…I have dysgeusia. I am not making this up, I really taste things differently. I can also taste music, color, pruritus, light, darkness… no wait, that’s synesthesia.
No, really, I’ve been having dysgeusia for the past month. This should not be your problem, of course, but it’s fun insinuating personal minor concerns on other people, unless you’re on the receiving end. Water tastes like oil. Salty nuts taste like Styrofoam. But the weirdest taste I’ve been having is that Coke Zero tastes like Yakult. I’m too lazy to brush up on possible etiologies, so shall therefore ask: Differentials? Cancer? Auto-immune? Poor mouth hygiene? Too much drugs? Coprophagia? Taking metronidazole for fun?
November 6, 2008
Just seen the latest Bond movie, and no, Pusong Pinoy, I decided to save myself a trip to MOA, with the long lines, the waiting, the feigned collective gasps and cheers, and the presence of more doctors than I will ever need to see in my lifetime for that supposed premiere, and just watched the movie in Town Center, where the movie is showing in 3 cinemas, and there were vacant seats around me, and the cinema is small and cozy, and there were no collective, palpably bloated cardiologist egos. Really, what is the point of doing a premiere on the opening day? Sure, it will probably buy a few permanent pacemakers for poor patients thereby saving precious lives, but since I’ve already paid the compulsory bloated tickets, I’m sure no one missed me there. And, having given that long, exhausting, tirade of an introduction, back to Bond:
The best way to enjoy the movie is to pretend that you don’t understand the story and that you are only there to see James Bond hit things because really, I didn’t understand the story. Maybe it was the British accent, or the jumpy storylines, or my own poor comprehension after years of head injury, but I didn’t understand the story one bit—and if some of you did, I hope you feel superior. The only good thing about this movie is Daniel who fits the repackaged, non-sissy, non-metro Bond whose solution to everything is to whack it. The dude looked invulnerable, like he could fall from all that height and get pummeled and stuff and you’d really believe he didn’t hurt one bit. Nobody I know likes this actor particularly because he’s not pretty pretty, he has coarse facial features, he looks grimey all the time, and just all around rough around the edges, but I am partial since he played Joe Rose in the movie version of the great book Enduring Love by Ian McEwan.
In Enduring Love a freaky dude (I think he is played by the underweared guy in Notting Hill) gets fixated on the university professor Rose, and attempts to save his soul or something. Of course he’s just a sicko, particularly, he has a condition called DeClerembault’s Syndrome. Sicko stalks Rose and tries to insinuate himself in Rose’s life in every annoying way possible. By the end of the movie the two share a rather long and weird torrid kiss terminated only when Rose finally stabs Sicko (a scene not in the book, by the way). I lent Therese the book Enduring Love back in July 2005, and she read the entire thing in one sitting during an ENT duty. It freaked her out, particularly because someone was DeClerembaulting her as well in real life.
My brother-in-law complained that there are no double D girls climbing up the pool or walking out the beach this time as the staple in the old movies. In Casino Royale there was no such thing either, and I remember a review pointing out that instead of the girl it was the muscled Bond walking out the beach instead to the collective gasps of lonely women everywhere. My sister complained that there are no gadgets involved this time, which I think is great. The very concept of gadgets just stopped becoming impressive 10 years ago. The corniest gadget in James Bond history is the invisible plane, I mean, invisible car. I think that is in the same movie where Denise Richards wears pekpek maong shorts and plays… a rocket scientist.
November 6, 2008
While perusing stuff in my favorite comic book shop Druid’s Keep a depressed looking guy was chatting with Felix, and of course I had to eavesdrop. It just felt so scenic, me pretending to private read the latest issue of Justice Society of America when in fact was trying to eavesdrop on a comic book conversation. Comic book shop conversations are fun—you can hear guys frothing in the mouth at the crapfest that is Amazons Attack!, guys getting genuinely depressed at the death of Captain America over a year ago, and guys pumping their fists in triumph because Elektra has been revealed as a Skrull after all. There’s just so much passion, so much heart over supposedly trifle issues, so much… frothing in the mouth. Back to that particular conversation–apparently this guy was trying to sell all his comic books and action figures because his wife was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. He was looking for potential buyers and asking Felix for contacts and such. To have amassed such a huge amount of fandom material then to sell it because of a real life crisis—to quote Holden Caulfield, it killed me.
Cancer is such an annoying thing. Annoying might fail to carry its weight, but cancer indeed is annoying. Everything can have cancer, from the tiniest ducts to the nerves to everything. And if you think you’ve destroyed it it’s only a matter of time before it comes back. Years and years ago whenever I was playing scrabble with my family playing the word cancer was forbidden. It’s not something you can even speak. Like if you say cancer cancer cancer cancer you will eventually have, yes, cancer.
The best thesis on cancer I’ve come across is not any medical journal or any writing by a cancer survivor or anything, but in Supergirl as written by the great Kelley Puckett. In one issue Supergirl does all she can to try to save a young boy from cancer. The first thing she thinks of is to enlist the help of Resurrection Man. Resurrection Man is a D-lister character in DC comics. He dies over and over but lives again immediately, and every time he comes back to life he has a new super power. He is over fifty-thousand years old. Supergirl’s plan is to kill Resurrection Man repeatedly until he randomly gets the ability to cure cancer. But as RM explains:
RM: Look, when I was born, and for about forty-seven thousand years after that? Humans didn’t live long enough to get cancer. They got “tiger”, or flu. It’s a sign that things basically are good. You live that long and just from living your cells get worn down… the DNA gets damaged. It’s a consequence of living. Of breathing that long. It’s part of being human. It’s natural.
Of course Supergirl’s retort is: He’s five, what’s natural about that.
Eventually the boy dies and Supergirl’s next plan of course is to time travel, either go back to try and save the kid earlier, or bring his grieving parents back to the past to have more time with him. But she decides not to, as she accepts that it’s time to, pardon the cliché, move on.We can’t always work beyond our limitations, because the limitations were set there by someone else for a purpose. For what particular purpose we don’t know, but it’s there.
November 6, 2008
Special Agent Rain made mention of how I missed Bukkake in my salacious-comment inviting blog entry, Damn You Sluramurb. I did hear of it once but totally forgot what it means, so onto Google to refresh my memory. Bukkake, apparently, is the sort of fetish where a group of men ejaculate on a guy’s or a girl’s face/body in sequence. This supposedly has historical Japanese torture roots or whatever. The next Google entry on Bukkake is an advertisement: we will ejaculate on you in series then wash it all off with a warm dose of pee. $5.95 for 3 days. Anyone?
November 3, 2008
The recent total waterlessness in PGH made everyone smell so good—as in totally perfumely good to cover up the post-duty grime. And anorexic too, because if you eat you’ll have to drink, then pee in a toilet bowl full of concentrated, concentrated, CONCENRATED urine (with bits and flecks of feces). Then you couldn’t wash your hands too. Personally, I just didn’t want to do a rectal exam. This called to mind my tenure in UP Diliman’s Kalayaan dormitory, where I stayed in the perpetually waterless 3rd floor. You can always go to the other floors to do your defecating, but for some reason others didn’t want to bother. Since there was no water with which to flush or make buhos after making jebs, one dude got a bunch of Philippine Collegian and laid it over his floating poop. Eventually someone else had to poop, so 2nd dude would poop on the Collegian, then cover that poop with another spreadsheet. And so on until the crap-newspaper quadruple deckerreaches the rim. An emergency floor meeting was called to address this, and no one wanted to own up to the deed. Because really, how are you going to manage such a huge floating turd sandwich, lift it up and throw it in the trash?
November 3, 2008
Woke up this morning at 7 am. That’s the annoying damage residency has done—even if you want to wake up at 1pm your body cycle wakes you up at 7. Turned on the radio and Chico and Delamar were on talking about sharks having sex. Apparently sharks have to be in constant motion or else they’ll die, making it difficult to have sex. So what they do to have sex is they face the current to limit their own personal swimming while still ensuring a constant rush of water in their bodies while fornicating. I then fell asleep again, and as it happens whenever the radio is on I only half-sleep with the songs still pervading me. And in my dream I saw Ditz the Titz in a train station, wearing a green shirt and jeans and looking depressed and saying she has had it in the residency in Jersey Shore and that she had quit, and she hasn’t even met Veronica Mars in their neighborhood, Neptune.
Ditz the Titz is one of my block mates in internship. During our final Ortho exam I couldn’t answer a thing. The resident asking the questions must have noted this, so he gave a bonus question: Who will play Superman in Superman Returns happening in 2006?! This was way before any publicity on the movie, but of course I’ve already known it being a total wizard—a reader of the Wizard Comics Magazine, that is. I let out an annoying Hah! and wrote down the answer. Ditz said “Syempre alam nya yan, 40-year Old Virgin!!!”
Back to the dream: Ditz was looking all morose having just quit the pediatrics residency, and I was ready to give advice and stuff, when what should play in the radio but the shrilly, shrilly song “Love Isn’t… Always!!!” by the shrilly duo Same-Same. Ditz and I looked at each other, stopped our dramatic moment, and jumped to the railroad tracks.
November 3, 2008
1.Recently went videoking, and one batch mate took a stab at a Celine Dion song. And we all discovered that the song All Coming Back is totally… relentless. Just when it gets to the slow part “Cause when you touch me like this…” and it begins to fade seemingly to end… an orchestra swells for another round of a full blast chorus!!!! And then it begins to fade again… then it codas… into an altogether new verse and chorus!!!! And then it fades…. then orchestra!!!!
2.That sometimes people just die. You can do all the autopsies you want or create all sorts of stories and scenarios as to the possible cause of death. But at times, you won’t be able to come up with a cause of death, because sometimes people just die. They just die.
3.That the best way to override the annoying noise of all the BK’s in the hospital is to listen to Keane’s great new record, Perfect Symmetry. It’s a lot more like Keane’s first offering Hopes and Fears… on steroids!!! OOOOOW!!!! We’re tumbling down!!! OOOOOW!!!! We’re spiraling!!! OOOOOW!!! All the verses must be sung with exclamation points!!!
4.The latest DC mega-event, Final Crisis, is crap. After 4 issues things are still all over the place. The only good thing about it is that we finally know the Anti-Life Equation, and the Anti-Life Equation is…
5.Anti-Life= Loneliness + Alienation + Fear + Despair + Self-Worth ÷ Mockery!!! Live for Darkseid! Die for Darkseid!!! Anti-Life justifies my hate!!!! HAAAAAAAAAAAAAATE!
6.Termoonator. Basically, Cocoa Frosties + Marshmallows + Moo Ice Cream + some choco sandwich bits that the counter guy inadvertently revealed as Cream-O. Still, Termoonator is superior to Crunchformers and Robo-Pop which is pure crap. Rose and I left our patients at exactly 11am a few days ago to run to Robinsons and catch Tony the Tiger and get a free Termoonator, only to discover that Tony is in the La Salle branch.
7.That there’s no need to panic. Recently panicked that the ATM chomped up my card. Waited ten minutes. Tapped the card slot as if it would help release the card. Beads of sweat formed. Eyes wandered around looking for any number to call. Lips uncontrollably whimpered “HELP!” Then suddenly remembered I already took the card immediately after the transaction and that it was already in my wallet after all.
8.That for all its submissive and self-flagellating connotation, the mantra “Sige, Para Matapos Na Lang!!!!” will get you through the day more efficiently and less scathed.
9. Cockroaches are getting more powerful. Yesterday I had to step on one no less than six times to kill it, and with the last step I had to twist and squish and twist and squish to ascertain total death. But roachy still managed to crawl dragging its viscera behind.
November 3, 2008
Toys. How they give me a warm glow. I like looking at them all lined up and pretty. I like smelling their plastic. Particularly the plastic capes. Capes are usually made of a different sticky plastic material and they smell good, like some volatile substance, for instance the capes of Supergirl and Superman Robot which smell like fresh rugby. Recently got the Silver Age Superman set, composed of the 60’s likenesses of Perry White, Jimmy Olsen, Lois Lane in a superhero costume, Lex Luthor, and a Superman Robot with Beppo, the Super Monkey. Hugs, kisses, and embraces abound when they joined my old 60’s Superman, Supergirl, Krypto the Super Dog, and Streaky the Super Cat in the shelf. The Silver Age (60’s) is the best era in comicdom, specially in terms of art, and these action figures all evoke the art of the magnificent Curt Swan.
It’s quite jarring when some people refer to the toys as a “collection”. Like when salesladies ask me, “Is that for your collection?”, or when the cleaning lady says, “That’s a nice collection!”. There’s just a certain coldness in the term, a certain… distance. The term is also an injustice to each individual toy, as “collection” strips them of their individuality. Also, I think they’re secretly alive inside, and we don’t call a group of living people a collection, do we? One of Batman’s villains in the classic 90s cartoon Batman The Animated Series is a toy aficionado. In one of the scenes he just stares and marvels at all his toys, and deliciously utters, “TOOOOYS!!!” Toys, indeed.
November 3, 2008
While frantic typing with Mar in GJ’s
Mar: Will, when you become a famous writer please don’t forget me.
Me: I will never be a famous anything, in fact I’ve just received another rejection letter a few weeks ago.
Mar: Yes, but in the off-chance that you become…
Me: I will never become famous! Never!!!!!! (reaches for a razor and slashes wrists)
I invented the last bit. Rejection letters from publishers and publications are interesting. They are functional, because then you wouldn’t have to check their weekly magazines for months on end to check if you’ve made it, but they are also funny in their patronizing-ness (how the heck will I become famous when I use terms such as patronizing-ness?!). The last one, a rejection letter from a crime/detective literary magazine, even went so far as to say, “please don’t let this deter you from further pursuing your career in writing”. Again, a Jim Halpert moment, look at the camera and say HUH?!?
To further this pity party: two of my college block mates who didn’t pursue this med crap went on to each win a Palanca for the future fiction short story category. I submitted a couple of times and never heard from the contest again. A few years ago I wrote a publishing house, and it didn’t even pretend and just said outright, “we only publish established writers”. And most recently I submitted a script for the Physician’s Association night (not that I volunteered, they sort of assigned me in the first place), and it was turned down for being bastos and impossible to execute. What are you saying, that it’s impossible to turn Grace Quilloy into a pillar of salt?
I privately read a book in National Bookstore many years ago that collected private letters of famous writers to aspiring writers. One of the entries was Ray Bradbury’s response to a correspondence written by a fan wanting to write, but confused as to whether he should go to college. Bradbury said that if you really want to write you should think twice about going to college. Ray Bradbury is one of my favorite writers ever, and I sometimes wish I’ve written Fahrenheit 451.
In Fahrenheit 451 books and all sorts of literature are burned in a dystopic future, so concerned people have to make some sort of decking as to who will memorize which book to preserve its contents. One is assigned to memorize Twain, and yet another one is assigned to memorize the Bible. If the burning thing happens today I will volunteer to memorize all the DC Comics ever written, and I pity the one assigned to do Harrison’s Principles of Internal Medicine. Although I do know of some geeky schmucks who will happily do it, snort snort.
November 3, 2008
Back in grade 6 the “in” thing was forming a group and calling yourselves some supposedly cool name. One group of guys was called Parker Lewis (as in Parker Lewis Can’t Lose. Yaaaaaaagh!). Another one was called Jojapatmoju. So it sounded very Aztec/American-Indian/Navajo-ish, but the etymology of such name would be clearer once you realize that its members are Joahnna, Jason, Patrick, Monina, and Jullie Anne. But my favorite group of them all is a group called The BK Boys, composed of boys none of which I will name today. Everyone’s been bugging them what BK stands for, and of course they would just smile and keep silent to build up the mystery. While practicing for graduation I was finally able to coerce one of the members to tell me what BK means, but I can’t quite recall how I did it. Maybe I offered a Pinipig Crunch or Sunny Orange, or maybe I just asked “What’sBK?What’sBK?What’sBK?What’sBK?X20” Apparently, BK stands for (kids cover your ears)…. Beta Kantot. Yes, you read it right, Beta Kantot. Apparently there was this infamous group of rapists then called Beta Kantot, whose MO was to record in Betamax (Betamax!!!) all their raping escapades. So my classmates thought it was cool and called themselves such. As far as I know none of them are rapists now. In fact one member is now a nurse, another is a businessman, and another one a full-fledged house dad. But being a nurse, a businessman, or a house dad does not preclude anyone from being a now digital-recording rapist on the side, you ask. You are absolutely right.
These days BK stands for something else in the hospital. It now means Baseline Karindihan. It’s when you already have an existing aversion to a particular person owing to a previous encounter that involved a lot of nagging or just plain loudness, and a new encounter dredges up this existing noise and you become totally loony from said noise. Baseline Karindihan, for instance, “She’s being such a monster again with all this patient endorsement and stuff, and I already have a Baseline Karindihan with her to begin with. What a total bitch. BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITCH!!!!”. There.
November 3, 2008
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