Would you say I have a plethora of pinatas?

The subject of today's SBS lecture was psychotherapy. Or in layman's terms, sitting on a couch and having a trained professional tell you that you hate your father. To illustrate this process Dr. Racy showed a movie clip, as is his want. But it wasn't just any movie. It was ¡Three Amigos!

As an aside, let me say that ¡Three Amigos! is an amazing movie. It's hilarious, it's highly quotable, it has Steve Martin*, it was filmed in Tucson, and it utilizes the upside-down exclamation point (which I believe I praised in this blog previously).

The clip he showed is one of the more memorable scenes. Jefe is informing El Guapo (the leader of the gang) of the events for his birthday celebration. Here's the dialogue:

Jefe: We have many beautiful pinatas for your birthday celebration, each one filled with little surprises!
El Guapo: How many pinatas?
Jefe: Many pinatas, many!
El Guapo: Jefe, would you say I have a plethora of pinatas?
Jefe: A what?
El Guapo: A *plethora*.
Jefe: Oh yes, El Guapo. You have a plethora.
El Guapo: Jefe, what is a plethora?
Jefe: Why, El Guapo?
El Guapo: Well, you just told me that I had a plethora, and I would just like to know if you know what it means to have a plethora. I would not like to think that someone would tell someone else he has a plethora, and then find out that that person has *no idea* what it means to have a plethora.
Jefe: El Guapo, I know that I, Jefe, do not have your superior intellect and education, but could it be that once again, you are angry at something else, and are looking to take it out on me?

As you can see, Jefe gets all analytical at the end of that exchange. So it's totally relevant for class. Not at all random and unnecessary.

The fact that he played ¡Three Amigos! in class is alone wothy of note. But then he started quoting the dialogue in front of the class. He was like an excited kid after seeing a movie for the first time, quoting all his favorite lines. It was adorable. To top it all off, he was doing it in a faux-Mexican accent. It was the greatest thing I've ever seen.

To understand the sheer brilliance of the situation, you need to imagine Dr. Racy in all his glory.

Haling from far-off Lebanon (also home of Klinger from M*A*S*H), Dr. Racy towers at an impressive five-foot-nothing. He's got the perfect accent for a psychiatrist, and he's a really nice guy. Now imagine this little guy in a suit slightly too big for him, standing in front of a classroom full of medical students, reciting lines from ¡Three Amigos! in a Lebanese/Mexican (Lebanexican™) accent. Pure. Comedy.

But also highly educational. It made me realize the power of regional articulation in psychotherapy. For whatever reason, Mexican accents are not conducive to psychiatry while Lebanese accents give you mad psych powers. Here's a little summary:

Psychology: Lebanese > American > Mexican

It's true. Don't even try to deny it.

I think we can create similar comparisons for all medical specialties. I'll start off by making a blanket statement that an American accent is best for all general practicioners (internal medicine, family medicine, emergency medicine, pediatrics, etc), and is roughly in the middle for more specific fields. With that said, let's start.

Specialty: Best Accent / Worst Accent
Psychiatry: Austrian / Mexican
Endocrinology: Mexican / Irish
Neurosurgery: Irish / Russian
Proctology: Russian / British
OBGYN: British / Scottish
Anesthesiology: Scottish / Australian
Dermatology: Australian / Chinese
Nephrology: Chinese / German
Oncology: German / Italian
Pathology: Italian / Austrian
All specialties: Not French / French

I put a lot of thought into those choices and in no way made them up randomly. This list only holds true for America - it changes based on locale.

Stay tuned for my commentary on the (predicted) clip of Spaceballs shown in Microbiology to illustrate parasitology.

*I was going to make a comment about the movie having "classic" Steve Martin - absurdly hilarious. But when I looked him up on IMDB, I realized he's still as hilarious as ever. Rock on, Steve Martin!

That Funky Monkey

I just went to Grease Monkey to get my oil changed. When I entered the lobby area, there were two women waiting for their cars to be ready. Obviously I didn't look at them (Hi, Legal Counsel!), but this information was relayed to me by a third party.

The first girl was very obviously from a sorority - blonde hair, signs of an eating disorder, fully accessorized outfit, cold soulless eyes...the whole routine. Also, she apparently loved pink. Everything she was wearing - sandals, sweat pants, camisole, exposed bra strap (real classy), gigantic sunglasses - was totally pink. I think I've already expressed my opinion that fully color-matching sorority girls in sweat pants look like retired women in Florida, so I won't belabor that point.

Everything this girl said was a question. You know, the way your voice goes up at the end of a sentence to turn it interrogatory? This is what I heard:

Grease Monkey: Would you like me to go over what was done?
Sorority Girl: Okay?
...
GM: Would you like us to clean out your fuel injectors?
SG: I don't think so?
...
GM: Everything checked out okay and your car is ready.
SG: Thank you?
...
GM: Here's your receipt.
SG: Does it have a list of everything that was done?

Okay, that last one was actually a question. But still, she looked and sounded like Brittany Taylor from Daria. Hilarious...

The other woman looked exactly like Kevin Smith's wife, except more weathered. Maybe the way Kevin Smith's wife would look if Kevin Smith was enlisted to fight in a war by the Navy, leaving her to split her time between working at a munitions factory and staring out into the ocean longingly. This pseudo-Schwalbach also had the voice of a three-year old. A three year old with a lisp. She also had a Shih Tzu, which I assume was named FlufferNutter.

I was sitting there listening to CMT (which was on their TV) and reading my microbiology notes, when I randomly looked up at the perfect time. Why the perfect time? Well, I managed to witness something mighty peculiar. Kevin Smith's worn-torn wife took a swig of water from a Dasani bottle, then spit it straight onto the floor. It didn't look like an accident, although it didn't look totally intentional. Kind of like the first time Jeff Goldblum vomit-drops digestive enzymes onto his food in The Fly. Very peculiar.

Of course she looks around to see if anybody noticed. Of course I noticed. But of course I managed to make it look like I was reading. The next thing she does, for which I must applaud, is attempt to use her Shih Tzu as a mop to clean it up. It's that kind of resourcefulness that makes America great. The dog resists her efforts and she eventually asks one of the Grease Monkeys for a napkin. I'm so glad I saw that.

Shortly thereafter, both women's cars are ready and they leave. As they leave, this scrawny employee holds the door for each of them. And naturally checks them out as they walk by. Guys are so sleazy, myself included. I didn't check them out, I'm just sleazy in general.

Scrawny guy returns to work for a few minutes, then enters the lobby for something. He hears the TV and looks up to find the music video for "Brand New Girlfriend" by Steve Holy, a song and artist I had never heard of before today. He quickly says, "Oh, no way!" and stands mesmorized. Then he starts singing along and dancing, as if he doesn't know I'm right behind him. You know I'm all for song and dance, but not in front of a customer while working. Ah, who am I kidding; I'd totally do it. Rock on, Grease Monkey!

Finally, my car was ready. I'd like to point out that scrawny guy did not hold the door for me or check me out. I'm rather offended. That's sexism, brotha! Oh well, maybe next time.

As a parting note, I'd like to say that it's too damn hot. How hot is it? It's so hot that the outside air smells like Domino's Pizza. We have reached the temperature at which the world smells like a pizza oven. Curse you, Al Gore!

Ooh! Ooh! Call on me!

Actual transcript from pathology lab yesterday, whilst we were looking at slides:

Prof: What kind of cells do we see here?
Student: Inflammatory cells.
Prof: What kind?
Student: White blood cells.
Prof: More specific.
Student: Leukocytes.

I couldn't hear the rest over the sound of me slapping my own forehead. For you non-medical folks: "inflammatory cells," "white blood cells," and "leukocytes" all mean essentially the same thing. He was looking for someone to say "neutrophils," which indicate acute inflammation, but I didn't want to say anything (more on that later). It's more amusing to watch people restate the same answer several times, much to the professor's chagrine.

We were later looking at a specimen from a patient with sickle cell anemia. We were directly told it was sickle cell anemia. Here's a record of the events:

Prof: What's going on?
Student: Crisis.
Prof: What kind?
Student: Sickle cell crisis.

And another head slap. He was looking for "acute chest syndrome," a much less obvious answer. But again the students just rephrased the same answer and I laughed. I should also note that Bees and I both made "a cute chest" jokes. Because we're mature.

It always amuses me when people attempt to answer questions and/or contribute in class. Especially at the medical school level. Not that there's anything wrong with it. Well...maybe there is. But everybody can do their own thing in class. It's just that my thing has never been speaking up in class. A quality which I attribute to public schooling.

Don't get me wrong, I love public schools. I've only gone to public schools and look how far it's gotten me. I could be the next Alfred Einstein. A real rocket surgeon. Public schools are free, they provide and education and they expose you to real people from all walks of life. When I have kids (read: when I stop doing shots of dibromochloropropane), I plan to send them to public schools. That way they can be taunted and beaten just like their old man (whoever he might be).

I feel that there is one very important lesson you learn in public schools that you might miss in the private sector: keep your mouth shut and blend into the crowd. I'm like a graduate of the Milford Academy. If you understood that reference, you get 300 Montgomery Fun Bucks™†.

18 years in the Arizona public school system has taught me that teachers don't actually care about what you have to say and other students will probably tease you for speaking in class, no matter what it is you're saying. If a teacher asks a question, keep your hands down and for the love of god don't make eye contact. Don't be a hero. You're not going to impress anybody.

Instead, I prefer to sit in the back and silently come up with my own answer. Occasionally I'll mutter it aloud to nobody in particular, but I'm always disappointed in myself after doing so. If I get the answer right I do a mental Happy Dance, which is a disgusting mixture of the Cabbage Patch and the Robot. If I get the answer wrong I hang my mental head in shame, then later flagellate myself in the privacy of my house or a public restroom.

But some people haven't learned the same lessons I have. Many students insist on "participating" and "making their education interactive." Bah, I say! Bah! Here's a quick rundown of things said in class:

• 40% irrelevant questions, either off topic or easily obtained from notes and/or paying attention
• 35% wrong answers
  • 20% just plain wrong
  • 15% totally out of left field, probably buzzwords/buzzdiseases* overheard on House the night before
• 20% attempts to kiss ass or look smart, usually in the form of things recited directly from the notes
• 10% completely unnecessary anecdotes
• 5% correct answers which actually contribute to class

You might notice that my list doesn't add up to unity**. That's because I always give 110%.

So as you can see, I'm not a big fan of people talking in class. I'm not paying $16,000 a year to listen to people who have the same level of education as me. Dr. Palsy is obviously an exception to the no talking rule. But the talkers are also paying a hefty chunk of change, so I let it slide.***

But what else would I expect? It's med school - the cream of the nerd crop. Keep talking, fellow students, and I'll keep waking up just long enough to laugh at the more ridiculous comments.



†Montgomery Fun Bucks™ are redeemable at select Montgomery Road retailers nationwide. Some restrictions may apply. Warning: Pregnant women, the elderly and children under 10 should avoid prolonged exposure to Montgomery Fun Bucks™. Caution: Montgomery Fun Bucks™ may suddenly accelerate to dangerous speeds. Immediately discard Montgomery Fun Bucks™ if any of the following occurs: Itching, Vertigo, Dizziness, Tingling in extremities, Loss of balance or coordination, Slurred speech, Temporary blindness, Profuse sweating, or Heart palpitations. Montgomery Fun Bucks™ may stick to certain types of skin. Do not taunt Montgomery Fun Bucks™.

*With your help, we can introduce the phrase "buzzdiseases" into common parlance. Examples of buzzdiseases: West Nile, Ebola, Cooties, Bird Flu

**math terminology alert

***In truth, I actually don't really care (I don't pay attention anyway). But how exciting would my blog be if I simply wrote "I don't care" all the time? Actually, that sounds kind of nice...

Give me a little credit

For the first 22.5 years of my life I managed to live without a credit card. And being a college student, that's not an easy thing to do. We get more plastic thrown at us than...some...guy. Damn, my metaphorical skills have failed me. Let me try an SAT analogy -

D-Rock's Mom : semen :: College Students : credit card offers

That's better. And it properly illustrates how often college students receive credit offers.

The reason I chose to avoid credit? My mom's advice. She always told me that credit cards are a bad idea that always end in trouble. And I listened. But one day I realized that the world revolves around the credit system. And I hate that.

Everything you do requires a credit check. Taking out a loan, buying a car, buying a house, using the restroom - each of these actions requires scrutiny of your financial history. Even applying for a credit card requires a credit check. That's right: you need a credit history (which most readily comes from credit cards) in order to get a credit card (which gives you credit history). Circular requirements. Paradox. I hope no robots/androids/cyborgs were reading this. Their heads would have just exploded.

It really doesn't make sense to me. In order to make a big purchase, you need to show a history of buying things without paying for them. You might argue that a credit history shows that you are responsible enough to pay off your debts. I might say that you should shut your mouth. Reasons why this argument is no good: (1) bad credit is looked upon more favorably than no credit (2) taking longer to pay off your credit card is better for your credit than paying it off right away (3) because I said so.

So creditors/banks/mortgage companies are looking for people who buy things they can't afford at the time. Makes sense for them since they'll garner more interest. But it just doesn't seem right. A dude like me, who would only pay for things if I had the money in my account, is viewed as a liability. Why must I be considered a liability in every aspect of my life? Tear...

I'm digressing from the purpose of this post. Things are getting too serious. Let's lighten the mood with a nerdy joke told in class on Monday by a professor. What's the name of this chemical?

Mercedes Benzene. Bwahaha....

So I decided to get a credit card. And I got turned down at every turn. "Why would we give you a credit card? You've never had a credit card." Grrr... Eventually Legal Counsel applied for a new American Express card (which she never used) and added me on as an additional cardholder. It worked out well, except that I didn't think it was building my credit so much as hers. Plus, American Express is the leper of the credit industry. No...worse than leper. Pedophile leper. Nobody wants to deal with them.

Legal Counsel told me that big chain stores usually dispense with the cards all willy-nilly, so I decided to get the Target card to replace the AmEx. The Target Visa has rewards. Rewards! I'm a sucker for rewards. In this case, rewards mean "spend $2500 and get 10% off Target purchases for a day." So really, all I have to do to get that $2500 back is spend $25,000 on that day. Suckers...

Let me say that if you want to commit credit card fraud, Target is the place to do it. Here's a quick rundown of circumstances during my application

• I had no proof of income.
• I had essentially no credit history.
• The address I gave didn't match my ID.
• Legal Counsel ultimately signed for the purchase on the card (even after I had given a signature) and neither the teller nor the machine cared.
• I told the guy I had no intention of paying off the card after maxing it, and he just said, "Whatever."

And after all that, they still gave me a $6000 credit limit. I love America.



I don't like this post, but it's the best I could manage to sputter out. Why am I suffering from writer's block? Or in Australia, "writer's bloque." Too much studying, methinks. I'll try to kick my blog back into gear soon.

Any last words?

Last Saturday Areenos, Legal Counsel and I went to Price Club (I refuse to call it Costco) to prepare for the Scooby party. Basically, I was being used for my membership card...tear. It was a successful trip: 2 liters of tequila for $10, 10 pints of rum for $25, 3 gallons of Smirnoff for $3.50 and a hogshead of mead for a tuppence. We also got a box of delicious/evil cookies, some snackage and a bushel of human kidneys.

As we were leaving, I was sitting in the back seat while Areenos was driving. Legal Counsel won't let me sit in the front seat - she says I'm not "mature" enough. I think it's a load of doodie. I didn't want to sit in the front anyway. In the back I can pretend that I have a chauffeur. "Home, Jeeves, and don't spare the horses."

So Areenos was backing out of the spot and I, being morbid and possibly crazy, had a vision of my own death. I imagined somebody in a big SUV (maybe an H3) speeding through the parking lot and talking on their cell phone while drinking a cup of coffee, yelling at their kids and knitting. Just as the back door of Areenos' car (with me behind it) peaked out from behind the big truck parked next to us, the SUV slammed into the car, killing me but leaving Areenos and Legal Counsel unharmed. I'm pretty messed up.

And what was I doing as I imagined this scenario? Singing. And then it hit me (not the H3) - my last words on this earth could have been, "Why do you build me up, buttercup?" Weird.

Or maybe not so weird. To know me is to know that I randomly break into song and dance. One of my fellow students (who shall remain nameless until I can think of a nickname, but let's just say that her name is an anagram "of Rich Man Alert") has gone so far as to nickname me "Mr. DJ." Add that to the list of nicknames that don't stick to Montgomery, the King of Sobriquets. Also, add "King of Sobriquets" to the list.

My singing isn't very good and my dancing is downright frightening, but that doesn't deter me. I can't stop the boogie. So if my death occurs as a result of sudden accident (random gunshot, fatal overdose of car administered to the face, etc), there's a good chance it will be mid-song. As a consequence, the following are likely ends to my short but sweet life:

I'm a rocket man, burning out my fuse up here alone *BANG*
Good eye, sniper *CRUNCH*
We're never gonna survive unless we get a little crazy *SQUISH*
Oh Mandy, you came and you gave without taking *KA-BOOM*
Some day we'll find it, the rainbow connection *WHAMMY*
Psycho killer. Qu'est-ce que c'est *BIFF*
Science fiction...double feature... *CRACK*
And when I get excited, my little china girl *SLICE*
Balloons or no balloons *WHACK*
I can't get behind that! *SBLOUNSKCHED*

I suppose I should also let you know that I imagine my death involving one of those 1966 Batman onomatopoeia bubbles.

But now that I look at my list, it doesn't seem so bad. Dying happy and in the middle of a tune is pretty sweet. And people will say, "I remember Montgomery. He died doing what he loved: being crushed by an elephant accidentally dropped from a zoo-owned airplane singing off-key."

Of course, dying in a song is a lot more difficult if you've got some kind of chronic disease or prolonged injury. You've got to have wicked awesome timing to predict your exact time of death, which is half the reason I'm going to medical school. I suppose an equally Montgomery-esque set of last words would be to go out on a joke. I'd be sitting in my death bed, waiting for the perfect setup to an amazing zinger. Then after delivering the line (which will most likely be, "that's what she said"), I'll not talk for the rest of my miserable life.

If all else fails, I'll probably use one of the following: "Catch you on the flipside," "keep on keepin' on," "peace out," or simply, "who farted?"

This was a pretty morbid post...

Restraint
In SBS today, Dr. Racy read a complaint he received about a guest lecturer last week showed a clip from Fatal Attraction. The lecturer was a psychiatrist who might have been a little crazy himself. He looked like a cross between George Carlin and Gen. Robert E. Lee, with the voice of Alan Alda.

The whiner claimed that the clip/comic was offensive to his religious and moral ideas and that the lecturer should be ashamed. The lecturer shouldn't have shoved his heathen lifestyle in the class' face. It was offensive and disrespectful to everybody who has ever existed. An affront to humanity itself. It also implied that non-religious people have no morals, which is what upset me most.

It was a very nasty, judgmental letter.

Basically, instead of seeing the clip as an example of borderline personality disorder (maybe...I haven't read up on the personality disorders yet, but borderline sounds about right), they chose to see it as an offensive example of pornography and devil worship. It showed an extramarital affair, a boobie, a suicide attempt, a psychotic person and Michael Douglas. All things, I'd like to point out, that you might see in practice.

I want to blog about this event. I want to rant and rave about how people living such close-minded, sheltered, judgmental lives shouldn't go into medicine. But I won't. First off, it would get too serious and not fit the style of this blog, which is mostly an attempt at humor. And second, I'm sure somebody would get offended. We've already seen that people can't handle light-hearted attempts to entertain. So I'll keep it to myself.

I hate restraint.

Sorry, ladies.

Quote from pathology notes:

Greater the number of X chromosomes, the greater the likelihood of mental retardation.

It's science.

Goulet had too many Cherry Pop-Tarts backstage

It's a Sunday morning and I feel like hell. I'd still be sleeping, but my body doesn't think I deserve it. You see, I went to a party at Chez Scooby last night and forgot to practice a little thing called self control.

I know my limits. I know how much is too much. I know when to say when. But it's so hard to say "when" while everybody around you is still going strong. It's peer pressure, pure and simple.

But can you blame me? The way they make 'em, you don't even realize what you're doing. They just taste so sweet and delicious, you can't resist. I didn't know any better.

I couldn't help but ask for "one more" even when I didn't really want one more. "One more" becomes "two more," "two more" becomes "four more," and before you know it you've become "that guy," puking on the original Monet hanging in the living room and using the dog to wipe the vomit from your mouth. Sorry about that...

What's done is done. I had my fun and nobody got hurt. And that's all that matters, right? Sure this has happened to me before, but going wild every once in a while is fine...right? If it becomes a problem, I'll stop. But until then, I'll keep consuming as many cookies with as much milk as I want.


Oh...you thought I was talking about alcohol? Chuckle. No, no - I'm not much of a drinker. But I loves me some cookies. They had no less than three kinds of delicious cookies and an ample supply of milk. How can I resist that kind of temptation? I ate way too many, even after I felt full.

If Legal Counsel and I were Adam and Eve (respectively), Areenos/jPod/Moose would be the snake. And the apple would be a cookie. The Garden of Eden would be Chez Scoobie, I suppose. And the tree would either be the dinner table or the deck, I'm not sure. God would probably be Christopher Walken. Ah who am I kidding, Christopher Walken already is God.

Pressed between the pages of my mind

Two events this morning have shown me that my brain needs some serious re-wiring.

One of the med students entered class today in an interesting outfit. To protect that person's identity (especially after Zed's blog fiasco), I'll use the old male/female spanish definite article trick. So El/la walks into class wearing a bright yellow dress and a bright yellow hair bow. My first thought was this:

Princess Lolly from Candyland! D-Rock will back me up - El/la looked strikingly similar to the princess. But the weird thing isn't that I made the connection. Okay, that is a little weird. The more weird thing is that I remembered the name of a secondary character from a children's board game that I haven't played in at least 15 years, probably more. I confirmed the name via Wikipedia, but "Princess Lolly" popped into my head faster the blink of an eye. Why is that information so readily available?

As a side note: what's the deal with Candyland? I constantly hear people complaining about how much junk food advertising children are exposed to nowadays. I distinctly remember playing a game based entirely around candy. Nobody complained about that. I think the official stance of the American Dental Association is one of condemnation, while they secretly praise the game as they stroke their wallets. The best thing about Candyland? Distinct anti-color blind gameplay. Suckers.

The other enlightening event of the morning came about as a result of lecture. We were learning about lupus in pathology and D-Rock turned to me and asked, "Doesn't Mitch Hedberg have a joke about lupus?" My response:

Alcoholism is a disease, but it's the only disease you can get yelled at for having. Damn it, Otto, you're an alcoholic. Damn it, Otto, you have lupus. One of those two doesn't sound right.

I was able to quote Mitch Hedberg word for word at the drop of a hat. Again, completely useless information stored in the forefront of my brain.

These two events made me realize that the majority of my grey matter is devoted to items which are completely useless. A quick inventory of my brain reveals the following major storage centers:

• Toys from my childhood
• Movie quotes and trivia
• Potent Potables
• Television quotes and trivia
• Foosball shots
• Disneyland
• D-Rock's mom jokes, aka completely true things baout D-Rock's mom
• 17th century German political leaders
• Zombies: movies, trivia, and methods of combating
• Potpourri

See what I mean? All very amusing things to know, but all very unnecessary. And I don't even study this stuff. Well, except zombies (for my own safety) and Disneyland (for my own sanity). I'm just able to retain certain things better than others. Certain ridiculous things. I can quote a line from a movie I've seen only once about 5 years ago, but I couldn't even tell you the subject of a lecture I just sat in.

Don't get me wrong, I feel like I'm learning enough medicine to be a good doctor. But if the area of my brain dedicated to late-80s cartoons alone was converted to medical knowledge, I'd have a cure for every disease by the end of the week. And I'd have a pill that actually makes your penis bigger. But I wouldn't know how to sell it, since spam blockers would prevent my ads. Not that I'd sell it, mind you. I'd keep that for myself. God knows I need it. Um...pretend you didn't read that.

But thems the breaks. I'm just hoping my obscure knowledge serves me well in the realm of patient relationships. I know I'd stick with a doctor who can pick up on my random movie references. "Sorry, Doc. I often doze off while I'm getting an MRI."

Damn it feels good to be a gangsta second year

When I was applying to the UA College of Medicine the admissions folks really built up the school as being the best. Because as much as I wanted to get in, they wanted me to come here. Not necessarily me specifically. The Royal me. They just want to get as many good students as they can, both for their reputation and for their bank accounts.

They emphasized the following four strong points:

• High quality education from well-respected faculty
• Low stress, high satisfaction lifestyle
• An overabundance of complimentary drugs and hookers
• Low cost

And except for that third one, I'd say they were mostly honest and accurate. The professors have been amazing; smart, funny, approachable - the whole nine. Except for a couple, but I'll hold my tongue. Wouldn't want their spouses to chastise me online...wink. Attendance is highly flexible. I can skip class if I want to go to Disneyland, or if I need to "take care of business" in certain South American countries. People like Mr. T can skip class every day, as long as they are able to learn on their own. Tests are only every 10 weeks. It's nice. And the price certainly is low, despite its steady increase every year. At least the government is paying for my education. Wait, crap! I can't say that anymore. How I pine for the days of undergrad...

But we '09ers are the last class using the old curriculum. The '010ers get a whole new schedule, set-up and set of rules. I like to think of them as the UA CoM's experimental guinea pigs. And apparently the hypothesis of this experiment is "If we get rid of everything that makes going to Med School at the UA enjoyable, we can ruin the lives of our students."

As far as I can tell, the administration has decided that med students have been way too happy. They've made sweeping changes to the way things are run, and I feel sorry for the first years. Really sorry. I'm tempted to murder them just to put them out of their misery. But misery loves company, so they might be okay. I'l let them live another day.

Here's a list of the changes I've heard about. They might be totally incorrect, but much like Jayson Blair and Zed, I don't check my information before writing it...wink.

• They have 6 week subject blocks with a test at the end of each.
• They don't get week long fall/spring breaks. They get a three day weekend after the tests.
• Two words: mandatory attendance. If they miss 2 classes in a block, they fail the block.
• Two more words: dress code.
• They have to participate in at least 7 experimental drug trials through each semester. And not the good kind. The mutating kind.
• They have group work every Monday based around an assignment dispensed the preceeding Friday at 5pm - the end of their class day.
• "Oral favors" on all faculty with tenure.
• The worst part of our histology class - grading our fellow students - is now a regular event.
• They seem to have class during lunch.
• "Kick-in-the-Balls Wednesday"/"Kick-in-the-Ovaries Thursday."

All in all, they're getting the high hard one. They've gone from, "Hey class of 2009, don't worry too much about missing class as long as you catch up on material. And we're having meetings where you can discuss your problems in case you're feeling stressed," to "Hey class of 2010, sucks to be you. We're going to stress you out with work and rules. And we don't have enough time for those hippie meetings. Deal with it."

In short, the new curriculum is Bush League.

To think I used to be full of jealous rage since they started so much later than us. Now I just feel sorry for them. I have not heard one person look upon the new curriculum lovingly. I'm just glad I squeaked my way into the sweet life. In honor of the class of 2010, I think I'll take another California trip in the upcoming weeks. Suckers...


To understand what all the winking is about, check out all the drama going on at Zed's blog.

More fun than a kick in the pills

Yesterday was my second day of preceptorship, and so far I have to say that it's great. For those of you non-medical folks, preceptorship is the process of following doctors as they practice medicine so you can learn procedures, presentation skills, etc. And in my case, preceptorship also involves constantly asking for prescriptions from every doctor I see. So far, no takers. We get to choose the specialty we'd like to experience, and I chose pediatrics.

Kids are great. They're cute, they're fun, they don't complain as much as adults, they're honest. I love kids. I guess you could call me a pedophile. No...wait...please don't call me that.

And the great thing is, kids love me. I couldn't tell you why, but they do. Maybe it's because I am so immature (like them), or I'm just funny looking. But they like the cut of my gib. Especially the little ones. The younger they are, the more they smile when they see me. It's quite the blessing, I must say. But also a curse: mostly because D-Rock keeps asking me to lure children into his van. I even had a woman ask if she could take her 9-month old son to me as his primary physician because he liked me so much, which made me happy. I was tempted to take her up on the offer, but all those damn laws about practicing medicine without a license get in the way. Damn you, government!

But it's not all fun and games and playing with kids. I'm there to learn. And I've been learning a lot about examination, diagnosis and treatment. But the most important lesson so far: watch where you stand.

A little girl, I think she was about 4 years, came in complaining of great toe pain and swelling. I went in the room with the resident and she was crying her eyes out. We informed her that she wasn't getting a shot this visit, and she cheered right up. Kids are hilarious. After checking out the toe and consulting the attending (my preceptor), the resident decided it was paronychia - a toenail infection. We† let her know we'd have to make an incision to drain it and left the room to get supplies.

As a sad aside: there was no way to easily numb the pain. No topical ointment, and injection of anesthetic would probably hurt as bad as the incision itself. The doctor discussed an older method which used a spray can to freeze the skin, but that was discontinued after discovering that the cans were highly explosive. Curse you, Fire Marshall! I suggested she use the old upside-down-keyboard-cleaning-compressed-air trick, but it didn't happen.

When we got back into the room, the girl was hiding under a table. It was the saddest, cutest thing I've seen so far. We talked her out and had her lie on her back on the exam table. The foot to be sliced was up on the table and her other leg was dangling off the side. Dr. D (my preceptor) asked me to hold the infected foot while the incision was made by the resident. And that's where I made my mistake.

I positioned myself such that her dangling leg was directly in front of my groin, accidentally of course. I mean, it was perfect. If I didn't know better, I'd say I did it on purpose. It was like I set myself up to be on America's Funniest Home Videos. You know, if the show didn't care about massive HIPAA violations.

So there I was, standing in front of a little girl's foot, legs spread like a cowboy after 3 weeks on the trail, as the little girl was about to be cut. The resident made the incision and as you would expect of a girl being sliced with a scalpel, she tensed up. She tensed all over. Including her leg. Which swung up and struck me directly in the old money-maker.

That's right, a 4 year old kicked me in the junk on my first day. It wasn't too terrible - her foot was small. But it still hurt. I didn't let it show, though. I didn't want the doctors laughing at me on my first day. But in retrospect, it would've been a great icebreaker. Ah well...

So I learned my lesson. Don't let children strike you in the boys. And watch where you stand. And always wear an athletic cup to clinic. Which also comes in handy during the frequent soccer games which break out in the vaccination room. Despite this experience, I still want to do pediatrics. So much fun!


†I say "we," but I was barely involved

Ars Magna†

I'll hit you with a quick one today. One of our 127 pathology professors is Dr. Anna Graham, MD. Here she is:



And here is her doppleganger:



She looks like that chick from Sex and the City! Or, as D-Rock's tablet PC intepreted from his handwriting, "She looks Habitat drubbers Saxon the Lib!" He's got the penmanship of a five-year old with a broken wrist. Maybe as bad as my own. But I digress. Dr. Graham looks like Cynthia Nixon, aka Miranda, from Mrs. Ferris Bueller's TV show. Although, like Dr. Sobonya, she looks much different in person. Maybe Miranda in 20 years.

I'd like to make special note of her name. Anna Graham. How cool is that? It's like anagram! Speaking of which, "Doctor Anna Graham" is an anagram of "Arrogant and Macho." No offense, doc.



†It's an anagram...get it?

I heart Wikipedia

It's the beginning of the year and that means a temporary boost in study motivation. I feel especially motivated this year, which is odd. My interests at any given time usually gravitate less towards academics and more towards Pogs, logger sports, and ophidians on a flying machine. Maybe it's because this semester will have a lot more clinical material and slightly less basic science material, making me happy.

Whatever the case, I'm not going to questions my newfound studiousness. Wouldn't want to jinx it, you know. Besides, it'll be gone soon enough - probably as soon as I see a butterfly or something sparkly.

So I am currently at Bentley's House of Coffee & Tea, my personal favourite* study spot. I'm pre-reading (gasp) for pathology, which has actually been a pretty fun class so far. I actually enjoy staring into a microscope, which is drastically different than my undergrad career. I don't think the rest of the crew are as enthusiastic as myself when it comes to looking at pathology slides. In D-Rock's case, it's understandable. He's probably sick of microscopes after all those years spent using one to try to find his penis. Zing!

Tomorrow's lecture/lab is on "Thrombosis, Embolism and Infarction," aka "The Trifecta of Bodily Destruction." At one point the notes make mention of the "air embolism." To illustrate this concept, think of all the times in fiction when a villain would inject air into somebody's vein to kill them. Cool, huh?

Anyway, I've always been curious about why air in the bloodstream would kill you. Unfortunately, the notes are not very detailed. So I turned to my usual source of knowledge, Wikipedia. I found an entry for "Air Embolism" and gave it a read. And boy what a read.

The entry is broken into sections. Sections like pathogenesis, symptoms, treatment, etc. Low and behold, the second section (before even symptoms or treatment) is a section entitled "Cunnilingus." Before my brain can even process that, my hand has forced me to click on the link to that section. Here it is in all its glory:

A woman should not allow her sexual partner to blow air into her vagina to induce vaginal flatulence during cunnilingus. Although this may be a fetishistic behavior, or simply amusing, it can cause an air embolism which can damage her health (or even be deadly to her fetus if she is pregnant).

Hilarious. Well not the potential for danger part, but the rest is classic. Who thinks of these things? And who thinks it is more important than symptoms and treatment? My favorite part is, "Although this may be a fetishistic behavior, or simply amusing..." Muahaha, it sure sounds amusing. If anything, I'm tempted to try it. Now I just need to find a woman willing to get within 50 feet of me.

All in all, I'm glad I went to Wikipedia. It's a wealth of useful information and comedy. I can't wait to share this knowledge with my patients. Which sounds extra creepy if you know I'm interested in pediatrics...


*By law I have to spell it the British way, since they sell tea here.

Granulomas and Pink Underwear

Today's pathology lecture is on granulomas, a specific kind of chronic inflammation. One of the characteristic features of a granuloma is caseous necrosis (a specific kind of cell death) in its center. The "caseous" nomenclature comes from the German word for "cheese." Why? Because the dead cell mass looks like cheese.

Disgusting. I'd say I'm upset at pathologists for naming various processes after food, but I totally did the same thing in anatomy lab. Some fat masses looked like popcorn. Muscles looked like beef. Tongue looked like tongue. It's just an easy comparison to make. But I think cheese is one of the most disgusting comparisons yet. Dead human flesh being juxtaposed with delicious curdled milk just isn't cool. And I'm going to the Melting Pot on Friday. Damn you, Richard Sobonya MD!

Speaking of Richard Sobonya, here he is:



He is a sexy beast. And who does he look like?



Maricopa County Sheriff Joe "The Bonesaw" Arpaio. Identical Twins, I say. Or maybe fraternal twins. Or brothers. At the very least, they are two totally unrelated people living in the same state.

Lets look at the facts. (1) Dr. Sobonya is wearing a pink shirt today. Arpaio loves him the pink clothes. (2) Both have common first names and fairly unique last names. (3) Dr. Sobonya lives in a tent down at the abandoned train station. Arpaio created tent city. (4) Joe Arpaio served in the Korean War. Dr. Sobonya has an undying hatred of Koreans. (5) Joe Arpaio is famous for being hard on† prisoners, and not taking shit from anybody. Dr. Sobonya beat one of the students in my class into a coma then, with his face caked in blood, looked at us and asked, "Any questions?"

Let's ask the Magic 8-Ball.
Montgomery: Is Dr. Sobonya somehow connected to Joe Arpaio?
8-Ball: Signs point to yes.

There you have it. Similar in appearance and behavior. Maybe related.

I should note that Dr. Sobonya now has a goatee. It kind of makes him look like Colonel Sanders, but not really. I don't know why I said that. I should also note that you can rearrange the letters in his name to spell "his bad coronary." I hope that doesn't come true...


†giggle

Running through my head

Thisa summer while I was holding down the fort in Tucson, Legal Counsel would venture westward and northward to Phoenix. She was up there mostly to fight crime, but she also spent time creating chaos where previously there was none or very little. A pretty sweet gig*. She's like V**. Except hotter. With slightly less use of alliteration, but slightly greater use of explosives.

Being that she was in Phoenix whilst I was in Tucson, and taking into consideration my very flexible summer work schedule, I made several expeditions to the Northwest territory***. And it just so happened that she lived very near the Mill Avenue area and ASU. Or as they call it in Tucson, "ASU Sucks." Somebody graffiti'd that on the sidewalk near the Optical Science Center here at the UA. Why would you vandalize your own university to badmouth another? Sigh...

Whenever I spend an appreciable amount of time near college campuses or hippy**** hangouts like Mill, the number of tattoo***** sightings drastically increases. And things like that always get me thinking. And Montgomery thinking is never, never, NEVER a good thing.

I used to be opposed to tattoos. For the life of me, I couldn't tell you why. I think my argument was that they are unnatural. But 90% of human behavior is unnatural, so that doesn't make sense. By the same logic, I could argue against surgery. Maybe I was opposed to them because my tattoo-fisted father would punch me in the eye every morning for 6 straight years. But I'm not a physicist - I don't pretend to understand the human mind.

My previous opinion on tattoos was that they are only acceptable in one situation: military service. And in that case, they are totally mandatory. You have to get some kind of ill-tempered animal etched into your arm flesh along with everybody else in your platoon. "The Fighting Lungfish," "The Flying Snakes," "The Grumpy Gorillas" or "The Killer Coelacanth." Whatever. Point is that it builds unity and preserves a memory. Because you're really likely to forget military service. Also, it makes it easier to identify bodies.

But my previous tattoo bias has essentially disappeared. Now I have no problem with them, and think they can often be pretty cool. I attribute my newfound open-mindedness to two sources. First, Legal Counsel has one and I like it. It's the cutest portrait of Chief Justice Warren Burger covering her entire back. Second, and more importantly, Little Pete from The Adventures of Pete & Pete had Petunia on his forearm and she would dance. You can't argue with that. He is my personal hero, after all.

Despite my newfound appreciation for body art, I still can't see myself getting one. It's not the idea of tattoos in general, it's just that I can't think of anything to permanently dye into my flesh. But for the purposes of blog material, I'll try to think of something. It would have to be something that is important to me. But I'm not a fan of getting the name or visage of a person you know imprinted on your skin, so Legal Counsel is out. Something I enjoy. Something I'll never grow sick of. Hmmm...

Two things spring to mind: Disneyland and Zombies. I'm sure the two non-human things I love most are the Happiest Place on Earth™ and the walking dead. I constantly want to go to Disneyland (I've got the annual pass, after all) and I'm constantly waiting for new zombie movies while watching the old ones. But how would I choose? It's like Sophie's Choice, but more important******.

I've got it! Combine the two! A zombie riding Buzz Lightyear's Astro Blasters! Or Pirates! Or Splash Mountain! Or riding a Doom Buggy! No...wait...even better! A zombie wearing souvenir Mickey Mouse Ears! Yes! It's brilliant! Probably the coolest thing I've evr come up with. That's the kind of thing I can see inscribing permanently on my body. Somewhere out of sight, of course. Surely I'd have to see a drawing first. (yes you would and don't call me Shirley) In fact, that would just be a good drawing to own. I've got a birthday coming up - if anybody out there is an artist, Zombie Disneyland Tourist drawing is the perfect gift.

That's enough time dwelling on my love of two completely opposite things. Let's move on...

So my previous tattoo bias is gone. But fortunately I've got an entirely new bias. Namely: obese people shouldn't have tattoos. Ever. Jibbly. Slightly to moderately overweight is fine, but once you hit obese it is strictly off limits. I see them walking around Mill Ave or the UA Campus and it just doesn't look good. Hey buddy, your arm flab is really testing the tensile strength of that barbed wire. I know you've got a larger canvas to work with, but that doesn't mean you have to. Unless you're using your skin as a living pirate treasure map, which kicks ass.

And you can totally tell when somebody got the tattoo when they were skinny. It gets all stretched out and distorted. That little butterfly on your back has changed into Mothra, and it terrifies me. Getting a tattoo is like a sacred oath to keep your weight relatively constant. That's a piece of art, damn it! Would you stretch the Mona Lisa around a 1971 Buick Skylark? Didn't think so.

There is one exception to the Obese Tattoo Rule: if you're a guy and at least 70% of your body is tattooed, you're good to go. That's the kind of commitment I like to see. If you're body is covered in a collage of skulls, creepy jesters, unicorns, flora, fauna and various other fun stuffs, I salute you. And fear you. Take my wallet, just please don't hurt me or eat my baby.

Okay, I'm done with this subject. In summary: Montgomery no longer opposes tattoos, except on obese people. And he would love to see a zombie wearing Mickey Mouse Ears. This post went very long...again. I like writing. It's relaxing.


*gig is hippy lingo for "job" - something about which hippies know nothing. It also means "a light two-wheeled carriage pulled by one horse" or "a light, fast, narrow boat adapted for rowing or sailing" or "a harpoonlike device used for catching fish or frogs." But I'm not using any of those definitions. Why would fighting crime and creating chaos be a "pretty sweet light two-wheeled carriage pulled by one horse?" You're being ridiculous. Stop it.

**for Vendetta

***calm down, Canadians. Go eat some donuts.

****I don't actually hate hippies. Just beatniks.

*****tattoo: (noun) an evening drum or bugle signal recalling soldiers to their quarters. This isn't the definition I'm using, jerk.

******Bad taste, I'm sorry. Chopped (the restaurant) has a sandwich that lets you choose between two kinds of deli meat called "Sophie's Choice." How horrible is that? I just wanted an excuse to bring it up.

Off the Map

To finish off our last summer vacation, Legal Counsel and I made a trip to California. Or as I like to call it, "The Land that City Planning Forgot." Seriously, get these guys a civil engineer. Or at least a dude who has played Sim City 2000. That place is a convoluted mess of asphalt and hobos. Friggin' California. Is a grid of perpendicular, straight roads really that difficult? Why can't you be more like the NYC†?

Anyway, the majority of our time was spent in San Diego. We were supposed to do Legoland, the San Diego Zoo and the San Diego Zoo's Wild Animal Park. I got violently ill on the day set aside for Legoland, so we only got to do the two zoos. Zoo's. Zoos...it looks funny. Legal Counsel loves the zoo. Why? Because they are zooriffic. She likes giraffes, elephants and the Argentinian Exploding River Toad. I like monkeys/apes, turtles and Snakes on a Plane.

We got lost almost every day of our trip. I'd like to place the blame entirely on California, but it was also my fault. I kept giving her wrong directions when she was driving. Being of English heritage, I only have a sense of direction when at sea. Or when it's raining. Or when I'm eating fatty, greasy foods made of random beef parts and pastries. But none of those conditions were met, so I was lost.

As we were randomly travelling around San Diego, I was getting increasingly more frustrated. Both with myself and with Schwarzenegger-land. But then I looked down at the hotel-provided map we had been using and noticed the following disclaimer:



"Not to scale or accurate." What the hell?? Cartographers have only two reasons to live: accuracy and scale. If they can't fulfill those two missions, they should just commit seppuku. What's the purpose of giving us creating a map which isn't to scale or accurate? Why not just slap that disclaimer on a Spirograph and send us on our merry, oblivious way? No wonder we kept getting lost. But it's a relief to know that our confusion wasn't (entirely) my fault.

I'd make this post longer, but my mom is coming to town so I need to hide my drugs and pornography. And my preceptorship starts tomorrow, so I might not be able to update again until Friday. I apologize. But I actually get to work with a pediatrician...yay! I'm so excited!

And I just can't hide it.

I'm about to lose control.

And I think I like it.


†I'd actually never drive in New York City. But at least they've got subways, damn it.