OH MY GOD HEATHER HAS A BLOG?

Neat.

Back Up Your Claims. Or Else.

Remember when you were in school and you had to write papers, and if you had a particularly evil teacher, you had to cite sources for your claims? Then you had to follow some inane guidelines, like MLA or Chicago or APA or AMA or whatever, and throw in-text citations and/or footnotes and/or endnotes around like confetti. Did you ever think that crap might actually apply to the real world?

No? Well, have I got news for you.

It turns out your teachers weren’t completely out of touch with the “real world” “out there,” beyond the “ivory tower.” In fact, citing your sources helps you snag the glorious treasure that you’ve longed for, those two lovely little words—c’mon, you know what they are.

FDA approval.

Of course, everyone knows what a pain it is to send promotional materials to DDMAC for 2253 submission. The FDA has all sorts of crazy guidelines, like requiring that each submission contain annotated references. Which is a lot like referencing your boring English paper in MLA format, except it’s in Adobe Acrobat Professional 7.0 and a bastardized version of AMA or some other madeup style.

Let’s say this is the first source in your reference list:

1. Specht D, Tom Dieck S, Ammermüller J, et al. Structural and functional remodeling in the retina of a mouse with a photoreceptor synaptopathy: plasticity in the rod and degeneration in the cone system. Eur J Neurosci. 2007 Nov;26(9):2506–15.

For every single statement in your promotional piece followed by a superscript 1, you have to note exactly where you got that claim’s information from, using some kind of devised-at-the-spur-of-the-moment shorthand:

1. Specht et al. 2007/p2508/col.2/¶2

But it gets even more fun. Why? Because the FDA is far more nefarious than even the most jaded professor.

Along with the annotated promotional piece, you must include a copy of each source used, with the relevant information highlighted. And if you thought reading journal articles was boring enough to make you stick sporks in your eyes, just wait until you have to read and annotate a 16-page PI like this one (provided as an example only; not a PI I’ve actually had to annotate ... yet).

How do I know so much about this fascinating subject? Because I’ve spent 22 hours this week alone annotating PDFs of promotional materials and articles to send to DDMAC for 2253 submission. I’m so glad that I wrote several relevant papers on Faulkner and literature of the Restoration and journalism and dead Greek guys and pop culture history and so on in college—because not one provided the foundation necessary for the joys of medical referencing.

I guess I’d better go back to school, maybe for something useless like English or creative writing. And throw around terms like “PubMed,” “DDMAC,” “‘please see’ statements,” and “ISI” in all my research papers, which will be provided as annotated PDFs, along with the original articles, with pertinent information highlighted. Try grading that.

Happy Freakin’ New Year!

Every January ushers in a world of promises fit to be broken. In fact, recent statistics that I just made up put the rate of broken New Year’s resolutions at a whopping eighty-seven percent, which is about ninety-four percent too much, if you ask me, which you did, or you wouldn’t be reading this blog, now would you? Silly.

So don’t expect me to raise the bar just because it’s January. (Also: should a comma have gone after “raise the bar”? It seems ambiguous without it. Did I mean that I won’t raise the bar because it is January or that it is January but that doesn’t mean you should expect me to raise the bar? Damn language and its inexactitude. Is that even a real word? Well, it is now.)

Which means I refuse to promise any of the following:

• To reply to e-mails in a timely fashion.


• To meet certain deadlines.


• To update my nearly nonexistent 1998 Web skills and post a fantastic Web site portfolio thingie-doo.


• To post on my blog frequently.


• To get back into drawing.


• To stop picking up lunch and/or dinner at Panera nearly every day before work—it gets expensive.


• To start playing the piano again.


• To write That Novel (or That Play or That Whatever).


• To undo the procrastination habit I picked up in college.


• To be fiscally responsible.

Most of these seem like they could be good New Year’s resolutions, but let’s face the aforementioned facts that I made up: resolutions almost always get broken. How many times have you heard of someone whose entire life was changed by a single New Year’s resolution? If that had actually happened, this person would have written a book and appeared on Oprah, trying to inspire her legion of lifeless, dull, ordinary fans, only later to be discovered a fraud, this after a six-figure advance was cashed and the author escaped to Bermuda, because we all know that it is next to impossible for resolutions to change one’s life.

In fact, 2009 is the year to lower your expectations. With the economic crisis and the false autism/vaccine connection and LiLo with SamRo and Middle Eastern countries blowing each other up, people just don’t have the time or, quite frankly, the non-depression to better themselves. So lower the bar. Decrease your productivity. Make others expect less of you. And be sure to blame something or someone other than yourself for your shortcomings. It’s the American way.

Lennon Still Dead; Fans Restless, Disenchanted

Reprinted with permission from a blog post I wrote in 2005.

Ex-Beatle still a “pile of ashes”

As the 25th anniversary of John Lennon’s cold-blooded assassination hit stores Thursday, scores of fans became disenchanted with the rock legend.

“I just don’t get it,” said Horsby M. Cronck of Boonton, NJ. “The bastard claims to be bigger than Jesus, but he can’t even come back to life? C’mon! Even an amateur like Christ could do that!”

The edgier half of the famous songwriting duo behind the Beatles’ greatest hits shot to fame in the 1960s with such songs as “Happiness Is a Warm Gun.” Lennon blew away his audiences with his killer lyrics and his lethal licks right up until the band expired in early 1970.

Despite the ’70s, Lennon penned such memorable songs as “Goddamn,” “Zealous Pie,” “Middle-Class Clown,” and the peacenik anthem “Imagination.” After a brief foray into the world of not-songwriting, Lennon relaunched his music career with Triple Platinum, an album featuring such classics as “(Just Like) Rolling Pins” and “Bitch.”

But all that changed on December 8, 1980. Mark David Chapman, this pudgy guy, gunned down Lennon after reading J. D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye.

“I was so pissed off by that phony book that I just took my aggression out on the first thing I saw, and that was the Beatle formerly known as the intellectual,” said Chapman from his cell in Attica, NY, in a 1983 interview. “I was like, whoa, sorry, dude, I didn’t know you were John Lennon, or I would’ve shot the doorman instead. ’Cuz that guy was, like, the second thing I saw. Can you believe that Holden Caulfield?”

Since that fateful night, fans have collected in such designated fan-gathering places as Central Park West and West 72nd Street in New York City and some street corner in Liverpool, England, Lennon’s birthplace. The fans sing Lennon songs, light candles, make “fanorbilia” scrapbooks, tip over police vans, pierce themselves, eat kettle corn, and probably trip on acid in memory of the activist musician.

“Man, John Lennon, man, was, like, man, the voice of my generation, man!” said one fan who asked not to be named. “Because back then, we, like, didn’t have voices because of The Man, man! You know what I’m saying?”

Another fan, Angie Moonbeam, 59, of Biloxi, MS, had much more to say. “It was a long and winding road, but, with a little help from his friends, I think that John figured out that he couldn’t do that, so he just twisted and shouted instead and went on a magical mystery tour until his birthday came ’round, and so did Dear Prudence, who baked him a ‘honey pie,’ if you know what I’m saying, which was sweeter than a savoy truffle, so that made John kinda come together and get back to where he once belonged. Which was on Abbey Road, you know.”

But fans are weary of weeping for a dead rock star after 25 years. They have been waiting anxiously for his return from the dead. With one exception, history records not one instance of a person coming back to life after dying. Although fans have held out hope, many are beginning to feel that perhaps John Lennon was not some immortal god but merely a guy who just wrote a bunch of sometimes-catchy songs.

“The dream is over,” said Cronck. “I’m going to have to direct my worshiping tendencies to another rocker. How about Bono? At least that guy is still alive.”

But not everyone has given up on Lennon.

Yoko Ono, 72, the pop icon’s second wife, stood dejected Thursday outside the Manhattan apartment she shared with her husband. A single tear slid down her left cheek as she gazed at the small, lemon-colored urn containing Lennon’s ashes.

“He’s just not coming back,” she said softly. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him, the fucking bastard. Every year for Christmas I ask him to find it in his heart to come back to this cruel, cruel world and grow old with me, but he never listens. Just like when he was alive!”

Christmas Is Cancel(l)ed.

Every December for the past few years, I’ve made it a point to get gifts for practically everyone I know. Each year I’ve topped myself in the amount of money I spend. (I guess that’s because I’m lucky enough to make awesome new friends every year.) I love to give. I love to make people happy. And if giving gifts each December somehow makes someone happy, then I am all for it, no matter what the cost.

Part of the motivation behind wanting to give and to make others happy stems from my own inability to be happy. The thinking goes, “Well, I may be miserable, but that doesn’t mean everyone else should have to be too.” And while I’m working on being happy (there’s hope), I still believe more so than ever in giving to others. Fun, tangible presents and otherwise.

This year, things are a little different. Let’s face it: I’m actually broke. Not that this has ever stopped me from spending $1300+ on presents before, but in those days, I had (1) a savings account with actual money in it and (2) no debt, except for student loans (which are never going away). Unlike the American government, I am attempting to be fiscally responsible, which can mean only one thing.

Christmas is canceled.

Which is just as well, since I am a nonbeliever and all.

What does this mean for you? No presents from me. Sorry. With any luck, I can get you two next year. Or maybe one in July (who expects Christmas gifts in July?) and one in December. Or another lame blog post about my inability to buy presents.

Now, I know that about 95% of you will tell me, “You know you don’t have to get me anything!” But c’mon, when the hell has that ever stopped me before? I’m usually crossing my fingers when I tell you I’ll respect your wishes. So there.

No Editing. No Proofreading. Just Writing.

Dear Person X,

It’s been such a long time since I’ve written one of these letters. I think I was a sophomore in high school. My English teacher told us to write a letter to a friend. I chose a former friend and used the opportunity to bleed my feelings onto the page. The teacher handed our papers back to us unmarked. He couldn’t grade our feelings.

You’re a busy person. You haven’t got time for my meandering. I’ve already taken up too much of your time. So let me get to the major points:

1. You abandoned me in my hour of need and kicked me in my head while I was already down—repeatedly.

2. You saved my life: You gave me a backbone and hope. You helped me find my voice.

Still reading? I take that as my cue to ramble as I please. Thank you.

The major points, of course, are presented in reverse chronological order. I am sure you are acquainted with at least one of them.

I don’t know which was worse, the actual drowning or your watching me suffer, refusing to lend a hand, just watching, watching, watching, coldly, cruelly. I thought I could count on you in my time of need. I thought that, even if everyone else in the free world let me down, you would be there to help me. You were my last hope. And you, too, failed me.

What, do you beat up cripples and steal money from old people? Maybe kick puppies in the head and eat babies? Because you never seemed capable of such icy cruelty. Maybe I was oblivious to reality. It happens sometimes. How nice of you to don the steel-toed boots at the absolute lowest point in my life and use them to kick me—once, twice, still not enough: three times . . .

I blamed myself. I’d done something awful to deserve the suffering you inflicted. Something horrible, unforgivable—and imaginary. It’s taken me years and several kicks to the head to realize that whatever crime I’ve committed against you, it’s solely in your head. You really fucked up. You really, really fucked up. And I’m paying the price for it.

I hold out naive hope that you don’t realize what you’ve done. I wonder whether it would ever occur to you, whether you’d ever get it on your own, without my help. I don’t want to tell you. Not because you don’t have time for me. But if I’m right—if you really had no clue what you’ve actually been doing to me all these years—then knowing would break your heart. And I just can’t do that to you, even if you have caused me the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life.

Why? Because you saved me. You probably don’t even know it. You probably don’t think you did anything extraordinary (not for you, anyway); it comes naturally to you. But you did. You saved my life, changing me forever.

And nothing—not even your unbearable, excruciatingly painful cruelty—can take that from me. Ever.

Hmmm . . . this letter fails to heal me. But what is there left to do? Minimize the pain and remember the gifts you gave me, I guess. That’s easier said than done, especially these days.

It’s just me, hanging out at work late on a Friday night. As the workload tapers off, thoughts of you swell in its place. I have to get out of here before I start to cry.

I love you.

—Heather

Dare I?

Glamour is running the same contest again. I have until December 31 to tell another story. Should I do it? (Never mind the three drafted blog entries that I can’t seem to complete. Sometimes I can finish stuff I write. Someti