I've Still Got Both My Nuts: A True Cancer Blog

Girls of Cancer: Miss November

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 01:54:00 +0000

Deanna Favre

Deanna Favre was born in Mississippi, attended grade school with a guy named Brett, dated him as a sophomore in high school, gave birth to their first daughter at 20, moved in with Brett when he was the quarterback for the Packers, stood by him during his struggles with Vicodin and alcohol, and now is happily married to him, was diagnosed with cancer in 2004, underwent five months of chemo and a lumpectomy, created the Deanna Favre Hope Foundation which supports breast cancer education, women's breast imaging and diagnosis services for all women, and wrote a book in 2007.

Whew, what a life-in-a-sentence. Now, onto Brett. This won’t be the lovefest displayed by Joe Buck during Minnesota Vikings broadcasts, but it may get close. Brett Favre is not the best quarterback ever—he holds most of the all-time passing records, but he’s also thrown the most career interceptions with 313.

Brett is also awesome—most touchdowns, completions, yards, MVPs (tied with Peyton Manning), and most consecutive game starts by a non-lineman or kicker with 282 (304 including playoffs). Brett is in his seventeenth consecutive year without missing a game.

Brett is even more intriguing off the field. He reveals himself in front of cameras while most athletes put up a wall. He always seems happy and jokes with his teammates. He fakes his retirement every year and has found his way onto the Vikings out of spite for the Packers, an archrival. He’s historically been dreadful playing in domes and also, lately, in the playoffs. Brett has overcome addictions. Above all, the day after his father died in 2003 he had one of his best performances, passing for 399 yards and 4 touchdowns and shedding tears when it was over. It was one of the most incredible sporting events I’ve seen.

Brett and Peyton may end up splitting the MVP this year, leaving them both with four. It is mind-boggling how well he’s playing at 40 years old. His Vikings are 10-1 and have a chance to win the Super Bowl. I will be rooting for Brett and my boy, Super Randy Moss, to meet in the big game.

I welcome all female readers who are either cancer survivors or patients to be featured as co-Miss Decembers. If interested, please submit a short bio, any funny stories, and a photo of yourself (at any age—cancer, pre- or post-cancer) to bmrubenstein@gmail.com. I will publish all submissions. You all deserve some winter and Hanukkah love.

Lather and Repeat

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 02:10:00 +0000

Rub bar of soap onto soaked washcloth. Put soap back on holster. Clean self.

This is my preferred method of bathing, in which, had I been the only person using the soap, a single bar would last many weeks.

Enter my female roommate, Vina. The lifetime of our shared soap bars is just a few weeks. I think water may transform Vina into a lioness or a different clawed animal—I can't tell if she peels clumps for bathing, to create a potpourri of sorts, or for some kind of sacrificial ritual to the Goddess of Clean.

Refill, Re-buy, Recycle

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 23:58:00 +0000

My dad is a bit misguided on the motto, "Reduce, Reuse, Recycle." He takes pleasure in filling the trash can. He doesn't like different foods touching each other and uses separate plates—normally paper. He rarely separates the two or three paper plates stuck together.

He grabs a stack of napkins for all meals and snacks, even something as dry as pretzels. He needs silverware with his meals, even if it's only a sandwich. He gathers such an abundance of materials that at fast food joints I reiterate, "Dad, please don't get me ketchup, silverware, or napkins—I'll get my own."

He leaves lights on even when he won't re-enter that room until many hours later—to turn them off before going to bed.

He's always bagged his groceries in plastic, but used to grab no fewer than five paper bags on his way out of the supermarket to add to his stockpile. He uses the brown bags to collect the newspaper for recycling each week. I once conservatively estimated he had compiled over 30 years worth of them.

After all his waste, he is surprisingly adept at recycling. He makes sure to recycle all bottles, aluminum, and newspapers. He seems to think that his recyclables compensate for overuse, despite me telling him that only about 35% of recycled materials are reused.

Like all Americans, my carbon footprint is enormous relative to most of the world, but I do my best to reduce it. I bring snacks to work every day in a brown bag. My dad uses about three of these per day, and then throws them away, but I've been using the same one for several months. It now resembles the skin of a 110-year-old woman who's been smoking for 97 of them.

According to UNDP, Human Development Report 2007/2008: Fight Climate Change: Human Solidarity in a Divided World, the United States is the world's highest per capita emitter of carbon dioxide with over 20 metric tons per person. China—the source of much hostility from conservation groups for overtaking the U.S. as the world's top overall emitter—spews out a mere four metric tons per person.

The greenouse effect aside, there is no debating that pollution effects water, air, ecosystems and human health. Many people think they're entitled to overconsume and waste, and that it is not their responsibility. I urge people to make simple concessions like switching to energy- and fiscally-efficient compact fluorescent light bulbs.

And when my book comes out, you can purchase it in e-book format if you'd like. Or, just read it over and over again—I'll give you credit for "Reuse."

Safety

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 00:56:00 +0000

The following is a text message conversation between me and my friend. I was on the Metrorail headed for work.

Friend: I just farted so bad that I smoked myself out of my office.

Me: Make sure to leave a trail.

Friend: They're spraying Febreze in the hallway now. That can't possibly be because of me.

Me: Wow, that sounds like one of those once-in-a-lifetime rips. Be proud. That's lethal.

Friend: It's actually a little embarrassing.

Me: Are you sure you didn't poo yourself? Better check yo self.

Friend: That's my next move. As soon as I finish e-mailing an apology to the whole office.

Me: Did you claim that fart as your own or did they smell your brand?

Friend: No, you don't claim those. I don't think they know it's me for sure. But, I think they suspect someone.

Book(s)

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 03:23:00 +0000

"Do you think you're going to write another book," my mom asked.

"Absolutely not," I said. "The first one has consumed my life for five and a half years."

And yet, just days later I was already thinking about segments that don't quite fit in my first book. I even considered writing them down.

I played with potential first chapters, the hook that is meant to corral you readers with your hundreds of thousands of book options, and why read mine?

Would the second begin right where the first leaves off, much like My Friend Leonard following James Frey's megahit, A Million Little Pieces? Or would it plug some holes of the first book—the stories behind the stories of the cancerslayer, from Superman himself?

Girls of Cancer: Miss Halloween

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 01:42:00 +0000

Kathy Bates

Kathy Bates discovers a crashed automobile on a snowy, New England road. The driver—James Caan—is an author who Bates is hugely fond of. After being “rescued” by Bates, Caan finds himself drugged, beaten, and at her mercy.

I have never heard of Misery, the 1990 thriller starring Bates and Caan. I probably should have—it grossed $61m, was based on Stephen King’s novel, was directed by the same guy who did When Harry Met Sally, and features Kathy Bates, who won an Academy Award and Golden Globe.

Kathy Bates was a scary mammajamma in Waterboy, playing Adam Sandler’s deranged mother. Are you surprised by this eerie trend? You shouldn’t be. An urban legend has been circulating about Kathy Bates for years. For those who scare, proceed with caution.

It began on Halloween sometime in the 60s when Kathy was a teenager. Her friends had stopped spending time with Kathy—they thought she brought down the group’s rep. Instead of partying in one of her classmate’s basement with everyone else, she sneaked around neighborhoods stealing Snickers bars.

Every Halloween thereafter, Kathy increased her destruction: snatching bags from little kids, smashing pumpkins, and setting lawns alight. It is said that, at twenty, she spotted a rabbit in the woods at precisely 11:59 on Halloween night. The rabbit was as white as a ghost with white pupils and white claws. The rabbit summoned Kathy and spoke in tongues about the species taking over the world and harvesting humans.

The rabbit population began to shrink as Kathy collected those in her hometown of Memphis. People close to Kathy thought she had a taste for the gamey meat. Really, she was preparing for the worldwide takeover. The date was planned for October 31, 2005.

But the plan changed in 2003 when Kathy was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, though she didn’t reveal her disease publicly until 2008. Later, Kathy said that she wished she went public sooner. She could have helped others, she said, since ovarian cancer is difficult to diagnose early.

In truth, she waited to disclose her illness to cover up the white rabbit’s ultimate plan. “Now, they’ll never see it coming,” the rabbit said, in tongues, of course.

The plan to abruptly alter the world’s dominant species without abiding by the rules of evolution is still in play—Kathy’s cancer just pushed it back four years, to October 31, 2009, at the stroke of 11:59, which also happens to be your last opportunity to grab a free Black Jack Taco from Taco Bell.

Facing Armageddon, I’m strangely not in the mood for artificially-colored crunchy tortilla.

Damn Yankees

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 15:16:00 +0000

"Tonight we feast like the Romans,” I said to my dad.

He and I were headed to Long Island. There’s a restaurant off Hempstead Turnpike named Colony Diner, which looks like all other diners—chrome siding, lots of windows, and jukeboxes at the booths. But this is no ordinary diner.

My family used to take annual trips to New York to visit relatives and my grandparents’ gravesite. We would hit all the attractions—The World Trade Center Towers, Empire State Building, United Nations, Jewish delicatessen in Brooklyn, bagel and cookie bakery—but Colony Diner eclipsed them all.

The last time I had been was in 2000, a month before being diagnosed with my first cancer. Each year that I didn’t go, Colony’s prestige grew. In my mind the plate of roast beef drenched in au jus became a tableful. The matzo ball became the size of my fist. The tall slice of strawberry shortcake became the size of my head.

My dad and I hit terrible traffic, and the normally five-hour trip turned into seven-and-a-half. My dad and I discussed Colony on the way. Would we even be able to finish all our food? Was it going to be the best meal ever? Would the Jose Canseco-lookalike still be working there after all these years?

When we finally arrived, we sat at a large, plump, red booth. We ordered cherry Cokes, which at Colony amounts to about half Coke and half grenadine. Our challah bread and sesame sticks arrived. Then came the matzo ball soup. The main course followed.

My dad ordered half a roast chicken, apple stuffing, a baked potato and broccoli. He left some of the stuffing so that he’d have room for dessert. I came to gorge and that’s exactly what I did: a large, round plate with stacks of medium roast beef lying in a pool of au jus. A baked potato smothered in butter. A bowl of steamed broccoli. A second cherry Coke. There was just enough room for my slice of strawberry shortcake with mounds of whipped cream. Little had changed over the last nine years.

The next night I outdid myself: a 20-ounce prime rib topped with frizzled onion straws, corn on the cob, a plate of French fries, matzo ball soup, two cherry Cokes, challah bread, and the second largest slice of chocolate cake I’ve ever eaten (after a $15 slice at The Palm in Vegas). I certainly wasn’t feeling tip-top while watching the USC-Ohio State game later that evening.

It’s surprising that after having visited New York some 10-15 times in my life, I’d never been to old Yankee Stadium.

I wasn’t going to allow that to happen with the new $1.5 billion coliseum. New Yankee Stadium looks like a castle from the outside, with “Yankee Stadium” inscribed in gold-colored letters. The inside looked like a monument to past Yankee greats with banners drooping from the ceiling. We took the elevator to the upper level, where the field looked immaculate and the high definition scoreboard bigger than I’d ever seen (though, it may not compare to Jerry’s Dome in Texas). We walked past Nathan’s hot dog and New York-style pizza stands.

We saw my Baltimore Orioles beat the Yankees on a cool, wet afternoon. Brian Roberts hit a grand slam and I stood and cheered wildly in the midst of silent New Yorkers.

I was happy with the outcome of the game, but something didn’t quite feel right. It brought back memories of my one autumn with the Yankees back in 2000 when they comforted me during my first month with cancer. I couldn’t help but root for Derek Jeter the day after he surpassed Lou Gehrig for the most hits in Yankee history, as the former public address announcer, Bob Sheppard, proclaimed, “Shortstop...Number 2...Derek Jeter...Number 2.”

My brain knows that I hate the Yankees. But deep inside of me, all the way down in my appendix I think, I didn’t forget that autumn many years back. It felt like an infection, spreading to my gallbladder and igniting my gallstones. My umbilical cord-donated white cells tried to beat back and kill the infection, but they could only contain it, sort of like Valtrex and herpes.

I hate the Yankees, with their unchecked spending, enormous fair-weather fan base, and constant winning. I hate the Yankees, I hate the Yankees, I hate the Yankees…

But, while Jeter, Pettitte, Posada and Rivera are still playing, there will always be a chance that the infection picks up its pace and spreads throughout my bloodstream. My first-grade immune system can only fight it off for so long.

After all, I hate the damn Yankees.

Postscript: Have you ever seen a better mullet?

One-Million STRONG

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 21:11:00 +0000

Drew Carey said that he would donate one million dollars to LIVESTRONG if he got one million Twitter followers by the end of the year. He currently has over 103 thousand followers.

I will follow Drew if I get 15 Twitter followers by the end of the month, doing my part in funding cancer research. I currently have ten.

Girls of Cancer: Miss September

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 03:41:00 +0000

Kate Jackson

On the day after Thanksgiving, nine years ago, we wanted to see Meet the Parents. Sold out. How about The Grinch? Sold out. How about...Charlie's Angels? We were better off driving home.

Cameron Diaz is overrated and has an annoying laugh, Drew Barrymore sucks as I've said many times on this blog, and which was the attractive Angel from back in the day with that popular hairdo and poster? Kate Jackson is the Angel who was always overlooked.

Kate was a southern girl. She was born in Alabama and attended Ole Miss. In the 1970s she teamed with Aaron Spelling to star in Charlie's Angels, a very popular television series which also starred Miss March, who has sadly passed away resulting from anal cancer.

Now, I wonder why Kate was not also cast in Aaron Spelling's Beverly Hills 90210, where, surely, she could have played Tori Spelling's mother. Maybe Kate wanted the role, but Tori complained to daddy about losing airtime and a diminished sex symbol status because of her TV mommy and threw a temper tantrum. Yeah, I'm positive that's what happened.

And then Kate became furious at Aaron and wanted to kill kill kill Tori. Kate wanted to prove that she was still hotter than Tori despite the age difference, and wanted to pose for Playboy, but then realized that Miss March already posed and Kate was tired tired tired of being overshadowed.

But then, Kate remembered that life is short and she survived two stints of breast cancer. After her cancer recurrence, she received a partial mastectomy and reconstructive surgery. Kate's upbeat outlook was endearing. “I’m never going to have the perfect body," Kate said, "but I can wear a strapless evening gown, a bustier or whatever is required for a part.”

Today, Kate stands all alone as Miss September.
*Note: As always, much of this information came from Wikipedia. Some may also have been imagined. That, combined with a photo I found using a Google search, makes this the single most illegitimate blog story ever. Please don't tell the cops.

Will You Be My Friend?

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 03:00:00 +0000

I have finally caved and joined the trendy "it" thing, Twitter, a social networking service.

Follow me on Twitter here!

Become my Facebook friend here!

Buy your beauty products from my mom here!

Check out my brother's Bar and Grill in Myrtle Beach here!

Call my mobile phone on this number...

Sike!

Big Brother

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 23:53:00 +0000

For my bar mitzvah over 12 years ago, Aunt Flojo bought me a portable color LCD TV. On the rare occasions that I left my couch on the weekend during football season, I brought my TV with me. I cursed at the little thing in 2003 as I watched UVA lose to N.C. State, 51-37. I remember heading to Aunt Flojo's Hanukah party in 2002 and watching beer bottles rain in Cleveland after the referee overturned a last-minute call, giving Jacksonville the victory. "We feared for our lives," Jaguars wide receiver Jimmy Smith later said.

This past Saturday night, as I rode with my parents to my cousins' house for Rosh Hashanah dinner, I turned on my portable TV. Virginia Tech was playing Nebraska in a close game, and I wanted to see Tech quarterback Tyrod Taylor continue to throw poorly.

I turned it on. The TV scanned for stations, but it didn't stop on ABC like it was supposed to. It didn't stop on any station. Then I remembered that the government forced broadcasting stations to go digital in June, leaving my wonderful bar mitzvah gift useless.

In 1997, my technologically-advanced LCD TV probably cost Aunt Flojo $200-300. Calculating for inflation, that would be $267.25-400.88 in 2008 dollars. After accounting for depreciation and technological advancement, I estimate it is currently worth $30.

I'll be expecting my check, Obama.

Postscript: According to some websites, I may be able to get a government coupon for a portable TV converter box. I take back what I said, Mr. President. I will accept public money to purchase a converter so that I can use my twelve-year-old television once every year or two. Thanks for the money, my dear blog readers.

My Hip CT Scan

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 18:45:00 +0000

I received a CT scan to measure my leg length discrepancy resulting from my cancer surgery over eight and a half years ago. I know what my hip looks like—I've seen X-rays over the years. However, I had never seen this.

"This is science at its peak. It's incredible. How in the fuck am I still able to walk pain-free?" I wrote in an e-mail to my friend, Hamburgers. I attached the CT picture. "Don't worry, you can't make out my junk. It just looks like a bulge," I wrote.

I clicked Send.

Forty-five minutes later I peeked at the picture again, and realized I could enlarge it. I clicked the magnifying glass icon, and could now see my clearly defined genitalia. "I take it back—you can totally see my donger if you zoom in," I wrote back to Hamburgers. "I highly recommend you not zoom in, but your personal sexual desires are your own prerogative."

So, that's what the "smudge" function is for, huh?

Girls of Cancer: Miss August

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 02:04:00 +0000

Adamari López Toro

We're only eight months into my Girls of Cancer Calendar and I’m already digging deep for cancer-surviving hotties. I blame this on Melissa Etheridge. Every time I search for famous cancer survivors, she pops up, and I’m forced to quit my efforts and gargle with Listerine—the brown, burning kind.

My searches eventually led me to Adamari López Toro, a stunning Puerto Rican actress who has never appeared in American media and, unfortunately, has no relation to Benicio Del Toro. Adamari is famous for being in Mexican soap operas including Camila and the megahit, Amigas y Rivales. What, you haven’t seen them?

Adamari is a favorite target for the paparazzi and gossip magazines. She was also featured in People en Español’s Los 50 Más Bellos (The 50 Most Beautiful) in 2007. I should have never stopped at Spanish 4.

At 4 feet 10 inches, Adamari is, by some classifications, considered a little person. In 2005, she was diagnosed with “stage 1” breast cancer and underwent surgery. She is now in remission. The five-year survival rate for stage 1 breast cancer is a whopping 96-98%. In other words: women, please do whatever you can to detect it early.

I don’t mean to play favorites, but if this Girls of Cancer Calendar was real—meaning that I invested my hard-earned (well, at least earned) money into the production of glossy calendars with pictures of women who survived cancer, one of whom has sadly passed away (Farrah Fawcett as Miss March)—then I would likely choose Adamari for the cover.

Push it to the Limit

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 21:59:00 +0000

I set out with a seemingly simple goal: reduce my body fat to 8%. I expected the process to take two months. It ended up taking 18.

I made quick progress in the first five months, when I eliminated processed foods and consumed more fruits and vegetables as part of a broader, healthier lifestyle change. I strictly counted my calories and had an iron will.

I went to Bob Evans with my parents last summer and ordered one of the lowest-calorie entrées, and substituted vegetables for starch. I ate none of the rolls and biscuits. I even managed not to order strawberry shortcake, my favorite dessert.

“Wow, that makes me kind of sad,” my friend, T2theZ, said after I told him.

Food constantly occupied my mind, disrupting my work and, sometimes, my sleep. The stomach pain I could easily handle. It was my passion for food and taste that hurt.

I had lost many pounds, and was confused why I hadn’t yet reached my goal. Only a few more weeks before you can eat whatever you desire, I’d continually assure myself. I was already thinking of my first victory food by the third month. I obsessed over whether it would be pizza, and if so, what kind of pizza, and where the pizza would come from, and which toppings it would have. Would I mail order a frozen pie from Giordano’s in Chicago, or eat it fresh from Roman Delight Pizza in Manassas Mall?

I encountered setbacks. On my family vacation at Virginia Beach last summer I ate a few pounds of Candy Kitchen fudge. I’m surprised weight gain was the only nuisance that caused, and not the explosion of my gallbladder.

I would eat strictly during the week and then splurge on the weekends, thinking that five prevails over two. But, the marginal gain from one naughty day will always overshadow a perfect day. You can burn only so many fewer calories than you consume before you lose mental energy and your body slows down. And you can consume three-fourths of a day’s worth in a single hamburger from Ruby Tuesday (Boston Blue Burger with 1,424 calories).

When my weight stagnated for six months, many questions ran through my head. Am I already at 8% body fat, though I don’t yet look anything like Will Smith? Does my body not want me to push further? Why am I punishing myself, being hungry every day, famished, when it doesn’t amount to anything? I wonder what rabbit tastes like?

I spoke with my friend, Vodka/Benadryl, about my lack of progress. “Back in high school, we’d have to cut for wrestling,” he said. “We had intense three-hour workouts and ate only 1,200 calories a day.”

Vodka/Benadryl suspected that if I stayed focused, I’d complete my goal in two months. I had been intensely dieting for 15 months, but somehow 2 more seemed unthinkable. Plus, it broke my three-weeks-to-completion estimate. It takes 3,500 calories to gain or lose a pound. The process is much slower than you’d think.

I re-dedicated myself and have more or less reached my target. I feel weightless, figuratively speaking, and elated. I don’t recommend anyone attempt this punishing endeavor. At times it felt like it controlled my life. I deprived myself of certain foods the way cancer treatment had so many years ago.

And besides, it will all have been for naught after I consume everything I’ve been itching to this past year and a half, like brick oven calzones. And Pizza Hut P’zones. And butter-soaked cinnamon sugar pretzels dipped in icing. And Mountain Dew Volt. And fries and burgers and fried chicken. And tacos. And nachos. And boneless chicken wings dipped in ranch. And Double Stuf Oreos, or Golden Oreos. And Starburst Jelly Beans. And Jelly Belly jelly beans. And Gushers. And gummy worms. And cherry Twizzlers. And Twizzler Sourz.

And another Chipotle burrito, because I already ate one as my chosen victory food.

And fucking strawberry shortcake.

And after I eat all of this, I will need proof that this tiny glimpse of time, when my body fat was 8%, was genuine and not imagined. Thus, I share this cropped photo that was taken of me, for historical purposes, and not to brag or be self-serving or be narcissistic.

Eat your heart out, Paul Walker, Ryan Reynolds, and Lance.
Postscript: I provide only a taste of my sweet 15-inch scar in case I can later get money or publicity from it. I have no problem whoring myself out. I am waiting for a call from Mr. Hilfiger. I am also willing to provide a "before-and-after" to infomerical companies. Wait until I eat all the above foods, and I'll have a perfect "before" shot.

Girls of Cancer: Miss July

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Sat, 01 Aug 2009 01:52:00 +0000

Geralyn Lucas

The authorities in China would be pissed if they did a Google image search for Geralyn Lucas. She can be found completely topless on the first results page. No porno terms needed. I just made the day of my teenage male readers. And for everyone else—I swear I’m not a perv.

Geralyn did a topless photo shoot for Self some years back while promoting her book, Why I Wore Lipstick. She was diagnosed with breast cancer when she was relatively young, twenty-seven years old, and had a mastectomy to remove the tumor. Her nipple was taken as part of the surgery, and she considered getting a cosmetic replacement, but instead went with a tattoo where her nipple used to be. Though I’m not condoning using the internet to view naked pictures, for those boys who just now reconsidered Googling her, shame on you! People come in all colors and sizes, and discrimination will not be tolerated simply because Geralyn lacks a nipple.

Her memoir was recommended to me when I was querying literary agents. There are about a million cancer memoirs, but she was sort of famous (a producer for 20/20), and her book had recently been released and sold fairly well. The opening scene is captivating. Geralyn visits a strip club for the first time in her life as she grapples with the decision whether or not to get a mastectomy. The other 180 pages are a cryfest. You can purchase it on Amazon for $10.94 if you’re into that sort of thing. And no, her topless photo cannot be found in her book. That can be seen without dropping 11 bucks.

Geralyn has been cancer-free for over ten years. She is married with two children, lives in New York, and works as an executive at Lifetime Television, which, in 2006, aired a film version of her book. If my book ever turns into a Lifetime movie, feel free to punch me in the neck.

My One Autumn with the Yankees

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Sat, 18 Jul 2009 14:10:00 +0000

My dad’s family stared at him, horrified. It was the spring of 1958, and their beloved Brooklyn Dodgers had just moved to Los Angeles, leaving them devastated. The relocation didn’t bother my dad as much as his parents and older sister. The rebellious thirteen-year-old proudly wore his brand-new New York Yankees jacket to the dinner table.

My dad has always been a bit confused when it comes to team allegiance. He grew up a New York Giants fan, became a Redskins fan when he moved to the Washington area, but made my brother, JD, wear a Cowboys shirt when he was a little boy. JD would rather not talk about it.

My dad’s NFL order of teams goes Redskins and then Giants, and he generally doesn’t mind the Cowboys. He’ll even root for the Giants when, toward the end of the season, a New York win will harm their divisional rival Redskins’ chances of making the playoffs. “It’s up to the Skins to get the job done,” he’ll say. “Why would I root for the Chiefs over the Giants? I probably can’t name three guys on that team.”

When I was an early teenager, my dad’s favorite baseball team was the Baltimore Orioles, with the Yankees coming in second. JD and I investigated. In the 2000 season my dad always rooted for the Orioles, except when they played the Yankees with Roger Clemens, David Cone, Andy Pettitte, or Orlando “El Duque” Hernández as the starting pitcher. That occurred 9 of the 12 times the two teams played each other.

My allegiances are more clear-cut: Redskins for life, Seattle Mariners before Ken Griffey, Jr. left for Cincinnati, and then the Orioles. There’s just one blemish.

I got cancer at the perfect time of year—the NFL season was in its first month, and the baseball playoffs began just days after I started treatment. Like usual, my Orioles didn’t participate, and Griffey had recently departed the Mariners, which swept the White Sox in the first round. Without a horse in the race, I just watched, allowing my favorite childhood sport to take my mind off disease, chemotherapy, and dangerously low blood counts.

My immune system hit rock bottom on the first Saturday in October, in 2000. I spiked a low-grade fever late in the afternoon. I turned on the Mets/San Francisco Giants playoff game as I frantically collected my things. My heartbeat was rapid, more from the fear of not knowing what happens next than from my acute anemia. My doctors were of the opinion that fevers equal potential death, and that’s all I knew.

I stuffed my bag faster than my parents packed theirs, so I begged them to hurry, wondering if these empty minutes brought me closer to the mortal demise my doctors described. My mom drove on the nearly-empty highways more concerned with getting me to the hospital safely than my ticking time bomb.

We arrived to a calm hospital staff and not the frenetic one I expected. The nurse put me in a regular hospital room devoid of intensive care equipment. Nothing had to be resuscitated. Dr. Dunks looked me over, noting the acne that had spread across my back was worse than J.J. Redick’s. I hadn’t been eating much the past week. I missed going to school, and my friends, and my old life that was wrenched away from me.

Engrossed in the baseball game that was now in extra innings, I ate the entire chicken sandwich my dad had fetched for me, forgetting I hadn’t had an appetite. In the bottom of the 13th inning, Benny Agbayani crushed a homerun to catapult the Mets to a 3-2 victory.

My dad walked me down to radiology to get a chest X-ray. We got to talking about the Yankees, and how, even if you hate them, it’s hard not to respect some of their players’ postseason performances. Through 1999, Derek Jeter had a .326 batting average in the playoffs. Through that same time period, El Duque’s ERA was 1.02 and Mariano Rivera’s was a staggering 0.38 with 13 saves. Rivera hadn’t given up a single run in his last 18 postseason appearances, including 6 World Series games. He may be the best postseason pitcher ever.

I was sixteen years old and needed something to hold on to during that first month of cancer treatment. With Jeter, El Duque and Rivera, the Yankees weren’t going anywhere until they would beat the Mets in the World Series on October 26. I adopted the Yankees as my team, sharing them with my dad who rooted for them three-quarters of the time against his “favorite team,” the Orioles.

JD bought me the red Yankees hat that Fred Durst—lead singer of Limp Bizkit—made famous. He later got me a green one, and my aunt—the same one whose jaw dropped at the dinner table so many years before—bought me a Yankees World Series hat. I wore my hats around school with pride as all my hair fell out, carrying a note in my pocket authorizing me to wear them because hats normally weren’t allowed at school.

The following season was Cal Ripken, Jr.’s last before retirement. His rejuvenated play and storybook home run in the 2001 All-Star game restored my love for the Orioles, and, naturally, my hatred for the Yankees. But I’ll never forget how, that autumn, baseball in general and the Yankees more specifically renewed me with joy when all seemed so lost.

Damn Yankees

Girls of Cancer: Miss June

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 15:09:00 +0000

Kylie Minogue

Crikey is Australian-born Kylie Minogue attractive, despite how annoying her 2002 smash hit “Can’t Get You out of My Head” was. Though I hadn’t heard of her until seven years ago, Kylie reached fame in Australia in the late ‘80s with her role in a soap opera, and then as a singer. Kylie has sold over 60 million records and has a bronze statue in Melbourne, Australia, which is bowed to by horny teenage boys.

Some of Kylie’s critics say she is a terrible singer, and that she uses her fame, revealing costumes, and sex symbol-status to cover up her lack of talent. I can’t agree or disagree — the few times I caught part of the boring and highly unpopular show American Idol I thought singers were good when the panel claimed that they sucked. I do think Kylie’s music sucks though I’m also not her target audience. I was her target audience seven years ago when I considered purchasing a plane ticket to Melbourne, as well as a small rug to protect my knees on the concrete.

Kylie was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2005. Kylie and the local Australian government went to great lengths to keep her situation private, but through extensive research (two websites, neither credible) it appears that Kylie underwent the full range of treatment: surgery, chemotherapy in France, and radiation. She reportedly compared chemotherapy to experiencing a nuclear bomb, which is the same thing women say about copulation with American Idol’s William Hung.

At forty-one years old, Kylie is still gorgeous and successful. She has an upcoming album and will appear in the biggest budget Bollywood film ever made. If you look hard enough you can find young American men facing Melbourne during prayer.

Men's Bathroom Etiquette

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 18:53:00 +0000

“Keep your eyes on the wall,” Ho-Train said. “No matter what, keep your eyes on the wall.”

My friend, Ho-Train, was sharing his most important rule of the men’s bathroom in an article I wrote for my high school newspaper, The Yellow Jacket. Ho-Train’s quote was one of the few I used in my articles that I didn’t fabricate and randomly credit to classmates.

More rules:

No talking unless all the communicators are on the same plane: at the sink, urinal, or in the shitter. If you and your friend are peeing, and you finish before him, your conversation must pause until he rejoins you at the sink.
Never touch handles with your palm.
Take an end urinal if available. If possible, leave two unused urinals between you and the other dude, but no more than three or you risk looking like a pansy, with the exception of the end unit. If you have to saddle up next to another dude, keep your elbows tight. If you’re going to have to squeeze between two dudes, broach the urinal extremely slowly in the hope that somebody will finish before you arrive.
If a dude farts at the urinal, it is appropriate to laugh, so long as your eyes don’t move from the wall.
For goodness sake, wash your hands after shitting.
If two friends are shitting in adjoining stalls, they are permitted to hold hands. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
It is strongly encouraged to ridicule dudes who spend significant time in front of the mirror.
Never ridicule a dude who takes too long at the urinal. Stage fright will be sympathized with, even downright respected, as opposed to the dude who left four or more urinals between the next dude.
Any direct and intentional sight of another dude’s wang may result in death.
Always give a dude room when he’s pulling valuables out of his pants.
Pulling out through the zipper is the best method. A full unbutton and unbuckle is authorized. Dropping trousers to the point where the ass crack can be seen is not permitted.
A shitter will be chosen that eliminates the aggregate awkwardness. This will be a judgment decision. Factors to be taken into account include adjacent open shitters, a workable lock, and farthest distance from the bathroom’s common area. Of course, selfish factors will also be taken into account such as cleanliness and fully-stocked toilet paper.

These are universal rules that dudes know instinctively. Centuries ago they were passed down from father to son. Through survival of the fittest, the unaware civilizations died off, and by way of evolution these rules are no longer learned.

At my last job some of these rules were bent and some outright broken. One dude would unbutton, unbuckle, and completely untuck his shirt just to pee.

Dudes took a urinal in the middle when the end was available. Dudes took the urinal next to me when they could’ve chosen one with a buffer.

Dudes began conversation upon entering the bathroom, while I was in the middle of peeing. This is a serious problem on two levels: (1) we weren’t on the same plane; (2) by saying hello they forced me to turn my head to the right. If another dude was urinating next to me, and suspected that I peeked at his wang, then he could try to kill me.

One dude would greet upon arrival and continue conversing from the shitter. This put me in a terrible bind. I didn’t want to seem rude, but I also didn’t want to be around when the noises began. He was the Alpha Dude, with a complete lack of natural shitter-inhibitions.

When it comes to the shitter, there are fewer rules than preferences. Dudes would flush and then wait to come out until the bathroom was empty in an attempt to conceal their identities. Dudes would exit the stall inconspicuously, wash up, and leave the room as quickly as possible. Dudes would wait to tuck until after exiting the stall, proudly displaying their pooping success.

One dude tested the flushing capability beforehand. He was The Clogger. Some dudes let loose without a care, while others restricted their expulsions to mere squeaks. One dude prayed that the bathroom was empty before entering to shit. If not empty, he would pretend he came in to pee and come back later to poop.

And me? The last rule: don’t relieve and tell.

Twisted

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 20:18:00 +0000

Meet Gregg Valentino, who clearly drinks his orange juice. He looks like a challah bread. I feel like I should eat him with my Manischewitz wine Friday night.

'Terminator' Misses Target... at First

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 02:55:00 +0000

I knew something was off from the start. The theme song from 1984’s The Terminator had been tweaked for the previous two sequels, but nothing like this. Terminator Salvation director, McG, and his composer obliterated it. The theme song was the sole reason I tuned in to the first episode of the TV show, Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles. It was also the sole reason I changed the channel after five minutes, because the song was not in the show.

The new installment to the Terminator series was disappointing. I can be nitpicky, like there was too little background music during the action scenes. But the dialogue was also very weak, and the acting fairly poor. For the second straight summer, Christian Bale was outdone by his costar. Sam Worthington — is he human or something else? — was the shining star of the film, receiving as many scenes as Bale, who played humanity’s savior, John Connor.

We first saw John Connor’s character in 1991’s Terminator 2: Judgment Day as a boy played by Edward Furlong, who would later star in American History X. I couldn’t move from my couch after seeing American History X; it’s the most powerful movie I’ve ever seen.

Nick Stahl was Connor in 2003’s Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines. He and Furlong gave Connor’s character personality. They showed fear and humor, and we felt sympathetic toward them. Christian Bale didn’t do much of anything, except speak in the deep, dark voice we know as Batman. Whether it’s Bale or McG to blame, John Connor’s character, too, was destroyed.

I was a Schwarzenegger fan as a boy, watching movies like Twins and Kindergarten Cop. It wasn’t until my dad showed me The Terminator, widely considered an all-time classic, as a teenager that I saw what my dad saw: Arnold was indestructible. We loved Arnold even more than we loved mocking him — “Get to the chopper!” “Stop whining!” — and were disappointed when he chose to give up acting for politics. There are plenty of trash politicians. There’s only one Arnold.

Terminator 3 hit theaters during my second long hospital stint in Minnesota. I was subjected to the bed more than 23 hours each day. After a couple episodes of Saved by the Bell each morning, I watched the Food Network, though I couldn’t eat anything. I couldn’t even salivate over the prepared meals because my salivary glands had stopped working.

Rarely had I ever been so helpless, lifeless. My relatives came to visit. They stayed in my room briefly and then left, sensing I wanted nothing to do with them.

The NBA playoffs had ended. Basketball is what had kept me going the previous couple months. Now I had nothing, with one exception: every night there was a different Arnold movie on TV in preparation for the upcoming Terminator release. “Arnold is the best,” my dad and I always say. That summer he was more than that.

I am surely holding the new Terminator to a higher standard. It callously breaks from the core of the original, and that really bothers me. But it redeems itself with a great ending, one worthy of calling itself Terminator Salvation, and even has a brief Arnold cameo. That doesn’t make up for the film’s failures, but maybe it will make McG recognize how to do the next one the right way. I promise you this: Terminator will be back.

Water Fuzz

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 01:12:00 +0000

While boating with friends during Memorial Day weekend, a police boat pulled us over. I considered taking my earplugs out, but then decided it would probably be best for me to play dumb. My four other friends had a long conversation with the two officers, far longer than I hoped for. The only thing I heard was the officer repeatedly say “$2,500 fine.”

I scrolled my friends’ expressions to gauge if what I heard was correct. They seemed calm, certainly more relaxed than I was.

I became impatient. I wanted the coppers to leave so I could find out what was going on. One of the officers was asking us what we did for a living. When the officer inquired about my profession, Mr. Mountain Dew said, “Ben is…” Mr. Mountain Dew hadn’t a clue what I did or how to describe it. He looked at me and spoke loudly so I could hear. “Ben, what do you do?”

I don’t even know what I do. I pulled it out of my ass: “I’m a Junior Acquisition Specialist at a Government contractor that assists Government agencies with their performance-based procurement.” That's how you end shit. Not knowing how to respond, the officer blundered about his daughter living near DC, or some other pointless tidbit, and then they left. I took out one earplug. “What the fuck just happened?”

Mr. Mountain Dew had jumped off the back of the boat, while moving, ten minutes prior to getting pulled over. Mr. Mountain Dew was about to jump again, seconds before the police boat flashed its red and blue lights and before we noticed it near us, but for some reason unknown to him, he waited. That was a blessing. We were given only a $100 fine because three of us were illegally sitting on the sides of the boat.

Whenever you’re held down by the popo, spit off some bullshit about acquisitions and procurement and other terms you don’t actually know the meaning of.

Girls of Cancer: Miss May

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Fri, 29 May 2009 01:54:00 +0000

Suzanne Somers

Is she best known for being on Three’s Company, Step by Step, or as the Thighmaster spokeswoman?

Step by Step was one of the sitcoms on ABC’s fantastic TGIF Friday night lineup. As a kid, TGIF was as good as it got; so long as I could stay awake until the end of Hangin’ with Mr. Cooper at 10:00 pm. Family Matters was the warm-up for Boy Meets World, the best of the bunch. So what if the nearly two-minute-long opening credits were the best part of Step by Step? That, and every scene with Patrick Duffy.

Admittedly, I used to watch* syndicated episodes of Step by Step on ABC Family while eating lunch.
*last year

Suzanne Somers was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2001. Following surgery and radiation, Suzanne forewent chemotherapy, part of the conventional regimen, and instead chose an alternative treatment consisting of injections of Iscador, an extract of mistletoe. I was getting chemotherapy for my first cancer at the time, and thought, Suzanne Somers is committing suicide. I somewhat understood that chemotherapy can cause late effects, but at seventeen I couldn’t fathom diverging from the traditional, doctor-recommended approach to treatment, and considered anyone who did so to be quitting on life.

Fairly or not, much like sports where only the final scoreboard ultimately matters, those who choose nontraditional cancer treatment are judged by whether they survive. Fortunately for Suzanne and her millions…and millions of fans, she was right.

At age 62, Suzanne Somers’ thighs are still the masters.

Enough is Enough

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Fri, 22 May 2009 01:39:00 +0000

PepperoniNip first spotted the snake next to the sidewalk. He recorded the snake slithering away, from an elevated position with an easy escape route, of course. I saw the footage. It was the largest snake I've seen not in a zoo or fucking with Samuel L. Jackson.

Around this same time we heard baby birds near the oven in the kitchen. The oven fan vent leads to a hole on the side of the house, which used to be covered. The covering was gone and a bird's nest was in its place.

One day I stopped hearing the baby birds.

The next day I sat on the deck to read The Economist. I looked up at the hole in the wall and saw a dark, coiled, glistening figure protruding out of the hole. I couldn't see a head or tail, and wasn't sure what it was until it moved.

The snake stayed there for a while. And then I checked and he was gone. I assumed he went to the grass where he could basque in the sun. PepperoniNip got up on a chair and peered in with a flashlight. The snake looked at him, his entire body inside the vent. The only thing between the snake and the house was the mesh on the oven fan above the stove.

PepperoniNip called animal control. The woman he spoke to was uncertain whether this fell in their jurisdiction. Only if the snake is inside the house, she said. "You're seriously going to wait until he falls through the mesh?" PepperoniNip said.

Somebody was sent. A female police officer showed up in an animal control van. What a great way for the county to save money. "This is just a rat snake, he's harmless," she said, holding the snake with those tong things.

"Easy for you to say — you're the one with the gun," PepperoniNip said. The officer took the snake to the woods.

A day later PepperoniNip saw the snake in the same spot as before, next to the sidewalk. Enough was enough. PepperoniNip had had it with the snake on the sidewalk. PepperoniNip drove to his favorite store, Lowe's, and bought shovels. As they say, the rest is history. Notice the baby birds digesting.

What If

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Tue, 12 May 2009 19:25:00 +0000

I won’t give too much away in case any of my readers hasn't been keeping up with Lost and plans to in the future. In the season finale this Wednesday, some Losties will try to change the course of time; erase the last three years like they never happened. Star Trek and Deja Vu can explain it better than I can, but I believe this phenomenon is known as a wormhole, or a tunnel in spacetime.

What if I could travel in time from one point in spacetime to another, specifically to a point over nine years ago, before cancer?

Before getting a chest Xray became instinctual: remove shirt, face white board and press chest against it, arms out to the sides, hold breath. Turn ninety degrees and raise arms above head, grab bar, press side against white board, hold breath.

Before I memorized a hospital room in Minneapolis, the odd, concave wall to the left of the bathroom door, the long window with the deep sill that stored all of JD’s DVDs, the giant HEPA filter in the right corner of the ceiling that kept me safe from germs, alive, the sound like the low hum of a distant jet engine which helped me fall asleep.

Before TerribleAtHoops, a friend who I had always played football and basketball with, would pass me in the hall and not say much, because he didn’t know what to say, and because I never allowed myself to talk about it, so we just became awkward around each other.

Before I could tell you exactly what I did on a given date eight years ago, based on cancer associations. October 31, 2000, was on a Tuesday because I was released from the hospital following neutropenia from Cycle 2. February 14, 2001, was on a Wednesday because that was my first day of Cycle 6. I began Cycle 8 on Tuesday, March 27, 2001, one day earlier than was planned because I wanted to be home to watch WrestleMania. I began Cycle 14 on Thursday, August 2, 2001, two days later than was planned because of how fucked up I got from Cycle 13.

Before I wrote the best book ever.

Before I knew never to touch hospital food ever again, except for the red Jell-O, unless the red Jell-O has those hard fruit-like things in it.

Before I respected so much what nurses do, how after all I’ve been through it was a doctor and a blood bank that made major errors but not a nurse, before I could remember most of their faces but not their names, and now wonder what they’re doing, are they still taking care of cancer people, playing their part in saving others’ lives, while the cancer people quickly forget their names?

Before the 2003 NBA Playoffs diminished each night’s struggle by several hours, before an NBA on NBC tripleheader felt like a vacation, before I read an article on Dirk Nowitzki in ESPN The Magazine while waiting for a heart scan, just weeks before I saw him get his tooth knocked out in a game while lying on my hospital bed, how I saw it fall to the court live, but was shown it over and over again in super slow motion.

Before I watched dozens of movies in a semi-conscious state, after chemo or Benadryl or who knows what the fuck else, some of my favorites like Armageddon and Happy Gilmore, some I’d never seen before like Copland and National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, how I remember how sad and brilliant Stallone’s performance was, and how hilarious Chevy Chase was, but can’t tell you much more than that.

Before I thought about the concept of wormholes though I’d never heard the term, how sometimes I wanted to warp forward, sometimes backward, sometimes just to stay in that vacuum of time forever without a single tick of the clock.

Before there were five unsuccessful attempts at putting an IV into my arm from three different people, first being sent to different “experts” before finally being sent down to the ICU because those nurses can do everything, and as soon as the ordeal was over I stopped feeling angry and realized how fucking hilarious it was.

Before my family trip to Israel where JD and I hung out with the brothers from Kansas City, Kansas, not Missouri, one of whom would play goalkeeper for the Junior Olympic soccer team, and later for Major League Soccer’s Colombus Crew, how just having looked him up I noticed we share the same birthday, how their goofy dad reminded everyone of the dad from American Pie, how we started and ended every sentence with “dude” or “man.” And the beautiful girl from Colombus, Ohio, who’s psychotic father screamed at a hotel employee because there was no watermelon at the breakfast buffet, how she recorded us doing random, stupid shit with her video camera, sometimes us just searching for stray cats because cats were everywhere, how I really wanted a copy of that video but then was diagnosed with cancer and forgot to ask.

Before the tennis match where I beat Froddy despite a throbbing pain in my hip.

Before the bone bruise in the back of my hip, before I felt any pain whatsoever, before any uncontrolled growth occurred, likely putting me between 15.5 to 16 years old. What if I could do this without a guarantee things wouldn’t turn out the same way, or even a similar way, but the probability of my life taking that path so infinitesimally tiny.

Would I travel through spacetime? Would you?

Girls of Cancer: Miss April

BMRubenstein@gmail.com (Benjamin Rubenstein) — Thu, 30 Apr 2009 21:17:00 +0000

Diem Brown

I, a twenty-five-year-old male, watch both The Real World and Real World/Road Rules Challenge religiously. Both are reality show trash, but they are very addictive, especially the latter. Challenge is about a group of violent, HGH-filled, male chauvinists competing in physical competitions to win money. Some of these guys, like Alton and CT, are tremendous athletes. Women are involved, but mostly just to look good (some of the female competitors can kick the shit out of me in everything: darts, arm wrestling, color by number, etc.).

Diem Brown was diagnosed with stage 2 ovarian cancer just after being selected to compete in Real World/Road Rules Challenge: Fresh Meat. Diem competed in a different challenge soon after surviving her often deadly disease (advanced ovarian cancer has a 70% kill rate). Diem’s peach fuzz brown hair was just budding, and she wore a hat all the time. During one water-related competition, Diem removed her hat, sobbing wildly. It was touching…or something like that.

Diem then started dating CT, a psychotic, ignorant, arrogant, machine-of-an-athlete. CT was kicked off two challenges in the first day for hitting other competitors. I watch these shows in hopes of seeing guys like CT fuck up, and to see how bitchy the girls are, and to see how terrible some of them are as human beings. Generally speaking, Real World programming gets me very angry, and this makes me want to watch even more.

Does voluntarily dating CT make Diem Brown a bad person? Unquestionably. However, the survivor community is happy to have her because, well, she’s really hot.