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anti-press ezine 2002 08 09
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< ANTI-PRESS EZINE #33 >
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"We're Positive About The Negative"
An August E-dition
(C) Copyright 2002 Anti-Press All Rights Reserved
=============================================================
* Sexism Puts Writer In A Pinch *
By Stan Spire
A mammogram?
As a typical heterosexual man I don't think about breasts unless they're
attached to a good-looking woman.
A mammogram? I need a mammogram?
I'm talking to my doctor about one of my nipples; it's indented.
Another doctor had noticed it years ago and said that it wasn't anything
important since I wasn't a woman. So I just forgot about it, waiting
for my nipple to decide to un-invert itself. Recently I was wondering
what was causing it to dimple and so I mentioned it to my regular
doctor. He looked at it and decided that to be safe that I should get
it properly X-rayed.
Meaning a mammogram.
"Don't worry," he assured me. "It's probably nothing serious but you
should have it checked out."
I kept staring at him. I needed another kind of assurance.
"Don't worry," he continued. "Some men do get mammograms. You might
see another man up there for the same examination."
So the doctor set up an appointment for me at the ******WOMEN'S******
Imaging Center.
At this point some enlightened readers are saying, "So what?" Well, I
grew up in a conservative home during a conservative time. Even today
there are two topics that some people consider to be taboo, subjects
that should only be spoken in whispers, never joked about. The two
topics are:
1. Cancer
2. Tits
Two days later a cab drops me at the complex that houses various labs
and clinics, including the ******WOMEN'S****** Imaging Center. I walk
in like some guy sneaking into the ******LADIES****** Room for some
quick bladder relief, my registration form in hand. I had filled it out
the night before, noting its feminine hue.
Yup, it couldn't be a unisex white form, it had to be a pink one. Of
course some questions applied to me; others were non-applicable.
"Number of births?"
"Do you have a regular menstrual cycle? If not, at what age did you
stop menstruating?"
And, of course, there were other questions pertaining to whether or not
I was pregnant or had received breast implants. I had crossed out all
those questions with the manly application of a black magic marker. The
thought crossed my mind: only women are the victims of sexism. Hah!
I used to be high-strung when I was younger, feeling on edge in a
difficult social situation. Those days are long gone. Now I don't give
a flying fug. I didn't act like a nervous jerk in a stupid TV sitcom
when I entered the center and printed my name on the sign-in sheet. I
wasn't embarrassed; just a little annoyed. After all, why couldn't they
just call it an Imaging Center and drop the ******WOMEN'S****** part?
Sexual equality, my masculine ass.
At least I didn't have to wait long. I was called into an office to
hand over my registration form and go through the insurance info
routine. As I sat there, I noticed that the center eschewed the neutral
look you would find in a hospital. The walls were an off-white but the
glass in the doors displayed nice lacy flowers, a pattern repeated up
around the ceiling. On the desk stood a can filled with a special kind
of freebie: at first they looked like tongue depressors but on closer
inspection I ascertained they were emery boards, each one emblazoned
with the name of the center. Just the thing I needed to touch up my
dainty nails before an important date. Gee, I wondered, why couldn't
they be giving out sandpaper for the guys that have to visit this place?
I felt like a boob.
Despite my annoyance I behaved myself. After all, ignoring the
ludicrousness of the setup, I was here for a serious reason. Years ago
I had watched cancer waste away one of my friends. Stomach cancer
killed one of my grandmothers. I had never been a paragon of health.
The people at the center were friendly. I can imagine what they have to
deal with on occasion. Of course, I only saw distaff staff. Any male
employees were in the back.
Soon I was taken into the examination room. There it was, a machine
with some sort of impressive name like MAMMOSCANNER 3000. As instructed
I took off my shirt and then walked up to the machine. I was putting my
inverted nipple in position but the technician told me that the normal
one should be done first. They needed to compare both nipples.
It was like the first day of school. Instead of learning how to get on
and off a bus without tripping, I had to learn the skill of getting my
manly -- and flabby -- chest up to the machine, one arm extended out,
then relaxing it while holding on a bar. A pair of transparent plastic
boxes did a top and bottom squeeze on my nipple. The technician asked
me if it was too tight. I told her I was OK. Hey, I could take it like
a man. Then again, I couldn't imagine what it would be like if my
breast was a lot bigger and a lot more sensitive. Definitely could hurt
"Hold your breath." Zap. One down, one to go. I remembered my last
visit to the dentist, the lead shield covering my testicles. No lead
shield here. Was this machine pinpoint accurate, no spillage? I didn't
want to end up fathering any "X-Men."
Hold breath. Zap. All done. Now I had to put on my shirt and wait for
the results.
I sat in the waiting area and read the newspaper. At least that was
there. Didn't see any copies of "Sports Illustrated" lying around. Then
again, I'm not into sports. (Hey, I'm really not a he-man lout.)
The technician came out. Taking me aside, she told me that everything
was OK. I asked her what was causing the inversion of my nipple but she
didn't know. It could be a number of things.
A mystery to be solved some other day.
But I'll be damned if I'm going to a gynecologist to learn the answer.
* Ranting From the Reality Center *
No, we haven't been on summer vacation. We've been trying to get this
latest e-dition out for some time but have been sidetracked by a few
distractions. For example--
Deer!
We hit the brakes but it's too late. The doe in mid-leap, right in
front of the van. It slams off the hood and rolls on its haunch.
Somehow it scrambles to its feet and runs away into a nearby field.
Shit!
Dusk. Night is falling. We're driving a friend's mini-van, on the way
back from the mall, very close to Plattsburgh. You'd expect to
encounter deer miles away from town, not here. We pull off the road and
quickly park, punching on the hazard flashers. We get out, watching out
for other cars zipping by, lucky drivers who missed the pants-pissing
excitement of slamming into a wild animal. We see that the hood to the
mini-van is buckled. We start to knock on doors in the neighborhood but
no one is home. Three homes but everyone is out this Friday evening.
Double-shit!
Eventually we end up driving into the city where we find someone home.
We call the state police to file an accident report.
A few days later, sitting in the Cubbyhole Cafe, we tell a friend about
our close encounter of the endeering kind. She lives near the spot
where we hit the deer. She tells us that one of her neighbors likes to
feed the deer, leaving food out in his garden for them. Great. Deer
are stupid but humans can be stupidier. What's next? The neighborhood
idiot leaves a salt lick on the yellow lines in the middle of the road?
Crash!
Our "new" used computer dies. A friend works on it but it outwits him
every which way, refusing to reformat. He tells us we need another copy
of Windblows 95, but thanks to Bill Gates and his copy protection crap,
we end up with no computer and he keeps raking in a few more billion
dollars.
The independent huckster who sold us the computer is upset because we
didn't buy a printer from him. We tried one of his "pre-owned" (i.e.
pre-worn) units. There was one problem: it crappily rendered our work.
We ended up buying an inexpensive new printer at a chain store and our
effrontery greatly irked the huckster. So he ain't going to help us
now. Anyway, should we really trust someone who sells computers and
related accessories from the trunk of his car?
We needed another computer but with a limited budget options were few.
We picked up a $100 steam-engine at a local shop that back ups its
refurbished product for at least 30 days. This PC works -- barely.
When we're on the Net, there's no data stream: instead, it's data
sludge.
So we sit here using WordPad, trying to put together another e-dition.
At least we have Stan Spire to provide an article.
And who is Stan Spire? Well, he kinda works for us, always there when
we need him. Magazine World at Humber College in Canada interviewed us
via email and the student reporter doing the piece needed a name or a
"handle"; apparently, her editor didn't think that Anti-Press was a
legitimate appellation. So Stan's name fronted for us. If you want to
see the article, go to:
<http://magazines.humberc.on.ca/magworld2002/mindingyourbusiness/street.html>
At least we weren't misquoted in Magazine World. One less vexation.
But we got plenty of them. Stories for another time.
Just remember that we're suffering for your sins. So write us some
email. It's the least you could do. We know you're out there; we can
hear you breathing...
Now excuse us as we pull ourselves down off this cross.
=============================================================
NOTICE: Unless indicated otherwise, all articles by Anti-Press. Articles
submitted by others do not necessarily express or reflect the opinions or
beliefs of Anti-Press.
WHERE WE'RE AT: Anti-Press Ezine radiates from our Precision Reality Center.
We're presently entrapped in the alleged city of Plattsburgh, northeastern
New York State (NENYland), USA. ("Fuggin' great. We're off our cross but
our bloody stigmata is clogging up the computer keyboard.")
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