Author: pseudoisaac

My lunchtime peace, destroyed!
Mon 8 Aug 2011

I stepped out for half an hour for lunch on a deck at my hospital, which overlooks the Minnehaha Creek and a broad marshy area. Birds flew in the hundreds overhead looking to roost as the sun set. The cattails bent and swayed. This little part of the earth prepared imperceptibly for September.

But the peacefulness of the scene was shattered by a group of three Tibetan men shouting, not conversing, in their native language. When Tibetans came under persecution by the Han Chinese, they fled that country and got jobs in the housekeeping department of my hospital. All of them. Presently they shouted about something they apparently felt very passionate about. The loudest of them (I will call him General Tenzin) gesticulated so wildly that his chair shifted and scraped, adding to the commotion.

There was a woman there trying to read a book but I suspected she was not taking much of it in because of the general uproar. This went on for the full half hour of my break, and I realized the exchange was not an argument at all but rather just the normal volume of speech for all three of them. There was something about General Tenzin’s voice that made it especially piercing.

I missed out on contemplating that scene today, but I don’t mind because I will have plenty of time outside when I go camping at Lake Maria State Park the next two nights.

Night shift
3 Aug 2011

In late August I will begin working the night dispatching shift. I will come in at 11 pm and leave at 6:30 or 7 in the morning. This will afford me maximal flexibility during the day, when I will need to cram in as many classes as I can, some of which have afternoon labs that go until three or four. I will have to sleep from 2 pm to 10pm when I can, and go with fewer than my cherished eight hours of sleep on some days. But I will only be doing that shift for three nights a week, so it should be manageable. I will have to pick up shifts here and there when my class schedule permits.

I am looking forward to the change in lifestyle, since I have continually failed to make the most of my current schedule of evening shifts. In my case it mostly lends itself to sleeping in too late and drinking too much. I think this shift will be healthier for me and allow to get studying done during what are, in my case, my most productive hours: night and early morning. In addition I will have certain times of the day and night to myself.

Take today for instance. I set out on bike at 6:30 pm and visited Theodore Wirth Park, where I hiked about with a pair of binoculars and lots of bug spray. I had the place to myself. I saw a hummingbird and some brightly colored beetles and stopped awhile to contemplate the suddenly clear skies. Then I biked further along the beautiful Greenway to Starbucks and had a depth charge while reading the Star Tribune (more bad news). Then I biked to the hospital and perfected my class schedule for the upcoming semester. And then it was time to begin my shift. When I get out of here in five hours I will head to the lake for a nap and a swim before coming back here for a 1 pm shift. This kind of thing is only possible in the summer. But if I can keep up the biking, and bring myself to study during the moments of downtime here and there, the night shift may benefit my health and productivity over the next school year.

Sexy summer story contest
Isaac Hanson
4 Jul 2011

Probation

Based on an actual article in the Star Tribune

Probation, the judge said. Probation! Like I’m some freakwad sex offender who rapes cats or something! He said I made mistakes that night but that jail time would only disrupt my atonement, he didn’t want me to be out of school during finals, a probation officer would check in on me, blah blah blah. I only remember what he said because my celly wouldn’t get any bars in the courtroom, so no Facebook there…

The whole thing was messed up anyways. On that night, Ashton called me at like eight, saying she had found another guy on AdultFriendFinder and he had a bunch of pot. Well, it’s a long drive from Coon Rapids to Mahtomedi, so of course we were taking some cherry vodka shots on the way. And Ashton had a couple of Four Loko’s going around and the Denali has cruise control, so it’s cool. Anyway we meet the guy, his name is Jayden, he is 25 and lives in a detached garage next to his mom’s house with a sweet setup. He is hott and said he would smoke us up. Never mind the dude asleep on the couch the whole time and the jealous-looking bitch with the Bump-it who keeps eyeballing me and Ashton. She is old, at least, like, thirty.

Anyways we smoke, we drink some Franzia, and some kid in cargo pants who looks eleven years old shows up with his girlfriend and they start getting it on in the room next to us. The walls are plaster so we hear everything. I guess the kid pays Jayden to have a place to take girls.

Anyways me and Jayden and Ashton are making out, nothing more, as we agreed on AdultFriendFinder. It’s obvious he likes me better and Ashton knows it, and so does that old granny with the Bump-it, who is still eyeballing me. I wanna jump his bones, now. At some point I fall asleep and they do something to me, I don’t know what, but I know they did something, probably in collusion with Bump-it. When I wake up I am pissed and I find out that those two just had sex in the other room, so I storm outside, rev up the Denali, and run over all the stupid crap Jayden has in his yard – mini-pool, koi pond, and a dumb angel sculpture. It was all from Menards and only cost me like $200 to replace. Then I mess up his grass some more and then I try to scare Ashton with the Denali (I didn’t mean to hit her!).

Anyways, now I have that creep probation officer to check in with, classes with the Coon Rapids sheriff on dangerous alcohol and sexual practices, and Jayden has to register as a sex offender since he got it on with a sixteen year-old. Ashton and I are friends again but we decided we are NEVER going on AFF again.

Journal
4 Jul 2011

We buried Nate last Wednesday. I and everyone else at the ceremony had an inclination to act somber throughout the affair, to think of it as a significant event. But I have undergone a transformation just as Hans Castorp did, in which I came to recognize death for what it is: a shabby pretender, an outcome of disease, a natural phenomenon, and sometimes it is a joke. Sometimes it is only a final stage, a completely foreseeable progression of a life poorly lived, and as such, not due any particular reverence or expressions of piety or extravagant airs of profundity.

In Nate’s case, death was only the somewhat tardy outcome of the many binary choices he made that favored it over the other outcome, life. He predicted his death several years ago and did little to prevent it, and when it came – no – happened, he probably died in a pool of urine, with bottles of pills and alcohol by his side.

The actual sad part was the bereavement of Grandma and of Nate’s friend Sandy, and a couple of male friends of Nate. They had cared for Nate and not sought much in return. They had given, without pulling back when it became obvious it would end badly and they would get nothing for it. That is the sad part of the story. But the death itself is not something I ought to feel any pangs of awe over.

First day of class
2 Jun 11

I started my statistics class the other day, one of nine
pre-requisites for the master’s degree in nursing at the U of M. I am excited. The course-work will be relevant, useful and intuitive. Since senior year in high school I have tried to take a statistics course but the sections were always full at registration. This course will contribute to my formation as a contributor to the world’s knowledge and understanding.

My classmates seem to be of high quality, too. In one of the clicker-based polls we got 100 percent, impressing the professor. There is not a lot of hallah hallah in there either (mercifully). I think people in math classes tend to be goal-driven and oriented toward problem solving. And the ones who need the class as a pre-requisite are motivated as well.

And I have already started fantasizing about the woman who sits next to me. S is her name. I wrote down some observations on the first day: cannot tell age. could be 23 to 28. tan skin. trim figure. sandals, jeans, tank top. drinking from a water bottle in the typical habit of a high school or college chick. brown hair. possible smoker? the skin on her face is somewhat rough-looking, an attribute I associate with smoking, rightly or wrongly. if she is honest, she has four or more piercings, according to a class poll. maybe one is through her nipple. could not confirm.

I talked to her the next day before class outside the building – she eating a granola bar and me eating a banana – and found out she is taking the class as a pre-requisite for a social work degree. She bikes to class, just like me, and lives in the Wedge neighborhood. I began picturing our future life together: we will live on a homestead in Montana, in a green valley beneath a pale blue mountain. The winters will be harsh and long but we will survive thanks to our diligent work and planning. I will take care of the cattle and horses and concentrate on my writing in the shed. She will take to the hard toil of gardening in the poor soil to provide us nutrition, and to her artistic pursuits. Some of her products will sell online for a decent price. Wealthy people, seeking montane purity and refuge, will come to visit during the summer in a lodge we set up a mile from the house. We will have our fights, of course, maybe even sleeping in separate beds, but overall we will be happy, healthy and strong. There will be no children, rather only a desire to make the world a better place. As we age we will eventually have to leave the valley and move to a city. We will sell the ranch to a nature conservancy and no one else. And one day one of us will look into the face of the other for the last time and commit him, without any regrets, to his root-pierced grave. I should ask if she has a boyfriend.

But that is neither here nor there. What I also like about this class is the practicality. I already understand much of the subject matter qualitatively and have used some of the methods before, but the work will give me a more quantitative understanding. And the most useful part may be having practice in Minitab and Excel. And I will walk away from the course knowing that the double-blind, placebo-controlled, randomized trial is the gold standard in moving much of the evidence forward, especially in clinical science. That is something everyone should know.

Journal
24 May 11
I am wholly undeserving of the trust and affection my grandma has for me

Grandma loves me. I do simple favors for her of the kind any relative would do for any relative. She is over 90 years old so I drive her to the bank, go through her mailings to throw out the scams, and call the telephone company when it is obvious they are overcharging her for services she never uses. As I drive her or make to leave she looks up at me with her loving blue eyes and repeats, in a perseverative way, how much she appreciates it and how I am such a big help and it is so good to have a grandson who looks out for her.

I think about how nice it is to be of help to her, yet inside me I nurse a secret malice. If I could press a button and vaporize 95 percent of the people on the planet, I would do it in an instant. If I could, unbeknownst to them, sterilize and release people on a massive scale, as wildlife officials do to control some invasive animals, I would do so. I would wipe out the vast majority of greedy, imbecile humanity in order to reverse the global age of extinction now underway. Wildlife would flourish, the population explosion would cease, global carbon emissions would be decimated, and future generations would be protected. The reset button would be activated and there would be no rapaciousness this time around. If I could, I would dash the heads of all the slobbering, filthy infants upon rocks, put a bullet to the heads of their mothers and fathers, and mow down almost seven billion people. I would sit atop the bloody heap and smile and the world would be a better place without so many damned breeding apes.

But all that is just a passing thought. Grandma doesn’t know about that. I dismiss her laudatory remarks and say it’s nothing, don’t be silly, it’s good to spend an afternoon with you, I don’t see you enough, and so on. I only go there like once a month, after all, it’s just so nice to be of any help, see ya later Grandma!

11 May 2011

Is “mushroom hunting” a code word for “anonymous homosexual encounter in a public park”?

I ask because the other day, in Theodore Wirth Park, I was walking along the trails on an afternoon birding expedition when a bald guy of about 35 years approached me and struck up a conversation. He was wearing a bright flowery button-up shirt, jeans, a jacket and loafers. He looked like an average Joe and seemed only a little bit odd, as might anyone who engages you unexpectedly. I was wearing a black hoodie, jeans, I had my binoculars around my neck, and my hood over my head because a faint rain was coming down.

He said, “You know, it sure is a good day for mushroom hunting,” and waited for my response.

“Oh, I suppose so,” I said, “but I don’t know, I think I would be afraid of picking one of the poisonous ones, the ones the make you puke or die, you know.”

“Oh, well,” he said, “you just gotta find the edible ones,” and this last part he said as he looked me up and down and made sort of a slurping sound with his mouth. All of a sudden it struck me that everything we said could be misconstrued as a double entendre so I made a couple of sheepish parting remarks ending with an idiotic “Well, see ya later!” and left. I walked toward the parking lot and continued hiking in the more public section of the preserve on the other side of Theodore Wirth Parkway.

In retrospect I realize it was a rainy day, gloomy and not good for wildlife viewing (Though I did see a mourning warbler that day – a first for me). I also had my hood up. I now know where to go for gay sex, since craigslist is not to be trusted. I wonder why women don’t seek out anonymous sex in public… Hmm. Too bad.

I also realized that birding is the perfect cover for this type of rendez-vous. You are alone and walking in secluded corners of parks and preserves. I can imagine the following encounter: “But officer, I was just bird watching!”

“Oh yeah? And what were you looking for, the secretive public sodomy-bird? Hands behind your head, pal.”

Journal
Thu 14 April 2011

I am sitting in my second-hand Ikea chair, farting. Carl is on my shoulder devouring a piece of bread I gave him. He is depositing crumbs there, which will end up on my floor. I have drunk a beer already and am now on a second one. Rachel is in the hospital, water broken, ready to give birth to her third child. I will meet up with Ben and others in an hour or so for drinks and darts. There is a police siren going by on Franklin Avenue.

I wasn’t kidding about the farting. Over the past few days my gaseous discharge has been heinous – both stinky and frequent. I thought it was the cheap salsa I had bought to go on chips and tortillas, but it may turn out to be something else I have unwittingly incorporated into my diet. When I sit for a long period, it eventually smells like I am sitting on a load of poop, instead of just having a passing stink. When I wake up in the morning, I smell farts, as if I have been doing it all night. Once, I got back in my car while running errands and smelled a fart from earlier that had been trapped and had not dissipated, even after 20 minutes or so. By the end of the day my underwear smells terrible (not that I really need to smell it before tossing it in the bin). And at work I must clench my sphincter until I can reach a locked bathroom to release my shameful brown mist.

This private suffering led me to think: Is this what daily life is like for most Americans? Once I find the offending food item I will eliminate it and my problem of the past week will go away. But for people who eat fast food every day (and there are many), or who consume unnatural quantities of meat or certain cheeses, wines or beers, is this their regular state of being? Are they gas-bags who must walk around with stinky pants all the time? I cannot discount the possibility. But in the meantime I will examine my most recent grocery receipts.

I love my maw. I took the Megabus down to Chicago to visit her on Saturday morning. The ride was uneventful. The bus did not run out of gas on the interstate as it did one time previously. I did not sit next to anyone who reeked of pot. And I didn’t have anyone shouting into her cell phone at her baby daddy the whole way there. You do have to sit through about half an hour of people devouring their fast food after the mid-way rest stop. But still, not bad for thirty bucks round-trip.

In Chicago my mom and I caught a movie, went to a nice little Italian place (I had calamari, mussels and clams), and visited the Adler Planetarium. The highlight was a screening at the museum of a half-hour film on modern telescopes. It had an overview of telescopes, both earth-bound and extraterrestrial, taking in data in visible, x-ray, UV, infrared, radio, and gamma light.

I also exposed myself to the horrors of online anonymity on 4chan. Why didn’t someone tell me about this sooner!? You can google “shovel dog,” “I can count to potato” or “4chan: Should I kill myself?” to see what I mean.

Isaac

I went to the movie “Cedar Rapids” with my mom today. I loved the movie – I recommend it. I do NOT recommend taking your 64 year-old mother to it, though.

Among the novel vulgarities I learned:

“greasy old twat”

“that fucking cunt-stain”

“What do you call an anorexic woman with a yeast infection? A quarter-pounder with cheese.”

But despite the crude language, my mom and I both laughed the whole way through.

Isaac