(Ed. note: I've spent the past few weeks working on this, so I thought I'd let you know. The original chasekoo blog is available in the Kindle Store for $0.99 here. I know you can read it for free online, but I just really wanted to say that I published something, even if it's just an ebook. Also, it's kind of embarrassing to go back and read some of my early attempts at writing, but, hey, we all start somewhere.)

I visited New York City last weekend for the first time since the last time. And the last time was the start of something big, so this time will be interesting to see.

Met Janna. Good talk. Wonderful girl.

I hate the stomach-churning ups and downs of searching for love. As much as I try to steel myself against the whimsies of my emotions, every hint of reciprocal interest lifts me six inches off the ground and every minute of passing silence buries me six feet under. My only saving grace seems to be the gentle pull of God's actual saving grace.

I want to put these in writing during this momentary bout of clarity so that I don't forget:

My complaint is often that God should give me my heart's desire, so as to satisfy my longing, or (in my oh-so-praise-worthy self-sacrifice) take away my desire completely. But He doesn't want to take away my desire - it's meant to be there. Of course it is; He created it. But that gnawing in my heart isn't what I think it is. I'm looking at the wrong thing.

I've gone out on dates with good Christian girls, and our conversations have included good Christian talks. But have they been Christ-centered? And by that I mean, have we intentionally focused our discussion around the idea that this nascent relationship will be intentionally built on Jesus as the only goal? No, we usually spend the time talking about things we like to do, our friends and families, our careers, and try to get a feel for whether we may be compatible together. These things aren't inherently bad, and in fact, are helpful in completing the periphery of the picture of ourselves. But how can I hope for a Christ-centered relationship when I'm constantly making doughnuts?

Loneliness is difficult and frustrating and painful, but it would be far worse to be lonely together. By the grace of God, let us desire the doughnut hole.

I don't do well with too many choices.  I've jumped in with both feet into the seedy underworld of online dating, and, uh, I'm probably making it sound much worse than it is.  I don't really know all the rules of how this is supposed to go, and I'm likely breaking online dating etiquette all over the place, so I just hope I'm not unintentionally burning any bridges.  But then again, one little click and I can find myself a million new bridges, all nice and flammable.

But I don't like that.  I really just want to find one good girl and leave the winks and icebreakers behind.  And if she can put her head through an ice cream cone with a smile on her face, all the better.

Myung is trying to help me in real life.  Myung said Sulah knew a girl that she could set up with me.  I told him I don't want to know anything about her, lest I have some baseless reason for not wanting to meet her.

Myung: So I said I'll give you her number and you can call her.

Me: Okay.

He: But Sulah said that's not how it works.  She's going to set something up.

Me: Okay.  Wait, do you know this girl?

He: No.

Me: You've never seen her?

He: No.

Me: What?  If I'm not going to know anything about her, then you have to screen her for me.

He: Okay.

The next day he texted me.

He: Sulah got so mad at me for asking for a picture.

Me: Hahaha.

He: She's pretty.  She's too good for you.  Call her.  Here's her number.

Me: I thought Sulah didn't want that.

He: She doesn't want to get involved because you are mean.

Me: Hahaha.

So it's on by any means necessary.  Come on, heart: move, but don't break.

After Bruce Weber's firing, the one and only name at the forefront of media speculation to replace him was Shaka Smart. Smart was the head coach of the men's basketball team at Virginia Commonwealth University. In his third season as a head coach, he had led his team to the NCAA tournament for the second straight time, following up a surprising run to the Final Four last year. He was young, energetic, charismatic, and seemed to be on the verge of great things. So it seemed an obvious match for an up-and-coming coach from a mid-major school to advance his career by moving up to Illinois.

As is the norm in today's saturated 24-7 Twitterized media cycle, speculation became rumor became unnamed sources became a done deal. Reports came out that Smart was offered twice his current salary, facility renovations, and the opportunity to take advantage of the fertile recruiting grounds of Chicago. How could he say no?

He said no.

The night before he did, I knew he would.

*****

I love my dad. I do. But there are times when he tells me things that I rather wish he would have kept to himself.

He came over to my place a while back, and happened to start talking about my single-hood.

He: I know your mom is putting a lot of pressure on you.

Me: Yes.

He: Let me tell you something. You should try to find a girl who is affectionate. You want a girl who can laugh and be outgoing.

Me: Yes.

He: Your mom isn't like that. She's a hard-worker and sensible and a good person, but she never shows any affection. I didn't really know your mom well before we got married, but I met your grandmother and she was gregarious and funny, so I thought she would be similar, but she wasn't.

Me:

He: But you should try to find a girl who is affectionate.

And at that moment I realized that my parents love my sister and me very much, and appreciate everything that the other has invested in the marriage, but ... did they truly love each other? Or was this a marriage of propriety, held together for the sake of the kids, and after nearly forty years, they were now merely roommates, waiting for grandchildren?

As immigrant Koreans, maybe the children were more important than things like love. After all, they gave up their comfortable lives for the hope that we might have more. Maybe that's the choice they made.

*****

I met up with Parker last week and, among other things, we talked about how our generation of Korean-American Christians were starting to deal with the realities and difficulties of marriage and divorce. He said that the divorces that he knew about all had the wife, for various reasons, leaving the husband.

Each situation is different, so who knows? But I'm afraid of what it says about the men. Are they immature? Stubborn? Not willing or able to grow as a person and a partner? And the women? Are they dissatisfied? Selfish? Not willing to fight through the worse, the poorer, and the sickness?

Or do they just want to be happy?

*****

It's about choices. Sometimes you make a choice, and sometimes a choice is made for you.

Anson has been preaching on the book of Ruth and it's been encouraging. (But not encouraging enough)

Iris said that she finds joy in gratitude, and hoped that I would find the same. (But I haven't really)

Maybe there's something wrong with me. ( )

Bruce Weber was fired yesterday from his position as the men's basketball head coach at the University of Illinois. After a successful start at the beginning of his tenure, including a run to the national championship game in 2005, he was unable to maintain that level of excellence. His teams had missed the NCAA tournament in three of the past five years, and his record in conference play since the graduation of his predecessor's recruits was a mediocre 55-66. By all accounts, he is a very nice man who loves his family and runs a clean program. Unfortunately, all those things do not cover a multitude of losses.

I have nothing personal against Bruce Weber, but it seems pretty obvious that it was time for a change. The players weren't responding to his coaching, and the new director of athletics had no reason to hang on to a stumbling coach that he didn't hire. Sometimes, a relationship runs its course, and no matter how great things were at its peak, the best thing for everyone involved is to move on.

*****

I saw a movie called The Grey a little while back, about a group of survivors from an airplane crash trying to fight off the wolves and cold of the Alaskan wilderness. Near the end of the movie, the main character - exhausted, desperate - makes a plea to the heavens. "Do something! Show me something! I need it now! Not later! Now! ... I'm calling on you! I'm calling on you!"

The sky remains clear and quiet, and there is no answer.

"F--- it," he says, "I'll do it myself."

I also read a book review recently about a young woman who loses, in short order, her mother to cancer, any meaningful relationship with her family, and her marriage to divorce. Her response to this, irrational as it may seem, is to hike the Pacific Crest Trail, and somehow try to find deliverance in the 1,100 miles of physical penance.

Before the hike, she writes about being in her mother's hospital room. "I prayed to the whole wide universe and hoped God would be in it, listening to me. I prayed and prayed, and then I faltered. Not because I couldn't find God, but because suddenly I absolutely did: God was there, I realized, and God had no intention of making things happen or not, of saving my mother's life. God was not a granter of wishes. God was a ruthless bitch."

*****

Things resonate for a reason. There are times and there are situations that cause me to wonder. Yet still I wait.

I spent last week in Vegas for the ASC conference, and even though nothing terrible happened, I think I'll be okay if I don't go back to Vegas again for a good long while.

Work is less hectic because I don't have to study for the ABSITE anymore, but with deadlines for abstracts and presentations and conferences that never seem to end, I keep getting these headaches.

And as for my personal life, I'm not in a good place.

You may remember that the annual surgery in-training exam is at the end of January. Well, even during research I am required to take it and hopefully I won't mention it again for another eleven months or so. But that's what I've been up to.

So now.

Myung said he had a conversation at work with one of the girls that he teaches, Killian, age 9.

Killian: Who do you think is prettier, Taylor Swift or Katy Perry?

Myung: Uh, Katy Perry.

She: No way! Who do you think sings better?

He: Katy Perry.

She: No way!

And as he was telling this story, Kara emphatically seconded Killian's opinion.

Kara: I agree with Killian.

Me: Kara, let me tell you something that you can look back on in twenty years. Boys will always like the Katy Perrys and girls will always prefer the Taylor Swifts.

Of course, I kind of love/hate both.

I asked Myung how things were going with Sulah and he said things were going really well. He said he's hoping to propose sometime later this year and maybe get married next year. It seemed fast, but then again, not really. It mostly just made me wonder what I was doing.

Time to giddy up.

A few months ago, my dad said that he needed to learn how to use email because he would be getting more involved at his church. For my parents, who have never double-clicked anything in their lives, it was a big step. I took the old laptop that I had, pasted some Korean letters on the keyboard, and deleted everything except for two icons on the desktop: email and Joonmedia, the not-quite-legal Korean video streaming site. And they loved it.

Initially I got daily emails in Korean from both parentals, but once they started writing to their friends and families, I quickly became chan bop. And when I visited for the holidays, I would see my mom in the evening watching her Korean shows on the new laptop that we bought her for Christmas. I even had hopes of teaching her Skype. So things were good.

I had dinner with Sharon yesterday, and in between our usual arguing, as I was telling her about my parents' technological leap, she dropped this:

Sharon: Oh, Joonmedia got shut down.

Me: What?

She: The only thing on the homepage now is a video of Rick Warren.

Me: Why?

She: I don't know, but my roommate came to me yesterday and asked me if Joonmedia was working for me, because all she saw was Rick Warren.

It's true. All that remains where hundreds of Korean video links once were is one purpose-driven white guy. Because my parents' grasp of the idea of the internet is still rather tenuous, I'm not sure what they thought when they tried to open Joonmedia this week. My mom hasn't called me about it, probably because she doesn't want to bother me, but I'm guessing that she thinks she did something wrong. Don't worry, Mom, it'll be okay, I'll find you another site. This place is bigger and smaller than you can imagine.

I've been meaning to update, but I guess not really. The past few weeks have been a little busy, meeting up with people that I hadn't seen in ever/two months/six years/ten years/forever. And it was fun/strange/awkward/funever, but I don't have the energy to rehash everything.

My resolutions are the same as they've been since last year, and possibly the year before that. It wasn't that bad, though. I mostly/rarely/rarely/rarely kept them. Okay, it was that bad. Let's see if I can bump one of those up to a sometimes.

Other than that, I still have no idea what I'm doing with anything. Happy New Year!

On Sunday, after we watched the Bears get Tebowed, everyone headed to dinner to celebrate Sharon and my birthdays. We tried going to Sushi Para, but it was crowded and probably a little too pricey for a big group. Someone suggested a Thai place down the street, so we drove over. I had been there once before, a couple of months ago, and remembered it well. When we arrived, there was another big group of Asians waiting for a table, and while Myung thought it was fate, I'm still waiting for the gentle whisper.

Tonight I happened to run across a video of a blind 11-year-old Japanese girl who was the last finisher of the most recent Honolulu Marathon. I must be going through some hormonal changes as I get older because when I saw the little girl shuffle across the finish line towards her mother's voice and fall into her arms in tears, I lost it. I don't cry very often, and definitely not for some random story, but I don't care. I want to be that little girl at my finish line.

The singles mixer was a mixed bag. It wasn't really awkward at all, which isn't too surprising since the whole thing (big group, activity) was designed to avoid it. The guys all said they had a good time and the majority expressed some interest in getting to know the girls better. Unfortunately, most of the girls did not feel the same way. There were a couple of potential connections that were left for fate to work out, but the rest left with the same muted/casually hopeful/ultimately resigned feelings with which they initially came.

I met with Mike for dinner this week and he told me about these dreams that he was having. In them he was still with his ex-girlfriend and couldn't figure out why. He would wake up and the anxiety would slowly be washed away by reality.

I told him about the email that I sent a couple of weeks ago, and how she had responded so graciously, and how I felt so unburdened that Sunday as I led praise. I said that these things make a difference, that our relationships don't happen in a vacuum, and there are consequences to our hurtfulness. I said that we've all made mistakes in the past - I, most of all - and we may never be able to make up for it, but we can learn and we can grow and today can be merciful and tomorrow kind.

Or maybe not. Life is so messy.

When I saw John Choi at Ray's mom's funeral earlier this month, I asked how he was doing and he said things were difficult. I assumed that he was just talking about his commitments to various churches and organizations due to his inability to say no to anyone, but he explained that it was, in fact, his family. His mom had gone through treatment for liver cancer earlier this year, and he had just found out that his dad has metastatic prostate cancer. He looked weary.

My family had Thanksgiving at my sister's in-laws' place on Thursday. The original plan was to have it at my sister's house, but she called me last weekend and told me that plans had changed, that she'd just had a miscarriage. When I saw her on Thursday, I hugged her and told her that I was so sorry, and she said it was okay, but when she finally let go, she was crying and it wasn't okay.

Everyone did their best to be cheerful. During a conversation later that evening, my sister's mother-in-law was telling a (racist-in-a-Korean-way) story with interruptions by the brother-in-law and the father-in-law.

MIL: So she was talking about how it's so sad that black people get the worst of it. Some of their hair is so hard to manage, some of their skin is so dark, and some of them are so poor.

BIL: But they're so athletic.

FIL: Good dancers!

And the ridiculousness of his exuberance brought a smile to my sister's face and I was thankful for just that.

Since the holidays usually bring a sense of loneliness to the lonely - and at times, we're all a little lonely - I hope that we all at least get a smile for our troubles. And open endings can be second chances for the hopeless cases.

I could blame it on the fact that I was severely flu-ridden this past weekend and still possibly suffering from intermittent delirium, but I won't.

I had dinner with Parker yesterday and he had some tentatively good news about a girl that he met. He said things seemed to be going well, but it was still early, so he didn't want to get too far ahead of himself. I was happy for him, but it made me think.

I also had to send an email out to the Bethel men's group because, in anticipation of the singles mixer this weekend, all the joking had turned it into a big joke. I asked that we would be mature, honest about our intentions, expect honesty in return, and treat each other with kindness and respect. And that also made me think.

So I sent an email to the girl that I mentioned before, not asking for a second chance - we were a little beyond that - but with the hope that no one needed to feel diminished just because things didn't work out, and that we could part ways amicably, without bitterness or hurt. Maybe it was a bad idea and I should have just let it go, but I didn't. And it wasn't.

Good closure is good.

When Kayle recently told me that her church had a lot of single girls, I mentioned that my church had a lot of single guys. Not long after that I was writing an email to the Bethel men's group to gauge potential interest in a singles mixer. What follows are some quotes from the thirty-plus replies that came back this afternoon (edited for readability).

"If they're not looking for super successful, I am definitely qualified."

"I am a bit leery ... I wouldn't mind being someone's wingman, though."

"This event is on the condition that the woman will follow the man to his church, right?"

"You can't speak on this, married man! Let the single men enjoy the show."

"If they seek God, is Bethel not the place where you meet Him?"

"Men at Bethel really make women to seek God and Him only ... ask Sharon."

"If any of you guys are on the fence about participating in a mixer, just come out and recruit some of these chicks to Bethel. Is this wrong, Pastor Anson?"

"Maybe we can set up a 'practice' beforehand for those of you who are nervous."

"Please let's practice. That's gonna be awesome."

"This is hilarious. What's more amusing is the mental picture of a 'practice' for this thing."

At this point, I think there is more support for the practice than for the actual mixer. Leave it to the Bethel guys to turn a potentially awkward situation into a complete mockery. Well, at least until the actual mixer happens, and then we'll get back to the awkwardness.

Speaking of awkwardness, I downloaded some new songs. After listening to Lenka sing "The Show" on YouTube, I decided to add a new batch of music to my iPhone. And since my taste in music is - to put it generously - questionable, this list should come as no surprise.

Lenka - "The Show"
Lenka - "Heart Skips A Beat"
Florence + The Machine - "Shake It Out"
Justin Bieber - "Baby"
Secret - "Love is MOVE"
Girls' Generation - "The Boys"

But I don't see why I should apologize for the generally crappy music that I like. What does it matter to me if other people think that my music sucks? I'm the one who's listening to it. Music with meaning? Or soul? Or even just technical virtuosity? Sometimes, sure, but sometimes I don't mind something silly that can put a smile on my face.

I remember reading an excerpt from Moneyball years ago about Jeremy Brown and a well-hit ball. When I saw the movie yesterday it was slightly modified, but basically served the same purpose. And for a movie that was ostensibly about taking the romanticism out of baseball, it found plenty to be romantic about in life.

When I was talking to Eugene about the single life, he asked me what kind of girl I was looking for.

Me: A ... good girl.

He: There are no good girls anymore.

I agreed with him because I knew what he meant, but of course there are "good" girls around. Unfortunately my history says that I don't seem to fit well with them. And the ones that do like me aren't "good" as much as they are "crazy" or "emotional" or something else that sounds potentially tempting but just ends up being someone who thinks I can deal with her baggage. Maybe I can, but I don't particularly want to.

Apparently I haven't met anyone that I believe would make me happier than I am being alone.

One thing that I've thought about is the idea that if I do meet someone new, she won't really know about my life. I mean, I could give a quick rundown of the past dozen years post-college, but she wouldn't really understand. Is that normal? Would I pretty much close the door to all that and want to start a new life and make new memories with this person? Would I throw her to my old/current blog and tell her to get back to me when she's finished? But here I go, worrying about a problem that doesn't yet exist.

Or maybe ever? Not to be overly dramatic, but if there isn't going to be a future wife, what am I waiting for?

In the movie, the little girl sings a song for her dad and adds her own line, "You're such a loser, Dad." The original ending of the song is a little different.

I want my money back, I want my money back
I want my money back, just enjoy the show

You can keep the money, I think I'll just enjoy the show.

I was sitting in my hotel room in San Francisco Thursday night and the world shook. Apparently a 3.8 on the Richter scale equals a few seconds of gentle rocking. Then the Bay turned and went on its way.

I met up with Eugene for a quick lunch just before my flight back. It had been years since I saw him last, but it was good to reconnect a bit. He seems to be happy and fairly settled out there. He said he's been playing plenty of golf, traveling a lot for work. And he said - and I didn't bring it up - he said he hadn't been to church in a long time. He went into detail to explain how he had trouble reconciling the God of the Old Testament and the New. It all felt a little bit like a confession, but I had no absolution to offer. We said goodbye and he said he would let me know the next time he visited Chicago.

I flew back very late Sunday night and landed in Singleville. The girl that I had met has turned her interests elsewhere. Things are still again and there is nothing new under the sun.

I'm a lot like you, so please
Hello, I'm here, I'm waiting



It's been a few weeks and she seems slightly less nice, but more real. That's a good thing. Unfortunately because we are both rather introverted, the process of getting familiar with each other has been unhurried. So at the Weezer concert yesterday, I found out a few more things. At the double risk of both schmoopifying and jinxing this budding relationship, they are as follows:

1. Her fingers are a blur when she types text messages. She credits this to her piano playing.
2. She was some type of cheerleader at some point.
3. She is slightly claustrophobic.
4. She put up with three hours of crappy opening bands with nary a grumble.

By some divine act of coincidental comedy, Myung also met a girl recently and has been having his own adventures in like. They text each other constantly and Anson took him shopping so that he can wear something besides t-shirts from youth group retreats or Walmart.

So even with our combined history of futility, we should be optimistic, right? But besides the fact that Myung was complaining about his eye twitching yesterday, why does this come to mind?



No, Hobbes. Let's see how this goes.

I think I'd be good for you
And you'd be good for me

I met a girl on Saturday. We were introduced by a mutual friend, although "friend" is probably a bit strong. It was a very pleasant dinner, and we finished up our conversation with dessert and non-coffee coffee. And she seems to be one of the most genuinely nice people I have ever met. That is causing me no small amount of distress.

I finished The Picture of Dorian Gray, the third pleasure read of my research years. Is it vain to say that I identified with him? Is it sad?

Me: She's a really ... good person. And I am not.

I remember hearing somewhere about how we shouldn't focus so much on what we want our future spouses to be, but rather try to be what our future spouses would want. Or some such cute phrasing. But time seems to wear down every conviction, and even if I was that person at some point, I've long since marred my portrait.

She: Do you drink coffee?

Me: I used to never drink coffee, but in the past year or so I've started drinking it more often. Maybe once or twice a week. How about you?

She: Every single day.

Will you believe me when I tell you that there was more conviction in those three words than in anything I've said in forever? I don't even know how to relate to that.

Yet.

We were at Myung's condo for game night and people kept commenting on his small tube TV.

Helanne: You can have my TV.

Myung: Is it a tube TV?

She: Well, yeah, but it's bigger than what you have.

And we're all waiting for someone to offer us a 70" flatscreen.

*****

I played Risk for the first time ever and ended up winning. I got lucky by starting with most of Africa and half of South America, then took a big risk and went all in to take out Sam from the rest of South America. After Anson and Myung all but wiped each other out, I simply marched to victory.

During the game, Anson kept joking that the risks he likes to take are the ones that guarantee that he'll win.

*****

It's been almost three months since I started research. I've learned how to grow and test cell lines, isolate proteins using immunohistochemistry, operate on mice, cut and stain samples, and most importantly, enjoy weekends off. I've helped clean out Arturo's landfill of a backyard, enjoyed my first Bethel EM retreat in many years, and helped organize the residency picnic (i.e., show up with booze). But apparently I haven't been spending my time doing the one thing I'm supposed to be doing.

*****

There's a girl I've seen a handful of times on my shuttle bus. She's younger than most of the people that take the bus from Union Station. She's girl-next-door pretty and dresses in conservative tops and dark capris. I remember looking at her and thinking, if life took a few turns here and there, we could grow old together and we could tell our grandkids that it all started with a passing glance on a bus.

*****

My mom told me the name of a girl that she thinks I should meet. She said that she got the information from someone that she knows. The name sounded strangely familiar, so I texted Parker about it. He confirmed that he had gone out on a blind date with her a few months back and not again because she didn't seem to have much interest in God.

I have not contacted her.

*****

When Anson started preaching on the fruit of the Spirit two weeks ago, I immediately requested to lead praise for the week that he would speak on peace. On Sunday I want to tell everyone that peace does not arise from the absence of doubt, but from the presence of faith. I want them to hear it coming from me because then I can hear it too.

Hear me, full of doubt. The Lord is with me.

Myung asked me to run and keep track on an iPhone app to encourage him to run and keep him accountable. I told him that I would be willing to walk. So I started walking home from work. It's a long way, but it's pleasant as long as the weather is pleasant. During one of these walks I took some pictures and messed around with them on a photography app.

When Joey and Harry mentioned having an outing at the beach, I was not unreasonably skeptical. It sounded like just another one of Joey's the-lady-at-my-dry-cleaners-told-me-about-this-church-with-twelve-single-girls plans. Those usually turn into sixteen, then fifty, then a puff of smoke.

But they proved me wrong. Yesterday was a touch over eighty degrees, sunny with a slight cool breeze, the lake water warm from a summer of boiling, and altogether just absolutely perfect. We had bratwurst, spicy pork, buns, mustard, soda, water, a football, a frisbee, and the most relaxing and fun Bethel outing that I can remember.

If that wasn't enough, I had a chance to talk to Anson for a bit about how things were going for him. Initially I thought it might have been a bad idea because it was clear that it was still very painful for him. Of course, why wouldn't it be? But he was honest and open and soon enough the other guys had strolled over and we were joking around about various schemes to bring girls to church.

Near day's end I was standing at the water's edge watching a group of Bethel people splashing out in the deep. The waves lapped at my legs and I thought about my church family, each one flawed, fighting the current that pulls us back, weighed down by our mistakes, but leaning back, letting go, and floating out to where heaven meets earth.

There seems to be a problem with writing Koreans. I just finished the second pleasure read of my research years, Super Sad True Love Story, which was not particularly super, I guess sad in a way (namely the parts that were true) and somewhat lurvely, but absolutely, positively not a porn star. I mean, a communist.

I mean, it was about a late-thirties Russian Jewish man looking for love from a physically and emotionally abused early-twenties Korean-American woman (at least about as much as The Great Gatsby was about a dirty nouveau-riche/pure old flame looking for love from a delicate fleur, only minus the unnecessary pseudo-French and written in Cerulean Satire crayon). Besides the annoying decision to narrate the story in alternating diary/e-mail/IM pattern without actually committing the effort to live by the limitations and idiosyncrasies of those formats, my main problem was that the female love interest was Korean-American. It's difficult to write Korean-American well. He does what he can, and it felt like it came from a combination of personal experience and Korean-American assistance (not really a good idea), which helped to at least make it sound authentic. The problem is that authentic Korean-American sounds like some horrific collaboration between a white (whiter?) Black Eyed Peas featuring Justin Timberlake and Michael W. Smith circa 1990 (or for Floridians, 2001), backmasking 2 Live Crew (How old am I? Why do you ask?). And, I guess Confucius. Personally, I think he should have gone with a South Asian love interest, but I suppose he should write what he knows.

Then there is the problem with writing Koreans. Here and there I've been reading Grantland, Bill Simmons and gang's sports/entertainment writing venture, and I've noticed at least one Korean-American among the mostly lackluster bunch (if I see one more post breaking down a YouTube clip or assigning a point system to the lowest common denominator without actual good writing in it, I swear). I don't like disparaging the work of a fellow brother, but I've found most of his writing to be fairly derivative, which, on that site, means that he's writing(/living) like a white man. American dream, you go. Except I'm not writing about any of them. So I looked him up. He is a Korean-American fiction writer who received an M.F.A. from Columbia, is currently living in San Francisco, made his name writing about his gambling addiction, and has written his first novel about a frustrated young writer with an M.F.A. who wanders through the plots of San Francisco. I'm not going to read this.

What I should do, especially now that I have more time, is put my six-figure debt where my mouth is and write something myself. I'm thinking maybe something about a black man studying architecture in Panama. It will give me the chance to write what I don't know, center the plot twist around a palindrome, and throw my writing at the mercy of the adoring public. My pseudonym, of course, will be Ben Caspian Dover.

I spent some quality time with this little guy today. He's giving me the stink eye because he knows I'm up to no good. Actually, it's a sleepy stink eye because he was pretty much knocked out at this point. I got to play the dual role of mouse anesthesiologist and surgeon, and, well, I have room for improvement. The good news for me is that I isolated the right femoral artery and the muscular side branch. The bad news for me is that I was unable to induce the wire to produce neointimal hyperplasia secondary to vessel injury. Everything was so small! The good news for him is that he was back running around with his mouse buddies by the end of the afternoon. The bad news for him is that he also has a left leg.

And apropos of nothing (but really, absolutely something), I think the one on the left is Pinky.

Before this past week, Adele was the British singer of the moment, with "Rolling in the Deep" being played on every station, (briefly) on my iPhone, and remixed into a bass/tub-thumping club beat at 3 in the morning (or so I heard). Personally, I found her a tad squeaky, but that's neither here nor there. Then Amy died.

I am not a music geek. I wouldn't even know how to begin to connois any melodic seurs. The little indie cred in my iTunes library came by way of Rhea's philanthropy half a decade ago. Still, even I could tell the broad could sing.

I don't know her story that well, partly things picked up here and there in the gossip rags, but mostly from what she told me. She had a problem with drugs and alcohol. No, that's not quite right. She had a difficult relationship with drugs and alcohol. And love.

Most of her live performances had stretches of looseness and/or disregard for cleanliness that was probably due to a combination of her demons and talents and a innate funk/funk. They make me wince, then not-quite-smile, and want to watch/listen to more. She died a hundred times, then she faded, as always, to black.

I overheard a conversation at church on Sunday. One fellow was talking to another about his job status.

Another: So, are you happy about your new job?

One: Oh, you know, it's just a job.

A: Yeah, I guess so.

O: Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to be getting a paycheck. Ha, ha!

Me: You

He had been looking for a job for months, and we'd talked casually here and there during that time about how tough the job market was, and about interviews that just didn't pan out, and finally about this potential opportunity where the first interview went just great and they were going to bring him back for the second interview but they had to push it back a week which hopefully wasn't ominous as long as the first interviewer had said some good things about him and I said I hoped that it would work out. That God would be gracious.

Me: Piece of

I didn't say anything. I pretended not to hear and walked away.

All this to say, I finished Franny and Zooey, the first pleasure read of my research years.

Today was the first day of the next two years, and it was predictably anticlimactic. I got a tour of the lab and went through a number of online orientation modules. I'm sure it'll take some time before I get settled, but I'm in no hurry.

It always takes my breath away for a moment, stepping out of the walkway and into the bright sun, when the expanse of perfect green opens its arms and welcomes me home. The team, well, it's bad to the point of depressing the eternally optimistic/drunk, but the building, even with its uncomfortable seats, creaky scaffolds, and troughs for washrooms, is still charmed.

I've been spending this week doing exactly nothing and it has been lovely. No plans, no schedule, not giving the alarm clock even a cursory look - it's been good, just what I needed.

My sister is off to Italy for her one-year anniversary and it reminded me how hectic things were around this time last year. This year, I'm relaxing, slowly getting ready for the start of research, and visiting the loved ones to whom I never did get to say goodbye. The grass was just as lush, and the arms were just as open.

Many of the nurses at Weiss are young and nice and attractive, but my favorite was Cynthia, who was not particularly young nor spectacularly attractive. Cynthia was the first ICU nurse at Weiss that I got to know last year. She was quick with a laugh and a hearty, "Hello, young man!" and made me feel comfortable even when taking care of sick post-op CABG patients. She was the first one to welcome me back this year, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary for the first month or so. I hadn't seen her around for the last few weeks, even though we had had a couple of heart patients during that time, but I'd just assumed that she was on vacation or something.

After I came out of the last case today, Aisha told me that there was some pizza in the resident room. I asked her where she got it, and she told me that, Pat, one of the nurse practitioners, brought it to try to cheer everyone up after the news of Cynthia's passing.

"What?"

A few weeks ago, Cynthia was diagnosed with advanced ovarian cancer. It progressed quickly and word came that she died today.

The patient population at Weiss is heavy with older nursing home types, so chronic illness, hospice, and death are fairly common issues, but this...

Cynthia, now who is going to take care of all the broken hearts you left?

Weiss is a strange place. It's a private hospital with private attendings and their quirks. Dr. T and Dr. D have dueling shirts down to their navels, gold chains, and a pheromonal cologne/pelvic walk. Dr. Z has a perpetual tan and no filter between his brain and mouth, and everyone loves him for it. Dr. C fixes hearts and lungs, but could probably sell ice to Eskimos. It's a different world. It's been interesting, but I won't mind finishing up the rotation this week and starting to get ready for research.

This rotation has been exhausting recently, and it's mostly due to being the senior resident on the service and having to deal with a rather emotionally volatile group of med students and junior residents. Managing the personalities has been much more difficult than managing, oh, I don't know, the patients. Anyway, things seem to have settled down a bit as the rotation draws to a close. Or perhaps I don't care as much anymore. Either one works for me.

Last week, after the night of debauchery that was our residency graduation dinner, I decided that I needed to get myself back together. And I am starting to slowly, and sometimes fitfully, reconstruct my character and my being. I think I've been here before, but better to risk falling again than never rising up.

Aisha, the second-year resident, is the same one who was on this rotation with me last year and nearly shamed me into becoming a better doctor. She is also doing research this coming year and she said that she is looking forward to having time off so that she can travel, relax, and work on different aspects of her life: intellectual, physical, spiritual, etc. So yet again, I'm almost inspired to do the same, but not quite.

Things of mine currently gathering dust: any and all books, guitar, soul.

Things of mine getting semi/regular use: computer, various exercise equipment, liver, id.

I've spent the last month working, going out with coworkers, meeting up with random people, and generally living without any focus. It bothers me, but only in a vaguely subconscious sort of way. I seem to remember something about a message in a bottle, and for some reason it makes me want to cry.