I'm done. DONE!

If I hear the words "High" and "Yield" anywhere near each other - even in the same sentence - I'm going to have to punch someone in the throat.

USMLE Step 1 was my blyad! (hopefully)

I just thought this was cool. I'm a geek, I know. Maybe two of you will like it too. Geeks.

Memorial Day

Suggested read of the week. Really. Read this.



My thanks for their sacrifices, whatever shape or form, however large or small.

Times It Is OK To Be Blue, or, Only in the UT

From SLTrib's Sunday paper:

Delegates at the Salt Lake County Republican Convention on May 8 passed a resolution on energy independence that states, "Utah alone has enough oil and natural gas resources to supply the United States for tens of thousands of years."

Two delegates - a geologist and an engineer - stood to speak against the resolution because, they said, that statement was blatantly false.

But they were talking to Utah Republicans, who have shown disdain for science getting in the way of ideological blustering.

The resolution cited as its source "members of the Utah State Legislature," the same body where the statement once was made that since there is a dog species, and there is a cat species, but there is no "dat" species, the theory of evolution obviously is bunk.

But there is such a thing as a "cog." Hah! Take that, flawed-GOP-logic!

I also feel like that would fit in well in a Brian Reagan bit. Take that as whatever commentary you will on the Utah legislative bodies.

Distractions, from Mormon Culture, or, as Mateo woud say, "How Embarassing!"

Mormon horror movie titles.

Book of Mormon, peep edition (no stones involved).

These both provided moments of mirth this morning (oh, Bryce and his clever use of alliteration! He's so smart! I bet he's going to score a million on those boards he should have been studying for instead of looking at random tidbits on the Internet!).

Light at the End of the Tunnel, or, The Bear Lake Monster, REVEALED!, or Plans for Summer '08

Second Star to the Right, or, Straight Outtta London?

I think this will be my last post about my hair. Since I have complete control over the content of this site, that should be easy to manage. We'll see if I stick to it.


My mother wants to know when this phase is going to end. Good to know I'm still going through phases. Now that I have solidly entered the "Peter Pan Syndrome" zone, I might as well document it a little more, especially since this is a once-in-a-lifetime* offer, only good for maybe the next week or two.

*Well, I have dyed my hair before, and I'm not entirely convinced I won't ever do it again, but probably not quite like this.

Reason #58 not to drink

Fetor hepaticus: breath that smells like a freshly-opened corpse. Due to liver failure.

Physical diagnosis rocks.

Mad as a Hatter, or, Dreams of Belladonna, or, Make it stop!

So I'm in the midst of board-study, which means 8-12 hours a day of trying to cram medical knowledge into my head, so that on Thursday, 5/29, I can have the privilege of having a $495 exam (that may or may not determine future opportunities) take me behind the woodshed and . . . well, my mother reads this, so I'm just going to stop there.

I laid down for a minute during my lunch break Friday and had a strange dream. I was on my family's old couch - the one where you would lay if you were sick, not having to practice piano for the day, able to skip out on church with no feeling of remorse, and dominate the TV remote with no fear of parental intervention. In the dream, I had the heavy, sick feeling of having the flu, or the croup like when you were a kid. However, I was still 27 in the dream.

My dad approached, with a large syringe in his shirt pocket. Now, my family will recognize this, and admittedly it isn't the most oblique piece of foreshadowing, but let me give a little background. When we were growing up, Pop would call just before he left the office, usually while Ma was serving dinner (nope, we didn't wait). As Dad entered, we could all see him approach from the garage. If one of the kids was sick, he would bring home the stuff he needed, whether the otoscope or the penicillin or whatever. If it was penicillin, we knew immediately, because he had four large syringes in his shirt pocket that he would put on a little shelf, in plain sight, as he grabbed his stool to sit up to the table. We all knew what those meant. That Dad didn't love us.

After dinner Pop would march us one by one to get this injection. It was probably a better method than when, in the middle of the night, he would army-crawl into the room my sister I shared and give us our shots as we slept. "Wait," you say, "that sounds like a good idea. The little tykes wouldn't even know about it. Save them the pain." Well, you'd be right, unless your sister woke up and saw her Dad stick a big shot in her brother and then try to do the same to her. Ameree didn't like Dad for quite a little while after that.

Back to my dream. I'm 27, and I have had 2 years of medical school. My dad approaches me with this needle, and I ask, "What are you even trying to give me?"

"2% Atropine."

Now, a bit of background here, too. Atropine in no way is helpful for someone with the flu. It's one of the drugs you give someone whose heart has stopped, or maybe if they've inhaled Sarin in a Tokyo subway.

"Dad, I don't need that." I try and fend him off.

He uncapped the needle with his teeth.

"Dad, what the hell? I really don't effing need that!"

He got really upset that I had said, "effing," and to teach me a lesson, gave me the shot in the right peck.

Now, my body started reacting appropriately - in the dream I knew the side-effects of this particular drug. I became flushed, really pissed off, stopped sweating, and because my heart was pounding, woke up. The message was clear.

The USMLE Step 1 examination is trying to kill me.






Now, before you go all Freud on me, the only reason I think it was my dad that tried to kill me in this dream was because he is a medical doctor, and my brain is getting really bugged at all this medical information I keep trying to shove in there, and hence my brain used Dad as a representation of the medical community. We have one of the better Father/Son relationships I know of, so take that Freudian theory behind the woodshed, why don't you?

Things that make cleaning the back seat worth it.

You wouldn't believe the mess these three can make. There are a couple of others that would give these ones a run for their money, but I didn't have new pictures of them. Gimme a month.

My Third-Life Crisis (Redux), or, How to Be Like Bryce, or On Being a Square

As I talked about before, I have been experiencing something of a faux-crisis in my life. In the latest portion of said drama, I've been spending all day, everyday, studying. 5/29 at 8:00 AM I will start the exam that could well determine the answer to the eternal temporal question: What is the meaning of my life?

I have, however, been taking some breaks. Including something of a tradition with our friends of watching Thursday night TV at my place. I still invited everyone over, but not for the whole lineup, just Lost and The Office. However, it also doubled as my birthday celebration, so I invited the whole old gang - including those that have withdrawn themselves by entering into the holy bonds of matrimony (or engagement).

It's hard for me to get everyone together and not have a haircut. Now, this isn't really a rebellion or anything. It's just something I've never done before and it's my last chance to do it. When I dye it red next week, that's going to be out of rebellion. My roommates have really been chafing - they just don't get it! (Did the angst come through there?)

On an almost-related tangent, do you remember how sweet N64's Goldeneye 007 game was? Remember how cool the characters were? They had those squarish heads with the facial features painted on?

Man, the rocket launcher was sweet. Not as cool as slappers, though.

Well, if you wanted to make yourself a Bryce-head (limited-run collector's item!), you just need to get a box, print out these 5 pictures, and paste them to the 5 sides of the cube (leave one open to stick your head in). Just don't try to shoot someone holding uzi's with your arms crossed like that. Leaves you wide open for the rocket down the throat.

Front Side

Right Side

Left Side

Top

I think the back is my favorite; it comes to a tail/point. Sweet.
Almost unanimously the girls love it. Allegedly.

One problem with the box-head that you should be aware of, though, is that you won't fit in your car anymore. I know I don't. I have a lot more sympathy for the women of the 80's and 90's whose big hair wouldn't let them sit up straight in a car.