Sports!

Sports was easily my favorite Huey Lewis and the News album. It far surpassed everything else they put out.

Now the old boy may be barely breathing
But the heart of rock and roll is still beating

UGA Victorious in the Land of Mullets and Jorts
So, how 'bout them Dawgs? Seriously, how great was that first touchdown? The importance of a faux-impromptu moment wasn't lost on me. Thank God the announcers told me all about what it meant and how I should feel about it. It was, however, exciting to witness. What would the final score have been if we'd not sustained about a bazillion penalty yards? Any time Florida loses, I'm happy.

42-30

When my alma mater does it, it's nothing short of brilliant.

Rocktober? Nope, Sox-tober!
How great was the series (if you weren't rooting for the Rockies or for the N.L.)?


Personally, I loved it. Finally, I'll be able to go out in public again. Unfortunately, I was a little superstitious about it all. During the ALCS, I watched a game with a buddy out at a sports bar. They won but I just couldn't concentrate on the game. Plus, I felt surrounded by the stereotypical idiots that love sports bars...emphasis on "bars." Anywho, to stop the losing skid, I had to watch the game at home. I'd break my cap out of retirement, gingerly place it atop my melon, and watch the game from the darkness of the living room. Thanks to my meticulous attention to -- and repetition of -- detail, they came back to win three in a row and, in doing so, the AL pennant. Obviously, I had to stick to my protocol during the World Series. It paid off as handsomely as it did in 2004. Sweep, baby.

I'm equally happy that I don't suffer any more awful announcing by Joe Buck and Tim McCarver and shitty game production provided by Fox. Really, could they have interrupted more of the game for useless interviews with pitching coaches? Here are some of my ideas for Fox:

• How about this: show every at-bat during the game and put meaningless interviews in a small box on screen. You know, do a picture-in-picture sort of thing.
• Get rid of the "Strike Zone" or whatever the hell it's called. The beauty of baseball is that balls and strikes are called, for better or worse, by fallible humans. Umps make mistakes. They blow calls. That's part of the game. If not, the Rockies wouldn't even have been in the post-season.
• Make the announcers either shut up or say intelligent things. On Conan O'Brian, Joe Buck confessed that friends text him during broadcasts with bets that he can't work random words into the broadcast. Hell, Conan bet him a $1000 charity donation that he couldn't work "jubjub" into the broadcast. First game, Buck says "Our own little jub-jub, Chris Meyers." Nice job, Joe.
  
• Sponsorship bar at the bottom the screen. Just put all the damned corporate logos at the bottom of the screen and stop inventing dumb shit like the "Levitra 'Putting a Little Wood On It' Hit Highlights." If you experience games lasting longer than 4 hours, please consult your physician.

America thanks you for the free Taco Bell® taco.
Thanks, Jacoby!

I could go on an on and on. Simply put, Fox sucks.

So, this time of year always leaves me sad. I think of it as post-baseball depression. It's like I have to say goodbye to one of my best friends until the Spring. It really makes me blue.

Dreaming
This morning, I had another awesome dream. Again, it was one of those where I woke up happy as hell, just grinning there in the dark until I fell asleep again. I was called up to pitch for the RedSox during the World Series. I surprised my family with a trip to Fenway and the enormous players' family suite. They had no idea I would pitch, so it was fantastic news for them. Me and my dad got really emotional when I was telling him how good a role model Tito Francona was for me. Honestly, I couldn't believe that I'd never noticed my amazing pitching talent before but was sooo thankful for the pitching scouts that saw me playing with the Sleestaks softball team. The roar of the crowd woke me up.

Less Than Two Hours Until Game 1

So, without going on too much about it -- I'm superstitious -- the World Series kicks off tonight in a couple of hours. Needless to say, I'm so stinking excited for the Sox. How great was the LCS? I cannot, for the life of me, believe that J.D. cracked the grannie to help keep them alive. Although I'm sort of over ESPN's Bill Simmons, his latest column is pretty damned funny. He features a ton of reader mail in it. My favorite reader comment:

Sam P. from Stateline, Nev.: I will never be more surprised than I was when J.D. hit that grand slam. If Reese Witherspoon released a porn video with Julia Stiles and the Quaker Oats guy, I would not be more surprised than I was when J.D. Drew got that hit. Maybe Michael Moore will break the marathon record ... and I will be half as surprised as I was when J.D. went deep.

Holy crap, I love post-season baseball.

Actober

So, it's the 3rd inning in Game 5 of the ALCS. Besides being constantly annoyed by Joe Buck and Tim McCarver and the terrible production of each game (Seriously, can you please show a pitching coach interview instead of the game? Please? How about more meaningless graphics? Thanks, FOX!), I die a little each time I see Dan Cook in those damned "actober" commercials.

Him? Spokesperson for post-season baseball? Really?

Man In the Mirror

Last weekend, I went to my buddy Jason's house-warming party. For the last year or so, he and his partner have been renovating the place. So, my wife and I went over to see them and have a look. After the guided tour from Jason, we ended up on the back patio with some friends that we'd not seen in years.

During our conversation, a stranger walked up and asked me a question.

"Do you remember me?," he said.

Honestly, that question is the one I dread the most. Actually, it might fall slightly behind something like "Are you the son of a bitch who knocked up my sister?". The point is, I feel like a deer in headlights when someone asks me that.

"Did we work together at WebTone?" I guessed.

"No. You don't recognize me?" he continued.

"Your face looks familiar but I can't remember your name," I confessed.

"I'm Darren. We went to Mexico together!"

"That's it. Hell, that was thirteen years ago. So how are you?"

We chatted for a bit about the study abroad program we did in the summer of 1995. During the trip, we took classes at La Universidad de Guadalajara and traveled around the country quite a bit. We caught up on each others lives and continued to reminisce about the trip.

I have particurlarly vivid memories from a side trip that we took to Puerta Vallarta. In-country flights were pretty cheap, so we booked a trip to the west coast and had a blast. One night, we decided to go on a "Sunset Booze Cruise."

Obviously, we left before sunset and hit the coastline. We passed the location where "Night of the Iguana" was filmed. Man, the drinks flowed freely and we tried our best not to waste a drop. I found a few photos that document the progression of the evening.

Ahoy!

We're on a sunset cruise.

Wheere on a sumshet crooze.

No, YOU guys are awesome!

My favorite memory of the trip stems from the end of the evening. After the sun set, everyone moved inside to the dance floor and continued the party. A little later, the crew cleared everyone out to make way for a "very special guest." We moved out and wondering what was going on when all of a sudden, "Man in the Mirror" starts blaring. Then, Michael Freaking Jackson appeared out of thin air. We could not believe it! I mean, really, we knew it wasn't the real MJ but the closest damned thing you could get. Seriously, we were stunned by how much of a spitting image this guy was. Not only that, he had all of the moves down. We were as thrilled as if it were the real Michael Jackson; it was awesome.

Then, I got my photos back.

I'd prefer to be tied up in this guy's crawl space
rather than be this close to the real Michael Jackson.

Alcohol is a hell of a thing.

T-Shirt of the Day

Most mornings, I make it over to the YMCA to workout. One of the regulars that I see almost daily is an older hippie guy. He's probably in his late 60s, rail thin, and has a silver head of hear and a shaggy goatee. The other day, I overheard him having a long, detailed conversation about flying in his dreams. It seems that he's got it down to a science. He doesn't even have to flap his arms or run to take off anymore; he just leans forward and flies! I also overheard him conclude a conversation with the phrase "Far out."

This morning, I'm on the bike and he walks by wearing a priceless t-shirt. It was royal blue with large white lettering on the front that read:

Feminist chicks dig me.

Classic. It might be my second favorite shirt that I've seen recently. (Go here to read about my favorite.)

The Suite Life

A few days ago, my friend, Y, emailed to say that she had her company's tickets to the Thrashers game and invited us to join her. The game would be an early birthday present for our buddy Rodney. So, Friday night we went to the Thrashers' home opener. Normally, I'm not a huge hockey fan but I am a huge sports fan. Usually, I'll jump at the chance to see a live sporting event. In part, I think I truly enjoy the camaraderie of everyone in the stands. To make things even better, the tickets were for a suite. How great is that?

Suite seats.

Man, I totally felt bourgeoisie. We walked into a private area. Then, into a more exclusive private area. Around each turn, someone would check your ticket and then welcome you as you passed; it was pretty damned cool. On the way upstairs, we shared an elevator with the Atlanta Hawks' Zaza Pachulia. Of course, we only knew that he was a ball player.

This guy takes up most of a small elevator.

After he and his entourage exited, we played the name game with the elevator operator trying to figure out who he was. I guessed "Yao Ming" but nobody seemed to think I was right. Pretty sad statement about Atlanta basketball when nobody in your city knows your name.

We greeted the other ten people in the suite, helped ourselves to "free" beer, snacks, and sandwiches, and watched a little hockey. The dilemma facing me was that I was at a hockey game while playoff baseball was on. So, after the first period, Rodney and I meandered downstairs into the main concourse and gathered with tons of other fans around an HDTV showing the Yankees/Indians game. A community of us stood there watching, pleading for the Indians to break the game open and win. Hell, even the flies in Cleveland seemed to be doing their part to defeat the Yanks.

[Insert smarmy Yankee-hater caption here.]

It was a nail-biter than went extras. By the 11th inning, the crowd around the TV had swelled and was blocking anyone from getting through or around it. In the bottom of the inning, with two outs, bases loaded, and a full count on the Indians' Travis Hafner, a Philips Arena security guard pushed through the crowd and announced that unless the crowd made room for people to pass by, she was going to turn off the television. No fewer than fifty people simultaneously muttered, "Go ahead, try it." Obviously, she had no idea of the situation with which she was threatening to interfere. Honestly, it wasn't going to happen; we would not be denied seeing the next pitch. Thankfully, the situation didn't come to a head; Hafner hit a game-winning single. The crowd around the television erupted with hoots and yells and quickly dissipated. Rodney and I returned to the suite, tuned in the Red Sox game on the televisions, and sat on the couch watching it while the Thrashers got, well, thrashed.

It was, perhaps, the most fun I've had at a hockey game.

We Never Grow Out of It.

This past weekend, I drove to Athens for Crazy Greg's Annual Tailgate. This year, he roasted a pig. Unlike a few years back, the Athens Fire Department did not show up, wade through the sea of tents, and douse his fire. (Turns out that sawing a metal trash can in half and building a raging inferno is considered a fire hazard. Make a mental note of it, you'll thank me.) Anyway, this year went off without too much of a hitch. It was, however, one for the record books.

My photos from the day.

Standing on the Shoulders of Giants
Since graduating and moving to Atlanta, I've been to only a handful of games. About once a year, I make it up to tailgate with everyone but rarely make it inside the stadium. The last game I attended was Spurrier's first visit to Athens with South Carolina. Anyway, it was a crisp, bright morning, perfect weather for football. As I got closer and closer to Athens, I got more and more nostalgic for my college days. Man, I was younger, had a full head of hair, and took full advantage of my ability to stay out all night with no ill-effects the following day. Now, I'm tired by 10:30 p.m. and more than three beers leaves me stunned for the following 48 hours. How I miss my youth! At one point during the drive, I actually talked myself out of blaring R.E.M. and singing at the top of my lungs. I convinced myself that driving along alone, crying and laughing while singing "King of Birds" would really be pushing into sad, old guy territory. Better to hang back as fun, nostalgia guy.

After what seemed to be an eternity, I made it downtown and looked for parking. With each vacant handicapped spot I passed, I died a little inside. As I was walking out the door that morning, my wife asked if I wanted to take the "handi-pass" she earned with her knee surgery. I declined, explaining that I feel dishonest and guilty using it when she's not there. As a result, the boy scout got to pay fifteen dollars to park downtown. As quickly as I could, I filled a trash bag with beer and ice and shoved it into my backpack. I grabbed my camp chair, slung on the pack, and commenced my hike toward Legion Field and the memories of youth.

Older and wiser.

When I walked up to the tailgate, I may as well have stepped into the early 1990s. Tons of old counselor friends were there. It really was like being back home. Everyone knows your history, knows how you are, accepts that. We laughed, drank a few beers, ate some pig, and slowly got out of hand.

Pig pickin' in Athens.

It's Not a Party Until...
So, a friend of Greg's was there with his girlfriend. At least, she probably was his girlfriend. Today, probably not so much. As an observer, she seemed like a big bowl of crazy. For nearly an hour, they argued back and forth over an innocent bystander who was literally caught between them. Certainly, their alcohol consumption didn't help matters. She seemed to be a young, attractive gal who gets crazy as hell and maybe mean when she hits the sauce. I stayed as far away as I could manage.

As game time approached, people drifted off toward the stadium. [Crazy Train]'s boyfriend had, by this point, passed out in the front of Greg's truck. That guy is nuts, I thought. Hell, it's only 1 p.m. I noted as I drained my beer and fished another from my pack. Sometime near the start of the second quarter, I think, Greg made his start for the game. Turns out that, [Crazy Train] was going to join him for the trip. About an hour and a half later, I get the following text message from Greg:

Lost [Crazy Train], tell [Drunk Boyfriend]. With [Old Female Counselor].
See you soon!

And that, my friends, was the last we saw of [Crazy Train]. As best we could, we woke [Drunk Boyfriend], told him that [Crazy Train] had gone off the reservation. He didn't seem that bothered.

[Crazy Train] makes her exit.

Always Be Prepared
Some time later, Greg arrived alone. He told us that [Old Female Counselor] would show up to meet him later. Finally, she arrived. It could've been the beer but she looked like a supermodel. Turns out it was the beer. She's an attractive woman but none of us are supermodels, you know? Anywho, Greg was officially on the hunt. The two chatted for a while and, without a word to anyone, tried to steal away for a little privacy. At this point, beer logic failed them: When two people try to hide behind something that's only four feet tall, people can still see them kissing. After enduring everyone's yells, they got wise and move farther away. Every few minutes, however, Greg would take a break and run back over to us to complain about his indigestion. Each time, I think I offered him a Pepcid that I didn't have. I'm an asshole.

Which one suffers from acid reflux?

After more time passed, the pair decided that they were going to head to a friend's house and get a little rest. As Greg sauntered over to tell me goodbye, I beckoned him over to my pack.

"Hey man, you should take this PowerBar," I say.

"What the hell are you talking about?," he asks.

"Dude, she's hypoglycemic. Remember from camp?"

"She grew out of that."

"What? No hell she didn't! You don't grow out of being hypoglycemic. Trust me, take this damned PowerBar."

"Okay. Whatever," he says while nonchalantly pocketing it.

Aftermath
Later, we all split up and went our separate ways. Several of us ended up at a friend's condo to sober up before heading out for a bite. We made it into a bar/restaurant downtown in time to see Auburn completely dismantle the Gators. That was a nice way to finish the evening. After dinner and more time hanging with my friends, I returned to Atlanta. My head hit my pillow at about 2:00 a.m. on Sunday morning. All in all, it wasn't a bad day.

Later that morning, I spoke with Greg to find out about his evening.

"It was pretty boring," he confided. "She asked me about a thousand questions. I got psychoanalyzed for about two straight hours. Finally, I told her I was going to sleep."

"Did you find [Crazy Train]?," I asked.

"She called me from jail at about midnight. Disorderly Conduct and Public Intoxication. Cost $1000 to get out."

"What? How damned drunk do you have to be to get a ticket on Game Day at UGA?"

"I know, man. I think she hit a cop."

"What the hell?"

"I don't know, man. She never even called her boyfriend."

"Wow. She's loco."

"Yep. Hey, guess what else happened," he said.

"No clue. Somebody got shot?," I guessed.

"This morning at three a.m., [Old Female Counselor] wakes me up. She was shaking and acting all weird. I asked her what was wrong and she said her sugar was all messed up. I thought, damn, that son of a bitch was right. Then, I walked to my truck and got that PowerBar. Good call on that one, man."

"Told you, you don't grow out of that shit."

"I guess not.

Still Working on Applications

Sorry for the lack of posts; I'm still heads-down in applications. The list of schools continues to grow. Added since my last post:

• Temple
  
• Brown
  
• Georgetown
• Tulane
• Tufts
• Mt. Sinai
• Emory
• Morehouse
• Northwestern
• Thomas Jefferson U.

EAV Strut
Last weekend was our neighborhood's annual "Strut." Essentially, it's a day-long celebration. We have a small parade, tons of artists & festival vendors, and ample Sweetwater beer tables. It's a block party. Well, the weather was perfect for it. My wife and I walked to the village with some of her friends from work. During the course of the day, I bumped into about six or seven people that I know from various periods of my life here in Atlanta. It was pretty comforting to see people that I'd not seen in years. At the same time, it was a little disturbing that I've been in Atlanta for over ten years. I suppose that most any place can feel small when you've been there long enough.

September Baseball
Anything better than close pennant races? Seriously, the RedSox are making me pucker up a bit. They'd better take care of business and close out the season on a high note. Seriously. I'm not sure if I can take the taunting from Dr.J3K if the Yankees win the division.

Completely Random Occurrence Over SEC Football
Last weekend, my friend Kanishka was in D.C. bar, watching the UGA game. He sends me this message:

Do you know Wally B? He wants to know if you remember the time that Lee threw up at a Waffle House after drinking EverClear and Now&Laters.

During my freshman and sophomore years at UGA, Wally lived across the hall from me in the Reed Hall dorms. At least ten years have passed since I've seen him or spoken to him. I replied:

Does he remember the time when Mike D. mooned the UGA police from his car and they were almost arrested?

Next thing I know, Kanishka called and put Wally on the phone. We quickly revisited our litany of misdemeanors and other hijinks. . With exception of the vivid memories of Lee vomiting on the table at Waffle House, it was a fun little trip down memory lane.

As it turns out, both of them were out watching the game and struck up a conversation as complete strangers. After a long conversation, they each discovered that the other knew me. From there, I guess some of my social circles collided without me. I think they're watching the game at the same place this weekend. It makes me happy.

The List

As part of my warts and all approach, I thought I'd make a running list of the schools that have invited me to submit a supplemental application. So far, here they are:

• Columbia University
  
• Boston University
  
• Medical College of Georgia
• George Washington University
• University of Chicago (Pritzker School of Medicine)
• University of Alabama at Birmingham
• University of Vermont
• University of Pittsburgh
• University of Pennsylvania
• University of North Carolina
• New York University

I'm excited but I'm not getting too carried away with it. I think it's probably best to take the invites with a grain of salt because some schools invite everyone to fill out a secondary application. Think about it: In most cases, several thousand applicants are competing for just a few spots. If everyone is invited to complete a secondary application at a cost of, let's say, $100, the university earns a nice sum of money from people who have a snowball's chance of getting into school.

Nice system, huh? People just line up to give you money. Maybe I should open a medical school, invite all applicants to complete a $100 secondary application, and reject them all. Doesn't sound like all that bad of a plan.

The Rollercoaster Ride

Well, I decided not to take the test. I feel at peace with the decision, if bruised and battered by it. So, the die is cast. From here on out, I'll work on my secondary applications and, with luck, be invited for an interview or two. Keep your fingers crossed for me. Send me good vibes. Call anyone you know at any medical school and sing my praises. (I'm only slightly kidding on the last bit there.)

Worst case scenario is that I don't get in this year. If that happens, I'll take the MCAT again next spring and kick its ass. Also, I'll continue to do more volunteer work and really max out my application. Again, this is the worst case scenario. Sigh.

You Call That Advising?
Shortly after my last post, I played a short game of phone tag with my advisor at my post-bacc program. He's a really great guy but I think that the folks in the program are a little out-of-touch with reality. Prior to speaking with my advisor, I emailed him with three issues I wanted to discuss. First, I wanted to talk over my thoughts about sitting (or not) for the exam. Second, I wanted his thoughts on how most schools viewed scores. For example, do they look at only the composite or do they look at the highest recorded score in each section? Finally, I wanted his opinion on how much my experience factors into my applications. Will schools see me only as my MCAT scores or will they actually look at my life experiences? After all, I'm not a kid who is just wrapping up my undergrad.

After a brief round of phone tag, we finally spoke. He told me that he'd discussed my questions with the program director. In short, he told me what I needed to hear about sitting for the test: if my scores weren't significantly improving and I didn't feel confident about it, don't sit for it. I'd arrived at this conclusion but I needed to hear it from him, I suppose.

Understandably, he didn't really address the second issue. Honestly, schools are all a little different as to how much emphasis they put on the scores and to how they look at those scores. So, no loss on this question. It makes sense that I'd get a vague response. Unfortunately, I didn't get really great information about the schools for which I'm completing secondary applications.

His thoughts on the last issue, however, really did surprise me. Essentially, he sidestepped the issue and returned to me sitting for the exam. Even if I did sit for it, he said, it would probably be too late for me to get any offers for secondary applications.

"Really?," I asked. "That's funny because I've got seven or eight right now. I've actually already submitted one of them."

He seemed to be at a loss for words. And also a loss of credibility in my view.

Post-Bacc Doesn't Equal Non-Traditional
The thing is, I suppose, that the program is for post-baccalaureate students. The majority of my classmates in the program were only a few years removed from school. For me, it was ten. I'm thinking that I probably am farther along the "non-traditional applicant" path than all of my classmates, save one. For me, fear-mongering isn't that great of a motivator. I'm set on achieving this goal. I'm tenacious. Maybe a lower score on one section of the exam will hinder my chances this year. I fail to believe, however, that my wealth of life experiences don't count for a significant portion of my value as an applicant. We'll see, I guess.

On an unrelated note:
I've added a music player to the blog. You'll notice it on the right side of the page. These are a few songs by some artists that I'm really enjoying. Give them a listen. If you like them, pick up their albums. If you want to know more about one of them, let me know. Enjoy.

Honesty is Difficult

The MCAT is taking me on a rollercoaster ride. I'm scheduled to take it again this Friday but I'm rethinking whether or not I should sit for it. Since getting my scores from the July sitting, I've definitely been through a series of emotional highs and lows. First, I was thrilled to submit my application and get to work on supplemental applications. Next, I was a little disappointed in my scores -- not entirely but on a single section.

Well, in the month between getting my scores and this next test, I've not progressed to my expectations. So, I'm weighing the decision of letting my scores ride and seeing what happens or taking the test again, less than fully prepared, and living with the consequences. The problem is, if you do worse, people take note of it. Presently, I doubt that I'll have serious gains in any section. If my practice scores are indicative, I'm in a hole that I need to dig out of to get back to my previous scores.

Anywho, I'm fairly tired of obsessing over it. My gut is telling me not to take it, to take it again in April, and to devote the coming months to making a ridiculous improvement in scores. Instead of getting just enough, I should break the bank, you know? Anywho, being honest with yourself is one of the most difficult things to do isn't it? I feel like I'm letting everyone down, myself included, by not taking this damned test again. I do not, however, think that I can give it my best effort and improve things.

Anywho, keep your fingers crossed that one (or more) of my secondaries will come through with an interview request and an acceptance.

I'm Still Heads-Down

Still fighting the battle with studying for the MCAT. Oddly, I'm having a much more difficult time trying to remain focused this time around. WTH? Anywho, by 6:00 p.m. on Friday, I'll be done again.

By devoting myself to studying, I missed the DragonCon parade in Atlanta. The following photo is from the AJC's coverage of the event. Evidently, this is the "super heroes" part of the parade. I've pointed out my favorite costume. Nothing like devoting your time to dressing as a second-tier member of the Super Friends.

No Black Vulcan or Apache Chief? What gives?

The Highs and Lows

I'm convinced that the whole process of applying to schools is a series of peaks and valleys. One moment, I'm elated; the next, I'm deflated. Last week, I submitted my primary application. Essentially, it's a single application that is completed online and broadcast via an official application service to all the schools you select. So, I finished a comprehensive application with a pretty good essay and sent it to a bunch of schools, most of which are on the East coast (and Chicago).

The next step in the process is to complete supplemental or secondary applications. For this round, interested schools invite you to complete a secondary application. In theory, this application is a more detailed, school-specific application. Oh, you also get to pay the school somewhere between $80 and $150 bucks to apply. Personally, I think it's a revenue stream for the schools. For example, some schools have hundreds of applicants apply for each opening in the class. One can assume that schools rake in a lot of money by having people apply although most of them won't be admitted.

So, at the moment, I'm working on a few secondary applications and trying to get those back in for review.

MCAT Update
I got my score from my first test and I'm not as happy as I want to be with them. As a result, I'll be taking the MCAT again on 07 SEP 2007. Lucky me. On three of the four sections, I was very pleased with my scores. On the Physical Sciences section, however, I'd like to see my score improve a little. Personally, I think that I was nervous on this section and it took me a little while to settle down. (It was the first section of the test, after all.) Also, the crappy old mouse on the crappy old computer screwed me up on one section of this part. I accidentally clicked on a part that took me to a main page instead of the next question. Then, I had to quickly work my way back the right question while my timer continued to tick down. Anywho, it was stressful.

I'm not making excuses, of course, but I'm not sure that I was at my peak during this section. As a result, I'll take it again and we'll see how it goes from there. Hooray for me. I'd rather get a prostate exam than take this damned test again. Such is life, right?

Dreams and Other Weirdness

I continue to work on applications. I thought I'd share some gems from the last few days.

Awesome Dream #1
So, about a week ago, I had the following dream. I woke up at 2:20 a.m. laughing and almost dialed Dr. J3K to tell him about it. Enjoy.

J3K and I are in a Michael Bay movie. As is typical in Bay's pictures, we're back lit by the setting sun. We're armed to the teeth and heading into an amusement park to battle the bad guys. Each of us is carrying several enormous guns, wearing bandoliers, and almost any conceivable weapon of destruction. It's similar to the scene in Commando where the Governator prepare to go ashore to rescue his daughter. As we get fully outfitted and begin making out way into the amusement park, dramatic music plays and the camera shot widens to reveal that ... we are dressed like Care Bears.

That's it: Care Bears. My once in a blue moon bad-ass dream and I'm dressed like Hugs-a-lot Bear. What the hell?

Not pictured: Special Forces Bear and Shoots-a-Lot Bear

Strange Dream #2
This probably has something to do with Ingmar Bergman dying.

I'm in a black and white film with Max von Sydow running around the countryside. We're fleeing Death just like in The Seventh Seal. Unlike the movie, Death isn't as benign but more ruthless and cold-blooded. We run and run, just barely staying a step or two ahead of him. Finally, we take refuge in my Uncle Mike's house as he blasts music from Koyaanisqatsi on his home stereo. Death arrives.

Maybe, just maybe, I'm a little stressed about getting my MCAT scores.

Neighborhood Weirdness
This morning, I'm taking Dylan down to the park for his morning walk. As I get into the heart of the village, two guys pass me. One of them is carrying a foil. Neither are dressed as though they're on their way to a fencing match. (In fact, they're dressed as though they're on their way to the nearest park bench or shelter.) I curse myself for not having a camera and promise myself that if I hear the phrase "En garde!," I will run away very quickly.

Better than seeing someone carrying a gun, I suppose.

Urban Bikini

Last night, I was with Dr. J3K's family and other friends celebrating his graduation. (His official graduation ceremony is today at Georgia Tech.) Anywho, we spent the evening chatting over a few beers and some really nice food. When the festivities wound down at about 11 p.m., I dropped him and his girlfriend off at his car on campus. On our short drive through midtown toward the GT campus, we spotted several hookers out on the streets. One "woman" was wearing a shiny turquoise bikini with fishnets; "she" was also about six feet tall and appeared to have an adams apple and a five o'clock shadow.

Sorry for the Hiatus

My MCAT-itude
Well, it's done. I've taken the test and have been, essentially, recovering from it for the last couple of weeks. Actually, it killed most of my desires to write or read or think more than base, superficial thoughts. On many occasions, I've been asked how it went. When faced with such a daunting question, I usually respond with "It went." Honestly, I can't really gauge how I did on the test other than I didn't feel as though I did as well as I would have liked. Hopefully, there's a gap between how I felt I did and my actual score. Furthermore, I'd prefer the score to be much better than I felt I performed.

This photo represents how I felt about the MCAT.
Note: I'm represented by the chap in green.

My Testing Center Was Equipped with Cutting Edge Computers (for 1984)
The MCAT recently changed formats from paper-based to computer-based testing. So, anyone taking it is really at the mercy of the testing centers contracted to administer the test. I expected something with fairly modern equipment although my wife tried to lower my expectations. She'd completed all of her NCARB exams at these same centers and spoke about the outdated equipment. I didn't fully believe her.

When I arrived for the exam, I was pretty quickly signed-in and fingerprinted. The electronic fingerprinting station didn't work that well for me. I probably tried about 8 times to get it to read my print. This trouble led to a very awkward exchange in which the lady at the testing center gave me a nice dollop of hand lotion, massaged it onto my hand and finger, and repeated the process with my greasy hand. Remarkably, it worked but I felt dirty. For the record, alleging that you'd removed your fingerprints and making a sarcastic joke alluding to Spacey's character in Se7en won't earn any laughs from the testing center lady.

After successfully completing the registration, she led me to my workstation. I stood there and looked over my wee cubicle with about 4 inches of usable desk space, a CRT computer monitor about 8 inches from my face, and a well-worn roller-ball mouse. I almost asked her if she was kidding me. Really, a few hundred dollars gets me this? Classic.

That $#%* Was Hard
Really, there isn't too much more to be said for the actual content of the exam other than it was hard.

Aftermath (Read: Beers)
After the test, I walked to my wife's office where we'd meet for a late lunch. On the way, I called my dad and managed to string together a few obscenities to describe how I felt. After that, my mental faculties began to shut down. I couldn't do simple math, make simple decisions, or carry on a decent conversation. I was shot. Luckily, a nice Caribbean meal helps to alleviate some of that.

Later that afternoon, Dr.J3K, his girlfriend, and I headed to the FlatIron in EAV for some beers. We were on our second pitcher of Sweetwater when we heard the crack of gunfire. We looked up the street toward the row of shops and saw a few people sprinting away from a few of the shops. We tried to reassure ourselves that it probably wasn't gunfire but, more likely, fireworks or something. Then, we heard sirens approaching. As a resident of the village, I felt like I should at least have an idea of what was happening so I left Dr.J3K and Sandy and walked toward the mayhem. Turns out that some people stole a laptop and some shoes from one of the boutiques. The owner, a huge guy who packs heat, chases them into the alley where the perps are entering their get-away car. Shots are fired; the proprietor takes a bullet in the ankle. Bystanders got the tag number, administered first aid, and called the po-po.

This was during daylight! It's 4:30pm and this shit happened! What the hell? I guess it was some of the Friday, the 13th madness or something. Shaken, I rejoin the gang at the bar. We were convinced that, at the time, we were in the safest place in Atlanta with all the cops swarming the area.

Vacation
On Sunday, I joined my wife's family for a vacation on Edisto Island, South Carolina. I spent the week outside in the sand, staring at the ocean, and soaking in the sun and surf. It was bliss.

The view from our bedroom.

We ate tons of shrimp caught on this boat.

Also, we took a trip to the island's serpentarium. I saw tons of rattlesnakes and strange, dangerous exhibits. Picture this: an outdoor pit filled with tons of venomous snakes and surrounded by lots of kids leaning precariously over the edge. Entertaining? You betcha!

One of the Serpentarium's finest.

The gift shop was as entertaining as the reptile exhibits:

"Merry Christmas! I hope you enjoy this jumbo bag of snake skins."

Happy, Fun Surgery Time!
A few days after we returned from vacation, my wife had surgery to repair her torn ACL. So, I've been acting as her nurse, chauffeur, chef, personal assistant, and (on one occasion) whipping boy. She's doing well and is recovering nicely. When possible, I'll post some surgery pics.

Here We Go...

I'm about an hour and 15 minutes away. This is probably going to hurt.

This Pretty Much Sums It Up

I'm in the final throes of studying for this Friday's MCAT. To get a sense of what my days have been like, watch the following video gem.

Onward, Upward

Ten days and counting until the MCAT (pronounced: MCrAP). At this point, I'm really ready for this damned thing to be over. At the moment, however, I'm not pleased with my scores on the practice exams, so I'll continue to work, work, work.

Stay Out of Room 237
Over the last week, I was alone for much of the time at the mountain house in north Georgia. I thought it was pretty funny to picture a scenario like "The Shining" but with me descending into madness in about 48 hours. Hilarity ensues! Pretty funny until I started thinking about the movie a little too much and actually ended up spooking myself a little bit.

One night, a thunderstorm blew threw the area. I'd been upstairs watching SportCenter before heading to bed. When I made my way to my downstairs bedroom, I noticed that the door leading outside was standing open, the room felt like it was about 1000 degrees, and it was filled with insects. For a few minutes, I like I was in "Temple of Doom."

That night, I had one of the most disturbingly violent and bloody dreams I've ever had in my life. Seriously, it was like being in some freaky, freaky version of "The Shining." Instead of 'redrum' being painted on the doors, it was more like physics and chemistry formulas and such. Sounds a little funny but, trust me, the details I'm withholding make it really terrifying.

Mileage of the Devil
So, returning to Atlanta last night. My car started having some problems with temperature. I ended up getting off the highway before the car overheated entirely. As I'm pulling into the gas station, I noticed my trip odometer: 66.6. Freaky.

Pizza of the Devil
Luckily, my wife came to the rescue and met me at the gas station in Duluth. She arrived about 5 minutes before the tow truck showed up. After the car was loaded and sent on its way, we drove back into the city. As we were pretty hungry, we phoned in a take-out order from Savage Pizza and headed there. I paid and went outside with the wife and Dylan to pass some time. After about 15 minutes of waiting, they told us that some moron took our pizza by mistake. This occurred, evidently, while I stepped outside momentarily. Seems the ding-dong was in a non-stop conversation on his mobile, looked up when they said my name, and took the pizza. When I looked at my beer, guess what number was on it? The number: 420.

So...
Of course I'm stressed, why do you ask?

18 Day Countdown

MCAT in 18 days. Holy smokes, I'm suddenly very nervous. This weekend, I was back up in North Georgia to study. Last night, we came back to ATL so that I could do some volunteer work at Grady. Then, Tuesday, I return to the mountains to sequester myself and study.

The following pages say only "Oh crap! Oh crap! Oh crap!"

I'm starting to get my "freak out" on.

3 Nights at Fenway South

Tonight marked the final night of the inter-league play between the Braves and the Red Sox. Normally I pull for the Braves but, when the Sox are in town, I unabashedly root for them. Evidently, so do 90% of the attendees. Honestly, it's like being at a large, really nice Fenway without the monster or the obstructed views. Well, let's say the obstructed views aren't caused by columns being in your way but, rather, people who feel it's appropriate to stand up and chat during play. Here's my recap of the series:

Monday, Red Sox Lost 4 - 9
My wife and I took in the game from the visitor's section, midway between 3rd base and the left field wall. Unfortunately, the Sox lost this game. Schilling got shelled. Apart from the game, I was annoyed/amused by the Yankees fan in front of us and the d.b. right behind us (team allegiance unknown).

The Yankees fan was a real prima donna. Each time the stadium erupted with a "Let's go Red Sox" chant, he'd turn around and scowl at all the Sox fans surrounding him. Then, whenever the Braves made an excellent play, he'd stand up, turn around and gloat. I pointed out to him that he was dressed in full Yankees apparel. My point was that him acting so smug was a little misplaced as he had no obvious ties to the Braves organization. I loathe the Yankees fans who believe their team is God's gift to baseball and the world. By the end of the night, I'm two feet behind him and openly attempting to photograph him doing such idiotic things. Unfortunately, my photographic exploits were fruitless. I've only the following images.

Awesome Yankees fan!

The real winner might've been the gent behind us. In typical Atlanta fashion, he arrived a few innings late and proceeded to do the worst Matt Foley: Motivational Speaker impersonation I've ever heard. I might not be the best at it but I know when something is bad. Trust me, this cat was rotten. Then, he affects a Boston accent and uses "Green Monstah" in every sentence for the next half hour. Later, he and his buddies are talking about hockey and, in all seriousness, he says: "You know, my favorite hockey movie might be 'Slapshot.'" His buddies were oohhing and awwing at his insightfulness. ("Slapshot? " Really? You sure that any of the "Mighty Ducks" series aren't up there? How about "Mystery, Alaska?" Honestly, aren't there about 3 hockey movies? By the way, "The Cutting Edge" doesn't count as one of them.) Then, he pontificated about what a great movie "Caddyshack" is. Genius and timely, I thought.

Anywho, a fun night. Coco Crisp had an amazing night with 2 HR and a great attempt to catch a McCann homer. Too bad the Sox lost.

Tuesday, Red Sox Won 4 - 0
My buddy the Renegade joined me for this one. This time, everyone around us was pretty cool. Again, we were mostly surrounded by Sox fans. I sat next to an old leatherneck who was there with his wife and granddaughter. He was a chisel-faced old man with a stark-white crewcut. When I walked up and took my seat, he noticed my Red Sox cap, looked my square in the eyes, and shook his head in disappointment without ever speaking a word. He scared me.

Here's a nifty little game to play with your pals: Before first pitch at the ball game, predict the winners in the upcoming, goofy jumbo-tron distractions. You've three "games" to predict: the Napa Cap Shuffle, the Harrah's Cherokee Casino Pinball Game, and the Home Depot tool/paint race. I chose the middle cap, pinball #2, and the paintbrush/saw. None of my predictions stuck. The Renegade, however, went 3 for 3.

Beckett pitched a hell of a game and managed to squeeze in a hit off of Hudson. Coco Crisp had another fine game, making a fantastic diving catch to Rob Tim Hudson of a hit. (You probably saw it on ESPN.) Papi hit a homer and so on. It's nice (and a little humorous) to see Papi in the field, playing 1st base.

I love what this guy does.

Wednesday, Red Sox Won 11 - 0
Tonight, PJ2K7 and I hit the stadium for the final game. Again, there were hardly any Braves fans around us. Honestly, it was amazing to see such an outpouring of fan suport for a visiting team. In reality, it's probably much, much easier for Boston fans to score tickets in Atlanta than at Fenway.

PJ2k7 realizes he just ate too many free peanuts.
Uncle Jesse, on the other hand, thought we were spying on him for Boss Hog.

Anywho, we ended up getting free peanuts from the first concession stand we hit. Peej bought two beers and a bag of nuts. The two guys working looked at each other, did terrible math, and somehow ended up giving us a free bag of peanuts. We gladly took them. Hell, it's a seven dollar value.

The first two innings were amazing. The Sox almost batted through their order on poor Carlyle who attempted to pitch for the Bravos. In the first at-bat of the game, J.D. Drew took one out of the park. Later that inning, Coco went deep. Next inning, Papi drilled one. Later on, Manny went yard, followed later in the game by Hinske. Seriously, they put on a hitting clinic for the Braves. And, they played great defensive ball. I think the Braves had 5 hits on the entire evening. Good stuff.

Player of the Series?

Coco was en fuego for the last few games.

Retirement for Old Faithful?
At this year's series, I realized that it might be time to retire my favorite Red Sox cap that's been with me since January 1993. Together, we've been through a lot. For the past several years, it's gotten fragile to the point that I only brought her out for Red Sox games: a few at Fenway, many more here in Atlanta, and the playoffs. Last year, the adjustable strap had failed beyond repair, so I taped it with duct tape. This year, the duct tape kept failing, so I taped it, stapled it, and re-taped it. Although it pains me to say it, I think tonight might've been its last game at the park. All in all, I'm pretty sad about it. They just don't make 'em like that anymore. Where can I get it bronzed?

After 14 years, it might be time to retire my favorite cap.

I love baseball.

Volunteer Orientation at Grady is Efficient, Informative*

*By "Efficient, Informative," I mean an endless journey to the ninth circle of hell.

Monday, I returned from north Georgia to attend a orientation at Grady Memorial Hospital. Over the next few months, I'll be volunteering a few hours a week at ATL's trauma hotbed, the Grady ER. If anything, the orientation was a frustrating example of the inefficiency of our public health system.

The session was scheduled to begin at 4pm with no listed completion time. (Did you catch the subtle foreshadowing in the previous sentence?) I arrived a few minutes early and walked into a room packed with about 30 people. Some were sitting; about a third of us were standing because there were only about 20 chairs. At one end of a long conference table, a nurse administered TB skin tests. At the other end, a woman took photos for ID badges.

At first, I wondered if this was some sort of social experiment in which a bunch of people were cramped into a room and left to descend into chaos. Essentially, that's what it amounted to minus any scientific observation or the death of some fat kid with glasses. The volunteer coordinator was noticeably absent. There was no order to anything: no lines for photos or injections, no circulation of paperwork, no explanation for what we needed to be doing. We simply jockeyed for position, stared at one another, and laughed at it all. Occasionally, the volunteer coordinator's secretary popped into the room and looked around. Later, she announced that the orientation would take place in a "larger" room upstairs that could accommodate everyone. She instructed us to go upstairs when we finished with the photo and TB test.

At 5:15 pm, I made it upstairs and joined the masses. We sat there waiting for everyone to join. Again, nobody official was present to set any sort of expectation of when we'd even begin, much less finish. It was apparent that we were waiting on every person to arrive before starting. "Obviously, there is some really important information that we'll get if we're waiting for everyone to begin," I thought.

At 5:30, an hour and a half late, orientation started. Everyone received an information packet full of papers and protocols. Finally, the volunteer coordinator swept into the room and promptly began the orientation by bitching about how slow the nurse was, complaining about how this particular nurse would never be back at orientation, questioning the nurse's professionalism, and other rantings that demonstrated a glaring lack of professional decorum. After being delayed an hour and a half, I was thrilled to see her using everyone's time so wisely and respectfully. Honestly, it was a fantastic use of my afternoon. I listened intently from the edge of my seat, waiting on her next enlightening words!

Next, she reviewed the contents of our packets which contained mostly administrative info for those new to the hospital. (In retrospect, this portion of the orientation was the most informative and efficient.) Then, she read, verbatim, a two page checklist in our packet that we were apparently incapable of reading ourselves. She did, however, add tons of insight to it with comments like: "I don't know why those elevators are sooooo slow but they are. You should really be ready to wait and wait. You could take the stairs but not if you're going up to a really high floor. You wouldn't want to do that." My eyes welled with tears; I swallowed my tongue.

Next, we flipped though our packet to the hospital's policy regarding respectful treatment of its patients. In theory, we were to read this policy and sign it. Instead, we were treated to a 10 minute explanation of it. She performed a lively, dramatic reading of it, frequently pausing to embellish it with every scenario one could imagine! This is the hospital's policy toward patients:

Treat everyone respectfully. Even the poor people. Even the crazy people. Even the homeless people. Even the poor, crazy, homeless people.

(Now, try to turn it into a 10-minute song and dance number. Hard, huh?)

The crown jewel of the whole ordeal was her review of the following safety pamphlet:

Based on a 2-minute review, it's not too important.

In my opinion, this was perhaps the most critical thing in the whole damned packet. Time spent to review it: 2 minutes. These 120 high-powered seconds included a lackluster paraphrase of the entire brochure and the answers to the quiz we were required to complete, sign, and submit as part of our training.

She attempted to conclude the session by having everyone sign and submit their forms individually, so that she could make sure the handwriting was legible. I had none of it; I went around the room, collected everyone's forms, and gave them to her. This seemed to catch her off guard, as if nobody had ever given her a stack of papers.

So, to recap: an insanely elaborate explanation of "be nice to people" and a ten-second, oversimplification on how to avoid accidentally contracting a lethal infection. Correctly prioritized? You bet your ass it is. (Be sure to ask me again in a couple of weeks when I'm in Denver for treatment of the drug-resistant TB that I'll soon contract.)

That's just the way it goes at Grady, I guess. It's not like I shouldn't have expected things in the administration to be the same version of the bat-shit craziness that goes on in the ER. Hopefully, I won't have to sit through any more of this woman's presentations. If so, I'll definitely bring something I can use to stab myself which would get me to the ER where people are a little more sane.

Happy Fun Study Times Explosion!

This weekend, I'm at my in-laws' house in the north Georgia mountains. I came up this afternoon for weekend study retreat. I'm about a month away from the MCAT and getting increasingly anxious about it.

Anywho, I'll study hard this weekend before heading back to ATL on Monday. I have a volunteer orientation at Grady Hospital on Monday afternoon. A few hours later, I'm seeing the first game in the Red Sox @ Braves series. I've been waiting for these three games since opening day. Yippee!

On the subject of baseball , the following photo really makes me laugh. Click it to enlarge and just drink in everyone's expression. I'm alone here in this huge house, laughing hysterically at the people in the photo. Good stuff.

That's probably going to leave a mark.

Bob Barker is an Ass

Maybe knowing that Bob had taped his final TPIR show made be a little nostalgic. Maybe I thought I should actually heed his suggestion to "have your pets spayed or neutered." For whatever reason, we had Dylan neutered and I feel terrible about it. Rather than take responsibility and own my guilt, I place it squarely on the shoulders of Mr. Barker. Help control the pet population, my ass.

Earlier this week, my wife asked me if I'd mind taking Dylan to the appointment. As I recall it, the conversation went something like:

"Yeah, I mind. I don't want to do it; I feel like I'm selling him out. He's going to be pissed at me," I confided.

"But you agreed that we should have this done. Now, you're telling me we're not going to do it?," she asked.

"No, we should do it. You asked me if I wanted to take him and I don't. I don't want to do it but I will."

And from there, the balls were in motion. I made the appointment for Friday. As I hung up with the vet's office, my anxiety began and my guilt started to build. Whenever, I'd take a study break and look outside to check on Dylan, it just so happened that he'd be licking his figs. You don't even know what's about to happen, I thought. There's a storm on the horizon, my friend, a storm that's going to leave you with an empty coin purse.

He had no idea how this week would turn out.

Thursday night, I met the gang for our usual THAD (THursday Afternoon Drinking, an admitted misnomer) where we get together for a few beers and some nachos. Dr. S, our vet and a good friend, was there with her husband. I let her know that she be working on Dylan the next morning. We chatted about it for a while. She assured me that it was the right thing to do, that it wasn't that bad for Dylan, that the surgery didn't take that long, and so on. She really put me at ease. I asked about prosthetics balls; she laughed and waved me off. She did, however, tell me to go visit the Neuticles site. (You should too, it's good stuff.)

I remember, as a kid, watching the vet work some cows at our home. I specifically recall the crazy look in the cow's eyes as he stood in the headgate, as if he knew that no good would come out of the next few minutes. I was awed by how quickly the vet seemed to work. Seriously, it seemed like only a couple of minutes for the entire procedure: one swift incision, reaching for the testicles, tossing them onto the ground nearly out of the animal's sight. Then, to add insult to injury, our dog Sam would run up and feast on them. Recalling this memory, there is no way for me to think that it wouldn't be that bad for Dylan.

As we finished dinner and were leaving, Dr. S asked me if I wanted to keep Dylan's boys.

"Sure," I said, "why not? I'll put them on the mantle."

"Great. I'll put them in a little 'formyl' for you and you can take them with you."

"Sweet. As the very least, I can give them to PJ."

That night, I barely slept. What sleep I did get was fitful and restless. I woke at 5:15 am and went to the gym. Then, I came home and gave Dylan a bath. He needed to be at the vet's between 8:30 and 9:00. I put off getting in the car as long as I could. Normally, Dylan loves riding in the car. Today, however, he was as happy and excited as I've ever seen him. It crushed me.

At the vet's office, he rushed in, sniffed things out, and promptly peed on the wall. Everyone had a good chuckle about it. A few minutes later, the vet tech came to take him back. I patted him on the head, scratched him under the chin, and handed over his leash. As I watched him leave the room and the door slowly close behind him, I felt queasy. I turned to the woman next to me and said, "I am such a traitor." She smiled but didn't disagree.

Later that afternoon, I went to go get him. When the vet tech brought him to the waiting room, he was still high from the anesthesia. It was sad but a slightly amusing: his eyes were bloodshot and droopy; he was slow and clumsy. A minute or two later, Dr. S comes out and we chat about how the surgery went, what to watch for, how long the recovery should take and so on. Then, she excuses herself for a moment, and disappears into the back.

A moment later, Dr. S comes back with a clear plastic bag with two specimen jars in it. As she's walking out, a vet tech asks her what she's got. Without missing a beat, Dr. S in a very clear, loud voice announces to the entire waiting room, "They're Dylan's testicles. He's taking them home."

Dead silence fell over the room. Judging eyes fell on me. Dr. S laughs, gives me a big hug, and gives me the goods. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

Now, I'm in some strange version of Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart."

My Dog Just Doesn't Get Me

So, I'm coming up on almost a month since classes have been over. This is about two weeks since I've been fully relaxed and feeling OK again. I realize that I'm missing the human interaction that I took for granted when I was on campus. Usually, I'm here at the house in the office trying to study and keep occupied.

When I make some funny, self-deprecating comment about how I just don't get something, Dylan raises his head, stares at me for a second, grunts, lays back down, and goes back to sleep. I feel like he's just not really giving me the respect I deserve.

I gotta get out more.