The Shadow!

Today, I've shadowed a DO resident at a hospital near my hometown. Essentially, shadowing means that you follow a doctor around all day, watching everything, trying to soak up everything, and convincing residents that, yes, you've really thought it through and, of course, you want to go to medical school.

Without going into too much detail, I'll just make a quick list of the highlights of the things I witnessed today: a rectal exam (yep, the ol' finger poke), an NG tube being shoved into someone's stomach via the nose, and some poor guy who's balls had swollen to the size of a grapefruit.

Super awesome!

Tomorrow, I follow a different doc around. More later.

So Long Baseball, Old Pal

See you next spring.

Your Business Card Isn't As Impressive

An old camp counselor buddy who now works for the Atlanta Police Department dropped by the house the other day. I knew it was him from the way he knocked on the door: a loud, authoritative pounding. It was the opposite of a Jehovah's Witness knock; honestly, they could learn a thing or two from the APD.

Anywho, he left me with his business card. When I looked at it, I immediately felt that no matter what I did, my card would never be as badass as his.

His card has the elements of every kick-ass action movie.

Mine might say "Man of Leisure" or something but nothing nearly as cool as having the combination of S.W.A.T., Bomb Tech, or freaking Rappel Master.

Action Figures

The other night, I dreamed that I was in a store full of old toys and discovered the old Star Wars action figures from my youth. When I started playing with them, I realized that they actually had "The Force" in them. I could make the action figures actually levitate things or convince others that these were not the droids they were looking for.

I was pretty impressed until someone told me that the action figures were made from injection-molded Mitichlorians. Damn you, George Lucas, damn you.

What I Did on My Vacation, Part 3

For the final portion of our vacation, we returned to San Francisco for a birthday celebration for our friend Smitty. The cornerstone of her celebration was a visit to several vineyards in Napa.

Smithwicks for Smitty
Thursday evening when everyone arrived, we headed out for some drinks. What innocently began as an evening of Smithwicks Irish Ale, ended as a high octane evening. When my friend, Soulsby (a.k.a. Martin Van Buren due to the mutton chops he was starting), started ordering "Jack & Cokes," I took it as a sign that I should follow suit. After all, I'd not seen him in a few years and we were having a good time catching up. For the record, I rarely drink liquor these days; if I do, it's often a clear variety. Also, I've been caffeine-free for almost two years now. So, it should be stated for the record that bourbon and Coke makes me crazy or, if you prefer, crazier.

Van Buren, Bad Joe, and J3K

The evening ended in the hotel suite with my surprise homage to the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Winning Run had gotten ready for bed and I decided to walk into J3K and Bad Joe's*** room wearing three socks. After standing there watching TV with them for what seemed to me like a minute, they both looked over and recoiled in horror. I laughed like a child and immediately went to bed and fell asleep. Winning Run has never been more sure of the correctness of her decision to marry me; she was so proud. By "proud," I mean "shaking her head with soul-crushing disappointment." The next day, the I received a petition letter from J3K and Bad Joe to avoid future "sock" visits to their room. I told them I'd do my best to honor their wishes but I just couldn't promise anything for sure. (And that my friends, is how the legend of "Two on the Feet, One on the Meat" was born.) I am a man-child. Seriously, though, it was really funny.

***For the record, Bad Joe is not "bad" but one of the best guys out there.

California Academy of Sciences and Sausalito
The next morning, we began with an awesome breakfast at Sears Fine Food before heading off. Several of us headed over to the newly opened California Academy of Sciences, a kick-ass Renzo Piano building, complete with 2.5 acres of living roof. In a few short hours, we got our "learn" on. It is a fantastic building and a great museum.

A dome on the living roof with skylights.

J3K surveying the wildlife in the gift shop.

Later, we caught the ferry to meet up with the gang in Sausalito. Shortly after arriving, we three guys realized that we'd been duped into a shopping trip. We had a nice pizza lunch in a fly-infested pizzeria overlooking the bay before heading back to the city without buying anything.

Wine Country
On Saturday, a limo picked eight of us up from our hotel and took us to several vineyards. En route, J3K and Bad Joe had assembled a mobile football viewing station so they could watch their alma mater's football game. If you've never been to a winery, here's the skinny: you head into their tasting room, pay a nominal feel ($10 - $35, depending on the vintner), and receive a taste of several of their wines. Also, depending on the winery, you might have to deflect a ton of pretension and douche-baggery.

Buena Visa Carneros
Our first vineyard was Buena Vista. Their tasting was seven wines moving from a Pinot Gris to a Merlot. (Note that we didn't get a full glass but probably about maximum of 2 oz. per taste.) Their white wines were fantastic. Winning Run, who generally doesn't care for whites, suggested that we get a couple of bottles. We did. On leaving the vineyard, we scarfed some breadsticks, cheese, and salami in the back of the limo. Coincidentally, many people commented that they were feeling a little loopy.

The snack of champions: breadstick and Havarti.

Silver Oak
Our next stop was Silver Oak. These wines are fantastic and expensive. The gent at the main bar in the tasting room was a little "stuffy," so we migrated over to a smaller bar with a cooler cat.

Silver Oak for Smitty!

By the end of the tasting, everyone was pretty well lit. J3K and I decided to reenact "The Lady and the Tramp" spaghetti scene with a complementary bread stick from the bar. (Yep, leave it to us to class up a joint.) Furthermore, we developed a hand signal to let everyone in the group know that we'd turned a corner, "The Fun Corner." The signal: three fingers extended and placed on your left shoulder. That way, if someone (me?) in the group began to get belligerent, one could just show the "three on the left" and, immediately, any potential situation would be diffused. On returning to the limo, we decided to open another roadie (a bottle of Cabernet) to tide us over to the next vineyard.

We've turned the Fun Corner. Three on the left.

Franciscan
The third stop was the Franciscan winery. At this place, we had a fantastic time and continued our descent into chaos. Winning Run continued to gather flowers for her straw hat and become more opinionated and vocal about the wines she tried.

Winning Run discussing a particular vintage she tasted.

After unsuccessfully trying to get service by a major-league a-hole on one side of the bar, we went to the back of the tasting room and found Fred, a cool California hippie-type. Fred took care of us as we did a tasting of some incredible reds. Due to less than rational thought-processes, J3K and I decided to buy several bottles.

When Hippie Fred gave us the price list, J3K looked at me and exclaimed, "We can't afford this, we're paupers!"

"Not today," I replied, draining the last of my Cabernet. "Not today."

Because we bought so much wine, Hippie Fred gave us a few complimentary tastings of port which we obviously needed. As we were heading out, J3K thanked Hippie Fred for his help and congratulated him on "not being a douchebag like his co-worker on the other side of the bar." Hippie Fred looked a little puzzled but uttered "Thank You" in such a way that it sounded as much of a question as it did an affirmation. Then, it was back to the limo for more food and another roadie.

St. Supery
St. Supery was heralded by Tom, our driver, as a very nice winery. After what seemed like an eternity to physically exit the limo, I made my way into the tasting room and joined the gang. It was during this tasting that Winning Run shared that she enjoyed the previous wines a little more and that, although she appreciated these, she didn't feel that we should buy any of them. Thinking back on it, she said something like "This stuff is terrible. We're not getting any of this; it's piss." My tasting didn't leave me with nearly the same impression. I thought the wines were good but preferred the offerings from the earlier vineyards.

During my second taste, J3K managed to pour his glass of red wine all over the bar and menu. I think that I managed to yell something like "A little club soda will take that right out!" He felt pretty bad about it but managed to suck it up and continue with the tasting. He and Smitty got involved in a conversation while Bad Joe, Miller, a tasting room employee, and I looked at a book about the dogs of wine country.

In the tasting room at St. Supery.

Domaine Chandon
Our final stop was the famous Chandon winery. We ducked in for some sparkling wines and some heavy-duty douchery.

Tilted due to pretentious asses but still pretty.

Evidently, all the pretentious asses migrated to this particular location. Winning Run surveyed the scene for about 30 seconds before announcing that she'd wait for us in the limo. We gave her the "three on the left" sign of approval.

After walking in and bellying up to the bar, I thought about how Chandon is so frequently name-dropped in hip-hop and rap songs and wondered how this place would react if Snoop Dogg walked through the doors. Brushing aside my thought, I managed to order a tasting of sparkling wines and a half dozen raw oysters to complement them. Bad Joe, Smitty, and I repeatedly offered J3K money to eat a raw oyster. At the end of our bidding war, he would've made $600 for eating six of them. For us, it seemed a safe bet that he wouldn't do it as he's terribly allergic to shellfish. For a brief moment, it seemed like he was really considering it.

Hungry Like the Wolf
(but not for raw oysters)

After leaving Chandon, we climbed in the limo, uncorked another roadie and began the drive back to San Francisco for our dinner reservations. At one point during the ride, J3K threw a giant chocolate bar as hard as he could from one end of the limo to the other, missing the six other riders, and hitting me squarely in the figs. When imbibing, his throws are deadly accurate. It was definitely not a "three on the left" sort of move.

Tom, the Limo Driver, and Smitty, the Birthday Girl
(Not pictured: Joe, the Plumber)

Trattoria Contadina
For dinner, Bad Joe made reservations as this great Italian place. We managed to get there, head upstairs, have even more wine, and incredible meals. After dinner, Smitty, Bad Joe, and I hopped a trolley back toward the hotel. Thank goodness those things move slowly because I was hanging off of it the entire ride. It was pretty damned cool.

The San Francisco Treat!

The next day, I had the wine hangover that I'd been expecting, only worse. Evidently, the body does not appreciate drinking wine and eating rich foods all day. It let me know. Message received, loud and clear.

Photos from wine country and the weekend in SF.
(Click photo for a larger view.)

What I Did on My Vacation, Part 2

When you're in the middle of a bunch of giant redwoods, you hear absolutely nothing. An overwhelming silence surrounds you. Everything is dimly lit and muted. It's peaceful but a little unnerving. You sort of half expect to be attached by a velociraptor, or swept up by Treebeard at any moment.

During our hike, the wind hit the top of the trees. All I can say is that our mouths dropped open and we turned to gaze to the tree tops. Honestly, the trees serenaded us with a song that sounded like that of a blue whale. We listened for a while before we decided to move on in the event that something fell.

The Lost Coast
After leaving the redwoods, we headed about 30 miles east to an area known as The Lost Coast. Several years back, I did a multi-day hike there with KDawg, Blackass, and Griffer. The scenery was fantastic: miles of protected, undeveloped coastline with rugged mountains almost meeting the ocean. Although we didn't have the time to really stay and explore like I wanted to do, I wanted Winning Run to at least glimpse it. You know, plant the seed for a return trip and all.

Last time I was there, I got a great photo. This time, I took another one that I love.

Starfish from my first trip.

Hike-in surfing from the recent visit.

It's a place that you should visit at some point during your life. It's awesome.

Photos from The Lost Coast.
(Click a photo for a larger view.)

A Visit with C-Dub and Family
We spent Wednesday night with one of my old roommates and his family. He and his wife just had their third child! All of them are super cute and outgoing. On arriving, his son put on an airshow with his favorite camo jet that coincided with the first 10 minutes of "Top Gun." It was awesome. That night, we dined on fare from The Dutch Goose. The next day, we tromped around "The Dish" at Stanford which, I suspect, was on top of part of the linear accellerator.
We had a fantastic visit. It was great to see C-Dub, C, and the kids.

Photos of the kids.
(Click photo for a larger view.)

A review of our wine country antics to come.

What I Did On My Vacation, Part 1

On the 11 OCT, Winning Run and I flew out to San Francisco a week in advance of a close friend's birthday celebration. We took the extra time to visit a few friends, get to the northern part of the state for some great hikes, and take some R&R.

Driving across the Golden Gate, heading north from San Francisco.

Fleet Week in San Francisco
On arriving Saturday morning, we met up with your friend Eric (a.k.a. Blackass) and his wife, G, at their place in the city, near the Ferry Building. As we were pretty beat that night, we went out for a bite to eat and ended up just hanging out with them, catching up, and watching the Red Sox game. The next morning, we had fantastic Dim Sum nearby and then drove to Tiburon, caught the ferry to Angel Island State Park, hiked to the top, and watched the Blue Angels Air Show over the bay.

One of the views of San Francisco Bay on the way to the top of Angel Island.

View of S.F. with Alcatraz in the foreground.
The jet has just flown out of the top right of the frame.

The jets screamed into view from our left, taking everyone by surprise.

It was pretty cool. Later that night, a wildfire hit the island and scorched over 350 acres, included the area from where we watched the airshow. Guess we were pretty lucky to have made it off the island before anything started. Anyway, we considered it a close call.

That evening, we drove up Hwy 1, through the Muir Woods.

An overlook at Muir Beach.

As darkness fell, Winning Run got ridiculously freaked out by the hairpin turns of the coastal highway which prompted us to bolt for the freeway and head north.

Photos from Angel Island and Muir Beach Overlook.
(Click the photos for a larger view.)

The Giant Redwoods of Humboldt County
For our redwood portion of the trip, we decided to make Garberville our base for hiking and driving through the groves of giant trees. We did an 8-mile hike through an old growth redwood forest. Holy crap, did we feel small. Honestly, there was nothing in there except for these giant trees and tiny, tiny us. The problem with our photos is that, although they show beautiful trees, they do not present the scale or depth of field in a way to accurately show how damned big these things were. Anywho, hopefully the following photos help out a little:

Winning Run inside a "goose pen," a hollow area in the base of a tree.

Me inside the base of a fallen tree.

At the base of a large tree that was at least 300 feet tall.

A forest full of trees that were that big!

Garberville seemed to be a quaint little mountain town with more than its fair share of dirty, unshowered hippie drifters. In fact, one could sense the "subtle" antagonism between the locals and the drifters by simply looking around a little.

These days, I'm with them on the patchouli oil.

Photos from Humboldt Redwoods State Park
(Click the photos for a larger view.)

More to come on the trip.

West Coast Vacation

So, Winning Run and I are just getting back from a West Coast vacation. I'll recap our visit with friends and our jaunt from San Francisco up to the Humboldt County area and back for a descent into Napa/Sonoma wine country. I'm getting photos uploaded and will post more about the trip very soon.

Chicken Little and The Barry Bonds Incident

After my last post regarding my chin's affinity for softballs, a good friend reminded me that I have a clearly defined history of saying exactly the wrong thing at precisely the wrong time. So, I thought I'd share this thoroughly embarrassing gem from my past***. Readers, I give you "The Barry Bonds Incident."

***It is important to note that at the time of the incident, Barry Bonds was pursuing the single-season home run record. In those heady days, he was considered one of baseball's premier assholes but was neither the poster child for baseball's steroid era or the ruination of the sport.

The Barry Bonds Incident
At the dawn of this millennium, I was working for a start-up software company. My job was to design and develop a training curriculum to teach our customers how to use and administer our software. Glamorous stuff, I know. It was a fun job; I met a lot of people and had a blast teaching classes. Frequently, I'd teach a multi-day system administrator class. Often, class participants would be a mix of our customers and our newly hired employees who would eventually be helping our customers to configure and administer the software.

Generally, the system admin class was uneventful. I taught people about the structure of the database, the nature of what could be configured in the software, and provided some examples of how to quickly customize the software. Then, we'd do a ton of exercises that let class participants make the changes. As an instructor, I quickly noticed that participants could be categorized based on their behavior in class.

• One type of person, for example, would always be about 15 pages ahead in the text, doing their own thing, rarely listening or contributing to any group discussion.
• Another type vocally asked questions or declared answers in an attempt to paint themselves as the "most knowledgeable" in the room. Mostly, they were not.
• Another type was the ideal class participant: attentive, responsive, polite, and intelligent. On the whole, most participants fell into this group.
• Perhaps the worst participant type, however, was "The Chicken Little." Often, this person was a customer who had a deer-in-the-headlights expression that was a mix of genuine surprise and barely suppressed terror. Frequently, Chicken Little had been randomly selected to configure or administer the software, a set of tasks that might've been far above their skill level.
  

During one class, I'd spent a great deal of time with a Chicken Little from one of our new and prominent customers: a small-framed lady with a Noriega face and glasses. With each topic I introduced, I felt like I had to talk her down off the ledge because everything I said seemed to drive her toward jumping. I was in a bizarre juggling act of roles: part instructor, part sedative, part self-esteem coach. Honestly, the subject matter could be overwhelming but, at the very least, it was logical and well-documented. If you didn't understand everything discussed in the class, you had a great text to guide you through it. If you could read, you could get it done.

After a couple of days of teaching, I grew tired of seeing the horrified expression on her face with each new topic I introduced. The other participants seemed to be getting everything just fine. They'd ask appropriate questions and would trust that it would make sense (eventually) and that they would master it. This was absolutely not the case with Chicken Little.

Near the end of the course, I introduced a complex concept. The reality of it was that our administrator software greatly simplified the tasks required to implement such a concept into the software. So, the "a-ha" moment of this section was set to be when people understood the complexity of the concept and how that complexity was greatly reduced by our software tool. Well, wouldn't you know it? This was lost on my favorite student. So, I decided to use a little metaphor.

As the class had been chatting about baseball during one of the breaks, I decided that I'd use a baseball reference to highlight the value of our software. Mentally, I formulated my approach: If you were in the Major Leagues, hitting a home run would be pretty tough. This would be the equivalent of life without our administrator software tool. Using our software, however, would be like putting a ball on a tee and having Barry Bonds take a whack at it; it makes hitting a homer very easy. So, I ran through my checklist. Highlight the difficulty without? Check. Use metaphor for how easy it is with? Check. Get a little laugh from everyone? Check.

Time to go to work.

With this in mind, I began to speak. Everything was going pretty well, I thought, until I heard myself say: "It's like putting a ball on a tee and having Barry Bonds whack off on it."

As those words tumbled from my lips out into the ether, I immediately felt the rush of the air being sucked from the room as everyone there gasped. In slow-motion, I saw people staring at me, open-mouthed in disbelief at what they heard. Others were starting their guffaws, tears beginning to stream down their faces. My gaze fixed on Chicken Little: the light in the room danced on her pock-marked cheeks, glinted off her glasses. She became rigid in her seat; her mouth contorted as her face twisted into a confused expression.

"Actually, it's nothing like that. Not at all like that," I immediately said, trying to wipe away the image that I'd just created for everyone. "If a ball was on a tee and he took a whack at it. That's what I meant. The other thing is completely different."

"Why are you looking at me?," Chicken Little implored as if I was in the midst of some freaky fetish fantasy. "Why are you looking at me when you say that?"

After that exchange, the details get a little fuzzy. I do remember that I abruptly concluded class and went to tell my boss, Larry, why I'd be fired in the very near future. To this day, I can't look at Barry Bonds without blushing.

Of Course, I Mean Softballs

Sunday, in the aftermath of K's bachelor party, I played softball with my neighborhood team. I knew that playing while running on only a few hours of sleep wasn't a good idea, I owed it to the team to be there to give them my support.

Boy, I was wrong. How was I wrong? Let me count the ways from The Scholar's E6 Spectacular:

• Overthrew 1B on a routine play.
• Underthrew 1B on a routine play.
  
• Overthrew 3B on a routine play.
• Made an amazing over-the-shoulder catch while running toward LF, promptly turned and overthrew 2B.
• Bounced hard-hit grounder off of my arm.
• Bounced hard-hit grounder off of my hip.

The best inept play of the day, came on a sharply hit grounder to my side of second base. I shuffled a few steps to my left toward the bag and bent to field the ball. It takes a nasty, nasty hop and pops me squarely in the chin as it rolls up my face, knocking off my hat and glasses, and standing me straight up. Everyone at the field made a wincing noise. Hell, even the base-runners stopped running. I felt something dripping from my chin and looked over at the second baseman to ask if I was bleeding. When she said that I wasn't, it just pissed me off a little more. Hell, I at least needed a little injury to the insult, you know?

When we got back to the dugout, everyone was asking if I was okay and checking on me.

"I'm fine," I confided. "Just a little pissed off at how I'm playing."

"Don't worry about it," one friend told me. "We can tell you're not your normal self out there today."

"Guess not," I said. "Seems like I'm getting tons of bad hops and just not playing well. Damn, it's like my chin is a magnet for balls."

As soon as the last phrase left my mouth, I kid you not, several heads whipped around to look at me, mouths agape, grins spreading across their faces.

"Softballs. I'm talking about softballs."

The important life lesson: don't perform activities requiring coordination if severely sleep-deprived. Also, do not speak in front of a group of people.

I'm Pretty Sure We Partied, I Really Don't Remember

Last weekend was the bachelor party for my friend, K. It was, all things considered, a great success for a four-day event that took place nearly a year before his wedding will occur. Here's a brief recap:

THURSDAY
K and a handful of guys fly in from various places around the country. Winning Run and I host a cookout at our place for the guys, some old 4-H counselor friends, and a few of K's med-school classmates still here in Atlanta. We fired up the grill to cook some brats and burgers, cracked open some cold beverages, and caught up with one another. At one point in the evening, there were as many kids under age 7 as there were adults. As the party wound down, we cleaned up and headed inside to watch USC being dismantled by the Beavers. Bedtime: 3:30 a.m.

FRIDAY
The majority of the 20 guys arrived later in the afternoon. A few of us grabbed lunch together. Prior to returning home to take a much needed nap, I dropped K and company off at the Emory campus so they could meet up with K's brother and play flag football against some law students. A few hours later, I was roused from my nap by a phone call telling me that K was in the E.R. with a dislocated shoulder from the two-hand touch football game. He'd be late for dinner and would be hopped up on morphine until around midnight. Those of us who weren't football casualties met for an amazing dinner at Rathbun's in Innman Park; K joined us a little later. After dinner, we headed to Virginia Highlands for a drink or two in one of our old watering holes. It was purely nostalgia and lasted about twenty minutes; we're far too old to be in a ridiculously crowded, noisy bar. So, we decided to sneak away for a quiet glass of wine to discuss our book club selection, "The Choice" by Nicolas Sparks, author of "The Notebook." After that, we headed over to Wired and Fired to paint some pottery. We ended the evening with an impromptu chess tournament prior to heading out to breakfast at the Metro Cafe downtown.

As a social experiment, I took all the Strawberry Jam from our table after paying our tab and tried to give random strangers a packet of free jam. In the elevator up to the hotel room, I tried to offer Suge Knight's twin the opportunity to buy a packet of jam for a dollar. When he declined, I upped the offer to two packets of jam. Then, three packets of jam. Finally, five packets of jam. Luckily, Suge thought this was funny but still declined an incredible offer. My experiment results show that people are generally wary of anyone offering them jam in the wee hours of the morning.

Bedtime: 5:30a.m.

SATURDAY
I chartered a bus to pick everyone up at the hotel and drive us to UGA for a day of tailgating at Crazy Greg's famous annual tailgate. We caught up with a bunch of our old camp counselor buddies and introduced the bachelor party to the unique rituals of SEC football. There were a few early casualties (as the following photos attest) and some that bit it hard on the bus ride back to Atlanta. In all, it was a great day with a few guys playing cornhole (a.k.a. beanbag toss) with some strangers and dominating them after the strangers wanted to play for $20 per point. One member of the party went AWOL at game time and wasn't found until moments before the bus was pulling out; turns out he went somewhere and took a nap for several hours.

Oh, we went to the game. K got everyone tickets...in the Alabama section. (Boo!) In retrospect, we could've picked a better game to see as UGA was destroyed during the first half. Again, boo. Nothing like sitting among a bunch of annoying fans. We grew so tired of having to explain how to count higher than "10." What we wouldn't have given for a simple arithmetic textbook!

The following photos are from the game.

Bedtime: 3:30 a.m.

SUNDAY
Although I wasn't really hungover on Sunday morning, the cumulative effects of having drinks and staying up really late for three straight night left me feeling run-down and ill. In fact, I'm still feeling like I'm on the cusp of coming down with a flu or something a few days later. Trust me, I was one of the lucky ones who felt great on Sunday. Others didn't fare so lucky. For example, if you took a nap at the tailgate and had random shit stacked on you without your knowledge, chances are that you'd feel pretty rotten the next day.

Looking forward to living clean and going to sleep early for the next year.

Don't Bullsh*t Me

This morning, Winning Run was pretty sore from last night's car accident. Honestly, we figured that would probably be the case. So, we'd made plans for her to get in to see the doctor just to be sure that her wrist was okay and there was no greater damage than cosmetic.

I went to walk Dylan and left her to make the calls to set up the appointment. During my walk, I get a call from Winning Run who was terribly upset because the doctor's office had told her that "auto accidents" aren't covered by insurance and that she'd have to pay out-of-pocket for any office visit.

"What?," I asked in disbelief.

"We'll have to pay for it. They said 'it's not covered.' Why are we paying so much if they won't cover an auto accident?," my wife said, fighting back tears.

"That's bullshit. If you fell down, they'd cover it. I don't understand how the cause of the injury makes any difference."

We ended our conversation and I headed back home. I was fuming. Seriously, was her doctor's office refusing treatment because she'd been in an auto accident? Were they just trying to distance themselves from the litigiousness that accompanies accidents? What the hell?

By the time, I got home I was effing pissed off and looking for someone's head on a platter. So, Winning Run kindly gave me the number to the doctor's office and I called for a little chat. First, I spoke with the receptionist.

"Hi. My wife called a little while ago to make an appointment to be see for some minor injuries as a result of an accident last night. You guys told her that you wouldn't see her or that it wasn't covered?"

"I remember, I...," the receptionist began.

"You can tell her it's not covered without ever asking her name or what insurance we have or knowing any other details?," I interrupted.

The poor receptionist tried to fumble through an explanation of their office billing policies. I cut to the chase and got the office manager, Sue, on the phone. In an asinine explanation attempt, Sue said that the office never "declined service" to my wife. They had offered to see her but we'd have to pay for the service ourselves because "insurance" doesn't cover it.

"You're telling me that insurance doesn't cover someone who's been in an auto accident?," I asked incredulously.

"That's right," sayeth the dumb ass.

"What if my wife fell down the steps last night and wanted to come it to see you guys today? Would you see her for that?"

"We'd call 911 and send you to the emergency room."

"For a scrape and a wrist sprain?," I asked.

"Absolutely," she confirmed.

"Ma'am, the paramedics saw her last night and everything was fine. This morning, she's sore and we'd like to get it checked out. You're telling me that insurance doesn't cover it?"

"You'd have to go the ER."

"I'm pretty sure that the insurance company would prefer that we see our PCP instead of going for an expensive ER visit."

"Sir, there is a law that says that insurance doesn't cover auto accidents."

"A law? You're telling me that there is a legislative mandate that prevents coverage? It's not a personal decision by your office but a law?"

"Yes. We share all required information with the insurance companies about visits relating to auto accidents but the visit isn't covered."

This went on for a while and I heard most every explanation under the sun to explain why the "system" prevents insured patients involved in car accidents from being covered for an office visit.

Here's the best/worst part: It's all horseshit. There is no law that prevents anything of the sort. I phoned the insurance company and spoke with them. The guy was pretty surprised that they wouldn't see her***. After confirming with him and his supervisor that there is no law to prevent them from taking insurance for visits relating to auto accident, I ask to formally note a complaint about it. So, he decided to get the office manager on the phone. I wasn't privy to the call but, after being on hold for a while, he returned to share the details of the conversation. Turns out, old dumb-ass Sue was pretty shocked that the insurance company would call and ask her about the issue so quickly. Evidently, she adamantly denied that she'd ever mentioned anything about a law preventing them from billing patients involved in car accidents. It was clear to the guy that she was backpedaling.

Whatever. If you don't want to deal with the hassle of it, don't. Don't feed me a bunch of lines about it being some law's fault. At the very least, buck up and take responsibility. Level with me, don't bullshit me.

*** I know that, by the letter of the law, the doctor didn't refuse to see her. The reality of it, though, seems to be that if you decline to accept insurance coverage for an exam or treatment, you are effectively denying to see someone by forcing patients to opt out of treatment due to the prohibitive cost. (Isn't that why we have insurance?) That, my friends, is infuriating.

Think You Might Have Better Luck?
If anyone out there has been in an auto accident or is purely interested in gathering information, I would not recommend that you call 404.255.5774 and try to book an appointment that is covered by insurance. I would also not recommend that you have a long discussion with Sue regarding the reasons patients must pay out-of-pocket for these visits. Finally, I strongly advise against anyone trying to get their friends to do this at least once or twice a week; I'm pretty sure there are laws against it.

Last Flight of the Red Baron?

Last night, my wife, a.k.a. "Winning Run," was in a car accident. Seems that someone wanted their car to occupy the same physical space as her car at the same time. Trust me, it doesn't work that well. She and Dylan were shaken up but, otherwise, no worse for the wear. Winning Run has the normal cuts and bruises that you'd see as a result of the violent deployment of an airbag and the restraint of a seat belt but that's about it. Dylan was thrown around a little but is his usual playful self this morning.

The great new is that after we put a good amount of money into fixing the air conditioner, the insurance company may simply decide to total the car. So, because some jackass doesn't look (or presumably signal) before leaping, we'll get to rid ourselves of the pain of not having a car payment and, most likely, receive a check for less than the value of our car! Sweet.

Never good when your hood has a "gangsta lean."

When in gear, the car won't go.
Instead, smoke billows from the engine.
Is that bad?

You can't see the floor but these were "hairbags."
Drivers are left bruised and itchy.

The important thing is that Winning Run and Dylan are unharmed.

That Old Familiar Feeling

So, I left a pound of flesh on the field at tonight's East Atlanta Pillage game. When at risk of being tagged out at second base, I decided (against my better judgement) to slide into the bag. I was safe. Unfortunately, we still lost the damned game.

On the bright side, I didn't get an ass-berry.

Cool points earned for a blood leg wound: +1000

Killa McD

Last Sunday, my sister-in-law had a baby. When my wife returned from a business trip, we drove up to Spartanburg to visit the newbie and his parents. FYI: I love the shell-shocked look worn by brand-new parents in the immediate chaos and ectasy of realizing that they are completely responsible for a brand new person, a blank slate, a life they created.

I'm not so naive that I think it won't happen to me; I'm fully aware that, one day, I'll have the same damned countenance on my ugly mug.

Here are a few photos of the new little man.

Killa McD

Killa practicing the gang signs of the Spartanburg Cribs.

Barely a week old and he's already mastered sing-alongs.

Welcome to the world, kiddo.

Fishing While Kayaking is Tough

Over the weekend, I migrated 30 miles south of the city to meet my pal, Randy, for some good old fishing. We dined on a Waffle House breakfast at 6am and them made our way over to the water. He provided me with a sit-on-top kayak and all the fishing gear I could possibly need. Immediately, an image popped into my head: me paddling under low-hanging branches with a gaudy fishing lure lodged in my cheek. I opted for the most basic reel that he had; it made the Snoopy Rod from my youth seem like an advanced contraption. I couldn't be too careful, you know?

We paddled for most of the morning, casting up and down the banks. Randy, the sage that he is, would give me the go-ahead to cast in the virgin water and point out exactly where I should put the lure and how I should bring it back. Hopefully, I didn't disappoint him with my poor casting and overall withered fishing skill. Honestly, it was fun just to get out and paddle. At one point, I was sure that we'd be ambushed by a heretofore unknown cannibal tribe. Hell, we'd paddled so far back into the wilderness, I was sure that we'd been sent to terminate Colonel Kurtz' command.

The boats that took us into the jungle: the Wilderness and the Cobra.

At the end of the day, I was pretty wiped out. I had managed to catch two trees, two submerged branches, and the crotch area of my pants. I did, however, make it out alive with all my digits and my ability to see. I considered it a victory.

Randy pulling boats out of the water.
I was busy making an ibuprofen sandwich.

Bigfoot Lives!

Last weekend, I spent the weekend in the north Georgia mountains with the "guys." My buddy Scott's son turned 13 and, to celebrate, Scott put together a hiking trip. We stayed in the cottages at Vogel State Park and hiked part of the Appalachian Trail toward Neels Gap.

On returning from the hike, we stumbled across an actual Sasquatch. The following photos are the definitive proof.

First sighting, note the lazy swing of the arms and crouched stance.

Evidently, the Bigfoot is into philosophy and jam bands.

Dogs were wary of the Sasquatch.

Naturally, we managed to shoot the thing and pack it in a fishing cooler full of ice. Soon, an independent team of scientists will authenticate it. I can't wait for the tons of money we're going to make!

Pour a Little Out for the Snowman

R.I.P. - Jerry Reed

On my drive home from the grocery a short while ago, I received a call from Dr. James Three Thousand.

"You got your black armband on?," he asked.

"What? Who died?," I asked.

"Jerry Reed," he confessed.

"Damn."

"Yeah. Guess the chances of him appearing in our remake of 'Smokey and the Bandit' are pretty slim."

"Guess so," I said.

"Pour some out for The Snowman," the good doctor advised.

"I will," I promised. "Why the hell couldn't it have been Winehouse?"

"Don't know, brother," he consoled.

As I sit here, banging this out on my laptop, listening to a compilation of Jerry Reed tunes, I'm reminded of the time a bunch of us saw him in concert a few years ago at the Georgia Mountain Festival. The concert was mediocre. Actually, it might've been okay but there was no way in hell that it would live up to our expectations; the only way we would've been satisfied was if it had been performed from a black '77 Trans-Am by a 1977 Jerry Reed AND Burt Reynolds. To his credit, Jerry didn't seem to be mailing it in; he gave it his all.

Unfortunately, during the show, a buddy thought it was a good idea to come out of the closet to Dr. J3K. (Really? In the middle of a Jerry Reed concert at a country fair in the north Georgia mountains? That's like 3/4 of the way toward a hate-crime.) Being that this buddy was married at the time, J3K thought it was a big, ill-timed joke. When he learned that it was, in fact, the truth, J3K's face had the most confused, stunned look that I've seen. Shortly thereafter, we all left and drank many beers.

And that, readers, is my favorite Jerry Reed concert story.

Sure Shot

We're at my wife's family's place in the north Georgia mountains for the holiday weekend. It's a fantastic, peaceful place. Generally, me and The Duke (our affectionate nickname for my father-in-law) are the early risers of the bunch. Often, we'll meet on the deck with coffee to watch the end of the sunrise and survey the valley as it greets the day.

This morning, I went with him for a ride to the back 40 to check out a tree that had fallen on a fence. Of course, Dylan went with us. It would be a great way for Dylan to get some exercise, chase some squirrels through the forest, and, perhaps, to secretly feast on a buffet of fresh cow shit.

After a long ride on "The Toad," we headed back to the house. Dylan, of course, led the charge on the trails, running full-speed ahead of us. On one particular stretch, he disappeared from view. As we rounded the corner, however, what we saw twenty yards ahead caused us to screech to a halt. For the next few moments, everything happened in slow motion. "Nooooooooooo!," I yelled. (For added effect, imagine this in the deep, slow-mo voice for added effect.) "Dyyyylllllaaaaannnnnnnn, commmmmme heeeeerrrrrrreeeee. Nowwwwwww."

The poop shoot.

As a pet owner, it's never a great thing to see your dog running full-speed, heading nose first into the ass end of a pissed-off skunk. We watch the dog stop, turn around and look at us. Meanwhile, the skunk quickly made its way into the woods; its hindquarters pointed squarely at the dog, its tail constantly jerking up into the air, spraying, spraying, spraying. Dylan trotted back to us with a confused look on the face. Then, he sneezed once or twice and immediately began rolling around in the leaves, rubbing his face in the dirt.

"Super. Time for a tomato juice bath, buddy," I said.

Luckily, he didn't get hit that bad. I think he was barely out of range. We waited a moment or two before hopping back in The Toad and continuing home. Bad idea. Evidently, when a skunk completely empties its scent gland, the fumes tend to hang in the air, concentrating into a noxious foul cloud that permeates anything that has the misfortune to pass through it. Although we drove through pretty quickly, it was tough to breathe thanks to the fetid air that hovered over the trail. Had we stopped, I probably would've easily donated my previously consumed coffee back to mother earth, circle-of-life style.

As you can tell from these molecular diagrams, the scent obviously stinks.

Minutes later, after we'd made it back to house, The Duke discovered that perhaps driving through the foul cloud was a poor choice.

"It's in my shirt," he said, pulling the cloth to his nose. "It got us; we should've driven the long way around."

Needless to say, we all got baths - normal ones, not in tomato juice - out of the deal. Personally, I think Dylan's pride was hurt the most. He's still a little shaken. Enjoy the post-bath photos.

"Seriously, what the hell happened?"

"Man, what was the deal with that cat?"

Stay Positive

Although I always suspected that the "alternate" route would not work out for getting into Mercer, I always held out a little hope. I think of it as my own Lloyd Christmas moment:

Anyway, turns out that my chances were really like "one in a million." I got the official email today that confirmed what I'd already known since the spring. Here's the message:

August 20, 2008

Good afternoon:

Classes have begun for Mercer University School of Medicine’s Class of 2012. I regret to inform you that we were unable to offer you a place in that class.

We have begun our admissions cycle for the Class of 2013, and because you were one of our alternate students for the Class of 2012, if you have not already done so, we would strongly encourage you to submit an application for the current cycle as soon as possible.

When completing your new application, please let us know what you have done over the past year to enhance your application. It is especially important to tell the Committee about additional activities that demonstrate your commitment to Mercer’s mission.

Remember that your application will be seen as a new application. Pay particular attention to your personal statement, and include additional information supporting your activities during this past year and your commitment to serve Georgia residents, especially those who live in underserved areas of the State.

We are pleased you have expressed an interest in Mercer University School of Medicine and look forward to reviewing your application during the current cycle.

Sincerely,

Maurice S. Clifton, M.D., M.S., E.d.
Associate Dean of Admissions & Student Affairs

When one door closes, another opens, doesn't it?

Osteopathic Medical Schools
Shortly after returning from New Heaven, I completed applications for osteopathic medical schools. Deep down, I think that this approach to medicine might be a better fit for me. The online application service is processing my application and will send it out to my selected schools in the near future. Keep your fingers crossed that I'll hear better news from these guys.