ISleepInADrawer.com

Average

You know, pictures like the one above (or videos like this) often leave me dejected about the state of education (and interest in education) in this country.

After all, I consider myself to be an average man in all respects (except for athletic ability, where I'm stuck at the base of the totem pole). No test I've ever taken has labeled me a genius. My intellectual ability and professional achievements are, by all reasonable accounts, ordinary. Completely average. Underwhelming in the face of Ivy League degrees and Nobel laureates.

So, if I know about the 1936 Olympics, and that a supermajority of Israelis are Jewish, am I naive in thinking that most of us know these things? Or do most people not know and not care?

I hope not... I'm not comfortable with the idea that I might be above average at something. If that's the case, then this country has no hope.

Conspiracy

Last year, my (smoking hot) physician moved to Portland because his wife wanted to do a residency at OHSU. I've spent the last year hating Oregon, and not getting a new physician.

Last week, I finally relented on both my Oregon hatred and lack-of-physician. I figured I needed a doctor to just look me over, tell me to lose some weight, and address a few minor problems I've been having recently avoiding for the past year.

One issue in particular centered on periodic knee pain. A previous doctor had once noticed that my left foot was "completely flat, with no arch support whatsoever." She had also indicated that my right foot was only marginally better off. "Someday," she said, "You'll have to deal with that."

Friday was apparently that day. My new doctor and I, after exchanging pleasantries for a few minutes, got down to work. Within fifteen minutes of a "hip, knee, and ankle" exam, he announced that my knees were in perfect health, but that my feet and left hip weren't.

"This is an issue that lies solely with the arch support - or lack thereof - in your feet," he said, "and we could treat it dramatically or, as I prefer, gradually."

Step-by-step, he said, we'd try and correct an apparent knee misalignment. First: general orthotics (shoe inserts). He recommended a few brands, and even a shop near my house that sold them. If, after a few months, the pain still came back periodically, we'd move on to custom-fit orthotics and physical therapy to breathe life back into several muscles on my left side that I've apparently never used (though all other people do when they walk).

I was so relieved. When I first walked in there, I'd feared he'd be signing me up for knee surgery next week or something. To hear that my knees were indeed healthy, and that the problem lie in the already-known defect of my feet was a tremendous relief. Plus, I was happy thus far with my new physician. He was just as approachable and friendly as the last (albeit not nearly as handsome).

But, on my way out, his stock dropped dramatically with this piece of advice:

"Oh, and by the way, James: some yoga would work wonders for this problem as well, and probably help all that muscle tension as well."

God, I miss the Midwest.

Surprise

Earlier tonight, my boyfriend blocked my path out of the kitchen, holding his hands behind his back.

me: "I hope you have a present hidden behind your back for me."
him: "Actually, I'm just holding my butt cheeks."
me: "Eh, that'll do."

On the Prowl

Bandages

The trial is taking its toll in subtle ways. In my own way, I can't help but relive the day of the shooting, especially how bright (yet tired) Zach looked when he finally finally came home. It's a curious, surreal experience, culminating in a bout of insomnia last night. I accidentally compensated for this lack of sleep by rising at 5:00AM to go to the gym, and then falling asleep in lab for an hour this afternoon. Apparently, I haven't fully recovered from having a fanatic shoot his way into my boyfriend's life.

A close friend of ours had surgery earlier this week for a potentially serious condition. Luckily, all is well -- skillfull surgeons did more good than harm, and she's well on her way to a full recovery. Zach stayed with her the other night and reported that her appetite was returning. Friends were bringing her food, and I decided to help out as well.

While others brought her practical food, I apparently don't understand the rigors of abdominal surgery that well. I brought her cookies. She smiled weakly and giggled, but she couldn't laugh too hard.

"It's my stitches, James! I can laugh... but, not too hard because I'm not done healing."

I know the feeling.

Stranger in a Strange Land

I can never be a research scientist because, apparently, I didn't find this video very funny. It's supposed to poke fun at the fact that "most" research scientists apparently don't understand "most" of the talks they go to, because those talks are "outside the field." But, as a sometimes-mentally-challenged graduate student, I figured this guy worked on birds or something. I didn't get the parody until a labmate pointed it out to me.

"Must be 'outside of your field,'" a labmate said to me.

Thankfully, I can still laugh for hours at this, this, this, this, and this.

Justice For All

I keep trying to come up with something cute and clever to post, or a recent anecdote of my (so-called) life, but I find myself distracted today by this man's trial, which began today. After all, if he'd gotten that far into the office, he probably would've killed my boyfriend.

I just hope some hippie Seattle jury won't let him off for some laughably boo-hoo reason or anti-Israel grudge (which Seattle is prone to doing). For me, this man's trial is a test of my faith in the American justice system. I'm still shocked that the prosecutors chose to shelve the death penalty.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

Mars and Venus

him: "Let's listen to Mahler's second symphony!"
me: "No. Let's watch Star Trek!"

As a compromise, we did both at the same time. I also drank.

The Penis Game: Redux

I've devoted the past few years of my life to the study of the evolution of sex determination. And today, I heard a first-year graduate student and a room full of his peers giggle and guffaw after he uttered the words "androgen receptor." I rolled my eyes and shook my head disapprovingly.

And only now, two hours later, did it hit me: my God, I'm OLD.