Courtesy of Dan Mesa (I'm glad I found out from a friend and not a stranger):
'Family Ties' star to reveal she's a lesbian: source :: CHICAGO SUN-TIMES :: Bill Zwecker
My archetype for the MILF has betrayed me. Good for her. Bad for me. Why couldn't this have happened to Brian Bonsall instead? The shit circle of 2009 is complete.
FYI: If anything similar happens to Justine Bateman, my first love, don't tell me. Just take matters into your own hands, please.
----
This addendum is for a friend who just had surgery, but also demonstrates how I'm feeling about Elyse Keaton being gay right now.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
exerting force on a pachyderm superiorly in the stairwell
See if you can follow this one. I'm not sure I can.
One day I decided I'd had enough of the crappy work conditions I was enduring this month. The only cure for these horrible circumstances was music. So I went to the closet and dug out the boombox I got on my 13th birthday. The CD player (my very first!) doesn't work anymore, but the speakers and the radio are still good. So I got on the bus in my shirt and tie, whitecoat and boombox. The bus driver looked at me as if I were a minor character from New Jack City. I gave him a reassuring "It's for work" and he let me take my seat. The rest of the month got better after that.
This week my med student and I were working when the song "Semi-charmed Life" by Third Eye Blind came on. Neither of us thought much of it, but I found my mind wandering to the summer of 1997, my old maroon Delta 88, my ex-girlfriend, my high school friends and simpler times. By the time I took the hit that I was given and I bumped again, I was actually singing the song. When it was over I turned to my med student and said, "You know, I never liked this song. But it makes me think of good times in my life." Without missing a beat, Andy replied, "I feel that way about a lot of music."
A great example for me is "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey. A great song, but never one of my favorites. But how can I ever hear that song without thinking of the 2005 White Sox. Journey wasn't on my mind after this work-boombox experience, though. With my 30th birthday looming, it has me thinking about my past as much as my future. And I wrote once before that my life really started about 10 years ago. And on this music as a riptide in the stream of consciousness angle, I got to thinking that it's ten years ago now, November 1999, that the Man on the Moon Soundtrack was released.
When I think about the Man on the Moon Soundtrack, my mind doesn't focus on the film (which I didn't actually see until 2006) or the music. "The Great Beyond" is a rather average R.E.M. song. The orchestral scores leave much to be desired. The title track is chord-for-chord the same song that's number 10 on Automatic for the People. No, when I think about the MOTMS, my thoughts go to:
-having thrown a party at college for 60 people so that I could meet one girl, staying up until 4 AM, getting up, going to class, coming back TAF and collapsing on my bed, flipping on MTV and seeing the video for the Great Beyond. And thinking to myself, my they're looking old! And when's that girl going to call me?
-I think about buying the soundtrack as soon as I got home for winter break a few days later and listening to it while I wrote the same girl a letter about absolutely nothing. Just generating some interest.
-And I think about a trip that I took with my best friend Dan Mesa and three other friends from high school during that same Christmas break. Long before college and future wives, I had a group of buddies whom I passed time with in used bookstores and Greek family restaurants. When college came around, the five of us went our separate ways for the most part (except me and Dan), but for a while we tried to maintain pleasantries and lines of communication. Everyone was back from school, so we decided to pile into my friend's mini-van and head down from Chicago to Springfield, IL. There was a great used bookstore there. The biggest and richest I'd ever been in. I'd gone there with a class the previous semester to learn about Abraham Lincoln and ended up spending more time collecting treasures from this store than I did learning about Abe. I knew I had to take my old friends as soon as possible. So we got in the van and went. And I had brought the MOTMS with me. As fate would have it, Dan is somewhat odd and borderline autistic. And the fourth song on the disc after "The Great Beyond" is the theme from Taxi, also known as "Angela". It's a very familiar flute solo that you'd recognize if you heard it but may not remember off hand. Dan, at that time, was convinced that it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. So he made us play it over and over and over again. We drove three and a half hours home from Springfield to Chicago in a snowstorm with "Angela" being played continuously. I think the four of us (sans Dan) had probably the best talk we ever had that day, just trying to block out the flute. That was December 23rd, 1999. That was the last time the five of us were ever all together. The group sort of lost touch after that. But it was good way to go out if there was one.
I married the girl I threw the party for and wrote letters to. Dan Mesa remains my best friend to this day. I listen to the Man on the Moon soundtrack less than once a year--hardly ever. But I remembered that it came out 10 years ago this month. And it made me remember a lot of really pleasant things.
That's not the purpose of music. But it is the desired effect.
One day I decided I'd had enough of the crappy work conditions I was enduring this month. The only cure for these horrible circumstances was music. So I went to the closet and dug out the boombox I got on my 13th birthday. The CD player (my very first!) doesn't work anymore, but the speakers and the radio are still good. So I got on the bus in my shirt and tie, whitecoat and boombox. The bus driver looked at me as if I were a minor character from New Jack City. I gave him a reassuring "It's for work" and he let me take my seat. The rest of the month got better after that.
This week my med student and I were working when the song "Semi-charmed Life" by Third Eye Blind came on. Neither of us thought much of it, but I found my mind wandering to the summer of 1997, my old maroon Delta 88, my ex-girlfriend, my high school friends and simpler times. By the time I took the hit that I was given and I bumped again, I was actually singing the song. When it was over I turned to my med student and said, "You know, I never liked this song. But it makes me think of good times in my life." Without missing a beat, Andy replied, "I feel that way about a lot of music."
A great example for me is "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey. A great song, but never one of my favorites. But how can I ever hear that song without thinking of the 2005 White Sox. Journey wasn't on my mind after this work-boombox experience, though. With my 30th birthday looming, it has me thinking about my past as much as my future. And I wrote once before that my life really started about 10 years ago. And on this music as a riptide in the stream of consciousness angle, I got to thinking that it's ten years ago now, November 1999, that the Man on the Moon Soundtrack was released.
When I think about the Man on the Moon Soundtrack, my mind doesn't focus on the film (which I didn't actually see until 2006) or the music. "The Great Beyond" is a rather average R.E.M. song. The orchestral scores leave much to be desired. The title track is chord-for-chord the same song that's number 10 on Automatic for the People. No, when I think about the MOTMS, my thoughts go to:
-having thrown a party at college for 60 people so that I could meet one girl, staying up until 4 AM, getting up, going to class, coming back TAF and collapsing on my bed, flipping on MTV and seeing the video for the Great Beyond. And thinking to myself, my they're looking old! And when's that girl going to call me?
-I think about buying the soundtrack as soon as I got home for winter break a few days later and listening to it while I wrote the same girl a letter about absolutely nothing. Just generating some interest.
-And I think about a trip that I took with my best friend Dan Mesa and three other friends from high school during that same Christmas break. Long before college and future wives, I had a group of buddies whom I passed time with in used bookstores and Greek family restaurants. When college came around, the five of us went our separate ways for the most part (except me and Dan), but for a while we tried to maintain pleasantries and lines of communication. Everyone was back from school, so we decided to pile into my friend's mini-van and head down from Chicago to Springfield, IL. There was a great used bookstore there. The biggest and richest I'd ever been in. I'd gone there with a class the previous semester to learn about Abraham Lincoln and ended up spending more time collecting treasures from this store than I did learning about Abe. I knew I had to take my old friends as soon as possible. So we got in the van and went. And I had brought the MOTMS with me. As fate would have it, Dan is somewhat odd and borderline autistic. And the fourth song on the disc after "The Great Beyond" is the theme from Taxi, also known as "Angela". It's a very familiar flute solo that you'd recognize if you heard it but may not remember off hand. Dan, at that time, was convinced that it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. So he made us play it over and over and over again. We drove three and a half hours home from Springfield to Chicago in a snowstorm with "Angela" being played continuously. I think the four of us (sans Dan) had probably the best talk we ever had that day, just trying to block out the flute. That was December 23rd, 1999. That was the last time the five of us were ever all together. The group sort of lost touch after that. But it was good way to go out if there was one.
I married the girl I threw the party for and wrote letters to. Dan Mesa remains my best friend to this day. I listen to the Man on the Moon soundtrack less than once a year--hardly ever. But I remembered that it came out 10 years ago this month. And it made me remember a lot of really pleasant things.
That's not the purpose of music. But it is the desired effect.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
long duck
So, in the course of reading about the collapse of Dubai's economy, I came across the fact that Viet Nam's currency is referred to as the dong. The dong was just reduced by 5%.
Just thought you all should know.
Just thought you all should know.
Friday, November 27, 2009
they killed peter
I don't drink coffee, so I can't personally boycott Folgers. But you can do it for me.
My favorite holiday commercial of all time is about this dude named Peter who comes home for Christmas. He's been away at college or whatever else. And he makes it home at dawn on Christmas morning with a big stack of presents, turns on the tree and his little sister wakes up to find him. I actually found it on the internet:
Anyway, I love this commercial because 1) it's a pretty happy scene and 2) it's very reminiscent of my family. No, I do not identify my childhood with a longing to be a little blonde girl with stuffed animals. But I do remember what it was like when my older siblings were away at college. And the feeling of excitement and anticipation I would get when they'd come home for Christmas. And the presents are a nice touch, because when you're a little kid with older siblings in college, you get a lot of cool college-themed presents.
Now Folgers has a new commercial. Some hippy punk with retarded hair comes home from Africa or something. Cuz you know, Africa is just a place that you go. Like the bowling alley, or Alsip. Whatever. The point is this kid comes home for Christmas with his hemp necklace and his attitude, but still wakes everyone up with Folgers Crystals. THIS IS BULLSHIT. What is wrong with the original commercial? Peter, with his Alex P. Keaton haircut and his Ricky Schroeder sweater, would totally whip Mr. I-just-got-from-a-Jars-of-Clay-concert's ass.
To hell with progress. To hell with updates. Merry Christmas.
My favorite holiday commercial of all time is about this dude named Peter who comes home for Christmas. He's been away at college or whatever else. And he makes it home at dawn on Christmas morning with a big stack of presents, turns on the tree and his little sister wakes up to find him. I actually found it on the internet:
Anyway, I love this commercial because 1) it's a pretty happy scene and 2) it's very reminiscent of my family. No, I do not identify my childhood with a longing to be a little blonde girl with stuffed animals. But I do remember what it was like when my older siblings were away at college. And the feeling of excitement and anticipation I would get when they'd come home for Christmas. And the presents are a nice touch, because when you're a little kid with older siblings in college, you get a lot of cool college-themed presents.
Now Folgers has a new commercial. Some hippy punk with retarded hair comes home from Africa or something. Cuz you know, Africa is just a place that you go. Like the bowling alley, or Alsip. Whatever. The point is this kid comes home for Christmas with his hemp necklace and his attitude, but still wakes everyone up with Folgers Crystals. THIS IS BULLSHIT. What is wrong with the original commercial? Peter, with his Alex P. Keaton haircut and his Ricky Schroeder sweater, would totally whip Mr. I-just-got-from-a-Jars-of-Clay-concert's ass.
To hell with progress. To hell with updates. Merry Christmas.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
thanks
In the grand scheme of things, I'm thankful for a few things above all else.
1. That I have a beautiful wife who loves me.
2. That my Dad is still alive and things are looking up.
3. That I have not personally known the suffering of poor health and poverty.
4. That 2009 is ending and that there is hope for 2010.
---
What else am I thankful for? (in no particular order)
-the Rose and Timmy the Tim union on the island of St. Linda in March
-Mark Buehrle's perfect game
-my best friend quitting smoking
-my house
-Jake Peavy's late arrival
-the end of Battlestar Galactica (it was perfect)
-Jay Cutler - yes, I'm still thankful for Jay Cutler.
-another year of residency down
-Alex Rios - I really want to be thankful for Alex Rios. If he'd just give me a reason.
-my pending rescue of the land of Hyrule from the darkness
-my front porch
-Welcome to Falling Rock National Park
-Boers & Bernstein and the fact that I get the Score up here in Milwaukee
-seeing my friend's eyes light up when I gave him a used book of feminist interpretations of Shakespeare for his 30th birthday
-the promise of another R.E.M. album in the coming year
-Jessica Beil
-the cocker spaniel
-my hetero-life partner Eric
-my Honda Civic Hybrid
-Diamond Dave
-my schnauzer with borderline personality disorder
Forgive my indulgence. It's been a shitty year. It feels really good to list off all the things that are still good in my life. Have a good Thanksgiving, everyone.
1. That I have a beautiful wife who loves me.
2. That my Dad is still alive and things are looking up.
3. That I have not personally known the suffering of poor health and poverty.
4. That 2009 is ending and that there is hope for 2010.
---
What else am I thankful for? (in no particular order)
-the Rose and Timmy the Tim union on the island of St. Linda in March
-Mark Buehrle's perfect game
-my best friend quitting smoking
-my house
-Jake Peavy's late arrival
-the end of Battlestar Galactica (it was perfect)
-Jay Cutler - yes, I'm still thankful for Jay Cutler.
-another year of residency down
-Alex Rios - I really want to be thankful for Alex Rios. If he'd just give me a reason.
-my pending rescue of the land of Hyrule from the darkness
-my front porch
-Welcome to Falling Rock National Park
-Boers & Bernstein and the fact that I get the Score up here in Milwaukee
-seeing my friend's eyes light up when I gave him a used book of feminist interpretations of Shakespeare for his 30th birthday
-the promise of another R.E.M. album in the coming year
-Jessica Beil
-the cocker spaniel
-my hetero-life partner Eric
-my Honda Civic Hybrid
-Diamond Dave
-my schnauzer with borderline personality disorder
Forgive my indulgence. It's been a shitty year. It feels really good to list off all the things that are still good in my life. Have a good Thanksgiving, everyone.
Monday, November 23, 2009
a funny thing happened on the way to the crack den
I wasn't going to blog (or "blah-g" as my friend Rose says) about this topic, but I can't help myself. I should start out by saying that drug addiction is a horrible disease that I have seen destroy the human body in more ways than I can count. I would never look down my ample nose at anyone struggling to break an addiction--that is, trying to save his or her own life.
That being said, there's just something really funny about cocaine. Let me explain.
There are excuses for why you didn't turn in your homework (canine consumption, housefire, grandma died, forgot). There are excuses for why you didn't pay child support (lost job, check is in the mail, grandma died, forgot). There are reasons you show up in the emergency room with a flashlight up your butt ("I know this looks bad, but you have to hear me out. I was hanging a picture frame when. . .").
But of all things, it's the drug test that's positive for cocaine that yields the most bizarre stories. I've had people tell me that someone must have (nefariously) sprinkled powder in their food. I've had people tell me that they weren't smoking crack, they were just hanging around with other people who were smoking crack. I've had people tell me that they were trying to take their insulin but shot cocaine by accident. Rarely do I interview anyone who uses cocaine on a regular basis. It's always a one-time deal, never happened before. Not a habit. Not a problem.
But a lady I met the other night really affected me. See, her friend was smoking crack. But this lady watched her friend roll the cigarette and definitely saw that the friend had put all the cocaine at the far end of the cigarette. This lady doesn't do drugs, so she was waiting until enough of the paper cylinder had incinerated such that she was sure that all the cocaine had been consumed. At that precise moment, she asked her friend if she could have a toke, because she just needed a drag off of a normal cigarette. She may have miscalculated and smoked a very tiny amount of crack. And that's how the cocaine got into her blood.
That being said, there's just something really funny about cocaine. Let me explain.
There are excuses for why you didn't turn in your homework (canine consumption, housefire, grandma died, forgot). There are excuses for why you didn't pay child support (lost job, check is in the mail, grandma died, forgot). There are reasons you show up in the emergency room with a flashlight up your butt ("I know this looks bad, but you have to hear me out. I was hanging a picture frame when. . .").
But of all things, it's the drug test that's positive for cocaine that yields the most bizarre stories. I've had people tell me that someone must have (nefariously) sprinkled powder in their food. I've had people tell me that they weren't smoking crack, they were just hanging around with other people who were smoking crack. I've had people tell me that they were trying to take their insulin but shot cocaine by accident. Rarely do I interview anyone who uses cocaine on a regular basis. It's always a one-time deal, never happened before. Not a habit. Not a problem.
But a lady I met the other night really affected me. See, her friend was smoking crack. But this lady watched her friend roll the cigarette and definitely saw that the friend had put all the cocaine at the far end of the cigarette. This lady doesn't do drugs, so she was waiting until enough of the paper cylinder had incinerated such that she was sure that all the cocaine had been consumed. At that precise moment, she asked her friend if she could have a toke, because she just needed a drag off of a normal cigarette. She may have miscalculated and smoked a very tiny amount of crack. And that's how the cocaine got into her blood.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
i try harder next time
I'm going to take a very small number of bytes out of the internet to let you all know something: your doctor is to be pitied. Sure he may be a complete dick. She may have the social skills of used fabric softener. He may never have an open appointment slot. But I promise you that the physician is a sympathetic figure. Permit me to tell you a bit more.
It has been my experience these past three years that I would rather spend a weekend on-call with the pager going off constantly than to be completely free to do whatever I want but end up the prisoner of my own doubts and fears. As much as Friday is a day when I try to get things done efficiently so that I can start the weekend, it's also the day that I am extra careful and extra thorough--lest there be one hanging thread that will haunt me all weekend long. I stop by the patients' rooms in the afternoon to make sure there's nothing else they need. I run the med lists a few additional times. Check the labs, wait for official reads on radiology studies. Anything just to go home and be at peace that my patients' are safe. Because if they're not doing well, I'm not going to do well.
Most weekends are not like this. It's a mixed bag of working all weekend, working part of the weekend, on-call all weekend or being absolutely free of responsibility. Absolute freedom is not the norm, but it's not rare either. And usually when I leave the hospital on Friday afternoon, I am as care free as I can be.
But not this weekend. There's a little old man who smoked and drank all his life, has no family or friends and has even started to lose his conscious mind. He came to my team two weeks ago under the auspices of a tune-up. Optimize meds, rehab the hell out of him and send him out in better shape than he came in. Good theory, tough practice. Disease doesn't read the textbooks. Time-racked bodies don't follow the treatment plan. After a promising start, my little old man has had a bad week. He struggles to catch his breath. He can't help but forget where he is. And he's very scared. I don't think he'll die this weekend. But it is a possibility.
One of the things I never expected when I got into this gig is which events would affect me the most. There's no pattern. Some people die who shouldn't, and I'm able to get through it. Some people who were "supposed to die" turn me into a wreck. Children rarely die, but it's universally bad when they do. And some times old people live way longer than is comfortable for them and it pisses me off. "Why won't you die?" seems like a barbaric and heartless phrase until I'm caring for someone who experiences pain with every breath.
On Scrubs (a very accurate show, much more than any medical drama) there's an episode where J.D. becomes very upset at the thought that he could possibly cause a patient's death through a mistake or carelessness. Eliot and Turk have little trouble with the concept--they've done it before, which disconcerts J.D. even more. Dr. Cox adds ominously "some day you're going to screw up!"
I'm in the boat with J.D. To the best of my knowledge, I've never killed anyone myself. Though I've stood right next to a supervising physician as his treatment modality killed someone. It's awful when it happens.
But what that episode of Scrubs didn't capture is the powerlessness that the physician (and nurse, pharmacist, respiratory therapist, etc.) feels when nothing is working. Could I have seen it sooner? What bias led me not to treat for this? Maybe I just didn't want to do that procedure, and I let it guide my decision-making. This patient is dying and he doesn't see it yet. But I do. Alternatively, the patient screams "I just want to die!" and it's a dagger. Why keep working my ass off if that's all he wants?
I haven't been to a doctor regularly in ten years. Because, truly, a lot of them aren't just tools. . . they're the whole Home Depot. Some are okay though. And I'd bet you almost all of them lose sleep and trudge through weekends in self-doubt from time to time. It's the pits.
It has been my experience these past three years that I would rather spend a weekend on-call with the pager going off constantly than to be completely free to do whatever I want but end up the prisoner of my own doubts and fears. As much as Friday is a day when I try to get things done efficiently so that I can start the weekend, it's also the day that I am extra careful and extra thorough--lest there be one hanging thread that will haunt me all weekend long. I stop by the patients' rooms in the afternoon to make sure there's nothing else they need. I run the med lists a few additional times. Check the labs, wait for official reads on radiology studies. Anything just to go home and be at peace that my patients' are safe. Because if they're not doing well, I'm not going to do well.
Most weekends are not like this. It's a mixed bag of working all weekend, working part of the weekend, on-call all weekend or being absolutely free of responsibility. Absolute freedom is not the norm, but it's not rare either. And usually when I leave the hospital on Friday afternoon, I am as care free as I can be.
But not this weekend. There's a little old man who smoked and drank all his life, has no family or friends and has even started to lose his conscious mind. He came to my team two weeks ago under the auspices of a tune-up. Optimize meds, rehab the hell out of him and send him out in better shape than he came in. Good theory, tough practice. Disease doesn't read the textbooks. Time-racked bodies don't follow the treatment plan. After a promising start, my little old man has had a bad week. He struggles to catch his breath. He can't help but forget where he is. And he's very scared. I don't think he'll die this weekend. But it is a possibility.
One of the things I never expected when I got into this gig is which events would affect me the most. There's no pattern. Some people die who shouldn't, and I'm able to get through it. Some people who were "supposed to die" turn me into a wreck. Children rarely die, but it's universally bad when they do. And some times old people live way longer than is comfortable for them and it pisses me off. "Why won't you die?" seems like a barbaric and heartless phrase until I'm caring for someone who experiences pain with every breath.
On Scrubs (a very accurate show, much more than any medical drama) there's an episode where J.D. becomes very upset at the thought that he could possibly cause a patient's death through a mistake or carelessness. Eliot and Turk have little trouble with the concept--they've done it before, which disconcerts J.D. even more. Dr. Cox adds ominously "some day you're going to screw up!"
I'm in the boat with J.D. To the best of my knowledge, I've never killed anyone myself. Though I've stood right next to a supervising physician as his treatment modality killed someone. It's awful when it happens.
But what that episode of Scrubs didn't capture is the powerlessness that the physician (and nurse, pharmacist, respiratory therapist, etc.) feels when nothing is working. Could I have seen it sooner? What bias led me not to treat for this? Maybe I just didn't want to do that procedure, and I let it guide my decision-making. This patient is dying and he doesn't see it yet. But I do. Alternatively, the patient screams "I just want to die!" and it's a dagger. Why keep working my ass off if that's all he wants?
I haven't been to a doctor regularly in ten years. Because, truly, a lot of them aren't just tools. . . they're the whole Home Depot. Some are okay though. And I'd bet you almost all of them lose sleep and trudge through weekends in self-doubt from time to time. It's the pits.
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