Dr. Brokeback's Second Opinions

another argument for anonymous blogging

2010-05-24T07:17:00.003-04:00

Just finished my weekend working in the hospital.

On Saturday, a terminally ill woman who was actively bleeding begged me to discharge her. "Please," she said. "I can't pay for this and I can't stand the thought of more hospital bills that I can't pay."

"I know you know this," I told her, "But you only have a few months left. I cannot discharge you until I'm sure your bleeding is under control, but I do advise you to never pay another hospital bill again. Save your money for more important things."

Reading it, my words sound incredibly insensitive. Thank goodness she took it for the good deed it was meant to be. She was incredibly grateful.

Perfect!

2009-03-20T00:41:00.003-04:00

It will surely all end tomorrow, but today, my bracket is perfect. I'm sixteen for sixteen after day one!

I actually have two brackets. One of them is exactly President Obama's. And another is my own, a combination of probability and cat-strategy. My cat/probability bracket is 16/16. The President's? 11/16. Mr. Obama, it is official: I am better than you today.

Has the World Gone Mad?

2009-03-18T19:13:00.011-04:00

I know I haven't posted in awhile. I have missed you all so much! Fortunately, you, my loyal readers, knew that although I have been caught up with work and life, I had every intention of returning!

There are a few out there, however, who have strayed. Some of my best friends have called me to say that they never check my blog anymore but instead have become rabid fans of GinSoaked Olive. One of these friends bragged about her new favorite blog (GSO) on my Facebook page. Another went so far as to send a baby gift to the GinSoaked girls. (The crime here is that the friend who gave the gift is the Indecisive Visionary herself. I saved her life and where's my thank you gift? It's over at GinSoaked Olive. Not that I wanted my own personal Pack-n-Play. Jake's outfit with the cargo pants, though? I would totally wear that. Yes, Katy and Tracy, I'm proud to dress like your eighteen-month-old son.)

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that you ('you' being the IV or Michelle or other deserters) shouldn't read about (or send presents to) my peeps over there. Please do. They are good people. They have taken in this wayward traveler on more than one occasion (for example, last Saturday night). I'm just saying I never thought you, my friends, would be so impatient or fickle. Fortunately, I have my loyal readers. And what more could I want, really?

So what have I been up to, you might ask? Well, I had my fourth original scientific paper published in January. Also in January, I was interviewed by my company's paper in a get-to-know-our-new-doctor segment. A snippet from this goofy interview:

"Reporter: What was the biggest surprise of your life?

me, (thinking): Uh...the real answer is that I was shocked (although no one else was, notably. I'm always the last one to know.) to discover my lesbionic tendencies. I can't say that in an interview, though. This article is going to be seen by the CEO of this hospital. The first time I met him, I made an inappropriate joke about a disembodied penis. That was not my fault! I didn't know he was the CEO! But still, this answer has got to be something that isn't going to remind him of that debacle.

Me (talking): Uh....Well, the end of that movie The Sixth Sense really blew me away."

That's totally how it went down. Swear. It's in print with a picture of me next to it. I'll send you the link.

In other news, I got nailed with thirty pounds of beads (beads that were thrown at my head, in rapid succession, while still in packages or, in one case, attached to a wooden spear) at Mardi Gras in New Orleans in February. I should have blogged about it, but you'd need pictures to capture the scope of my booty. Let me clarify that statement: You'd need pictures to capture the scope of my Mardi Gras winnings.

And March? March is all about the madness.

I printed up my brackets today and as I was trying to spin gold, decided that I would investigate and post some of the lesser-known strategies for winning your pool.

Strategy #1. Making the Most of a Bad Situation

I have won a pool exactly once. This was when I was young, early in medical school, and had never paid to be in a bracket pool before. My girlfriend at the time had a lot of basketball knowledge but two fatal flaws: 1. To this day, she loves UNC. Every single year, she makes them the winner of her bracket. Every year, she gets wiped. 2. She's the bracket-unluckiest smart person I know. She knows what games might be upsets and picks a few and is always, always wrong. So my strategy? Take her first round upsets and middle rank picks and go the other way. Keep her later round picks with the exception of UNC. Even though the relationship was happily settled long ago, I still got her picks this year and am seriously considering this strategy even as I type. (God, I hope she isn't reading this, because up until this point, she and I have remained good friends. Now that I've revealed my leechy strategy AND bad-mouthed UNC, I'm sunk.)

Strategy #2. Follow the Leader

Barack Obama published his picks today. Apparently, he is as knowledgeable as some of the best sports commentators in America. I would go so far as to say that he is actually in a class above all other bracket-masters because in addition to his amazing basketball expertise, he (to the best of my knowledge) has refrained from saying "Sweet Sassy Molassy!" or "Boo-ya!" in public. I guess I'm saying that if we're willing to believe he knows what he's doing about the economy, then adopting his bracket isn't such a bad idea. There is one very significant problem with strategy #2: It is in direct conflict with Strategy #1. Yes, readers, President Obama picked UNC to win it all.

Strategy #3: The Cat's (or Dog's) Where It's at

Feline owners (of which I am not one. Allergies.) can take comfort in the fact that they can always do a "cat-bracket." In other words, pick only teams that have feline mascots. Obviously, this isn't going to work for your whole bracket, but if you tried this strategy, you might just have the Memphis Tigers beating the Pitt Panthers in the final. You could do the same thing with dogs and might see the Connecticut Huskies beating the Duke Blue Devils (I'm not sure about this one, actually, but I think the Blue Devil's mascot is actually the Duke Dog. I mean, what the hell is a Blue Devil, anyway? Am I missing something?).

Strategy #4: Cheater's Paradise

There are websites that do your bracket for you. Bracket Brains will make your bracket professional-perfect for the low low price of $100. My pool is ten dollars to enter...so 110 dollars? Seems fair. I think I'll take this option. I'm getting out my credit card now.

Well, back to my bracket. I've got to put my picks in fast, because it's late and I am at high risk for getting all these different strategies confused and accidentally sending my 100 bracket-creation dollars to my ex's presidential-acting cat. (Which would be a total waste because he'll just blow the money on Fancy Feast.)

Golden Ticket? Comments, please.

2009-01-07T14:12:00.007-05:00

When I was a kid, I was obsessed with the book Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I think I was totally fascinated with the idea that Charlie could be one of five people in the whole world to find a golden ticket and get a tour of the chocolate factory. The theme was one of hope, and I took the book at its word. I was just waiting for the day when my golden ticket showed up.

Of course, I found out that life isn't really like that. Five golden tickets in the whole world means that nobody I know is going to find one. And although I'm in many ways a very lucky person, my luck does not apply when it comes to games of chance. I do not win lotteries or slot machines or even small-town-church raffles featuring baked goods as prizes. Hell, I can't successfully manipulate those "claws" where you try to pick up a stuffed animal.

Then, today, I opened up my email to find that the Obama campaign had sent me something. This is not new: I get something from them everyday. I feel badgered, honestly. But this was different: the email was linked to Ticketmaster and provided me with a reservation number for my ticket to the inauguration. My golden ticket is here.

It is unclear how this came about. I was on their health-care mailing list, but unless systematically deleting their emails counts for something, I was not what one might call a contributing member. As some of you may remember, I did get into a car accident and, instead of fixing the car, sent the deductible to the Obama campaign along with a nice letter. I never heard back, so I assumed that the letter was totally ignored (even if the check was not). But maybe it wasn't ignored after all.

Regardless, I now have a ticket to the inauguration. My heart tells me that I should be running down the street to get home and beg Grampa Joe to get out of bed, but as it turns out the whole thing isn't going to be very convenient for me. I am starting on the wards that Tuesday so I'd have to find to someone cover my service. I have a place to stay, but it's going to cost me 800 dollars to fly there. (And that's pretty cheap, considering).

My practical side always kind of wondered this about Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I mean, probably most of the people who eat candy bars are trying to supplement calories because they missed their lunch or something. Aren't the chances pretty good that some uninformed or uninterested person would have just tossed the ticket? Or sold it? Or just been too busy to make it that day? Does having a golden ticket mean that one is just supposed to drop everything?

And we leave out the most important part of the inauguration issue: historic or not, would you want to be trapped on the mall, surrounded by literally 4 million people, without food, water, or other basic amenities? I just don't think it's worth it.

I might just be the world's biggest fuddy-duddy. But what you would do? I'd like to know.

I know what you crave. Hint: It's not the veggie plate.

2008-12-13T21:32:00.006-05:00

Let me preface this story by saying that I apologize. I am not generally this rude, and the views expressed in this essay have nothing to do with my feelings about vegans as a group. Some of my best friends are vegan. Uh. Were vegan. Oops. Well, anyway, this blog post is clearly the last stop between my house and my doomed afterlife in the depths of tempeh hell. And I deserve every minute of it, I know:

She had short blond hair, multiple tattoos, was wearing a vintage Star Wars T-shirt with low-slung jeans, and was the cellist/bassist/frontwoman of the band. Still, picking up a musician in a bar is always a risky choice, and Jay was rightfully wary. I wouldn’t have encouraged him, either, but she was just so cute. And she clearly liked him, as evidenced by the fact that she came into the back room and appeared to play pinball next to our pool table. This ploy was all the more amusing because the pinball machine had been broken for at least three years.

After two hours of ridiculous glances across the bar, she finally came up to him and launched a totally lame line. He smiled. That was the beginning of years of suffering.

The moment the word “vegan” came out of her mouth, I froze. Actually, I would have walked out right then, blond hair and tattoos or not, but Jay’s tolerance was much higher than mine, and he failed to see the red flag. (The year before he lived in a stinky vegetarian co-op, where he was constantly surrounded by piles of dishes in the sink, year-old dust balls in the living room, and the benefit of a free ride to school in a VW bus, courtesy of his grungy roommates.) Immediately after meeting Punk Girl, he started finding “Why Vegan?” flyers scattered around his house. They featured a bloated, unhappy cow on the cover. Jay lasted only a month.

Our morning coffee quickly dissipated into soy lattes and cream cheese-less bagels. I even felt a little guilty about my constant carnivorous desires as I watched him lose fifteen pounds (and the guy is 6’4’’ and started at 180 lbs).

Punk Girl soon broke up with him, grew out her hair, quit the band, and moved to the suburbs of Kansas City. Despite this, Jay continued taking me to Buddhist restaurants and popping handfuls of daily vitamin supplements. For days after our vegan dinners, I suffered stomach cramps and night sweats. I just don’t think I was born to ingest highly processed wheat gluten.

When I moved to Philadelphia, I had already been trying to break him for five years. I frequently called him to describe delicious cheese and egg dishes and sometimes even tried to lure him in with stories of his favorite meaty items. Before his first visit to my new place, I found a restaurant in my neighborhood with a rotating menu that frequently featured bacon.

The chef was a very grumpy, very large woman whose kitchen opened directly into the dining room, meaning that the delicious smells of her cooking always filled the place. Best of all, the brunch was amazing. I sold him on promises of a delicious tofu scramble and spicy hash browns, knowing that the smell of bacon always filled the restaurant’s air. The report that jalapeño bacon was the special made my heard leap. I asked for two orders.

When it arrived, Jay eyed it suspiciously and then glanced back every few minutes. I sung its praises in a clearly over-the-top manner, and, after just a few minutes of this, turned to him and said, “You do know that this bacon is vegan, right?” He gave me a death look and went back to shuffling his tofu around. I shoved a plate across the table and left for the bathroom.

By the time I returned to the table, he had clearly undergone an identity crises and what he considered to be a moral lapse. All the bacon on the table, his and mine, was gone. I said nothing and paid the bill. We didn’t speak of it the entire day. A week after he returned home, he called me, furious.

“This is your fault, DrBB. I can’t stop. I’ve eaten bacon every day for a week. I had the urge to eat fish yesterday. I might consider a pork chop.”

I sighed, “Well, pork is the other white meat.”

“Ha.” He growled. “I hate you.”

I continued, “Listen, you’ve been pale and sickly-looking for five years. You can’t go to normal restaurants. You can’t eat my cooking. You won’t speak to people on the Atkins diet, despite the fact that your mother misses you terribly and wants to show you how much weight she’s lost! She won’t stop calling me. Please, return to the metaphorical land of the living! And when you call your mother, tell her that I love her but she should never call me again.”

Last month, Jay sent me pictures of the most recent party he attended. It was a bacon party. For Christmas last year, I gave him a bacon calendar, bacon-flavored gum, and a bacon clock. His Facebook page features a picture of him wearing a pig snout. He’s also got a new girlfriend. Her mother is a famous chocolatier who has been featured on both television and radio. Her specialty? Chocolate covered bacon. Could there be anything better?

(FYI: I also found a bacon blog)

Facebook Traitor.

2008-12-02T00:07:00.003-05:00

Last night, as I spent two hours posting photos on Facebook and making ridiculous comments on my friends' pages (none of the comments, noticeably, are ever responded to), I had a concerning thought: Is my blog suffering as a result of Facebook?

My heart longs for me to say no. My brain is denying the possibility, my defense mechanisms are kicking in hard-core. Why, long before Facebook I occasionally went for many weeks (months?) without posting! And I'm also busy. I do, in fact, have some semblance of a life outside of the internet. Well...I used to have a roommate. Then my mom moved to Florida. Still, that's something.

No matter how much I protest, I know must eventually admit the truth: deep down, I know that a lot of my (brilliant) thoughts are getting said on Facebook instead of being pondered here.

So, my blog fans, I will try not to let this betrayal go on! After all, you are my first loves, and a commitment is to be honored.

Back to Nothing! And we're not talking about Pele.

2008-11-14T01:15:00.000-05:00

So. Amazing. November 4th was a landmark day for the United States of America for so many reasons. It's possibly the beginning of the end of these years of darkness and, more importantly, we got to enjoy an election night that didn't end with tears, teeth gnashing, or conversations that weighed the evils of George W. Bush against the horror of a life of Canadian cuisine (I mean, Canadian food is the perfect storm of bland and bizarre. They eat french fries with gravy there. Seriously.).

Perfect! Now what? I have spent several months hanging on every last word of television talking heads and fake-news news anchors. I have neglected work, ignored my personal life, bitten my nails to the quick, and lost countless hours of sleep. Now I'm like an alcoholic emerging from a bender, reflecting on my downfall and wondering how to structure my new life. The upside of my situation? No more late-night binges and hopefully no more painful post-news hangovers. The downside? I secretly am going to miss the temporary euphoria of a long night of watching liberal punditry.

And really, what to write about? My brain is suddenly a clean slate. And then, today, I realized: I finally get to go back to writing, expounding, ruminating, elaborating...about Nothing. Yes, I can finally admit it. I'm the blog version of Seinfeld. And then, while getting my eyebrows waxed (cleaned up, not shaped, mind you), I was told by my aesthetician that I should consider getting a Brazilian wax job. And there you have it. I had a Nothing to write about.

I had a Nothing to write about because it turns out that she was not talking about a person from South America detailing my car. No, she was talking about a different land down under. And I was horrified.

Let me emphasize that I'm not afraid of body parts or anatomy. I'm all for owning what you've got, and I'm also not absolute about preserving every bit of my hair. I shave my legs. (Well, sometimes not in the winter, unless I have a Compelling Reason.) and I wax those eyebrows (cleaned up, not shaped).

I am also proud of the fact that I'm an internist who is comfortable doing pap smears. I'm pretty nonchalant about the whole thing and I do a good job putting my patients at ease, reminding them how briefly unpleasant but totally routine the whole thing is. I never thought once about judging a patient. As I look back cumulatively on all those pap smears, though, I realize that almost every woman I ever took care of was hairless. And I don't really get it. How could the whole word have gone (painfully) bald? Isn't ripping hair out by the root one of the ways they interrogate enemy combatants and terrorize men on "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy?"

I could go on analyzing this, but I am going to steer clear of the 'hot potato' question about who the procedure actually benefits. One thing is for sure: much to the chagrin of my likely hairless aesthetician, I won't be making an appointment for a Brazilian anytime soon. Unless she's cute and teaching a dance class.

The tell-tale stapler.

2008-10-08T22:20:00.007-04:00

There's an administrator in my office who is just plain nasty to me. She isn't rude, exactly. She is just icy. She's not horrible to everyone. She is very deferential and friendly to the older men in the office who wear suits. (I don't know their names or their jobs, but they look legit). They make a joke with her and she laughs. I make a joke and she stares angrily.

Unfortunately, I need her help on some office-y things. Things like using the copier, ordering me a stapler, and obtaining a trash can. She hates me for all of it.

I have really tried to get her to warm up to me. I smile. I talk to her. I have asked her about her family. Today, I asked her about the debate. "Did you hear the last question?" I asked. '"What do you not know and how would you learn it?' Hilarious!" I was smiling and did not endorse either candidate. I was merely trying to make conversation and the debate was the topic most commonly discussed in the office today.

She pursed her lips and tried to pierce my soul with her slit-like eyes. "I did not watch the debate because I hate Barack Obama. If I hear his voice, I want to be sick." It's pretty rare to hear this sort of thing around here. This is liberalville, USA. I was shocked (I almost asked "because he's black?" but stopped myself because I feared I would end up doing time in diversity training). And in that moment, I knew why she hates me so much.

I am a liberal, feminist, Indian, lesbian doctor who wants her to order me a stapler. And she has to do it. And that makes her more sick than Barack Obama's voice.

Election-related stress disorder. (ERSD)

2008-10-06T20:33:00.008-04:00

I've become a news junkie. It's bad. I guess I was always kind of a low-level chronic abuser, but it's gotten to the point where I listen to NPR coming to and going home from work, then I watch Rachel Maddow at 9, Keith Olbermann at 10, The Daily Show at 11 and Colbert at 11:30. As a result, I'm getting very little work done and I'm tired all the time. My "little problem" has limited my social life. If I spend even a few hours away from the TV, I start jonesing for a fix. Well, it's not quite as bad as it sounds. I have DVR, thank God.

Perhaps this has begun because tomato season is officially over and I've become a dry drunk in need of a new addiction. But I think it's because I am so stressed out about the election that if I don't watch the news constantly I sit up in bed all night, biting my lips raw and mumbling incoherently while rocking back and forth. I am seriously considering going to therapy twice instead of once a week.

Like any other addiction, though, the thing I am so desperately seeking is only making my situation worse. Every minute I watch gives me temporary relief, but then my old ghosts "rear their ugly heads" (not unlike Putin across the bay from Alaska). I start to panic-what if Obama doesn't win? What will become of us? How can there be a single person in this country who could vote for McCain/Palin? Then I think "I should watch more news. It will make me feel better." I am wondering when I'll hit rock bottom, my greasy face pressed to the television, my home in squalor.

My current thoughts:

1. Am I the only person that has noticed that McCain and Palin are complete and total lunatics? And I use lunatic in the most politically incorrect way possible. Maybe I should say 'maniacs,' ready to destroy the environment, decimate civil rights, launch a nuclear weapon...whatever. Bush is evil and stupid. These two? Nero fiddling while Rome burned. Not to mention that Rome is already burning.

2. He is going to die! Any day! She will be president! She doesn't even know what periodicals she reads!

3. Watching Rachel Maddow does have the additional benefit of getting to see her guests. She badgers Pat Buchanan and adores Paul Krugman (like me). Most entertaining is the fact that all the rest of her guests appear to be lesbians with debilitating crushes on her. They giggle, flip their hair, flutter their eyelids and sometimes (yes) wink.

4. 29 days! Less than a month!!!! Augh!

5. I don't care about the polls. They provide no solace. Who trusts the American people at all anymore?

Please, help me. I need an intervention. Now.

Budget Deficit.

2008-09-17T23:28:00.007-04:00

If you know me, you know that I'm something of a spender. Money has never been much of an object, even when I didn't have any.

My frugal accountant friend has been a traumatized witness to my financial disaster; in addition to her weekly trauma-reduction therapy, she has been hassling me (for years) to live on a budget. To make matters worse, I recently caught a bit of Dave Ramsey's show (oh, he's just Mr. Financial Peace. Whatever. Look him up.) during one of my anxiety attacks in the middle of the night. I am generally not one to fall for such drivel. But of course, I was experiencing a feeling of impending doom, a sharp contrast to the many happy callers bragging about their debt-free status. I was understandably intrigued. Debt-wise, I only have the $250,000 that I spent to go to med school, etc! According to his calculations, I could be out of debt in....whatever, I can't figure it out.

So I decided that would try this budgeting thing for two weeks. For the last 14 days, I have purchased only what I need to survive. This involved only one trip to Banana Republic. The rest was gas and food. My totals: Since September 4th, I have spent 434 dollars on groceries (I only went out to eat once. That was an additional 30 bucks.) and 200 dollars on gas (I have a 20 mile drive to work and, oh, yeah, I've been driving 50 miles one way to play soccer now and again.) (Then there was 85 dollars at The Republic; it's tricky for a lesbian to rock the business casual look, let me tell you. You take what you can get.)

So, for half the month, I've spent 634 dollars on essentials. Granted, I buy my produce at Whole Foods. And I have people over for dinner sometimes. But we're really just talking a few beautiful tomatoes (as you know, I eat mostly tomatoes, olive oil, diet Dr. Pepper, and ice cream.) and one dinner for four (I made hamburgers and salad and tomatoes). After adding rent and utilities (oil heat, don't get me started), car payments and my 2000 dollar-a-month payment to the student loan people (their slogan: "medical education for the low, low price of your eternal soul"), my monthly expenses are a minimum of 5000 dollars. That's for a life without restaurants or clothes or Pottery Barn or a weekend trip to the west coast. And remember, I now have a real job, but I'm a general internist.

That's crazy! How do people do this? I really don't get it. And that was a rhetorical question, so don't you dare tell me to call Dave Ramsey. I'd rather just shelve the budget and go to New York this weekend. I'll try again next week. Maybe.

Tribute to the VA

2008-07-23T12:37:00.006-04:00

In honor of my last day at the VA, I bring you a reprise of my 2007 post "Cool Like That." (One comment: The Obama 'fist bump' has made fist bumps cool again. I was just ahead of the curve):

Patients who believe that their doctor understands and respects them are more likely to listen to medical advice and adhere to prescribed therapies. That's why, when I work at the VA, I become the most patriotic person in the whole world. I'm not the type to go putting American flags on my clothing or anything. That's too obvious. No, I become the kind of patriot who wants to hear the entire life story of any vet who steps foot into the building.

I really do like some of the stories. I think WWII was a very good move. I thought "Saving Private Ryan" was really entertaining. (Although "Pearl Harbor" was ridiculous, and I missed the two Clint Eastwood movies.) But a lot of the stories are the same. And although I'm interested, I don't generally spend all of my free time reading books by Tom Brokaw.

Once I realized the value of feigned super-patriotism in the medical setting, though, relating to the vets became easy. I ask to hear their stories about Pearl Harbor, Normandy, Korea. And I marvel at them. I punctuate the ends of all my sentences with "Wow!" or "You don't say!" or "You are a member of a generation of heroes. The greatest generation." I don't say anything when they call me "nurse" repeatedly during the conversation. And, like magic, they soon realize that I'm the best thing that has happened to them all year. They live in a world that has completely changed, and this new place is terrifying: not all doctors are men, a huge portion of the world is non-white, and almost no one gives a sh*t about some vet's life story. Yes, I'm a woman doctor who doesn't wear a white coat, but for five minutes I help them feel like a real person again.

Because of my success at the VA, I decided I would carry this technique to my new moonlighting job at the student health center on campus. There's no doubt that it's much trickier to relate to the "kids" these days than it is to older gentleman who served in the military. But I think I'm doing a pretty good job of it.

For one thing, I totally use their lingo. When they walk into the room, I don't say, "How can I help you today?" No, I say, "Yo, what's up? You sick or something?" They generally are so dumbfounded by this degree of cool, they are completely taken aback. But they adjust. When there's a lull in the conversation, I ask them what's playing on their IPOD or talk about the girl who cut off all her hair on You Tube. Sometimes I ask them if they like "the Hip-Hop music." And before they leave, I stick out my fist and say, "All right, feel better, punch it in."

I think it's because I'm at a smarty pants northeastern university that I don't get the degree of respect for my cool that I would expect somewhere else. Sometimes, my patients don't even answer but instead stare at me with a confused expression. One kid even said to me, "Punch it in? Isn't that a line from the movie "Heathers?"

Now, technically, he was right, but I had completely forgotten this. I was using the phrase in a fresh, 2007 way. Other than those few exceptions, though, I think that my style totally gets me in with the youngsters. Their smiles and laughs and quizzical looks indicate that they see that I understand them. And that makes me a better, and certainly cooler, doctor.

Indy: A tale of two races

2008-06-08T22:33:00.002-04:00

I was in Indianapolis over Memorial Day weekend. My sister and I were both there; I even convinced her to take the same flight as me, which was supposed to be fun. Of course, now she won't forgive me for talking her into it, because it meant that she had a connection and then there was turbulence and she got airsick. And I wanted to read, which also irritated her. "Why fly together if you won't talk to me?"

During deplaning, the flight attendant says "If this is not your final destination-Hey, who are we kidding! You're all here for the race!"I turned to my sister and said, "Wait, there's a race?"

Of course, after a moment we remembered that she was talking about the Indy 500. I'm not sure how I forgot it, because the race definitely influenced my early life. One of my great childhood accomplishments was my first book, an epic recap of Gordon Johncock's 1982 win.

This is all the more astounding because of a little-known fact: The Indy 500 is not televised in Indianapolis. To make sure people go the race, the television coverage of the race is blacked out. So although I spent my childhood following the race, I never actually saw it. Instead, Sunday of Memorial Day weekend was spent lying in the living room and listening to the radio. It never crossed my mind that this was weird.

This year, Danica Patrick was the big news. Even if you don’t think you know her, you do; she’s the driver who poses nearly naked for magazines. Well, she also recently became the first woman to win a race in the Indy racing league. The result is that she has a fan base that is something like women’s soccer in 1999: lots of girls and women are inspired, and a lot of men (and a few women but not me), both skeevy and otherwise, are hoping she’ll win and then take off her shirt and run around the track. This was not Danica's year to disrobe, because she went out of the race with 29 laps to go when Ryan Briscoe hit her car as he pulled out of the pits. She spun out and was out of the race. I know, because I heard it all on the radio.

Since then, she's been criticized by the media for overreacting to the incident. She ran down the track in a fury, intending to yell at (and maybe punch?) Briscoe. She had to be held back by security, her teammates and crew. Although I understand the criticism, I can't point fingers. This exact thing once happened to me, and I reacted exactly the same way.

The year was 1979. Like many schools in Indiana, my fundamentalist Christian preschool held a mock-Indy 500 (Have you seen "Breaking Away?" Same deal.). Big Wheels were the vehicle of choice for this contest, making the race "The Big Wheel 500.” When originally writing this post, I thought that Big Wheels were universally recognizable. Apparently, however, they are a mystery to anyone born after 1980. My Big Wheel looked just like this one:

(My sister, on the other hand, chose a model called "The Powder Puff." It was pink and white and perfect for perfect little girls. I had zero interest.)

Back to the 1979 Big Wheel 500. I was a seriously competitive four-year-old, so with about a hundred yards to go, I was leading by a big wheel. Just then, some boy from my school, I think his name was "Jim-Ed," came up next to me and bumped my Big Wheel right off the track. He went on to win.

I was furious. According to my parents, it was one of my least delicate moments (and, if you know me, this is a huge statement). From the side of the track, the site of the wreck, I shook my fist and screamed, "You...poop-head!" Um, yeah. Highly embarrassing. I'm still cringing. Sorry, Jim-Ed, wherever you are. Even though you ran me off the road, you didn't deserve that. Danica, now you see why I feel your pain.

The next year, 1980, was a big year for racing, in no small part because I triumphantly returned to the site of my disaster and won the race. As the vindicated Big Wheel 500 champion, I drank the milk and accepted my trophy. My parents watched from the bleacher, beaming with pride. Throughout middle and high school, I was awarded several speech team trophies, a leadership paperweight, a big plaque when I was appointed to the all-state soccer team, a medal for being "South Africa" in the Model UN, and a bunch of other, dorkier prizes as well (The "Government Class" award, anyone?). Somehow, all of those idols have been lost or put away in a box somewhere. Only "The Big Wheel 500" trophy is still prominently displayed in my parents' house.

Obama!

2008-06-03T21:49:00.004-04:00

Yes. I believe we can.
(Although all the way through Hillary's speech, I was reminded what an amazing woman she is.)

Look below for answers

2008-05-30T10:26:00.004-04:00

What I mean to say is: Check the comments on my previous post. My friend, the man we have been discussing, replied to the post with a comment that has made my day.

My new car is damaged, but I see an opportunity.

2008-05-28T21:14:00.008-04:00

Today, somebody rear-ended me while I was driving to work. The new car is no longer perfect.

The damage is pretty minimal, but there are 4 square scratched out areas on the bumper.

The guy who hit me is a lawyer. He was extremely kind; he took responsibility for the accident and offered to pay to have the car fixed. If the cost of the repairs exceeds 250 dollars, then he wants to go through insurance. Otherwise, he's going to pay me cash.

When I got home, I took another look at it. I have a black car, which makes it hard to see the scratches. Still, there's no doubt that the cost to fix it is going to be close to the 250 dollar price tag. This sort of thing always is.

But then I started thinking: Because fixing this bumper is a total waste of money (it will just get damaged again, after all), why spend the money to fix it?

Therefore, I think I should still take him up on his offer for the 250 dollars. Rather than spending it on the car, I want to ask him to donate the money to the Obama campaign. It's 100 times more important to me that the Democratic party wins the presidency in November. I don't care about the bumper much at all.

I can't compel him to do this. Writing it out, it sounds totally crazy. So I come to you: What do you think I should do? Is this crazy?

Reply via comments.

More bored than busy.

2008-05-19T18:13:00.007-04:00

Yes, many bloggers who fail to post for a couple of weeks apologize for being busy.

I guess I've been kind of busy, traveling and writing a paper and whatnot. But I also have had very little to say. I've been a bit bored. Well, I could have told you about my love of medical conferences. There's nothing like seeing the people you respect the most get drunk and say things they will later regret (but what more is there to say about that, really?). I could have elaborated on my ongoing root canal problems (boring). I could have complained that I recently spent 400 dollars/night for a hotel that was only OK (but that just sounds like complaining). I should have mentioned that my Italian friends taught me to make a very delicious pasta sauce:

1 large can diced tomatoes
1 onion
2 garlic cloves
olive oil
red wine
salt

Saute onion and garlic in olive oil until soft
add about 1 cup of wine
cook until you no longer smell alcohol
add tomatoes
simmer about 5-10 minutes
salt to taste

I should have told you that earlier, I guess, but it took until today, finally, when I feel I have something worth telling:

Because I now have a job, I have to get licensed in a new state. This sounds easy (in my current state, send a check and ask no questions about how they didn't really verify whether or not the applicant is actually an MD), but the new state's 59 page application with multiple forms (that have to be filled out by someone else and then returned and then re-sent to the board) is overwhelming and tiresome.

Today, I needed to go to the VA to request my claims history (like a malpractice-type claim thing). I knew that the VA doesn't have real insurance, so I wasn't sure how to go about it.

Here's what happened:

1. Go to main information desk on first floor. Ask "Hello, Ma'am. Does this VA have a risk management department?"
Info person says, "You know what you need? You need the 7th floor."

2. I take the elevator to the 7th floor only to find out that the entire floor is the inpatient psychiatry unit. Ah ha.

3. I ask a nurse on the unit. She says, "You need the patient advocate."
"No," I said, "I'm a doctor. I need the malpractice-type department."
"Malpractice?" She says, looking at me suspiciously, "Why? Well, try the human resources department on the first floor."

4. I go to human resources, back on the first floor. "I have," I start, "What seems to be a difficult question."
Admin person says, "Sorry, no difficult questions on Monday. You'll have to wait until Tuesday for an answer to a difficult question. Or, try the chief of staff's office."

5. I enter the chief of staff's office. The Admin person says, "Well, I don't know what you're talking about, but you can try the Quality Management department on this floor."

6. At least I don't have to take the elevator again. Yet.

7. Enter the Quality Management department. Administrator says, "I'm sorry, but the risk manager is out today. But I don't think we can help you, anyway. If you have a form with a check-box we can do it, but if you need a letter, that's the medical staff office on 6."

8. To make sure there's someone in the office, she calls upstairs and gets the green light. "OK, take the elevator to 6. Turn left, walk to the end of the hall."

9. Arriving on 6, I follow her instructions and end up in the middle of a medical floor. Right. I ask a nurse.

10. "Oh, you should have turned right out of the elevator."

11. I arrive at the medical staff office. It has been 4 minutes since Quality Woman called up. There is no one in the office. I wait a few minutes and finally someone walks in.

12. "Oh, we can do it, but all of the staff are out today. Can you send it or fax the request to us?"

Gotta love the government. I'm all for a single payer health system, but the VA model (which provides great patient care, don't get me wrong) seems to indicate a single payer would not lead to administrative streamlining, as single-payer proponents would like you to you think.

Spring cleaning

2008-04-27T21:44:00.006-04:00

I am not a pack rat. I do not have a house full of used food containers or stacks of three year old newspapers.

Well, with one exception.

A few years ago, my father told me that I should always read The New York Times Book Review because it is the best periodical in America. The problem is that in addition to the sunday Times, I get The New Yorker, The New England Journal, The Annals of Internal Medicine, and The Journal of General Internal Medicine. It's too much to read as it is. Still, I understand my father's point-The Book Review is worth reading. It just comes with the rest of the paper, and reading the rest of the paper takes me practically the whole week. And so I always set it aside, swearing I will read it later.

I've now been saying this for three years. Yes, I have a giant stack of NYT book reviews, three years worth of "the best periodical in America." It's been bugging me, no doubt, so this weekend, during my spring cleaning, I put the entire stack in bags for recycling. (If you want it, let me know before Wednesday morning when the trash goes out.) Getting rid of The Stack is a momentous moment because I acknowledge that I'm not going to get to it before I move. It is the first step in paring down for my new place.

I just have to sign that contract. I hope to close the deal in the next couple of days.

Then I face my next challenge: Where do I live? Should I buy a house?

P.S.: I realize I will now never convince you that my house is not a dank place stuffed with rotting food and folded cardboard boxes. I guess you'll have to come over some time so I can prove to you that my house is, in fact, quite clean and not more stuffed with crap than the majority of houses in America.

A True Story.

2008-04-20T20:06:00.008-04:00

What I am about to tell you all really happened. Today.

Yesterday, I worked 12 hours in the ER and when I got home, I was too exhausted to sleep. After watching multiple bad movies (including "Mask" starring Eric Stoltz as Rocky Dennis, the courageous boy with a horribly disfigured face), I finally fell asleep at 2 AM.

That made me late for soccer this morning, so I got off to a slow start. The good news was that I finally got into the swing late in the game, and actually ended up playing quite well. We just couldn't compete with them, though-we ended up losing 3-0. They were so fast and so fit. Finally, I asked their sweeper, "How old are you all, anyway?"

"Oh, 22," She answered.

"Oh, so that it explains it!" I said, "I'm eleven years older than you are! I used to be much faster and fitter."

"Well," she said. "I personally think it's really great that you can still play at your age."

Hmm. At my age.

Maybe that was why I spent the rest of the game killing myself, running down the line like a madwoman. I didn't even notice that I was pounding my right foot into oblivion. It was only when I took off my shoes that I realized I couldn't walk. It wasn't exactly like a blister. It was like I had a huge bruise on the bottom of my foot.

As I limped into work this afternoon, I decided I would have to create some sort of cushion for my foot if I was going to make it through the day. From gauze and tape , I fashioned a mini-pillow. It was missing something, though. I realized it needed a hole so that the bruised area wouldn't touch my shoe or the bandage.

I first tried to cut it with a scissors, but it was too thick, so I asked the nurse to bring me a scalpel. I knew as I took it out of the case that the idea was trouble. I knew it! But did I listen to myself? No, of course not! I did fine cutting the hole. It was my attempt at recapping the damn thing (I know! I know! Lay off!) that resulted in the two lacerations you see in the picture below.

Blood immediately started dripping all over the floor. I grabbed some gauze to hold pressure, but it was still ugly. Finally, the nurse ran in and dermabonded me (the picture is post-dermabond) and the bleeding stopped. After this was done, I looked up to see all of the nurses staring me looking at me with (and this was so horrifying) pity. Even better, the patients sit in an open area-they could see all of this happening.

"I thought I was bad off because I hear voices all the time," The guy in bed 1 said to me.

The good news is that the hand feels pretty good post-dermabond. And the pillow for the foot? It worked perfectly.

Oh, and also, I finally think I have a job. Nothing signed yet, but we're just days away.

Return to Chester Street

2008-04-13T00:19:00.009-04:00

The town where I went to college did not have a gay bar. Well, it sort of did. The local bar was called "The Sportsman's Club." The dance floor doubled as a hallway. I wasn't actually 21 until after I graduated from college, but thanks to the expired driver's license of an obese, big-haired woman named "Staicie R. Tater," I saw that hallway/dance floor with my own eyes very shortly after I realized that I'd like to see the inside of a gay bar. Unfortunately, seeing The Sportsman once was all I needed. I had no desire to return.

It should be noted that when I showed the fake ID to my mother, she fell down laughing. "Who is that supposed to be?" She asked. Not surprisingly, Staicie's face didn't get me in anywhere besides The Sportman, so despite my desire to see other gay bars, I was very limited in my options. Then I found out that in Illinois (2 1/2 short hours away!), one only had to be 19 to get into the clubs. To drink, a person of age needed a wrist band. To dance, all I needed was my own driver's license with my hideous 1992 high school photo and its 1974 date of birth. And so it was fate that led me to Chester Street, a dance club in the gay mecca known as Champaign-Urbana.

http://www.chesterstreetbar.com

(It still exists!)

I suspect that if I returned to Chester Street today, I would find it hideous. Bad music. Youngsters. Champaign-Urbana. At the time, however, it was the epitome of glamour, full of fashionable men and attractive women. About once a month, my seven best friends and I and piled into my station wagon and drove 2 1/2 hours so that we could dance for 2 hours (the bar closed at 1), eat at Steak n' Shake (mmmm. why didn't I savor it when I had it?), and then return home by 5 AM or so. By the end of my college years, I loved it so much I could be found there nearly every weekend. Most nights, my friends and I danced together on the speakers. We were so happy that this place existed. And we knew that we were cute.

To this day, my vision of Chester Street is the standard against which I measure all other bars. Back when The Clit Club was the thing in New York, I was quoted as saying, "Well, it's OK. But it's no Chester Street." (I could only say that, of course, after I could get into The Clit Club. During my first brief stint in NYC, I still wasn't 21 and the only bar Staicie R. Tater could get me into was "Crazy Nanny's" on 7th Avenue in the West Village. It had many similarities to The Sportsman, but a better dance floor).

Then, last night (was it last night? It seems like a week ago), I was in Pittsburgh. I was a bit demoralized because I was at a conference and had just finished my talk on "How to Get a Job." I signed up for the talk last fall, foolishly thinking I would have a job and would like to talk about how I got it. It was a fine talk, actually, but unfortunately the conference seemed to be entirely populated by people who I had interviewed with but who had not offered me a job. Yes, I was preaching on "how to get a job" to people who know full well that I don't have one. Because they didn't give me one.

Understandably, after the talk, I wanted to go out for a drink and maybe some dancing. As it turns out, the Pittsburgh from "Queer as Folk" is not entirely realistic. Despite the presence of my friends from New Orleans (The way I understand it, their whole lives are just one big party. Well, except for that hurricane thing.), we still had to go to three different bars before we hit pay dirt. The first was under a bridge, in an old department store. We initially drove by it because it had no sign and no windows. On this first pass, we pointed and laughed at the people standing outside the door. (I'm not sure why. Nerves, maybe? Confusion?) Then we walked into the bar and found out that the people we had laughed at were the only other customers. Oops.

We left and went to a bar that was not all that interesting. Fine, really, but not that fun. Finally, we entered the dungeon known as "Pegasus." And I realized I had returned to Chester Street.

It was not that this "Pegasus" was a great bar. Actually, it was pretty horrible. It was probably 105 degrees Fahrenheit, and the dance floor was surrounded by a barbed-wire fence which was intended to keep people with drinks out of the area. It was packed with people who were drunk, underage, and really, really bad dancers. The patrons kept running their sweaty bodies into me and doing things I found horrifying, like taking off their shirts and revealing types of bras that should, as a rule, stay under shirts. If presented with this situation at any other moment, I would have screamed and run away. Instead, I first was amused and shortly thereafter realized that Chester Street was in the room. All around us were people standing on the speakers and the podiums and other areas above the dance floor. I've been plenty of places where that was true, but this was different. It truly seemed like many people in the room were projecting unselfconscious joy. No matter how ridiculous they looked, how bad their clothes, how drunk they appeared, how silly their dancing, they loved that they were there.

At the end of the night, my New Orleanian friend (we'll call him Nola) was dancing on a speaker and became trapped against a wall by a person who appeared to be approximately 15 years of age. The genuine panic on Nola's face (the words "statutory rape" were flashing before his eyes) led all of us to jump on the speaker to protect him from the predatory adolescent. So there I was, dancing on a speaker once again.

For that tiny moment, I was in beautiful Champaign-Urbana, the home of that world-renowned club called Chester Street.

Brace Face.

2008-04-06T15:10:00.024-04:00

Well, I am enjoying my new Nissan Rogue. I picked it up yesterday and have been zipping all over town, feeling like I'm in my own personal commercial. (It was only recently that I realized that not everyone goes through life imagining that they are on camera.)

I also am in the middle of trying to figure out where I should work. I have job offers, all very different. Should I go for a high-powered job that might make me a star? Or should I finally give in and live my life? More than anything, I just want to be done with all this indecision. (There's a special place in hell for the indecisive and I really, really don't want to be there. How annoying. I've got hope it won't happen, since I've already got reservations in the sections of hell called "Radical Homosexuals" and "Northeastern Liberal Elite.")

The worst thing of all in this situation is that I have to get a root canal next week. A root canal. I keep hearing from everyone that it's just not that bad, but I don't believe it. When they told me I needed it, I went through the Kubler-Ross stages of death and dying. Well, the difference was that instead of "Acceptance," I experienced defeat:

1. Denial: “This is totally not happening. I swore I would never get dental surgery again. Comparatively, my colonoscopy was better. I’m so not doing this. I’m too busy. I don’t have the money, I don’t have anyone to drive me home.”

2. Anger: “Why me? It’s not fair. It’s their fault. When they filled that tooth, they cracked it.”

3. Bargaining: “I can live with it the way it is. I’ll just be careful and I won’t eat anything that hurts my tooth.”

4. Depression: “At some point in this process, I will be wishing for death.”

5. Acceptance/Defeat: “I will suffer through this and it will be terrible, but on the other hand, the last time I had dental surgery, I lost 20 pounds. I”ll listen to my Ipod during the procedure. I’ll let myself eat a pint of ice cream for dinner.”

My phobia of all things dental started when I was in sixth grade, the first time I got braces. (Yes, I said the first time.) The orthodontist's office was in my hometown in Indiana, in a pseudo-Asian pavilion. The orthodontist was a middle aged man, not terribly unattractive but a middle-aged Midwestern man nonetheless. There were chairs, all in a row, facing the windows of the pavilion, looking out on the parking lot. Every month, I would go there, I would sit in the chairs, and I would have things tightened and moved around in my mouth. And the whole time I would listen to the young all-female assistants fawn shamelessly over the married orthodontist. (I would experience this again during medical school when everyone in the OR defers to male attendings. Not so much to the women, interestingly.) Their admiration and flattery irritated me as much as the pain

Once I got those braces off, I was brace-free for six months and then got another set and went through two more years of this. (Later, I got my wisdom teeth out and couldn't eat for weeks. I woke up during the surgery. I couldn't take narcotics. Etc.) Looking back, I probably shouldn't have taken it so hard. Most kids go through it. It wasn't like I was getting chemotherapy or something. I wasn't abused. It was for my own good. But God, it sucked. For so many reasons.

Name That Car!

2008-03-24T00:39:00.008-04:00

Well, as you can see, I didn't buy the RAV-4. Or the CR-V. Or the Outback. In fact, if you can guess which car I ended up buying (hint: picture above), you'll win a prize.

Let me first say that this is not an SUV. Not really, anyway. It's quite small and is really a station wagon with big tires. It's on a car platform, and it gets 27 MPG highway. I think it meets all of my criteria: It's not too expensive, is attractive enough, drives well, is safe, holds stuff, has all-wheel drive. The most important thing, though, is that I think I've convinced eco-conscious girlfriend not to break up with me over the non-SUV purchase.

I need to thank Black Skywalker for getting me the car for hundreds of dollars below invoice. It was even more amazing than I thought it would be. The dealer was so intimidated by him that they didn't even try. They just folded. Mr. Skywalker said it was the easiest car negotiation he's ever experienced.

Now that I've got the car purchase complete, I'm off again, for what I hope is my last set of interviews. The good thing is that I'm finally interviewing for jobs I actually want. It also adds some stress.

Oh, I happened to catch the last episode of the L Word tonight. It would appear that the show has reached another all-time low: The four minute Bette-Tina music video "make out session in the middle of work function." I actually ran from the room screaming and retching.

Car Wars.

2008-03-15T14:54:00.004-04:00

I very much appreciate your car comments. My responses:

1. Although I love some of the cars recommended, I cannot afford a car that costs more than 20-something thousand dollars.
2. I got an email from a devoted reader who recommended the following short-list: Subaru Outback (she just bought one), Honda CRV, Toyota RAV-4, Audi A3. My personal negotiator (a.k.a. "Black Skywalker") also strongly recommends a Mazda-3.
3. I like this short list. I'm also in the unusual position of renting and borrowing several different cars this next two weeks (including a Toyota Prius and a Subaru Impreza), and I'm wondering if these extended test drives might further influence my decision. Because of this, I've decided to hold off on purchasing a car until I return from my next set of travels.
4. I'm leaning heavily towards the RAV-4. I still haven't test-driven it, but I am comfortable in Toyotas and I've heard and read some very enthusiastic reviews.

In addition to your comments, some of the other feedback I've been getting:

From Black Skywalker: "Princess Gay-a, if you want to pass up a driver's car like the Audi or Mazda for a soulless, functional car like the RAV-4, go ahead. Just make sure you test-drive them all first."

From eco-conscious girlfriend: "Can't you buy a car that's not an SUV? Just get the Outback." (I'm actually concerned about the strain an SUV purchase might place on our young relationship. Never mind that the RAV-4 gets the same or even better gas mileage than the Subaru, both around 19-26 MPG. Neither is any good compared to my Corolla's 30-40 MPG. Of course, the Corolla couldn't go any faster than 70 MPH).

From insurance company: "You know that we didn't call your car a total loss, right? It's 2900 dollars damage on a 3000 dollar car." (Yeah, that's worth it.)

From my mother: "I told you to get the RAV-4 last week. Why do you never listen to me?" (Um. Because you're my mother?)

So, over the next two weeks, I'll continue to consider my options. When I'm ready to buy, I'm going into the deal empowered because I'll have "The Negotiator" (a.k.a. Black Skywalker. BTW: he invented that name himself.) by my side. As our boss said last week, "Great, a black yuppie and a lesbian walk into a car dealership. If you two weren't buying a car, I'd think you were running for president."

Goodbye, car. Hello, Maui. And a contest.

2008-03-13T16:12:00.009-04:00

Before you get too excited, the above is not a picture of me. It's a picture of my sister and was taken in the year 1997. It's also a picture of my now-dead car (1997 is the year I bought the car. In 11 years and 160,000 miles, it never broke down once). I had been planning to keep my car just one more year, until I had my feet on the ground enough that a car payment would not be a burden. Instead, I was in an accident last week and the car is now totaled.

The interesting thing about the accident is that the guy who hit me was initially a total homophobic jerk (calling me "he" and then "it," referring to the fact that he couldn't tell if I was a man or a woman). However, the insurance company reported that after the fact he was polite and apologetic and didn't make a pain and suffering claim (which would have totally annoyed me). It's probably in part because the insurance company is calling the accident my fault. I still think it's debatable, but since I was the one changing lanes, they're saying it's all on me. I'm complaining, I know, and neglecting to say that it could have been much worse. I wasn't hurt, which is nothing short of a miracle.

Of course, the lack of car has created significant upheaval in my life. There was anxiety and dealing with rentals cars and enough calls from insurance companies to fill up my voice mailbox. To make things more complicated, I had a manuscript due last Thursday. Fortunately for me, I left for vacation in Maui last Friday, the 7th. By Sunday, I was zipping through West Maui and took this picture with my cell phone:

After a few days of beach and sun and really amazing restaurants, I'm feeling a lot better. When I get back I have a whirlwind of activities and clinical time, followed by another round of travel and three interviews in a week and two days' time. And I have to buy a car. So it's going to be busy. I'm also faced with a dilemma: what car to buy?

Many of my friends own Subarus. It's weird, in fact. It's not just Martina in the commercials. I think the lesbian and Subaru-loving genes are linked. I joke, but I have that gene, too. I love Subarus in a major way. The practicalness. The rugged cuteness. The storage space. And yet, I'm struggling. Are Subarus too gay? Will I be too much like my friends?

So, I think that we should have a write-in: what kind of car should I buy? My criteria:

1. Dependable: should last another ten years.
2. Can carry a lot of stuff.
3. Although I don't have kids, I want one or two. So kid-friendly.
4. More power than my old Corolla.
5. Attractive enough. In lesbian terms.
6. Consistent with my sparkling personality.

I'm looking this week, so move on this, people. Write in with your ideas.

I still can't resist a baby face.

2008-02-26T12:21:00.003-05:00

Well, I just got back to my office after finishing my morning of basic life support training. This means that I just spent 4 hours stifling laughter as I watched a video featuring "Scott" collapsing in his doctor's office (the minute he walked in there, jovial and attractive, I could tell he was a goner), "Ann" suffering from choking (don't forget what I just learned: when in that situation, kick the choking person from behind. Or something like that. I forget), and "an unnamed man" who was lucky enough to have his vfib arrest directly outside the ER to a hospital and in front of 2 EMS personnel. In addition, my BLS recertification means that it has been two years since I became a blogger. Granted, I had a different blog for my first blogging year, but it's been two years nonetheless.

At the time of my previous BLS training, I commented on the fact that everyone in the class thought I was a freak, in no small part because I kept taking pictures of the "manikins" with my phone. This time everyone thought I was a freak, too, but experience was entirely different.

I think it's because I've now been around the VA for a while, so I knew a couple of people in the class and I saw a few more people I knew in the hall. People definitely looked twice at my behavior (particularly the part where I borrowed the "infant" face to photograph), but because they know me, they thought that was as funny as it was strange. As a result, I also got to explain myself to others ("I'm taking this picture to post on the internet."), and although not everyone got the joke (my instructor said, "Hmm mmm. Just remember that what you do is between you and Jesus."), I didn't feel like such a freak.

The other thing that I noticed is that I'm a little more mature than I was then. Maybe it's just because so many of my friends now have kids, but the disembodied baby faces weren't quite as hilarious as they were before. I sort of wondered whether if Katy and Tracy (see "Gin-Soaked Olive") would find infant CPR funny at all.

And the last thing that I realized is that the next time I take this damn class, I'll be in some new city and probably won't know anyone once again. I'll have to start the whole thing over. It's so frustrating to be a transient. Of course, I still don't have a job. So, maybe, in two years, I'll still be here. (That's comforting. God. What a no-win.)

Unify.

2008-02-07T15:05:00.001-05:00

I'm sitting here in the airport, on my way to yet another interview. I've been on the road for a month but, sadly, I still don't have a job. On the upside, after this trip I will be halfway to making airline premier status for the calendar year 2008. No lie. And, on this flight, I got bumped to first class. Nice.

Moving on. I was reminded this week, in part by Barack Obama (may he win the nomination so that we can have a youthful, inspiring, and, most of all, electable candidate to run against John McCain), that unity has fallen on hard times. Very few things unify Americans (and I'm sticking to Americans here because 1. I can't speak for the rest of the world because I don't know most of it; 2. I'm pretty sure most things on this list don't apply to many people in other countries). Many things divide us (political parties, religion, love of Skyline Chili and/or black licorice. Don't know about Skyline? Look it up. Order a can. It will change your life. Maybe in a good but possibly in a bad way. You just can't tell. Which is my whole point.)

Therefore, I have created a short list of things that do unify Americans. Of course, you can't please all of the people all of the time, and for this reason I have created a "unity score" for each item (out of 100). These items are only snippets of all of the possibilities, so if you have other suggestions of items that unify, please feel free to reply via comments.

OK, here we go:

1. Score: 60
Item: Soundtrack to "A Charlie Brown Christmas"
You like it, admit it. It reminds you of your childhood.

2. Score: 70
Item: Pizza
The beauty of pizza is that it comes in so many styles and sizes that everyone can find some pizza he/she likes. My mother hates traditional pizza, but the gorgonzola walnut no sauce pie at her local pizza joint is one of her favorite foods.

3. Score: 85
Item: The Superbowl
Many people don't like sports. But most of those people watch the superbowl because of either 1. The commercials. 2 Because he/she is in the middle of a party where everyone else is watching.

4. Score: 85
Item: Drag Queens
This one was also inspired by last weekend. On Saturday night, I spent the evening with my friend, SFDG (sort-of famous drag queen). Hitting the town with her was like being in the entourage of a celebrity (Granted, it was me and three of the dancers from her videos, so it's possible their beautiful bodies also attracted some of the attention. But she was certainly the main event. I got to flirt with the boys and temporarily feel famous. For these and many reasons, I was in heaven.) In gay bars, it's not that surprising the people would respond so positively. What got me was that walking down the street, normal people would smile, give an encouraging word, make a comment about her beauty and/or sexiness (not always appropriate, but whatever). Even homophobic straight men (hmmm. I wonder what their issue is?) like drag queens. Drag queens offer the opportunity to like a man without thinking about the fact that she's a man.

The night ended with a car full of clearly straight women (women who would never respond this way to, say, me), pulling up next to us. Mary J. Blige was pounding out of their car stereo, the windows down. I was expecting harassment, but instead they hooted for SFDG to dance, and all us of had an impromptu, one-song-dance party right there in the middle of a busy street. I haven't seen that much of a spontaneous gesture of unity since 9/11. (BTW: The picture of SFDG below is one I took, with my phone, last Saturday night.)

5. Score: 95
Item: Krispy Kreme Doughnuts
You may not eat them. They're terrible for you. But I know that you like them.

Swami update, part II

2008-01-28T19:24:00.000-05:00

As you may recall, the Swami had these words of wisdom at his talk:

1. "If you want peace of mind, don't see the faults of others"
2. Your actions are returned to you
3. "We say we are too busy to have a spiritual life, but in fact we make our lives busy to avoid thinking about spirituality."
4. We seek out and obtain material goods and personal accomplishments because we believe that these things will make us happy. They will not.

OK, so keeping that in mind, listen to this:

I've been on the road pretty much nonstop with this interviewing thing (and it's about to kill me, I swear.), and I often turn on the random hotel TV as I squeeze into my suit at 7 AM before I go to meet the world.

The other morning, though, my wake-up call was harsher than usual. Since I was a medical student, I've been fascinated by this southern televangelist, Joyce Meyer. It's crazy-whenever I run across her as I flip through channels, I can't help but watch. Her program is called "Enjoying Everyday Life." I encourage you to catch a bit of it just to experience its mesmerizing effects. Don't get sucked in to sending her money, though!! Don't buy her DVDs (No, I did not make this mistake. Don't worry)! Anyway, so I stopped (as usual) on her show and guess what her messages were?

1. "If you want peace of mind, don't see the faults of others"
2. Your actions are returned to you
3. "We say we are too busy to have a spiritual life, but in fact we make our lives busy to avoid thinking about spirituality."
4. We seek out and obtain material goods and personal accomplishments because we believe that these things will make us happy. They will not.

Seriously. Almost exactly.

Just now I did some reading and found out that she's being indicted (or at least investigated) by the Senate Finance committee for shady business dealings; essentially, she has accumulated a huge amount of money and some it seems to have obtained illegally. (What? A corrupt televangelist? No!)

The whole thing has left me a little depressed. I mean, it doesn't make the advice wrong. It just seems so much more...generic now that I realize that corrupt Joyce Meyers is saying the same thing. As I said in a previous post, is nothing original anymore?

Top 10 Lesbian Docs

2008-01-14T20:35:00.001-05:00

At the request of my Favorite Ex-Assistant, I am posting the top 10 lesbian doctors. Now, I do believe that if you click on the above image, you should be able to view this in a larger size. I expect that Curve magazine will be coming after me about this, so enjoy while you can.

Notably, this list is very WIM-member heavy. Yes, some of the same lesbians who were on the lesbian doctor cruise are on this list. I'm pretty sure there's a WIM insider at Curve. I guess this means that if I'm interested in being one of the top 10 lesbian doctors, I should keep my membership with WIM active. Hmm. I don't know. This is the same magazine that cares if Bette and Tina get back together! Do I really want their approval? Then again, maybe they'll give me a column and rescue me from my state of blogger oblivion. That could be my path to book deal, which, as you know, is my real aspiration. Medicine is more of a side-thing, really.

I guess I should send WIM my dues today.

Swami update

2008-01-05T21:54:00.000-05:00

As some of you know, my uncle is a Hindu/Buddhist monk. Seriously. He gives talks frequently, and today gave a talk in a town near me. I know for a fact that all of you missed it because the crowd was entirely Indian and primarily geriatric (The Swami is also Indian. I, on the other hand, was the only butchy, white-in-the-winter-half-breed in the room).

The above qualities of the devotees should indicate that in addition to missing the talk, you also missed a delicious Indian dinner and a lot of unfriendly stares from older Indian men (It's weird: these men inspire tender feelings in me because a lot of them kind of dress like my father. I almost cry at an older Indian man wearing an ensemble of polyester pants, a cheap collared shirt, and sneakers with velcro closures. In sharp contrast, I do not resonate with older Indian men in any way). It was worth the stares, though. The Swami and I love each other very much.

He's very cute, wears orange robes with orange Crocs, owns a cell phone, drives a Lincoln, and has achieved inner peace. Since many of you are searching for inner peace, I will now present you the key points of his talk. These are clearly condensed, and I know when boiled down like this can seem quite obvious. He just has such a nice way of presenting that it makes it all seem so new and inspiring.

The key points of his talk:

1. "If you want peace of mind, don't see the faults of others"
2. Your actions are returned to you
3. "We say we are too busy to have a spiritual life, but in fact we make our lives busy to avoid thinking about spirituality."
4. We seek out and obtain material goods and personal accomplishments because we believe that these things will make us happy. They will not.

I then had a lovely rest of the day. I wasn't even upset when my car stereo stopped working. Of course, I got it replaced less than 5 hours after it broke. This was only accomplished after I made a personal plea to the installation tech at Best Buy. Because he was working behind Plexiglas, I could only pantomime, not speak, my reasons for needing a stereo today. Remarkably, after a lot of waving and a brief, poorly mimed "walking against the wind," he agreed to do it. I think it had something to do with my new-found, albeit temporary, inner peace. That and the twenty dollars I slipped him. As I drove away, casually flipping through my IPod, I realized: sometimes material possessions and personal accomplishments do make me happy.

Uh-oh. This has the potential to be a total house of cards. I'm going to stop while I'm ahead.

New Year's resolution.

2008-01-04T21:44:00.001-05:00

OK. I'm a jerk. I'm more than a jerk. I'm a lame jerk. I have failed you, my loyal readers.

But I am now here to announce that I am going to redeem myself. I am turning over a new leaf. I have made a New Year's resolution. At the stroke of midnight on January 1st, I vowed to blog at least once every two weeks. I mean, I'll at least really try.

I have no shortage of things to say. I'm trying to get a job, which should be interesting (I have a three-day interview pretty much every week for the next 8 weeks). I have found a new soul mate (He's a urologist. He lives in LA. He knows every word to every John Cusack movie. Lesboy, my John Cusack look-alike, is really, really hurt, but he's just going to have to learn how to share me.). I also want to tell you about a recent wedding I attended that featured a really butch former lesbian bride and a somewhat effeminate groom. (She wore a white tux. They danced. I'm pretty sure he led.) But first, I'll cut to the most pressing matter. The L word.

The L word, the trashy lesbian epic, is indeed back in two days. The upcoming season features "Pot Brownie Party," "Lesbian Turkish Oil Wrestling," "Lots more sex," and "Jenny's 'tale of a fictional group of lesbian friends' finally hitting the big screen!" The one question, though, that is (apparently) on everyone's mind: "Will Bette and Tina get back together?" Of course, all of you know my answer: Who gives a sh*t?????? They are boring. Their relationship consists of Bette and Tina's endless squabbling, some child who never gets older and seems to have no personality, Eileen Fisher's entire line of flowing jackets, and a lot of expensive high heels. To make matters worse, I can't stand to watch their synchronized 'sex' scenes. Translation: there is no aspect of them, their relationship, or this program that is even mildly intriguing. No, I don't even care about Lesbian Turkish Oil wrestling. In fact, I will go so far as to call "Lesbian Turkish Oil Wrestling" double-coupon cultural appropriation (the entire show is appropriated from the lesbians and the wrestling is appropriated from the (??) Turks, in case you're wondering).

However, I know you, people. I even know myself. Although I absolutely refuse to put myself through the hell I went through last year watching this sh*tbox program in a group setting (I was shushed more than the last time I told a story involving accents), I suspect that I will periodically watch snippets of it while sitting alone in my darkened living room. Therefore, we should all be caught up on the events of last season's finale. This is what I remember:

Shane, the resident "commitment-phobic-butch" and her straightish single mother-girlfriend last left us in the middle of a dream-sequence Leave-it-to-Beaver butch-femme fantasy world where the two live in suburban bliss. Don't forget that this is the same Shane who is also a world-famous underwear model and a former faux-male prostitute. Tina, the ex-gay studio exec just fired the personality-disordered New Yorker-article-writing author, Jenny. Jenny, as you remember, enjoys trying to disrupt the making of the movie of her book about her friends. This is her second book, as her smash-hit debut novel was based on Jenny's history of being sexually abused and/or raped (not that I know how I know that because the entire second season was depicted in cloudy, metaphoric dream sequences). Last season, Jenny also ruined the life of an animal health care worker and seduced a rock star. The show (and the season, thank god) ended with Bette, art broker turned art-school dean, a woman who hasn't worn practical shoes since 1987, stealing a metal billboard which she then took, on a tractor, to a New York State "Forest Refuge Art Center." Although this was seemingly outlandish, it all makes sense when you recall that she did it in order to win back the heart of her world-famous, deaf, sculptor pseudo-girlfriend. Then there were the side stories: the alcoholic sister; the disowned heiress who has become a compulsive gambler; the closeted, tormented Iraq War veteran; the ghost of a dead professional tennis player; and a trans-man with a soul patch who was, at last glance, reconsidering his choice to get top surgery.

All right, then, I think I've got it all. Feel free to fill me in via comments if I've left anything out. I've missed you, my readers. I will try not to abandon you again.

Our first recipe contest winner!

2007-10-19T21:10:00.001-04:00

This is not a cooking blog. This is still a doctor blog. It is doctor blogs that matter to me. That said, I am ready to name an early winner of the "Autumn Cooking" impromptu recipe contest.

All of your recipes were much appreciated. beets, squash, buffalo stroganoff, kale-I will be making all of them at some point soon, and may name other winners.

But this first winner is a very simple dish, courtesy of one my dear friends whom we'll call L. Crumb. Let is also be said that FexA recommended a very similar recipe but did not offer particulars, so although she is also a winner, I'm not totally sure she's a winner of this contest. Anyway, I just had delicata for dinner and it was totally amazing (L did not recommend olive oil, but I added it to make it more delicious. I also think that she uses whole cloves of garlic while I minced mine) .

L. Crumb's Delicata Squash

As many delicata squash as you can eat (squash pictured above)
garlic
salt/pepper
olive oil

Cut squash in half, scoop out seeds (make it look like a canoe, according to L. Crumb)
Mince or press garlic or use whole clove
Smear garlic into the inside of the hollowed-out squash
add a dash of olive oil over the top of the squash and garlic
Turn over and place hollowed-out side down onto a pan
Place in oven. Cook at 350 degrees for 20-30 minutes
Remove when soft with slightly crispy edges
Add salt/pepper
Eat with a spoon or fork, scooping out of the skin

Congrats, L. pick your prize or request a blog post. I'll do anything for you, within reason.

Favorite Recipes from the Midwest.

2007-10-10T15:46:00.001-04:00

Well, after all my going on about low fat/low carb meals, this afternoon I will bring you some delicious favorite recipes from my childhood in Indiana. Because I grew up in Indiana in the 1980s, my first 20 years were entirely devoid of MTV and Democrats (Except for my liberal parents. That made for fun times at school). It also meant, however, that I spent my days running through the woods unsupervised and riding my bike across the highway in order to get to Dairy Queen. So it wasn't terrible until the gay thing showed up and then, well, I had to move.

So...some favorites from my childhood.

OK, well, the first recipe is not actually from my childhood. It is from a slightly later moment in my life, but it is in the spirit of my childhood cuisine. I include it mainly because it contains Campbell's soup. Most everything we ate growing up included canned soup as a primary ingredient. I still make this recipe: I made it this year for a superbowl party. It is a point of shame that I still make a dish that includes canned soup, so I never reveal the ingredients. Because of this, people always think it's some fancy-ish hard thing to do, and I have noticed that all my snobby friends think that this dish is delicious. At parties, it always disappears before everyone gets their fill. If you make it for one or two, you can eat it for a minimum of three meals.

King Ranch Chicken:

Ingredients;
Dr. Brokeback's famous homemade salsa or canned salsa
1 can cream of chicken soup
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1/2 white onion, chopped
1/2 block of cheddar cheese, shredded
1/2 block or jack or pepper jack cheese, shredded
2-3 chicken breasts (I marinate and grill mine, but could be sauted or even (gasp) boiled)
4-5 flour tortillas

1. Cook the chicken. Reserve the juice.
2. Grease a 9x11 casserole dish
3. Dip the tortillas into the chicken drippings, then line the bottom of the casserole dish with them, covering the entire bottom and sides (the dip makes them crispy and keeps them from sticking to the pan).
4. Cut or shred the chicken and distribute evenly along the bottom of the pan
5. In a separate bowl, mix the onion, soup, and most of the cheese
6. Using a spatula, spread the thick soup mixture over the chicken
7. Liberally cover the whole thing with the salsa (this is why homemade makes it way more delicious)
8. Sprinkle the remaining cheese over the top.
9. Cook at 350 degrees for 30 minutes or until bubbling. Remove from oven, allow to cool slightly
10. Cut into square pieces and serve over rice with lime tortilla chips on the side (then scoop with the chips, amazingly good).

The second is a dish I loved but only ate at our neighbor's house. Fortunately, I got the recipe from my childhood friend, Michelle. She got it from her grandmother, a woman we all called "Beam the Weam" or "Beamer." This dish reportedly cures hangovers. Thank you, Michelle.

Fat* Macaroni and Cheese

1 box rigatoni (Beam used the red and blue box kind. I use Barilla)
1 12 oz can tomato juice
Milk
1 block Colby cheese, the blander the better
3/4 of a stick of butter
salt

1. Boil water. Add rigatoni and salt (Beam used about 4 cups salt, but I would not recommend this.
2. Cook pasta until it is between al dente and squishy, as you desire
3. Drain pasta. Add butter, some tomato juice, milk until mixture is pinkish and soupy. This will mean that you use less milk than juice.
4. Add cheese, cutting from the block into the mixture instead of pre-cutting (which, according to Michelle is for "sissies.") Add as much as you can tolerate.
5. Turn the burner back on low and cook until cheese is completely melted. Salt/pepper to taste. Eat in a bowl with a spoon as if it were soup.

*Notable, the "Fat" in "Fat Mac and Cheese" originates from the large noodle size and NOT the butter and cheese content.

So, readers, I seriously dare you to prepare these foods at home. I promise that organic beets will never measure up comfort-wise, or, for that matter, delicious-wise. But they also won't kill you before you reach the ripe old age of 60, so I guess it's a trade-off.

Nothing compares 2 u.

2007-10-09T09:45:00.000-04:00

Well, readers, I have once again been a jet-setter, traveling all this weekend and most of next weekend. The one issue with this is that I haven't gotten any work done in two weeks.

But my travels have made (and, hopefully, will continue to make) me immensely happy. So it's a decent trade.

Now that I have returned and am getting back into the grind, I have an issue that is Dr. Brokeback-specific.

What the hell do I eat now that heirloom tomato season has ended?

Here are my criteria:

1. Easy, best if requires minimal cooking/prep time.
2. Not so expensive that it breaks the bank.
3. Involves something fresh and delicious
4. Is without too many carbs or too much fat, both of which make me sleepy/ill
5. Is not cold cereal and does not involve peppers or olives. I also really, really, can't eat green salad every day.
6. Can be eaten every day, occasionally for two meals a day.
7. I'd consider sandwiches but can't tolerate all that bread. Don't really like it/makes me ill.

Escape from Seattle, part 3 (or: Gaycation, all I ever wanted, part 3; or: The incredibly true adventures of The Indecisive Visionary, part 3)

2007-09-20T20:08:00.001-04:00

I'm getting some feedback from my loyal readers that this story is getting tired. Yes, the last installment covered only 2 1/2 hours. And it's true that I didn't reveal very much information about TG (but sorry for those who want dirt-you're not going to get any here). And yes, it doesn't sound that interesting that this post will feature me trying to pick IV up from work.

But we return to what I (and, clearly you) hope is the final installment of Escape from Seattle, (or: Gaycation, all I ever wanted; or: The incredibly true adventures of The Indecisive Visionary). To catch you up: TG helped me clean the apartment of IV. And now it's noon, 2 hours before I want to leave Seattle.

While I was scrubbing IV's floor with a bath towel, my nearly dead phone rang. I had both hands on the bath towel, and tucked the phone into my ear. It was IV. She said something about needing to be picked up from work, and I thought I told her to call me back when she was ready. I let the phone drop to the wet floor, closed it with an elbow, and threw it into the next room.

After at least an hour of cleaning the apartment as well as could be expected, I informed TG that we were going out to lunch. I needed to treat her to a meal in return for her kindness. While we were at lunch, enjoying a three-entree meal served by a lovely gay waiter, my phone rang again.

"Where the hell are you?" It was IV, calling from her office phone. "I told you to pick me up at one! It's one and you're not here!!"

"Calm down," I told her. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"I don't have twenty minutes!" She yelled. "Stay at my apartment! I'm going to pick up my car and drive it to you!" And at that moment, my phone died. For good.

Now, this was the first I'd heard about any car, but I had no ability to clarify further, seeing as I no longer had a working phone. (Of course, it made no difference, because her phone was charging at the home of her (Not Girl) friend.) My phone-free status meant that I had not, in fact, clearly grasped what was actually going on: IV was going to cart her 1700 pages of legal documents up Capitol Hill in her horrible and impractical accordion-style briefcase. Then she was planning to pick up her car at the garage where she stored it, and drive it back to her apartment.

After an emotional departure from TG, I walked the two blocks to IV's place and sat on the curb, in the sun, waiting for IV to show back up.

Instead of 20 or 30 minutes, 45 long minutes passed. Finally, IV came lumbering up the street. My remarkable powers of observation detected that she was not driving but walking. Behind her rolled what appeared to be a giant suitcase loaded with stacks of paper. She looked incredibly frazzled and apparently had been crying.

"I can't believe this" She yelled. "I carted this damn briefcase up the hill, huffing and puffing to the point where people asked me if I needed help. On reaching the top of the hill, I tried to get my car out of the garage but couldn't because you have the clicker!!"

Ah. What a revelation. The clicker was a garage door opener. It made so much sense now. I looked at her closely. "Have you been crying?" I asked.

"Of course I've been crying! I couldn't get the car out. I haven't slept in four days. I haven't eaten in 19 hours. I just carted this briefcase two miles uphill. And for nothing! I sat in the street in front of the garage and cried for twenty minutes."

"But I thought you didn't have twenty minutes," I mumbled under my breath.

We put her in my car and drove to a Vietnamese sandwich place. After a prolonged episode that involved her running in and out of the restaurant approximately five times (they did take a long time to make the sandwich), followed by a tearful few moments when she ate a giant raw jalepeno, we arrived at her garage. She had the clicker in hand and was ready to get her car. But the keys were nowhere to be found.

"They could be anywhere!" She yelled as she started throwing things out of her accordion-style briefcase onto the sidewalk."

"Not anywhere," I told her. "They are either in your apartment, in my car, in the restaurant, or on your person. Calm down."

The briefcase was nearly empty now. Piles of papers and various office supplies surrounded her. She sat on the sidewalk, rummaging through them. Finally, she started crying again. "I...hate....this....bag," Sniffle. Sniffle. And at that moment, she pulled the keys out of her pocket.

We dropped the car off at her friend's house for long-term storage/eventual sale (if any of you in the Seattle area are looking to buy a used Volkswagen, I might be able to hook you up). We dropped off the boxes, got her phone, and, I thought, were finally ready to leave Seattle.

As she closed her car door, she turned to me. "There's just one more tiny little thing that we have to do. I have to return the clicker to the office."

I lost it. "This clicker is ruining my day! How could it be that now we have to drive all the way back downtown to drop the damn thing off? I don't get it!"

I was so busy swearing under my breath (as I drove back downtown from the boonies) that we missed our exit, and then missed the next exit. Finally, we took the last exit in the city, the one that read, "Ferries, Stadium." And with that, we drove directly into the Seattle Mariners game day crowd.

"You are kidding me with this!" I screamed. "I give up!"

She became very solemn. "You're right. Leave me here. Go on to Portland without me. Please. I beg you."

"Oh, for God's sake!" I swore at her. "You think I'm going to leave you now? I've been through too much here. I am past the point of no return."

Finally, we emerged from the traffic and pulled up to the front of her office. I put the car in park in the "No standing" zone in front of the building.

"I'm not leaving this spot. Take the f-ing clicker up to the office and get down here ASAP."

Of course, stopping traffic creates its own set of problems, and a line of cars formed behind me. I kept sticking my hand out of my open window, waving so as to encourage drivers to pass me. But I was making people angry, and when Seattle drivers started flipping me off as they passed, I realized I was really doing something indescribably bad. They are usually so polite.

And so, a cop pulled up. He signaled for me to roll down my window.

"What are you doing stopped here?" He said. "This is a no standing zone. I can ticket you for just sitting here."

I thought fast, and spit out the first thing that came to mind. "I would move my car, officer, but....I'm.....waiting for my disabled friend." For one brief moment, he looked at me with a little less fire in his eyes.

But then, IV burst from her building at a full sprint and jumped into the passenger seat.

I smiled weakly at the cop, "Her disability....is of a mental nature." I told him. (And you know, I didn't feel that wrong.) I immediately peeled out and swung the car onto I-5. Going the wrong way.

After we spent twenty minutes turning around, we finally were on the way to Portland (at 4 PM! Not bad!), where IV would catch her plane the next day. I called my friend, our host for the evening.

"Hey!!!!" My friend yelled, "Can't wait for you to get here! Hey, want to go to a club tonight? It's called.....Gaycation!"

I looked over at my friend, The Indecisive Visionary, who was now snoring softly. "I'd love to," I said, "But my personal gaycation has left me too exhausted."

Escape from Seattle, part 2 (or: Gaycation, all I ever wanted, part 2; or: The incredibly true adventures of The Indecisive Visionary, part 2)

2007-09-20T02:14:00.000-04:00

To catch up, you should really read the previous post, but to summarize quickly: I was in Seattle, trying to leave and help a friend leave Seattle, and was heading back to that friend's house to get things rolling when I realized that she had no phone and my phone was dead. Thus we begin the second installment of "Escape from Seattle;" or: "Gaycation, all I ever wanted;" or: The incredibly true adventures of The Indecisive Visionary"

Oh, there's one little issue to cover. Readers, although I am generally a person who never exaggerates but instead only reports the absolute truth, it is possible that I have not been entirely forthcoming in this instance. It's more of a "sin of omission," and it occurred for good reason, but I realize that to move on to the next part of the story, I must fill you in on one small detail. Although The Indecisive Visionary is the one who generally stays up all night, this particular morning I was also running on no sleep.

Let me first say this: as I doctor, I recommend that you never do any of the things I describe in this paragraph. OK, so, the night before the morning of the lost phone, I went out to THE lesbian bar in Seattle, "The Wild Rose." Ha. I ended my evening in a strange house, the home of The Girl (TG). When I woke up at 8 AM, I remembered that two hours sleep feels worse than not sleeping at all but I shook it off, stumbled out of bed, and wandered into this strange bathroom wearing a way too tight borrowed tshirt and, yes, this is disgusting, used a random toothbrush, took my contact lenses out of some roommate's random contact case, and I started my day. The only word to describe what I felt at that moment? Classy. I walked back into the room, found my clothes and snuck out while TG was still sleeping.

So now you see why I was so frustrated by the dying phones. I was barely functioning. I'm not a resident anymore. I'm too old to stay up all night and not sleep in, but I also knew I had told The Indecisive Visionary (IV) that I would help her move out of her apartment that morning, so I rushed back to her place. I figured that she would have packed her two suitcases and three boxes the night before. By the time I got there she would be at work, and I would put the stuff in my car in preparation for leaving town.

Instead, on arriving to IV's apartment, I opened the door to one of the most horrible things I've ever seen in my life. Mind you, I've seen some crazy f-ed up sh*t. But this? It was horrible.

There, before me, was the IV. Her curly hair stood out in all directions from her head. When I walked in, she was wearing nothing but a red lace bra and some horrible flannel boxer shorts. To maintain her modesty, she immediately threw on a stained tshirt. All around her lay what appeared to be strewn carcasses of faux-fur animals, but were in fact the contents of her suitcase and boxes. Things were more unpacked than when I left. All this considered, it was still the look on her face that scared me the most.

"I am not being efficient right now!" Was the first sentence out of her mouth. "I have been packing for the last eight hours! I have packed and unpacked these boxes a hundred times."

I looked around. "Eight hours? I don't get it. You have, like, four shirts and three pairs of pants."

Then she launched into a tirade, most of which I didn't understand. "I have to take some things in the suitcases and ship others. And I have to decide if I can take the backpack or the rolling accordion briefcase. And what should I do with my tennis shoes? And then there's the clicker. It has to go to work or not to work but all this other stuff has to go to work, and then there's the apartment. The apartment has to be clean for me to check out. I don't know when I 'm going to clean the apartment. And I have to go to work and copy 1700 pages."

I looked at my watch. "And you have to do all that in the next three hours, because we're leaving at one this afternoon."

A wave of panic and, possibly, nausea, crossed her face. In an effort to try to stop the train before it left the station, I started talking. "Look. You throw your sh*t any old place, I'll drop you off at work, then I'll clean your apartment. Let's get going."

She looked at me, and then started yelling, "This is your vacation! Your vacation! I can't have you cleaning my house on your vacation!!"

I couldn't control myself one second longer, and started screaming back at her, "Look, lady, you have got to pull yourself together! You ruined my vacation the minute I walked into this mess! It's bad luck just seeing a thing like this! I am not having this argument! I'm cleaning your f*ing house! That's f*ing final! Now put on your clothes so I can drop you off at work and shut you the hell up!"

Miraculously, she shut the hell up. We got into the car with the stuff she needed for the office, and I took her downtown. Once there, she jumped out of the car, "Don't forget, I don't have a phone. Keep yours on if you can, I'll call you from the office. I've got all the stuff but you still have the clicker. See you later."

I drove away confused. What the hell was "The Clicker?" A remote for a television or something? Oh, well, it couldn't be all that important.

I got back to the apartment, ready to clean the place for checkout. On the counter was the checkout checklist. What I read made my heart sink to the floor.

"To prepare your apartment for checkout, you will need the following items:

1 bottle of Spic and Span all purpose cleaner, diluted 3:1
1 bottle Murphy's oil soap, diluted 2:1
1 bottle tile scrub...etc."

The instructions broke the checkout cleaning into parts such as "Walls" "Surfaces" "Floors" "Bathroom" and "Closets." I read only the first line of the "Walls" section before throwing the paper to the ground and mashing it up with my feet. "To avoid deduction or loss of your deposit, wash all walls with a soft mop dunked in your Spic and Span solution.."

I looked up at my cleaning supplies.

I had:
A bottle of Target "Method" cleaner, melon odor, with exactly one-fourth inch of liquid left in the bottle.
One horribly dirty sponge
One bath towel
Four squares of paper towel ("kitchen roll" for you Brits)

And that was it.

I looked at my dying phone and thought for a minute. I couldn't do this alone. I needed help. Who to call? The first number on my phone was TG. Hmmm. I had spent the night at her house. She seemed nice enough. Perhaps....

She picked up on the first ring. "Uh..." I said, "I take it that you're awake."

"Oh, hi." She answered.

"Umm....great to...hang out last night."

"Yeah. Fun."

"Sooooo." I paused. "Whatcha doin' right now?" I tried to put a little spunky twist into my voice.

"I don't know. Nothing."

"Soooo...how do you feel about coming to help me clean my friend's (the one you've never met, the IV, yes, that one) apartment?"

Pause. Heartbeat. Thunk-thunk. Thunk...

"Sure," She said.

And so, TG walked back into my life two short hours after I had left her for what seemed to be for good. She rode her bike across town, walked into the apartment of someone she had never met, diluted the Target Melon-Odor Method cleaner (and we're talking fishes and loaves here, people. This was nothing short of a miracle.), and started wiping down surfaces and scrubbing floors.

For a second, I had totally unreasonable thought: "This chick kind of seems like a keeper."

But I was dripping sweat and had floors to wash, so I went back to it.

Next time: The Indecisive Visionary needs to be picked up at work.

Escape from Seattle, part 1 (or: Gaycation, all I ever wanted, part 1; or: The incredibly true adventures of The Indecisive Visionary, part 1)

2007-09-17T22:15:00.001-04:00

Thus, readers, I will begin the saga that was my escape from Seattle:

After my visit to Provincetown, it was time for my fifth and final vacation of the summer: I was going to tame the wild Pacific northwest. Or, at least Seattle, Portland, Corvallis, and the Oregon coast. I would see and do it all: the mountains, the coast, the hot hot women of Seattle, and an interview at Oregon Health Science.

And yet, things never work out the way we think they will.

I started my trip in Seattle, where I met up with my lawyer friend. (We'll call her The Indecisive Visionary, or I.V.) She was completing her year-long stay in Seattle because she was finishing her clerkship in a court of some sort. I was going to help her move out of her apartment. She told me that there wasn't much to pack, so I expected my job to mostly be just closing up her place and taking her to the airport.

I.V. makes some interesting lifestyle choices. This is most likely due to her unique and unparalleled brain chemistry. She leads me to recall a factoid from my introductory biology class: in general, genetic variation from the norm is detrimental or unnoticeable. During periods of stress, however, individuals with certain genetic variations may be the only members of the species to survive. For example, as a member of the metabolically challenged people, I suspect I can survive long periods of famine. I suspect that I could survive a world where the only food is tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and Diet Dr. Pepper (it's possible that I already live in this world. Hmmm). I could survive a world where fashion does not exist and all individuals are limited to only one outfit. (hmmm, also sounds familiar).

I.V. could survive a world where people are only allowed to sleep for 5 hours of each 52 hour period. She would not only survive. She would thrive. For example, if the U.S. government tried to use sleep-deprivation torture on her in some shady off-site facility, she would not develop hallucinations and delusions from lack of sleep but would instead be wide awake and actively solving the legal problems of her captors. I can't call her crazy; she might not sleep, but she seems to be just fine. Well, mostly fine. After a few days of no sleep she starts to unravel. Although I'm not sure I knew that when I signed up for the job of helping her move out of Seattle.

But I.V. is truly an Indecisive Visionary. If I had the gift of not needing sleep, I'd spend my night hours watching HBO reruns, writing blog posts, and chatting online with my friends in other countries. She spends night after night at work, writing briefs, opinions, and doing other Mysterious Things that Lawyers Do. She stays up to do stuff that matters. It's a bit comforting to think that someone who works for the courts cares that much about the product. It restores a tiny sliver of my belief in The System. That said, I.V. never calls it a day on a project. The woman will work on something forever if given the chance.

Because she had completed her job on the previous Friday and I was not arriving until Monday, I assumed that she would have stayed up all weekend to finish her final bits of work. When I talked to her on Sunday, however, things were not looking good. She had been up for most of the weekend working on a 200 page opinion. It was written, mind you. It was just not re-read and edited. She was going back through it. And by the end of Sunday she was only on page 45.

When I arrived Monday night, I called her from the airport. My first question, asked with a bit of pressure in my speech was, "I.V., how many days in a row have you been awake?"

Pause. "Well, drbb....more than one but less than three!"

Oh, God. This was trouble.

We had a nice dinner, and then she showed me to her apartment, a studio with a small kitchen and bathroom, a murphy bed, and two suitcases full of clothes and three half-packed boxes. There wasn't any other furniture or stuff anywhere. No dishes, no food, no toiletries, no cleaning supplies. It seemed like she had barely lived there. "Well," I thought, "At least there isn't going to be an issue with moving out."

"The bed's yours." She said, "I'm certainly not going to sleep in it." And with that, she left to return to work.

I woke up the next morning, confused to be in this random apartment, in a murphy bed with a tiny pink blanket, and to be three hours behind where my body thought it was. I shook off my sleep because I had plans with other friends that day, and we took off for what would be a lovely time. Neither I.V., her apartment, her 200 page opinion, or her three boxes and two suitcases crossed my mind.

That night I met up with her and her (Not Girl) friend to go to a dinner. She had now been up for three days and was starting to look and act a bit frazzled. She lost her cell phone and wallet immediately upon arriving to the dinner party. Once found, they had to be put away so as not to be lost again.

She reportedly was returning to the office, but was first going to stop at home to finish packing. I decided to just stay at the home of another friend. I wanted no part of the packing.

As I headed home the next morning, I called I.V.'s cell phone to check on her status. It rang several times. Finally, someone picked up. It wasn't I.V. It was a stranger's voice. "Hello?" I said.

"Who is this?" Said the voice.

"It's drbb! I'm looking for I.V."

"Oh....she's not here. This is her (Not Girl) friend. It appears she left her wallet and phone in my bag."

I then heard a beep, and looked down to see that my own phone, which I had not been able to charge because the charger was in I.V.'s apartment, had a dying battery. I hung up and, out of frustration, hit myself on the head with the damn thing at least three times. This was going to be an extremely long day.

Tomato Update

2007-09-14T18:48:00.000-04:00

Well, readers,

I spent $50 today on heirlooms, balsamic vinegar, and fresh mozzarella. Yes, you heard that right.

Anyway, I have now had two tomato-filled meals. I want to share this love with others. Here, then, is my recipe for Dr. BBs World Famous (in my apartment, anyway) Caprese Salad.

Ingredients:
Extremely expensive fresh mozzarella (I buy the kind that's not in liquid. It's made in Vermont)
Extremely expensive heirloom tomatoes
Basil from the plant in your window (shredded)
Extremely expensive balsamic vinegar
Extremely expensive olive oil
salt/pepper

Extremely expensive high-end chocolate (for dessert)

Directions:
Take a plate. Pour a small amount of balsamic vinegar on the bottom of the plate.
Cut the fresh moz into thin slices and rub around on the bottom of the plate
Arrange in a circular pattern
Cut 1 medium or 1/2 large heirloom into slices
Dump on the top of the moz
Liberally pour olive oil over the top
Salt/Pepper to taste (I have found that it's very difficult to add too much salt. Salt is delicious.)
Sprinkle the basil over the top

Eat. Soak up all the juice that you can, either with a spoon or by drinking from the plate.

Take the plate into the kitchen. Drop it in the sink, rinse it. Think about throwing it in the dishwasher, but don't until sometime next week.

Eat the high-end chocolate, savoring every bite.
Consider another piece. Eat it.
Consider a third piece. On a bad day, eat it. On a good day, think about going for a run.

Tomatoholics anonymous

2007-09-13T12:51:00.000-04:00

There's going to be a guest blogger this week, we'll call him The Negotiator. He's my good friend and office mate, and he needs a place to vent. What better place than here? Also, many of you have been asking about my Escape from Seattle. I'm working on it. It's coming. But there's something more pressing I must discuss with you:

As many of you know, I have recently developed an illness. This is not one of the ones I have been seeing Dr. Knight about. No, it's more obscure, less treatable. And anyway, I couldn't go to her about it because I was too ashamed.

Recently, I was becoming concerned that the illness was chronic, but now I see that it has a completely different trajectory. I am fast on the way to hitting rock bottom.

It started in late July. I was walking through Whole Foods, minding my own business, looking to purchase a bottle of $30 truffle oil, $10 marinara sauce, or maybe fifty dollars of prepared food. That's when I saw them. They were beautiful, round, luscious, soft, colorful....heirloom tomatoes. I picked one up touched it to my cheek, smelled it, and then put it back (hoping no one would see that I had just exposed it to so much bacterial flora). I knew I shouldn't buy one. They were $5.99 a pound.

"But," I thought, "What's a few dollars in the grand scheme of things?" So I gently set one in my basket, and then bought it (at the checkout, the cashier held it up and said, "You know that this is a seven dollar tomato, right?" After I nodded, she mumbled, under her breath, "Mm-mm. crazy.").

Unfortunately, it took only one taste of that magical fruit to create an addiction I could not keep a handle on. It ruled me. Before I knew it, I had worked myself up to a twenty-five dollar-a-week habit. When I ran out of my own money, I'd hit the streets, trying to score by giving away free medical advice to Whole Foods employees. I hoped they'd help me cheat the system by typing in a different code, the one for the tomatoes that are $1.99 a pound. It didn't work - those Whole Foods employees seem to be extremely morally upstanding, or maybe they just didn't want to tell a stranger about their medical problems - so I mostly just scrambled, paycheck to paycheck, anxiously awaiting my next fix.

On Tuesday, though, it became clear that I was going down fast. I was planning to go to my local W.F. to score a hit, but, at the last minute, my friend invited me to her house for dinner. As I weighed my options, I realized that I needed to get the tomatoes-but that I'd go to my friend's house, too. She was just going to have to wait. I showed up an hour late. She looked really hungry. And I wasn't about to share my tomatoes with her.

The sad end to this story is that suddenly, this morning, the tomatoes turned on me. I had cut some up to eat for breakfast. They looked so beautiful. But I experienced my first bad tomato trip. The flavor was gone. The consistency was mealy and unpleasant. I've lost my ability to get that high.

Or maybe the tomato season, so brief and sweet, is over. Either way, I feel empty, jittery. And that's when I knew that I must admit it: I am a tomatoholic. Even if I quit the tomatoes cold-tomato, I'll be a dry tomatoholic. I'll be living in a sick albeit tomato-free space, unless I seek help. Therefore:

I admit that I powerless over heirloom tomatoes.

The rest, well, we'll see. Anybody know of T.A. meetings around here?

.

Letters from a Young (ish) Doctor

2007-09-06T21:22:00.000-04:00

As some of you know, I am an advocate of making an effort to connect with patients (see Cool Like That), and I encourage my student health patients to email me when they have questions [A typical email: "Yo, Dr. Dawg...(why did you ask me to call you that again, Dr. Brokeback?) Anyway, I have this lump on my arm and some anal itching..."].

Therefore, I feel comfortable emailing my own doctor as well. In fact, that is how I convinced her (we'll call her "Dr. Knight") to make me her patient. I found Dr. Knight's email online and contacted her, pleading with her to add me to her already full panel. I am extremely glad she didn't know me personally before she made the decision to do so, because I am a nightmare of a patient. I email her constantly, concerned that I am suffering from obscure medical conditions. I demand tests, vaccines, medications, and radiologic studies. Poor woman.

Dear readers, as many of you know, I have referred to my hypochondria in previous posts, but I don't think I have really let you in on the degree to which I am affected. When I first started seeing Dr. Knight, I was stuck on my usual problems: my family history of early cardiac death, my father's diabetes, my concern about my cholesterol.

Since then, her kindness and patience has led to more emails and demands. Last summer I became convinced I had contracted a parasitic infection after going to a water park in Portugal. It's totally possible. Seriously. I encouraged her to send something called "stool ova and parasites." Nice. The test was negative, but she treated me. I know it was the right thing. I was pretty sick. It was probably legit.

But then I was concerned that I had pulmonary hypertension (I still might), and I asked for an echocardiogram. It was not indicated, and she told me so. She might be right.

When I got my most recent labs back, I saw that my fasting glucose was extremely low (61) and decided that my pancreas was burning out. She reassured and consoled me. She was kind. There's nothing I can do if it's burning out, anyway.

Most recently, I had something wrong with my ear. Really wrong.

And I sent her the following email:

"Let me start by saying that I do NOT use QTips. Ever. I hate them.

Anyway, my problem is not an otitis externa. It's almost like an abscess of the external canal or something. It's draining, which I think is a good sign.

I was in pain when I was working at the VA !! two weeks ago, and I had this ER guy I work with there look at it, and he was concerned and recommended antibiotics. I took 7 days of Keflex. It improved briefly, but then got worse again.

I keep hoping it's just going to get better on its own, but it hasn't so far. I woke up this morning with pain and more swelling and drainage, and I just got fed up.

I thought if you had something maybe ?Friday?, that would be perfect. If not, I understand. The other option would to just refer me to and ENT. If it's better by the end of the week (it might be. It's draining, after all), I'll just cancel my appointment. I'm really hoping it's going to improve and that will be that."

Well, as you can see, that email, in retrospect, is horribly embarrassing. I took antibiotics willy-nilly; I diagnosed myself; I demanded an urgent appointment. Thank God I denied any use of QTips (I really don't use them, I swear). And, well, she referred me to the specialist, but before I could go the ear got better on its own. And then my emails got crazier.

Next, I was sure I needed the vaccine for HPV. It's probably NOT indicated for me for a host of reasons, but I had become completely paranoid. So I emailed her. In that email, I also included one of my other complaints. I am concerned that my hearing is not what it used to be, and I therefore expressed my concern at the same time that I asked for the vaccine. In my defense, my home internet was down and I was using the internet at Starbucks. So I sent a slap-dash email:

"Well, so I was thinking that i might just get the HPV vaccine to prevent further anxiety? And would you mind sending me an Rx for the vaccine so I can just buy it at a pharmacy? And can you send me a referral for a hearing test? I think I'm going to deaf. And I'm really sorry about all this. Maybe I can get you a gift. I know that you don't believe in candy, so maybe a bouquet with a teddy bear? And you're not putting these emails in my medical record, are you? Because I would just die."

Yes, readers, you saw that right. I told her that I am going "to deaf." Whatever the hell that means. And yes, I offered her a bouquet with a teddy bear.

She was very kind about both the vaccine and the hearing test. She wanted to look in my ears to rule out wax before referring me for the test. And she didn't have the vaccine in the office, but when it's in she's going to call me. She didn't answer on the teddy bear, but she isn't putting these horrible emails into my record. Thank God.

When she didn't respond with a gift request, I wrote her back and said, "My thank you gift will be a promise to never move to your neighborhood."

To which she responded, "Move right in."

And that's why I can never do primary care full time. I not a good enough person. Unlike Dr. Knight, I am not a saint.

Do you know a Bond Girl?

2007-09-06T18:43:00.000-04:00

Readers,

You might notice a comment on my previous post from "Country Girl" a.k.a "Bond Girl." I refer to her as a "Bond Girl" in reference to the series of films starring that stunning hero, James Bond.

Wikipedia defines a "Bond Girl" as:

"A Bond Girl is a character or actress portraying a love interest or sex object of James Bond video game. They often (but not always) have names that are double entendres, such as "Pussy Galore", "Holly Goodhead" and "Xenia Onatopp." in a film, novel or

Bond Girls are often victims rescued by Bond, fellow agents or allies, villainesses or members of an enemy organisation; sometimes they are mere eye candy and have no direct involvement in Bond's mission, other Bond Girls play a pivotal role in the success of the mission."

That's fine and good, but I also think of Bond Girls as tall, model-like women who shortly thereafter announce that they hold some very unlikely and, frankly, unbelievable job. Only later do you find out that they are also ex-military with expertise in handling AK-47s and have natural and perfect night vision. Totally, right? Try it out:

(add Swedish accent) "Hello, Mr. Bond, I am a neurosurgeon."
(Add German Accent) "Hello, Mr. Bond, I am a molecular biologist"
(Add Grace Jones) (silence)

Um, I'm not actually sure Grace speaks in "View to a Kill," so she might be the exception to Bond Girl stereotype.

So anyway, there I was, in Oregon, and a met this Bond Girl. She was tiny and blond but extremely tough. The she said,

"Hello, Dr. Brokeback. I am a molecular biologist. I run a secret government lab." OK, I might be exaggerating about the secret and government part, and she didn't have a European accent. It was more of a bit of country twang. But my point? The beginning of a Bond Girl.

Then, to further prove herself fit for the part, she revealed (through actions, not words) that she is an expert at fixing cars, campers, catching wildlife and cooking it, shooting guns, etc. She notably was missing a few key points as she:

1. Is a lesbian
2. Is not single
3. Isn't all that tall
4. Has girl-next-door morals and would NEVER sleep with James Bond

Otherwise, though she fits the part.

Anyway, I didn't think these people actually existed-but now I"m starting to think differently. Readers, do any of you know a woman like this? I'm extremely curious. Also, let me know if any of them are lesbian, single, and, preferably have loose morals. If possible, include phone numbers.

Let me know via comments or secret message (which will self-destruct in 30 seconds).

Working backwards

2007-09-05T09:55:00.001-04:00

Well, readers, I'm back from vacation. The beginning of the vaca is described over at Gin-soaked olive, as I indicated with my last post, and the mid-part of the vacation, whiny as it was, is my Provincetown post about the waitress.

Then I left for Seattle and then Portland, for time with friends, interviews, and camping (and I'm so NOT a camper. One of the tougher (albeit tiny and blond) members of the group insisted on referring to me as "City Girl." Let me say for the record that she said this as she was standing knee-deep in muck and fishing for "crawdads" which she would cook and shell later. I, on the other hand, was screaming and refusing to pick one of the little monsters up out of their little bucket. Not with my bare hand. No way. I don't care if it makes me bad Hoosier.)

So I'm still working backwards: I have a bit on the Oregon trip below. The Seattle adventure is coming. I'm still too scarred to write about it....

Well, I just finished my last week of vacation. I spent the last few days outside of Corvallis, Oregon, on a camping trip with some very good friends and about 60 other lesbians (nice…). I’d just had quite an adventure escaping from Seattle (which I hope to document soon) and an interview at Oregon Health Sciences U on Thursday. (I’m still looking for academic medicine faculty jobs, if you know of any), so my time in Corvallis camping and spending quality time with the ladies I’ll refer to as Center Mid and Lipstick was welcome. They also have a three year old son, Alex, and we all had a gay old time.

I used to vacation with CM and Lipstick every year. We went to Hawaii, Rome, Belize, New Mexico, San Francisco, etc, and every year I warned them that this vacation would be the last. I was in medical school, residency, and then they had The Boy. The year they had The Boy, I was finally right.

We could have had similar trajectories. CM and Lipstick met in early 1997, and although CM and I were already close friends, when I met my ex, we’ll call her Texas, we became a tight friend group. But things weren’t meant to be. Although CM and Lipstick had their rough patches, they stayed together, and eventually had their perfect little Alex. Alas, Texas and I, as you know, didn’t make it.

There’s no doubt that Tex and I needed to break up, but I think my current sadness and regret has to do with the fact that I may not find a partner in time to have children. I still want to have a baby, even on my own, I guess, but I find the prospect depressing. I see my single-parent friends, and it seems so hard. My fear also makes it a little painful to see them with Alex, and then, a second later, I feel like a jerk, because their symbiosis is so beautiful. I mostly reel it and then can’t help but smile every moment I watch him because he’s such an amazing kid. He’s four, rugged and snuggly all at the same time. He never cries, laughs constantly, and doesn’t need tons of toys to stay amused. The one time he whined, a little voice in the night in the pop-up camper (yes, it was luxurious camper camping. But it was still camping!), I reached across to his bed and rubbed his head until he fell back asleep. It was so sweet.

The fact that he’s really a joy makes me less afraid that if I do have a baby I’ll turn into a grumpy Sherpa, dragging giant strollers and bags and toys on my back while I scream at my unruly, slightly dirty, and incredibly unattractive children. On the other hand, I am a little anxious because I've noticed a lack of visits and vacations from Lipstick and Center Mid recently. I think now that The Boy is older things are starting to change. We just booked a place in Hawaii for the spring. The two of them and The Boy and me; it’ll be nice to travel with a person with whom I share a maturity level.

Guest blog!

2007-09-05T09:53:00.001-04:00

I've left a guest blog over at Gin Soaked Olive! Check it out!

(Broke)Back on Vacation!

2007-08-22T09:21:00.000-04:00

Well, readers, I have neglected you, I know. And for that I am sorry.

I have had a very busy schedule this August, culminating with my current week in Provincetown, Massachusetts! Photo above is Race Point at sunset.

Yes, I am here, enjoying the girls, the beach, and the 50 degree weather!

Well, there was the one girl, a waitress. While she was serving our dinner, she vaguely implied that I should ask her out. As a result, I developed anxiety-related hives and had to leave the restaurant. Then I kind of cried. That was fun.

And well, I've only been to the beach that once, and I tried to swim but had to get out of the water when my lips turned blue and I couldn't feel my toes.

And it really is cold. As I write, I am encased in fleece, and my newly pink-painted toenails (yes, pink. It seemed like a good idea at the time) are wriggling inside my wool socks.

But this is my vacation, and, damn it, I'm going to have fun!

I'll be posting more sooner than later. (maybe even today if the weather isn't any better...)

Mini-break!

2007-07-23T17:29:00.000-04:00

Dr. Brokeback has gone on mini-break to Maine! (Yes, those are actually my feet. Took the picture yesterday. Nice, right?)

Why use the word mini-break, you might wonder? I was going to say "long weekend" but then my British friend instructed me that mini-break was a better word for the occasion because it implies fun rather than something long and dull and unwanted. So mini-break it is.

I'm inside, relaxing, because it's raining today. I spent the weekend sailing, going to the beach, hanging out with friends, running, and reading Harry Potter (Finished it in five hours. I won't spoil the ending for you, but I loved it.). What I have NOT been doing: planning for my presentation on Thursday, reading for my interview next week, or completing the manuscript that I was supposed to have finished by the end of June.

For the moment, though, life is good. Next, I'm off to a conference....I'll elaborate at some point in the next few days. Have a good week, all.

Dr. Brokeback's Music Picks

2007-07-17T02:15:00.000-04:00

Perfect songs, in no particular order (excluding classical music, world music, opera, and showtunes):

1. I Melt with You: Modern English

I Melt with You is the original perfect song, the thing that inspired this list to begin with. What is the definition of a perfect song? A song that one can NEVER be sick of. Every time is comes up on the IPOD, you'll listen to it, no matter what your mood. It also should be musically sound and socially acceptable. Basically, a perfect song is everything you're looking for in a girlfriend. Except it will never yell at you for snoring, or messing up the shower curtain, or using too many paper towels. And it will never leave you.

2. Bizarre Love Triangle: New Order

Need I say more? This song changed my life. I listened to it every day or every other day for 7 years (it's on every one of my running mixes), and I still listen to it every time my IPOD shuffles it up for me. Even at my lowest, I have BLT going for me, which is nice.

Interestingly, both BLT and IMWY have been remade by cool bands. Nouvelle Vague remade IMWY (slightly less cool since it's been on a bunch of recent commercials), and a while back Frente remade BLT. Both remakes are pretty awesome. Frente's version of BLT may be difficult to come by. Check ITUNES, but as I recall, I had to order the CD from the UK when I was looking for it a couple of years ago.

Also, when thinking about these songs, think about the first few bars. What happens in your little heart when you hear the guitar intro of the Modern English song, and that little techno intro to BLT? Mine flutters, even now.

3. Tainted Love: Soft Cell

So-every radio station that plays an 80s lunchtime mix plays Tainted Love pretty much every show. Why? I can think of at least two reasons:

1. Somebody calls in to request it. Yes, every day.

2. They'll keep their listeners for at least three more minutes. Better yet, promise it before a break and keep people engaged through endless annoying commercials.

It's that good.

4. And She Was: Talking Heads

The movie "Look Who's Talking" almost ruined this song for me, but 15 years later, I've forgiven. I'm moving on. This song rocks my world.

5. Blister in the Sun: Violent Femmes

I once watched an otherwise completely conservative, composed woman construct a perfect air guitar version of this song. It was beautiful.

6. Kiss: Prince

I moved this up from "nearly perfect" songs because I couldn't think of one reason it isn't perfect. It is.

I can only think of six totally perfect songs. There are numerous nearly perfect songs, however. And here's a list of a few of them:

1. In Between Days/Just Like Heaven/Pictures of You/Close to Me: The Cure

In a way, The Cure's genius cost them the right to be named one truly perfect song. I just couldn't pick. All four are so good...and in different ways. Somehow, they make each other better. So sorry, Robert Smith.

2. Electrolite: REM

It's a strange choice. It's not a hit. It's a song from a CD that no one but me bought. Oh, I thought about the older stuff: "Driver 8" or "Radio Free Europe" or something similar. But this song transcends "It's the End of the World as We Know It." This song is a step above REM's usual cool and pretty music. It's a whole other thing.

3. I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking for (Gospel Choir version): U2

Boy, this was a hard one. And I'm not actually sure that I'm right. The possibilities for U2 are pretty much endless: Where the Streets Have No Name. With or Without You. Angel of Harlem. Stuck in a Moment.

So, really, pick your U2 song and I'll agree with you. I picked ITNOL because that woman singing with Bono sings better than he does. She's amazing. It brings tears to my eyes.

4. The Obvious Child: Paul Simon

Again, this is one I'm not sure about. "You Can Call Me Al" got a lot of play and press, and as an album, Graceland is a far greater work of genius. But as a song, The Obvious Child wins. I've loved it for 15 years.

5. Groove Is in the Heart: Deee-Lite

"We're going to dance. And have some fun."

This is a very controversial choice.I had someone actually tell me that the fact that I like this song should cause me shame. But I will make the argument that it does have, as a party song, a unique effect on people. And in this way it is perfect. I will explain by using an anecdote:

I have this friend. She, of course, will remain unnamed. But she is way, way, cooler than me. She lives in California. She likes hip hop. She knows special dances to hip hop songs I've never even heard.

And yet, at a recent family wedding, she danced to GITH with such enthusiasm that she's actually embarrassed to see the wedding video. You know it's a perfect song when even hipsters are powerless against it. Yes. I am saying what I seem to be saying. GITH is Kryptonite for hipsters.

When I saw her the next weekend, we replicated the dance together, including the part where you pop your finger in your mouth and then sing, "1-2-3-blblblb." And I was full of joy. And she was as uncool as I am. At least momentarily.

6. Shy/Both Hands/As Is: Ani Difranco

Again, this was a question of what to choose. There are so many other songs by Ani that could have also been on the list. But these three make me feel cool...and sad.

7. In Your Eyes: Peter Gabriel

Again, the movie could've ruined it for me. But instead it made it better.

8. Let Down/No Surprises: Radiohead

Kind of embarrassing, but this is a mostly intellectual choice. I know that these songs are brilliant, but Radiohead has never touched my soul in the same way as some of the other songs on this list. I sometimes wonder if I'm not smart enough for Radiohead. But I'll admit that these songs are good.

9. Brown Eyed Girl: Van Morrison

Again-argue if you will; it's a cheesy, overdone song, but, admit it: When this song comes on, do you change the station. I bet not. I won't tell anyone, though

10. Oh L'Amour: Erasure

The Erasure song even Erasure haters love.

11. La Isla Bonita/Angel/Like a Prayer/Ray of Light: Madonna

I'll take some flack for La Isla. And the others, well-argue with me, fine. But she's staying on the list, somewhere, for something. And these are a good sample of the phases of the Madonna.

12. No Myth: Michael Penn

Maybe you're just looking for someone to dance with. I am.

13. Can't Let Go: Lucinda Williams

Again, could've been Essence or Righteously, but before this song I liked Lucinda. After it, I wanted to know her.

14. Crazy: Patsy Cline

A classic. Sit in a lounge in New Haven, play this on the jukebox and pick up girls. It's great fun.

15. Babylon: David Gray

Still wrenches my heart.

16. The Passenger: Iggy Pop

Or Lust for Life. I'll argue about it.

17. Respect: Aretha Franklin

Sock it to me.

18. Tuesday's Dead: Cat Stevens

Don't gag. Give the guy a chance. Or, at least, give the song a chance.

19. Back on the Chain Gang: Pretenders

20. Closer to Fine/Least Complicated: Indigo Girls.

Go ahead, ridicule. I can take it.

21. I Love Rock n' Roll: Joan Jett

22. Queen Bitch/Life on Mars: David Bowie

Get the Seu Jorge remake and like the original even more.

23. Wise Up/That's Just What You Are/Momentum: Aimee Mann

Again, potentially a case of too much genius. There's a married couple among my near perfect artists, BTW. Know who they are? I bet their kids could make the "perfect" list. Or maybe they'll just regress to the mean and let everyone down.

24. Upside Down/I'm Coming Out: Diana Ross

25. Don't Stop ('til you get enough)/I Want You Back: Michael Jackson/Jackson 5

I like his early stuff. He got too weird too soon.

Potentially Perfect Songs. Many will try to be perfect. A few will succeed. We don't know about these yet, but they have a good chance:

1. On the Radio/Fidelity: Regina Spektor

Any song I've been listening to for six months without a stop, well...let's just say there are car dances involved.

2. Since U Been Gone: Kelly Clarkson

Bars around the world have played this song for me. And I jumped up and down every single time.

3. Hey Ya: OutKast

This song may actually already have achieved perfection. But I'm conservative. It needs more time for evaluation. What do you mean I'm not conservative? I so totally am (about things like songs)! I'll give you this: I think it's a front runner for perfection.

4. Hey Mama: Black Eyed Peas

This one is not just for my friend, A. But she is funny when she dances to it.

5. Holiday/Boulevard of Broken Dreams: Green Day

Two words: Runner's High.

6. Without Me: Eminem

Two trailer park girls...genius.

7. Get Me Away From Here, I'm Dyin': Belle and Sebastian

I can't stop listening.

8. Sons and Daughters: Decemberists

Brand, brand spanking new. What a risk I'm taking.

9. Transatlantacism/Title and Registration: Death Cab for Cutie

These songs were a year of my life.

10. We Used to Be Friends: The Dandy Warhols

Again, gutsy, but I haven't thought of you lately at all.

11. Chicago: Sufjan Stevens

The guy's a genius.

Songs We THOUGHT Were Going to Be Perfect But Ended Up Not Being Perfect After All:

1. Gold Digger: Kanye West

Overplayed.

2. Island in the Sun: Weezer.

I loved it. Then I didn't. To happy. (I still like it, though.)

3. Yellow: Coldplay

Boy, I'm going to have some angry readers. Sorry, SG. I was on the fence on this one, but I think this song falls a bit short of perfection. I still like it a lot, but when it rolls up on the IPOD, I sometimes skip it. I think I ODd.

4. I Will Survive: Gloria Gaynor

Oh, God, I'm embarrassed I ever thought this was a perfect song. But in 1994, I really did love it. It was so liberating.

5. Anything by Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah.

I was obsessed with them just last year. Now anything I hear by them gives me a Yikes.

6. Anything by The White Stripes (except for "We're going to be friends. " That's an excellent song.)

Fell in Love with a Girl's OK, too. But I don't seek them out.

7. Anything by The Strokes

So over it.

8. Pink Moon: Nick Drake

God, I think I'm going to hell for saying this. Really. What a beautiful, tortured genius he was. But I need a break, Nick. Just a temporary separation, really.

9. Anything by Sufjan Stevens that too muscially complex/smug

I get it, you're a genius. Now stop trying so hard.

Quote of Week! Not a quote edition.

2007-07-11T21:49:00.001-04:00

"Florals, for spring? Groundbreaking."
The Devil Wears Prada

I dare not use the quotes I was thinking about using from TDWP because I don't want to imply that I harbor any negative feelings about my boss.

Instead, I have a game. It's not a quote. You name the movie based only on the jokes this movie stole from OTHER movies. It actually shouldn't be all that hard. This movie is extremely popular, at least with the Gen Y set. But I know the truth. It's not as fresh as it would seem.

1. Made in 1995, this movie is NOT Quick Change, but it does feature a security guard in a bank surrending without a fight during a robbery and then telling the press that he was beaten senseless by the robber. In Quick Change, the guard says, "And then he pulled out a knife. I think it was a bowie knife. And I hate knives."

2. This movie is NOT National Lampoon's Vacation, but it does feature a main character watching a nude blonde girl in a hotel swimming pool.

3. This movie is NOT Spaceballs, the original place I heard the phrase, "That's gonna leave a mark," after a fat guy injures himself.

4. It is NOT Planes Trains and Automobiles, but it does feature two guys traveling in a destroyed car. There is at least one moment reminiscent of John Candy saying, "Our speedometer's melted. It's hard to say with any degree of accuracy how fast we were going."

If you know the movie, name it. If you get it and can name another movie this movie rips off, you get a big bonus.

Grand Rounds!

2007-07-10T22:54:00.000-04:00

Grand Rounds is up at:

Aetiology

I'm part of it, so take a look.

Call rooms I have known

2007-07-07T07:14:00.000-04:00

I’m a young Jamie Lee Curtis right now (minus the good looks, perky boobs, and that XY chromosome thing). This is because I write you from a call room that is directly out of a horror movie. No, really. I find the fact that the door has no lock extremely disconcerting. I’m just waiting to be attacked.

This is not the first weird Call Room I Have Known. I, like every doctor (with the exception of dermatologists and psychiatrists), have a colorful call room history. My very first call room, back where I went to medical school, was at the VA (It always comes back to the VA, doesn’t it?). I shared the room with another subintern. The place was incredibly dingy, with peeling paint and a dirty window that didn’t open. There was a bathroom with a tiny doorway (the width of my shoulders) and no working sink. The beds were cots that had no firm edge, so the sunken part in the middle could cause a person to slide right off the mattress. Worse, the room was directly next door to the room of a patient with borderline personality disorder. Every single nursing home in the state had refused him because he was too demanding. (At some point during my month, I decided to personally try to convince facilities to take him. It was hopeless, though: Case managers would actually hang up on me when they heard his name.) He ended up living and, months later, dying at the VA. The month I was there, though, he was still in full swing. We spent our nights listening to him ring his call bell every five minutes. Fun. Even more fun for the nurse. Note I do not use the plural form of the word “nurse.” There was only one nurse covering the ward overnight.

Since then, I've spent countless nights with one ear to the door and the other to the pager, including one month in VA call room so isolated and dark that there was a giant bolt on the door. Outside of the ICU in the hospital where I did residency, I spent my nights in a memorable place known as the “hook up” call room. The origin of the nickname? It was a single and its proximity to the elevator gave visitors the opportunity for discretion. (Note: I didn’t take advantage of this option, but readers, you know who you are.)

More recently, I’ve stayed at the VA in my new town. I hate to sleep in a room where I see roaches on a regular basis, but usually by the time I get there I’m so tired that I don’t care.

Surprisingly, the place where I'm working tonight, a rapidly expanding acute care facility, beats all of these by a mile. The “rapidly expanding facility” thing is the cause of the problem. The original call room was a patient room, complete with a phone and television and DVD player. The sound of the patient monitors and beeping IV machines was kind of annoying, but the room was clean and relatively pleasant, anyway. (I recently read this very funny nurse’s blog with the title “Somewhere, an IV alarm is beeping.” Isn’t it true?) Then, the last time I worked here, that room had been filled with a PEGd/Trachd patient, and so we on-call doctors were moved to an occupational therapy training room. It was a miniature apartment, but the appliances weren’t real. And the bed was a giant queen bed that appeared to be one of those store displays for comforters. It looked good, but try to sit (or worse, sleep) in it. And then there were the sheets. I think they’d been occupied by someone other than the occupational therapy patients. It appeared that there was a recent recreational situation in what was clearly supposed to be an occupational situation room. Gross.

Which brings me here. The OT suite again belongs to the OT patients and the randy employees, so I am instead on the 2nd floor of the building. It is a former hospice ward that is being remodeled. All the rooms are empty. The nurses’ station has been ripped apart. Everything is in disarray. Furniture, barrels of trash, horrible framed artwork, and strange medical machines line the hallways haphazardly. Old computers and other pieces of office machinery, all covered in plastic, lurk everywhere. Then, in the middle of this, there are some horror-film-type-things, like a telemetry monitor that’s been left on and is just showing a flatline, or a functioning security screen showing a real-time picture of what appears to be the front of the building. Even the room I’m staying in has random medical machinery and supplies in it: an adult scooter called “Sidekick,” stacks of linens, a suction machine, computer monitors, 14 whiteboards, an extra TV. Note: Do NOT see the movie Session 9. It’s an incredibly scary movie about an abandoned state mental hospital. If you have seen it, though, you understand the level of creep I allude to when I say that I feel like I’m spending the night in “Session 9.” I am totally freaked out. It would be OK if I could watch a DVD, but I only have basic cable. I’m not sure what happened to the DVD player. My television choices are either Spanish soap operas or QVC.

I went up to the ward to try to explain my situation, but I sounded like a lunatic “Former hospice, furniture everywhere, strange machinery, security camera, plastic wrap. It’s how they picture death in the movies!” I got laughed at. And then, can you believe it, the nurses went back to WORK and didn't even sympathize with my lack of a DVD player!

So, readers, think of me as you sleep in your own beds tonight. Hope that I live to see another day. And also that they don't call me and I actually get some sleep.

Quote of the week, part II

2007-07-05T15:58:00.000-04:00

So...nobody has gotten the quote. I'm not giving up, though. Let's try again. Same movie. This is the scene that is just before our first quote:

"All I did was think about Jennie Gerhardt and Alice Quinn... and all the decades of people I had known. The more I thought, the more I felt like crying. Life seemed so sweet and so sad... and so hard to let go of in the end.

But hey, man, every day is a brand new deal, right? Just keep on working and something's bound to turn up."

More clues (and reasons why I may identify with this character):
1. The movie takes place in Cleveland. (I almost moved to Cleveland, as some of you may remember)
2. The main character works at a VA!! (Just like me)
3. Main character's best friend is R. Crumb. Crumb made this person's career possible.
(I happen to know the lesbian equivalent of R. She is a similar sort of genius. To call her a best friend would be a stretch, but she has recently expressed interest in my career, which I find both flattering and touching. Her name is, of course, withheld. We'll just call her L. Crumb.)

Quote of the week! July 3rd, hypochondria edition

2007-07-03T15:08:00.001-04:00

Dear Readers,

Once again, I must apologize for my prolonged absence. I was working a lot last week and then I spent a five-day-weekend in New Hampshire. I had a wonderful, relaxing time with good friends (Above: The view from the bed I slept in).

Well, there was one little issue (I am, after all, still the same old neurotic Dr. Brokeback). I seem to be suffering from multiple minor medical problems. I had an ear infection, which was diagnosed before I left. One of my colleagues at the VA looked at my ear and recommended I start antibiotics, which I did. I was already feeling better when I took off for New Hampshire on Thursday. I was in for more trouble, though. New Hampshire, as I soon learned, is a state that is one giant health hazard.

1. My most minor injury is a bruised toe. Over the course of the weekend, I stubbed my toe four times on the same antique rocking chair. Apparently, they used to make rocking chairs with long tendrils that can hit your toe no matter how carefully one tries to avoid them. Or maybe I’m really clumsy. There’s no telling really, but I’m apt to blame the chair.

2. I am suffering from painful, itchy welts on my extremities and torso. I believe that they are due to biting flies. These flies thrive despite temperatures in the 40s at night, screens, and extensive, recurrent application of DEET.

3. My seasonal allergies are in full swing.

4. Worst of all, two days ago, my face became slightly itchy and dry, and now my skin seems to be flaking off in little pieces. Although this might just be sunburn, I am convinced that the antibiotic I started for the ear infection has caused Stevens-Johnson syndrome. This is also known as “scalded skin” disease. You don’t want it. It’s awful. The strange thing about the skin thing is that no one can see it but me. My friend, a doctor, looked closely but didn’t notice any change in my face, although she did feel some dryness when I made her run her fingers across my rough face multiple times. At some point during this exam, the word “crazy” may have passed her lips. Because of this insult and the condition’s lack of visibility to others, I will chalk my concern up to overreaction, apply some aloe gel and then shut up about it. If it gets worse, though, remember that I warned you.

This all brings me to my quote of the week. This movie is actually relatively new. The quote is obscure and therefore is going to be difficult to get. I'm posting it anyway, because I feel that it resonates with my current health panic:

j: "I'm a self-diagnosed anemic...I guess I have a lot of borderline health disorders... that limit me politically when it comes to eating."

h: "You're a sick woman."

j: "Not yet, but I expect to be. Everyone in my family has some sort of degenerative illness."

Googlers are cheaters.

The Goonies!

2007-06-21T21:34:00.000-04:00

The Goonies!

This favorite of mine features Sean Astin, Corey Feldman, Josh Brolin, Martha Plimpton (she's so cute.), and others.

Reportedly, (no lie), there's a sequel in the making featuring the ORIGINAL cast. It's a good thing, too, because I hear the original cast needs the work. I bet they're cheaper now than when they were big-time child actors.

Just watched the end again. This last bits of dialogue:

Mikey: "We had our hands on the future. But we blew it to save our own lives."
Dad: "It's OK. You and Bran are back home safe with your mom and me. That makes us the richest people in Astoria."
Troy's Dad: "Oh, Walsh, you're looking at the richest people in Astoria. Now sign it."
Data: "I'm going to miss being a Goonie."
Rosalita: No firmen! No firmen!
Mouse: No pen...no write...no sign!!!
Dad: "There'll be no more signing today, or ever again!"

Can't beat that.

The website: (watch the documentary, it's fun.)
http://www.thegoonies.org/

(Note and) Quote of the week! June 21st edition

2007-06-21T00:21:00.000-04:00

Thanks for the comments on the last post. I enjoyed every one, and very much appreciate the support.

I have been advised (by someone who is very wise) that from now on, I should not post any negative comments. I guess it makes sense, because hostility IS like a psychic boomerang (Howard the Duck, remember?), so we'll cut this one off before it spins out of control.

Anybody with further questions or comments regarding this policy should contact me via email. I'm more than happy to negotiate/discuss. OK, enough. Let's move on to Quote of the Week!

This is a quote from the first movie my family ever rented when we got our brand new VCR in 1985. It is still one of my favorites. An additional clue: two major fans have created an entire website/media extravaganza devoted to this movie.

"But the worst thing I ever done: I mixed up fake puke at home, and I went to this movie theater...hid the puke in my jacket...climbed up to the balcony...and then I made a noise like this (vomiting noise). And then I dumped it over the side on all the people in the audience. Then, and this was horrible, all the people started getting sick and throwing up on each other. I never felt so bad in my entire life."

"I'm beginning to like this kid, Ma."

"Hit puree!"

"No, I'm too young! No! I want to play the violin!"

As we all know by now, googlers=cheaters.

YOU fill in the blank.

2007-06-19T23:26:00.000-04:00

Readers, get ready to rumble! I have an 'anonymous' who is making some potentially inflammatory comments!

Therefore, I am posting his/her latest comment. Note that it's a "fill in the blank." I love games, so I request that you please fill in the blank yourselves via comments.

I will not post any comments that are sexually explicit, profane, obscene, or sexist/racist/homophobic/etc.

Well....I'll post swear words but only if they have a * for the vowels. And, oh, I think "complete sh*t" might be taken.

Thanks, anonymous. I love all my readers. You made my day.

"My how you pay attention to the littlest things that tickle your fancy (aka, enormous ego). You are certainly a trip (or should I say "cruise"). The ironic part of all this is you think you're blog is entertaining (you know, NPR try-outs and all)...but really it's ______ (fill in the blank)."

Grand Rounds, June 19th

2007-06-19T14:24:00.000-04:00

Because of my recent failure to feed you, dear readers, daily drbb commentary, I recommend a dose of Grand Rounds! It's up at Codeblog: Tales of a Nurse.

Enjoy.

Everything old is new: The return of "It's still fried chicken, but it's no longer confidential"

2007-06-19T01:00:00.000-04:00

Yes, loyal readers. You may have heard this one before. I feel bad that I haven't posted lately, but I'm hard at work trying to write something that might actually matter. (Sorry, no offense intended, folks.) Therefore, for a short while, I'm occasionally going to be running some oldies. I chose this one mainly because of a landmark event: last Saturday, for the first time in my life, someone I had never met came up to me in a bar, started talking to me and tried to buy me a drink. I panicked, told her I didn't drink and shouldn't be out this late, and then ran away to my car. Once at my car, I put on a jacket and a hat so she would be unable to identify me should we see each other again, and then I returned to the bar. In my defense, I learned, during our five minutes of conversation, that she lives in Delaware. That fact alone meant that no matter what, it was a non-starter. So I was actually being nice.

From the archives, I bring you my piece entitled, "It's still fried chicken, but it's no longer confidential."

Oh, also, this one is dedicated to my most recent critic, "Anonymous." Nice name, BTW:

I was scheduled to leave Connecticut Sunday night, but it was one of those days when a hot tub and a hot bowl of beef stew were too good to give up. So I stayed over, and left not-early-enough on Monday. Anxious to get back to my new city, new friends, and unfulfilling research project, I barreled down the New Jersey turnpike like a madwoman.

Fast food is best enjoyed during a slightly shameful private moment, in my opinion, and the anonymity of the New Jersey turnpike is one of the best places for such a moment. And so, when I could no longer ignore the gnawing pain in my belly, I decided to do the quickest possible thing for lunch-the Thomas Edison service area on New Jersey Turnpike. As I exited my car, I surveyed my options at The Thomas Edison: Burger King, Sbarros, Popeyes. I don’t like cheap Italian food and all I eat at Burger King is chicken, so the spicy chicken strips at Popeyes were clearly my best choice.

I was sitting by the window, splitting my time between watching my car and ignoring George Bush on CNN. While scanning the aging-french-fry scented room, I noticed that a lesbian was watching me. She was not unattractive. She was actually pretty cute. And when a cute girl looks at me, I’m like any good older-than-the current-crop-of-25-year-olds American dyke: I freak out. I couldn’t control my panic when I noticed that she was very much trying to catch my eye. She raised her eyebrows once, smiled once, and then looked again a minute later. I didn’t recognize her, and naturally assumed that she was cruising me.

Not that I would know, because I have actually never been cruised by anyone (except in that weird ‘I’m-not-looking-at-you, I’m-looking-at-my-shoes-lesbian-way”). I had, however, been preparing my whole life for the moment I would be cruised. And as far as I knew, this was it. I struggled to remember what exactly my predetermined response to “I’m-being-cruised-at-a-rest-stop” was. And then it hit me. I don’t talk to girls who cruise me at rest stops because of fear.

Specifically, fear of:
a. Disease
b. Carjacking
c. Undercover cops out to bust “homos”

Remembering this, I very carefully looked back at George Bush on the television.

That evening, I was talking to my friend on the phone. I hadn’t mentioned anything about the incident at all. We were about to hang up. “God, I’m starving,” She said.

“Oh, didn’t you eat today? I asked.

“Well, not everybody could eat lunch at Popeyes.”

I froze. “How do you know about Popeyes?”

And then it was all revealed to me. I wasn’t being cruised. Supposedly, I’ve met that woman. She’s a friend of a friend. Not only had I made a fool of myself by not saying hello, I had gotten busted during my very private moment with my Popeyes’ chicken. I’m over world knowing that I ate fried chicken, but I can’t get over being spotted on the turnpike. Honestly, if I can’t be anonymous on the New Jersey turnpike, where in the world is there any anonymity anymore?

(Answer: apparently, anonymity is available to those who comment on this blog.)

Escape from Detroit

2007-06-09T18:45:00.000-04:00

Well, I'm just recovering from my own version of "24:" Escape from Detroit.

I arrived at the Detroit airport (their slogan: "We're better than most of the airports in the developing world!") yesterday afternoon foolishly thinking I would be home by 7 PM. Instead, I endured a hotel stay and 2 cancelled flights. I only made it home because of an under-the-table deal with a shady gate agent (It was so shady he couldn't even book me at his station for fear that other passengers would hear that he had booked me on a different airline. We had to meet behind the counter. No, really.). Now, though, I am home, and, on reflection, I realize I am smarter than I used to be. I didn't check bags, so my luggage isn't lost. I left for a hotel as soon as I knew I couldn't catch a flight last night, so I watched a movie and got some sleep. Most importantly, I was completely self interested and made a shady deal with a gate agent so that I could grab the last seat left that would get me home to northeastern city, U.S.A. today.

This experience is in sharp contrast to my last airport disaster, holiday season, 2004. Fortunately for you, I recorded that incident in real-time, and thus I give to you my piece entititled "Twelve Days of Airports:"

11/27/04: During the deepest, darkest days of my residency, I agree to work an extra 24 hour shift the Saturday after Thanksgiving hoping that I will be able to get an extra day off at Christmas
12/01/04: I plan to spend Christmas visiting my family in Indiana, but am first visiting Dallas, Texas.
12/22/04, 1 AM, EST: Anticipating lost baggage, pack majority of items in a carry-on duffel. Consider carry-on rolling suitcase, but decide against it.
6 AM: Wake up late; rush to the airport for 8:30 flight.
7:30: Enter check-in line.
7:52: Check in. Check one bag. Both flights, from home and from Chicago read “On Time.”
7:55: Enter security line.
9:00: Board flight.
11 AM, CST: Arrive Chicago O’Hare.
11:02: Check monitor for my outbound flight. Not on the monitor.
11:03: Note that all other flights going to Dallas read “Cancelled.”
11:10: Enter line for rebooking.
11:11: Note that there are no actual people at the front of the line. Rather, there are three red phones.
11:15: Asian tour group exits red-phone rebooking line, expressing disgust.
11:30: Pick up red rebooking phone.
11:31: Note that I am apparently speaking to a trainee. She must ask her supervisor before giving a response to any question. After each question, long pauses ensue.
11:45: I finally understand that my flight is, in fact, cancelled.
11:47: Total Breakdown #1: After being told by trainee that “You have access to The Weather Channel. If you saw that Dallas was having a storm you shouldn’t have flown today,” I feel my head becoming extremely hot.
11:47:30: I raise my voice. “You are telling me that I should disregard the fact that your airline announced my flight was on-time? Everyone knows that The Weather Channel is always wrong! How am I even having this conversation?”
12:00 PM, CST: Hang up red rebooking phone on agent and exit line, face contorted in disgust.
12:08: Decide that I need to speak to a real person. Realize that my bag is very heavy.
12:09: Exit security.
12:10: Enter domestic flights line. Note that there are 4 agents helping customers.
12:17: One agent finishes with a customer and goes to break.
12:25: Agent #2 finishes with a customer and goes to break.
12:26: I witness Total Breakdown #2: The man next to me in line begins to yell as agent #3 goes to break: “Where the hell are you going? Get back here! The line is 100 feet long and you’re going to have a cigarette!”
12:27: Last remaining agent attempts to placate screaming man. He ignores them and turns to me: “Can you believe this? Can you believe this?”
12:27:30: Seconds ago I was having the same sentiment. Now I look away, embarrassed, and think, “What is wrong with this person?”
12:41: I reach the front of the line. I rebook for a 6:55 PM flight. I am assured that my bags will be rerouted accordingly.
12:45: Enter security line, six hours to kill.
12:57: Half-naked, I still trigger the alarm. I enter pat-down line.
12:57: I emerge feeling violated. I shuffle, shoes untied, pants falling down. Bag extremely heavy.
1:00: Desperate to put down heavy bag, I enter “Wolfgang Puck’s Airport Palace.”
1:19: I finish Wolfgang Puck’s pizza special
3:30: For some reason, I am getting rude stares from staff of Wolfgang Puck’s Airport Palace.
3:31: Back to carrying heavy bag, so I decide to go shopping. Purchase new headphones, Dallas pop-out map, keychain flashlight, and a framed picture of a Frank Lloyd Wright home.
3:37: Total cost: $100. Power of a captive audience: Priceless.
3:42: Decide that bag is so heavy that I must repack. Trudge to gate for Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Empty bag. Using my winter coat and now empty duffel bag, I create a makeshift fort.
3:52: I spy on people from behind my makeshift fort. One, a man with a tiny goatee seems interesting. He sees me staring, and I realize that I am a 30-year old woman who has made a fort in the middle of an airport. I duck and pretend to be asleep.
4:30: I wake up, confused, sweating, belongings scattered all around me. My fort has come apart and I am lying on bare floor. The airline personnel going to Cedar Rapids are giving me strange looks. Hurriedly, I gather everything in my arms and run to Starbucks to repack.
4:41: Incoming call from my sister. She is stuck in LaGuardia.
4:45: I look up at the monitors and realize that my 6:55 flight is delayed until 7:05
4:46: Flight delayed until 7:15
4:47: Flight delayed until 7:25
4:48: Weather in Dallas is worse. Even if I arrive, no one will be able to come to the airport to pick me up.
4:49: I experience Total Breakdown #3. Yell into phone at my (now ex) who has just told me that she is unable to pick me up at the airport, “Look, I have worked every day for the last 21 days except for one. And on that one day, a day I could have slept in, I drove you to the airport at 5 AM. Now fix this problem!”
4:50: I realize that I am being irrational and hysterical. Hang up the phone.
4:58: In a state of panic, I reenter red phone rebooking line. Plan: cancel flight, drive to my parents house in Indiana. I call my parents and tell them the plan. They seem confused.
5:17: Reach the front of the red phone rebooking line. Am told that the luggage is already on a flight for Dallas. It is not retrievable. I must go to Dallas.
6:21: Make reservation for a hotel in Dallas.
6:58: Flight begins boarding. Told be elderly man to “Watch it with that heavy bag.”
7:00: Make the mistake of starting conversation with jolly Texan with the opening line, “So, how long have you been in the airport?”
7:02: Really, this man is terribly chatty.
7:10: I excuse myself to end the story of his daughter’s Christmas pageant.
7:11: Flight attendant informs me that I am not allowed to leave my seat during take-off or landing.
10:20, CST: Arrive at Dallas Fort-Worth
10:41: Exit plane.
10:59: Awaiting baggage conveyor to start. Appears to be broken. Repeated “Eh-Eh-Eh” noise but no satisfying jerk to begin movement.
11:07: Conveyor repaired. Baggage begins arriving. No bag.
11:18: Still no bag.
11:20: Enter line for lost luggage. A short man wearing all green is speaking to the lone agent.
11:27: Man wearing green still speaking to the agent.
11:28: Asian woman and slightly feminine man ahead of me are fed up. Feminine man begins speaking loudly, “I don’t know what that guy at the front of the line thinks he’s doing, but just face it, Mr. Elf-your bag is taking a vacation to Bali that your body can’t afford. It’s on the beach somewhere. That is, if it’s not under some baggage handler’s Christmas tree.”
11:29: Mr. Elf remains at the front of the line.
11:36: Man in parallel line suffers Total Breakdown #4. He begins screaming, over and over, “I just want my bag! I just want my bag!”
11:37: Airport police arrive, and take screaming man away.
11:38: We become scared. No one else speaks.
11:39: Man in green finally exits the front of the line.
11:39:30: Spontaneous applause erupts.
12:17 AM, 12/23/05, CST: Reach the front of the line. I am told that my bag is at another terminal. I will need to take a bus to retrieve it.
12:19: Go to the shuttle gate. A woman there is experiencing Total Breakdown #5. She is sobbing over her luggage cart and speaking into a cellular phone. “My car is not here. I don’t know where it is. I’ve been looking since 9:30. Now I’ve been waiting for the shuttle bus for thirty minutes. I’m freezing and exhausted.”
12:20: I attempt a sympathetic look in her direction, but I begin to fear that this bodes poorly for my own bus-outlook.
12:21: Her bus arrives. It is not my bus.
12:41: My bus arrives. I sit down next to a jolly man who discusses at length the relative merits of a shuttle vs. other transportation into downtown Dallas. He expresses regret that none of these options are, in fact, available tonight.
12:48: Arrive at gate that reportedly holds my luggage.
12:52: Directed to find my bag in middle of a darkened terminal among a mountain of luggage.
1:07: Find my bag.
1:15: Board taxi.
1:21: Spot “Whataburger,” open 24 hours daily. Order driver to stop.
1:22: Order #1 meal with jalapeños.
1:27: Receive meal. Driver eyes burger with interest.
1:28: Re-enter drive thru. Driver also orders #1 meal with jalapeños.
1:37: Enter hotel. Bag still very heavy. Door cumbersome. Entire drink spills in entryway.
1:38: Check in.
1:42: Eat #1 meal with jalapeños. Brush teeth.
1:44: Collapse into sleep.
9:00 AM: Incoming call from my parents. They wonder if I am still driving home. Oops, sorry, mom. I forgot to call.
9:01: Think to myself, “God, I need to bathe.”

Quote of the week! June 5th edition.

2007-06-05T00:26:00.000-04:00

Well, I didn't win the public radio talent quest, apparently. I am somewhat depressed and feel like a loser (I did, after all, lose. Sometimes, everyone's NOT a winner). Therefore, in the tradition of loser doctors, I bring you a quote of the week:

"My grandfather's work was doo-doo! I am not interested in death! The only thing that concerns me is the preservation of life!"

Googlers are cheaters.

Fat Macaroni and Cheese and other tales from the midwest

2007-06-03T00:19:00.000-04:00

Although my apartment is currently 95 degrees and the one room that is air conditioned is my bedroom which is a place where my wireless internet does not go, I feel the need to urgently respond to an email from a kind reader (parentheses are me talking):

"Dear Dr. Brokeback,

You’re like the best blogger ever. (Ah, thank you so much, I really do like feedback) Except for that American Idol guy on CNN he’s pretty good, too. (Whatever) Anyway, I am a little concerned about your cruise diaries. (I'm realizing this is more of a "feedback sandwich" [good, bad, good] than an actual compliment) Are you so far away from the mullet and wagon wheel that you have forgotten how to interact with the Alabamians? So, next time you come across a PBR drinking wife beater, either a shirt or an actual person who beats their wife, just remember that you, too, were walking the mullet line once upon a time.

Love,

(OK, I might've added the word "love," but I want to believe it's true)

Your childhood friend who now stalks you (and others) via the internet."

Thanks for the email, ycfwnhyaovti, can I just call you "m" for short? OK, good. My response, a "pushback," if you will, to the grilled feedback sandwich you have just sent me:

1. Thanks so much for the kind words. I really do enjoy validation such as this. Wow.
The best blogger ever!
(Here I begin talking with grandiose announcer voice) Why, thank you! (end ridiculous voice)

2. The cruise was entirely different than our childhood. Alabama is not Indiana, contrary to what those living in the blue states seem to think. Add to this the fact that people now see me as a northeastern liberal elitist/lesbian! Where they might get an impression like that I have no idea (Maybe it's my glasses, they make me look smart), but part of the problem on the cruise was that at least three (not exaggerating) people said the following to me: "You must think I'm stupid because I'm from Alabama."

My answer? "I don't think you're stupid because you're from Alabama! I think you're stupid because you're wearing a T shirt that says 'I'm a Federal Boob Inspector.'" The adjective "intelligent" just wasn't coming to mind. And yeah, Indiana has a few of those, but this boat was nothing but. I was overwhelmed.

3. M, I've got some seriously disturbing news for you. The uncool has come full circle and now it's...cool. No lie. In NYC two weeks ago, I saw a hipster with a mullet wearing a wifebeater T and drinking PBR. Not only that: It was completely clear that I'm not cool enough to engage in that sort of behavior. I don't understand it, and I don't want to believe it, but I think the cool train has passed me (and, clearly, you) by. So what I'm actually saying here is that I don't know where I stand on mullets. Maybe I do think they're ?cool? And if I do think they're cool, where do that put me in comparison to my fellow Hoosiers? I just have no idea.

4. Fashion trends being sported by youngsters these days aside, however, I have NOT forgotten my humble roots! I wore the mullet, I had the tapered jeans, I had another very embarrassing layered haircut, I wore other really, really bad clothes (remember the neon years?). I NEVER spoke with an accent, but I do still enjoy many a casserole made from Campbell's Soup, especially casseroles called things like "Fat Macaroni and Cheese." I know where I came from. But remember this, never forget this: In my childhood years, no matter how much Breck I sprayed into my hair, I was considered a complete and total alien/freak. So don't think that my comments about my fellow cruisegoers were judgemental, just...an acknowledgment of differences that have always existed. And, yes, I'll admit that I was (innocently) poking fun at people who buy bad art.

Again, readers, please send me email! I might post it and respond, just like I did for m! I bet she sure feels special! Don't you wish I was talking to you? And m, we really must do this again.

Fondly (OK, love),
Dr.BB

My apologies

2007-05-30T23:10:00.000-04:00

Oh, dear readers, I am so sorry I have been neglecting you! After vacation I plunged myself into the world of manuscript preparation. Hopefully I've got one paper going out Friday (cross your fingers, this is the big one), and one that I hope to have nearly completed by next week.

I will return to the land of blogging. I just need a few days. I am thinking of you constantly.

Your faithful blogger, Drbb

The Cruise Diaries, Volume 1, Issue 3

2007-05-20T15:50:00.000-04:00

Well, I can't make a decision about the final name for The Cruise Diaries. I didn't get more than one vote for any single title. Everyone is a winner, as usual.

Moving on, we have reached the final entry of The Diaries, and in this edition I bring you a synopsis of the best aspect of taking a cruise: shopping.

While on the boat, one can purchase jewelry, diamonds, and art. It's the same quality as the products seen on QVC, but it's right there, on the boat! And only a few hundred (or thousand) dollars over list price.

My favorite part of the cruise is the art auction. Because of the high quality, low prices, and incredible artistic value of the pieces available, the opportunity is not to be missed, and so I decided to do some buying. I sent a couple of pictures of my favorites to my appraiser for consideration, so I'll also show them to you.

#1:

The best thing about this piece is that while conveying a sense of patriotism, it also is very colorful and goes with most living room decor. I seriously considered this piece, but felt that something with more passion might be better.

#2:

I still wasn't sure, though. Something about this wasn't absolutely perfect. To make matters worse, the piece above was the featured piece of the auction, and all the attention meant that the price might go too high for my meager budget.

At this point, I was accosted by the boat police. Apparently, taking pictures of pieces in the auction is an absolute no no. The boat cop wanted my camera and perhaps also wanted to drag me to boat jail. I know that habeas corpus does not apply when at sea, so although I smiled and pretended to go along with his request, I took off in a full sprint the minute he turned his back. I ran right to my room and threw the camera in my room safe. Of course, I then was so hyped up from my run-in with the law that I typed the wrong number on the keypad. The result was that I couldn't figure out the combination and was unable to access my valuables, including my wallet and the camera. To get the stuff out, I was forced to call (who else) the cruise police to come and unlock the safe. I was very relieved when the guy who showed up wasn't the person who, minutes before, was trying to arrest me.

It was getting too "hot" on the boat, what with the warrant out for my arrest and all, so I'm happy to say that I'm now I'm back on dry land. I spent the weekend at my friend's wedding, and tomorrow I'm back to work. Yikes.

VOTE!

2007-05-16T13:40:00.000-04:00

CHOICES for cruise diary names:

I Beg for the Brig
Who wants to play Walk the Plank?
A Guide to Beckoning Buccaneers: You, too, can get your cruise marauded.
In Deep Ship
Ship Happens
Cruisin' with Lynyrd Skynyrd
Prayer for an Olivia pirate ship
Ship of Tools
Shiploads of Fun
In the Ship
You’re on Vacation
Full of Ship
My Shippy Vacation
Redneck Shipheads
Cruising for Boat JailYou’re in Boat Jail, Now

Let me know in the next 12 hours!

The Cruise Diaries, Volume 1, Issue 2

2007-05-16T13:35:00.000-04:00

Les-boy and I met on a medical student booze cruise. The boat putted around the oil-tanker laden harbor of our mid-sized northeastern city. In addition to the clear lack of scenery and the odor of an overcrowded closed space filled with intoxicated, cologne-wearing future orthopedic surgeons, the outing also had another significant flaw: the line for the bar was an hour long. The entire trip was three hours. After once around the bar line, a person would collapse from exhaustion. Oh, also there was the problem that the boat had no working bathroom.

Two hours into my “night of nautical fun,” I was hanging off the edge of the boat, staring at my new home, Dingy City, with desperation. It was then that Les-boy spotted me. My feet were entwined in the railing of the ship, highlighting my incredibly large, brown, steel-toed clunkers. He looked down at my feet and then surveyed the remainder of my 90s lesbian fashion perfection, and said, “Nice shoes.”

I turned to him, “I don’t know you, but you are now my witness: If we ever reach dry land again, I swear that I will kiss it.” When we docked, I was the first down the gangplank and the only one to put my lips to the ground.

And just like that, Les-boy and I became best friends. We both have had several girlfriends during the time we’ve known each other (and at least one in common), but our friendship is consistent.

My family took Les-boy on this cruise for any number of reasons, but once he was here we realized that this year is our 10-year anniversary! What a great way to re-live the way we met: trapped on a boat and surrounded by morons.

Maybe I’m being harsh on my medical school class or, less likely, the people I am currently cruising with. However, I swear that while sitting here typing, I just heard the following sentence:

“Listen, ya dumb-ass, clean up! It’s your wedding day and your wedding pictures and sh*t.”

In defense of our “funship” experience, we actually had a lot of fun yesterday at the beach and exploring some Mayan ruins. (The one annoying thing about it: our guide, clued into the captive audience effect, spent the afternoon encouraging us to purchase cartouches: your name in Mayan hieroglyphics engraved onto a real gold or silver pendant. The process of engraving is miraculously completed during the two hours it takes to tour the ruins.)

This morning, though, Brad, our cruise director, woke us up bright and early to offer advice on how to best spend our “fun day at sea.” After rolling over and rubbing my eyes, I decided that I should spend my fun day at sea hunting down and killing Brad. I honestly think I would be doing a service to society. This is the guy who writes “Cruise Newlywed Game” questions such as “Would you describe your husband’s anatomy as a stretch limo, a dump truck, or a VW bug with two flat tires?”

It would appear, however, that I’ve already spent half of my fun day at sea sleeping and writing in my blog, so maybe I should reconsider my next steps. A buffet may be in order. Today, the international lunch buffet’s featured cuisine is: “American.”

Dr. Brokeback's cruise diaries, Volume 1; Issue 1

2007-05-13T15:19:00.000-04:00

Readers, I am spending 75 cents per minute to write you from the high seas, primarily because I need to be rescued. As an alien immersed in southern accents, I am concerned that my personal safety may be at risk. I take full responsibility here; my situation is clearly my own fault. It is a well-known fact that anyone who pays to take a cruise is putting themselves at high risk for interaction with The General Public. (By using the phrase ‘The General Public,’ I am referring to the citizens of the state of Alabama. And although I’m sure that Alabama is the home of many sensitive and intelligent people, it would appear that none of those people are on this ship. To restate: if this boat sunk, the average IQ of several southern states would increase dramatically.)

This vacation originated because my family wanted to spend time together, but I didn’t want to meet at my sister’s house in Boston in the dead of winter. A cruise seemed like a good idea at the time. When my family went on a cruise 10 years ago, it was a great experience. We made friends with the family were assigned dinner seating with. They were a multigenerational, multiracial family. We cumulatively realized early in the trip that we were somewhat different than the majority of people on the boat, but there were a lot of us and we could mostly ignore it.

This is different. We are strangers in a strange land. As we walked through the crowds of middle-aged ladies dancing to Jimmy-Buffet-turned-muzac, I looked at my sister and my friend (The Amazing) Lesboy, and said. “It’s bad luck just seeing a thing like that.”

Unfortunately, it was just the first of many horrifying experiences. We’ve been here less than 24 hours, but already I have forgotten what reality is like. I’m beginning to wonder whether our northeastern lives are, in fact, a dream. At the very least, I realize that the majority of the country has an entirely different existence than my own. I now understand how George W. was elected twice. These people voted for him. And it’s possible that they still don’t get it.

As I write, my cruise director is recommending a workshop where one can “learn to shop in Mexico.” Running concurrently is the “hairiest chest contest” and the airbrush tattoo booth on the Lido deck. One could drink to forget, but drinks are 10 dollars apiece. Gambling is also available, but I lost twenty dollars in seven minutes last night, and watching all those zombies smoke and sit on their overweight butts as they throw their money away on games that are fixed in favor of the cruise line just makes me sad.

The number of augmented breasts on this boat is one reassuring point. If we were to sink, a third of the passengers would not require life preservers because of their chests’ buoyancy factor. Additionally, although the women walk around in short shorts and sequins, they do not, generally, say much and do not speak out of turn, but instead defer to their redneck boyfriends.

So, dear readers, if you are tooling around in the Caribbean on a yacht that could accommodate six Jewish/gay/Indian, etcs, please contact me through this blog. You are our only hope.

P.S.: What should I call my next post? Let me know through comments, or offer your own title:
Ship of Tools
Shiploads of Fun
In the Ship
You’re on Vacation
Full of Ship
My Shippy Vacation
Redneck Shipheads
Cruising for Boat Jail
You’re in Boat Jail, Now

Borat!

2007-05-10T23:02:00.002-04:00

Congratulations, anonymous!

The Quote of the Week is, indeed, from the movie Borat. It is uttered by a misogynistic group of frat boys during an alcoholic binge in a trailer.

The other quote I was going to put in but didn't:

In references to gay people:

"In my country, we take those people, throw them in prison and then hang them"

Rodeo guy:

"Well, that's pretty much what we're trying to do here!"

Right.

Quote of the week! May 10th edition.

2007-05-10T10:48:00.000-04:00

Well, gang, I'm off on vacation next week, and it's not clear that I'll have internet. Although I hope to be here for you, there's no telling.

Today's quote, in response to the request for more recent quotes, is, in fact, more recent.

Here it is:

"Do not ever, ever let a woman make you who you are."

Another day, another 911 call

2007-05-10T10:44:00.000-04:00

Well, it's happened again. Much like my previous 3 episodes of calling 911, I was caught in the middle of an extremely unfortunate situation.

I went for water ice with a friend, and on arriving back to her car, we found that all the windows were smashed and everything was stolen out of the car.

911-the police arrived (this time they took prints!)-and four hours later, I was home.

Gotta love this city.

Grand Rounds!

2007-05-08T14:21:00.000-04:00

Hey, y'all-

Grand Rounds (with links to my post) are up at The Blog that Ate Manhattan!

Enjoy!

And...she's back!

2007-05-07T11:38:00.000-04:00

To those of you concerned about my recent post regarding my longtime karaoke act, Copacabana, (see previous post) I have great news:

I've still got it! With a different audience (Manhattan, drag queen karaoke night), I have re-captured my former glory!

As a result, Copacabana will be performed again someday soon. I'm collecting money for advanced sale tickets now.

"So how 'bout a movie from this millennium?"

2007-05-03T10:32:00.000-04:00

Quote, in it's entirety:

"And I say, 'Hey. Lama, hey. How about a little something for, you know, the effort, you know?' And he says, 'oh, uh, there won't be any money. But when you die, on your deathbed, you will receive total consciousness. So I got that going for me, which is nice'"

Today my pod-mate, let's call him Ed, complained about the age of most of the quotes.

However, the Paul Farmer thing is incredibly relevant because my favorite assistant (F.A.) will be taking Paul Farmer's class in the fall. Read the book Mountains Beyond Mountains to find out more.

Thanks for all the answers, and I'll try to make next week's quote more recent.

Also, "Ed" has requested a You Tube link for movie quotes so the context is more clear.

The Lama quote

Quote of the Week! May 2nd edition

2007-05-02T21:59:00.000-04:00

It's time for the quote of the week again!

This one might not initially seem easy, but there's a follow-up line that I'm leaving out that is incredibly obvious.

My clue is that the follow-up line is a phrase that is now thrown around so frequently that many who use it around do not know its origins. Also, the follow-up sentence is Paul Farmer's favorite movie line ever. Frequently working this famous phrase into normal conversation is a prerequisite for entrance to his inner circle. Future Harvard med students should therefore pay attention.

"And I say, 'Hey. Lama, hey. How about a little something for, you know, the effort, you know?' And he says, 'oh, uh, there won't be any money. But when you die, on your deathbed, you will receive total consciousness.'"

The winner should not just name the movie but should also add the follow-up sentence in his or her answer.

Good luck! There may be prizes. No one has expressed interest in prizes so far (except for the one about me not moving to your neighborhood), but who knows? Tell me your wish and, within reason, I will try to grant it.

Remember: Googlers are cheaters.

Grand Rounds!

2007-05-01T22:53:00.000-04:00

Grand Rounds, a fun-filled roller coaster of the best medical blogs of the week, is up at Shrink Rap:

http://www.psychiatrist-blog.blogspot.com/

The theme is neuroscience/psychiatry and, apparently, ducks. I'm not sure about the second part, but the first part should appeal to several of my loyal readers.

Have fun!
Drbb

Quick Notes from the future Queen of the Nerds!

2007-04-30T17:34:00.000-04:00

Three unrelated but possibly important items:

1. It is quite possible that some previous posts have been or will be removed. Although I want to let my loyal readers in on my experiences, I hesitate to leave some posts up for extended periods due to the sensitive nature of their content. It doesn't make sense...except that it does to me, and I'm Dr. BB.

2. I went to traffic court today for my moving violation: Not guilty!!!

I didn't end up hiring a lawyer. I represented myself (You know what they say about that). Despite this issue and thanks to the advice of one my legal-type friends, my record is clean and for once the city is sending ME the check.

3. Did everyone see the public radio reality show?

Check it out:

http://www.publicradioquest.com/

It's the American Idol of the nerd world! And I, for one, have always dreamed of becoming the Queen of the Nerds: The host of my own public radio show!

Now, you might think that I would take this opportunity in an entirely selfish direction-that I would make my potential show a radio version of my blog.

But I don't think so. I welcome your comments on this issue, but it's my thought that I would aim my two-minute audio proposal to be for a show that is at the intersection of science, the media, and the public. It would use experiences of real-live people to illustrate the gap between science and the real world.

And it would, of course, be funny. Perhaps hilarious.

But I welcome your input. What should I include in my clip, and what should I leave out? Should I tell a story or just talk?

Please advise, dear readers. Remember, your suggestion could be the one to make all my dreams come true....

drbb

An Admitted "This American Life" Reject

2007-04-23T11:25:00.000-04:00

No matter what I accomplish in life, I will always feel like a failure. This is because my one goal is to be on the radio show "This American Life." A while ago, I sent them an essay, which earned me the nicest rejection letter I've ever received. The piece has hung out in "My Documents" ever since, lonely and unread. I realize now, however, that I now have the perfect place to put my rejections out to pasture, a constant opportunity to publish the otherwise unpublishable: my blog! And thus I bring to you a bit of my rejected , "Hoosier Hospitality:"

My worst brush with discrimination was a measure brought before the Lafayette, Indiana city council.

How dry. A city council measure. It’s boring even to look at the phrase. And yet, it was different from all my previous experiences of being harassed.

Not that the other things weren't really bad. Years before, some boys from my high school class called my house and said “We’ll kill you, dyke, and your dog, Smokey, too.” College, which had promised to be "a witness protection and relocation program for teenagers," was actually worse than high school. Freshman year, my RA (accompanied by half of the residents of my dorm, a.k.a. "torch-bearing mob") used her key to open the door to my room in the middle of the night in order to prove that my girlfriend and I slept in the same bed. I moved out of the dorm to avoid further torment, only to have somebody spray paint the words "Kill Fags" on the concrete wall outside of my college apartment. I joined a campus LGBT group and started giving speeches to educate the campus about gay issues (because the bumpkins clearly needed some schoolin'), and at least once we had to be escorted in and out of the building by security guards because of threatened violence. Despite our caution, a little flaming friend of mine got beaten up in a restaurant featuring "Burritos as Big as Your Head."

But still, I'm going to go with the city council as the worst of the worst. In each of the previous cases, the people attacking me and my friends might have represented the general sentiment of people in our town, but nonetheless, their attacks were rogue, illegal actions that we could report to the authorities.

The city council measure, however, proposed to sanction discrimination against gays and lesbians in the areas of housing and employment. There would be no calling the police, no reporting to anyone. It would be legal. The explanation behind the proposal was something like this (add terrible accent): “We must protect business owners and landlords from the gay agenda, because once the homo-sex-uals infiltrate there will be no recourse.”

Huh? The implication was that the giant real estate machine that owned my dilapidated apartment building was powerless against me and my two roommates. If they only knew what a threat we were: I was long-haired, extremely depressed, and pretty sure that sweater-dresses were a good look; my roommate was a butch Asian rave DJ who spent her days in a darkened room slurping down cans of Ensure and jogging in place to an endless stream of techno beats; my best friend was a black drag queen who had recently been arrested while dressed as Supergirl.

At the time, it had seemed a sure thing that the measure would pass easily in our very conservative town, but the day of the vote, I decided to make a statement anyway. As we entered City Hall, I looked closely at the pro-discrimination camp. Who were these straight people who cared so much about taking away my rights that they would come here on a school night? Small children wore entire outfits that advertised their anti-gay stance. I didn’t even know what “gay” was until the age of 18 when a friend flat-out told me that “gay” was me. “So that’s it!” I thought. Then, pausing, I asked, “What’s that? Like, homo-sexu-al?”

It turned out that the majority of speakers were against the measure and made reasonable arguments about civil rights. I used my moment at the mic to talk about my mom. She had every reason in the world to be proud of me, but instead she was spending her days feeling ashamed of my coming out and her nights worrying that I would be assaulted and left for dead, hanging from a fence post somewhere in Tippecanoe county. I ended with a cheesy statement about the futility of the whole argument in a world with so many other problems. It's still embarrassing. It's also still true.

The miracle of the night was that the council heard our pleas. Two of the members switched their votes at the last minute, and the measure was voted down. Much to my mother’s dismay, I was prominently featured on the front cover of the local paper and on the 11 o’clock news not just in Lafayette, but also in Indianapolis, where my parents (and, critically, all of my parents’ friends) live to this day. I wasn’t actually quoted, but there I was, leaping four feet off the ground: long-hair, sweater-dress, unflattering wide-whaled corduroy pants, and an expression of complete joy smeared across my face. My faith in humanity had been temporarily restored by a bunch of conservative Christian Republicans.

Unfortunately, the victory, however beautiful, hasn't stuck with me as much as the threat. Something about the experience made me more outspoken and, paradoxically, slightly more guarded than I would have been otherwise. I think it's because I am still not quite positive that my civil rights are a sure thing.

That was 30 years ago, when they used to have a show

2007-04-20T01:10:00.000-04:00

I swore I would never do karaoke at that horrible bar. Besides helping me to avoid embarrassment, it turns out that my oath Not to Sing was also protecting me from a terrible truth. If only I'd trusted my instincts.

Although I have a rich karaoke history, I actually do only one number unless seriously pressed. I discovered the power of that song the very day I emerged onto the karaoke scene. I was in a sad little gay bar somewhere in Michigan on New Year's Eve, 1997. The bar consisted of two rooms. The first room contained one shy drag queen who didn't sing and barely swayed when she danced. My big-city friend turned to me and said, "She's going to have to get some better moves."

I looked around. "Why?" I said. "It's not like she has any competition."

But in fact, she did. The majority of the bar's customers were one room away, in the bar's karaoke den. The room was smokey and loud and packed with locals. Country was by far the most selected genre. A woman at the table behind us seemed very attached to a song featuring the following line:

"Hindsight's 20/20..."

Even after the song ended, she was still periodically belting out the phrase.

The DJ, a slight gay man with a cast on his leg, interrupted the customer's karaoke choices every few songs to sing his versions of pop love ballads, and was especially focused on those of the Mariah Carey/Celine Dion phenotype.

The place really needed a pick-me-up.

I went through the book until I found the perfect number, something that I loved and knew the words to, something that didn't go too high and would be just the right thing to rescue the lonely crowd.

My song? Copacabana by Barry Manilow.

I started with my back to the audience, and shook my 23 year old aerobicized booty for two bars before turning to face the crowd, and starting to sing, "Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl..."

Needless to say, my song was very well received. There was a standing ovation, I think. I basked in the glory, and right then decided that Copacabana would be my song for all time. Forever.

I've had a good run with the song. In a bar in a dingy industrial neighborhood in San Diego (a bar I went to with the flight attendant from my flight to San Diego from the northeast, long story, but not what you're thinking), I entered a scaled-down lesbian version of "American Idol."

As I finished, there was great applause. The judge leaned into the microphone.

"Well," She paused. "You're not what I would call a singer, but you are certainly an entertainer. Which is why we are passing you on to the next round."

Unfortunately, my conference was ending and the next week would find me slaving away at the hospital, so I didn't participate in the next round. But it would've been beautiful, provided that they let me use Copacabana again. I don't really have any other numbers, you know.

Last summer, in Portugal, I sang the song for a bar full of German tourists and got the best reception of my life. I was famous in the town for days. Autographs and even pictures were requested. People I didn't know waved at me on the street. Europeans definitely have strange taste, but Copacabana kills. In any language.

It was just a series of unfortunate events that brought me to that (horrible) lesbian bar last night. I was at a party at vegetarian kosher Chinese restaurant, and in between courses featuring gluten-based faux meat, we were going to have total access to the restaurant's karaoke system.

Unfortunately, the machine was really dated. The song selections were last updated in oh, 1986 or so. The background music was very quiet, and wasn't instrumental but in fact was muzak. Worse yet, we were sharing the place with hipsters who, in between cans of PBR, thought it would be funny to bring back off-key versions of such classics as "On Top of Spaghetti."

So a decision was made: finish our General Tso's Seitan and then cut our losses. We would head out to Thursday night Karaoke at "Nanny's" (a terrible pseudonym for a terrible bar). We would go early, before it got crowded.

I've had bad experiences with this bar before. I was once ridiculed by a group of 24 year olds pretending to be my friends. It happened over a year ago, so all I can remember about the incident is the following exchange: "Nice shirt." "Thanks." "Is it, like, a blouse?"

Anyway, I thought that last night it would be OK, that I would be able to handle the pressure by surrounding myself with a large group of supporters. I could still do my famous Copacabana. It would still kill.

I was called to the stage almost immediately after my arrival to the bar. I tried to rally my group but couldn't get anyone to come to front to support me, and so I was left on stage, on my own, as I started to shake my ass.

I did the usual: the dancing, the pointing, the fan interviews during the prolonged musical break, etc. I encouraged the audience to sing along. I ended with my usual soliloquy, spoken rather than sung:

"Let me warn you people: (At the Copa) Don't fall in love. Don't fall in love."

And then I finished. There wasn't much clapping, except for a fifty year old biker chick from the front row who wanted not only to clap but also to give me a hug. She cheered. Everybody else in the bar either stared blankly or looked away, slightly embarrassed. My friends, notably, were nowhere to be found.

(I asked one of them about this later. She said, "Well, I wasn't really your friend to begin with. I don't really know you." This statement is true, but harsh, let me tell you.)

And so there I was, sweating a bit, out of breath, limited applause, bad men's sweater, bad short haircut, and I saw myself clearly for the first time in a long time, the words to the last verse reverberating through my brain:

"Her name is Lola, she was a showgirl,
But that was 30 years ago, when they used to have a show.
Now it's a disco, but not for Lola.
Still in the dress she used to wear, faded feathers in her hair.
She sits there so refined, and drinks herself half-blind.
She lost her youth and she lost her Tony, now she's lost her mind..."

In that split second, I realized that I have sung the song so long, that I failed to see that I am now living it! I'm an old and foolish, washed-up, un-hip, thirty-something in a sea of twenty year olds. Worse, I'm still trying to garner applause for my performance of a seventies disco hit. What have I become? The only slightly satisfactory answer is that my relentless career has stunted my growth. Or something.

Since this has gotten tedious...

2007-04-20T01:05:00.000-04:00

My final quote for the game. Anyone can answer. Prizes are negotiable. I still, for example, will promise never to move to your neighborhood.

"Their whole family's like some weird medical experiment. I think they're like circus people."

(Claps) "Now, now Amanda. Campers, it's time for a group hug! Wednesday, Pugsley: will a hug hurt us?"

"We don't hug."

"Oh, they're just shy."

"We're not shy. We're contagious."

Awaiting answers via comments. drbb

Second Chance

2007-04-19T12:14:00.000-04:00

for the second quote. Here's another bit:

"I'm only missing Jack the Ripper and that Zodiac guy. But look. "The Black Widow." It might be Debbie. At least three rich husbands... all dead."

" I'll trade you."

"For what?"

"Amy Fischer."

Quote of the week! April 19th edition.

2007-04-18T16:35:00.000-04:00

Because this week's quote is downright obvious, I'm instituting a "bonus round" in addition to the week's regular quote. Respond first with correct answers for both via comments and get a prize! (But just remember, everyone is a winner. Especially me.)

Quote #1:

"The chocolate coating makes it go down easier. And you should wait, what an hour? An good hour before swimming."

But wait! act now and get a real prize via the bonus round:
Bonus quote:

"We're going to make an ex-am-ple," (draws box in the air with her hands) "We're going to show that anyone, no matter how odd, or pale, or chubby, can still have a darn good time. Whether they like it or not."

If you get both, you will receive a prize tailored to your interest.

Options:
a. I will write a post on my blog on the subject of your choice.
b. I will write a guest post for another person's blog. Again, subject is your choice.
c. I will send you a movie line from your favorite movie and/or recognize you via blog post.
d. I will promise never to move to your neighborhood.
e. Name your own prize. Within reason, we can talk.

Remember, if you're a googler (big fat cheater), you'll have to live with yourself.
If no one gets both, I will continue to add bits from missing movie until someone gets it right.

M.A.L.: Again, you are not able to win. That's what you get for growing up with me. That and a significant stunting of your emotional and spiritual growth. Sorry on both counts.

db

The Sedaris Diaries

2007-04-14T21:02:00.000-04:00

I feel like I made one too many David Sedaris references in my last post. I really should explain:

If you mention David Sedaris to my mother, she will nod knowingly, and then, without even looking up from the Midwestern favorite she is cooking, she will say, "Oh, yes, David is a friend of ours."

Now, this is a lie. An absolute lie. If I ran into him on the street, I might not even recognize him, and there is a 99.9% chance that he would not recognize me or anyone else in my family, either. Worse yet, he would most likely turn and run away. He's not rude, just shy, and would therefore have to run away because we would be frantically waving or possibly even trying to embrace him. And you know David. He's not a touchy-feely kind of guy.

So we don't actually know him. We have, however, had multiple episodes of momentary contact with him.

The first time we met him was because of my sister's vices. In college, my sister, M., was a creative writing major who wrote poems called things like "You're a bitch" and "I've met the anti-christ and he looked a lot like you." Her senior writing seminar hosted several authors a semester, and when M. heard David was coming, she called dibs on being his student-host. Lucky for M., in addition to being a poet and creative writing major she also happened to be in the middle of her chain-smoking-junk-food addicted phase. Therefore, even though his visit was brief, she and David got along well. She let him smoke in her car. She got fried chicken with him. She introduced him to Midwestern-sized grocery stores and giant gas stations with television at every pump. And then she introduced him to my mother.

My mother is a very nice person who sometimes doesn't feel listened to all the way. David really listened to her. He asked her tons of questions. She bragged about her daughter in medical school and he signed a very nice message to that daughter in a copy of "Holidays on Ice." And just like that, my mother felt a bond with him that will last for the rest of her life.

When David returned to town the following year, my father got to meet him. Although I do not know the details of that meeting, I can only imagine what was said. I suspect it wasn't pretty (to give you some context, my father met one of my career mentors, a health policy guru, and spent 45 minutes explaining to the poor man that my sister's education was overpriced).

When David was on the east coast the next autumn, my sister and I met him together.

I think this starts to amount to "we've talked a lot," but it's still not like we're anything special (He did once briefly mention his adventures with my sister during an NPR interview, but that was an anomaly). We don't have his phone number. We're not his friends. But you might still wonder: How have you achieved all of this contact with such a famous and amazing person?

The real reason that we have met him so many times is that we know his secret: smokers can't smoke anywhere anymore. And so, whatever building they're in, they have to, at some point, hang out at the loading dock.

So when all of of his other "fans" are sitting in an auditorium, listening to him read essays, my family is stalking the freezing industrial hangar behind that auditorium, waiting for him to take a cigarette break. Who wins now, suckers?

When I met him, in 2001, on a freight loading dock behind my medical school, I was surprised by my level of anxiety. He is so smart. And funny. Why would he want to talk to me? And then he surprised me by saying, "Wow. You're in medical school. That's so amazing. I envy you so much."

Right, sure you do.

But in that two seconds, I, too, was sold. So now my whole family holds the secret delusion that David Sedaris is our friend. The funny thing is that he used to imagine that he was friends with all the famous people he saw on television. I wonder what he would think if he knew that we feel that way about him?

Oh, what am I saying? I can't believe I've worked myself into such a tizzy because I haven't heard from him in a while. Yes, my gosh, it's been ages since we've talked. When he calls, I'll be sure to tell him that we really must plan something for the summer.

Nothing original

2007-04-14T16:52:00.000-04:00

Through a series of events, it happens that I have spent quite a bit of time recently reading blogs. I have now read selections from 300 blogs, all written by people I have never met.

And I'm experiencing what is commonly known as the "America's Funniest Home Videos" effect.

To give you some context, I'm remembering an interview I heard a while ago with a guy who is a screener for AFHV. Although it's clearly not the job for me (I'm not really quite that much of a "woman of the people"), I would've thought for someone (one of the one billion or so AFHV viewers, for example), the job might be a laugh-riot. The ruined weddings, family disasters, and the material on cats alone could keep a person amused seemingly forever. Or not. I was shocked to hear the guy tell the reporter that his job is boring. Really boring. "I could go my whole life and be completely happy if I never have to see another video of a child asleep on a toilet." He said.

The AFHV phenomenon has changed a bit since You Tube became so popular. Now anyone surfing You Tube is the equivalent of an AFHV viewer without the "benefit" of the screener and editing. In some weird way, the best videos on You Tube are those that would never have made the AFHV cut. Just the other day I was mesmerized by a four minute video of a tweens stuffing marshmallows into their mouths while dancing around to "Wake Me Up Before you Go Go" by Wham.

Marshmallow boys aside, however, the AFHV effect is this: Nothing is ever original. Worse, most of the stuff that people (like me) say hasn't only been said or thought by Shakespeare or David Sedaris or somebody else worth quoting.

It's been said by the same guy who sent AFHV a video in which wedding doves sh*t on a bride.

For example, of the three hundred blogs I have read, about half of the bloggers have made a joke of the fact that they talk about themselves in the third person. I half-smiled when I saw it in one or two of the blogs, but before long, reading this barely funny joke hurt like a rug burn in a hot shower. My joke, a joke that seemed clever and original, is not mine. And it is being used all throughout the blogosphere. I want to take it down forever.

The quote:
"So...for those of you who have been anxiously awaiting Dr. Brokeback's return to blogging, she is finally back in the saddle. And now she will stop talking about herself in the third person."

Hilarious.

David Sedaris wrote about a similar experience in an essay he wrote. He was standing at a counter, looking at some decorative glass eyeballs. His urge was to hold them up to his eyes, as a joke, until he saw the sign: "Do not hold up to your eyes as they can cause serious injury." It would have been his very next move. And he was shocked to see that someone else had already thought of it.

It's kind of cool to have the same epiphany as David Sedaris (the lack of originality, not the glass eyeballs), so I feel a little better. Right now I'm hoping that people haven't thought of my other material (My classic story "How my baby Chinese," for example). Although in all likelihood, even the most original thought is probably not only mine.

Congratulations Alison and Carly! Howard the Duck it is!

2007-04-11T20:37:00.000-04:00

Well, at 7:06 AM, Alison answered the quote of the week correctly:

Howard the Duck.

She was so on the ball, I wanted to give everyone else a chance. But she definitely won.
Carly also gave a correct answer this afternoon.

Howard the Duck, made in 1986, is a classic tale of a human-size duck from another planet who is sucked from his apartment and brought to earth. Chaos ensues. A description from an online review reads as follows:

"Howard is a obscure Marvel Comics creation. The film based on the comic book tells the story of how a inhabitant of another universe, (Howard of course) is accidentally transported into Cleveland,Ohio as the result of a space experiment that went wrong.

Howard is supposed to look like a alien duck from another universe. He in fact looks like a person in a duck suit. Then there's the numerous bird-brained jokes that come along with this character. They are especially in evidence at the start of this film, where we discover movie posters in his apartment featuring such epics as "My Little Chickadee", starring W.C.Fowls, and films featuring Indiana Drake. We come across Rolling Egg and Playduck magazine, as yes, guys you get to see the centerfold in the latter. But take this reviewer's word for it, it's not worth looking at. Later we get to see the inside of Howard's wallet, which includes such items as Bloomingduck credit cards and dollar bills (pun unintended) showing George Washington with a duck bill. (In some versions, you also get to see a condom.) Howard himself is from Marshington and practices quack fu.

Dr. Jennings (Jeffrey Jones) is the scientist who inadvertently bought Howard to earth. Dr Jennings' body is then possessed by an evil alien, a Dark Overlord of the Universe."

End the bit of the review I deem interesting. I will fill in the blanks from here.

The quote of the week is spoken by a waitress at an establishment called Joe Romo's Cajun Sushi Buffet, where Howard, his girlfriend Beverly (Lea Thompson, during her slow period after Back to the Future), and Jennings end up immediately after Jennings is possessed.

Jennings' best line, by the way, occurs in this eating establishment (Joe Romo's Cajun Sushi Buffet):
"I have disguised my true form, which would be considered hideous and revolting here."
To which Beverly answers, wide eyed and earnest, "Lucky for the people eating."

Immediately after this exchange, Dr. Jennings shoots lasers from his eyes and makes a ketchup bottle explode.

ANYWAY, Alison won!! Your prize? Here it is!

"Nice Beaver."
"Thank you, I just had it stuffed."

From The Naked Gun.
Tune in next week for "Quote of the Week!"
And log on to netflix now! Get your copy of Howard the Duck!

Quote of the week

2007-04-11T00:30:00.000-04:00

I am starting a new game, "Quote of the week."

Rules of the game: I give you some obscure movie line, and you tell me what it is from via comments. Everyone is a winner.

If you google, I will never, ever know. But you will know in your heart that you are a big fat cheater.

(On a personal note, M.A.L., you are not allowed to be the first to answer. Ever. We know all the same movie lines, so it's not fair.)

Quote #1:
"Hostility is like a psychic boomerang."

If no one answers, I will give you a clue later in the week. If no one answers then, I will assume that no one cares.

To dough or not to dough? That is the question.

2007-04-11T00:10:00.000-04:00

As I was marinating chicken this evening, I had a thought. Will I let my kids eat cookie dough?

Now, there are a lot of potential questions and answers to this question. Let’s start with the obvious:

Dr. Brokeback, you don’t have any children.

Clearly, I don’t have any children. Although I am sure that my clever blog anonymity has disguised my my true identity (well, except for doctor, lesbian, pessimist), sharp readers would agree that my lack of offspring is abundantly clear. If I did have children, this blog would be littered with touching family photos, hilarious, laugh-riot stories about my toddler’s antics, warm holiday messages, and perhaps even poetry about families and puppies and mortgages. Instead, I offer you serial sob stories about a 1997 Toyota Corrolla. So, no kids right now. But despite my car problems and other recent bad luck, I do intend to have children. Unfortunately, I can't afford a new car, let alone children. I'm a problem solver, though, and I can solve this problem by prostituting myself in one of several possible ways, ways that I will not get into right now, but which may involve nights at the VA. This schedule does not bode well for afternoon cookie-making, however.

Even if you did have children, you shouldn’t be feeding them cookies.

Again, a very good point. I do come from a family with diabetes, hypertension, and multiple cases of early cardiac death. I also have recently discovered that to lose, and/or maintain a healthy weight, it appears that I can eat only 1300 calories per day. To clarify, this is about three chocolate chip cookies.

However, I believe that children should eat cookies. They're young. Their little metabolisms will be revved up by their constant need to run away from neighborhood bullies. And anyway, they have their whole lives to eat 1300 calories a day. So let them eat cookies, and childhood obesity be damned. Don't let any of my coworkers catch me saying this, though. They really care about childhood obesity.

OK, in this hypothetical world where you have children and make cookies, what about salmonella?

This is really the crux of the matter. As a doctor, I should not allow my children to eat raw eggs. Salmonella. Bloody diarrhea. Death. Cookie dough contains raw eggs. So, any doctor would tell you it’s a bad idea.

But some of my fondest memories of childhood involve licking the intoxicating grainy, sugary goodness of chocolate chip cookie dough straight out of the bowl.
Let me give you the equation:

Vanilla+brown sugar+eggs+butter+chocolate chips=heaven

It really is heaven. Can I deny my children that kind of joy? Therefore, accuse me of abuse, neglect, etc., but my kids are getting cookie dough. They will get to lick the bowl every time. Unless one of them has an immune deficiency.

On a totally separate note, based on my recent car problems, I see my future and it is not pretty: “I just left the baby in the car for a second, officer.” I’m going to have to watch that.

More Bad Car-ma

2007-04-07T15:00:00.000-04:00

I should have figured that I was going to have car problems today when, at 9 AM this morning (a Saturday, no less), I was tailed by a car from the parking authority. I know I was tailed because about 30 seconds after I turned on my flashers (because my car was sitting in a No Parking Zone) the guy was immediately behind me, starting to write a ticket. "I'm standing right here!" I yelled. "You can't give a ticket to a person who is clearly standing next to her car. I'm leaving! I'm leaving."

He sped around me and drove off. As I watched him leave, I noticed that parking authority employees in this city, like city bus drivers, are not required to observe speed limits, use turn signals, or stop at red lights. Me? I have to, or I earn myself a moving violation (Traffic Court day April 30. Should I hire a lawyer? I can't decide).

Slightly annoyed, I drove downtown to meet my friend, and parked legally in a two hour zone directly in front of her house. As I left, I briefly paused to say goodbye to her. We both stood on her porch steps, and as we talked I jingled my key ring just a bit. Turning to get into my car, I suddenly realized that while I was standing there, holding my keys, preparing to leave, a guy from the parking authority had been writing me a ticket.

I talked to him for a long time, trying to convince him to change his mind, but the ticket was already written. "Didn't you see me?" He said. "I've been standing right here writing this ticket the whole time. If you'd just said something, I would've stopped."

I was furious. "I don't think like that!" I told him. "I don't think my sole purpose in life is to send money to the coffers of this corrupt city! I don't think that I personally should pay off the credit card bills of every crooked asshole on the city council! I don't assume that every person walking down the street has it in for me, although I guess I'm wrong!" I made a sweeping motion with my hands and yelled, "Would anyone else on this street care to kick me in the face?" People looked over uncomfortably, and then turned and walked away.

Mr. Parking guy was also starting to walk away. He turned around one more time. "You know," he said, "The parking authority makes millions of dollars a year, and it goes to the public schools and to the debt for the sports stadiums. And just be glad you have your health. That's the most important thing."

My friend, still standing there, shook her head. "Well, now I have proof that you have no luck." She said, "At least no luck when it comes to parking."

And then it hit me. For many years of my life, I was in possesion of a secret power I labeled "Parking Karma" . I could drive anywhere and always find parking right in front. I never got a ticket. I never had to pay to park in a lot. I was just lucky. Always lucky. At least, when it came to parking, anyway.

And now that has ended, and the universe is paying me back.

But if I can't change my loss of Parking Karma, I'm at least going to get back at the parking authority. When I sent my check in with the ticket (bringing my car "bullsh*t" total to $1000 this month), I wrote in the memo line, "BURN IN HELL, YOU PARKING NAZIS."

That'll show 'em.

P.S. I just found out that the parking authority of this city is, in fact, controlled by our Republican-run state legislature. This occurred after a take-over in 2001. Although funds for the public schools were promised, they were never delivered because of state-level political issues. So really, I can blame Republicans for my (parking) problems, a fact which is not at all surprising. But it's also possible that my statements about corrupt city politics, although generally true, may not apply in this case.

Cool like that.

2007-04-03T23:25:00.001-04:00

Patients who believe that their doctor understands and respects them are more likely to listen to medical advice and adhere to prescribed therapies. That's why, when I work at the VA, I become the most patriotic person in the whole world. I'm not the type to go putting American flags on my clothing or anything. That's too obvious. No, I become the kind of patriot who wants to hear the entire life story of any vet who steps foot into the building.

I really do like some of the stories. I think WWII was a very good move for about six million reasons. I thought "Saving Private Ryan" was really entertaining. (Although "Pearl Harbor" was ridiculous, and I missed the two Clint Eastwood movies.) But a lot of the stories are the same. And although I'm interested, I don't generally spend all of my free time reading books by Tom Brokaw.

Once I realized the value of feigned super-patriotism in the medical setting, though, relating to the vets became easy. I ask to hear their stories about Pearl Harbor, Normandy, Korea. And I marvel at them. I punctuate the ends of all my sentences with "Wow!" or "You don't say!" or "You are a member of a generation of heroes. The greatest generation." I don't say anything when they call me "nurse" repeatedly during the conversation. And, like magic, they soon realize that I'm the best thing that has happened to them all year. They live in a world that has completely changed, and this new place is terrifying: not all doctors are men, a huge portion of the world is non-white, and almost no one gives a shit about some vet's life story. Yes, I'm a "mannish-looking" (a vet's words, not mine) woman doctor who doesn't wear a white coat, but for five minutes I help them feel like a real person again.

It's tax time again..

2007-04-02T22:30:00.000-04:00

I know that some of you have heard this one, but I thought I'd send out a little tax time fun. Think of it as a little reminder that your tax problems could be worse...

“Did you do your taxes?” My father is pretty much always asking questions like this. He’s an Indian man, and we talk about bridge, money, my car, and how much he dislikes Republicans. And not much else.

“Yeah, I did.” I told him.

“Well,” he said, “We haven’t done our taxes yet. There’s a problem. We accidentally put our W2s in the mail but didn't include the 1040…and I think we forgot to put a stamp on the envelope. Your mom has called the post office, but I don’t think we’re going to get it back.”

My mother had picked up the other line. “Those W2s have personal information on them. We have to get them back. We didn’t put a stamp on the envelope and your father doesn’t know if we included our return address!”

The other line was ringing. Both of my parents were still on the phone, and my mother was starting to panic.

“Hang up everyone! Hang up!” She squeaked. “This could be the post office and I can’t click over to the other line!”

“I’m going to let you two figure this out,” I said as I hung up.

My parents have never understood the call waiting feature on their phone, but the difficulties with the U.S. Postal Service are a new development. Worse yet, their advancing age is a constant reminder of my own.

Favorite foods include: Antimicrobial Hand Gel

2007-03-31T15:44:00.000-04:00

Every time I eat lunch while sitting at my desk in clinic or the ER, I get the bitter taste of antimicrobial hand gel mixed in with the taste of my food.

For a while I wondered what the hell it was, but now it's so familar, I recognize it every time. Food. Bitter. Oh, hand gel, yes.

Drinking methanol or ethylene glycol destroys your kidneys, disrupts the body's acid-base balance, and can make a person go blind (well, methanol can, anyway). I once submitted a case about this, a person I was sure had ethylene glycol poisoning. The kidney docs didn't agree with me. (I was right, btw, but he still died) But getting back to my lunch, I think hand gel is isopropyl alcohol, so it should be fine, but if I drop dead suddenly, it might be the hand gel. If it's not my miserable luck.

Not that I'm a complainer and a drama queen. Well, OK, I am, but that's not the point here, people. Not the point. The other thing that's not the point but is important to note is that it's better I eat hand gel than all those nasty bugs...

Maybe the curse is on the car. Actually, no. Still me.

2007-03-30T23:10:00.000-04:00

An update on the situation with my poor car and my cursed status.

I woke up this morning, and found that I was unable to walk. I've had this happen before; it's kind of like a hyperextension of my knee, and it happens randomly, and then I can't walk for a few days. A few large doses of advil and rest and I'm OK, but those first couple of days are killer.

So I couldn't walk. And I have the kind of job where I can sometimes work from home (I'm doing research right now), and usually I would've just worked from home. And I have a lot of work to do. It's like rocks on my head.

But I had this poster for a conference that required some bizarre signature sheet, and so I had to go in. I was going to leave my car in front of the building for a few minutes, limp into my office, grab the paper, get some signatures, and then limp back out. I left my bag and wallet in the car.

Of course, it took a minute longer than I thought it would; plus, every time I straighten my knee it locks, so I really had to wobble through the lobby. I finally emerged to find two of my coworkers right in front of the building. My car, however, was nowhere to be found.

I threw my books to the ground and started yelling.

"I give up! I surrender! I can't win. I cannot win. I can't walk; I can't drive. I can't even work! I can't pay my bills! I can't see my friends! I don't have my wallet so I can't even pay to get my car out of impound! I am cursed!"

My coworkers stood there, looking at me with open mouths.

I picked up my books, turned around, and straggled to the campus security office.

Once there, I got the number from the officers for the tow company. They called for a ride for me. I held it together until I was in the shuttle to the tow lot, and then I told the driver. "I hope you can handle it, because I'm going to cry the whole way."

I started crying. He asked me one question, but I don't remember it and didn't answer it. I just started out the window and cried.

I got to the lot, and walked into the office.

"Can I help you?" Said the tough guy.

Sniffle. Sniffle. Sob. Sniffle.

"My car." sniffle. "got towed. I can't give you my money or driver's license. They're," sniffle, "in the car."

After a few minutes of negotiation, we got it figured out. He walked me to the lot. And then paused. "You are going to have to settle down," He said. "Bad day?" He asked.

Sniffle. "Bad year."

I looked up and saw that he had tears in his eyes. "You are going to have to settle down. I don't want anything to happen to you, I don't want you to get into a car wreck because you are crying. I know about having a bad year. My daughter was killed in a freak horseback riding accident the week before Christmas. She was such a good girl." Now he was sobbing.

Now, I guess this was supposed to make my problems seem smaller, but now in addition to my other issues I felt like the world's biggest asshole. "I am so sorry." I said. Sniffle, sob. I hugged tough guy, and then I hugged him again. He was still crying. "Please," Sob, sniffle. "Please stop crying so your parents don't get the news I did."

OK. I knew I was going to have stop texting while driving. Crying might be a taller order. As I drove away, I waved to him when I passed the gate. He was still wiping his eyes.

Ward, I think you were a little hard on The Beaver last night.

2007-03-26T00:00:00.000-04:00

I'll take water boarding any day.

No, really. I want to be suffocated to within an inch of my life.

Anything to avoid "The L Word."

I actively hate the show. It burns like a scourge on my soul. And even though I can give you a hundred reasons why I hate the show (the bad acting, inexcusable writing, unrealistic and at times traumatic sex scenes designed for straight men, transparent and downright stupid plot twists, nauseating characters, a devastating step back for feminism and gay pride, etc.), there is really no amount of complaining that would explain how bad the show really is.

Take this week's show as an example. In the course of forty short minutes, I watched an improbable sex scene between the resident commitment-phobe "butch" (Shane) and her straightish single mother-girlfriend. The scene cut to a Leave-it-to-Beaver butch-femme fantasy world where the two live in suburban bliss. Now, realize this is the same Shane who is also a world-famous underwear model and a former faux-male prostitute. One scene later, the ex-gay studio exec has to fire the personality-disordered New Yorker-article-writing author, Jenny. In between ruining the lives of animal health care workers and seducing rock stars, Jenny enjoys trying to disrupt the making of the movie of her book, a book which is a dreamy, metaphoric look at Jenny's history of being sexually abused and/or raped (sounds like a big money-maker to me). The show (and the season, thank god) ends with Bette, art broker turned art-school dean, a woman who hasn't worn practical shoes since 1987, stealing a metal billboard which she then takes it to New York State on a tractor in order to win back the heart of her world-famous sculptor pseudo-girlfriend. And I will leave out the bit about the Iraq War veteran, the ghost of a dead professional tennis player, or the trans-man with a soul patch who is reconsidering his choice to get top surgery. It's just too much.

OK, so you get it a little bit more now. It's a really bad show. One of the worst shows ever made, perhaps. But it would also be true if you answered me, "But, Dr. Brokeback, "Three's Company" and "JAG" are similarly bad."

And thus we get to the heart of the issue.

"Three's Company" and "JAG" do have many of the same problematic characteristics that plague "The L Word." But I have never, ever, in my life been (and, unless I am a detainee of the Bush Administration, will never be) forced to watch these programs.

Perhaps forced is the wrong word. Don't get me wrong. There's no lesbian mafia at work here, threatening femur fractures over refusal to take part in the "L Word" frenzy. We're talking about good, well-meaning lesbians. They're your best friends and next-door neighbors and the nice couple from the organic food co-op or your holistic mothering class. They're the ladies driving tractors at women's music festivals while wearing nothing but fur shorts (wait, those aren't shorts), and also the deans of schools, women who haven't worn practical shoes since 1987. And the funny thing? They hate the show, too! They know it jumped the shark before it ever aired.

But no matter how much these kind, well meaning people hate the show, there is an unspoken law: Because the "L word" depicts lesbians, it is our patriotic duty to watch. Laugh, yes, but watch nonetheless.

And I can't do it anymore. I wish I could. You are good people, people I love (I actually don't know the fur shorts chick, but I'm sure she's nice), but I cave. I give. I surrender. If it means I need to turn in my merit badge for "wearing practical shoes" or my trophy for "best short haircut," I'll do it.

I freely admit it. I have failed in my duty as a patriotic lesbian.

Please forgive me, my people.

Sorry, Mom, but this one is priceless.

2007-03-25T12:15:00.000-04:00

OK, if any of you send an email this good, it will also get posted. And people: to comment, click on "comments" and it should pop up a window for you.

I got the email below from my mother today. Now, a little preface about Mom. I love her (she's my mother, after all). We talk all the time. Sometimes a bit too much. She's the reason I got caller ID, for example (of course, even though she knows I have caller ID, she still says, "Hi, it's Mom" every time). And she has these three friends. They're "the ladies." Individually they are three slightly older-than-middle-aged well, ladies, but when they get together....

They went on a weekend getaway to a medieval-themed hotel a few years ago (yes, these places do exist. Google it.). If guests wear medieval clothes to a meal in the restaurant, the meal is free. Now, you might think that one would buy a mask or perhaps wear a cloak in order to procure a free dinner, but "the ladies" decided to reenact characters from Chaucer's "Canterbury Tales." Each had an elaborate outfit. When one person didn't have a complete costume, they took down the shower curtain from their hotel room and turned it into a makeshift dress. There are pictures of their ren-fair fabulous look, I swear.

Today, my mother sent me this email:

"I met with the ladies today (Pam, Blanche, Betty). We ate goetta and commiserated on our failing bodies. "My neck looks so bad." "No, it doesn't look bad at all.Look at mine." I made the extremely bad choice of buying "Farm Animal Truffles" from William Sonoma for the ladies. We got a perfect little pig,sheep, cow, and duck made of the most delicious dark chocolate and toffee truffle you can imagine. I ask each to take her favorite. I will not even whisper what I paid for four small perfect truffles shaped like livestock.There ought to be a law. Therefore, I am sending you money for an Easter gift instead of marshmallow chickens. Love, Mom"

And that's my mother.