. I then wonder how my mind could allow itself to indulge in such a narrow-minded, xenophobic thought process. I justify said process by reminding myself that:

A) I’m about to get a pap smear for free

and

B) I know how to read English.

White guilt, schmite guilt – it’s hard not to be xenophobic with perks like this!

Time passes slowly. The longer I wait, the more shaken up I become. My xenophobic victory has faded; now all I have to keep me occupied is the buzz of fluorescent lights and crippling paranoia. There’s no way I can talk my way out of this. It’s biology, baby! They’re going to test the pH balance of my cooter! I can’t handle it anymore. I start pacing. Once I finally hear the door open, I run back to the examining table and try to look casual. I fail. An overweight, middle-aged Korean guy in a lab coat enters the room. He says nothing and slips some latex gloves over his meaty mitts. This is my Korean war.

My body kills sperm more effectively than any spermicide, FDA approved or experimental, ever could. Indeed, my ability to suck the life out of men, both figuratively and literally, defies all scientific logic. I’ve been told (by a medical doctor, natch) that I am infertile; as I’ve never felt the warm, parasitic suckling of an embryo in my womb I’m inclined to accept this as an undisputable truth. The fact that I am infertile, however, isn’t a matter of public knowledge – that being the case, I can still exploit my pseudo-fertility for fun and profit. This diseased, dishonest logic has led me to a nondescript medical building off of Wilshire Boulevard where I’ve been promised a cool $120 for some paperwork and a simple pelvic exam. The waiting room is filled with elderly Korean women – they’re just as barren as I am, but they earned it. I didn’t. I walk through the hallway to the exam room feeling like I won the lottery – I’ve won a lottery of sorts, one that continues to pay tangible and abstract dividends. There’s only one problem, though. I know I’ll fail my pelvic exam.

An antibiotic I took a week ago gave me a yeast infection, which I’m still nursing. The fluid emanating from my most tender of regions is a stream, not a flood, but still impossible to ignore. I’m certain the doctor will find me out. As I repeatedly lie on my paperwork (Have I taken an antibiotic recently? No. Am I experiencing any discomfort in my pelvic region? No.), my anxiety overwhelms me. You think you’re so fucking clever, I tell myself. How are you gonna con your way out of this one, Ponzi?

The paperwork’s filled out and the exam pre-party has begun. I’m lead into a cluttered room occupied by an elderly Korean gentleman wearing a nametag that reads, simply, “Mr. Kim.” Mr. Kim has covered his walls with photocopied pages from Spanish dictionaries; not only is he ESL, he’s SSL. Thinking about how frustrating his life must be, I feel something akin to empathy for him – that is, until he forcefully jams a needle into my vein. As a phlebotomist, Mr. Kim is mediocre at best. My arm throbs as it bleeds into the bandage that he haphazardly slaps on it. Mr. Kim’s work is done, but mine isn’t. It’s time for the exam.

It is six o’clock in the morning and, in spite of it all, I am awake. To call me hungover would be a misnomer; I am, in fact, still drunk from the night before. Mere inebriation, however, cannot derail this train. The only thing stronger than my bad decision making skills is my will to make that paper.

It’s seven o’clock in the morning and I’m idling on the I-10. Consciousness drifts in and out of my sphere like a spiteful ex-boyfriend. I’m surrounded by people, hundreds of people, who are currently occupying the same hell as I. I’ve been told that what I am about to put myself through may make me a bit ill; this information, however, is superfluous. The fact that I am awake at this hour has already sickened me to no end. I power through the pain and reach my destination.

A statuesque Eastern European woman greets me in front of the hospital. Our entire encounter feels illicit, like a drug deal. In a way I suppose it is. I’m lead into the hospital’s Clinical Treatment Center, a place I (shamefully) have encyclopedic knowledge of. I have visited the center twice this week. The head nurse looks derisively at me as I walk in. “Looks like we’ve got a frequent flyer,” she mumbles.

I’m laying in a hospital bed, metaphorically shitting my pants. What if the head nurse exposes me for the fraud I am? Being labeled as a “frequent flyer” cannot be positive. Am I about to be fucked out of $200? Am I about to be escorted out and told never to come back? What if I can’t do this any more? Will I have to get a — choke — job? A real job? Jesus Christ, AM I GOING TO HAVE TO GET A JOB? My thought process is overwhelming; it’s surely increasing my blood pressure. The nurse is about to take my blood pressure. Dear God, what if my blood pressure’s too high? The nurse slips a cuff around my arm and gesticulates toward the Eastern European in the hall. “Does she know about the other studies you’ve done?” she asks quietly. I shake my head. “Good,” she replies. “She doesn’t need to know.” My thought process shuts off. I sigh. I am now overwhelmed by the desire to send this woman a fruit basket.

A needle’s put into my vein, a bacterial toxin is put into the needle, and (what I assume will be) the hardest part of my day is over. It’s eight o’clock in the morning and the Eastern European is insisting on ordering me breakfast. As I am rarely, if ever, awake to consume breakfast, this will be yet another treat – a way, if you will, to celebrate my win with the head nurse. My meal, an egregious amount of food un-artfully arranged on a tray, is brought to my bed. It is a carbon copy of the “balanced breakfast” I admired in television commercials as a child. I ravenously eat it all. And then I throw up. And I don’t stop throwing up. I feel more than a bit ill.