Boots 11:32 AM

I hate ugg boots.

And I typically don't throw a word like 'hate' around, but baby, these shoes take the cake. Now I've heard the argument that people wear them because they are genuinely comfortable, but lets face it, that's bull. Of course they're comfortable. So are the winter jackets my mom used to buy me that made me look like the Michelin man, but this doesn't mean that I wear it around town.

Ok, what I'm saying is this: before they graced the feet of supermodels, they were those shoes that you would find for 5 dollars on the sale rack at JC Penny's. This is what made it ironic when they showed up on the runway. But oddly enough, no one was walking around with them before they hit the big time. I doubt you would hear twentysomethings extolling the comfort factor of the ugg boot if Heidi Klum didn't own a pair. Really, the fashion world proved once again that they can slap anything on a sexy body and we will clamor for it like mice to the feeder bar. So don't go around pretending that the shoes are comfortable and this was the sole (get it) criteria that resulted in their purchase. If comfort was the only factor, then you would have headed back to that 5 dollar rack at Penny's rather than charge 200 bucks to your visa. I promise you, whatever Penny's has, it will be damn comfortable and even more ugly than those boots.

Sickness 6:28 PM

Surprise, surprise, all of the snow has melted just days before Christmas here in Chicago. Not that I even like snow, but it's really the principle of the thing. And of course Christmas has brought me a throat ache this year. The throat doesn't bother me too much, but its the medicine that's supposed to make it better. Regardless of the non-drowsy formulas, the reflection of my head gets larger and larger in the computer screen as I nod off. Deep down, though, getting sick is always nice in a few ways. You get an excuse to sit on your ass and watch TV without feeling judged, and sleep until noon without having the covers ripped off by siblings/loved ones.


To relax this week and put the bustle of Christmas shopping behind me, I've started a Dan Brown novel that isn't the Da Vinci Code (forgive me, I don't know the title). Dan Brown isn't dazzling me with his rhetorical prowess, but I'm sure it will be mindlessly entertaining. I'm not sure what it was about Dan Brown's books that make them hard to put down; my friends would always point out that the writing was rivaled by those little blurbs in LL Bean catalogues. Maybe something about reading makes you feel less worthless than watching the sequel to xXx on TNT (you know who you are).

Note the picture of Vin Diesel with the tag line, "a new breed of secret agent." Call me crazy but there isn't a whole lot of anonymity surrounding a 6 foot tall bald guy covered in tattoos leaving a wake of dead bodies in his path. But then again I'm sure it was a high octane thriller...

Home 8:40 PM

With finals behind me, I can finally take a few moments to step back and breathe before January. And of course by breathing I mean anything that isn't using my mind in a productive manner. Who says touring the glistening halls of best buy isn't educational? And the mall? I can't wait to opening my mind and wallet to those abercrombie clad ladies and gents, they just smell sooo great. Who can resist clothing when listening to those urban beats, thud, thud, thud, thud, so overpowering I can't hear my own heart beat. Super.

I see a pattern... 12:16 AM

I think I've been trying to tell myself something. Observe:

Elementary School:


Middle School:


College:


Wait. Wait, it'll come to me...I'm thinking about it...

Don't you understand? It's Art... 7:48 PM

Kennedy, R. (2007, December 6) If the Copy Is an Artwork, Then What’s the Original? The New York Times

Link here

This article brings up an interesting angle of appropriated art; what happens when the creator of the appropriated piece sees his work next to another (wo)man's name? To give a brief background, Artist Richard Price makes art by blowing up ads from magazines. Jim Krantz takes pictures for magazines and his pictures have been the subject of Mr. Prince's work. Jim Krantz's dilemma, that of being the victim of appropriation, brings up two points for me. First is that there is no line between craft and art, and whatever line critics try to draw is only as thick as their egos. Secondly, manipulating any aspect of a picture or found object that somehow causes a viewer to become more engaged with a picture or object, is art's game.


Krantz mentions in this article that “there’s not a pixel, there’s not a grain that’s different" in Richard Prince's works. He complains that he doesn't understand why he shouldn't get some credit. And the answer is really simple, when he published those pictures, no one gave them a second look. He was creating an advertisement that was only held in America's psyche for a matter of moments. Maybe some people saw it and said to themselves, "oh that's pretty" or "I could really use a cigarette" but I doubt that anyone contemplated the piece. Mr. Prince, by manipulating the work's size, gave it something it lacked before, iconic status; suddenly the picture deserved a second look. If Mr. Krantz had taken his pictures and played with size, maybe he would be selling his works at auction, but that's not the case.

As a point of comparison, Mr. Krantz asks, “If I italicized ‘Moby Dick,’ then would it be my book? I don’t know. But I don’t think so.” His comparison is moot because Moby Dick isn't an ad in the paper, or a short story on page 263 of Reader's Digest, its already an American Classic. Italicizing Moby Dick wouldn't do anything for the reader other than giving them a headache. If anything, I believe that Mr. Krantz is a little upset that he didn't think about size as a mitigating factor in how we view pictures. Nor should he, really, because he wasn't taking the pictures for art's sake, but to sell cigarettes.

At the risk of shooting myself in the foot, I posture, should Roy Lichtenstein owe comic writers anything? Should Robert Rauschenberg pay royalties to the tire company that made the tire in First Landing Jump? Probably not. And even though Mr. Prince is really maxing the envelope here (which might be part of his art's greatness), the same applies.

It's all about the bunny 7:52 PM

Playboy Enterprises has job openings at their corporate headquarters downtown. Its times like this when I wonder to myself, what would it be like to work at Playboy instead of going to medical school? I've attempted to weight the pros and cons of working for Hef:

Playboy, Pro: Stealing things with the Playboy bunny logo. I bet stationary is killer.

Med school, Con: Tests. Lawsuits. More tests, high suicide rates.

Playboy, Pro: Parties based entirely on how little you can wear.

Med school, Con: If people start taking off their clothes at parties, you feel sick to your stomach.

Playboy, Con: Perpetual reminder that Hugh is older than you, yet has sex with girls younger than your girlfriend.

Med school, Pro: Get to change your title to Dr. on personal checks.

Playboy, Pro: Casual, silk pajama Friday.

Med school, Pro: Save lives; not ashamed to tell your grandparents what you do for a living.

Playboy, Pro: Even your rich investment banker friends are jealous of the fact that you know how Victoria Silvstedt, playmate of the year 1997, likes her coffee.

I'm tempted to say that physicians try to make the world a better place, but really, playboy has dominated that category for men, so I'll call that point a draw. Now I'm sure that working for Playboy is like any other desk job, and that it isn't nearly as glamorous as it sounds. But lets face it, for both medical school and Playboy, you sign a contract to guarantee discretion. The difference is at Playboy, they want to keep you from ogling all the naked beautiful women you see, in medical school, they don't want you telling anyone about Mr. Smith's hemorrhoids.

Excellent. Fantastic. Superb.

These were just a few of the words that came to mind when my soon-to-be neuroanatomy professor emailed the class informing us of some optional but useful christmas reading. The title of the book really draws you in "Sidman's Neuroanatomy, A Programmed Learning Tool" and makes you yearn for more.

Just say it to yourself a few times, Sidman's. ssssidman's, mmmmm.....sssssidmannn's.

I'll attempt to restrain myself for you, gentle reader, knowing that with each elegant brain region formally named, your already insatiable hunger for neuroanatomy grows.


It's not that I don't enjoy neuroanatomy, it's more that with two weeks until winter break cabin fever is setting in, sans the cabin. I might argue that cabin fever is less taxing than finals, simply because cabin fever doesn't involve scantron tests and powerpoint.

My state of mind is best illustrated by an anecdote from today on the elevator. While conversing with a fellow med student, a dental student from my undergrad school hopped aboard on his way to anatomy. "Hi, Steve," (his name isn't actually Steve, rather, I think Steve is a funny name. Sorry everyone out there named Steve.) I said. "Headed up to anatomy?" "Yep, Chris, we're almost done, it's the only class that I'm getting a B+ in and I hate it."

It was at this point that I exchanged glances with my med school friend and you could tell that we were both scanning the elevator for a blunt object. Constant, high grades to us, like the yeti, have become the stuff of legends. We've heard stories but can't confirm the report.

"well, good luck!" I said, while swearing under my breath.


Ah, I guess this is what tests and depression does...

Romero, S. (2007, December 2) Venezuela Votes on Whether to Give Chávez More Power. The New York Times

Link here

I think I speak for every American when I say, Hugo Chávez is a handsome man; I think we even shop at the same Kohls. I know that my democracy-toppling color of choice is red, and it always has been. One day I hope to smell myself in public like he is in this picture.