A podcast about books, art & life — not necessarily in that order
Working at home today, writing up profiles of the top 20 pharma and top 10 biopharma companies, for our annual Top Companies issue. It’s a ton of research and writing, so I figured, “Why wear pants? Why not cocoon myself here at home and get writin’?”
Depending on your level of curiosity, it can be a pretty entertaining project. Especially when you have to write about Merck.
Once I get this current issue wrapped up (by Friday, I pray), I’ll have more time to write a few longer pieces on which I’ve been dabbling away. Meanwhile, here’s a passage from Proust that I read this morning. He’s gazing at Albertine, asleep in his bed.
In this way, her sleep realized to a certain extent the possibility of love: alone, I could think of her, but I missed her, I did not possess her; when she was present, I spoke to her, but was too absent from myself to be able to think of her; when she was asleep, I no longer had to talk, I knew that I was no longer observed by her, I no longer needed to live on the surface of myself.
The phrasing’s a little too precious, compared to some of my favorite passages of his (I’ll share more of them later), but you can discuss among y’selves.
The NYTimes has an article about a Proust reading group in NYC. These sissies have taken two years just to reach the fifth book of the series. Your unhumble Virtual Memoirist, on the other hand, started the same book this weekend, a mere 4 months after beginning the project. In your (collective) face, you pansies!
As for the article, here’s a paragraph that I haven’t altered in any way. Please explain to me how it fits together.
As in the novel, whose narrator constantly forms opinions, only to undermine them, it is difficult to ascertain how Proust permeates each member. Some in the group take the same bus or have sushi together afterward; others have remained relative strangers, as they discuss how well Proust’s characters can be known.
Perhaps, as the next paragraph quotes, “It’s sort of cubist.”
In my secret identity, I’m the mild-mannered (okay, angry and abrasive) editor of a pharmaceutical business magazine. The big news in the biz this week was that the FDA “recommended” that Pfizer stop selling Bextra, a Cox-2 inhibiting anti-inflammatory in the same class of drugs as Vioxx and Celebrex. The move sucks for Pfizer, which bought Pharmacia for $60 billion a few years ago with the plan to use Celebrex and Bextra to build a Cox-2 powerhouse. Now it’s stuck with a bloated infrastructure, tons of redundant employees, and a business model that’s still predicated on the crapshoot of Pharma R&D.
But why is the FDA calling for Bextra’s withdrawal? Well, it’s not for the cardiac events that led to the Vioxx disaster. The FDA just wants more data on that from Pfizer. Nope, the FDA withdrawal notice cites, “Reports of serious and potentially life-threatening skin reactions, including deaths, in patients using Bextra.”
That’s right: “life-threatening skin reactions”.
Well, I couldn’t leave that alone, so I had to find out exactly what sorta skin reactions can kill a dude. And then I found Stevens-Johnson syndrome.
Sure, at the sound of it, Stevens-Johnson syndrome oughtta just cause you to break out in slacks or drive a Volvo, but it turns out the be one monstrously messed-up medical condition. When the skin’s reaction is “sloughing off,” I understand where the “life-threatening” part comes in.
Still, that wasn’t the weirdest thing that I came across in my little research. No, it was the FDA’s drug info page for Bextra that wins that award. Because the FDA wants us to know the following:
Stop taking Bextra and call your doctor right away if you get:
• a burning stomach pain
• black bowel movements that look like tar
• vomit that looks like blood or coffee grounds
Now keep in mind, that’s before the serious issues with the drug arose.
And you guys wonder why I don’t quit this day job.
As I mentioned a few posts ago, I took some pix down in Louisiana last weekend. I meant to post them earlier, but my flight trouble Monday/Tuesday, combined with the official VM Mom‘s flight delays yesterday, left me with no time or energy to get to processing them.
Without further ado:
Here’s a streetcorner in New Orleans. I liked the color composition, but the day was pretty overcast and ugly.
This is the Cornstalk Fence Inn, which doesn’t seem to require much by way of explanation.
Jackson Square. It was, as mentioned, overcast and foggy.
Really overcast and foggy. This is the Mississippi.
Did I mention that fog?
AAIEE! Ghost ship! With gambling!
Another composition I liked. A local mentioned that it used to be a brothel.
Back to the home of the official VM girlfriend‘s parents in Des Allemands! Time for lunch!
I’m not joking here. It’s a whole table of boiled, seasoned crawfish.
Mason (official VM girlfriend’s godson) doesn’t know what to make of it all. I had some trepidation when they warned me, “Don’t eat the dead ones.”
“You mean there are live ones?”
Evidently, if the crawfish’s tail is straight, that means it was dead before it was boiled with the others. That means it might taste funny or have weird microbes. You know: as opposed to the ones that were pulled live out of the carcinogen-laced Mississippi runoff.
“You actually eat those?” Mason asked. I was with him. I ate the meat from the tail, but I was convinced they were just pulling my leg about sucking the juice from the front half. “But not too hard, or the other stuff comes loose.”
On Easter, Mason broke out the John Deere tractor.
He hauled ass for a while.
The tyke at rest.
It was a fun trip, even with the general trepidation that’s supposed to come with “meeting the folks.” My own can be pretty entertaining, so I never make a big deal out of meeting other people’s.
I’ll be in Dallas for a couple of days next week, and I’ll try to get some nice pix down there. As I recall, though, it had one of the most grotesque skylines I’ve ever seen. My other main memory of Dallas is jumping around a hotel room, blown up on Colt 45, cheering as Charlie Hayes caught the last out for the Yankees in the 1996 World Series.
Oh, and there’s the time I almost got killed in a sports bar in the hotel. I’ll save that one for later.
Took a convoluted path home from New Orleans. Weather was terrible in NJ, with a whole ton of thunderstorms, so the flight was delayed. Midway through, the pilot announced that Newark Airport was closed and that we’d be landing in Richmond, VA, which was near us. We took on fuel, but after an hour or two of sitting, the decision was made to call it a night. The pilot cited microbursts as the reason the airport was closed. I said, “I’d rather find that out here in Richmond than over Newark.”
Continental got us hotel rooms and we headed out to get some rest. The flight headed out this morning at 7am, necessitating a 4:30am wakeup call. Today’s part went off sans hitch, but I’m exhausted, so none of my NO,LA pix until tonight or tomorrow, dear reader.
Official VM girlfriend: Take a right on Camp. I think it turns into Decatur.
Gil: Are you sure? I thought Camp turns into Kitsch! Bwah-ha-hah!
(Thanks. I’ll be here all week.)
Made it into Des Allemands, LA last night. Had the pleasant surprise, after checking in at Continental, to find that my seat had been upgraded to first class. I hadn’t flown first class since 1990, so this rocked the house.
The official VM girlfriend was unhappy about having to sit in row 29, squeezed between two fat passengers, but I’m sure she was assuaged by the in-flight movie.
After we got in, her family took us to Drago’s, where I got to experience some famous char-broiled oysters. Her dad said he tried to use their recipe at home, but the grill wouldn’t get as hot as they keep it at the restaurant.
“Also, some of the oyster-shells would explode.”
Off to New Orleans today. It was about 78 degrees with 245% humidity at 8am, but it’s better than ice and snow.
So sorry to be away, dear reader. I’ve been working on some nefarious plots (moo-hoo-ha-ha-ha) that have taken away from my VM time. I’ll fill you in when they come to fruition.
Today, I’m heading off with the official VM girlfriend to Louisiana to see her family for Easter. Keep in mind, Easter’s not a particularly fun holiday for Jews to be on the outskirts of, but she sez her family doesn’t make any sort of somber occasion out of it. I literally have no idea what gentiles do on Easter, so it oughtta be fun, anthropologically speaking. As long as they don’t break out in a chorus of Throw the Jew Down the Well, everything oughtta be fine.
I still haven’t put together any sorta coherent opinion about the Schiavo case, except to feel bad about noting the irony that she got into this condition because of an eating disorder.
On the radio Wednesday, I heard Governor Pataki (R-NY) explain how the NFL will bring the Superbowl to New York in 2010 if the city builds the new stadium. I thought, “How wonderful! Eventually, New York City will be able to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with cities like Jacksonville and Tempe!”
That’s all the funny you’re getting.
New VM reader Sam enjoys my basketball writing, so I offered him a chance to post here, following the latest Shaq-Kobe match. Because he’s in Canada, this means I now have a foreign correspondent!
A buddy invited me over to his place last night to jam a little and watch the Heat/Lakers game on his new 52″ HDTV. Last night was the first time I have had a chance to watch HDTV and I must say, outstanding! I couldn’t get over the clarity. It was awesome!
[Ed. note: I know, I know. I saw the Superbowl on HD this year, and sports is pretty obviously going to drive that consumer market. Especially in my house. Grr.]
Now I’m going to go into an NBA rant. Okay, deservedly so, everyone is on Toronto GM Rob Babcock’s case for screwing up the Vince Carter trade and then doing nothing at the deadline, but what about the Lakers and the cluster f*ck screw job they have done to their team?! They go from an elite championship team to nothing — that’s worse than the Raptors in my opinion because the Raps were NEVER going to win a playoff round, let alone championship with VC (I hope you are paying attention, Nets fans, ’cause its also going to happen to you).
So what did the Lakers get in return for Shaq? A bag of basketballs from Miami, which is no different than the Raps, and they are going to miss the playoffs (are you seeing the similarities here?).
Who’s talking about this travesty? Who won that trade? Heat 51 – 16. The Lakers and their fans should be embarrassed. Another example of a team catering to the wishes of one superstar player at the expense of the team (are the similarities spooky, or what?).
Lamar Odom was a non-factor last night and it looked like Kobe is on the decline (like VC – scary, oooh). They got spanked.
(Take a deep breath, Sam.)
Peace, out.
–Sam R.
PS: I saw the post-game interview with the Godfather, er, Shaq. He compared Penny Hardaway to Fredo, Kobe to Sonny and Wade to Michael — the heir apparent. This guy’s hysterical. Really funny stuff. Shaq truly is the most electrifying man in sports entertainment today.