Sorry, ladies! Too late.

"Engaged."

(This is how geeks announce they're going to get hitched. And yes, we're geeks.)

It's true. Apologies to anyone who should have had a phone call or an email of their very own, and instead is seeing this here, but the word must get out. After roughly three years together, including that year where I lived out east and she stayed here, and it was kind of "meh" in some ways, Teslagrl and I have reached that sweet spot where even when it's kind of "meh," it's pretty damn good. Ergo, when it's awesome, it's the sort of thing that makes your friends tired of hearing about how wonderful things are. Or would, if you were the sort to go on and on about that sort of thing. Anyway. [Awkward, nervous Nordic mumble mumble trail-off...]

Basically, what it came down to was a few key poetic ideas, presented here in no particular order. First is that while out East, my 20something classmates were sometimes a little fascinated with the idea that I had been married and everything, in my earlier life. Maybe because I had been married for a while already at their age, maybe because I'd be divorced at an age that's not so far in their futures. Maybe because I bitched and complained about the long-distance part of my long-distance relationship (though, it should be duly noted, I bitched much, much less about the relationship part).

Once, while a pack of us were on the way to the Price Chopper for, I dunno, snacks and beer (I know! You can get beer in the supermarket there! It's heaven), I was asked if I'd "ever get married again." I think this was a more general question, and was not an inquiry about me and T-grl. I answered, spontaneously and truthfully, sure I would. But I admitted my ideas about the whole thing had changed, what with the soul-crushing upheval, the bitterness and recrimination, and the tedious and unfortunate little matter of the bill. Ahem.

I said that I would get married again if the thought of not being legally bound to my certain someone struck me as the thing that was ridiculous, unnecessary, and entirely avoidable. And, eventually, here we are.

The second thing was thinking about how it had been 37 months together, and we'll be 37 this year, and as much as I don't want to grow up, I think being with her is a lovely compromise, because I won't ever really have to. It's been three years plus, and it still feels like we're just hanging out, just seeing where things go. This is the most bullshit-free, easygoing, just plain fun relationship ever, for me. I have grown accustomed to the cognitive dissonance, but it hasn't gone away: it is literally true that it doesn't feel like we've been together this long. So that's cool.

There were a ton of little things that a superstitious person would take for signs. In a booze-soaked chat with Jon some time ago, I expressed admiration for what he and Diablo have; he said that Teslagrl and I have it too. And he's right! More recently, I met Amber for beers, and when she asked me about Teslagrl, the first words out of my mouth were that "she's awesome." Amber thought that was very cool, and pointed it out. On reflection, I agreed. I went over to hang with M. Giant and almost immediately, M. Small asked where T-grl was. It seems that to him, we're a matched set... and he's easily in the top 5 smartest pants-poopers I've ever known. I'd be a fool not to consider the wisdom of what he implies.

And finally, there's the idea that because I have, shall we say, made ample use of the student loan resources available to me, I am essentially borrowing money from my future self. The medicine-practicing, comfortable-living one. And this isn't a new concept for me; I knew the first time around that the 1997 me would be borrowing from the 2007 me. Now that I am that dude, speaking as 2007 Feb, I find it kind of amusing that somebody would come to me for cash. (But then, hey, 1997 Feb deserves a giant break, because his life was pretty messed up.) Long story short, if there is anything really great that 2007 Feb can do for future-Feb, it would be this. Now he can be the medicine-practicing, comfortable-living, hot-wife-having one.

Note to self: You're welcome.

The view is nicer in middle of the bell curve, anyway

Okay. I've done my first practice test, and it turns out I'm not a biochemistry moron. I got 72%, which sounds like a C until I tell you the class mean is 75%, and the mean is also, somehow, a nice, solid B. (I got an A in statistics, so I know enough to just go ahead and trust that.)

It's like I was saying earlier: this doesn't seem to be the kind of thing where you can possibly survive any length of time if you have to play to win, and give 110%, all the time. This heavy-duty stuff is something you need to respect and work with, not try to conquer. If you think of med-type studies as a game that has to be done with utmost focus and excellence at all times, any simple human failing seems like disaster. And that's no way to live, much less a way to mold the healthcare team of tomorrow. It's a big part of why premeds and med students are sometimes such miserable people, and often so stressed-out and weird.

Here's what I wanted to say in interviews, but never got a chance to: you always hear these driven, ambitious, talented people say, "I'm excited for the chance to compete. I love to compete. I feel I'm very competitive as an applicant for this [school/ job/ reality TV show/ elected office], and I can't wait to prove it." And I call bullshit on that. I think in actuality, what most of these people enjoy so much isn't competing, but winning. They're winners. Always have been. And who doesn't love to win? Winning is great.

The problem is, if someone always wins, the first time they lose will be the first time they've ever lost. The first time it happens to someone like that, they don't know what just took place. The second time, they fall apart. A bad test score, a lousy evaluation, a personality conflict with someone in charge. Your classic Type A student will do just about anything to maintain stability; that's why they study 10 hours a day, worry about insignificant details, kiss ass with near-sociopathic skill, and never go out to the bars. Keeping their etch-a-sketch unshaken is a full-time obsession.

But medicine -- and it's not like I'm all that qualified to talk about this, except inasmuch as I've spent two and a half years clomping around in my Danskos on the factory floor -- is only partly about keeping the remaining events in your day as predictable as possible. It's largely about keeping yourself consistent, quick-thinking, and useful, while the entire rest of your world gets as unpredictable as it feels like being today.

It's like cards. If all you ever play is some five-card version of the game where nothing can start except with Jacks or Better, you'll be folding and folding again all night, like a cheap lawn chair. And I would think that much of the really relevant learning takes place in the process of playing as many hands as you can. Not so many that you run out of chips, but enough that you get past the bare theories and the expected results, and get into learning from your own observations, including your own mistakes. As someone said, good judgement develops with experience -- and experience usually develops from bad judgement.

The kind of training a lot of students put themselves through is simply wrong for development of this skill. Unfortunately, it's the kind of training that gets great results... for now. It gets them in, and it gets them through, to a point. In other words, the stuff I will be great at doesn't come until the end, and people who are great at the beginning stuff drive me nuts.

I don't mean to imply that a half-assed, vodka-soaked approach is in any way superior to, or even as good as, some discipline and hard work. I only stress the distinction because every now and then, I get concerned. This is the time of year when the system is cranked up to uber-competitive mode. Many of my classmates from last year did fine; many are still up in the air. Match Day is coming up, so today's fourth-years are freaking out about getting to become next year's interns. And out there, somewhere, 50-some people are about to become my classmates.

I hope they're cool, and they'll help me with the stuff I'm not naturally adept with. I promise to help them with their videogame skills.

Procrastination nation

I think I've cracked my problem with doing homework. It's work.

Also, like, Biochemistry is hard, dude. OMG LOL.!!!1!

But more than that, it's that I was too-concerned about doing well. As the prof said in the intro lecture, this class is composed entirely of people who have a reason to take Biochem. That is to say, the kids who make up the bottom two-thirds of every normal class are simply not here. 70% is a B here, and nobody who would get less than a C stays around. In other words, it's med school.

And I had been all worked up about how this means the end of my quiet life, and now I have to get all Type A and perfectionist. Weirdly, my slackerish tendencies derive from my desire to be perfect at everything, all the time, instead of a lack of caring. I struggle with something, I find it takes longer than I think it should, and I get all surly. And I don't like being like that. So, the internal logic goes, if I can't grasp the subtleties of alpha helices and binding regions quickly enough, then I'm screwed. I don't want to snap at people, so I may as well just put away the work that's making me feel bad and go play Lego Star Wars for another hour.

Except here's the thing: I need a C or better to pass the class, and proceed to grad school. I need a C or better in each of my classes, while in school. And as I'm fond of saying, I'm a PA student. I'm done competing with the other kids. If I'm learning, and if I'm putting together the pieces of my medical education in a way that helps me and my patients, then I'm doing fine. It's not about being the first in my class, or in the top 10%; it's about becoming the best damn clinician I can be. So I will do the rest of a chapter today, and I'll take the first of the practice tests. And if I get 70%, I'm going to relax and keep going the way I have been.

All I have to do now is enforce that policy with myself. We'll see.

Witty Banter of the Day

Disgruntled Patient: "Man, how long is it gonna be? I'm ready to go home."

Febrifuge: "Actually, sir, we're admitting you to the hospital. You know that, right?"

DP: "Yeah, but it's taking so long. "

F: "I know, and I apologize, but we need to make sure they're ready for you upstairs. This is the part of the process that we aren't in charge of."

DP: "Man, it doesn't take this long to get into the funeral home, you know?"

F: "That's true, sir... but of course, there are fewer steps in that process."

Of course I am not the first to wonder...

...but what the hell do John Mayer and Jessica Simpson talk about when they go out?

(My guess? They talk about how awesome John Mayer is.)

I am thankful that my gf is a brainiac. Her hotness, well, that's just a nice bonus. (...Which I totally deserve.)

Missing in Action (as well as Inaction)

Biochemistry class has begun to eat my life. And then break down and absorb the constituent pieces of my life, eventually reducing them to a few key classes of chemicals, which are then put through various complicated processes and converted into... knowledge about biochemistry, I guess.

Guitar Hero II has occupied enough of my time and attention that I've seen the little dots of the game screen coming at me when I close my eyes. On the other hand, Teslagrl has bought the first game and her own controller, so soon there will be tales of wild parties involving tiny plastic guitars and copious alcohol. Which will be broken down into a few key classes of chemicals, and put through various complicated processes. Most happily, I've started playing my real guitar more often. Together with my insanely fun effects pedal, it frickin' rules.

I bought some cool new shoes, for incredibly cheap. As much as I am a total dude, I have my moments of being a clothes-horse too. Hopefully, I'm as interesting, astute, and agreeably cranky a clothes horse as Dack from dack.com.

I've been out to see a lil' bit of the rock show scene, and I've chilled with my peeps. A bunch of interesting stuff has happened at work, but as always I can't really get into it, because the stuff that interests me most is frequently the stuff it would get me fired to talk about.

I got to meet Amber for beers. That was awesome. Hopefully there will be more such meetings of the minds; it seems like we could totally get some kind of blog Justice Society thing going. or at least a cheesy, Superfriends version. Long as I'm not Aquaman, that is.

NuBlogger: could be good

Nothing seems to have changed with the little tweaks I made to the template early on in this blog's life. That's good.

And there are new features, as well. Posts will now have labels, so I can group stuff by theme -- or approximate level of writing skill, or worthiness for re-reading. (Literary agents take note: figuring out what around here is worth a five-figure advance has never been easier!)

Thanks, Resusci-Annie(tm), wherever you are...

The good: I performed CPR on a real live person recently. Okay, I did the chest compressions. We're a full-service emergency department, and we have people in charge of the breathing part. Since the patient had an endotracheal tube down his or her windpipe at the time, I let the respiratory therapist just keep on squeezing the purple bag.

Besides, I'm not putting my lips on patients. They give us lectures about that kind of thing.

The even more good: that real live person I mentioned above had a totally crappy heart rhythm when I started, and a good one when I stopped. Honestly, we were breathing for this person, and all he or she had to do was keep that heart pumping. Flutter and fibrilation do not a heartbeat make, people. But after a little while, the patient got it together, with the help of various chemicals poured into IV lines and circulated around his or her cardiovascular system by... why, me, actually!

It happened innocently enough. I was bringing the little silver steppy-stool thing to the staff MD who started the compressions. The table was a little on the tall side, and this doc is, well, not so much. He looked over his shoulder and instead of saying, "ah, cool, put that right here for me," he said, "you wanna take over here?"

And I said, "..."

Then I willed my astral form to stop trying to bolt from my body and said, "sure."

To be fair to the doc, I imagine it's hard to be the guy in charge of the guy who's running the code, if you're busy seesawing up and down with your hands pistoning somebody's chest. Much of the time, the staff docs are frowning and nodding, or joking and nodding, and doing other such supervisory things. This was work. So whether he looked at me and thought "aha, sharp, capable young go-getter" or "overeager and willing sucker," it didn't matter. He had stuff to do, and I was in, dude. I put down the stool and stood atop it, because it's all about leverage. I've seen people taller than me do it like that. Plus I brought the thing.

And ya know... it pretty much feels, no it does feel, just like the training dummy we used in high school health class. Sure, it's a real rib cage. Sure, you can kind of feel the heart going squoosh between the sternum and the spine... or maybe that's just the anatomy textbook in my head filling in details. But it's the same. CRUN-kahh, CRUN-kahh, CRUN-kahh...

I did not count out loud, because again, hi. Roomful of people to help with the breathing; this includes saying "stop CPR" and "start CPR" when needed.

During the first stop interval, I swiveled the vital sign monitor just a bit, so I could see the EKG pattern I was making. And I hope it's not toolish of me to say this, but it was frickin' beautiful. 97 beats a minute. Regular. Nice little T waves, coming at a discreet distance after a pointy -- but not too pointy, mind you -- PRS complex. Was I disappointed when I stopped again, and the patient kept it going on their own?

Fuck no. That was even better. Are you nuts?

I like to be cool with the stuff that's less life-and-death, thanks. But as milestones go, it's very reassuring to do something big, and do it well.

Medical education seems to be built on the careful replication of these kinds of moments. Here's hoping.

Minor Functionary of the Underworld

That's me, right there. Guy in the boat. Charon, would be the mythological Greek version. And that there is the River Styx. Essentially.

I mean, at my work, it's not a river, but actually an underground tunnel that goes something like three city blocks, to the Medical Examiner's office. You just keep on going, past some labs, past the rack of HR forms you can fill out to have your paychecks mailed versus direct-deposited, and past the office where we get flu shots. Just the other day, I was taking that walk with a former patient, a person who I can confidently say will never need another flu shot again.

It's a strange thing when your mental "To Do" list has items like "go get a body bag," and "fill a plastic bag with ice, and then tape it over the eyes of a dead person." But hey, that's medicine. A normal day for me is very often... just not. Not by most standards.

It's very sad, most of the time, when someone dies. Some deaths are merciful releases from the sort of existence I wouldn't want for myself or anyone I care about. Some are terrifying in their randomness. None are entirely comprehensible. Me, I find it reassuring simply to know that my last moments on earth will be, among other things, just another part of someone's workday.

It would be cool if someone near me would give that person a coin, though. 'Cause I sure don't get anything except the exercise and the reflective quiet time in a creepy basement tunnel.

...and a grateful nation rejoices

Spotted at Costco, in a dream I had last night, printed in black lettering on a yellow sign, and just in time for the holidays:

COSTCO HAS CURED HAM!

Underneath, it continued:

WE WILL NEVER SUFFER FROM HAM AGAIN!

Sometimes, I just crack myself right the hell up.

The Soundtrack

Hmm. I just found an interesting idea, over at Amber's, and although it's a Web meme and therefore ever so slightly hateful and lame, I'm intrigued. Not to mention, it's 6am on my day off, which means I need to kill an hour until the time I would be getting off work, so I can maintain a sleep schedule for the overnight shifts I have later in the week.

I shall cut n' paste the instructions, so as to save those precious keystrokes. I'm tired, dudes.

If Your Life Was A Movie
Here's how it works:
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Play, iPod, etc.)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't lie and try to pretend you're cool.

Okay, so interesting idea, right? Now, immediately upon seeing this, I planned to steal it. In fact, it would be rude of me not to actually read what whatsername has listed for songs. One minute, k?

...

Cool. I don't know about half that music, but that's fine. Cool idea, well-executed.

Anyway, as I was saying, simultaneous to deciding to steal this idea for a blog post of my own, I wondered whether I should mention that I sort of have a soundtrack already. See, I was/am toying with doing something screenwriter-ish with my year out east in school, and that's why the extremely rough treatment I have for that already has, if not a soundtrack, at least a concept and an iTunes playlist.

I do know actual real screenwriters and authors and whatnot, and I myself have some training and a sliver of experience -- just none of the arts-helpful sorts of discipline or ambition. Still. I'm throwing that out there. It might be fun to see whether there's any overlap. However, I won't cheat and use just that playlist, because the thematic unity would be too heartbreakingly awesome.

I will, of course, personalize and refine this exercise by adding way too much commentary. You know how things work around here. Ready? Here goes. Full library. No Mulligans. Hitting 'Play'... now.

Opening Credits:
Anybody Wanna Take Me Home, by Ryan Adams
(Well, this is clearly The Awesome. It's good credits music and everything.)

(Oh, and by the way, may I just take this moment to say I don't endorse or condone what, judging by a look down the list of upcoming scenes, is a fairly boring and far-too-linear biopic structure for this movie? Cool, thanks. Okay, hitting 'Next' now.)

Waking Up:
Jesus on the Radio, by Guster
(Well, sweet. We even get a song in which the first words are "Five AM, March Sixteenth," which is about as literal as a "waking up" song can get. So it's in keeping with the anvilicous strucure. I do love me some Guster, though, and waking up to banjos means it's a bouncy morning.)

First Day of School:
In Like With You, by the Judybats
(Anybody who knew me in my school days, just shut up right now. Next.)

Falling In Love:
Confetti, by the Lemonheads
(Oh, too good. As a child of the 80s and a man of the 90s, this is a Hell Yes. )

Sex Scene:
Wildflowers, by Tom Petty
(Hmm. Okay, sensitive yet driving. Sure, why not?)

Fight Song:
Across the Universe, by the Beatles
(That is just all manner of fucked up. Maybe the flock of birds at the beginning is scared off by me scuffling with schoolyard bullies, or getting mugged, or something. "J'ai Guru Deva, muthafucka! Bamm!")

Breaking Up:
The Zephyr Song, by the Red Hot Chili Peppers
(Hm. Maybe. If I'm turning away at the right moment, and striding toward the camera manfully, while some chick gradually fades into out-of-focus irrelevance. Even still, it's too on-the-nose. You never put a song with the words "fly away" into a breakup scene. Plus the guitar solo is hella lame.)

Prom:
It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry, by Bob Dylan
(Ummm... all I'll say here is, that would have been a much better prom. And also, I've become confused by the structure all of a sudden. In this movie, I've had sex and violence and we're only now getting to the prom? Jeez, how long is this epic film?)

Life:
Catchy, by Pizzicato Five
(It's in a language I don't speak, it's too long and rather repetitive, and yet there's something about it that makes me want to shake my ass. Also, some woman is sighing heavily in between verses. Yep, that's life all right.)

Mental Breakdown:
(Please be something cool... be something cool... no whammies...)
Here Comes the Groom, by John Wesley Harding
(AH HA HA HA HA HAHA HA! I love you, iTunes! You are a funny, funny program.)

Driving:
She Goes On, by Crowded House
(I always thought of this as a song that would be at someone's funeral. Let's say I'm driving, but I'm preoccupied with somebody dead.)

Flashback:
The Disappointed, by XTC
(Damn, this is getting to be one broken-hearted drag of a movie, man. Bummer.)

Getting Back Together:
High, by the Cure
(Well, okay, then.)

Wedding:
People Love to Watch You Die, by John Wesley Harding
(People, it's official. My iTunes is a bitter, broken, sarcastic bastard. Sorry about that. It's a great song, really, just... hm.)

Birth of A Child:
Gyroscope, by the Dismemberment Plan
(Wow, for just a fraction of a second there, I thought that said "Gynoscope." I think I've nearly stayed up late enough.)

Final Battle:
(Oooh, the climactic final confrontation. Nice. Let's see what we've got... the tension mounts... aaaannd...)
1974, by Ryan Adams
(A hit! A palpable hit! It's guitar-driven, it's aggressive. "The city is an animal, ready to eat..." And bonus points for hearkening back to the opening credit music, too... just like John Wesley Harding is the bloomin' Angel of Doom in this movie, Ryan Adams is the Patron Saint of Kick-Ass. I can deal with that.)

Death Scene:
When it Started, by the Strokes
(I have no complaints about this thoroughly kick-ass closing credits music. I guess maybe in this movie, I died of coolness. By the way, this is the version with "New York City cops, they ain't too smart," so maybe I was gunned down in a hail of bullets, reaching for my cell phone. Or maybe, I had a black iPod, and I was trying to fast-forward myself out of a jam. I bet it was John Wesley Harding's fault, somehow.)

(Yeah, I like that. It's pretty Meta. Like "Adaptation" meets the end of "There's Something About Mary," when Jonathan Richman gets shot through the chest. Fade to black, kids. I'm going to bed.)

Disturbing signs of getting older

I was awakened from a dream this morning by the ringing of the phone. But that was cool with me, because what started as a dream with decent potential to get all sexual had instead turned into a dream that featured a very large buffet of tasty mexican foods. The hell? Even in my dreams, I'd rather attend a cheese-drenched cocktail party than an orgy?

The three-cheese burrito was particularly excellent, it's true; all the nubile college women agreed.

Tasty Sunday

As many of you already know, I am a ginormous fan of the Faust story. For those of you who haven't heard all this before, it's sort of a big deal, in my personal universe. Faust is basically, for me, the mythic underpinning that explains pretty much everything we need to know about living in the modern world. In a major cultural-studies, lit-loser, nerdotron way, I am to Faust in all its incarnations as a minivan full of screaming tween girls are to... uh, I guess that Gerard guy from My Chemical Romance. I hear he's dreamy and broody an' whatnot. The only full-length play I've written, so far, is a Faust play. I even like the Brendan Fraser/ Liz Hurley version of Bedazzled.

In the Goethe version of Faust, the one that defines Romance with a capital R in the Western world, there's this part about the terms of the deal; Mephistopholes agrees to keep supplying Faust with all-you-can-eat worldly awesomeness. The only catch is, if ever there should be a moment that's so perfect, so delicious, so satisfying that Faust wants it to last forever, then boom. Time's up. We're all done dancing.

And what's sweet about it is, that moment doesn't come when they're messing with the spacetime continuum so Faust can bang Helen of Troy; it doesn't come with the sense of accomplishment and pride Faust tends to get when he uses medicine to stop a plague, or when he uses engineering to save a city from being subsumed by the ocean. It happens, finally, when he sees an old couple who have been together forever, working on their cruddy little farm, and being happy together. And Goethe is even nice enough to let Faust off the hook, based on, I guess, having his heart in the right place most of the time. Eventually, in other words, Faust in a sense sort of gets it. You don't need some devil making crap happen for you; you need to be present in the moment. And all the glittery crap the world has to offer you won't make you happy. Can't, in fact.

Pretty radical stuff, in some ways, for the 1800s. And with only minor tweaks, it works very nicely with Buddhism or Existentialism. In a nutshell, you start me talking about Faust, it will be difficult to shut me up.

Except.

Goethe was maybe not entirely right about certain things. I think it's great to fall in love with the world, from time to time. Carpe yourself some diem. We shouldn't have to think of that as dangerous. Contentment does not have to mean complacency. And when it comes to my own life, I want the world and me to be more than friends, if you follow.

I only bring this up because this afternoon I was walking downtown, in search of a late lunch. I found the burrito place was closed Sundays (which still strikes me as mildly funny in a way I can't quite put my finger on), and so walked a bit up Nicollet Mall. I had a brief conversation with a woman representing the Scientology center there (she: "Let me ask you, do you have any problems?" me: "After Tom Cruise, you guys have more problems than I have...") and then decided to pop in to the Local for a pint and a plate.

I'm not saying the Waldorf Salad with grilled steak is so good you'd sell your soul. But it's close. Especially with a Finnegan's, with the Vikings just winning a game, and with a cool book about Rosalind Franklin to occupy a dude.

The laugh-out-loud awesomeness of the moment would be a little later, as I headed out. I was just in time for the first-annual Minneapolis version of the Running of the Santas. 'Twas a sight to behold, it really was. It's pretty much impossible to be weighed down by the cares of the day or the gremlins of the soul, when a couple hundred Santas are jogging past.

I am seriously going to miss Minneapolis, next year. Then again, I have a feeling stuff like this is going to continue to happen to me...

This post has many titles...

1) Progress.

2) "They signed you, Bill! Now you're a law!"

3) I'm in.

4) Febrifuge and The Big Flat Envelope

You may choose whichever one you like best. The upshot is, this is apparently no longer a blog about getting into PA school. As of yesterday's mail, it's a blog about getting ready to go to PA school. In Chicago. Six months from now.

I'll bullet some of the more salient points in a minute, but before I get too deep, I'd like to tell the story of going out there to the interview (which was less than two weeks ago; it's not like I've been holding back, people). And right now, I have some Tiger Woods PGA Tour golf to take care of. It's urgent. Unavoidable. Can't get out of it. Sorry.

Then later, I have a Bond movie to go see with M. Giant, in observation of a tradition that goes back at least as far as Goldeneye... although I could swear there was some Timothy Dalton back there someplace. Hey, I'm a busy cat. The point is, reliable sources tell me that having fun now is vital to my surviving Year One, which is worse than 4-year-med-school year one by some hard-to-pin-down factor.

Oh, and just so there's not a lot of confusion on this point, let me lay down what the heck a Physician Assistant is, and does. Or wait, let me have the AAPA do it for me.

Some sub-bullets:

a) Hey, Chicago. Cool.

Yes! Plus, although I won't mention the school by name, I think it's sweet that there's a four-year school in the same university. That's because most of the time, that's better for the facilities, the faculty, and the reputation of the program in the local medical community. Way too many of the PA programs I researched were founded in 2000 or later, and belong to schools that had heretofore been largely about non-medical pursuits (nursing is very close, but not the same). I also think it's cool that there are PT students, Pathologist Assistant students, and yes, even the podiatry students around. It's an interesting university, in that of the several hundred people attending, nearly all are grad students. So it'll sort of be a Bizarro Bennington for me.

Note: it's not the University of Chicago. Which is too bad, because in one of the Indiana Jones movies, I'm pretty sure he taught archaeology at U of C. House went to Hopkins and then Michigan; they haven't revealed where the Scrubs people went to school, but it seems Californiform; and I honestly don't care where the one PA I've ever seen on TV went. That's about when ER started sucking.

b) So, why this school specifically?

I already pointed out the diversity of programs, which means not everyone I meet will be doing what I'm doing; I consider this to have been one of my not-so-secret weapons last year in Post-Bac. The facilities are crazy good; wi-fi building, digital projectors, and the best anatomy lab I've ever seen, for serious. There's a flat screen monitor and one of those goo-resistant keyboards like at oil change joints mounted on a bracket above each and every dead body. There's a decent fitness center, and a pimpin' fake office with fake exam rooms, used for fake exams of fake patients. See how my theatre training is going to be useful? Mm-hmm.

Airfare to Chicago is pretty cheap; it's like taking an even more inconvenient bus, really. And I like that the degree my school offers is the Master of PA Practice, which is far cooler than the standard Master of PA Studies. I mean really; I don't want a graduate degree in studying something, I want a graduate degree in doing it. (For the record, the only other school I know of that offers a cooler-sounding PA degree is Yale, which awards the Master of Medical Science. Swanky!)

Okay, enough for now. I'm gonna wear a white coat (sometimes). I'm gonna make (fairly) decent cash. I'm gonna heeeeeeeal the sick. I'm gonna play golf.

In fact, I'm gonna play golf right now. The digital character that sorta looks like me will be trying to make the cut at Pebble Beach this afternoon. Wish him luck.

something to ponder

You know the commercial for Monster.com, where all the people are grooving and happy while ELO's "Do Ya" cranks on the soundtrack? Here's a potentially deep question for you:

Are these people happy because thanks to Monster, they're at work at their perfect job? As in, check out this huge pile of pink foam peanuts in the back of my moving truck! I'm totally going to jump in it! or I love, love, love this orange cardboard tube, and it makes me strut like a dancin' fool! Woooo!

Or, are they happy because thanks to Monster, they just found the perfect job, and they're about to leave the crappy job they work at now? As in, I am totally going to ride my bike around the gallery! Take that, you dicks! or I am so totally done with this stupid road construction, I am going to give the garbage man that hug he's been craving!

Watch carefully next time it's on. Let me know what you think. I have a theory about it.