(and I’m doing better but was offline for too long–the nerve of various places and family members not to have WiFi!! Can you imagine?! Updates soon once I get re-situated)

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Anyway, just wanted to drop a quick note…I’ll see what the doctors say, and hopefully I’ll be back sooner than later. Until then, please don’t lose faith in me and put down the fork–I’m not done yet.

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Dr. Schwab shows a natural attraction
To verse in utmost compaction.
 He’s written a book
 So go take a look
At our Limerick Laureate in action!

This is the first time I participate, so I’m especially honored to be included in such a creative edition!

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Story short, the Soviets decided they were to host a grand competition for the world’s finest pianists, violinists and cellists, all in honor of the famous Russian composer Tchaikovsky. Premier Khrushchev was certain that the Soviets would illuminate the musical world as Soviet musicians would compete and emerge victorious on an open stage for the world to see. I’m sure the Soviet Ministry of Culture had their “hand picked” winner, but the crowds were chanting Cliburn’s name. He was the obvious choice among the jury, and the shock wave was enormous. The soft-spoken Cliburn literally had women screaming as if it were a rock concert, yet Cliburn’s stage presence then and now has always been one of austere sincerity.

So powerful was the “note heard ’round the world,” that the jury had to ask Khrushchev personally to approve naming Cliburn the competition winner. And lets examine some of the luminaries on that jury: Emil Gilels, jury chairman (photo w/Cliburn), Dmitri Shostakovich, Sviatoslav Richter, to name a few: to have won over these geniuses, regardless of nationality or politics, was a feat unto itself. Imagine it! The gold medal of the inaugural Soviet competition in honor of the grandfather of Russian classical music–going to a practically unknown American at a time when the USSR was spilling over with national communist pride. So powerful was this weaponless and honest victory, that Cliburn received a ticker-tape parade in New York upon his return. Usually reserved for sports champions, military heroes, or pop-culture icons, no other classical artist before or since has ever received that honor. Cliburn’s live recording of the Tchaikovsky First Piano Concerto made upon returning back to the USA (with the Soviet conductor and orchestra from the competition no less) was the first classical album to go platinum, selling over a million copies. A classical album!!

No longer making recordings but still playing limited engagements, he is more known now for the international piano competition that bears his name. It shows his character that Cliburn stayed true to his roots and had the competition held in Fort Worth (ie, not neighboring Dallas or any other “big” city) where this small, humble city becomes the musical capital of the world for two weeks every four years. The Cliburn Foundation also hosts a competition for amateur pianists on off-years, something I have always had on my “Have to do before I die” list–just to participate.

Below is a video clip of Cliburn playing the last movement of Tchaikovsky’s Concerto No. 1 in 1962 during one of Cliburn’s numerous tours of the Soviet Union. This one happens to be in Moscow, with the same conductor and orchestra, and in the same hall as when he won the competition four years earlier. You can even see Khrushchev himself applauding during the last few seconds of the video. Understand that this was the same year as when the world was on the brink of nuclear holocaust from the Cuban missile crisis, yet there Cliburn was on Russian soil, wowing Soviet audiences with their own national composers. Seeing the video, it’s not hard to understand how Cliburn was and is a true musical ambassador of peace in the name of great music and art. Enjoy!

(For more, go to the Van Cliburn Foundation page and follow “50th Anniversary” links for more videos and interviews of Van Cliburn then and now)

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I will be back shortly.

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I was sitting on the floor in a bedroom at my father-in-law’s, organizing items from a whirlwind of internal spring-cleaning and moving, fresh from having orchestrated our stuff here from Mexico. It had been decided that “home base” for Claudia and daughter would be my FIL’s, and we were doing the necessary work to get that done. I had gotten up and took a few steps when I found the ground slowly giving way, my rib cage and left shoulder becoming one with a chest of drawers (believe me, the furniture got the raw end of the deal) — I felt no pain, just blackness…

…until I heard Claudia yelling my name over and over. I had no idea how long I was out, but it probably wasn’t more than a minute or three. Funnily enough, Claudia didn’t even hear a thud; she just happened to walk in and freaked out (naturally) seeing me on the floor. In spite of the grogginess not having worn completely off, I was strangely confident that I knew what happened and why.

Syncope is not something to treat lightly because it is not uncommonly an indicator of grave problems. In the case of the heart, an arrhythmia or some other cardiac problem means not enough blood gets to the brain (excuse me while I kiss the floor). Neurologically, any number of seizure types can be at play here, as well as other neuro stuff I’d never pretend to understand, but it’s not a good thing, and thank God that’s not I was dealing with. No, it just so happens that a week earlier, I had some bloodwork done and found that my hemoglobin was at an all-time low of 7.6. For the first time, my MCV (cell size) had dropped into the 50s. For the medical types, this clearly indicates a chronic anemia, but what was alarming was how fast the Hgb/Hct had dropped. I had an EGD in Mexico just 4 months prior and my Hgb was 10.2 — what gives? Because of these results, I had some more tests ordered, but they were still out; I also had an appointment to see a hematologist because of several oddities I’ve made mention of here before, but that appointment was 3 weeks away.

I did wind up in the ER that evening and was admitted that same night (good thing it wasn’t the weekend or a Monday!) My presenting Hgb was 7.4 and my ferritin, ran later, was 4. Yes, FOUR. Over the next 24 hours, I had 3 units of packed RBCs put in and another EGD, just to be sure. Of course, the EGD came back negative as before, which means that even it’s time for the other scope. Yes. That one.

But before we go there, here are some random fluffs from the first 36 hours or so:

• Because this was clearly a bleed from somewhere (other hematologic oddities aside), it was determined that I needed a digital rectal test to see if I was bleeding down there. I reiterated that guiac, etc. tests have always been negative and that I had no other lower GI signs, but I wasn’t getting out of this one. I had a great ER nurse, and she said that it was just par for the course. But was it the nurse who did this? Oh no, it was Bruiser Brody, bald-headed, goateed cage match wrestler. To add insult to injury, as he put on gloves, I saw he had tats on his potato fingers. “You’ll feel some pressure,” he said…yeah, at about T11-T12. Jesus Mary and Joseph…I could have predicted the outcome of that exam right then and there. I told my nurse, the one with lithe fingers and small hands, that he didn’t even take me out to dinner first. Fully expecting that to be the 100th time they’ve heard it, I found out later it was the laugh of the night for them. Who knew?
• When blood arrives, apparently everyone goes into military drill mode. I don’t know if it was blood bank person or the charge nurse, but there was this exchange of patient, blood type, serial number, and other relevant data exchanged to my nurse like a challenge-response nuclear drill. “Serial X73413, do you concur?” “Yes, I concur.” I was waiting for them to load the IV pump and turn the keys at the same time to start the drip.
• By the time I made it on the floor it was midnight. I was NPO from the time I was taken back from the ER waiting room, and I was dying for something to drink, perhaps even a sandwich or something light. “NPO for your EGD tomorrow.” Dammit! “Look I just got here and I know it’s just after midnight, but come on–can’t I get sandwich or some soup/crackers–something!?” After checking with the doctor, I was allowed to have clear liquids until 1:00am. Bastards. Then he walks his happy ass in there and takes what Jello I did have away because it was red. WTF? This is an EGD for Christ’s sake, do you expect Jello to still be there 8 hours from now?!?! I was pissed.
• I reported the anesthesiologist who did my EGD because he was upset over some scheduling problems and kept slamming things around. I asked what he’d be using for sedation out of curiosity, and he looks at me over his glasses with this scornful look of, “I could make up a word and you wouldn’t know any better,” but he wound up saying simply, “Propofol.” “Oh, OK, thanks,” I replied, to which he just chuckled, fully expecting me to have no idea what he said. But when the cursing and slamming of things started, that’s when I got pissed and said, “Do we have a problem? Because I’m not comfortable with your managing my case if you can’t even manage whatever it is that’s wrong here.” Completely flabbergasted, he just said, “No, that’s fine,” (mind you, no admission here, just telling me it’s fine) and proceeded to explain how the nurses royally screwed things up, like that was going to make it OK with me. I don’t give a rat’s ass who pissed in his Cheerios or how–his behavior was out of line and was making everyone in the room–including me–uncomfortable. There’s more to this story, but it’s not worth going into any more. I had three more visits to the GI lab, but thankfully that was the last time I saw him. (the sedation went fine, thankfully)
• The GI lab was FREEZING. There’s no need for this. Radiology has six-figure CT scanners, million+ dollar MRI machines, and whatever environment those babies need, they get. They’re pampered, lubed, polished, the GE or Siemens guys coming by to do maintenance just because. Some laptop cart with a fiberoptic snake on it doesn’t need a near-zero environment. You have my asshole GI doc (more on that later) who wants it cold, and the tech whose hand is practically shaking as she’s putting leads on me.
• There is a DEFINITE difference between the day nursing staff and night staff. It’s the A team and the C team. When 7pm rolled around, I dreaded what wicked this way would come. Why a night nurse can’t answer the fucking call button at whatever hour at night when nothing’s going on (and I mean this happened many times, so it wasn’t like that one time another patient was nose-diving) and the day nursing staff was on it almost without exception within a minute? I’d walk a ways down the hall and almost every one of the staff were either gossiping or surfing. One of them was nice and predictably would be surfing on a terminal just outside my door, but he wasn’t my nurse. He always got me whatever little thing I wanted, so I appreciated that and made good with what I had. Whatever works.
• Neurology came by for a consult the morning of my EGD. Neuro doc said he was there because heme doc asked. (my mind can see, “R/O neuro origin” in chart…) Fine. I ask his questions, recognize the mini mental status exam as it was being asked, then he asked me to put my hands in front of me and close my eyes. He did a Romberg with me lying down, how lame is that?! He said he didn’t feel it was neuro in origin, hope things go well for me. Deed done, I think, he got to wet his beak at my trough, happy travels. But no–later that day, someone shows up to take me to do an EEG. Huh?! I asked who ordered it, and it was neuro guy..after saying to me point blank he didn’t think it was neuro in origin. It was a disgusting example of milking it, and I refused unconditionally. For all Happy Hospitalist and others go on ad nauseam about consumers wanting everything for free, providers do their nice bit of raping and pillaging themselves. Dr. Supine Romberg had the audacity to come by the next day and asked why I refused the EEG. That bastard I’m sure billed a patient encounter to come to my room to ask why I challenged his judgment, because he didn’t offer anything else. But it STILL doesn’t end there–two days later, a dietician came by because Neuro Guy ordered it, feeling I needed “weight counseling.” While already on the GI service. What an ass.

Tune in for the next installment in a day or two!

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Using patients’ natural openings (the mouth, vagina or rectum) as entry points to the body is perhaps the intuitive next step to laparoscopic surgery…

The group’s official acronym is NOSCAR–yes, that there is a gratuitous “S” to make the clever “no scar.” When I read the word “Consortium,” I can’t help but think of some underground, covert organization–guys in dark suits, meeting in secret places, speaking in the language of riddles and subterfuge. About orifices, of course, because you can’t talk about that stuff in the open, it’s gotta be in secret. Can you imagine the higher-ups of this “Consortium” going out for a dinner, paying with some black Amex where the business name is embossed on the card? Maybe there’s even a sphincter watermark that needs to be checked for authenticity… OK, I’m blaming my Lortab this late at night, I apologize…back to the real story at hand. (The truth is out there…)

If we were talking a huge fish-gutting midline incision, perhaps going through one of someone’s tender bits and saving days and days in the hospital and weeks of recovery would be a tradeoff. But the article above (which is from Time BTW–there might be something more scholarly out there, but alas, I don’t have those resources anymore) is talking about a simple appendectomy. An appefrickindectomy!!! Why am I shocked? Because even when comparing “open” vs. laparascopic, we’re talking a 2″ or so incision in the RLQ via the external oblique muscle (surgeons, please correct my newbie knowledge here) or a couple of similar/smaller incisions for the lap technique. How on God’s green earth is cutting open some poor women’s hoo-ha a better surgical choice? I mean maybe–MAYBE–said female works as a swimsuit/lingerie model, but even then, if that’s her professional job, she’ll have professional makeup artists to cover the tiny-ass scars.

But wait, there’s more:

Surgeons Santiago Horgan and Mark Talamini made a small incision in the wall of the patient’s vagina, through which they passed surgical tools and a small camera to the appendix, removing the organ through the same incision. Surgeons also made a small cut in the bottom of the patient’s bellybutton and inserted another camera through it to help guide surgery. The procedure took 50 minutes from start to finish, 20 minutes longer than a standard laparoscopic appendectomy.

Wha?! So they made an umbilical incision anyway, just like lap, so this magically wards off the evil spectre of herniation…how? And almost doubling surgical time is ALWAYS a plus…good going guys! (Note that an open appy is probably 15 minutes for someone who wants to book it out of there (maybe less–never been at a clocked speed test case), tripling the time.

But let’s now turn to that first quote and change the patient to a man. Say a young, otherwise healthy male presents to an ER with an acute abdomen, rebound tenderness, McBurney’s sign, the works. Cocksure eager surgeon dude comes and offers the poor guy a “minimally invasive” option–going through his ass. Last I checked, having a trocar sticking out one’s ass as all these scissors, cautery, etc. get shoved in en route to the appendix (is this in a right decubitus or a jackknife position here, anyway?) is about as invasive as you get.

Yes, the total instrument travel distance in this case is pretty short, and if there’s no serious shit going on, it probably is technically a more direct approach than going through layers of muscle, fascia, etc. Again, I appeal the the surgeons to educate me on basic surgical points here, but isn’t an immediate entry into the peritoneum via the GI lumen–and specifically the rectum of all places–just presenting a contamination problem right away? Yes, there will be abx irrigation, but going through the gut lumen for starters just seems wrong from an aseptic technique POV. Dunno. The whole thing is whack, which is my whole point, so there.

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For now, here’s a small list of some general comments to catch you up, in no special order (some of which will be expanded on later):

• I got some email wondering if my “Hiatus” post indicated I was going to seek psychiatric care or the like. Funny that, because I did actually call around to see what was available. Unfortunately, there isn’t anything available for “crisis counseling” on an outpatient basis for people who need short-term, more focused help but are functional otherwise. Therapists and psychiatrists are backlogged for weeks or months, so “emergencies” here are handled by inpatient programs akin to the state ward where you get to use crayons and clay for art therapy and ice cream snacks are used as rewards for good behavior. Um, no thanks.
• Instead of mental health care, I got treated to some hard-core health care: 2 hospitalizations with a sum total of 15 days inpatient stay involving multiple scopes, surgery and blood transfusions–oh my! (definitely much more on this later) I’m still on pain meds as I heal, so pardon the grammer and mispellingses for now.
• Shortly after I arrived in TX, I treated myself to a Blackberry Curve 8320 now that I was stateside and my cell contract had long expired, ripe for cheap equipment renewal. No more living in the Mexican data desert! (Actually GDL is totally wired for 3G–it’s just that there, the “3″ means you have to pay 3x as much!) Having mobile email and browser is schweeeeeet.
• In just the span of a couple of months, my daughter seems to have grown up so much, yet she’ll barely be two next month. It’s awesome seeing her slowly develop every day into her own person. It’s also clear to me that all the trauma we’ve gone through seems totally lost on her–as it should be–as I watch her happy as can be with the simplest of things. I’d go through 100x more just to make sure it stays that way.
• I still haven’t decided what do call my new domain (since Mexico Medical Student is obviously not applicable anymore). I am tending to pick a generic title that has nothing to do with medical school, just because I want to be prepared for anything, and more to the point, keep using it after medical school. I want to be happy with something long-term and not have yet another migration later.
• It’s nice to have TiVo actually doing what it’s supposed to do now that it can actually use US programming data. I watch so little TV anyway, but what I do watch, I’m fiercely addicted to. Right now that means Top Chef and Battlestar Galactica, both new seasons recently started. In Mexico, I used to always download and watch episodes in large chunks after-the-fact; now it’s almost torture waiting week by week like everyone else for what’s next.

Well, that’s pretty much enough to get an idea of what’s going on. Other than the medical stuff that will follow, there’s not been much. I do have to make one very important point to close this post, however. A few friends have asked how school search/applications are going, completely because they cared and wanted to know. On the blog, however, I will not be posting anything about any facet of any applications, status updates, prospects, etc. Medical school application is a rigorous and, frankly, competitive endeavor. There are enough lookie-loos from my school who (for reasons also to be written about) are in the same application pool as I, trying to transfer to other programs. I don’t need to divulge what I’m doing for obvious reasons. If anything is shared, it’s pretty much because something is a done deal well after-the-fact. Since my target is August, that means mum’s the word for a good while. I hope this is easily understood. Thanks.

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Which is the point–too much is too unstable to be blogging here about it right now. Either I blog about what’s going on (which part of me would LOVE to do) or I censor myself to the point of losing interest, blogging out of some unspoken forced obligation. The former runs the almost certain consequence of shifting the blog too negative (more than it already has), and I think that’s too high a price to pay. When things calm down (and I thought they would have by about now) and life is more stable, I look forward to writing about many things again, without the seemingly ever-present undertone of doom and gloom.

Speaking of doom and gloom, one of my worst fears has been realized. I promise, that’s what’s not sending me into a non-writing funk, but it’s close.

In the meantime, I have to change the name of this site from mexicomedstudent.com to something else, since it clearly no longer applies. Any suggestions you’d want to leave in the Comments section would be greatly appreciated.

Until later!

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• I have left Mexico permanently. I am not a student this semester at UAG nor am I affiliated with the university in any way, officially or unofficially.
• The “privilege” of leaving Mexico involved hundreds of dollars to pay off immigration to have the proper “exit papers” which was needed as part of the university’s more specific need to have almost the janitor sign and stamp my paperwork saying I was leaving campus; in simple terms, I needed to prove I didn’t have outstanding debts, issues, etc. to get the final “OK” to leave from UAG, which also was the official “you don’t owe us anything after all” on paper.
• After weeks of work to get the above, I wasn’t to have a copy of the final document. I socially engineered a malleable secretary into a copy, because the university has been known to suddenly have “mysterious charges” on students’ accounts after they’ve left. Of course, if you want to be sure things are handled properly, you have to come in person…
• It’s official: I still don’t know who it was in administration that felt their Cheerios were pissed in. Because there are no Cheerios, nor can they confirm that there were any, but nevertheless, you can’t have breakfast. I asked three different ways, and was given multiply bullshit answers by the “Directora” of International Student Affairs, saying she didn’t know who it was. But she told her minion to tell me. But she doesn’t know. Riiiiight.
• I eventually did contract a moving company, but didn’t have enough money to do a full international move, contracting only to the Mexican city across the border. We sold about 50% of our “big stuff” hoping to bring the cost down, but as luck would have it, the price came down about 20%. We would have been better off not selling anything than selling stuff at $0.30-$0.40 to the dollar and taking a loss as we did. Except we got some liquid cash to use for the move, which is good. As is typical, there is never good without bad right about now.
• Partly due to convoluted customs laws on both sides my plan of going across to get our stuff in a borrowed flatbed and Yukon to tow our stuff back (unloaded from said moving truck) is not possible. Customs brokers (agencias aduanales) have a mafia-lock on border crossings on both sides, and trying to do something oneself without reams of paperwork serving little purpose is like walking onto the construction site in an episode of “The Sopranos” saying you’re there to do the plumbing. US Customs is transparent and easy to deal with if you know what you’re doing; you just will never get the proper equipment to do it with unless it fits in the back of a single vehicle. I now have to pay somebody money I don’t have (again, like “The Sopranos”)–the whole reason I didn’t choose the int’l move in the first place.
• I have no choice but to shack up at my parents’ place for the indefinite future given my financial position. I am thankful I do have a place to go, but what was livable over Christmas knowing we were only visiting 10-12 days (but grew more annoying as time passed) is now a paralyzing situation to have to deal with in terms of space, organization, and parental unit management. It’s not that it’s so bad–the digs are actually pretty comfy, and again, I’m blessed–it’s just given everything else, something like this is just over-the-top. We’ve gone from a two-story, 3 bedroom house–our own–to 2.5 rooms. With parents. Again.
• Simultaneously fighting every day with border people about our stuff. We’ve been here 5 days and have only barely unpacked the first of the suitcases that were in the car. I finally made the call today to send the stuff from Guadalajara (we were given a week of lag time, thank GOD), so it will be here mid-next week. I can only hope everything is worked out by then for something less costly than what I can make between now and then slapping my antecubital vein at the blood bank.
• I have already applied to another foreign school. US schools were never an option because US committees have to split hairs between the applicants with GPAs 3.85s vs 3.86, of candidates with 3 published articles in Nature, foreign volunteer work, and LORs from the respective chancellors of their university systems for their outstanding contributions to student government; therefore, applications for US programs to start this fall were due between September and November of last year. I’m not even at the point of getting an interview yet, so as far as I’m concerned, I’m at square 2. Maybe.

Now perhaps you can see why titled this post what I did. The juggernaut has (almost) come to full screeching halt, we’re out of Mexico for good, and, on the surface at least, ready for the next thing. However, being thrown off the bull doesn’t simply mean you’re safe; you may be on solid ground but you are by no means out of harms way. To stretch out the last little bit of this metaphor, the roller-coaster ride finally came to an end–not at the “normal” start/end point, but rather at the top of a precarious incline, leaving me to wonder how to climb down safely, if it’s even possible.

I’ll post “part #2″ in this barely-begun series later this weekend, which deals with how my former school continues to screw the pooch on a matter of major international concern. Tune back in soon–I promise this juicy installment has nothing to do with my personal woe and may indicate that karma is indeed a true force of nature. See you then!

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No, the real reason–again–is greed. The official reason has some opium-induced rationale about ratings and statistics of viewers (ie, 100 people watching on 50 TVs adds better to the viewing stats than 200 people watching on 2 TVs), but aren’t official “ratings” done by Nielsen households or the like that voluntarily participate? When any event claims that x million people are viewing, it’s not a house-by-house count by any means; it’s extrapolated from a controlled group. So what do they care if some church-going folk want to get together, use a big projector they already have, and invite sports enthusiasts for a gathering that’s guaranteed “clean” for the family?

Ah, but the plot thickens. You see, there is an exception–and one exception only–to the 55 inch TV rule. Sports bars and other such establishments are free to show as big a jumbotron as they can fit to show as many people as they can serve, no penalties, no foul. So in effect, we have the NFL clearly endorsing a place of drinking (and usually smoking, depending on the local laws) over a church entity. And why not? Off the top of your head, who are the “big name” Super Bowl ad consumers year after year? I promise eTrade commercials won’t be coming back, but Budweiser commercials will forever stay.

And just to be clear–all of this is coming from a beer drinker (although not the piss water they advertise on any given football game) and lover of sports bars. Verily I say unto thee: The NFL will have to do pennance on this one in due time.

(h/t Slashdot)

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So after blogging about things in December here before, as well as going on the radio about my problems with school, with the Christmas holiday break looming, the heat went up in the kitchen–way up. Every day was some setback, some new depth of laziness and ineptitude by school officials uncovered, each of which could have been a blog entry in itself. However, as anybody can see, the site has been near-dormant for the last 6 weeks or so with the exception of occaisional “fluff” posts and status updates. I had been trying to do the right thing and not publish something I’d regret later, as well as not plunge this blog into uncomfortable negativism and hostility.

Well, there’s nothing more on the line to worry about regretting, that’s for sure. However, to actually catch up to give everything that’s happened justice (and it’s not just about me, believe it or not ) will take a couple more posts, so please bear with me. I promise I won’t dwell on my problems forever; in fact, I am looking forward to putting all of this behind me in my daily life, even if I’ll be dealing with the financial, academic, and some of the emotional consequences for a very, very long time.

So first, the good news: the school’s financial committee decided to forgive the debt representing the tuition of the semester I didn’t attend. This would seem like an obvious slamdunk decision, and indeed, that’s what I was expecting back in November. However, I was told this after classes began in January (knowing full well the decision came in December; they just waited for either laziness or spite), so that’s already strike one. I said publicly that no decision before the break was a “no” decision, because I couldn’t be on pins and needles with no loan money, no job, and risk things not working out in the end, spending what little money was left in the meantime just waiting (rent, etc.) Therefore, I fully expected to come back to gather my things and leave with whatever means I could, even if it meant just practically giving stuff away and leaving with what could fit in the cars.

And now, the bad news: a faceless, secret committee mentioned before has for sure sealed my fate by deciding that I could not re-enroll for school–even if things worked out with the financial committee–because of “my attitude.” Yes, those last two words in quotes were given to me verbatim. But not by anybody with authority–oh no. This was given to me by a minion (who I later found out was just as miffed at having to deal with this bullshit almost as much as I was) who was allegedly told this by a representative of said committee. I mentioned this on the radio show linked above, but I hadn’t really uncovered the festering rot that is at the core of the wretched institution quite yet, so I thought that it was all a matter of just ruffled feathers over something (I had no idea what–still don’t), and that the appropriate “mea culpa”/”I’m sorry” would suffice to stroke the ego/whims of whatever muckety muck that got their short-and-curlies caught in their zipper. Whatever “attitude” they could be referring to was clearly unwarranted. Had I threatened, been insubordinate, disresepectful to a professor/dean or the like, I’d understand at least, “Oh yeah, it was probably that,” but honestly nothing even close to any of that has ever happened. My frustration in dealing with all this was obvious, but I never “let loose,” so to speak, to anyone.

Unfortunately, I found out that my being asked to leave went much deeper and was more sinister than a simple misunderstanding or the like. The “secret” committee that I have been talking about actually has a name: “Honor y Justicia” (”Honor and Justice”). Can you believe that shit?! What kind of “justice” exists when an entire committee of unnamed, unreachable faculty and administrators meet to try, sentence and seal your fate without even letting you know until after the fact? And what input could one give if one isn’t even made aware that there are “charges” or problems in the first place? I would imagine a committee like this would deal with serious infractions of honor, integrity, or ethics. However, there are students who have been caught cheating–red handed–and they are not expelled; everyone who goes to school here knows exactly what I’m talking about. Oh, but I’m told I can’t come back. What did I do that’s worse than cheating?! To make matters worse, my repeated requests to get something in writing stating this fact have been denied. Just two days ago, I asked Ms. Red Flowers, the director of International Student Affairs, in person (by finally barging into her office since her pit bull secretary wasn’t there to close her door upon seeing me as usual) yet again, and to my face she told me that she has nothing in writing, and that “We could ask the committee to provide something, but it would be up to them.” When I asked which committee, she replied she didn’t know. To my face.

But the greatest breach of confidence and trust truly came from dean/director Dr. Multiple Sclerosis (MS), as I’ve blogged before, pretending to know nothing. In spite of knowing exactly what kind of student I am and professes these excellent qualities himself, Dr. MS said not just to me, but to my wife that he knew nothing of any such decision to prevent me from re-enrolling but also that he would not be willing to follow up on it. Dr. MS said, “I don’t know where this comes from. But perhaps it comes from a committee called “Honor y Justicia“. This was the first I’d heard of this “committee” and I could scarcely believe my ears.

He continued, “Remember when I talked to you in July about some things you wrote online? I sat you down and explained things [read: droned uselessly–see link] because I know that you are very smart, an excellent student, and that you were just confused and need to be educated on things that you may not be aware of. Perhaps others weren’t so understanding, and maybe that’s where the problems come from. Perhaps. But I don’t know for sure.”

If I am so smart, then don’t you think I’d be able to see through this lamely constructed veil of false deniability? Moreover, how impotent/incompetent can this guy be if an entity outside the School of Medicine is totally going over his head to screw with me and him not even know it? On the flip side, if I’m such a good student, like he says, why is there no outrage at 1) the fact that someone is meddling on his turf from the outside and/or 2) that one of his students is being ramrodded? Because he knows full fucking well indeed and is lying to my face–and not just him, one of his lapdog minions, Dr. WolfCamp, who should know even less since I’ve never had anything to do with him academically, but had quite a few things to say about something that he also claimed to know nothing about.

Between the lies and the outright refusal (with my wife as my witness) to help me in any way shape or form at this December meeting, any and all respect I had for anything at this school was gone. My personal decision was made before I left for Christmas break that things were done with this school. That’s what these monkeys don’t understand: I’m playing for keeps–this is my financial future, my wife, my child, my career. For them, I’m an account number and more dollars to add to the slush fund. There are students who literally go four years here, never having passed Step 1. I shit you not. Does the school give a rat’s ass? No, because they keep collecting their tuition money without a care in the world that maybe–just maybe–they need a “time out” by force to get their stuff done. Students are a disposable commodity to them–much easily discarded if, like me, they seem to present a “problem” to administration–since there are so many willing, naive students ready to take any given place.

But are there so many eager students? What if the well of students who would want to come here would run dry? That’s the real-life drama of the next installment.

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A cousin of suspected killer Marine Cpl. Cesar Laurean told CNN Tuesday that he saw the wanted man near Guadalajara a week ago. Juan Antonio Ramos Ramirez said he did not know at the time the Marine visited him at his liquor store in Zapopan that Laurean was being sought by authorities for murder….

Mexico has had a long-standing record of refusing to extradite suspected murderers to the United States if they face a possible death penalty after conviction. Mexico is opposed to capital punishment.

The FBI plans to circulate in Mexico either matchbooks or business cards with Laurean’s photo. The Marine’s wanted poster is on the FBI’s Most Wanted List with a $25,000 reward.

It’s on now, brah!

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That’s NOT what I expected to see from Green Bay. As I saw Plaxico Burress saw through GB’s secondary like a hot knife through butter, the GB cornerbacks suckered on the simplest jukes, I had to wonder what all the fuss was about how awesome our cornerbacks Al Harris and Woodson were. When the secondary adjusted to get more “physical,” all that came of it was pass interference calls. Burress was visibly taunting Harris, and excuse my French, Harris did turn out to be the little bitch today.

I lost count of the missed tackles by ALL of the defense, but especially Woodson and Harris. Everybody was so flatfooted, lacking any fire, like the only thing on their mind was to get back to that warm bench. Well guess what? You got several months to sit your warm ass on the couch, because the season is over.

New York missed two field goals and had a touchdown called back because of a holding call. That’s 12 potential points that would have removed the need for an overtime in the first place–plays and opportunities allowed by the GB defense that should have never been.

But enough ragging on the defense, the offense didn’t exactly shine either. Favre in his press conference on Friday said he would like to sleep in on Sunday morning for a change, leaving the pre-game nerves to the younger guys. I think he slept past noon, because he hasn’t played that craptacular since Chicago’s loss. I don’t know if receivers were slowed down by the conditions on their routes and Favre didn’t adjust or what, but so many balls were overthrown (on the right route) or simply badly thrown (at the feet). Favre never looked comfortable and was constantly fiddling with his chinstrap. He too looked like he wanted off the field ASAP.

After throwing a pick while three defenders were chasing Favre to the sideline (throw it away already!), you’d think there would be restraint later when faced with similar circumstances. The interception on the very first possession in overtime was classically the worst of Favre. When the pressure is on, he feels the need to make the “big play,” and more often than not, he makes it for the other team. Manning threw his fair share of airballs and grounders to be sure, but other than one time, he didn’t cough up a pick under pressure, and certainly not at a pivotal point in the game. The stats of the two QBs were actually very, very similar; the difference was 1) the defenses, 2) penalties, and 3) the timing of the mistakes.

Nobody likes to lose, but losing because you were bested is respectable; losing because you didn’t achieve your standards (let alone excellence) sucks. Bart Starr was selected to present the NFC trophy to the winner: imagine the circle of history as Favre would have taken the stand to share the reception from GB’s legendary QB of yore. Imagine the Super Bowl matchup of Favre and Brady as GB and NE meet once again (in 1997, Bledsoe was the NE QB).

Now the only thing most of us can hope for to not have to endure more crap from New England fans than we’ve already had to deal with over the last few years is for the G-men to kick some ass against the Patriots. They showed in the final week of the regular season that they had a significant chance of toppling the Pats; now, with three more wins and all the confidence in the world combined with the lessons recently learned from 3 weeks ago, the Giants have an ever greater chance of getting the job done.

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