2006: A Facial Hair Odyssey

aka Dr. Strangebeard or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Handlebar Mustache
aka A Thinly-Veiled Tribute to my own Face

As finals approached I did what any self respecting man would do when facing a stressful situation: I grew a beard. Most of you out there probably aren't surprised, I did have a beard for 4 years after all. And like the original Big Red Beard™, this one was spurred along by other like minded individuals. 5 years ago, it was Larkitect and Pepe LePew as a beard growing contest. This year it was Bees, D-Rock, Ah Jota, and Sawa as a teamwork Playoff Beard. Which I claimed was a contest, against their insistence that it wasn't. I totally won.

So what's a rugged red-bearded man to do once his fuzzy facial friend has outlived its usefulness? (and it was useful - stroking the beard helps a guy think) The answer is simple: explore a career in facial hair modeling! Here we go!!

The Berzerker

Our starting point. Cuddly like a teddy bear, deadly like grizzly bear. A buffet of manliness.

The Debonair Viking

After a hair cut, beard untouched. Business on top, party down below.

The Shannon Hamilton

This made me look way too much like Benaffleck. Jibbly. I almost married J-Lo. Double Jibbly.

Wait, I forgot one. Let's take a step back.

The Halfleck

Stangely enough, I like this one better. Moving on...

Shaved Reindeer

Trimmed Aflac. Still too Bartleby...

The Whitfield

I love it! Even though I look like a Southern Civil War General or Nascar fan or Klan member (I guess they're all the same), I think it's pretty sweet. So cool. So trashy.

The "Dapper Dan"

Probably the creepiest thing I've ever seen. If I had this as a pediatrician, I'd get more criminal charges than patients. I don't even know how that would work, but it would happen. I laughed my ass off for about 5 minutes when I saw this one. Legal Counsel made me pretend to be a Highway Patrol...guy.

The "Littering And..".

The Not-so-Dapper Dan

The most flattering picture of me ever.

The Montgomery

And finally my smooth, clean shaven self. I still prefer the Handlebar:

The South Shall Rise Again!

Things I still need to blog about: the double move and my bat mitzvah experience. Well, not my bat mitzvah. Legal Counsel's cousin's bat mitzvah. So many 13-year old girls (calm down, D-Rock) and boys (calm down, D-Rock's mom). Life is moving faster than my time to blog. Nooo!!

France. We come from France.

Thanks to Site Meter, I'm sitting here wondering who would be visiting my site in France. Initially I thought it was Dominique de Villepin, but he and I have been fighting a bit lately. "Je ne peux pas croire que vous avez allumé ma barbe sur le feu," he says to me, "Votre blog est stupide et je ne le lirai encore jamais." So it probably wouldn't be him.

Then it hit me: it must be my friend/Larkitect's more-than-friend Ange! She's working the Cannes Film Festival at this very moment. First off, let me just say that's cool...that's cool. Second, is it really you out there? Drop me a line if it is. I'd like to know if you're really in a foreign country, at a film festival, but still taking the time to read my humble blog. I'd be quite flattered.

Recently I've also learned that various members of the Montgomery family have been reading this thing. That troubles me deeply.

Some other distant visitors:
Prescott, AZ: DPAarchitects.com...?
Buckeye, AZ: No idea.
Fairbanks, AK: Lamont?
Cornell University: Drawing a blank.
Pennsylvania: Larkitect's cousin?
Denver, CO: God I hope it isn't Legal Counsel's family. I wouldn't want them to hate me before we even meet.

And the one that boggles me most: Beaverton, OR. Somebody there is visiting the site on a regular basis. But who do I know in Beaverton? Maybe somebody found my sight through a search engine after my rant about how Beaverton should be next to Wienerville.

Anybody in the above cities: send me a message. Identify yourself. I'm curious who's out there.

Textual Assault

My apologies for the lack of posts. I just moved into my new place and things have been hectic. And by "I just moved" I mean "Legal Counsel mostly moved me." Stuff still needs to be unpacked (housewares, clothes), built (Ikea...yay!), arranged (kitchen, study) and hanged (paintings, cattle rustlers). Busy busy. So I'll fart out a quick post for now.

I hooked up my PC after a 6 month all Apple lifestyle. I heart fruity computers, by the way. I started it up, updated my anti-virus software (band-aid on a compound fracture for Windows) and started playing on the internets. Of course. Within a few minutes, Zone Alarm produced the following message:

What the heck? Nothing gives you that right, ViewMgr. Friggin' PC. I haven't seen it in half a year and it thinks it can just go straight for the trusted zone. Where's the romance?

Maybe that's why I left my PC - I was abused. I must've blocked the memories. Mac is your cool older cousin who takes you to concerts and shows you how to unhook a bra one-handed. Windows is your creepy uncle who tried to take off your bra with his one good hand. You know the one.

Desktop computer - I'm watching you.


Parting note: our new townhouse is an Ice Palace. The old swamp cooler got it down to 59°F yesterday morning. And the fridge froze my Brita pitcher solid. WTF, mate?

Fibroblast Growth Factor Receptor 3

a poem of increasing syllables
by Montgomery

Bind
Unwind
Activate
Phosphorylate

T-Minus 24 minutes until Peanut Butter Genetics Time.

I don't think this is what you were looking for...

I put Site Meter on my blog a few weeks ago, just out of curiosity. It tracks the number of readers I get, where they are and how they got here. Well one of my referrals was somebody using MSN to search for "fuck" near Montgomery, AL. My blog is the number one result. It found "fuck" from my tangent-critique of movie ratings from last week, AL from me saying I'll sue Al Gore if I fail my finals due to internet distraction, and I don't know where it found Montgomery.

If you search for "bananas in my pants" with Google, you get Zed's blog as #1 (maybe not anymore, though - check it out, Zed). If you're using MSN to find a fuck near the capital of the 22^nd United State, I'm right at the top of the list.

I win.

All in all...

Senate endorses border wall. Sigh. Apparently to be a senator you don't need no education.

Does anybody else think this is a stupid idea? While I admit it will be really cheap to build, it's just dumb. The only thing it will accomplish is keeping Mongolians out, and are we really concerned about Mongolians? I'm not...anymore. Thanks Dr. Racy!

Originally envisioned in 1939 by Jean-Paul Sartre and approved in 2006, The Wall is designed to keep Mexicans out of America. Or keep Americans in. I'm not really clear on that. My only hope is that they tack on about $50,000 to deal with the very angry Zombie Reagan we'll have in about 26 years.

Do we really need this? I've been to the Mexican border and there's already a wall there. It's made of rusty, jagged sheet metal. That's enough to keep me from heading south for Haitian cigars. And I think that if you've got your tetanus shots, you've earned entry to the US. Albeit over a heap of oxidized iron. Knowing what "ozidized iron" is should also allow entry into the US, after a severe paddling of course.

Isn't immigration what created this country? Why are we working so hard to keep people out? It seems that people are just assuming Mexican immigrants will create problems. Why not spend the money preventing/punishing problems which might occur rather than assuming they will? Or maybe spend it on education, healthcare, not wars in Irag or the dozens of other good things we apparently don't need.

Things just got a little too serious for this blog o' mine. But it'll continue, so deal with it.

If you ask me, this wall is roughly 1500 miles (2400 km for the European reader my tracker has identified) too far south. That's right, we need a wall between the US and Canada. Those canucks are destroying the fabric of American society. Their obsession with hockey, flapjacks and poutine will be the downfall of this country. The streets will run amber with Molsen!

"Look at us! We are a clean, industrious people with low poverty and a high standard of living." "Regardez-nous! Nous sommes des peuples propres et travailleurs avec la basse pauvreté et un niveau élevé la vie." Is that what you really want?

Sure, there are good Canadians. Chris, Bear - I'm looking at you guys. Just like there are good genetic diseases: sickle cell conveys a malaria resistence, after all. Nothing is ever entirely bad. So what I'm saying is that Canadians are the sickle cell anemia of North America. We certainly don't need them, but they'll help from time to time.

We can let a few in on a case by case basis, with strict Shatner-esque standards. Unfortunately, that might lead to immigrant smuggling. I can already see little hybrid cars full of well-dressed moose-lovers speeding across the border towards freedom. Jibbly.

In summary: Mexican Wall = bad idea. Canadian Wall = excellent idea. But we don't really need it. If we tell them to stay out, they'll just stand by the border politely requesting entry. Suckers...

We should also blow up Quebec. I think we can all agree on that.

Where the wind comes sweepin' down the plain

I totally just got panhandled whilst at Cox activating service at my new place. A man and a woman approached me with the following story (some details altered for anonymity):

Abraham Lincoln and his wife Mary Todd were driving from Illinois to Los Angeles. Abraham, an airline mechanic, got a new job at LAX for Northwest Airlines. On or about May 13, the couple stopped to get gas in Tucson. A young hispanic male tapped on the window asking for a ride. Abraham declined, at which point the young male pistol-whipped Mary Todd, who happens to be pregnant. Some abrasions and bruising were visible. He then proceeds to carjack the unfortunate couple, taking their wallet and purse in the process. They are left stranded without money ($600 taken), cards, ID, phones, Several days later, the car was found sans personal property but with several new broken windows. The couple is now stranded, trying to get to Los Angeles for Abraham's new job. Abraham turn 40 years old on May 24.

I tend to never believe people asking for money. Especially when their stories are this elaborate. I appreciate a man who can weave a yarn, but when begging it tends to make me suspicious. Here are my reasons for doubting:

• Too detailed.
  
• He had a stack of bills and paperwork (assumedly from the glove box) with his name and information - again, level of corroboration makes me weary.
  
• He claimed to make $30/hour, but neither his car nor his clothes matched that salary.
  
• He smelled a bit like alcohol. However, it also reminded me of the smell of ketoacidosis. If he was diabetic, it would make the story all that much more sad. But with his Byzantine narrative technique, why would he leave that out?
  
• I saw somebody in the car that he never even mentioned.
  
• What kind of person would pistol-whip the pregnant wife rather than the husband?
  
• The level of damage did not seem consistent with a pistol-whip. Trust me. I know.
  

Oh, and at one point they both started yammering about being Christian and having "Christian morals." And asked me if I was Christian. I was really tempted to just walk away right then. I know, bad Montgomery.

Despite all my doubts, I gave them some money. Why? The pregnant lady. She looked pregnant, honestly. I don't think she was just a fat liar, either - Women are too vain to lie about being pregnant. Even if they were just begging, there's a chance that money will go for food. After they got the money, they just drove off. I was also worried because they saw me get out of my car, which I feared would be attacked were I to deny them money.

Was I wrong? Should I have given them the old "I don't carry cash" line?

Daily Grind

For the past few weeks, I've been studying a latte. I usually chai to study at coffee shops, since I can get tasty beverages and snacks easily. I espresso-ly enjoy the more indie places - less noisy high schoolers and sorority girls. One of the other perks is that you get to do some excellent people watching. Here are some of the observations I've been able to mocha†:

Baristas (no, not the english attorneys)
At Raging Sage, I was listening to the baristas complain about making blended drinks. How they hate doing it, how it's a pain, how the drinks should cost $10 so nobody will order them, blah blah blah. From what I could tell, the reason they hate it is because it cuts into their "chatting with friends" time. And this seems to be universal among all coffee shops. I know making blended drinks takes more effort, but it's kind of your jorb. You're not being paid to talk to friends. Would I hear the same complaints if I studied at Xoom Juice?

I later heard one of those same baristas describing a movie he was making for film class or maybe as a personal project. His decription: a guy is wrongfully imprisoned, sees more corruption in prison guards than in prisoners, and eventually escapes. I wanted to ask if he was talking about The Shawshank Redemption because that is exactly what it sounded like. The other barista said "sounds good" in a painfully apathetic voice, to which the oblivious Film Barista responded "I know, I'm really excited, too." Obviously we can't all start our directorial careers at the level of Steven Spielberg or Lawrence Guterman, but at least come up with an original idea. Maybe you need that blended drink time to work on your script.

One last barista observation: it is extremely awkward to place your order when some loser dude is hitting on the barista. It happened last night at Coffee X-Change. She was trying to shrug him off, but he was a persistent little cretin. I just felt uncomfortable for her. And this wasn't his first attempt, because I heard the following line, "You have my number, right? Because last time you didn't call me." So sad. I was overcome with sympathy, followed by amusement, then a brief moment of elation for some reason, and ended with a return to annoyance. Give it up, guy.

Stereotypes
You know the stereotype of guys only being interested in sex? It always bugged me, but after getting my drink from poor Hit-On Barista I discovered that it's true. I group of frat boys sat at the table next to me and proceeded to talk about sex. A lot. I eavesdropped the following lines: "Tommy just wants ass" "I don't remember her name, but the sex was good" "Just get her drunk" "Donkey's are people, too" "I'll probably hook up with some chick this weekend" "I dumped her because she wouldn't go down on me" "Just go see D-Rock's mom." Swear to Hermes, I heard all but one of those. That validates guy stereotypes and frat stereotypes. I felt gross after that.

After they left, a group of high school guys sat down. I assumed high school from immature behavior and the low-level-subject summer school group study that joined them a little later (but I suppose those could be frat-related as well). I'll just stick with high school. Their topic of conversation? Exact same thing. Sigh. There tone was a little more frustrated, but the subject was still getting sex. Come on guys, you're making me look bad by association.

Bane of my Existence
Loud sneezers. Is it really necessary?

New Celebrity Sighting
I'm at Bentley's right now. I just saw a guy who looked exactly like Tom Arnold wearing a sleeveless shirt and worrisomely (it's a word, look it up) short shorts fix a wobbly table with 3 napkins folded in half. That's totally something sleeveless, short short Tom Arnold would do...


Back to last minute studying...

†okay, that one just sucked

I'm much too fast to take that test

I was studying for my SBS final this morning...only this morning. You other med students know what I'm talking about. Anyway, one of the benevolent second years had a set of practice questions (from the professors?) to bestow on we meager first years. We learned about substance abuse this quarter and in one set of questions the task was to identify the drug a person was taking. Here's an example:

A 32-year-old man is brought to a the hospital. He appears sedated, but euphoric. A blood test reveals the presence of HIV.

So here's Montgomery, sitting there thinking, "Well, HIV can lead to chronic pain. This guy must have been prescribed some kind of opioid pain-killer by his doctor. If he took too much, accidentally or as a suicide attempt from depression, he might have those symptoms."

Wrong. Very wrong. Well, not in the drug. In the reasoning. Here is the given answer:

The presence of HIV as well as signs of sedation and euphoria indicate that this patient is an intravenous heroin abuser.

Well then. The glass just went from half full to half empty. This must be the change in attitude I keep getting warned about. Sometime in the next 7ish years, I'm going to go from "poor guy has chronic pain from HIV" to "stupid junkie." Med student = liberal, doctor = conservative. Tear.

Here's another odd practice question - one of the physiology questions began with:

If the pituitary gland were removed and implanted on the kidney...

Okay, why would you do that? You could just as easily have said "if the connections from the hypothalamus to the pituitary were severed..." Why do you have to go Frankenstein/Mengele on us? I think the answer is "E. You crazy"

Okay, back to studying. I just thought I'd share those stories. I'll return to blogging fo' real when finals are over. Stupid Biochem...

By the way, Zed, you're totally right in blaming your problems on the professor. At least in that one class.

Pickwickian

a poem in five lines
by Montgomery

Severe obesity
Obstructive sleep apnea
Hypoxia and Hypercapnia
Respiratory Acidosis
Fat with a pH

Study Brake

About 93 minutes ago I was driving home from the med library, minding my own bidniss. I turned south onto Alvernon from Grant, whistling a happy tune. Just another day in the life of Montgomery. Really, there was no way I could have prepared for what happened next.

Suddenly a guy, who looked way too much like Ron Jeremy to not be him, rolled into the street at an appreciable speed sitting in a bright yellow wheelchair. A good 200 yards ahead of me, he rolled through the right-most lane (my lane) and slightly into the next lane before stopping himself. Then he used both feet to awkwardly push himself backwards into the bike lane, at which point he proceeded to kick backwards whilst facing oncoming traffic. Luckily he cleared the car lanes before I was forced to swerve to avoid his well-endowed personage. He looked kind of happy.

It was surreal.

Then I came home and read the following in my notes:

avoid sources of saturated fat, such as meat from any animal with four legs

Well it took me about 45 minutes to find a cow with a missing a leg, but I did it. I strangled it with my bare hands (not my bear hands...this time), butchered it, baked it and ate it. It was delicious and nutritious. Health foods can be tasty!



My apologies for the slow updates. I've discovered that distancing myself from the internets increases my affinity for studying ~1000-fold. Much like the effect α-lactalbumin has on the affinity of galactosyl transferase for glucose. See! I never would have known that if I had the internets around. If I fail out of class, I'm suing Al Gore...

Alimentary, my dear Watson

I've been studying hard for quite some time. And the most important thing that I've learned is that I really like British pop-rock bands. I have a definite UK bias in my music tastes. A band which I'd say "it's okay" to gets an over-enthusiastic two thumbs up once I learn that they're from England. And I mean really overly enthusiastic, with a big smile and raised eyebrows. The kind of response which would prompt you to take a step back, say "dude, chill out" and maybe consider not hanging out with me anymore. I'm an anglophile. Ironically, though, I don't like The Beatles.

I've also learned that I like MySpace for finding alternate recordings of songs I enjoy. See for example Beck or Coheed & Cambria. Hooray for acoustics and studio sessions! I need to blog about MySpace on of these days. It's devouring people's lives...

The Penis Mightier

My study motivation was wavering earlier today (read: all day, every day). To remedy the situation, I went to Target and purchased a new pen. Nothing brings back your enthusiasm to learn useless minutia like writing with a fresh new pen. Am I write people? (get it?). My choice was a fine tip blue Uniball. Quite nice. Initially I was against it since the name hits a little too close to home, but I bought it and haven't looked back since.

It's the kind of pen I'd like to have with me if trapped behind enemy lines and stripped of weapons (assuming the inept rookie guard underestimated my training, and the lethality of writing instruments). After hours of torture, my will near the breaking point, there is no pen I'd rather have fortuitously drop out of my pocket as I slump over in the corner of a damp cell, vomiting bile. The clip is just the right size to pick the locks of my rusty Soviet handcuffs, while the tip is sturdy enough withstand the rigors of being thrust into the carotids of my enemies. And its got just the right heft to be thrown across a room, finishing off the one remaining terrorist trying to shoot me in the back during my escape. Sweet freedom. Yes...this truly is the quill of Hermes.

License to Thrill

Well, this post took kind of a dark turn. Hmm...we've had rock & roll, then violence. What's left for my R† rating? I could use "fuck" more than once. Or have illicit drug use. But those are kind of boring. What else? I know! Sex! That'll lighten things up a bit.

When I was at Target, I saw a license plate cover which read "Candy is Dandy...But sex won't rot your teeth." I must be doing something wrong. Or oh so right...



†I probably would've got an R already in the UK. They hate violence, especially headbutts. Look it up. But if my blog post is historically significant, I can probably get it lowered. Let's see..."The Hundred Years war was fought between England and France from 1337 to 1453, meaning it actually lasted 116 years." PG-13, here I come! Fuck yeah. Ah shit...

Mock, YEAH, Ex, YEAH, Am, YEAH, Mock Exam now everybody have you heard?

Today I had my Biochem mock final. I hate biochem. T-Bag gets on my nerves and I think the material is totally useless. If the subject of 15-deoxy-Δ^12,14-PGJ₂ ever comes up in practice, I'll prescribe 15cc of "get the hell out of my office"...enol. Really, it's way too detailed for non-PhD work, especially since I don't want to do any research.

But as much as the class bugs me, I appreciate the fact that they run mock-tests before the actual tests. They show you what to expect and help you prepare. Or they would help you prepare if you weren't going in full of barely-restrainable rage. In that case, you end up bubbling whichever answer has the prettiest grouping of letters. Or bubbling sentences. DAD ACED CAB!

Why was I full of non-sensical bubble sentence rage? The friggin' Medical Student Research Program. It's a load of crap. You don't actually learn anything except how to jump through bureaucratical hoops and fill out paperwork (which is the way medicine seems to be going, really). And eventually they just tell you that your research won't be sponsored since it's not already being done...huh?

I got emailed this morning to come speak with the head honcho, who I'll call MegaWatt. That has nothing to do with her initials, by the way. So MegaWatt calls me into her den and sits me down on her little couch while she sits in this raised up chair. It was like she was perched up in a nest looking down on me, like some kind of greasy old harpy.

She starts shrieking about how my mentor isn't actually doing the research right now, so it can't start with me. And how the proper paperwork wasn't signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, lost, found again, queried, subjected to public inquiry, lost and finally buried in soft peat for three months and recycled as firelighter. Yes, I'm pretty sure that MegaWatt is in fact Vogon, both in attitude and appearance.

And let me say that the whole time I was frightened that her hair was going to spring to life and consume me. Anybody who has dealt with MegaWatt knows what I'm talkin' 'bout. She might be the offspring of Satan and that stylist on Bravo, Jonathon. Yikes.

So there I was: working with a former MSRP committee member, badgered for weeks about getting everything done exactly how they like it, only to be told a week before finals (two weeks before summer begins) that my project was doomed from the beginning. Time to take a test!

It was a waste. I made a mockery of the mock exam. At least I beat Allan at foosball just before taking it.

While we're on the subject of exams worthy of mocking: Legal Counsel had to take an Ethics class and her final was today. There are so many things I can say now. I could point out the humor of making future lawyers take a class to teach them ethics. On a related note, we need a good word for "the exact opposite of irony." "Expected" is just to boring. I could poke fun at her friends who studied hard to learn ethics, essentially admitting that they have none. I could laugh at the fact that the State of Arizona puts together a "Rules of Conduct" for lawyers, since apparently they can't figure it out themselves. I could even go on a tirade on how ridiculous it is to dictate ethics, which are totally subjective, to other people. I could do all of those things. But I won't. Because I have ethics...

Her teacher had a strong bias towards defense. Every case made the prosecutor look like an inept drunk who eats babies and poops carcinogens, sitting on a hoard of treasure in a mountain lair, petting a fluffy white cat. That would get real annoying, real fast. But I guess the ethics teacher would have to be a defense attorney - they know the most about flexible morality.

I just wrote that to get people all riled up. Let's see if it works...

Sorry, this post was more angry than amusing. I'll calm down and maybe make a poop joke later. Hehe, poop...

With all due credit to McSweeney's

An Open Letter to the Driver of the Light Blue Mercury Grand Marquis plastered with "Viva Bush," "Marriage = person in dress stick figure + person not in dress stick figure," "God Bless Our Troops" stickers, a Jesus Fish, no less than three American flags in the back window and a license that is one letter away from containing 'KKK'

First off, let me thank you. Thank you for validating every stereotype I have about both old people and republicans. Really, without you I'd feel like kind of a dick for pigeonholing groups of people. But thanks to you, I know I'm right on the money. I probably just caught your attention with the word 'money,' didn't I? Good...

Before I address the driving issues, I have a question about your bumper sticker. It cleared stated "Marriage = person in dress stick figure + person not in dress stick figure." Now, I have a minor in math and I can't seem to figure this one out. Obviously it's not implying that same-sex marriage is bad...that's just stupid. And even if that was your point, math would quickly disprove it. Check it out:

Marriage = man + woman; but according to the law, men and women are equal so
man = woman, therefore
marriage = man + woman = man + man = woman + woman

So what is it saying? That in any relationship, one person has to wear a dress at any given time? 'Cause that's not cool - Legal Counsel wears jeans often, and I don't own any dresses. Or are you saying pants wearing folks should marry the Scottish? So confused. I'll just move on.

I'd like to quickly note that I'll probably be referring to you as old throughout this old letter. I do this strictly to appease the gods of hyperbole. You probably weren't more than 50.

If you don't remember me - I was driving behind you as you traveled east on Speedway the first week of May. Honda. Civic. Silver...gold...tan...ok, I honestly don't know what color my car is. But it doesn't matter. What matters is your wonderful driving abilities. If you couldn't tell, that was sarcasm. You probably couldn't tell. It's hard to sound sarcastic in the written word. Which is weird, because it's hard for me to not speak sarcastically. But I digress.

Let me first start by saying that the posted speed limit is the minimum driving speed, since you apparently don't know that. Minimum. It's the law, look it up. So when the sign on Speedway says 35 (or whatever the blazes speed is posted), you definitely shouldn't be going 30. Unless Dennis Hopper is somehow involved. Strike one.

Let us now move on to what I'll refer to as the "KFC Incident." Do you remember the rumor going around that "Kentucky Fried Chicken" changed its name to "KFC" because it genetically engineered its chickens to not have bones or beaks, so they couldn't say 'chicken' anymore according to the FDA? I think I fell for that one...stupid teenage Montgomery. Damn it, I digressed again.

Where was I? Oh yes, the KFC Incident. You came to a complete stop at the entrance to the KFC. Let me ask: why? There is no reason to completely stop in moving traffic. Initially, I thought you were craving saturated fat, and the exiting car was crowding the KFC entrance (it wasn't, by the way, but you're old and conservative so you were probably confused, also explaining the lack of turn signal). Maybe you were waiting for Black Pickup with "Silly Boys, Trucks are for Girls" sticker to get out of your way. But no, once the truck was out of there and onto Speedway, you kept going straight, following it. Zuh? That's strike two, lady.

So I turn down Country Club, then through Sam Hughes just so I can get away from you. I felt to some degree as though I was acquiescing to vehicular terrorism, what with you in front of me and tailgating white sedan behind, but I had to do it. I'm not going back to jail for this. So I turn down whatever the hell street that I usually turn down to go through Sam Hughes and end up at the 4-way stop intersection. And what to my wandering eyes did appear? You.

Are you taunting me? Stalking me as part of some blood vendetta? What did I do to you? Nothing that I know of. Why won't you just leave me alone? Were you hired to kill me - and being the greatest assassin ever, you're driving me (pun intended) to kill myself? Just finish me off! Calm yourself, Montgomery...serenity now...

So you roll up to the stop sign a full 5 seconds ahead of me. At least. Then I roll up and stop, yet you have not moved an inch. Then you peek your little head over the steering wheel and give me a look of confusion. A look, I surmise, that is present on your visage over the vast majority of each day. Driving lesson the third: if you get to a 4-way stop first, you have right of way.

So I stare at your bewildered, weathered countenance and you stare back at my unshaven, grizzled puss and I sense a bit of a connection. Maybe I understand where you are coming from. You've lived a hard life. Your first sweetheart, Archibald, was killed in a freak zeppelin accident before your love could fully bloom. This scarring moment left you cautious, both in love and in life, for the rest of your cursed existence. For a moment, I feel sympathy. Then your face turns a slight scowl and your wrinkled hand signals me to pass. The connection is lost, my pity (and my fake story) vanishes and the rage returns. Why doesn't anybody in my neighborhood know how a 4-way stop works?

So I start to go. And so do you. Wha...? The "swoop, swoop" hand gesture is universally accepted as "go ahead." Why would you give it, then go yourself? Oh, I get it. That day was opposite day. Well, nice driving lady. So I stop. And so do you. It's like this weird Harpo Marx maneuver whereby you mimic each of my actions in the attempt to convince me that you're a reflection (okay, that reference was a little dated, but I do love the Marx brothers...except Karl). Finally I just let you go ahead, realizing it's a lost cause. Stee-rike three. You're out of here.

As frustrated as our little encounter left me, I also feel honoured. I feel as though I have learned at the feet of a master. You were teaching me. For me to learn your teachings, you had to teach me how to learn (Sphinx style). And your method: lead by example. Don't do what Debbie Don't does. Oh by the way, I'm calling you Debbie Don't now.

What did I learn? 1) Driving slow puts your life in danger 2) Don't stop in the middle of the street, even if it is to stare at the Colonel wistfully 3) First to stop is first to go 4) Number of bumper stickers is inversely proportional to both driving ability and intelligence (this goes double for republican bumper stickers, or republickers)

Speaking of republickers: in the end, after seeing the lessons I learned, I realized I was playing Plato to your Socrates. And hopefully you were driving to the hemlock store. I kid. Or do I? Seriously, that was a joke. Or was it? Yes.

Your protege,
Montgomery

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

I know the "do something really easy using your mouse, win something" ads like to play off of jingoism (probably because uber-patriots are often uber-naive), but this one is just weird:

Questions arising from this ad:
1. Why knitting? Why not "catch Saddam" or "Punch Saddam?" Are they saying Saddam likes to knit in prison? That's actually kind of funny to think about...
2. Since when are we in a knitting race with Saddam/Iraq?
3. Why are Saddam and Bush wearing kilts and Betsy Ross hats, sitting in rocking chairs with each other?
4. Didn't we already capture that guy?
5. I miss the days when your free prize was an iPod or xBox 360. (that wasn't really a question)

Can you imagine the ad guy pitching this:

We've done 'pop the balloon.' We've done 'punch the boxer.' We've done 'race the car.' Are we out of ad-games? Hardly. Picture this: in one rocking chair, Saddam Hussein impersonating an old Scottish lady. Next to him, Bush doing the same. Saddam is knitting an Iraq flag, Bush an American flag. Click a button quickly to out-knit Saddam. It plays into our four key demographics: old ladies, Scottish people, Iraqis, and the Chemical Brothers. Eh? Eh?

I want to meet the guy that made this.

Bring out the board

50 cent's new album is bound to go platinum. so formula 50 decided to go platinum too. not to be outdone, we are happy to announce the release of our own album, "hydrate or die tryin'." all we need is one little shout out at the MTV video music awards. suckaz be movin' out the way at them beverage conferences. plus, our drink has the nutrients you need to fuel you through the day. that's just how we roll here in queens.

Glaceau vitamin water...you're on notice.

Dewey Decimal Systemic Lupus Erythematosus

That would probably be the most difficult Jeopardy Before & After ever. They should hire me. Anyway, I'm bored studying so here are some library studying updates (LSUs):

We're studying at the "study stations," as I like to call them (I actually just made up the term) It's basically just little desk areas adjacent to one another, separated by small dividers. The way computerized tests are set up. I was standing up, talking to an also standing Legal Counsel (who is looking quite beautiful, by the way). She went to sit down and signaled that I do the same.

The method I chose for sitting down was as follows: 1) bend forward at waist, 2) bend knees to lower both position and center of gravity, and 3) lean back into the chair. Apparently that was too complicated. During step 1, I bent forward surprisingly fast. Picture the speed karate dudes travel at when attempting to break cinder blocks with their faces, or the speed at which D-Rock's mom goes in to earn her $1 ($0.50 on Tuesdays). Combine that velocity with the fact that my angle was slightly askew (probably from staring at notes for too long). Askew...is a word which here means alligned perfectly to place my forehead directly into one of those dividers. Not midway down the divider either. I'm talking right at the corner.

Whammy! My forehead slams full force into that thing and I fall into my chair. The sound of that collision echoes through the hallowed halls of this venerated med library halls to this very day. Through my blurred vision, in the seconds I had before blacking out, I could see Legal Counsel looking concerned whilst stifling laughter. She's so sweet.

Fortunately, my skull is roughly 2 cm thicker than a normal human (accounting for my giant melon). It's built for this kind of impact. Being of British heritage, I should fully expect to headbutt somebody at a moment's notice. A normal human would have gone Humpty Dumpty all over the desk. And all of Kling's horses and all of Kling's men couldn't put your ass back together again. Fortunately I survived. With a bump and a red mark. Stupid li-berry...

Once I regained consciousness and my diplopia went away, I went for a stroll through the books to get the old blood flowing. We don't want any DVTs this close to finals. Walking through the shelving units, I felt myself reminded of Athens in the springtime. Light shining down on me, the smell of olives lingering in the cool air, and philosophers standing in the streets shouting random crazy stuff. No, wait, that's not it. Why was I reminded of Athens...?

Oh, right. There are greeks everywhere. When did this happen? Fratties and Sorries are all up in my grill. No wonder I couldn't find a table. Greeks don't study! Especially not in my hood. It's against the natural order. Greeks are supposed to commit acts of drunken debauchery and sexual misconduct, not read. I didn't even think they could read! They're supposed to get bad grades, then complain to/sleep with their professors until it gets fixed.

And this strange turn of events especially shouldn't take place in the med library. This place is for med students, pharm students, various PhD students, nursing students, and that homeless guy who has a different colored flannel shirt every time I see him. You undergrads have your own library. You know, the big building where you can get your feet drawn on the fourth floor? Go back to your home. Are you too good for your home?

Phew...that's enough ranting for now. Back to studying.

No, one more thing. A bit of advice for any readers out there: the toilet in the non-handicapped stall in the men's room of med library third floor flushes at dangerously high speeds. You're going to get some splash back - maybe even in the face. My advice to you is "flush, then run like hell." Open the door first, so you don't get hung up in the unlocking process. Once that happens, you're a dead man. This goes double if there's any poo in there. Triple. Quadruple. In fact, don't even flush if there's poo. It's just not worth it. Go tell a frat boy you'll give him a Dave Matthews CD if he does it for you. Then take his table. Then tell him the CD was actually in the toilet. Sucker...

Let me see you 1, 2 step

I'm sitting here in the med library working on my MSRP application. Still. Sigh. I hate paperwork and bureaucracy, now more than ever. They're so nitpicky. "Be more clear about your methodology," "respect privacy," "don't openly threaten the human subjects." Jeez, what do they expect from me? I suppose next they'll tell me that I actually have to do research rather than making up data. Jerks.

Anyway, I'm working on my phrasing because I care more about style than I should. I'm trying to say, "The first step in the process..." without using the word 'step.' I go to good old thesaurus.com and search for 'step.' One of the results is as follows:

Main Entry: Aztec two-step
Part of Speech: noun
Definition: looseness of the bowels
Synonyms: backdoor trots, diarrhea, diarrhoea, dysentery, flux, loose stool, Montezuma's revenge, runs, summer complaint, tourista, trots, turistas

Classy, thesaurus.com, real classy. I'd expect these kind of shenanigans from Urban Dictionary, but not from you. For shame...

Back to working on my proposal. I'm adding a new line: "One of the biggest complaints in any medical community is the Aztec two-step. Contrary to popular belief, it affects all populations, not just Pre-Colombian Mesoamericans."

Farnsworth Bentley

Two blogs in one day...wha???

I'm studying at Bentley's with Legal Counsel. Well, not studying at the moment. Right now I'm eating the delicious Fruit, Yogurt & Nuts plate (I'd make a joke about nuts, but I'm better than that†). The best thing about eating yogurt is the realization that you're eating live bacterial cultures. It's the ultimate act of carnivorism.

At Bentley's, there is a large shaker-type container full of a white powder. The only label on the container reads, "Not Sugar!" While being very adamant about not containing sugar, this tag really just confuses me more. If it's not sugar, what is it? Salt? Powdered non-dairy creamer? Cocaine? Parmesan cheese? Anthrax? Poison? Whitesnake?

You can't just put a label on something telling me what it's not. I wouldn't go to the grocery store and purchase a package of red meat labeled "Not beef," no matter how many exclamation marks are in there. And the last time I drank a clear liquid labeled "Not water!" I wound up in Tijuana with no pants, wearing a beret and a single white glove.

If you're going to go to the trouble of putting a sticker on something, why not just say what it is? If I go to the condiments bar and see a container marked "Borax," I'm going to understand that it's not sugar(!). Unless I'm stupid, in which case I deserve to eat the Na₂B₄O₇. Mmm...detergenty...


†no I'm not. That was a lie.

Putting the BS in SBS

Sitting in Social & Behavioral Science, bored. We're learning about exercise. Just learning about it makes me sleepy. Normally I like SBS, but this subject is tedious. Our last lecturer sounded like a motivational speaker, probably because he worked in a "fat camp" (his words). I wanted to strangle him, which would count as about 10 minutes of cardio. Sweet.

At the beginning of class, Dr. Moher comes into class in a wheelchair. He's been having back problems, you see. He tries to start the class without drawing attention to himself, which is understandable. Well, this very tactful student who shall remain nameless (hey, did you know the masculine/feminine forms of 'the' in Spanish are El/la?) initiates this exchange:

Student: Before we begin, can you tell us about your wheelchair?
Moher: It's no big deal. My body is slowly disintegrating. Any more personal questions?
Class: [awkward laughter]

A little later, we were shown the following chart by the guest lecturer:

Highly inappropriate. I don't care if you do look like Edward Norton, Mr. Guest Lecturer, that is unacceptable! I mean, if you're going to use an Excel chart, at least fancy it up a bit. Jeez...

I think I just logged onto my internet...

After a full day of studying, sushi, soda (Italian style), scrutiny (for human subjects clearance), and s...sgetting pissed off at applying for MSRP funding, I headed home with Legal Counsel for more studying. When we arrived home, a crisis was in full swing. We lost our internet connection and cable!

While I called FEMA, Areenos called Cox. I could tell by her tone that she was ready to straight-up murder somebody's ass. She put her phone on speaker, probably so we could all learn that the guy on the other end didn't know co-ax from a hole in the ground. He questioned our splitter, saying we could only have cable or internet. 'Cause that makes sense. Areenos then informed him that our household survives on internet and television. He told us he'd send somebody tomorrow. She told him he wouldn't live to see tomorow.

The Scoobies were ready to scatter - to libraries, to coffee shops...anywhere with connections to that sweet, sweet superhighway. J-Bone and myself, ready for a long winter, decided to hoard supplies at Target. We got the jump on all those other suckers - we were the only horde hoarding. Those fools didn't know of the occuring tragedy. We grabbed our supplies: Dr. Pepper: Berries & Cream (diet and regular), milk, red vines, and Honey Cashew Crunch. Critical for any form of drought or famine. And some nails and boards to secure the entrances. Raiders and all.

Obviously I'm exaggerating. I am the greatest hyperbolist in all of space time, after all. I once saved a guy's life via embellishment. But the internet did die, and we did buy that stuff at Target. And the house did fly into a panic without internet. It's the human equivalent of disrupting an ant trail. "We're doomed!!!" Everybody was freaking out, coming up with escape plans (myself included).

When I got back from Target, I decided to study low-tech style. In this case, "low-tech" meaning "underneath an incandescent bulb with a ballpoint pen, listening to an iPod shuffle." As I was studying, the internets came back. Hooray! Within five minutes (if that), I looked up to see the following:

Everybody was sitting together, like a social gathering of bygone ages. But nobody was talking. Not a word. They were all staring intently at their laptops, a silent vigil to the Information Age. I had to document it.

But this is really the standard here at Chez Scooby. We prefer to stare at glowing rectangles rather than each other. Can you blame us? With so many disgusting secrets and vicious betrayals, how can we look each other in the eye? Crushing guilt, horrible shame - we can barely stand each other's presence. You'll never find a more wretched hide of scum and villiany.

So the house went from internets-less chaos to a subdued, online stupor. Life is back to "normal."

"But Montgomery," You might be crying, "it's finals time in law school land. They're probably studying." Yeah, you're right. Well, you're probably right. Check this out:

They were all on MySpace. Sitting in the same room, not talking to each other, viewing a "social networking" website. Irony overdose...blerggh... Wow, that was close. Good thing I had that free naloxone sample in my pocket. But seriously, that's funny.

Before I go, I'd like to draw your attention to one part of the first picture in particular:

Areenos. Yeah, I'm as surprised as you that she shows up on film. But that's not what I wanted to point out. Check out the look on her face. Anger, disgust, hatred. Her eyes burning a hole in my very soul. She seems to be screaming, "What the hell are you doing with that camera? I'll kill you like that Cox insect!" That's a look she normally saves for Chinese people. Jibbly...



*note: all the jokes I made about the Scoobies apply equally (or even more) to myself. I'm about as internet addicted as anybody. Realize - I started typing this (forgoing my studying) shortly after taking the picture. I'm a hypocrite. But I did take the Hypocratic Oath, after all.†

†no I didn't. That was a lie.