We've Never Lost a Fireside!, or, Going Bowling, or, GO UTES!

Poor taste?



Add salt. Makes it better.

Things Worth Staying Up For, or, Go UTES!

What's the best way to cap off a 14 hour day at school?



It didn't even feel that early the next morning.

When I Grow Up, or, My Thoughts Exactly

People keep asking me what type of physician I want to be. I'm still not very sure, but that decision needs to be made in the next 6 months.

If I had to go back and do it again, I would, and I would want to become just like Robert Kirby. The guy is the most consistently awesome writer since, well, Dave Barry. Sortof. Agree or disagree with his content, he pulls this off masterfully.

http://www.sltrib.com/lds/ci_10809759

Robert Kirby, Salt Lake Tribune

A couple of years ago, I wrote a column in which I announced my official position on gay marriage. Basically, I don't care.

Not only do I not care if gays get married, it is none of my business. As a flaming heterosexual, it's a full-time job for me just to keep my thoughts clean in church. I don't have the energy to fret about somebody else's libido.

The column must have resurfaced on the Internet. I'm getting mail again telling me what a failure I am as a Mormon because I'm not solidly behind Proposition 8. As I understand it, the California ballot item would prevent the domestication of homosexuals. Or something like that.

Here are just a few of the attempts to get me to see reason.

"Are you a member or not? Do you want gays to get married in the temple? Please follow the brotheren's [sic] council [sic] on Proposition 8. This is a important gospel principal [sic]." G., e-mail.

"No unclean thing can enter the house of the Lord. Gays are unclean because of the Scriptures. You have to be hot or cold about it or the Lord will spat you out." T., e-mail.

"Were you listening in church when the letter was read from the First Presidency about supporting proposition eight?" R.Y., e-mail.

"Get with Prop 8 or your [sic] a homo." Anonymous, letter.

Hard as it is to counter such brilliant logic, my position hasn't changed. The only serious concern I have about gays getting married is that they'll register someplace pricey.

The church is serious about the sanctity of marriage. I get that. But aren't more potentially "dangerous" marriages already being performed out there?
For example, I hear in church all the time about marriage being ordained of God.
But I also hear about how the glory of God is intelligence.

Shouldn't it be against the law for stupid people to get married? What's more harmful to society - two well-dressed men getting married and settling down, or two idiots tying the knot and cranking out any number of additional idiots?

You should have to pass a harder test to get married than the one we currently have. Essentially, there are but two questions: "How old are you?" and "Is that your sister?" Hell, you could pass this test just by guessing.

There are drawbacks. Most people get married when hormones and youth make them about as dumb as they'll ever be. So, even a relatively easy test would by default raise the age limit to about 40.

With an increased marriage age limit, there would be fewer births. Genealogy would become easier to do. With fewer births, there would be fewer children born gay. Hey, isn't that what Heavenly Father would want?

OK, I was just kidding about that. But if you're really serious about putting a stop to gay sex, let them get married.

Sappy, Sentimental, and/or Sincere

http://apod.nasa.gov/apod/ap080722.html

Worthwhile five minute study break.

Why It's Cool To Be Marginalized, or, Woe Unto the . . . Gullible?

It becomes so easy to screw with people when you're part of a marginally acceptable group. For whatever reason, I was eating a donut during a meeting this morning. With a spoon. A friend of mine was next to me, and thought it awful strange.

I told him that Mormons believe that eating things with our hands makes the food dirty, allowing Satan to take control of our bodies.

Hook.

Line.

Sinker.

Of course this kind of thing is always followed with, "You know I'm joking, right?" I'm sure my friends are just trying to be polite to the religious nut-jobs, and I know it's not nice to take advantage of that, but it sure is a lot of fun screwing with people.

Going to Hell?, or, Dating, or, What are you up to this weekend?

To quote a recent friend,

"Isn't it fun that we are at the point in our lives that everyone is scared for our eternal salvation so they try to hook us up with everyone they know! Cuz you know that when we hit thirty we are doomed, right? [. . .] But you, I'm afraid are a bit closer...you should work on that before you burn!"

Serious and slightly depressing, or, Life in general

So, I have no idea how to handle a certain situation I have been facing weekly, if not daily. This morning's ride in the elevator up to my hospital floor illustrates perfectly, I believe.

Entering the elevator with only a few other people, I smile at the 50-60 yr old woman, holding two cups of coffee. Saying hello, I ask, "How are you?"

Turns out that trivialities like that, when wearing a white coat, are not taken as such. The woman replied, "Well, they're taking my grand-daughter off of everything today, and they're just going to let her go."

__________________________________


What do you do? I mean, what in the world is there to do?


__________________________________



I said, "Oh, I'm so sorry." and I was.

I felt bad for her and her family.

I also felt bad that I'd asked the question, and I also felt bad that I was wearing the white coat.

Why the animosity towards the white coat? Not only because it is the fomite from hell, but because it made her want to share about the little baby, who was about to die.

And "they" were the ones doing it.

And "they" wear white coats too.

Just like me.

__________________________________

On a related note, is there a good way to walk out of a dieing person's room and say, "Have a good day"?




I realize this is disjointed. I should rework this instead of posting it immediately. But I'd rather not dwell on this anymore than I already have. I'll attempt humor again in the next post.

OVERHEAD LINES: A New Fetish? A Truly Potent Potable?

Guy, to guy: Dude, you doing the Elk Urine?

(The capitalization was audible).

10 more days; 10 DAYS MORE!

OVERHEAD LINES: Umm, what?

Woman to man: Can you saran-wrap her? I can't get to her right now.

Two recommended reads

I came across two articles in the past couple of days that I really enjoyed. The first is by Robert Kirby, who is a great tongue-in-cheek writer for the SLTrib. For anyone not aware of the Trek phenomena that seem so popular among Mormon youth groups, be grateful.

Kirby: Crossing the plains was a pain
Robert Kirby
Tribune columnist
Article Launched: 06/21/2008 12:00:00 AM MDT

My great-great-grandfather Korihor Kirby trekked to Zion in 1855. He brought along my three grandmas, a regiment of children, two oxen, a dog, a sack of mustard seed and a banjo with a set of teeth marks in it.
The fact that they crossed the plains at all is the only resemblance my ancestors' experience has with the correlated version of what transpired. That we came at all is either a miracle or a misunderstanding.
The popular history of the great Mormon migration is one of vast hardship endured through faith and prayer. There were miracles aplenty along the way - food falling out of the sky, unseen Nephite spirits helping pull the wagons, and babies born in bison stampedes.
I concede that such things probably happened, but not that they were the rule. All sorts of Mormon personalities crossed the plains, including my family.
According to Grandpa Korihor's daily ledger titled Brethren That Owe Me Money, he wasn't exactly wild about coming to Utah. He liked Nauvoo. From his own pencil stub:
"Sun. May 20 (1855) - Church. Another discourse about gathering unto Zion. Am NOT going."
"Tues., June 5 - Dance. Pres. Pratt unduly attentive to Sister Grimm. Ministered unto him with banjo and fist."
"Wed., June 6 - Sold tavern. Leave for Deseret in morning. Anyone not in wagon gets left."
My grandmothers'journals contain mostly domestic observations about the overland trail, how hard it was to wash clothes, feed children, and keep the wagon clean during Family Wagon Evenings.
Grandma Meany occasionally took the time to pen her spiritual convictions, all of them heartfelt essays about how much God hated her husband.
"July ? - Delivered another child in the rain. It's what I get for marrying a Telestial spirit."
This isn't to say that my ancestors didn't receive divine help getting to Utah, just not the kind you'll read about in Ensign magazine. From Korihor's ledger:
"Aug. 1, Platte River - Mustard mush gone. Children clamorous about remaining distance. Went river pray for deliverance or drown self. Pelican hit by lightning. Dined on same. Beak and feet to bishop for tithing. Lord good but not overly generous."
My ancestors arrived in Salt Lake City Sept. 22, 1855, having taken nearly twice as long to cross the plains as the average Mormon.
Today, Mormon youth re-enact the pioneer trek as a way of understanding what it took to build Zion. Four grueling days of pushing a handcart across Wyoming teaches them something, I guess. Reading about it is enough for me.
It's not enough for my editor, though. She called me into her office today and told me to go buy a hat and a bucket of sunscreen because, "We're sending you to cover one of the LDS treks next month."
rkirby@sltrib.com

The second is by a blogger over at madhousewife.wordpress.com, and while the whole article was fine, it was two paragraphs that I really liked. Most of you know there are types of Mormons that drive me nuts. This woman hits the nail on the head with one of those types.

This is not a Mormon blog. It’s a blog written by a Mormon lady who occasionally goes all Mormony on you. I enjoy mocking my own culture sometimes–not to be all subversive and in your face, but because that’s just how I roll. I mock because I love. I love being a Mormon, and I love Mormondom in general. That doesn’t mean I’m blind to the church’s flaws and weaknesses, in its leadership and/or its membership. Some people wonder why, considering all my doubts and alleged square-peggishness, a sarcastic suckhead like me sticks with an institution that is designed for cookie-cutter sheep-type people with great teeth and awesome hair. Well, the fact is I am not that special, I don’t like my boat rocked, and my teeth and hair are pretty great, if not outstanding. But it comes down to this: the church is my home. Mormons are my family. We’ve got our skeletons and our crazy Aunt Myrtles. I can take good-natured jokes about this stuff because I’m willing to own the kooks and the skeletons. And in turn I can joke about it because I have such deep affection for the community–an affection I think is obvious to anyone who reads me without prejudice.

It is not obvious to a certain subset of Mormons, people who think being Mormon means never having to be ironic. I’m sorry that you people are irony-deficient. I wish there were a supplement you could take, because then you wouldn’t leave random comments on my site telling me that I’m bigoted and have no manners. This happens from time to time, and I usually shrug it off because, whatever, they don’t know me and they don’t care, why waste the emotion. When somebody leaves a comment like, “Your a little retard, Mormons are great,” I don’t even feel compelled to correct their spelling, or to point out that “retard” is not a euphemism that charming people use. I definitely don’t see the point in explaining that I myself think that Mormons are great, because if they didn’t want to understand the first time, they’re usually not motivated to get it the second time either.

OVERHEARD LINES: Creation of a Vegetarian

Man: What did you do today?
Little girl (with excitement): I got to hold a baby chicken!
Man: Oh, that's nice, because that's exactly what we're eating tonight.

OVERHEARD LINES: Woman at Mexican Restaurant, with therapist?

"I've had plenty of old people touch me at the supermarket."

Getting What You Pay For, or, Clint Clips the Competition, or, "Oh Boy"

The problem with free stuff is that obviously you get what you pay for. Even if it's as simple as cleaning up the neckline. I hadn't realized how much hostility Clint had built up inside until after asking for a favor. Doesn't quite have the steadiest surgeon's hands, does he? At least his fees are affordable.

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.