Category Archives: True-Ass Tales

Untruth & Consequences: Debriefing

31 Thursday Jan 2013

Posted by in Philosophy, True-Ass Tales

≈ 33 Comments

Tags

, ,

By Tardsie

It’s In Here Somewhere….

In which a conclusion is drawn, many “umms” and “y’knows” are uttered, and the author’s resemblance to Greta Van Susteren becomes painfully obvious.

Further Reading:

Mama said wisely, “A boy gets to be a man when a man is needed.  Remember this thing.  I have known boys forty years old because there was no need for a man.”

John Steinbeck

***

Of all that is written I love only what a man has written with his blood.  Write with blood, and you will experience that blood is spirit.

Friedrich Nietzsche

***

What cannot be cured must be endured.

Old Maxim

***

Untruth & Consequences: Drug School! (Part II)

29 Tuesday Jan 2013

Posted by in Crime, Culture, Stupidity, True-Ass Tales

≈ 22 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

By Tardsie

I Have Always Believed Learning To Be A Life-Long Process.

Part The Last: In which we finally stop talking for a while.

After finishing my class-prep in the parking lot of a McDonald’s, I arrived for my 9:00 AM Drug School appointment with ten minutes to spare. I wanted this experience to run smoothly, and to antagonize the DS faculty by being late would only serve to put the relationship on a bad footing from the start. Despite these precautions and my generally optimistic nature, it was hard to believe that this experience would turn out any better than had my previous brushes with counseling. As it happens, I got lucky.

Except For Not Being A Nerdy White Dude With Glasses, She Was Exactly Like This.

I’d signed up for a private class, and after filling out a few forms was shown to a conference room where the instructor awaited me on the opposite side of a small table adorned with a fantail of legal documents, reference materials and drug quizzes. Carmen was a black woman in her early fifties, with a tailored suit that softened her heroic contours. She was not fat precisely, but possessed of a certain bigness which spoke to neither poor health nor indolence, and was simply formidable.

I told Carmen the circumstances which had brought me to Drug School, and she asked me what I thought about being there. I told her, “I know you probably hear this from almost everybody who comes through this program, but I don’t really think I need to be here.” She agreed that she did hear that a lot, and encouraged me to expound on what I’d said.

“I think it’s bullshit,” I said, explaining that for all their incompetent zeal, this was the best result the prosecution could muster, and sending me to Drug School was more an act of spite than honest concern for my welfare. Careful not to get off on the wrong foot, however, I added, “But I don’t mean to disrespect you.”

Carmen managed to look amused. “You don’t have the power to disrespect me,” she said. “Nobody can disrespect me unless I let them.” I was starting to really like this woman.

OH, I HEARD THAT!

One of the first questions she asked was about my drug and alcohol history, and about my current behavior. Although weed was the only bad behavior to which I’d have to confess at that time, I was worried that some of my past experiences would complicate matters. In addition to some heavy alcohol use in my late teens and a fondness sometime later for psychedelics, there were a few chemical enhancements that I’d tried once or twice which I feared were sufficiently heinous to set off her substance abuse warning system.

On the other hand, I knew that only by being honest would I derive any benefit from this experience, so I told her everything. When I was done, she said something that let me know she was a cut above the “professionals” to whom I’d previously spoken.

“Well,” she said, her voice slow and neutral, “From what I’m hearing, it sounds like you smoke too much marijuana.”

Seriously, How Difficult Was That? It Just Seemed Pretty Obvious From This End.

We did have one sticking point. “I’m confused,” she said, flipping through her files until she located my drug evaluation from Pee-Testers International. She looked up and gave me a hard stare, “Your evaluation indicates that you’re drug free, but from what you’re telling me, that’s not the case at all.”

I smiled. “I wasn’t as forthcoming with them as I have been with you.”

“I see,” she said, her face inscrutable and unsmiling.

But I Never Lied To You.

Exceeding even my wildest expectations, Drug School was done by 11:30. In fairness to both Carmen and the program, we covered a lot of material and I took several quizzes. I’m a fast test-taker, and it also helps to remember that the curriculum is hardly designed for Rhodes Scholars. Carmen and I talked quite a bit. She was informative, kind and frank.

“I want to thank you for creating an environment in which I could be honest,”¹ I told her. “I could have jobbed this, you know.”

“I know,” she said, no doubt remembering my drug analysis interview with the credulous folks at PTI.

She gave me my DS diploma and court certificate, and offered me a final piece of advice. “Listen,” she said, hesitant for the first and only time in our short acquaintance, “You probably didn’t really need to be here, but I want to make it clear to you that you smoke too much marijuana. It’s not good for your lungs.”

“I’ve started using a vaporizer,” I told her truthfully.

“Oh,” she said. “That’s much better for you.”

Seriously, Lady–My Body Is A Temple.

So kids, I’m hardly a role model. These things that I’ve done–please don’t do them. Not unless you want to be hella awesome like me. In the coda to this already-bloated series, Untruth & Consequences: Debriefing,² I’ll attempt to find a moral in these sordid episodes.

¹”B.S. Who talks like that?” I do–that’s an exact quote. The way I talk and the way I write are so very often misconstrued as ridiculously grandiloquent affectations. In fact, that’s just how God made me. Elderly ladies find it quite charming, in case you’d like to know.  ∞ T.
² Yeah, I thought I was done as well. It’ll be short, I promise.  ∞ T.

Untruth & Consequences: Drug School! (Part I)

25 Friday Jan 2013

Posted by in Crime, Culture, History, True-Ass Tales

≈ 37 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

By Tardsie

Note: This post has been split into two parts to prevent reading fatigue.

“Where’d you learn that, Cheech? Drug School?”

Trooper Rodney Farva

***

Part 4 of 4.5. In which dirty deals are done, the author gains a new alma mater, and some weed is consumed.

If you’re coming to us late, be sure to check out the previous three installments in this series, Don’t Forget To Hurt, So Much Love To Share and I’m Tardsie, And I’m An Alcoholic Apparently, so you don’t feel all left out.

***

The prosecution had nothing on me and they knew it.¹ They’d chosen to be vindictive in light of my juvenile criminal record, believing incorrectly that some combination of distance, fatigue or finances would wear me down. Now, after three court appearances over five grueling months, they were throwing in the towel. But not without a last, teensy-weensy Fuck You! to remember them by: the charges would be dropped, provided that I attend drug school.

Ironically, Drug School Differs From Real School In That You Can’t Buy Drugs There.

This experience proved to be vastly different from previous attempts to fix me, not least in that it proved worthwhile in its own regard, and not simply as fodder for funny stories to be told and retold throughout the years.  A great many years had passed since the events related in previous installments of this series, and the nascent human being I had been in those dark times–soft, directionless and vulnerable–was gone, replaced by a new creature, one who had begun to understand himself and what he stood for, one who was not so easily cowed or willing to give away that which was so hard-won, and who would prove to be the not-so-distant forbear of the man I am today.

I was angry–angry for being put in this position. Like envy or honest pain, anger is an emotion which has of late come into general disfavor. Being consumed by anger to the point where it, rather than conscious decision, rules your life is undoubtedly a very bad thing; anger is a terrible master, as untold deaths throughout the span of human history will attest. But when it is the wheel rather than the engine, anger is a powerful servant. My outrage gave me the tenacity to push back ferociously against an overzealous prosecutor. Such was my exasperation over the final agreement that I was determined to get the last laugh. They wanted to send me to drug school? I resolved to spit in their faces by learning something.

I’m A Nerd. That’s How We Roll.

There were a variety of drug schools throughout the Puget Sound from which to choose. As has been my way with virtually all of my educational decisions, I didn’t put much thought into it, and picked a school in a run-down neighborhood of Tacoma, Washington not too far from where I’d gone to high school. There were several eight-hour classes scheduled every month, but I chose a private class. It cost a bit more, but I could do it the next day and without a peer-group that represented a rancid smorgasbord of wretched humanity. Most critically, I guessed that without a retinue of stoned mouth-breathers to dumb up the class, I’d be gone from there a long time before eight hours passed.

Not wanting to be late, I arrived at drug school well before the 9:00 AM start time. Nobody had arrived yet, so I parked at the McDonald’s across the street and got high.

C’Mon, Folks! It’s Drug School! You Didn’t Expect Me To Spend My Time Reading The Bible, Did You?

Stay Tuned For The Exciting Conclusion To Untruth & Consequences!

¹Obviously they had something on me or they wouldn’t have been so horny for a conviction, it just wasn’t very much. The tactics used against me were similar to those used against minorities and poor people to keep them in jail for BS offenses. Unfortunately for the prosecution, those fuckers–to borrow a coinage from “The Orator President” George W. Bush–misunderestimated me. ∞ T.

Untruth & Consequences: I’m Tardsie, And I’m An Alcoholic Apparently

21 Monday Jan 2013

Posted by in History, Stupidity, True-Ass Tales

≈ 34 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

By Tardsie

The Potential To Be An Asshole Is Always There, But Whiskey Helps You Put It To Best Use. That’s Permanent Marker, By The Way.

Part 3 of 4: In which are observed new symptoms to the same regrettable behavior, a bottom is briefly reached, and alcohol is revealed to be the author of all my woes.

If you haven’t already, be sure to check out the first two installments in this exciting series, Don’t Forget To Hurt and So Much Love To Share. If you miss them, you’ll also miss out on your 72 black-eyed virgins in heaven, so there’s that to think about.

My second experience with counselling was no better than the first, but at least was under somewhat different circumstances–this time I really was on drugs.

Also, it was my idea. Sort of.

In a successful bid to be readmitted to college after my expulsion,¹ I undertook a series of actions to demonstrate that I had once and for all forsaken my libertine ways: I went to Alcoholics Anonymous a couple of times, where I gained a respect for the venerable organization, if not a desire to become a part of it; I placed an ongoing ad in my college’s paper advertising the school’s counselling service (a meaningless gesture which claimed the lives of a great many trees, but was nonetheless wholeheartedly applauded by the administration); and visited a substance abuse counselor–a very bad one as it turns out.

Yeah, I Had To Suck A Lot Of Dick To Get Back Into School.

When I came to the counselor I had reached a point where I was the most receptive to substance abuse treatment I have been either before or since. Ironically, in our short time together, this earnest acceptance was about the only thing in me she managed to fix. I arrived a humble, chastened man, ready to open up to the therapist about my chemical intake so that I could get the help I was beginning to believe I so desperately needed. I told her the story of getting kicked out of school, and of the behaviors which had led to it. I was forthcoming about my increasingly heavy use of psychoactive drugs, and didn’t varnish the truth, even when it was uncomfortable.

When I was done, she surprised me by saying, “Well, I think it’s clear that you have a real problem with alcohol.”

Like It Apparently Helped Her Forget That I Was Smoking A Shitload Of Weed.

Although it’s true that I consumed a copious amount of alcohol in my early college years, it had tailed off substantially, and hadn’t played a significant role in my problems with the administration nor contributed meaningfully to my expulsion. Helpfully, I said, “Well, yeah…But, you know–I really think I might have more of a problem with marijuana these days.”

Some of the air seemed to fly from the room. She regarded me as a few frozen seconds ticked by. “The underlying problem is your alcoholism,” she said, her words deliberate and painted with a fatalistic urgency, “And that’s what we have to address first.”

It’s When You’re Just A Little Bit Inclined Toward A Certain Notion Or Ideology.

A little more cautiously, I said, “Well, it’s just that I don’t drink very much any more, and I smoke marijuana pretty much every day, so…”

“It’s alcohol,”² she said, making it clear that not only was the issue closed for discussion, but that I had made an enemy. I saw her once or twice more and talked about my alcoholism. As with my previous experience, it seemed like the best thing for everybody would be for me to just stop going.

It’s Like I Tell My Kids–Being Honest Never Did Anybody Any Good.

However, writing this series has given me an opportunity to reexamine these events in my life beyond the degree to which I have already explored them. As such, I conducted a statistical analysis of my current alcohol and marijuana intake to see how the therapist’s theory plays out over the long run.

Over the past 30 days I’ve had 3 glasses of wine (2 at Killers Concert in Las Vegas 12.28.12, 1 on New Year’s Eve) at 5 ounces each for 15 ounces total, and 1.5 beers (1 beer on New Year’s Eve, split beer with brother-in-law on New Year’s Day) at 12 ounces each for 18 ounces total. Taken altogether, I’ve consumed 33 ounces of alcohol in the last month. Although I can’t peg my marijuana intake with that same accuracy, it can safely be claimed that I’ve consumed no more than 8 ounces of the reefer, less than a quarter of my alcohol consumption during that same period. Statistics don’t lie.

An Alcoholic Never Knows When He’ll Slip. Will My Next Drink Come In Two Weeks At A Super Bowl Party Or Two Months From Now? Sometime In Between? You Think About It, I’ll Smoke A Bowl.

In the final installment, I’m sent to someone who does me a little good. Be sure to join us when we revisit DRUG SCHOOL!

¹The expulsion was for LSD, a decidedly non-addictive hallucinogen that turns your brain into an eight-hour laser-light show. This fact becomes significant in light of the silliness which follows. ∞ T.
²And in hindsight, okay–yeah, I see what she was trying to say. I simply substituted an addiction to alcohol for one to the sweet, sweet cheeba, and that while there are superficial differences in the symptoms, the underlying sickness remains the same. While I don’t accept that as an absolute, I do recognize some truth in it. However, that knowledge was hard-won through years of living, so I’m not sure what was accomplished by the therapist going full OmegaBitch on me right out of the gate like that. A valid observation does fuck all good for anybody when it’s wielded like an ax. ∞ T.

Untruth & Consequences: So Much Love To Share

18 Friday Jan 2013

Posted by in Culture, History, Stupidity, True-Ass Tales

≈ 24 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , ,

By Tardsie

Who’d Like To Go First?

Part 2 of 4: In which bureaucrats make decisions, hoodlum school is avoided, and the author confesses his youthful desire to make love to the world.

Be sure to check out our first installment, Don’t Forget To Hurt. You’ll kick yourself if you miss it.

Another consequence of my behavior has been three instances of mandated counselling.¹ Now, I think these kinds of therapy, when properly conducted, can work wonders in helping people get over their shit and on with their lives. But about the only thing I took from my first two encounters with the mental health profession is that not all professionals are created equal. In fact, some are kinda shitty.

And As Someone Who’s Spent A Total Of About 10 Hours In Various Counselling Programs, You Know I Know What I’m Talking About.

The first attempt to talk the bad out of me came during my junior year of high school.  I’d been recently booted from the choir program, and was having/creating issues in all my non-PE classes. The school bureaucrats quickly concluded that I was on drugs.² They offered me the stark choice of either seeing a psychiatrist, or else I could do my learnin’ with the brooding hardcases over at the hoodlum school. Since getting a shiv jammed into my eye-socket during fourth-period Reading Fundamentals would prove a considerable obstacle to my cherished goal of someday getting the fuck out of Tacoma, Washington, I opted instead for the mental health professional.

Who Knows? Perhaps I Would Have Met My First Boyfriend By Accident In The Dim Stalls Of The Wood Shop Bathroom.

The shrink I ended up seeing really looked the part. She was of that indeterminate age north of forty, expensively pantsuited and detached almost to the point of boredom. To her credit, when I told her that I had never done drugs, she didn’t ask me about it again. She asked me a lot of other questions, though, and made notes as I answered. She didn’t add or suggest anything, just kept peppering me with questions.

There was one topic, however, with which she seemed unusually preoccupied, leading her to ask one particular question several times. If ever, while responding to her ongoing interrogation, I mentioned a female with whom I wasn’t too closely related, she would ask the same question. “And did you want to sleep with her?”³

How Can I Express This Delicately?

I was sixteen years old–I wanted to fuck pretty much everything walking on two legs, a rather unselective sample in which the psychiatrist herself was included, although helpfully, I did not share this information during our sessions.  Instead I answered “Yes” about 50% of the time when she asked me about girls I wanted to pork, and lied the rest of the time.

But after confessing that I wanted to lay down with every other woman I met, there didn’t seem much else to talk about. I stopped going after the second session and nothing was ever said of it again.

So Am I Cured Now?

In our third installment, I’m Tardsie, And I’m An Alcoholic Apparently, it just gets worse.  See you there.

¹My use of ‘mandated’ here may be misleading. Two of the three experiences (the second and third to be detailed in the final two installments) were not mandated per se, but the result of institutional coercion. Only one of them was actually a legal thing. ∞ T.
²In fact, they were wrong. What really hurts, though, is that for a minute there you believed them. ∞ T.
³Just like that: ‘Sleep with her.” I’ve always thought that a prudish and not-very-accurate phrase. I mean, sure–sleep will probably happen, but that’s not really what I’m looking for, you know? ∞ T.

Tardsie’s True-Ass Tales: Urine The Clear

11 Friday Jan 2013

Posted by in Crime, Culture, Science, Stupidity, True-Ass Tales

≈ 32 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

By Tardsie

They’re Pretty Much Infallible, You Know.

When you hear that somebody has passed a drug test, you probably assume the person is drug-free. It’s a reasonable assumption–the testing is scientific, impartial and totally reliable. I used to think so, anyway, until a time came when I had to take a drug test.

Technically, I didn’t really have to be tested, but my lawyer (and while it’s true that I’ve started in the middle here, I trust you’re more than capable of filling in the important elements of the backstory for yourself) thought it would be a real good idea for me to be tested to show the court that I was drug-free.

Dude, Do You Even Know Me?

I smiled patiently at him, like a father who’s just been asked a silly, but heartwarming question by his four-year-old child. “You know I’m gonna fail that test, right?”

His smile never wavered. “Call these people,” he said. He handed me a card for Pee-Testers International (the actual name of the company is being withheld in recognition of the great service they performed on my behalf).

My Memories Of That Testing Service Are As Warm As A Beaker Of My Own Urine.

Following his advice, I scheduled an appointment, and was somewhat buoyed that Pee-Tester International’s receptionist seemed to be on very friendly terms with my lawyer. Still, I was taking no chances, and procured some synthetic urine (yes, they really make that) to use in place of my own THC-infused urine. The specimen must be body temperature at the time of the testing, and since a buddy¹ of mine lived close to the testing center, I went there to heat my urine in his microwave and smoke bowls until the time of the appointment.

There were all kinds of wretched fuckers haunting the reception room when I got to PTI; I felt very out-of-place. It started to dawn on me then that PTI served two functions: primarily it was a legitimate (and accredited) testing service, monitoring the rehabilitation of parolees and drug offenders. But a smaller, unadvertised portion of its business seems to have been helping those who could afford it to beat drug tests for marijuana, which was illegal in Washington State until only a few months ago.

I Courageously Broke An Unjust Law That Was Eventually Changed. In This Way, I’m Very Much Like Gandhi Or Rosa Parks.

I had to wait a short while in the lobby, which made me nervous. The container of synthetic piss nestled in my crotch was still pleasantly warm, but was cooling with each passing second. I read a book while I waited. I did a good job of centering myself and holding my anxieties in check, but I was still relieved when they called my name. The practice, the preparation, the worrying–those things were in the past: we had gone live, and it felt very good to be getting on with it.

The counselor I spoke with was an attractive, empathetic woman who was maybe a couple of years older than I was. She was intelligent and well-spoken, but almost stubbornly predisposed–in spite of all evidence to the contrary–to see me as blameless. The only other person in my life to have made such a deliberate and herculean effort to so completely blind herself to my faults was my own mother.

No Matter What Kind Of Degenerate Shitbag You Are, Mom Still Thinks You’re A Gentleman.

“How often do you smoke marijuana?” she asked.

“Hmm,” I said, considering the question. “I don’t know–maybe six or seven times a year.”

“So not very often.”

“Hardly.” We both laughed.

“And when was the last time you used marijuana?”

“Oh, gosh,² let’s see…I think maybe last Christmas Eve.” This was mid-June. I’d anticipated this question, and had given it a great deal of thought in the previous days, as I had my response to it. It was a risky move, but I knew exactly the follow-up question it would generate. Most critically, I knew that my answer to that question would likely have a significant impact on the outcome of this evaluation.

Believe Me, Man–I Spent A Lot Of Time Doing Just That.

Her expression darkened, and took on a puzzled aspect. “But…you were cited for possessing marijuana just two weeks ago.”

I executed my line flawlessly. I laughed a little sheepishly and said of the incident earlier in the month, “Oh, I had every intention of smoking that pot,” I said,  “But I never got a chance!”

It was clear from the first that my gambit had been successful. Her face lit up and she laughed along with me. I saw that not only did she believe me (or had chosen to believe me, which amounts to the same thing), but that she appreciated my answer, like I was making her job a lot easier by telling her what I was supposed to.

Think Of Her How You Will, But She Was Very Kind To Me.

But her final question caught me off-guard: “If I gave you a urine test right now, would you pass?”

I hadn’t anticipated that, and it took some effort to keep myself from showing my cards in that age-old liar’s tell of repeating the question back to her: Would I pass a urine test? With so much on the line, though, I managed. I looked her in the eye and said, “Absolutely.”

Her conspiratorial smile was endearing. “I guess we don’t need to test you, then.”

It cost something like $450, plus another $20 for the fake pee I never used (and it’s really not something I wanted to keep around, y’know?), which was an expense I could ill-afford. Still, it was money well-spent, not least for the boost to my self-image which is with me to this day. When I look in the mirror every morning, I can be proud that the face I see looking back at me is 100% drug-free. Don’t believe me? I’ve got the test results to prove it.

I Consider Myself Not Just A Role-Model, But Also A Paragon Of Virtue And A Pillar Of The Community.

¹ The same guy, should you be interested to know, who some years before shouted “Where’s your dignity?” at hapless Rocky dorks.  ∞ T.
²Yes, for real I said “gosh.” In print it sounds silly, but I can make it work for me like you wouldn’t believe.  ∞ T.

Suck It, Las Vegas!

01 Tuesday Jan 2013

Posted by in Culture, Entertainment, Music, True-Ass Tales

≈ 37 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

By Tardsie

We Took A Road Trip To Las Vegas! Don’t Worry, My Wife Drove.

My wife and I recently got back from Las Vegas, where we saw the Killers in concert on Friday night. It was an awesome, once-in-a-lifetime performance by a band at the top of its game and comfortably on its home turf. Here’s a clip from that kick-ass show (the song stops at 1:37 because a fight breaks out, then starts up again):

So we had a great time, both in Vegas and on the trip there and back, in which I got to visit a new medical marijuana dispensary and my wife got to stop at produce stands. As usual, I employed my foolproof gambling system to break even (my system is that I don’t gamble). But I don’t want to talk about how much fun we had on the trip or all the great memories we made–I want to bitch about Las Vegas.

How We Love To Hate You. Don’t Ever Change.

Here goes:

This place calls itself ‘Sin City’ while managing to keep a straight face. Apparently, the whole of the ‘sin’ experience begins with blowing your kid’s birthday cash at the craps table and ends with walking down the boulevard with a beer in your hand. So while you can bounce your eyes in time with the silicate breasts of leathery showgirls, you can’t actually have sex with them. You can get liquored up enough to drunkenly piss away in a few hours what you’ve worked a lifetime to build, but you can’t legally smoke a joint.

I Managed, Fortunately. Thanks To Vegas’ Constant Reek, They Thought I Was Smoking Harmless Tobacco.

And talk about a genetic clusterfuck! I’ve been to places like Georgia, Poland and Omaha, Nebraska–so you know I’ve seen some ugly people in my time, but never so many collected in one neon-ringed exhibit. Whether you’re dodging blubbery slugs on mobility scooters or avoiding the gaze of the shaking hardcase with the the 8:00 AM bloody Mary, Las Vegas has the power to make you feel special for achieving nothing more than an associate’s degree and a set of at least thirty teeth.

We Go Where The Beautiful People Are.

People claim they go to Las Vegas to have fun. Have you ever watched people while they gamble? You’ll see more human expression from Keanu Reeves playing an Easter Island statue in a made-for-TV movie. The rows upon rows of people at slot machines look like junkies in a shooting gallery, continuing to fix long after any sensation is gone.

But At Least You Had Fun, Right?

And lastly, it was cold! It’s the fucking desert, why is it cold? The response I always hear is that it’s cold because it’s the high desert. Bullshit–I was high as a motherfucker, and I still froze my ass off!

We’re Only Kidding Ourselves. We Can’t Quit You.

Tardsie’s True-Ass Tales: Blowing My Top

27 Thursday Dec 2012

Posted by in Science, True-Ass Tales

≈ 31 Comments

Tags

, , , , ,

By Tardsie

The Brain: With The Exception Of The Penis, Has Their Ever Been A More Treacherous Organ?

There are a lot of fucked-up medical and psychological conditions out there. You don’t even have to stray outside the commonplace to find unenviable afflictions like PTSD, testicular cancer and male-pattern baldness. But when you get to the really wacky shit–like people who hiccough for years on end or have whatever it was that the Elephant Man had–it can be downright horrible. And then there are the maladies that nobody sees–the crazy phobias, crippling personality disorders and ultra-weirdo shit like exploding head syndrome.

It’s Funny Until It Happens To You. Then it Gets Even Funnier.

Yes, exploding head syndrome. It’s not nearly as spectacular as it sounds, and most likely won’t stain your upholstery with skull fragments, blood and grey matter. According to Wikipedia:

Exploding head syndrome is a form of hypnagogic auditory hallucination in which the sufferer sometimes experiences a sudden loud noise coming from within their own head. The noise is brief and is usually likened to an explosion, roar, gunshot, door slamming, loud voices or screams, a ringing noise, or the sound of electrical arcing (buzzing).

This noise usually happens at the onset of sleep or within an hour or two of falling asleep, but is not necessarily the result of a dream.[1] Although the sound is perceived as extremely loud, it is usually not accompanied by pain

This more-than-slightly-fucked-up affliction was once virtually unknown, but recently has begun receiving media attention, not least for its ridiculousness. Seriously, exploding head syndrome? Sounds fake.

Restless Leg Syndrome Is Even More Ridiculous.

At least, that’s what I would have said if I hadn’t suffered from exploding head syndrome myself. It came and went over a period of several months in 2001-2002. EHS is thought to result from stress, and a reader, noting that this period dates roughly from 9/11, might be forgiven for thinking that the greatest American tragedy in my lifetime might play a part in the onset of this disorder. I don’t believe it did; I had quite enough stress in my life during those days to do the trick.

The first time it happened, it was terrifying. I was lying in bed on the edge of sleep when I was brought fully awake by a tiny sensation in my head. This is the hardest thing to articulate, because although I could not see or hear this sensation, it possessed both color and sound. It began as a tight, tiny white ball that roared like the ocean and then quickly began to grow, becoming louder and brighter (still without me being able to hear or see it) until the whole of my world was that roaring white nothingness, and then suddenly it was gone. The closest comparable experience I can cite is orgasm, but without all the fun.

Yeah, But It Was Pretty Lame.

I didn’t know what was wrong with me. Was I having a stroke? Was I dying? While I was quickly able to eliminate those two possibilities, I could never determine what was happening to me. For several months the strange sensation would strike just as I was falling asleep. I never saw a doctor about the problem–it didn’t occur to me that anyone else would have this bizarre issue, and I sensed even then that the problem was (pun very much intended) “all in my head.”

After a few months the problem went away, and I didn’t think about it for several years, until I first heard mention of exploding head syndrome. Since then, I’ve heard it mentioned with some frequency, but this is marks first time I’ve mentioned my experience to anyone other than my wife. You want to know the crazy thing? I’ve never had a headache in my life.

So I’ve Got That Working For Me.

The Zeitgeist Has Forsaken Tardsie

03 Monday Dec 2012

Posted by in Celebrity, Culture, Entertainment, True-Ass Tales

≈ 39 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

By Tardsie

Apparently This Space-Waster Is A Recent American Idol Winner. We’re None The Richer For The Knowledge.

The following recent conversation between my wife and I should illustrate the vast and yawning gulf that separates my psyche from the popular culture. I had just learned that an acquaintance of my in-laws had worked closely in some capacity with entertainer Shania Twain.

When You Find Yourself Nostalgic For The Days Of Pauly Shore, Andrew “Dice” Clay And Max Headroom, You Know The Culture’s In A Sad State.

Tardsie: Shania Twain. Is she the chick from American Idol?

Mrs. Tardsie: I don’t know, but that doesn’t sound right.

Tardsie: Then is she the one married to that country music guy? You know, the pitcher’s son, whatsizname–Tim McGraw?

Mrs. Tardsie: I don’t know…(Stabs at her iPhone for a few moments)…No, it says he’s married to Faith Hill.

Tardsie: Isn’t that the chick from the Fugees?

And It’s Not Such A Stretch Either That One Of These Guys Could Be Named “Shania.”