I occasionally make veiled references to the many times I was nearly kicked out of graduate school.  While I forbidden to speak about many of them due to confidentiality agreements or statutes of limitation, there are a few that can safely be told- at least by now.  This is one such story.

As a budding neurobiologist, I was studying how to go about growing spare parts for the brain.  Specifically, I was working on growing new neurons.  Neurons are the cells that process and store information and, generally speaking, we don’t make new ones.  This means you’re stuck with the number of neurons you’re born with... unless we learn how to make more.

This is a tough job.  People constantly trying new approaches, some good, some ridiculous.  Much like the fashion industry, the world of research is actually very susceptible to trends.  For a while, the hot thing to do was trying to transform fat or liver cells into brain cells (insert your own joke here), then it was embryonic stem cells, and then it became fashionable to try to produce new brain cells by exercising.  Again, much like the fashion industry, scientists are not very independent and like to copy others.  One paper would set everyone else to duplicating the same approach.

This is going somewhere.  One day I was sitting around perusing the latest research articles when I came across a study entitled “Sildenafil induces neurogenesis and promotes functional recovery after stroke in rats.”  In layman’s terms, this meant that researchers had created artificial stroke in rats and had then given them the drug Sildenafil, which had prompted the stroked-out rats to generate new neurons and get better faster.  Obviously this was a big deal.  Sildenafil was an existing, relatively safe drug that might now have a second use on the market.

Most people would know what condition Sildenafil is usually used to treat if I called it by its more common name: Viagra.

Naturally we had to copy this study, a task which fell to me.  Of course, to do this, I now had to obtain a quantity of Viagra.  Unlike other compounds, Viagra was still under patent, which meant there was only one source for it: Pfizer Pharmaceuticals.  I got their phone number and call the company.  After negotiating the automated menu I get to talk to an actual human being.  Here’s how our conversation goes:

N(oah): I’d like to buy the active ingredient in Viagra.

O(perator): I’m sorry sir, you’ll need a prescription.  We can’t do it over the phone.

N: Let me make myself clear. I’m a researcher at the University of Florida, and I wanted to buy a quantity of Viagra for research, not personal use.

O: Oh, we can’t do that.  We have no way of knowing what you’re going to do with it.

N: It’s official.  How about if I use a university credit card? A university shipping address?

O: Do you have any idea how many people call up, trying to buy medication without a prescription?   [Editorial Note: his tone softens and becomes therapeutic] Listen, lots of people call every day who are embarrassed to talk about their problems.  Your doctor will-”

N: Are you kidding me?  Has all the blood drained from your brain into an erection lasting more than four hours? No, don’t answer that.  Is there someone these who can handle my simple request?

O: Please hold for my supervisor.

I feel a moment of pride.  I had almost lost it, but I had kept my cool and was now about to get results.  The supervisor comes on and, after I re-explain myself, gives me the same shit about needing a prescription.  I lose it.  Much is lost in my fugue of rage.  I mention several absurdities in their position.  I ask them what they think I want to do with enough Viagra to fuel a thousand erections.  I conclude with a diatribe attesting to the fact that none of this is for personal use.  I can get it up just fine.  I describe my prowess in doing so.  The graduate students on either side of me are smirking.

As I am venting my frustration, the door opens behind me, and my boss walks in with none other than the new president of the University of Florida, Dr. Bernard Machen (Bernie Mac to those in the know).  Dr. Machen was previously at the University of Utah, and had brought his conservative values to Gainesville.  As the director of the McKnight Brain Institute (the building in which we sat), my boss had been giving him a tour which he had directed here, no doubt hoping to avoid an embarrassing scene.  Sadly, as they entered, I was in the midst of describing in lurid detail how the JC Penney catalog was enough to set me off.  Most people needed at least Victoria Secret, I screamed, before triumphantly hanging up.  My colleagues to my left and right, who had been tittering at my carthartic release, suddenly grew quiet.  I turned around and saw my boss and the president of the university.  Machen was shocked, but my boss looked ready to murder me were he of sufficient size to carry out such a plan.

There was no point in trying to explain the situation.  My only hope was to play it off and hope the big dogs bought it.  I grinned sheepishly, pointed to my chest and said “Tourette’s Syndrome” while giving my best “my bad” shrug.  Machen pursued his lips thoughtfully, weighing the odds I was bluffing against the lawsuit the University would face if I wasn’t.  The dice came up in my favor.  Aside from a stern talking to from the boss, I lived to curse another day.

Addendum: Some months later, I was called upon to give a presentation at the President’s house.  In doing so, I ran into Machen again.  He didn’t mention directly whether he remembered me, but he looked at me funny.  I didn’t know if I should continue acting like I had Tourette’s (“Hey! Bernie! These canapes taste like BuuuullllSHIT!”) so I compromised and threw a few facial ticks into the conversation.  He got the hell out of there pretty quick, possibly because he thought I was having a seizure.