Soodhalter’s Informagoriam

Last Friday was part twenty-six of the one hundred seventeen part series “The Kirk Soodhalter Debut Anniversary Extravaganza.”

Kirk Eats His Birthday Eel, and It Is Tasty OR Tulane Defeats the Stupid Cougars

Every year, these things start in the same manner. I always wake up in the morning. If I didn’t wake up, then there would be no birthday. Since it was a weekday, I woke up around six. When I wake up on my birthday, I never remember it is my birthday. I go about my business of making breakfast and reading the news before I remember that, oh hey, I’m a year older. So, that was my morning. At work, there were things to do in the morning, so no time for thoughts of birthdays. However, one of my coworkers in the office picked up a very nice ten-inch triple chocolate case, with gooey chocolate fudge sauce on the inside and shaved white chocolate on the outside. That Friday was also the last official day for one of the surgeons before he moved back to Israel to take a job as chief of surgery at a hospital. There was a large amount of Ninfa’s food in honor of his last day. After a birthday song was sung, one of the thoracic fellows goaded me into cutting my cake. I have never cut a ten-inch diameter circular cake and did not realize there is a particular procedure in which you only cut slices from the outer portion. I was informed of my error and quickly abandoned cake cutting duties in favor of someone who knew better. I spent much of the rest of the time chatting with one of the med students, who is a Tulane graduate. We bashed some recent Tulane policy decisions and Scott Cowen for a length of time before I had to back to work. I was so full of greasy, rich foods, I did not really want to move. At the end of the day, I was given a good chunk of the birthday cake to take home and share with friends.

There were certainly a good many friends with whom this cake could have been shared. There was exciting Tulane baseball action all weekend as the Green Wave came to town to take on the Houston Cougars, a big bunch of pussy cats if you ask me. Any time a Tulane sporting team makes its way to the Houston area for the purpose of competing in a match of some sort, there is a reasonably good chance that someone with the surname of Seals or Spring will be in town, with a possible chance of a martini-drinking/leopard-print-jacket-wearing Hobbs in tow. Melanie and Chris Spring were scheduled to be making their way to town along with Melanie’s father, Mister Keith and the Tom-Colingest guy I know, Tom Cole. Unfortunately, Chris dropped out of the equation at the last minute due to an unfortunate incident involving a banjo.

I elected to miss the Friday baseball game because of prior dinner plans with Timothy and Jennifer. They were going to take me out for some birthday sushi at The Blue Fish. After I got off work, I made my way to the YMCA to get in a quick stationary birthday bike ride. The way I saw it, I would have just enough time to hop on the bike, get in a brief half-hour exercise before going home to change. Unfortunately, did not anticipate bumping in to an old high school acquaintance, Scott. We chatted a bit about a variety of topics including my impending graduate school plans (more on these later), his medical school plans, and our distaste for the amount of new cement in Houston. This encounter threw off the surgical precision with which I was going to execute this workout before going home. Although I am sure Scott’s reasons for talking to me were pure, I secretly wonder if he had an ulterior agenda to throw me off my scheduled dinner plans. I managed to get about twenty minutes in on the bike before I had to get home to clean up and get ready for some birthday eel.

I did a quick turnaround at home including a birthday shave causing birthday razor burn. I called Tim and Jenn to let them know that I was running a few minutes behind. They found this to be unacceptable and Jennifer vocally flagellated me for my tardiness. I made my way to Jenn’s apartment. Tim and Jenn were waiting outside with folded arms, stern looks, and furrowed brows. Jenn wouldn’t even let me put the remainder of my birthday cake in the refrigerator so it would be chilled when we returned to the apartment. Jenn was wearing a headscarf of angriness, and Tim was wearing a clip-on tie of rage, but he removed it while in the car.

We drove to the Blue Fish sushi restaurant on Kirby and Richmond. It is a neat establishment with decoration that evokes a Japanese feeling. We were seated and a young, Asian waitress with a small tattoo on the back of her neck took our drink order. I ordered iced tea, and Jenn and Tim ordered water, which made me feel as if I was being flamboyant. We started looking at the regular menu and the special sushi menu to figure out what we wanted. The daunting array of food items was difficult to decipher at first; however, we solicited the waitress’ opinion and got some good, sushi recommendations.

At about this time, a person who looked awfully familiar walked into establishment. I did not immediately put together who this person was because the face was from a past long forgotten, from the days when I was the chunky kid who parted his hair from the left side and read large numbers of comic books (i.e. X-Men, Spiderman, Magnus Robot Fighter, Groo, etc). Then I realized, it was a member of the so-called middle school “cool group.” These were the kids who could cuss in their front yards, watch PG-13 movies, and brag about sex they most likely weren’t really having. There is little doubt in my mind that it was one of these kids. He walked past our table and met up with his friends, who were sitting behind me. I noted his presence and made Tim and Jenn aware of it, but I decided there was no reason to confirm my suspicions about his identity.

After extensive discussions, we decided on a plethora of sushi dishes including California rolls with snow crab (a rarity outside of places like New Orleans, I am told), tempura fried rolls asparagus and tuna, mango and tuna rolls (which Jenn cannot eat because she is allergic to the mango), barbecue eel rolls, and some other things that I don’t remember. Most of it was quite good, although there was one item I did not completely enjoy. I do not remember what it was though. Tim and Jenn paid for the meal with their monies for my birthday, which I appreciated greatly. After dinner, we had the waitress photograph us using my digital camera. We were quite photogenic, especially since Tim and Jenn’s rage had died down (see photos, linked at the top of the page).

On the way back home, Scott called to invite us out to a bar where he was sharing some mead with his father. Tim knew that we had moist birthday cake awaiting us, and Jenn had to get up for work the following morning, so he declined the invitation. I was meeting up with Melnee and Maygan Michaels, anyhow, so I would not have been able to stay for too long. Back at Jenn’s apartment, the air conditioning was turned off, so we left the door open to circulate some air. Tim and Jenn worked together to cut some pieces of cake. It was so gooey and messy, though, that chocolate got everywhere: the counters, walls ceiling, Tim, etc. Tim and Jenn partook of the tasty cake, but I was too full from earlier cake, Mexican foods, and sushi rolls, so I passed on my slice. We spent the next couple of hours having a frank exchange of ideas that covered a variety of topics including immigration, foreign policy, France, Hugo Chavez, Cuba, creepy dudes, strange Tulane folk, Scott Cowen, boxing, child protection, high school, TV/VCR repair, computer programming, the electrician, audio care, bookkeeping, legal assistance, interior decorating, business management, and accounting. Our brows were all coated with sweat from the heat and humidity. Melnee finally called to tell me that she and Maygan were at a medical school party being thrown by the Tulane students to thank the Baylor students for their hospitality. It was nearing the time for me to leave Jenn’s apartment since she had to get up for work the next day. So, on that note, I thanked Tim and Jenn for the wonderful birthday eel and the lively conversation, took the remainder of my cake, and left. I think people who don’t know Tim and Jenn should be jealous of me because I have the pleasure of being their friend. They are good people.

I met Melnee and Maygan at this bar near Montrose. There were other notable folks present such as Deepti, Leena Pande, Jen Berumen (with whom I was matched as marginally compatible on the Valentines Day Survey at Tulane), Meghana Kamath, and Tom Cole, who came in town with Mel. At one point, two tall guys with weird hair came up to our table at one point. One of them started flirting with Mel, despite my repeated warnings that she is married. He finally got the point when she flashed her wedding ring as spoke of her husband. The other guy was talkin’ to Maygan Michaels. I thought he was kind of a goon, but I didn’t want to say anything because he was right there. There was also a high-strung guy who threatened to kick my “f’ing ass” after misunderstanding something I said and then got irritated about popcorn throwing. I got to talk to Deepti for a while. She wanted me to hit the beach in Galveston while she is there before I go off to Philadelphia. After a while, I got really tired, and my body told me it was time to go home. I took my leave and walked out with Melnee, Tom, and Maygan. We made plans to meet up for the Tulane baseball game (where they would give me an awesome surprise birthday card of justice), which was taking place the following evening. So ended my twenty-sixth birthday.

I have told this story a few times, and I know I have alluded to this guy on this website, so I thought I would tell the complete story.

Junior year at Tulane, I lived in Willow C dormitory. I had one of the prime corner rooms with the corner window, adjacent to the balcony. The only downside to living in this room was that people frequently came out to smoke on the balcony, and the smoke would sometimes seep under my door. However, this was a small price to pay for a nice room. Fall semester, one guy in particular would smoke on the balcony almost every day. This neighbor was an older guy with broad shoulders and tattoos. He always seemed a bit out of it, like he was on various drugs. Sometimes, he would be hyped up and other times he would be extremely mellow. Frequently, he had this girl with him. She was thin, thoroughly tattooed, and had a lip ring. She had a buzz cut except for her bangs, which hung on her face in solitude.

I always got the mistaken impression that my neighbor was a pathological liar. He would be smoking on the balcony outside my room; and every now and then, we would chat as I was passing through. My neighbor would tell me about his trips to places like San Diego where he would “bartend” for the weekend. This did not make sense to me because it did not sound cost effective to fly so far to work that kind of job on the weekends. I figured he was just lying to sound important.

One day, toward the end of the semester, I found him wandering around near my room in a bathrobe, with eyes like saucers. He was clearly on something and was babbling about oversleeping for a final; it was four in the afternoon. He was not sure what to do, so I suggested that he should contact the professor and explain the situation. I am not sure if he took my suggestion, but I really was trying to end the conversation quickly and get back in my room.

After first semester, he disappeared; and after briefly wondering about what happened to this guy, I forgot about him. Then, in May, a rumor started to spread that a prominent homosexual porn star had been living on campus. He went by a stage name, which I will leave out so that he does not come looking for me one day. My friend, April, told me a confusing story, related to her by a friend, of an encounter with this porn star on campus. Apparently, April’s friend had been cordially acquainted with the porn star in high school and they had recognized each other on campus. After talking for a bit, it somehow came out that this guy was in films. The porn star apparently also danced at the gay entertainment club, Oz. Supposedly, he is not really gay; he just does it for the money and takes drugs to be able to perform. The story, in its entirety, was a bit convoluted, but what I got out of it that was true was that there was this gay porn star with a certain stage name who also danced at Oz and lived on campus as a student.

One evening, I was hanging with April and we decided to Google this film star to see if we had ever encountered him on campus. There were a few older undergraduate students I had seen around campus over the years, and I assumed that one of them was this guy. We found a web page dedicated to his filmography. Laid out on the page were pictures of the box covers to many videos in which this guy had starred. Pictured in various states of undress and much more was none other than my old neighbor. There was no doubt that it was the tattooed guy who smoked on the balcony. I was speechless. Everything started to fall into place. He was not flying to San Diego to bartend. He was probably going there to dance or make films. He was always on drugs because he was hooked from taking the drugs in the first place so that he could perform in movies, necessitating that he continued to work to make more money to buy more drugs. When I met him, his face was sagging considerably, and in looking at the various box covers in chronological order, we could see the progression from a young looking face to one that had significant sagging jowls.

Having an encounter with a prominent gay porn star is much like having a brush with death; it really makes you think and take stock of what’s important in your life.

Riding the MetroRail every day, I have begun to notice that many people are wearing headphones on a consistent basis. The recent proliferation of Ipods and other such devices partially explains this phenomenon. Now, I enjoy listening to music. I would also love to one day own an Ipod; they are well design machines. However, I have never understood this need to be listening to music twenty-four hours a day. I knew a guy in college who bought the Ipod when it first debuted. He loaded it up with 10,000 of his favorite tunes and would wear it when he was walking around campus every day. He explained to me how having his music with him while he walked was like having his life set to theme/ambient music. Not to be outdone, a young architect in training at Tulane would walk around with a Discman connected to a pair of overly large, audiophile headphones. The thick, coiled wire traveled from his head into his backpack. I used to see him walking every day, head bobbing in this odd circular motion.

Some people become so entranced by their music that they display seizure-like symptoms while listening to their portable music players. There was a British exchange student in one of my dorms at Tulane who would sit at a balcony right next to my room and listen to his music. Sometimes I would step outside to find him listening to his music, having some sort of strange convulsions. I would try to get his attention, but he never seemed to notice me. At first, I thought I should get him some help, but he always seemed okay later, so I figured he was just strange. He shared a room with one of the Tulane football players. The football player decided that because the British guy was British that he was also homosexual. He regularly subjected the British guy to verbal abuses. If he had really wanted to ridicule someone who was engaging in homosexual behavior, he should have visited our neighbor, who lived three doors down from me. He was an older student in University College (commuter college) who happened to also be a prominent homosexual pornographic thespian… The British Guy eventually switched rooms, alleviating the tension between him and the football player.

There is a young lady who rides the light rail every day who also seems to go into a weird trance while listening to her music. She always wears black pants or jeans and a black pea coat over her shirt, no matter the outside temperature. She is quite white, fairly close to the threshold of being albino. As such, she has these scary blue eyes. She listens to her Ipod every day on the way into work. Whenever she sits and listens to her music, she goes into a similar state as the one I witnessed in our British friend. The only difference between the two is that this girl never seems to get to the end of a song. She constantly pulls out her Ipod and to navigate to different songs.

Not to be outdone in headphone wearing, a large number of prodigious cell phone users have begun to use the widely available hands-free headsets to facilitate their constant cell phone usage. Frequent, unnecessary cell phone usage is nothing new; it was widely in practice when I started college in 1999. Whenever I was walking around campus, there were always people walking and talking on their phones. These people usually would speak quite loudly and engage in discussions of frivolous topics that would never come up in a face-to-face conversation. As odd, and at times annoying, as these people could be, they were not hurting anybody. However, in my last year of college, the phenomenon of the constant usage of the hands-free headset began to spread like wildfire. I must admit that I do own one of these things, which I keep in my car in case I need to make a phone call. Many people, though, use them in everyday life. Some even have headsets that they wear continuously so they can always be ready to answer that next phone call.

As I said, I have no problem loud, frivolous cell phone calls about topics such as what type of body spray “Shannon” was wearing the previous evening, but these particular hands-free accessories are a danger to very fabric of our social structure. Since their advent, I have found myself in countless situations where I am walking or standing in a stranger’s vicinity and they begin speaking, at time while looking at me. Sometimes what they are saying could conceivably be directed at me and at other times, it does not make any sense in the context of the present situation. If the conversation seems to be directed at me, I sometimes respond, asking them to repeat themselves. This results in the speaker acting as if I have somehow invaded his/her privacy and turn away, revealing the hands-free headset that he/she was using. These devices are so small they frequently are not easy to see.

Sometimes the person does not seem to be directing the conversation at anybody. The speaker seems to be saying random things to nobody. This presents a problem because we, as a society, have come to identify the occurrence of a person speaking to nobody as a sign that this person may be crazy, on drugs, or otherwise impaired in such a way that it may illicit irrational behavior. When a persons starts talking loudly to nobody or to the surrounding people, that may be a sign that, if this person is in some way impaired, they are about to take an irrational action. Now, with all these hands-free sets, we can no longer clearly identify these people and casually sidle away to a safe distance. Allow me to offer an illustrative example:

A couple of months ago, I was riding the train back to my parking lot. It was quite crowded though not completely full. There was a young, Hispanic lady about five feet to my left, wearing a wife beater that was one size too small. All of the sudden she yelled, “I can’t believe you would do that to me!” I was startled for a second, but then figured she was on her cell phone. The lady yelled some other things and then assumed a defensive posture. She managed to spin around enough that I realized that there was no hands-free set or cell phone. I gave her wide berth until she disembarked at the TMC Transit Center. I was in danger of coming to bodily harm because of the ambiguous nature of the situation. Ten years ago, it would have been easy to see that this girl was not quite all there.

An even weirder example is the man I like to call “The Angel of Death.” When I first started my job as medical editor, I would park in a lot connected to the hospital then walk all the way through to my office across the street. Almost every day, I would see this man walking around the hospital, always dressed in the same attire, a black suit with white shirt and black tie and matching black fedora. This man also always wore large black sunglasses, even indoors. He always had a hands-free headset; only, he did not have one of those small sleek ones. He had one with a long microphone protruding around the face to the mouth with a foam tip at the end, like old-timey telephone operators would wear. At first, I thought this guy must have been visiting someone he knows in the hospital; however, after seeing him for weeks on end, I realized he must be around for other purposes. Then it hit me; this guy might be the Grim Reaper. It made sense: guy dressed in black, wearing sunglasses, with headset to communicate with the place that tells him who is dying so he can get them. However, I had a close encounter with this man that threw a wrench in that theory.

I took a long lunch one day to visit a friend who works downtown as an investment banker. After lunch, I was on my way back to the train when I spotted the Angel of Death in the distance behind me. It was a bit eerie. Did anyone else see this man? Was he after me? I waited at the train pad, and after a while, he was waiting on the same train pad. Perhaps the train we were about to board was in some sort of danger. I thought about taking the next train, but I did not want to be too late getting back to work. For most of the ride back, I could hear him talking but could not understand him. I assumed he was checking back with home base to make sure he had a complete list of people to pick up from the medical center. Then, the person distribution of the train shifted so that he ended up right behind me, and I could hear what he was saying. As the train would speed up or slow down, he would begin addressing “Isaac Newton” stating that Newton’s theory of gravity was at work and correct as we held on to the safety rails in the train to keep from falling over. He began talking to some other scientists (Galileo) and other random dead people. Turns out, he was just a strange older man, but that headset made it difficult to figure out what this guy was really up to; did he even have a cell phone, or was the headset for show?

Aside from creating difficulty in identifying crazy folks on the trains, the main problem with constant cell phone headset usage, and with the portable music players as well, is that they allow the user to shut out the world around them, causing them to miss out on all the interesting stuff that the real world has to offer. For example, on my daily train ride, I see all sorts of fascinating people: a lady extensively labeling her Bible with small post-its, a lady grousing to her boss about how another woman did not deserve a promotion because she was “a bitch and stupid”, and, my favorite, the disheveled lothario, a possibly homeless gentleman who tries to put the moves on uninterested female train riders, inviting them for cups of coffee. He is always rebuffed. Maybe it’s just me, but I enjoy witnessing the oddities that go on in places like the train. I would not want to miss these things by shutting them out with the latest from Mariah Carey.