Hi, I'd like to order something that will cauterize this wound

Seriously, why didn't I get this?

Tonight Sayak and I went for a dinner outing at the Elevator on High Street in downtown Columbus.  'Twas quite tasty, although neither one of us ordered the signature Elevator entree, which is the "Rock Filet."  For those not familiar with the Elevator, the Rock Filet is a cut of meat served uncooked alongside a very hot rock.  The purpose of the hot rock, if you couldn't guess, is to cook the meat right there at your table.  The patron who orders this entree can enjoy both the taste of the meat and the satisfaction that comes along with cutting off a juicy piece and applying it to the sizzling rock.  Numerous scientific studies have proven that sizzling something on a hot rock produces an overwhelming feeling of accomplishment, and the Elevator has wisely tapped into this phenomenon.  Personally I wonder about the Rock, because it seems to bring an element of danger into dinner.  For example, if you're going as a family to the Elevator, and you've got really small children, can you depend on them to listen to the waiter or waitress's admonishments about how hot the Rock is?  Probably not.  Probably you would end up with a small, cute, sizzling child's hand at some point during the meal.  If not danger, then at least the Rock draws focus away from the companionship of the dinner, because you know that the conversation would pause for some throw-away "Ooh, look at that, listen to that sizzle" comments any time a new piece of filet was applied to the heat.  The obvious solution to this issue is to order the Rock Filet, but hold the Rock.

Dinner was on me tonight, as I had lost a friendly wager over a 2 out of 3 ping-pong match a couple weeks ago with my comrade.  We ponied up the $10 to play at the RPAC, not knowing of a more suitable location around the area, and Sayak soundly trounced me in two straight games.  It had been awhile since I had really played ping-pong, and certainly a long time since playing with any regularity.  Back in the day, Nate and I would spend many-a-night in the basement at our house in East Liverpool, volleying back and forth on Grandad's homemade table.  I got pretty good, although I now realize that part of my "skill" was actually found in tactics that are technically cheating.

Scraping myself with that rock was hard enough!
Now you're telling me it should have been sizzling?

It seemed a bit odd to be going into the RPAC just for some casual ping-pong playing, both because of my former experiences going to the gym at Ohio State for serious working out, and because it was later in the evening when the place was overrun with the many students trying to get some time on the equipment.  The RPAC is multi-tiered, and as you walk down the open-style staircase from one level to the next, you can look down upon an extensive row of treadmills.  At this time of day, every treadmill was filled.  This image struck me as being rather futuristic, in a Gattaca kind of way, where humans eagerly but grimly take their scheduled time on the machine one-by-one in the pursuit of perfection.  It would have looked totally appropriate to have various wires and tubes hooked up to each student to monitor their every physiological response.  There was a momentary urge to pause, raise my arms above them all, and proclaim "Yeeees army!  Yeees! Train your bodies in preparation to do my bidding!"  But I had to put aside my warlordish leanings because Sayak was waiting to defeat me.

The dinner at Elevator not only served as Sayak's victory meal, but also as a nice conclusion to my graduate degree.  Prior to going to dinner I completed my last exam, turned it in, and left Fisher without further pomp or circumstance.  Nothing really felt different, and no time was even given to reflection on this moment.  Perhaps in the coming days the change in the weekly routine will be noticeable, but then again, perhaps not so much.

The most important things to remember after donating blood
is that you need to hydrate!

Anyway, earlier in the day I had donated blood at work, so I still had on the stretchy gauze arm wrap that keeps the little towelette firmly pressed against the entry hole for the needle.  Typically when I donate blood I take off the arm wrap shortly after getting home, and have never had an issue before.  The phlebotomist who drew my blood gave the usual set of directions, instructing me to keep the wrap on for at least four hours following donation and to get plenty of fluids, yada yada.  Well, it had been about five and a half hours since I donated, and I was going to dinner, where I may very well have wanted to roll up my shirt sleeves, so I decided to remove the gauze.  I rolled up my shirt sleeve, removed the wrap, and was surprised to find the needle stick hole immediately start to bleed!  Great, I thought, I've got to patch this again now.  However, I didn't have a stretchy gauze wrap conveniently laying around, and I certainly didn't have a phlebo at hand either.

I went back into Fisher to the bathroom and got a paper towel to press on my arm, and then remembered that I keep a basic first aid kit in the trunk of my car.  Jackpot!  I knew that the kit had some band-aids in it, so my initial thought was that I was set and the problem would easily be resolved.  But this merely demonstrated my lack of intelligence, because the purpose of the wrap is not only to cover the hole, but also to keep some pressure on it.  Perhaps the slight trickle of blood going down my arm was weakening me more than expected!  Unfazed, I went back out to my car, popped the trunk, and got out the first aid kit.  At this point, part of me was thinking "This is awesome!  I'm bleeding from my arm and performing pseudo-first aid on myself!"  Another part of me was thinking "I hope those two nurses that are in my class don't finish their exams in the next few minutes, come outside, see me, and say 'What the hell are you doing?!'"  In fact, it probably was an odd sight for anyone, this twenty-something in nice blue dress shirt and pink tie, sleeve rolled up, standing by his open car trunk outside the Fisher College of Business and apparently trying to wrap a tourniquet around his arm for some reason.  The thought may have even crossed some minds, "Hmm, personally I would celebrate finishing my degree with a nice dinner at the Elevator, but I guess some people just have to shoot up."  Yes, yes, nothing like a little morphine fix out of the car trunk to commemorate that Master's degree.

As noted a few moments ago, the band-aid wasn't going to cut it, as I needed something to actually apply some pressure.  Unfortunately, rather than having stretchy gauze in the first aid kit, I only had some kind of athletic tape, like the kind used for wrapping sprained ankles.  In other words, not stretchy, just sticky.  Making due with the materials at hand, I manfully wrapped a snug tourniquet around my arm, and although the result was a bit primitive looking, it was satisfactory.  Upon getting home later and gaining access to some stretchy gauze with which to replace the tape, I made a new wrap, which is now in place and will remain so for at least a few more hours.  Of course, putting on the new wrap required removal of the old wrap, and as you might imagine, the tourniquet I created earlier was essentially like wrapping my arm in masking tape.  So needless to say, I now have a nice ring around the middle of my arm that has significantly less hair on it than it did earlier in the day.

Impressive.  I too performed first aid on myself at a moment's notice.  But tell me, how many men have you killed?