This is one of my very favorite Shel Silverstein poems ever—and coincidentally, it was first published in the July 1979 issue of Playboy:

There once was a boy named Gimmesome Roy. He was nothing like me or you.
‘Cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do.
As a kid, he sat in the cellar, sniffing airplane glue.
And then he smoked bananas — which was then the thing to do.
He tried aspirin in Coca-Cola, breathed helium on the sly,
And his life was just one endless search to find that perfect high.
But grass just made him want to lay back and eat chocolate-chip pizza all night,
And the great things he wrote while he was stoned looked like shit in the morning light.
And speed just made him rap all day, reds just laid him back,
And Cocaine Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back.
He tried PCP and THC, but they didn’t quite do the trick,
And poppers nearly blew his heart and mushrooms made him sick.
Acid made him see the light, but he couldn’t remember it long.
And hashish was just a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong,
And Quaaludes made him stumble, and booze just made him cry,
Till he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high.

Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat who lived up in Nepal,
High on a craggy mountaintop, up a sheer and icy wall.
“But hell,” says Roy, “I’m a healthy boy, and I’ll crawl or climb or fly,
But I’ll find that guru who’ll give me the clue as to what’s the perfect high.”
So out and off goes Gimmesome Roy to the land that knows no time,
Up a trail no man could conquer to a cliff no man could climb.
For fourteen years he tries that cliff, then back down again he slides
Then sits — and cries — and climbs again, pursuing the perfect high.
He’s grinding his teeth, he’s coughing blood, he’s aching and shaking and weak,
As starving and sore and bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak.
And his eyes blink red like a snow-blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat,
As there in perfect repose and wearing no clothes — sits the godlike Baba Fats.

“What’s happening, Fats?” says Roy with joy, “I’ve come to state my biz.
I hear you’re hip to the perfect trip. Please tell me what it is.
For you can see,” says Roy to he, “that I’m about to die,
So for my last ride, Fats, how can I achieve the perfect high?”
“Well, dog my cats!” says Baba Fats. “here’s one more burnt-out soul,
Who’s looking for some alchemist to turn his trip to gold.
But you won’t find it in no dealer’s stash, or on no druggist’s shelf.
Son, if you would seek the perfect high — find it in yourself.”

“Why, you jive motherfucker!” screamed Gimmesome Roy, “I’ve climbed through rain and sleet,
I’ve lost three fingers off my hands and four toes off my feet!
I’ve braved the lair of the polar bear and tasted the maggot’s kiss.
Now, you tell me the high is in myself. What kind of shit is this?
My ears ‘fore they froze off,” says Roy, “had heard all kind of crap,
But I didn’t climb for fourteen years to listen to that sophomore rap.
And I didn’t crawl up here to hear that the high is on the natch,
So you tell me where the real stuff is or I’ll kill your guru ass!”

“Ok, OK,” says Baba Fats, “you’re forcing it out of me.
There is a land beyond the sun that’s known as Zaboli.
A wretched land of stone and sand where snakes and buzzards scream,
And in this devil’s garden blooms the mystic Tzu-Tzu tree.
And every ten years it blooms one flower as white as the Key West sky,
And he who eats of the Tzu-Tzu flower will know the perfect high.
For the rush comes on like a tidal wave and it hits like the blazing sun.
And the high, it lasts a lifetime and the down don’t ever come.
But the Zaboli land is ruled by a giant who stands twelve cubits high.
With eyes of red in his hundred heads, he waits for the passers-by.
And you must slay the red-eyed giant, and swim the River of Slime,
Where the mucous beasts, they wait to feast on those who journey by.
And if you survive the giant and the beasts and swim that slimy sea,
There’s a blood-drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards that Tzu-Tzu tree.”
“To hell with your witches and giants,” laughs Roy. “To hell with the beasts of the sea.
As long as the Tzu-Tzu flower blooms, some hope still blooms for me.”
And with tears of joy in his snow-blind eye, Roy hands the guru a five,
Then back down the icy mountain he crawls, pursuing that perfect high.

“Well, that is that,” says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone,
Facing another thousand years of talking to God alone.
“It seems, Lord”, says Fats, “it’s always the same, old men or bright-eyed youth,
It’s always easier to sell them some shit than it is to give them the truth.”

I’m afraid I’ve been pretty negligent about posting my articles this year. Subsequently, I’m going to add a few that are a bit dated. First up, my interview with the legendary musician, Perry Farrell. I chatted with him for Playboy.com just prior to last summer’s Lollapalooza, and he was a very cool cat all around. You can check out my conversation with him right here.

When it comes to people’s opinions on Uggs, there’s not much middle ground. There are basically two camps: Haters and Fanatics. For the better part of the past decade I have been a staunch member of the first group, however, I recently had a change of heart. So it’s time for me to ‘fess up: I no longer consider them the Britney Spears of footwear.

Years ago when Uggs first started becoming “a thing,” I was living in New York City. So of course I gradually began to see them here and there. I mean, it wasn’t hate-at-first-sight or anything that dramatic. In fact my initial reaction was “Those… might… be… cute? Maybe? I dunno.” But then, as any good trend is prone to do, Uggs became more than just “a thing.” They became an unstoppable force of nature and an aggressive invasive species. It became impossible to stand on a Manhattan street corner in the colder months without seeing at least 10 women wearing them. Chicks roved around the city looking like little packs of Conan the Barbarian foot soldiers. Don’t get me wrong—under different circumstances I would be all about roving packs of female Conan the Barbarian foot soldiers… but this was overkill.

Then, the unthinkable happened. Girls started wearing them in the summer. In July and August. In New York. Ninety-five-EFFING degrees, people! What.The.Fuck. Uggs with sundresses and Juicy Couture booty shorts… it was too much to bear. I started guzzling potent doses of Ugg Haterade. I made snotty comments, pointed, smirked, laughed in derision. I hated on them with the fury of Mel Gibson in Braveheart just after he witnesses the murder of his one true love, Murron. I trash-talked Uggs like it was my job (which I kind of wish it had been, because as I recall, I was in dire need of one at the time). My disdain for Uggs continued for the remainder of my years in New York and came with me when I moved to Washington D.C. in 2005. In Fairfax, Virginia, affluent teens would stampede Tysons Corner mall wearing their Uggs, tiny Abercrombie & Fitch cotton shorts and Hollister tank tops. It was, in my eyes, totally gagtastic.

When I moved to Chicago in January 2008 I wasn’t surprised to discover that Uggs are even more popular in the Windy City than they are in New York. But given that it’s actually cold as all get-out in Chicago, I could at least concede that the need for authentic sheepskin products is somewhat legit. I still wasn’t sold though… well, at least not until the release of Ugg’s Fall 2009 collection and accompanying Classic Cardy knit boot. It’s basically a sweater-boot (a win-win combo if there ever was one) that folds down and has three cute little buttons on the side. I tried to resist. I averted my eyes, made some jokes about slippers posing as shoes, following the sheep herd… all the standard jabs. It was futile.

The final nail got hammered into my anti-Ugg crusade coffin the day my boyfriend noticed a girl on the street wearing a pair of Ugg knit Cardy’s. He turned to me and said, “I actually think those Uggs are really hot—especially in grey.” This little endorsement was all it took. I crumbled like a sad, stale, pathetic excuse for a cookie. “Oh my god! I like the grey ones, too!” I shrieked a little too quickly, and a little too enthusiastically right in his ear. Shit. Did I just say that out loud? But even if it wasn’t obvious then, my squeals of delight the next time we saw the Cardy’s in a store window were the final dead giveaway. Game over. Uggs: 1, Aranya: 0.

And of course my boyfriend, being the thoughtful guy that he is, purchased a pair of grey Cardy boots and gave them to me for Christmas. Weeeeee! I mean, “Ew!” No, wait. I definitely meant “Weeeeeeeee!”

Since their arrival earlier this month, I have gone from wearing my knit Uggs once a week to wearing them almost non-stop. They are SO comfortable, SO warm and—in my personal opinion—SO goddang cute with jeans, that the thought of donning any other pair of shoes is beginning to seem preposterous. Every morning I wake up and tell myself, “I’m going to mix things up and wear sneakers today, or maybe even heels!” But then I look at my rows of shoes. I gaze at my sneakers and my dress boots and my eyes dart back and forth from the cloud-like lining of my Uggs to the cold, hard soles of everything else. I look out the window at the bleak winter sky and the choice is made. I want my feet swathed-in-heavenly-sheepskin-goodness-all-day-long-dammit! And it’s there for the taking… just waiting for my feet to bask in all of that cushy, toasty glory. So why should I be denied? I shouldn’t. So, I’m not. I mean, c’mon! I might as well be deciding between a spa pedicure and a hot bed of coals.

At this rate, it’s only a matter of time before these habit-forming puppies permanently fuse themselves to my feet. The worst part is I probably wouldn’t even notice. I now understand why women anxiously await “Ugg season,” and why they rush out to buy a new pair every year, stockpiling them like little treasures, wearing them day after day as if they have NO other footwear options in their closets. I understand because I’ve become one of them… an obsessed addict just waiting for my next foot fix. There. I said it. It’s the frightning truth that no one talks about: Uggs are crack-cocaine for your feet. Once you start, you can’t stop. Then you want them on your feet all the time, and you want more of them. Your fashion sense goes out the window and all you think about is comfort, warmth, comfort, warmth, comfort, warmth… more warmth… more softness… more comfort, more warmth, more, more, MORE!! Next thing you know, you’re just another brainwashed Australian sheepskin-aholic. A freakish warm-comfort junkie roaming the city streets wearing sweats and Uggs in a pack of Conan the Barbarian foot soldiers. Ugg. Pun intended, of course.

I’m so ashamed.

Luckily, my warm and cozy feet make it easy to cope with that shame, so it’s really not that bad.

So alas, Conan O’Brien has quit as host of The Tonight Show for real. On Friday night he hosted his final show and gave a very heartfelt farewell speech. His parting words were humble, grateful and inspiring, and he closed out with a plea to his younger viewers urging them not to let ConanLeno-Gate 2010 leave them with a cynical attitude. Apparently cynicism is one of Conan’s least favorite qualities and, incidentally, it’s also one of mine. As Conan so aptly put it: “Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get, but if you work really hard and are kind, amazing things will happen.” True ‘dat Big C, true ‘dat.

Conan’s little nugget of life wisdom really hit home with me on a personal level. I was recently pissing and moaning to my father about an impending life change that’s got me feeling a tad ambivalent, despite the fact that it hardly qualifies as a negative turn of events for me. After dutifully listening to me gripe my dad finally said, “Punkin,” (Yes, my dad calls me Punkin—shut it!), “Nothing in life is ever totally perfect, so there’s no point in fixating on all of the little things that aren’t exactly how you want them to be, because if you do that, you’ll never be satisfied or happy.” I knew he was absolutely right, and to then hear Conan say essentially the same thing one week later only cemented the truth of his advice more firmly in my mind.

I consider myself to be a pretty positive person in general, but I feel an especially strong determination to keep my focus in the coming year on all of the wonderful and amazing things in my life, rather than on the things I wish were different. Truth be told, this should hardly be a daunting task for me considering how incredibly blessed I’ve been overall: I have a great family; a job that I absolutely love; good health and amazing people in my life. When I really think about these things, the minor bumps and challenges that sideline me every now and then seem insignificant in comparison.

Along the same vein, I recently read a great quote in an Esquire “What I’ve Learned” interview with one of my favorite actors, Kelsey Grammer. One of the things “Dr. Frasier” says he’s learned over the years is that he cannot control what happens, he can only control how he reacts. I’ve always prescribed to this line of thinking, but I guess I just loved how succinctly he was able to paraphrase the whole approach. Being the neurotic humans that we are, I think we have a natural tendency to fixate on everything that’s not going right in our lives and to agonize over all of the things we should have, or could have, done differently to change the course of our path. While this is a perfectly understandable behavior, the fact is, it doesn’t accomplish shit. Worrying is like a rocking chair: It gives you something to do but it doesn’t get you anywhere. We all obsess over the daily choices we make, our “To Do” lists, our personal lives and everything in between, but there has to be a point when we say to ourselves, “Okay. That happened. It totally sucked balls, but I learned [insert monumental or trivial corresponding life lesson here] from the experience, and now I’ve got to move forward and tackle what’s in front of me.”

So, yes. My dad and Conan are right. Nothing is ever 100-percent perfect. And although we as individuals achieve all sorts of wonderful things constantly over the course of our lives, we never stop wanting more—or, we get what we think we wanted and then decide that we desire something else entirely. Given our propensity for this sort of self-inflicted torture and misery, it seems that our best hope for attaining serenity is to train ourselves to accept life’s inevitable flaws and learn to devote the bulk of our thoughts and energy to the acknowledgement and appreciation of its innumerable gifts.

I’ve come to realize that opportunities almost never present themselves in precisely the way I’d like, and my error has been to assume that this somehow makes them less valuable, or less good. Opportunities are what we make of them, plain and simple. SO, here’s to unexpected change. It’s never asked for and it’s rarely easy, but it often leads to phenomenal things.

I recently wrote an article for Playboy.com on the 10 women you need to be following on Twitter, and it went live on the site on June 29. These lovelies are hot, smart, funny and cool to boot. Not everyone can be interesting in 140 characters or less. You can check learn more about them in my article, The Sweetest Tweets.

In any event, I feel compelled to post the Sci Q video that my class made for our big final presentation. We were a wild and crazy bunch =)

I’ve got another article in DVM News Magazine. It’s all about how we love our dogs more than our cats…. well no, not really, but it IS all about why we take our dogs to the vet more than our cats. You can read the full “It’s a Dog’s World” article on on the DVM website.

Last fall I wrote a trend piece for DVM magazine, a trade publication for veterinarians. I examined the impact that the faltering U.S. economy is having on veterinary care of horses. I used to ride and jump horses regularly when I was younger, but my father would always tell me that I couldn’t own my own horse unless we moved to Oregon because the upkeep was just too expensive in the fancy D.C. suburbs where we lived. Land in Fairfax County, Virginia is a hot commodity, and you pay dearly for open space — and obviously, horses require land… lots of it. So going into this article, I guessed that the sinking economy was probably taking quite a toll on horse owners. However, I didn’t even think of all the factors that go into the upkeep of these awesome animals. Not only do they need a lot of land, but they also eat a substantial amount of hay (which of course has to be transported by vehicles that require ridiculously over-priced gas). And just like people, they have routine medical care that needs to happen in order for them to stay healthy. Yup. It turns out that health care for horses sucks too. Maybe Obama can help?

In any event, my article ran in the November print edition of DVM. Unfortunately, due to a glitch in the Matrix, I didn’t receive my copy of the magazine until today. I realize that there is a high probability that you don’t care about the state of equine medicine, but on the off-chance that any fellow horse freaks like myself are reading this, click on the link below to read my story…

Equine Medicine in Today’s Economy