Obligation and Menstruation: Social Responsibility or Too Taboo?

Fish Rap Live!
Volume 18, Issue 8

Introduction: When I first hit puberty, I couldn’t quite pull myself together. I was that girl in middle school that never remembered to change her tampon until it was hours too late; I was the girl sentenced to wearing her P.E. shorts the rest of the day when she discovered her leak at lunch.

My good friend Tessah told me that her very first memory of me is when I walked to the front of Mrs. Mayer’s seventh grade science class to turn in a quiz. When my back was turned to the class, Tessah noticed a huge blood stain on the back of my shorts (science class was right before lunch, so this was about the time my stain size would have been at its apex). Instead of telling me, Tessah giggled to herself and let me go about my day.

Now that I’m 20, I’ve gotten a handle on my menstrual leaks with the help of birth control and adult-sized tampons. However, accidents still happen, and I wonder if anyone today would tell me if I had period blood all over my butt.

Process: I will go the Capitola mall wearing jeans stained on the butt with raspberries, coffee grounds, and a little bit of ketchup. I will then make notes of who notices and if they say anything.

Hypothesis: Tessah says that if she wasn’t an awkward seventh grader when she first saw me that she would have slid me a tampon and told me to go to the restroom. I believe her, and I predict all women today will do something in a similar fashion. On the contrary, I predict that men won’t say anything for one of two reasons: either they won’t notice or they’ll be too embarrassed to say anything because periods are something they just don’t get (see Venn diagram).

Results: I make my entrance in the Sears automotive department. I was in this department buying a new battery for my car the day before, and I see the woman who helped me. I sashay in front of her and she gives me a funny look. Thinking that she probably didn’t notice my pants, I bend over to examine hubcaps, sticking my butt out in her direction. After giving a few good wiggles, I turn around to find the woman looking directly at me. She blushes instantly and quickly walks away from me. I follow her to the other side of the store. When she sees me, she walks through the employees-only door. I wait, under the assumption she’s going to get me a tampon from her purse, but five minutes go by and she doesn’t come back out.

Irritated, I decide to leave Sears. As I’m making my way through kitchenware, I hear someone yell behind me: “Hey girl, I think you’re on the rag!” I turn around and find a group of teenage boys standing five feet from me. Was yelling really necessary? All the same, I gasp in mock horror, cover my face with my hands, and run away sobbing. The boys erupt with laughter when I crash into a blender display because I can’t see where I’m going.

In the main part of the mall, I stop walking to spin around every few yards so mall patrons can get a good look at my butt. I bend over to pick change up off the ground or inspect my shoes or smell the fake flowers – anything to get people to notice my butt. People stare, but no one says anything.

I twirl my way into the Gap. I am the only customer, so the salespeople have to pay attention to me. Sure enough, a salesgirl approaches me and immediately tells me that the Gap has a great selection of jeans.

“Yeah, but I like my jeans. Don’t you?” I turn in front of her like I’m at the end of a catwalk, purposefully pausing when my butt faces her.

“Yeah, but everyone needs new jeans! You should really try some on. Like, you should really go get some jeans and go to the dressing room so you can see yourself in the mirror. Really.”

I refuse. I want her to explicitly tell me that I have period blood on the back of my pants. Instead of being blunt, the salesgirl gets extremely flustered and then increasingly adamant that I go to the dressing room. She starts to stress me out, so I leave. Not to be defeated, the girl tries to stop me one last time at the exit. I have to push past her to make my escape.

Exhausted from the encounter, I hang out over by the fountain to recuperate. Everyone around me gestures and whispers, but still no one says a thing. Then, I see a little boy of about three standing with his mother in my peripheral vision.

The boy, tugging on his mom’s pants, points at me and says, “Uh oh.” She ignores him, so he repeats himself louder. Still no reaction. He does it a third time, this time waving his arm at me instead of just pointing. His mother shushes him and pretends not to see me.

This is the last straw. I storm out of the mall frustrated and hating everyone.

Conclusion: Women are bitches, regardless of age. Exception: women who work at the Gap, because at least they make an effort.

ZOMBIES TAKE CENTER STAGE: DEAD CENTER

Fish Rap Live!
Volume 18, Issue 7



I was almost denied my high school diploma. Second semester of my senior year, I was failing my freshman-level drama class.

There were two main reasons my grade was hanging in the balance. For one, my arch nemesis and fierce rival Jimmy Weinberger told my epileptic teacher that he saw me imitating her in the midst of a seizure one day in the hall (not true). Long story short, she hated me from that day forward and had no qualms about letting me know via my report card.

However, the fact that I can’t act was the main reason I was failing. Kids who weren’t even in my class would show up on the days I was performing just to see me crash and burn. I was so appalling that my teacher thought I was messing up on purpose to be cute and punished me by giving me harder parts. In truth, I’m not that starved for attention – I’m just no good.

When Devin Fearn asked me if I wanted to be a zombie in his film The Beginning, I said yes without thinking. Honored, I thought, “Who wouldn’t want to have a role in a huge zombie movie – one that’s being submitted to all the major film festivals, previewing at the Rio Theater in early June, and with plans to open up at the Del Mar in the fall?” Then I flashbacked to tumbling offstage during my particularly horrific performance in The Devil and Daniel Webster and thought, “Jesus Christ, what am I thinking?” But it was too late; I was already onboard.

Fearn wrote and produced this indie zombie flick with a group of students and young professionals. The “very bloody and emotional” project is backed by director Jono Schaferkotter and the production company Before North Studios. Fearn says that “the film is a rollercoaster of…well, it’s zombie-tastic. Just tell people it’s ‘zombie-tastic.’”

On the day of shooting, I tried to put myself in a bad mood to get into character (zombies are pissed off because they’re dead), but I was too nervous. I also broke out in hives, but this was probably more due to the zombie makeup (a.k.a. red gelatin, mud, and butt cream) that I was covered in.

I was sure my sub par acting skills would be quickly realized and that I would be banished to the background, but lucky for me, this was an intimate scene and every zombie got a little face time with the camera. I was asked to maul one of the human survivors with a group of fellow zombies. For the first take, I didn’t know what to do: Do I growl? Do I snarl? Do I bite him for real? Instead, I poked at him hesitantly like people do when they’re served those jellos with the real fruit in the middle.

By the second take, I knew it was time to get it together. All the other zombies presumably got straight A’s in their high school drama classes because they stayed in character even between takes. Deciding that I wouldn’t be shown up, I kicked it into high gear. With the cameras rolling, I channeled all my anger from my unresolved daddy issues and launched into a full-fledged zombie attack on my costar.

Later that day, as I washed off the fake blood mixed with the real blood from the real wounds I acquired while spending 10 hours eating human brains, I felt a surge of pride. People actually put enough faith in me to let me be a part of their creative endeavors. They most likely had no idea what they were getting themselves into when they asked for my help. However, I might be a better actor than I think. When I told the confused tour groups I passed on the way back to my apartment that I was bloody because I was raped, they looked shocked and aghast. Perhaps my small role in The Beginning has shown me my calling as a blood-soaked extra.

Girl finds dignity on sole of shoe

Fish Rap Live!
Volume 18 Issue 1

A quiet party on High Street turned almost deadly last weekend when UCSC student Rachel Blowhard nearly lost what she holds dearest: her dignity.

"I went to the bathroom with some gross, skeezy guy my roommate used to bang, and when I came back out, my dignity was gone!" Blowhard says. "I just…I panicked."

Concerned friends and onlookers helped Blowhard search for her dignity. People looked under the chairs where Blowhard took crotch shots off of co-eds, in the stray purses Blowhard was seen rifling through earlier in the night, and even in the kitchen sink drain where Blowhard allegedly spewed. Her dignity was nowhere to be found.

"I set out a trail of bread crumbs, thinking that her dignity would come out to eat them or something," says partygoer Bobby Booby. "Anything I could do to help."

Party host Aaron McNerner excused the mess his guests made while looking for Blowhard’s dignity, saying he would just Febreeze his house later.

Just when the search and rescue mission looked absolutely hopeless, Blowhard’s dignity resurfaced. "I finally found it on the bottom of my shoe. There was toilet paper stuck to it."

Blowhard vows to keep her dignity with her at all times from now on. She is looking into purchasing a lock and key for extra security.

"This sort of thing could happen to anyone. It’s so easy, especially at college parties. I just hope my story serves as a cautionary tale for others. I want people to be able to learn from my mistakes."

Drinking in the name of science

Fish Rap Live!
Volume 17

Some doctors and AA group leaders say that the human body reacts to alcohol depending on how many calories of ethanol are consumed. To test these theories, I decided to pick up a whammy of a drinking problem and a debatable eating disorder. For seven days, I will decrease the number of calories I get from food and increase the number from alcohol exponentially. Then, assuming I don’t die, I’ll record what happens.

Day One: I get out of bed and rub the sleep out of my eyes. Today is the first day of my experiment. The sun seems to shine a little bit brighter today. In true alcoholic fashion, I fix myself a drink in secret before I even brush my teeth. It’s a screwdriver, since it seems like the most breakfast-y drink. Cheers to me! I feel the first one come back into my throat; drinking was obviously not made to be a morning ritual. But, I push through the initial pain, and the next two go down no problem. That’s 45 calories of ethanol plus some orange juice consumed on an empty stomach. I feel ready to conquer the world!

Instead of conquering, I go on iTunes, buy a Fall Out Boy album, and have a dance party in place of a shower. Apparently, I don’t make good decisions while under the influence.

Before I leave my apartment for class, I make a mixed drink out of Gatorade and vodka. I call it "Faderade." It will be my sustenance for the day. I am so excited about my creation that I forget to measure out the alcohol. In short, I have no idea how many calories I am consuming with this drink. Oops! Oh well. Every experiment is allowed a margin of error.

Day One, later: I have a pounding headache. My lecture was fun because the letters on the PowerPoint were dancing to the rhythm of my pulsating nausea, but the fun ended as soon as I realized I couldn’t stay after class and sleep in my chair.

I decide to combat my headache with a banana and a bottle of water. I debate taking Tylenol but decide against it because I’m still drunk. I don’t want to have to get my stomach pumped or something for mixing substances.

My drunkenness eventually subsides, and when three o’clock rolls around, I think, "I should be fucked up right now." I go to my room and hold a shot up to my face. The mere smell makes my stomach churn. I throw back my head and swallow. Twenty seconds later, my head is down in my laundry basket. There go my 15 calories all over my jeans. Gross. No more experimenting for today.

Day Two: The day after Day One. Jesus. Did I die? I kind of hope so. If I died it means I won’t have to get out of bed.

But, dead people don’t get splitting headaches, which is definitely what I have. I go stand in the shower for half an hour and stare at the moving tile.

I decide to hold off on the shots and only drink my Faderade. I remember that I should count the calories, but I’m in a bad mood, I have a headache, and I don’t fucking feel like counting, so whatever. I pour an obscene amount of alcohol into my bottle and don’t think about it. Margin error redux.

Day Two, later: I’m in a Science Hill bathroom, puking up red liquid. Oh shit, my insides. WebMD said excessive binge drinking caused internal bleeding after years of abuse, not two days! After a mild panic attack, I realize that the only thing in my system besides clear vodka is red Gatorade. I wipe the puke off my mouth and laugh; I feel invincible again. Take that, Science Hill bathroom.

Day Two, more later: I take four rounds of shots (60 calories) with some friends. I immediately feel sick and eat a piece of toast. I feel sicker and retreat to the nearest bush. This is a low point.

I stagger back to my apartment, clutching my torso to comfort my dying insides. I throw up more in the sink while attempting to brush my teeth. There are leaves in my hair and I don’t care. I go to bed with the intention to sleep the entire next day away and the hope that I don’t pee my pants while doing so.

Day Three: It’s a school night, and instead of reading about world economics, I decide to join my friends in a rousing game of beer pong. Under normal circumstances, I would not be drinking beer. I hate beer. However, playing beer pong seems like a good way to distract myself from the fact that I feel like shit. Besides, this is for science.

Before I know it, I’m drunk. And, I’m happy. I hypothesize that this is because, for the first time in three days, I feel full (the average beer has about 150 calories, and only 13 percent of those calories come from ethanol). Unfortunately, these calories have no nutritional value, and my body rejects them -- straight into the toilet. Once I’m done retching, I stand over the bowl and marvel at my feat. "Look at all those empty calories," I think proudly, "that I just purged into the toilet." Good riddance.

Does this make me bulimic? Like, officially?

My original plan was to do this for a week. But then, I had a sudden epiphany: I’m not paying out my ass in student loans so I can die of alcohol poisoning or malnutrition. Fuck this. Fuck science. I’m a Lit major, for Christ sake. What do I care about science? I’m going to the dining hall.

Final scientific conclusions (Note: all ethanol calories were consumed on an empty stomach)
15-45 calories = subject engages in topsy turvy fun
45-60 calories = subject experiences numbness on face and inexplicable cuts and bruises on body, but still feels pretty damn good
60-90 calories = subject feels a constant but not dire need to vomit; isn’t having that much fun
90-105 calories = subject has trouble reporting back with details due to a black out period and a bout of excessive vomiting
105-??? calories = death

Becky's First Photoshop

Fish Rap Live!

Volume 18 Issue 2

As a testament to our ongoing commitment to education, we proudly present staff writer and Photoshop wiz Becky Pederson's final project for her grueling, yet rewarding, Computer Arts class.