A Fresh El Camino Rollin' Kilo-G

But I can't stop laughing...


To his credit, he is a defensive specialist...

School has been exciting, busy, lonely.

Mostly, I’m relieved that I’m finally on my way to becoming a doctor. So all the stress of studying for exams and practicals is easily worth it all when put in perspective.

Dude, its been an effing long time since I’ve written in this; and I’ve my doubts about writing again anytime soon. When it comes to my precious study time, I’m becoming that fat kid who won’t share his stupid candy. Clutching onto my precious study time with gusto, fat arms tucking my precious time into the folds of my fat boy boobs, clutching so hard that sweat beads pulsate through my thin, grease-stained T-shirt.
Or better yet, like Gollum from Lord of the Rings. You know, myyy preee-ciousssss.

Coincidentally, reminds me of watching NBA games and whispering myyy preee-cioussss to the TV every time Sam Cassell would take a shot.

Its a striking resemblance, Sam and Gollum.
See:



Actually, since I'm on the subject, I hear Gollum has a brother:




I should stop. Its mean and unnecessary. And this is not going anywhere.

Sam, I apologize.

So I wanted to rant about people at my school, but maybe I shouldn’t. I don’t really have anything pressing to rant about now, just my complaints about my confusion with pheromones. “Haha, as if you’re going to sweep me away to California or something.” Haha, of course not...

Anyhow, med school has been a funny experience so far. The first week of orientation was the usual awkward first few days of extremely friendly people and smiles and hand shakes, with, whats your name, where are you from, what college did you go to. These are kids mind you, most of them fresh out of college. By the second and third week of classes I notice everyone hunched into their groups of 4, a product of the school’s on-campus living options. Most students live on campus, in these dorm-style apartments, four to each apartment, four to each group-o'-friends. And then there are people like me who live off campus, or who are non-traditional students, or who are a bit older, or who are just gangster.

I’m totally fascinated by it all. Sometimes I feel like I can sniff out the insecurity in the air, the annoying chest pounding as obvious as the nervous glances at the floor. Then there are times when I am completely impressed by the quiet, self-confidence that I see in others; their calm intelligence and inquisitive mind a refreshing break from the argumentative Napoleonites. For these students there is no need to rail off a list of gibberish facts and figures; and this I appreciate.

Unfortunately, those whose voices you often hear are those who think they have a point to make, talking about some shit when all I can hear is the chip on their shoulder yapping, yapping. Seriously, do you always have to argue your point?

Remember when I said I shouldn’t rant about the people at my school? I lied.



I think I’ll write about my classes next time. Or maybe about my obsession with my day at the lake. Either way I hope I get to write sometime soon.

I can see the skyline of the city from my "villa", see:



Wait, I'm serious. See:



SEE:



Anyhow, the other night I went out with L, one of my Peace Corps friends and saw this South African dude perform at a venue somewhere in the lower east side. Or the east village. Really, I don't have a clue as to where the eff I was. Somewhere around there. Point is, we hung out briefly with the dude after the show, and he said the quote about Hitler.

My new place is sorta funny. It’s a 30 minute train ride from the city, about 25 miles or so. The official name of the place, “Hastings-on-Hudson”, is derived from “village of Hastings-Upon-Hudson”, back when British immigrants were still chillin. Its funny when you say it in a British accent. Try it with tea cup in hand, pinky up.

So there are numerous towns/villages that run along the Hudson River and this is one of them. Most seem to have a downtown area, where there is a main street with shops and restaurants. I live in downtown Hastings-on-Hudson, just above a dry cleaners and a bodega/deli/liquor store.

The train station is a few blocks away. During the day old people with white hair loom the streets, avoiding the rambunctious kids on summer vacay. Every so often I see a person of color and with it comes my sigh of relief. There is an old homeless man that everyone seems to ignore; I assume the town bum. Some snooty restaurants mingle uncomfortably with the pizzerias and the Chinese take out joint.
The mom and pop shops, the hardware store, small boutiques, and coffee shops- weary with wisdom and stand with indifference. In not so many words, it is very, quaint.

You know, there are words that I hear that I think I’ll never use.
“Quaint” was one of them.
Was.

The views of the river are spectacular. The library, where I’ve found free internet, has a fantastic view over the river.



I’ve finished unpacking and cleaning so I don’t have much to do at the present time. I went into the city yesterday, at rush hour on accident, and was completely overwhelmed by the masses so I ran away to central park. Man (and woman), that place might be the best park in the world. I can’t think of a better one. But then again I haven’t explored much of Europe yet; which I don’t plan on doing anytime soon. [ref: My rant on my refusal to travel to places I can visit when I am an old fart.]





My feet and the skyline:

I spent the 4th in DC. Getting there was pretty hectic, driving from New Orleans, through Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee, Virginia. One night I stayed in Chattanooga, Tennessee, which was eye-poppingly beautiful. Actually, the entire drive through Tennessee was gorgeous. Blue rivers cutting through lush green valleys, clear canyons with rolling green hills, houses and farms perched on virgin hills, little-house-on-the-prairie type shit.

Driving through Virginia was the worst. Mainly because I couldn’t find anything worth listening to on the radio. I heard a commercial on one of the stations saying something like, all country, all day. Puke.

DC though, is a fantastic city, atleast at this time of year. I saw the fireworks busting over the capital with a billion others on the lawn at the Washington memorial, the ultimo phallus. Though interesting to note, a striking resemblance to the obelisks in Axum, Ethiopia, which were built centuries earlier. Another side note, Ethiopia has the worst bed bugs and the prettiest prostitutes of all.

Ours:


And theirs (though much older...):


Anyhow, the fireworks lasted a long, long time. Only way I can confirm is that I recorded several videos on my camera that were all a couple of minutes long. Actually, I think I can say that it was the greatest fireworks show I’ve ever seen. They were busting right above our heads, each explosion vibrating through my chest.



The masses look like ants...

One thing about driving through Mississippi and Alabama is that the views suck but the radio is awesome.

I stopped in Mississippi to get gas at a po-dunk town. There was a Subway inside the gas station and I was starving. Five. Five. Five-dollar foot loooong.

So I’m in line to get a sandwich. I came in just behind a van full of church members with matching shirts returning from their trip to New Orleans. Which, is sorta like a bunch of tall basketball players going to play in the kid’s section at Disneyland. It doesn't take long to realize that they aren’t exactly going to fit in those rides. Neither are conservative jesus-warriors going to fit in all that comfortably with the scene in New Orleans, which is known for its debauchery mind you. Maybe they were those people holding “repent!” signs on Bourbon and harassing the likes of my drunkass...

Anyhow, I’m in line to get a sandwich, which is taking forever not just because of the bible thumpers, but also because this is the south and things move very s l o w l y. I’m getting all hungry-grumpy when the guy behind me starts chatting me up.

The old man is dressed in a white T-shirt, suspenders and jean shorts, a trucker hat worn like a top hat, his white hair crowning his big balding head, his belly neatly tucked into his shorts. I’ve been referred to as a China man in the south (though very kindly, I should add) so I wasn’t expecting much when he started up. He’s talking to me for a good while, all friendly banter.

The thing was, for the entire duration I had no idea what he was saying. I could not comprehend a word coming from his mouth. That southern drawl, or more like mumbling. Like the dude from the show “King of the Hill”, who just mumbles and mumbles and his friends seem to understand him.

I stare blankly at him when he pauses for my response to some question he posed. I think I hear something about electricity. Like something about an electrical something. This, after what seemed like chatter directed for me for a solid five minutes, and this is all I'm able to gather. I just kept nodding yeah and smiling in confirmation the whole time, up until this question. Only way I know it was a question was the rise in the tone of his voice, like huma huma huma hma?

Uh, sorry you said electricity?
He looks at me, puzzled, and says, no huma huma huma NASCAR huma huma huma NASCAR.
I think I hear NASCAR somewhere in there...so my response is,
Uh, NASCAR?
Huma huma huma NASCAR.
Oh, NASCAR. Yeah, what about NASCAR?
NASCAR, huma huma the race today huma huma on television soon huma huma.

The more intently I listen the more I am able to decipher his language. Sort of like when you first learn a foreign language, at first you can only pick up words that you recognize, then phrases, then short sentences, and you eventually decipher what the other person is saying by piecing together the small bits of information that you’re able to recognize.

We talked about nascar for a bit, until I got my five, five, five dollar foot loooong.
He was a nice old man, I liked him.

I'm in that mood where I'm missing Africa:



YAYAYAYAYAYA

Recognize SA kwaito!
I reminisce...

So I’ve reserved a rental truck for this Friday. I’m planning on loading the truck up with the shit I’ve amassed in ‘nawlins and driving it up to New York over the weekend. According to google maps it is a 20 hour drive, maybe I can do it in 2 days? Not really looking forward to driving 10 hours straight, two days in a row though. At least it will be new shit to see. I’m okay with doing the drive by myself, since I am that loner, but I wonder if I’m going to be sleepy as hell for a good duration of it. Hmm.

So I’ve begun my rounds of goodbyes of my friends in New Orleans. I swear I’ve done it so many times that it shouldn’t bother me, but it still makes me sad to leave people. I also like romantic comedies. Shame. I secretly watch them online since I haven’t the courage yet to walk into a movie theatre alone and watch movies like The Proposal. One day I hope to be that creepy guy who sits by himself and watches movies frequented by 17 year old girls and boyfriends who carry their girlfriends’ purses.

So apparently my leg is only half-way there. This according to the orthopedic doc who went over my x-rays the other day. Ugh. This means I can’t start running and doing the likes of the MJ kick.
I’m walking at least, regaining some of the strength in my leg, improving my horrible balance which has been my demise as of late. Especially in crowded bars. Although I’ve mastered hobbling in a straight line, I’m still re-teaching myself to navigate between people, sidestepping and stepping around bar stools and legs; oh what a mess with drink in hand. I’m not even drunk and people are giving me that look. “Lookie at that drunkass, spilling drinks on himself.”

Wait till I’m actually drunk and I’ll show you

I think its hard to find closure with leaving home, even though I’ve done it so many times already. Leaving loved ones is always difficult, just reinforcing my exhaustion with moving.

I’m flying to New Orleans first, then to New York, where hopefully I’ll have an apartment to call home. I still have to move my shit out of my apartment in New Orleans, which is kind of a pain in my ass since my leg is still broken. As R would say, eeess broooken.

Today I went to the beach. Alone. Of course I remember. I tried forgetting, but it’s kind of like that movie, eternal sunshine of the blah blah blah.

But it was disappointing, mainly because it was crowded with people. I guess it was self/foolish of me to think that I could keep an entire beach to myself. Maybe this is a sign.

And then as I was hobbling my way to the stairs I notice the pretty lifeguard watching me as I walked past her tower. She looks down and asks me, as if talking to a child- rather, a puppy dog, and says, did you hurt yourself- are you okay- did you sprain your itty bitty foot- did you give yourself a boo boo?

Completely emasculated, I reply, no, I’m just recovering from a broken leg, and hobbit away. My preeecious. Our beach dammit.

A few weeks ago I received my official acceptance letter from med school via snail mail. I’d been waiting for the packet for about a week; I got an email about a week earlier stating I should expect the official packet “soon”.

I was effing relieved to finally have the packet in my hands. Each day waiting for the damn thing adding to my irrational paranoia about the authenticity of the original email.

That original email though, when I opened my inbox and I read the letter I was ecstatic, jubilant, euphoric. I was alone at home at the time, and found myself shoving my fists into the air, alternating right, left, right, left, grunting, yes, yes, yes.

Reminds me of that dude who owns that shop at the beach. You know, that small shop at the pier, next to where the fishermen cast lines out into the ocean. The small shack perched alone at the end of the pier, selling bait for the fishermen, all sorts of worms, cans, and jars of goopy fish food. The dude who sits behind the counter at this shack, this shop at the end of the pier; he is the master of this shop, the master of this bait shop. You know, the master baiter

A robot suit!



http://www.time.com/time/photogallery/0,29307,1900202_1889494,00.html

Part of my rehab includes watching these videos and attempting to copy the moves.

Do the stanky leg:


Though, to be honest, I'm over the stanky leg. Better is this one.
Swag surfin:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bf9zw5Zsr7o

The "official" video can't be embedded so you have to click on the above link for the real deal. But to hold you over, you can watch this dude:


Wait. Is this the cheapening of hip hop?
Whatever. Swag. Surf.

My most recent obsession is with twitter. It is fascinating that I can receive messages from the likes of Snoop.
Like, [snoopdogg]: "watz craccn...in atl gonna be comn back to cali today..every 1 good??!?!"
Or, [snoopdogg]: "yabadaba watz tha deal ma twizzle?!?!? still on tour whos comn out to charlotte, nc today?!?!"
AHAHAHA.

You know, I can't remember the book or author, but I think I've read this before. About how in the future, books would be reduced to stories reduced to articles reduced to short snippets reduced to short phrases...ugh I'm pretty sure I badgered that.
Maybe Orwell's 1984?

Twitter is the culmination of our need for quick and less.

So I was thinking about my conversation that I had several weeks ago with my friends A and C. It was about racism. Oddly enough I was on the defensive for racism, not attacking it. Sometimes my logic goes in circles.

Who knows how the conversation came up.
Actually, we were in a dark, empty bar with glasses littering the countertop- I’m thinking that is a suitable explanation for the banter of our ideas.

Anyhow, my angry-Asian-man-complex was relieved that for once I didn’t feel like I had to explain the evils of racism since the audience was already well aware. Instead, I decided to share my wisdom of the subjectivity of racism, or so I thought.

I argued that cultural, historical, and other factors have a hand in shaping what is offensively “racist” in society. Simple enough.

But then before I knew it I had been boxed into comparing racism with the oppression of women.

To clarify, the oppression of women, in my humbly arrogant opinion, should be considered a “universal wrong”, where cultural and historical contexts do not need to be taken into account when claiming injustice. For example, just because it is culturally acceptable to forcibly marry/have sex with young pre-pubescent girls does not make it acceptable, even if it is engrained in the history of that particular society. Even things like our women’s suffrage movement, the right to vote is an issue of equality, an issue of the “universal wrong” of the oppression of women- despite the historical context.

So then why would I, the one with the angry-Asian-man-complex, afford the excuse of “cultural and historical context” for racism, yet not for the oppression of women’s rights? Why was I quick to call the oppression of women a “universal wrong” yet spare racism with a simple slap on the wrist? My friend A thought this reasoning illogical.

The way I see it, racism is completely subjective, dependent on the culture and environment it is born. Like a guy from Italy calling me oriental is not going to offend me like an Italian-American dude from my hometown calling me oriental; I realize the dude from my hometown knows that “oriental” is reserved for rugs and furniture yet still wishes to insult me by not referring to me as “Asian”.

Likewise, racism is subjective to time; what is considered racism now is obviously not the same as it was 5, 10, 50 years ago. 15 years ago it was acceptable for little kids to pull at the corners of their eyes when they saw an Asian family in a supermarket in Utah. Now if the same thing happened I would slap the kid and I don’t think I would (necessarily) go to jail.

And besides, how the hell do you quantify racism throughout the world. Like, how would you measure the "increments of evil" of a racist comment in a homogenous society like Japan versus a diverse country like the US?

I say this mainly because I think we are hypersensitive to racism here in the US, not that I’m saying its a bad thing.

We live in a country with a nasty past: the genocide of the Native Americans, the free-flowing slave trade, the decades of segregation, the oppression of the Irish, the Italians, the Chinese, the Japanese, the Latinos. It makes sense that we have adopted an ideal for an elevated level of racial tolerance and sensitivity. But I argue that our American views on racism shouldn’t be imposed on other societies.

As I’ve implied, racism, at the international level, is impossible to define. What is racism to some is not to others; ie. some adamantly call the Zionist movement as inherently racist while some proclaim it as a righteous cause, some Asian-Americans cried racism when the Spanish Olympic basketball team posed with squinty eyes while most in China gave no thought to the gesture.

I think often times we get caught up with the term racism and forget what truly matters. The oppression and discrimination of people due to sex, religion, ethnicity, sexual orientation, etc. should not be tolerated. Racism sucks, but oppression is the real evil.

Prop 8, why you gotta hate on them gay people?

I’m noticing the different reactions provoked by my broken leg. The spectrum ranges from my roommate who doesn’t understand why I am not yet walking on a fractured leg, to my friend J who unexpectedly bought me a beer the other day at Lafayette Square.

You'd understand the significance of this beer if you knew J. Although I only have a year's experience with him, my friend J is the cheapest person I know. I cannot remember him ever buying a beer for somebody out of the blue. And then he brought me a beer capriciously with the explanation, “because you can’t walk over to the beer stand”.

Stunned, I sat there with the beer in my hand; so what’s the punch line?
No, it’s just for you.
…Huh? …Thanks?
No prob.
…Wait. That’s really, REALLY nice of you.
The look of bewilderment giving away my confusion, the unexpected charity, a great source of perplexity.

I guess I shouldn't be all that surprised. J and his wife S have been incredibly sympathetic to my injuries since day one. It was, and is, refreshing.

Just as I am thankful for the unexpected display of empathy from most people, I am equally as surprised by the discomfort that my injury incites in a rare few. I think for these few people, the sight, or the presence, of people who are (what I term) “not-completely-capable” makes them overly apathetic. Not quite a disgust or an antipathy, but just a general sense of discomfort with being around not-completely-capable-people. I have quickly discovered which people fall in this category.

Maybe it’s because they don’t want to be reminded of their mortality. Or maybe because they just don’t want to worry about other people besides themselves. Who knows. This is something I try not to think about too much; the risk lies in finding the real reason behind their apathy- discovering an ugly side to people that I am not yet ready to accept.

But then there are people like the kid I saw when I went to my job interview the other day, who missed his elevator just to run over to open a door for me;
or my friend C who bought me groceries, hand delivered(!) to my door;
my friend M who chauffeurs me to and from doctors appointments without making me feel like I am imposing on him;
my friends D and A who made me feel like I finally had real friends in New Orleans by simply being there and letting me know it.

I am forever grateful.

I rode the train from New Orleans to New York.

My last time on a train was in Tanzania, from Mbeya to Dar es Salaam which took around 24 hours. I met some interesting people on the ride, like the Congolese daredevil who made his money by jumping over flaming objects on his motorcycle, a Sudanese dude who taught me about the conflicts in his home country. A segment of the route traveled through parts of the Serengeti so I was teased with the prospect of seeing giraffes, elephants, and lions out the window. Oh how I miss thee...

Anyhow, the train from New Orleans to New York goes through small towns in the south and the big cities of the northeast. No giraffes, no elephants; although I did see a lot of obese people out my window and met some interesting people.

The ride starts off through the marshes and swamps of the deep south, then the lush forests where the tracks cut through dense green on either side, a small town sporadically appearing and disappearing. During the night the train zips through the Carolinas and by morning I'm watching the bigger cities of the east zoom past my window. Glimpses of monuments in DC, the skylines of Philly, the train goes through 12 states and takes 30 hours.



We were in a sleeper cabin on the way there, which we initially thought was really cramped and not exactly worth the money. And then on the way back we weren’t able to reserve a sleeper cabin so we sat in coach class until we could upgrade our seats once onboard.

Oh how I YEARNED for the spacious, heavenly sleeper cabins after a few hours in coach. Funny how quickly my perspective on things can change. I tried to sleep through the night in coach, my throbbing leg waking me every hour or so.

But then again atleast my throbbing leg kept me awake for our stop in Lynchburg, VA. I had been intrigued ever since I saw it listed on the pamphlet listing all the stations/cities that the train would stop at. I imagined a crowd of people with pointy white sheets hiding out in the woods- this IS Lynchburg, VA.

But I felt safe behind the veil of the train window, safe enough to snap some shots of the darkness:


If you look hard enough you can see the crowd, their faces illuminated by their torches, waiting patiently for anyone iffy to get off the train.

At around 5am a sleeper cabin opened up and we slept for the remaining 12 hours of the trip.

I should note, also, that New Jersey sucks, hard. We had rented a car and learned that getting lost around there is pretty costly, with having to pay all the effing tolls, and the traffic, and the annoying masses, and the ugliness that is Newark.

We stayed with my friend C in Hoboken, or Weehoken, or whatever the area is called. I admit, that area is nice being just across the river from Manhattan. His place has a fantastic view of the NYC skyline:



Like so:



I was planning on trying to see some friends in NYC but public transport is too much work when you are on crutches. Ugh, I can't wait till I can walk again.

So my most recent life, up until today, has been what I call asghalsdfvnwtreadopiukhtajehrkjwth.

Months earlier, I'd been planning with my friend M to go to Jazz Fest. M is my long-standing homie from the west coast- the BEST coast- yey yeiiy. It was the weekend that I would finish with school, the weekend that would be my cathartic purging from responsibility. Both M and her friend Q booked flights into New Orleans on Saturday and would stay until Wednesday. I was supposed to show them around my 'hood in nawlins.

And then my broke ass leg happened.
And unfortunately, clocking out mentally for the first week after my accident meant I had some schoolwork that spilled over: I still had to finish up my last genetics exam and complete my thesis. Additionally, this was the same weekend that I had to prepare for interviews and pack for my trip up to NY.

The thing is, having a broken leg makes doing small things really difficult. Simple chores like cleaning my room and washing dishes have become colossal pains in my ass. Like how the hell was I to buy a binder for my thesis when I couldn’t even pack my suitcase without getting winded and irritable with pain.

Luckily, my savior N had taken time off work/school to come help with my brokenness. I spent the days alternating between the bed and the couch- writhing in pain most nights, while M and Q wandered the city and took in the sights, sounds, and tastes. And N ran around doing my chores. Like I said, my savior.

Needless to say, three extra people in my bedroom, the site of my current indolent life, can be taxing after a few days. Not because of the company but because of my broke ass leg dictating what little space I was to be allowed.

As B used to tell me, Grumpy McGrumperson, I yam.

I managed to go to a job interview, jump on a train to NY, spent the day interviewing at the med school, hung out in Hoboken, NJ, got on a train back to NOLA, and now sitting in my room; again, all with the help of N, my savior.

I will write about my train ride later. Grumpy McLazy I yam.

Today was the last day of my genetics program. We had a ceremonial luncheon where all the faculty and students came together one last time. I thought it was a nice gesture since most of us will not be attending the graduation ceremonies later this month; though truthfully, I thought the luncheon special because I doubt we will all get together like this ever again. Sad. I become nostalgic. I have grown to really like a lot of my classmates.

You know those moments in life that you try to absorb, that you try to commit to memory for one reason or another. Like hiking into the jungles of Costa Rica to find a beautifully secluded beach, or like graduating college with all of your freshman-year friends by your side, or the day that you walk away from the most beautiful girl and go to Africa, or the sound track on your car radio as you reach an epiphany on the 5, or the day that you spent lazing and watching a sunset with your hand in hers; those random moments in life that give you that instinctive need to absorb and to grab. Those moments that you know you will never be able to retrieve, relive, recover. Only thing to do is to absorb it while it happens, to live and breath the dense memory.

And then this luncheon.
Unfortunately, I was too fixated with the throbbing pain in my leg to notice much else going on. I couldn't tell if it was one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments I just mentioned. Was I supposed to absorb and experience everything? But,
The.
Throbbing.
Pain.
I couldn't even feel the temperature of the room and its attendees because of the mind-numbing pain. Were people happy? Were they sad to leave? Were they just apathetic? I'm not exactly sure.
The.
Throbbing.
Pain.
The lunch was supposed to signify the accomplishment of our Master's degrees, but
The.
Throbbing.
Pain.

On Tuesday I went to see the orthopedic doc who did my surgery, for a post-surgery follow up. They had mostly good news, and it was pretty fascinating to get to see my leg for the first time in a week.

This is how it looked once they took the bandages off.


You can see the swelling and the internal bleeding, and I'm forgetting what the physician was calling the term they used for the skin, but something like the skin was "teetering" where the broken bone was trying to stick out.

My surgery last week was pretty simple: they made an incision through the ligament in the front of the knee, then hammered a titanium rod into the intramedullary space of the tibia (the space inside the bone where bone marrow is), and screwed the rod into place at the top and bottom of the tibia.
Kind of like this:


So I had staples at the top near my knee, and on the sides where the screws went in:


They took the staples out on Tuesday, and let me hobble off without a cast. Apparently I don't need a cast since the rod has internally stabilized the bone. My physician let me see the X-rays and explained how the fracture was relatively clean, and since the fracture runs diagonally the increased surface area will help with the union of the bone.

My broken fibula, on the other hand, remains floating around in my leg and likes to bother incessantly at night. I can feel it popping from time to time; it wakes me up every morning by 4am. The fibula will just heal itself I'm told, so I am to deal with this.

The bad news was that I am not allowed to board any planes anytime soon. I'd been planning on flying out to NYC for a med school interview next week, then flying home to LA a few days later. My physician said I could get DVT, deep vain thrombosis, because of the swelling in my leg and the altitude when flying. It could cause a blood clot to form in my leg then travel up into my lungs.

I asked her what the symptoms of DVT were, and she said you'd get shortness of breath then die shortly thereafter. I told her if I felt a shortness of breath, I'd just go to the ER once I am in NYC. And then she grabbed some gray old dude, apparently the head of the orthopedic department, and asked for his advice. He took one look at my leg and said no. I said wtf.

So now I'm thinking of taking the train up there. It sounds like fun actually.

On a side note, I've been amused with the response I'm getting since I posted pics from my docs appointment on facebook. Its interesting how we have seamlessly incorporated online social networking sites into our lives. I can rant on this. But today I won't. Today, I must study for Molecular Genetics.

I spend a lot of time in bed. The pain in my leg seems to be subsiding day by day. Like a big bag of marbles, I take them out one by one. Today I took out three marbles. Yesterday I only took out one. The bag is still pretty full.

I am impatient- I have to remind myself that my body has experienced trauma and that I’m recovering from major surgery. It's not like I just bashed my knee and need to stay off of it for a few days. I broke the thing, saw it bend where there is no joint, my foot facing the wrong way. The excruciating pain I felt putting it back in place a proof. I'm still grasping at the fact that I am looking at a lengthy road back to normalcy; I don't think that fact has really set in yet. Maybe writing this will help.

It's been a week now since my surgery, and I wince looking back on the first few days. The percocept helped a lot, though it put me in a haze that kept me from being able to study. I have exams and presentations for my classes that I need to get done. The first few days I made getting back to studying the priority, taking for granted the seriousness of my injury. As when I broke my hand, I thought I'd just be able to get back to work immediately. Turns out a broken leg is a lot worse. Still, can’t someone just grab all the marbles out and throw them out?

So I did my first real poo today since Friday. And today is Wednesday. Did you hear me. I said, today is Wednes-day.
Not Saturday. Or Sunday. Or Monday. Not even Tuesday. I am talking about Wednesday. And I hadn't pooed since Friday.
Do you realize how amazing I felt?

Actually, I haven’t been eating much since my surgery on Saturday, my appetite has been crap and I’ve been in a bed day and night. My sister paid for my mom’s flight out here, so she’s been cooking for me since she got here yesterday. She’s going to be helping me till Saturday, at which point I’m hoping I’ll be somewhat functioning.

I’ve been trying to wean myself off of percocept, which is one of those narcotic painkillers, which turns out, plugs you up pretty good. I was in horrible pain yesterday morning before my mom arrived, so I took a pill on an empty stomach and I thought I was going to die. It was such a bizarre feeling.

My body went into shock, I was shivering and drenched with sweat. My arms and hands were hard to control because they were either clenched or shaking uncontrollably. Electricity shot through my entire upper body, my lungs burned, my vision blurred, I held my hands in front of me and they were a shade of green. After about thirty minutes of me writhing on the ground, pathetically moaning for help, it subsided and I was in the wonderful daze of the narcotic.

I was thinking this morning, I am really, really grateful for this luck. Starting from the day of the accident, I am lucky I only broke my leg. I was hit by a car, with no helmet, going the wrong way on the street, on a bicycle, and I only broke my leg. No head trauma, no internal injuries, and outside of the scrape on my left elbow, I’ve no scabs to show for it.
And then I am lucky to have such a great roommate who took care of me my first day out of the hospital.
And then I am lucky to have family to lean on.
And then I am lucky to have friends and classmates who have been supportive and compassionate.
And then I am lucky to be in a program where the faculty are incredibly supportive, the department chair even offering to drive me to get food if needed.

I think that now that I’ve gone almost a whole day without the narcotic, my head is clearing up a bit and I feel better about studying for my exams/finals, though I’m still having a hard time with the pain and swelling in my leg.

I was in the hospital for three days, in a morphine-induced stupor. They placed a rod in my leg, to fix the tibia and fibia that were shattered by the car that hit me on Friday night. I was on my bicycle.

So now I am bedridden, all movement is followed by excruciating pain. I am a pathetic invalid. I think the most depressing part is that I have become completely dependent on the good deeds of others. While in the hospital, I could only make local phone calls on the hospital line, and since my cell phone was out of battery the only phone number I had was my roommates. She picked me up when I got discharged, and helped get my stuff and my medicine; I am forever grateful that she is such a nice person.

I think I'm still traumatized by the whole experience; the hospital sucked especially. The surgeons and the nurses were all incompetent, at least during my stay there. The surgeon I talked to looked high, his eyes were blood-shot and twitching, his speech slurred, I couldn't figure out if it was the tail end of his 36 hour shift or if he was just effing high.

Either way, they left me on a gurney and forgot I was supposed to go into surgery on Saturday morning. They forgot about me, and that was the nurse's exact words. I laid there in my morphine stupor, getting to surgery six hours later. Then they tried to discharge me without any crutches or medication, and even after asking them I still don't know what I'm supposed to do with replacing the dressing on my leg.

This is making me all depressed and lonely. I wonder what I'm supposed to do about physical therapy?

I went to the swamps and paddled around in a canoe with D and C. I met an old dude there with a worn out sequin-covered cowboy hat and coke bottle glasses that made his eyes look cross-eyed. He spoke with a heavy Cajun accent and told me how to skin a gator after catching it and shooting it between the eyes with a 22.
Or a hatchet.
Whatever your weapon of choice.
He claimed there were 10-12 feet long gators in the swamps, but the ones we saw were only 3-4 feet max. See:




The swamps are pretty cool; the water is clear enough to see all kinds of fish, while animals like raccoons, cranes, snakes, frogs (ew) animate the scenery.


The plants/trees that populate the area are pretty unique.
The stalagmite-looking tree stumps that line the banks of the swamps:

(wait. stalactites or stalagmites? uh. stalagmites I think.)

Fish take refuge in floating cities of swamp bushes that impede our paddling:


Some open sections are covered in bright green fruity pebbles that made the sound of light rain as it passed under the hull of our aluminum canoes:

My friend S just posted this on fb. I thought it pretty amusing, so I'm posting it too.
http://thinkprogress.org/2009/04/09/brown-asian-names/

[On Tuesday, State Rep. Betty Brown (R) caused a firestorm during House testimony on voter identification legislation when she said that Asian-Americans should change their names because they’re too hard to pronounce:

“Rather than everyone here having to learn Chinese — I understand it’s a rather difficult language — do you think that it would behoove you and your citizens to adopt a name that we could deal with more readily here?” Brown said.

Brown later told [Organization of Chinese Americans representative Ramey] Ko: “Can’t you see that this is something that would make it a lot easier for you and the people who are poll workers if you could adopt a name just for identification purposes that’s easier for Americans to deal with?”

Yesterday, Brown continued to resist calls to apologize. Her spokesman said that Democrats “want this to just be about race.”]

After traveling through David and Boquette, the interior of Panama, I am now back in San Jose, Costa Rica.

Traveling:


San Jose:




Crossing the border was surprisingly smooth, with the immigration officer practicing his Japanese on me. Ichi ni san shi go roku...
Was a relief since crossing borders is always a tense affair.

In San Jose, I randomly found a hole-in-the-wall Colombian restaurant. I still drool thinking of the food. See:


I've decided that I do not want any more Caribbean food. I'm not a fan. But rice and beans, and the rest of Latin fare I love. Mangoes with lime/salt for 7 hour bus rides through the tropics. Hot, greasy empenadas for that hangover breakfast. Arroz con calimari/pollo/carne for breakfast lunch and dinner. Drooling. I must be hungry.

I left Puerto Viejo for an archipelago called Bocas del Torro in Panama, a string of islands reachable via boat taxi. The surf is even better, the beaches fantastically pristine, the parties just as crazy. Stupid part is I face planted in the sand (luckily not the reef) while surfing and now I look like I got beat the eff up.



I hired a boat to take me to some reefs for snorkeling and beaches for more lazy time. Last night I went to a bar on a nearby island where they had a pool cut out of its deck and a platform 20 feet above for drunkenness to occur. The German dude I went with was on the prowl for some ass, so I ended up hanging out with a dude from Atlanta, who now lives in Costa Rica with his Costa Rican girlfriend. He was belligerently raving about how hot she is.

After Bocas, I went to Isla Bastimentos, another island nearby, with a couple Swedes. I love these boat rides; the water is clear and the weather fantastic.





Isla Bastimentos has more of the same: amazing beaches, thick jungle, yet very few tourists, cool beans.





I stayed at a hostel where the owner is a lady from California. She looks over 55, dressed like she is 35. Oh, but it shows.

The hostel was managed by this small Panamanian boy, about 5'6, 120 pounds or so, looked like 15 but probably in his early 20's. Later that night I was hanging out with them and another backpacker, drinking Cuba Libre's from a can (rum and coke in a can; yes, it is as gross as it sounds...). Turns out the old grandma and the Panamanian boy just got married last week. Stella got her groove back. Then she got married to her groove. The night got gross when she started talking about their sex life, "3 times a day, morning, noon, and night. The night time is the big one, oh yaah. Si, mi amor?" The boy looked all proud, like the pimp that he was, and in his broken English, yah baby. After that they started kissing and groping each other so I got grossed out and went to bed.

The beaches of the Caribbean coast are gorgeous. White sand beaches, tourquoise water, lush jungle as the backdrop teeming with howler monkeys, macaws, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, pickles, everything please. The surf is pretty good too; along with the various beach breaks, the reefs offer some hollow waves and good punch.

Puerto Viejo is a party town, with shady guys emerging out of every second corner to offer ganja, and every night a "ladies night" at different local bars depending on the day of the week. The vibe is more afro-Caribbean than Latin, and though I swear there are too many tourists, other backpackers claim it the most "cultured" and local destination in all of tourist-trodden Costa Rica. I spend my days surfing and hiking along the jungles, the secluded beaches yearning for my laziness.









"Ladies night" was at Johnny's bar/club on Saturday night, the disco spilling out onto the beach. Sunday night was at a reggae bar, where "ladies night" turned into "ladies FIGHT night", as I watched two girls rolling around in the dirt by my feet, as I munched on Caribbean food at the stand just outside the bar.



I rented a rusty and dilapidated girl's bike and biked down to Manzanillo, 13km down a dirt road from Puerto Viejo. I found paradise. I locked my orange/pink bike against a palm tree on the beach and hiked along the jungle, where I took a bunch of self-timed photos.



Self-timed:


I found a rope hanging from a tree overlooking a small pool in the beach. I set up my camera and attempted to take more self-timed photos of me swinging into this pool, but after about 15 tries I got tired of swinging into the pool so I gave up.



Me like the water.

Me and Costa Rica are doing it. I am losing my virginity, my “first time” in Latin America. Tijuana and Baja surf trips don’t count for some reason. Kind of like when you and your girl/boyfriend were young virgins and you’d rub your parts together, first over clothes, then with just underwear on, then with no clothes altogether. Eventually comes the mysteriously universal de-virginizing phrase, “just the tip”, and after all that rubbing and prodding, for some reason, you claim you are still virgins. Just as I claim virginity for Latin America.

(Note: A gene on the Y chromosome that codes for the proteins responsible for this primal instinct has been extensively studied. It is included in the genetic makeup of all pubescent males, this “just the tip” instinct. The use of the phrase is based purely on instinct, sort of like how all babies can swim on instinct, or like how all people can breathe on instinct.)

Anyways.
So I have this blue print in my mind of how I want to see the crannies of our precious earth. After seeing Africa (the origin of humankind yo!), the plan: to see the cultures of Central and South America before seeing the eclectic mix of South and Southeast Asia. Europe comes last in my totem pole of travel, because a) I can see it when I’m old and gray, and b) I am a cynic. The rapists, pillagers, colonialists, judgmental missionaries of the imperialist West do not deserve my youthful presence, I give thee my decrepit old ass. Oh what a self-righteous a-hole I sound.

My first day in Costa Rica went very smoothly despite my predictable and unnecessary fretting. Before venturing out to the Caribbean coast, I spent the night in Alajulela, a city just outside San Jose; my flight arrived at night so I end up staying at a hostel run by a nice old Costa Rican man who spoke very little English. And as my Spanish was worse, I resort to sign language for restaurant suggestions for dinner.

Per his directions, I head out the prison-like gates of the hostel, turn left, then right, down the dark and boding streets. The store fronts lining the streets are covered by metal shudders pulled tightly down, locked and bolted. They paint the streets a depressing shade of gray and callously engulf everything in sight. The shadows shuffle along in silent fear as I quicken my pace and attempt to blend myself into the gray.

After a few blocks I am eager to get off the streets. I arrive at a nondescript entrance with a dimly lit hallway and a flight of stairs beyond. I can hear music, voices, life up above. In a hypnotic trance, I head up the stairs; the lights growing brighter, the music louder. At the top of the stairs I peer around the corner and into the restaurant. I notice the orange walls, the gentle music, the tables with couples and friends blissfully eating, drinking, chatting. The relaxed vibe a sharp contrast to the scene outside.

I reach the entrance, and as if on cue, the music stops, the chatter ceases, the room goes silent. Everyone stops to look at the foreigner standing awkwardly at the door.

Uh...

Before I can react, the band starts up again, the chatter resumes, and the room fills with the hum of life once again.
Oh I love this.

So turns out our president is somewhat wave-savvy. Cool beans.

I've been meaning to post Mardi Gras pics.
These are nondescript pics from the week long celebrations. Peegee thirteen versions. Some are from parades at night, some from the day. There were like three parades a day for a week or something. I don't know which goes with which now. And I am way too lazy to post them in any sort of order...

Maybe I'll go back one of these days to add/edit/add captions to/chronologically order these pics. Actually, who am I kidding probably not.










After a parade passes the roads are full of beads...


Even the trash in the quarter is impressive.

Hey lookie here. You can now check the status of that 787 biiiillion dollars; where it's going, who's getting the moola, even a video of Obamers pulling a fast one on you.

http://www.recovery.gov/

So I just got tanked waiting for the streetcar. I bought a couple beers on the way home, the gangsta tall ones, not really sure what they were. The label said “HIGH GRAVITY” but it didn’t say Old English so I am confused. I also bought a large piece of fried chicken at the same store. The streetcar took forever so I ended up finishing the beers and am now skunk'd.

I got home to find the bed frame that I ordered online a few days ago. It is sitting on my porch like a fat, obese man. The box is massive; shipping weight listed at 178 pounds. It comes unassembled. I look at the big box and think oh shit. I was wondering what I was going to do with my drunkass today, since it is only 4pm and I’m already useless. I finished an exam and homework for the day so I am free. Oh snap I have to work on my thesis. I think I will worry about that when I am more coherent. Now I have a project. The fat man box proclaims I have a project. This should be good.

Three hours later. (Threee hour tour, threee hour tour.)

I am exhausted. And already starting to feel hung over. I should drink more, celebrate the product of my sweat and blood. FINALLY finished. BAHAHA MY BED IS COMPLETE AND MY MATTRESS IS FINALLY OFF THE GROUND.

So after finding the fat man box idling on my porch I decide to lug it up my stairs, with gusto mind you. This would have been funny. Really funny I think. Except that the punch line was me.
I stumble up the stairs, pushing/pulling/dragging the fat man box with me. About five steps from the top I start celebrating in my head. I am almost to the top, break out the champagne bitches. I lose focus. I lurch backwards. I am sweaty like a pig. The fat man box slipping out of my kungfu grip. Fat man box is moving in the wrong direction. Back down the stairs, gadunk gadunk. I grab a corner of the fat man box in a panic. I am losing my footing, I stagger, the fat man box heaving out of my hands. I am drunk. And I am the punch line.

Long story short, I get the box to my room, finished making the bed, and I am now officially: 1) off the futon, 2) off the leaky inflatable bed, 3) off the mattress on the ground, and finally, 4) am on a real bed. CHECK YO SELF BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

The first Mardi Gras parade was this past weekend. Was pretty cool, though I’m still trying to figure out what the hell is going on. There are parades all month, not really sure what they are called, what they signify, where they go, how they work. I think there might be a parade everyday for the (one? two?) weeks leading up to the actual day of Mardi Gras. Who knows. I don’t.

And most of them have these effed up French names like Krewe du something or another. Now what is this.

The parade this past weekend was called Krewe du Vieux. I think if A was around he would say something like, shit mutha f*cka shit what is that Kreee doo Vicks shit. Or Kree di Crispy. Or maybe he'll say something completely different.
I love the stories about him that we tell all the time: how E was with him when he pronounced El Pollo Loco, El Lollo Poco, or when we were on the freeway looking for Gage Street and he was like, maaan shit mutha f*cka shit, where is that gah-geh street anyway, shit mutha f*cka shit. Gaah. Gehh.
Oh man I miss that guy.

So it’s Krewe du Vieux, as in crew di voo. And apparently it’s supposed to be the most eclectic of all the Mardi Gras parades; it’s a lot smaller, mostly horse-drawn floats, some by tractor, some by people. Smaller because the parade travels through the historic French Quarter with its narrow and character-filled streets; I guess the other parades pass through larger streets, including the big street in front of my house.

Krewe du Vieux is known for being sexually crude with interspersed political satire. The theme this year was “Stimulus Package”, so you can imagine what a joy it was for my drunkass. Even now I can’t stop making stupid jokes in my head, kind of like when we were kids and it was hilarious to say “that’s what she said” after every other comment, but is now really annoying to everyone else that is not 15.
Except now I think of these things during really inappropriate times like when I’m listening to doctors teaching me about liver enzyme levels in hep C patients, “that’s nothing like my stimulus package”.

Oh, so about croo di voo: a giant Uncle Sam taking it from the butt from a giant Fanny Mae, a spermbankruptcy announcing tits are in decline, etc. It’s raining beads, cups, toys, penis candy, butt paste, condoms, etc.

The brass bands are the best; injecting the streets with culture that is vibrant and unique to New Orleans. Most everyone is drunk because it is legal to drink in the streets here. This is probably one of my favorite things. I LOVE DRINKING IN PUBLIC. If I haven't noted this already...



Some jackass in front of me was so drunk he started pouring his beer onto the cop car that was clearing the street for the parade to pass. And then he danced away like they do in jolly musicals, all prancing style. Something about dancing that makes threatening gestures hilarious, like how a gang turf war in the West Side Story is, by default, really funny. Finger snapping, stepping in rhythm, bobbing head in unison, looking FURIOUSLY funny.
Like this:
(I've highlighted the best parts:
watch 6:34,
and then 5:50 just for kicks.
The pirouettes around 8:25 is pretty funny too.)

I went snowboarding the other day with B. The only evidence I have of this is the one picture I took, after rushing down the mountain ahead of B and pulling my camera out like a kook and pointing it up the mountain.

My predictability: after the first run I get cocky and start looking for banks to carve and jumps to eat shit on. And then on the way home I tell myself that I will go to the snow more often, and then a year later, or in this case, three years later, I head up to the snow again thinking, man I should do this more often.

Which reminds me: a few years ago I went snowboarding with some friends, and at the end of one of the days we were waiting around for A so that we could head to the cabin. A shows up at the meeting point a few minutes later with half his face covered in blood. Dude, what the hell happened to you? Blank stare, what do you mean? Dude, you have a gash in your head. Huh? Hand goes up to the head, feeling around, fumbling, hand back down, looking at bloody hand, blank stare, oh shit. Laughing, dude, I think you have a concussion. Laughing, oh shit. Comedy. Apparently A fell on his head riding the half pipe and didn’t realize it was bleeding so much. I love this story so much I retell it every chance I get.

He's like a ninja. Cat like reflexes.



A better video that I couldn't embed in this post, complete with Jeedbub's responses:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/7782774.stm

W's responses, though you need to see the video above for complete hilarity:
(SHRUG)
"It's like driving down the street and people not gesturing with all five fingers."

IT'S A SIZE TEN SHOE.

...

I was rushing to school to make it to a seminar at 7:30am on Thursday. This means I have to leave the house by 6:30 to catch the streetcar. I thought I would freeze to death waiting for the damn thing.

The department chair from Baylor's Pediatric AIDS department was speaking about Baylor's endeavors in Africa, and as I've seen their work on the ground I thought it'd be pretty interesting to attend. In the back of my mind I was hoping I'd get to see some of the doctors that I worked with while in Swaziland.
This is actually a tangent from what I wanted to write about.

This is the same day that it snowed in New Orleans. When I took the streetcar that morning to the med school I swore up and down that my limbs were going to freeze any moment now. IT IS EFFING FREEZING, I thought, as I attempted to bundle into myself. The guy sitting two rows ahead of me is shivering in his seat. I may be doing the same. I get to my stop, and by then the rain is going pretty good.

Feels like its about to hail; I should get to my building before I get pelted. I should be running but I'm not- my legs are moving fast though, shuffling right left right left. I concentrate on the rhythm of my footsteps to keep my mind off the wet bone-chilling cold. The rain slows to a drizzle, chunkier and flakier. Are those flakes? I look at my jacket and notice small bits of white. I look to the early morning sky and it responds with a flurry of white flakes, gently landing on my face, my hands. I stop for a second staring up at the heavens wondering, it is snowing. And this is New Orleans.



courtesty NOLA.com

Cool pic E!



courtesy Times Picayune

"She did not understand that AFRICA IS A CONTINENT"
Dirt from the right nonetheless.

Ultimately, the greatest beauty of New Orleans is that you can walk to the grocery store a half mile away and walk back with a beer in your hand. By the time you get back with your groceries you've gone through a couple tall ones and the cold winter air ain't shit. It's radical.

Was nice to be home.

Reminds me of being at a random bar in Mozambique and bitching about what a great state California is. Was with another American and a British dude. I can't really remember which state the American was from, but I remember drunkenly/adamantly stating the greatness of California over the other states. Didn't exactly have any coherent arguments for the greatness of California, just that it was greater because this is where I'm from.

And the British dude started arguing for me. About the redwood trees, the beautiful beaches, the national parks, the celebrities, Hollywood, LA, SF, etc. Oh yeah, all those things, yeah, those things are what make California so much greater than your state.

Thing was, the British dude had never been to California.
It's so easy to take things for granted sometimes.

So when I was at home for Thankstaking Day I took advantage of my beautiful state. Not many places where you can hike one day and surf the next.
Hiking:



Beach:


The crotch grab

I found time to go up to Santa Barbara.


I even went clubbing and afterwards wandered around Hollywood with pizza in hand and found the governator's star on the walk of fame. Unfortunately/fortunately didn't have my camera with me to take drunken pics.

This is the monkey dance I like to do. A block from my house in Long Beach.

Long Beeezy!

My high school's ten year reunion was this past weekend. I didn't go. Just felt like it would be weird- not really sure why. Not like I was a miserable hermit in high school or anything. I entered a dumbass "Mr. K" contest my senior year, the "K" for Kennedy HS, an effing beauty pageant for dudes.

My excuse was that I was "forced" to enter the contest since I was part of student government. And all I can remember from high school was all the damn sports I did. Football, basketball, track, volleyball- a mindless jock. Why the hell was I running track and playing volleyball again?

Anyhow, I've found some people from HS on facebook so I get to see their pics. They've posted some pics from the reunion which made me want to see some of them. I haven't been the best with keeping in touch- so it makes me wonder what they're up to, if they're as lazy/stupid/self-righteous/immature as I.

For some reason I thought the reunion would be weird. Something about that time in my life that I feel weird about. Probably has to do with events at home that I'm not rushing to revisit. I went numb during those years, and probably this is why I was so preoccupied with mindless sports, and this is probably why I didn't go to my ten year high school reunion.

But to my point: it's so stupid how fast time flies. I've become that person who remembers the decades of past. Last year I met someone who was born in the 90's and thought holy shit I remember what I was doing that year.

I see my friends getting married, I see my friends' kids growing up, I see the dreaded 80's clothes coming back, I find myself drinking scotch, the kind grandpas drink.

In the light of being reminded of the finite nature of my time, I think it's important to live it, make the best. All of a sudden you realize that months, years, decades have passed, and you think of the great memories and shit man, "Let's spend the afternoon. We can't take it with us." -Annie Dillard

I'm coming home for Turkey day.
And I'm itching to get to the beach. I haven't surfed in ages. You'd think that being landlocked in Africa for two years would get me used to being away from salt water. Though I guess New Orleans might one day be FULL of salt water. Then I can get a FEMA check. haha.
haha.
hah.
ha.
h...

Anyhow, I get ten days off for T-day; it will be a fantastical break from school. Fantastical. I've got a long ass presentation tomorrow on Lesch-Nyhan Syndrome and ADA deficient SCID; purine metabolism defects basically. Actualmente, it's been pretty interesting researching on the subjects. The point I'm getting to is that I'm looking forward to taking a break from school. But then again finals are only a few weeks later so I'll probably be studying anyways. Atleast I'll be at the beach, beeches. Get it.

So I've been following the story of Erica Murray (http://ericamurray.blogspot.com/) for some time now- since my early days at A3M. She's losing her fight against leukemia and its been making me think. I've seen and experienced death enough to know that life is preciously fickle. Recently I've been questioning issues in medical ethics; in our society, and especially in my classes, we are taught to fight disease, to live and survive, to feel obligated to help others do the same. But we are not taught about the subject of death, the fat ass elephant in the room. It's ignored as though it's an unnatural part of life, that it shouldn't exist in our cycle of existence. But what about death with peace, about death with love; about death as a natural part of life.

I'll never know the goods of my last chapter and am not presumptuous enough to think my mind will still be in its normal, comfy place. Who knows- maybe I will convert to some obscure religion at the last moment. Believe in heaven and hell to save my soul. Who the eff knows. Death is not pretty and probably never will be; I just hope that I can hang on to the idea that death is natural- death with peace.
In the mean time, I cherish every day I have on this planet and send my love to those like Erica.

(Courtesy LA Times)

When you stop to think about it, it's pretty amazing how facebook has evolved into such a dynamic political forum. Atleast for my circle of friends, I should say.

And I'd forgotten how progressive minded my bubble is; I realized this when my classmate M showed me status updates of his friends after Obama's win. M is from the South, and the racist/hateful comments pouring from his friends were eye-opening. And M is a black dude.
Made me fear for Obama's safety.
These are college-aged, educated, computer/facebook savy people in the South. Scary to think of the others.

"The racist rats are coming out the woodworks." -Professor at Univ. of Alabama, in an article from CNN highlighting the increase in hate crimes throughout the nation.

Anyways, point is I'm glad my friends are open-minded and socially-conscious. I guess it's natural to surround yourself with like-minded people, but I'm appreciative nonetheless.

So I was going to rant about prop 8 passing in CA, but I found a nicely written comment on facebook. I got lazy and decided I'd just post it instead. It's written by someone from my high school that I haven't seen/talked to in years.

Yesterday at 7:29pm
"It irks me when individuals who oppose gay marriage use statements such as this to validate voting against it:

“My belief is that the traditional definition of marriage should be preserved.”

My first question is – Who’s tradition are we talking about? My second question is – How does marriage between two loving individuals impair or impede other marriages? And my third is – What right do we have to impose our own beliefs on others?

1. Whose tradition are we talking about?

I know there are a lot of people who might be a little defensive – especially those who agree with that earlier statement. No matter what I might say about various marriage traditions of the past [which include arranged marriage, taking multiple spouses, anti-miscegenation laws (laws preventing interracial marriage that were in place as late as 1967), dowries, etc…], I know I won’t get through. So I’ll go on to my 2nd question.

2. How does marriage between two loving individuals impair or impede other marriages?

Implied in the original statement is that, should the “traditional definition” of marriage not be preserved, something dire will happen. Somehow, there are those of the belief that inclusion of same-sex individuals in marriage would diminish other marriages.

Here’s a challenge: reread that statement above. Now, in place of the word “marriage”, put in something else. Examples? Here are a few: Voting. Education. Citizenship. I’m sure you can think of a few more.

Am I saying that gay marriage equates with these other issues? Yes, I am. These are all issues regarding equality under the law. Whenever the potential for extending civil rights comes up, there are people who respond by saying that things have always been done a certain way and that we should keep things the way they are. And then, when it’s getting a little too close for comfort, they begin to instill fear. “Their vote will nullify your vote.” “Their kids will crowd our schools”. “Their citizenship will lessen our citizenship’s worth.” “Their marriage will diminish ours.”

Opponents of gay marriage will cite civil unions as an equitable alternative, despite history telling us that “separate but equal” just doesn’t work. American citizenship separated into different categories by gender, separate voting facilities and locations based on religion, different public educational and recreational complexes for kids based on race. None of that makes sense for the simple reason that equality isn’t equal if it’s separate. But… for some reason, in some peoples’ minds, it is in the case of gay marriage. Odd how that’s the one exception. Time to move on.

3. What right do we have to impose our religious beliefs on others?

I don’t believe in Santa Claus. In fact, I’m Buddhist, so Christmas holds no religious significance to me. Does that mean I would support a constitutional amendment barring public schools from recognizing Christmas? Of course not. Christmas is an important observance by many people in this country, and I respect that. I also respect other religions and having their holidays and significance taught to children alongside Christmas. It does not mean that I advocate teachers telling their kids what to believe, but rather that we need to teach kids about our nation’s diversity and leave the “belief” aspect to parents.

I see gay marriage in a similar light. You don’t have to believe that marriage between two people of the same gender is right any more I have to believe that the son of God was born to a virgin. You have the right to have those beliefs, but that doesn’t mean that you should prevent me from practicing mine."

So I really need to buy a real bed.

When I first got to New Orleans I bought a futon- one of those things that folds into a chair. Problem is, it started getting uncomfortable, as most futons do. The metal bars that support the futon started jutting into my hip. And besides, it was really small.

So then I bought one of those airbeds from Walmart. I don't have my truck here so I can't just go and buy a real bed. I remember one time in band camp, I mean, one time in college, I found an ad for discounted beds in the newspaper. I called the number and got the address to the store. Turns out the address that the dude gave me was actually an alleyway. I drove down the alley until I came upon a warehouse full of really nice beds still in plastic wrappings.

I was like what the hell. The dude wanted cash for the transaction; I didn't ask questions and bought a 900$ bed for a hundred bucks. I threw the bed into the back of my truck and drove off with an eye on my rearview mirror- convinced that the cops were about to bust the operation any minute. I don't have that damn truck anymore. I hated that thing. It got 10 miles per gallon; a 35 gallon tank, which equates to about 100$ to fill up. And it broke every two minutes. Don't ever get a gas guzzling Dodge Ram. In comparison, my pickup now gets almost 30 miles a gallon. AND I can live in the back if I wanted to...

Okay so about my airbed from Walmart.

I figured I wanted something temporary since everything I own is temporary. My ideal of a vagabond lifestyle has stuck with me since I carried that damn tent for months on my back. I think I only used it in Tanzania before ditching it at some hostel in Uganda. It took up a good amount of space on my backpack, adding extra weight when I lugged it onto buses, boats, bikes. I called it the bane of my existence for a while, hauling a tent with a backpack in the humid ass tropics is work.

Oh yeah, about my airbed.

I've been sleeping on it for a few weeks now. It's not meant to be slept on for consecutive days. I know this because every night before I go to bed I have to re-inflate the bed, sometimes by mouth if the pump's batteries are tired. Now there's a joke waiting to happen.
And, every morning I wake up and am engulfed by my bed, my back sore from the hardwood floors beneath. At first I thought it was just the nozzle leaking air. So I made sure it was tightly closed after inflating the bed. I even did my usual MacGyver rigging of the nozzle to keep it airtight. Still, my bed eats me up every morning without remorse.

I really need to buy a real bed...