In which the subject revels in the literal nature of his lab-rat-ittude-ness

I made point a while back to never borrow what is now Schmerberg's blog title trademark, but today is different for one reason: I am the subject of a scientific study. OK, I'm lying. Kind of. I am merely one of several subjects in the service of The University of Chicago Medical School, and, ultimately, SCIENCE.

Can I get a Fuck Yeah from the congregation?

Those of you asking the obvious question will receive what I believe to be an amusing, if not fitting, response: They wanted to study my brain, and to such ends scanned it with a giant spinning magnet doohicky (GSMD = MRI) for an hour and a half yesterday afternoon. For those of you saying, "It's about damn time!" I'll just say that it's not that kind of study. What kind of study it is I am not really at liberty to say, but I will say again that it has nothing to do with me being what many of you have not-so-endearingly described as, "weird," "wrong," "not right," WEIRD," "nuts," "demented," "crazy-in-a-not-good-way," "sexy," "messed up," "difficult to understand," "different," "odd," "stupid," etc...

I know little of the results of this scan, other than that according to the brain doctors my two hemispheres are playing nicely with each other, sharing power tools and charcoal and all that good neighborly shit, and that after years of debate it now appears clear that I do not, in fact, have a tumor, at least not in my brain. They were fretting a little bit about my heart-rate being a tad jumpy, from 60-65, but I suppose that's only interesting to me.

For my time and the trouble of commuting to the Hella Dirty South Side I was reintroduced to my old pal, Ulysses S. Grant, who I haven't seen since back in my charter fishing days. President Grant and I have a lot of catching up to do at the Tigers-Sox game tomorrow night. It is unlikely that he will survive long.

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