Category: General Cerebral Leakage (Page 22 of 26)

Editor’s note: For the sake of keeping the running time of my weekly Sunday missives as close to 5 minutes as possible, this multi-thought musing has been split up into two parts. While each part has some entertainment and/or philosophical value by itself, they truly need to be read as a whole. It is recommended to read part 1, Death By Hangnail, first. Alternatively, for your convenience, you can enjoy one continuous “Full Version” here.

Thought #3: Pants Epidemic Tonight!

Before going any further, it would probably be helpful for you to know that there’s a song called “Dance Epidemic” by one of my favorite bands, Electric Six. Ah, now the title of this thought makes more sense, no? And for your viewing pleasure, I’ve even included a music video some fanboy made for it with footage courtesy of an old Star Trek episode. Please, take a moment to enjoy before reading on…

Now, on with the story.

First, I need to briefly remind you of my previous unsolicited life advice to “[not] believe in fate–it’s your life, write your own script!”

It seems that some cosmic force was listening, and decided that It needed to respond with Its own form of “you best know your roll, boy!”¹This was one of the dumbest things that I heard repeatedly in high school. But if you went to high school with me, most certainly you’ll remember some jackass or another using this as their catchphrase. Also, the more I think about, I can’t help but wonder if that actually has incredibly racist connotations…

“J.K. Kidding! ‘Write your own script’–hah!” says 2020. “Isn’t that cute? You and your ‘plans.’ Pfft! To those of you who think you can be the captain of your own destiny ship, I say:”

Say hello to my little friend, COVID-19, all y’all control freaks and over-planners!

2020, who is turning out to be a proper asshole, if i must say so myself

How could this post go any where but to the source of our current collective trauma? My apologies if you were hoping I would be providing respite from such existential threats.

So far, I have been fortunate enough to only be affected by the corona virus in–you guessed it–asinine ways.

For example, right about the time that North Carolina’s shelter-in-place order went into effect, I was tasked with my first of many supply runs. At that point in time, the prevailing (and, as I said at the time, incredibly naive) thought was that 3-weeks’ of supplies would suffice to see a family through this ordeal. So my goal was to get that much feed for the livestock in my household, without becoming just another vector for this stupid pandemic.

In hopes of minimizing my contact with other peoples, I purposely set out on my adventure shortly after the previously 24-hour grocery stores opened at 7 in the morning.

Though the weather didn’t exactly call for it, I wore a long sleeve flannel shirt, long socks, and a pair of blue jeans–blue to compliment my blue latex gloves, of course.

I had recalled the Boss Lady pointing out that belts were an often overlooked potential source of transmission, so I thought maybe I would just forego such an accessory for the day’s expedition. Just tuck in my shirt and I would be fine, right?

Nope. Part of the problem was that, in order to prevent me accidentally being the source of contamination–remember, I spend half my week working in a large hospital–I didn’t want to wear one of my usual pairs of blue jeans. Instead, I grabbed the first pair that I could find in my jean drawer.

Well…turns out I’ve lost more weight than I realized since I had last worn those pants.

It wasn’t a minor issue of being comfortable, either. The whole time I was on the verge of a serious wardrobe malfunction. This kind of defeated the purpose of all my hygienic precautions, as I spent most of my time hitching up my pants before they fell to the ground. Touching my pants…touching grocery store items and fixtures…touching my pants…touching my pants…picking up a box of a sugary cereal…thinking the better of it and putting said box of cereal back on the shelf…touching my pants…tucking in my shirt…pushing the grocery cart…touching my pants…

And so it went. I had hitched up my britches so many dang times that by time I had returned home, I had actually ripped that belt loop completely off.

Then, as I was making multiple trips bringing in the Chlorox-wiped groceries in from the car, the Boss Lady pointed out that instead of recontaminating everything, why don’t I just go put some shorts on. And not a moment too soon! Right as I walked into our laundry room, the waistband of my jeans gave one last sigh and then gave up the ghost.

“Vwoop!” and just like that my pants were on the floor, taking my boxers with them.

So I had essentially been a mere two paces away from providing our elderly neighbors with a free all-male revue, replete with full-frontal and full-rear nudity. Thank g0d for wives with common sense ideas like “just put some ----- shorts on already,” amiright?

Thought #4: In Her Pants…

In high school, I have a random memory of overhearing one of my female classmates making the comment that she had “gained weight, but hadn’t the chance to go shopping in awhile.”

If you want an example of what kind of outside-the-box thinker I am, my first thought was, “Wow, I didn’t realize that walking around the mall was an effective weight-management technique for high school girls! It must be a more vigorous, calorie-burning exercise than I realized…”

Admittedly, this interpretation baffled me a little bit, and it took me a beat or two to realize what the two parts of her comment actually had to do with each other.

Of course, any normal person with “common sense” would have known that she meant that she hadn’t had the chance to buy clothes that fit better since her change in weight.

I’m not sure why that little pointless vignette has stuck with me all these years, but it has.

Perhaps I somehow knew that one day, years down the road, it would be just the nugget of a tale I would need to really tie a pandemic-themed blog post together.

Now here am, two decades later, and I find myself in her pants.

Wait, that clever of twist of words didn’t turn out like I had planned for it to. It’s supposed to be a play on “I find myself in her shoes.”

But instead it sounds like I’m partaking in some extra-marital coital activities. I assure that is not the case.

Anyways, with a potential apocalypse bearing down on us, a pithy thought couldn’t help but wander through mind:

What if I finally get my shit together and lose all this weight, but fail to have gone clothes-shopping in a timely manner…and then society collapses?

So while I should be focusing on finding ways to meet the basic needs of my family such as providing food, shelter, protection, clean butts, and potable water, I’ll be spending my time stuck in a post-apocalyptic world not battling existential threats like every other bougie Joe-Schmoe, but instead a much more stupid pair of enemies: sagging britches and perpetual plumber’s crack.

I can see it now: on the run from imminent danger with my family in tow and trying to navigate some rough terrain, I pause to hike up my pants. However, I’m too close to a cliff, and accidentally lose my balance…dying in the dumbest, dumbest way imaginable in the process.

Like I said earlier, there’s only one way this oh-so-slightly-off-kilter life of mine is going to end:

“You’ve got to be ----- kidding me.”

*moment of reflection as my life flashes before my eyes in the form of a series of long-winded blog posts*

“Of course.“

The point of the story is, preparing for the worst and hoping for the best is good advice, but it doesn’t exactly cover all your bases.²…are belong to us! Though seemingly improbable, don’t forget to prepare for the best case scenario, too.

If not, you might just get caught with your pants down. And the only excuse for dying that way is autoerotic asphyxiation. But I digress…

[expand title=”Bonus: The Original, Not As Good, Ending: (click to expand!)”]

The point of the story is: please send me any donations of any old suspenders or belts you can spare. Maybe–just maybe–with your help, I’ll be spared such an inevitable, ignoble and undignified death after all.

If it helps, just think of this as one of those legendary Sarah McLachlan commercials.³Image source: https://me.me/i/hi-im-sarah-mclachlan-and-im-about-to-ruin-your-f3e85959db8147a5b97cecc2f5fbcb5a You know…

[/expand]

Content created on: 17/18/25 April 2020 (Fri/Sat/Sat).

Editor’s note: For the sake of keeping the running time of my weekly Sunday missives as close to 5 minutes as possible, this multi-thought musing has been split up into two parts. While each part has some entertainment and/or philosophical value by itself, they truly need to be read as a whole. Be on the look out for the second part, tentatively entitled “Pants Epidemic,” next week.

Thought #1: This Year Is Off To A Great Start

Not to brag, but I think I finally got this “adulting” thing figured out. Maybe it was something about starting a new decade/score,¹Despite what the haters might say, we don’t have to wait until 2021 for this to be true. See here: https://xkcd.com/2249/ but for me personally, 2020 got off to the best start for any new time period in my life.

In short, I had finally figured out how to get. My. Shit. Together.

Thanks to 2019, I had a decent amount of momentum in at least two key areas of my life. Career-wise, I was moving away from a life as a mediocre scientist, shifting significantly closer to being my own dang boss.

And speaking of half-assing things, my Half-Ass Keto(TM) diet had literally left me with half the ass I had at the start of 2019. On top of that, I had been pretty faithful to Planet Fitness, getting every cent out of my $10/month membership.

For the first time that I can remember, I could legit say that I was enjoying a much more fulfilled and enriched life on December 31st than I had been on January 1st.

Originally, “practicing better sleep hygiene” was all the more I was going to ask of 2020, but I was accidentally mindful for a day or two and that’s when shit really got out of hand.

For the sake of time (and to limit how long you have to listen to me #HumbleBrag), here is an abbreviated list of mature habits formed and/or personal accomplishments achieved since 01/01/2020:

• Started practicing qigong–an ancient Chinese meditative healing art–on a daily basis.
• Switched from Half-Assed Keto(TM) to a “Whole Foods Plant-Based” diet. Unfortunately I suffer from one of the worst side-effects: Vegan-Who-Simply-Will-Not-Shut-The-Hell-Up-About-Being-Vegan-itis. Also: I see that piece of meat in your mouth and I judge you with the judgement of a judgy cat.
• After seven years of living a shame-inducing life as a never-fulfilled item on my phone’s Reminders app, “Make A Will” was finally crossed off. And, in a sense of true and beautiful symmetry, we accomplished this feat on the Elder’s 7th birthday, nonetheless. After all, there is nothing like the birth of a child to motivate one to perpetually put off getting their estate in order.
• The Kansas City Chiefs finally won the Super Bowl. About ----- time.
• Asked for and received an electric toothbrush for Christmas; actually used it on a nightly basis.
• Got around to framing some fancy flower drawings we procured on our trip to Paris last spring…
• …and hung them above our TV in our living room, finally bringing some life to the previously barren wall, and also creating a bit of of much needed Zen (see photos below).
• …and more!

I intentionally chose qigong and pictures of flowers as bookends for this list. Why? Because a key theme here is that Zen breeds Zen. The more space you give your mind to think at a higher level, the better chance you have at making core life decisions in a thoughtful manner, ranging from your daily habits to your diet to the little details of the environment with which you surround yourself.

More importantly, you can have the confidence that those decisions are worth the effort–because you’ll probably need all the mental energy you can muster to spend the rest of your life pretending bacon never existed.²Actually it’s cheese that I miss the most. BY FAR.

Honestly, though, I’m finding myself going deeper into this subject than I want to right now. Yes, just when I’m on the verge of actually saying something meaningful, turns out I’m just digressing. I do want to talk about the philosophy of life decisions at some point, but alas that’s not for today.

In summary: mindfulness can be a precious cycle:³vicious cycle pun the more you give a sh!t, the more your sh!t comes together. It may have taken a half-life for me to get there, but ----- it feels good to be here.

The point of the story is don’t believe in fate–it’s your life, write your own script!

Thought #2: Who Wrote This Anyways?

I have a sneaking suspicion that my “own personal Jesus” is partially illiterate. Or at least His Non-Gendered Cosmic Parent is. When reading the story of my life, one can’t help but wonder if anyone had thought to proofread His/Her handiwork for typos before publishing it, so to speak.

I know, I know. Only 2 seconds ago I just beseeched you to “write your own script.” That beseeching notwithstanding, much of my script has already been written, so it’s not too insane to think that Act 2 will follow some of the same tropes as Act 1. Just humor me on this one.

Where was I? Oh right, I was commenting on the sloppiness of the penGodship I observe in my own life.

I can only imagine the conversation overheard at the multi-verse book club, in which a group of gods from other universes have unwittingly chosen my biography as their window into how ----- runs things in this one:

“Hey…I think G0d might have misspelled his wife’s name. Why is there an ‘o’ in there? That can’t be right.”

“Oh, yeah? Have you seen this character’s choice of names for his daughters? Who does G0d think He/She is? George R.R. Martin? You just can’t go and make up names like that!”⁴Don’t forget that the Younger SHOULD have had ‘Val-‘ in front of her given name…

“And our hero’s hometown is ‘Rolla’?!? Isn’t that just ‘Raleigh’ spelled phonetically? I mean, c’mon G0d, if you’re going to take ‘creative liberties’ can’t You try to at least be a wee bit creative?”

“Well, for those of you who read all the way to the end…surely he died with a noose around his neck, right? Is it just me, or does that make way more sense than…”

“…than ‘death by hangnail‘? Yeah, somebody definitely needs to find themselves a new editor.”

Welcome to my life folks. Oh, that’s right–you’ve been reading this blog, so you already know how things go around here. In that case, welcome back!

Sadly, though, it’s true. Could I ever be so fortunate as to shed this mortal coil with the dignity of a criminal? Nah, that would make too much sense.

I mean, I’ve already had one close-call that really rose to such levels of absurdity and asininity that I’m actually a little disappointed to find out that it wasn’t My Time To Go then.

The current favorite to be my method of passing? That would be getting a blood infection from a hangnail, and that’s what takes me out. That tracks a bit closer to the current arc of my life than any old chronic disease, natural disaster or car accident. Or pandemic. Yup, I’m putting my money on infected hangnail.

You may be thinking that I say this flippantly, merely for comedic effect. But I have actually sat and imagined all the ways my life could play out to its end.

And in almost every scenario I have the same two final thoughts go through my head:

“You’ve got to be ----- kidding me.”

…followed immediately by two brief words, so succinct and grossly out of character for me, uttered as I give in to the inevitable absurdity of it all:

“Of course.“

To be continued (kinda)…

Content created on: 17/18 April 2020 (Fri/Sat).

Call me Ishmael.

That’s not my name, but since I’m not exactly in the habit of going by my legal name¹See Physics Is My Middle Name, The Unbearable Lightness Of Being A BJ, A Degenerate Family Christmas. I figured “Why the hell not?”

I also asked myself, “why the hell not mix up my literary references while we’re at it?”

Well, it’s not so much a mix-up of references as it is identifying with the wrong character. Hopefully you recognized the timeless opening line above as coming from the literary classic “Moby Dick.”

Indeed, you could “call me Ishmael” if I were about to narrate a tale about some other jackass’s unhealthy obsession. But as you probably have guessed by now, I will be playing the role of Captain Ahab in this evening’s performance instead.

When I was but a youngster, say, around 9 years old, my personal white whale was another literary classic in its own right: The Anarchist Cookbook.²Further reading: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Anarchist_Cookbook

During this period in my life I was living in Springfield, Missouri and was fortunate enough to live only a block away from the local branch of the Springfield Public Library. I would end up spending most my afternoons after school there, devouring all forms of written and drawn word.³In full disclosure, I read a shit-ton of Garfield, Calvin & Hobbes, and The Far Side. Not exactly “the written word.” I was in it so deep that one might even call me a BookWhore–several levels well past your typical BookWorm.

It was most likely through all my ninja research in that library that led me to became aware of the existence of The Anarchist Cookbook. I don’t recall exactly what I knew about it and when I knew it, but Wikipedia’s description of it’s contents–“chapters include descriptions and detailed instructions in hand-to-hand combat, explosives, booby traps, drugs, [and more!]”–tracks pretty well with my memory of the situation.

I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I mean, this was a book that I, nay but a 9-year-old, could check out?!? For free? Like, did anybody else know about this? How was this awesomeness even allowed to exist?

Of course I was all about getting my hands on information telling me how to make bombs, along with other practical skills such as getting unlimited long-distance telephone calls from pay phones, aka “phreaking.” After all, McGuyver was amongst my Top Three childhood heroes (after ALF and Robert Stack, of course). And we all know that that dude never paid a dime for his many telecommunications.

Anyways, it wasn’t the mere existence of the book that kept me up at night. It was the fact that it was clearly in the library’s system, floating about somewhere in the great city of Springfield, seemingly just beyond my grasp.

But it would be mine. Oh yes, it would be mine. I never gave up hope on possessing such a fount of useful knowledge, even if it would be but for a mere 3 weeks.

After what was at least 2 years, I finally had my window of opportunity. I had verified that it was available at the Main Branch of the library, and had somehow convinced my mom to take us boys over there.

We rolled up and before she even had the car in park, I was out the door and racing in, simply unable to wait any longer to get the Cookbook in this pint-sized chef’s pudgy hands. Up and down the stacks I looked, but I couldn’t find it. And believe you me, it wasn’t for a lack of experience with the Dewey Decimal System. That was not the issue.

Eventually the trail led me to the main desk. I let them know what the object of my quest was, and that they could kindly turn it over to me now.

“Are you here with your mom or dad? Can you go get them?” was the librarian’s response.

The hell?!? Just give me the ----- book already!

I was starting to get that sinking feeling in my stomach. I was so close I could almost taste the styrofoam-and-gasoline napalm dripping off of its pages. And yet, I was still so far away.

I reluctantly trotted off and tracked down my dear mother and brought her back.

“Alright, here’s my mom. Can I have the book now?”

My impatience was indubitably palpable to the entire room.

The librarian shuffled through a stack of books behind her and pulled out the coveted item.

Placing it on the desk, she turned to me: “Now, you can’t actually check it out. But you can sit over there and read it for an hour. Then you must return it to me.”

Sure, it wasn’t ideal, but if a conjugal visit was all they were offering me, I sure as hell wasn’t going to pass up 60 passionate minutes with My Beloved. My fingers crept onto the desk and then around the book itself…

She then turned to my mom and said, “Driver’s license, please.”

Oh, ----- They check for I.D.–I hadn’t anticipated that bit. No problem, though–my mom was a bona fide legal resident, so this would just be a formality…right? My grip on the book tightened.

“You will need to leave your driver’s license here while he has the book.”

Okay, this was getting weird. But still not a dealbreaker, at least from where I was standing.

I looked over at mom, who at that point had her driver’s license pulled halfway out of her purse. Dread started to creep through my veins, as I could see in her eyes that she was slowly realizing that what I was up to was maybe slightly less than legal–and that she was about to be on the hook for whatever happened as a result of that book falling into my hands.

“Uh…I’m not so sure this is a good idea. What was this book about again?”

Once the librarian kindly filled her in as to the nature of its content, it was Game Over for me.

The book was forcible removed from my hands, and mom had to drag me away from the main desk.

I’m not gonna lie–my heart was absolutely broken. I may have been yet a young lad, but that day I finally understood exactly what Bob Dylan/Axl Rose meant when they sang of “Knocking On Heaven’s Door.”⁴At least that’s what I think it means…

Can’t a boy just have his bombs? What kind of cruel world do we live in anyways?

On a rather interesting note, I later learned that the Main Branch also had Playboy magazines in their circulation (don’t ask me how I discovered this). But could a guy or gal just check one out and enjoy it in the privacy of their own home? Nope. They were only available via the exact same protocol as for the Anarchist Cookbook.

I think that knowledge just creates more questions than it answers right there, though, doesn’t it?

What the hell were they up to over there at the Springfield Public Library (Main Branch)? Were they compiling a database of perverts and subversives? One in which my dearest mother is now an entry for all eternity? Oops.

Even more disturbing is that this lends some credence to the entire generation of Boomers complaining about how “hard they had it back in [their] day.”

What if…(gulp)…

What if…they’re right?

I mean, you can’t argue with an elderly gentleman bemoaning how easy youths have it these days:

Why, when I was your age, if I wanted to look at pornography in the library, I had to show two forms of I.D., and was forced to sit directly in front of the librarian for the entire meager hour that I was allowed to enjoy my literature of choice.

And after my hour was up, she would always page me by my full name over the intercom, announcing to the whole library that I needed to return my vintage edition of Juggs magazine to the front desk.

So don’t you Millennials-splain to me about grit, dedication–or suffering!

an old crank that i pray to ----- only exists in my imagination

So, while it’s not officially the point of the story, it doesn’t hurt to be reminded that we have much for which to be grateful. Like public computers with free internet access, for instance.

And thanks to the internet, I eventually did get my hands on a digital copy of The Anarchist Cookbook.

In 8th Grade I was living in California, and though it was the very beginning of the the Internet Age, I had a friend or two who actually had internet access.

I don’t recall if I specifically requested it, or if my friend happened to have went out and downloaded it on their own. Either way, I soon was a proud owner of two 3.5″ disks containing all the information I would ever really need from the internet.

Of course, this story couldn’t have that happy of an ending, now could it? Of course not.

Almost as soon as I had a glimpse of the forbidden knowledge, I decided to go bragging about my bomb-making potential to random acquaintances on the school bus.

I don’t know who I was trying to impress, but it sure wasn’t worth the scare of being called into the Principal’s office, a visit in which they led me to sincerely believe that they were debating whether or not they needed to get the FBI involved.

Praise be to Allah,⁵Hah! I caught ya being racist! Yes, Reader, I’m talking to you. nothing ever came of it once they determined I was too resource-poor to do anything with said knowledge.

Again, it’s not the point of the story, but it’s worth remembering: show yourself some self-respect. You don’t need your bomb-making skills validated by other people. Especially snitches. Or junior high principals. Or the authorities. Just keep your ----- mouth shut, will ya?

While I definitely went through an “Anarchy is totally rad” phase for about 5 years in high school, at some point I came to the realization:

“Anarchy is a completely ----- stupid #GovernmentGoal. I wouldn’t last 3 days! Also, basically everyone is assured of the same opportunity to be denied a chance at prospering in any meaningful way. So, yeah. Anarchy kind of sucks, dumbass.”

The irony in all of this is that, despite what some optimists might try to tell you, there is a very real–slim, but still real–chance that COVID-19 could eventually lead to anarchy.

What’s that? I might get to live out my childhood dream? Uh…hooray?

The point of the story is…kids are stupid? No, I don’t think that is where I was going with this…

The point of the story is, as unnecessary as it should be, let us pause and be grateful that we have largely functional forms of government in place on multiple civic levels. Despite what angsty teenage me might tell you, anarchy would not be pleasant at all.

So kudos to all you citizens out there helping to keep civilization from busting apart at the seams. Old men shadily huddled behind library computer screens across the country salute you.

In a recent post, That Is Not What She Said, I explained what an MRI coil was, as I deal with them regularly in my other line of work. In addition to that vignette, I had another coil-related story that I wanted to share…

Tale 2: Or Is It ‘Dear Future Doctor President’?

A nice perk of being a professional scientist is going to exotic locales for conferences and meeting exciting new people. It’s a chance to network and really move one’s career forward.

For example, the first big MRI conference I got to attend was in Melbourne, Australia. At the time, I was a postdoc in Hawai’i with Vandy,¹Almost his real name. You may remember him from Paging Dr. Mix-A-Lot. the closest science will ever come to having someone like The Dude from The Big Lebowski.

Another nice perk about these conferences is that the companies that make MRI magnets like to use them to connect with their loyal users. And by “connect with their loyal users” I mean “ply current and potential buyers of their multi-million dollar machines with free food and alcohol.”

So one night of the conference, I found myself with a few of my colleagues at what I recall to be a fancy Australian Museum of Natural Science, or something of the like. Being a true aficionado of free shit, I was very much so indeed enjoying all the consumables Siemens AG had made available for our bribery.

Now I had thought that I was doing a good job of balancing the ratio of food to drink that went down my gullet, but you know how easy it is to lose track of these things when you’re socializing and taking in museum exhibits.

In short, I was feeling good in the neighborhood.

Towards the end of the evening I had met up with Vandy to split a cab back to our hotels. We just so happened to run into one of our collaborators, “Harry,”²Not quite his real name. who was the head of a rather large and prestigious MRI lab at Harvard.

As Vandy was taking the opportunity to introduce us to each other, I decided to take the timeless strategy of connecting with him by referencing something we had in common. In this case, our commonality happened to be the custom-built head coil that the Harvard team had promised to send to us in Hawai’i…over a year earlier.

Shaking his hand, I channelled my inner Vandy and gracefully blurted out:

Where’s our ----- coil?!?

An enthusiastic, yet inebriated, Young Scientist

The next day when I saw Vandy, I could tell he was Duding his best to abide. Half-laughing, half-incredulously, he exclaimed “What the hell was that last night?!? I am so embarrassed! I can’t trust you with anything.“

“Fortunately for you, though, Harry has a pretty good sense of humor and he got a good laugh out of your antics…”

You may be shaking your head as well, but a mere two months later,³Okay, okay, I can’t remember exactly how long it was…Vandy, if you’re reading this, maybe you can fact check this? guess what mysteriously showed up at our lab’s doorstep?

That’s right: our ----- coil.

Since then Harry has continued to do well for himself in the field of MRI. In fact, just this last year he was elected el presidente of our entire (rather large) scientific community.

So if you ever find yourself attending one of our annual MRI conferences, be sure to hang out wherever they’re serving free alcohol. Listen closely, and your bound to hear some drunken jack-ass proclaim:

…and then I said to him, “Harry”–yes, that Harry–I said, “Harry, where’s our ----- coil?!?” True story…true story!

Scientist Reliving all the wrong highlights from his career

The point of the story is sometimes all you need is a little alcohol with a dash of youthful ignorance of who the Big Dogs are in order to “speak truth to power.”

The counterpoint of the story is, on the other hand, you might just end up embarrassing your boss, never to be entrusted with confidential information again.

Either way, I recommend embracing and proudly owning what may very well be the apex of your scientific career. After all, while not every one of us is destined to grow up to be President of the MRI world, you can grow up to be That Guy Who Dropped the F-Bomb on him…

Content created on: 26 February & 4 March 2020 (Wednesday/Wednesday)

When it comes to sharing interesting life stories, a part of me thinks that it is a little bit cheating to retell dreams one may have had, rather than real events that have been experienced in real life.

Today’s tale lands somewhere in the grey area. First off, technically it’s not my dream. Secondly, the dream is actually part of a larger narrative and integral to the plot.

So for what it’s worth, you can rest assured that this is not yet another self-indulgent post about my dreams.¹If interested, see these previous dream-centric posts: Stranger Dreams, Shotgun Wedding, I Had A Dream…Or Two, and/or Killing Them Hardly.

Also please note: all dreams described herein are relatively family-friendly, and would have been able to air on network TV without further censorship. Just to make that point clear.

*Ahem* Now, without further ado…

One morning over breakfast, back in the early years of our marriage, the Boss Lady all of a sudden got this smirk on her face, saying that she needed to tell me about this dream she had had.

In it she had found herself in the arms of another man, attracted to his irresistible animal magnetism. She said that in the dream she realized that she was a married woman, but found that she couldn’t stop kissing his succulent lips.

Most of the dream centered on her internal conflict, torn between her commitment to me and the siren’s call of this mystery man. I kind of chuckled at this, and couldn’t help but insert the skeptic’s catch-all comment: “Likely story…”

She said that after a few good rounds of lip-smacking, she rolled over in bed and started making out with…me. Turns out, I had been there the whole time, and had approved of her shenanigans! And now I was partaking in what apparently was now a little home-grown love-fest!

That revelation begged the question: what kind of loose-moraled man did she deep down think I was?!? It’s one thing to be caught up in the throes of passion; having your system bio-chemically hijacked by a cocktail of hormones and pheromones gives one at least some pretext for such actions, so I wouldn’t fault anyone for having such a dream.

But I guess her dream version of me actively seeks out and encourages such corrupting-of-souls situations.

As she told me all this (back in real life, that is), the smirk on her lips steadily grew even smirkier. Finally, she revealed the Ace hidden up her sleeve:

“…and then I finally got a good look at this other man. It was you, but with even bigger lips!”

I about fell out of my chair laughing at that point. I mean, there was so much to unpack there, right?

First, even in her dreams, she couldn’t cheat on me without being thwarted by the version of me that had seemingly crossed over from that one parallel universe where everybody’s lips are comically large.

And even if bizarro-me hadn’t been the “other man,” the real²”Real” as in the dream version of the character that corresponded to me in real life. me decided he would show up and crash the party.

Then there’s the whole topic of the lips, right?

I have big lips to begin with, so any dream–or the inevitable satirical made-for-TV movie about my life based on this blog–is already landing in the land of the absurd if my lips are portrayed as any larger than they already are.

And the best part of all this? It would have to be the inner-dialogue her subconscious most definitely had with itself as it wrote the “script” for this steamy dream–imagined here in the form of a writers’ room meeting:

“What genre should we run tonight in our favorite venue, Arthouse Dream Cinema?”

“Hmmm…let’s spice things. How about something a little risqué?”

“Oooh-la-lah, baby, I like the way we think! Should we keep it, how you say? ‘Right in the Eyes of the Lord’?”

“Nah, I was thinking some light infidelity might be a nice change. You know, keep things interesting.”

“Well, who should we have play the lead male role?”

“Dunno, who’s the sexiest hunk we can think of throughout time and history? If we could spend one romantic night with anybody, who would it be?”

“No limits–only our collective imagination, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, then, if it weren’t for the size of his lips…”

“Wait, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Probably, since we’re both a part of the Boss Lady’s psyche…but, yeah. I’m definitely catching your vibe.”

“Shall we say it together then?”

“Sure…on 3?”

Together: “3…2…1…The Hubby but only with bi-sm-gg-all-er lips!”

“Oh. I thought you were thinking of a version with smaller lips.”

“Hell, why not? He can be there, too.”

“Playing the ol’ ‘there’s more than one of everything‘ card, eh? So, science fiction it is…I like it!”

Together: “We’re ----- geniuses! This will be the wittiest dream ever!”

Here’s a fun bit of trivia: during that period in time we were actively involved with a local church, even going so far as regularly attending a weekly “small group” comprised entirely of other couples who had been married six years or less.

An even funner bit of trivia is that some of the church leadership thought it would be a grand idea to strong-arm me into leading the group when our original leader and his family had to move out of the area. If you know me, then you know how short-sighted this decision probably was.

Anyways, I thought that this particular dream was so hilarious that I just had to share it with the gang. And, since I was the gang leader, no one with better judgment was around to step in and stop me.

I exuberantly proceeded to regale them with the sordid tale, including the very critical plot twist there at the end. As I concluded my Fabio-worthy fantasy sequence, I was slightly disappointed when it was met with a few chuckles, but most of them were oddly nervous chuckles–especially amongst the other husbands. More noticeable was the palpable sense of relief in the room the moment I revealed that it was me.

Later the Boss Lady and I were discussing why my story hadn’t absolutely killed it with the crowd. She’s really good at picking up on subtext, and she noted that maybe it was the way I had set up the story that made all the men in particular real nervous and uncomfortable.

You see, I had thought that I would really play up the drama for this crowd, and put my own spin on the story.

But instead of using “Who’s that kissing my wife?” as the key plot element like the Boss Lady had in her original retelling, I took a slightly different angle.

Personally, I had thought it a fantastic idea to frame it as a classic whodunit, and opened with this:

“She had a dream that she was having an affair…with one of the men in our small group. That’s right ladies and gentlemen, he is in this very room with us now! Which one of you could it be?!?”

While I would have loved to have had my story-telling met with a hearty round of laughter and applause, I think I enjoyed even more the laugh I got out of realizing how comically uncomfortable I had made the other fellows. To this day I have absolutely zero regrets in the matter…

Anyways, much like the Holy Trinity, the point of the story is actually three-fold this time around: 1) for the love of God, know your audience; 2) truly, for the love of God, Church Leaders, you really need to vet your Bible study leaders better next time; and 3) for the love of your spouse, when they need a momentary escape to FantasyLand, I suggest you and your Botox twin don’t go poking around their dream like a pair of dicks.³True story: in the first draft I accidentally omitted “don’t,” leaving everybody with this terrible advice: “I suggest you…go poking around their dream like a pair of dicks.” Yeah…that kinda changes the parable…

Content created on: 19/29 February 2020 (Wednesday/Friday)

For today’s story, and also one coming up shortly, I want to talk about something very important: coils.

Ok, so I admit they’re probably not “very important” to you. But, since that won’t stop me from talking about them, I figure it would probably be helpful for the Dear Reader to know a little background information about my “other job.” Don’t worry, I’ll keep the irrelevant info to a minimum and try not to nerd out on you too much…

As some of you may know, I have had a career in science, namely in the field of MRI (Magnetic Resonance Imaging). I have had the pleasure of imaging both humans and rodents, and in both cases, a critical part of the experiment is the coil.

The coil is essentially a small radio antenna shaped to fit around whatever you want to image, be it an arm, a body, or in my experience, a brain-containing head. Then the coil and your body part together go in the hole (ake “bore”) of the giant magnet. It is the coil that then detects all the fun science-y stuff happening inside our object of interest, and sends that information to a computer to be magically mathemat-ized into an actual image.

Really, though the main thing you need to know is that it is a very important part of my job, and that it fits inside the Really Big Magnet.

Tale 1: That’s Not What She Said

Recently I was working with Boss Lady #2¹Not to be confused with The Boss Lady, with whom I have conjugal relations–this is my current supervisor when I do decide to show up for my other job. learning how to image live mice. Previously, I had only worked with mice that were no longer with us in spirit.

We had thought that we had all the knobs and dials set just right, and were about 30 minutes into our 40 minute experiment when she had noticed the mouse, though safely and humanely sedated, had moved some in the coil.

There was a pretty good chance that the change in position would make our data up to that point worthless, so we needed to decide whether or not to go the full 40 minutes.

She turned to me and asked, “Should we pull it out before it’s finished?”

To which any fan of Michael Scott from NBC’s hit sitcom, The Office, would have indubitably automatically replied:

That’s what she said!

The office Fan with little to no self-control

And 9 times out of 10, that’s what this Office aficionado and lazy humorist would have blurted out.

But, being the professional that I am, I instead leaned into my vast knowledge of the Latin language. With a smirk on my face, I commented under my breath:²Actually, according to my text messages with the real Boss Lady documenting this event, I quipped, “The Latin term for that is ‘Coilus interruptus, I believe.”

Ah, a classic case of Coilus Interruptus…

A Junior High boy stuck in a PhD’s Body, Somehow simultaneously making the most high-brow and the most low-brow MRI Joke ever told.

(In case you need a little help³This might help explain the joke: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coitus_interruptus…)

Content created on: 26 February 2020 (Wednesday)