I'm on board for recommendations on sleep. If we could get by with less sleep than ~7-8 hours, I figure Mother Nature would have mutated the need out of us long ago. But even though I'm a social media skeptic, I just can't quite bring myself to think that podcasts are bad for me. Maybe I love them too much. But humans are social animals, and in many cases we're put in situations where social interaction just isn't practical. Podcasts fill some of that gap for me. And I agree that the reason podcasts light up people's brains on fMRI is because fMRI is so boring to begin with:
“One of the problems you have in MRI experiments is oftentimes they are very boring,” Gallant said on Freakonomics. “If you put somebody in an MRI scanner, which is a very uncomfortable place to be, and then you flash a word at them every five seconds for an hour, they get bored out of their skull.”
To me, an apt, potentially enlightening, comparison is podcast listening versus phone calls. We know that even hands-free phone calls for drivers radically decrease the quality of driving. Listening to music is associated with no such risk, and neither is talking to a passenger in the car. So is driving while podcasting (DWP) more like hands-free driving, or is it more like driving with music? If you're futzing around with your device trying to find a podcast you like, it's clearly dangerous. That's one reason I absolutely despise Apple's new podcast app, which won't just play podcasts in series like the old app did. I have to pull over to start a new podcast if I'm in the gas-powered wheelchair. But if you don't need to touch your device to play the sound, it seems more like music. On the other hand, podcasts can't shut up when the traffic gets bad or warn you you're about to hit somebody like a passenger can. Sigh. I don't know if I'm talking myself into something or out of something at this point.
I've done a fair amount of telemedicine, all with Vigilias. (I think I was the first doc to ever see a patient on their platform). The practice is closer to in-person medicine than you think. But there are some tricks, as the article points out:
"It sounds strange, but when you're on camera all your actions are magnified," Krupinski says. Sitting six feet away from your doctor, in person, you might not mind or notice her slouching, fidgeting, or gesticulating. But a webcam's intimate vantage point augments these actions in ways that patients can find distracting or off-putting. "You take a sip of coffee and your mug takes up the whole screen, and all they hear is the sound of you slurping," she says. "Or you turn away to make a note, and now all your patient sees is your shoulder. Maybe you disappear from the frame entirely."
And this one is the hardest to get used to:
To appear as though they're making eye contact, clinicians are taught to look not at the patient on their screen, but directly into their device's webcam.
I had other little quirks in my telemedicine days: I had to move my studio to the basement because of complaints about the neighbor's dog barking in the background. And at the beginning I only "dressed" from the waist up, since patients would never see me below the waist. But I found that it made me self-conscious. I needed to have some kind of uniform on to feel like a doctor.