<=============================> < > < ANTI-PRESS EZINE #33 > < > <=============================> "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: 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.") EMAIL: Antipress1@aol.com . No payment for contributions. (We don't get paid, so why should you?) **Maximum Length: 300 words.** Plain text format. To avoid being deleted as junk mail: Put SUBMISSION in the subject heading with the title of your contribution. E-DITIONS ONLINE: Anti-Press Ezine and its sporadically published issues are available at: http://www.disobey.com/text/ Copyright 1998-2002 Anti-Press Publication by Disobey. http://www.disobey.com/ TO SUBSCRIBE: majordomo@disobey.com BODY: Subscribe APE TO UNSUBSCRIBE: majordomo@disobey.com BODY: Unsubscribe APE <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< 8/9/02 >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>