Chronicles of a Trip Untold: Le Paradis England

Rummaging through my computer for pics to upload to the web, I stumbled across a smorgassboard of photos from my trip to London a few years back. Having never written about it, I'd be remiss if I gave up the juicy opportunity to bore you to death about our relatives across the Atlantic (relatives for all you white people out there).

As you may or may not know, England is a lovely little island with rolling green hills, vats of Guinness (admittedly Irish, but wildly popular in the pubs) and lots of white and brown people with funny accents that Americans have deemed "incredibly sexy." Familiar with only the latter aspect of English culture, I eagerly parted with more than a semester's worth of college tuition for a one-month stint of booze in lofty Cathedrals (the British, bless their hearts, are largely agnostic), cluttered museums filled with plundered relics from third-world colonies, and one exhibit filled with 7,559,452 specimens of dead dissected animals (I had the rare fortune of seeing a diseased penis preserved in formaldehyde. Not a pretty sight, but damn interesting).

But before I regale you with those stories, we shall start at the beginning. For an entire 30 days, I lived and breathed the Tube, which is the American equivalent of the metro but much, much classier. As a bold demonstration of their advanced sophistication, the British have abandoned dingy industrial rail cars in favor of those designed by Gymboree. Yes, there may be a lack of ventilation in the summer, but as one train official informed me, one can always take comfort in the GLORIOUS COLORS! (I suspected pot use).

Inspiring daycare centers worldwide

One station particularly near and dear to my heart was Baker's Street Station. You might think that I lived there, but in fact I lived across from Regent's Park, shown below:

The Gates of Heaven and the Garden of Eden... if I could bloody afford to live there.

(For those who are over-analytical, there was actually a tube stop called "Regent's Park," but in a cruel twist of humor intended to spite those "Bush wankers" (read: Americans), it was further away from our lodgings than Baker's Street).

One curious thing about the British is their subtle nationalistic bent. Do not be fooled by their blasé self-deprecating remarks about their pseudo-socialist government. They love themselves. In fact, the only thing they love more than themselves are their fictional storybook characters. Somehow, the British got to writing books about crazy detective mothafuckahs (excuse my French) and the next thing you know, Sherlock Holmes is more popular than the Queen! So popular that he has a statue unto himself. At an imaginary address that doesn't even exist. God I love the Brits.



"Tell me, my dear Watson, why am I an ugly, cast-iron figure canonized outside of a random tube station?"







There are few things in life that impress me, and having the opportunity to see this man's imperturbable face each and every day was a true delight. How could I stand to marvel at such a brilliant achievement for an entire month? The master said it best:


"It's elementary, my dear Watson."



Actually, some pot would have helped.

Conversations With My Father: part III

Dinnertime has always been a heart-warming activity for my family. As dusk falls around our cozy little home-in-the-'burbs, we descend into a comfortable evening chat about our respective days. Typically, me and my mom have pretty ordinary tales punctuated by the occasional irritant co-worker or difficult customer, but my father clearly works with individuals who have lives as colorful as his own imagination.

background: "FBI-Ma" is a fellow co-worker of my dad's and long-time acquaintance of my mom's.

Dad: Did you know that FBI-Ma's son is in the FBI?
Mom: Really?
Dad: Yeah. They investigate everyone you come into contact with. Even your girlfriends.
Mom: How do you know?
Dad: Well, FBI-Ma was telling us all about it today. She said that ever since her son started working there, he's become a lot more quiet and doesn't talk about his job with her. He had to marry a fellow FBI worker because they won't let him associate with just anyone.
Me: I don't think they control who you marry. They probably just make sure you aren't involved with a spy.
Dad: No. These government people, they know everything about you, but they don't say anything. Her son can only tell people that he works with "computers," not the FBI.
Me: Then why did her mom tell all her co-workers about her son's real job?
Dad: Well, now she tells people that her son is in "computers."
Me: Isn't it a little late?
Dad: I don't know. She says she can't talk about her son's activities. Who knows what he's doing? I bet he's involved in some pretty shady business. You know the FBI has a hand in the crumbling economy and the political elections.
Me: .....
Mom: Talk less and finish your hamburger.

Conversations With My Father: part II

Not a day goes by that I don't wonder how my dad chose the wrong vocation in life. Rather than being a boring government worker, he should have become a serial novelist or editor of the National Enquirer. With an uncanny knack for devising hopelessly irrational conspiracy theories about the government (all this despite being a faithful employee for some twenty-odd years), it is easy to see why I became an English major. It runs in the family. Except he's a lot better at it than me.

Let me illustrate with a true story.

Sitting on my bed one evening just reading myself to sleep, my dad suddenly bursts into my room.

Dad: Can you look at this? (it's a permission slip for my brother's chorus trip) I shouldn't sign it right?
Me: reads the sheet. The school wants you to sign and verify that your child isn't bringing any illegal weapons on the trip. If you sign it, then the teacher doesn't need to search his belongings.
Dad: But why should I sign? Doing so means they have the right to rummage through your stuff! There's no privacy! I think it's ridiculous to be searched.
Me: But that's why you sign. So they won't search.
Dad: No. We shouldn't sign. I heard on the news that the government can just come to your house and search you for no reason!
Me: ....
Dad: You could sign your life away and not even know it!
Me: You're right, dad. Everyone is out to get you.
Dad: Yes, always be careful about what you sign.

postscript: my dad did eventually sign the permission slip

Conversations With My Father: part I

disclaimer: the following views expressed in this post are most decidedly NOT PC and are in no way intended to offend. I would not write about it if not for the fact that my dad's just so ridiculous it's funny.

Waking up one rainy Thursday morning, I walk into the kitchen to pack my lunch for the day. Typically my mom is already up, having cooked breakfast for my brother and seen him off to school, and my dad too--usually for lack of anything better to do (like sleep). So, when I see him bolt into the kitchen like a madman with that wild gleam in his eyes, I know it's going to be one of "those" days.

Dad: "Did you hear? Islamics are now lending money to people at zero interest!"
Me: "I know dad. Islamic law prohibits usury. It's been around since the 8th century."
Dad: (clearly not listening) "But now they're lending money to non-Islamics! Where do they get such money? The Federal Treasury doesn't back them. I wonder where they get all that money to lend people."
Me: "....."
Dad: "You should take out a loan from them. It's available for everyone now."
Me: "Where did you read this?"
Dad: "It was in the news .(it could have come from a monkey on the street and he would still say it was from the "news")"
Me: (facetiously) "Well, they probably do it so they can eventually force you to convert to their religion and take over the world."
Dad: "Yeah. I bet they brainwash you with their money."
Me: "Mmmhmm. The only smart investment is to painstakingly save your money penny-by-penny in a low-interest savings account that won't even compensate for inflation."
Mom: "That's right! Never be greedy. Nothing good can come from easy money."

Robert Allen is My Boy!

800-267-4152. Called 3 times in a 3-hour time span.

Now, either someone really wanted to reach me or it was just another telemarketer wreaking havoc on the world. Wary of 800 numbers (do you see a trend here? I'm really not this paranoid in real life), I envisioned an overweight, slightly unshaven pothead sitting on the other side of the line trying to convince me to sell my soul to The Man for the low, low price of $64,000/year. Too late, dude.

Reluctant to call the offender, I decided to do the next best thing--Google it! Curious to see what evils lay behind that esoteric combination of 10 numbers, my search eventually pulled up a long list of complaints about what turned out to be Robert Allen's "Enlightened Millionaire's Institute," or EMI, as it is affectionately called.

I don't know Robert Allen personally, but judging by other people's comments ("Apparently the service they provide is so useless that nobody wants it, and so they go out and harass people into taking their seminar"), he is not a universally-loved character. However, despite his unpopularity (or perhaps because of it), I found the whole idea intriguing and not altogether random. Someone wants to create wealth? For me? Could it be that they caught wind of my impending descent into the bottomless pit of usury whose trip holds no promise of return?

Periodically my mother will ask me: "are you sure you want to go to med school?" when she really means: "do you really want to be enslaved for 10+ years of your life while your beauty wastes away and you end up as an embittered old spinster conked out on crack?" Tired of fighting such rhetorical questions, I sometimes answer: "yeah. Maybe I should just become a writer and make millions." To which she replies: "you will never succeed in life without hard work. Don't worry, someone will give you money for school."

I can't help but think she misses the point.

Anyway, the greater point is that I could call the 800 number and ask to be taken off their phone list, but why would I want to do that? If what my mom says is true, then this Robert Allen could be the key to a wildly successful medical career.

Until that day comes, I'm putting 800-267-4152 on speed dial.

O Vino, How I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways...

Next to getting laid (if I were a man) and winning the lottery (if I were a money whore), wine is the greatest thing that man has ever invented. A delicate tease, the golden acidic aroma of promised debauchery is enough to drive the most abstemious ascetic wild with passion. It is, in so many words, the liquid of love. I often marvel at how progressive the Europeans are in this respect. They embrace the lowly grape as a valued member of society. Most assuredly, wine is welcomed like a long-lost uncle whose unannounced return promises abundant self-expression and unbridled personal liberty. It is reason to celebrate in the Bacchanalian style--with no rules, just right.

Therefore, I'm sure that everyone can relate to my sudden urge to get tipsy in the middle of the week. Like a thirsty sailor, I fell easy prey to the siren call of EtOH, longing to rid myself of balance sheets and ridiculously convoluted state income tax returns (I understand now why there are so many alcoholics). Unwilling to pollute such a precious experience with dive-bar douche bags and cretins, I chose to imbibe with none other than Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential.

Kitchen Confidential is a rags-to-riches tale about an inebriated, coke-sniffing, weed junkie who doesn't deserve fame but is so ridiculously bad-ass that one cannot help but fork over millions to watch him eat raw meat in Cambodia on the Travel Channel. However, to each his own, and since I did not pay for the book or even check it out from my local library (that would be public support, you understand), I have no moral qualms about indulging in such shameless self-aggrandizement (all things considered, I need to take lessons).

It is a novel mildly amusing at times but really just exhausting as every other chapter is about humping on flour sacks, illegal drugs, ass molesting, and extortion. If you thought your toilet was dirty, you sure as hell don't want to eat at any restaurant in the USA after reading his book.

But ultimately, this post is not about Bourdain's book. It is about wine, and what wine does to people. In a sad attempt to be creative, I brought along a notebook to record my thoughts with Tony and Chardonnay. This is just a little excerpt, in sober retrospect:

"Oh, alcohol, that lovely nectar of the gods. You are exactly what I need to get through a particularly difficult week! You are the solution to my unlimited boredom, beset as I am with debt that I will never be able to pay off in 10 lifetimes! Overly dramatic, you say? Hardly. I cannot be responsible for any actions under this pixie liquid that courses through every fiber of my being. Isn't that amazing? To relinquish all personal responsibility in favor of some absolution is my ultimate goal! @#%$ my job. Accounting is as boring as a pig trying to gain admission into a pony show! (I have no idea where the hell that came from) It simply cannot happen! Hopefully someone will see through the shit that is living a life horrendously boring. I stand corrected. There is nothing to salvage. I am lost. I am broken."

That excerpt would be poetic were it not for the fact that all of my English professors would have epileptic fits over my nonsensical turns of phrase and general incompetence in the thought department. I'm not even going to try to understand that garbage.

It's the wine, my friends. Live it, love it, drink it.

No Thanks, Mate

As a newly christened post-grad--one of the lucky few catapulted into society without any useful skills--the learning curve of life has been a steep one. It isn't so much paying the rent (I live at home), scouring for 99 cent deals on groceries (my mom, bless her heart, still cooks), or even foregoing cable television to buy a car (I've had one since college) that's difficult. It's the social aspect. Namely, guys.

Some of you might have heard the adage: "Men are dogs." This is entirely true. No, they're not the loyal, slobbering-but-endearing type that bring a smile to your face after a long day in the trenches, but rather the dry-humping, pee-all-over-the-carpet kind that you can't seem to get rid of fast enough. Armed with a bank account and unctuous Armani shirts from the discount section, these creatures are unleashed en masse upon the world with a singular thought in mind: Get laid at all costs.

Let me illustrate with a true story.

I was at a happy hour mingling with people interested in improving their language skills. As I chatted with a bubbly Japanese woman on my left, I barely noticed the unassuming Australian guy on my right. Barely noticed, that is, until he introduced himself to me as "D-bag" (pseudonymed for privacy) and innocently inquired about my background. Giving him very little to go on, we had a surprisingly intellectual conversation and for all intents and purposes, he appeared to be a "good guy."

So we went out to dinner, a movie...even lunch. I asked if he dated often, to which he replied "not really" and indicated that he had just moved to the area and was not in any sort of relationship. Having been accused of being intensely cynical (can you blame me?), I decided to try on the optimist's hat. Who says that you can't meet a nice guy randomly?

So one day, D-bag calls me and asks: "Would you like to accompany me to a work function next weekend? I'm going to Guyana on business, but will be back before Friday."

I tentatively agreed. He said he'd call before Friday.

So a week goes by and no call. One of my friends wanted to go out and since I am a stickler for promises, I call him to see what's up. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I can't make it to the event because I won't be back from Guyana. Let's get lunch on Saturday instead." Sure. Unforseen circumstances. I understand.

Two days later, I get this email:

"hi honey,

i'm making dinner right now. i know aren't u surprised? i wanted to tell you that you presented yourself very nicely at my work function. you were very beautiful and im glad you could come.

also, im' sorry for making u cry...im not good at saying what i think but we are a good combination. our problems are not as bad as other couples and i hope you will forgive me. i hate to see you cry. anyway i want to see you again so don't think too hard about things ok? they will work out. i love you.

-D-bag"

then I get another one: "please delete previous email."

In addition to his frightening inability to follow proper writing convention, D-bag was a sleazy, yellow-dog cheater. And an idiot to boot. There is no excuse for being unfaithful, but a male who cannot send emails to the right woman is just downright sad. I wrote back to the effect of: "you have serious issues to work out so don't ever contact me again," and since I haven't heard from him, I'd venture to guess he probably got the message.

In sum, I will leave you with a funny Andy Rooney quote imparted to me by a female friend:

"For all those men who say, "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?", here's an update for you. Nowadays 80% of women are against marriage. Why? Because women realize it's not worth buying an entire pig just to get a little sausage!"

Exactly.

No Macaron For You!

Having heard so much about the glorious French macaron in Europe and NYC, I decided to go on a macaron hunt of my own. Little did I know, the number of patisseries in my state roughly equals the number of calories burned by a cadaver. Given my unflagging tenacity (read: incredible boredom) for yummy French things, I finally stumbled upon a little gem called Silva's Patisserie. It's a small shop owned by Harry Sarkees, a former pastry chef at the Kennedy Center. With such a lofty title, one would think that he could only produce heavenly delights for the palate, but I was sadly wrong.

Beguiled by the lush, neon fruits-basket interior (you can't tell from the photo), I thought I had finally hit gold. Of all the tasty cookies that rested coquettishly behind windexed glass cases, I spotted miniature macarons of the pistachio and strawberry variety. They were small, and at $6.00/lb somewhat pricey, but man...I just had to try them.

And I did.

I bought a tiny little box wrapped up like so:










...and since I can't take decent photos worth crap, here's a stylized version of a whole, virginal macaron.

My first bite into faux-French deliciousness was somewhere between weeping and getting a root canal. Rather than being a soft, fluffy experience, my macaron turned out to have the crusty old consistency of rock-like nougat. Sure, the almond flavor was there, and perhaps even a hint of pistachio in the filling, but overall it was disappointing. What had looked so promising was ultimately a let-down--one of the many reasons why living can be so painful. Can you honestly look at the photo below and think "Ew, gross!!!"?!!

Somewhere out there, a tickle-me-Elmo doll is crying.

So in the end, my macaron quest was a miserable failure, not unlike many other ventures in my life. However, at least this was just a stupid dessert and not someone's life. If I ever screwed that up, I don't think I could say: "well, he was a shitty macaron anyway." That wouldn't do.

Have You Seen Me?

Authorities are currently looking for a prurient woman-of-the-night who is believed to be armed and dangerous. The suspect has been sighted in a number of cities along the East Coast luring young, unsuspecting males into unspeakable acts behind closed doors. Little is known about "La Ho*," as she is commonly known, but reliable sources say that she can be found lying in bed at ungodly hours of the afternoon when normal human beings do things like work and play.

Please, if you have any information on the whereabouts of this individual, contact 1-800-WAKE-UP-HO so we can return this waif back to the harem where she belongs.

A recent photo is provided below:

*Sorry, I couldn't resist.

The Sine Qua Non of Being a Great Doctor

Being a physician can be an intensely gratifying experience. After all, what other career allows you to poke, prod, and otherwise violate another human being for money? Whether it's looking up someone's rectum or down a person's gullet, there can be no end to the orifice-probing possibilities.

So, to become a great doctor, one needs to cultivate a habit of invasive voyeurism. How can you tell if your child has what it takes to succeed?

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First, your child may begin with an innocent curiosity about inanimate objects:

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Next, she may display increased obsession with living things:

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Finally, she will discover the overwhelming joys of dead carcasses:

In short, if your child displays one or all of these characteristics, then she may be on her way to a full, satisfying career in medicine. Or she might just end up as a mortician. It's hard to say.


disclaimer: while the photos do indeed sport a little asian girl, that girl is not me.

Medical School: an arm, a leg, a kidney, and oh...a piece of liver, too

Remember the first and only time you won the school's spelling bee? How about the titillating excitement of a first kiss? Or the proud satisfaction of learning how to ride a bike? You see, I don't consider myself to be a shameless hedonist, but I do enjoy the taste of success once-in-a-blue moon as much as the next guy. So, imagine the devastation and heartless cruelty of ripping that small shred of happiness from an innocent baby. For eternity. Over and over again.

That is what medical school tuition is like.

Let's take my school, for example. We'll call it IMPOOR SOM (or IMP, for short). This is a rough breakdown of what it's going to cost me to attend (figures are based on 2007. add 1-2% increase for this year).

Budget duration: 10 months [note: ways to save. Not even a full year]
Tuition: $39,957 [sell arms. Possibly liver]
Fees: $2,807 [very ambiguous. Sell kidney]
Rent and utilities: $10,000 [Plan A: crash on stranger's couch. Plan B: share heating grate with homeless man]
Food & Household supplies: $2,410 [Wal-Mart, free lunch from drug companies]
Personal Expenses: $2,620 [mooch parents]
Local Transportation: $1,200 [keep legs and walk]
Health & Disability Insurance: $2,500 [utilize classmates]
Books & Supplies: $1,516 [import from Asia]
Equipment: $990 [pilfer from practice exam rooms]

Financial Aid Budget 2007-8: $64,000 [consider starting strip bar on side]

What was formerly a happy time for me has turned into a hand-wringing, panic attack about how I'm going to pay off such astronomical debt. But having spent my entire year off surfing the internet and reading Fortune magazine, I have devised an ingenious scheme for funding my education: other people's goodwill! (aka donations)

Yes, I propose that for every person who sends me $1,500 now, I will waive that fee once I become a physician and open up my own concierge practice. After all, many doctors are choosing this route given its autonomy and opportunity for a normal, humanoid lifestyle. If you, too, would like 4-star medical treatment available only to the privileged, then don't hesitate! Donate to L.A.G's IMPSOM fund today*!

*subject to L.A.G. conditions like moral responsibility and duty to the disadvantaged. Don't let that stop you from donating, though.

Bliss on Mile Marker 6

There are few things in life that bring me unadulterated joy. Such things include music and running. And maybe alcohol. And warm chocolate chip cookies (post on that later). Ok, so maybe more than a few things make me happy, but a good tune and a pair of sneakers is a fail-safe combination.

In any case, I was listening to "Love Turns 40"* by Vienna Teng while jogging on an idyllic Sunday morning. Teng, a Stanford software engineer-cum-musician, gave up a lucrative career in Silicon Valley to write and sing a few songs. In short, every Asian parent's nightmare. But thank goodness she did it, because she's damn talented. From the opening lines of "LT40", Vienna's soft, passion-barely-contained crooning touches something delicate and visceral about relationships; in this case, a marriage-on-the-rocks. I don't typically pay close attention to a song's lyrics, but Vienna has an uncanny ability to perfectly match poetry with ethereal piano melodies. Here's a sampling:

"She's holding a truth that she'll never reveal
She's holding a truth that she'll never reveal
Cause truth this time is an ugly child
And mother and daughter may reconcile
But their faces will never heal

Don't go, she says, but he's sleeping
She says it to herself
Don't go, she sees herself rising
Packing her suitcase with all of her shoes
But something keeps you faithful
When all else in you turns and runs
Love turns 40"

There's always the perpetual sense that at any minute, she's going to break out and belt out a good one, but her voice is always restrained, controlled, deliberate. It's like being on the verge of a waterfall--not quite going over, but peering dangerously over the edge. This is bliss, my friends, especially when combined with 6 miles of pure pavement.

It's times like these that make me infinitely grateful to be alive and kicking.

*feel free to ignore the visuals. I have no idea what the anime has to do with the song.

"Docs Gone Wild" (Courtesy of Kevin MD)

I couldn't have said it better myself: "Doc Taped Ecstasy to His Privates."

The 80/20 Rule: Getting More with Less

Sometimes I enjoy foraying into lands unknown--principally, that of economics. Despite having never taken an Econ 101 class and somehow stumbling into a job as a financial manager (believe me, even I marvel at the miracle), the subject appears to inform a lot of what goes on in life. Would you believe that doctors make decisions about your health, brokers about your money, and lovers about their next lay using this timeless guideline? Much of this phenomenon is unconscious and masquerades as intuition, gut instinct, or a hunch, but a rose by any other name is just another damn plant.

Let me first describe this glorious little theory beloved by lazy bums the world over. The Pareto Principle, or 80/20 rule, states that "80% of the effects come from 20% of the causes." In business parlance, this means that roughly 20% of your customers account for about 80% of your sales, 20% of a whore's tricks account for 80% of your dirty pleasure, 20% of actual work accounts for 80% of your day, and on ad nauseum. What does any of this have to do with intuition?

Simple. We are wired to filter out only the most salient stimuli around us. When faced with a decision, it is not altogether natural to take into account every possible piece of data and meticulously analyze it in order to find the right course of action. Only economists do that--and as Vilfredo Pareto shows us--even they like to cut the occasional corner. So for all intents and purposes, we make lightning-fast decisions based on clues that we think are important or pertinent to a situation.

For doctors, this means taking careful note of the patient's appearance--whether one is pale, the movement of the eyes and mouth, the timbre of one's voice and how one breathes. As Dr. Groopman puts it, "[Doctors] all develop their hypotheses from a very incomplete body of information...These are called heuristics" (Heuristics being decisions made by "educated guesswork"). Although people would like to believe that physicians possess god-like powers of divination, in reality they are only able to come up with maybe 3 or 4 differential diagnoses upon first meeting you. 5 if they're good.

Why does this matter? For starters, it makes lawyers very happy (20% of whose arguments, by the way, make up 80% of their courtroom BS *coughJohnEdwards*). They can sue doctors if there is any reasonable doubt of an alternative diagnosis (read: must have 100% certainty), and with a few emphatic statements and a little play-acting, it's easy to see why malpractice insurance premiums are so high for specialties like OB/GYN and surgery where the victimized are cute, blubbering babies or your poor gramma. Resulting from all this chaos is the practice of defensive medicine, which drives up health care costs for all. You might not need a CT scan for that stomach pain after all that Tex-Mex and beer, but then again, your appendix could explode. It's just too risky. Better get that $500 scan.

The point of all this is that medicine is not an exact science. As such, we should enact some sort of tort reform that severely limits lawsuits based on misdiagnosis. Physicians are people too, and who's to say that gut intuition is wrong? It's worked on every standardized exam I've taken thus far. And anyway, doctors are aware of the dangers of uncertainty. There is a primal fear of this-- for interns especially.

So let that med student or intern poke the hell out of you. After 20% of the time, 80% of the pain will be gone.

Putting Your Best Face Forward

It's always a pleasure to read The New York Times, especially when they opine about the dismal state of American healthcare or feature penitent psychiatrists who have suckled at the bosom of Big Pharma. This week's article, entitled "For Top Medical Students, an Attractive Field," provides special insight into why I will be drowning in debt for the rest of my sad, sad life.

Anyone who contemplates a career in the medical field is told more than a few times that one should not do it for the money. Truer words were never spoken. Just look at Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, and Warren Buffett. Hell, that bum with a homeless sign on the corner probably makes more than I will, if only because he doesn't have to pay to stand on a busy intersection and all proceeds are tax-exempt (holidays are particularly profitable, so I've heard).

Thus, it's more than a little confusing when the "best and brightest" of this thriving nation go into pimple-popping, face-lifting specialties. Don't get me wrong, I don't hate dermatologists or plastic surgeons (my cousin being one of the former), but is it really necessary for 383 people to apply for 6 residency spots? Yes. Because let's be honest with ourselves here: people do it for the money. And lifestyle. If you were given the opportunity to make over $300,000/yr compared to $190,000/yr while working only 40 hours with little or no call, which would you choose?

I thought so.

Despite my lack of an economics background, there seem to be some warped incentives here. Elective surgery is profitable because insurance companies won't cover "cosmetic" procedures. And, since people are obsessed with staying wrinkle-free, they willingly pay out-of-pocket, which translates into desert island vacations with plenty of mai tai's and liberal applications of sunscreen. In fact, this trend is so prevalent that I predict a long, drawn-out painful death for most of the population in the distant future. We will all be gomers, but we will be beautiful gomers, dammit. I have provided a visual representation below:

The Woman of Tomorrow

A Glimpse into the Future

Considering my meager prospects for literary fame, I figured I would do the next best thing--go to medical school. It's a logical choice given my ethnic background, but perhaps I'm being a little hasty. After all, do I really know what it takes to be a doctor?

Faced with such daunting questions, I decided to do some research in the form of easily-digestible bathroom reading. I chose to indulge in The House of God by Samuel Shem (really a pseudonym for Dr. Bergman of Harvard University). Many older practitioners decry it as disreputable slander about the medical profession--a modern-day pariah--but most young interns glorify in its cathartic release. How can one not? Here's a sampling of some of the laws of "The House of God:"

Law #1: Gomers don't die
Law #2: Gomers go to ground
Law #3: At a cardiac arrest, the first procedure is to take your own pulse
Law #4: The patient is the one with the disease
Law #5: Placement comes first (in a nursing home, that is)
Law #6: There is no body cavity that cannot be reached with a #14 needle and a good strong arm.

Apart from colorful characters like The Fat Man and Chuck, the real clincher is that everything is apparently true. Based on a good number of Amazon.com readers, things haven't changed much since 1972. Suffice it to say that I laughed, I cried, and at the end, was left feeling a little anxious about the future. Why? Let me just leave you with an afterword by the author:

"I began writing The House of God for catharsis, to share with my buddies what had been the worst year of our lives. I realized that what I was describing was so awful that if anyone was to read it, it had to ride on humor."--Sam Shem

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The 4 Rules of Infidelity

Have you ever thought about a career in politics? Does having ridiculously expensive sex with whores tingle your genitals? Aspire to become the Governor or Lt. Governor of NY? Well, you've arrived at the right blog. One of the first requirements of becoming a politician is to become a bona fide adulterer. How does one achieve this pinnacle of success? Easy! Just follow these simple rules:

Rule #1: Lie
Any cheater worth his/her salt knows that lying about extramarital sex is essential to being a politician. After all, that's their job! To BS! Much like an English major, except with a hell of a lot more sex and money. Know any liberal arts graduate students with $80,000 to blow on whores? Only those between the pages of a dusty book, my friend.

Anyway, it's to one's advantage to keep the affair as secret as possible in order to prolong the enjoyable iniquity. However, since all good things come to an end sooner or later, you must eventually employ rule #2.

Rule #2: Be Upfront
So a sleezy reporter catches you red-handed at the Mayflower? No problem! Just go on national television and say: "I have let the people down." Don't mention who "the people" are or admit to any wrongdoing because that will surely end your prospects of getting another BS job (e.g., law). No, the point is to look as apologetic and repentant as possible, preferably with a trembling lower lip and downward gaze. It doesn't matter what you say, so long as the media gets to take lots of pictures of you looking like a douchebag.

corollary 2a: Make sure your spouse stands next to you while you make your ambiguous admission. His/her presence will validate you as a disgusting--albeit real--human being, which can only work in your favor. The more tired and haggard he/she looks, the more people will pity him/her, and by association--you.

Rule #3: Use Public Funds
Why pay for sex out of your own pocket when you can get it subsidized by the citizens of your own state? Only a fool. Take advantage of those state coffers and employ Rule #1 to hide where those funds are actually going. If necessary, bribe subordinates. The sex will feel better when you can buy your wife that diamond ring from Tiffany's without batting an eye.

Rule #4: Sleep with Talent
If you're going to pay thousands of dollars for some VIP booty, make sure he/she is not an aspiring singer, actor, or misc. entertainer. If this is not possible, then at least check to see that he/she can sing/act/whatever. Once Rule #1 fails and Rule #2 takes effect, you will have unleashed an incompetent monster with a million-dollar recording contract upon the world. Please be kind. We have enough Britney Spears and Paris Hilton's wreaking havoc on society.

Rule #4: Surround Yourself with Other Adulterers
Before you take the fall from Rule #2, make sure your next-in-command also has a riddled past. Once it becomes known that he is a cheating bastard, you will look much better, if only because he will look just as bad. The two of your reputations will settle somewhere in-between douchebag and dickhead. Oh, and it never hurts to have a cheating spouse. Hell, you might as well make it a threesome.

corollary 4a: It is advisable to have a condition such as being legally blind. That way, when a reporter or investigator interrogates you about an alleged affair, you can respond: "But I didn't see her in my bed, honest!"

Welcome to my little corner of cyberspace

At the behest of one of my good friends (la beana), I have finally decided to start a blog. Now you can read all about my incredibly uneventful drama as it unfolds right before your eyes!

Actually, as any seasoned blogger knows, it's just an excuse to disseminate unread facebook notes and cater to the narcissistic belief that people really care about what you have to say. Nevertheless, blog I will because honestly, I spend way too much time reading them at work.