From Teslagrl:
"I think you have more posts referencing (Diablo) than me, the gf. I think you must rectify!"
Too right. But when you're working on becoming a medical person and can't really talk too much about the interesting and amusing episodes which comprise that process, then you go for more of the pop culture stuff the readers can get a little more involved with (hi, reader/s!). I mean, here's a partial list of cool stuff I can't really get into:
I can't describe patient encounters. At least not until some more time passes, and the details get better-obscured by simply not mentioning when they took place.
I live, and shadow, in a small town. Sure, I tend to scramble the identifying details when I talk about patients, but I can't do it right until I've seen hundreds of people who fit every one of the phenotypes I might describe. In trying to protect the identity of the burly dairy farmer, I might wind up describing the bratty teenager instead, and if they're both among the last 400 people I saw, then so what if the story as told has them switching maladies (or dialogue)? Nope, better to say nothing about anyone. Sorry. It'll have to come down years later as "oh yeah, this one time, I saw somebody who..."
I can't talk in too much detail about school. There are of course the frustrations and triumphs of any situation where you're locked into a path (maybe a little less locked in, in my case, but still) which lasts a year and involves a core of 12 people. Again, these stories will be great, eventually. For now I need to do this thing. Plus the process of writing my essays and think "competitively" has me paranoid enough to believe that musings and clever turns of phrase out here in piecemeal form could be picked up by another kid headed where I am. I want this blog to be of use to people in the future... just not too much use, and not in my app cycle.
I probably should make at least a weak attempt at anonymity. I have nothing to hide, and in fact I plan to follow in the footsteps of good medical writers. But again, for now, while I'm preparing to be evaluated and scrutinized, as well as having to just function well, it seems smart to compartmentalize the writing and the schooling. I promise I'll wear a t-shirt reading 'Febrifuge' once I'm safely in school. I'll wear it on the day I lead a tour for prospective newbies, or if I'm giving an inservice at my hospital to students. Someday I might gain the underground celebrity I'd be so good at. But for now, to paraphrase Douglas Adams: hey, I'm just this guy, you know?
So, I'll talk about my experiences with the process of school and applications. I'll talk about issues in medicine, like all the other med-bloggers. I'll talk about stuff I've seen and heard when it's safe. I'll talk about movies, music, books, the Web. And also, more about T-girl and our adventures, sure. Though I bet she wants some editorial control...
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Critical Care
You know what's weird? When you read a book written by someone you know.
And no, it's not because of the naughty language and the adult situations. Shee-oot, I knew about all that from the first time I met Jon and Diablo, the skinny white Oprah, queen of all media. Heck, we've had lengthy discussions at our little suburban All-Drunken Round Table about deviant sex among Muppets, and cutting out half the White Album. We've drawn some cartoons on napkins that on reflection I really hope we did not leave behind. No, it's weird because for a long time it was a project, the kind of thing you ask about, and then on Xmas morning the thing's a damn book.
But you know what's weirder? Trying to be a critic, and explain in writing why you liked it so much. And consequently having to admit that you're essentially biased as all hell. So I'm going to wuss out on my intended 250-word review, and just summarize: books ain't blogs; this is a fine example of an important evolutionary step; it's a damn fine read; and as always, Diablo rules. There just happens to be a small dead-tree corner of the ruleage now, and yay for that.
That's the short version. If you're looking for the short version, off with you, then. The rest is expansion.
A couple weeks ago, I was procrastinating some work by doing some other work: I was attempting to write clearly about "Candy Girl," hoping to provide something more substantial to my karaoke bud than just props and congrats. I mean, I do fully intend to drink the booze and fall off the stripper pole in the refurbished basement of the Cody-Cave, once I return home this summer. I wanted to give back, y'know? Anyway, my housemate the poet surprised me when he said he does that too; it's good writing practice to play critic. I'll have to keep doing it, but I'm recusing myself from this one. It just can't come together, because I'm not objective. However, I got some nice little runs bult up there, and I'm loath to just trash them. So here are a few of the better crit-niblets for ya:
Yeah, well, so I'm no NYT Sunday Magazine. But I'm ready to adopt the proper Pussketeer attitude and declare reviews of "the book" to be, like, so February already. So now that we're all Codyfied, I'll end here. Back to medical crap soon, most likely.
IN: Email exchanges with DC, which lead to a picture of Hobbes peeing on something, for a change
OUT: lurking at MNspeak, feeling pride because you ain't made it 'til you have haters
FIVE MINUTES AGO: mentioning casually that "...oh yeah? Cool. I know that author. So what did your internship boss at the publisher think of it?"
And no, it's not because of the naughty language and the adult situations. Shee-oot, I knew about all that from the first time I met Jon and Diablo, the skinny white Oprah, queen of all media. Heck, we've had lengthy discussions at our little suburban All-Drunken Round Table about deviant sex among Muppets, and cutting out half the White Album. We've drawn some cartoons on napkins that on reflection I really hope we did not leave behind. No, it's weird because for a long time it was a project, the kind of thing you ask about, and then on Xmas morning the thing's a damn book.
But you know what's weirder? Trying to be a critic, and explain in writing why you liked it so much. And consequently having to admit that you're essentially biased as all hell. So I'm going to wuss out on my intended 250-word review, and just summarize: books ain't blogs; this is a fine example of an important evolutionary step; it's a damn fine read; and as always, Diablo rules. There just happens to be a small dead-tree corner of the ruleage now, and yay for that.
That's the short version. If you're looking for the short version, off with you, then. The rest is expansion.
A couple weeks ago, I was procrastinating some work by doing some other work: I was attempting to write clearly about "Candy Girl," hoping to provide something more substantial to my karaoke bud than just props and congrats. I mean, I do fully intend to drink the booze and fall off the stripper pole in the refurbished basement of the Cody-Cave, once I return home this summer. I wanted to give back, y'know? Anyway, my housemate the poet surprised me when he said he does that too; it's good writing practice to play critic. I'll have to keep doing it, but I'm recusing myself from this one. It just can't come together, because I'm not objective. However, I got some nice little runs bult up there, and I'm loath to just trash them. So here are a few of the better crit-niblets for ya:
...a book is simply not a blog. I'd take that idea farther, and say that both the strengths and weaknesses of Cody's book derive from this fresh stylistic angle; events that are most vivid and engaging in the book are those that are related in the loose, chatty, candid, snarky, insightful manner that is her key strength in the blog. Her writing persona is juvenile, horny, and hopes to shock -- adolescent, in a word -- but it's also quietly wise and disarmingly insightful.
(...blah blah literati, coffee, deep chairs, retail, yadda yadda, selling not books or writing but the experience of reading...)
...but the blogger's advantage turns against her at times. Being unwilling to submit to the traditional book-to-reader dynamic, with its implications of authority and passivity -- or hoping to rise above it -- can backfire. When things in this particular blog-turned-book don't work, it's largely because the same looseness and immediacy that gives Diablo's blog its chatty intimacy can defy or undermine a compelling narrative sweep, and in the place we're trained to expect a narrator to be, we find there's more or less a reporter instead.
Then again, we play along far too willingly with memiors that are surely edited with the ruthlessness and artifice of season's worth of reality TV. So good on Cody for just telling her damn story, and risking a titillating topic becoming a day job. Good on her for doing this project for her own reasons, and not just to entertain or elicit some response from us. That's quite possibly the point, anyway.
(...blah blah literati, coffee, deep chairs, retail, yadda yadda, selling not books or writing but the experience of reading...)
...but the blogger's advantage turns against her at times. Being unwilling to submit to the traditional book-to-reader dynamic, with its implications of authority and passivity -- or hoping to rise above it -- can backfire. When things in this particular blog-turned-book don't work, it's largely because the same looseness and immediacy that gives Diablo's blog its chatty intimacy can defy or undermine a compelling narrative sweep, and in the place we're trained to expect a narrator to be, we find there's more or less a reporter instead.
Then again, we play along far too willingly with memiors that are surely edited with the ruthlessness and artifice of season's worth of reality TV. So good on Cody for just telling her damn story, and risking a titillating topic becoming a day job. Good on her for doing this project for her own reasons, and not just to entertain or elicit some response from us. That's quite possibly the point, anyway.
Yeah, well, so I'm no NYT Sunday Magazine. But I'm ready to adopt the proper Pussketeer attitude and declare reviews of "the book" to be, like, so February already. So now that we're all Codyfied, I'll end here. Back to medical crap soon, most likely.
IN: Email exchanges with DC, which lead to a picture of Hobbes peeing on something, for a change
OUT: lurking at MNspeak, feeling pride because you ain't made it 'til you have haters
FIVE MINUTES AGO: mentioning casually that "...oh yeah? Cool. I know that author. So what did your internship boss at the publisher think of it?"
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
NKOTB
http://hatesexy.blogspot.com/
Go. Read. Enjoy. This is the blog of my Friday night homie and sometime Everly Brother, Jon Hunt.
Jon talks more than I do, which is fine because he's smarter and has more to say. Me, I'm just killin' time here, between Genetics and Microbiology. I have very few stories that would earn strong response from anyone, and most of the time I need to keep those to myself anyhow.
Jon's one of those guys that makes guys like me feel better, because one, it must be possible after all to make it all hang together; two, the crap we go through can eventually lead to very good places; and C, I guess maybe we're not so unalike as we've sometimes been lead to believe.
This place is about what it's like to chuck your cubicle job and go back to school; it's about what it's like to gradually become a medical person, while hoping to retain a shred of coolness and personality. Jon, by my reckoning anyhow, is largely about not having to do that. His cool side stays cool and his hot side stays hot, without a lot of outwardly visible effort. I guess his blog might be about that too; time will tell.
Go. Read. Enjoy. This is the blog of my Friday night homie and sometime Everly Brother, Jon Hunt.
Jon talks more than I do, which is fine because he's smarter and has more to say. Me, I'm just killin' time here, between Genetics and Microbiology. I have very few stories that would earn strong response from anyone, and most of the time I need to keep those to myself anyhow.
Jon's one of those guys that makes guys like me feel better, because one, it must be possible after all to make it all hang together; two, the crap we go through can eventually lead to very good places; and C, I guess maybe we're not so unalike as we've sometimes been lead to believe.
This place is about what it's like to chuck your cubicle job and go back to school; it's about what it's like to gradually become a medical person, while hoping to retain a shred of coolness and personality. Jon, by my reckoning anyhow, is largely about not having to do that. His cool side stays cool and his hot side stays hot, without a lot of outwardly visible effort. I guess his blog might be about that too; time will tell.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
booyah!
I am presently at the library, re-reactivating my virtual dissectible dude. It's a sweet program -- basically like the old-style antomy books with plate upon plate of plastic sheets you can peel back and look deeper -- except it periodically and spontaneously stops working. Then I email the pleasant-enough support guys, who send me a new activation key... and I wait a day or three until I can be on the Web with my laptop.
So I'm set up among the reference materials and periodicals. It's like 55 degrees here for no reason, and it's awesome, except this friggin wasp flies over to me and alights on the screen. Not cool. I brush it gently away with the envelope from the CD-ROM, without thinking back to the sting I got ON THE HAND when I caught one and tried to release it out the porch door last fall.
And it buzzes lazily over to my head.
Screw it. As of now, it's on. I am totally President Dubya now; maybe I started it, who can say, it was so long ago and anyway that's your opinion -- but the wasp reacted predictably with something that might have been defensiveness. Except I'm not like the Prez, because I killed the wasp swiftly and well. It landed on top of a road atlas; I moved the atlas to the floor, then dropped something subtitled 'the National Geographic Atlas of Ancient Places' on top. With a newspaper protecting the book, because I'm not a barbarian.
In other news, is anyone still reading this thing? Or have I completely reverted to "this is a good place to put stuff I'll need later" mode?
So I'm set up among the reference materials and periodicals. It's like 55 degrees here for no reason, and it's awesome, except this friggin wasp flies over to me and alights on the screen. Not cool. I brush it gently away with the envelope from the CD-ROM, without thinking back to the sting I got ON THE HAND when I caught one and tried to release it out the porch door last fall.
And it buzzes lazily over to my head.
Screw it. As of now, it's on. I am totally President Dubya now; maybe I started it, who can say, it was so long ago and anyway that's your opinion -- but the wasp reacted predictably with something that might have been defensiveness. Except I'm not like the Prez, because I killed the wasp swiftly and well. It landed on top of a road atlas; I moved the atlas to the floor, then dropped something subtitled 'the National Geographic Atlas of Ancient Places' on top. With a newspaper protecting the book, because I'm not a barbarian.
In other news, is anyone still reading this thing? Or have I completely reverted to "this is a good place to put stuff I'll need later" mode?
Sunday, February 12, 2006
No, really...
...I will post a review of "Candy Girl." Sometime. Another way I practice writing skill is to attempt media criticism (and as the book will attest, media criticism can get some people hot). So I have some organized thoughts. Right now, it's an ass-long yet not very good essay. If only it were more impenetrable, it would work for City Pages (I kid, because I love).
Friday, February 03, 2006
Batten the hatches...
...the "Things I Learned From My Patients" thread on SDN's Emergency Med board has been boingboinged, which is apparently a lot like being Slashdotted. This most ripe and piquant dish is something I've contributed to, from time to time. God help me.
Hopefully, this is roughly akin to Wyld Stallyns' demo tape finding its way to the airwaves.
Hopefully, this is roughly akin to Wyld Stallyns' demo tape finding its way to the airwaves.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Mnemonic Follies: Blood Cells
Neutrophils, eosinophils, and basophils are granulocytes; monocytes and leukocytes are agranulocytes. So, Phil looks grainy. Use any visual involving someone named Phil, and imagine a grainy photo. (Warning: multi-channel learners may associate visuals of musicians with that person's music, and bad music may lodge in your brain. Most Elvis Costello tunes will drive out "Sussudio.")
Neutrophils neutralize infections, usually bacterial ones.
Basophils release histamine and heparin; they pump out the bass of immune response.
Eosinophils (EE-oh-sin-uh-filz) fight parasites. Parasites; ewwwww!
Monocytes are single-minded killing machines.
Leukocytes come in T and B varieties; TB is a nasty bug itself; being given a grim diagnosis is as shocking and sucky as hearing, "Luke, I am your father."
Yes, that's Phil Collins and Empire Strikes Back. Yes, 'non-traditional student' does mean 'older.' Shut up.
Neutrophils neutralize infections, usually bacterial ones.
Basophils release histamine and heparin; they pump out the bass of immune response.
Eosinophils (EE-oh-sin-uh-filz) fight parasites. Parasites; ewwwww!
Monocytes are single-minded killing machines.
Leukocytes come in T and B varieties; TB is a nasty bug itself; being given a grim diagnosis is as shocking and sucky as hearing, "Luke, I am your father."
Yes, that's Phil Collins and Empire Strikes Back. Yes, 'non-traditional student' does mean 'older.' Shut up.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
I can't handle my handle
Hey cool. Look what I found:
http://vikingzen.blogspot.com/
Well, slap my ass and call me Shirley. Could it be that 2006 is the year I just gracefully give up on the 'zen viking' moniker? I mean, I try to maintain a certain equanimity and peacefulness in my dealings with the world and people in it. But in truth, I'm really more closely aligned with Taoism than Zen, if you want to talk seriously about philosophy and belief systems. And I almost never want to talk seriously about philosophy and belief systems. Plus, several people near and dear to me are actual, real practitioners of Zen. I'm merely Zen-esque, at best. I accomodate and engage in a certain amount of Zenoform behavior, to be medical-y about it.
Must mull this one over. I've been reading, listening, and generally experiencing the med-blog world a little more recently, and it could be time to make a leap to more frequent, shorter posts, so as to acknowledge I'm part of a genre now... and maybe even allow for some future inclusion in a list or blogroll.
Hmm. Thinking... thinking...
http://vikingzen.blogspot.com/
Well, slap my ass and call me Shirley. Could it be that 2006 is the year I just gracefully give up on the 'zen viking' moniker? I mean, I try to maintain a certain equanimity and peacefulness in my dealings with the world and people in it. But in truth, I'm really more closely aligned with Taoism than Zen, if you want to talk seriously about philosophy and belief systems. And I almost never want to talk seriously about philosophy and belief systems. Plus, several people near and dear to me are actual, real practitioners of Zen. I'm merely Zen-esque, at best. I accomodate and engage in a certain amount of Zenoform behavior, to be medical-y about it.
Must mull this one over. I've been reading, listening, and generally experiencing the med-blog world a little more recently, and it could be time to make a leap to more frequent, shorter posts, so as to acknowledge I'm part of a genre now... and maybe even allow for some future inclusion in a list or blogroll.
Hmm. Thinking... thinking...
Friday, January 20, 2006
Back in the Empire State, and the... flannel and Subaru state
And lo, it did come to pass that the non-trad did set out from his home, and traverse the miles. He did eat of the Steak N' Shake, and find a really decent, cheap motel in Elkhart, IN, and so it was that he was finished paying tolls for crappy roads and did settle back in rural New York.
And the school did begin, at the college on the "nice" side of the town, and as far as he could tell, he was appropriately registered and ready to rock. And thus did the study of blood commence.
And in that time of vacation, some modest events had transpired, and those stories would eventually be told on their own, but the main points were that the long-distance relationship was healthy and intact; the non-trad discovered he enjoyed single-malt Scotch; his mobile phone did plummet into an icy storm drain; and the chick from Friday karaoke with the book deal's book did indeed come out, and furthermore it did not suck. (Fuller review to follow, yo.)
And the Playstation football did recommence, and the non-trad found a very curious thing happening: a three-game winning streak. And thus was he moved to talk of the trash, as that is how the housemates did show their manly regard. And, it was good.
And the school did begin, at the college on the "nice" side of the town, and as far as he could tell, he was appropriately registered and ready to rock. And thus did the study of blood commence.
And in that time of vacation, some modest events had transpired, and those stories would eventually be told on their own, but the main points were that the long-distance relationship was healthy and intact; the non-trad discovered he enjoyed single-malt Scotch; his mobile phone did plummet into an icy storm drain; and the chick from Friday karaoke with the book deal's book did indeed come out, and furthermore it did not suck. (Fuller review to follow, yo.)
And the Playstation football did recommence, and the non-trad found a very curious thing happening: a three-game winning streak. And thus was he moved to talk of the trash, as that is how the housemates did show their manly regard. And, it was good.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
it's weird to be proud of this...
...but that's what working in healthcare is all about: re-ordering what used to be a normal, somewhat sane sense of how the world works.
I was back in the ED today for a few hours, doing my job. Wearin' of the maroon scrubs again. It was good to be back, nice to see some people. I even got to talk a little with a PA there who's been a great source of info and encouragement. And I was happy to find that my prime ED tech skill, the thing that sets me apart from the rest, is intact. Just as reliable and strong as if I hadn't been away six months. And that's what's weird, because while it's a pretty cool skill, it's not exactly "hits the vein every time" or "can instantly estimate heart rate within 2 beats a minute." I'm reasonably good at those things, but what do I win in the tech-skill lottery, as something I'm awesome at?
"Obtains rectal temp without baby crying."
Hey, whatever. You probably have some odd stuff you can do, because of your job.
I was back in the ED today for a few hours, doing my job. Wearin' of the maroon scrubs again. It was good to be back, nice to see some people. I even got to talk a little with a PA there who's been a great source of info and encouragement. And I was happy to find that my prime ED tech skill, the thing that sets me apart from the rest, is intact. Just as reliable and strong as if I hadn't been away six months. And that's what's weird, because while it's a pretty cool skill, it's not exactly "hits the vein every time" or "can instantly estimate heart rate within 2 beats a minute." I'm reasonably good at those things, but what do I win in the tech-skill lottery, as something I'm awesome at?
"Obtains rectal temp without baby crying."
Hey, whatever. You probably have some odd stuff you can do, because of your job.
Monday, January 02, 2006
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
I'm on break. This is, I think, almost excuse enough for not posting. I have plenty to say, and some of it might be interesting, but I am tired, dude.
There will be more soon, because as of mid-January I'll be back out at the Farmhouse, and taking only one of my three courses (for wacky two-school schedule reasons). I'll also be shadowing a local PA pretty much one day every week until June. Maybe then I can talk about my groovy recent shadowing experience in a notable ED which should remain nameless, or being kinda-sorta back in my home-base ED. I have a half-shift tomorrow, and I suppose that means I'll get paid a little.
Plus maybe there can be some random stuff about TV and movies, because while at school I just plain don't have much to say about those. For now, though: naps.
There will be more soon, because as of mid-January I'll be back out at the Farmhouse, and taking only one of my three courses (for wacky two-school schedule reasons). I'll also be shadowing a local PA pretty much one day every week until June. Maybe then I can talk about my groovy recent shadowing experience in a notable ED which should remain nameless, or being kinda-sorta back in my home-base ED. I have a half-shift tomorrow, and I suppose that means I'll get paid a little.
Plus maybe there can be some random stuff about TV and movies, because while at school I just plain don't have much to say about those. For now, though: naps.
Monday, December 26, 2005
Poor poor misunderstood horny giant ape
Saw "King Kong" tonight. Liked it, didn't love it. It was clearly a labor of love, and there's no questioning the commitment or the passion. But there is questioning some of the choices. Now that I have a scotch to drink, and I've played the Steve Miller Band's "Jungle Love" to get it out of my head, here's a few random thoughts:
* Naomi Watts is pretty. Pretty excellent!
* Adrien Brody: Mostly Harmless.
* Three hours, and they couldn't bring several of the plot threads to satisfying (or any) conclusions? Stand by for the five-hour director's cut, or else maybe the two-hour fifteen minute one.
* CGI in general was not awesome; several times it was obvious that people were green-screened. CGI for Kong was, as has been detailed elsewhere, awesome.
* Hey, you know, a stampede of brontosaurs would be pretty impressive all on its own. We don't necessarily need them to be a mobile rugby scrum which then turns to break-dancing.
* Jack Black: not just for comedy anymore.
* The natives; yes, racist. Any culture capable of building and maintaining those elaborate mechanisms of sacrifice-delivery would be capable of getting the fuck OFF the island. And we saw no reason for them to stay, like for example Kong-delivered fresh kills for the big village BBQ.
* Ape versus dino: yeah, that's what opposable thumbs can do for ya, beeyotch!
* When you bring a chick over to your place, you might find that she feels more at home if the bones of your ancestors aren't just lying about in plain sight. Unless she's gothy.
* For as wonderful as Watts is, seriously, somebody should have helped her learn to juggle for real. CGI rocks is Lucas-level indulgent.
...and in a word, that's my summation of the film. It was wonderful in spots, pretty solid overall as an entertainment in that Saturday-serial kind of way. But so very indulgent.
* Naomi Watts is pretty. Pretty excellent!
* Adrien Brody: Mostly Harmless.
* Three hours, and they couldn't bring several of the plot threads to satisfying (or any) conclusions? Stand by for the five-hour director's cut, or else maybe the two-hour fifteen minute one.
* CGI in general was not awesome; several times it was obvious that people were green-screened. CGI for Kong was, as has been detailed elsewhere, awesome.
* Hey, you know, a stampede of brontosaurs would be pretty impressive all on its own. We don't necessarily need them to be a mobile rugby scrum which then turns to break-dancing.
* Jack Black: not just for comedy anymore.
* The natives; yes, racist. Any culture capable of building and maintaining those elaborate mechanisms of sacrifice-delivery would be capable of getting the fuck OFF the island. And we saw no reason for them to stay, like for example Kong-delivered fresh kills for the big village BBQ.
* Ape versus dino: yeah, that's what opposable thumbs can do for ya, beeyotch!
* When you bring a chick over to your place, you might find that she feels more at home if the bones of your ancestors aren't just lying about in plain sight. Unless she's gothy.
* For as wonderful as Watts is, seriously, somebody should have helped her learn to juggle for real. CGI rocks is Lucas-level indulgent.
...and in a word, that's my summation of the film. It was wonderful in spots, pretty solid overall as an entertainment in that Saturday-serial kind of way. But so very indulgent.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Name-checked on Velcrometer. Sweet.
M. Giant said this, in a recent post about his offspring M. Small (aka Cuter Than Your Favorite Internet Kid)...
Screw the biological clock; the main reason you want to have a kid before a certain age is because you want to be young enough to be able to stand the levels of random cacophony that can burst forth at any moment.
Sigh. I am soooo boned. I already holler "get outta my yard!" at my traditionally-college-age friends, and it's only funny because it's true.
But thanks to RealAge.com, I can now confidently say that what I've suspected for years might be true: I can take back seven years. The calendar might talk some wack-ass jive about me being 35 and a half; but my diet, exercise, and other habits contribute to my being a lot more like 29.
(Between the ears, of course, I'll forever be a precocious 15. Ehhh, whatever. I've learned to accept it.)
SPECIAL BONUS NOTE: Blogger's spell-check applet doesn't recognize 'Velcrometer,' and suggests I replace with a list that's headed by "belligerent." Heh.
Screw the biological clock; the main reason you want to have a kid before a certain age is because you want to be young enough to be able to stand the levels of random cacophony that can burst forth at any moment.
Sigh. I am soooo boned. I already holler "get outta my yard!" at my traditionally-college-age friends, and it's only funny because it's true.
But thanks to RealAge.com, I can now confidently say that what I've suspected for years might be true: I can take back seven years. The calendar might talk some wack-ass jive about me being 35 and a half; but my diet, exercise, and other habits contribute to my being a lot more like 29.
(Between the ears, of course, I'll forever be a precocious 15. Ehhh, whatever. I've learned to accept it.)
SPECIAL BONUS NOTE: Blogger's spell-check applet doesn't recognize 'Velcrometer,' and suggests I replace with a list that's headed by "belligerent." Heh.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Blog Niblets
Just because I like the idea that people I know sometimes read this, and I sort of love the idea that people I don't know might also read this (maybe, a little, sometimes) I figure I should keep on going even if I don't happen to have a 10,000-word essay in me every day. So this is really just the blog equivalent of pulling slips of paper out of my pockets and sharing them.
Wow hey, now that I put it like that, I'm struck by two things: one, that's a pretty damn fine description of most of the blogs I read. Two, it's mind-boggling that anyone would actually want to read that kind of thing. I'm allegedly sort of intelligent, and I adore people's brain-lint if it's in blog form. But hey. It's the Internets. They's weird.
1. Pooper
In honor of my young nephew, whom I am told has recently conquered the diaper barrier and become potty-trained, I find that I actually have something to say about poop. It occurred to me today, strolling across the pitted gravel that passes for a commuter lot here at good ol' Hampden College, that one of the ways I know I really feel at home in a place, one of the signals that I've become "of" a place, is when I can mentally catalog a short list of nearby restrooms, and come up with the best place to take an impending dump.
Hey, the more I study the whole human biology/ anatomy/ physiology thing, the more I appreciate the simple side of life, sometimes.
The restroom in the big common building is okay, but something about it makes it a far better stop for your basic quick micturition event, rather than what my housemate calls "dropping The Deuce." It's not a sit-and-stay sort of a room; it's narrow and long, and since it's a single-occupancy room despite its size, there's no stall. Yet it's more busy and crowded outside in the hallway than it would be in a typical private home. The Dung Shui is wrong, is what I'm saying.
So, full of big dreams, high hopes, and a double serving of pasta from lunch, I wound up hitting the default pooper in the science building. Which is okay, but upon further reflection I should have gone to the one upstairs by the lab, rather than the one on the first floor. The downstairs one has but one toilet, as does the upstairs, but the crucial difference is height. The downstairs one is in a quasi-handicapped stall, and it's just slightly higher off the floor than a normal one. It's not that my legs dangle or anything -- I'm middle-sized, dammit, not short -- but it's sub-optimal. Easy to imagine the whole apparatus is on stilts or pilings. Like you're poopin' off the dock of the bay.
Okay, cool, so now I've used my blog to talk about pooping. Excellent. That should clear the karmic debt (or Midwestern guilt, or whatever) that I've been feeling since M. Small's birthday, when I suggested that the kid from Dooce.com is less cute than he is. Moving on, then.
2. Potter
It's movie time again. I watched movies 2 & 3 over the last couple days, and it's really true: the third movie is so much better, the first two films (relatively speaking) suck like a wood tick on Ecstasy. Happily, the early word on the new one is that it continues and even deepens the additions that movie 3 made (things like darkness, humor that's funny, magic that's magical, and characters with character). So, y'know, yay.
If there were a midnight show tonight within 30 miles, I'd be there elbow-checking fifth-graders for a good seat, but sadly, the town cinema doesn't feel a need to have a preview. All is forgiven, though, because our beloved college is having a midnight movie night Saturday/Sunday, and this means I can see the new one with the mass of drunken nerd-balls I share classes with, sans tiny tots who maybe shouldn't see this one until their parents can get a reliable friend to tell them how freaky the scary parts are.
As an aside: in this town, people who want to get the hell out of the house so badly they'd bring a squalling toddler to the movies far outnumber the more cautious, judicious types. To be fair, and to the credit of obviously superior parenting abilities, I saw Serenity with an 8-month-old not 20 feet away, and we all survived quite well. I hear the kid is already writing fanfic.
Besides, it's not like someone is going to spoil the story for me; I can wait a couple days. In addition, I think I mentioned the drunken nerd-ball nature of my classmates.
3. Partner
Teslagrrl is coming for Thanksgiving. Thank Jeebus. All the "how to not totally detonate your long-distance relationship" books and well-intended phone calls in the world can't compare to just one afternoon actually being in the same place. I think she would think it's amusing (or maybe I already mentioned this, and she did think it was amusing) that I once referred to her trips out here as 'conjugal visits,' but beyond the obvious benefits, her proximity has an agreeably civilizing effect on me, and I could probably use some of that as well.
...just not until after the boozing and bowling scheduled for tomorrow night, and the boozing and movie happening the next night. Yes, it's true: I'm becoming an undergrad. Hey, if the work is done and the grades are good, I tell my inner child to go to bed and give my inner 7th-year senior the keys. Seems to be a decent system so far.
Wow hey, now that I put it like that, I'm struck by two things: one, that's a pretty damn fine description of most of the blogs I read. Two, it's mind-boggling that anyone would actually want to read that kind of thing. I'm allegedly sort of intelligent, and I adore people's brain-lint if it's in blog form. But hey. It's the Internets. They's weird.
1. Pooper
In honor of my young nephew, whom I am told has recently conquered the diaper barrier and become potty-trained, I find that I actually have something to say about poop. It occurred to me today, strolling across the pitted gravel that passes for a commuter lot here at good ol' Hampden College, that one of the ways I know I really feel at home in a place, one of the signals that I've become "of" a place, is when I can mentally catalog a short list of nearby restrooms, and come up with the best place to take an impending dump.
Hey, the more I study the whole human biology/ anatomy/ physiology thing, the more I appreciate the simple side of life, sometimes.
The restroom in the big common building is okay, but something about it makes it a far better stop for your basic quick micturition event, rather than what my housemate calls "dropping The Deuce." It's not a sit-and-stay sort of a room; it's narrow and long, and since it's a single-occupancy room despite its size, there's no stall. Yet it's more busy and crowded outside in the hallway than it would be in a typical private home. The Dung Shui is wrong, is what I'm saying.
So, full of big dreams, high hopes, and a double serving of pasta from lunch, I wound up hitting the default pooper in the science building. Which is okay, but upon further reflection I should have gone to the one upstairs by the lab, rather than the one on the first floor. The downstairs one has but one toilet, as does the upstairs, but the crucial difference is height. The downstairs one is in a quasi-handicapped stall, and it's just slightly higher off the floor than a normal one. It's not that my legs dangle or anything -- I'm middle-sized, dammit, not short -- but it's sub-optimal. Easy to imagine the whole apparatus is on stilts or pilings. Like you're poopin' off the dock of the bay.
Okay, cool, so now I've used my blog to talk about pooping. Excellent. That should clear the karmic debt (or Midwestern guilt, or whatever) that I've been feeling since M. Small's birthday, when I suggested that the kid from Dooce.com is less cute than he is. Moving on, then.
2. Potter
It's movie time again. I watched movies 2 & 3 over the last couple days, and it's really true: the third movie is so much better, the first two films (relatively speaking) suck like a wood tick on Ecstasy. Happily, the early word on the new one is that it continues and even deepens the additions that movie 3 made (things like darkness, humor that's funny, magic that's magical, and characters with character). So, y'know, yay.
If there were a midnight show tonight within 30 miles, I'd be there elbow-checking fifth-graders for a good seat, but sadly, the town cinema doesn't feel a need to have a preview. All is forgiven, though, because our beloved college is having a midnight movie night Saturday/Sunday, and this means I can see the new one with the mass of drunken nerd-balls I share classes with, sans tiny tots who maybe shouldn't see this one until their parents can get a reliable friend to tell them how freaky the scary parts are.
As an aside: in this town, people who want to get the hell out of the house so badly they'd bring a squalling toddler to the movies far outnumber the more cautious, judicious types. To be fair, and to the credit of obviously superior parenting abilities, I saw Serenity with an 8-month-old not 20 feet away, and we all survived quite well. I hear the kid is already writing fanfic.
Besides, it's not like someone is going to spoil the story for me; I can wait a couple days. In addition, I think I mentioned the drunken nerd-ball nature of my classmates.
3. Partner
Teslagrrl is coming for Thanksgiving. Thank Jeebus. All the "how to not totally detonate your long-distance relationship" books and well-intended phone calls in the world can't compare to just one afternoon actually being in the same place. I think she would think it's amusing (or maybe I already mentioned this, and she did think it was amusing) that I once referred to her trips out here as 'conjugal visits,' but beyond the obvious benefits, her proximity has an agreeably civilizing effect on me, and I could probably use some of that as well.
...just not until after the boozing and bowling scheduled for tomorrow night, and the boozing and movie happening the next night. Yes, it's true: I'm becoming an undergrad. Hey, if the work is done and the grades are good, I tell my inner child to go to bed and give my inner 7th-year senior the keys. Seems to be a decent system so far.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
falling in love
I frequently fall in love. Intense, sudden, gratifying, silly, humbling, often temporary, though the temporariness turns out to be a help most of the time. I fall in love with ideas, images, words, inanimate objects, and occasionally, people. The people part tends to last a whole lot longer (hi, sweetie!).
You could dial back the language a little, and simply say I'm a fan of lots of little things and events, or I'm enthusiastic about the experiences I have, and the way I process stimuli. Or you could go basic, and say that I'm generally very happy with how things are going; that I love life. But as true as all the above is, saying it like that would leave out the sense of immediacy, and the messy, evanescent poetry that I feel when I'm, say, driving on a twisty mountain road, with the iPod playing something good and the warmth shining through the sunroof. That's the setting, and the action is I'm shifting from fourth to fifth while the road settles down under it all and reclines, finished with its few moments of the gyrating, swaying hippy dance some of the roads do here -- bam, that's the instant; I'm a little bit in love with life. The thing with me is that I fall just a tiny bit in love with the moment, and thus with the car, the weather, the trees, the music, road, the sun. Man, I love the sun. And I'm even more smitten with the moon; so much so it's damn near to monk-drowning levels. Don't even get me started.
So one of the great things about being here in New England pursuing this program is that I have opened up exponentially both my opportunities to fall in love in this way, and probably my capacity to do it. Sure, I worry sometimes that I may be extending my adolescence to an unhealthy degree, but then again maybe I'm holding on to that poetic side, in a very smart and useful way. Maybe this will become a core skill as I get into my chosen profession, and meander ever deeper into the responsible, focused, more complete kind of adulthood.
Heck, maybe the fight that broke out on the sidewalk outside the local bar where Teslagrrl and I were singing karaoke a couple weeks back was just a spilling over of that kind of love. It's my theory that more people want to be expressive than know how to be, so when the John Cougar is flowing as freely as the beer, things can happen. Fuses get lit, ya-yas come out, steam gets let off. Eventually shakin' your doughy butt, nodding your baseball cap, and yelling "yeah!" isn't enough anymore; you need something more powerfully poetic. Sadly, the most poetic and expressive tool in some guys' repertoire is throwing a punch. I suppose that does, technically, count as making a connection with someone. So there you go.
I'm going on about this now thanks to a recent post* on Diablo's blog, with a sweet and generous devotional to her hubby (who by the way, is a frickin' rock star not just literally, but figuratively). Is that too sincere? Shit, I mean it's a soppy and clearly Jaeger-fueled mash note. Some might say Diablo being sweet is surely some manner of evil plot, but I know better. In her singular style, the writing is frank, funny, and disarming, and then makes a face at you and grabs its crotch. Or yours. Basically her prose is, in my universe anyway, Terri Garr in a leather catsuit -- and that is just about the BEST COMPLIMENT POSSIBLE. Okay, maybe I'm a little in love with the writing now too. Put it on the list.
So, yes. New England autumn. Driving. Love. Things like that. It's by no means comprehensive, but to give you a better sense of what I'm talking about, here is a list of some of the things I have fallen in love with recently: my wool topcoat, Atmosphere's new album, stovetop percolator coffee, about 50% of the designs in the student fashion show I saw on Monday night, about 75% of the models in the fashion show, the normal standard distribution (a Statistics thing), White Russians mixed and served in pint glasses, my midterm grades, winning at Scrabble, and the crisp snap of November air.
I am also in love with my girlfriend, which I have to say is a very good thing indeed. As I mentioned, she was here a couple of weeks ago. I can't even remember what we were talking about, or why we were laughing, but we were. I'm sure it was very funny. Actually, screw that, we don't even need a reason, but the point is I'd said something funny in response to something she'd said that was funny, and her explanation of whatever goofy thing it was that she had said was to say "hey, I'm in love." And that's when I forgot what she'd been talking about, and just sort of marvelled at the whole thing.
Today, it strikes me that this is what I miss most, and what I miss out on the most, owing to our being 1000 miles apart. I lack for opportunities to fall in love with little things that have to do with her. This seems horribly unfair. It's fine when we do re-connect; we just pick right up where we were. But in the meantime, dang. Distance, boy. I don't know. What you gonna do?
Hey, that may have just become relevant to the ongoing saga of the non-traditional educational process. Sweet! If I just throw in the words "long-distance relationship," this post might even come up when med students and pre-med students search. Though PA students are, of course, better-looking and more fun, I have to make sure to put that in there as well.
* The slatternly fishwife should fix the photo in the post, because I've seen it and it's adorable.
You could dial back the language a little, and simply say I'm a fan of lots of little things and events, or I'm enthusiastic about the experiences I have, and the way I process stimuli. Or you could go basic, and say that I'm generally very happy with how things are going; that I love life. But as true as all the above is, saying it like that would leave out the sense of immediacy, and the messy, evanescent poetry that I feel when I'm, say, driving on a twisty mountain road, with the iPod playing something good and the warmth shining through the sunroof. That's the setting, and the action is I'm shifting from fourth to fifth while the road settles down under it all and reclines, finished with its few moments of the gyrating, swaying hippy dance some of the roads do here -- bam, that's the instant; I'm a little bit in love with life. The thing with me is that I fall just a tiny bit in love with the moment, and thus with the car, the weather, the trees, the music, road, the sun. Man, I love the sun. And I'm even more smitten with the moon; so much so it's damn near to monk-drowning levels. Don't even get me started.
So one of the great things about being here in New England pursuing this program is that I have opened up exponentially both my opportunities to fall in love in this way, and probably my capacity to do it. Sure, I worry sometimes that I may be extending my adolescence to an unhealthy degree, but then again maybe I'm holding on to that poetic side, in a very smart and useful way. Maybe this will become a core skill as I get into my chosen profession, and meander ever deeper into the responsible, focused, more complete kind of adulthood.
Heck, maybe the fight that broke out on the sidewalk outside the local bar where Teslagrrl and I were singing karaoke a couple weeks back was just a spilling over of that kind of love. It's my theory that more people want to be expressive than know how to be, so when the John Cougar is flowing as freely as the beer, things can happen. Fuses get lit, ya-yas come out, steam gets let off. Eventually shakin' your doughy butt, nodding your baseball cap, and yelling "yeah!" isn't enough anymore; you need something more powerfully poetic. Sadly, the most poetic and expressive tool in some guys' repertoire is throwing a punch. I suppose that does, technically, count as making a connection with someone. So there you go.
I'm going on about this now thanks to a recent post* on Diablo's blog, with a sweet and generous devotional to her hubby (who by the way, is a frickin' rock star not just literally, but figuratively). Is that too sincere? Shit, I mean it's a soppy and clearly Jaeger-fueled mash note. Some might say Diablo being sweet is surely some manner of evil plot, but I know better. In her singular style, the writing is frank, funny, and disarming, and then makes a face at you and grabs its crotch. Or yours. Basically her prose is, in my universe anyway, Terri Garr in a leather catsuit -- and that is just about the BEST COMPLIMENT POSSIBLE. Okay, maybe I'm a little in love with the writing now too. Put it on the list.
So, yes. New England autumn. Driving. Love. Things like that. It's by no means comprehensive, but to give you a better sense of what I'm talking about, here is a list of some of the things I have fallen in love with recently: my wool topcoat, Atmosphere's new album, stovetop percolator coffee, about 50% of the designs in the student fashion show I saw on Monday night, about 75% of the models in the fashion show, the normal standard distribution (a Statistics thing), White Russians mixed and served in pint glasses, my midterm grades, winning at Scrabble, and the crisp snap of November air.
I am also in love with my girlfriend, which I have to say is a very good thing indeed. As I mentioned, she was here a couple of weeks ago. I can't even remember what we were talking about, or why we were laughing, but we were. I'm sure it was very funny. Actually, screw that, we don't even need a reason, but the point is I'd said something funny in response to something she'd said that was funny, and her explanation of whatever goofy thing it was that she had said was to say "hey, I'm in love." And that's when I forgot what she'd been talking about, and just sort of marvelled at the whole thing.
Today, it strikes me that this is what I miss most, and what I miss out on the most, owing to our being 1000 miles apart. I lack for opportunities to fall in love with little things that have to do with her. This seems horribly unfair. It's fine when we do re-connect; we just pick right up where we were. But in the meantime, dang. Distance, boy. I don't know. What you gonna do?
Hey, that may have just become relevant to the ongoing saga of the non-traditional educational process. Sweet! If I just throw in the words "long-distance relationship," this post might even come up when med students and pre-med students search. Though PA students are, of course, better-looking and more fun, I have to make sure to put that in there as well.
* The slatternly fishwife should fix the photo in the post, because I've seen it and it's adorable.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
