Drew's making stuffed peppers right now. I'm lying in bed. I just took this photo of myself:



Dinner smells delicious.

I caused a teeny little stir by posting something on my school's blog. It worked out all right, though. I feel proud of myself for arguing it out instead of just being privately annoyed. Drew was worried at first that I might have alienated some people. I think it's fine.

 

Click here and then click on "Street Talk" on the left side of the screen.

For some reason my photo is wrong on the website (but correct in the print edition). I'm not complaining, though. He's adorable!

 

Drew and I were walking to AAA to register his car yesterday when I saw a frail old man shuffling to a mailbox. He was only in view for a few seconds but it was long enough for me to observe his grimace as he pulled down the tray and slipped his letter inside.

Then I got a flash of what it might be like to be that man and I thought about how I must look to him. Suddenly there was this clearing out in my mind. I felt a shudder of guilt about my incessant, adolescent whining about my weight, my hair, about chores like walking eight blocks to register a car. I wondered if, when I'm 85, I will look at a 30 year-old man and smile to myself knowing how ignorant he is of what it's like to live without pain every day, without illness; how thankful he should be that a trip to the mailbox doesn't even register in his mind as any kind of accomplishment.

I started to say something to Drew, but then I censored myself. All this midlife crisis talk starts to smell of egotism after a while.

 

Drew put up shelving in a closet in one of our spare bedrooms yesterday and so this morning I got out my book collection in an attempt to put an end to this damn unpacking business.

My collection is small. I don't like buying books, because (a) it's $$$$, (b) I like supporting public libraries, and (c) I think most personal book collections are a waste. I think most of the things people do in relation to books are a waste, actually. Do we all really need to hang onto every book we've ever read? Do we need to display them for everyone to see?** If it's because what we read supposedly says something about us, then I'd counter that I think our clothes say something about us but most people don't opt to display their clothes on wardrobe racks in the middle of their apartments.

I hid something in someone's personal library once. And I guarantee you it's still there, because that person hasn't moved and those books won't be touched until he does.

I realize this all sounds very superior, but it's only because I'm one of those people who enjoys reading things that are considered challenging and then letting everyone under the sun know I've read it. But I also recognize this as a vain quality and I don't necessarily need to be reminded of that particular shortcoming every time I walk into my apartment.

So, my book collection is small and it's housed in a closet.

Usually when I move I go through my books and ask myself "Do I need to hang onto this?" It's not a very clear standard and the answer, more often than not, is "Undecided" and then I err on the side of caution and truck it to my next apartment. This time, however, I had a plan. I had read an article in Harper's magazine about a library in San Francisco and suddenly I realized that there was a smart, good way to go about this.

So yesterday and today I went through my books and arranged them into categories (general history, US history, political philosophy, general philosophy, the great american novel, medical fiction, medical nonfiction, science textbooks). These are generally my areas of interest (except "science textbooks", which is more of a duty). I'd love to go deeper into all of those areas. What was left over (some V.S. Naipaul, a Jim Grimsley book, some stuff we read in book club) were books that I loved but realized I didn't need to keep in my personal library. I know I run the risk of sounding unbelievably geeky for saying this, but I got very excited when it was done. For the first time ever I had a completely unconflicted, happy feeling about this collection.

**If you're a friend of mine who has a large library on display in your house/apartment, please know I'm definitely definitely not talking about you. Your collection is awesome and very well thought out and I love it and I love you.

 

Not that I necessarily would have taken the money if I were straight. But I may have.

What follows is my response to an army recruiter's email offering to fund my med school education in exchange for becoming a captain in the army after my residency:

-----Original Message-----
From: [Leanjoe email address redacted]
Sent: Monday, July 23, 2007 5:39 PM
To: ________, John M SGT USAREC
Subject: RE: [U] Hi From SGT _________

Thanks for the offer, Sgt ________. Unfortunately, I cannot accept
because I am gay and so I don't believe I am actually eligible.

Best of luck!


The recruiter's response to my response:

From : ________ , John M SGT USAREC
Sent : Monday, July 23, 2007 6:10 PM
To : [Leanjoe email address redacted]
Subject : [U] RE: Hi From SGT ________

Hi [Joe],

Thanks for you quick response. The Army has a do not ask and do
not tell policy when it comes to homosexuality. You were eligible for
appointment as an officer until you happened to tell me that you were
homosexual which does disqualify you for service. Thanks for your
courtesy as often times when a person emails me with a similar response they are often times not very nice. I hope you have a great day Thanks.

Sincerely,

SGT John M. ________
U.S. Army Healthcare Recruiter

 

I went for a nice 5-mile run this morning. There was a light misting at the end which made for a pretty great finish.

Here's my favorite part -- a long winding asphalt path next to the Schuylkill River:


It's beautiful and damp and smells like rain here today. I hope it stays this way all day.

 

I'm in love with my new congressman's voting record. You guys should all check out your own representatives' records at ontheissues.org. That's a great site.

 

From the Washington Post:

President Bush yesterday rejected entreaties by his Republican [sic] allies that he compromise with Democrats on legislation to renew [the State Children's Health Insurance Program] that provides health coverage to poor children, saying that expanding the program would enlarge the role of the federal government at the expense of private insurance.

[snip]

The 10-year-old program, which is set to expire on Sept. 30, costs the federal government $5 billion a year and helps provide health coverage to 6.6 million low-income children whose families do not qualify for Medicaid but cannot afford private insurance on their own.

Update: The Senate Finance Committee approved the expansion on Friday despite Bush's threat of a veto.

 

I've been thinking about death a lot since we got to Philadelphia. This move has brought out all kinds of surprising ideas and feelings, many of which I can't articulate. My mortality is the one that is, strangely, the easiest to talk about. I've been keeping it to myself because I have a feeling Drew has enough on his mind and adding "we're all gong to die" to his list of concerns probably isn't going to help matters.

I guess this particular preoccupation is to be expected since I'm making such a huge life change. I'm thirty years old and I'm making a commitment to a career that will define the rest of my working life. It's only natural, I suppose, that I've got death on the brain.

It's not that I can necessarily describe to you specific thoughts I'm having on that subject. Everywhere I look I see the impermanence of things. I look at people on the streets and wonder if they're feeling the passage of time the same way I am.

This move is so different than the other three major moves in my life (to college in New York City, to Los Angeles after college, to Montreal to work on a film). Those moves, while scaring the shit out of me, felt like thrilling, adventurous expansions. They were chances to throw myself into new environments and see which parts of me tagged along and which were left behind. Was I such a cynical bastard in Missouri because I couldn't be out of the closet there? Was I depressed before Montreal because I hated my job?

But the move to Philadelphia has been a different kind of event. There's still a thrilling sense of adventure, but now I feel like my sense of self hasn't changed much. I'm the same person I was in Los Angeles. I'm not trying to change who I am. I'm happy. And this move has also come at a much higher price. I've left more friends behind this time and I've left a city in which I could see myself living happily for the rest of my life.

Now suddenly the landscape is different. Everything I depended on as touchstones (friends, Drew's family, my running routes, my grocery store) are gone and yet I feel no different. I walk the streets and everyone is acting out their normal routines. I have none. I've slipped into a parallel world that's neither a vacation nor (yet) a home.

I guess the uprooting has triggered some deep questions about my individuality and my place in the universe. They're not ideas I can share, really, just odd feelings of displacement. I'm happy, though. I guess maybe that's not coming through here. I love walking around the city, looking at all the (very white) people in my neighborhood and thinking about how they're all going to die one day.

 

I'm excited about my med school now, because they've asked us to read The Working Poor: Invisible in America. Maybe this really is the right school for me.

Yesterday was our 3-year anniversary. He bought me flowers. I took him to dinner. We saw Sicko (which is amazing, don't let anyone talk you out of seeing it).

I love our neighborhood. I can't believe we live here. Every street is adorable: brick rowhouses with flowerboxes and wooden shutters, coffeeshops and restaurants and antique furniture stores. I walk out of our front door and people say hello to me on the street. Craziness.

The crosswalks make Drew nervous. All that jaywalking. It does seem dangerous when you think about it. I just force myself back into my New York way of thinking and plow ahead without hesitating. Drew hangs back, waiting for a green light.

I'm alternating the Shipler book with a collection of John Updike short stories Jana gave me. I was really only interested in "Rabbit Remembered" but feel like I owe it to Updike to read the rest of the stories. Which is dumb. They're enjoyable, but haven't changed how I generally feel about short stories. I want more. So many of them just feel like tricks. Short films are like that, too. Some punchline to wrap everything up.

I rejoined Netflix because we're not subscribing to television in Philadelphia. I've done a couple long runs but no weight training since Los Angeles. I want to be able to finish the apartment, but we're waiting for furniture and also I've gotten to the point where I feel like a room full of boxes is tidier than what comes after I unpack them. So instead of unpacking them I read and surf the internet.

 

Since my last posting Drew and I drove 2,948 miles to our new home in Philadelphia. Here it is in all its glory:



I would write more, but I'm afraid of what would happen if Drew caught me blogging right now. I'll be back when we're all settled in.