Friday, September 24, 2004
Sick apology
I feel the need to explain my absence, which I shall do in a concise list:
1) Medical students are dirty, filthy, vile creatures--and as such my close proximity to them during the workweek means that their constant hacking and sputtering has managed, in spite of my best hand-washing efforts, to get me ill (I actually watched a medical student in his short white coat walk out of a toilet stall in the GWU Himmelfarb Medical Sciences Library, directly passing every sink on his way to the door... my jaw hung slack for a moment). I spend much of the day sweating through a Sudafed-induced jitter fit, followed by a nightly capful of blissful, narcotic Nyquil to get me through the eve, and when I sit down to type in between the two, I can't bear the thought of mental agility.
2) Graduate school is suddenly quite hard--I know this isn't exactly a shocker, but each passing week sees the acceleration of curriculum in a manner that reminds me of those NASA test videos in which some poor pilot is put in a centrifuge and spun at an increasingly rapid rate until he simply passes out and lolls around with the capsule's movements. Monday hosted my first biostatistical methods test, and then Tuesday night I got to do my first marathon case study (which ended at nine p.m. and left my right wrist partially numb from writing frenzy... pity me). I'm sure this is connected with my having been susceptible to med student transmitted disease.
3) I'm homeless--well, in a way. What I mean is I've been living with some very accommodating hosts since my arrival in the city four weeks ago, and over the past week I've stepped up my room-to-rent search considerably. It's not that I want to hurry and get out of this posh Eastern Market house, but I have exhausted myself playing the role of 'dutiful guest.' I need my own space with my own things, I need my own computer (which is a PC that I know and love, rather than this sleek but one-button-moused Mac that makes me feel like a fumbling virgin all over again). People in the city don't seem to want a gay roommate with long hair, details which probably give the impression that I am either fussy, a hippy, or some combination of the two. I think I'll be stuffing my hair into a cap for the next room interview in addition to bringing the potential roommates a six pack of cheap beer.
Until life assumes a more routine pace, I expect that my dear, sweet blogspace will be neglected.
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1) Medical students are dirty, filthy, vile creatures--and as such my close proximity to them during the workweek means that their constant hacking and sputtering has managed, in spite of my best hand-washing efforts, to get me ill (I actually watched a medical student in his short white coat walk out of a toilet stall in the GWU Himmelfarb Medical Sciences Library, directly passing every sink on his way to the door... my jaw hung slack for a moment). I spend much of the day sweating through a Sudafed-induced jitter fit, followed by a nightly capful of blissful, narcotic Nyquil to get me through the eve, and when I sit down to type in between the two, I can't bear the thought of mental agility.
2) Graduate school is suddenly quite hard--I know this isn't exactly a shocker, but each passing week sees the acceleration of curriculum in a manner that reminds me of those NASA test videos in which some poor pilot is put in a centrifuge and spun at an increasingly rapid rate until he simply passes out and lolls around with the capsule's movements. Monday hosted my first biostatistical methods test, and then Tuesday night I got to do my first marathon case study (which ended at nine p.m. and left my right wrist partially numb from writing frenzy... pity me). I'm sure this is connected with my having been susceptible to med student transmitted disease.
3) I'm homeless--well, in a way. What I mean is I've been living with some very accommodating hosts since my arrival in the city four weeks ago, and over the past week I've stepped up my room-to-rent search considerably. It's not that I want to hurry and get out of this posh Eastern Market house, but I have exhausted myself playing the role of 'dutiful guest.' I need my own space with my own things, I need my own computer (which is a PC that I know and love, rather than this sleek but one-button-moused Mac that makes me feel like a fumbling virgin all over again). People in the city don't seem to want a gay roommate with long hair, details which probably give the impression that I am either fussy, a hippy, or some combination of the two. I think I'll be stuffing my hair into a cap for the next room interview in addition to bringing the potential roommates a six pack of cheap beer.
Until life assumes a more routine pace, I expect that my dear, sweet blogspace will be neglected.
Monday, September 20, 2004
Rag; late-night urban bliss
Tonight I looked at a terrific place with a questionable roommate, but I'm not going to say anything further for fear of jinxing the proceedings (seriously--I need a place).
Walking back to the DuPont Circle Metro station, I happened across this amazing all brass band, all trombones, really, with a tuba and bass drum added for baritone flair. They were playing this terrific blend of ragtime and big band stuff, and absolutely everyone on the street was powerless under the spell... we all stood, bouncing to the 2/4 beat of the bass drum and cymbal, and, slowly but surely, we all started pulsing with the rhythm. Two hundred people, easily, all bopping and swinging like nobody's business, right in the middle of the street in downtown DC.
Several photographers were at the scene, and one of them, a beautiful young black lady named Nicole, eventually approached me for a cigarette, and we talked for a good while under the canopy of the music. She suggested nightlife for me, the country boy, and we talked of the South, as her mother is Mississippian, and then we just gave up and danced and danced as she occasionally took photographs of the goings on. Eventually the crowd interchanged, exchanging new visitors for the spaces occupied by the older ones, and we parted our ways with no pomp greater thank matchbooks filled with recommendations of books, albums, and clubs that one must definitely not live without.
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Walking back to the DuPont Circle Metro station, I happened across this amazing all brass band, all trombones, really, with a tuba and bass drum added for baritone flair. They were playing this terrific blend of ragtime and big band stuff, and absolutely everyone on the street was powerless under the spell... we all stood, bouncing to the 2/4 beat of the bass drum and cymbal, and, slowly but surely, we all started pulsing with the rhythm. Two hundred people, easily, all bopping and swinging like nobody's business, right in the middle of the street in downtown DC.
Several photographers were at the scene, and one of them, a beautiful young black lady named Nicole, eventually approached me for a cigarette, and we talked for a good while under the canopy of the music. She suggested nightlife for me, the country boy, and we talked of the South, as her mother is Mississippian, and then we just gave up and danced and danced as she occasionally took photographs of the goings on. Eventually the crowd interchanged, exchanging new visitors for the spaces occupied by the older ones, and we parted our ways with no pomp greater thank matchbooks filled with recommendations of books, albums, and clubs that one must definitely not live without.
