Dear Friends, I know I said I wouldn't be adding an entry for a couple of weeks, so clearly I am a liar. Actually, I am more willing to write since I finally submitted the last version of my Statement of Purpose to Duke Graduate School. This time it's fully justified. Thanks to all who aided in the revision process. Unless I don’t get in, in which case you will be severely rebuked.

I mentioned a while back that I have a new job. It's a pretty good one; I get a nice computer, nice co-workers, unlimited coffee, and relative freedom from the threat of yellow fever and spontaneous lymphoma. My employing laboratory is in the business of trying to induce patients’ immune response against tumors by making tailored vaccines. This is exciting, but my part of the job is not, and that's just peachy-keen with me. My tasks include shuttling study reviews, amendments, and other paper stacks between reviewing faculty, my supervisor, and the FDA. I also am responsible for updating protocols into FDA-approved format, so in case we are ever audited, the visiting authorities can rest assured that we have clear instructions on how to use a mop. I have a little fun with this in my word choice and grammar. Gerunds abound.

This past weekend I was co-host of a large party at the International House. I use "co-host" lightly, in the same sense as I would claim to co-host the Tonight Show. I really did very little except buy a can of carpet cleaner the following day and watch TV as it fizzed Sangria out of the floor. My more active contributions included giving sound medical advice to the attendees, encouraging drinkers to choose the Cranberry-based beverage, as it's good for the urinary tract. I also met an ex-Carleton student, who was my sworn rival as a Saint Olaf alum. He asked me, "So what did Ole's really think of Carleton?" "That the girls were unattractive and mostly gay," I truthfully responded. Expecting to be rebuffed or ignored, I was surprised to hear him say, "Yeah, we always hoped Ole girls would come to our parties…" I nodded in fake sympathy, imagining him looking forlornly out a window towards St. Olaf's tower, a tear streaming down his cheek as my friends and I caroused in a Swede-heavy 70/30 gender ratio.

That wasn’t very nice. Wasn’t very “Lee”. As Friend is gearing up for law school finals, I recently imagined myself working in a non-Lee profession; a trial lawyer. What would it be like? (Wayne’s World alternate ending music)

The scene: Trial Lawyer Lee, dressed in a fine suit, paces in front of a nervous man in a witness box, called to offer testimony in favor of the defendant. The time has come for a brutal, unforgiving cross-examination:
Trial Lawyer Lee (TLL): Isn’t it true, sir, that in 1996 you were convicted of a 6th DUI offense, with a blood alcohol level of 0.4, while on the way to your mistress’ house, when you were supposed to be at the birthday party of your chronically ill, hospitalized child?
Sir: (Eyes tearing up, an imperceptible nod) Ye…Yes. Sniffle.
TLL: (Eyes tearing up, voice faltering) Well sir, you can hardly expect us to…I mean, how can we believe…(Losing composure) Oh, I can’t judge you! (Witness and TLL fall into sobbing embrace over witness bench, Trial Lawyer Lee is disbarred)

Something like that.
Next time: Army Sergeant Lee