Sir Mix-a-Lot's saddest days.

Evolutionary biologists propose that as our hominoid ancestors came out of the trees to live on the ground, they adapted a number of traits to make their lives easier.  One necessity was the development of extra padding on the hands and feet; no sense in wandering on hardened soil without some cushioning.  A second pad arose thanks to our gluteus maximus muscles - we developed a butt.  In the monkeys and apes, the butt became a status and reproductive symbol, often turning bright colors and becoming more prominent.  In humans, we're not sure what happened over time.  Some people retain a more "ancestral," if you will, butt that we deem apple-bottomed, ghetto booty, etc.  However, more and more of us are becoming assless "backs with cracks," and it's kind of sad.  Oh toush, where have ye gone?

To my eye, the behind is still an attractive sight.  A tightened, smooth, athletic rear end makes my heart go pitter-patter.  And for those who have had the joy of grabbing a handful of quality cheek, it's wonderful.  The frequency these occurrences is diminishing rapidly, and nowhere as obvious as in the town I now live, and especially on campus.  We actually have reached the condition of anti-ass.

Now there are people who have an ass, people who have less ass, and people I would consider having negative ass.  I define negative ass as those people whose butt not only doesn't stick out, but actually curves inward.  A sad state indeed.  Two semesters ago, though, I actually encountered anti-ass.  Now, please understand that this ass presented itself not because I'm some perv who stares at student backsides, but because this ass was so absent as to draw attention to itself.

The owner of the anti-ass was a short weedy freshman.  Not only did his butt cave in, but his wallet sagged to the point of forming a pouch sitting atop sagging slacks.  It was amazing - this area of ass dark matter with no form or function, no substance, no nothing.  My friends and I deemed it anti-ass, for we were sure that if his backside ever happened to brush against someone with a butt, the universe would be torn apart in a brilliant flash of asstopian energy release killing us all immediately.  Yes, it's that bad.

Obviously, we no longer live on the ground per se.  How many of us go to work, sit on the hardened savannah, and walk on all fours to lunch.  Our need for an ass has essentially vanished, so it's not surprising that it diminishes accordingly.

So, to Anthony Ray, who brilliantly wrote:

"So your girlfriend rolls a Honda
Playin' workout tapes by Fonda
But Fonda ain't got a motor in the back of her Honda
My anaconda don't want none unless you've got buns hon"

it seems that Baby got Nothing.

Kris vs. Snail (Cosmo Says You're Fat remix)

This is in reply to a stream-of-consciousness blog on a friend's site.  Since I don't know the original questions, I'll mimic as best I can.  It's imitation, but I'm not sure it's flattering.

1. Coca-Cola is the best soft drink, and for some reason tastes best out of a fountain machine (like at a McDonald's or a gas station).

2. I read when I can, but I get bored easily doing it.

3. I read whatever my friends tell me to read, provided I trust their opinions on such things.

4. I have no single favorite food, witnessed by my girth.

5. Cheese can make anything taste better.  My homemade pork dry rub is second.

6. Being from the midwest, we prefer the tangy zip of Miracle Whip, but I appreciate mayonnaise.

7. Professional wrestling is fun.  It's genetic for me - my grandfather watched it, my mom and aunts watched it, my friends and I watched it.  Yes it's fake and numbingly ignorant.  However, it's a great distraction for a few hours and some of the athletes are smoking hot.

8. I love seafood and can't cook it worth a damn.

9. I've trained myself to be a morning person, mostly because I don't sleep well at night.

10. I love music in almost all forms.  Even the stuff I 'hate' I can usually appreciate.

11. I have so much time in my life that commercials don't bother me.

12. That said, I work on my computer a lot while watching TV.

13. I can eat a grapefruit like an orange.

14. I used to love comic books.  Real comic books mind you, not the 'graphic novels' and mangas of today.

15. I'm an Aquarius, so if your radiator overheats, I'll apparently bring you water.

16. My favorite fruit is a tie between a Calhoun peach and a golden delicious apple from Doc Stone's orchard.

17. Having the peaches all the time spoils me; I won't get the apple since I can't go home when they are being harvested.

18. I have always wanted a job in science, though I have a burning desire to be a chef.

19. I watch TV and movies to escape, not sort through them for issues.

20. No really.  It has to be a huge leap of faith for me to even notice.

21. I love to be touched, in romantic, perverted, and otherwise platonic ways.  I was raised in a very tactile environment and family.

22. I'm reading The Avatar right now.

23. I learned to play chess in grade school and suck at it.

24. My favorite game is Scrabble.  I use word finder sites when playing on-line shamelessly, but it builds my vocabulary.

25. I normally sleep on my stomach.

26. I love Christmas.

27. I'm apathetic about birthdays.

28. I was voted most likely to succeed in grade school.

29. I have held a gun twice in my life: my father's pellet gun; and my friend's pistol from her glove box.

30. I can find good in most people.

31. Those I can't can feel safe, see #29.

32. I'm right handed.

33. My dad's dad was ambidextrous.

34. My handwriting is excellent, and has gotten better over time.

35. My favorite cake is yellow marble cake with chocolate frosting.

36. I like some dogs.

37. I love cats.

38. My favorite color is blue.

39. But I don't know why nor really think about it.

40. Comics, like other forms of entertainment, are meant to entertain.  Hence, I don't think about them.

41. The Superfriends' Batman was weak.  The live-action Batman of my youth was delightful.  Michael Keaton was good, Val was ok, Clooney was eh, and I haven't done the dark knight thing yet.

42. Most comedic things aren't really funny.

43. I drink a lot of water.

44. Iced water is nice too.

45. I like Starbucks because I like strong coffee, not that it matters because I only drink decaf.

46. I like a balance between alone time and with people time.

47. I was never in a school band.

48. So I don't have any "last summer in band camp stories."

49. Which makes me unique among my faggle (noun: a gay cohort).

50. I love onion rings.

51. My boss's son in high school killed himself.  That's the only person I knew personally to commit suicide.

52. I learn best by doing.

53. Reality TV is crap, and I want to know why I'm not getting paid for someone to follow me with a camera watching me do uninteresting things.

54. Most blogs irritate me.

55. My favorite ice cream is Kopp's Custard on 27th Street in Milwaukee.

56. I was called for jury duty once.

57. I had to get an Alabama drivers license then drive to Wisconsin to prove I didn't live there to get out of it.

58. I'm as punctual as I can be.

59. I can't stand other people making me late.

60. I've never wanted a sibling.

61. If I had one, it would have been a brother.

62. We never had a foreign exchange student live with us.

63. So this slot is not applicable.

64. I use Dial soap and Suave shampoo.

65. Because I don't see the point in using more than that when they leave me clean and I don't smell bad.

66. I love M&M's.

67. I broke my leg in junior high school.

68. I'm 20/LP without my glasses on.

69. X-ray vision would be cool but only if you could control depth of field and focus.

70. Brushing my teeth the penultimate part of my morning routine.

71. I want to learn to SCUBA dive.

72. I have no interest in being an airplane pilot.

73. I want to win the lottery.  Big money.

74. I'm glad I'm an American.

75. I've never smoked crack.

76. I was never on a student council or government body.

77. Some of my dreams have come literally true.

78. Until I met Zoloft.

79. I judge people that can't spell and/or use poor grammar.

80. I intimidate students, and my friends think I'm a trouble maker.

81. I really have a heart of gold, just good luck getting to it by yourself.

82. I need personal space, but don't mind if select people invade it.

83. I've never used drugs of any kind, save for ones prescribed for me, and even then I only take them as directed.

84. I'm afraid I'd like them.

85. I got my first passport when I was a junior in high school.  It's long expired.

86. I like to learn, and didn't mind school too much.

87. I like museums, thought art museums are probably my least favorite.

88. Bookstores bore me to death.

89. I have been to my local library once since moving here.

90. I do crossword puzzles in ink and finish them.

91. I chew gum in other people's cars.

92. Toilet paper should roll from the top.

93. I have no piercings or tattoos but secretly want both.

94. I have never seen every episode of any TV show.  I think I'm close with Law and Order.

95. I like candy.

96. I never feel my age - my body is much older than my mind.

97. I can't read in a car.

98. My favorite 100 Acre Wood character is Pooh.

99. I love broccoli.

100. I hope my life inspires others, or at least has a positive lasting effect.

Love spreads (like a contaminating oil slick)

So apparently this week's lesson is about love.  What is love?  Love is the power that brings us together.  Or in the following three examples, does totally random things with our minds and lives and makes our friends wonder behind our backs.

Case #1.  A student I know from the university, taking a year off before working on his masters.  Queer as a three dollar bill, and as a friend would say, his picker is broken.  That is, in the past, quality mate choices haven't been high priority (the ignorant dyslexic was a gem).  Today, he announces his love of a woman at work, and that they are in a serious relationship.  Claims it was totally unexpected but worth a go.  Had sex with a girl once when drunk years back, and apparently back at it.

Case #2.  Co-worker has a friend in from out of town to help her with some home improvement projects.  Friend used to live in town here, now lives a couple hours away.  She obviously has feelings for him, as witnessed by her gazing longingly up the ladder he was on replacing a lightbulb.  She talk about him 'that way' when he's not around, but won't make the obvious move to pursue things further.  Might have something to do with the overarching feeling by her friends that she needs a woman or new washing machine.

Case #3.  Co-worker who lacks any interest in physical contact with someone.  Claims it's temporary until he warms up to them, and recently has shown a willingness to try with a friend of his.  However, thinks of it more as an "all on, all off" switch.  I blame his formative years, but who knows.

So what of this love thing?  It all seemed so simple and utterly boring to hear my parents talk about their courtship.  My mom liked my dad, my dad liked my mom, and now almost 40 years later they're inseparable.  When did we complicate it so?  Gay men dating straight women, straight women ignoring their feelings and giving off a lesbian vibe, and a pseudo-asexual.

Maybe love is the problem.  Maybe we'd all be better off professing our undying like of someone to save all the stigma that comes with the other l-word.  Maybe it stems from fear of rejection?  Maybe it can't be simplified down to any common denominator other than people are strange.

I recommend NIH puts a lot of money into figuring it out though.  I don't have time to find new friends.

Cover your mouth, you're getting sparkles on me.

I am truly thrilled that gay/lesbian/bi/trans/whatever teenagers are able to express their true selves now more than ever.  Whether it be due to real acceptance or just desensitization, these people can transition into adulthood with a sense of self-realization that we elderly (at 35 I'm near gay death) could only dream of having had.  But with this new awareness comes responsibility, and far too few of them are taking it.

My case study for this point is an incoming freshman we'll call Chuck*.  He is tall, good-looking, with dark hair and a nice smile.  He also swishes, head bobs, holds his wrist in that seemingly uncomfortable bend, lisps, wears all the right clothes, and has a gaggle of girls around him at all times.  Spend 30 seconds with him and even the least sensitive gaydar pegs itself on "uber."  He's here, he's queer, and he's fabulous.

I met him last year as part of a high school science outreach program we do.  He returned this year as a mentor, and will attend the university in the fall.  The students love him and the faculty find him endearing.  He is a great face for our program and what we try to do.

Now, I am computer savvy, and I use Facebook to keep up with friends, colleagues, and my students.  Last year Chuck and a bunch of other high school participants added me to their networks, and I occasionally see what's going on with whom.  So, when I found out Chuck was coming back, I checked his Facebook page and read more about him.

Chuck and his group rotated through to my project in the outreach program, and as the students were working, I overheard Chuck and them discussing dancing.  Someone asked if Chuck could dance.  I replied that he could dance very well.  This was based on two pieces of evidence: 1. that Facebook has videos of Chuck dancing posted on it, and he can move; and 2. boys like Chuck can dance, they just can.  Chuck looked puzzled and asked how I knew.  Kiddingly I replied that as faculty we knew everything about everyone, that it was part of our job.  Chuck got pale, and then got paranoid.  "What do you know about me?  Have you seen me out?  What have you seen?  You know EVERYTHING about me?"  I assured him I was just teasing and he slowly calmed down.

Now here is where the responsibility part kicks in.  One look at Chuck's Facebook page screams 'I am a homosexual.'  Rainbow buttons, openly gay students in his friends list, cliche gay phrases.  Watching Chuck in action screams 'I am a homosexual.'  If Spinal Tap made a gayometer, Chuck would be 11.  Again, I have no problem with any of this.  Good for him.

But I apparently pulled back the curtain on the big gay Oz.  I made his faggotry real because someone outside of his comfort zone KNEW.  And in that realization that his public secret was known, his world spun out of control.  Chuck wants to be a billboard for being gay, but when someone points it out to him, he freaks out.

Hence the need for responsibility.  Be who you are.  Be proud of what you've done, and how you live your life.  Keep your head up.  Rah rah.  But, be willing to maintain your stance when someone asks you about it, or if you are put on the spot.  If you are going to advertise, make sure the product is ready.

_____________________________________

*It could just as easily been Bruce or Dwayne.

Is there a DSM code for life?

My general practitioner recently left private practice to manage a primary care clinic whose clientele includes lower class minorities in the city.  The clinic is a fantastic resource, and it is nice to see quality care being given to those frequently labelled less fortunate.  As a patient of his, I've had to get used to differences in the clinic versus private setting; things are much more general and less patient-personalized, and everyone gets checked for the same suite of symptoms/issues, as well as whatever specific complaint brings them in.  So I was a little surprised when, as I waited to see him regarding the results of my latest cholesterol screening, I was presented with a small electronic box by one of the clinic employees.  She informed me that it was a "psychological screening tool," and that it helps the doctor identify problems that people usually don't like to discuss with their physician.  I happily played along, pressed the answer buttons as I was prompted to, and proceeded to forget all about it.

Fast forward one month, and I am waiting in line to "check out" at the clinic.  As I waited, I decided to flip through my chart; my main interest was to see if my weight had changed any.  I happened across the results of my "psych screen" that the box spat out.  It said I was borderline depressed.  No shock there - we always joked in grad school that the 12 signs of depression were pre-requisites for a Ph.D.  But the next line of the results sent me reeling.  According to the psych box, I suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder.

Wikipedia reports the following regarding PTSD:

The diagnostic criteria for PTSD, per the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders IV (Text Revision) (DSM-IV-TR), may be summarized as:

A. Exposure to a traumatic event

B. Persistent re-experience

C. Persistent avoidance of stimuli associated with the trauma (e.g. inability to talk about things even related to the experience. Avoidance of things and discussions that trigger flashbacks and reexperiencing symptoms. Fear of losing control.)

D. Persistent symptoms of increased arousal (e.g. difficulty falling or staying asleep, anger and hypervigilance )

E. Duration of symptoms more than 1 month

F. Significant impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning (e.g. problems with work and relationships.)

Notably, criterion A (the "stressor") consists of two parts, both of which must apply for a diagnosis of PTSD. The first (A1) requires that "the person experienced, witnessed, or was confronted with an event or events that involved actual or threatened death or serious injury, or a threat to the physical integrity of self or others." The second (A2) requires that "the person’s response involved intense fear, helplessness, or horror." The DSM-IV-TR criterion differs substantially from the previous DSM-III-R stressor criterion, which specified the traumatic event should be of a type that would cause "significant symptoms of distress in almost anyone," and that the event was "outside the range of usual human experience." Since the introduction of DSM-IV, the number of possible PTSD traumas has increased and one study suggests that the increase is around 50%.

Soldiers who witness war and death and people getting blown to a fine dice get PTSD.  Cult survivors have PTSD.  But me?  Academics aren't supposed to have it.  We are the educational illuminati, the professional thinkers who revolutionize the world one brilliant creative spark at a time.  We do not get PTSD.

Now obviously the next thought was the obvious one: what trauma was I exposed to?  My first guess was the violent car accident my parents survived in 2003 as I moved to my first real academic job.  But, my symptoms date back to when I was a teenager - panic attacks, bouts of OCD and depression, and the like.  But as I scanned my life for obvious traumas I was left wondering.  My life has been relatively easy for its entirety: a family that loves and accepts me; a good job; great friends; financial stability - the list goes on and on.  Sure there were rough spots; nobody grows up perfectly.  But PTSD?

My real concern shifted shortly thereafter to the other people in my doctor's clinic, sitting down for whatever condition they present, having to answer the questions in the little dark box.  I have the luxury of a college education in science, of understanding the medical issues that affect me psychologically, of being reasonable well read and self aware, of having worked in a pharmacy for over a decade in high school and college, and of my mom managing a psych clinic.  I understand why I have my panic attacks, the physiological goings-on in my body when they occur, and why my medicine keeps them in check.  I understand it all, and I don't need a box explaining it to me.

But take that patient in the next room over.  The clinic demographics suggest they are dark skinned, of below average income (which here tops out at ~$26k/yr), and have been taught at schools with few to no resources.  Many of them are middle-aged and older.  And they too have been presented with the box.  And many of them will come back with diagnoses of depression, PTSD, or worse.  What in their lives made the box decide?  Have their eyes seen civil rights change, have their souls known oppression that I can't imagine?  The box is silent, only letting the world know what number to assign to their condition, so they can be treated appropriately.  My guess is that they will respond like I did, that these things are just part of life.  But now life has symptoms, and treatments, and codes.  They probably won't understand all the medical terms being thrown at them, telling them why they are suddenly "sick."  They likely won't know what the pill the doctor told them to take does, just that it "helps."  They can't understand serotonin re-uptake inhibition any more than they can describe the workings of the Space Shuttle.  It's not in their experience.  But the box made it their life.

I asked the doctor this week about my PTSD diagnosis.  He laughed.  "Well of course you have PTSD, you went to graduate school."  A normal life gives you PTSD.  What does a real life give you?