Hm? Oh no, I'm not posting my essay here. Not yet, anyhow. I've already told you, it'll be put up in this space after I get my acceptance from [name of world-class program here]. Heck, CASPA just opened up a week ago. No, this post is to laugh at myself and how verbose I am. And simultaneously demonstrate.
The instructions at the mack-daddy app site say this:
USING YOUR OWN WORDS, in the space provided (2970 character count, this is about 495 words), write a brief statement expressing your motivation or desire to become a physician assistant. You are encouraged to save your work often in the event that your are timed out of the system.
Okay, well, first off, the all-caps reminding people not to plagiarize doesn't inspire a lot of awe in me, when it comes to who my competitors are going to be. I mean, there's already an anecdotal undercurrent of complaining out on SDN and other sites, because many of today's PA school grads are fresh-faced young kids with no experience to speak of, rather than the hardened vets that began the profession. (Not that I've seen anything like the complaints about Australian 6th-years who can't find the prostate on a diagram, but these things are relative.) If they're at all likely to get all Trace Viswanathan on top of that, then heck, I'm a friggin' paragon of virtue over here! Witness over a year's worth of my unique narrative voice, n' stuff.
Yeah, that's right. The blog might actually be helpful to the app process. Conceivably. Maybe. Crazy like a fox, yo.
Secondly, if you needed any further evidence that this is the 21st century, dig that "2970 characters" thing. I absolutely adore the fact that nobody decided to just bump it to 3000 and call it good. Long about interview season, I imagine many of us will start thinking of that 2970 as some Lost-style clue about what dark forces actually underlie the application process.
Third, a typo? On the instructions for the application? "in the event that your are timed out of the system," huh. Okey-fine, but I get a typo in return, and you can't ding me for it.
Lastly, CASPA earns my respect (and a sweet, chaste kiss on its sharply-designed but user-friendly little cheek) for that reminder to save often. Although, seriously. Everybody knows that if you're actually composing your 400-odd words right there on the spot, rather than just copy-n-pasting it into the text box, then you're either a total schmoe-donkey or you're Chuck Norris.
Anyway, here's the great thing about my first draft: 806 words (non-Asian words, thank you Microsoft Word for that). 3774 characters with no spaces.
And the relevant number? With spaces and punctuation, 4578.
Sigh...
(special thanks to my housemate the Drummer, for the term "schmoe-donkey.")
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Monday, May 08, 2006
Like, totally awesome
You know what's fun? Roller skating.
You know what's more fun than merely roller skating? Roller skating after midnight, in the wood-floored auditorium normally used for orchestra concerts (and fashion shows, since I go the school I go to, but still; it's at school, see). And to ramp up the fun to stupid levels, what you do is you rent 300 pairs of skates, you hang a disco ball in the rafters, and you have 80s music blaring.
Then, since I go to the school I go to, what happens is the kids get all dressed up like crazy rolling ravers. Sugary snacks were provided, so at any given time about a quarter of the people on the floor were sporting pacifier-style suckers with big red plastic lips on the outside. We had ice princess skirts, we had roller derby people of many genders, we had one dude dressed like a mountain goat, we had a woman who wore bloomers and a camisole with the face and boobs of an inflatable doll pasted on the appropriate places of the outfit. And we had me, looking completely normal but being one of the few if not the only one who ever went roller skating like that, as a suburban youth, when the music was current.
What's different now, as opposed to when I was 14? Well, for one, I watched the Suns beat the crap out of the Lakers at the campus pub before I went over, and had a nice four-beer buzz on, so I was more fluid and relaxed -- and that turns out to be quite handy when you're negotiating a crowd of skaters that's 30% better than you, 40% as good as you, and 30% much, much worse. Like the man said: you fall three times, you get up four. That was me. But three falls in three hours ain't bad.
Other than that, it was exactly the same as 7th grade: say hi to some friends, but generally keep moving. Get the hell off the floor to show the DJ my disdain for Meat Loaf, and get out there for the Duran Duran and the Van Halen. Totally not getany much attention from the ladies. (Which of course is more than okay these days.)
The college's irony switch was on the fritz that night, so I couldn't tell who was making fun of skating and who was just skating. Several people might have had actual, non-snarky fun. Someone I know was shouting at a friend at intervals, as he came around the oval each time:
"Admit that you're skating!"
Exactly.
You know what's more fun than merely roller skating? Roller skating after midnight, in the wood-floored auditorium normally used for orchestra concerts (and fashion shows, since I go the school I go to, but still; it's at school, see). And to ramp up the fun to stupid levels, what you do is you rent 300 pairs of skates, you hang a disco ball in the rafters, and you have 80s music blaring.
Then, since I go to the school I go to, what happens is the kids get all dressed up like crazy rolling ravers. Sugary snacks were provided, so at any given time about a quarter of the people on the floor were sporting pacifier-style suckers with big red plastic lips on the outside. We had ice princess skirts, we had roller derby people of many genders, we had one dude dressed like a mountain goat, we had a woman who wore bloomers and a camisole with the face and boobs of an inflatable doll pasted on the appropriate places of the outfit. And we had me, looking completely normal but being one of the few if not the only one who ever went roller skating like that, as a suburban youth, when the music was current.
What's different now, as opposed to when I was 14? Well, for one, I watched the Suns beat the crap out of the Lakers at the campus pub before I went over, and had a nice four-beer buzz on, so I was more fluid and relaxed -- and that turns out to be quite handy when you're negotiating a crowd of skaters that's 30% better than you, 40% as good as you, and 30% much, much worse. Like the man said: you fall three times, you get up four. That was me. But three falls in three hours ain't bad.
Other than that, it was exactly the same as 7th grade: say hi to some friends, but generally keep moving. Get the hell off the floor to show the DJ my disdain for Meat Loaf, and get out there for the Duran Duran and the Van Halen. Totally not get
The college's irony switch was on the fritz that night, so I couldn't tell who was making fun of skating and who was just skating. Several people might have had actual, non-snarky fun. Someone I know was shouting at a friend at intervals, as he came around the oval each time:
"Admit that you're skating!"
Exactly.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Time keeps on slippin', slippin'...
Yeah, no post for a while. Oops. TeslaGrl was here on a visit (aww, the last one of the year! Last meal at the diner; last Dramamine dose on the plane!), plus things are speeding up. I'm done with my A&P class -- well, will be, after Friday's final. And catching up on back homework.
Then I'm done with the whole year as of the end of this new month. Sheeeez.
Today I got a list of questions to answer, for my final advising interview. Questions like, "why do you want to be a PA?" and "why this, as opposed to other health professions?"
Aha. Sweetness. Because this is where I start to feel like a pretty good candidate: you see, I know the answers to these questions.
Then I'm done with the whole year as of the end of this new month. Sheeeez.
Today I got a list of questions to answer, for my final advising interview. Questions like, "why do you want to be a PA?" and "why this, as opposed to other health professions?"
Aha. Sweetness. Because this is where I start to feel like a pretty good candidate: you see, I know the answers to these questions.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Meanwhile...
I got an A on my Genetics paper. And I emailed Trash, using M. Small as the test subject in a little thought experiment about the topic. It's fun to be a science nerd, especially when your friends are, too.
TeslaGrl thinks I should just post the whole thing. I hesitate (although she's awesome, and furthermore very bright) beause I think I can make the whole thing shorter, and funnier, if and when I explain it here. It's a shame; I never got the extra points I was seeking for bringing the funny, and in terms of academic applications, I just stopped trying.
I know I'll be at The Perfect Program if, in the interview, I get a question like "how would you make cell respiration more, I don't know, snappy?" or "I'm a studio executive, and you're a director who wants to make a movie about the citric acid cycle. Pitch me."
I'm also working on my "Personal Statement." This is the essay one writes, when one is hoping to gain admission to one of the competitive graduate programs that prepare one to practice medicine. In other words, it's the "why you should accept me, rather than the other 15 to 300 peeps who want that same spot" essay.
It's going okay. So far I've written the previous blog entry, and some emails.
Did I mention there's a limit of around 400 or 450 words? Yeah, this will be interesting.
UPDATE: Ha! An opening paragraph. It sucks, but hey, it's an opening paragraph. (You can read the finished product as soon as I'm accepted to a program.)
TeslaGrl thinks I should just post the whole thing. I hesitate (although she's awesome, and furthermore very bright) beause I think I can make the whole thing shorter, and funnier, if and when I explain it here. It's a shame; I never got the extra points I was seeking for bringing the funny, and in terms of academic applications, I just stopped trying.
I know I'll be at The Perfect Program if, in the interview, I get a question like "how would you make cell respiration more, I don't know, snappy?" or "I'm a studio executive, and you're a director who wants to make a movie about the citric acid cycle. Pitch me."
I'm also working on my "Personal Statement." This is the essay one writes, when one is hoping to gain admission to one of the competitive graduate programs that prepare one to practice medicine. In other words, it's the "why you should accept me, rather than the other 15 to 300 peeps who want that same spot" essay.
It's going okay. So far I've written the previous blog entry, and some emails.
Did I mention there's a limit of around 400 or 450 words? Yeah, this will be interesting.
UPDATE: Ha! An opening paragraph. It sucks, but hey, it's an opening paragraph. (You can read the finished product as soon as I'm accepted to a program.)
Silvergirl-Crazy
Clearly, a particular Minneapolis inner-ring suburb is the new epicenter of cool. I'm putting out the call to my crew back home: someone else needs to make a movie, or a computer game, or design a personal jetpack or something. Because right now, the Busey-Hunt household is walking away with the 1000-meter freestyle "create bitchin' pop culture" event.
I am presently in the computer lab, listening to the new Silvergirl album on headphones. I have no fewer than two Jon Hunts plus a roomful of Jon-powered instruments going. It's a Jon-a-copia over here.
The talent-to-technology ratio on this record is exactly the inverse of what you'd find in an Ashley-- no, a Jessica Simpson project. It's just that good, and that genuine. And just to name one strong point, there are more graceful, lovely bridges on this album than in California itself.
Go. Listen. Become smitten with the sound.
I listened to it last night. This was me, at a key point: "Is that... I think he... oh my god! BACKWARD GUITAR! BACKWARD GUITAR! Sa-weeeet." Even if I only sorta liked the rest of it, Jon would earn a Big Gulp of good karma just from that.
I am presently in the computer lab, listening to the new Silvergirl album on headphones. I have no fewer than two Jon Hunts plus a roomful of Jon-powered instruments going. It's a Jon-a-copia over here.
The talent-to-technology ratio on this record is exactly the inverse of what you'd find in an Ashley-- no, a Jessica Simpson project. It's just that good, and that genuine. And just to name one strong point, there are more graceful, lovely bridges on this album than in California itself.
Go. Listen. Become smitten with the sound.
I listened to it last night. This was me, at a key point: "Is that... I think he... oh my god! BACKWARD GUITAR! BACKWARD GUITAR! Sa-weeeet." Even if I only sorta liked the rest of it, Jon would earn a Big Gulp of good karma just from that.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Working. Can't post.
Yo. Welcome to any curious onlookers who may have flipped over here from Diablo's lil' blog. I wish I had something to say about my sex organs... actually, I was talking earlier about prostate issues, come to think of it... but anyway.
So the deal is, I'm an old dude (same age as Jon, so in other words, not really old at all), but I'm back in undergrad for a bit, finishing up requirements so that I may go forth and be a healer. Except not one of those obnoxious, over-educated ones. Well, I mean, yes I'm obnoxious, but more in a lovable way than an "I know better than you" way. I live in New England, but the year is almost over, so I'll be back home in the Twin Towns soon.
I'd love to say more, only I'm giving a presentation on a monkey virus and its possible role in human cancers, in about an hour. I'm done with the hard stuff, but I need to choose which cute monkey photos go into the PowerPoint presentation.
I'll say more soon, about the career, about the crazy state of health care right here and now, and about weird stuff like left-handedness and whether it's genetic. (Hint: yes it is. And there's a thing about which way the whorl on the back of your head goes. Very cool, but then I'm in like Nerd Boot Camp now.)
So the deal is, I'm an old dude (same age as Jon, so in other words, not really old at all), but I'm back in undergrad for a bit, finishing up requirements so that I may go forth and be a healer. Except not one of those obnoxious, over-educated ones. Well, I mean, yes I'm obnoxious, but more in a lovable way than an "I know better than you" way. I live in New England, but the year is almost over, so I'll be back home in the Twin Towns soon.
I'd love to say more, only I'm giving a presentation on a monkey virus and its possible role in human cancers, in about an hour. I'm done with the hard stuff, but I need to choose which cute monkey photos go into the PowerPoint presentation.
I'll say more soon, about the career, about the crazy state of health care right here and now, and about weird stuff like left-handedness and whether it's genetic. (Hint: yes it is. And there's a thing about which way the whorl on the back of your head goes. Very cool, but then I'm in like Nerd Boot Camp now.)
Sunday, April 09, 2006
In Which I Am Visited by My Old Friend, Sleep Disturbance
Funny dreams, lately.
There was the one where my program director was leading a few of us up a rickety old wooden staircase, like the one in Vertigo. She was happy and social, which matches well to the reality of who she is as a person, but poorly to her persona (we decided long ago it's more fun, and somehow more emotionally accurate, if her persona is about calling us fat and making us cry). There was something at the top of the stairs she wanted me to see. And of course, I woke up before we got to the top.
(I have a theory that the brain can actually work backwards in dreams, and then rearrange the narrative in memory, sort of like the retina sees an upside-down image, but that's a tangent. It does, however, explain some things.)
Last night, I worked until I lost my mental sharpness; then I puttered around until I felt tired; then I puttered a little more until I thought I was physically wiped enough to sleep.
hah.
But then again, when I thought it must be 2, it was 4:15. So it was a good night. But the good REM sleep doesn't hit me until it's just about alarm time. This morning, I had a poignant and sad little dream. It was even in black and white, which my brain uses for mood purposes.
Somebody I haven't talked to in a while had, in the dream, died. Not right then; she'd been dead for a while. But in Gaimanesque fashion, it wasn't a big deal. We spoke on the phone every now and then. But since I had to change phones after I dropped mine in down a storm drain during winter break, I didn't have her number (in... death-land I guess) in my phone. And I couldn't find the slip of paper which held it. You can't just look that stuff up, y'know?
And so I got to go through the frantic-looking phase, then the coming-to-terms with having lost the thing phase, and finally the acceptance that those days are gone phase. All before waking up.
Which in some ways is really refreshing. But I did just email some people I haven't touched base with in a while. Message received! Thank you, Messrs. Hypothalamus and Brainstem!
There was the one where my program director was leading a few of us up a rickety old wooden staircase, like the one in Vertigo. She was happy and social, which matches well to the reality of who she is as a person, but poorly to her persona (we decided long ago it's more fun, and somehow more emotionally accurate, if her persona is about calling us fat and making us cry). There was something at the top of the stairs she wanted me to see. And of course, I woke up before we got to the top.
(I have a theory that the brain can actually work backwards in dreams, and then rearrange the narrative in memory, sort of like the retina sees an upside-down image, but that's a tangent. It does, however, explain some things.)
Last night, I worked until I lost my mental sharpness; then I puttered around until I felt tired; then I puttered a little more until I thought I was physically wiped enough to sleep.
hah.
But then again, when I thought it must be 2, it was 4:15. So it was a good night. But the good REM sleep doesn't hit me until it's just about alarm time. This morning, I had a poignant and sad little dream. It was even in black and white, which my brain uses for mood purposes.
Somebody I haven't talked to in a while had, in the dream, died. Not right then; she'd been dead for a while. But in Gaimanesque fashion, it wasn't a big deal. We spoke on the phone every now and then. But since I had to change phones after I dropped mine in down a storm drain during winter break, I didn't have her number (in... death-land I guess) in my phone. And I couldn't find the slip of paper which held it. You can't just look that stuff up, y'know?
And so I got to go through the frantic-looking phase, then the coming-to-terms with having lost the thing phase, and finally the acceptance that those days are gone phase. All before waking up.
Which in some ways is really refreshing. But I did just email some people I haven't touched base with in a while. Message received! Thank you, Messrs. Hypothalamus and Brainstem!
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Ideally
The Mayo Clinic (quite possibly the very best medical practice anywhere, anytime -- and one of the schools I'd love to attend, why no I'm not sucking up pre-emptively, thanks) has just published an interesting new paper, which one of my classmates sent around today. It aims to identify and describe the qualities that patients are looking for in their providers. My response to it is one part "duh"-based affirmation of common-sense things, one part quietly impressed at the things patients notice and react to, and two parts relief that The System is paying attention.
For good or ill, and I happen to think it's mostly good, this whole idea of "customer service concepts have important ramifications in the medical world" has become quite mainstream. As a patient, this makes me happy because it affirms the times I've felt slighted, or felt the doc's style had a negative effect on my care. As an emergency medical paraprofessional-slash-hospital flunky, it makes me happy because my jocular, light touch might actually be noticed and appreciated by somebody. As an applicant, it makes me happy that I:
For good or ill, and I happen to think it's mostly good, this whole idea of "customer service concepts have important ramifications in the medical world" has become quite mainstream. As a patient, this makes me happy because it affirms the times I've felt slighted, or felt the doc's style had a negative effect on my care. As an emergency medical paraprofessional-slash-hospital flunky, it makes me happy because my jocular, light touch might actually be noticed and appreciated by somebody. As an applicant, it makes me happy that I:
- Have a relatively heavy run of patient-care experience on my resume
- Have done a boatload of shadowing (and not just for the letters, either, but for the experience and perspective)
- Am such a freak about communication skills
- Used to friggin' teach customer service in the corporate world
Friday, March 31, 2006
August 18th
I am approximately 60 days from graduation. My class at South Side of Town College ends late in April, with the final in the first week of May, and graduation at North Side of Town College is right around my birthday, the first week of June.
It's a bittersweet thing. It will be great to have gone through my self-described big, transformative year, especially if my GPA looks good. (Which it will, because I'm focused and capable now in ways I wasn't in undergrad.) It will be double-plus-great to be back in a "normal" relationship with Teslagrl, without the pesky distance. But it'll be sad, too. I'll miss my classmates, and certain of the undergrads I've bonded with.
Plus, I'll need to get on that GRE thing, and keep up with the application process I'll be starting even before I'm done here. It's going to be a whole new kind of tough, high-stakes mission. More on the line than ever before; less time to get it all to work out; closer to what I'll be doing for the rest of my life. Heavy stuff.
But it'll all be okay, because mid-August, Snakes On A Plane is coming out. I will make sure that I'm not supposed to be working that night; I'll clear my calendar of all else. I and everyone I know (or at least those who recognize the purity and joy surrounding this movie's release) will be in a cineplex, watching Samuel L. Jackson taser a snake in the face.
It doesn't have to be a good movie. It's already perfect. It's snakes, on a plane. You dig?
It's a bittersweet thing. It will be great to have gone through my self-described big, transformative year, especially if my GPA looks good. (Which it will, because I'm focused and capable now in ways I wasn't in undergrad.) It will be double-plus-great to be back in a "normal" relationship with Teslagrl, without the pesky distance. But it'll be sad, too. I'll miss my classmates, and certain of the undergrads I've bonded with.
Plus, I'll need to get on that GRE thing, and keep up with the application process I'll be starting even before I'm done here. It's going to be a whole new kind of tough, high-stakes mission. More on the line than ever before; less time to get it all to work out; closer to what I'll be doing for the rest of my life. Heavy stuff.
But it'll all be okay, because mid-August, Snakes On A Plane is coming out. I will make sure that I'm not supposed to be working that night; I'll clear my calendar of all else. I and everyone I know (or at least those who recognize the purity and joy surrounding this movie's release) will be in a cineplex, watching Samuel L. Jackson taser a snake in the face.
It doesn't have to be a good movie. It's already perfect. It's snakes, on a plane. You dig?
Monday, March 27, 2006
Overlooked and Under-Appreciated
No, I'm not referring to myself. I get a fair bit of appreciation from my peers and professors, actually. Sure, it's rarely of the simple eyebrows-up, dude, I'm impressed variety; what I get is more frequently of the head-shaking, I'm being understanding of your specialness right now variety; or the you sure have guts, kid, but why do you have to make it so tough on yourself? variety.
...And of course, to the latter I can only respond with a shrug and a look that says, because I'm a good cop, dammit, and this city has seen enough compromise! Now are you going to take away my badge, or should I get back to doing my job? And then, after a tense five-second staring contest, I stride back out into the squadroom while the Chief slumps in his chair and knocks back a slug of Pepto-Bismol. Maybe he yells after me about how someday (I'm) going to stick my neck out so far not even (he) can stop the axe, and maybe not.
No, wait. Was that me? Hm. Anyway, I'm not under-appreciated, really. But at least 100 movies are. The Online Film Critics' Society has compiled a list; these are, one is given to understand, the Top 100 Overlooked Films of the 1990's.
Thanks to Girl D for making me aware of this -- I learned the phrase "Cheese Sandwich Blog" from Diablo C earlier today, and if there's a phrase or a vocab word for I read this on someone else's blog and thought it was so cool I just nakedly stole it to recycle for my own purposes, then this would be a shining example of that.
(If there isn't already a word, I'd like to nominate "yoink!," for reasons that are obvious to Simpsons fans.)
Things that impress me about this list include, of course, how many of the 100 I have seen (31, which I assume to mean I'm approximately 31% cooler than the hypothetical person or people who could have made it through the 90's easily without seeing any of these films). Also the fact that it includes movies I've championed in movie-nerd discussions before. If the Interweb is for nothing else, it's for hollow validation from random strangers! Plus, the vast majority of the list is films I have been intending to see for... well, I guess the aughts are over half done with, so six to 16 years, with a median of 11. (Yeah, I took Stats and liked it.)
I know you're dying to know some of my faves when it comes to movies. I'm technically a playwright (in much the same way people are "technically a virgin"). You're especially dying to know if you've ever asked me, and received that weaselly answer of mine, which requires a genre or a time period to even get close and -- okay, nobody really cares that much. Suffice to say, the OFCS gets my appreciation for including, among others, such films as...
16) That Thing You Do
18) Sneakers
19) Zero Effect
21) Truly, Madly, Deeply
32) Defending Your Life
34) Bringing Out the Dead
39) Beautiful Girls
42) Richard III
45) My Neighbor Totoro
59) Joe Versus the Volcano
63) Croupier
and
74) Flirting With Disaster
Whoa. And that's just the ones I was really excited about. Who wants to argue? Who wants to agree? Who's got something that shoulda been on that list?
...And of course, to the latter I can only respond with a shrug and a look that says, because I'm a good cop, dammit, and this city has seen enough compromise! Now are you going to take away my badge, or should I get back to doing my job? And then, after a tense five-second staring contest, I stride back out into the squadroom while the Chief slumps in his chair and knocks back a slug of Pepto-Bismol. Maybe he yells after me about how someday (I'm) going to stick my neck out so far not even (he) can stop the axe, and maybe not.
No, wait. Was that me? Hm. Anyway, I'm not under-appreciated, really. But at least 100 movies are. The Online Film Critics' Society has compiled a list; these are, one is given to understand, the Top 100 Overlooked Films of the 1990's.
Thanks to Girl D for making me aware of this -- I learned the phrase "Cheese Sandwich Blog" from Diablo C earlier today, and if there's a phrase or a vocab word for I read this on someone else's blog and thought it was so cool I just nakedly stole it to recycle for my own purposes, then this would be a shining example of that.
(If there isn't already a word, I'd like to nominate "yoink!," for reasons that are obvious to Simpsons fans.)
Things that impress me about this list include, of course, how many of the 100 I have seen (31, which I assume to mean I'm approximately 31% cooler than the hypothetical person or people who could have made it through the 90's easily without seeing any of these films). Also the fact that it includes movies I've championed in movie-nerd discussions before. If the Interweb is for nothing else, it's for hollow validation from random strangers! Plus, the vast majority of the list is films I have been intending to see for... well, I guess the aughts are over half done with, so six to 16 years, with a median of 11. (Yeah, I took Stats and liked it.)
I know you're dying to know some of my faves when it comes to movies. I'm technically a playwright (in much the same way people are "technically a virgin"). You're especially dying to know if you've ever asked me, and received that weaselly answer of mine, which requires a genre or a time period to even get close and -- okay, nobody really cares that much. Suffice to say, the OFCS gets my appreciation for including, among others, such films as...
16) That Thing You Do
18) Sneakers
19) Zero Effect
21) Truly, Madly, Deeply
32) Defending Your Life
34) Bringing Out the Dead
39) Beautiful Girls
42) Richard III
45) My Neighbor Totoro
59) Joe Versus the Volcano
63) Croupier
and
74) Flirting With Disaster
Whoa. And that's just the ones I was really excited about. Who wants to argue? Who wants to agree? Who's got something that shoulda been on that list?
I Saw Dead People
The exhibition was coolio, as anticipated. Plus the bus was cushy and coachy. More on that whole deal later, when I'm not talking about movies again.
Friday, March 24, 2006
The poop on poop
Some days, I'm a little bewildered. I wonder if I'm actually making the most of this singular year of transformative coolness, squeezing all the juice from my borrowed return to college. And then there are days like today.
I just got out of a 90-minute lecture on the lower parts of the digestive system; we basically talked about poop the whole time. People with nursing, rad tech, and ER experience pretended to contribute relevant information while actually one-upping one another in the grossness contest. It was awesome.
Plus, there's a class trip to NYC on Sunday, to see the Bodies exhibition at South Street Seaport. Cool: I'll see dead people. Not cool: getting up at 5:30am on Sunday in order to make a 7:45 departure on a three-hour bus tour. But still.
It's a med-nerd extravaganza ovah heah!
I just got out of a 90-minute lecture on the lower parts of the digestive system; we basically talked about poop the whole time. People with nursing, rad tech, and ER experience pretended to contribute relevant information while actually one-upping one another in the grossness contest. It was awesome.
Plus, there's a class trip to NYC on Sunday, to see the Bodies exhibition at South Street Seaport. Cool: I'll see dead people. Not cool: getting up at 5:30am on Sunday in order to make a 7:45 departure on a three-hour bus tour. But still.
It's a med-nerd extravaganza ovah heah!
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
I feel your pain
Over at Ah, Yes, the Fake Doc continues to impress me with a possibly-still-kinda-drunk post about interviewing "standardized patients." These are, in a nutshell, actors hired to play the part of patients, so medical trainees can hone their skillz with history-taking and exams (although not even the med schools that are literally off-Broadway actually have the students do much by way of examining; the actor/patient gets a little card with various results and outcomes listed). I had enough to say in response that I'm copying myself here.
1) I just read something in (an admittedly last-year-ish) JAMA about how lame standardized patient "encounters" are. I think the jist of it was, "wow, these suck, but I guess they're slightly above totally useless." I'm paraphrasing.
2) Speaking as a dude with a Theatre Arts degree, who is now heading into the medical-education meat grinder, my first day with a standardized patient is going to be the BEST DAY EVER.
Pt: "I, um, have this chest pain. It feels like--"
Me: "Bullshit. I didn't believe that for a second. What objective are you supposed to be playing? Are you trying to bring that weak-ass Uta Hagen crap in here? Are you? Huh? Oh, does this bother you? Criticism of your lousy technique? You want to cry? Yeah? Well, imagine that irritation you're feeling toward me is coming from your chest... Okay. Now do it again."
Ahhh, I miss undergrad sometimes.
1) I just read something in (an admittedly last-year-ish) JAMA about how lame standardized patient "encounters" are. I think the jist of it was, "wow, these suck, but I guess they're slightly above totally useless." I'm paraphrasing.
2) Speaking as a dude with a Theatre Arts degree, who is now heading into the medical-education meat grinder, my first day with a standardized patient is going to be the BEST DAY EVER.
Pt: "I, um, have this chest pain. It feels like--"
Me: "Bullshit. I didn't believe that for a second. What objective are you supposed to be playing? Are you trying to bring that weak-ass Uta Hagen crap in here? Are you? Huh? Oh, does this bother you? Criticism of your lousy technique? You want to cry? Yeah? Well, imagine that irritation you're feeling toward me is coming from your chest... Okay. Now do it again."
Ahhh, I miss undergrad sometimes.
Being comfortable with being uncomfortable
Here's what I've been on about lately. Watch; learn; discover; discuss.
Microbiology is cool. My girlfriend is, of course, just the coolest. But watching Dave Letterman complimenting my bud Diablo on her "entertaining... informative... insighful... very funny" book is this week's whole new brand of cool. It'll bend your brain to see it: holy crap, there's someone I know on Letterman. And as a real guest, too, not for some bullshit "random guest" reason like because she built a ten-foot lunar Lander out of cardboard tampon applicators. Which she totally would, under the right circumstances.
I guess one reason this subject gets me so jazzed is that, now that I'm on my path to a real, grown-up life, I can hope for a certain brand of coolness and satisfaction, maybe even a careful and respectful kind of celebrity. But if I'm to ever become a rock star, it'll have to be within a context that I don't get to choose. It'll be with modifiers and specificity, or else it'll be utterly underground. Which is actually sort of bitchin', but still. As I recall, Dave trotted out the team who took care of him during his bypass operation. That was awesome. But he didn't banter a whole lot with them, and I don't think they spoke at any length.
Note please: I'm not feeling regretful here. Nor am I suggesting regular folks like me can't achieve. One of my oldest and dearest friends spent a year writing for A Prairie Home Companion. I myself spent a season with the coolest acting company in a town full of great theatres, and I road-tripped to see one of my own little one-acts performed in a festival. I know no fewer than four people who write better screenplays than 80% of what's in cinemas now. It's just that, y'know, I have massive loan debt and the best job in the world out there, someplace ahead... on something of a rigid, circumscribed road. It's great, only now I really, really can't chuck it all and join the circus. (Well, in fact, I just did that last summer, so what I mean is, I can't do it again.)
So if I'm a little ebullient, a wee bit pumped up about the latest and, we shall see, perhaps biggest of these successes-by-association, maybe there's an element of melancholy too. Let's say I write essays like Atul Gawande, only snarkier. Or I join up with some damn medical drama on TV for a while. Would I have patients who would think it's cool, and not inappropriate, if some little part of their story gets woven into fiction? Would I ever have patients again?
'Course, there's always the pseudonymous blogger-turned "real" writer thing. I hear that can work, sometimes. I'd just have to stick to magazine interviews with no photos. Hey, Scrubs: call me! (Hey, Grey's Anatomy: DON'T call me!)
Microbiology is cool. My girlfriend is, of course, just the coolest. But watching Dave Letterman complimenting my bud Diablo on her "entertaining... informative... insighful... very funny" book is this week's whole new brand of cool. It'll bend your brain to see it: holy crap, there's someone I know on Letterman. And as a real guest, too, not for some bullshit "random guest" reason like because she built a ten-foot lunar Lander out of cardboard tampon applicators. Which she totally would, under the right circumstances.
I guess one reason this subject gets me so jazzed is that, now that I'm on my path to a real, grown-up life, I can hope for a certain brand of coolness and satisfaction, maybe even a careful and respectful kind of celebrity. But if I'm to ever become a rock star, it'll have to be within a context that I don't get to choose. It'll be with modifiers and specificity, or else it'll be utterly underground. Which is actually sort of bitchin', but still. As I recall, Dave trotted out the team who took care of him during his bypass operation. That was awesome. But he didn't banter a whole lot with them, and I don't think they spoke at any length.
Note please: I'm not feeling regretful here. Nor am I suggesting regular folks like me can't achieve. One of my oldest and dearest friends spent a year writing for A Prairie Home Companion. I myself spent a season with the coolest acting company in a town full of great theatres, and I road-tripped to see one of my own little one-acts performed in a festival. I know no fewer than four people who write better screenplays than 80% of what's in cinemas now. It's just that, y'know, I have massive loan debt and the best job in the world out there, someplace ahead... on something of a rigid, circumscribed road. It's great, only now I really, really can't chuck it all and join the circus. (Well, in fact, I just did that last summer, so what I mean is, I can't do it again.)
So if I'm a little ebullient, a wee bit pumped up about the latest and, we shall see, perhaps biggest of these successes-by-association, maybe there's an element of melancholy too. Let's say I write essays like Atul Gawande, only snarkier. Or I join up with some damn medical drama on TV for a while. Would I have patients who would think it's cool, and not inappropriate, if some little part of their story gets woven into fiction? Would I ever have patients again?
'Course, there's always the pseudonymous blogger-turned "real" writer thing. I hear that can work, sometimes. I'd just have to stick to magazine interviews with no photos. Hey, Scrubs: call me! (Hey, Grey's Anatomy: DON'T call me!)
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Heal myself? Ha!
Yes, it's usually a bad idea, but it was so obvious in this case that I have self-diagnosed: I've got me some of that March Madness.
Why, Syracuse, why?
While I'm at it, I've diagnosed my iPod, as well. It's true, there's nothing like a good history to explain symptoms that would otherwise be mysterious and vague. But the presentation is exactly the same as it was the last time the Pod crapped out on me, except this time I'm armed with the knowledge of what the problem was last time.
Funny story about that. My Pod had been a champ, a faithful companion... until last fall a month or two past the warranty date. Then it started skipping in much the way a CD player with a dirty laser lens would. This developed into an amusing game where it would play the first few seconds of a song, then flip ahead to the next. The end stage of this malady was just flipping through songs without actually playing any of them. I'd watch the display and wonder if the ectoplasm of a disapproving ghost was hitting "next" and growing more frustrated at my lame taste in music.
I wondered if the copy-protection cops were on to me -- had I downloaded files that self-destructed? But no, stuff from my own CDs did the same. I fretted about file types. I tried converting, only to find that some files would rewrite fine and others would crap out partway through. I wiped the whole thing (nooooo!) and re-imported from CDs... in Apple Lossless format. Which was fine, since instead of 2200 songs, now I had 140, and room to spare.
I took the thing to Albany, and since they were unable to get the Pod to "mount" just as I had been unable to at home, they couldn't apply their magic touch to it. Then upon questioning, they admitted their idea of magic was the same iPod updater program I already had. They suggested I buy a new Pod. Some "geniuses." Their bag of tricks wouldn't hold so much as one of the crack rocks they was smokin', I thought to myself, as I stalked out of the store.
But then I went home for break, and added a little more ammo to my "New York is cool and all, but Albany/Troy is basically Dubuque" attitude. A guy at one of the stores in the Minneapolis area listened to the useless spinning of the hard drive, observed the freaky-deaky display behavior, and took the Pod to the back. He came out with the thing working perfectly, explaining that there's a cable that sometimes comes loose; without the connection to its own hard drive, the Pod can't make anything work.
So now, I'm convinced that carrying the Pod back and forth to the car, etc. in New England winter conditions has caused the connector to expand and contract to the point where now, it's out again. And here's your O. Henryish twist to the story: back in Albany last week, to pick up the woman* at the airport, I signed in, sauntered up to the Genius Bar when it was my turn, and helpfully suggested that they go in the back and open 'er up. I said that if they did, they could expect to find a loose cable connector. They shocked me by reporting -- are you ready for this?
"Oh. No, we don't open them up. We can't, actually. Against company policy."
So, to the crazy Genius somewhere in the TC metro area who made things so right: you, sir, are not the one who's out of order. They're out of order. The whole damn system is out of order!
And now I just need to find out if Albany is merely genius-free, lacking in some core skills no matter what the name tags say, or actually FOS. (That's a medical term.)
* who is totally awesome
Why, Syracuse, why?
While I'm at it, I've diagnosed my iPod, as well. It's true, there's nothing like a good history to explain symptoms that would otherwise be mysterious and vague. But the presentation is exactly the same as it was the last time the Pod crapped out on me, except this time I'm armed with the knowledge of what the problem was last time.
Funny story about that. My Pod had been a champ, a faithful companion... until last fall a month or two past the warranty date. Then it started skipping in much the way a CD player with a dirty laser lens would. This developed into an amusing game where it would play the first few seconds of a song, then flip ahead to the next. The end stage of this malady was just flipping through songs without actually playing any of them. I'd watch the display and wonder if the ectoplasm of a disapproving ghost was hitting "next" and growing more frustrated at my lame taste in music.
I wondered if the copy-protection cops were on to me -- had I downloaded files that self-destructed? But no, stuff from my own CDs did the same. I fretted about file types. I tried converting, only to find that some files would rewrite fine and others would crap out partway through. I wiped the whole thing (nooooo!) and re-imported from CDs... in Apple Lossless format. Which was fine, since instead of 2200 songs, now I had 140, and room to spare.
I took the thing to Albany, and since they were unable to get the Pod to "mount" just as I had been unable to at home, they couldn't apply their magic touch to it. Then upon questioning, they admitted their idea of magic was the same iPod updater program I already had. They suggested I buy a new Pod. Some "geniuses." Their bag of tricks wouldn't hold so much as one of the crack rocks they was smokin', I thought to myself, as I stalked out of the store.
But then I went home for break, and added a little more ammo to my "New York is cool and all, but Albany/Troy is basically Dubuque" attitude. A guy at one of the stores in the Minneapolis area listened to the useless spinning of the hard drive, observed the freaky-deaky display behavior, and took the Pod to the back. He came out with the thing working perfectly, explaining that there's a cable that sometimes comes loose; without the connection to its own hard drive, the Pod can't make anything work.
So now, I'm convinced that carrying the Pod back and forth to the car, etc. in New England winter conditions has caused the connector to expand and contract to the point where now, it's out again. And here's your O. Henryish twist to the story: back in Albany last week, to pick up the woman* at the airport, I signed in, sauntered up to the Genius Bar when it was my turn, and helpfully suggested that they go in the back and open 'er up. I said that if they did, they could expect to find a loose cable connector. They shocked me by reporting -- are you ready for this?
"Oh. No, we don't open them up. We can't, actually. Against company policy."
So, to the crazy Genius somewhere in the TC metro area who made things so right: you, sir, are not the one who's out of order. They're out of order. The whole damn system is out of order!
And now I just need to find out if Albany is merely genius-free, lacking in some core skills no matter what the name tags say, or actually FOS. (That's a medical term.)
* who is totally awesome
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