Linguistic cartwheels in the stylings of a rant, these are the thoughts that keep me up at night.
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I am a 20 year old female writer residing in Central New Jersey. My influences include the great Dave Barry, Neil Gaiman, George Carlin, and the two greatest editors in the world, Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling. My webpage can be found at www.homestead.com/foxfyresden and I can be reached at Foxfyre33@aol.com. Happy reading!
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Saturday, June 21, 2003
(Ditto with the older piece bit, like last entry. Written the same time period.)
Human Batteries, or Maybe Those Duracell Commercials Weren't So Far Off...
I can remember, not too long ago, when I tangled with the tiny multi-colored capsule predecessors of the latest fad. They were great when they first came out...not unlike smoking before people found out that inhaling dried burning leaves several times a day might not be as nourishing as mother's milk. A rapid way to lose weight and a real boot in the ass when it came to energy. It seemed everyone was taking them, at one point or another. And, I'm sure at least in the beginning, they really *were* meant for weight loss.
Then people who had no reason to lose weight were taking them.
At least in the social circle that encompassed my Senior year of high school, and the year after, and the not-quite-so-defined vast outer circles of my closest friends, they became a designer party drug of sorts. It started rather innocently with the yellow pills, complete with the near-magical Ephedrine, that I took in the designated and recommended amount. Then came black beauties, yellow jackets, and all their other varied kin. Pretty pills with equally attractive packaging and results. You could buy them *anywhere*...drug stores, in mall kiosks, and even at gas stations. They were sold by the bottle in groups of 25 or so, and by the two-pack, in what eerily resembled the smaller doses of more potent, and illegal, drugs. Everyone had them.
They became a solution. You forgot to do your homework and just got back from a party? Pop a stacker, pull an all-nighter. Too tired to go out socializing? Pop a stacker. Need something for your alcohol to wash down? Pop a stacker. I remember making milkshakes with a friend out of the powdered contents...complete with various alcohols that we could get our hands on. It seemed like no one ever slept.
But it was okay. They were just diet pills. No harm. But then came the heart murmurs. Through personal experience and a frantic search to figure out why my pulse would get so screwy, I found out that the tiny print on the back carried a vague warning that the friendly little pills may do just that. I swore off them, only to find that I had, be it chemical, physical or otherwise, become addicted to the weight-loss miracles. I continued to take them with increasingly bad results, when finally, out of concern to my own health, I had to swear off them. It got so bad that a few friends and I, being in the similar state of mind, threw out our pills together and made a pact not to let one another "fall off the wagon".
Did I ever take more than the recommended dose? Sure. But 90% of the time I took less than the recommended dose, and still I had serious health issues. Those pills were really nothing more than legalized speed. Only now do some states enforce the "must be over 18 to buy" laws about Ephedrine-containing products. Amazing how closely that resembles the sale of cigarettes, isn't it?
Moving to the point of this ramble, I find a new sort of fad becoming more and more apparent, only this time Ephedrine isn't the newest thing, this time the newest soylent green cure-all goes by the nomiker "Taurine".
The newest darling goes by "Red Bull", rather clever, given the name "Taurine", which derives from the latin word for "bull", as in taurus. Stackers were clever too, cashing in on the slang for muscular, at the time, "stacked"...even though it did nothing for muscle definition, the name, along with various not-too-subtle commercials, heavily aired to the public via highly-publicized wwf events, gave the impression of doing so.
"Human Batteries", as I myself call them, are branching out into many different variations, not at all unlike the stacker-black beauty-yellowjacket phenomena. I was stirred to write this piece after picking up a "battery" (So called because of their slender cylindrical shape that deviates from standard soda cans, as well as their energy-boosting contents) made and marketed by the same company as mountain dew, and actually bears the logo and various attributing iconry of it's parent conceptualizers. This is a drink marketed to young people, no ifs, ands or buts about it. From the name, "Amp" (slang for "amplifier", a device that has become the rule for the vast majority of new bands, as well as a term for "making something more powerful") to the lime-green metallic pull tab, stark against the primarily silver-colored exterior of the can, it screams "all-nighter". Mountain Dew is not the only company quick to hop the proverbial bandwagon. I've also seen Sobe, a snapple-esque fringe-beverage aimed at the 20 to 25 set push one to market, as well as an espresso-and-cream "shot" drink in a battery by none other than the infamous starbucks. Littering convenience stores everywhere, they're multiplying by the dozens, and it seems like everyone makes one or drinks one. Red Bull itself has become so popular that bars and nightclubs are actually centering menus, and occasionally even entire nights, to drinks (both alcoholic and otherwise) concocted with the potent, fizzy, and vaguely-citrus tasting stuff.
Do I drink them? Of course. I'm by no means saying I've had any sort of bad experience with batteries, as of the writing of this article. I'm merely exercising a bit of journalistic obsevation. Taurine, though seemingly harmless at this point, may very well prove to be the next Ephedrine. I'm no chemist...I just have an eye for fads, and am very well-acquainted with the notion that too much of a good thing can be bad for you. Given the nature of fads, the tendency of my own peer group to take things to excess, and the mass-marketing of an additive and concept that is new to the public, I'm only suggesting that there is ample room for history to repeat itself.
Until then, I'm going to go find some apple pucker, sprite, and red bull and make myself one heck of a good drink.
5:56 PM
(This is an older piece that I am republishing so that it doesn't get lost... written summer 2002)
I love pagans, and not just because I am one.
Although we're becoming a hell of a lot more mainstream these days, there are those who still understand that just because some of the louder, younger "pagans" think that because we're becoming mainstream, it's okay to push the beliefs on others (a technique steeped in the infamy of a certain "other" religion that shall remain nameless) doesn't mean that's what we're about.
I call it the jewelery phenomena.
(Now, I'm sure I'm gonna get angry rants from some of the more touchy-feely wiccany-witchy members of my clan out there that jewelery does not a witch make; that just because some angsty little punk-goth goes traipsing about in a hot-topic pentacle doesn't make him or her one of our number. But bear with me here, okay?)
I've heard it many times, and it's a phrase that still warms my heart.
"Hey, like your necklace."
My little pewter pentacle that could, given to me years and years ago by a fellow pagan that was indispensable in aiding with my spiritual growth, has gained me more friends and allies over the years than I can count. It's a simple little design I see at Renaissance Faires frequently, with runes encircling a simple pentacle. Phoenix put it around my neck years ago, and it really hasn't left my neck for any signifigant period of time since. It's been scratched on it's surface, and clasped in times of desperation. My hand creeps up to hold it in times when I need a bit of reassurance. It gets tucked away beneath my shirt for job interviews, and I quietly pray for the day when that isn't something I have to do, when pagans are respected as contributing members of society, and not merely tolerated or patronized. It has seen my triumphs and my failures, my enemies and my lovers, and most of all, my life. It is a symbol of the strength of one's spirit, and a beacon to all like minds.
It is a small smile, a sly smile, I am given, when the phrase is uttered. And then they touch their own talismans...a ring, a bracelet, an ear stud, and sometimes even a sister necklace. It is their quiet way of saying "Yes, I understand you. My heart is here, and I trust you with that knowledge." We, the true pagans, are a quiet and familial people, fighting a silent and eternal war that may one day let us pass amongst the unenlightened and narrow-minded without fear of our own convictions. Our talismans are the memories of older witches...those that faced death, and not unemployment, for their faiths. I like my necklace too. And those of my kin, and I tell them so. It is a subtle exchange that lets each of us know that we are never far from another.
We don't wear our necklaces inside our shirts because we are afraid.
We wear them because it keeps them closer to our hearts.
5:54 PM
Sunday, June 15, 2003
When I first met you, that chance meeting in shoprite during college orientation, you were everything I wanted. You were simple, honest, and available...the traits every woman wants. There was nothing terribly remarkable about you...in fact you were just like what all of my dorm mates were watching movies with on saturday nights...but nonetheless, I desired you.
I don't know...maybe it was all too sudden. I felt a lot of pressure from my peers to hook up with you, so I took you back to my dorm that same day. That first time...well..it was just...bliss. Absolutely amazing. I felt so fufilled, so in tune with the rest of what my generation was experiencing. That night, our first time...while it was a little short, it was still everything I dreamed of. I remember waking up at 3 am and wanting more of you, and indulging myself yet again...and there you were, ready and faithful as you would prove to always be.
In my sophomore year...well, things started to get a little bland with you and I. I went out to dinner with my friends a lot, instead of you, but you never complained. I went out, had fun, and there you were when I got home, quietly waiting and silently supportive. And don't get me wrong, I really appreciated that, you letting me have my freedom.
It was because of that, my junior year, I decided I wanted to spice things up between you and I a little. I bought new and exciting things to add heat to our relationship, daring to break convention and taking risks with what we had grown used to, with great results. Things between you and I had more substance. For a long time, I was happy.
But now, well, I'm graduating. I'm entering a world of the degree-bearing elite. We're from different socio-economic classes now, you and I. I loved you, and I always will...but it's time to go our separate ways. I know I must sound like a total bitch, dropping you so harshly after four years together, but I have to move on. I'm a different person now, and I love you too much to try and change you any more then I already have. I realize now that I have to let you be what you, intrinsically, are. Somewhere in my (now former) college, there's an eager freshman that I know will be perfect for you, someone who will give you the affection and attention I no longer can.
Thanks for the memories, Ramen.
Yours always;
Noodle Lover
1:29 PM
Thugged out jeeps.
What's the point?
SUVs, I can understand. Okay, tinted windows, rims, 'gangsta' music blasting from speakers that cost not only more then the car, but possibly more then lithuania, this I get. Might not like it, but I get it.
I saw a jeep today, driven by one of Eminem's faithful body doubles, with rap blaring at decibels approaching the numerical equivelent of molecules on earth. Do you not understand that you would not last more then about half a minute in neighborhoods that are not Howell, New Jersey? Places where people do not routinely water their lawns with perrier? You would be, perhaps, 'capped'. What possible good does a car that is missing half of itself, notably the half that would conceal your 'suburban ghetto fabulous' caucasian vitals, do in such an instance?
On the other hand, perhaps this is merely darwinism moving into the world of fashion trends. Best to let it be.
~Fox
1:11 PM
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