Stop giving me shit about my blood pressure, you deal with teeth!

A couple years ago, I had a dentist appointment where the dental hygienist took my blood pressure. Apparently, that was something that they were introducing to their routine. The dental hygienist got a reading on my blood pressure and then said to me, "ya know, you have high blood pressure for someone your age. You should go see a doctor and have that checked out." 


I was really offended when I first heard that. Where was she expecting my blood pressure to be? She was about to stab my gums with sharp metal instruments, and then yell at me for liking candy and soda too much. Am I supposed to be cool as a cucumber when you take a steak-knife to a sensitive, fleshy part of my body? And then she would probably just make me brush and floss my teeth in front of her, so that she can yell at me, and tell me I'm doing it wrong. 


But really, what's the point in taking my blood pressure there. No matter what it is, they're not going to be able to do anything about it. My blood pressure could be slightly too high, or it could be at a- "HOLY SHIT Dick Cheney, you're going to have another heart attack!!!!!"- level, and they'd still have to tell me to see a certified professional. BECAUSE HYGIENISTS DEAL WITH TEETH AND NOT THE CARDIOVASCULAR SYSTEM!


So what's next? "We have added a new procedure to your sixth-month checkup. We now start by checking all of our patients' prostates. I hope that does't make you too nervous, because we're going to check your blood pressure immediately after. Uh-oh, there's something wrong with your prostate. You should probably see a specialist. But then again, this isn't what I went to school for, so I'm not really qualified to give you advice on this anyway." 


If they want me to have a lower blood pressure at the dentist, then they're going to have a add a few more kitten posters to the ceiling, and crank up the John Tesh! Because I'm still feeling a little anxious about the inside of my mouth getting poked by your metal stick with the razor on the end of it!

At Least He Dressed Up For It

A few Februarys ago, I was waiting for the bus to go to class. Of course, since I was on my way to my first class of the day, I was running late. I was waiting at a corner which had two bus stops for two different buses that went to campus, so I usually didn't have to wait for long. Unfortunately, on this particular day, both buses seemed to be running behind schedule. I was already beginning to assume that I was going to end up showing up late for class. 


As I was waiting, a car pulls up to the bus stop. It was a newish, nicer looking car. The guy looked very clean-cut. He was wearing a suit and tie, and had a "I just got a haircut" kinda look to him. He asked me if I was going to UWM, and I said yes. I was figuring that he needed directions or something.


Instead, the guy asked me if I wanted a ride to campus. I said "um, sure" without even thinking about the question for more than a second. I was cold, and already running late for class. It wasn't until I was walking up, and getting into the car that I realized, "I'm getting into a stranger's car, because he is telling me that he will give me a ride to class. What if he has sinister intentions? It's a ridiculous scenario, but what if he wants to rape, and/or torture, and/or kill me? That's very unlikely, but how often do I get rides from strangers?" I thought about all of these questions as I climbed into this dude's Ford Fusion. But then I reasoned with myself, ",If anything bad happens- at least he dressed up for it! Because he obviously wanted to look nice as he raped, and/or tortured, and/or killed me." Actually, my thinking was more along the lines of, "How could this guy want to do anything bad to me- he's wearing a nice suit and driving a nice car!" That's pretty stupid of me to think that, because that is the premise of every episode of CSI, Law & Order, and all of those other detective/pervert shows. 


As it turns out, the guy was a student, and was dressed up because he was going to a job fair. He was new to Milwaukee, and felt guilty that he would drive to school and pass students who had to wait for the bus in the cold. He always wanted to pick up students to drive them to campus, and I was his first passenger. We talked for a little bit, and any fear I had about the situation went away. 


The ride was probably less than five minutes. As we were pulling up to the Student Union building, I remembered the old saying, "There is no such thing as a free ride." That made my brain go back to the illogical panic-mode. I began thinking, "I hope this guy isn't expecting a blowjob from me!" But then I reasoned with myself, "At least he dressed up for it!" 

Steve the Tattoo Guy

Somehow I keep getting older, but I don't get any more mature or more wise or smarter...

This year as a birthday present to myself, I got a Big Star tattoo. I tried to be smart about it, so I researched a couple tattoo places in the area. But because I'm crappy at being an adult, I opted for the place I could have it done at cheapest. So one day I walk into the tattoo place to make an appointment, assuming that I'll get it set up with the Hasidic-Jew-Hipster looking guy that I had talked to a week before. But I get into the shop and that guy is no where to be found. Instead there is a guy named Steve.

Steve looks like the kind of guy who is wayyyyy too old to be hanging out with the crowd that he's hanging out with, because he is. Steve looks like the actor, Ron Perlman, but if he got way too much sun and had sleeve tattoos. Every tattoo he had either had a skull attached, or some kind of demon, or some kind of demon skull. He looked like a crusty/gutter-punk who decided recently, "Enough is enough! I need to get a job. I guess I'll do my laundry one more time..." I mean his hair was shaggy, curly, AND greasy. Gross! And he was missing teeth! I'm assuming he got a couple knocked out when he was fighting other hobos for some quarters that he could use to buy his Steel Reserve. 

So because I'm crappy at being an adult, I set my appointment up with Steve. Here is my reasoning- it would be funny to get my first tattoo from the sketchiest guy I have ever met. (I never thought that getting the tattoo at that place, or by him, would be unclean or unsafe or anything like that. It was a tattoo shop with licenses and reputations that they gotta up hold. Everything ended up being very clean and sterilize-y) But I thought it would be FUNNY. "Wouldn't it be funny if this homeless guy etched something permanently into my arm?" Like it would make for a good story. Like maybe one day I'll look back and say, "Man that was crazy. What was I thinking?" Only that was a predicted future. One that could have easily been changed! But I thought it would be an interesting story. "Maybe one day I'll start a blog and I'll talk about it, who knows?" Is this how most 24-year-olds with degrees think? 

So I show up for my appointment. I have to fill out a form where I have to say that I don't have hepatitis or aids, and that I won't faint or anything. Steve doesn't look at this form at all. And then I fill out another form where I give Steve permission to forever alter how my upper arm looks. Then Steve starts giving me my tattoo. When I walked in the tattoo shop, they were playing Andrew WK, so I asked him if he liked Andrew WK. He said he didn't, even though he was the one that put the music on. I figure that he wasn't much of a talker, so we both remained silent for the rest of the hour that it took to get that tattoo on me. The only time he broke his silence was to yell at this fellow coworkers. What a grumpy old fart! The whole time I kept thinking- he must be thinking, "If I have to give another nerd a faggy power-pop tattoo, I'm gonna kill somebody!"

So after he finished with the tattoo, he went through a bunch of do's and don't's of how to care for the tattoo, but he clearly couldn't remember them all so he just told me to read the sheet that they give to all of their customers. Then I pay for my tattoo, and Steve walks to the back of the shop. So I stand there awkwardly for a minute before I ask another tattooist, "Is that it? Am I good to go?" And he was like, "Yeah, you should be all set." So that means Steve just walked away from me without saying, "Bye" or "Hope you enjoy your tattoo" or anything! What a jerk! He just walked away from my life forever.

So that's how I got my first tattoo. It's still healing but I probably won't be getting gangrene or anything like that any time soon. I still think, if I was more of an adult I would have went to the place that was even more boring, and had more attractive tattoo artists. Maybe next time...

Sorry About Your Band...Or Whatever

About a month ago, my band played a show in Madison. After the show, I was carrying equipment out of the bar and walked by a girl who was waiting to use the bathroom. The girl looked at me as I walked by and said, "Sorry about your band...or whatever." 

I have spent the last month trying to figure out what the hell she meant by that. This is what I have come up with- that girl watched my band and thought my band sucked, buuuut she thought I was AMAZING! She was probably watched us and thought, "why is that bass player wasting his time with these losers? He's obviously the best part, and they're just holding him back. I can't wait for him to quit the band and finally start his solo project! What is the most offensive, yet sympathetic, way I can tell him all of these things? I got it! I'll tell him that I understand how awful it must be to be trapped in such a mediocre band. But I'll say 'or whatever' after to make sure that I'm not being too mean. This way I can get him to make out with me without having to buy his dumb band's tape." 

I wish I could have asked her what she meant by that, but I was so confused by that weird comment that I just stumbled away perplexed. This is how I immediately interpreted her comment- "Your band is terrible... but don't take my word for it." Because that is usually how I think most people think of me- "You suck... maybe." 

If I was more clever (and not as drunk), I would have said, "Sorry about your face.. or whatever."