My plagiarism problem

Well I just got my Loma Linda University School of Medicine acceptance letter, so at this point I'm very certain that I will be starting medical school next year. Not that I was ever really worried. It's funny; I got a personal email from Dean Hadley (the Roger Dean, not the Dean Dean, who isn't a dean as far as I know) informing me of my acceptance, and in it he addresses me as "Johnny," which I found humorous because it seems that even though we are on informal terms, a letter from the school of medicine seems like it might be more formal. Espy went to the tae kwon do class we just signed up for (at $2.50 a month), and said it was fun. I sat it out (or really, lay it out; I was asleep on my bed) for ankle reasons. OK, that's another story. Espy and I, for a few weeks now, have been asking the management of the compound to invest in the repair of the basketball hoop here, and just the other day we went by it to find that it was fixed (in the it finally has a rim sense, not in the rim being on straight or at 10 feet sense, because it's not straight, and I can dunk). So I ran back to our apartment and grabbed the only ball we have to play witha soccerball. Short story shorter, after playing a while and then chasing the ball through a flower bed that actually had an invisible wire fence around it (so it wasn't really invisible; it was just night and my vision wasn't so spot on) (also, if you don't understand the idea of a wire fence, think of it as a barbed-wire fence without the barbs, but able to tear the skin just from it's ability to withstand the force of a night-blind boy trying to run straight through it) I found that I wasn't so much in the mood to play any more. I'm also quite out of shape. So I returned to my apartment, only to discover that I'd left my keys at the court, so I once again ran there, and then back, and on my way back I rolled my ankle because it was dark and I was tired and the sidewalks here can be mountainous. It was this ankle issue that kept me from TKD tonight. Oh, Espy and I also got a note from one of the ladies who works in the ADRA office (actually, the same lady who took me to take the motorbike test, who happens to be the same one who went back to pick up my motorbike license today) asking if she can use our oven "to bake the bone of a black cat to make medicine for [her] son's asthma." Of course, this is no bother to us, but even if it was, I would have consented out of sheer curiosity. So i guess it's true. Curiosity killed the cat. A black one in this case. PS. The title of this blog will make sense to just about one person, and it's a gift from me to that person for allowing me to copy much of the material that is posted here from a personal letter to that person. That being said, I'm sure the title makes sense to a couple more people as well. PPS. Thank you all those lovely people who leave blog comments. I have finally achieved my myspace-long goal of having as many comments as posts.

My big bike test

Last Sunday I rose early to go to Vietnam's equivalent of the DMV to take a driving test so that I might get a motorbike license. This particular morning was a damp cold grey, and I was ill-prepared. From all past experience with government agencies everywhere I should have known that this process would take far longer than I would like, but as I left my apartment I looked at my hat and warm jacket and decided against both, opting only for a windbreaker in case it started raining again. Later, as I walked my bike to the start of the obstacle course, I felt like kicking myself again, but I had been doing that for the past couple hours, mostly in a feeble attempt to keep warm, and my numb legs were having enough trouble with the walk that I didn't trust them to try kicking. Having a US drivers license, I was able to procure a Vietnamese equivalent with little hassle ($$ and a couple weeks of processing), and was also exempted from the written portion of the motorbiking testing process. All that was required of me was a short skills test—navigating a figure eight, driving in a straight line, slaloming a bit, and finally negotiating some very tame speed bumps. This was all handled on one go, and took a moderately skilled driver about a minute to complete. The course is marked by white lines in a parking lot, which on test day is lined by many soon to be licensees. The officials have a desk on one side of the lot, and as they call out the name of the examinees the prospectful participants walk their bikes up to the entrance to the figure eight, don a helmet, are reminded of the course's pattern, and are turned loose. The figure eight really is the only difficult part of the course and therefore is the only part that the judges pay attention to; once one biker has completed this portion another would begin so there were two bikes on the course at any given time. Except in my case. My bike wouldn't start. I wasn't the only one feeling cold. By the time I got the motor running I was all alone, and the audience was getting impatient. Oh right, I had an audience in all the other testees (two Es) and each's corresponding boy or girlfriend. And I was near the beginning of my test group (though I had mistakenly waited through the previous group's tests, which did nothing to conserve body heat). Most bike-test audiences were rather inattentive, unless some old lady or man kept running out of the lines and putting her or his feet down to catch the bike before it toppled, at which point there would be some snickering and the remainder of the ride would be watched a little more carefully in the hopes that something scandalous would happen further down the course. My performance, had I been an old man, would probably have drawn such snickers. But I was a foreigner, and so they laughed outright. And for good reason. I got my bike started but I was in no way prepared for this ride. I was shaking, first from the freezing cold, second from fatigue (I had gotten only 80 minutes of sleep the previous night), and third from the fear that I might make a complete fool of myself in front of all those people. Appropriately, my bike shook with fear as well. Vehicle and driver looked like they were being electrocuted throughout the whole ride around the ocho. That I managed to keep the bike within the lines and upright hardly mattered. I was the spectacle they had all been hoping for. Look at that clown! with his white face and oversized shoes and colored nose (if I had to guess, I would say it was blue), just look at him shiver. Oho! He won't last a second on these streeets. As the buffoon on the bike exited the circus ring and proceeded to complete with relative ease the rest of the run, the following exchange took place between one of the officiating officers and the nice lady from the ADRA office who took me to the test: Official: "Is he seriously going to be driving on the streets?" ADRA lady: "Oh no, he'll be driving a car. He's much better at that. It's only office policy for our workers to have both car and bike licenses." So I passed. Addendum: In defense of the poor soul who has been made out to be so incompetent, I must say that Espy and I, on a number of occasions previous to this incident, have taken the motorbikes out around town without mishap. Well, we still get lost some and end up down darkened, deadend alleys, but what I'm trying to say is that I haven't crashed or caused a crash yet, thankyouverymuch.

My sales pitch

There comes a point in a man's work day where he looks at himself and wonders if he wants to be any more productive. Or at least I like to think that this phenomenon is common to all mankind, and is not just restricted to whiny boywimps. Regardless, this moment struck me around 8:05 (incidentally, this happens to be the same time I sat down at my desk this morning). Oh, allow me briefly to make one thing clear. I am not a nerd. I may be somewhat nerdy. I mean, there is the chemistry, and the video games, and the anime, and the small collection of science books that I read for fun, and the social ineptitude, and the slightly askew sense of humor, and the Star Wars cards, and the irrationally overwhelming fear of rejection. But those are quite minor. See, I got this happy dance and all sorts of sports trophies (ah summer church softball) and loads of girlfriends. Like heaps and piles of them. I can't even keep track of them all, much less their names, or the names of their dolls. They're all really cute though. I hope we get to go see them next week. Espy and I started visiting kids a nearby orphanage. Not sure how I got onto that topic. What was I saying before? Oh right, not a nerd. Definitely. I think I've made a strong enough case already. And for those of you who still aren't convinced, well I give up. Oh, speaking of rejection (well, I spoke of it a couple paragraphs ago; don't rain on my segue parade! I kinda wish I got to go to the Rose Bowl parade. And I kinda wish I had a brother named GOB who rode a Segway. Well so much for smooth. This is turning into one of my worst transitions), speaking of rejection, I got my first piece of medical school admissions hate mail from Mayo. So looks like there is no longer a possibility of me being in Minnesota next year. I'm not sure why I feel at all disappointed by this, but I do, if only slightly. Saturday is Christmas for all of Eastern Orthodoxy, so if you want to join my family for some pogacha and searching through straw for coins (this is mostly for the kiddies) and who knows, maybe a little slivovitz (ok, not really, we don't drink), give them a ring or just show up. And don't worry, it'll still be good wholesome Adventism Sabbatarianism; you aren't going to be asked to kiss icons or anything. Well, my dad might make you swear fealty to Pittsburgh and its sports teams.

Leaving PST

My newfound experience would be quick to tell that it is completely ill-advised to do something rash and brash moments before embarking on a 30 hour trip where you have nothing to do but think. Or maybe it's only my brain that makes for such a perilous prison. In any case, I am back in Hanoi. I was once again the last one waiting at the luggage carousel. Baggage is such a drag. I had only one small suitcase, and all that was in it was a huge box of cheddar goldfish (oh my favorite!), a large bag of raw almonds (another favorite!), a new soccer ball, and a new wireless mouse. So pretty much necessities. I had a good time at home. Of course, any week that affords me Erik, Greg, Katrina, Montry, Jennifer, Kara, Peter, Laura, Doug, Eric, Marcus, Jonny, Craig, Jill, Jay, Emily, Ginger, Lynsey, Lauryn, Carl and Lisa is wildly successful. Oh, and my family, I don't mind them either. Happy birthday Peter. I know this is a tad late, but in my defense, I spent your birthday on plane listening to little kids scream from the row behind me, and was unable at that time to post. Oh, I finally finished Dostoevsky, and am on to The Brothers K, by David James Duncan. So far it's about baseball and Adventism, and is awesome. Here's a few tastes just in case I can get any of you interested in it. Jarrod I'm thinking particularly of you. [this bit comes after the kids consider rewriting the Bible to include evolution] "Anyhow," Everett said to Peter, "you can bet any amout, any odds, the Christians will stick with the Bible they've got, sure as the Chicago Cubs'll stick with Wrigley Field—even though it's got no lights." Peter nodded. "Nightfall is to the Cubs," he said, "exactly what Charles Darwin is to the Christians." [the narrator is talking here, after his dad makes an EGW joke he doesn't get] All I know about Ellen G. White is that she was this super-religious 1800s lady who resembled our bulldog Gomorrah and wrote a book called The Gift of Prophecy, and the Adventists liked her book so much they hang her picture all over their churches, making it look like it's always Halloween. All I know about Ellen G. White is she isn't funny. Peter read her book once, and discovered she was the culprit who talked Adventists into banning meat-eating and makeup and jewelry and such. He said she also laid down the law about not going out on the town on Friday nights, but Everett argued that, judging by her face, it'd be a snowy Friday night in hell before anybody asked her.