One Day at a Time

2008-10-26T10:45:00.000-07:00

Why Me?

Several weeks ago I found myself face to face with the bourbon-soaked palate of a fellow traveler as I skooched my way past his horn-rimmed glasses and wearied but jubilant façade to my middle seat. I crammed my 200+lb frame into my economy-sized seat and attempted to get lost in the passionate throws of pathology when I was promptly engaged in conversation with my horn-rimmed-framed friend. He was an exceptionally well-dressed man of mild stature with silver hair. Obviously well-versed in the art of dress, he was doffed in a plum-colored shirt that was tailored to his specific build, fitted flat-front charcoal trousers and burgundy wingtips. He spoke with a slight Bayou twang that he’d obviously tried to reinvent over the years, and flighty gestures that seemed playful yet added subtle emphasis to his discourse. Even though I desperately needed to bury my face in my cancer chapter, I really enjoyed talking to this man.

Our conversation ranged just about everywhere one could imagine. Between his sips of bourbon and Coke the man and I covered a variety of popular topics to include his fruitful work as a company CFO, the political landscape as it relates to the upcoming election, fine dinnerware, and hemorrhoids. One might understandably state that the latter two aforementioned topics of conversation are not among those that new acquaintances normally discuss. Of the two, the former focus merely confirmed by suspicion that this man was in fact, a homosexual. Now I’m not one to propagate stereotypes, however, this well-dressed, handsy-talking male individual knew way too much about dishes and couture to not invite my internal questioning. The latter topic was unequivocally provoked by my status as a medical student. My fellow traveler upon noticing my book and realizing that I am a student of medicine wanted to discuss the particularly touchy subject of hemorrhoids. The conversation started off like this:

Him: “Let’s see, you’re reading ‘Pathologic Basis of Disease’, what are you a medical student or something.”

Me: “Why yes I am.”

Him: “Oooh, so I have this friend who has hemorrhoids, what does it say in there about that?”

At this point I’m thinking to myself, “Man I wish someone would’ve told me I have a sign that says ‘world’s biggest idiot’ over my head because that’s what he must think of me if he thinks I’m going to fall for that crap.”

Me: “I don’t know what’s in the book, but I know that you can get them a couple ways. One way is by straining too much on the toilet. Another is getting pregnant, or people with cirrhotic livers get can get them.”

Him: “Oh, what’s a cirrhotic liver?”

Me: “A cirrhotic is like another way of saying that the liver is scarred.”

Him: “Oh, how does that happen?”

Me: “Well in the US, people get it because they drink too much.”

At this point in the conversation, my well-dressed travelling companion made the comment that transformed our relationship from one that remains cordial and polite to one that doesn’t normally exist between people that only met one hour prior to said conversation. For a little over a year my professors have been telling me that when people find out you’re a doctor they’ll start telling you things that they won’t even admit to themselves. Well I’m here to tell you that you don’t have to be a doctor to realize that particular truth.

This man’s friend with hemorrhoids was of course actually him, and he proceeded to tell me the intimate details of his case. Apparently his doctor told him that his hemorrhoids would require surgery, and that along with surgery he needed to undergo a serious change in lifestyle, and no I’m talking about any of his extracurricular activities that would relate to him being a homosexual. Almost instantly it became clear to me, this guy was probably an alcoholic (heck he hadn’t stopped drinking from the moment we got on the plane) and he probably already had a grossly cirrhotic liver…not a good thing. Unfortunately he made the mistake of asking a person who has very little clinical experience and who currently spends all of his time memorizing facts about disease what he thinks about his case, and that person was me. So I told him what I thought.

I explained that for all intents and purposes, you need a liver to live (hello-o, they call it a live-r!), and a totally scarred liver that doesn’t work is not compatible with life, or at least life on Earth. My addition that people with this condition either need new livers or they die was met with a lengthy and very awkward silence. Eventually he retorted, “So you’re the kind of person that enjoys inflicting pain.”

So I’m sitting there realizing that I told this guy he has a good chance of dying if he doesn’t stop doing something he obviously enjoys very much. At first I felt really bad about it and wished I could take it back, but then I realized I didn’t really tell this guy something he doesn’t already know. His doctor already told him he needed to stop drinking. Furthermore he’s already drunk himself to a point where he needs surgery in one of the most uncomfortable places a surgeon can take a scalpel to. Consequently, this particular flight was spent learning something that will be a lot more beneficial to me in the long run versus cramming more medical facts in my brain: sometimes people need to hear the brutal truth to finally make a change that’ll do them some good.

2007-09-05T18:15:00.000-07:00

Fall Horoscopes

Hi everyone! The school paper had me write some horoscopes for the fall season, something I've never done before so take a look and let me know if I have a future. There's only four because that's all they had me do...so tough luck if you're missing. Oh, and they're kind of specific to the school, but still enjoyable if you don't go there.

Virgo

The start of the new school year for you is an opportunity to do all of those wonderful little things that the University has to offer. So like a Thoroughbred with its haunches lit on fire you start out the gate at a frenzied pace and join every club, group, and activity you can seem to muster. Impending doom and certain burn-out awaits you in the month of October as you have effectively spread yourself so thin you feel like a brown paper bag trying to fend off a jackhammer. Not to worry though, as All Hallow’s Eve draws near, you rekindle your reverent verve in the form of preparations for a substantial Halloween bash by compiling playlists, carving celebrity faces into pumpkins, and telling all your friends what costumes are in and which ones are most definitely out this Halloween season. After some over-indulgence on butterbeer and Abba-Zabba, November is a time to get reacquainted with those cross-trainers. We don’t want to enter a healthfully detrimental holiday season already looking like Dr. McFlabby now do we?

Libra

New relationships are indubitably in store for you this fall season. With a whole new crop of aspiring physicians being indoctrinated in to the glamorous world of military medicine, there are many new connections to be made. But watch out, with all of these new people come a whole crop of secrets that will make you feel so dirty you’ll want to run to the Hills of Beverly for a discounted full body chemical peel…keep them to yourself! Don’t be too worried about going crazy in the weekends leading up to your birthday, you’ll want to save your energy for a long night keg stands, floor pounding, and some ever presently possible streaking. Come late Oct – early Nov a rumor will start circulating about you that is as extravagantly malevolent as it is counterfactual. Do not be shy about confronting the perpetrators. As Jack Frost makes his entrance take some time to indulge in the occasional outdoor activity with that special someone…but watch the PDA!

Scorpio

Caught up in a Ron Burgundy and Veronica Corningstone-like fairytale, you find yourself hopelessly in love to open the school year. Spending a little extra time primping before that 0730 lecture and your mind wandering off into a land of gumdrop wishes and jellybean dreams is fine, but until all of those little habits that you find cute turn into isms that make your skin crawl, try and remember that you need to pass your classes. This year Halloween has turned in to a major priority with the planning and preparing that begins as early as Oct 1st this year. Don’t get too worked up over it or you won’t have enough energy to enjoy the ice sculpture of Dr. MacDonald in a pirate costume you special-ordered for this year’s gala. Approaching the culmination of an eventful fall equinox, that significant other starts to act so shady that he or she doesn’t seem so significant anymore. This is an especially appropriate occasion to have a lively discourse with the person in question and decide if it might be time to say adieu.

Sagittarius

The foray back to school this fall season is everything but a delightful experience for you this time around. As depression officially sets in, raising the titanic without an air tank might as well be an easier task than sitting down and studying. Surround yourself with your closest friends and family to help you through this troublesome little blip. Spending an inordinate amount of cash on that perfect Halloween leaves you in some fiscal trouble for the month of November. You need cash fast so why not try something new? Perhaps the National Zoo could use a new pooper scooper, and of course sniffing some armpits down at the local odor testing plant never hurt anyone. As the holidays draw near you start having doubts about your love life. These doubts could be any number of things ranging from the level of commitment of your better half to inquests about your own sexuality. Whatever the case may be, take some time for serious reflection over the holiday season.

2007-08-19T07:33:00.000-07:00

Weddings vs. The Killers

Back in early April of this year of Our Lord, I was faced with a small predicament, fairly insignificant to the outside onlooker, but a predicament nonetheless. About a month or two prior to said incident, I, like most other heterosexual males, became “interested” in a female. The person in question is a very likable person and we were acquaintances before “friendly” interested propagated into “temporally” interested. She’s adorable, has a great sense of humor, independently ambitious (I think), but somewhat of a princess…well…she’s probably benignly interested in becoming American royalty, but I was still taken by her. Anyway, we were participating in a weekly to two times weekly rendezvous and regular conversations over the phone both conversationally and textually when our relationship got to a point where she found it appropriate to ask me to attend a wedding with her for a family friend. During this inquiry she deftly pointed out that we would be presenting ourselves as friends at this momentous occasion. Without even a second thought about it, I exuberantly agreed to provide my friendly escorting services.

Maybe about a month before I was to travel to this nuptial rite, I was sitting in my living room with several of my friends and we were talking about a concert that we were excited to rock-out at. Now, this wasn’t just any concert, this was The Killers, possibly the greatest band of our generation, and we were fishing out the details of this show that we’d planned on attending for a several months in advance. During this extremely important discourse, I was asked when I would be going to “the wedding”, and I said, “well it’s on so and so” and they’re like, “you realize of course that’s when The Killers concert is!” Instantaneously I felt the absurd enormity of simultaneous shock and horror as all the blood drained from my face and outer extremities. I had officially made THE blunder to top all blunders; I agreed to go to a wedding where I would certainly be acquainted with no more than one other person when I was supposed to be at my favorite band’s concert with three of my best friends. Like a programmed assassin with no other choice I systematically and instantly executed the only action that seemed and still seems appropriate, I texted my lady friend and told her I would be unable to render my services after all.

I am no idiot, and I was fully aware that this action would elicit possible physically harmful consequences. Well, I might as well have called Zeus himself and asked for the thunder because that is precisely what I got. Needless to say, the subsequent replies were understanding…pause NOT, and she basically told me that she didn’t care to make my acquaintance any longer.

I’d rather not wax philosophical about who was right and what the actual proper course of action would have been (it was taken so there’s really no argument), but I can certainly understand why she would be upset with me. Despite the curtailing of one union, my feelings for The Killers have never been stronger as that show was the finest display of rockmanship I have ever witnessed. I can honestly say that this lady friend at first was missed, but I can also honestly say that I have no regrets because that concert was freakin’ awesome!

2007-07-05T17:48:00.000-07:00

Bathroom Etiquette

I’m sorry to say that the world we live in is in a state of extravagant ethical and moral decay…and the illustrious government and upper crust of our own US of A seems to be doing nothing about many issues facing the world today. One such problem facing our Mother Earth is the possibly cataclysmic situation involving global warming. As the planet’s average temperatures rise, impending threats to the world as we know it grow more and more ominous while the US government makes no substantial moves to thwart this very troubling trend. In addition, millions of people around the globe suffer from famine, genocide, displacement (just to name a few), while the great minds of this country sit idly by. Admittedly so, these are ample problems that are diverse and involve a wide array of stakeholders. But the principle that I am trying to illustrate is this country’s lack of action on many dilemmas, not just the global ones. Which brings me to the topic in question, and that is this country’s serious lack of bathroom etiquette training for our young people.

Allow me to illustrate my frustration. On a normal digestive day, I like to steal my morning glory ten to fifteen minutes after my morning meal. I walk in the head on a full stomach after a filling morning mastication and find a beautiful sight…a shimmering row of no less than five unoccupied stalls from which I may choose to conduct my post-banquet business. Naturally I pick the enclosure furthest from the door in the corner and take my place. I’m not sitting there for more than ten seconds (which is just enough time for me to take my phone out and begin a mass text in which I will describe in great length the size, shape, and color of my putrefaction to all of my friends) that someone walks in the door behind me and decides that out of the remaining four carrels from which to choose that he absolutely must go with the one right next to my chosen abode. Isolated incident you ask? Not in the least. I would say this is an event that occurs at least twice during the work day where I find myself swarmed by amateur community bathroom users in the urinal and toilet domains of the men’s room.

Of course I do not know the female’s feelings on the topic nor will I even make a slight attempt at understanding ovarian activities when it comes to bathroom usage because I will never have the slightest idea of what it happening in the cranium of a non-Y-chromosome-carrying homo sapien. However, whether it’s a lack of elderly male instruction (can be a father, brother, uncle, friend, stranger…whoever), male bathroom decorum is very remiss, and in my opinion is one of the most pressing issues facing America in this day and age.
Some people reading this may be asking themselves what is this bathroom etiquette this buffoon so adamantly hails as a necessary observance by the modern American? For this I will refer you to the following site for a comprehensive account of acceptable bathroom behavior: www.icbe.org/. I merely hope to spur a small contingent of observance for this disturbing phenomenon so that awareness may spread across this great nation of ours. Together we can make a difference!

2007-06-15T06:22:00.000-07:00

A Day in Paradise

I was reading an article from Page 2 on ESPN.com the other day about a site that basically has the box score from every baseball game ever played. The author of said article urged his audience to visit this site and look up the first major league game you ever went to because at least for him, it invoked feelings of extreme sentimentality. Well my sentimentality only goes so far so instead of making the two clicks to look up my first ballgame, I just thought about it for a fleeting moment. I actually didn’t go to my first real major league game until I was 15 years old. Arizona didn’t get its Diamondbacks until the summer of 1997, although I did frequent Cactus league play when the boys of summer came to town for spring training.

When I was a freshman in high school, my dad informed me that we were going to move to Minnesota because of his job. To make a long story short, he spent the following year in an apartment away from his family because he is a man’s man and I was a snot-nosed brat who couldn’t bear to spend a year away from his beloved Valley of the Sun. Anyway, in the summer of my sophomore year, I flew out there to spend some time with him and catch some ballgames. So the kid from Arizona watched his first major league baseball game at the Metrodome and saw the Twins get trounced by the Indians and Albert Belle’s two bombs. However, the real reason for this look in to my teenage years is the day after, when we flew to Chicago to see the Cubs play at Wrigley. Like many people who watched WGN when they were growing up, the Cubbies were my favorite team even though I had never stepped foot in Chicago or even the American Midwest for that matter. Hey, it was either them or the Braves over on TBS, but the Cubs win out every time solely because Harry Caray botched Take Me Out To The Ballgame every freakin’ day (Take me out to the awwwl game…).

So my heroes growing up were the likes of Mark Grace, Andre “the Hawk” Dawson, Shawon “Riflearm” Dunston, and my mostest favorite player of all time, Ryne Sandberg. I gotta tell you I was literally a kid in a candy store when we finally arrived at Clark and Addison and finally saw the big red sign with my own eyes. Pure magnificence. We walked up to the ticket booth, acquired two box seats and walked in. The first order of business for a man the size of my dad is food of course. I had a slice of sausage pizza and he had a Philly cheesesteak. It took less than a bite for us to agree that the Wrigley Field kitchen is directly linked to Heaven. Our seats were down the third base line, about even with the bag and maybe 10 rows back (I wish I had the ticket stub, which I still have, with me so I knew exactly where). Ryno and Gracie were both in the Cubs lineup for the day so I was immediately satisfied, but what made this particular game even more rad was the fact that the Cardinals were in town and it was Ozzie Smith’s last year so he was on his retirement tour. Lucky for me, he was actually in the lineup that day (if you remember, the Wizard didn’t get much playing time that year and it’s still such a point of contention that he still refuses to join the Cardinals coaching staff until La Russa leaves the ballclub).

Lately I’ve been going to a lot of games at Fenway Park because I’m getting ready to move away from Boston. Fenway is widely regarded as the best place to watch a ballgame. I disagree. Fenway is the second best place to watch a ballgame, Wrigley being number one. I was amazed at how small the field looked compared to my afternoon WGN viewings. What also makes a Wrigley game a very pleasurable experience is that not only are the fans in to the game the whole way through, but they actually seem to like their players even when they don’t play very well (something you’re not gonna get used to with the Fenway faithful).

The Cubbies didn’t have much to offer that notable day, but Smith was masterful in the field and Turk Wendell hit me in the head with a piece of Dubble Bubble. After the game, Dad and I rode the L back to the airport and flew back to the Mini Apple. But that day is highly regarded in my 26-year history as one of the best days of my life, and I do think about it often because I haven’t had many others like it.

2007-06-09T23:29:00.000-07:00

A Word to the Wise!

Tonight is tonight...Tomorrow is tomorrow.

2007-06-08T11:16:00.000-07:00

Dodos vs. Dodos

This musing is my personal blunder in a concerted attempt to not share a bit of opinion on a somewhat controversial topic in the world today. Alas, as in the famous words of Darth Vader, my failure is complete, you shall now witness the true power of the Dark Side! Anyway, Showtime recently started showing a very interesting documentary about the controversy surrounding the Intelligent Design(ID)/Evolution debate called A Flock of Dodos: The Evolution-Intelligent Design Circus. All in all, the film does a good job explaining the controversy surrounding the above debate because it makes the argument accessible to most audiences by showing both sides of the controversy and illustrates them very well. Where the film’s true success lies is in its ability to spur a larger population to unbiased thinking on what can be a very passionate topic for many people for various reasons. For me personally, not only did it reconfirm some of my already unwavering points of views (which are few and far between), but it also opened a whole other can of worms in terms of where some other viewpoints, regardless of how asinine they might seem to some people, do have a place in education.

The current ID/Evolution debate is centered in the goings-on of several state school boards around the country, the most notable being the board of the great state of Kansas. Proponents of ID are presently saying that they just want to make sure that the ‘theory’ of Intelligent Design at least be introduced in public school science classes when the ‘theory’ of Evolution is presented and taught. Even though they aren’t saying that they want the Theory of Intelligent Design taught as an actual topic in science classes, this still causes a multitude of problems for evolutionary biologists and scientific thinkers.

The first big…BIG problem is calling both concepts theories. For scientists, this implies that both topics can arguably be debated at the same level. Agreeing with this assumption is a good way to really piss off the majority of the scientific community because evolution, while there are still many holes in linking ancestral developing organisms to the current crop of the “fittest” survivors, there is still a ton of evidence that you can touch and feel that is based in years and years of research that thousands of scientists in the world agree to be natural law. In addition, if you ask any one of these members of the scientific community about evolution and how it works, you’re going to basically get the same answer from all of them. *Interesting side note: I recently read an article in National Geographic about Carl Linnaeus (the guy who used plants back in the 1700s to develop an effective taxonomic species-classification system that is actually still in use today), and apparently biologists are very close to linking every single organism that has existed on the planet to the LUCA, or the Last Universal Common Ancestor (the little guy that everything organic on the planet can call great grandpa times a zillion).

I digress. Now compare evolution to ID, a concept that is entirely based on human intuition and will not garner a common answer when probing its foremost experts. Science is based on fact and evidence. Science class is for science. I’m sure everyone remembers their first day of science class and you learned to attack a problem by coming up with a hypothesis, generating alternative solutions, testing them, and making a conclusion based on the results. Unfortunately, the ID concept doesn’t make it past the hypothesis stage because it’s untestable…where is any evidence that can be tested? Therefore, it probably doesn’t belong in science textbooks or science classrooms, but it does have a place in education and I’ll get to that later.

Another problem that the teaching of ID presents for evolutionists is that it presents a way of looking at the natural world that shunts analytical thinking. “The world in its complexity is just way too variable to be able to be explained by evolution alone,” is an example of what an ID proponent might say. A hardcore biologist would respond to this comment by saying that this way of thinking is just plain lazy. I can agree with that statement (although I wouldn’t be as harsh) because from the point of view of a scientist, it’s basically conjuring a simple answer as an explanation for an incredibly complex area of study. In Flock of Dodos, an ID proponent who sits on the Kansas public school board is interviewed. She says that she can’t possibly believe that one day a lungfish decided to walk ashore and live on land. I have to admit that I laughed at this very nice woman and immediately felt bad for having done so, but that is a basic misunderstanding of how natural selection works. Even if you are joking when making that comment, the mindset is still there, and the attitude of simplistic answers for diverse areas of questioning is easily scattered amongst and absorbed by the young minds being taught in these very schools. The jettison of critical thinking in American schools should be the topic of outrage of not only parents and educators, but also anyone who cares about the development of the country.

Obviously, I don’t think the teaching or even the mentioning of ID belongs anywhere near science classes, but I do think it belongs in education. The current American youth is the most informed generation in the history of American youths. This will always be the case. The inquiring mind has access to ANY information that can be made into electrons. Kids will find out about this whole ID/Evolution thing going on, and it’s the job of parents and educators to make sure they get the facts straight. Admittedly, the most likely place for this to come up is in biology class when they open their books and see a picture of Charles Darwin and they ask, “Teacher, teacher, why does the Discovery Institute hate the Galapagos Islands?” I sure as hell hope that teacher is able to equip that student with the right tools to think about the issue for him or herself rather than letting that individual blindly accept one side or the other.

So here’s where I get on my soapbox if I’m not up there already. This is where America is seriously lacking in this day and age…education. The majority of America’s youth is behind the power curve in comparison to the rest of the developed world, especially when it comes to mathematics and science. It may seem like a problem that is solitarily effectuated by the school systems that are currently in place. True, there are school boards out there with people like the lungfish lady sitting on them, but these aren’t the only responsible parties. When you look at the isolated case of ID vs. Evolution, ID seems to be winning the battle even though the majority of the scholastic community finds it a preposterous decision to teach it alongside Darwin. A big influence on this situation is that ID folks are backed by charismatic, business-minded organizational leaders with Mariana’s Trench-like pockets. So where are the scientists?

When invited to the debate, evolutionary biologists don’t show up. It’s not that they didn’t get that memo Mr. Lumbergh, it’s that they refuse to acknowledge that there is even a debate. I for one can see where they are coming from. In looking at their fields of expertise and what they do from day to day, why would you acknowledge that there is an equally contradictory theory with an arguably mystical basis? If I’ve spent the last thirty yeas in a crater in the middle of the Gobi Desert taking and comparing the forelimb measurements of fossilized cockroaches that are 100 ft under the modern level of stratified rock and then writing 500-page papers with the off chance that it might be published after competing for a government grant against 50 other guys doing the same thing for my next dig with, I’m not going. Even if you could get a self-respecting biologist to the debate, it would be over after the first question based solely on the fact that biologists and other scientists suck at communicating. Scientists are stubborn, socially uncouth, and hopelessly unable to use words with less than 5 syllables assembled in sentences that can be wrapped around the equator 10 times using Times New Roman font size 12. You think the average person wants to spend more than 10 minutes in a closed space with the individual described above to actually learn about something?

Anyway, I think I’m done. I’ve opined enough and will now leave you to the sweet escape of top boob and farting.

2007-06-06T10:39:00.000-07:00

Hi-yo! It’s More Versatile Than You Think!

I think the term ‘hi-yo’ is grossly underused in the world today. I think most people believe the ‘hi-yo’ should only be used in very distinct and exclusive situations. I think these very same people have emphatically underestimated the diversity of the ‘hi-yo’ in today’s vernacular and I know that given the right motivation, the world will change and ‘hi-yo’ will climb to its rightful place on the slang totem pole.

Here’s a typical situation where usage of the ‘hi-yo’ is expected. Say a girl walks in to a restaurant that you and your buddies frequent on a relatively constant basis. Say the girl in question has an extremely breathtaking heiny and isn’t afraid to show it off judging from the pair of butt-hugger spandex shorts complete with thong underwear she’s wearing to accentuate said heiny. One of your buddies just so happens to make a comment as she walks by that basically describes his desire to butter her biscuits and savor the honeylicious flavor for later. I don’t know, just throwing it out there. I believe an obvious response by anyone in the group would be a loud and resounding, “Hi-yo!” This ‘hi-yo’ is the typical instance where anyone aware of current slang would expect to see the term used. But allow me to present some maybe not-so-obvious situations where the ‘hi-yo’ can be used just as effectively in not-as-obligatory situations…through movie quotes.

The Princess Bride:
Vizzini: You only think I guessed wrong! That's what's so funny! I switched glasses when your back was turned! Ha ha! You fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! The most famous is never get involved in a land war in Asia, but only slightly less well-known is this: never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha...

Vizzin i: [Vizzini stops suddenly, and falls dead to the right]

Buttercup: And to think, all that time it was your cup that was poisoned.

Man in Black: They were both poisoned. I spent the last few years building up an immunity to iocane powder.
Buttercup: Hi-yo!

Full Metal Jacket (with a number of other memorably insulting quotes):
Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: How tall are you, private?

Private Cowboy: Sir, five-foot-nine, sir.

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Five-foot-nine, I didn't know they stacked shit that high.
Private Joker: Hi-yo!

The Karate Kid:
[just before Johnny fights Daniel in the tournament]

Kreese: Sweep the leg. [Johnny stares at him in shock]

Kreese: Do you have a problem with that?

Johnny: No, Sensei.

Kreese: No mercy.
Johnny: Hi-yo!

Dirty Harry:
Harry Callahan: I know what you're thinking. "Did he fire six shots or only five?" Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?
[other police officers show up and intervene]
Bank Robber: I gots to know.
[Harry demonstrates that there were in fact no more rounds left]
Bank Robber [shaking finger]: Hi-yo!

Rocky:
Mickey: Your nose is broken.

Rocky: How does it look?
Mickey: Ah, it's an improvement.
Rocky: Hi-yo!

Braveheart:
Stephen: Stephen is my name. I'm the most wanted man on my island. Except I'm not on my island, of course. More's the pity.

Hamish: Your island? You mean Ireland.

Stephen: Yeah. It's MINE.

Hamish: You're a madman.

Stephen: [Laughs] I've come to the right place then.
William & Hamish: Hi-yo!

Top Gun (this one deserves two):
Slider: Goose who's butt did you kiss to get in here anyway?

Goose: The list is long, but distinguished.

Slider: Yeah, well so is my Johnson.
Iceman: Hi-yo!

Stinger: Maverick, you just did an incredibly brave thing. What you should have done was land your plane! you don't own that plane, the tax payers do! Son, your ego is writing checks your body can't cash. You've been busted, you lost your qualifications as section leader three times, put in hack twice by me, with a history of high speed passes over five air control towers, and one admiral's daughter!

Goose: Penny Benjamin? [Maverick shrugs]
Stinger: And you asshole, you're lucky to be here!

Goose: Thank you, sir!

Stinger: And let's not bullshit Maverick. Your family name ain't the best in the Navy. You need to be doing it better, and cleaner than the other guy. Now what is it with you?

Maverick: Just want to serve my country, be the best pilot in the Navy, sir.

Stinger: Don't screw around with me Maverick. You're a hell of an instinctive pilot. Maybe too good. I'd like to bust your butt but I can't. I got another problem here. I gotta send somebody from this squadron to Miramar. I gotta do something here, I still can believe it. I gotta give you your dream shot! I'm gonna send you up against the best. You two characters are going to Top Gun.
Goose & Maverick [in simultaneous fist pump]: Hi-yo!

Gladiator:
Juba: Can they hear you?

Maximus: Who?

Juba: Your family. In the afterlife.

Maximus: Oh yes.

Juba: What do you say to them?

Maximus: To my son - I tell him I will see him again soon. To keep his heels down while riding his horse. To my wife... that is not your business.
Juba: Hi-yo!

The Matrix:
Neo: Yeah. That sounds like a really good deal. But I got a better one. How about... I give you the finger... and you give me my phone call?

Agent Smith: Mr. Anderson... you disappoint me.

Neo: You can't scare me with this Gestapo crap. I know my rights. I want my phone call.

Agent Smith: Tell me, Mr. Anderson... what good is a phone call... if you're unable to speak?
[Neo’s mouth disappears and all that can be heard are strained muffles…]
Agent Smith: Hi-yo!

And from one of my new favorite films of the moment (however not as recognizable)…Thank You for Smoking:
Brad: Nick, your job and everything aside, I hope you understand that second hand smoke's a real killer.

Nick Naylor: What are you talking about?

Brad: I just hope you're providing a smoke-free environment for Joey is all I'm saying.

Nick Naylor: Brad, I'm his *father*. You're the guy f-ing his mom.

Brad [going up for a high five but no response from Nick]: Hi-yo!

2007-06-04T08:18:00.000-07:00

Naked Shop Talk

I’ve noticed that my forays to the gym have become much more treacherous as my professional life develops. I am unequivocally convinced that the reason for this is because as I get more involved and more experienced at my post, my professional relationships expand in quality and quantity. As a result, the chances of seeing these colleagues naked in the gym locker room increase exponentially.

Allow me to illustrate to the best of my ability the precarious situation that I seem to find myself in no less than three times a week. I prefer to unwind from a long day in the office of attending numerous meetings, creating various documents, and preparing an assortment of presentations by seeking the warm and moist respite of the local gymnasium. It is the same facility that is frequented by most of the other members of my current organization on a daily basis. I don’t know about other gym-goers, but I want to be able to get in there, burn some calories, get a little swoll, work up some endorphins for a nice evening respite, and close the shop down for the night.

Unfortunately such a place doesn’t exist in my world because more times than I can count on the legs of a centipede does it occur when I walk in the locker room before my workout and catch the site of one of my many co-workers…in his birthday suit. Of course it never happens that he’s in the final stages of pulling up his britches no less than two inches above his bellybutton before heading out the door. No, he just finished undressing and is hopping on one foot, pulling his socks off while bent over at the ideal angle for you to witness the eternal glory of his haunches while his fanny forest blows gracefully in the breeze coming from the solitary fan for the entire room. Furthermore, at calamitous times like the one described above, the locker room is seldom empty enough so that you can ostracize yourself to the opposite corner of the room and effectively wedge yourself in the corner to forget a sight that not even your associate’s wife has ever seen. Instead the locker room is completely packed so that the one place for you to unattire is right next to him while he’s so dangerously close to tipping over that you will certainly meet his unborn children when he eventually buckles.

Despite his awkward doffing ritual, this man does eventually manage to fully disrobe, turns around and sees you. Several things can happen at this point to make this situation a little less uncomfortable. First, he could continue to nonchalantly turn the same way he was turning to face his locker and pretend that he didn’t notice you by grabbing his comb, deodorant, or another such hygienic product, if you will. This is especially easy with me because I’m usually avoiding eye contact as if my life depended on it so the casual turn and stuff your face in the locker move is a given success. If Plan A is not possible and he does catch your eye, he could grab a towel, loincloth, or sarong to cover himself up. I don’t care what it is, life at the office is just better if I haven’t seen this guy’s oingo boingo.

Regrettably, the worst case is the usual case. He whips right around, sees me there, and lets out a resounded “Hi!” I turn, he’s naked, and I stare at his eyeballs as if I’m trying to burn holes in his retinal foveas and do my best “I’m trying not to act awkward so I’m going to sit here and talk about anything you wanna talk about guy,” impression, but I know that he knows that I know we’re both feeling weird and the best thing he could think of was initiating a conversation with me so I wouldn’t think he felt weird about me possibly seeing him in the nude and didn’t want to just leave it out there when in fact a person of sound judgment would have covered themselves up by now no matter what the circumstance.

And of course the only things he can think to talk about are those stupid presentation slides I left on his desk to take a look at before the day was over. I’m thinking that he just wants to say something like, “Let’s get together sometime tomorrow and we’ll go through them,” or, “good job on those charts skippy, just a few changes, but we’ll get to those later.” Nope, guess again. You have a suspicious feeling that is hiding a hardcopy no less than 100 slides in length in the flap of fat that normal hangs over his belt but is now hanging at mid-thigh level. Nevertheless, the very slides he just mentioned magically appear in his hand and he wants to go through them while a slight mixture of water and sweat inconspicuously drips from his brow on his pen marks effectively washing away any coherent thought he might have had while commenting on my juvenile attempts at a budget presentation.

This is a situation that I can normally cope with because it usually doesn’t get much worse from there. Lamentably, there are some analogous situations that although are much rarer an occurrence, have a much more adverse effect on the mental state of a young, budding professional like myself:

1 – Talking shop in the shower while your co-worker copiously lathers his nethers as if Mr. Miyagi has given him this familiar task to accomplish while secretly giving him hidden training methods to battle Johnny and the Cobra Kai in the All-Valley Tournament.

2 – Talking shop with a co-worker right after he just backed his behemoth, sweaty, and candy-apple red derriere into the side of your head while he turns to comb his back hair.

3 – Taking a pre-shower leak and having your co-worker notice you as he exits the shower and proceeds to stand directly behind you while he towels himself off thus instigating an immense level of stage fright so that immediate stoppage of your flow occurs until the conversation ends. [please note that the conversation doesn’t end until you enter said shower, in which case relief of previously halted urination happens in the shower drain]

4 – Naked shop talk with a superior.

5 – And last but not least…shop talk that commences after your co-worker has just slapped you on your bare ass with a full and open hand and comments on your rock-hard glutes.

2007-05-07T16:40:00.000-07:00

When Bitches Attack

I had a close encounter with a real bitch last week. I met this girl at a bar downtown (I will not mention this bar by name because I really like it there and I don’t want it getting any kind of bad press), we talked, we danced, I got her number, I called. Apparently at the bar, it came up in conversation that she’s 21 and which makes our hanging out weird since I’m a whopping 25 years of age making me 4 years her senior. Why do I mention this seemingly small detail you ask? Well, apparently when you’re a 21 year-old-college-sorority girl attending one of the more snobbishly-reputed universities in the greater Boston area, that four-year difference gives you the right to be a real bitch.

To preface this discussion, leading up to the events below, we had a couple short little messages back and forth and determined that we were going to go out the following night, and this call was merely supposed to be a confirming exchange.

So the conversation starts, and we’re kind of feeling each other out, not really sure where the discourse might take us, but at one point early in tête-à-tête the she asks me where I’m from. So I’m thinking, well this is cool, she’s trying to figure out some stuff about me. I say that I’m from the desert oasis known to a person in the know as the Valley of the Sun (aka Phoenix, Az). Her response: “Like that is so funny because my parents moved there like three years ago and so I’ve been going there for like the last three summers…it’s like the dirtiest, slimmiest place I’ve ever been.” Commence ten second awkward moment of silence…10, 9, 8…. Now I have to give her credit for being honest to an almost total stranger about their place of birth and secondary source pride (the first source being rate of fingernail growth), and the one place in the country I can honestly call home, but really folks, if you’re trying to make any kind of impression other than dreadful, then you don’t insult someone within the first five minutes of conversation by calling there beloved motherland a place that only an orc would take a vacation to. Strike one-being mean and nasty about beloved home.

I try not to hold the whole calling-the-natural-habitat-a-dirty-name thing against her. I figure she’s young, maybe a little nervous about talking to an obviously mature, socially couth, and culturally developed man of 25, and I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. The conversation shifts towards what we’re going to do the next night. So she says to me, “So what are we gonna do tomorrow night, I don’t really know what 25-year-olds do for fun. I mean, you’re like just coming out of the MTV generation.” Hmm, now I don’t know if this girl is messing with me or if she’s just really stupid. First of all, if you’re gonna reference an MTV generation of any era, you need to specify which one you’re talking about. For example, are we talking pre-Real World, post-Real World/pre-Road Rules, post Road Rules/pre-Real World Road Rules Challenge, post-Real World Road Rules Challenge/pre-Laguna Beach…I don’t really know anymore since I’m so elderly that I don’t even know if those classifications make sense, but the point is, if you’re gonna try to make a joke, at least make it something elegant and interesting that actually only carbon dates the person in question and not you at the same time. Strike two-trying to be funny and smart but coming off dim-witted and condescending.

Now I’m getting a little steamed and really displeased with myself because not only did I acquire this thing’s numerals, but also committed to an entire night out with her. I needed a way out and I’m not the kind of person that’s going to just come out and say, “Look, I can’t go out with you because that would be a waste of valuable energy that could be better spent on my coloring books.” No, I will sacrifice my integrity to be nice. Thinking, thinking, don’t know what to do. Then it hits me like a load of sweet maple syrup on multi-grain-chocolate-chip pancakes; she’s a prissy little daddy’s girl who belongs to a sorority, I’m a jock, I like sports, maybe I should talk about them. So I ask her what sports she likes, she doesn’t [hi-yo!]. Does her family like any sports?…no [score another for the good guys!]. Then the kicker, she asks me why I like sports so much, and I tell her that I was an athlete up through college, and she says, “You seem like you’d be a meathead.” Strike three-direct attack against one of the foundational personas of my inner character! You’re done lady.

I’ll save you from my ranting on the remaining conversation:

Her: So where are we going tomorrow?
Me: Yeah, I need to talk to you about that, I’m actually heading to a bar way out of your way to watch a cover band (the best one in Boston – The Swingin’ Johnsons) for a friend’s going away, I really need to be there.
Her: So you’re ditching me for a cover band?
Me: No, I’m inviting you to watch the band with me and my friends.
Her: So you want me to drive to your place and then go watch a band at a bar with you and your friends?
Me: Yes.
Her: Well if I’m at a bar I may want to drink.
Me: Well you can sleep on my couch if you want.
Her: Hmmm, I don’t think so, but I still want to hang out soon and I’m busy all weekend.
Me: Well how about next week, I’ll call you this weekend, it was nice talking to you, later.
Her: Goodni-[Click]

2007-05-07T16:26:00.000-07:00

The Heterosexual Male Dancing Ring

So this weekend my band of merry men and I gaggled our way into the Brighton area to experience the delightful sights and sounds of the posh (well more posh than the ilk of establishment I frequent) but highly accessible Soho nightclub. As always the women were beautiful and generally unimpressed with me, the atmosphere was cheery while remaining sophisticate, and the music selection stayed eclectic yet supremely appropriate. Which brings me to the general purpose of this musing…the social acceptance of the male dancing ring.

Allow me to present the situation that brought this apparently socially sensitive topic to fruition. There I am in the middle of the floor pounding the hardwood with exactly two of my friends, one female and one male. Right in the middle of my best Brandon Flowers impression, I caught the eye of an attractive member of the opposite sex who proceeded to give me the come hither finger curl. Right away I thought, “Not subtle and to the point, I like her already!” All in all, we enjoyed each other’s company by in large in a “I like dancing with you not because I want to sleep with you kind of way but because I’m glad there’s a girl here who actually finds my David Bowie chicken dance remotely entertaining” kind of way. Well apparently her friends didn’t agree with the display of non-affection happening on the floor and they pulled her away. This I didn’t mind because that just meant I could keep perfecting my air guitar fist pump with my non-homosexual male dance partner.

Stay with me because this is where it gets interesting. About a Justin Timbersnake/P. Diddy song tandem later, the girl that I had the little fling with earlier in the evening came back, but this time her female friend had her boyfriend in tow. They may have been arguing about something but before I could return the come hither finger curl I heard a loud and thunderous, “Those guys are so gay…[gasp]!” I looked around for some dudes making out in the corner but none were to be found. I searched high and low for a pair of grinding dudes to no avail. Then I turned to my partner in boogie and he says, “No brah, he’s talking about us.” That chache called my friend and me gay! And I’m not saying gay in a look at those guys going crazy and enjoying themselves so I’m gonna call you gay in a joking sort of way so I can come join the fun, but in stern-faced homophobic I wanna rip you a new one by calling you gay kind of way. So I did what any self-respecting obviously not gay but sympathizer with the plight of the homosexual community would do, I simply turned to my buddy and said in a very audible volume, “Oh my gosh, did you hear that? We’re so gay!” And then stared right at the gay-bashing offender while doing the bouncing boob dance with our perfectly sculpted pectoralis muscles. Apparently it worked because he was no where to be seen for the rest of the night.

Anyway, I’m not writing this just to talk about sequence of events in this weekend’s foray. I want to talk about comment made by the deutsche on the dance floor. Not only was this non-instigated vomit of words an outright insult to the gay community (mainly because the majority of homosexual males are much better dancers than my friend and me), but it was a grossly unimaginative way of expressing disaccord with the behavior of others. Unfortunately we still live in a world where it is unacceptable for heterosexual males to enjoy each other’s company on a dance floor. If you see a group of girls getting in to the groove at the local watering hole you don’t go up to them and call them a bunch of lesbos. You sit back and enjoy the show. I’m not saying if you see a group of guys acting in a similar fashion you do the same, but I am sick and tired of this double standard that society is perpetuating in the young adult community that girls can dance without guys but guys can’t dance without girls. It took me a long to time to develop my current repertoire of sic moves that are at a standard to make me feel comfortable enough to put them on display without a female counterpart. And like women, sometimes I just want to be able to go in to a club or bar and be able to say without hesitation, “F girls tonight, I just want to dance!”

2006-12-05T12:02:00.000-08:00

Oh Baby!

The NICU (Newborn ICU) at the Brigham and Women’s Hospital is a quite a sight to behold upon first glances and discoveries. State of the art and secure, the unit itself has room for more little patients than most post-natal wards. Aside from the sheer elegance of the hospital staff and obvious organizational aptitude fortified by this group of elite caregivers, you can’t help but feel awed by the observable responsibility placed on these nurses and doctors on a day-to-day basis. Upon closer examination of one of the more critical incubators within the ward, anyone can immediately see what I’m talking about (you can distinguish the more critical cases by the exorbitant amount of wires and IVs running in and out of the plastic box). The average newborn that will spend at least three months in the NICU is no larger than a size-eleven foot and has a footprint no larger than an average adult thumbprint. Interestingly and in all practicality, the size of the baby is inversely proportional to the amount of tubes, wires, and IVs aiding the infant in his or her daily fight for survival. For me the most hauntingly vivid image is that of the tube that must be inserted in the tiny infant’s throat to pressurize the lungs to prevent alveolar collapse.

Understandably, the picture looks bleak, especially for the new parents who exit the NICU sobbing and struggling to speak and breathe at a normal tone as they validate their hospital parking passes and head home for yet another night just to wonder if they will have a newborn to visit the next day. Surprisingly though, this NICU has a better than ninety percent survival rate which is a huge testament to the undermanned and underappreciated nursing and administrative staffs who work enormous blocks of time per work shift. These are the nurses that I have the privilege of witnessing for a few volunteered hours of my free time each weekend. On one instance I observed a nurse inform the parents of a newly-admitted infant that they had to insert an IV into their child’s forehead for lack of being able to find another vein that could substantially transport needed nutrients and medication. The tact and reserve of this particular individual was not only evident by her own actions but also by the parents’ overtly calm acceptance of this news as they courageously stepped in to the unit to see their son for the first time after delivery.

To complement their professionalism and expertise, the NICU staff is explicitly dedicated to keeping the NICU as upbeat as possible. Athletic coaches will tell you that traits like speed and instinct will set an athlete apart from the crowd in sports because they are attributes you can’t coach in to someone. Like an athlete’s instinct, the ability to make a parent laugh and smile in a place like the NICU is one of those things you just can’t teach. For example, one nurse in particular has a new getting pooped-on story practically every week that is required sharing with me and everyone else. And I’m not talking about a woes me diatribe about how life-scarringly and distgustingly-horrible it was to get shat on. I’m talking about a celebratingly badge-of-honor wearing divulgement of a tale worthy of the annals of South Park. Come to think of it, I don’t know what’s worse, my overly stylized descriptions of top boob and farting or her exploratory narratives on how to keep feces out of your eyes while you get shat on so you can deliver a baby. Naturally this light-hearted attitude in dire circumstances can’t help but aid in the parents’ struggles in the NICU, and this particular nurse is merely one shining example of a select group that call the NICU their place of work.

2006-11-22T10:23:00.000-08:00

The Loveable (and Laughable) Fart

In an average day, the average person expels approximately 400 – 2,000 milliliters of oxygen, nitrogen, carbon dioxide, hydrogen, and methane from the digestive tract through the anus. Fermentation by tiny, benign bacteria that line yours and everyone else’s colon releases these gases that must be liberated from the alimentary canal on a regular basis. This process is known as flatulence, otherwise known as farting. Despite the hilarity of the fart, the nature of this discharge has many undeniably unpleasant characteristics.

First of all, as you now know, with farting there is the inherent realization that there are essentially thousands of miniscule explosions occurring in the large intestine as bacteria feast on the undigested food being sucked dry of nutrients and water for bodily nourishment. When I imagine this, I picture that one day the bacteria in my own intestine will dubiously turn against me and somehow coordinate a large-scale simultaneous emancipation of gas that will blow my stomach wide-open (at least that is sometime what it feels like).

Second, there is the experience of being extremely bloated. Oftentimes we are put in situations when it would be both rude and inappropriate to expel our rectal aroma to our surrounding area. This situation can be quite uncomfortable as the methane builds in the gut, the result being the feeling that any movement seems like you are teetering on the edge of perhaps turning your otherwise benevolent sphincter into a party favor. Nevertheless, it’s not comfortable, and the eventual breaking of the veritable wind can be just as unpleasant as you try to make sure that no solid or slightly viscous materials follow with the torrent of air now polluting the atmosphere.

Lastly, but most certainly not leastly, but maybe most beastly, there is the smell. Ranging from bratwurst and sauerkraut to the sulfurous olfaction of the rotten egg, the smell of the all-powerful fart has the power to clear even the most retched cast of characters up to a certain radius from the point of deployment. Despite having the ability burn the nose hair off Sasha Baron Cohen’s alter ego Borat, I find that most people actually enjoy their own flavor. Why is that? For me, I don’t actually find the smell relaxing or stimulating, but I still make sure I stop to immerse myself in the extraordinarily scented masterpiece that I have created. Perhaps this is to test the degree of stench before I decide to guide other passers-by into my own personal cloud of putridity.

Despite the utterly despicable properties of the fart as aforementioned, there is one redeeming quality that seems to make it all worth while: its undeniable ability to entertain the masses. Personally, I have never come across a fart I didn’t like. But what is it about farting that makes it so gall darn funny? I believe there are several innate characteristics about the nature of man and farting that make it the ultimate source of amusement:

1. Farts come from a dirty place. When we hear a fart, we all know that the sound we are hearing is coming from someone’s butthole, and the fact that you can make sounds with your butthole is cool, and by cool I mean totally sweet. For me, the fact that I am actually witnessing someone making a sound with their butt, or that I myself am making a sound with my butt that other people can hear is downright funny, and something that is to be shared by all.
2. Farts are unexpected. You are sitting there doing whatever you are doing, and then out of nowhere you hear it. You or someone else farts and it’s almost like a monkey dressed up like one of the Village People appeared out of no where singing “In the Navy” for 3 seconds and then disappeared again. The natural inclination at that point would be to say, “Where in the world did that come from?” Then you realize it came from someone’s buttcheeks vigorously flapping against one another…and you laugh.
3. Farts are embarrassing…and I don’t just mean for the farter but for the fartees as well. Unfortunately, society has deemed it necessary that farts are unacceptable in public situations, and for good reason (ie - you don’t want to smell the turkey Aunt Josephine just ate during dinner while you’re watching football on Thanksgiving). But the fart is embarrassing for so many more reasons than the fact that it is happening in public. They smell, they come from your butt, they can be hard to control, they’re supposed to happen when no one’s around, etc. Embarrassment is funny, usually funnier when someone else is embarrassed, but funny nevertheless.

Examples of embarrassing fart situations: the crowded elevator fart, the executive boardroom fart, the first date fart, the meeting the parents for the first time fart, the mid-prayer church fart, the pre-game coach’s pump-up speech fart, and my all-time favorite, the middle of an incredibly stressful midterm fart.

My contention from this entire discourse is that farts are not something to be ashamed of or to try and hide at any and all costs. Everybody farts. Even the hot girl with top boob farts. You just never hear it because she holds it in for such a long time that her insides feel like they might explode if she laughs or makes any sudden movements. That’s why she’s such a bitch, because her belly hurts from holding in her farts. That’s why it is everyone’s duty to fart as much as possible around hot and bitchy girls. They will laugh, thus dislodging their own fart they have been holding since last week, therefore causing more laughter, making the world a better place. So next time you find yourself in that situation where you really need to dust that crop but don’t know if the crop is worth dusting, believe me, it most definitely is.

2006-11-16T18:20:00.000-08:00

Fall in Boston
Back in the illustration game baby! For my first drawing in several months, I was inspired by the dredges of the New England autumn. I know, I know Cheryl, there are supposed to be a bunch of leaves on the ground, so you're just gonna have to imagine that someone already came by and raked all the other little guys up. I plan on keeping them coming, as well as posting a column or two per week so keep stopping by.

2006-11-14T17:47:00.000-08:00

The Splendor of the Top Boob
A couple weeks ago, I was sitting in the living room watching MTV Hits with two of my roommates. While enjoying the musical stylings of some of our favorite artists, one of the new Christina Aguilera videos came on, I believe it was “Ain’t No Other Man.” I really don’t remember how the conversation started, but one of my roomies commented on the fact that little Christina had recently undergone breast augmentation surgery. I was befuddled; I did not know this had occurred. My roommate being the gentleman that he is explained to me that you could tell by the top boob in the very music video that we were watching. Sure enough, there it was. Christina had developed a wonderful little characteristic about her body now known in my vocabulary as the top boob. What is top boob you ask? Well I didn’t know the exact answer myself when beginning this piece, so let’s take a peak under covers and discover it together.
Let’s first examine the very image in question, Christina’s mammaries (I plan on using many names for the breast throughout this foray, but mammary is probably my favorite method of reference).

Here is a recent photograph of the bellowing temptress.
As you can see, her boobs look like grapefruits. On most women you don’t see the circle connecting at the apex of the curvature of the breast as it does in this picture. The amazing thing about this photo as with most instances of top boob is that the funbags in question are not completely jammed up against each other; there is a definite space between. In my recent experience, this is a telltale sign that Christina is exhibiting a classic case of top boob.
Our next exhibit is an obvious examplar of the highly coveted top boob.

This image of Pamela Anderson is a more complete representation of the top boob. The icon shown is an illustration of archetypal top boob because it shows her rack from the side and demonstrates the top boob from an alternate point of view from the Christina picture. Please note the obvious bend of Ms. Anderson’s booby that extends from her ribcage all the way to her clavicle or collarbone. The wonderful thing about Pam’s melons is the fact that the bend is a continuous line. There are absolutely no indentations or notches that would suggest her top boob can only be attributed to the mechanism of a brassiere to push the boobies up and together to create the top boob effect.

In an effort to make this article complete, I need to recognize that not every lady on this planet has the synthetic enhancements of either Ms. Aguilera or Ms. Anderson. It is possible to achieve eye-popping top boob with mammaries produced by Mother Nature. The top boob here belongs to the very talented and outstandingly beautiful Scarlett Johansson. Widely-regarded as Hollywood’s new “IT” girl, Scarlett’s curves are as natural as her aptitude as an actress. Note the subtle cleavage, as demonstrated on Ms. Aguilera, where the mounds rest comfortably next to one another. Also note the continuous line of the breast that shows absolutely no sign of a groove at the opening of her gown’s scooped top, absolutely breathtaking and well done. Although not as defined as the surgically-enhanced top boob, the natural variety can be every bit as tantalizing as it is tormenting to lesbians and heterosexual males.

While the top boob is often a wondrous and magical event to witness, when exhibited distastefully, it can be a horrible thing to bear. Paula Abdul’s quest for the coveted top boob ended in disaster at the Kid’s Choice Awards. Her boobs are so constrained they practically scream, “Paula please, I can’t breath, please let me go!” Ms. Abdul’s effort for a good top boob has lead to a sacrifice of the side boob, which is a definite no-no in boob presentation. Although Paula exhibits some cleavage, her boobs are obviously lodged in an unmovable position, hence what I have determined to be incomplete top boob that gives the illusion that there is a bird flying out of her sternum. For shame!

But let’s not just blame Ms. Abdul. Past carriers of awe-inspiring top boob can also be culprits of the forlorn exposition as is shown above. Now let’s see if you can pick out how our beloved Ms. Johansson has erred in obtaining what I call circus top boob. Constrained mammaries gasping for air...check. Illusion of flying bird protruding from sternum...check. Sacrifice of side boob...this is an interesting one because she still has side boob, but knowing the potential of her side boob and the obvious constraining of it in this image I will say...check. By the look on her face it even seems as if Ms. Johansson herself has the blunder in the back of her mind and can't wait to return to her normal splendid top boob of yesteryear.

It is not my wish to leave you with this image to close my venture into the wonderful world of top boob. Sometimes the top boob is so good, it can be obtained while our subject lays prostrate on the ground. Considered impossible in many circles, our old friend Ms. Anderson makes a return to demonstrate the horizontal top boob. Simply amazing.

In conclusion, there is undeniable reason top boob can be one of nature’s most sought after occasions: when witnessed in its most affable circumstances you are seeing something utterly unattainable. The cases presented in this piece simply do not occur in day to day life. These women do not exist in most habitats and civilizations, and to be honest, the top boob presented here is certainly not as good in reality as is revealed in these images. In addition to being airbrushed, duct-taped, and containing plastic parts, these women are self-loving, narcissistic and generally a pain in the ass, and I would warn anyone who encountered a top boob specimen in the natural environment. So please do not fret ladies, the top boob while wonderful in its entire splendor, has nothing to do with female perfection.

2006-04-24T17:02:00.000-07:00

IlloFriday: Robot

What is this you ask. I really don't know. I went to the MFA this weekend and saw a pen sketch that inspired me to combine the human form with flowing lines and this is what I ended up with. Enjoy whatever it is.

2006-04-16T17:30:00.000-07:00

IlloFriday: Spotted

Waldo was trying to go incognito, but he's been...spotted!

2006-04-09T15:32:00.000-07:00

IlloFriday: Speed

So I was excited when I saw the topic for this week's Illustration Friday. I have a thing for animals and when I thought about speed, the first thing that came to mind was the cheetah. I think it is just simply amazing to watch these guys in action, especially like on the Discovery Channel when they show cheetahs running in slow motion and you get to see every movement in complete detail, I just can't get enough. Anyway, here is my effort to capture that sleek, perfect-for-chasing-down-gazelles look in my humble artistic interpretation.

2006-03-06T16:33:00.000-08:00

IlloFriday: Insect

So what I really wanted to do with this one is make something that could be really complicated to draw something that looked very simple with some dynamic lines. After four or five tries I finally got the result that I was looking for and this is what I ended up with.

2006-02-26T15:17:00.000-08:00

IlloFriday: Tea

All right, so I really didn't know what to do with this one. But after some thought and some playing around with the sketch book, here's what I came up with. Honestly, I was just happy to be able to post this week after a week from the Illo world...enjoy!

2006-02-13T17:43:00.000-08:00

IlloFriday: Simple

Okay, I must confess, I stole the idea from a fellow illustrator and good friend (hey java junkie, naah naah nah naah naah), but I'm sure she'll understand, especially since she called me out for reasons that don't need to be shared here. Anyway, this is simple for a couple reasons. One, it's a shoe company. Two, it's not exact like the original that it is loosely based on. Lastly, I didn't have to think a long time about it so that makes it simple, right? Well, there you go.

2006-02-05T11:37:00.000-08:00

IlloFriday: Chair

Well, you kind of have to be somewhat of a geek to get this one entirely. The first thing I thought of when I saw chair was how the chair conformation of a cyclohexane ring looks like the Budweiser logo. So I tried to incorporate that connection with how I sometimes feel in class to that coincidence. I also decided to experiment a little with color and get a little crazy with it to give that almost dazed feel that I experience at the end of my weekly 3-hour OChem class. I am such a nerd.

2006-01-27T18:28:00.000-08:00

IlloFriday: Glamour Part Deux

Here's my second post for the evening. Here we have Mr. and Mrs. Spears. I used to have a thing for Britney back in her glory days when everyone was trying to figure out how big her oohahs were. So I didn't want to leave this handsome couple out of the fun (I'm talking about Britney and K-Fed), particularly because she was stolen away from me! I never even had a chance though, Justin and K-Fed are way sicker dancers than I'll ever be. Anyway, here's my tribute to love lost...probably for the best.

2006-01-27T18:22:00.000-08:00

IlloFriday: Glamour

Or is it the anti-glamour? So this is how I spent my Friday night. Drawing and posting on my blog. But seriously, what better way to spend it? I actually have two posts for this week's topic. When I thought glamour, I thought Hollywood. Of course, I thought of the negative side. Behold my pokes at some of our most beloved members of the rich and famous. First we have good ole Tomcat. I'm sure they're both very nice people...but here's my illo anyways.

2006-01-25T15:30:00.000-08:00

And then we're going to the White House...Yee-ah!

Disclaimer...this is not a political statement, in no way does this reflect my views about religion, politics, economics, disco, boxers vs. briefs, Engelbert Humperdinck, use of the designated hitter, etc. I just thought it was hilarious when I saw this clip and heard the scream. It was pure shock and awe, but mostly awe. I mean, that was like a five-octave jump. I'm actually impressed.

2006-01-25T15:24:00.000-08:00

I'll do what I want, gosh!

I'm feeling like I need to add a couple more random pictures to get me going here. I decided to pick out a couple that I at least think are a little amusing. I drew this one last night watching American Idol. I know what you're thinking, but I wasn't the only one in the PHD watching last night...Dave!

2006-01-24T05:34:00.000-08:00

Ak Industries

One of my best friends from high school owns a small clothing company called AK Industries. It's really an up and coming brand that at first did well in the European market and is now starting to pick up in the US. The start-up of the company is pretty interesting. He used to sit in class at ASU drawing different logos that he thought might look good on a t-shirt or hoodie. Being a business major, he decided to take a risk and try it out and put $1000 into some materials and marketing. Now here he is with a company that's making a great profit, and did I mention he plays semi-pro baseball in the LA Dodgers organization. Check out his site and see what its all about: www.akclothing.com

2006-01-23T17:30:00.000-08:00

IlloFriday: Cats

So here is my first submission for Illustration Friday. The topic is of course cats. Wasn't quite sure what to do with this one at first, but after some serious reflection, I ended up with this little sketch. I felt inspired by two of my former guilty pleasures growing up as a child, Garfield and Miami Vice. When I was a kid, I used to stay up late at night reading Garfield books under the covers with a flashlight, and as a child of the 80s, I certainly used to watch Miami Vice religiously, under the influence of mom...just kidding...but seriously, watched it every week. Suddenly I have the urge to don my white loafers.

2006-01-13T17:44:00.000-08:00

Contrary to popular belief, "Suviving the PHD" is not a reference to enduring the unmerciful ordeal of earning the aforementioned academic degree. Rather, I dedicated the title of this blog to my domicile, apt PHD. The PHD, also affectionately referred to as the Papa Hotel Delta, is my place of rest, my abode of slumber...chez moi. Also home to two other inhabitants, the lounge singer and the leprechaun in the picture above, the PHD is a penthouse apartment on the roof of a 21-story building...a block away from the Boston ghetto. Now I realize that I used the word "Surviving" in the title of this blog. However comma it is not meant to be a negative portrayal of my beloved habitat. The PHD has been very good to me, and I love it with all of my heart.