The Daily Doyle

Livin' the Dream

2011-08-16T15:20:00.000-07:00

Note: In an effort to stick with the title, I'm attempting to be more daily with the blog

This year, a big year, I’ll turn 28. I’m not sure if that’s a milestone or not, but just about everything else in my life is. I finished school. At least, one leg of it. I’m now onto the part of school in which poor decisions affect myself and others. I received a title at the end of my name. Unfortunately, I have to use it to sign certain documents, and occasionally I forget what I’m signing, and sign a friendly letter, MD—to which I either look like a jerk or that I temporarily forgot that my first name starts with a B and not an M.

The biggest changes, however, involve how many documents I’ve signed that set myself up to owe somebody else a favor. You know that suitcase full of money that Lloyd and Harry turn into a suitcase full of IOUs in Dumb and Dumber. Well, I never had any money, but somehow I have a suitcase full of IOUs now.

I bought a house. Or that is to say, a few months ago, I walked into a building, signed a couple documents, actually received a check for a few thousand dollars, and obtained some keys to something owned by a corporation somewhere. However, I do have the right (or so it seems) to paint the inside and landscape the outside as I see fit. All I pay for this right is a check that automatically exits my savings account every month.

I replaced my aged 1998 Buick Century with a much more modern, but still thrifty, 2012 Ford Focus. And I’ll be honest, I love my new car. Or at least, I love the car that coincidentally the same bank that owns my house technically owns.

I’m not sure exactly who possesses my education rights, but I obtained a degree, and now all I have to do is pay back an exorbitant sum of money it took to finance the last eight* years of my education (*I suppose technically its nine, but I like to consider my freshman year at Michigan State a redshirt season. Unfortunately, it still counts financially). Either way, I have people in the hospital call me doctor, which believe me, is as unsettling to me as it could be. I have, however, resisted the urge to turn my head and look for someone more, say, bonafide.

And finally, I officially signed away my rights to make any sort of large scale decisions in my life between the years 2014-2018. I am officially locked in to serve in the United States Air Force. Technically, I suppose I’m a captain in reserves at present, but much like the piece of paper affirming my title as doctor, that makes me slightly uncomfortable.

The point of all this is to say that a mere three months ago, none of the aforementioned items were true. I was a care free medical student. Sure, I was tens of thousands of dollars in debt then too, but I’m sure I’ve at least quadrupled the amount since then, and the difference in perceived responsibility is mind numbing.

I was not aware that so many acute life changes could occur in such a short amount of time. The amazing thing is, that nothing really changes all that much. In truth, I enjoy my work and feel challenged but competent at it. I’m glad to serve my country in the future and look forward to honoring the commitment I made, as the Air Force assists me financially at present. The car and the house are nice, and help to ensure that I’m not worried about lodging/transportation at present.

In the brief pauses, however, the situation change kind of astounds me. The lyrics of Talking Heads, “You may ask yourself, how did I get here?” become strangely poignant. The answer is, I’m not really sure.

Country's Trope

2011-08-15T06:38:00.000-07:00

Maybe it’s my recent relocation to Indiana, but I find myself listening to a lot of country music these days. I find myself consistently surprised by, well, first the fact that I’m enjoying it, and second, by the pervasive use of an almost rhetorical tactic in the songs.

At first I thought I may just be rediscovering the chorus in a different genre, but I soon realized that there was more to the phenomenon than that. The first experience I had with this phenomenon was with Tim McGraw’s “Don’t Take the Girl.” The song’s central themes were to which are common to country music, including fishing, true love, and loved ones dying. Initially, as a young whippersnapper, Johnny does not want his father to take “the girl” fishing with them. He expresses the sentiment in what turns out to be a near-chorus singing:

“Take Jimmy Johnson/Take Tommy Tomphson/Take anybody you want as/long as she don’t go/Take any boy in the world, Daddy please, don’t take the girl”

In the second verse, however, the chorus-meaning changes as Johnny, as an 18 year-old is held-up at gunpoint. This time, he begs the thief not to take the girl. The meaning is altered from “don’t take the girl” meaning “don’t bring her with us” to “don’t take the girl” meaning “don’t kidnap her.” A more literal contextual meaning to be sure, however the first verse had already set-up the expressions meaning.

Rather than another about face, the third verse leaves the meaning essentially unchanged, but tugs heavy on the heart strings. This time, Johnny’s “girl” has given birth, and we soon find out it was traumatic “momma’s fading fast” and Johnny pleads with his heavenly father “God, please don’t take the girl.”

Wrapping things up, Tim McGraw, or his sly songwriters, begin with the opening lines “Johnny’s daddy, was taking him fishin, when he was eight years old,” reminding the listener that this young couple started early, lived a full life of excitement (high school, muggings, marriage—assumed because it’s a good country song, and childbirth) all before Johnny lost the love of his life.

Now, many of country music’s gambits are at work here, but the ironic twist of a phrase, is the one that is most striking. And that twist of phrase seems to becoming more and more popular in the country music I listen to.

The tactic is repeated almost in an emotionally reversed sense in Dierks Bentley’s “How Am I Doin.” He expresses his emotion by stating variously that “I sometimes cry . . . I keep my friends with me . . stay busy . . don’t get much sleep.” Later, however we learn he is crying tears of joy, friends take him out, and doesn’t get much sleep because of the “sweet” female he meets. This time, the emotional pace is revved rather than slowed by the accompanying-tempoed music.

Dierks uses a slightly different tactic in his “Am I the Only One.” The emotional timbre remains the same throughout the song, but the chorus extensive chorus “Am I the only one who wants to have fun tonight? Is there any body out there who wants to have a cold beer, kick it ‘til the morning light. If I have to raise hell all by myself I will, but y’all, that ain’t right. It’s time to get it on, Am I the only one who wants to have fun tonight.” Is alternatively sung by Dierks, and his newfound complementary partying “country cutie” (who has a rock and roll bootie, which it would seem to be at odds with the rest of her country-cutie complexion. Alas, I digress).

Thompson Square uses essentially the same tactic in “Are you Gonna Kiss Me or Not” (just as an aside here, country music may give rap a battle for music with titles that make Word’s spellchecker red-lining crazy). The timid lover is variously the recipient of and undertaker of dialogue recreating the song’s namesake. Some similarities here can be seen to Tim McGraw’s kiss the girl, as a series of life events are marked with the exact same phrase. That is, a first kiss, marriage proposal, and matrimony ceremony where all marked by the chorus, beginning with “are you gonna kiss me or not”

A third variation on the theme is undertaken by Eric Church in “Homeboy.” This song accomplishes the country trifecta of simultaneously exalting pastoral small-town life and “hating-on” the urban, pant-sagging culture. The reason that this is great interest for us, of course, is because it is the harbringer of country taking the iconic play on words one step farther. That is, “homeboy” is used simultaneously in the noun sense as in “one who is a close acquaintance or brah” (Doyle’s definition).

Church uses an almost apostrophe like “Home boy,” when calling out to his long lost brother. Other times, church simply says “come on home, boy.” The emphasis of the comma is amplified because of the audible contrast to the more aggressive sounding “homeboy.” This plays into Church as the champion of a simpler, purer life “blue colloar forty, little house, little kid, little small town story.” His calling is friend, “home, boy” amplifies the slow pace of life changing the use of a slang term back into a sort of more well known phrase.

Of course, there are a few country songs that use tangential approaches to a similar theme. Tim McGraw’s “I Miss Back When,” laments the fact that words are used differently than they were “back when.” My personal favorite is when he mentions that, “when you said I’m down with that, well it meant you had the flu.” So while other artists use the same phrase to mean different things, McGraw uses common phrases to call back a more nostalgic meaning. Apparently there were lots of collaborations about having the flu “back when.”

Perhaps the most heavy-handed example of the country music trope described here is Joe Nichol’s “Take it off.” The phrase is used no less than twenty times throughout the duration of the song. Its amazing utility is used metaphorically to describe the weight off the world being lifted off one’s shoulders, as well as the more literal and classic uses describing ones beer cap, convertible top, and of course, pants. Here the phrase means essentially the same thing every time, but the amazing dexterity of the phrase is put on display. As are the clever innuendos one can use it for in myriad situations.

My foreign ear may be more astutely tuned to this device in country music because I am largely an outsider to the genre, but it appears to me that the gambit is used more in country music than any other I listen to. This could be because I have trouble deciphering what rappers, rockers, and emo-mumblers are saying at all. The clear, crisp, annunciation of country singers (in comparison only, of course) may allow for a new perspective on music.

More likely, however, is that the country music populous has an affinity for things that don’t change in an ever changing world. McGraw’s “Back When,” most clearly illustrates this, but “Homeboy” and virtually all the others lament a changing world. Country may be trying to reclaim phrases like “homeboy,” “down with that,” while other artists merely celebrate the party, in their own country way (i.e. “Take it Off”). Either way, the next time you tune in to a country music station—which if you live in Indiana, is more often than you may intend—listen for the word-meaning-switcheroo trope and I think you’ll find another level of enjoyment. Or at least, intellectualization can help me hid the fact that I’m becoming more “down” with country.

Part II: Thank you for not screwing me big time (seven thousand, I was just going to say I hope to pay seven thousand-ish)

2011-07-27T12:20:00.000-07:00

See Part I below for the beginning.

Part II: Thank you for not screwing me big time

Alas, determined not to let the utility companies get a cut of my financial pie, I attempted to deal directly with the cable companies. I looked into Comcast again, because I had forgotten my previous experience when they rammed ridiculous monthly charges down my throat, and also because they were cleaver and changed their service name to something like x-finity. They almost had me too. Wait, these guys must be different, they have a tendy-ish name now, and I’m not sure what it means. Please, let me sign up for more ambiguity with a cable company.

I ended up attempting to sign on with AT&T, but successfully convincing them to let me pay them an exorbitant amount of money for a monthly service proved miraculously difficult. First of all, somehow, there is a waiting list eons long to get someone to install the service. If I’m president of one of these companies, the first thing I do is make it easy for people to pull an impulse sign-on. So you’re telling me you want to agree to pay me 80 bucks a month, starting today, and be locked in for a year? Great, I’ll have someone out there in a jiffy. If the pizza guys can pull it off, and they have to craft a delicious moon-shaped pie, before they leave, surely the cable company can figure out a way to have someone show up to install cable.

Alas, logic is futile in dealing with institutions of such size (partly because I think its in the hiring criteria that the employee be devoid of any common sense. Also, devoid of humor. Although, its possible they just have a ridiculously dry sense of humor and are skilled at using the hold button to mess with you. I think I like that running theory, I’m going to go with it. Makes me feel better about shelling out a fraction of my paycheck to those clowns). So, I was informed that I would have to wait about a month to have someone come out and install my internet/cable. I obliged, knowing that there was a fifty-fifty chance I’d have to work during the eight-hour window they gave me for arrival.

And I did. I found out definitively that I would not be able to be home when the cable guy came the day before he was slated to arrive and so I called to reschedule. Ha. If only. I was first admonished just to get a neighbor to be around and let them in. I attempted to inform the voice on the line that I knew very few neighbors, and much like your cable man, they all worked during business hours. She then advised me that it would be a great way to meet neighbors by asking by a favor such as this. I advised her that it was also a great way to lose your electronics, thus defeating the purpose of said service.

We finally agreed upon a date, a Sunday afternoon, long in the future that I would be home. I marked the date on my calendar, circled it with a big red marker, and promptly searched for a neighbor with unsecured wi-fi.

Cable Guy (Part I: Welcome Back, Sucker)

2011-07-27T12:00:00.000-07:00

About one week ago, I finally obtained internet access for my new domicile. The experience was not without the usual round of frustration, which like a refreshing spring rain, is surprising in the extent of its ability to penetrate the soul, and the newness of the sensation after a profound absence.

I’d like to limit the frustration to the actual experience of calling the cable company, phone company, or satellite provider, but unfortunately the tentacles of the communications industry’s quest to leave consumers dumbfounded, annoyed, and exhausted extend beyond any comprehensible boundaries. To begin with, I called the two utility companies (the real life versions of Monopoly’s Electric Company and Water Works, who may very well calculate my monthly bill by multiplying the number on a die). This would seem like a rather innocuous procedure, but it rapidly transformed into imprisonment-by-telemarketer.

The exchanges went something along the lines of thefollowing:

“Hi, I’d like to switch the (insert utility name here) into my name.”

A pause on the other end, and then a sort of shocked response: “Oh, wow, okay, are you moving there?”

(I fight the urge to respond that I am in fact a good Samaritan and want to pay random people’s water/electric bills) and say simply “Yes.”

“Okay, well it looks like the current owners have decided to stop their service on (x date).”

“Great, can I pick it up then?”

“So, you want to prevent the service from being shut-off?”

(Again, resisting the urge to make a smarmy comment in the vein of David Spade in Tommy Boy).

Finally after nailing down the nuts and bolts of why I want to pay for electricity, the fact that I am moving into the residence, and that I do not in fact want to move into a dark, dry house I am under the mistaken belief that I am on the home stretch. I am then informed that he/she must transfer me to another agent to complete the process. I may have imagined it, but I’m pretty sure the tree outside my window just grew a few feet, because I can literally feel it getting shadier .

I am greeted by a friendly voice amidst the background of other friendly voices in nearby cubicles. Gary informs me that he is processing my request as we speak, and we may as well talk about my other utilities. The first time this occurred, I bought in hook, line and sinker. I thought great, I won’t have to call Water Works now, what a time saver. I quickly realized, however, that Gary cannot keep my water flowing. Instead, he can merely take a cut from whatever deal he gets me to agree to with the behemoth telecommunications companies. Really, I’m just amazed that they can farm out the operation of screwing someone over.

I like Gary though, and I don’t want to be rude. He informs me that we are going to be neighbors because he lives in Chicago and I will be living in South Bend. Immediately, I’m excited because I didn’t realize that the entire 2-hour driving radius will now be considered my neighbors. What a friendly area. I bet block parties are off-the-hook.

However, soon I begin to suspect that Gary may be trying to pull a fast one. He informs me that the best deal out there is a hybrid internet with AT&T, cable with Dish Networks, and a home security system with ADT. Now I can get all of these services for under two hundred dollars a month. I attempt to inform Gary that I made exactly zero dollars for the last four years and that $200 a month so I can watch the Brazilian soccer leagues practices live every day might not be worth it. He assures me that I can afford it. I assure him that the State of Michigan would believe otherwise. In fact, last year I was denied my tax refund because my filing was impossible. The state felt because I paid more in taxes than I took in income, my form must’ve been made in error. I attempted to argue that I was merely doing what the government did daily, that is, spending what I don’t have (hey-o, first political pot-shot of the Daily Doyle). Yet, I digress.

The point is that Gary wanted to be my friend. He was licensed to sell cable packages in South Bend. He probably had a laminated card in his wallet to prove it. I, however, was cross-checking each price he gave me online and recognized a theme. Namely, he was charging more for his services. To ensure that I wouldn’t have to go through the charade again, I ensured that my power would be turned on when I moved in, and promptly hung up.

Quick Hit: Epic going the way of Random

2011-03-31T08:01:00.000-07:00

-The term “epic” may soon challenge “random” as the term my generation uses most frequently in order to outstrip it of any meaning. For example, “I had an epic night last night.” Really? Pizza, beer, and watching Jersey Shore re-runs is now on par with Homer? Odysseus is gonna be pissed.

PS: long live uber who was previously held this post

Why I Drink Coffee at Work

2011-03-24T10:34:00.000-07:00

I’ve developed the relatively poor habit of having some sort of beverage in my hands at all times. I’m currently working my sub-I at a hospital in suburban Detroit which means two things: (1) I am physically present in the hospital for long hours every day and (2) I have virtually unlimited access to food and drink.

The consequences of this on my BMI are immediately evident. Lurking in my subconscious, however, I have discovered a desire to always be holding some kind of beverage. I’m not sure if the desire stems from some unconscious urge to be holding a counterweight developed whilst playing cornhole, or from a general physiological disposition towards dehydration.
My best guess, in fact, is that much like a leather jacket, a beverage makes one look more casual. Do I look distinguished in a shirt and tie? Perhaps, but only until I slip on my suede jacket from the eighties. Much like the tuxedo t-shirt, it says, “I’m formal but I like to party” (see Talledega Nights for more information).

Similarly, at the hospital I am dressed in business dress apparel topped with a white coat which give a misrepresentative air of knowledge and/or authority. However, when I’m holding a cup of “seasonal roast: French Toast Coffee” in my hand, it says “I might look like I’m all business—but you and the delightful smell of syrupy French pressed goodness says otherwise. In fact, we may as well be listening to Michael Bubble and paying $6 for a latte right now.”

And I think that’s why I like it. If I’m going to be in the friendly confines of this palace of sickness, I need a little buffer. In the afternoons, to avoid running to the bathroom as frequently in the morning, I generally hold on to some clear fountain beverage in a colorful cup provided by the dining lounge. Now, instead of the relaxing atmosphere the carbo-laden French toast scent provides, my beverage says: “I may be at work, but I could’ve just as easily stepped out of a matinee showing of True Grit and be holding a bucket of popcorn behind my back.”

Some may think this is disrespectful in a hospital setting, and I would tend to partially agree. Of note, I refrain from bringing my beverage into the actual patients room with me, but that’s not to say I’ve never looked a little silly fumbling for a paper in my pockets on rounds because I can only use one hand without spilling syrupy smelling aribica bean-based caffeine goodness on my white coat.

I also think that I function at a much higher level because on some level I feel more relaxed. The closest analogy here is that to people taking a smoking break at work. When I feel stressed I can enjoy a delicious taste of fountain Sprite soda, imagine an amc preview or two, and then go on with my day (which, by the way, can’t be too stressful because I’m typing this at work).

I (sadly) like that boom boom pow.

2011-03-08T14:58:00.000-08:00

So, I really don't want to take the full blame for the information I'm about to disclose. Naturally, there have been many people along the way that have sort of thrust this reality upon me. But recently, I have to admit, I've succumbed to listening to pop radio. And not just when I'm working out. And not just the occasional radio song.

The whole episode started when I began tiring of listening to books on tape, or This American Life(which is still about as entertaining as one hour of audio can be), and started listening to the local radio station with the peppiest music.

Naturally, this meant that it also had the stupidest lyrics. I've discovered the law of "pep" in a song. That is, the peppier the song, the less intelligence the lyrics. For example, one of the peppier songs I've heard in a while featured this ingenious exchange:

You like to drink

So do we

Get more bottles

Bring 'em to me

The sad part is, the song is so catchy that it took me weeks to realize this exchange took place. The songs are the equivalent of the schmoozer salesman who is really good at what he does(or the entire Wall Street district). You're never quite sure what is being sold, but you know that you want it.

Lyrics aside, its still a hard transition to swallow. The past times that I found it acceptable to listen to the likes of the Black Eyed Peas were limited to situations in which I was forced to listen (i.e. a friends car) or the Superbowl (where someone forgot to mention that an actual live performance would be a part of the gig . . . there are some situations when lip syncing is not only acceptable, but a favor to the non-deaf world. Honestly, I kept waiting for Fox's audio people to fix a cord that got unplugged for the entire show). Nonetheless, I now have two pop stations programmed on my car radio(sure they've only made it to FM2 but still).

I like to blame circumstances for my problems. First, when working out peppier music has been proven to make you run faster(read the convoluted abstract here). Also, since I now have to depart for work at five am, caffeine isn't the only boast I require.

Anyways, in what is becoming an alarming trend, I am enjoying that at which I once scoffed. In the words of the ever eloquent Ke$ha: We R Who We R.

Lord help me.

How to eat strawberries

2010-07-15T16:07:00.000-07:00

Strawberries were on sale this week. Naturally, being the selective shopper that I am I picked up a pint (bushel, quart, peck, whatever it is) and slipped them into my cart. Getting home, being the intelligent refrigeration connoisseur I am I put them into the fridge.

And there they remained. Days went by and I did not touch the—even days when I had a craving for fruit, looked at my banana tree, saw no bananas and opened the fridge. I looked in the fridge saw no apples, no oranges, no peaches, and even the oft-ignored ruby red grapefruit was gone. I settled on a tiny glass of orange juice just to take the edge off.

And today I realized that after days of fruit hunting I had ignored the strawberries. Never mind that they were sitting right in front of my eyes the whole time. I mentally blocked them out. And I could not figure out why. More on this later.

About twenty minutes ago I realized that strange feeling I had in my stomach was the end result of a strawberry binge. The same strawberries I had previously ignored were now irresistible to me and I consumed the batch voraciously and without remorse.

The difference, of course, was location and convenience. This second set of strawberries were pre-washed, set on the counter pleasantly displayed in a sharp, black, trendy Ikea bowl. At the risk of sounding irreverent, they would be hard to resist on a hunger strike.

And in contemplating this dichotomy, I realized that the only reason I ignored them before was because deep down I did not want to go through the labor of washing the strawberries. Apparently I was prepared to let them rot in the fridge because I could not fathom washing them.

I don’t really have enough time here to delve into all the other considerations. Should I have proverbially pitted them of their green turnip-kin top? Would that have enhanced their sex appeal (answer: I hope not, because as it stands I cannot resist them). What is that top for? Can I eat them without any harm except for the bitterness? Is that the same stuff lettuce is made from? These are the things I spend my time wondering but not making the effort to answer.

So, I realized, that if I want to get my fill of fruits and I am out of the single serve variety (apples, peaches, pears, plums, mango, etc) or the pre-made bite size ones (raisins, dried apricots, etc) just wash something and set it on the counter. Pretty soon it will be irresistible.

In a way, my kitchen served to illustrate Malcom Gladwell’s tipping point theory (or the feigned principles of groupon . . . both of which I highly recommend). Only the only action required of me was to wash them and set them on the counter.

Bikes, fixies, and post-modernism

2010-07-14T18:37:00.000-07:00

Oh, man. I bought a bike this week. Unlike my past purchases—a biannual parade of Huffys (yeah, I think that’s how you pluralize that . . . and I am referring to the every two years, not twice a year, form)—I got a real bike. Not a new bike, but a real bike.

I am the proud owner of a 1987 Trek 560 Pro Series. I have no idea what it means, but all I know is that the tires are skinnier than my ring finger, and I had no idea I could go that fast without my quadriceps going up in flames.

The guy I bought it from, of course, knew way more about bikes than me and was really talking it up. In fact, the only reason I knew it was a good bike was because my buddy (and proud owner of several quality road bikes) was on the lookout for good bikes on craigslist.

The seller wanted to know if I wanted to make it into a fixie. And as fate would have it, I learned the meaning of that word just in time to have an informed conversation about it. “Oh, a fixed gear?” I asked, feigning contemplation. “Naw I just wanted a retro bike. I will probably keep the derailleur.” Read: I need a bike that I can actually ride decent distances before I drop my car off to the collision shop for an indefinite period of time.

In order to appreciate the bike, I think you may need to take a glance at the craigslist ad. Just know that the handlebars you can barely make out actually reconnect at the top. They are like a pair of bike antlers, apparently made to impress other road bikes, or appear on the wall of a biker’s mountain lodge someday. They are ridiculous.

Another nuance I had not prepared for as well as my fixie and derailleur vocabulary were the petals. I don’t know how to describe them, except that instead of placing my feet on top of a pair of friendly black pads like most bikes I have known, I had to slide my feet inside these metal sort of U-cup things.

Needless to say, when I took the bike for a test drive, I could not fit my feet inside of these things. To make things worse, in order to put your feet in these things you need to be moving at the time the second foot enters. So, instead of riding the bike down the street, I Fred Flintstone-ed it until I got out of sight and just jammed the second foot in. Note to self: in order to ride I will need to be wearing aqua socks.

I am digressing from what I originally intended to write about, and that is the phenomenon of the “fixie.” For those of you who don’t know, there is a recent trend to convert a standard ten-speed bike into a bike where there is only one-speed. This is done by extracting the derailleur and shifters. The result is a bike that is a single gear and in order for the wheel to turn, the pedals must turn. This also allows for the rider to brake merely by pedaling backwards (yeah, my first huffy had that feature as well). Apparently this appeals to the PBR, skinny jean wearing, subculture known generally as hipsters.

If you are like me, your first reaction is why? I mean, I would conceivably argue that every bike is a fixed gear if one can resist the temptation to shift. I mean, I know this allows for coasting down hills without pedaling, but I am still not sure how there is a downside to that part. Nevertheless, I have heard some theories about their advantages: less maintenance, better feel for the road, and the like.

However, I believe this microcosm phenomenon can serve to illustrate a greater rebellion against a post-modern world. Rather than be forced to take part in an ever changing series of speeds and resistances, why not just turn to one absolute and eliminate some choices. That way, when I pedal, I know how far one turn will take me (exactly the circumference of my rear wheel).

Rather than be subjected to some arbitrary reality where once pedal cycle is converted by a complex series of pulleys and levers—leave those simple machines behind and just ride. I may be extrapolating a bit too much here, but I do think there is something to the concept of limiting ones options.

I once came across an interesting book on the topic as well. The Paradox of Choice essentially argued that less is more when it comes to options and that by overwhelming ourselves with options we walk away less satisfied (I would go into more detail but by “came across” I mean, I took it home from the library for three weeks, read the jacket multiple times, and started the introduction).

All that to say, I am not converting my bike into a fixie. Mainly because I like having the options there, but also because that seems like an awful lot of work. And I'm still trying to figure out how to get my feet in the pedals.

Anything you can do I can do better . . .

2010-07-13T17:45:00.001-07:00

I have a big problem. And I don’t think its an uncommon one. The trouble is, I see something well done, something even incredibly done and I think “man . . . I totally should be able to do that.” When generally, of course, I have no business doing that.

The easiest example to relate to in this realm is that of abstract art. Who hasn’t looked at a painting (or in the more avant-garde regions the unspecific ‘exhibit’) and thought, “Why is this here? I could do that.” The stock response from the classic art defender is generally “well you didn’t they did it first.” And I agree with that to an extent.

I have always thought that about Jackson Pollock’s work. And I have been largely ignorant of it, and still am. However, I did watch an interest documentary about him which made me consider momentarily the journey he took to becoming the painter that became famous.

The big realization for me, was not that he had to painstakingly extract genius from within. Rather, I realized that the guy probably went to work at painting everyday, like a regular person heads to work in the office. Apparently, I assumed that they sort of just spewed whatever they could out in the last few hours of the day before bed. Because that’s usually the way I spew out whatever creative instincts I have (usually in writing—in this blog or otherwise).

And I get frustrated sometimes that I haven’t been able to produce anything out of my efforts. That is, other than a short work (originally a blog post) I sold to a gardening magazine, I haven’t published anything or written anything worth publishing.

The catch is, I haven’t generally worked at producing anything. And while I’d like to think that is the only thing holding me back, reality forces me to that there are other issues involve (talent, work ethic, etc). However, I would like to give it a go at some juncture. I just came to the realization that producing anything of value (in life or creativity) generally takes a fair amount of labor and commitment.

Full-line

2010-07-06T15:22:00.001-07:00

I have discovered a grocery store within five minutes of my house which I now frequent on a weekly basis. This is huge for me, because despite my affinity for all things that provide caloric energy, there are about eighteen imposter stores within a three-mile radius of my house.

I don’t like to think of myself as naïve or gullible, but initially on relocating to Detroit I was deceived by the apparent plethora of grocery stores around my house. It seemed as if nearly every store I drove/walked by had a sign reading “full line of groceries.”

I was deceived, that is, until one day I went on an earnest search for hamburger buns. A few friends were in from out of town and we decided rather than drive to a store, lets just stop in and check out the “full line of groceries” at the local liquor establishments.

And to my surprise they did have a full line. A full line that invariably included some permutation of the following: Vienna sausages, Marciano cherries, $8 boxes of cereal, Spaghetti-Os, olives, and most frustratingly: hot dog buns.

The real experience was the search. After my first encounter with the full line of perpetually fermenting items listed above, I thought I would get smart. I would ask the cashier as I walked in, “do you guys have hamburger buns.” Now, initially I thought the perceived stare I got was based on the general paucity of my skin color and my presence in the area. However, upon further review, I believe it was a stare to suggest, “didn’t you read our sign, it says we have a full line – jerk.”

Inevitably I would go to the isle constituting the grocery store portion of the liquor store where the friendly gentlemen told me to find the wheat-based hamburger outfits. And almost without fail, I would discover: moldy hot-dog buns. Of course, the gentlemen appeared shocked that hamburger buns were not found right next to them. “Must’ve sold-out” he would explain. Yeah, in 1942.

I could not imagine that hot dog buns and cherries were really in that great demand until I remembered the third item of the full-line trifecta: Vienna sausages. Because in case you are ever stranded in a liquor store, it would be nice to be able to recreate a hot-dog like dining option. Mystery solved.

Tethered

2010-06-23T20:31:00.001-07:00

Today, I am actually sitting down at my desk as I write this, not in my usual (and coincidentally adjacent to my food pantry) locale on the kitchen countertop. This is not by choice, unfortunately, as I must remain near enough my phone jack and modem that the telephone wire can reach my laptop.

Therein lies the problem. I am without wireless internet. Just as the way phone lines went from rotary landlines, to cordless, to the younger generation eschewing a landline for strictly cell access, I have not been hard-wired to the internet in years. And it is decidedly unsettling.

For the last few weeks I have woken up each morning, and as part of my routine, attempted to check my e-mail, facebook, fantasy baseball roster, and local news headlines only to be rebuffed. My immediate reaction is disbelief: if I just wait another minute it will load. And when it dawns on me (literally after ten minutes) that I may not be able to connect, I have a panic attack.

Nevermind that I can connect to the internet by walking over to the modem, plugging it in, and going through the process of restarting my laptop (which perhaps is the only “process” I can complete with the press of the power button). I freak out anyways. What? How will I know what Ashton Kutcher is twittering about today? How many facebook friends will compose eloquent status updates that I will NEVER read. Oh the humanity.

Honestly, I don’t completely attribute my daily breakdown to an addiction to modern technology (spoken just like an addict), but rather a break in my delicately constructed routine. E-mail comes before sipping coffee, but not before brushing my teeth and perhaps putting some oatmeal in the microwave.

Nonetheless, I found my desperate attempts to connect to wireless internet unnerving. Why was knowing how many doubles my fantasy baseball team essential to my daily existence? I am not sure, but I became acutely aware that it clearly was. In fact, I am sure I have showed up late to work on multiple occasions because I was checking some local headline that I found interesting (and coincidentally finishing my bowl of cereal because I get downright fierce in the morning if I lack sustenance).

The opposite, however, has occurred now that I have completely given up on my spotty wireless router and plugged directly in to the internet. When I leave this desk area, I am free of all the mindless facebook/e-mail/twitter checks that I do without even realizing it (a recent NY Times article stated: “Computer users at work change windows or check e-mail or other programs nearly 37 times an hour,”. Yeah, maybe if they haven’t become enraptured with spider solitaire for the morning. That same article also discussed the brain’s addiction to dopamine. An interesting read: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/07/technology/07brain.html?scp=2&sq=multitasking&st=cse)

I discovered that it was nice to be able to focus on one thing at a time. And not just the seemingly obvious things like accomplishing more reading while not sitting next to a computer. Last night I watched The Big Lebowski straight through for the first time ever and it vaulted up the list of my favorite movies. I never would have caught the subtle dialogue which makes the movie if I was half invested in reading a New York Times article online (maybe not the greatest point, but you catch my drift).

I am not sure if I have actually been more productive with my time, but I have surely spent less time with a computer in front of my face. Which also makes the time when I sit down to my computer all the more focused (hence the recent spike in blog posts. Also coinciding with the end of the academic year, but still). Anyhow, in the span of a few weeks I went from being absolutely panicked about not being able to use Wikipedia in every room of my house, to being absolutely comforted by the confinement of my computer to the corner. The beast is in its cage. Until I get a new router, at least.

Why I love Ike

2010-06-22T19:39:00.000-07:00

My left arm is about three shades darker than my right these days. That of course, is and indirect consequence of my automobile lacking air conditioning and my penchant for allowing my forearm to enjoy the sunlight and rushing air.

I have been fortunate enough to take road trips each of these last two weekends and I am always amazed by the experience. By a simple change of location, and especially in the sort of purgatory between locations (the Eisenhower interstate system) my preferences seem to change.

For example, while normally I abhor Rascal Flats and their minions of poppishly-horrible cowboy crooning, while I am driving through the open fields of Ohio, I absolutely crave some Josh Turner or Deirks Bentley (note: if you don’t know who those two are, I commend you, and I am a little surprised I can tell them apart now).

I also partake in the recent phenomenon of massive cans of re-branded soft drinks known as “energy drinks.” Whoever the marketing whiz is that took Mountain Dew and said “we can make a worse tasting, worse looking, incredibly more expensive beverage only we will sell it in large cans so you can’t see what you are drinking” is a genius (although not as smart as the 5-hour energy guy who decided to make commercials that look like infomercials and go the exact opposite route: sell their energy drink in tiny bottles).

Nonetheless, when on the road and stopping for gas, I remember I felt a little fatigued and the desire to pound 24-ounces of high fructose, carbonated B-vitamin goodness is unquenchable. And thus, I quench it. This past weekend, I set a new personal best by consuming 3 drinks in two days while each time justifying the increased cost by neglecting to eat a complementary meal (thus, much like ethanol, enhancing whatever beneficial and unfortunate effects the beverage would have on me).

From the sounds of the above, it would seem as if I did not enjoy these road trips. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I absolutely love them. I discovered in high school that I could take a day off academics, fill-up on gas and a guilty pleasure (I believe peachie-Os were my high school decadence of choice), and head out to some random college for an interview, tour, and maybe, if I was lucky to have some football coach who did not know my name blow smoke up my rear for twenty minutes. I have been addicted road trips since.

Of course, amazingly, whenever arriving at the destination, or back at home at the end of the trip, there is an amazing sense of fatigue and accomplishment (only one of which can be attributed to the aforementioned Taurine-enhanced beverages). And after a few hours of literally sitting on my tail, I feel as if I need a day and half to recover.

Confession: I am devotedly following the World Cup

2010-06-18T05:26:00.001-07:00

Go ahead, call me a Euro-lover: I have become a soccer-watching fiend (quick aside: that sentence was spontaneous but reminds me of my favorite palindrome: "go hang a salami: I am a lasagna hog." Try not double-checking that by reading it backwards. Ten bucks you can't. Second note: long asides like these make me really wish blogger allowed footnotes. That is all. Back to the blog) So much so, that on this day, essentially my second day of vacation (I have to take one more test in a few hours), I find myself waking up by seven-thirty so I can catch the first World Cup match of the day. Which is between Serbia and Germany. Which, given a map of Europe, I think that I would fail miserably at identifying one of those two (because U.S. Americans tend to struggle with geography. And complete sentences).

I am not going to give credit solely to a newfound appeal of the game, but a perfect alignment of the stars between a loosening of my schedule and a plethora of soccer to watch. Just four years ago, I tried to get into the Cup but found the incessant dives and whining players intolerable.

Now, however, I am able to look past those marked flaws in soccer (I think the biggest barrier for most male sports fans to commit to the game). I now recognize that an NBA game provides nearly as much complaining and diving (which I could note is corresponding to an influx of European players, but Rasheed Wallace provides enough of a counterpoint to that argument).

I don’t plan on feigning an interest in the New York Red Bulls or Columbus Crew after this experience, but I will probably commit to catching as many World Cup matches as I can in four years as well (which is quite a commitment because in order to watch a full soccer match one must prepare to pay attention for 90-plus minutes for three seconds of excitement). Much like the Olympics, I love the continuous nature of the event and am partial to events I can remain engaged in for extended time periods (this is also the reason I enjoy having four-day golf tournaments on in the background).

However, I will stop short of blind soccer passion. I will never submit to using the term football to mean anything else than the sport Barry Sanders played throughout my youth. I especially won’t say futball like a jack-ass and act indignant because “that’s what the rest of the world calls it.” Congratulations, you are in America. And I won’t tolerate the argument that “its what it should be called because its played with your foot.” I think we all should be beyond Piaget’s concrete stage of reasoning by 11 years old (note: if I was having this argument with a second grader, then I could let it slide). By that logic you should have a panic attack every time you pull into a stop on a driveway or pull out onto a park-way. Not that I am bitter.

So therein lies the rub. As much as I am enjoying this years World Cup, I think the primary reason is because I am enjoying it with casual fans, not the hyper-defensive I-wish-I-was-a-European-so-then-I-wouldn’t-look-so-goofy-in-these-pointy-diesel-canvas-shoes type individuals. And as a casual fan, this years World Cup matches have been a joy to watch. All ninety minutes of them.

No, I don't want no scrubs . . . pants at least.

2010-06-09T09:35:00.001-07:00

I wore dress pants today. Normally, I wouldn’t really notice such as thing, but as I have been pretty much exclusively wearing scrubs for the workday the last five months, everything felt foreign. I originally thought I had incorrectly buttoned my top button before tying my tie because it felt so tight. And upon actually buttoning it, I began to get the claustrophobic hyperventilating feeling that I remember having as a six year-old forced to wear a clip-on.

However, the other new article of clothing proved to be surprisingly pleasant. I had forgotten that some varieties of dress pants are surprisingly comfortable. I may be exaggerating the effect since I have been used to wearing hospital scrub pants that I believe are made from burlap exported from the USSR in the cold war era.

These specific pants (someone please tell me why I have to pluralize this sentence) were extremely lightweight and (dare I say) felt flowing. Never have a I worn a pair of jeans and thought, man these jeans are so comfortable, I could forget I am wearing them. In fact, I think jeans may derive some of their comfort by making you always aware of their presence (whereas sweatpants derive their comfort by making you feel like you are wearing a pillow . . . also pleasant).

Part of the issue is that apparently dress pants can be made incredibly thin. It seems counter-intuitive, but they are not able to make jeans that thin. Unless, of course, they are the Old Navy variety, in which case those jeans have a shelf life for me of about 6 months. Month one is thin and comfortable. In month two they begin to feature holes so that they look as if I purchased them off the rack at Hollister or its partner in crime Abercrombie and Fitch. In month three, they begin to have a sort of thinning feeling so that I move slowly and gingerly as if to not expose the jeans to too much stretch. In month four I realize that anything I put in my pockets somehow travel down my pantleg and into my shoe. And inevitably I try not to wear them for month five and in month six I rediscover them and think “oh man, I forgot about these jeans.” Then I wear them, proceed to attempt to change a tire or something of the like and as my fruit loops boxer shorts are exposed to the world, I remember why I had put them in the back of the closet. Yet, I digress . . . rapidly.

The fact is that dress pants are paradoxically comfortable at times. Which almost makes it unfortunate that any sort of associated article of clothing is decidedly uncomfortable. Also unfortunate is that any comfortable article of clothing (tennis shoes, tee shirts, baseball caps, flip flops) look decidedly ridiculous in association with dress pants.

And so, I suppose the lesson for me today is that when I am breathing into a paper bag because my necktie decided to adhere to my adam’s apple, I can take solace in the fact that “hey, these pants are so comfortable I could forget I am even wearing them.” Let’s just hope I don’t pull an “emperor’s new clothes” and actually forget anytime soon.

Yuppies and Unami -- Discovering Thai (food)

2010-06-08T13:19:00.000-07:00

Besides pizza, I have also been on a recent kick with Thai food. And when I say recent kick, I mean I hadn’t tried Thai food until the summer of 2008 and I have been loving it ever since. I had been trying to fight the yuppie food craze and found myself accepting an invitation to eat out because I was spending the summer in a new city and wanted to be social.

I got more than I bargained for that night. First, I experienced a delicious Pad Thai entrée. Then I found out the Gin Blossoms were playing a free concert in a local casino (which turned out to be a massive pull-barn with a ridiculous amount of Slot Machines . . . I guess the Gin Blossoms weren’t kidding when they said they’d follow you down). Besides enjoying a throwback to some fine 1990s rock, I also spent the entire night as if I had just discovered a new taste bud.

Flash forward to my first year of medical school and I realized that there is actually a new taste bud. Beyond the traditional bitter, sweet, salty, and sour, scientists had recently discovered a fifth taste known as unami. Unami has been roughly translated to mean savoriness or deliciousness and is trigged by amino acids such as glutamate (the base amino acid for MSG). According to our friends at wikipedia “Savoriness is considered a fundamental taste in Chinese, Japanese, Thai and Korean cooking,” (that was the first time I quoted wikipedia in my writing, and I feel dirty . . . I think I need to shower).

Apparently, the Chinese restaurant I grew up frequenting wasn’t hitting the MSG-spot like Thai food did. Because I was surely utilizing my unami receptor to its full extent while eating Thai food. Apparently, I occasionally lit up the unami light with dishes with parmesan and even beef can light it up. Salt, of course, increases the sensation of the unami which sort of explains why salt on steak (containing glutamate) enhances its deliciousness. And how.

Scientific research aside, I felt as if I had been cheated out of 24 years of eating Thai food. Now, I find myself making up for lost time and getting in line behind all the other yuppies to consume the deliciousness.

Oh, and by the way, you could pretty much say the same thing about my experience with sushi except that I have been able to resist it just a tad more thanks to its enhanced yuppiness. However, I do have to hand it to the yuppies, they sure have great unami sensors.

How to eat out and not end up with egg on your face

2010-06-07T19:28:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I went to Supino’s pizzeria, a sort of carry-out pizza place with a small dining room barely capable of accommodating double digit numbers of diners. The quaint institution is nestled into a strip of multi-colored storefronts in the southeast corner of Eastern Market. After the Detroit News listed it as their best pizza in Detroit, I made it the destination for one of my traditional pre-test pizzas with my buddy.

Over the next year I made a habit of frequenting the pizzeria as much as my budget and metabolism would allow (both of which I sort of over-extended myself, literally and figuratively). However, it wasn’t until just a few months ago that I strayed from the traditional Red Pizza into the White Pizza domain. Despite appearances to the contrary, the red pizza was in no way associated with a hammer and sickle and the white was not associated with any sort of racial propaganda. The Red was not a nod to Moa Tse-Tung, but rather merely distinguished itself from the White by containing sauce (which I incorrectly called marina sauce, much to the owner’s chagrin on one occasion).

Before experiencing the White Pizza, I thought it was merely a clever ploy by the proprietor to snooker paying customers into ordering pizzas which would allow the cache of tomatoes to last longer. However, after eating one of the white variety, I realized that the absence of sauce allowed for more of the crust, cheese, and toppings flavor to exert themselves.

A month or so after my first experience with the White I returned to Eastern Market’s finest pizzeria and again wanted to experience something special. I attempted to try the Bismark, mainly because it featured an egg, which is always a huge selling point for me (I frequently find myself ordering the gimmicky burger because it has an egg on top, even though I have been repeatedly disappointed by this combination. I guess I am a glutton for punishment. . . or just a glutton). Soon, the restaurants crack wait staff (read: the cashier who will bring you your pizza if it seems he likes you) informed me that the owner forgot to buy eggs and so I would have to change my order.

I chose not to point out the irony that we were eating in the location of the city’s fine farmer’s market (and essentially the only convenient place for me to buy groceries), and merely returned my eyes to the menu. I was reminded of the rich deliciousness of the White Pizza variety and decided to indulge my mushroom craving. I ordered a Vedure I Funghi pizza despite the unfortunate apparent Italian word for mushroom (not that mushroom is a particularly appetizing name, I just don’t enjoy being reminded that my pizza topping is in the same family as my athletes foot).

At this point, I must digress and inform you of the other internal battle I face whenever ordering health foods such as pizza and a burger: the build-your-own option. I can’t deny the fact that every time I get the chance to craft my own toppings, the idea of combining barbecue sauce, onion rings, and a slice of ham on top of my burger almost proves too much to resist. However, much like the egg fiasco I find myself in, the burgers/pizzas I craft, are never as good as the ones that I stumble upon by sticking with the menu.

Through eating the Vedure I Funghi, which was divine, I was reminded that the guy who owns the pizzeria might know what he is doing. That is, the flavor combination was so incredible, I forgot my former grudge against extending his vegetable supply. Furthermore, I did not even flinch at the fact that the one potentially healthy ingredient of the pizza was conspicuously absent (which may have in fact enhanced its deliciousness).

And so, while I am always amazed to find how good the pizza at Supinos is, I found myself more committed to letting the professionals handle their business. It reminded me of a classic scene in a Queen Latifah movie I saw on TNT while at my parents house one evening (Yeah, so I watched Last Holiday. Sue me. Also, Queen Latifah is one of my secret and weird celebrity crushes. Deal with it). In the movie, a series of snobs order at a fancy restaurant by listing their chosen entrée and then butchering it, much to the chefs dismay, with restrictions on ingredients to leave out. Then of course, QL orders up the special just the way the chef designed it.

Point being, I can pick which ingredients to put in my fajitas when I make them at home. But when I head out to any of the hundreds of independent Mi Pueblo restaurants, I should probably trust the chef to pick the ingredients. Besides, if the meal stinks, better being able to blame someone else than have to fork over a la carte fees for your own unfortunate experimental concoctions.

Tradition . . . Tradition!

2010-06-03T18:31:00.001-07:00

So lately I’ve developed the desire for more routine in my life. And, while I haven’t succeeded in accomplishing routine, I have set out some potential routines, which is just as good. For each week night, I have an essential food item (because food should be at the core of all scheduling decisions).

It started with a spur of the moment trip to Mexicantown in Detroit for Tacos Al Pastor at Los Altos (translation: delicious pork tacos at a legit Mexican restaurant). Thus, Taco Tuesdays were born. So far I am batting 50% for getting tacos on taco Tuesday (a pretty good ratio). I have been craving Thai food the last few weeks, so Wednesdays became Sala Thai Hump Day.

Today I drove by the famous Nemo’s bar next to the former site of Tiger Stadium and made a spur of the moment decision to make Thursdays “Old School Burger Thursdays.” And since I had the delicious, incredible, lightning-fast Little Caesar’s Hot and Ready pepperoni pizza on Mondays, I think I’ll pencil “Cheap Pizza Manic Mondays” into my agenda.

Now, if I ate my entire schedule, each week, I’d probably balloon up to match my personal record for body weight in my senior year of high school (I weighed in at a cool 240 thanks to a sedentary lifestyle and a ridiculous affinity for S’mores. No really.) However, I now have the knowledge that if I want to eat Thai food on Wednedsay, I immediately have justification: you can’t not eat Pad Thai Chicken on Sala Thai Hump Day!

And also, if I want to eat out on a weeknight, no longer do I have to hem-and-haw about what would be the best option. It’s Thursday, and my fridge is empty? Shoot, time for a burger from Cutters. Don’t feel like Cutters? Well Anchor Bar has been around the block, they still count. Sorry Five Guys, I love your delicious peanut oil-saturated ground beef heaven . . . but you’re a bit too new school for old school Thursdays. Maybe I can pencil you in as a weekend alternate.

Style over Substance?

2010-05-31T19:27:00.001-07:00

I watched Julie and Julia today. This was shocking to me, because I fully expected to exhaust my capacity to continue to watch and shut it off at the thirty minute mark. However, I found the storytelling engaging (a parallel tale spanning generations that reminded me of a different sort of parallel anachronistic telling in Steinbeck’s East of Eden) and the characters tolerable.

Somewhere between being surprised to find it tolerable and being shocked to find myself enjoying the flick, I realized I have developed a tendency to gravitate towards good storytelling. I now find myself immersed in an eight-hundred page book on basketball because I love the way the writer writes. He uses enough far-flung analogies and pop-culture references sprinkled into an insightful and enlightening account of basketball that I would likely read his account of the history of pants if he wrote one. And I’ve read more about hard rock culture than I ever would have thanks to Chuck Klosterman (author of Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs) enjoyable pennings.

I’ve also heard the preacher/speaker/author Rob Bell talk about the craft of creating a sermon with similar sentiments. The content is important, vital, or course, but there is something to be said for style. And I think I resisted this point for many a year. Which is why I have put myself through countless documentaries on PBS (this should be interesting) and have an autobiography of Andrew Jackson written in the 1920s on my bedstand (though it does serve a potent sleep aid).

So now I am resolving to limit myself to fifteen minutes or fifteen pages, and if the narrative of the movie/book hasn’t drawn me in by then, chances are it never will. Sure, I will have instances of feeling like I enjoyed the ride, but never really got anywhere (as I feel after every Lost episode). Hopefully, however, I will also eliminate all the waiting for realized potential I have undertaken for books/movies. And, almost as promising is the new avenues for enjoyment in the seemingly mundane plotlines (i.e. cooking). I just hope I don't find myself sitting through many more chick flicks in the future.

The Power of Socks

2010-05-18T11:58:00.001-07:00

Today is laundry day. Unlike some, today is laundry day not because of routine (it’s Tuesday), convenience (the Laundromat is emptiest today), nostalgia (my favorite shirt is dirty) or any other reason than by necessity. Like many others, today is laundry day because of need.

Laundry “need” is defined differently from person to person, but I essentially make laundry day the last day possible for me to put on a semblance of articles of clothing and (1) not smell putrid and (2) not be naked. As Mark Twain once said “Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.”

Laundry day approaches as quietly as a freight train. About a week in advance I realize that I am starting to resort to the undershirts with pit stains that glow in the dark (and coincidentally make the armpit of the shirt so inflexible I cannot fully put my arms by my side. I have no idea how old sweat coalesces into the shirt to make stainless steel, but it does, I promise).

A few days before laundry day I start wearing tennis shoes with argyle socks and/or dress shoes with socks that show the Nike swoosh when I sit. Depending on the week, such as this week, I can extend laundry day a few more days. I occasionally even pay homage to a Michael Scott like parody of Tom Petty’s most well known hit with my “internal waredrobe” or lack thereof (that sentence had so many allusions David Copperfield got jealous). (and I know its allusion v. illusion smart guy)

However, I made the decision to make today laundry day after assessing my workout clothes wardrobe. Note: I clearly do not usually care what I workout in, but occasionally I cave. Today, I looked at the full length mirror in the fitness room in my building and realized while I thought I was getting into better shape, I suddenly looked like an awkward eighth grader trying out for the basketball team he has no business being on. I noticed that I didn’t grow in height or girth, and my shorts and shirt were appropriate for a grown man. My shoes looked a little funny, but I had been running in a version of them for years (I am devoted to a specific Asics model).

Then it hit me. I was wearing tube socks. Just the term reeks of middle-school-awkwardness. They are the dreaded “no man’s land” socks. That is, they aren’t the cool ones that look like you’re not wearing socks or the short ones that I wore growing up. Yet, they aren’t like the super annoying full length socks that excessively exuberant basketball players wear. They are somewhere in between in “no man’s land.” That is no man should never be allowed to wear these socks.

The socks are not solely responsible for the appearance as much as the people I normally notices wearing them. They are, by rule, skinny, skinny but obviously slightly uncoordinated males (I am sure they are worn by overweight guys as well, but in that case I like to imagine they are the high basketball type and they just got swallowed by the giant calves).

In an instant, I was transformed from a somewhat athletic individual into a skinny, awkward guy who should not be anywhere near the weight room. It’s amazing how one seemingly innocuous article of clothing can transform someone. I finished my workout (sheepishly) and immediately conceded that it was in fact laundry day.

As much as I am prepared that laundry day is coming (by the uncomfortability of my T-shirts as indicated above), I am always shocked when it actually arrives. I always imagine that I will discover one more pair of boxers hidden in the drawer. Like Zeno, in his dichotomy paradox of motion, I can acknowledge that I am closer than I was yesterday, but it always seems like I should never actually get there. That is, until I turn into junior high jimmy.

Kind of green

2010-05-15T05:12:00.001-07:00

I have found myself going kind of green in the last few years. I'm not sure if its a knee-jerk reaction to the urban wasteland/concrete jungle in which I reside or not. However, I suppose it has more to do with slightly prioritizing quality over quantity with regards to edible sustenance (a sacrilege to my former self as friends would attest to) as well as wanting to see more businesses do well in Detroit.

The biggest adjustment for me is sticker shock. I just have to remember I am comparing organic apples to apples now (just for the record, I haven't yet swallowed all the organic junk, I'm just focused on buying local for now . . . let it simmer). I just got back from this lovely bakery just on the outskirts of hipsterville Detroit, MI where I spent ten bucks on two loaves of bread and a cinnamon roll. And the cinnamon roll sucked (stupid impulse buys).

But the bread is fantastic. I mean, I had been pretty much exclusively devoted to Aunt Millie's Hearth Honey and Crunchy Oat for the past seven years of my life. To be unfaithful was hard, but when the girl next door is pumping out loaves of Red Ale beer bread, Poletown Rye, and the new standard Motown Multigrain I'm pretty much hopeless to resist. The bread is delicious and hearty a quality which Aunt Millie's only possessed more of the latter with just enough of the former to make it tolerable.

I also find myself plunking down an absurd amount of money for a half-gallon of udderly (sorry I tried to keep myself from putting that in there like three times) delicious milk from a local dairy farm. And honestly, if there was a news story that Calder dairy was pawning off heavy cream as skim milk, I would not even be that shocked. But for now, I'll live in the bliss of savoring creamy skim milk from a glass jar every morning. I just have to recognize that a loaf of bread and a gallon of milk are no longer fixed at $2 in my mind.

Some changes haven't even required a financial re-equilibration. I am discovering new products that have changed my world. I mean, I have seen the piddly cartons of Greek Yogurt that Meijer's has tried to pawn off on me for years. But as I ventured into the ever confusing, half carnival, half whole-foods snobbery Trader Joe's, I realized that I could sample a decent quantity of Greek Yogurt for a few bucks. And the protein to dollar ratio in that stuff is out of this world. Not too mention its delicious with just a dab of honey drizzle on top.

Other changes are more a matter of necessity and convenience. For example, if I want to buy fresh fruit without a trek to the suburbs or a paltry selection at jacked prices, I have to hit up Detroit's Eastern Market on Saturday mornings. And I am still waiting for the Saturday morning when I am not impressed by their selection. Here I usually am the guy strolling back to his car struggling with several bags of fresh fruit, vegetables, maple syrup, and/or a house cactus depending on the mood.

And the other day it hit me that I am sort of doing all that hippie stuff I sort of secretly despise. Some of it makes sense and some of it is just easy to do. Don't get me wrong, I still think NBC's one week tie ins involving Law & Order suddenly tracking down hydrocarbon killers is ridiculous and a lot of the organic movement is pretty far from reality. Yet, the whole buying local thing has started to resonate a little bit simply because I want Detroit to succeed. Oh yeah, and it hasn't hurt that I am finally acting on the economic reality that a little more spent on quality food now will probably pay big dividends in quality of life and health bill costs later.

Night Moves

2010-05-13T22:24:00.000-07:00

For the past week now I have been working the night shift on the labor and delivery unit at Hutzel Women’s hospital. This means, besides the obvious fact that I am occasionally welcoming a small, slippery, life into the world with my bare (but gloved) hands, that I am sleeping during the day and awake at night.

I am not a complete stranger to all-nighters. I pulled a few “almosts” through the years at friends sleepovers and the like. I completed my first legitimate 24 hour stay with the waking world my last night in the college dorms at Michigan State. I knocked one out working on a tedious busy work project at Indiana Wesleyan. And for one horrendous month, I essentially pulled an all-nighter every sixth night while taking trauma surgery call as a med student (read: I fell asleep standing in the operating room on multiple occasions because someone once decided that would be a beneficial experience to put medical students through).

However, unlike those forays into the nocturnal universe, this past week has been a permanent stay. Even when I get a day (night) off, such as today, I still attempt to stay awake through the night (which really isn’t too difficult because I tend to wake up sometime around the dinnertime hour and as much as Garfield is my hero, I struggle to eat lasagna, then go back to perpetual napping).

The work nights are fairly predictable. That is, after the day shift time completes their cross-over time and I’ve settled into “the pit” (my term for where the labor and delivery doctors and nurses sit watching fetal heart monitor strips; not that unlike the wall street pit, I suppose), things become eerily quiet (as one would expect). Occasionally my attention is roused as I go running into room to say hello to a new soul or into the operating room to watch one be pulled from one world to another.

Other than those exciting moments, the night generally consists of trying to stay awake while reading, or attempting to dodge interns that want to set up suturing contests for the med students (which consist of locking medical students in a supply closet with a needle, thread, and washcloths and a set of ill-defined rules).

The off-nights are the ones where things get really interesting. Because, like a Pavlovian kanine, I awake, make coffee and read the online editions of the requisite local and national papers. Then I look at the clock and realize that it is 7 pm, I am eating frosted mini-wheats and every possible thing I planned to do today is impossible to accomplish (note: I live in Detroit, MI, which besides being famous for other things should be famous for any relevant store closing at 5 pm. Especially when the Tigers play a day game and the wings season is done).

I can usually think of few things to knock off before nine pm. Namely, I travel to the suburbs, do some grocery shopping, take a run, and catch the last of whatever interesting prime time TV is on (today, the Celtics-Cavs game 6. Faaaaantastic).

But inevitably, one am rolls around and I feel a panic like I should be getting tired, but am not. At this time, I force myself to close the blinds because its weird that the city is asleep (as it has been since five pm, but at least now, the sun also is shut down) and try and pretend it’s the day.

I answer all the e-mails I’ve waited to reply to. Answer a phone call or two to my west coast acquaintances, catch up on all of the serious and non-serious news I have been missing out on the last few days. Of course, now its 2 am, and I can’t in good conscience study at 2 am, so I wait for tiredness to set in.

And of course it does. Even earlier than my usual 9 am bedtime, by 4 am, my body is psychologically defeated and lets me drift off to slumber reading whichever piece of fiction is on loan from Detroit’s fine public library system. And while its not the sort of cognizant slumber that characterizes my naps, I am not quite fully asleep either.

Sleep is never quite as deep on the days off, and my state of awakeness is never quite as acute either. I find my self in a sort of perpetual half-sleep. Amazed constantly that I am either sleeping at such an hour, or awake at such an hour. And while I simply try and reverse the am/pm function of the clock in my mind, the outdoor lighting, television schedule, internal clock always remind me I am doing something unnatural.

Thank goodness I only have two more nights left before I can return to some sense of normalcy. Because even if the working days will be 14 hours long, at least I will know what to do with myself when I get a day off.

I am not a big fan of clothing.

2009-11-26T21:33:00.000-08:00

I am not a big fan of clothing. I mean, I’m not a huge fan of nakedness either, its just that I’m not a huge fan. I’m a fan alright. I’d take being clothed over necked nine times out of ten (the tenth being when I am sleeping and then I think sheets count as clothes by proxy). But I just normally don’t get excited about a specific article of clothing.

However, for my birthday, my sister got me a sweatshirt. And this wasn’t your standard sweatshirt. This was a swanky, fleece lined number that felt like I was slipping inside the freshly sheared coat of a lamb.

There was one problem: sometime in the last ten years all the trendy stores switched to emo sizing. What I mean is that no longer is a large the baggy, oversized large of the nineties, a large is now a emo-sized large that doesn’t quite reach my wrists and fits snugly around my stomach.

This was a remediable situation, however, and I remedied it. I entered the trendy store that features the commercials with happy people singing in scarves and attempted to perform a simple exchange. And the exchange attempt fiasco is the reason that I hate malls.

By a fortuitous coincidence, I parked the mall at the entrance closest to the store I wanted to enter. This occurred completely by chance because my general tactic upon turning into the mall parking lot complex/circle-of-death is to find the first aisle I can to turn down and park as quickly as possible so as to avoid the general craziness of mall-bound/departing drivers. And so it just so happened that this entrance was adjacent to the store at which I was to return said sherpa sweatshirt.

Yet, I should have known that modern shopping would not be so simple. The cashier informed me that while I could surely exchange the sweatshirt for a larger size to accommodate by non-Jimmy Eat World style preferences, I could also return it and use the credit for a sweater during the current buy-one-get-one sale. In a moment of weakness I almost acquiesced, but I held fast after looking at the fleece lined hood of the sweatshirt.

The cashier proceeded to radio another clerk upon which I embarked on the experience I hope to be the closest experience to having a personal shopper as I ever have. The clerk guided me to the rack of sweatshirts, and despite the fact that I found a size up (albeit a slightly difference color) she proceeded to gather three or so shirts and hold them up for me.

This one might work. She was not fazed. Actually I think this one right here is the right size. She acted like she did not hear me as she flew through the rack of sweatshirts. Here, I’ll just try this one on and see if it’ll work. I think I’ll like it. In perhaps her most impressive instance of unwavering fortitude, she saw my point and countered with: Well I think that is all we have on this rack let me go check and see if there are more out front.

By the time she returned I had decided (five minutes ago) that the sweatshirt was a go. She however, would not go down so easily and asked me to go look at yourself in the mirror out front. I thought it was okay and attempted to brush her off when she implored me to go check in the front mirror. Worried that I looked a fool in the sweatshirt, I finally obliged and found my appearance superbly normal.

At this point I was done playing games and told her I was going to exchange it for this one and promptly moved the game forward by inquiring: Now do you need to scan this one out, or can I just leave the old one with you and take it. For I had worked at Kohl’s for years and the even exchange was possible without the use of modern technology. She smiled as if a four-year-old had just proposed something impossibly stupid in a genuine manner.

Finally she walked me down to the computer where I again, felt like an over pampered personal shopper as she took me to the front of the line to complete my transaction. Oh, she said, they must have gotten this on sale. My sister is a savvy shopper, I would not have been surprised. However, I did not see how this piece of information had any bearing on our current course of action. There is a difference of seventeen dollars. Again, I didn’t really care but it became apparent to me that the clerk expected me to care. I tell you what, I will just correct the difference.

I wasn’t sure if we were narrating the obvious right now, or if this was supposed to be perceived as a transcendent act of grace, but I finally acknowledged the “situation” and thanked her for doing that. She said it was not problem, which again made me wonder if we were narrating the obvious. I was tempted to say: Well thanks again for letting me exchange one item nearly identical to another with all of the tags and requisite documentation as required by said transaction. What a modern wonder of charity you are running here. I will tell all my friends about this great deal and maybe they will also find the dumb luck that I stumbled upon. But I refrained.

More importantly, I walked out of the store with the appropriately sized sweatshirt. And it was awesome. I wore the sweatshirt for the rest of the night. When I had to get slightly more gussied up for the holiday activities I would be partaking in, I layered the sweatshirt on again as a sort of coat. And it was awesome.

Like I said, I’m not a big fan of clothing, but I became a big fan of this sweatshirt. It was weighty enough that it reminded me of the comforting lead vest the dentist provides be with pre x-ray. The hood is spacious enough that with the neck just slightly unzipped, I can softly cover my head and feel like I’m swimming in a sort of peripheral pillow. The fleece lining, as described above, was so soft that I frequently gave into the continuous urge to rub my cheek against it sheep shorn softness.

And I don’t like clothing. But I liked this shirt. So much so that it was worth the above experience and actually, made it all strangely endearing.

Thoughts on Eating a Grapefruit

2009-11-25T08:54:00.000-08:00

I can’t eat a grapefruit when I am hungry. Properly consuming such a fine piece of agricultural produce requires a concentration and patience that I do not have when I am hungry. Furthermore, in the hyperirritable state I find myself when hungry, I find the spray of wasted delicious pink juices extremely annoying. Usually I give in to the baser self and attempt to forego the requisite preparation for consummation and try to scoop the tiny triangles of fruit meatiness out with a traditional spoon. And I fail miserably.

And even more miserably, even if I successfully navigate myself through the entire grapefruit I end even hungrier than I began. Because we all know that the fruit and vegetable kingdom is not accepted as real food where the hungry man’s stomach is concerned (With of course the notable exception of the meat of the fruit world the banana and a few others).

Despite the given shortcomings of the grapefruit in said situation it remains one of my favorite ingestion experiences. First, there is the purely asthetic experience of the grapefruit. Externally its yellow-orange skin is graced with an artists kiss of rogue on one end like the suns rays especially shone on one small arc. And the perfect sphere is disrupted on the micro-level with the tiny dimples of texture. On the macro-level, the sphere is ever so slightly incomplete as one point features a slight infolding reminding the viewer that the grapefruit did in fact come from the earth. Most striking, however, is the natural size, not cartoonish like the watermelon or the slightly-to-big-for-one-hand cantelouope. The grapefruit pushes the limits of something held in one hand, providing a surprising size for potentially the world’s largest single serving fruit.

And the inside of the grapefruit only enhances its glowing exterior. The white spokes contrasting the pink meat separate each distinct triangular prism into bite size morsels o flavor. And, frustratingly at times, the bond between the pink and white is so strong as to force even the most impatient diner to wait as the knife slices the pink flesh away from its captor. The flavor is literally palpable before the first bite, because of the unavoidable spray of the acidic contents.

My preferred method is to divide the fruit into two acts. That is, after separating the two halves, I will prepare one with a steak knife, and then consume it before moving on to the second half. And so a moment’s worth of work sets the table for a even more fleeting moment’s consumption.

And afterwards, not completely unlike the famous giving tree, the grapefruit provides a post-meal cordial. Amazingly, after methodically slicing out the seeming entire pulpy goodness from the fruit, a perfect glass-worth of country-style-full-pulp juice remains.

So the grapefruit provides an eating experience, in my mind unparalleled by any of the tubers, fruits, and vegetables of the natural world. I just only have to remind myself that a grapefruit must be consumed in context. And that context is essentially reduced to whilst not edging on ravenous.

I live in Detroit.

2009-11-24T20:20:00.000-08:00

I live in Detroit. Which is something that fewer and fewer people can say daily. And I have to admit it has been one of the strangest experiences of my life. A little more than two years when I was starting medical school and the real estate market had yet definitively plummeted I purchased a condo in downtown Detroit (with a little help of the financial backing of my parents; lets be honest, a lot of help). So, I don't claim to have any sort of perspective besides an upbringing of suburbia and a brief stint of living in an urban core.

I would be lying if I said there were never times when I wished I lived in a “normal city.” That is, occasionally I think it would be nice if I didn’t see cars on blocks missing all their tires not infrequently in front of my residence. Or that I could seriously deal with not having to pass by entire complexes of abandoned residences that remind me of some sort of post-war eastern European nation. But most of all, I wish I could take a jog outside after midnight and not think twice about my personal safety. After all, I am a fairly large male, and being intimidated by my surroundings is not something I am used to nor go out of my way to experience.

Yet, I am still being surprised by the joys that living in such a place brings. For the first two months of my taking up residence in Detroit I would sip my morning coffee and stare at the bright, dancing, letters of the FOX Theatre sign outside my window for a good half hour. And still when I look up and see it outside it brings me a sort of joy of which I still don’t understand the origins. And when there is a big event going on, I love being able to stumble onto the community patio outside my back door and witness the goings-on from above (before heading down and engaging in said events).

I catch myself forgetting that I live in Detroit, and imagining I am in Chicago at least once a week. I’ll catch a glimpse of Broadway street near Grand Circus Park where new restaurants line the streets and the post-theatre crowd strolls about. If I look at a certain angle at the row of townhouses adjacent to my building I can imagine that they are hip families living in the Lincoln Park district of Chicago or something akin. And in the dark of night, I can’t really tell which skyscrapers are completely vacant and which are merely shut down for the night. And I love those moments.

But I also love the fact that those moments wane and I remain in Detroit. Because Detroit’s juxtaposition of seeming old-world like glory, new age revitalization (its there, I promise), and general state of decay creates an incredibly beautiful blend of life. Bastions of resilience hold-on to entrenched customer bases amidst square blocks of abandoned houses.

In Detroit, its impossible to forget about the plight of those less fortunate. But if you look in the wrong direction its also entirely possible to miss the hope of renaissance that abound. And I guess that’s why I have found peace here despite the general appearance of chaos that surrounds my new home. Parts of the ubiquitous decay are reminders that today’s glory is fleeting, while the occasional landmark of persisting ancient (by Midwest American standards) glory is evidence that even in the most unlikely of circumstances occasionally great beauty endures.

When did I become an old man?

2009-08-28T07:47:00.000-07:00

I've noticed the trend that I actually have to plan ahead in order to hang out with friends for a while now, which seems absurd enough. However, today, as I'm waiting for the appointed meeting time to celebrate the end of a clerkship, I found myself watching This Old House or New Yankee Workshop or the ever popular Ask This Old House. The sad (or awesome) part is that I find myself having this show on the background pretty much 60% of the time my television is on. Today, just before I decided to write this, I caught myself wondering: "I wonder if they do all day marathons of this show . . . that would be aweseome." I immediately felt like a sell-out to the seven year old version of myself who despised nothing more than to find I couldn't convince my dad to change the channel from a bunch of old dudes in flannel discussing the intricacies of selectinve proper plumbing fixtures.

Running Diary: The Boards

2009-06-20T13:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I finished my United States Medical Liscensure Examination Step One Examination. Which, as uninteresting as it sounds, was actually a mildly enjoyable day. If only because I allow my test day taking quirks full reign on big days. Anyways, here's what transpired starting the on the eve of the exam.

12 noon: My former roommate and classmate and I travelled to Detroit's best pizzeria in the Eastern Market area of Detroit. Despite the state of general disrepair the city usually finds itself, there are still pockets of thriving city life. Needless to say, the pizza was delicious and this was the first step in my relaxation strategy.

4 pm: Step two was a jaunt to the driving range on Belle Isle. Again, this driving range is another reminder that there are sweet things going on in Detroit. Belle Isle is an island in the Detroit River, which seperates Detroit from Windsor, Ontario. It's a massive park, and quite enjoyable to drive through and the driving range is actually one of the nicer ranges I've teed off on. Which can make my lack of game all the more embarrasing. Although, I am now consistently able to make solid contact with the golf ball, whcih is immensely satisfying.

8 pm: The initial supplies run. I have a fondness for having ample sustenance in my employ during test days. So, I went to the local Rite-Aid and commandeered the following essential items: One and a half liters of Citrus Green tea (for the anti-oxidants), two 32-ounce gatorades (including a bottle of the new Gatorade Focus for obvious reasons . . . and because Tiger Woods is on it), two bags of trail mix (the ultimate sustenance source), and a Snickers Dark (beacuse if I'm paying 88 cents for a Snickers bar, it needs to be special in some way.

8:30: I begin preparations by packing my breakfast/lunch/dinner for the day (the exam is eight-hours long, and in case I forgot to mention, I like a solid quantity of food). Bonnie Blair (the olympic speed-skater) said she ate PB & J for lunch daily for most of her life. I think that is a fine idea and pack myslef a couple of those. However, because I cannot predict my sandwhich desires in 16-hours, I throw in a ham and cheese because its both nearly as classic and delicious as the peanut butter standby.

9:00: The office. If there is a better show on telivision I defy you to name it. And that's even counting my new favorite The Big Bang Theory. The episode was the one where Michael, Oscar, and Andy go to Winnepeg for business. Classic. Adding Andy to the cast might have been one of the great all time additions to the cast (because I know so much about television show cast chanes).

10:00: I prepare for bed by unwinding with American Lion, a pulitzer prize winning book on Andrew Jackson. And if you think this is a poor choice, read the first part of the previous sentence again.

11:00-5:50 am: Note, I can never remember having as vivid dreams as I did that night. And they were all somehow medically related, the sense that I Am Legend, was medically related.

Test day

5:50 am : Setting my alarm ten minutes early seems even sillier than when I did it last night.

6:00 am: Shower and shave. Nothing makes you feel ready for a day than these two events. I even got back on the after-shave train recently and it is fantastic. Feel my cheeks, seriously, they don't make cotton balls that soft. I don't care what that says about my manhood, at least they smell like alcohol (the rubbing kind, not the other, come-on, its test day).

6:45 am: How the heck did it get to be 6:45 already? I was supposed to leave at 6:30 and I still don't have my egg sandwhich, thermos of coffee, or cup-o-oatmeal ready yet?

6:57 am: Aforementioned items are ready and I am officially running late. I have to be there by 7:30 and am supposed to be there by 7:00. It's half an hour away.

7:13 am: Seriously, it's raining? How the heck did I let myself be put in danger of being late? They make it pretty clear on the form if you show up late they don't have to seat you for the test. And besides the academic ramifications, the test cost 500 bucks.

7:24 am: I make it to the testing center on time. Even after using the restroom. I didn't have time to eat my egg sandwhich in the car, however, which gives me something to look forward to.

7:29 am: There are 20 spots to srart the exam at 7:30 and since each person takes it individually on their own computer, the staff has to set people up one by one. This takes a few minutes for each person. I am number twenty of twenty.

7:45 am: because I don't want to risk it, I used the restroom again.

8:00 am: I get my book out of the little cubby/locker they give you to put your stuff in while I wait.

8:14 am: It's almost my turn, and I have to pee again. Seriously, I don't know how coffee does what it does to your system, but its impressive. So I went to the restroom for the third time since arriving at the test center.

8:23 am: I begin the test. I can't tell you how many times the following sentiments occured in my mind in response to test questions: (1) seriously? I thought there would be no way this would be on the test. (2) seriously? I knew this would be on the test, how don't I know it. And just (3) Seriously?

9:07 am: I finish up the first of seven sections. Now, this exam is structured so that you have eight total hours to complete the test with seven-hour long sections and one fifteen minute tutorial. I had previously decided on a strategy for the exam to avoid burn-out because every time I practiced doing blocks of questions my scores followed a clear downward trend due to fatigue. That strategy was to take a break after every exam and because I changed more answers from correct to incorrect than vice versa, I would only cursorarily look over my exam before moving on.

9:08 am: I use the restroom again before travelling back to my car to partake in the delicious egg and cheese sang-which I had waiting for me. Delicious. I was also able to wash it down with some mildly warmed coffee left in my travel mug. It was surprisingly relaxing to set in my car in an office parking lot during the biggest test of my life and enjoy this delightful farm fresh breakfast (that had been sitting in my car for over an hour now). Look out Jimmy Dean.

9:15 am: I frequent the washroom once more just for kicks

9:17 am: Round 2. If you are keeping track on your scorecard I'd give the first one to the exam, but I think I scored enough jabs on the second to even it up at 1-1 after two rounds of play. Seriously though, my mentality was to kind of treat the day as a light-hearted game, and I believe I succeeded.

10:03 am: Break two. Seriously, the breaks were getting fun. This time, I didn't want to risk getting hungry so I threw down most of my Fancy Mojo Mix trail mix. And I did feel fancy. And full of mojo. I also threw down an fuiji apple because they are delicious. I ran into another medical student taking the exam (most of the 20 people there in the morning were taking this exam) in the hallway at the end of my break. The interesting dynamic during the breaks is there is always this knowledge in the back of your head that the computer is timing your breaks and it is slowly dwindling. So, after I exchanged cordial greetings and "how's the test going?" I was attempting to end the conversation and get my test going. Unfortunately, this student was not in the same mindset and began playing the "I know person x who goes to your school, do you know them?" game. As much as I usually enjoy this game (and her performance was exceptional, she went 2-2) now was not the time nor the place, so I excused myself and went back into the den of pain (read: testing center). Also, to note, I continued the trend of using the restroom twice per break (for a total of 7 times on the day).

10:47 am: Round 3 ends. I'm going to give this round to the challenger. I'm starting to get into a groove. I only have one more block to go before I allow myself a lunch break so I eat a lighter break snack of a bannanna paired with piping coffee from my thermos. I remained sitting in my car at this point because it is still gloomy out and if ever I felt like I was on a stake out, now was the time. I sat watching people enter and leave the building while pouring myself cup upon cup of coffee. Delicious. Bathroom tally at 9 now.

11:30 am: In the midst of round 4 I am starting to feel tired. I fight the internal urge to just click an answer and move on and try and actually think through each question. Good thing I have a lunch break coming. I'll probably have to give this round to the exam. We're all tied up at two now.

11:47 am: Sweet, sweet lunch break. I'm giving myself fifty minutes of freedom here. I set up camp at a picnic table under a large tree. I'm officially feeling fried as well so I decide not to read as I anticipated during the break. I pull a game time decision and trade out my expected PB&J for the ham and cheese. I had a hunch last night and it paid off. I also throw down most of my Tiger Woods focus gatorade and some of the iced green tea. Delicious. I also made a few phone calls just because I wanted to get my mind of the test.

1:07 pm: Okay, taking this test is seriously getting old. Is there any way to avoid the post lunch lull? I mean seriously, how can you not be tired after eating? And short of integrating the siesta into our culture what can a person do? Especially when I am taking a test that is timed? This run of question marks is really making my upward intonation fatigued? Round 5 goes to the exam 3-2, uh-oh, things are looking bad. I may want to reconsider a career in the promising field of semi-shady drug endorsements.

12:31 pm: I have banked a significant amount of break time now, so I decide to take a walk around the office complex. Granted, its about as full of character as a cardboard box, but the walk is still pleasant. And I stumbled upon a park of sorts with tennis courts that turned out to be some sort of private club. The park was next to a school so I kind of wandered around the schoolyard until I got some strange looks from some other people and realized I probably looked like a creeper. Time to get back after the test.

1:47 pm: Whew, another tough round, but I felt like I battle back strong. 3-3 after six rounds with one round to go. As if we didn't see this coming. I still have a good twenty minutes of break time and here is when the strategy gets interesting. I can conceivably go over my break time and suffer the consequence that it will be taken out from my last block. And generally I finish the blocks with 15-20 minutes to spare. I make the decision to take all my break time and not worry about getting a few minutes shaved off the exam. I saved a pear and had a bit of gatorade left so I finished those off and sauntered around some more.

2:17 pm: As I walk back into the testing room the proctor plays Final Countdown in the background. Okay, at least they should have. I show up to my computer with a giant warning message saying "Warning! You have exceeded your alotted break time and any additional break time is being taken out of your final section." Okay, seriously, that freaked me out a little bit. I had a general tension run through me. Then to compound things, A windows error message popped up. Son-of-a. I envisioned my entire test disapearing into cyper space and having to do this all over again.

2:19 pm: The error message is corrected and am back in the saddle. The test decides to further extend its competetive advantage by placing a giant "!" mark next to my timer on the bottom of the screen to let me know that because I took a longer break, my time was reduced. I still feel kind of panicked and consider doign a rapid run through just to get answers down. I close my eyes and take five deep breaths. And then another five. Allright, I'm back.

2:49: Almost done, I peruse the answers one final time and then click submit. I am done. I feel good about it. And I'm giving myself the "W" in the final round. 4-3, I think I beat the boards in a close match.

2:52: Seriously, I cannot imagine thinking long about any of these survey questions because I feel just cashed.

3:22: I finally finish all the required junk and stop by to see my old friend the restroom one more time before leaving. Ah, a good day. I look at my phone and discover that my former roommate and classmate mentioned above has sent me a text. He is already at Buffallo Wild Wings awaiting my arrival.

4:26: After an eternal drive in traffic I show up at B-dubs (has their ever been a more universally accepted nickname for an institution) and meet two of my other friends who have finished their exam.

5:43: The fourth member of our crew taking the exam today arrives and the day is complete. The general sense of relief is intense. We make wisecracks about the test and trade stories about ridiculous questions and our likely ridiculous mistakes. There is a strange feeling like we've just tackled something huge and conquered it. We did it all individually, but in some sense it feels like we all just accomplished together. Unless of course, I didn't pass.

Well, anyways, so that is what I did this Friday. And although it may not have seemed like it once I got it down on paper (or the white screen at least) it was a rather entertaining day for me. Now, onto year III.

Fool me once, shame on . . . Wait, is that a cookie?

2009-05-30T15:25:00.001-07:00

I paid $1.50 for a single cookie about an hour and a half ago. I'm not proud of it. I'm still in a bit of shock and it wasn't a good cookie. And as I was buying it I knew it wasn't a good cookie. Call me a sucker.

One of my other more recent kicks is studying in coffee shops. After 20 some months of gettin 'er done in the redsidence, I finally got stir crazy. The problem is that at home, I am not surrounded by a bounty of food, but at least some sort of sustenance, in the coffee shop I place myself in a sort of meal purgatory. That is, I always make sure I eat right before I leave and I always end up eating the second I get home, but coffee house time is sort of like a miniature fast for me.

But today, a chink in my armor was exposed as I reached the four hour mark in the artsy oasis. I'd like to consider my subconscious forcing me to pay for my rented study space for the day, but I sauntered up to the cashier, picked out an oatmeal cookie and plunked down four something for the combination of afforementioned treat and an iced tea.

Now, it may not seem like a large amount of money, but it broke a historical precedent for me. Since I was in high school and realized I had just boughten and consumed (ravenously, I may add) a six dollar beverage at Starbucks, I had resolved not to support institutions that would fleece me. And yet, I did.

I think I learned another important lesson today. I'm not in undergrad anymore. At my undergraduate institution, if I found myself in a caloric vaccuum I merely sauntered over to the to-go food line and either (a) looked for a friend who would kindly donate a meal to a good cause or (b) ponied up anywhere between a quarter and four quarters (or a dollar as some like to call it) for anywhere between 1 and 4 delicious, sustaining, and cheap granola bars (which were really more like bars of vegetable oil with specs of cereal, so you can imagine their satiating power).

Alas, Mr. Bigby and your co-hourt Mr. Starbuck you have won this round. And for that, I say kudos (which, would not be a bad idea to stock in your storefronts, as long as they went from anywhere from the 24 to 26 cent per bar range).

Kicks (not the sneakers . . . or the delicious and alternately spelled breakfast cereal)

2009-05-29T15:00:00.000-07:00

I have a penchant for going on kicks where I do something consistently for a few days (see the last week of multiple postings). Lately, my latest streak is listening to Amy Winehouse. And, its not like I just discovered her music or something. I mean, I always knew she didn't want to go to rehab and a pair of special high heels or something, but now I can't get enough of any of her music. It's gotten to the point that after I run out of skips on other pandora stations, I make a new one up just so I can skip to her songs. This of course is after my other most recent music kicks of Bob Seger, Johnny Cash, and the fantastic nineties band Live (side note: I can't believe its getting to the point where I can actually classify a band as nineties and it doesn't seem like they are still in their prime).

Dotting the "i"s with circles

2009-05-27T07:07:00.001-07:00

In one of the many reply to all e-mail forums that I am lucky enough to take part in (school, friends, building I live in . . . etc) a few people periodically distinguish themselves from the rest. That is, they complete the e-mail equivalent of loopy handwriting, and dotting the letter "i" with a big rotund sphere which is another way of saying "you couldn't take me seriously if you tried." Admittedly, via e-mail, this impression is even tougher to exude. However, I have discovered that certain individuals with a heightened sense of self-awareness are able to meticulously chisel there public image through the use of normally sterile electronic lettering.

Through some intense research and a few controlled studies I have discovered there secret: The use of multiple punction marks at inopportune times ?!. And the calculated missuse of the oft-neglected capital letter. These are e-mistakes that are completely acceptable in the context of a person to person e-mail, or in the language cess pool I like to call text messaging, however, when you are addressing a group of people via e-mail, more than twenty or so in number, and a majority of which really don't know you, the only impression we have is your e-mail.

and So !? Today, as I was reading one of these laboriously crafted e-mails, I stumbed upon the antecedent form of their work. That is, I got the same impression reading these e-mails as I did when I used to see the bubbly handwriting of a third grade girl (which I don't remember happening all that often, but lets be honest, pre-pubescent I was probably a stud).

An Anology

2009-05-25T16:12:00.000-07:00

I feel about the mute button what other people may feel about drugs: that is, while using it, things that seemed normal before now seem absolutely ridiculous.

Case in point: I would have never noticed that while muted, about 50% of the time, Wheel of Fortune is just people standing at a podium clapping awkwardly. And when I say 50%, I mean it seriously. Like the contestants clap at everything. They clap while the wheel spins, they clap when a letter is anounced, heck, I'm pretty sure they clap while they interview the other contestants.

I guess that's why I'll never be on wheel of fortune, I don't clap near consistently enough. It's something to work on (note: I am currently applauding while concluding this post).

Ode to PB

2009-05-22T15:27:00.000-07:00

I found myself at the grocers again last night and as usual I had my standard line-up of goods: a 5-lb jar of peanut butter, some tuna fish, a few gallons of milk and three loaves of bread. The woman behind me in line yelled out "is that peanut butter?" when I hulked the massive jar onto the conveyor belt. I smiled and nodded as I imagined a week or two of sustenance in paste form.

I love peanut butter. And that's not to say that I enjoy a PB & J every now and again. In fact, I try and refrain from adding jelly to the mix. For that matter, its not to often that I combine bread with my mound of molten peanut nectar: I'm kind of a food purist, I don't like my carbs mixing with my protein/fat.

And its not just that I eat a lot of peanut butter, or eat it frequently (both of which are undeniably true). The fact is that the jar of peanut butter in my closet says "Hey . . . look at me . . . you don't have to worry about running out of food, I can sustain you for days with my legume-delicious-nutritiousness.

I learned part of my peanut butter affinity from my mother, who was a stickler about serving sizes, and used to scoop exactly one tablespoon of peanut butter into her mouth for a quick meal if we were heading out the door. I do the same thing. Except, well I don't let myself be limited by the social constraint system known as the "serving size" nor the "2,000 calorie diet" (seriously, have you ever tried to eat less than 2,000 calories in a day? I'm pretty sure there are days when I come close to passing that benchmark before the 9-5 workday starts. Oh, and the other reason I don't eat spoonfuls of peanut butter is because spoons are a relative scarcity in my household these days. I've found you can wrap up a delicious nesting of the salted goo by spinning a fork in the vat a few times.

There are days (like today as a matter of fact) that I consume nearly nothing but peanut butter. Okay, well, lets make that essentially nothing relative to the amount of peanut butter I consumed (I admit, I did have a pork chop sandwich at some point during the day, but all that protein hardly sticks to me).

The reason I find peanut butter so irresistible is the same reason I drink a lot of water: it's readily available (at least at my home), relatively cheap, requires zero preparation, and has an awesome caloric density for when I know I need something but can't decide what (obviously that last tenant applies only to the peanut butter).

Anything you can do . . .

2009-05-08T11:32:00.000-07:00

One of the more annoying tendencies I've noticed in myself is the defensiveness whenever someone makes a disparaging comment towards me. For example, whenever someone asks me, when does your summer break start? I explain, that it starts in late May, but its not really a break because I have to study for a board exam in July the whole time. Inevitably, my response is ignored by the nostalgic mental break in my partner in dialogue. Followed by, "man, I wish I was in school." and the inevitable, "yeah, enjoy it while it lasts, because the real world doesn't give breaks."

Generally I am pretty good at ignoring the urge to backhand the other person, but I always embarrassingly try to one up them with something like "yeah, but I'm not going to miss seven hours of lecture a day," or "yeah, but you know I'm going to have to put in those crazy 100 hour resident shifts" or something otherwise ridiculous. Because honestly, I am in still a student, and all of my stress is pretty much self induced as of right now. And I have no idea whether or not my experiences are more difficult than anyone else's and the truth is that it is completely irrelevant (or should be).

And even if my experience in school is way harder or easier than someone else gives me credit for, trying to prove it during a five minute conversation simply won't work. And what would be so bad if either a) my life was easier than the other person's or b) that other person held a misconceived belief about my, as Darryl from the office put it to Michael, "Nerf" life. All I know is I'm not going to start throwing watermelon's onto trampolines about it.

Grilled Cheese

2009-05-01T08:27:00.000-07:00

I don't think there is a better sandwhich than extra sharp cheddar on Aunt Millie's Hearth Crunchy Oat with Honey Wheat bread. And I finally fingured out how to make it without burning the bread (yeah, I've been doing this for years, and I'm finally able to do it without running around the apartment opening windows and turning on fans to avoid setting off teh smoke detectors).

Hard Day's Night

2009-04-30T15:35:00.000-07:00

I spent a day out in what those of us who reside in the bookish purgatory like to call "the real world." I spent my morning at a health fair and an afternoon at another site in Detroit doing "hands-on"-ish activities. I studied for a bit before I left but since then haven't so much as looked at a lecture. And it feels glorious. I feel as if I have done --well nothing but -- something. I came home tired. I can't remember the last time I was tired from actually doing something.

Admittedly I was probably more of a hindrance than a help at the health clinic. I pricked two fingers and then squeezed for like ten minutes just to get enough blood for the test. Then I proceeded to put the sphygnognomometer (aka sphygnometer or blood pressure cuff) on backwards (not my fault, I'm used to doing it by hand, not these autonomic jobs). Side note on medical school: the funny thing is with my knowledge base right now, if I were in some sort of life threatening crisis, I would take someone with six weeks of hands-on training over someone like me with 2 years (after a 4 year degree) of book knowledge. But back to the story at hand, I had fun and actually got to interact with people in the morning.

In the afternoon I did a sort of activity that may loosely be able to be described as manual labor. And sometimes, there is a satisfaction in seeing a visual representation of work accomplished that cannot be reached by reading a test score on blackboard (unless, maybe, I actually did well on a test or something, but still).

All this to say, I can't wait for July when I actually start waking up and going to work (kinda, at least going somewhere). I'm kind of dreading August, however, when I start waking up and wishing I didn't have to go anywhere and curse myself for not enjoying April more.

Now I suppose I'll have to go take in a few lectures before the Office comes on tonight. Whew, Hard day's night.

PS

2009-04-29T18:23:00.000-07:00

On a related note I accidentally bought tuna in vegetable oil instead of water. It couldn't seem more like I was eating catfood if I ate it with a saucer of milk next to me. Which, I guess after eating the rice krispies was kind of what I did have next to me. I will now go try and catch a laser pointer.

Chatting up Cashiers

2009-04-29T09:22:00.000-07:00

I usually make an effort to make conversation with the cashiers when I go through the checker line at the grocery store. Or rather, I usually attempt to go along with the efforts that they make to converse and encourage more conversations. Invariably the conversation touches on the subject that both of us are at the present time extremely tired, a momentary discussion on the length of time till the cashier’s shift ends or lunch break occurs, and finally, some sort of comment on how I must really like peanut butter or tuna fish. The conversation’s purpose is really to fill the void of silence when you are going to be interacting with another human being in close proximity for several minutes, but occasionally, I am imparted with extraordinary tips for living.

A few weeks ago, when the weather was still cold enough to wear a scarf, I was informed by the cashier that she too had a Burberry (or however you spell it) scarf. I was about to inform her that this scarf was in fact a knock-off which was re-gifted to after my dad received it. I never expected to wear it, but scarves are actually extraordinarily warm. The friendly cashier informed me that her little cousin had borrowed the scarf for months and she detailed her exhaustive pursuit of the scarf for months. Which, of course she had to get back, if only because it went with the rest of her entire ensemble. Which is to say she had a purse, a hat, and perhaps some other accessories that I am not remembering that went with the scarf.

She then proceeded to discuss how she told her cousin she’d buy her a cheap knock-off. I almost interjected in here again to say, yeah, that’s what I’d do because I have one, but in what would prove to be a wise move, I remained silent (except, of course to comment that I indeed enjoy a good 5 lb jar of peanut butter, and no, the Salmonella scare wouldn’t discourage me).

As she was scanning the last few items, the cashier informed me that in no circumstance should I be traveling out and about with only one Burberry item on. If I was going to where the scarf, I had to where the whole ensemble. Honestly, I’m not sure if this was a circuitous route to expose my faux pas of wearing Adidas snap pants with an old suede jacket, or whatever ensemble I had traipsed out into the social realm of the grocery store in. Or, if she was trying to expose the farce that I was living pretending I was wearing a two-hundred dollar scarf. Or, perhaps she just legitimately believed in the intrinsic goodness of coordinated outfits. Whatever the case, I left better informed about how I should be doing things in the wardrobe world, but with even less motivation to act on said knowledge base.

The peanut butter, however, was worth every penny.

Learning Swahili

2009-04-18T18:10:00.000-07:00

In retrospect, the request probably seemed as bizarre as the person making it, but at the time, requesting that I be allowed to do my own laundry seemed like a good way to my host mother. She did not speak a world of English, and her husband Jose (pronounced yo-say, differently than the Spanish homograph) spoke only limited phrases. However, when he asked if I wanted my laundry done, and in a very subversive eschewing of patriarchal tradition, I requested that I merely be supplied with the necessary items for the task. I am guessing that I was viewed more like a control-freak than a helpful hand, but the fact that I was a Westerner taking up his lodging deep in the neighborhoods of this former colonial outpost outside the capital of Tanzania.

After proceeding through the language difficulties and navigating around gender presuppositions Jose supplied me with two requisite buckets and a bar of soap. My next difficulty was that although I’d been living away from home for two years, my ability to do laundry was still quite limited. That is, in the context of a washing machine, I knew how to press a couple buttons and ensure that my white boxers didn’t turn pink when washed with my red t-shirt, but beyond that I was clueless. The man filled one bucket up with water for rinsing, poured soap and then water into another, and even demonstrated on one of my shirts the process of dunking and then scraping one area of the shirt against another to brush the dirt off.

Immediately my mind was reminded of a sermon I had heard before leaving the states about how Christians were supposed to be like the new high efficiency washing machines. Not that they were supposed to be uber-efficient (I believe that is somewhat antithetical to the Christian life in some sense), but rather that Christians were supposed to be like those washers in which the tumbling of an article of clothing knocked the dirt off the other. So, along the same vein as iron sharpens iron, one article cleans another. This was of course, juxtaposed against the former washing machines in which a massive plunger spun and externally jarred all the dirt out of the clothing. Finally the washing machines had gone full circle and gotten back to how things used to be done. And were still done where I was.

What happened next was perhaps the most beneficial part of the experience. Perhaps because my strange white skin attracted them, or the site of a male doing laundry in a queer clearly inexperienced manner, or more likely because I was not surrounded by a group of my fellow travelers for the first time outside in this city, a group of young children gathered around to watch me learn how to wash my clothes. Even the son of the house I was staying at ventured within five feet of me, which to this point he had been to even approach or make eye contact. Later he would even engage me when he found I could speak a very limited Swahili. Still, even later he would tell his father that he wanted to learn how to speak “mzungu” or “white person,” which his father had a chuckle over.

I attempted to engage the youngsters in conversation and may have even startled them when I greeted them with a variation of hello that was correctly conjugated for the number of people I was addressing. And with that, one young boy proceeded to spew a sentence of rapid Swahili which I had not a prayer of understanding. Instead, I threw out a couple of my rehearsed phrases such as “I apologize,” “I don’t understand,” and “I know only a little Swahili.” He looked severly disappointed.

I tried to encourage the young man, and displayed my knowledge of another phrase “this is” which coupled with the universal climbing of intonation implied that I was asking a question. And with this, the children’s eyes lit up as a group of them barked out the Swahili word to tree in response to my finger pointing. Instantly, I had been transformed from strange man doing strange things strangely to strange man doing strange things strangely, but wanting to know what the children knew.

And for the next hour we played the vocabulary game and became more and more comfortable so that we even joked. I demonstrated that I knew the phrase “I know (blank) but I don’t know (blank)” and the children responded by expanding the vocabulary game from my finger pointing to their imagination. So that, one child when ask “do you know (blank)” and I would respond either with the affirmative to a delighted response or to with the negative to an even more delighted communal pointing to the object or entity in question. Of course, I had no idea whether they meant cloud, sky, or up but the intricacies of language in order to tease out the difference escaped me.

I like to think of that moment kind of as the symbol of the trip. I was doing something that I thought would be a convenience to someone else. More than likely, them having to prepare the buckets for me and teach me how to wash was likely more of a hassle than actually doing the laundry. But I learned from it. And likewise, when I put myself in a strange position, I was able to learn more from an equally unlikely group of teachers. And, just as a blind person has a slightly enhanced sense of hearing, I believe that because I couldn’t understand the language I was slightly more enabled to appreciate the wonder of taking a moment to learn from a group of curious strangers.

Spring Break Chronicle Part IV

2009-03-26T10:55:00.000-07:00

Note: Just for the record, I am aware this is excessively long, but I told myself I would write this up and while I doubt a soul will read this all the way through, its a good exercise for me to practice writing. That said the other sections are linked here:

I, II, and III

Part IV - New Beginnings

Again, however, just past the Texaco, we were transported into a world of natural beauty. After being inundated with man made drudgery it took my mind several minutes to truly believe that the river running by the side of the road may have actually not been constructed by human hands and was truly a wonder of natural beauty. Inside the park, it seemed ludicrous to think that just a mile back down the road the atrocities of Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, existed. We were still on a road and plenty of cars were around, but things were different. The park rangers, for example, were driving around in Honda Priuses (which somehow, due to the magic of modern marketing, seemed like they had simply spawned from the earth naturally in order to jauntily bounce upon the national park roadways).

A bit of the over-crowding that Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge, Tennessee (I have to use the whole name because kind of like the opposite of Cher or Madonna, only the full name can partially convey the grand scale of Pigeon Forge, Tennessee), came in handy when we hid our car amongst the several others illegally parked on the side of the park road and figured that there would be enough traffic so we wouldn’t get towed in the four days we would be gone. We changed out of our civilian clothes and into our backpacking guerilla ware. And with that, we hoisted our packs, which would be permanently glued to our backs for the greater part of the daylight hours of the next several days.

The worst part of the few trails I’ve been exposed to, is the walk until you get to the trail. This walk featured a washed out road past an “Authorized Vehicles Only” sign and a row of abandoned houses with broken windows next to the road (note: if I wanted to see that, I wouldn’t have left Detroit). We passed a couple with packs on their backs as well and I expected a cordial exchange. The woman kind of looked puzzled at us, but was pleasant, and her companion looked like he had never seen such hate-able creatures. “We just aren’t used to seeing people start so late.” I looked at the sky, and the sun seemed pretty high yet; I guessed it was maybe six-thirty. The man didn’t try and explain his icy demeanor he just started. And so with no reservations, we proceeded on our path.

Soon the wide dirt road was replaced with a narrower, but obviously well trod gravel pathway. We continued marching up this at a decent grade until the pathway got narrower and narrower and we finally felt like we were on some sort of hiking trail. The initial vegetation we saw was decidedly unremarkable. The trees were mostly still bare from the winter and the moss and fallen leaves were things I saw everyday outside my parents home in Michigan. Soon, however, once I became accustomed to the standard vegetation, it served a rather soothing purpose. The bare trees and leaves became the norm and pleasant.

We began to pass a few creeks along the way and the sound of natural water always seems unnatural to me. I suppose it’s a sad realization that the first reaction I have to the sound of water rushing over rock is to look around me for the ornately constructed synthetic waterfall thing that middle aged women like to have in their homes. Instead of it being nature imitating our imitation of nature, its simply nature being. And I get to partake in that experience; I just need a moment to realize that I am directly experiencing it, not observing through some other medium of perception.

When I was a kid, I bought a cassette tape of an album called Twilight Jazz because they had one of those giant display boards in the store where you could press a button and hear part of the song. I don’t know why an eight-year-old would want to buy that cassette, but I must have wanted to bad enough that my parents let me get it as some sort of present. I imagine that I found the sounds of nature irresistible and wanted to experience them in some form. I am not sure whether to regret that I experienced them in a glossy package along with dubbed in trumpet playing, or be glad that I got to experience them as a youngster and that somehow I appreciated the synthesis of natural beauty as well as created beauty in the jazz. For the sake of glass-half-full-ness I’ll take the later.

Diversions aside, we trudged along the trail until after a quick three-miles we found our campsite. Well, specifically we found two tents and some dying fires and figured we must be at the campsite, which of course, we were. Amazingly, less than two hours after departing from our car, we were dumbstruck to see not one group, but two groups of people invading our isolated nature experience. When desiring and expecting solitude (or a small duo as we were), discovering you will have to share your experience with others is frustrating. Especially when the others (note: I’ve only seen like two episodes of lost) seem like a group of 14 year-old girls.

Spring Break Chronicle Part III

2009-03-25T14:31:00.000-07:00

To View Part I Click here

To View Part II Click here

Part III – Gatlinburg (I)

After Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, Gatlinburg looked like a podunk town in the mountains. Which, apparently it was until fifty years ago. This time, the road was only four-lanes and some buildings actually seemed to blend into the landscape. Still, Ripley’s offered multiple attractions, and I actually saw two working chair-lift operations. One took you to the top of the mountains, assumedly for a view without all that bothersome walking and sense of accomplishment, the other took you somewhere where you could enjoy hillbilly golf (note: not the unbelievably enjoyable game made from PVC pipes and golf-balls tied together, but putt-putt apparently at crazy angles).

However, despite Gatlinburg being an improvement over Pigeon Forge, it was still jarring. Miles of bumper to bumper traffic, but at least this time, the foot traffic was also present. I’ve never been in a scene I felt so well-suited to the phrase throngs of people. I don’t even really know what it means other than that there were throngs of people on the streets. Gatlinburg was also further proof that in a lesson from the Kevin Costner baseball classic (the one in Iowa, not the other two) if you build enough gift shops, they will come, and they will be decked out in NASCAR gear.

Eventually, Mark’s bladder control was weakened to the point that he had to venture into the crowds, wade through them, and stop in a McDonalds. Meanwhile, I continued down the gentle stream of traffic. When Mark left McDonalds, inexplicably, traffic let up and I was caught up in a flow at the breakneck speed of 20 miles per hour. I had to stop at the world’s dirtiest Texaco at the edge of town in order to wait for him. He had to break into stride on the street and fly past sidewalk gawkers in a failed attempt to reach me. Worst of all, the momentary separation forced both of us to get “back on the grid” (meaning we had to turn on our cell phones in order to figure out where to meet up). In thanks for a truly unique bathroom experience, I went looking for sugarfree gum in the station’s convenience store only to find that apparently aspartame is illegal in Tennessee and my only option was six pieces of Bubbalicious for the low, low, price of $1.50. I was just glad Mark showed up before my car got in trouble for parking in the world’s only gas station parking lot that carried a $5.00 flat rate parking fee.

Continue to Part IV here

Spring Break Chronicle Part II

2009-03-25T12:55:00.000-07:00

If you haven't read part I - click here to read

Part II – Pigeon Forge Tennessee

My former roommate, Mark, and I left early Saturday morning in order to get to the trailhead in time to put a couple of miles under our belt be for we set up camp for the first night. As is always the case, our well laid plans came to ruin at the hand of some external force. The first external force: Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. Few experiences change me as dramatically and convincingly as the experience of sitting in grid locked traffic in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. Honestly, I felt as if I was in a movie about where materialism is headed in twenty years. Only that movie was made in the 1980’s so everything looks ridiculously old and simultaneously futuristic at the same time.

The initial roadside shops did not appear to be so bad. In fact, the world’s largest knife store evoked a kind of stir inside me to the effect that I couldn’t believe that I was going to bypass the opportunity to be surrounded by so many sharp objects at once. Alas, however, the trail awaits, and so on we must press. The Comedy Barn of Pigeon Forge, Tennessee decided that it must monopolize every Billboard in town and somehow decided “As seen on YouTube” was a clever slogan. We past the As Seen on TV store, where I can only assume you can buy assorted unnecessary goods and similarly unnecessary prices (although, my pursuit of the ever elusive Snuggie may have ended if I had submitted to my desire to pull into the boob tube shop).

Soon, the shock and awe of gaudy stores, and ridiculous tourist trap destinations (let’s just say Ripley’s had multiple storefronts in this town, if that’s any indication of the quality of attraction we are dealing with here) wore off and the drive became not unexpectedly fatiguing. Outlet malls almost seemed mundane compared to the spectacle of the “Miracle Theatre” and “Mystery Land” which featured a giant mansion completely upside down. Still, I was tempted to pull over and play “Firehouse golf” or ride on “Earthquake: the ride.” What I was most disappointed in was that every fifth storefront was a closed down pancake house. I’m not sure if it was because the delicious breakfast flap jack market was saturated, or people were too busy playing novelty-themed putt-putt, but I was deeply saddened to see that in a market where clearly any bad idea could thrive, the griddles were going begging.

To get the proper mental image, one must consider that this was not some two-lane trek through a block of ridiculousity. I was on a six, seven, even eight-lane road in bumper to bumper traffic, allowing ample time to consider the finer points of Wild Woody’s Go Karts. And maybe it was because I didn’t need to touch the gas pedal for an hour, but the street and traffic seemed to go on forever. It surely covered at least 5 miles. And to cap this all of, I had to resist the urge at the end of the trip to hang a left and travel down Dollywood lane to prove to myself that somehow, one can parlay prominent assets into not only a county music career, but also a theme park (which amazingly is not sponsored by the chicken wing empire which parlayed similar goods to an atrocious restaurant chain despite decidedly mediocre food).

Finally, once we were past Dollywood and the multitude of hotels featuring colossal water slides traveling out and back into the building, we seemed to be instantly transported into another world. The lanes on my side of the road went down from five to two and the jarring landscape was changed from gaudiness to natural beauty instantaneously. There was a branch off to the right for the Gatlinburg bypass, which I didn’t see until the last second and didn’t fully understand till the next slow-down ensued.

Click here to read Part III

Spring Break Chronicle Part I

2009-03-25T09:24:00.000-07:00

Note - Here is the first part of a narrative I am writing on my spring break. From the looks of it, its going to be pretty long and boring, but hey, I need the writing practice.

Part I - An Unnecessary Introduction

My high school yearbook features a page showing me curled up on a classroom floor in a blanket pretending to dream. Above it, a caption explains that if I could be anyone in the world for a day, I would be Lions quarterback Mike McMahon. The amount of information contained in that morsel of knowledge is huge. It shows, first and foremost, that I was an idiot (note: not “was” as in am no longer, but simply that I unequivocally was a documented fool). Secondly, it provides an extraordinary example of the Lions perpetually awful rotation at the quarterback position. And finally, it acknowledges that for some reason recently, which even I honestly can’t remember, I was leafing through my old high school yearbook (weird).

However, this fact came to my attention when I recently considered how much I would love to be Bill Bryson. Really, Bill Bryson doesn’t have an extraordinary job. Rather, I feel like he has established a unique craft that has allowed him to carve out the niche job that I would love: writer about whatever tickles his fancy. He is largely known as a travel writer, and rightly so. However, he also has written works on the history of the world (literally the whole thing), his childhood imaginary super powers, Shakespeare, and a few quite enjoyable titles on the English language itself.

And finally, from my high school yearbook to Bill Bryson, I found myself on the Appalachian Trail for the second consecutive Spring Break (yeah, that’s right, I’m still in school and the words Spring Break still mean something to me). Anyways, I read Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods while traveling in Spain and Morocco with my sister. I’m not sure if the experience was heightened due to the fact I was currently in travel mode, but the book quickly became one of my favorite reads. I even flirted with the option of hiking on the Appalachian Trail last summer before the medical-school-ambition-vampire convinced me that I should probably do something for my curriculum vitae (note: I still have no idea why medical students don’t call this a resume like the rest of the word, but I’m sure there is some archaic reason that tradition won’t let go of).

Click here for Part II

Argyle socks and Road Rage

2009-03-09T19:30:00.001-07:00

***Disclaimer: I don't tend to write about religious themes too often, so just a warning that I dip a toe into that realm here***

I have a friend who sends me socks in the mail every year for my birthday. I love getting socks in the mail from this friend for many reasons. Every man needs dress socks, but I don’t know any who particularly enjoy purchasing them. Second, I get fancy socks with argyle patterns on them and that aren’t the kind with the gold thread in the toes that I would always pick out. And finally, every time I wear those socks I remember that my friend got them for me and I feel special for about the first ten seconds of that day.

The trouble is, I soon forget that my socks make me feel special once I spill my first sip of coffee on the dress shirt that I bought for myself. And you might not believe it, but a year is a long time to go between getting new pairs of schmancy argyle socks. The socks get holey. And recently I have begun noticing that I am in more and more situations wear the holey socks just look downright tacky, despite all the argyle decor they boast.

Yet, I can’t bring myself to throw out the socks. Instead, I keep them in the drawer until I eventually forget they have holes in them and wear them until I go to dinner at a fancy house where my toes are again denuded. So I resolve that I will throw the birthday socks out the moment I get home. But, I don’t. Instead, I tell myself I will wash them once more, then cut them up and use them as fancy rags for when I do fancy cleaning things like dusting. Despite the obvious problem that I have never felt the spontaneous impulse to dust, I am also confronted with the reality that it is hard to tell (or remember) that socks have holes in them until you are wearing them in above classy dinner situation.

I feel like sometimes, when I ask God to forgive me for something stupid I’ve done that I don’t want to do anymore its just like what I do with my argyle socks. That is, I don’t throw the deed away. Instead, I try to wash it and convert it into some other semi-functional deed that may be of some service. So, after I lose my temper because some jerk with sunglasses got in my lane and then slowed down in front of me so I have to disrupt my oh-so-finely-calibrated cruise control, I ask for forgiveness for the incident (maybe, days later, if I remember for some reason) and go back to driving the same way.

I expect, that since I asked for forgiveness, the next time I place myself in the same situation with the same jerk drivers with sunglasses that my reaction will be different. And it isn’t. I just keep finding that I am still wearing the argyle socks with holes in them on my feet.

I’ve recently realized that there is a difference between what I see as forgiveness and what God wants in repentance. I don’t know exactly how the machine works on God’s end, but I know on mine, that God wants repentance, and when I ask for forgiveness and stop there, I never quite get to repentance.

In order to stop finding myself in embarrassing situations showing of my big toes and their finely maintained toe nails, I had to throw out the argyle socks. If I tried to wash them, I’d end up wearing holey socks again and I did not want to do that. In fact, I wanted to not wear holey socks on my feet more than I wanted to somehow save the special socks. That’s the only way that I can stop wearing holey socks.

I think repentance works in the same way. I can ask God to forgive me for getting angry on the road a million times, but if I head out onto the road as the same person I was the last time I blew my top at a driver who inconvenienced me, chances are I’ll find another annoying driver and lose my temper again. What has to happen, is that I want to not get angry with my brother so badly that I determine that I will stay in the right hand lane of the highway, expect to be behind a slow semi-truck, and enjoy the radio for a change.

Just like I throw out the holey socks the instant I realize they are holey (or the instant I get home from the fancy), I have to throw out the behavior that leads to me becoming angry with my brother. Namely, I have to stop trying to make the best time possible on the freeway, because that behavior, not the idiot drivers I encounter, is what leads to my anger. And until I want to stop being angry so badly that I don’t care if it means that I have to stay in right lane behind whoever may happen to be there, I will never truly repent.

The truth is, another set of pristine socks with even classier argyle patterns will come soon enough, and until then, I can deal with the golden toe variety I pick out for myself to get my by. And the music on the radio is strangely much more enjoyable from the view of the back end of a semi truck than the view of the back of my hand as I try to restrain a pesky finger from popping up in the middle of my hand.

On the bright side

2009-02-28T12:20:00.001-08:00

I have been getting over a stupid chest cold that I've had for the past week and I realized, you know what, there are some plus sides to being sick. Here they are in no particular order:

#1) You can wear whatever you want. (I mean, I usually wear sweat pants anyways, but when sick I found it hard to augment my robe with anything)

#2) The food. Not only did I not have to make anything most of the time because I didn't feel like eating, but strange things became irresistible. Case in point: How could I forget how delicious buttered toast is. Furthermore, my diet the past few days consisted of the following meals (in no particular order): Frozen pizza, toast, yogurt, toast, Rahm Schnitzel (so I made it out to a German pub in the early stages of the ailment, waffles, grilled cheese, toast, and grilled cheese. Not only were all of those things strangely delicious and easy to make (save grilled cheese, which I still haven't figured out how to make with out burning the bread. And if anyone writes to tell me to butter the bread first, save it).

#3) No guilt about taking extended study breaks.

#4) No guilt about taking extended sleeping breaks. I slept for over 12 hours for the first time I can remember in ages. That's seriously embarrasing. I mean, there's no way it should have been that long since I last slept twelve hours (or as a I like to call it, took a halfdayer)

#5) You appreciate feeling healthy to an unbelievable extend (Also substituted here could be the fact that death is an unavoidable consequence of life). Seriously though, how awesome does just no feeling miserable seem when you are sick? However, when I'm healthy, at no time in my day do I ever say, "man, I'm so happy that I don't feel like I'm hitting myself in the head with a shovel right now."

#6) I can now feel justified for buying cough syrup just because it was on sale. Five dollars well spent.

#7) On a related note, how delicious is Dimetapp. They should make a beverage flavored after it. Oh wait, they do: Grape soda.

#8) While I completely missed the experience this time around, how incredible is it to watch Bob Barker when not feeling well. I think Dane Cook did a bit on this already, but if I want one person to comfort me when I'm ailing its that gray-haired, plastic-surgery riddled host. Okay, that came out a bit creepy.

#9) I am even more appreciative than usually that I splurged on Kleenex Cottenelle this month. (No, not that, my nose just isn't raw).

The economics of sweatpants (not really, but its a better sounding title than sweatpants and the economy)

2009-02-21T15:32:00.000-08:00

Ok, so I suck at consistent blogging. However, here is a list of some recent world (read: the Doyle-centric universe) happenings that are completely un-noteworthy.

The Daily Doyle on sweatpants:

-The event: Since all lectures are uploaded digitally to the web, I am required to leave my home extremely infrequently.

-The implication: The only way I could wear sweatpants more often is if I put on a second pair at some point in the day. Think about it. And don't think I'm not thinking about implementing that strategy on chilly mornings.

-The event: Medical students study alot.

-The implication: Not everything done in sweatpants is enjoyable. But definitely marginally improved from doing them in other apparel (except maybe the robe, when my sweats are dirty).

The Daily Doyle on The economy:

-The event: well, you know, recent happenings

-The implication: I threw away a bottle of Miracle Whip today because it was past its date. Normally I would throw caution to the wind, but lets be honest, if something that unnatural has an expiration date, you better listen to it.

-The secret hidden meaning behind the implication: I always mixed tuna with miracle whip and since I haven't seen a tuna can for under a dollar in ages (and I'm not even talking about the schmancy albacore kind that actually causes dolphins to spontaneously proliferate), the result is my miracle whip goes a-begging.

-The domino effect: Since I haven't been eating as much tuna, I have to find alternative sources of fuels. So I pretty much stock up on Frozen Pizzas when there's a sale.

Bad decision Wednesday (and Quaker Oats)

2008-12-03T15:47:00.001-08:00

Today, I made a series of poor decisions which only compounded themselves. Below is a brief chronicle of how my day continually spiralled downward (literally at one-point, locked in a staircase spiralling downward).

My day began ominously as I had a required event at 7 am. For the individual who usually has literally nothing required on his schedule, this was quite a chock to my system.

In order to prepare effectively, I set my alarm for an early 6 am wake up, which I subsequently ignored until 6:14 (Bad Decision #1). In a rush to get in and out of the shower, I made a quick mental inventory of my morning routine which I would not participate in (Note, because I rarely leave my house before noon, I had quite an extensive amount of paring down to do). I immediately eliminated anything taking place after I was dressed (including preparing and enjoyiong a delicious bowl of steaming hot oatmeal garnished with a generous sprinkling of Domino brown sugar. This was Bad Decision #3; Although it had no direct fallout, I think that the impaired decision making from this point on was a result of Quacker Oats deficiency).

I also eliminated shaving from my routine (Bad Decision #2; fallout of BD #1). A few minutes later I am sitting in line at said required event, waiting for my number to be called (literally and figuratively). When I finally am ushered into the official prep room for my "Respirator Fit Testing" (read: glorified how-to on how to put a simple mask on your mouth). However, as our lovely assistant was passing out masks, she hesitated by me, look scrutinizing at my chin, and stretched a skeptical index finger towards my face. She proceeeded to gently push on the hair of my chinny-chin-chin. Literally. She then informed be that because I was not clean shaven, I could not participate in the fitting (What? I swear these masks came in small, medium and large. I promise my man-stubble will not interfere with the proper generic sizing of my mask).

Nevertheless, I obliged, left my group behind me, and proceeded to exit the building. Feeling, limber, I decided that I should climb down the four stories (BD #4) instead of taking the elevator because I am still a young buck (okay, so I got lost and couldn't find the elevators. Sue me, I didn't get my morning sustenance). Once in the stairwell, I quickly realized, this was not an ordinary stairwell. That is, I could get down to the third floor, no lower, and I passed a door that clearly led out to a rooftop terrace (and I'm not talking about one that would likely have a pleasant view in Italy. Like the little Red Bar on the door kind).

Anyways, I tried to exit on the second floor. Of course, the door was locked. I tried the third floor. Locked. The fourth floor, from which I entered. Locked. Luckily, there were some uber-strange hallways connected to the third floor. I walked down the hallway (yes, there was a weird hallway in this parallel stairwell universe) continually waiting to get mugged. Finally I found a door that would open into the back of what looked like a physicians office on the third floor. Fearing I would end up Being John Malcovich, I stepped through the door and found my way to the elevator bank.

Oh, that I would my adventure be over. I found the elevators, gleefully stepped on, and travelled to floor number 1 (BD #5, not really my fault though). Anyways, once on the bottom floor, I realized. Hmmm, either I ended up way far away from where I started, or I am not on the floor I want to be on. I think the tunnel resembling the sort of thing you travel between airline terminals in should have been a give-away.

To bring a rambling story to the end, I finally ended up finding another stairwell, which I hesitantly entered and found my way to the lobby after a few brief embarrasin run-ins: 1) you know those bloody hospital doors, that you have to press a button before you open them? Yeah, well sometimes its not crystal clear exactly what one should do. 2) Anytime you are dressed in street clothes and have to travel through a hallway where everyone else is dressed in surgical scrubs (and those dang masks that I had too much stubble to be fit for) its probably bad news. I suggest averting eye-contact and running towards aforementioned door.

Finally, I made my way into the daylight and had a moment, pretty much identical to Andy's after obtaining his Shawshank Redemption (well, minus the rain, feces, and shoes in a plastic bag).

Nonetheless, I learned my lesson today. And that is, of course, when a Quaker offers you a delicious bowl of hot, steamy, quasi-liquid/quasi-solid hearty goodness, you do not turn him down. And if you do, prepare to face his wrath.

The e-mail signature

2008-12-02T14:42:00.000-08:00

I understand the necessity of the automatic footer at the bottom of the e-mails that people send out. Occasionally, it is nice to have their tittle, phone number, fax number, e-mail (even though they literally just sent you the message its at the bottom of, though I guess its nice for the absolutely resource-less), home phone number, address, and a smattering of other details that could be adequately summed up as superfluous.

One phenomenon I don't understand is the quote at the bottom of the paragraph summary of your life in bullet form. That is, I'm all about living with a mantra, heck, I have phrases I thoroughly enjoy and may even utter unnecessarily when the situation warrants it. Yet, I don't lay them after the stocatto discourse of my life's locus at the bottom of the e-mail.

Today, I received an e-mail with the tagline "fortune favors the bold" or something of the like. As a phrase, I like it. But the implications of that are serious. That is, if I ever meet this faceless e-mailer, he better be the boldest guy ever. In fact, I hope that I don't even need to introduce myself, I can just be like, "hey, uber-gutsy guy. I think you sent me an e-mail once." I just think a phrase at the end of an e-mail would be a burden I don't want to carry.

Next up, I'm going to take some swings at bumper stickers. Because its waaaay easier to sit back here and nitpick from a blog than actually do something productive.

Black Friday

2008-11-28T10:59:00.000-08:00

Every year, the day after Thanksgiving, I am reminded of one thing: People are crazy. Not that I exclude myself from the masses, because I am included in the craziness.

That said, I haven't left my house (which is less than a mile away from probably the busiest mall in the greater metro-Detroit region, purely based on my speculation). I don't want to leave my house. Yet, I know I will end up heading to at least one store today.

As much as I like to sneer at the tradition, the reality is, this is another tradition that I just don't get. And I like to make an effort to "get it." So this year, I will go with my sister to REI and Barnes and Noble because I like those stores.

I've made the mistake in the past of trying to go to one of the busier stores to experience the day. All I end up experiencing is chaos. If I go to a mall, I find myself endlessly circiling the cosmetics mirrors trying to find my way out of the perfumerie onslaught and getting into the actual mall. Eventually, I fail and retire back to my car to sit in mall traffic.

My other tactic has been to try one of the independent stores (i.e. not part of an internal mall), such as Kohl's. When I went clothes shopping Kohl's was my destination of choice. However, on the day after Thanksgiving, I would usually select one item I thought would be good to purchase, walk towards the register, realize purchasing the $10 four-pack of uber-nice socks would cost me not only Alexander Hamilton's likeness, but part of my soul (as I waited in line for hours, and attempted not to let the 17 year-old female conversations drive me insane).

But the reason why I can't exclude myself from the craziness is because I feel like Black Friday (which term I just learned two years ago) is a cultural rite of passage. Something everyone simultaneously hates, complains about, gets fired up for, and in some form or another deliberately participates or non-participates.

So when that pile of ad sits on my kitchen table, I can't help but rifle through them. I find myself desiring to purchase peacoats and accent rugs that I know I'd never actually use. I'll peruse the Parisian ad, before devouring the deliciously stimulating ABC Warehouse ad/sensory onslought on newspaper form (the Parisian to ABC Warehouse transition is like reading the National Enquirer after the New Yorker, by the way).

All that to say: I don't get this day. I don't want to get it. But when its all said and done, I need to take a brief foray into the estrogen-driven madess (thats right, I had to slip in a sexist shopping reference) just to remind myself why I shouldn't feel like I am missing out when I am sitting on my couch watching bottom-tier college football today.

Razors and Blades

2008-11-26T13:19:00.000-08:00

Note: Yeah, thats right: I'm going three-for-three in a pre-holiday posting Bonanza.

Throghout the nation, when every young man reaches his official manhood recognition day (none in some circles as the eighteenth birthday) he recieves two things. Number one: A razor from the Gillete Company, a subsidory of the Proctor and Gamble monolith. Number two: A draft card. If I'm in the business world, I jump on the former's philosophy.

I've used a Mach 3 razor for seven plus years now. Why? Because I got one free on the day when I was able to legally obtain lottery tickets and cigarettes. I'm not sure of much else, other than that I've flirted with other brands, fives blades, electric, battery, and going months without shaving (always a better sounding idea than in practice).

However, I, like every man, realized at some point that I am forking over a lot of money on razor blades that I'm not sure is a sound investment. Meanwhile, the Gillete (or P & G) is trying to get me to upgrades so I can slab a couple extra plades on my razor and a couple extra points on their dividend returns. In order to combat this affront, I don't switch razor blades. No, I just use the same one longer. Which doesn't say a whole lot about me, nor the compelling nature of advertisements aimed at the man who desires a close shave.

Anyways, I think George Orwell was on to something when the primary scarce commodity in his groundbreaking 1984 was razorblades. Let's be honest, in my world, they are already a scarce commodity. Also, the coincidence that you get your razor and selective service card around the same time seems eerily ironic. I guess you're always going to be serving the man, one way or the other (or else hairy, but seriously, who wants that?).

Productivity Enhancement

2008-11-25T16:24:00.000-08:00

I know of only one sure-fire method to ensure that I will accomplish a task that I have been putting off forever. The only option: Put something I want to do less ahead of it on my internal to-do list.

I'm not sure how everyone else functions, but I have a relatively unidimensial sense of obligation. That is, I can only do one thing at a time, and I'm not even great at doing that well (see the April 27 poset on multitasking). However, what I am pretty good at is doing something other than my primary task. Case in point, I hadn't updated this blog in months, and I had some sort of mild desire to do so, but not enough motivation to actually sit down and type something out. Then, next thing you know, I have three tests in three days and I suddenly have the inspiration and motivation to post on my elderliness and distractability. Unbelievable.

Hopefully, some day, I can just have something really miserable that I have to do looming over my head so that I can do all the other stuff that I kind of want to do, but don't quite get around to. On second thought, lets just hope I learn to complete the task at hand. With that, the books.

How to Age instantaneously

2008-11-24T14:31:00.001-08:00

I turned twenty-five last week (or pretty close to it). I know: old. I've already had the obligatory stereotypical conversation with my friends about random aches and pains, worrying about IRA's and healthcare, and friends getting married and having kids (yeah, I'm old, but that is seriously old business I don't even know how to do with). Anyways, I did think back to a few events that I have participated in that should sufficiently qualify me for AARP membership:

1) Attended a condo assocation meeting. Yeah, for my building, not like I dropped in on Grandma's to determine what color the tableclothes would be at her nursing home's Thanksgiving Dinner. I'm not sure whether I should be happy about this or depressed.

2) Drove a Buick. Again, not exactly my Grandfather's. I mean, it was his . . . then he sold it to me . . .and then he purchased I swear the exact same vehicle with a different shade of upholstery. Anyways, I try not to think of the Century as an elderly man's vehicle so much as an accomplished man's. I mean really, old people have done a lot of stuff. I'm just glad to be among their ranks.

3) Participated in leisure activities. I'm not gonna lie, horshoes, bags (cornhole), and the like are about as much excitement as I desire. Sure I play intramural basketball and such, but really its just something to be ready for shuffleboard season.

4) Reminesced way too much. I can't count the number of times I've had the following conversation with a college roommate, high school teammate, or the like:

Guy 1: Dude, remember (insert year in school here) when we (insert activity such as golf here) every (insert day here)

Guy 2: Yeah, that was awesome

Guy 1: Yeah, yeah it was.

5) Wait a second . . . what was this last item supposed to be again?

A window into life in the D

2008-10-04T09:26:00.000-07:00

I really hate to write this post. There is enough in the national media that makes Detroit look like a ridiculous city with ridiculous people in charge, but living in Detroit is undeniably a unique experience. The public (especially Michigan's) perception of Detroit is extremely unfavorable, and largely blown out of proportion. I have not have any incident where I feared for my safety and the city is full of largely underpatronized quality restaurants, bars, etc.
However, all that said, some of the stereotype about Detroit's government rings true. I received a property tax bill for a bit more than I believe it should have been. Here is the story, in chronological order of what happened:

1) I called the city tax office. Twice. Three times. Four, five, six.

2) I show up at the city tax office. I am informed that I am correct and my taxes should be lower.

3) I go to a second office hoping to get the tax adjusted. There is literally no one in the office. I walk up to the desk. The clerk tells me to take a number. I take 37. Immediately, she looks at the "now serving" window and calls 37. I am in disbelief. She informs me that it should be adjusted, I just need to wait.

4) I leave satisfied, but not entirely convinced. I walk fifty feet away. I turn around.

5) I go back to the first office, just to double check as long I was there. A new clerk informs me that I am correct, however, an auditor needs to adjust my account. She informs me that I cannot visit his office, I need to call to make an appointment. She gives me the number and says ominously "if you don't get a hold of him, keep on trying."

6) I call the office. No answer. Voicemail. Mailbox full. Transfered to attendant. Attendant is not available and does not have voicemail setup. Goodbye.

7) I call the office again. Same thing.

8) I go to the second office again. Take a number. Wait 0.0002 seconds. Number is called. I ask if she knows where I can contact the auditor I need to talk to. She does not know. She says his office is on the same floor as the first office. I walk around that floor. I see a room of cubicles. I debate going in. I do not.

9) I call again. Voicemail-full-attendant-goodbye.

10) I repeat step nine literally one hundred times. I try other numbers and after waiting on hold give up.

11) Finally, in a last ditch effort I google this guys name and the word "Detroit assessor" in hopes of finding an e-mail or another number to try.

12) I receive two hits. Neither of them are contact information. They are news stories about this guys recent arrest and indictment. Son of a . . .

13) Since then, I have paid my overrated taxes, with the assurance I will get a refund when it is all straightened out, but have not yet been able to get a hold of anyone. I need to go back and walk around the city office building again.

Meanwhile . . .the former mayor was sentenced to jail time, the city council is under investigation by the FBI, the biggest project in the city stalled last week, someone slashed my tire in the parking garage, and nearly every major freeway in and out of Detroit is closed or barely open.

All that said, I love the city and am glad to be living here. Plus, I just painted my condo, like I'm gonna move.

Seriously though, Detroit is a great place to live, despite the unique issues.

2 Life Changing Occurences

2008-09-29T16:57:00.000-07:00

1 ) HD Revolution. I have previously written about my magical television which receives pirated TV shows that I suspect my neighbors are watching. Since moving back to Detroit, this has ceased, but for a while I was still receiving the local channels (NBC, ABC, CBS, FOX, and whatever the CW is calling themselves thisd week) in HD. I also was receiving HD-theatre and ESPN in HD. However, this week, the ESPN HD signal was lost. I cannot begin to explain the monumental crisis this caused me. To understand the crisis, I need to first explain the transformation that occured.
When I purchased my television, and realized the wonder that was in HD I began by flipping back and forth between the HD signal and normal signal and marvelling and the powder flakes that the news anchor's makeup left. However, soon there was no switching back-and-forth: I was solely in HD. To this day, I do not know my channel lineup, but I do know which stations I get in HD. For a while, I received Tigers games in HD without sound, and it was a serious dilemna whether the lack of audio was worth the amelioration of video. Needless to say, I watched sports without announcers for months. However, this weekend, I was forced to watch the Michigan State Spartans play Indiana University in traditional, analog quality.
The issue isn't really that the picture is that bad, its just that on my 13" LCD screen, the extra size that HD offers is monumental.

2) Perhaps not-uncoincidentally (hows that for an ambigious double negative), I also have developed a strong affinity for golf. Watching golf that is (and yes, I just aged thirty years before your eyes). Maybe its the clarity with which I can now read greens, but I can't get enough of the PGA tour. To the point where when I flip to the golf tournament on Sundays while the NFL games are on commercials, I actually know when there has been a change in the leaderboard (because I started watching the tournament at 7 am on Thursday via the Golf channel . . .go ahead, tack on another fifteen years to my age right there). I also have developed the embarrasing tendancy to yell "oooh" after a close-miss and have people look at me as if I just reacted emphatically to watching paint dry (which I might, if it were presented in HD). Anyways, the expansion of my sporting viewership to golf (and I even more sheepishly admit, that I can name at least four NASCAR drivers), I am no never without a sport to watch on TV.

Alas, I should get going because its after 8 and I should be in bed. Does anyone know where I can get some Centrum Silver?

Top 4 things that made me angry today

2008-09-24T16:08:00.000-07:00

Today, was an angry day. I'm not sure why I woke up angry, but frankly, delving into the cause may cause me to be something other than angry, which is not near as fun. So without further adieu, ado, or whatever word correctly goes there (see, I'm even too angry to use google to look up the right word and pretend I know what's going on) here are the top 5 things, that didn't cause my anger, but surely fanned the proverbial flames.

4) Waking up on the wrong side of the bed. No, seriously. Well, not really, I actually may be one of the few people that wake up and then decide which way to roll out of bed. Its a nice luxury to have. However, when thinking about my anger, the cliche "I guess I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed" resonated through my head countless times. Really, Doyle? You couldn't just say you had a case of the Wednesdays and be done with it? You had to talk to yourself like a third grader and then continue to do so on your blog post. Speaking of which, I spent an hour today in a third grade classroom, and luckily, nothing there angered me. I mean, who can get angry at hilarious youths even with morning directional disorientation (much better).

3) The guy who cut in front of me to get lab gloves today. This one is just a universal pet peeve. Seriosuly, you didn't notice the fifteen kids lining up to get gloves so we don't catch streptococcus (I must be less angry now, I just spell-checked streptococcus). Not that I was going to call you out, because honestly, I really don't care if it takes me ten extra seconds to get my gloves . . . wait a second, obviously I do, or I wouldn't be writing about it on a blog post.

2) Whoever invented the concept that meat thaws in the refrigerator overnight. Seriously, not once have I put something in the fridge the night before and gone to make dinner the next day to find anything but a solid chunk of ice, with some soft edges where it has began to thaw. I swear someone once told me that you should thaw meat overnight and be fine. I don't care if experience has proved me wrong here countless times, I will still continue to try this and get angry when it doesn't work. I better wrap this up, because my four-pound pork tenderloin may actually be at room temp now.

1) The amount of detail in my viral meningitis lecture notes. Seriously? I am not one to whine incessantly about medical school (just medical students), but come on. I don't ever think it will be useful for me as a clinician to know what family of genus of virus of kingdom of phylum of species of . . .of (okay, so obviously, I'm not big on knowing the classification system of things biological). And as such, I take out my frustration by deciding, I'll show Prof X, I'm not going to learn his crap. To which, the lovely world of karma responds with, fine by me, enjoy your next year of life repeating Microbiology.

Anyways, I feel much better. Really, I'm not that angry, I just wanted some fodder for a blog post and this worked out well.

Besides, who could be angry on the day Matt Millen* got fired
*Agreed to be the worst GM in football who happened to make personell decisions for my beloved Detroit Lions for the last few years.

Also, my pork tenderloin is done thawing and I'm about to enjoy deliciousness. Hunger 1, Anger 0.

The five best things about grocery shopping

2008-09-23T14:07:00.001-07:00

In an attempt to stay consistent (that is start a new series for a couple posts to abandon it later), I thought I'd post on one domestic-esque activity that I cannot get enough of: The grocery run.

5) Probably the best thing about being a medical student is that I can choose when to do my grocery shopping. Today, after a leisurely lunch, I set out for suburbia (because Detroit has no real grocery stores, just liquor stores boasting a "full line of groceries" consisting of a shelf of easy-mac) in search of groceries. I strolled through the isles younger than my fellow shoppers by at least thirty years (and when I say strolled, I mean waited eternally behind a series of rascal scooters each taking copious amounts of time dissecting the nuances of Worcestershire sauce brands). On a side note, how the heck is "Worcestershire sauce" pronounced the way it is. However, it is very pleasant to spend the day amongst the elderly.

4) The impulse buys. I usually go grocery shopping for the sole reason that I have run out of eggs, milk, butter, yogurt, and anything besides dry lentils for like two weeks. However, instead of purchasing only those things which I consume regularly, in the grocery store, I decide to broaden my horizons. Which is to say, that the advice "never go shopping hungry" should be extended to "never go shopping when you have had nothing to eat but long grain rice and black beans for two weeks" because the most preposterous items look good. For example, today I came home with four different packages of bacon and sausage (yeah, the kind that comes in the tube that you push out like you would cookie dough).

3) The non-impulse buys, that are equally as ridiculous. Inevitably, once I run out of milk and eggs for the week, I decide to see if I can spice up the remnants of my cabinets into something edible. So I look for niche recipes involving beans and rice that do not taste like beans and rice. And the delicious sounding recipes are abundant. The problem is, they all involve ingredients that I do not posses, such as: Worchestershurshursire sauce, red wine vinegar, oregano, molasses, etc. And instead of writing the recipes off as a lost cause, instead, I think to my self "dang it, Brian, if only you had apple cider vinegar, you wouldn't be eating a plate of some dry good covered in ketchup." So, when I arrive at the grocery store, I have a list filled with niche spices that Rachel Ray hasn't even heard of. And I buy them for the sole reason that I never, ever want to be caught without dark corn syrup ever again.

2) The looks from other shoppers. So, I'd be lying if I led you to believe that my cart was filled with cooking spices and niche ingredients. No, my cart may have those as a baselayer, before I give in and start searching for crap I can turn into delicious sustinence* (maybe my favorite phrase ever) nearly instantaneously. In other words, I fill the rest of my cart with meat. I begin very selectively only buying the chicken parts that are on sale for a reasonable price, before giving in and openning the gauntlet. The end result being, I currently have four bags of chicken, two "tubes" of sausage," two pounds of ground beef, three frozen pizzas (guilty pleasure. Scratch that, innocent pleasure), one package lean cut bacon, one package thick-cut-full-slab-heart-attack-in-shrink-wrap-bacon-deliciousness, two bags of talapia (they were on sale), various other odds and ends frozen, as well as a delicious three-pound pork tenderloin thawing in my refridgerator next two twenty-four eggs(I recently read a study that vegetarians have smaller brains. No joke, they are missing B12). Sorry, I got side tracked recounting my deliciousness. Point being, I have to fit all that into my tiny cart that was made for single mom's cooking for themselves. By the end of my trip, I have usually lost a wheel from the corner of my cart and have resorted to dragging the cart along, carefully ensuring nothing from the mound atop my cart slides out and into the abyss of isle twelve.

1) Without a doubt, the best part about grocery shopping, is the thirty minutes following the complete unloading of the trunk. That is, the point at which I sit down to enjoy a deliciously prepared meal of delicacies I haven't seen in close to a month. Today I enjoyed a peach, yogurt, hashbrowns, scrambled eggs (with milk), and green tea upon my return. And I haven't even started preparing for dinner. The only problem is, in the same way that I foolishly waste laundry detergent and shampoo when I have a full bottle, I will use far too much of my delicacies in the first week leaving myself with rice, beans, paprika, and cumin for the next three weeks until I finally break down and repeat the delightful cycle again. God Bless Supermarkets.

Top 10 reasons why doing laundry is "not as good*"

2008-09-22T09:48:00.000-07:00

*'Not as good' is a phrase used amongst one of my groups of friends because it was the way a prior gym instructor advised using constructive criticism. For example, an airball wouldn't be a bad shot, it would be rendered "not as good." Don't worry, after using the phrase for months, I have eliminated the desire to finish the sentence " . . . not as good" with "as (insert generic item here)" I'm content to just leave "not as good" hanging in the air. Its almost more insulting. Anyways, here's why doing laundry sucks:

10) currently, piles of clothing sorted by colors (white and everything else) and temp (cold/stuff I like and hot/stuff I don't care about or is swaeaty) are taking up my entire bedroom floor and severely impairing my ability to practice swinging a golf club while studying. Guess I'll have to finish the laundry before I can get back to studying

9) Seriously, if I have to go looking for quarters one more time (note: I do not have to do this because I have in unit washer/dryer. Which is even huger than I expected. Not large, just emotionally huge)

8) On a related note that I no longer have to deal with - Hanging insufficiently dried clothes all over my room because I will not "give in to the man" and pay 75 cents twice to dry my socks.

7) I have to ask my self, "when the heck did I wear this T-shirt?" before answering, "you didn't jack-ass, you just threw it in the hamper because you didn't want to fold it." That tactic worked waaaay better when my mom did my laundry

6) Seriously, do you know how long it takes to do six loads of laundry? The down side of having my own unit is that I unesseciarily sort items into color/temp instead of just cramming everything I could into the washer to save on precious quarters. The result: It literally takes me like eight hours to do laundry. The bonus: I have enough socks that I only do laundry like once every two months. God bless sandals.

5) Can they invent a dryer that does not shut-off right when my clothes are "almost dry." The difference between almost dry and dry is the differences between smelling slightly moldy and smelling like spring breeze or whatever flavor bounce sheet was on sale.

4) Okay, this may really be a reason why doing laundry is good, but seriously, is there anything better than putting on a item of freshly dried warm clothing. If someone could event the equivalent of a toaster, so that I could simultaneously prepare a delicious crusty morning apetite stimulator and a wonderful slightly warmed, but still soft, cottony body warmer, I would be in heaven. Now if we could only find the laundry equivalent of coffee, I may be rich.

3) How is it that I perpetually seem to be "almost out" of laundry detergent. Do they just fill the bottom eighth of those bottles, forcing me to swear I can eek out "just one more load" time and time again? Answer: No, you jack-ass, you just buy a new bottle, and fill the cup up to the "heavily-soild, massive laundry load composed of metallic substances" line, until you realize you are almost out and then fill it to the "I hope you are doing a load of laundry consisting of one sock, crew length" line for the rest of the month.

2) I am forced to question my manhood everytime I do laundry and realize I have waaaaaay more clothes than I realized. In fact, the only reason I am ever made aware of the truth that I have more than five shirts is on laundry day.

1) The only thing worse than doing laundry, is the folding of the laundry. Seriously, if you can find me a dryer to fold my clothes, I swear I would pay big money. Not that I fold my clothes now, it would just be nice to wake up one day and put on a shirt that did not make me look like I assembled the interior wrappings of a gift bag (read: tissue paper) into a garment.

On that note, I'm impressed that I actually came up with ten reasons, and will give myself the day off until I have cleared my golf playing surface for studying.

Mmmmm warm sweatpants . . .

Slave to our passions - A confession (no not like that)

2008-09-04T15:59:00.000-07:00

Note: The following is unfortunately not a discourse on Paul's letter to the Romans, or anything like that, its much more superficial but I found it interesting enough to post here, eh?

So, I have a confession to make. You know that guy responding with wit and humor to your textual queries (and if you haven't yet used ChaCha, you need to)? Yeah, that may or may not have been me. For about a month now I have been answering questions for ChaCha, for minuscule pay, for no other reason than I wanted to figure out how it worked.

However, last night, I had a realization. I could answer a limited number of ChaCha questions a day, every day, every month, and thus pay-off my cable AND internet bills. So starting last night and today I have dutifully logged time answering questions (including "who will be president" twice), giving various weather reports, suicide counseling (that's always scary), and responding to the ever quizzical "is your [insert slang for female genitalia here] shaven?"

More interesting than the querries, is the realization that I was in fact living out the irony of the American Dream. That is, in order to afford internet, I needed to sacrifice about a half hour a day to earn enough to pay for it. And since I now need the internet for school and work, of course it has become indespensible.

On a related note, I have further combined business with pleasure in my new studying method. That is, for correctly memorizing three facts and reciting them aloud, alone, to myself, in my apartment, I reward myself with the privelage of smoking a foam golf ball with any iron (or fairway wood if I'm feeling frisky) of my choosing.

Anyways, I should probably get back to either answering questions from random strangers or hitting my pitching wedge. Now what can I reward myself with for a sucessfull blog post . . .

Scrubs

2008-08-26T16:22:00.001-07:00

Besides being the name of a fantastic television show, something Beyonce don't want none of, and what a maid does to the floor, "scrubs" are also an essential wardrobe ensemble for the medical profession. You could even consider scrubs the great equalizer; nurses, doctors, techs, physician's assistants, medical assistants, and virtually every other title in the medical profession dons this apparel in one setting or another. Of course, this begs the question: Why are scrubs the one apparel item that don't appear to have been updated since the 1960's?

I mean, if someone to show up in a suit from before 1980, it would be recognizable because the tie would likely be thinner than my pinky, but if someone rolled in with old scrubs I don't think I'd ever notice. The fact is, I've never seen pre-1980 scrubs, but they just seem like a relic. I know that they are extremely functional, not uncomfortable, and at least for nurses, seem a bit more professional than the classic white pleated tennis skirt thing.

However, there are a few unwritten rules for scrubs that I don't understand. They are listed
below in order of decreasing confoundment (that is, the things I understand least are at the top).

Scrub Rule Number One:

"If you are going to have any sort of icon or image on your scrubs, it must a) appear only on the upper 'shirt' portion of the outfit and b) be repeated at least 14,298 times"

My analysis: Why, oh why, do cartoon characters need to be tiled across this garment hundreds of times? I mean, if you are trying to cheer up children, I swear one whinny the pooh will do as many wonders as the eight hundred currently unflatteringly occupying your front, backside, sleeve, and armpit. I am yet to see a single image larger than a quarter on any scrub outfit. Instead cartoons, butterflies, polka-dots, and any other random (yes random) image. Which brings us to . . . .

Scrub Rule Number Two:

"Your scrubs shall not bear any image or representation of anything medical (i.e. a stethoscope, a red cross) barring the exception of a pink heart repeated hundreds of times because they are cute. Furthermore, anything else normally seen such as stripes, different colored sleeves, a small pocket sized logo, and everything that does not fall into the category of 1980 cartoons, fourth-grade female versions of a heart, geometric shapes, or other cutesy things that would be doodled on the pages of a pre-pubescent love struck girl."

Analysis: Pretty self explanatory. I have seen NFL scrubs with a classy single logo on the chest, but those clearly do not conform to these standards. Furthermore, I've seen a couple guys wearing what I call "european" scrubs bucking the next rule with a sort of rounded not-V but not-crew neck and the little slits at the bottom to make them look sort of like they have flares. And while maybe allowable, these scrubs are clearly questionable on a guy. Not that there is anything wrong with that question being answered in the affirmative, it just raises the question.

Scrub Rule Number Three:

"We don't do crew necks"

Anaylsis: Maybe my experience in the scrub world is limited (it undoubtedly is) but seriously, I know the V-neck white T-shirt is strangely trendy right now, but every once and a while it would be nice if I could refrain from "oozing muchismo" in the form of chest hair from the vertex of my V-ed scrubs. It seems more sanitary also.

Scrub Rule Number Four:

"The drawstring to the pants must be exchangable with a shoelace from clown shoes"

Analysis: Maybe this was just my summer experience, but seriously, every time I grabbed a pair of hospital provided scrubs, I had to tie this mammoth knot because the drawstring was as thick as those shoe laces kids practice with on fake cardboard shoes.

Scrub Rule Number Five:

"Under no circumstances are you to be wearing scrubs without some of the accompanying footwear: Crocs, Nike Shox, Dansko Clogs, or maybe Easy Spirts"

Analysis: Seriously, are Nike shox that much more comfortable. Your telling me some Asics wouldn't do the trick? And guys, seriously, I know the Dansko shoes say male on the box, but the size of the sole (and the fact that its a CLOG) says otherwise. Crocs may be the least safe shoe option short of Tevas. I do like Easy Spirits though. I just thought I should throw the over fifty nurses a bone, eh?

Scrub Rule Number Six:

"The following colors are the only acceptable colors: fuscia, vomit green, hot pink (in pants), electric blue, electric green, and anything else that can be found at either a) the glow sticks of a rave party, b) holding a girls hair in a pony tail in the 1980s, or c) gracing the pages of a textbook demonstrating a students added assessment of importance (aka a highlighter)"

Analysis: Ok, I know there are some exceptions; I have seen grey black, navy blue, but the vast majority of scrub colors either shout "HEY I AM IN NEED OF ATTENTION BECAUSE OF MY BRIGHTLY COLORED AND UNFLATTERING CLOTHING" or "I LOOK LIKE VOMIT." Why is that green the customary green color. What happened to white being the image of sterility. I mean, I know the drawbacks are transparent, but seriously. And of course the Whinny the Pooh scrub tops are invariably paired with hot pink scrub pants. I don't get it.

Whew, maybe I waxed a little too philisophically for everyone's good there. I mean, I really don't care what people wear, it just seems like they could make improvements on something so ubiquitous. I guess, however, making something so universally ill-fitting levels the playing field. Scrubs may be the great eqaulizer. What an ideal. Hmm, I guess they may be ahead of their time after all. Besides, I guess anything I can wear at work and then change into at home to sleep in for comfort, shouldn't warrant my complaining.

The Black Box

2008-07-28T13:53:00.000-07:00

My parents purchased me an incredible Flat Panel LCD television as a gift last year. Apparently, there was an irresistible deal at Target for a 19" LCD TV with a DVD player built in. Despite some shortcomings (including the fact that the DVD player features a blue bubble thing that persistently sticks out of the side of the television), the TV features some miraculous abilities.
Most notably, the television can not only receive HD signals, but it can seemingly extract them from unauthorized sources. That is, I have never purchased the HD package my cable company offers, but consistently receive all of the local stations in HD (in case I ever want to see the Ft. Wayne anchor's facial creases), as well as some other random HD stations. And I do actually mean random.
I initially set up my television at my parents house in Detroit's outlying suburbia. Much to my surprise I could watch the Tigers in HD on Fox Sports Net Detroit HD. I also could tune in to some miscellaneous movies on the higher channels. The television downstairs had no such access to these channels; I reasoned it was because it lacked the HD tuner.
At my downtown Detroit residence, I likewise installed the television, along with my roommates TV (a 42" flat panel his brother loaned him while he was out of the country, yeah, I know ridiculous, right?). Now I was able to get ESPN HD but my Fox Sports Net HD did not have sound, and seemed to be on different channels every night. My roommates much more expensive TV still could not receive any of these channels despite its HD capability.
Finally, I was lounging at my desk one day watching a movie on one of the random channels I had and it started rewinding on me. The movie then went in fast motion before pausing, restarting, and finally disappearing. Weird, I know. The mystery was confounded over the next few weeks when I had similar experiences with various movies (all recently released on DVD) that would be seemingly controlled from another venue.
And I believe they were. My hypothesis that I was watching whatever my neighbor's were watching "on demand" seemed to be confirmed by the commercial-less sit-com episodes I occasionally could tune into and the random . . . ahem . . . "inappropriate" videos that would grace my screen when I was looking for a good flick to watch.
Granted, this phenomena is very cool. Here in Indiana, I have seen Semi-Pro, Knocked Up, Be Kind Rewind, and a host of other movies which I never learned the titles to (not those movies). I have dialed through (okay, and maybe watched a little of) My Super Sweet 16, Rock of Love 2, Entourage, and various other cable series that I am embarrassed to have watched.
However, the ability to watch what other people are watching is like some weird invasion of privacy. For example, when I cross my neighbor's path in the morning, I have to wonder, is that the dude who watched My Super Sweet 16 last night? Or was he the guy rewinding the explosion in Starship Troopers like fifty times? Does someone in my complex have kids? Or do they just really enjoy the shows Noggin has to offer? Is it the same guy watching Knocked Up every night? Or is that movie really just super popular? And of course . . . who is the lonely guy ordering up the "interesting" movies?
Alas, I am not going to complain and I have no idea how my TV gets these channels or when it will stop. All I know is that in every location I have had this TV, I get random movies and stations that other TV's don't. Just hope I don't move into your neighborhood if you have a thing for "A Shot of Love with Tila Tequilla" or something.

The Daily Office

2008-07-18T19:47:00.001-07:00

I have an unhealthy relationship with television. The magazines at the checkout line of the grocery stores always evoked wonder inside of me. Not the stories about the alien boy with thirteen toes or the women’s world with a new diet that was the result of 2000 years of diet innovation since the last supper. The magazines that had more in-depth stories about soap opera’s stupefied me. How could anyone seriously want to read more about the only entity in the world which makes my television set worthless between the hours of 12 pm and 3 pm every day?

That is until this summer I recently discovered the immense pleasure I can draw from one television show. I no longer feel unconnected to stay-at-home moms or jobless, mindless television consumers because when feeling down, I too now have an outlet. That is, when I want a mindless outlet, I can pop in a DVD, grab a cool beech wood aged beverage and all will be right with the world. Because when Pam, Jim, Dwight, Michael, Angela, Kevin, Oscar, Toby, Stanley, Andy, Phyllis, Crede, Kelly, Ryan, and the rest of the hilarious crew beam through my television, I beam back.

The simple do-de-do, do-de-do, dun-dun-do-do of the theme song leaves me mentally salivating for perfectly crafted humor the way a bell causes the pavlovian dog to do the same (not for humor, but for steak . . .which, I too can understand). I cannot explain the affinity I have for the show, because unlike America’s Funniest Home Videos (maybe my other favorite show on television), I rarely laugh out loud.

The Office is essentially the antithesis of America’s Funniest Home Videos. Where AFV makes a spectacle of outlandish moments that actually happen, The Office tries to turn the spectacle of outlandish characters into people I see everyday. And both work wonderfully. So, at the end of a long hard day of work, once the baseball games have ended, I can pour myself another fine American classic and know that if Jim and Pam are together, all is right with the world. And as sad and pathetic as that may sound, in no way do I find it depressing.

Gone Running

2008-06-30T15:34:00.000-07:00

I have a problem: I am yet to establish any semblance of foresight when it comes to decision making. That is not to say that I don't think about the consequences of my actions, because I do. Rather, it is to say that I don't realize which consequences apply to which actions. Today, for example, I decided to go for a longer run than usual. I knew that I would have to return the way I came, but after running a few extra miles beyond my usual turnaround spot, I was enjoying the scenery so much that I decided to continue walking away from my apartment.

I'm sure you see where this is headed, and so did I. Yet, instead of submissively turning around, I decided to punish the future version of myself. So I continued to walk down the trail, and it was quite enjoyable. I even decided that I should begin walking back instead of trying to run all the way home. So I turned around, greeted the farmers picking berries along the trail, and began the long trek home.

A few miles back towards my house, I realized I still had a long way to go. I also began to believe that my knees were lacking cartilage and became acutely aware that my feet were rebelling against me in the form of nasty blisters. So I stopped running. It did not do me any good. My feet still hurt, my knees still were lacking menisci, and my current self was cursing the shortsightedness of my former self.

It would be one thing if this were the first time I had gotten myself into this scenario. However, I have repeatedly been enjoying the trip out so much, I sacrificed the version of myself that would have to do the return trip. I'm simply amazed that I can be such a jerk to myself time and time again. However, I'm sure the amazement will turn to anger for a few moments the next time I do the same thing.

In Defense of Cafeteria's (or as I like to call them: Sammy's playplace)

2008-06-29T09:08:00.001-07:00

For those of you who know me well enough to have shared a meal with me, you may have noticed that I have a strong affinity for essentially anything with even marginal nutritional value. Most people say their college years were the best years of their life. I concur, and while I enjoyed living in close proximity to great friends (well, and the occasional drug dealer for my senior year), one of the most pleasurable experiences was waking up every morning knowing full well that a dazzling array of french toast, sausage, scrambled eggs, juices, and a cereal bar lay waiting for me. Many college students considered breakfast an unnecessary peripheral; I was beside myself most mornings if I didn't get there in time for the hot breakfast bar to still be fresh.
Presently, I am working at a hospital in the fine city of Muncie, Indiana. The gig is alright: the work can be somewhat boring, the pay is mediocre, they provide sufficient housing. However, the kicker is that when I started they gave me a magical ID badge. I can step into this cafeteria and load up on whatever I like, knowing full well that it will be charged to my employer. Somehow, I traded a paucity of medical knowledge and my physical presence following doctors, for a little bit of cash and a golden ticket into "Sammy's Play-place" (Sammy should be another post altogether, but for now, understand he's the named imaginary tapeworm my close friends claim I have).
Every day, I can wake up, saunter into the hospital cafeteria, and craft a sausage-laden, egg, cheese, and bacon biscuit. I can sample the prepackaged bowls of cinnamon french toast, golden grahams. Heck, if I'm feeling wild, I can even pound a couple sugar cookies and leftover egg salad sandwiches. Further enhancing the experience is access to a cafeteria world formerly unknown to me. That is, the prepackaged genre of foodstuffs. In my collegiate days, cafeterias were somewhat prepared for gentlemen with voracious appetites. The hospital, however, totally unprepared. After I fill my requisite styrofoam containers with the salad bar, taco bar, wrap bar, and/or pasta bar (all of which are charged by the ounce, by the way), I can then pick up virtually any candy bar, bottled beverage, or delightfully trans-fat-laden hostess treat.
I remember growing up hearing stories of a friend whose grandfather owned a grocery store. Whenever this girl visited Minnesota, her grandpappy let her sample anything from the store she desired. Even as a young pudgester, I realized the glorious implications of this. I pictured myself prancing (that is, prancing in a very heterosexual way), down the isles, taking bites out of hunks of extra sharp cheddar cheese and snapping beef sticks in my chompers. I could dive headlong into the bins of peachy-O and imitation sweedish fish. Shoot, I would even probably be able to snag some of those delightful looking rotisserie chickens that are always calling to me, "come, enjoy my delightful basted thighs." Whew, sorry, I got a little off-track there. Point being, when you suddenly have access to a seemingly infinite pool of formerly pricey items, the excitement is almost too much. So now, I can indulge my curiosity if paydays are as poor a candy bar as I remember (they are), if now and laters are still as ridiculously hard as they were (they are harder), and if kashi's go lean bars cause the same gastrointestinal problems as their cereals (they do).
And yet, cafeterias still have a bad wrap. All I know, is that any place I can be charged by the ounce for a foodstuff, thats where I want to be. Especially when its someone else who's covering my charges.

Things I don't get #6: Hormel meat and their believers (Spam, etc.)

2008-04-30T09:49:00.001-07:00

The King of Nigeria, Canadian Pharmacies, and altruistic individuals have been bombarding me with offers for millions of dollars from my next-of-African-kin, cheap Viagra, and help increasing my "size/performance" lately. While I appreciate the attention doted on me by these ever persistent spammers, part of my wonders who out there is clicking these links and perpetuating this phenomenon. Save Michael Scott, I don't know a soul who has been taken in by these scams, but the truth is, I know someone out there is making setting up these spam-bots worthwhile. I want to find them and hunt them down (at least, that is, until Yahoo's spam guard can start picking up these messages).

My immediate guesses as to the perpetrators identity is male, insecure, and flat out desperate. That said, I know I've never responded to any of these spams, so I don't know who else it could be (kidding of course, I am quite secure in my desperation). Yet, I cannot imagine the poor chap who orders the special "blue pill" and suddenly finds himself wrangling in a world of identity theft at counterfeit "male enhancement" drugs. Best case scenario, the guy somehow frees his credit of its besmirched reputation and actually receives some sort of non-poisonous pill in the mail which has some sort of placebo effect. If the guy is stupid enough to order those pills, then he must somehow be stupid enough to believe they will help him in the sack, and if he ever gets there, maybe that unfounded belief will. One can only hope.

On the other end of the spectrum, are those who have no idea what I am talking about and somehow have hidden their e-mail address or gotten a superior spam blocker. For that I commend you (all twelve of you). Yet even the locked down ".edu" verified school e-mail address I had for my undergraduate career fell prey to these e-mails. Of course, so did everyone else's at my school and since the system was compromised, we all received e-mails making it look like my dorm mate was trying to sell me free viagra, vicadin, codine, etc.

Yet some people never quite caught on that this was a scam. One poor young girl actually sent an e-mail, which had my name in the "to" line but had somehow been delivered to her, politely informing me that she accidentally received my mail (which happened to be an offer for performance enhancement). At first I thought it a joke until I realized that I didn't know this young lady, and that she seriously thought I may be seeking out male enhancement.

I of course profusely thanked her and asked if she had happened to hear from Kenya's foreign treasurer about the wire for $4 million I was soon supposed to receive.

Things I don't get #5: Loud Speakers (not the electronic kind)

2008-04-29T18:46:00.000-07:00

Since Jerry Sienfeld has already composed the penultimate treatise on close talkers, I am left to delineate the common annoyances of an overactive alternate modality. The range of these poor souls extend from the "voice modulation syndrome" guy who speaks just a notch too loud in all circumstances, to the perpetual mumbler who gets frustrated with people asking "what?" and decides to suddenly enunciate as well as talk loud enough for every senior in the room to dial down their miracle ear. Finally, there is the poor soul who tells the "how do you sell chicken to a deaf person" joke (the answer, of course, is the ironic, but certainly not unnannoying outburst of a loud "you want some chicken).

Nothing can cause an instantaneous aversion to whatever is coming out of your vocal chords than an excessive amount of gusto with which it is said. The problem seems to effect males and females indiscriminately, but it is all the more shocking when a loud, high pitched voice comes out of a small, petite woman. However, the worst perpetrators are the aforementioned mumblers. As if in aggression to no one being able to decipher their incoherence, they shout whatever trivial fact that they were bumbling about directly into the tympanic membrance and make every listener sorry they justified the comment with a "what?" "hmmm?" or huh?" Dude, don't punish me because you suddenly acquired the ability to separate your words. Still ever worse is the close-talking, loud-talking individual who seems to have missed the day when they taught social norms in grade school (his sweat pants were probably dirty and he couldn't find his velcro shoes . . .oh wait, that was me).

Still, there is another camp of those who seem to think that they need electrical assistance whenever they are speaking to a group (or individual) of greater number than their monologue (and who can be sure they don't use a mic when talking to themselves). My eighth grade gym teacher used a microphone to give out instructions before class every day. Nearly every day I wanted to remind him that there were literally only twelve of us sitting there and we already knew the rules to basketball. Certainly the feedback from a cheap portable microphone made it harder to hear than his minuscule voice. The voice was not even that small, rather his voice had a nasty habit of constantly cracking, which was only amplified by the microphone. Maybe the poor chap just enjoyed electronics, but my theory (as is every eighth graders) that the funny cigarette he was smoking in between classes effected his cognitive decision making.

All that said, I'd take the over eager beaver over "the whisperer" any day.

Things I don't get #4: Multi-tasking (as in how-to)

2008-04-27T17:20:00.000-07:00

Call me old-school, call me one-dimensional, call me inept, but I cannot do more than one thing effectively at a time. The trouble is, in practice, I fail to recognize this unequivocal truth on a daily basis. My roommate will be attempting to have a conversation with me and ask a pointed question. In response, my wandering eyes fixed on the baseball game, I will respond "you sonnuva gun," and my roommate will have to survey the situation for a good thirty seconds before realizing I tuned out as soon as the bases became loaded and the count ran full. I'll attempt to seamlessly resume the conversation only to find we've moved beyond the topic of the wheather a good five minutes prior (which reflects poorly on my multi-tasking, positively on my ability to insert appropriate hmms and uh-huhs and poorly on my roommates conversational ability).

I have a friend who for years believed that I was simply an awful phone conversationalists until we had a chance conversation during which I was not near a television set and things went smashingly. I have still more friends, who despite concerted efforts, I find the phone calls more and more sparing based upon the fact that my body can somehow involuntarily move to the couch, turn on the tv, and transfer my attention to a football game unconsciously.

Yet, its not only others that I harm when I attempt to use this tactic. I mean, yes, I hurt myself by losing friends, but in a more tangible way, my academics suffer. My 3/31/08 post chronicled my ability to distract myself from lectures, but I still convince myself that I will be able to exhibit self control and study in front of a computer today. No, I cannot do it. I told myself I was sitting down to study for my exam on Thursday before I began typing this blasted post (which by the way is an amazing feat given the fact that I am currently doing laundry simultaneously. Yeah, be impressed).

Still, I attempt even more ridiculous pairings of attention-necessary events all the time. I can't count the number of times I have burned pancakes (look, so I have an affinity for a good hotcake from time to time, lay off) because I have attempted to get dressed in the other room while they cook. Who can't button a polo shirt while making sure they don't char Bisquick? I can't (luckily, I do quickly become focused and am able to wave something in front of the smoke detector while still in my drawers).

Point being, I am a singularly focused man. I do not have the female gift of doing more than one thing at once. I consider studying to music a major breakthrough. However, I also have the appropriate male gift of stubbornness. So if you ever find yourself in a phone conversation with me (god bless your soul), and I start to respond a little too excessively with the verbal equivalent of head nods, kindly ask me to turn away from the ever-interesting baseball game and listen to your plight.

Things I don't get #3: Nightclubs (Particularly, beds in night clubs)

2008-04-26T10:35:00.000-07:00

Note: I really wanted to title this series "rantings of an ignoramus," but I feel like the terms rants, ramblings, meanderings, etc have sufficiently worn-out their worth and are cast-off into the cliche Sahara with my personal favorite "random" post from (see October 23).

I confess. I am not a wild, raging, push it to the excess, pulsating music, party animal. I know this may come as a great shock to many of you who expect to see me frequent the late-night hot-spot circuit, but besides my penchant for sleep (and thus early bedtimes) and fondness for my eardrums, I have probably never really enjoyed myself at any destination where my vocal chords cannot produce a sound half as loud as the music pushing through the speakers.

That's not to say I haven't tried. Occasionally, I have ventured out into the surreal world that is the "nightlife." Don't get me wrong, I am all for staying out late with friends, enjoying each others company, and having a good time. I just prefer to do so in a location where I can actually hear my friends, and don't have to have a conversation (with only eyes of course) while wondering what the giant golden-framed bed next to me purpose is.

I can understand some plush seating, or even a couch that encourages a good "make-out" spot or something. But a bed in the middle of the room, with thinly draped curtains. Exactly what is the intent? I mean personally, once the clock strikes one a.m., I have to remind myself that laying down to take a nap is not appropriate etiquette, but what would be proper etiquette? The last night club I went to offered bed and bottle service. As attractive as that sounded, I think it would have been more attractive were I six months old and pining for some formula.

I have known people, who also don't particularly care for the late night scene to venture out to the nightclubs to "meet people." I am simply impressed that meeting anyone is possible at said venues. I still don't know how to do introductions in sign language so I guess I'm out of the loop. That said, who am I going to meet at a night club. I mean, I think I am already maxed out on male friends with excessively tight black shimmering short-sleeved button-up shirts. Likewise, I suppose I'm maxed out on female friends who are going out late at night to meet guys in excessively tight black shimmering short-sleeved button-up shirts.

Given the circumstances, I suppose I can't blame the establishments for the dark lit rooms and pulsating music that should be confined to thirteen year-old teeny-boppers bedrooms. How else do they get people to forget that they just paid thirteen dollars for that drink with fluorescent glow.

Things I don't get #2: Feminine Hygiene Commercials

2008-04-24T15:26:00.000-07:00

Note: This post could have simply been entitled “women,” but why throw away a cache of material in one fell swoop (see April 5 entry). Similarly, this post could have simply covered the female cycle, yet that too should intrinsically be singularly mystifying. I feel advertising should, in some way, be slightly accessible to me despite my obvious ignorant state.

The problem I have with the commercials is not with the things that I don’t understand (which are many) but with the things that I do understand (which are few). For one, when showing absorbency quality, why is the liquid so ridiculously blue? Is there some biological phenomenon I will not learn about until my last years of medical school? And if so, how did Windex (and my hair gel for that matter) get the rights to said quasi-fluorescent material?

Secondly, judging by facial expressions, all of the women on the commercials are ridiculously happy to be bleeding. I for one, have never been that happy to be bleeding no matter how sweet the band-aid is (at least since I was eleven and flintstones band-aids and vitamins were no longer cool), and I certainly can’t imagine being that happy about something that could be predicted by an egg-timer (okay, if they made ones that lasted about a month, I just wanted to go with the whole egg irony thing here).

Thirdly, I suppose it is understandable, but why are they always showing women’s faces staring at the screen and talking to me. I realize that they cannot actually show the product in action, but still, how many other commercials is just a talking face at the screen. Maybe this appeals to women, but I like a little bit more subtlety in my advertising (like Bud Light commercials, where humor/hot women are the net result of beer).

Finally, there is the whole idea of comfort marketing. Look, I am sure that convincing people that these things lessen the pain/annoyance/whatever else I don't comprehend, is important, but do we have to really try and make it seem as if you are sitting on a cloud with these products? I mean shoot, sometimes I forget why these advertisements are on in the first place and wish I could be in such a dreamland. Alas, in retrospect, I suppose I am not surprised that the commercials stupify me and rather am quite glad that they do. I should be more unsettled had I suddenly started to prefer one brand over the other.

Things I don't get #1: Wearing wristbands while not competing in athletic endeavors

2008-04-23T18:03:00.001-07:00

I attended last night's Tigers game, and I was again dumbfounded by the appearance of the black wristband on the arm of someone who is so clearly not competing in anything resembling athletics. I suppose I would let the egregious wardrobe accesory slide, if the sportsfan were dressed in other Detroit Tigers garb, and simply got confused as to whether he was attending America's pastime or NBA's showtime. However, the fan was simultaneously donning a short-sleeve collared shirt. Not some sort of eurosport soccer, err..football, or rugby collared shirt but the kind one can find in the corner of a women's store that pretends to have a men's department (see: express, the limited, and other stores I am embarrassed to have stepped foot in).

However, it would be unfair to site this young man alone, because as I was watching a little mid-day television today (which, I can firmly say is still as mediocre as it was during sick days in elementary school) I witnessed another man, in a TGI Friday's commercial sporting the same edifice to unathleticism. Not surprisingly, the bleached blond gentleman was pimping the "right portion, right price" corner of the menu (formerly seen at Perkins as the "seniors menu " now somehow being marketed to females and testosterone challenged males). This guy, I can cut a little more slack because I have seen him on some sort of food show (yeah, thats right I see my fair share of mid day television, what of it). That is, he could potentially be in some fire blazing kitchen and mid-running-forehead-drop-of-perspiration ask himself "boy, I wish I had some sort of elastic towel pulled too high on my forehand right now, even if I do look goofier than the guy trying to bring man-capris to the united states" (for the record, please stop euro-boy).

Still, these are not isolated events. I regularly see young gentleman, who almost exclusively (ironically save my first example) are slightly portly and/or (bus usually and) emo rocking the wristband as if it had some sort of slimming/masculine effect. I don't understand the logic. Are they trying to fool anyone into thinking, "Wow, he must have just come from the basketball court where he works out, and is obviously a gifted athlete, but showered, shaved, put on forty pounds, and an Ambercrombie wardrobe, but forgot to remove his dapper wrist garment?" Because if so, I don't think anyone has internal monologues that long and as poorly constructed. Instead, I find myself thinking, "wow, is that guy trying to make an ironic statement like, yeah, I can incorporate one preposterous item into my wardrobe without having the least bit of functional utility too it, that is, unless he is an avid perspirator, and if so, I'll allow it because I can understand the plight of my fellow sweat mongers" (see, I'm not exclusively vengeful).

And yet, I suppose, amidst the sea of other ridiculous garments I see all about me (and I admit, probably sometimes slip into my rotation indiscriminately), I suppose the wristband is not as outrageous as I have made it. I have never, for example, placed anything in the left breast pocket that grazes nearly all of my T-shirts. Speaking of which, have you seen the even smaller one they have started featuring on the short sleeves of women's T-shirts. In case you wanted to ever carry an asprin around all day, you are now in luck (I just hope you don't need to take the recommended bi-tablet dosage, because I am yet to see bi-lateral sleeve pockets). Anything black and multi-zippered (see: gothsrus.com) is completely functionally useless except for scaring young children (and myself, which I suppose may fulfill its true calling). Still, I digress, there is one thing I still don't get and that is the chubby double wristbanded emo rockers that seem to cross my path.

I'm getting paid to do this? (oh, wait, no I'm not)

2008-04-21T12:24:00.001-07:00

I know that somewhere out there in the compiled myth of American life, there exists a belief that medical school is this ridiculously taxing, four-year, miserable experience, that is basically perpetual coffee, studying, cadaver lab, with the occasional alcoholic binge. I am here to debunk this archetypal characterization, if only to show how the other half lives. That is, I know the myth is true for many classes, but on any given day, with a few exceptions, the following is a semi-accurate composite my daily activities.

6:45 a.m. - The alarm sounds. I look around in attempt to figure out how the aliens with their beeping spaceship were somehow transported into my cellphone. After determining that my dream was only a dream and the cellphone will not abduct me, I am even more puzzled as to how I was so ridiculously ambitious the night before to actually expect that I would think that the 6:45 am version of myself would not curse the 1 am self (Note: if anything in me has changed in medical school, it is the newly acquired perpetual belief that I will be more motivated . . . tomorrow)

7:30 am - See 6:45, but replace "aliens" and "spaceship" with "fifth grade gym teacher" and "go kart"

7:39 am, 7:48 am, 7:57 am, 8:06 am (whoever invented the nine minute snooze anyway?), 8:15 am, 8:24 am, et al. - same as above but with "mother/cruise ship," "best friend's sister/washing machine," "sailor/mouth," "orangutan/power wheel," "long lost uncle/Camaro," and "Ken Griffey Jr./robotic baseball bat" respectively

9:30 am - Curse the 6:45 - 8:24 versions of myself for lack of motivation.

9:31 am - Concede that since I am starting the day late, I might as well forgo extreme hard work for lack of time

9:32 am - Prepare a delicious batch of whole wheat pancakes

9:35 am - wave dishtowel over smoke detector to keep vaporized form former batch of whole wheat pancakes from evacuating the building

9:36 am - Consume burnt pancake looking substance lathered in excessive syrup

10:03 am - read the New York times online virtually cover to cover

11:30 am - adjust fantasy baseball roster

11:48 am - Repeat 10:03 am with the Detroit Free Press and subsequently, Detroit News

12:30 pm - Mentally prepare to begin studying

12:45 pm - Begin studying

12:46 pm - Begin preparing lunch

1:15 pm - Consume a meticulously prepared and non-burnt peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

1:16 pm - Revel in nostalgia

1:30 pm - Find out the Detroit Tigers are playing a day game and concede the rest of the afternoon from studying

4:01 pm - Curse the Tigers for losing, sucking, and wasting my afternoon

4:15 pm - Work off aggression in the weight room

4:30 pm - The "Dog Lady" walks through weight room (which also serves as a gateway to our patio) and wonders what profession I am involved with when I seem to be home at all hours of the day. Transpose the last half of that sentence to "I wonder what profession she is . . ."

4:35 pm - Rehydrate

4:40 pm - Make more awkward small talk with the dog lady consisting of any combination of the following topics:
-The weather
-Her dogs and their penchant for urinating on my leg in excitement
-Tomorrow's weather
-Her dogs penchant for jumping on my chest in excitement
-Yesterday's weather
-Her dogs affinity for weather

4:45 pm - Take a run

4:46 pm - Wonder why people would ever run for exercise?

5:15 pm - Ring out my T-shirt

5:16 pm - Shower, shave, etc, begin to start my day

5:45 pm - Consider dinner options

6:00 pm - Concede studying for the day because the workday should be over now. Wonder where the day goes and promise to devote myself to studying tomorrow.

As Verizon/Cingular/ATT/T-mobile have taught us, evenings and weekends are a whole different animals.

Now if only they could invent a wireless way to . . .

2008-04-17T18:09:00.000-07:00

I want to find the first person who attached a key to a block of wood, and use said wood block to pound some sense into them. I spent half a week in downtown Washington, DC coffee shops attempting to function as a medical student (i.e. watching lectures online, etc., looking at pictures of slides of e.g. the cerebrum, et al.). Overall, the plan worked pretty well except for one caveat.

In order to sit at a small wooden table with rickety legs and extremely loud forty-year-old women nearby for hours on end, one must first satiate the proprietors capitalist thirst. So, I would order a coffee the moment I stepped into the shop, and then proceed to get down to business at a nearby table (the aforementioned one with the rickety leg and loud mothers of two). However, as soon as the caffeine infused hydration coursed through my body, it wanted to leave. I am not sure if one has ever attempted to use the facility at a coffee bar, but it is just about impossible.

That is, one must first consider what to with the ridiculous sum of monetary equivalents sitting at your table. If you see a trustworthy gent or femme, you may ask them to watch your stuff, but they may just as easily ask the dealer at the pawnshop "how much is this worth." The next step is to muster the courage to approach the barista (with full knowledge that at some point in that person's career they actually filled out an application for the job title "barista." I have nothing against coffee schleppers, I just am amazed that they knew full well that when explaining what they did, they might use the term "barista"). Anyways, you must then try and convince them that you in fact did make a purchase three hours ago and it is in fact that purchase they put you in this predicament in the first place. Of course, finally, the begrudging barista (and I don't even smirk at his job title, because he clearly carries the authority . . . or in this case the wooden block), hands me what appears to be a key, of course I cannot see because it is attached to not only a piece of wood, but some sort of gift bag tied with twine as well.

Finally, after coursing through the entire coffee establishment with said flag with the phrase "my bladder=peanut" emblazoned on the wood block. Finally, I make it into the four foot by four foot box that should be outside in a seperate building of a Clark station somewhere. Yet the bathroom is invariably clean because it has not been used in thirty years. Yet things get tricky here, I mean, not that part, but what to do with the key. The last place had a hook on the back of the door for a key, which was convenient. However, next to the hook was a sign reading "please do not return key to barista." At which point you are confronted with not only the job title, but the question of, well then do I just leave the key here? And so, that is what I did. You lock the key in the bathroom. Assumedly, this is what they want you to do. However, it raises the question, what is to keep them from accidentally giving another key to someone else. And that said, do they really sterilize the wood block and gift bag before placing it behind the bar again? Anyways, the thing one does for "free" wireless.

Whole Foods in the D

2008-04-10T08:52:00.001-07:00

Today was the grand opening of Zacaro's market in downtown Detroit. Basically, a mini-Whole Foods opened up to make it one of the few grocery stores in Detroit. It is now the only grocery store within walking distance of my residence and I probably will never walk there again. I walked in, checked the prices and was immediately transported to the grocery store the Miller High Life guy removes his beer from. In the commercial the guy complains about a four-dollar can of tuna, Zacaro's price: $3.50. A $4 gallon of milk may have been the most reasonably priced item. I was craving for some jelly, instead of the $12-jar organic brew, I splurged on a $6 jar that apparently came from France. Really, I just wanted a place where I could buy some milk, bread, eggs, and flour in a pinch. Instead, I found a place that will pinch my wallet every time I need some milk, bread, eggs, and flour.

I really am not too concerned about the prices. I am more concerned that another business venture will fail. I'd like to be in the strategic meeting when they decided to start this store.
Smart Business Man #1 "Here's an idea, lets make an urban-chic grocery store with ridiculous prices and extremely cutesy crap."
Businessman #2 "I know a great location for just the thing. Let's but in the midst of immense urban blight where the people are fleeing the city faster than New Orleans after Katrina."
SBM#1 "Wait, is there a high homeless population and abandoned buildings right next door?"
#2 "Oh definitely."
#1 "We must build there then. People will never see it coming and flock in droves."

And thus, Zacaro's was born. Honestly, for the size of the store, I guess they have to mark things up. And the real draw is the coffee shop/bakery/deli and such. That may do well with the business crowd that works nearby. I hope it succeeds, I just can't patronize it for my bread, flour, fruit, milk, and/or egg needs. I guess its back to Detroit's finest Spartan Store "Food Pride" complete with old men sitting out front in lawn cheers all-day to whistle at the women . . . or white-boys.

Bad Movies and Fried Brains

2008-04-09T10:00:00.000-07:00

I currently have "Failure to Launch" on in the background of my studying (read: I have neuroanatomy notes sitting on my lab). For some unknown reason, my roommate put it on his queue for blockbuster online and it came in the mail yesterday. The sad part about all of this is that I am mildly enjoying the movie. I suppose most of this can be attributed to the fact that my brain is fried from the exam I took this morning and the knowledge I have another in two days. Still, I am not sure if it's Mathew McCconaughey's rugged charm, Sarah Jessica Parker's weird quasi-attractive quasi-completely repulsive looks, or Kathy Bates, but the movie is mildly enjoyable. I just finished berating my roommate about the movie being on his list, but I had to kind of give him the benefit of the doubt because it arrived along with Casino, one of the penultimate man movies of all time. Perhaps only The Godfather or Scarface could have pushed the balance more to the man side. Seriously though, couldn't they have named the movie something other than "Failure to Launch" so I could retain some manhood? I'm still blaming it on my fried brain, but about 70% through the movie, I'd say it was a mildly pleasurable watch. Not so much so, however, that I did not decide to write a blog post mid-movie. Adieu.

(Note: at this point, the reconciliation phase has begun, and the movie has coincidentally began sucking)

The Monosylabic Hypothesis (Less is More)

2008-04-07T18:00:00.000-07:00

I left class today, my head spinning from my nueroanatomy course, and I had an epiphany. I was exhausted, not from the amount of information being thrown at me, or the monotonous nature of reviewing the same slides of brain and spinal cord tissue, nor from the confounding nature of deep conceptual quandaries. Instead, I had the phrase bilateral homonymous hemianopsia bouncing around my head without about fifteen other words, which I know exactly what they mean, but have no idea why they are in existence.

I would go so far as to consider myself a defender of jargon. As a reader may have noticed, I favor a sort of discursive rambling at times. However, I feel like the only time a longer word is better, is if it adds something that a shorter word cannot. Take the term "bilateral homonymous hemianopsia," I think you can estimate that the phrase has about twenty-five syllables, when all that needs to be said is "both eyes have the same blind half." Clearly less syllables and far less jargon. However, I suppose it accomplishes the purpose of giving the doctor a sort of superior feeling and they don't have to deal with the cumbersome task of creating a phrase. I suppose my main issue is when do those terms stop being useful for consistency and brevity and begin functioning as self satisfying intellectual positing. However, what should I expect from a peer group who already signs there correspondences "MD candidate."

Note: The simple fact that I have a blog and write far to frequently clearly places me in the company of my pretentious peers.

Feature Not Currently Available (another rant on my microwave)

2008-04-06T17:15:00.000-07:00

I was attempting to heat an ingredient up to room temperature today (don't ask why), and I decided to use my "power level" feature on my microwave to turn down the intensity. So, I pressed the cook power button and was greeted in iridescent green letters with the message: "Power . . .Level . . .Feature . . .May . . Not . . . Be. . .Changed. . . At. . . This . . .Time." Excuse me? I'm sorry, I don't speak monophrasic complete sentence computer speak. I thought the most complex message my microwave could alert me to was flashing 12:00 to let me know the power went out while I slept. Instead, the contraption is somehow able to inform me that I am trying to use an option at an inopportune time. Do you mean to tell me it was easier to program my microwave to speak to me in complete sentences, than to let me change the power setting before I picked the time? Couldn't the thing just have given me three harsh beeps or something? I should have known I was in trouble when the thing told me to turn my food over mid-defrost.

The Wrong Word Syndrome

2008-04-05T07:59:00.000-07:00

I was talking to my friend on the phone the other day, and he proceeded to explain to me that his friend was using a foil to hide his true feelings. I inquired of him, what does using a foil mean? He then quizzically asked me, isn't that a literary term? Shouldn't you know that as an English major? In fact, I do know what a foil is, I was simply trying to figure out if how he was using it made any sense. And it doesn't.

I have another friend, who whenever she is feeling sick explains that she is ill-faded. I have never heard that term before, but believe she is confusing it with the phrase "ill fated," which possibly makes even less sense than the initial mangled phrase.

Still, I overhear conversations and hear people just butcher words, replacing words that sound similar for unknown reasons. For example, consider the following exchange:
"Man, you should have been there last night."
"Really, was it that good?"
"Yeah, I mean the party was awesome, it was incredulous."

Here, the user is clearly meaning to use the term to be incredible. And that is a completely legitimate use. According to Merriam-Webster (the dictionary for people who like first names), incredible is the second definition for incredulous. Yet, I'm guessing the speaker was trying to use it as "extraordinary" or "amazing" not simply something that he did not believe, as incredulous is traditionally used. I suppose, the fact that incredible can mean "extraordinary" or "amazing" gives credence to the fact that the meanings of words change, but in context, the sentence just sounds goofy. I always imagine a precocious fifth grader trying to drop in a new vocab word just to see what happens. What happens is that people listening absorb the word, and copy its usage in new conversations. My friend with the "foil" usage later confided that he heard the word used earlier in the week tried to guess its meaning, and implement it accordingly.

The ironic thing is, I'm guessing this is how we have acquired language since we were young. You heard a word, guessed its usage, and tried it out to get peoples reactions. This is also why the meaning of words consistently change. Maybe its old school, but words used in awkward ways still grate on my ears. I feel as if I hear these misplaced words dropped all the time (and admittedly, I'm more than sure I do it myself), but in writing this, I can hardly think of any examples. Maybe its just a defense mechanism of my mind to keep myself from exclaiming that when something terrible happens, it was "terrigenous."

Radio Nowhere

2008-04-04T09:46:00.001-07:00

I was driving home from class today,* and I noticed that I still had the radio off. That is, I haven't turned the radio on in my car for about a week now. Since I don't drive anywhere that often, the feat may not be that impressive, but I have noticed an increased amount of thoughts that occur while driving**.

Today, I began thinking about how it was nice to have a little silence occasionally. I have always wondered why so many people are incessantly wearing iPod headphones. I can understand it a bit more in people traveling long distances on subways, trains, planes, etc. But I want to a small liberal arts university where the longest distance between two buildings was roughly equivalent to the distance between your thumb and forefinger. I am not sure you can even listen to a full song in that time***. Unless of course, they are listening to the Ramones, in which case their attention span is less than the iPod generation. And of course, since the Ramones haven't made a song in the last five years, it is not on anyones iPod#.

Seriously, I would literally see people put in earphones, follow them for twenty, thirty yards and then watch them remove the earphones at their next destination. An hour later, they would do the same thing. It was as if some neural pathway required auditory input for their legs to move. I promise, if you try hard, you can walk without listening to the first twenty seconds of fifteen songs by the Fray.

However, there is a time and place for music. For example, I have recently evolved via internet radio from random stations, to yahoo's launchast, to the pinnacle of online radion, Pandora##. The amazing thing about Pandora, is I can pick a song, any song, and while they won't play that song, they'll play something roughly equivalent which both satisfies my jonesing and introduces me to a new musical arena. The iPod generation may have difficulty with this because they limit your skips to five an hour (so within the first two-minutes, most will likely have exhausted their quota).

Anyways, all that to say, it's nice to hear myself think for a change (in brief doses), and also nice to give my brain something else pleasant to listen to when trying to learn about the corpora quadrigemina and/or using ubiquitous footnotes.

*Notice first the fact that I went to class, and second the fact that I drove the mile to class instead of walking. Also notice, that I am making a concerted effort to reduce the number of parentheticals in my writing (yeah, that's going to work) and implementing footnotes instead (which, as you can see may be more inefficient).

**Which may be coincidental with the increased number of blog posts recently.

***Not that it matters because people with iPods for 10 feet likely are the kind of people who can't listen to full songs, and incessantly skip to the next best song. I would love to go with these people to a concert because a) the last two minutes of every song would be new to them and b) I bet you can visually see them get uncomfortable after the thirty second mark of each song (this is when they travel to the concession stand and buy $20 nachos that look delicious and completely detract from the concert experience.

#If I were a music mogul, I would clearly sue apple. They may be the biggest beneficiary of the napster generation. However, didn't apple (I don't think its the same) produce the Beatles' albums, one of the landmark moments in musical history. Coincidence, I think not.

## If you don't listen to radion at pandora.com, for your own sake, please don't start. It's incredible, I am completely undermining the sanctity of silence by even bringing up the subject.

The Invisible Hand

2008-03-31T14:53:00.000-07:00

For my academic work, I currently spend a lot of time at my computer. The school I attend puts almost every lecture given on the web to ensure that students have easy access to the material. I appreciate the ease of access and information at my fingertips. However, therein lies the problem: my fingers. I do not have a problem with keeping myself on task with an independent schedule. I have no issue studying for extended periods of time, or watching a lecture on a video screen, or feeling isolated from my classmates, or any of the myriad of other potential problems.

Instead, I will be intently listening to a lecture on internuclear opthalmoplegia and my fingers start to wander. My mind is still focused, but the next thing I know, I am no longer staring at a fuzzy video rendition of a powerpoint slide, but at my open inbox with 25 new e-mails. I look down, and find my fingers typing away a reply to a message I haven't even consciously read. I hate facebook, but about twenty minutes in to every lecture, I find my fingers reading the wall posts of kids I went to fifth grade camp with. How did I get here? I always wonder.

The computer streaming is not the problem, but it clearly amplifies the problem. In a lecture hall with notes, I can only play with my pencil, draw random shapes, and count the number of bricks on the wall for so long. Each of those tasks is only a slight improvement from listening to a lecturer drone on. However, writing, checking, replying, wall-posting, poking, fantasy baseball managing, newspaper reading, and financial institution check-ups are all quite more engaging than a lecture, and like a reflex, when my mind tires of engaging information, my fingers wander.

A new phenomena has also manifested itself in my graduate studies, which is not coincidental to my wandering hands. After studying for so many hours, my mind actually feels sore. As ridiculous as it sounds, after a day of studying, a stack of notes look like two sixty-five pound barbells at the end of my bicep workout. I can feel my mind cringe. When this pain starts to creep in to my lecture watching is when my fingers start to wander. Although, I suppose it is better than the alternative, because, as they say, "idle hands are the devil's workshop."

A Moot Article

2008-03-30T11:34:00.000-07:00

Don't tell me that the title above isn't awkward. I'm not sure if it even makes sense, but I know because the word point isn't in the above following "moot" my visual ear grates when reading that title. However, I think the word moot is too good a word to be used in just one way. Even the phrase, "moot point" is being slowly degraded. For example, I have a friend who says that things are "mute points." I am always tempted to look around for the mime making an argument, or a very silent sharp edge. However, albeit not how he intended it, the phrase "mute point" does reflect the truth of the idiom that silence speaks louder than words. Rick Springfield tried an interesting variation in Jessie's Girl saying "The point is probably moot." Still, although the reversal is syntax, moot isn't used to modify anything but a point.

However, "moot" isn't alone in idiomatic isonation. "Fell," for example, only functions as an adjective in the phrase "one fell swoop." I have literally no idea what it means, I'm just glad I found out it was supposed to be "fell" instead of "foul" which I used to say. I still think that "foul swoop" makes more sense because I like to imagine a very efficient bird making just one pass at something. Saying "I fell down" is common enough, but I have never heard of anyone used the variant "felled" to describe knocking down anything but trees (as in "I felled five trees last night). I suppose, I have heard it used in boxing, as in "he felled him with one punch," but the word still sounds like an vestige of another era.

The problem with isolating these words to stock phrases, is that they become instantly cliched. Is there any other way of saying that a comment or argument someone makes doesn't matter other than saying it is a "moot point?" After finishing dinner and being stuffed, I'd like to respond that the desert menu is moot, but alas, I cannot. Unless of course, someone somehow tries to transform the desert menu into some sort of point. Likewise, I can't even comprehend how to use "fell" in the same way as one "fell" swoop because I have no idea what it means outside of that phrase. I guess that is the beauty of the cliche, though. The hearer doesn't even have to imagine what is meant by the language because the phrase implies one singular meaning. Unless of course, the point is mute.

Captain Planet and the Moral Decline of Cartoon Nation

2008-03-29T15:30:00.001-07:00

I'm not sure that a more cliched childhood television show exists than Captain Planet. It seems to be oft-cited as the predictor of our green conscious generation and television show with sound, albeit cheesy, moral standards. However, I disagree donkey kong was a very good video . . .err, Captain Planet was a horrible television show. Heart, Wind, Earth, and whatever horrifying attempt at unifiable super-powers were not good television. The first time I saw the show, I think I thought it was an infomercial for something. Now, I wonder if I wasn't right. I am all for environmentally conscious television, but not at the expense of quality. The storylines didn't hold a candle to Thundercats, Police Academy, Woody the Woodpecker, or most importantly, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Captain Planet was a receptacle for poor ideas with good intentions.

I recognize that I haven't seen Captain Planet in at least a decade. However, my animosity toward the show is fueled less by its poor quality and my childhood disinterest, than the frequency its mentioned and/or displayed on t-shirts of my generation. Captain Planet was bad tv when good tv existed. I nearly broke into fist-fights with people over whether or not Michaelangelo was better than Donatello. I can sing Bobby's World's anthems with disturbing accuracy to this day (i.e. Animals don't wear underpants, which is not only a fact, but uses the term underpants which is a huge bonus). Darkwing Duck's theme song still gives me shivers. However, when Tiny Toons gave way to the Animaniacs, and Power Rangers stepped into the televisions world, broadcast children's programs began its swift decline.

I know it may seem that the great fall of children's programming took place at a time eerily coincidental with my growth into a burgeoning teenager, but I assure you it is coincidental. I don't mean to be a fundamentalist spouting on about the decline of society, but can someone please explain to me what has happened in any storyline of Spongebob Square Pants? I even am partial to Spongebob based simply on aesthetics, but its plots are worse than those of the Planeteers. And do teletubbies even talk? I turned on tv the other day and I am pretty sure I saw a sloth as a lead character? What happened to the classic turtle? Or Arthur the . . .what was he? Ardvark. Anteater? The point is, I am not sure what is going on in the television world these days. I hate to hear the old-timers talk about the good old days, but what happened to the good old days?

And its not only true of cartoons. I want to turn on my television and see Belki, Urkel, the young goddess Tapenga (she got smoking in the later years), Tim Allen in some obscure Michigan college sweat shirt, or either of the Olson twins no strung out. I want opening credits featuring Suzanne Somers getting smoked by a Ceader Pointe-esque water-ride, San Fransisco streets and lyrics about newspaper boys, Eddie working on a car, and/or Mr. Feeney in any capacity. What happened? Now I turn on the television and their are B-list celebrities getting reamed out by Donald Trump, B-list celebrities dancing with nobodies, or my favorite, C-list reality superstars returning triumphantly to the show that made them famous (see any obscure American Idol fifth place finisher, Survivor faves versus fans, or anything on that cultural anthropological fungus they call Road Rules v. Real World).

Okay, my rant is done. I realize that I may be viewing the past through Rose color glasses, but at least I can admit that Captain Planet always sucked.

AFV

2008-03-27T14:15:00.001-07:00

I was once taking on online quiz about Starbucks* and received a personality profile based on my standard small black coffee that read something to the effect of: you are the type of person who watches America's Funniest Home Videos (or AFV as I like to call it, with or without acknowledging that there should be an H there) and thinks it is a great show. Initially, I resented the classification, not because it tried to imply that my simple coffee taste meant I was simply simple. I simply resented the classification because it attempted to use AFV as an insult. You can insult my coffee taste, but don't insult one of the hallmarks of American culture (unless you are referring to the years when Daisy Fuentes was a co-host).

I may have written something similar to this column (I like to avoid the word blog for posterity's sake) (and no I have no idea what the last parenthetical means), so for those of you who have been reading the daily doyle for some time, I apologize (to both of you). However, I recently rediscovered the show and witnessed the host claim that many American's still refer to AFV as a guilty pleasure. I found that to be a woeful, if accurate, description of American culture. Desperate Housewife's and Grey's Anatomy are guilty pleasures, AFV is the pinnacle of American art.

If you beg to differ, consider the following indisputable syllogism (or linear logical argument:
-People actually do (most) everything you see on the show
-People actually have a video recorder present at the time of the action
-The people that have a video recorder present, are present in mind just enough to capture it on video
-The people who complete the act, have a video recorder present, and capture the act, somehow are capable of finding the address to AFV which means: When someone somewhere utters "I'm going to send that into America's Funniest Home Videos," they actually follow through with it
-People actually fly to San Fransisco (or whever the show is, I assume SF, only because Bob Saget definitely still lives somewhere on the set, even if he is the dirtiest American alive), to sit on what appear to be disproportionate building blocks in hopes that they can identify themselves as the moron on the video
-And finally, people getting hit in the nuts, is and forever will be, extremely funny, with the obvious caveat that it is not you receiving the death blow to your battlestar gallactica**

To quote smiling Jack Ross, these are the facts of the case and they are undisputed. If you are not impressed by this feat, you are the same kind of person who likes to state that an infinite number of monkeys typing on an infinite number of typewritters could compose Shakespeare. To you, I pose one final convincing question, "could monkeys and/or Shakespeare use a camcorder?"

*I tried to think of a way of starting this column without acknowledging I took on online quiz about my Starbuck's preference. Alas, there was none and I am duly embarrased

**The irony here is that attributing the name battlestar gallactica is the type of quality humor that AFV fans rightly appreciate

Latest and Greatest

2008-03-26T14:06:00.001-07:00

Question: Does anyone know what the metal rack about mid-level in my microwave is supposed to do?

Answer: Keep my popcorn bag from spinning.

But seriously (or rather, maybe just slightly seriously), When did it occur to the good people at GE, Kenmore, and LG that I needed a metal rack in the middle of my microwave oven. I can only assume there is some unforseen purpose I just don't understand. I mean, I wish my dryer came with a rack so I could place tennis shoes upon it so they didn't tumble. My oven and grill come with a rack so the food doesn't just lay on the heat source. Maybe they were just trying to get the microwaves to fit in with the other appliances. Really all it does is require me to remove it every time I put something in the microwave taller than a shot glass (no, I haven't recently been doing many warm lemon drops or anything).

I think somewhere, someone wanted to dehydrate meat in the microwave and thought, wouldn't it be great if I could just set it on a metal rack that came with every microwave ever made. Unfortunately for you and me, this person was an engineering mastermind and slipped it into every microwave made in the last 5 years.

This is the same guy, who owns a laptop that takes three hours to load because of widget that gives him the daily headlines, weather, stock quotes, recipes, trendy cocktail, obscure holidays, translations, latest Chinese tattoos, celebrity blunders, stopwatch, post-it notes, calculator, dancing hula girl, credit score, savings account balance, and a smattering of other features which no one in their right mind would ever use. Trouble is, whoever puts the metal rack in my microwave is not in their right mind. They also put all the random advertisements in my credit card bills. You know how when you open up the paper bill about fifteen slips of magazine like paper advertising reclining massaging chairs and customizable transformer's checks (I like the truck guy personally).

However, for them to spend the money for that shiny paper some sucker must be sitting out there buying up Dilbert checks and stamps with their name and address like hot cakes. On a side note, when did you ever feel a compelling urge to purchase copious amounts of round, hot, delicious, griddled breakfast morsels from heaven. Other than right now, that is. If you'll excuse me I'm going to find me some bisquick like its going out of style. Further tangentially, when did anyone buy anything because it was going out of style. Like in 1995 were people racing to the stores to by MC Hammer pants?

Yet, I digress entirely and comprehensively. Point is (I think) is that there comes a time when less, is more (hence the conclusion of this meandering column). That is, I have removed the rack from my oven until I find the need to microwave my socks. Although, toasty feet do sound pretty compelling right now . . .

Published

2008-02-27T06:46:00.000-08:00

A few months back on a whim, I sent what started as a blog post to a gardening magazine looking for stories. To my surprise, I heard back within a month or two and received a contract and a check for the story. Today I found out it is in the Spring 2008 edition of GreenPrints magazine. The table of contents is here: http://www.greenprints.com/Contents73.html
My article is titled "Nursery Tales" from my time working for a nursery and there is a sweet photo, which I think is supposed to be me (check the name tag) trying to sell flowers to an old lady. Needless to say, I am excited that I have something published (even if it is in a niche magazine with a devoted following).

The visceral "Into the Wild" reaction

2008-02-21T08:50:00.002-08:00

Fried from months of pouring over pages of xeroxed printed powerpoint slides earlier this year, I suddenly had a strange, but compelling desire to learn about the Appalachian trail. I spent a couple hours on google, amazon, and half.com and before too long had purchased over ten books on national parks, backroad driving, and other travel narratives. I recently developed a fierce desire to drive solely on backroads through less populated areas. My former roommate spends the late part of every night buying baseball tickets and books and planning brief three-day trips with a core group of friends to baseball games. When talking to a friend earlier this year, out of the blue, he mentioned to me that he wanted to hike the Appalachian trail this summer. The common tennant of all of these experiences, I believe is a visceral reaction to studying and a stressful life of monotony, high expectations, and little edifying activity.
My former roommate is studying in a masters program, and my other friend is a fellow medical student. We all generally are excited about our future careers, but the dreary path leading to the doorstep can sometimes be overwhelming. Our escape then seems to be to planning what we will be doing when we are not studying. Of course, our plans extend far beyond any realistic possibility, but a small percentage of those plans come to fruition. My current roommate and I are going backpacking in the smokies next week. The following week my former roommate, some others, and I are making a bonzai trip to Florida to catch several Spring Training games. Those few actualities keep the hope alive.
In between lectures, I let myself read a chapter or two (or eight, depending on my current state) of Jon Krakauer's Into the Wild. The story chronicles the life of an affluent college graduate who traveled the country, eventually landing in the Alaskan wilderness where he died of starvation. The story is compelling and resonates with so many because it lives out the deep seeded desires within me to just take off and see what happens. I can more-or-less tell you what I will be doing on any given day for the next several months and only slightly more generally the next three plus years. The idea that I may have some unexpected adventures makes the monotony a little more tolerable.
While not everyone may share the desire to return to the wilderness, or take part in the Americana spectacle that is Major League Baseball, I think everyone has some sort of outlet or hope that keeps them pressing forward. I had a discussion with friends about how vacations, which seemed meaningless even a couple years ago, now achieved the sort of status in our minds as they did in the older generations' in our younger years. This is not to say that I do not enjoy my current state as a medical student. In fact, I generally find what I am learning fascinating, but the balance I crave cannot be satisfied by book study.
However, I do recognize the role book study has and will continue to have in my life. Yet the temptation, like the Wordsworth poem below is to flee and learn from the other experiences of life. Still, a parable Luther supposedly used comes to mind in considering the situation: We must be careful, that like a drunk man riding a horse, when trying to recover from leaning too far one way, we do not fall off the opposite side. Still, I include Wordsworth below for my current mood; a little straightening up in the saddle couldn't hurt anyone, right?

The Tables Turned
William Wordsworth

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless--
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:--
We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.

5 Lessons Learned in Canada (and some about coffee)

2008-01-22T05:02:00.000-08:00

I learned the following things while on a ski trip to Canada this weekend.

#1 - My gas tank can hold 53 Liters, or, as I like to think of it, 26.5 bottles of Sierra Mist.

#2 - When a hamburger comes with "bacon" on it, be prepared for a horrible patty with a slice of ham on it

#3 - My life goal is to find the gene that makes people want to snowboard and eradicate it through eugenics. Or, I will invent the half-pipe of death that way I can also eliminate skiers who want to be snowboarders as well. Beautiful.

#4 - Canada is just like America but with more of the following: snow, "eh's," open spaces, and red maple leafs ubiquitously placed on everything.

#5 - Wearing a maple leaf on clothing is way cooler than wearing an American flag. I am still not sure why.

Things I learned this morning:
Before purchasing a new coffee maker, press the reset button on the plug to make sure it is in fact the coffee maker that is broken.

Paradox of this morning:
I make coffee in order to wake up, yet, I must be awake to make coffee.

Ramifications of above paradox:
Today I woke up without coffee because the coffee maker was "broken."
Last week, I cleaned up coffee from every crevice in the immediate area because the carafe did not "fit" in its rightful spot.
The coffee maker switch must be placed into the "on" position in order for maximum efficiency.
The coffee maker must have coffee placed in the filter in order for maximum efficiency.
The coffee maker must have water poured from the carafe into it for maximum efficiency.
I now believe that people with alarms on coffee makers are not lazy, but infinitely wise.

The Beginning of Americana

2008-01-16T13:41:00.000-08:00

I’d like to think our trip started at 4 am on Thursday March, First, 2007 when we loaded the last of our gear into the trunk of my beige well worn 1998 Buick Century, but it began far before that. Without dredging into the faintly recollected first baseball game (one of my earlier one was in second grade opening day), the event that germinated this entire trip took place on Saturday, October Seventh. While working at the game room of my undergraduate institution, me and two friends watched the upstart Detroit Tigers upset the New York Yankees three games to one.

The next ten minutes included raucous celebration with a bottle carbonated beverage (that is, due to being on an alcohol free campus, and being on the clock, sparkling grape juice). However, very soon, we realized that our celebration wasn’t stopping. The Tigers were set to meet the Oakland Athletics in the American League Championship (ALCS). Immediately, we started searching for tickets online. Game 5 of the ALCS series seemed to suit us best, and a Sunday afternoon enjoying baseball sounded fantastic. Like traders on the floor of the New York Stock exchange, my friends Eric and Kevin, and I compiled a list of all the yeses and began searching for tickets. Grouped three and five, four and four, six and two, we searched for eight tickets on the ticketmaster website. Finally, when the dust settled we had eight tickets together to take in the Tigers versus the Athletics in what we imagined to be the clinching game of the ALCS.

As history would of course confirm, there was no game five to the 2006 ALCS. When this became apparent to Eric and I, we immediately knew we needed to be a part of the history. When the Tigers took a 3-0 lead in the bottom of the fifth of game three, we saw the Tigers sweep inevitably coming. The excitement level was high, but tempered by the fact that we no longer had tickets to the show. Immediately, Eric, or Bus as we call him, pulled out his laptop and started furiously searching for tickets to game four. I called around to my co-workers to see if I could get anyone to cover my shift in the game room the next day. Within twenty minutes, we had purchased the cheapest two tickets we could find, I had recruited a gracious friend (who had a ticket to game five) to work for me, and we set up plans to make the hike from central Indiana to Detroit the next morning.

The next morning we awoke at eight am to make a four hour journey to Detroit. Although the ETA was still four hours before the game, we were in a hurry. Since these were some of the “dark ages” of our collegiate life, we had no access to the Internet (or much of anything else) from our dirt cheap, cramped and drafty flat/attic. The tickets we purchased were E-tickets which were supposed to be e-mailed to us. We went to Bus’s school government office to check our e-mail in hopes we could access and print the tickets. No dice. We left in hopes that we would still receive them via e-mail and from his high stakes college job (let’s just say he wasn’t supervising freshman playing pool, like me) he had a blackberry with which we could check his e-mail.

A brief pit-stop at Arby’s filled Eric with a breakfast sandwich, and my four breakfast entrees filled him with a sense of awe at my appetite. Periodically, Eric checked his e-mail and as we approached the Michigan border, we began to worry about the tickets. We called the 1-800 helpline from the website and informed them of the problem. Within the hour, we had the tickets in Eric’s e-mail inbox. However, we had no way of transferring the tickets from his phone to paper. I knew a couple with Tigers season tickets who would be attending the game, and on a hunch, I called them and asked them to print the tickets off and meet us at the game. We arrived in downtown Detroit just after noon, with the tickets in the hands of a trusted friend coming a few hours later.

We were early enough to park on the street adjacent to lots charging gobs of money for a slot on the gravel. Since we didn’t have a vested interest in tailgating (the preparations for such an endeavor would have required more time), we parked on the curb and headed to the ball-park. After the requisite photographs taken around the giant statue tiger in front of the park, we headed to the iconic Hockeytown café for the pre-game tailgate. With hundreds of others, we partook in grilled hamburgers, chips, and the classic American beverage. From the patio, we viewed the Detroit skyline and soaked in the atmosphere. The buzz was electric, but the temperature was frigid. We stood outside and weathered the cold for the site of thousands of fans pouring into the usually deserted Detroit seats with expectations which hadn’t been seen since the mid-eighties.

My friends finally arrived with the tickets and we joined them in Detroit’s Greektown enclave for some Greek appetizers and a Canadian beverage imported from the country lying due South of Detroit (look for Windsor, Ontario on a map). Greektown, lying adjacent to the professional football and baseball stadiums of Detroit, carries a huge portion of the pre-game festivities in the city. We sat in the back of a tiny but packed authentic-ish restaurant and watched the fans flow by. Soon however, the pitcher was drained and our appetizers were gone.

We received the golden tickets printed on inkjet paper and hoped that by some cruel twist of fate the barcode wasn’t already used up by another in an online scam. We didn’t breath easy until we stepped inside the dark green gates of Comerica Park and were apart of the action. In our haste and economy to purchase tickets, we hadn’t really considered where they would be located. We found our section easily, as we knew it was likely an outfield corner and climbed to our row. In retrospect, when a row is designated by two sets of letters late in the alphabet, the seats probably are not prime real estate. However, we were simply grateful to be in the park and going to the very top row almost made the experience more idyllic. We sat perched above the field, with nothing between us and the outside street below but a plastic coated green chain-link fence. The wind had not trouble piercing through the fence and whatever Tigers gear we had remembered to put on that morning. The family of six next to us looked like they may have confused Tiger Stadium with a ski slope as they were all dressed in full-out bib snow-pants, zippered jackets, hats, and mittens. It may be my memory deceiving me, but I could have sworn the father was wearing a pair of Scott ski-goggles around his neck.

A father and daughter combo sat to our left and the young lady caused me to turn my head with the knowledge she demonstrated through conversing with her father (though not Eric’s because he was already spoken for by his fiancé). In front of us sat an elderly gentleman who seemed to be in awe of the entire experience. I would have paid a heft price for a pair of bib-overalls at that point as the fierce wind pierced the October air. One or two rows down was infinitely warmer than the top of the stands because of the respite from the wind, but even this upper-deck was too packed to try and squeeze down.

The air was briefly deflated from our wings as the A’s compiled to quick runs in the first. However, Bonderman was known for getting shelled early, only to come back with great stuff later in the game. However, by the fourth, Jay Payton’s homerun and the lack of Tigers offense had things looking grim. The wind was picking up so much so that the cold made the top row unbearable. Rather than give up our seats in order to watch the game standing from a common balcony or beer garden, I applied for a visa card in exchange for a fleece blanket. That blanket provided enough warmth for Bus and I to remain entrenched in the stands.

In the next few innings the Tigers tied the score at three setting up the greatest sports finish I have ever witnessed live (not counting my performance in high school football). After homering in the sixth inning, Magglio Ordonez stepped up in the bottom of the ninth with two outs already on the board. Two tigers had managed to get on base and fans were hoping that a single would send one home and avoid extra innings. However, on the second pitch of the at bat Ordonez belted the ball to left field, setting off a series of mayhem that I cannot entirely recall.

I jumped ecstatically in my top row seat and hugged my friend. I exchanged high-fives with the dorky ski family and the father and daughter next to me. The old man in front of me grabbed my hands and another excited fan pulled me down into the row in front of me. A similar raucous occurred elsewhere. The older gentleman in front of Bus had streams of tears coming down his icy cheeks and was filled with palpable joy. The players on the field mirrored the fans excitement and the entire experience was etched into the minds of all that were present. The Tigers, who lost 119 games only three seasons prior had defeated the mighty Yankees, swept the infamous “moneyball” Athletics and seemed to have a title for the taking when the St. Louis Cardinals came to down days later.

Ned E.

2007-12-17T10:57:00.000-08:00

Summer sausage, sandwiched between thick cut scraps of sharp cheddar cheese sat naked on the rusting hood of a powder blue dodge pick-up. The cheese gripped tightly to the ridged hood and kept the sausage, still complete in its faux skin, from sliding down and onto the gravel driveway beneath. The air was thin and crisp, even for a cold April morning and the hood was steely cool. The round edges of the sausage protruded on either side from the yellow-orange cheese and its fatty white flecks were exposed to the cool air. The congealed flesh and gristle, processed, but not devoid of its animal taughtness, glistened in the cool sun. The maroon wrapper, slightly peeled on one side flapped as the wind whipped past it, gave the meat a tough exterior, but the center of the sausage, with its gel-like softness and yet underlying density gave the animal protein and lard a cold, harsh aura.

Ned’s dark, rough hands could not feel the powdery grip of the cheese, but the size of the morsel felt natural as he brought the beef and cheese to his lips. A few swift bites, the substance nearly sectioned itself, and Ned sent the beef to the fierce, fiery furnace below. His stomach was the only entity within himself which could cause him pain. His throat and chest burned ceaselessly with the gastric juices from within. A strange sense of satisfaction ran through Ned when he appeased his stomach momentarily with the processed but seemingly raw animal products. He stoked the internal flames, knowing well, that his steady diet of Banquet ® Chicken Pot Pies, summer sausage, sharp cheddar, and bacon was the cause of his internal broiler.

He leaned against the grill of the car and closed his eyes. Consistent weariness lent Ned to fits of closed-eye thought sessions. Halfway through his work day didn’t seem close enough to being able to retire to the Pink Flamingo trailer park. Slowly, the strange sandwiches disappeared from the hood, and were replaced by a little Debbie and can of coke. Slow sips from the Coca-cola classic reinvigorated his dormant heartburn, and he tried to quell it with bites from a zebra cake. When the cake was gone, he took one last swig from the aluminum can and tossed it into his fire red lunch cooler. The zebra cake wrapper blew away with a gust of wind and Ned’s crunching footsteps followed after it and stomped on it to hold it to the ground. He gingerly bent over at the waist grabbed the wrapper, and joined it with the Coca-cola in his cooler.

Back to work, he picked up his hoe and returned to the freshly exposed soil. The soil was rich and full, the way freshly roasted coffee beans smell. On either side of the patch of naked ground, were large trees, looming as if from another era, fully matted below with grass, still brown from the winter’s bite. Ned traded his hoe for a spade and shored up the kidney-shaped outline which he was cutting from the grass. More fresh soil lay below, seemingly nourished by the healthy grass above it. This too, Ned stroked with the hoe, recreating an untainted earth, preserved from weeds by years of pesticides aimed at keeping the blanket of Kentucky blue grass above in top shape. When the bed was adequately prepped, Ned returned to his truck, pulled a shovel and nursery grown azalea from the bed. In the chilled shade of the mammoth oaks, he planted the azalea, just on the cusp of the bed, in his mind, perfectly contrasting what would be the rest of the bed.

The thin, scrawny, crab apple tree was always hard to remove from the truck. He rolled it down gently from the mulch pile, his hands scrapping on the knotty trunk. He slid two 2x4 pieces of lumber from the truck and placed them in position so he could roll the root ball downwards. The burlap sac surrounding the mass of dirt and tangled roots felt soft and gentle in Ned’s hands and he relished the experience. The small tree, constrained from below by the twine and burlap confines would soon be liberated to the deep coffee-rich soil below. Like a freed bird its roots would extend, farther and farther from home, perching amongst the roots of other plants, flowers, and trees.

After an hour of softly scooping out the cold, hard earth beneath the top soil, Ned laid the crab apple tree on its side and reached into his back packet. Warmed on one side from his back and cool on the other from the air, Ned extended the blade from its steel case and began working through the burlap. Once sliced, the burlap easily rips, frayed edges splitting unevenly to each side, like a curtain being torn from top to bottom exposing the beauty of the roots below. Clumpy dirt surrounds puny scraps of root, with nothing about it to which one would be attracted.

Arranged adequately in the hole Ned began scooping dirt around the edges of the root. His booted foot, pressed down on the deep soil to harden the dirt around the tender root. More dirt, more feet, more shovel, less air. Deeper and deeper he imagined the roots growing, spreading throughout this man-made garden. Retreating to the nearby house, he extended the coils of a dormant hose to the source. Stretching the cobwebs along with the house, he traversed the thick bluegrass towards his crab apple tree. Softly, gently, he slid the mouth of the house in to the densely packed earth.

As he walked back to the house, he checked his watch. Three hours since lunch, not quite time yet. When working on a job alone, he could put in longer hours, not distracted by the nuisances of conversations. He turned on the water, and watched it surge along the hose. Back at the tree, he heard it filling up the earthen jar he had carved below. The ground around the tree slowly pulsed, occasionally a bubbling up would occur. Ned watched momentarily before returning to the truck. He pulled a wheel barrow from the back and began to fill it with mulch from the bed. When he pulled the top off the fresh mulch, steam from the organic decomposition warmed the local air. He blanketed the area around the tree with the shredded remnants of its brothers. The warm, moist nuggets leave a dark brown goodness on his hands. With his hands he crafts a moat of sorts around the crab apple tree, enshrining royalty and supplying the web of spreading roots with a wash of fresh, cold water.

Quickly, smoothly, handily with the ungraceful precision that only years of muscle memory provide, Ned scooped out dirt around the fringes of the bed, providing small holes only as big as his foot. Twelve of them buffered the edges of the kidney shaped cut-out. Over his shoulder he carried a large bag of peat moss, wrapped tightly in thin white and green plastic. He set it down with a thud between to holes and wisps of dusty peat smoked through the air. With his shovel, he split the bag, from top to bottom, exposing the light brown powder to the crisp air. He placed half a scoop in each hole, carefully mixing it by hand with the soil below. Twelve leafy green hostas he molded to the earth, firm as stones in their foundation.

With a quick yank, he pulled the water from the crab tree moat, and let it splash on the now dried open ground. As a healer prays over the crippled, he raised his arm over each hosta, sprinkled a splash of water on the leaves before bathing the soil around the plants with the water. With weary arms, he finished the job by pitchforking the rest of the mulch into wheelbarrows and gently spreading it, sometimes with hands, sometimes with hoe, across the garden before him. Finally, it was his time, he loaded tools in the wheelbarrow, then the truck, and placed the 2x4 lumber in last, crossing them underneath the tools so he could close the back gate in a nice neat, tidy, portable sacred canon.

Mister Frank

2007-12-16T13:03:00.000-08:00

Crackling, crisping, clicking flames leaped over a pile of dirty wood. On a balmy, sixty degree, sun-shining day it seemed unnecessary. Viewed from an insulated window the scene would appear no more extraordinary than a bundled, winter-walker sauntering down a bright sunny road. A large pile of wood for the burning sat next to the flames and was slowly, methodically, cautiously being depleted. A few hundred yards behind him, cargo ships loomed large, flanked on all sides by small fishing boats. The giant vessels lay stagnant supported by deciduous trees. Gleaming steel and the barnacle laden undersides lay exposed for the first time since the ship’s genesis.

Mister Frank, as he was almost universally known, could have only been more suited for this event if he was wearing gloves with the fingers chopped off. As it was, he wore the lower extremity equivalent, almost European looking capris hung loosely from his full belly withholding a hearty laugh. He sat, exposed ankles soaking in the unnecessary heat. He held a hammer in one hand and he jerkily clawed nail after nail from pieces of moldy wood to throw in a bucket. To his right, he collected a small pile of set-apart wood. Shoddily stenciled lambs and hearts graced the crown molding. Two small fragments he set aside, and looked at with a half-smile. On his left, he laid the rest of the wood. Periodically, he rose to grab a scrap of the fragmented timber and send it hissing into the fire.

Over his right shoulder, he glanced back to see his wife, Miss Liz exiting from their brand-new home. In her bathrobe, she descended the steps of their FEMA trailer and grinned at him. She carried cup of piping coffee to set on the chair next to him, furthering the mistaken winter-image. Miss Liz too, glanced over at the pile of sheep wood and let a gentle melancholy smile grace her face. Silently, she put a hand on Mister Frank’s shoulder, and retreated to the confines of the white trailer. Mister Frank stood, stretched, rubbed his hands over the fire only because he believed it was what one should do in this situation.

Standing and turning his head, Mister Frank glanced back at the source of his fuel. A thirty by thirty wood frame stood capped above ten feet by the remnants of aluminum siding and the glistening, sandpaper black shingled roof. He glanced back to his wood pile and a shiver did run through his spine. Enough shivering he thought as he took a pull from his stoneware mug. His eyes followed the dirt track from his pile, to the pile at the shipwreck. Instead of separating iron nails from their pile, Sternitz Brothers Shipbuilding had nothing but iron. Rusted metal scraps loomed large above the barbed wire fence protecting the area.

His eyes traveled the horizon, past the small suspension bridge, along the road of his exodus two weeks prior, through the rich forest and rested on the Caribbean Clipper. He began to imagine the tumult they must have felt as Katrina beat on them with her snarling backhand. The crew of Columbians on the ship were found only days ago, too scared to exit after the storm, and too high above the forested island upon which they landed. They sent one lone messenger down in a lifeboat from Ararat to try and obtain supplies for the rest of the crew.

Mister Frank had left town three weeks earlier on the advice of the town’s leaders. He thought he had been through the worst before, but heeded the warning nonetheless. He only needed to travel a few miles inland to take refuge in Bayou La Batre Christian Church on higher ground. Most of the town’s residents took refuge in the church, forming the city on the hill, lit my candlelight, looking down on the brooding of Katrina.

While most of the world was focusing on Saints marching in to New Orleans, Mister Frank laid holed up at the church. The waters receded, as did his home. Weeks later, FEMA unhitched his brand new residence and he returned to his plot of land with his wife. The memory of the experience did not carry pain with it. Mister Frank was sure he had known pain, but couldn’t recall what it was. Instead he continued to ply nails from timber and press on, the only thing he had ever learned to do.

Today is gonna be the day . . .

2007-12-11T07:02:00.000-08:00

The extent of self-deception never ceases to amaze me. For at least the past 10 years, I have convinced myself every morning that I as soon as I finished my task for the day (school, work, random others) that I would come home, plop straight in bed and sleep until Kingdom come. In those last ten years, I have fulfilled that self-promise at most ten times. Once a year, I make good on my autonomous pledge. About two-to-three hours in my day, it dawns on me that I will not be retiring to bed when I get home like I promised and curse myself for waking up. What amazes me about the situation is not my persistent ability to deceive myself, but that at six am amongst the cacophonous chorus of my Sony Ericsson T470 cell phone/alarm clock, I actually believe in good faith that today will be the day I make good on a promise.

Realizations from a Road Trip

2007-12-02T20:41:00.000-08:00

I traveled 11 hours each way on a road trip to Durham, North Carolina this past holiday weekend. Here is what I learned (more tomorrow if these are enjoyable).

Town squares are awesome
Small towns have a preponderance of subways
If I ever own a farmhouse I am definitely going to put fake candles in every window.
Celery is not a good road trip snack, neither are peanuts, shredded whear (Each of which I took on my roadtrip, each of which are also coincidentally very high in fiber).
Durham, NC is like Disney world/Harry Potter Land for rich kids.
Paying with a twenty dollar bill at a toll-booth is not looked upon highly.
Coincidentally, paying with nickels and pennies at a toll booth is not looked upon highly.
The state of Ohio is extremely long.
Tunnels don’t get old. I anticipated that they would stop being cool around age 23, unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, I still find them riveting.
On a related note, radios and cell phones do not seem to work inside a tunnel. Good thing driving through them is so darn cool.
As much as I try to disagree, my tastebuds still do not like tomatoe juice.
On a related note, tomatoe juice is not a beverage of choice on a road trip (because it doesn’t go well with peanuts or shredded wheat of course).
Going the speed limit makes spying a police officer hiding in the bushes a lot less frightening.
When you go the speed limit, impatient drivers are a lot more frightening.
By my approximation, I counted around 52 Kiss fm stations in Midwest/Southern America.
I have no idea why someone would want to name and or listen to a station named Kiss fm unless it featured Gene Simmons.
Any blue sign on the road beginning with the words “tourist activities” can be promptly ignored unless you have a deep desire to rid yourself of twenty dollar bills to avoid uncomfortable situations at the toll booth.
Counting singles may, or more likely may not be, a perquisite to aquiring a job at a toll booth.
However, having a southern accent while working at a toll booth, totally makes up for a lack of counting ability.
In sparsely populated parts of America, the only type of music broadcasted on fm is either a) horrendous Christian or b) horrendous country. Which, are apparently the same genre to rural populations.
“Thus sayeth the lord” might be the most commonly heard phrase found while scanning the radio in the middle of nowhere. Talk about a voice in the wilderness.
I am not sure why so many cities need cannons mounted in the town square. But in the event that intruders have a geometric preference for attacking perfect versions of rectangles situated next to courthouses and are susceptible to heavy spherical projectiles, we are in safe hands.
Gas station coffee allows only two unfortunate options: Drink it while its hot enough to burn your taste buds, or drink it when cool enough to lament the fact that you have taste buds.
If you ever see a sign on the highway advertising free coffee at a rest stop, do not stop, because it is a lie. Unless of course, that old guy in the corner with the shabby trailer was actually doling out cups of coffee, then the advertisement may be true, but all the more reason not to stop.
Thanks to advertisements on the back of semi’s, I now know the going rate per mile at each company, and all I can say is: Sucks to be Schneider national drivers, eh?
I need to work on mastering the art of stopping in a gas station, using the restroom, and wlaking right back out without purchasing anything without feeling guilty. My collection of gum, lipton green tea, V8 juice and Gatorade has grown excessive and only perpetuates the cycle.
“Come on Eileen” is still being ubiquitously played on the radio.
When Google Maps supplies a given route with a time of 11 hours and 37 minutes, that time does not hold true when you decide to take side roads running parallel to the interstated.
Coincidentally, you cannot merely knock off two hours from the time, tell yourself you will go 10 over the whole way, and not pee. You will in fact, pee, buy green tea, pee some more, and arrive two hours late.
In the case of Christmas decorations and assorted inflatable lawn creatures, less is still more central Ohio.
The Buick Century was not built upon the premise that fast acceleration was king.
The Buick Century was not built upon the premise that twenty-four year olds driving it should be able to pick up females.
The South is apparently different from the North. Northerners are apparently unaware of this fact, while Southerners are apparently all to keenly aware. Why don’t they just start their own country.
The actual name of an interstate has little to do with where it is going. For example, I recently was traveling on I-40 N and I-81 S at the same time. I have to believe that people on this freeway were, like me, feeling a) counterproductive, b) lied to or c) strangely akin to Stretch Armstrong.
Brown caffeinated beverages are easily spill-able, startlingly stain-forming, and embarrassingly forgettable three days later when you put on the pants without looking at the lower thigh.
There is a distinct limit to how long driving can be how fun.
I went golfing with my friend who is in school to be a minister. As a medical student, I felt as if our outing was training for the beginning of a future joke. (PS I’m Irish)
When determining whether to turn right or left, no tool is more useful than “never, ever, sell watermelon.” Unfortunately one can often missapproximate the direction of never, leading to a turn towards watermelon at the wrong time.
I do not know what at least 50% of the signs I see mean (i.e. “no jake brake,” “soft shoulder,” “speed limit”).
“Next 23 miles under construction” is code for “Sucks to be you, guy behind the semi.”
The wrong way signs on free way on/off ramps are way to close to being on the wrong side. On a related note, way too many people were getting off the freeway on an on-ramp this weekend.

The Canadian Adventure (Part One)

2007-11-05T18:24:00.001-08:00

One of my favorite things to do in medical school is to dream about all the other places I could currently be. This dreaming led me and another medical student friend (at Indiana University) to plan a trip hiking the Appalachian trail. Recently, however, I was reminded of probably my most “adventurous” experience to date. The following is an account of a trip I took during the summer of 2005:

I left my last class of the summer semester on a bright, sunny day. My bags were loaded into the trunk of my car, along with my sleeping bag and other requisite accessories for a weekend in the Canadian wilderness. I hopped on US-127 and headed north, essentially through the longitudinal midline of the Michigan mitten. I hoped to be in Montreal River Harbor before the sun went down, but I had plenty of time to enjoy the ride.

I drove through the Upper Peninsula for the first time and enjoyed the new sites and openness of the area. Soon, I made it to the US St. Ste. Marie and then through its Canadian sister. I stopped by an outfitter’s store and bought a Canadian fishing license (which given my ability, I should have reconsidered). As I left St. Ste. Marie, I continued on the Trans Canada Highway towards Montreal River Harbor. I knew before I left I was heading into no man’s land, but I was surprised by how desolate it was.

Little did I know, where I was to meet my friend Mark was just the beginning of nowhere. I met him at a small gas-station/liquor depot/café/post-office which serviced an apparently large area with few residents. We gassed up, and I left my Buick there and hopped in the pickup to share the front seat with a golden retriever. We drove another half-hour into the Canadian wilderness before coming to a chain link fence.

Mark opened it via remote, and we then danced across the top of a dam in the pick-up. “This is a utility owned dam, they let us drive across it because it’s the only way into camp,” he explained. A few more logging roads later, we arrived at a boat launch. We then loaded all our belongings into the boat and crossed over the river to finally arrive at the site of the camp. We trudged up a steep hill and arrived at the camp. There were a few buildings, a general dorm, all-purpose building, and central camp.

Mark showed me to a room above the cafeteria which he called home for the past three summers. I was introduced to the staff and then I headed out with Mark to the camp. Mark was using a large backhoe to move felled trees into seats to form a ring around a fire.

To be continued tomorrow. . .

The forbidden fruit (roll-up)

2007-11-02T18:21:00.001-07:00

If I could eat any meal I wanted right now, I probably wouldn’t choose, but would highly consider the following: a crystal pepsi, dunkaroos (with vanilla frosting), meijer food club brand fruit snacks, some sort of ridiculous lunchable, cooler ranch Doritos, a chaco taco, and perhaps some tang to wash it all down.

Unfortunately, 1992 came and went and I never had the honor of consuming such a meal. However, I always desperately wanted to pack a lunch with those exact items. I am not sure which of the above are still available in stores, but it is tempting to try them for nostalgia’s sake.

The same nostalgia led someone to bid fifteen bucks on ebay for an unopened can of crystal pepsi. I completely understand. Those nostalgic items bring me back to my youth, not because I ever really enjoyed eating them, but because I perpetually desired them and rarely got them.

Now, I could easily purchase and consume a collection of processed goods with no consequence (the requisite gastrointestinal effects excluded), but it wouldn’t have the same satisfaction. In fact, it may take away from the high place those items have in my mind.

I really don’t think I am hung up on the processed food, but on the “good ‘ole days” when I needed permission to obtain food. Back then, homecooking was out, and anything processed, sugared, and packaged in plastic was in. I, as a brown bagger filled with PB & J, carrots, and an apple, was out. Obviously, I intend to put my kids through the same torture. I perpetually keep myself from enjoying strictly those things (though I am much more lax than the ‘rents were) because of the effect of my upbringing.

Yet, those processed luxuries are almost universal in their appeal to my peers and I. We all remember how “cool” they seemed and how satisfaction was only one gleaming, shinny, sugary package away. I think (maybe) we long for them because we long for the simpler days when that was all we wanted. Literally, I don’t think I could imagine anything making me more happy. Ah for the good days. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to see if I have any bugles in the house.

A whole New World

2007-11-01T16:22:00.000-07:00

Like all jobs, colleges, universities, clubs, sects, and other factions, medical school necessitates that its members be in a world of its own. Occasionally, students may forget about this fact, but at some point it becomes evident that they are currently in a world that many will never experience. Earlier this morning, I was reviewing some gross anatomy with a friend and we were quizzing each other. Another resident of my building walked into the room and had to immediately modify how I would phrase the question, “what are the borders of the anal triangle?” It is when two worlds combine that it becomes evident that I’ve been living in a separate one.

I have been on the other side of this scenario as well. For example, whenever I visit my sister, we go out with her work friends and I hear about nothing other than washers, driers, and dishwashers all night. They start dropping acronyms like P and G (Proctor and Gamble) all over the place and I spend the first half of the night trying to figure out what they are talking about. I spend the second half of the night trying to figure out how and why anyone would learn/know that much about laundry and dishes.

However, being a part of a smaller subset can have its perks. For example, I have a friend at Indiana Medical school who I could call today and be like, “Dude, we had to saw off the leg today.” Instead of looking at me in sheer horror, he would say, “Man, I know, we had to do that last week, it was crazy.” The bond formed by this common experience is a bonus of being in the same subset.

I feel like there is a real danger of alienation though which would add to the divide, specifically between the doctor and patient. In a mock interview, I heard a medical student ask could you describe the palliative measures you use with your symptoms. I didn’t even know what palliative meant until this year and am still hesitant to use it in a sentence. I understand within the medical community that might be how one has to talk, but in general life, it seems a bit stifling. That is the greatest danger I see devoting myself fully (somewhat) to this medical education. That said, my cognitive processes have manifested themselves in an unconscious autonomic volition to “hit the books.” (I am a failure at making coherent precocious sentences).

Happy Halloween from your local establishments

2007-10-31T19:03:00.000-07:00

I walked into Matthews Medical Bookstore today and I was greeted by a bowl of candy. “Fantastic,” I said to myself as I eyed the treats and continued walking. The friend I was with bought a box of gloves and the cashier then offered us some cider from a nearby jug. We obliged and it wasn’t until that moment it dawned on me that this was a Halloween promotion. They had apples for sale, candy corn in cups, a candy bowl, and a selection of Halloween/autumnal scrubs out front. I even eyed an orange stethoscope which I would not be shocked to find was part of the promotion. I am not sure the exact daily patronage of the Matthews Medical Bookstore, but let me just say that other than at the beginning of the semester, I have never had any company in the store. Needless to say, on this day, I was surprised to find the lengths the staff had gone to prepare for the Halloween festivities.

The Medical Bookstore party got me thinking of all the crazy promotions that places use. I can understand a car dealership, furniture store, or even a large Barnes and Noble type bookstore using such a promotion. But for maybe ten customers a day, it seemed like the Halloween party was a little much. I mean, I appreciated it, and maybe that’s the point, but I also walked away feeling depressed. I just imagined people all over setting up little Halloween promotions for twelve customers. I suppose I should have been more hopeful. Maybe the goal wasn't to make more money, just to show people a little love. I enjoyed the friendliness, but the thought of someone planning such an event and only fifteen people witnessing it seemed a bit crazy. In retrospect, however, I am starting to feel quite fond of the experience (maybe my evening beverage is playing a role, but still). I am glad that someone took the time for their co-workers and a few customers to spice up the day. Happy Halloween to you Matthews Medical Bookstore of Detroit. I hope someone buys your orange scrubs.

Regional Bias

2007-10-30T20:48:00.001-07:00

I just returned from patrolling the streets of Detroit to ward off any would be arsonists. I was armed only with a dinky flashing yellow light, a goofy hat (which did entitle me to free white castle, see 10/18 for more details on the WC), and the brawn that I and my three other partners carried (which was a lot). Rather than wax philosophical on the urban plight that drives its own residents to burn their own neighborhoods, I am going to wax philosophical (or not, I really don’t know what that means) about the term “Devil’s Night.”

Apparently, due to the prevalence of Arsonists, the night before Halloween in Detroit has been termed “Devil’s Night.” I grew up knowing that Devil’s Night was the night before Halloween and that I was, as a rebellious youth, supposed to cause some sort of ruckus (toilet paper, eggs, etc.). However, it wasn’t until I went to school in Indiana that I realized people had never heard of Devil’s Night. Which blew my mind. Never hearing of Devil’s Night was as preposterous as never hearing of Christmas and New Year’s. It simply was. Maybe you could celebrate it on a different day or in a different form and i.e. Hanukkah or Chinese New Year. No cultural offense intended, I know Hanukah and Christmas are different, both just involve gift giving winter-season events and can (sometimes) both be spelled starting with a C.

Yet I digress. The point is, that not knowing about Devil’s Night was a completely new and unfathomable observation. I may rate it on par with discovering that not all children were boys (I don’t remember that realization, but they seem analogous). I went on to further discover that people don’t even sing the right version of Rudolph the red nose reindeer. Instead they interject incorrect exclamations at the end of lines. For example, the reindeer game Rudolph played in my book was Monopoly. Rudolph went down in history like George Washington. And all the reindeers shouted out with glee, like the toothpaste (that one never made sense, but I just went with it; apparently gleem was a popular toothpaste).

All that to say, some of you may argue with Rudolph’s activities and I find your answers unacceptable. I am amazed by the effect that growing up in one area with one set of norms has on me. I still cannot imagine a place anywhere where the day before Halloween is not occasion to form a city-wide patrol preventing arson. I will never accept an alternate version of Rudolph. And, no matter what anyone from Indiana, Ohio, or any other state says, Euchre was and always will be a Michigan game.

F-O-X. Fox.

2007-10-29T19:35:00.001-07:00

One of the most interesting facets of my new place is that I can clearly see the glowing “FOX” sign atop one of Detroit’s finest establishments: The Fox Theatre. Not only do I have a perfect view of the glowing neon (and color changing-sign) from my living room, but from almost every single point in my current residence (which is not a large surface area) I can see the sign. Imagine a flashing red, white, purple, and blue equivalent of Mona Lisa’s eyes. The thing follows me everywhere in my place. I am not disturbed by this fact, rather I love it. When I wake up in the morning, I usually throw on a pot of coffee and spend the next five minutes staring at the three glowing letters. The sign comforts me for some strange reason.

A related facet of my current home is that now when driving towards the city of Detroit, I am actually moving closer to home. That means, no matter what angle I am approaching the city from, I can just follow the skyline and it will take me home. Although the constant traffic noise and lack of greenery can be disconcerting, there is something generally comforting about city-life, even Detroit city-life. I think the Fox sign exemplifies this. Not only does it brighten my apartment, it beckons to me saying “sure you can see me, but do you know how many other people are watching me too.” For some reason, this comforts me, and in a strange way I enjoy the community the sign provides. Goodnight Fox, Goodnight Detroit.

The real meaning of Halloween

2007-10-27T07:20:00.001-07:00

Somewhere from eight years old to twenty-two years old Halloween transitioned from being about chocolate candy to being about eye-candy. However, the costumes remain largely unchanged, only slightly suffixed. The following former costumes vampire, cowgirl, ghost, zombie and cheerleader have now been turned into vampire-slut, cowgirl-slut, ghost-slut, zombie-slut and, well cheerleader. I guess some things never change (kidding in case any of my extra-spirited friends are reading). However, the fact that girls use Halloween as an excuse to dress skanky is almost as cliché as using a sheet to make a ghost costume. My class party this year even has an award for “most provocative.” I am guessing they are not taking about a costume that really makes you think.

However, the flip side of the female’s role, is the standard costume’s guys wear. Sometimes we’ll attempt to be comical and fail just slightly short. For example, a couple years back I went as “guy caught in a windstorm” and a friend went as “guy being electrocuted.” Other than him having an extension cord sticking out of his fly, I don’t think we quite pulled it off. However, I think the bulk of Halloween costumes for guys are attempts to be some sort of archetypal Chuck Norris like character. I have seen costumes for Rambo, Neo (of the Matrix), hardcore cops, and a slew of other large gun slinging characters. I am not sure what Halloween costumes say about a person. Maybe that girls want attention and guys want to be Chuck Norris. Then again, tell me something I don’t know.

I admit, I like TV (but not that much)

2007-10-26T13:20:00.000-07:00

Maybe its because I just finished a semester-like test, or maybe because I recently moved out of my home, but in the past few days, I have had a sort of reacquainting myself with the world of television. I am not talking about sitting in front of the boob tube all day and vegging-out. I am talking about actively engaging with whatever show is on and investing myself emotionally, physically, mentally, and the like in every episode.

For example, my roommate and I were searching for a thirty minute show our cable box offered “On-Demand” the other day as a study break. The only non-drama we could find was Kid Nation; so we gave it a go. Seven episodes and a few days later, we haven’t looked back. The original appeal may be slightly wearing off, but I have already, picked my favorites, my love-to-hates, and my hate-to-loves of the show. After my roommates favorite kid does something cruel or stupid, I yell at my roommate the absurdity of his choice. He does the same to mine. We discuss the finer character traits of eight year-olds as if we are debating finely aged wines. Their just kids, but put in the world of Kid Nation, you can see the ridiculousness of life and especially the absurdity of the way the kids mimic phrases they have heard adults use. To shake things up, the four-member “council” awards a twenty-thousand dollar gold star each work and the jockeying the kids do for the star is ridiculous. All that to say, I feel as if in some weird way I know the kids on the show.

I have always enjoyed a good comedy, but I can never remember a show were I just wanted to hang out with the characters as much as “The Office.” I feel as if Jim would just be a riot to hang out with, and watching the show, I feel as if I am. The looks at the camera move the show from a mere voyeuristic delight to a strange illusion of actual interaction.

I had a hard time changing the channel yesterday, because Denzel Washington was starring in Déjà vu. Any time Denzel is on the screen, I can hardly turn away. You just know he is about to do something incredibly B.A. Even though I have already seen the movie, and my friend owns it, when it graces the television screen, I could hardly bring myself to turn it off. I don’t believe this is because I didn’t have to go through the effort of putting a DVD in the player, but actually because deep down I know that somewhere else, someone else is watching this same movie with me.

Which brings me to the crux of my recent TV renaissance. I am not sure the illusion of community that TV brings is bad. I used to. I used to dream of owning a home without a television (and actually still plan on it). When my “introductory offer” runs out on my cable, I will cancel it. However, in small doses, juxtaposed with actual interaction, I think that a good television show can be good medicine. No expectations, no requirements, just actively engaging with the interesting world that lie out there. It’s strange for me to think about how people would eat dinner in front of the TV and treat it like a fifth family member. But in a weird way, I think that in moderation that sort of attitude can be healthy. Obviously, the state of things in our culture is probably out of hand and I cannot bring myself to endorse most of what is on television. But as a relaxed form of passive active engagement, TV has grown dear to me. And if I am hooked on “Kid Nation,” who knows what show I’ll be watching next.

Test Day

2007-10-25T17:56:00.000-07:00

Today was test day. Medical school test day is pretty much like college test day, except for the fact that the test day is eight hours and half of that is spent walking around a room full of cadavers. Still you have the same distinct characters taking the test who I will describe below.

The early-finishers: I swear, every test the instructor just finishes passing out the one-hundred question exam and at least one student pops up from their chair and heads to the front of the room. Everyone assumes they have bladder issues but then they place their scantron in the finished pile and bound away after four grueling minutes of test taking. Seriously? Did you even read the questions? How can you be in medical school if either a) you don’t bother to actually take a test with full concentration or b) you have sort of ultra-speed power to read, discern, and select the best answer at a rate of 3 thousand words per minute.

Then, there’s the rest of us. I am sure the early finishers have some of the following quirks, but they leave so early I couldn’t pick up on them.

The caffeinated – Part 1 – The bladder busters: This group is frequently confused with the early-finishers because they had to the front of the room at roughly the same time: moments after the test starts. Likely, they decided to down a thermos of coffee after pulling an allnight studying session or just to kick-start test day. About fourty-five minutes later, they find themselves trapped in a testing room and make it about three minutes before waddling to the bathroom in hopes they don’t spend the rest of test day with a characteristic centrally located wet spot. Luckily, they get their problem taken care of early, and often as they leave at least three times in a two-hour test. To qualify for this group, not only must you have a bladder the size of a peanut and a ridiculous penchant for morning liquids, but you must have some sort of ADD to allow you to pop in and out of your seat once every quarter hour

The caffeinated – Part 2 – The bouncers: Some lucky souls can hold their bladders after having to much caffeine. What they cannot hold with their jittering extremities, are their papers, pencils, water bottle, or their own physical body. Once sitting in the seat, they inevitably bounce paper, pencils, pens, and the like all over in a spastic manner. Sometimes, they may become situated and start getting in a groove for a short while. Soon, however, they start to twitch. Think Will Smith doing the shoulder thing where he pretends to hold one from dancing while the other starts. That is what these kids do all test day. They slowly bounce, their left leg, then their right, and then, inexplicably they start bouncing on their toe faster than a hummingbird flaps his wings. I get tired just looking at the bouncing leg, or arm, or pencil, or whatever organ seems to erupt in to spontaneous vacillations. And I cannot not look. I am always situated with two of these individuals located just on my periphery. I see just enough so the constant movement captivates 90% of my attention. Usually, however, by the last ten questions of the test, the leg has stopped bouncing, the caffeine has worn off, and this unlucky student finds him or herself sleepily drooling on their scantron.

The anti-mimes: The anti-mimes are those people who love to be incredibly expressive in all facets of life. During a test, this includes a response to all questions and choices. These are the kind of people who spend half of the time at movies looking at the screen, and the other half looking around to make sure that others see them laughing. Since no one is paying attention to facial expressions during an exam, they resort to audible responses. An easy question draws out a slight laugh as if to see “please, don’t kid me.” A hard question forces a “hmmmm” from the test takers lip. I have not yet learned how to interpret the cacophony of other sounds that erupt from their lips throughout the test. Sighs, throat clears, yawns, and every other audible expression imaginable manage to force their way out of these test takers.

The snifflers: Self explanatory. The only confusing thing is in a room full of people with reams of paper in the form of tests, how could their not be a single piece of paper towel or anything else to wipe the perpetual drain from their nasal cavity.

The paper shufflers: The souls who are determined rather to take the test in sequential order, do approximately one question from each page as to maximize the time spent riffling through pages. I’m not sure if this strategy is effective for anything else than making the people around you crazy. However, when they are done taking the test, their papers at least look as if they took out some aggression on them, so props for that.

The tortoises: Whether it be a nine question test or a nine-hundred question test squeezed into eight minutes or eight hours, the members of this clan will use every last second of allotted time. I am not sure if they pace themselves, allowing ten full minutes for each multiple choice question, or if they just retrace their decision making process for each question six times over. Whatever the method, they make sure they don’t give up their exams until the last call is given out. Again, I am not sure the advantage of this strategy, but it does ensure that by the end of the exam, they will likely have the room to themselves. Maybe not a bad deal after all given the aforementioned.

A Random Post

2007-10-23T10:11:00.001-07:00

I have a problem with the current state of vocabulary in our great nation. My age group peers (and those unfortunately following in their footsteps) have inundated our language with the use of a single word so completely, as to devoid a good word of all meaning. Some may site the emergence of a fragmented post-modern worldview and the alienation of the human experience as the source of the predomination of this word, to which, I say “hogwash” (there’s an underused word).

For example, I will use the defiled word below in a variety of contexts that I have heard it used in recently (or at least am sure someone would use them in).

“I had a fun night, but it was so random.”

“Jake is a blast. He’s so random.”

“I randomly ran into him at the store the other day.”

“That couch is so random”

The last example might be the worse. That couch is random? Is it? Does it, as the great Miriam Webster (I know its not a person) once said “lack a definite plan,” or “Have elements with a definite probability of experience.” Or did it, as our good friend, the condensed Oxford English Dictionary states, “happen without conscious decision” or “involve equal chances of each item.” In one case, I do believe the couch did “happen without conscious decision” because it could not choose. It is a couch. However, I think a word like inanimate more adequately meets that criteria.

The use of the word chafes me, not because I really care that there is one less adequate word to choose from, but because the sentiment underlying its usage is that the occasion described by it is so extraordinarily unfathomable, it must have been random. It is not random to see a friend at the store. You both shop, you did not “randomly” run into each other. Simply because you did not plan on running into them, doesn’t make it random. I didn’t plan to write this post today, but I decided to do it. The decision wasn’t random. If you both had a wheel at home with certain destinations such as: store, bar, café, home on it and you both spun your wheel and ended up at the store, it could have been random.

Jake is not random because he does stupid crap. More than likely he plans to do stupid crap because you like it. If he had a bag of possible stupid things to do in his pocket, and randomly selected one, I would agree that Jake is not only random, but also a blast.

Finally, the random night, was probably not random at all. I think anything that takes place after a certain critical point in the evening is considered random because the alcohol in the system did not allow logical decision making. The opposite of logical is not random, it is illogical. There I think is the rub underlying the whole issue.

I really don’t know why this one word chafe me more than others though, it’s so random.