Medical Storage

We keep human brains in Tupperware. Their big cube-shaped containers happen to be the perfect size to hold an entire brain and sufficient preservative fluid to submerge it. I sometimes wonder if anyone in the design or marketing department ever considered this as a potential use for their product. I don't see anything about it on their website.

Sample product description with slight modifications:

Keep Extra-Large Produce Brains Extra-Fresh and Flavorful!

Say hello to the grandest member of the FridgeSmart® Container family! The Large Round's generous shape and size provides vent-controlled storage for whole heads of cabbage, lettuce, broccoli and cauliflower. The 20-cup (4.7 L) capacity - available in Sea Mist with permanent storage chart molded in - also offers ample room for large quantities of your favorite smaller pediatric fruits and vegetables brains. Seal in Sea Mist.
9"Dia. x 6 7/8"H (23 x 17 cm)

To store other fruits and vegetables organs use our unique Small, Medium Long orLarge FridgeSmart® containers.

Fruits and vegetables Brains have different airflow needs when stored in the fridge. View the FridgeSmart Storage Chart(Bilingual) to learn the best vent settings for your favorite fruits and vegetables brains.

Also, with the addition of the word "Tupperware" into my blogging vocabulary, I've successfully expanded my demographic to include housewives. I hear this subpopulation tends to include ravenous bloggers and blog readers. Starting today, this blog is going places.

Not Doctors Yet

A lot of people are discouraged from becoming physicians because of the extensive time commitment the schooling and training require. Most people--those who've not experienced medical school, will tell you the length of training is due to the massive amount of information students must absorb in order to be competent clinicians.

Wrong.

We've all seen The Matrix. We all know that acquiring essential medical knowledge can be as simple as plugging a firewire cord into your brain stem and downloading the WebMD knowledge base into your head. So what's the real reason? Well, now I know.

The purpose of lengthy medical training is to lock away potential doctors until they no longer have the urge to laugh at hilarious medical sights and sounds. Plain and simple. But it's not our fault. It's funny when an enzyme acronym sounds like a dirty word. It's funny that physicians test newborn reflexes by lifting the baby slightly and dropping them back onto the table to observe whether they start writhing around. It's funny when the cursor on the computer screen is positioned in such a way that it appears to pick the nose of a woman giving birth. It's just funny.

So the next time you tell your doctor about the trail of vomit you left as you hurdled towards the bathroom from downstairs, thank the lengthy medical training they went through for allowing them to keep a straight face.

Who Chaperones The Chaperones?

This question popped into my head this afternoon during our second biochem lecture of the day. I'm feeling that this little brain twister could provide the foundation for a totally kick-ass story. Better yet, if I formatted it as a graphic novel, I'd really broaden my demographics.

Chaperone proteins really are the superheroes of the body. They give of their time and energy to combat energetically unfavorable conformations and ask nothing in return. They assume a profound leadership role within their society as self-appointed vigilantes. But what gives them this right? They stand not apart in terms of stature or sedimentation coefficient, and sequences of the same twenty amino acids teem through them just as in the masses. They are flawed. They are vulnerable to denaturation.

They're...The Chaperones.

Med Student With Benefits

Being a medical student really has its perks. Just this afternoon I received my first issue of the NEJM (New England Journal of Medicine), and while this may not seem like an event worthy of a blog post, it is.

It's the little things like this that make becoming a doctor worthwhile. The fact that I didn't even have to subscribe and that they respect my privacy enough to address my issue to another person, really speaks to the fact that there is still good in this world. I looked up my assigned pseudonym on Google and it seems that when the folks up in New England start something, they take it all the way. My "name" has a detailed history and background. I won't tell you the name because that would defeat the whole purpose of a pseudonym, but as far as the public knows, I'm a second year general surgery resident (PGY 2) at the Philadelphia College of Osteopathic Medicine.

Is it coincidence that this is the med school across the street from my apartment complex? I think not. These guys are just that good. Maybe I would have preferred being an MD instead of a DO, but I don't think that someone like me is in a position to complain about this sort of thing.

I can't wait for next month's issue!

Final Days In The Orient

Tomorrow is the last day of my med school orientation, and the process itself has proceeded much like you might expect. I admit that I am blissfully unaware of the orientation procedures at other med schools, but for me orientation has consisted mostly of faculty and staff reminding my fellow first-years and I of how much debt we're getting ourselves into. Yet matching the consistency of the financial downers has been the prevalence of barbecues, and this is nothing to complain about at all. I theorize that this phenomenon may be our first venture into the world of homeostasis--the body's inherent state of equilibrium that must be actively maintained at all times by various organ systems. I can clearly see the faculty's logic in this macroscopic analogy, as I can think of no better remedy for depression than steaming burgers and crisp, cool watermelon.

I'm joking of course, as I've had quite a bit of fun these last few days. I've met some cool people, relaxed in the grass, watched a volleyball repeatedly land in a bowl of potato chips, eaten lots of picnic food, visited my first cricket club, sat in a ridiculously squeaky microanatomy lab chair, and seen the total dissection of the incredible hulk (a.k.a. a cadaver of an elderly woman whose body tissues had been stained green during embalming due to biliary leakage).

She even had her ovaries intact which, according to the lab instructor, is unusual for a woman her age. I'm telling you, the excitement never seems to stop.

Counting Down To Med School

Once I start medical school in a couple of weeks, this may become a blog about medical school.  Who am I kidding, though?  It probably won't.  However, as I have yet to reach that point, the blog will remain a kettle in which my deepest thoughts, ideas, and questions can stew. Eventually I shall feed said stew to a hobo and move on into a blog full of purpose.

For now, however, I will continue along in my traditional fashion...

I recently downloaded the iTunes exclusive "Live from SoHo" album by the Counting Crows. I like the Counting Crows, and I like SoHo because it's a neighborhood in NYC named after one of my favorite food stops in DC, The SoHo Cafe. Longtime stalkers of this blog would recognize that name as the aboveground counterpart to the Mutant Food Court (see Mutant Food Court and The Return to Mutant Headquarters). As a small tangent, I cannot express how refreshing it is to know that this little restaurant has had such a significant influence on The Big Apple.

Anyway, the album is great, and it's live which makes it even greater. However, the most significant mass of greatness lies in an accretion disk surrounding the final song of the album, "Rain King". Sure, everyone and their gardener knows "Rain King"; but only really music savvy gardeners know that in the middle of the song, Adam breaks out into a rendition of Bruce Springsteen's "Thunder Road", before returning to the song at hand in time to close out the jam session. Essentially what we have then is a "Thunder Road" sandwich, which, admittedly conjures up images of a very agonizing lunch period. However, the effect is quite the opposite. The song is probably one of the greatest things I've ever heard.

So download the album because it's awesome.

Hemlines of the Day

The sleeves on my white coat are too long.

I think that really sums things up well. The process of becoming a doctor is a process of growth--in terms knowledge and in terms of self, and I don't quite fit just yet. The woman at the bookstore was nice about it though, and she didn't laugh even once.

I have an apartment now too. Right now it's a lot like my white coat. It's a little big on me, it's yet to be embroidered or personalized, and I can't actually be in it until after orientation and they've sewed the school patch on the sleeve. But they're both essentially mine nonetheless.

I also found a sweet shortcut to the medical campus that bypasses the highway completely. It's a scenic little bridge that traverses the Schuylkill, and which utterly negates the need to sit in traffic. What could be better?

Yep. Things are really moving along.

Welcome To The New Cause

Oh, hey. Yeah I forgot to mention that I have a brand new video! The video is sort of a public service announcement/mini-documentary on the struggles faced by shadow puppets during the daytime hours. It's kind of sad, but I think it's important because it really exposes people to this little known problem being faced in puppet communities worldwide.

If you're going to get behind a cause, this is the one to support. These shadow puppets are facing daily bouts of severe depression, ridicule from their sock puppet cousins, and discrimination from employers who remain insensitive to their disability. Things are even worse for shadow puppets residing in the upper latitudes, such as in Alaska, where months of continuous daylight are causing the suicide rate to skyrocket.

Anyway, watch it. Tell your friends. Make posters and bumper stickers. Hold rallies. Tell Bono.

The Power of Shopping

So....I got into medical school.

Yeah, it's awkward, I know.

I don't know much about fate or divine intervention. Furthermore, as a dude, I've lived my life completely oblivious to the Power of Shopping. I capitalize, embolden and italicize the term because this is the highest honor one can bestow upon something on the Internet. I firmly believe that it was the PoS that brought me the joy of an acceptance. Let me divulge:

On Monday, July 14th I walked into JCPenney in Butler, Pennsylvania and purchased two ties for an upcoming job "meeting." Everybody said it was going to be an interview, but the lab director said meeting, so it turns out I was right and they were all wrong. The ties were quite nice, nothing over the top, and I paid the clerk $3.16 TOTAL.

This should have been my first clue. The ties themselves were 95% off, and therefore, before tax, $1.58 each. The ties were trying to tell me something, but I was too naive to notice it. Well it turns out, I was accepted on July 16th--sixteen being the amount of cents I paid for my two ties. What's more, July is the seventh month, and taking the remaining numbers from my tie shopping and doing a little "24 Game" mathematics, we find that [[(8 - 5) - 3] + 1] * [9 - [(5 - 4) + 1]] = 7.

Amazingly simple, yes.

So the moral is, I should have known I was going to get accepted to medical school, but limitations set forth by my gender held me back from becoming enlightened to the fact.

Acoustical Sightings

The title of this entry is an oxymoron which have been successful in drawing your attention towards my ramblings of the day. Even now, my inappropriate conjugation of the verb "to have" has pulled you deeper and deeper into my sticky web of shibboleths (no, that's actually a real word).

But whatever.

Now that we're on the subject of excellent movies (see previous post, Arnold and Me), I'd like to draw everyone's attention to some recent sightings around campus that have gotten me quite giddy.

While out on a stroll, you may be lucky enough to come across a man playing his guitar. His specific location on campus seems to be highly variable, but I implore you to consider looking both high and low in your quest to find him. The search itself is not unlike "Where's Waldo?" except much, much easier because you'll be able to hear him if you're close. Also, you've got it pretty easy because he doesn't have a tendency to hide out at large conventions which span the temporal spectrum from the prehistoric to the metallic future, and where people stand very close together and wear curiously similar red and white striped shirts which, I can only imagine, is utterly "coincidental." The man has, however, been known to hide out among bushes, in trees, or upon some Allegheny art, which are all sanctuaries eerily similar to those of the guitar guy in "There's Something About Mary."

Happy searching.

Arnold and Me

My family and friends have often asked me what it's like to be applying to medical school. I tend to meet their question with a generic response which, in terms of thoughtfulness and depth, lies somewhere on the spectrum between a giggle and a slow nod. I'll say things like, "It's rough" or, "The process is pretty tedious," but I always make sure to shy away from details. It's not because the questions annoy me. No, I hold back the specifics not because I want to, but because I have to. In all seriousness, and without hyperbole, if med school applicants were to clue in the general public on the ins and outs of the application process, our health care system would cease to exist. Nobody would agree to go through with it.

Perhaps surprisingly, the medical school admissions process has a lot in common with The Running Man, that 1987 movie starring Arnold Schwarzenegger. If you haven't seen it, the basic premise is that "The Running Man" is a futuristic game show where convicts are given the chance to run to freedom all the while being chased by "stalkers" who are trying to brutally murder them before they escape.

For med school, each school you apply to sends its own team of stalkers who will try and take you down. Defeat the first stalker and you get a secondary application, defeat the next and you get an interview, defeat the third and you get your acceptance letter. Sure, like Mr. Schwarzenegger, you might yell out a witty phrase like "He had to split!" or "What a pain in the neck!" after cutting in half and strangling two respective stalkers, but the plain truth of it is that the majority of your time is spent huddling in dumpsters and crapping your pants in fear.

Of course, the abilities and aggressiveness of the stalkers depends on the school. Drexel's stalkers might only have foam bats and a couple Nerf crossbows. Johns Hopkins' stalkers, on the other hand, have battling robots and an unending supply of heat-seeking lightsaber missiles.

It's a daunting task, and surviving is no easy feat. Yet we still do it. We endure the toil, the sharpened hockey sticks and the rolly-polly man who shoots lightning (seriously, watch the movie) so that we can eventually become doctors. After hearing the truth about the process, you may ask why it's worth it. I think we, as med school applicants, know the answer in our hearts. Though we may come from different backgrounds and bring with us different strengths and vulnerabilities, we all participate in the game because, well, we know that at the end we get to kill Richard Dawson.

"That hit the spot."

It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's....A Blog Entry??

I am not a person who likes to admit that they've made a mistake, botched a cookie recipe, left the gate open allowing the dog to escape, or made a grievous mathematical miscalculation which leads to an extended yet refreshing vacation away from a blog. And so as I sit here eating my sugarless sugar cookies, typing these words, I'm going to skip right over the fact that I've been absent for almost a year when I said it'd only be a month or so.

It's been a long "month," to say the least. Normal month-long activities have begun and have come to an end. I finished a year of college in a month. In two days time I will have squeezed 8 months of dating my girlfriend into a single month. I studied for the MCAT for 5 months, took the test, waited a month to get my scores which makes for a grand total of 6 months, and I did it all in, yes it's true, one little month. Fantastic, I know.

And so as you all may have guessed (though, there can't possibly be any of you readers left), the blog...is back. I come to you today as I did so long ago--with a couple of thoughts in my head and an unending supply of words at my disposal with which to overstate and misrepresent each and every one.

So bye, for now, my fishsticks await. I shall return, and shant be late. Toodles.

P.S. That was a poem! Hehehehe....typical fashion, my friends. Typical fashion.

Happy Anniversary, Let's Party

To celebrate the wondrous fact that this blog has been around for ONE whole year, I am not going to post an entry for ONE whole month. The mathematical reasoning for this shocking decision is as follows:

x = 1/a

where x is the # of months you must wait before posting again as to properly celebrate your blog's anniversary, and a is the current anniversary (a = 1, 2, 3, 4, ..., end of the Internet).

I bet you thought the relationship was directly proportional, eh? Well you were wrong. It's inversely proportional.

With a basic understanding of mathematical limits you would notice that as a goes to "end of Internet," x goes to zero. Logically this would mean you would have to post two posts simultaneously, the anniversary post and the following post. Without getting into relativity, spacetime planes, or hyperbolic-orthogonal points, let's just say this would be hard. So don't let your blog last this long. Seriously, only a really arrogant person would honestly think their blog was significant enough to last all the way to the end of the Internet. Don't be that person.

So anyway...see you in September or maybe the end of August.

Neutralizing The Toxicity of Coherent Thought

I pride myself on writing blog entries that are insightful, ingenious, imaginative, and other fancy words that begin with the letter "I". There is hardly a doubt in my mind that this overwhelming dedication to sophisticated literary exposition is the paramount reason for the, on average, four unique hits my blog gets a week. But like most weavers of linguistic masterpieces, I often feel that my sheer level of prose, my, shall we say, grace of tongue, may sometimes alienate a few hopeful readers or, perhaps stated more eloquently, the sea of Internet dimwits. My greatest fear is that one of these lowly critters should happen upon my blog and, with pure glee, dive into an entry only to be sodomized by the big, black, penis that is "intelligent thought." But even now I have begun to waver in my mission to bring forward an entry that can be enjoyed by the masses by way of this high-brow anal sex analogy. It might be best to pause here as to gather my thoughts and continue with some topics more suited for monkeys and pop culture obsessed teenagers.

Popular Music

I thoroughly enjoy the Britney Spears song "Toxic," and though I'm most often ashamed to admit it, it is undeniably true. But perhaps I should expand on this idea. I don't like the words or the instruments or any other sounds or anything like that about the song. What I like is the music video for the song. But again, I must explain. I've never seen the real music video for the song and don't even know if there is one. What I have seen is a very funny video of a boy dancing around and whatnot to the song. The video is called Weird Kid Does Britney (Edit: you can't access this video anymore. Too bad for you.) and, if you decide to click on the link, just ignore all the hardcore porn advertisements in the margins and just watch the video and leave. This thing used to be all over the Internet but now this is the only site at which I can find it so....oh well. Perhaps, though, this is fortunate for me. Now if someone searches on Google for the phrase "hardcore porn" they may come across this blog entry and I will have succeeded in increasing the traffic to my site. Let me say that my favorite part about this particular video is when the boy brushes his hair. It's fantastic.

A "Like, oh my god, did that really happen to you?" Type of Story (Translated For Teens)

So, like, I was sitting at my desk reading this killer article on, like, deep sea fish and junk and Chuck totally just walks right up to me and is all up in my face telling me to do some sort of thing for this guy in the corner and he was using all these, like, sciencey words and stuff and I was, like, completely clueless as to what he was talking about but he finally, like, showed me and it turns out he totally wanted me to ultrasound some old guy's butt cheek. It was mega grody.

Unabashed Nudity

I got home from work today and, here it comes ladies, took off my pants and shirt and changed into some shorts and a t-shirt. I was probably naked for about twenty-six seconds.

So there it is, ladies and gentleman. Perhaps now I'll diversify my reader base and open up my blog to the entire world.

Until next time, folks.

Driving Is Fun

On my way to work today I drove by a Korean bakery and there were cop cars and fire trucks outside. I looked a bit closer and it was easy to see what all the hubub was about. Apparently, one of the customers drove their car through the front window of the store.

Maybe they're right when they say stereotypes are funny because they're based on fact.

Talking To Children

I'll be the first to admit that a lot of things in life intimidate me. I know, I know, it's probably hard to believe considering how arrogant I am in my blog entries but whether you believe me or not, it's true. I am at heart a very anxious person and I often find myself feeling very uncomfortable when faced with certain situations. But I told myself that I'd stop this introduction before it went downhill so far as to become a suicide note so let's just leave it at this and I'll just move it along.

A few days ago it was my cousin's third birthday and before everyone else arrived, she asked me if I wanted to go on a walk. I eagerly agreed because everyone knows there's no other adjective that can be used to modify the word "agreed" when dealing with small children. But similar to the way college grads entering the real world with big dreams and a glimmering outlook on life get kneed in the crotch by reality, my "eagerness" for this little walk was quickly crushed like a pair of testicles when I realized how amazingly awkward a walk with a three year old really is.

Nobody really knows how to talk to a three year old but nobody admits it. I spent the entire walk desperately trying to keep up a conversation with little success. I tried every child conversation opener in the book.

(walking around in an awkward silence)
Me: ...Boy...those leaves sure are big. You could probably wear one as a hat.
3-Year Old: ... ... ...
Me: ...Look at all those birds. I guess they must really like flying because...they're...always...flying.
3-Year Old: ... ... ... ... ...
Me: What's your favorite kind of bird? I like ostriches.
3-Year Old: ... ...
Me: Are you sure you're three?
3-Year Old: ......Yes.
Me: Oh...good. Just checking. Haha...that would be pretty funny if everyone thought you were three but you really weren't...haha...you'd have tricked everyone...funny, huh?
3-Year Old: Let's go back.
Me: Oh...okay...yeah...this was fun don't you think?
3-Year Old: ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Also, I don't think I mentioned this but, my cousin is from China. She's adopted. They adopted her from China. She is Chinese. It's pretty noticeable and stuff, but I'm thinking that over time she may forget where she came from. One of my favorite restaurants is Panda Express ("It's finger Ling-Ling good!) because they serve drive-thru Chinese food and eating orange chicken in a Volvo stuck in rush hour traffic on the Capitol Beltway even though it's 11pm is just heavenly. There is no panda on the menu but pandas must have something to do with China so I was determined to ask my cousin about it if I ever take her there.

Just think, if I had a real life Chinese person in the car they might give me some sort of communist discount.

Death By Looney Tunes

I have one of those jobs that you've heard about on TV or in newspapers. You know, the kind where you need a brain. Basically my duties require intense concentration because my job description basically involves two things:

1. Attaching electrodes to people's bodies and administering a sort of mild shock therapy.
2. Performing ultrasound procedures in high risk areas such as on or around the spinal cord or major arteries.

Anyways, today I had to do the ultrasound thing on this lady's neck and while I was doing it up she started talking to me and she had this really thick Australian accent like that Crocodile Hunter guy if he was a girl. I was trying my hardest to focus on the task at hand because I really wasn't in the mood to kill some old lady if I accidentally ultrasounded her carotid artery and messed up the pacing of her heart. Despite my steadfast effort to concentrate though, my focus wavered and her voice triggered a scene in my head from an old Looney Tunes episode. It was the episode where Sylvester gets the world's biggest and meanest mouse in order to teach his son to be tough but when it arrives it's not a mouse but a kangaroo with boxing gloves.

So here I was, fighting off laughter and trying to keep my hand from shaking which would undoubtedly alert the lady that my attention was not on trying to maintain her position among the living. I managed to fend off the shaking but the thoughts in my mind were building. My thoughts branched out from the single image of Sylvester getting his ass beat by a huge mouse to the thought of whether things like this happen a lot to people who live in The Outback.

I mean, we laugh at the prospect of somebody getting kicked in the face by a marsupial but that's because we've never met a marsupial. But things are different for Aussies and zookeepers. They're faced with situations like this on a daily basis and it's probably not nearly as funny.

Australian big-wigs stepping out of Parliament for lunch and getting ambushed...
Schoolchildren getting trampled at the bus stop...
Brides and grooms massacred when one jumps out of their wedding cake...

It sounds funny but I did a simple Internet search for the phrase "bloodthirsty marsupials" and came up with an article telling me this:

"Steven Shorten, 13, suffered massive facial wounds and cuts to his abdomen, back and legs when [a] 150-cm (five feet) tall kangaroo grabbed and repeatedly jumped on him when he was looking for his [golf]ball in [the] bushes in October 1996."

I'll just leave you with that.

Just A Nobody Blogger's Way Of Stickin' It To The Man

Ladies and gentleman, history has been made tonight. If you will kindly look to your right you will see a little Rent My Blog box. If you know anything about renting blogs you probably know that more often than not this whole charade involves shitty little blog owners attempting to latch onto popular blogs in a futile attempt to gain more traffic to their pitiful little sites.

But not here, my friends! Oh no, in this case, the opposite is true. I, the owner of said shitty little blog, am renting my space out to this fantastically popular site called The Fifth Column.

So if you've got even an ounce of brains you'll visit The Fifth Column and help take down the Blogger Establishment one digital brick at a time.

P.S.
If you're not into the whole "social upheaval" sort of thing, you should visit these guys anyway because, honestly, their blog is funny as shit.

All I Want For Christmas Is To Grow Up To Be A Grandma

Don't get me wrong, I have no interest in being a woman. No, not until I'm at least 70. Believe me, if I was blessed with a vagina I would hide it...oh boy would I hide it. I'd grow up and go through my 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, and 60s and I wouldn't tell a soul. As far as anyone would know, I'd be all man. But then one day some young whippersnapper will come up to me in a narrow hallway not big enough to pass slow walking old people and he'll say "move it along grandpa" and at that point I'll know that it's time. At that point I'll turn around and ask him to repeat himself and when he does, THEN I will reveal my true self. Oh yes, ladies and gentleman, I will turn on my heels and pull down my pants and show that guy my old wrinkly vagina and then cue the awe...oh yes, the awe my friends. Cue that awe and that soap opera music because as that dude cringes in fear of the sight before his eyes I will tell him...

"Not grandpa, my boy. I'm all grandma."

And I would go through all this because there is one, single, solitary right afforded to grandmas that is given to no one else. That one thing is the way grandmas can make outrageously flattering statements like "Oh Jimmy, I didn't recognize you because I thought you were a movie star."

And because they are grandmas...you believe it.

I need that.

Metrosexual Dogs

It is my assumption that when a Buddhist meets the lifeform they are destined to be reborn as while biking through the woods on a Saturday, that there is some sort of spiritual connection that links their beings together for some magical instant wherein their souls may blend together in a creamsicle like twist of orange and...cream. Oddly enough, the same thing happened to me today when I rode my bike past the exact breed of dog the Internet quiz "What Breed of Dog Are You?" predicted me to be. There was no spiritual link, no metaphysical bond that merged that Bernese Mountain Dog and I, but nonetheless, as I sped by and our eyes met and his tongue had this big dollop of drool on it and his owner yanked on his choke collar to stop the dog from being hit by me which caused the dollop to cascade onto the asphalt, we became one. I instantly saw in my mind a scene from Lassie when little Timmy was stuck in a well and I thought to myself that, if I were a Bernese Mountain Dog, I too would spend my days saving young boys. The scene faded but just as quickly another one popped into my mind, this time of a female Bernese Mountain Dog with a Milkbone and she was beckoning to me and she had another Milkbone and somehow I knew that that Milkbone was for me. But as a slight smile graced my face, the link was severed by the screams of my sister saying something like "my helmet is so ITCHY!" and that was it.

On a topic not even remotely related to canines, I have decided to grow my hair out so as to obtain some sort of long, characteristically dog-like mane of shimmering dark brown, wavy hair that I can toss side to side in a carefree almost sensual yet still masculine manner. If all goes well, I may attract some homogametes in the process and that, ladies and gentlemen, is not a bad thing at all. In a way though, it's sort of sad because, as you probably know, hair length is inversely proportional to a person's likelihood of joining the Marine Corps. The beauty of the situation though, is that I've never had an interest in joining the Marine Corps! The Navy, maybe, but that's just because one time I toured a decommissioned submarine and the tour guide said that sailors got free refills regardless of rank and that got me thinking, what other armed service allows the lowest of the enlisted men and the highest of the officers to be unquestionable equals in terms of opportunity for massive soft drink consumption? Alas though, the perks of military life is a subject left for some other blog entry on some other day.

I will leave you with one last thing that's been weighing on my mind all day. The shirt I'm wearing today says "My favorite class at Allegheny College is Nap-101" and it's not even true.

What's a guy to do?