The Academy Awards Happened

All I gotta say is that I got a nerd boner when they kept cutting to shots of Cormac McCarthy sitting in the audience, reveling in the fact that the Coen brothers' adaptation of his book cleaned up.

Also, am I the only person who thinks that Diablo Cody is the most overrated person on the planet? I enjoyed "Juno" but didn't think it was the greatest thing ever. Did the Oscar go to another Mira Sorvino or Cuba Gooding, Jr.? Methinks.

Dylan's Rough Month + Ski Trip Bonanza + Rejections!

Our poor dog has been having a bit of a rough month. I suppose that, in dog years, he's entering his awkward teens. A few weeks ago, my wife took him to the park for a walk and to run with other neighborhood dogs. He loves it. It's nice to see him in a pack, running, wrestling, and having a blast. As is normally the case, Dylan is a lot faster than most of the dogs with which he plays. If they're running, he'll be a few paces ahead of them and will be looking back at them while he sprints.

On several occasions in the past, he nearly mangled my leg but crashing into me because he wasn't watching where he was going. I'd always limp off and, in a few paces, I'd be fine. He, of course, was never any worse for the wear...until a couple of weeks ago.

He was running full speed (which is blazing) and was looking at the dogs behind him. Unfortunately, he didn't see the mature tree in his path. At full throttle, he plows into it, leading with his right eye. The impact lifted him off the ground and spun him around a few times before he landed. Other than being really scratched up around his eye, he was fine.

The Mighty Oak, 1. Dylan, 0.

So, about a week ago, I was heading out to Colorado to snowboard. On the day I was to fly out, my wife was scheduled to return from a business trip in the late evening. Rather than board the dog overnight, we dropped him off at our friend's place so he could play with her dog, Moses. No worries, right?

Wrong. Turns out that Dylan found something on which to severely cut his foot. Because neither of us were in town, our friend "R" ended up taking him to the emergency vet clinic to get the wound glued back together. Later, Kim takes him back to the vet on a follow-up visit. Turns out that the wound is slightly infected. As a result, the beast got limited outdoor activity, a healthy course of antibiotics, and daily trips to the vet for bandage changes and wound inspections. On Valentine's Day, he got an especially festive bandage. We, as expected, got stuck with the bill.

Dylan feels the shame of a Valentine's Day bandage.

Ski Trip Bonanza
On the 7th, I flew out for a ski trip to Steamboat, Colorado. They are having a ridiculous snow year. While we were there, I think it snowed close to 20 inches. Not too shabby! Here's the best kept secret about Steamboat: If you fly Delta into the Hayden airport from either ATL or SLC and you're a SkyMiles member, you can get a free lift ticket on the day of your arrival by showing your boarding pass at the ticket window. Holy smokes, nothing compares to getting off the plane and getting on the slopes within a couple of hours. It was fantastic.

Ready to hit the powder.

We covered most of the mountain. I think my favorite run was one called Middle Rib. It was steep and isolated. When we did it, were were the only ones on the run. You start out in a wooded area and make your way to a great overlook of Steamboat Springs.

Beware of deadly tree wells.

The view from the mountain top.

Beautiful seclusion.

Self-portrait.

Honestly, I boarded my ass off. I've been back for a few days but my knees are still sore and aching. I wish I was back out there. For more of my photos of the trip, click here.

Rejections!
So, in the land of good times and great fun, let me add a little seriousness. Cross one more school off of my list: Medical College of Georgia. As I suspected, they're not interested in me this year. Damn you, MCAT, damn you!!!

Ahh, the delicious taste of rejection.

Still awaiting word from Mercer. Turns out they have until 30 March to notify me of an acceptance. How I wish it were May 30 or even July 30!

My Waking Life Not as Exciting as My Dream Life

Frankly, not a lot is going on these days. I await word from Mercer University School of Medicine regarding my admission. As they have until March, it's become a cruel waiting game. Each time the phone rings, I leap for the phone to check the caller ID. So, at this point, no news isn't good or bad news, it's just stinking frustrating.

Really, other than praying to the telephone gods to make my phone ring with a call from the Macon area, I've been staying busy with handyman projects around the house, continuing the job search, and having the occasional lunch with friends. All in all, not a bad life.

Much more exciting, however, has been my dreams life. In fact, this week might be a banner week for crazy-assed dreams. Following is a brief synopsis of what has happened so far.

Monday Night
This one was a bit of a time-warp, Terry Gilliam type dream or, at the least, and unfunny Chappelle Show episode. I'm standing around with a bunch of my ancestors trying to defend one of my forefather's patriotism and, it turns out, his life. The person hearing the case is a black George Washington. He's having none of my relatives' arguments. I take the floor and give an impassioned speech that touches African-American George's heartstrings. I appeal to his sense of fairness and make him recall what he fought for to help win independence for the country. Then, I deftly illustrate that my ancestor's love for America isn't that different. Black George ruled favorably and my relative lived. I suppose, by the "Back to the Future" rules of time travel, that his survival meant that I also survived.

Tuesday Night
Instead of our actual house, we're living in an enormous two-story house that's full of visitors coming and going. In particular, our friend Heather (a.k.a. "R") is there with her mother who keeps trying to sell us on a life insurance policy. We're stuck in this quandry about how to continue avoiding her sales pitch while being polite. Just as we're lying down to go to sleep, an enormous rocket falls from sky and, while remaining perfectly vertical, crashes through our roof and both floors of our house. (Think of the rocket in "Weird Science.") Understandably, we're freaked out and feel lucky that we weren't killed. On closer inspection, the rocket, which we've determined to be Cuban, appears to be a U.S. rocket that has been stolen and painted by the Cubans. Seriously, you can see the U.S. paint underneath. As we're examining it, the thing starts to rumble and make a lot of noise. Expecting an explosion, we look for what cover we can find in the bedroom. Instead of a deadly explosion, however, the rocket belches out about 30 soccer balls and 15 pairs of athletic shoes.

"Wow, I've got to let my Ethiopian friends know that we're starting a team! We're going to rule rec league soccer!," I rejoice.

Wednesday Night
I'm hosting a barbecue at the house and using a reproduction of an "illegal barbecue pit," which looks exactly like a regular pit. Anywho, guests continue to arrive at the house and venture into the back yard to have a look at it. One guy in a wheelchair arrives and keeps making suggestions about improving the pit. Evidently, he's the authority on building and running illegal BBQ operations. As I'm listening and discounting his advice, I notice that my good friend, Joe Torre, has arrived. I walk up to thank him for coming and he gives my a huge bear hug. Obviously, it's been a little while since I've seen him. He thanks me for playing for him and tells me that he misses me around the clubhouse. I let him know that I think the Yankees thing was a huge debacle on the part of the Steinbrenners and wish him luck in Los Angeles.

As I'm introducing my friends to him, I go to put my arm around his neck but accidentally punch him in the chin, causing him to snap shut his mouth and chip some teeth.

"Damn, Joe, I am so sorry, buddy. Look I'm trying to help you out with your dental plan! You've only got two more days under the Yankees coverage. This will help you get all your money out of your Flex Spending Account so you don't lose it!," I explain.

Joe Torre looks at me, smiles, and mumbles that "it's OK" through his broken teeth. We share a hearty laugh and go look at the illegal BBQ pit.

How awesome are they? Seriously, each morning I wake up smiling, if not laughing.

Fleeing the Blizzard

After listening to media reports of the impending blizzard that was to hit Atlanta, I retreated to the safe room in our house. Since mid-day, I've been here in the cold, impenetrable shelter. I only hope that I've stocked the shelter with enough canned food to sustain us through what will inevitably be the decent from civilized society into lawlessness. By now, I assume that there must be at least 8" to 10" inches of snow coverage, yielding most automobiles useless and stranding everyone. Before retreating from the mayhem, we took the dog out for a last minute hunt. At the very least, I'd hoped to get some squirrels to sustain us through what will surely be weeks without power or contact with the outside world. Unfortunately, Dylan likes only to retrieve snowballs. So, friends, in addition to our stockpiles of canned beans and tins of tuna, we will have a stock of snow to melt for water.

Instead of large game, Dylan chose to hunt only snowballs.

Wish us luck in surviving Winter Storm 2008.

Happy New Year! (Belated)

I've finally caught up on the sleep I missed during our whirlwind New England tour. Here are some highlights from the trip.

Newport Cliff Walk
On Sunday, we drove to Newport, RI to complete the famous Cliff Walk. Essentially, you walk along a beautiful, rocky New England shoreline and look at some incredible mansions. If you're in the neighborhood, I strongly recommend it. More photos of our walk are here.

Avoid doing this if even slightly hungover.
Also, pee before you start.

This is one of the little fixer-uppers along the walk.

Dr. J3K uses his fancy "teaching stick"
to remind us that rowdy behavior
isn't permitted on the Cliff Walk.

Campus Center at Wellesley College

On New Year's Eve, we drove up to see the Wellesley Campus Center that my wife helped design. She gave us a personal tour of it. Seriously, it's an awesome building.

Kimberly, in the midst of her tour.

Another view of the building.

Because we were sooo damned cold, we decided to stop in for ice cream sundaes at a great little ice cream shop. J3K was tempted to order the 8-scoop "white mountain" but opted out of it. Hands down, White Mountain Creamery is tops. More advice: don't let anyone with a lactose intolerance eat ice cream. If you do, they're likely to nearly kill you on the drive home with their champion-like behavior.

Yaargghh!
Other than Graceland Too and a handful of travel situations that I'm happy to have escaped, few places have impressed/terrified/thrilled me as much as Captain Seaweed's Pub in Providence, Rhode Island. I highly, highly recommend it.

A few nights earlier, Dr.J3K and I had a quick beer before they closed. On New Year's Eve, however, we decided to stop in for a couple of rounds before heading to our final destination.

Inside these walls is a fantastic little dive that will frighten and exhilarate you.

In anticipation of our visit, we'd been speaking in pirate voices (yaarrghh!) for most of the afternoon. When our group of seven entered the bar, the total occupancy nearly tripled. There were two old guys at the bar. One was a slight, olive-skinned man who was impressively drunk. The other was a bleary-eyed gent who sat at the bar nursing his Budweiser between sips of his whiskey backer. We walked in and ordered a $5 pitcher of beer to split among the group. Old, drunk guy must've decided that he liked the way we looked because he instantly called for a pitcher of beer for us. "On the house!," he kept yelling in his Southie accent.

Immediately, Dr. J3K and I threw some dollars in the jukebox and offered to play a song or two for the regulars.

"You guys want to hear anything?," I asked.

"Thanks guys but I'm an old guy," Bud/Whiskey responded.

"We can play you a bunch of Elton John," Dr. J3K offered after quickly surmising that the oldest thing in the jukebox was vintage Elton.

"No thanks," Bud/Whiskey said almost immediately.

"Elton John? What the hell?," I urgently whispered to J3K.

"I don't know. We're gonna get killed," he replied.

To atone for any faux pas, we played a ton of manly, classic rock.

A short while later, J3K, our friend Eddie, and I made our way over to the foosball table. As I'm terrible at this game, I played the role of interested spectator as J3K demolished poor Eddie. Each time J3K scored, the foosball hitting the goal pierced the din in the bar. Each time, the beefy bartender and his beefy sketchy pal would look our way, nod to each other, and look our way again. When the game concluded, they quickly headed over to the table and demanded that we play them. The bartender pulled quarters from the register and slammed them down on the edge of the table.

"C'mon guys. Just for fun," he said.

On hearing the phrase "just for fun," I immediately saw an image of myself two hours in the future: I was wearing only my boxers, my eyes were nearly swollen shut from the beating, I bled from my mouth, and wept with fear each time they demanded that I get them their $1,000. So, this is how it starts, I thought to myself. J3K and I shot each other a quick look as he politely tried to decline.

"We'll split up and play teams," the bartender insisted. "You play wit me," he said, nodding to J3K.

The bartender's beefy friend had a host of jailhouse tats on his hand. On noticing this, I immediately felt very, very comfortable with the progressing situation. As I looked over at the women in our group, they played a card game at the table with the pitcher of beer and creatively ignored the old, drunk guy as he attempted to dance near them.

After what turned out to be a very close, hard-fought game, the bartender and his buddy thanked us for playing and then, strangely, disappeared outside. I looked around and the only people in sight were our group and the old drunk guy who was loudly telling a story about Wilma Flintstone and using an object that referred to as one of her adult toys. That's rich, I thought.

After a quick trip to the restroom, I decided to stick my head outside and take a look at the courtyard. In doing so, I thought that I might've made another mistake. Bartender, beefy friend, and Bud/Whiskey were outside having cigarettes. They asked where I was from and we struck up a conversation. Five or six minutes later, J3K showed up looking relieved that I was still alive. Later, he admitted that he'd come out to make sure I wasn't getting my ass kicked. Turns out, though, that all the guys there were really friendly. They wished us a Happy New Year, invited us to come back to the bar, and were super nice. Still, I could easily see them kicking my ass for some dumb thing I did or said.

On the way, out old drunk guy sways out the door and says "I wish yous a Happy New Yeah. God bless yous and ya families. Happy New Yeah."

"Same to you, pal. Same to you," I told him.

For $5: two pitchers of beer, a game of foosball, the fear of impending death/extortion, the escapades of a benign drunkard, and a memorable evening.

Wickenden Pub
After Seaweed's, we headed over to the Wickenden Pub to close out the evening. We had more pints, played Quiddler (an awesome, easy game to which I was just introduced), and rang in the new year.

Avian Duel

Early on New Year's Day, we woke and headed to Boston for our flight. Luckily, we changed to a direct flight home instead of connecting through Cincinnati. We were home in time to see UGA demolish Hawaii. Happy New Year indeed.

Behold the Champion

Yesterday, we toured downtown Providence and went to the Rhode Island School of Design's art gallery. That afternoon, we had some beers and food at the Trinity Brew Pub. Afterward, we quickly made our way back to the house to watch the Patriots close out their regular season. Around midnight, J3K and I made our way out to Captain Seaweeds, a tiny little dive bar near the house. They were closing up so we had a quick pint and went out in search of another pub.

A little while later, we ended up at what J3K and Sandy refer to as "Thanksgiving Bar." On a prior visit, some of the inebriated older customers invited them to Thanksgiving dinner served at the bar. Last night, the place was packed with a predominantly older African-American crowd. When we walked in at about 12:30, the place was hopping and everyone was well soused. We order a pint, sat back, and drank in everything that was happening around us. We talked for a while until a putrid odor drifted over to us and halted our conversation. At the end of the bar near the restroom, a couple of guys were grimacing at the growing stench. A moment later, a heavy-set guy exited the bathroom. Immediately, they began to give him grief.

"Damn, man, you'd better check your pants. There's something still in there," one suggested.

"You'd better Febreeze your ass," the other guy offered.

The fat guy responded, "I am the champion."

"Why'd you do that in a public toilet, man?," they asked.

"That's what it's there for!," the defecator responded.

As he walked by, the odor intensified. Our eyes watered; we tried not to breathe.

Just then, one of the bartenders walked in from having a cigarette outside. "What the hell is that smell?," he yelled. The place began clearing out.

We abandoned our nearly full beers and left for the safety and purity of the cold, night air.

Dr. J3K's Graduation

While I'm at it, I tought I'd post videos from Dr. Jimmy Three Thousand's graduation. Much like our effort on Bandit Run 2005, this is a completely in-house project. I shot most of the video and did all of the editing. Enjoy!

Dr. J3K - Graduation Video, Part 1

Dr. J3K - Graduation Video, Part 2

Northbound

Later this afternoon, we're heading up to Providence, Rhode Island to visit our very own Dr. James Three Thousand and our dear friend, who happens to be dating him, Sandy. He just finished his first semester as a professor at the University of Rhode Island. She's completing a little extra coursework prior to starting medical school this fall.

Chances are good that we'll ride the wings of the dragon and do something juvenile and utterly stupid for people of our age.

Back at Home (Briefly)

A couple of nights ago, we returned from a very nice visit at my aunt and uncle's place. After my sister flew out on Saturday, we did nothing but eat a ton of really rich food, lounge around, and take in the spectacle that is The Villages.

On Christmas Eve, we tried to get together a proper Bocce Ball tournament. We were a little pressed for time to have a proper tourney but gave it our best shot. Evidently, when you retire, you get damned good at Bocce; nobody could beat my aunt and uncle.

I gave it my best shot but my aunt, in red, was unbeatable.

Dad and I managed to play 27 holes of golf on some executive courses near my aunt and uncle's place. On Christmas day, the golf is free. Pins are in the holes but the clubhouses are closed and the course marshalls are absent. It was a pretty nice gift. When you play earlier than the retirees, you have nobody on the course either before or after you. It was bliss.

My dad, owning the links.

So, we had a nice time, relaxed a great deal, and ate too much. It was, I suppose, your typical holiday with family.

You Know You're In a Retirement Community When...
My aunt and uncle gave us a very thorough golf-cart tour of The Villages. We saw everything from the rec centers where dancing, plays, and concerts occur to the town squares which host free nightly live music, retail and restaurant spaces, and a movie theater. My wife and I decided that we'd take a little time for ourselves and sneak off to a movie. We'd wanted to see "Into the Wild" and it was playing at the local theater. As strongly recommended to us, we presented our Villages Guest ID at the ticket window and received our discount. We grabbed popcorn and rushed into the small, sparsely populated theater. By about 30 years, we were the youngest folks there. At some points during the film, I thought we were in a Miracle Ear commercial with some really loud comments made about what was occurring on screen. The clincher happened after the movie...

As we're making our way out of the theater, we stop and chat with the ticket taker. He was an older gentleman who asked us what we thought of it. So, we spoke for a while about the movie and the book. After wishing him a good night, we made our way into the main lobby. We were right behind a much older couple who were walking in the same direction. Without warning, one of them -- we don't know which -- ripped a sustained, audible fart. Then, in a maneuver that reminded me of the Blue Angels breaking a tight formation, they split for the restrooms.

"Well," I said, "we know we're in a retirement community now, don't we?"

Traffic & Regifting

On Saturday the 22nd, we made the drive to The Villages to meet my parents and sister at my aunt and uncle's place. What should've been around a six-hour drive turned into a stinking nightmarish traffic ordeal. Turns out that everybody decided to get on the road and head to Florida yesterday. We left Atlanta at about 10:00a.m. and didn't make it down here until about 6:00p.m., courtesy of the bumper-to-bumper, stop-and-go traffic that plagued us the entire way. The back-ups started north of Macon and didn't let up. Happy times, indeed.

Oh yeah, I peed in some of the most disgusting bathrooms that I've ever seen. Worse than in rural Guatemala or Mexico. Worse than remote Sri Lanka. My favorite was a filthy gas-station near Ocala, Florida with what was apparently an out-of-order urinal. Foregoing a sign, someone simply covered the entire thing in duct tape. Honestly, it looked like a nice piece of art...that road-weary travelers covered with their urine.

Wee Bear Awl
Anyone been to Cafe Risque? I'm assuming that with all of the advertising they do, their XXX cafe must be bustling. Honestly, every other billboard was flaunting their completely naked dancers, extolling how friendly they were to truckers, and welcoming couples. I imagine that it would be fine-dining at it's best with the added bonus of the classiest, most beautiful burlesque dancers that have been seen. Somehow, I think it might be more akin to a run-down Carl's Jr. with the stench of naked meth hookers. Sign me up!

Regifting At Its Best
My sister was in for a very short visit because she had to return to the Cayman Islands to work on Christmas. So, my parents gave us some gifts last night so that we could experience the holiday together. Honestly, it was the best set of gifts we've been given in a long time. Each of us got some of our favorite things from our childhood. Turns out they'd been in the attic and came upon a treasure trove of things from our childhood. So, they decided to regift them to us. They spoke with my wife's folks and got a bunch of her things too. Really, it was amazing. I got a bunch of books from my childhood including my personalized Christmas book, my favorite "Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs," an A-Team action figure of Sgt. Bosco "B.A." Baracus, and some old baseball cards.

The cover of my personalized story,
made even more personal by my work with crayons.

Pages from my "personalized computer book."
Click for a closer look and marvel at how much
computer technology has progressed.

In the land of Chewandswallow, food fell from the sky.

Because of this book, I frequently wished that
hamburgers and ketchup would tumble out of the heavens.
I prayed for it to rain orange juice like in the bottom-left picture.

Days before Christmas, I found this action figure
in mom's car but kept silent about it.
When I received it as a gift from Santa, I mourned the loss of the myth.
As the A-Team's Hannibal would say, "I love it when a plan comes together."

My sister got a bunch of her old books, some old photos that show her on a tropical island with multi-cultural friends, and her favorite cuddly stuffed cat. My wife scored big with the Barbie Country Camper complete with Barbie, Skipper, Ken (dressed in a full suede suit), and Lil' Ken. She also got her favorite kid's book: "Soda Pop."

Note Ken's suede-clad legs poking through the windshield.

Honestly, if you can, rediscover some of the gems from your childhood or hold onto your child's favorite things. It's a great way to get grounded and shuffle off some of the weight of being an adult.

Merry Christmas (Almost)

This morning, we're heading down to The Villages in Florida. We're meeting my parents and sister at my aunt and uncle's place to celebrate Christmas. So, we're gearing up for a nice little 6 hour drive this morning.

Our timers are set by the chimney with care in hopes that thieves soon will beware.

It's Their Decision Now

On Wednesday, I returned from my interview at Mercer University School of Medicine in Macon. The interview was Tuesday, the 11th. Afterwards, I caught up with an old counselor buddy of mine, hung out with him and his family, and spent the night at their place. In all, it was a pretty fun but tiring trip.

The Interviews
I arrived on campus at the School of Medicine at about 8:30 a.m. and met the eight other applicants in the interview group. Most were younger men and women who would be graduating in the spring. Some had worked for a couple of years but I was, by far, the oldest person in the room.

The Associate Dean gave us some of his time to allow us to ask questions and to explain the curriculum, the learning approach, the school's mission and so on. Essentially, Mercer's goal is to train physicians who will practice primary care in rural or other under-served areas of Georgia. The curriculum utilizes an approach that gets students used to a clinical approach very early in the school career. Students also begin interacting with patients much earlier than traditional schools.

Next, the Financial Aid lady scared the shit out of us all by telling us how much debt we'd incur. Hell, I'm not really comfortable with the debt I presently have. Put an exponent behind it and I'm even less comfortable. Par for the course, I suppose. According to a recent survey, 41% of recent med school graduates have an educational debt of $100,000 or greater. In some cases, $100K is getting off easy.

First Interview: The Older Male Pathologist
We chatted for a while in his office about my motivations to enter medicine, about running marathons, about the volatility of start-up software companies, and many other things. Generally, I felt things were going well. Honestly, it was less of an interview and more of a pleasant conversation with someone you've just met. I felt especially good when, in response to something I said, he stopped me, went to his desk, and returned with an unused ashtray that was a picture of Elvis and Nixon shaking hands. Paydirt, I thought.

This image could be the key to my admittance into med school.

Lunch Interview: 4th Year Med Students
I left campus and headed over to the hospital to meet some 4th year students for a tour and lunch. Although not publicized, these students are evaluating you based on their interaction with you. Seems like the younger kids didn't get this memo. You know, it was a lighter version of the tragic story where someone thinks an interview is over just because you're having lunch or drinks with the interviewer and cuts loose into some inappropriate stuff. Nothing that bad happened but I thought some of them seemed to act a little bit too loose.

Anyway, I had a nice time talking with all of the students and finding out more about their experiences and such. We talked about where they were doing their away rotations and where they were thinking of applying for residencies. Thanks to my dating history, I managed to find something in common with each of them. One guy was from Douglas, GA, home of a famous ex-girlfriend of mine. Another guy was from near Nashville, GA, home of an ex-girlfriend with whom I attended her senior prom in 1989 when I was a sophomore. Another guy was from Albany, GA and knew the father of a girl that I briefly dated in college. The Albany guy may be my undoing if he mentions my name to the girl's dad. I can't accurately describe how quickly I backpedaled from knowing her really well to simply being an acquaintance. Without going into too much detail, let's just say that my friend Jeff and I wrecked a perfectly civilized debutante society ball with our drunken antics. More on it here.

Second Interview: The Younger Female Pediatrician
After lunch, I met with another faculty member, a pediatrician. We talked for about an hour about a wide variety of things. She'd really done her homework with my application. Aside from me confusing the dates when I graduated college, everything went really smoothly. She finished the conversation with a description of how the selection process works and offered me some friendly advice of what to do in the event that I don't get accepted this year. She made sure to reiterate that she wasn't suggesting that I would be rejected but just wanted to address the possibility. She finished by confiding to me that she thought my application was great, that I'd made a great addition to the student body, and that she'd strongly recommend me to the committee. So, we'll see how it goes.

The Inner Workings
So, here's what happens now. Periodically, the 10 members of the admissions committee meets to discuss the applicants and rule on them. They meet either weekly or bi-weekly, I can't recall. Anywho, during the meetings the committee reviews the candidate's applications and considers evaluations of the candidates written by the interviewers. Then, the committee members work together to assign a score to each candidate. Candidates with the highest scores, I suppose, are offered admittance. Lower score candidates roll into a pool and are reconsidered at the next meeting. At any given meeting, however, the committee may decide to admit several candidates or none; they're not bound to any quota. So, this process continues until all seats for the incoming class have been filled. Typically, a class has 60 seats. This year, however, Mercer will fill a class of 110 to account for 50 seats that will matriculate at a new 4-year campus in Savannah. So, my odds are more favorable this year.

Good Just to Interview
It turns out that among all of the applicants, only about 800 were asked to completed secondary applications. Out of those 800, only about 200 were interviewed. So, I suppose that I should feel pretty good about making it this far.

Wish me luck.


The Albany Incident -- The Backstory
During my senior year of college, I briefly dated a Jewish woman from one of my Spanish classes. Apparently, her sister was joining a debutante society and was honored at the debutante society ball. I'm not sure, but she could've been one of the first Jewish members. In retrospect, it was very much a big deal. Turns out that one of my 4-H counselor friends, Jeff, was a close friend of this girl's family. He was in town for the weekend and would be going with us to the ball.

Mistake #1: Jeff meets me at her house. When he walks up, we notice that we are wearing identical suits. We have different ties but our suits are absolutely stinking identical. We find this hilarious.

Mistake #2: My date has to go take family photos with her parents and sister and the location of the ball. She suggests that Jeff and I hang out for a few hours until they're done. She drops us off at a bar. We proceed to drink several beers and multiple shots of Jagermeister. By the time they get us, we're pretty well hammered. We proceed to the ball to mingle with the upper crust of Albany society.

Mistake #3: After we drank a few bottles of champagne at the ball, my date suggests that we all get some food from the buffet. Jeff and I decide that using plates is a little too pedestrian. We take food with our hands and eat it on the spot while in line. At one point, my date recalls some of the gross-out antics that Jeff and I described from our tenure as camp counselors. She dares us to repeat them right then and there. Although the kids at camp loved to see us eat food out of each others' mouths, the stuffy folks at the debutante ball are not amused. Really, think of a mama bird feeding a chick. Now, imagine two drunken adult males in matching suits reenacting this type of feeding in civilized society. Fifteen minutes later, as we're claiming our coats, the coat-check girls ask Jeff how long he'd been gay after witnessing our antics.

We're not. Why do you ask?

The next morning, no shit, my date's family wouldn't even acknowledge me. Seriously, they didn't even speak to me. To this day, I don't even drive near Albany. Back.

Big Day Tomorrow

Tomorrow morning, I interview with Mercer Medical School in Macon. If all goes well, they'll offer acceptance into their class of 2012 which begins next fall. That's right, read it again ... two thousand and twelve. What the hell am I thinking?

Anyway, tonight I'm holed up in some sub-par Residence Inn on the north side of Macon. Although it's a no-smoking hotel, cigarette smoke is permeating my room. Someone in a room either beside, above, or below me is puffing away. Seriously, it's starting to annoy me. I just might go down and get a different room.

Oh, after stressing about what to wear, I've decided on my blue wrestling mask and cheetah print briefs. Hell, I might dress it up with a bow tie. Personally, I think the tie might be just the look I need.

Tomorrow, I'll start at 8:30 on Mercer's campus. I'll meet with a couple of faculty members on the admissions committee and, later, will have lunch with some fourth year students. So, we'll see how it goes.

Wish me luck. Not that I've scheduled interviews with other schools but I almost feel like the first person who asks me to dance gets to take me home. Maybe tomorrow, I'll feel like the belle of the ball!

On the Couch Watching Football (Yep, It's Thanksgiving Weekend)

So, we're two days removed from Thanksgiving and I still feel like I'll never get my pants buttoned again. Seriously, I'm like a walking Alka Seltzer ad ... maybe Pepto Bismol. The food was great but there was just too much of it. As a result, I've decided to adopt an eating disorder for the remainder of 2007.

Quick recap before I hit the rack:

• Thanksgiving: In the mountains with my wife's family, we ate too much and then sat outside by a fire. That night, we drank some beer around the fire and tried to see that elusive Holmes comet.
• Black Friday: Sat outside for much of the day. Watched LSU get trounced by Mr. McFadden and the rest of the Razorbacks. Did no shopping whatsoever... even avoided commercials on the telly.
• Today: Loaded the dog into the car to go for a hike. Arrived at trailhead in time to see no fewer than 20 people of various ages and athletic ability lumbering for the trail. Promptly returned home. Watched Dawgs trounce the Yellow Jackets. Saw Kentucky blow it. Smiled at the thought of my sister watching Alabama lose.
• No Country for Old Men: Do yourself a favor and go see it. It's a fantastic Coen brothers film and a great adaptation of the book. I'll see it again this week. Tommy Lee Jones and Javier Bardem both deserve nods at Oscar time.

No Country

So, today marks the wide-release of the Coen brothers big screen version of Cormac McCarthy's No Country for Old Men.

A production still from the movie.

I gotta tell ya, today is my Christmas. Ever since I read the first page of McCarthy's All the Pretty Horses in 1993, I've been hooked on his work. With exception of a play published last year, I've read everything he's done. Hands down, he's my favorite author.

Yesterday, I reread the book in anticipation of the film. Today, I'm seeing it with my buddy Randy, who has scheduled an "off-site meeting" for this afternoon. I guess that we'll be among a few in the theater and probably in a minority of folks who are geeking out over it to such a large degree.

When Billy Bob Thornton turned in All the Pretty Horses, the studio massacred it. I heard his version was longer and, probably, more like the book. Unfortunately, it seems that the studio wasn't sure how to market the film, edited it heavily in post-production, and released a beautifully shot, well-acted film that was a shadow of the gritty, bloody, coming-of-age western contained in the novel. Thankfully the Coens' pedigree allow them the creative license to accurately recreate the story without meddling from the suits. From the buzz that the movie is already generating, I'd say they've done a kick-ass job with it.

Having the Coens at the helm of the picture seems to atone for the fact that Oprah selected McCarthy's The Road for her book of the month pick. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy for McCarthy's success but I'd like Oprah to stay the hell away from him. Anyway, I'm thrilled to see the film today. I'll follow-up on it later.

More on Cormac McCarthy here.

The Best Biscuits (and, Formerly, Wildlife Painting) in Batesville

This past weekend, we went with several friends and their kids to my in-laws' place in north Georgia. We relaxed, stayed up late, ate and drank too much, and had a blast doing it. On Saturday and Sunday mornings, we managed to drag ourselves out of bed and head over to the Batesville General Store for breakfast. In addition to the "Best Biscuits in Batesville," we've come to enjoy visiting our favorite painting of a deer frolicking with its lupine buddies. Each time we see it, we warmly talk about how the wolves are just running up to say "Hello, friend!" to the deer. They're playing a cordial game of chase through the morning snow, like good friends sometimes do.

The Deer and His Wolf Buddies

Anyway, the painting is very much a part of the charm of the place. Over the last several years, it's become a highlight of the trip to the mountain house with friends. During Saturday's feast, we gazed on it with delight during our meal. On returning Sunday morning, we cast our eyes toward the familiar spot on the wall and were greeting with a pristine rectangle of wood paneling that hadn't been seen by anyone in years. Our painting was gone; the wall was bare. Before ordering coffee, we spoke with the waitress who told us that it was sold at some point during the previous day. As she told me this, she couldn't have hurt me more if she'd stabbed me with a piece of the cheap cutlery from the table. A small part of me died. Now, I'm not really sure that I can go back there. Part of the mythology of the place has gone and cannot be recovered.

I really, really hate it when stuff like that happens.

The Majestic
When I moved to Atlanta in 1996 and discovered the Majestic, I had a similar experience. My friends and I went so frequently in the late 90's that we quickly developed "pet names" for the wait staff. Presently, it seems that only Count Chocula remains there, occasionally hustling Patty Melt Plates to our tables. During the day, a wonderful older woman worked there. We called her "Marge." Honestly, she could've been the model for Linda Lavin's Alice.

One day, I was there with a good friend and my soon-to-be ex-girlfriend. We were telling my future ex about the names we had for everyone, how we'd invented personal histories for them, and how knowing anything "real" about them would ruin this fantasy world we'd created and occupied. Next thing you know, the dumb-ass I was dating goes over to "Marge" for a little chat, returns to the table, and blurts out her real name. My friend Ashley and I sat there looking at her, not believing what she'd just done. I never forgave her for doing such a mean-spirited thing.

I guess the worst part of it all is that, as adults, our lives are relatively void of the magic and mythology we had as kids. Neither Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, or the Easter Bunny exists in the same capacity for us. Instead, we have bills, jobs, the pressures of relationships, and the responsibilities of family. When we do find and cultivate a little of that magic in a strange unexpected place, it hurts when it is taken away.

Fare thee well, deer painting.

Schools Update

It's been a while since I've posted an update on my school situation. Frankly, I was tired of my usual "blah, blah, blah working-on-applications-crap, blah, blah, blah" stuff. Here's the skinny: I'm finished with all the secondary applications that I'm going to submit this go around. If nothing pans out this year, I'll retake the MCAT and reapply next summer.

Interview at Mercer University School of Medicine, 12/2007
Earlier this week, I found out that they want me to come in for an interview. So, I'll be heading down to Macon to speak with them in early December. It's pretty good news! I'm excited and anxious about it. It looks like they're the front-runners. I'll post more on this as it develops. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

Rejected by Boston University
So, I'm not going to be in Bean-town. A few weeks ago, I got their rejection letter via email. Seriously, it was the nicest thing ever. See for yourself:

The Committee on Admissions of Boston University School of Medicine has completed its review of your application. It is with great regret that I inform you that we will be unable to offer an interview this year. This is a disappointment, as much for those who are responsible for the decision as it may be for you, the candidate who is turned away.

Most of the candidates we are considering this year are qualified to attend medical school and are likely to make important contributions to our profession and to society. Sadly, with more than 100 applicants for every seat in the class, we are forced to deny many exceptional people.

We acknowledge and respect your accomplishments and recognize that our inability to offer you an opportunity to complete the admissions process is a loss for Boston University. Please accept our best wishes for all your future endeavors.

As nice as the letter is, I strongly disagree with the last sentence of the first paragraph. It's as much a disappointment for those that made the decision, the rejectors, as for me, the rejectee? Somehow, I think I probably feel worse about it. When they made their decision, did they choke back tears while downing a cocktail and watching reruns of Judge Judy at 4 p.m. in their pajamas? My guess is "no."

Whatever. Hell, if they feel that bad about it, I'll interview with them; I've got the time.

Final List
So, here's a quick list of the places to which I submitted supplemental applications:

We'll see how this thing turns out.

That's it. The die is cast. Honestly, I'm tired of stressing out about all of it and of waiting to hear something from places. I'll post more updates as they happen.

Halloween

This year, I think we beat our previous record of 10 trick-or-treaters. I think that we gave candy to about 12 or 14 kids. I know, I know... how can we afford all that candy, right?

My wife brought home pumpkins from her office. One of the principals of her firm bought 100 (!?!) pumpkins to decorate their landscape and to host an office pumpkin-carving contest. Unsurprisingly, they had a few left over. So, I carved one about an hour before the kids started dropping by for treats. I found a little artistic inspiration and created "Open Head-Wound Pumpkin."

Open Head-Wound Pumpkin, #1

Open Head-Wound Pumpkin is scarier at night!
Note: Gaping Monster-Mouth Pumpkin at top of stairs.

My Favorite Costume of the Night
My favorite costume of the night was the Human Torch from the Fantastic Four.

When I opened the door, I thought the kid was wearing some tie-dyed jumpsuit. At first, I thought he was a muscular, hippie Elvis. Then, I was able to make out the Fantastic Four logo on the costume's fake muscles. Pretty cool costume, I must admit. Personally, though, I felt the plastic molded wig detracted from it.

"Trick or treat," he says.

"Nice Human Torch costume, my man," I complemented while dumping a huge handful of candy into his bag. "It's pretty cool!"

"This thing is HOT! I am SWEATING in here!" he yelled as he snapped shut his bag and darted down my steps.

"The Human Torch is made of fire, you know, " I muttered to myself.

My Next Favorite Costume: Venom (from Spider-Man 3)
The little kid wearing this one was adorable. He was probably 5 years old, at most.

First off, the costume was way too big for him. He scurried up the driveway and the steps. When he finally made it onto the porch, he gave me a muffled "trick-or-treat." His mask was really twisted on his face which contorted it into some macabre death grin. It was very cute but a little creepy.

I dropped candy in his bag and he split. When he was in the driveway, his dad reminded him to say "thank you. So, I get a barely audible "Thank you" from him as his shuffling toward the next house.

"Why don't you take that mask off, boy? You know you can't see a thing with it on," pleaded the father as the boy passed him.

"You know you have zero chance of that happening tonight, don't you? It's Halloween. That thing stays on, no matter how blind he is," I told the dad.

"You're right on that one. Can't tell them nothing tonight."

And with that, evil Spider-Man and his dad faded into the darkness of the street, moving toward the night's remaining plunder.

Honorable Mention: Hannah Montana
When I opened the door, a cute little girl greeted me with a hearty "Trick or Treat!" She was nicely dressed with a fantastic blonde wig.

"And who are you supposed to be?," I asked.

"Hannah Mon-tannah!," she yelled and opened her bag.

"All right! You going to sing?," I asked her while dumping two pounds of candy into her bag.

She violently shook her head "no" and raced off to another house.

As I closed the door, I thanked God that she didn't tell me she was dressed as Blondie from the Clermont Lounge. I've been in this city a little too long, I guess.

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.