The Fifth Column

Over the past few weeks an insidious new menace has slowly advanced upon us. It has crossed our borders, invaded our homes, and watched us as we slept at night. It is ever increasing in number, ever resolute in purpose, ever purposeless in its existence. It is: tiny, little damn flies.

Stowaways on my houseplants, the first tiny flies immigrated into my home unknowningly and inconspicuously. Establishing themselves in the terracotta pots they were tolerated even welcomed at first, often working the jobs I myself did not want to work. Within days, however, their numbers increased and they were often to be founding loatering around the windowsills or flying about drunkenly with no apparent goal or purpose in mind. Simple police measures were initiated and a few flies were made examples of in the hopes that the rest would leave, but this would only be the beginning.

Emboldened by their numbers and little, tiny fly brains they grew more aggressive. Flying about at all hours of day and often seemingly intentionally flying directly into my face and eyes whenever it pleased them, the crackdown continued and negotiations were attempted. Deadlocked after the first few promising rounds, the dialogue ended over the flies refusal to concede measured autonomy and the right to fly up my nose whenever it pleased them. It was then that the decision was made for a more forceful response.

Over the next few days fly squashing picked up dramatically both in absolute numbers and in intensity. Now flies were no longer smashed only when behaving egregiously, but whenever found and in all instances. Periodic fly swatting campaigns were undertaken in the hoping of reducing their numbers. As their populations only increased, however, reproducing like some sort of crazy reproducing thing, little bowls of water and sugar were laid out at their favorite spots as traps which would eventually take the lives of dozens if not hundreds of the annoying little buggers. The conflict, now arguably a smoldering low level war, only continued.

It is now the present day. With fly corpses all over the friggin' place, and hundreds more in my vacuum cleaner, the campaign continues still. In an escalation of hostilities I have since purchased an insecticide spray with which I have doused the tiny flies' homes and hopefully their tiny fly playgrounds and schools. My skill in slapping the bejeezus out of them mid air has improved remarkably though there is, as of yet, no sign that their numbers are declining. If current military actions fail I may have to resort to napalm or a box of tiny frogs. There can unfortunately be no compromise. The tiny flies follow an ultraconservative, fundamentalist ideology. To them flying into my ear at night fully knowing their impending disintegration amongst my fingertips is an act of holy sacrifice where in heaven they will be accordingly rewarded, presumably with the chance to fly into other peoples' ears at night. There can be no peace until there are no flies. There is no other way; there can be no other way. Please by war bonds to aid us in this effort.

The current fly alert levels is burgundy. Be suspicious of things!

A Brief Visit

This last weekend my brother and sister-in-law visited with their dog and dog-like thing. Being in the Cardiac Care Unit (CCU) still I was semi-lucid throughout most their visit which is about 25% more lucid than I typically am in the intensive care unit. Despite the wacky hours and Sushi's repeated attempts at thwarting good times by her unrequested pooping and stick leg punch assaults we managed to have a reasonably good time complete with Robin Hood, Sea World, and the requisite Nerts play.

The best part, though? Toxic Waste candy. Between visiting Sea World's timeless Cannery Row Caper and the slightly less entertaining spray-water-in-your-face 4D Pirate movie experience we visited the candy shop which, in addition to the standard candy fare, advertised Toxic Waste: Hazardously Sour Candy. It was sour, no doubt, but I would have hesitated to call it hazardously so. As such, in the interest of ascertaining the truth, we then insisted Adam eat six of them at once. He survived with little more than some superficial sloughing of the oral mucosa and with little in the way of face puckering. Still not terribly hazardous. Then we saw that they were made in Pakistan. He now has cancer.

Anyways, here, finally, are photos from Canada.

The Loose Moose

Canada, it seems, is the land of wacky restaurant names. C'est What?, Kit Kat Italian Bar and Grill, Fred's Not Here, Burrito Boyz, The Jerk Spot, Joe Mamas, The Red Tomato, Hey Lucy, Forget About It, and, of course, The Loose Moose. Much more creative at least, than San Antonio's perennial favorite, Taqueria Jalisco Arandas #4 which about every third restaurant is named. And they were tasty too!

There was of course more to Toronto than good food; though, skinny people! I had forgotten what it was like to be in a city of attractive individuals. We undoubtebly brought down the standard in our highwater, navel hugging dress blues, but being a polite people the Canadians didn't seem to mind.

The conference from a conference perspective was a success, I guess. There was much conferencing at least. And I was right, it basically was both a series of boring lectures by distinguished guests and internal medicine dance party. If by internal medicine dance party you mean more boring lectures by distinguished guests. Thankfully they were interesting boring lectures, and by and large fairly educational. There was also a moose sculpture painted in a rather dapper tuxedo at the special events center that I am still sorry I did not get my picture taken with.

When we weren't conferencing we were poster presenting, and that was unfortunately not quite as successful. Although I displayed my poster with the best of 'em, it won me no prizes. Which, we all know, is the sole purpose of presenting research posters. I am hopeful the judges are regretful of their decision and lying awake at night troubled by the knowledge my genius went unacknowledged. If so they may send any and all reconciliatory awards and medals to me directly at an address to be given upon request.

And when we weren't poster presenting we were... drinking recklessly? An overstatement perhaps, but my co-residents it seems like to party and no party is complete, Canadian or otherwise, without significant sums of alcohol. Everyone was safe and classy, no doubt, but safe and classy and somewhat inebriated. Thankfully Toronto is a travel friendly town and whether through taxi, or metro, or bus, or foot, or bike, or rollerblade everyone made it home safely. Likely because no one took to rollerblading.

Then there was a trip to Toronto Island where we road slightly effeminate bicycles. Visits to an amazing museum or two. An aborted trip to Niagara Falls thanks to a complete absence of rental cars. Some Tim Horton donuts (which it turns out are just "alright" if my Canadian brethren may forgive me.) And a whole lot of aimless city wandering.

I cannot say I completely experienced Toronto or even got a true, adequate taste of Canada, but I can say it was a pretty good time. Will definitely have to go back some day. No doubt aboot it.

Oh, Canada...

Canadian photos pending future computer cooperation. They're just that awesome. And my computer is just that not cooperative.

Who Got the Funk?

We got the funk.

All of it. Right here. At University Hospital.

I have worked at many hospitals in my long and storied life, but none quite as funky as University. Specifically, funky smelling. Brooke smells like molded plastic and Wilford smells sometimes a little moldy, but University smells like sweat, pee, sweaty pee, and a hundred other things. I am not sure if this is a county hospital thing or just a San Antonio thing, but I have smelt some pretty unspeakable smells. With the construction taking place immediately adjacent to our team room the scents have been accented recently by what I can only guess are the odors of latex paint and rubber cement which transitions to maple syrup if you huff enough of it. If trends continue I may turn to adorning all my patients with pine scented car fresheners, spraying them down with Lysol spray prior to interviews, spraying myself down with Lysol spray prior to interviews, or just sticking coal briquettes up my nose. Regardless of the solution, this funk cannot go on forever or I will not go on forever. It's just too funky.

Thankfully, the Vistana currently smells like San Clemente. I am grateful for flowering Jasmine.