Congestion, Flatulence, and Cerebro-Vascular Migraines

I start my new job in edu-action today, which is essentially a promotion, a raise, and an excuse to sit around on the internet for shifts at a time, which all in all is a pretty sweet day for me. Normally, a day like that would be enough.

However, things have developed around here.

This weekend we are hosting a science fiction spectacular, where if people wear costumes they are eligible to win a prize, and the staff are all wearing little bobblies on their heads to look like Martiansyestheydolooklikemartians.

But that's not enough. There are stormtroopers.

There is a battalion of stormtroopers wandering the halls. I'm not kidding. The place is thick with stormtroopers, which (apart from being awesome) serves the purpose of allowing me to hear the Mrs. refer to them as "the white thingies that help Darth Vadar."

Or "Vader," depending on your preference.

And, normally, that would be more than enough. I could slake myself on geekdom for days with these goings on, but the Center as deigned to offer me yet more tribute in its utter appreciation for all that I am.

And that tribute... is Boba Fett.

The man who played Boba Fett is here. He's here. He's somewhere here. I can't explain... I mean... he's here.

I used to think we were something of a rink-a-dink organization. Just a little blip on the national science radar. Then we got a moon rock, one of the big chunks of the total twleve ounces that we brought back with us from earth's only natural satellite, and that was pretty impressive. Then I found out Buzz Aldrin is coming here for a book signing, the second man to ever walk on the moon (which my mother actually needed reminding of), and I started to think we were something more than a bit player.

But now, those are merely incidentals. The pope could come here and bless the ground upon which we perform feats of miraculous science, and I wouldn't be more impressed than I am about the fact that Boba-fucking-Fett is in the building. Somewhere.

Hell, he's a new pope anyway. At least the previous one had a couple Beatle names. Now THAT's a rockin' pope.

Or, that's what I thought, at least. I mean, the stuff about the pope holds true, but not the stuff about Boba Fett. Turns out that the Boba Fett that was here (and there was an actor who played Boba Fett here) was the kid who played Baby Fett in Epidsode II... and I was extremely disappointed. Disappointed to a degree I didn't think could previously exist. I was all set to meet Jeremy Bulloch. I was ready for it. Then this lanky teenage New Zealander appears before me, all bad skin and too-much-time-on-the-internet-pallor, and I am taken aback by 1) how much he looks like he did in the film, just older and paler, and b) how much he is NOT JEREMY BULLOCH.

SOMEONE WILL PAY.

But I digress.

The point is... it WAS an awesome weekend. That's right, was. In between this line and the last, an entire week has transpired. I swear, I'm updating this fucking thing less and less. I didn't use to think I'd ever get this busy. I blame my new job, partially, but mostly I blame God Mode in God of War, which is as close to impossible as any game can rationally be, I believe.

Sci Fi Weekend was awesome, though. The trouble is that I have to stay in that room, because there's no one else to leave in charge if I have to leave, say, to go to the bathroom. And that necessity is becoming more and more urgent as I get older.

When I was in junior high, I noticed that shortly after eating my pizza lunch (delicious), I woul be treated to an afternoon of trying not to break wind in a crowded and socially unforgiving classroom full of my peers. I became extremely flatulent, the more time went on, and am now in fact known, in certain circles, by the nickname "Rotten," because that's really the only accurate phrase for my innards upon casual observation. "That of a 50-year-old Man" might be a more appropriate monicker, upon further scrutiny.

It's something of a social crutch. You can have pretty much any other physical condition, paralysis, missing fingers, lazy eyes, and it will be looked over by society. People will try to make you feel good about it, people will look past it as best they can (at least when you're looking back at them). But if it makes a smell, halitosis, smelly feet, or, in my case, extreme high volume of butt-fume, you have a problem. No one is going to cut you any slack for that. You'll be ostracized. You'll be asked to leave rooms. You'll be told you're an animal. Do you have any control over your disease? No. But you are held responsible just the same.

I swear, the next person who brings up my gas better be in pristine health. They'd better be the damn modern-day Adonis, otherwise I am going to take personal offense at whatever their pathetic little frames do not have in a state of utter perfection. Wear glasses? Gross! Go be nearsighted somewhere else! Diabetic? Dude! If you like the sweeties, you get diabetes! Give me a warning if you're going to need insulin, man! JESUS!

The AIDS? COME ON, MAN! NO ONE WANTS TO BE HERE WITH THAT GOING ON!

I guess that last one might be true to some unfair extent... but the point stands firm. My girlfriend even calls me farty-pants. ME! A GOD AMONG MEN!

FARTY PANTS!

Add to this my constant nasal congestion, deep sinus problems, and their subsequent physical manifestation of me hocking large globules of mucus this way and that along my many travails and you get a mother who is at the end of her short and extremely well-groomed rope. If only I could manage to bust a safety and hwark a loogie at the same time... maybe I could get a job at Nickelodeon or something. Don't they have a show where you do that? All the time?

I look at my conditions like little maladies of personality. I like to think that after I'm gone, there will be people in the world who would be delighted to learn that I was prone to flatulence. "Really? He farted a lot?! Oh my God! He doesn't seem like he would!" What the hell does that even mean? What would a farter look like? I mean, does everyone who farts have to be some bald, fat, greasy-wife-beatered Brooklynite scarfing a hoagie and yelling at his wife in the kitchen, pausing only to take sick pleasure in the alarmingly audible trumpeting coming from the space between his ass and his Barca lounger. What about the tragically beleaguered intellectual, forced to find uninhabited sections of the library? To sit all alone in film screenings? To, even after reaching success and vigor in life, spend time crying into his hands on the foot of the bed, an understanding wife caressing his shoulders, telling him everything will be alright, trying not to notice the soft toots that punctuate each tortured sob? WHAT ABOUT HIM???

You fuckers.

So, on top of this... persecution, I found out recently that the blind spots I've been having accompanied by headaches and nausea are what they call in the world of my-goddamn-head "Cerebro (brain) Vascular (blood vessels) Migraine (FUCK!)." Due to stress, a lack of rest, and not enough relaxing, healthy exercise, blood vessels in my head constrict and reduce blood flow, then re-dilate to equal pain. So, partial blindness, then mild agony. Rock on.

It's funny how often this sort of thing befalls me. Considerations I don't even think about, things that I can't imagine would affect me, end up being the exception upon which I am forced to re-define my life by. I now have to chill the hell out, lest I lose my vision and create blind spots while driving. That would suck.

All that I want is to be able to go back to school, watch movies until I fall asleep at night, and be with my girlfriend until I can't breathe anymore. I want to be like Bukowski, I want to be a social martyr. I want, I think, to be misunderstood and outcast. It's easier to be romantically detached and much more eventful when you finally overcome and win the hearts of a people despite your personal or physical flaws, rather than doing so in light of them.

So... let's make that happen, guys. Start the revolution of repugnance.

Should the ratan become saturated, I shall soon forge a falcata.