Dear Tom Riddle's Diary...

Yesterday was superbly uneventful. Other than having received a letter denying my brutally honest philosophical methodical letter contesting my first parking ticket - first ticket of any sort for that matter - I pretended to vegetate in front of my computer for the most part. I left my room for a second time to whip up some delicious bell pepper, broccoli, onion, and beef szechuan stir fry. By the time I hit the sack, I kept myself up with the usual idiotic mental meanderings. Is Rogaine applied by hand, and if so, doesn't that result in hairy palms? And slightly more cogitative inquiries such as whether we are plagued by the world or simply by our perceptions.

Today was somewhat more interesting as I ran amuck at lab feigning productivity when in reality, I was furiously twiddling with those metal puzzles that you have to take apart, como estos:Dinner consisted of shrimp primavera and a delightful subtly effervescent glass of lambrusco at Olive Garden (yes, I have gotten over my fear of shrimp since the last incident from BJs). Not long after finishing my glass of wine, they asked us to leave as the customers complained of the brilliant radiance of my asian glow, but Santa took me in since Dick Cheney apparently shot Rudolph too (how's that for ethanol as fuel?).

In other news, I had an epiphany that I absolutely must go into management. Michael Dell could've been a great doctor, but made a better CEO. I hope to be a great doctor, but a splendiferous CEO as well. As Warren Buffet says (to his kids), focus your resources on needs that would not be met without your efforts. I think that management and logistics are my fortes, and hopefully I can make the best of them whether in government, private, or non-profit sector.

Now Voldemort will take my soul. G'nite. Lest I not wake from my slumber, be a pal and pierce this diary with the Basilisk's fang.

Ode to Cones

standing fearless, orange and small
a sturdy base, it will not fall
exuding unwavering authority
no sign no sound, a silent decree.

made of rubber most innocuous
yet so much power we can't dismiss
this little cone on pavement throne
demand that we go slow for the zone.

Language Letter Zaps

Now Playing: Brian Culbertson - Dreaming of You

I was sitting at a table in front of McKibben Hall today, stuffing my face and making a mess with my Baja Fresh selection of choice, tres tacos steak with corn tortilla, cilantro, and onions. The usual monkeys were traipsing about in my head and I was debating voting for Dennis Kucinich, when I flipped open to the puzzle page of this month's Mensa newsletter: Language Letter Zaps. Nothing to get your pulse going, but it kept me engrossed the whole time so I figured it'd be worthwhile to share (esp. if you're a puzzle-phile like me). :P

So the objective is to find the name of a language embedded in the phrases by "zapping" the number of letters indicated (i.e. MEN GLIMPSE HER - zap 6):

1. STAGNATE LONG (zap 5)
2. SCARY MEAN PIANO (zap 6)
3. SPORTY BUG USES THEM (zap 7)
4. HIS WATCH IS LIGHT (zap 8)
5. INSPIRING QUOTATIONS (zap 11)

Keeping up with the times

I just realized as I took a glance around my desk, how much work it takes to keep up with the times. There are at least two dozen books scattered on my desk on absolutely random subjects. I have half a dozen magazines open to seemingly haphazard topics. The most recent issue of JAMA lies on its spine revealing the faults of our health care system. Just under it lies Popular Mechanics, and under that, Time, and on my lap, Car and Driver. The carpet is strategically adorned with piles of LA Times which I have yet to peruse. The lengths we go to in order to stay afloat the flood of new information and technology is at the least like fighting an undertow. Firefox and all of its extensions, the most recent version of AIM encroaching on the Skype icon just beside it, iTunes not playing music from the harddrive, but streaming live radio, cellphones w/EVDO, wireless routers casting lines omnidirectionally. If Rip van Winkle roused from his slumber tomorrow, he would indeed be in a new world. And if all the communication signals created tangible webs, not a second after waking would he find himself trapped, victim to the bustle of the information age. All in all, here I sit with the world at my fingertips.

Marathon

my nose is running a long marathon
wipe my nose and the trail is gone.
probably headed straight for my mouth
stand on my head, will it go south?

Jazz

beep beep boop bop

Nadir...not too different from Nader and his politics

Dear Mr. Ham,

I am very pleased to let you know that you have been accepted to our medical school for the class of 2012. Our applicant pool has been the largest ever, and we would like to congratulate you for having come out on top of very competitive candidates. Just kidding. I am totally f@#$ing with you.

Yours truly,

Life


That about reflects my sentiments. I completely hyped myself up for this 1 month summer trip to China to work with their CDC and other public health sectors. I figured the shock of sitting on a frozen toilet seat earlier this week was as bad as it could get. For me, it almost feels equivalent to Bill Clinton turning down a Rhodes Scholarship to rush to his J.D. There are ultimate goals in life, but there are opportunities we come across that help us grow as a person, ultimately monumentally bolstering our greatest goals. It's not just about everything we can put down on paper and prove to others, but what we can prove to ourselves. In addition, opportunities such as these help mold our direction. In 5 years, what residency will I choose? In 10 years, what occupation and milieu? Currently, my selection would be as haphazard as most people selecting undergraduate majors. How asinine I would feel having half-heartedly made these decisions, and becoming an unpaid intern in global public health to test the waters following post-graduate residency, etc? Who decides what men get to follow their hearts and what men get to follow their minds? Back to Clinton, he was interested in medicine and thought he could be a fine doctor, but never a Michael DeBakey. The majority of physicians perform exponentially below Dr. DeBakey and a hypothetical Dr. Clinton, but who was to say that he would become the next president of the United States? I say it's the difference between getting pulled out by the current and swimming upstream. Cookie cutter my butter and let it melt as it pleases.