Dawn of the (almost) Dead

Today was the day of the SBS midterm. The subject for this quarter was Psychopathology, aka Learning what is Wrong with your Friends and Family. It has been one of the more interesting things we’ve learned about in med school thus far. For me, it simultaneous created an interest in psychiatry and reminded me why I could never do it.

Because I didn’t start studying until yesterday, I decided to get up early this morning and do some last minute cramming. Evidently I can fit 4 full chocolate éclairs in my mouth. After the cramming I decided to do some studying, too.

At 6-0-something am, I drove to the Coffee X-Change on Campbell and Glenn. The reason for this is simple: having the internet is much too great of a distraction. I have absolutely no self control and an almost non-existent attention span. It was time to cut myself off from the world.

During my short drive, do you know what I saw? Old people. Lots and lots of old people. I thought I had died and gone to Sun City. I started thinking they had finally carried out their plans to enslave everybody under the age of 55, because you know they’re organizing. The official AARP objective is, “To talk about our bodily processes, to get Matlock on every channel and to maybe take over the world.

It was like an episode of the Twilight Zone. You know, the one where I’m the same but the rest of the world is different. Okay, so it was like a bad episode of the Twilight Zone…or a good episode of Outer Limits.

As soon as I got onto the street, I spotted them. Shambling along with that lifeless look in their eyes. Jaw slightly agape, spittle dripping from their lips. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought they were zombies. And I don’t know better, so I killed a couple. Don’t tell anybody, I’ll lay low until the heat dies down.

Then I got to the coffee shop and the place was infested. They need to put a bowl of hard candy on some sticky paper of something. That’ll thin out their ranks. There were belly-button high pants and dentures everywhere. One of the older gentlemen was talking rather loudly to his friends and anybody within 30 yards. His subjects included:

How long it takes him to read the newspaper
How far he can walk
The color and texture of his sputum
Kids these days
Stargate SG-1

That last one is totally true and took me by surprise. It automatically gave him 50 cool points, promoting him to the rank of “Middle Age.” But it actually makes sense. Here's why:

Matlock (Andy Griffith) was in Spy Hard with Taylor Negron
Taylor Negron was in Young Doctors in Love with Richard Dean Anderson

Wow, that was shorter than I expected. At least it gave me a chance to reference two semi-obscure spoof movies. Does anybody even remember Spy Hard? Ooh, how about Top Secret? That was a good'n. I'm getting off track...

Basically, I just wanted to let you guys know that old people are only allowed to roam free during civil twilight. Then they're herded back into cages to resume the slow process of living decay. In fact, the National Audubon Society recommends the "wee hours of the morn'" as the best time to go Senior Citizen Watching. This morning I spotted my first Barrel-Chested Warbler! And I think I might have seen a Yellow-Throated Rambler, but that's probably just wishful thinking. You can go your whole life without seeing one of those. Curse you, Al Gore!

A Tale of Two Moustaches

Last year for finals, the gang and myself decided that we should each grow a Finals Beard™, aka Playoff Beard™. Or in Ah Jota's case, a Finals Random-Patches-of-Nappy-Hair-on-the-Face™. The results of said decision were documented on this blog, as well as the tragic facial hair experimentation which followed. Some people are still laughing at The Spurlock to this very day.

Well midterms are fast approaching and it was suggested that we repeat that endeavor. I told them repeated beard-fests would make them lose their specialness. Much the same as when Legal Counsel tells me that if I were allowed contact (hugging, holding hands, etc), I wouldn't appreciate it as much. She loves me. So the Beard-Off was called off. We need a compromise. And thus the Midterms Moustache™ was born.

A moustache growing festival (in Germany, Moustachenfesten) is just what this school needs. With the new curriculum, barely-started construction and random T-Rex attacks bringing everybody down, there needs to be something to lighten the mood. And nothing is funnier than a guy with a moustache. Except maybe two guys with two moustaches.

But there's one problem: my moustache growing skills are sub-par*. Here's a little analogy action all up at ya:

Ah Jota : Beard :: Montgomery : Moustache

At best hilarious and at worst offensive to highway patrolmen and 80s porn stars, my moustache is not quite full. I'm no Geraldo. Not even close to a John Stossel. Far from a Ron Burgundy. I barely achieve a Clark Gable. Legal Counsel can't look at me without laughing. Well, more so than usual.

The main problem is the center of my lip. It can't grow hair. At all. You can give me the "Shhh" motion without ever touching hair. It's a condition which I shall give the medical sounding name "Philtrum Alopecia." I look like reverse Hitler, which is fitting since I'm an anti-racist. I don't see color, only shades of grey, like Colbert. I suppose I'm also reverse Chaplin, which is also fitting because I talk so damn much.

The most unfortunate consequence of my condition is that it makes me look Freedom. People might mistake me for a Crepe eating, Jerry Lewis loving, baby eating, cigarette smoking, army surrendering Freedom man. Sickening. I'm almost tempted to shave it for that reason alone. Almost.

The most fortunate consequence of my condition is that my two little Whisker Walkers have developed personalities and backstories.

The two entities commonly known as Montgomery's moustache are actually two French-American brothers named Maurice and Michael. Maurice, the older of the two and the one on Montgomery's left, was born in France in 1974. His parents, Jean-Luc and Amelie, hated France and were saving their money to get out. Their plans were slightly delayed when Amelie got pregnant, which was inevitable since everybody in France loves to get drunk and have unprotected sex. With the birth of Maurice (a beautiful 2 oz eyebrow at birth), Jean-Luc began his new career: counterfeiting currency. This job was quite easy since the French have used shiny rocks as money since 1799. The soon had enough to get lessons in speaking American and escape.

They flew to America in 1982. Maurice was fascinated by the stewardesses and vowed to one day Fly the Friendly skies. Jean-Luc swore to disown his son if that ever happened, screaming "No son of mine will fly around in a skirt!" Everybody on the plane was staring and Amelie was rather embarassed. She has yet to forgive her husband.

In America, Amelie accidentally got pregnant again...probably because of Republican policy-making. They gave their second son a more American name - Michael - and loved him just as much as Maurice. But after the incident on the plane, Maurice already felt neglected and was very jealous. He ran away from home in 1990 to pursue his 2 dreams: performing on Broadway and attending Flight Attendant school.

Back at home, Michael became a more academic, less flamboyant version of his older brother. The trouble at home coupled with feeling out of place as the child of immigrants made him a shy boy who always tried to please everybody else. His mother was very clingy, seeing as how she only had one son left. Jean-Luc remained stoic and unflinching, although Amelie would claim that he cried at night for the loss of his son.

Michael grew up hoping to attend medical school. His parents would tell him that they didn't have enough money, which became a cause of constant fighting at home. Michael secretly held on to his dream, but worked hard at his father's vineyard to try to earn his parents' love.

Then one day in 2006, an older, wiser Maurice returned home. Sneaking into Michael's room, he whispered, "I've lived my dream, now it's your turn. Dad will try to destroy you like he tried to destroy me. Pack your things, I'm flying you to medical school." And that night they were gone. The two brothers latched on to a young medical student named Montgomery so they could go to class for free. Michael for learning, Maurice for watching after his younger brother. And that's where they've been ever since.

And that's the story behind the moustache brothers. Too bad they're both going to die by razor in 2 weeks. Sad, really.

I think drafting a story about the life and times of my moustache ranks among the weirdest things I've done on this blog. I'm losing it...

*Why is calling something sub-par bad when being below par in golf is good?

You can't make this stuff up

From The Register, a British news website

Just thought I'd share. And to be completely honest, I could say the same thing.

Excuses

I apologize for the lack of updates lately. I've got midterms coming up, so I've been hitting the books. Literally, striking them with my fists in frustration.

On top of my academic pugilism, there has been an even more important event. One which takes more of my time and attention than studying. That event? The release of World War Z by Max Brooks. It's an oral history of the zombie war. I've been waiting for this book my entire life. It's the second greatest thing ever written*.

On a semi-related note, the lecture I'm in right now is about Forensic Pathology. I'm tempted to ask if the doctor (who looks like the tall, bald alien with the diamonds in Men in Black) if he's ever had a corpse re-animate in his exam room. And if so, was he able to remove the head or destroy the brain. If not, was he bitten. If yes, was he able to sever the bitten limb before the virus entered his circulation. If no, how long has it been since the bite. If greater than 24 hours, I'm sorry but I'm going to have to kill you; it's for the best. Obviously I'll ask all of those at once, and if he says no to the first one I'll look like a bit of an ass.

As you can see, I've got zombies on the brain. Not literally, of course. At least I hope not...keep an eye on me, I don't want to become one of them. Who am I kidding - I totally do. So I barely have time to study, let alone blog. But I'll do my best.



*The greatest thing ever written is of course Ulysses by James Joyce.

I guess this is growing up

As much as I enjoy medical school, I have to admit that it is a little overwhelming and depressing at times. We learn about all kinds diseases that can impact anybody at any time. There are so many ways to die or become disabled, and we're learning about all of them. I've been told that lots of students become hypochondriacs after exposure to so many possible disagnoses from a sniffle or a headache. You could sit in your house and avoid exposure to all the pathogens, carcinogens and trauma possibilities, but you'll probably develop a thrombus and die of a pulmonary embolism. The burden of knowledge is tough.

But to me, there's something worse than learning about all the bad things that can happen. It's learning about all the good things that won't happen. You should all know that I'm really a child in a grown man's body. A well endowed grown man, I might add. Very well endowed. But despite the man-sized genitals on my outside, my inside is full of child-like wonder and a charming level of naievete.

Much in the manner of a parent sheltering their children from the crushing truth about Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny or President Bush, you should watch what you say around me. A simple comment often results in Montgomery running off in tears. Fortunately, most of my friends and family know of my...condition. Unfortunately, my professors do not.

Dr. Carville (named by me for his striking similarity to famed orator James Carville) is currently giving a lecture on Clinical Immunodeficiency, aka no immune system. In describing possible causes, he made a seemingly innocuous statement

Exposure to gamma radiation can lead to aplasia and severe immunodeficiency. Many residents near Chernobyl and rescue workers became immunocompromised and died of infection

I hate when uneducated students argue with professors or doctors, but I really wanted to correct him. "Dr. Carville," I'd say, "That's not true. Exposure to gamma radiation causes increased strength, balance and agility along with green skin. It's pretty well documented."

Then it hit me. It's a lie. It's all a lie. My entire childhood came crashing down around me. Bruce Banner wouldn't have become the Green Machine after gamma exposure, he would've died with lots of little plastic tubes sticking out of him.

This realization initiated a cascade of discovery. None of the beloved stories from my childhood are true. The heroes of my youth are not so much heroes as charlatans. Fakes marketing lies to impressionable children. Let's use this medical knowledge to look at the way things would really have gone:

• Spiderman - anaphylactic shock, death
• Fantastic Four - severe burns, fluid loss, infection, cancer, death
• Daredevil - blindness, becomes a personal injury lawyer
• Wolverine - death by surgical complications
• X-Men - unable to reproduce with "normals," cancer, murdered by Alabamans
• Blade - would've become a full vampire, humanity destroyed
• Batman - severe trauma, death
• The Punisher - gunshot wound, exsanguination, death
• Superman - suffocation in the cold vacuum of space, death
• Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - burns, infection, cancer, death
• Blankman - trauma, gunshot wounds, death

I've spent my whole life waiting for the day when a freak accident would give me super powers. Now I'm waiting for the day when a freak accident will give me a chronic disease.

Today's lecture: Clinical Immunodeficiency and Broken Dreams.

So my dreams, goals and aspirations* have been crushed. But I'm still in medical school. I'll have a chance to provide comfort for those in need. A chance to cure disease. A chance to improve people's lives. And I suppose that makes me a different kind of hero. The fake kind.

*that's "a hope or ambition of achieving something" not "the action of drawing fluid by suction from a vessel or cavity"

Act like a good Catholic for fifteen f***ing minutes. Is that so much to ask?

Dr. Anagram was lecturing on the clinical symptoms of tumors. To illustrate, she was showing pictures of patients. D-Rock, Ah Jota and myself were playing our favorite non-foosball game: Who Does That Guy Look Like™?

We reached one picture that looked like a stereotype overweight Italian. D-Rock claimed that the guy looked like John Gotti, probably because D-Rock has no idea what John Gotti looks like. I, on the other hand, felt that the gentleman was reminiscent of that Sopranos character, Salvatore Bonpensiero. To confirm my suspicions, I did a Google image search for that characters more commonly used nickname: Big Pussy.

As soon as I clicked the button, I realized what I had done. I quickly poised my fingers over the apple and q keys of my laptop, ready for the filth to show. My suspicions were accurate, and women (mostly D-Rock's mom) in various poses showed up in the search results. With the reaction time of a cyborg gurnfighter, I closed that window.

But I'm no quitter. I regrouped and searched for "Vincent Pastore," the actor's name. Strangely, even more porn showed up. Weird...

Labor (Day) of Love

I figured blogging would be the best way to make this announcement with the greatest detail and highest consistency. This weekend, I proposed to Legal Counsel and she accepted. We're engaged!

Please note: this is a documentation of my proposal rather than a humor post. If you're looking for oddball comments, this post isn't for you.

Labor Day Weekend, 2006. Legal Counsel and I decided to drive to Santa Fe, NM for holiday. "Why Santa Fe?" is the question we are frequently asked. "Because we've never been there," is our answer. We like to travel to new places and do new things. Plus, C & C Music Factory had nothing but good things to say.

We'd been discussing Santa Fe for several weeks. I'd been looking at engagement rings for several more weeks. I have been going into jewelry stores searching for the perfect ring for quite some time. I never found one that really stood out as the "right one." I was worried I'd have to settle, which is unacceptable because Montgomery does not settle.

Once we were certain that Santa Fe was going to happen, I was certain that I'd propose there. I went to the jewelry store, worried that I'd have to pick the best available option. But then I saw it. The perfect ring. The ring I'd been searching for. For months I've been filing away Legal Counsel's comments on jewelry for consideration during engagement ring purchase. This ring fit all her criteria, except the one about summoning Captain Planet. Here it is:

If you run into Legal Counsel, don't look directly at it. Use your peripheral vision or you might go blind from all its majesty. I got the ring sized, then put the box in my pocket for the trip.

"You kept it in your pocket? You're crazy!" You're right, I am crazy. Crazy like a fox! The reason for the pocket box is simple: I didn't know when the proposal would go down, and I wanted to be ready for the right moment. I was playing it by ear.

I considered all the proposal options. In the wilderness overlooking the world? Beautiful, but not right for us. Plus, we'd be sweaty and gross by the time we reached the right spot. Disneyland? Great if she was proposing to me, but maybe not as fitting for her. Grand romantic gesture, such as sky-writing? Always struck me as a little weird. Over a fancy dinner? Traditional and classy, but it didn't feel right.

But Santa Fe felt good. It was a place we'd never been, and we're all about exploration. It's a beautiful city and there are a variety of potential places. Eventually I narrowed it down to two options: around art or in the Plaza. Santa Fe has tons of art, which provides many romantic settings. The two "artsy" options I considered were The Awakening Museum and Shidoni. But I was unsure of what Shidoni actually looked like (is it romantic?) and The Awkening is very religious (unlike us) and indoors. I always imagined myself proposing outdoors. So I decided to go with The Plaza, the 400-year old park/community meeting place in downtown Santa Fe. This decision was made the day of the proposal, so you can see why I had to be prepared with ring in pocket.

But really my main concern was that it had to feel right. I could orchestrate a grand gesture, but what if the mood wasn't there? Would the wilderness feel properly romantic? Disneyland is fun, but where in the park would everything fall into place and just feel like the right time and place for a proposal? Even after my decision to do it in the Plaza, I knew it wouldn't happen if it didn't feel romantic and perfect. Everything had to fall into place. And it did.

So I was walking around all day acting nervous with a ringbox in my pocket, which she totally noticed. There's a picture of me before the proposal where you can clearly see the outline of a cube in my pocket. But what's wrong with that? I wanted it to be a surprise, but I also wanted to hint at it to build the anticipation. She fell right into my trap.

After a great day in Santa Fe of looking at galleries, old Cathedrals, the Awakening, and just general exploration we walked back to our hotel and changed into nicer clothes for a 9:30 dinner at Pasqual's. but the reservation wasn't for a couple hours so I suggested we take a walk through the Plaza to check it out sans the hustle and/or bustle of the daytime. We grabbed some coffee and headed over to the Plaza.

Let me just say it was perfect. The trees were strung with twinkly white lights, the weather was perfect, and some tents separated us from everybody else around the Plaza. It was like we were in our own little world; I'd show pictures but Legal Counsel stole my camera. If that wasn't enough, there was a man nearby playing soft acoustic guitar and singing. Jackpot. The only song I remember him playing was "Tequila Sunrise" (Eagles, not Cypress Hill) - I was too nervous to remember anything else. It was the perfect romantic setting and everything I had imagined. Proposing in a park - for some reason it just feels perfect for us.

We danced to the music by some benches, just the two of us. Nobody else around. We're prone to dancing when we're alone, I'll admit it. After some dancing and smiling and kissing, I decided it was time. I spent the next few minutes telling her how perfect she is and why she makes my life better than it has ever been. When her eyes started to water up, I knew it was time for the big finish. I got down on one knee, opened the box and asked her to marry me. She started crying more, said yes, and I put the ring on her finger. It turned out better than I ever imagined.

We hugged and kissed. She called her mom. Then we went to dinner at Pasqual's, which was excellent. We celebrated with champagne and stared at each other lovingly the whole time.

The proposal was perfect. The night was perfect. The day was perfect. The whole trip was perfect. I didn't want our proposal ruined by a lackluster trip, so I'm quite happy.

I know I'm forgetting tons and tons of details. I might describe more once I get the pictures and regain my ability to think straight. I'm still in the clouds from this weekend.

These are the people in my neighborhood

Legal Counsel and I live in a townhouse which is located within a self-contained neighborhood of essentially identical townhouses all leased by the same company. It feels like a cul-de-sac, but more square than round and not on a public street and made of identical subunits. The setup is nice since it feels more safe/comfortable than being exposed directly to a street. But there's one thing about these cul-de-sacs: only one way in and the people are kinda strange*.

We've been living in our townhouse for almost 4 months now, which is plenty of time to start making baseless allegations about our neighbors. Here we go!

Chester
This kindly old gentleman lives in the deepest recess of the community. He was the first person we met. While running recon on these townhouses, we saw him taking out his garbage. He was very kind and helpful. He let us know that he loves the management company, that crime is low and that the houses won't erupt in flames no matter how hard you try. Quite social and very nice. Too bad he's a sex offender.

I know, I'm as surprised as you. But look at the evidence: (1) he's white (2) he's polite, (3) he has a moustache, (4) he has a receding hairline, and (5) his head is shaped like a lightbulb. All signs point to pedophile. He's probably got some kind of freaky dungeon room in his house. Good thing Legal Counsel and I are outside his age range. So nothing to worry about.

Charlie
Another old guy, Charlie lives directly next door to us. Our conversations are always short and he always takes out our recycling bin. His head is less like a lightbulb and more like Tom Sizemore. So obviously he is a Vietnam Vet.

In Nam, he spent most of his time defending innocents from his psychotic platoon-mates. When he got home from Nam, his wife was gone and his country abandoned him. He turned to secret missions for the government, which disavowed all knowledge of him after his first failure. This sequence of unfortunate events has left him with serious trust issues. Now he spends his days in the townhouse, in the dark with his only friend: Jack Daniels.

He's got a 3' x 3' x 7' crate full of firearms, ammunition and MREs with "OPEN IN CASE OF ZOMBIE INVASION' written in yellow army stencil across the top. He's waiting patiently, much like myself. With my zombie knowledge and his combat experience, we can't lose. If he can keep his drinking under control...

Bizarro Lucy & Ricky
A white guy and his hispanic nurse wife. I imagine them to be much like Lucy & Ricky from I Love Lucy, except in reverse. Bizarro Lucy works a respectable job in a hospital, while Bizarro Ricky is constantly showing up and asking to be "in the show." Apparently he thinks there's some kind of show in the hospital. He might be crazy.

They're probably into hardcore S & M, too.

Mrs. Nebbercracker**
The morbidly obese, chain-smoking woman who lives next door. She's like heart disease incarnate. I've got all kinds of stereotypes based on those two qualities alone. She's going to die alone when she falls asleep watching her soaps and a lit cigarette lights her house dress on fire.

There are also lots of kids in that townhouse. There are two explanations for this. First, she's managed to get a bunch of guys (or one guy repeatedly) drunk enough to impregnate her multiple times. Why are the breeders always crazy? Or second, she runs a daycare business. Which is terrifying; if you saw this lady, you'd never let your kids within 30 feet of her. She'll probably eat them. Whatever the case, those kids are going to turn out messed up. I've got two words for the children raised by her: HELD BACK. REPEATING THE THIRD GRADE. LOW STANDARDIZED TEST SCORES. I GUESS THIS WAS MORE THAN TWO WORDS.

Animal House
I haven't really seen the people in the two townhouses directly across from us, so I assume they're in college. Their majors are: physics, sanskrit, and physical education.

And the rest
Any townhouse not directly referenced in this post is just being used for making meth. You don't want to live there. Trust me.


Those are my conclusions based on limited exposure and judging books by their covers. Updates to come once I actually talk to them.

*obscure movie reference! I feel obligated to point it out, since I think it will get ignored otherwise.
**Mrs. Nebbercracker always shoots me dirty looks, so I'm being especially mean to her