Haikus

Biochemistry
Occurring in my body
Spontaneously

Olympic athletes
Have super hemoglobin
That could beat up yours

send me your haikus...

Med School

2 days down, 1,247 to go. Everything has been review so far. Actually, the hardest part has been the effort it takes to remember about a million new names and faces. I'm not cut out for med school social hour. I understand that meeting people is necessary in order to fit in with the rest of society, but 100 different 5 minute conversations is almost unbearable. Why can't we all just bypass all the superficial information about city of origin, previous college, and the weather that consumes casual conversation. I'm this close to opening up a conversation with, "What's the best way to relieve jock itch?" just to mix things up a bit.

On a side note, Kristin and I have cable. This is her first cable experience. It's as if hours upon hours of Oxygen, Home and Garden, and TLC have been building up inside of her until it was all released 4 days ago in what has since been a marathon of girl tv. I think estrogen is seeping out of our television. In her defense, she does watch a regular amount of Discovery and History Channel.

I will have between 4 and 7 consecutive hours of class each day. It's tough sitting in a seat that long with only a couple short breaks. My back kind of hurts. Maybe Yoga would help...

I gotta go. There's a show on with that blond chick from 90210. She just had a baby and really needs to redecorate her kitchen.

Nothing Much

I start orientation tomorrow. 7:30 am. There is supposed to be a continental breakfast.

Our goal was to get all settled and moved in by now. Half my clothes are sitting in semi-folded stacks at the bottom of my closet. The only place to sit in our apartment is a desk chair that I bought about 3 hours ago. My TV is sitting on the floor in the living room. Other than all that, our lives are and possessions are in perfect order.

I bought potatoes, beans, and eggs today. A first for all three. I wanted black beans, but couldn't find them after a solid 48 sec. of searching. Finally, I settled on some kind of hickory smoked, maple syrup infused, bacon baked beans. Something that is exquisitely Texas.

We have also been watching the olympics. Kristin does not have a single competitive bone in her body. She could care less who wins. Gymnastics, the only sport she has any interest in following, doesn't even ignite her competitive spirit. She just wants to see some good gymnastics.

go USA. Put me on the balance beam. I'll win you the gold.

The Elusive Moose of Texas

On day 2 of our trip we stopped off in Virginia Beach to have dinner with Kristin’s cousin, Tyson. Essentially, we decided on the first place we saw, which happened to be a charming little establishment called, “Texas Steakhouse.” Upon entering the “Texas Roadhouse” knock-off, we noticed the entire staff wearing wranglers, cowboy boots, bolo ties, and some kind of button up shirt with an embroidered cactus on it that is intended to fool the customer into thinking that these people know steaks. Immediately to the left of the waiting area was a beat up mechanical horse, a mini-amusement park for little kids and rotovirus.

Growing up in Texas, I thought I had become accustomed to tacky wall ornaments and decorations encompassing an overarching theme, like West Texas lore and its related stereotypes. However, Virginia’s “Texas Steakhouse” went so over the top with the western theme, which was often completely wrong, that I felt embarrassed to be associated with such a comical state. First off, everywhere you looked there were pictures of cowboys perched atop bucking broncos in the middle of the desert. There must have been at least 200 of these lining the rustic wood paneled walls. Let’s think about the practicality of this image for a second. The producers of these pictures, most likely a company based in Massachusetts or Hong Kong, thought that cowboys in mid-19^th century Texas spent hours upon hours of their time taming wild horses by strapping themselves onto the animals back. It’s as if they saw a rodeo on TV and projected a day in the life of a Texan from their observations.

In addition to the exorbitant number of Texas snapshots adorning the walls, there were also quite a few neon signs describing things that us Texans love. Such signage included, “I like country music,” “Outhouse,” and one that had a red heart with “Texas” inside it. I can’t really blame them for their choice of signs aside from the lack of creativity, because above all else, Texans really, really love Texas.

After finishing my meal, a decided to mosey on over to the “outhouse” for some good ‘ole fashioned pissin’. As I got up I noticed the coup de grace of Texan ideology hanging on the wall; the quintessential entity with which all Texans identify…the infamous moose. A giant moose head loomed over the restaurant enrapturing other diners with thoughts of monstrous creatures roaming the Texas countryside. I wanted to reassure everybody present that day not to worry about rampant Texas Moose. After all, they mainly live up in the panhandle where their natural predators, the elephant and rhinoceros, mainstays of the gulf coast, can’t reach them.

We Made It...

...44 hours and $650 gas dollars later. The packing process is now reversing itself, slowly increasing in entropy from the compact, rectangular prism inside the U-Haul to the present mess that has engulfed every inch of our apartment. The weekend will be devoted to finding space for an entire house worth of items. Well, that and the frisbee tournament I will be playing in with some people from Dartmouth. I am excited.

I have several things we saw along our trip that I would like to spend some time to ponder/rant/ridicule, but there is work to be done. Check back here over the next week for stories. I promise they will be good.

Here are a few quick-hitter observations/impressions:

-People are nicer here than in Texas
-As far as I can tell, black people aren't allowed in New Hampshire
-Northern Wal-Marts are less insufferable that those in the South and the elderly that work there seem to be legitimately happy

See you tomorrow.

Ultimate Happiness

Our new apartment is 0.2 miles from the fields where Dartmouth Ultimate practices. Literally, in my backyard. Check it out...

http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&hl=en&geocode=&q=sachem+field,+hanover,+nh&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=69.989462,109.160156&ie=UTF8&ll=43.68291,-72.288687&spn=0.008007,0.013325&z=16

The apartment is on Sachem Circle. Sweeeeeet.

On a totally unrelated note, drive is going well. I get passed a lot. Other Honda Elements I see sans U-Haul are really laughin' it up. More churches in Clemson, SC than there are in Lubbock, TX. Believe it. On a more positive note, tomorrow we will be leaving the confederacy for good. I can almost taste it...

I Hate Moving

I do. I really do. The last 48 hours have been awful. My fingers are raw from tape (packing, masking, and duct). My back hurts. Once most of the boxes were successfully taped, it was my job to load the trailer. This particular task could only be described as a game of Tetris from Hell. But I can tell you this...I easily obtained the high score. There might not be a single square inch of free space left in that godforsaken U-Haul. It's not over. We still have to clean.

Silver Lining: I got to smash up Kristin's old hard drive. It felt gooooooood.

Bitch session over.

Thank you for not spitting in the water fountains

The title of this post can be found in the form of a laminated sign hanging above every water fountain at the Texas Tech rec center. Additionally, there are similar signs around the indoor track that read, "Do not spit on the track or the walls around the track." Obviously, somebody just got fed up with all our spittin' ways and decided to lodge a complaint.

There seems to be some unspoken rule about spitting that says, "If there's a drain, you gotta spit in it." A corollary to this rule states that it is also ok to spit in a public area so long as a drain is in the near vicinity. With a sewer system in every city, this results in a near ubiquitous spitting zone. These rules, or "laws" if I may be so bold, help to justify the aforementioned signage. A lack of appropriate drainage surrounding the indoor track calls for a sign prohibiting spitting (Do not spit), whereas spitting in the water fountains, albeit unsanitary, does abide by the universal law of spitting. Therefore, any sign which addresses water fountain spitting can only be worded as a "Thank you" to those who choose not to spit. Any prohibitory statement would be against the law and infringe upon our drain-spittin' rights.

As an act of protest against this egregious law, I propose an addendum that outlaws certain spitting practices:

1) It is unlawful to open your car door at a stop, lean over, and spit onto the street.
2) It is unlawful to hock a wad of phlegm into the urinal before or after you relieve yourself. (urinating in a public restroom is disgusting enough without your nasal passages reverberating throughout the facilities).
3) It is unlawful to discharge your dip spit into a transparent container. (I am not interested in seeing what could be described as dysenteric fluid flowing from your mouth).

Don't hesitate to write your congressman about this pressing issue. Or just spit in an envelope. Oftentimes, actions speak louder than words.

Mailing my life away

Step 1,249 in the moving process: Change of address.

Kristin and I filled out little cards that informed the post office that on July 24th all mail is to be sent to our new address in New Hampshire. We handed our little cards to the post office lady, she glanced them over and said, "Okay, we'll take care of it." That was it.

It all just seems too easy. In my mind, the US postal service is the most unfathomably complicated concept in the history of mankind. How we have the resources and know-how to successfully send a letter from some rural, middle of nowhere post office in North Dakota, to a 150 square foot apartment in the projects of NYC is beyond me. With all the millions of individual pieces of mail sent out daily, how can one group of people make sure it all ends up in the right place.

When I think of the postal service, 2 things come to mind: The Pony Express and Newman from Seinfeld. Is today's mail simple a modern version of messengers on horses? Is all mail flown throughout the country on a daily basis? Is it packed up into trucks driven by people who can get from San Diego to Boston in only 3 days? Or maybe the mail is strapped on to horses, which are then herded into trucks and sent across the country? All I know is that I've never seen a mail truck on a highway much less one that is large enough to carry a pony.

Forget physicists, neurosurgeons, and environmental activists. Whoever can make sure my postcards reach 20 different people half way around the world in 3 days, deserves the Nobel prize. On the other hand, if this is the guy in charge our mail...

...may god help us all.

Post Graduation, Pre Matriculation

Maybe it's just me, but I sometimes worry that with summer brings a certain level of intellectual depreciation. It's as if my brain will slowly turn to mush without continuous stimulation. During my four years of undergrad, this potential dumbing wouldn't bother me due to the fact that the first month of the semester can often be used to message the brain back into working order. Of course, with this strategy comes an awful lot of procrastination and for lack of a better term, brain farting, as you work to clean the cobwebs out of your attic in time for the first round of midterms.

I find myself in a far different situation in the summer of 2008. Looming ahead of me is medical school, lovingly referred to as "college of the damned." It is a place where there is no 1 month grace period dedicated to cranial housecleaning, and is reserved only for the fittest, healthiest, pinkest brains to parade their talents and neurotransmissions around for all the world to see. Or so I hear....

This is what scares me. My entire life I have let my summer brain feast on video games, candy, and court TV. Now, all of a sudden I am expected to prepare my noggin to hit the ground thinking in August. Therefore, I decided to employ a few strategies to help keep my mind sharp.

1) Exercise. Healthy for the brain. Simple enough. 5 days a week x 1 1/2 hours a day = a number I can compute during the summer because I exercise. I have even gone so far as to develop a workout regimen designed to enhance my ultimate frisbee skills. One of my favorite exercises is one I like to call, "running on a track." While I am "running on a track" I enjoy making the noise of a speeding vehicle as I pass by other, slower runners. This usually produces a chuckle from people as they realize that the likelihood of a person producing such an exaggerated doppler effect is slim to none. However, one day a young woman had a much different reaction to my exhibition of human horsepower. As I made my pass at full speed and growled, "vvvrrRRROOOOOOOOOMMMmmm," the girl actually covered her head with her forearms and ducked out of the way. Normally, this occurrence would give me a sense of pride that my car noise had become so realistic, but then I realized that we were running on an indoor track on the third floor of the rec center.

2) Reading. I will typically read voraciously for at least 9 months out of the year. Mostly textbooks, but "fun" books as well. I find it humorous that people will ask if you are reading a book for school or for fun. I guess the idea that the two motives can be combined into 1 ultimate reading experience is preposterous. Anyway, instead of forgoing the summer reading in favor of less stimulating activities, I have kept the books handy and at my disposal.

3) Writing. Hence, the blog. I like to write. In my opinion, it's the most rewarding form of expression. I may even continue with this activity once summer is gone and my life is handed over to Dartmouth Medical School.