Monday, June 29, 2009

I... Am... Phoeeeeeeeenix!

Smoketh has recently exhibited strange precognitive psychic powers. While at Gloria Jeans one night she was scrolling some songs in my laptop and saw a song by Michael Jackson. She immediately pointed out that:

Smoketh: Grabe si Michael Jackson, muka na syang naaagnas.
Me: Indeed. He looks very friable.

MJ of course died the next day. Or he could have been dying that exact moment, in which case Smoketh wouldn't be a precog and would therefore not qualify for a precog position in Minority Report, but she would still qualify as an all-around psychic. Years ago I insisted to my siblings that I have psychic powers. Whenever they would pester me to do some mind-reading I would tell them that my powers only work on Mondays. At 2 p.m. Like those Friday's Free Potato Skins promo cards.

Speaking of psychics, I know that the general population who has grown up watching the X-Men cartoons and read The X-men mostly in the 90's may no longer be as updated, so let me just say that Jean Grey is dead (for the 34th time, I think), and unless she has been resurrected in some storyline I am not aware of, she is still dead (although I suspect that she has recently been resurrected, haven't been reading a lot of X-Men the past few months). Scott Summers has been having sex with Emma Frost since 2003, who is now the resident psychic of the X-men. She also has the ability to transform her body into diamond. Yes, the one in the Wolverine movie. In the quite amusing death scene written by Grant Morrison, Jean's last words to Scott couldn't have been more fitting: All I ever did was die on you.

Hah! Too bad for Cyclops, The Blackest Night event wherein the dead shall rise again is happening only on the DC side.

Stage Mum's Kid Wins!

Indeed, Stage Mum's kid wins the grand prize in the recently concluded art contest. This will therefore reinforce Stage Mum's stagemumness, and the kid will grow up to be an uptight, grade-conscious overachiever. Or not. Who knows, the kid might turn out to be a rebel and become a cool, junkie painter who can paint the future.

This happened at the Mall of Asia, so it might not be too incongruent to segue into... The Transformers movie part 2! Extreme gratitude first to Namtab Pots and his friends who bought my tickets for a good cause, when they could have, for the same price, gotten into a more comfortable, less packed cinema in a nearby mall, with popcorn and all. However, let me assure you that your money will go a long way. It can buy, for instance, hundreds of sugar monitoring strips for diabetic patients. Because of these the diabetic patients will be well taken cared of in the wards. They will then go home well. Sure, once they're home they will not buy their own meds, get a pedicure, develop really bad foot gangrene which they will try to manage with pinulbos na penicillin, rush to the ER after 6 months when the extremities are unsalvageable, and get a bleeping amputation, but let me not spoil this victory. Thank you in behalf of Sagip-Buhay.

That being said, The Transformers 2 is way too noisy. It is bad enough that the machines and the rockets boom screamingly, but must the characters scream too? Yes, they must, or they wouldn't hear each other with all that background noise, but must they scream at each other in total, unabated hysteria?

10 minutes into the movie I was checking my watch, and the movie never recovered. Whenever a movie becomes boring I check out the actors and try to cast them in my ultimate DC superhero dream movie. Whenever Megan Fox runs I always imagine her reaching for something in her belt and whipping out her Magic Lasso of Truth, because yes, with a little more (okay a lot of) acting lessons, Megan Fox could be the one true Diana Prince Wonder Woman!!!

In one of the supposedly touching scenes Sam sees the dead Primes in his near-death state. This scene tells us that Shia LaBouf can never play Yorick Brown, the cool, funny guy who is a repository of an endless amount of pop culture information. Because the guy who can play Yorick Brown, when he sees those old, dead Primes, would immediately scream, "Ents!!!! Ents!!!!"


Been reading too much books and comic books, watching too many movies, and writing way too many stupid blog entries the past weeks that you’d wonder how I even manage to groom myself. Okay so I don’t groom myself, but I am now a repository of useless information more than ever.

Have been reading Y: The Last Man by Brian Vaughan and Pia Guerra, a 60-issue limited series under Vertigo, the adult imprint of DC Comics. Wait, did you know that DC stands for Detective Comics? So it’s therefore like saying Detective Comics Comics, much like PIN number. One of DC’s earliest publications was an anthology series called Detective Comics back when the company publishing it was still called National Publications. Batman made his debut in Detective Comics.

Back to Y: The Last Man. Excellent, excellent read, I'm placing it in the same league as Watchmen, Identity Crisis, and the JSA run of Geoff Johns. The premise: all the Y-chromosome carriers on earth die instantaneously except Yorrick and his pet monkey Ampersand, and Brian and Pia (close kami) has successfully explored all its repercussions in the most entertaining way possible, with each issue ending in a cliffhanger in a classic pulp sci-fi manner. A co-resident, a mother of two children in her thirty’s who has never read a single comic book has been eavesreading it with me, and she’s hooked. They are planning to make a movie adaptation and the early favorite for the role of Yorrick is Shia Lebouf. He has turned the role down, which is great. He just doesn’t have that geeky, English lit, frequently emasculated guy vibe, so the role is still up for grabs. If they’re going to make a movie out of it, it should be in at least two or three parts, each movie filmed at the same time and shown two or three months apart. And since you asked, yes, there are a few girl-to-girl action. And it's wonderfully, genuinely hilarious, too.

At the same time have also reading the X-Men cross-over The Messiah Complex. Remember (or not), in the House of M almost all of the mutants were decimated when the Scarlet Witch got all loony, and in The Messiah Complex we finally see the first mutant birth since that decimation. Everyone, of course, is racing to get the baby. Gripping stuff but eventually lost gas in the middle, with all the running around and deaths, and I can't believe they've spent almost 14 issues on this without even elucidating on what or who the heck this baby is.

At the same time (I am therefore a Legionnaire called Triplicate Turd), I am catching up on Greg Rucka’s run on Wonder Woman, featuring storylines wherein Wonder Woman wrote a book, fought Medusa, and for a few issues was blind with a red scarf on her eyes for creepiness effect. Great, fun stuff.

And yet at the same time, I am reading the latest action in the latest DC releases: Dick Grayson, formerly Robin, formerly Nightwing, is now Batman!!! The annoying supposed son of Bruce Wayne, Damian, is now Robin!!! Tim Drake, formerly Robin, is now The Red Robin!!! Supergirl finally discovers the identity of Superwoman, and it’s no other than Lois’ sister, Lucy Lane!!! Lana Lang, who is still my choice to be Superman’s life partner, has a deadly disease, and if they kill her I am going to throw myself in a vat of taffy!!! Wonder Woman is still battling that fugly monster, who turns out to be the reanimated corpse of Wonder Woman herself from the future!!! Green Lantern, who is still battling Agent Orange Larfleeze, has just lost his right hand carrying the ring, because Larfleeze chopped it off!!! The Oracle mini-series is crap!!! Final Crisis Aftermath: Run is actually a surprise hit!!! And most importantly, someone else is now wearing the Batgirl costume, and we still don’t know who the fuck it is!!!

I see that I’ve entitled this entry Movies but haven’t reviewed anything of that sort. Have to man the poison control exhibit booth now and make sure no one steals those deadly cassavas, so maybe next time.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Stage Mum

It's National Poison Control Week. The first ever. And of all months to rotate in Toxicology too, I know--haven't anyone endorsed to them that I don't have a passion for anything? So we had something set-up in Mall of Asia, some sort of exhibit composed of The Garden of Poisons, Under the Sea, and Under the Sink, featuring all sorts of poisonous stuff that can make you suffer but which you will eventually survive, with all the trauma and embarrassment. See, I said make suffer and survive from with much embarrassment and trauma, not kill you, so don't get any ideas, suicidal ones. And since I didn't want to have to tour anyone and explain anything, I assigned myself to the poster-making contest area for kids and doomed myself.

Surprisingly, random passersby, mostly families, would stop by and join the contest for no reason. Kids would just volunteer to draw for no reinforcement whatsoever. And the stage moms are there. I overheard one such stage mom coach her 7 year old boy, "more red here. No don't color the crossbones pink." She then proceeded to take a picture of the boy holding his finished product. And when I taped the said, er, masterpiece on the wall she took a picture of it with her digicam. She then looked at the photo she took on the digicam screen and muttered loudly to herself, "PERFECT". I hope the boy wins. For his sake.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

Now Where Were We

I told you it works.

Me: Hey Hart, kamusta na si Ferrous O.D. Guy? Masakit pa rin ang tiyan?
Hart: Hindi na. Okay na sya. Bati na sila. Naghahalikan na sila.

And it wasn't a hyperbole. They were, indeed, deep kissing. Speaking of deep kissing, this is a term I've recently come across during a lecture on HIV-AIDS, that apparently someone could get the virus from deep kissing. What the heck is deep kissing? How deep is deep? Does your tongue need to reach your partner's oropharynx? Cribriform plate? Medulla oblongata? What?

In a totally unrelated not-so news news, the guy from Kill Bill was found dead in his cabinet with a rope around his neck and around his dick. As Clyde Bruckman told Mulder, no other way to die is more undignifying that from autoerotic asphyxiation.

Seen a lot of movies the past two weeks. Zack and Miri Makes a Porno kicks every single's movie's rear. I don't know anybody else who has seen this movie, so first: this is not a porn movie. No porn movie would have such a title. It is written and directed by Kevin Smith, writer of the wonderful Dogma and the Jay and Silent Bob series, although his Jersey Girl sucks. He is also a comic book geek, having written great stories such as the return of Green Arrow and the more recent Batman: Cacophony. Zack (Seth Rogen) and Miri (Elizabeth Banks) are friends who share an apartment and are besieged by sudden financial crisis, so they decide to make a porn movie. There's a funny cameo by Brandon Routh (Superman Returns) as the boyfriend of a gay porn star played by that guy in... Drag Me To Hell!!! For its wit, charm, and chutzpah to actually give Traci Lords a good mainstream performance, I give this movie... 10 out of 10 DC Direct action figures!

Movie reviews/potshots of recently-seen movies to look forward to in case I don't get distracted by a recent surge of interest to take photos of my action figures using my sister's wonderful camera: Little Children, Requiem For A Dream, The Usual Suspects, Brokeback Mountain, Memento, Outlander, and my favorite, Misery! Will any of these movies get 10 out of 10 action figures? And if ever, will those ten action figures be exquisite DC Direct figures, or disgusting Hasbro Marvel Legends?!

Whine For The Day

We're showing The Transformers this Friday, and I'm begging you to buy tickets from me. My blog invitation about Batman last year was a spectacular failure, basically because my technique sucked--I said that your money wouldn't even suffice for a meropenem, but maybe CBG strips. This year I'm changing my technique, so let me just say this: I'm broke. I can't afford to buy all these tickets when I'm already having a hard time saving up for rent and food. I am a government employee who can hardly make ends meet, and if I have to pay for all these tickets I will have to subsist for three weeks on canned food and toilet bowl water. I am poor. Very. So poor that I am thinking twice about continuing my training, and am in fact contemplating on being a call center agent. Just last week I pilfered a plastic of galletas--from a charity ward patient's rationed food. I was just so hungry.


A medical audit is exactly that—you present a mortality in front of bloodthirsty people and they will audit every single misstep that you did and pour sacks of salt on your already gaping cavity of guilt. Let’s cut this crap about learning, although it is an important aspect in some cases, but let’s cut this crap about learning—you killed someone and everyone should know what ancient weapon you used. There are various reasons to get audited—the management is questionable, the case is interesting, the consultant who ordered it to be audited was fascinated by the case’s supposed rarity unaware that the ward is littered with leukemia patients with pneumonia, no one is scheduled for that day (Hello, Aloyloy, congratulations on that record-breaking 5-day notice to present), there is an autopsy that will supposedly clarify things, and my favorite: that you failed to get enough money to buy antibiotics for the patient and should therefore be exposed for the irresponsible crass that you are. In any case, there are always decapitations galore.

Last year I had the, err, privilege of being the only one in the batch to be audited twice, both of which were brought upon under circumstances which were relatively, let's say, unorthodoxed. I had four or five straight months of proud mortality-less streak of which I couldn’t shut up about and then wham! Lucky for me the ones usually wielding the sharpest cleavers weren’t there to—all together now—drag me to hell. And that my cases had actual points for discussion, because let’s face it, some cases suck. Not the presentations, but the cases themselves. In my two audits when the questions were geared towards a shortcoming, whether they be fair or not, I discovered that the best way to respond is to just nod or give some incomprehensible grunt. None of that “in hindsight” or “thank you for that point” or “point well taken” crap, because they don’t make you look any smarter, and in any case, who the heck cares if you can spew elaborate platitudes anyway.

My first audit was a fascinating case of a woman who had stayed in the hospital for more than two months for her horrible, disfiguring facial infection, who eventually died... from complications from the treatment itself--the most expensive antibiotics which were even completely subsidized by the infectious committee. Thanks to the autopsy we saw the disgusting pseudomembranes that eventually ate her up. By the time I had my 2nd audit I was more confident and cared less and TT, who was my designated powerpoint clicker, noted before I took the podium that my presentation had no “objectives”. “Walang objective-objective,” I growled, “dahil ang objective ay matapos ito!!!” TT also noted that I wasn’t wearing a necktie, that my shirt had short sleeves, and that I was wearing brown, informal shoes. He offered me his necktie. “Wala!” I growled further, “walang necktie-necktie na magaganap!!!” I wasn’t trying to be cute—I just wanted to be free from unnecessary crappy trappings.

For all its fault-finding nature, though, an audit is not free of entertainment. My favorite moments are those when the superiors ask questions that have just been answered, showing that their minds were drifting to what they would have for lunch. More than twice I had to restrain myself from starting my response with, “As I’ve already said, you attention-deficit, overrated windbag, the CT scan is normal!” I had said “as I’ve already said”, however, when someone arrived 45 minutes into my presentation and he asked me to repeat everything. I repeated everything happily, to eat up the time and bore everyone else. My 2nd favorite moment is when an unfamiliar voice suddenly bursts into a question, and we look at him, and nobody knows who the heck he is. Just recently someone did this, and for all his toxic questions he turns out to be a spankin' brand new fellow. New, as in just employed 3 days ago. Not that he doesn’t have the right to make pa-toxic just because he’s new, but the common perplexed look of the crowd is fun.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Infernal Culprit

So much for shutting up.

So Mrs. T is on her indefinite leave for the sake of her baby, who I think will be the savior of the universe in a John Connor kind of way, which is appropriate since Mrs. T is the Suprema of the Universe. Being the mother of John Connor, of course, is not easy--she needs to nurture the kid and complete her heparin shots, she vomits every day, and she needs to read A Brief History of Time to her tummy every single day. The latest challenge in these series of challenges was when she noted that her bathroom sink was clogged. She poked it with a barbecue stick, she poked it with her toothbrush, she even tried super-poking, but to no avail. Even liquid sosa failed, so she called in a lababo professional.

What could possibly be clogged in your bathroom lababo? I inquired, although i had a few guesses--a dead cat, a dead rat, hair, hair ball, heparin syringes. These, however, do not even come close to the blood-chilling horror that is stuck in the infernal lababo.

Speaking of infernal, I still can't shut up about Drag Me To Hell. I told TT that he should watch it, that it's not evil, that it's not immoral, that it's hilarious with all that blood and yellow vomitus, and that gypsy lady deserves the best acting award for being "akting na akting", but TT wouldn't comply. And then Fulet Esplana asked me to write the spiel that will play in the PGH paging system to advertise our fund-raising movie showing, The Transformers 2 happening on June 26 7 pm at the Mall of Asia. It went something like this, "Transformers on blablabla at blablabla... proceeds will go to Sagip-Buhay for the indigent patients of PGH blather blather... watch the autobots as they make their last stand against the decepticons in their final battle that will DRAG EVERYONE TO HELL!" This of course didn't make it past the censors, so I think they'll change "HELL" to "ADVENTURE". With Fulet Esplana I am of course talking about Paulette Nacpil. The monicker Fulet Esplana is not a total invention, though. It has a very complex, convoluted origin that it deserves a totally different blog entry. Two blog entries.

Back to the lababo. Lababo professional came in with his plumbing stuff and stuff, and he did complicated diagnostic tests. After much poking he finally unearthed the infernal culprit, and as he did so a terrible stench assailed the entire village. Because what should the infernal culprit be but... Mrs. T's accumulated vomitus for the past 5 months. Talk about impaction.

Drag Your Butt To Hell!

I sort of enjoy reading the stuff that I write, an enjoyment which usually expires in about 1 year, after which I get all vomity and despise my pretentious, shallow thoughts. I noted that I have been blogging quite more heavily these past few days, and as usual I've been reading and re-reading them all like a total schizoid, and realized that if you read all of these in one go it's quite... noisy. Like the non-stop droning commentary of an auditory hallucination of schizophrenics. In other words, nakakarindi. All those long, run-on sentences, all those whines, all that self-righteous or self-deprecating garbage that can be likened to an over-cheese powdered junkfood, that I find myself telling myself: shut up, or I'll drag your butt to hell. So I'll probably try to shut up, not everyone's/no one's interested in your vein-poking non-adventures, so zip it.

Monday, June 8, 2009


Apparently, it works. Guy instantly got back together with girl in the backdrop of the disgusting emergency room and they smooched like they own the darn place. Because apparently, it works--I mean taking 30 slimming pills in the guise of suicide to win back the one who ditched you. I know, i know, we're not supposed to be judgmental--or as the more fun word, judgeful--but i'm not judging girly who just swallowed 30 slimming tablets each tablet containing caffeine equivalent to two cups of coffee. I'm not judging anyone, I'm just saying that she's a whiny, maladjusted brat. If I knew this would work then my parents would've probably bought me that Super NES back in 1993.

Sunday, June 7, 2009

Drugs!!! Gimme Those Drugs!!!

After reading tons of comic books in my computer I was about to sleep at 2am when I experienced sudden, gnawing abdominal pain. This happens a lot, and I suspect cancer, or a trapped, live fly like the one in Drag Me To Hell. I couldn’t sleep, I writhed and writhed on my bed and hoped that I would die (exaj). I felt like someone was… dragging me to hell (just have to use it, again). I tried placing my warmed palms on my abdomen, I tried all sorts of position, but damn pain wouldn’t go away. I even tried some chakra whatever method—back in med school some alternative medicine person told us that you could remove the cold from any organ by acting like you’re taking something from that organ using your hand, and throwing whatever you took at some nearby organic object. For instance, she cited that someone with severe abdominal pain had thrown the invisible pain at some plant, and in a few minutes the pain was gone. The next day the plant had wilted and died. There was no plant in my room, so I threw it on the floor, surely there must be some dust mites there or something.

It didn’t work. I continued contorting in pain. I vowed that no matter what happens to me I would never go to our emergency room. So finally I popped open a vial of Tramadol, and to my chagrin the only syringe I have is the largest 10-cc syringe. No way am I stabbing my atrophic deltoids with that giant needle, so I resolved to insert it on a vein on my left hand using my right hand. Now I have large hand veins, and I am quite good in inserting needles into patients’ veins, so without even tying a tourniquet on (although it would have been quite dramatic to tie one with a hand and my teeth), I poked my largest vein and pushed the drug. Bulge. I yelped like a moron and pulled out the needle. I poked a different vein. Bulge. I yelled a loud “DAMMIT!” not in a cool Jack Bauer voice but with the whiniest voice on the planet. The needle was losing its sharpness and there was already some aspirated blood in the syringe so no way could I inject it intramuscularly now. I tried for the 3rd time on a different vein. BULGE. “P#T@!!!” I yelled. I threw the syringe away. By this time abdominal pain has left me spontaneously, laughing mockingly as she drifted away. This is why I could never be an IV drug user—I’d waste drugs worth thousands of pesos on painful missed insertions. That, and the gangrene on Jared Leto’s arm in Requiem scares the crap out of me.

Charito Solis On Crystal Meth

Have been delaying watching Requiem For A Dream for years now, until I could no longer stop myself, and when I finally did—holy crap, it is as great and ugly as everyone says it is. Ugly, as in it has a lot of ugly images that you can’t tear your eyes away from, images that will linger and linger. After seeing it I went to meet Smoketh in TCBATL and told her she should watch it watch it watch it.

“I’ve heard of it. What’s it about? Who stars in it?” she asked.
“Ellen Burstyn,” I said.
“Who’s Ellen Burstyn?” Smoketh asked, puffing away.
I couldn’t recall any other movie of Ellen Burstyn so I just said, “Think Charito Solis at her scariest.”

Which reminds me, while most kids had their fear of clowns phase, I had a fear of Charito Solis phase. I used to be afraid of opening our refrigerator at night, thinking I would see her severed head in it. Did I just imagine it or was there really a movie featuring her decapitated head in the ref? Some Shake, Rattle, and Roll episode or something? I also remember our grade 5 science teacher telling us about some movie she saw featuring an alcoholic Charito Solis who was so desperate for alcohol she guzzled a bottle of rubbing alcohol. And then there was the “Len-Len! Len-Len!” movie featuring some Down’s Syndrome kid named Len-Len who was a witness to a murder or something and Charito wanted to cover it up and she would have been successful had it not been for the timely intervention of… Sharon Cuneta. Care to elucidate on all these vague pop culture references, Marth V.?

The best time to watch Requiem For A Dream is when you’re at your loneliest and scariest of growing old alone alONE ALONE and you feel like dying your hair red and losing lots of weight and joining Wowowee wearing a red dress for some recognition. I know, lots of criteria to be at your optimal state of mind to appreciate the film, but I enjoyed it just the same even when my state of mind was just pure, unabated sluggishness and disinterest in reading about poisons. Mmmmmmm…. poisons.

To put all this movie recommendation into perspective: back in 1999 I recommended that as a reward after her Physics 71 final exam Mrs. Therese should watch another one of my favorite movies, Quills, featuring Joaquin Phoenix in a sutana and Kate Winslet as the chambermaid from porn land. So Mrs. Therese ran to SM City with another one of our friends, Hyukhyukhyuk, and they watched Quills, ready to refresh themselves from the annoyance that was Physics 71. Mrs. Therese and Hyukhyukhyukhyuk never forgave me.


I’ve just recently discovered the joy and exhilaration of going on duty wearing tsinelas. What fun. What pure comfort. Walking back and forth, scouring the entire bleeping hospital to write my token notes that wouldn’t even get a token reading. One of my friends training in a private hospital was once caught with his necktie loosened and out of place at 12 midnight, and he was fined, so I guess whatever difficulties I whine about here at least I can walk around the hospital wearing the most kupas, collar-less t-shirt, no blazers on, matched by soiled jeans and tsinelas, with my steth the only thing differentiating me from a bantay. I’ll probably get twenty memos for this and a lot of scolding on that rare occasion that they send spies in the wards, and they do send spies, but what the heck. Speaking of which, who exactly are these spies? Nurses? Pretend patients? A… co-resident? Conspiracy! Still, my dream is to go on duty at the ER wearing shorts.

Give It To Me Hard and Unrelenting, Rain!

I have an intimate relationship with the rainy weather. Could be because it is the ultimate setting for schizoidness, or could be because I just abhor the sun and I have to love someone, and the rains are there out of default, to receive a despondent me in her smacking wet, cold embrace, ready to give me pneumonia. Love out of default, not out of choice, like the lonely bastard that I am. Fine and well, as long as the rains are hard and unrelenting. And with that corny introduction deliberately written to test your endurance for pointlessness, here are some memories with the rain—memories of triumph and tribulations, memories of joy and loss, memories of murder and mayhem, memories of... okay enough, try not to lose your 2 readers.

• Our dad decided to close shop one rainy day in 1987—our then-wooden house was being assaulted by the heavy rains and he had to board all the windows with some fortifying materials and stuff. He had to rearrange and protect important stuff from the rain, some of the most important ones being… his massive collection of 60’s comic books. At this point he was still hiding them from us, but with the rain and all we inadvertently found the liberty to read them. I remember reading the Lois Lane Annual and Superman Annual and being amazed at the art of Kurt Schafenberger and Curt Swan to the tune of the howling winds and the wild pattering of water against our rusting roof. Our house almost got drifted away in the strong winds—good thing it didn’t, the comic books would have gotten wet.

• Back in 1999 we had our P.I. class ending at 7 pm. It was raining zoo animals but Mrs. Therese and I braved the weather as we walked on using only a single umbrella, walking from the College of Arts and Letters to Vinzon’s to get a ride to Philcoa. As we passed by Sunken Garden we noted how evil it looked all dark under the rain—pardon my prudish self, but do people really have sex in the Sunken Garden or is it an urban legend? Nobody had cellphones or pagers that time, and good thing too because by the time we were in Jollibee Philcoa we were drenched. To quote an elementary classmate’s answer in an exam, we were basang sisiw, also known as sisiw na basa.

• The death of C.R., June 2008. Because I couldn’t get him a repeat X-ray, because the X-ray section was closed, and everything in Taft was closed because of the storm. And because of a lot of other things I would rather not remember. If our mortalities could only be immortalized as horizontal cuts on our forearms to remind us that we could have done much, much better, that the course of things could have gone differently, that lives could not have been lost. Horizontal cuts, to remind me of the could haves. Horizontal, bleeding cuts, because these are things we can never forgive ourselves for. Hand me that damn Zoloft-spiked Moolatte.

• Residents’ Batch Outing, May 2008 in Subic. The rains were hard and unrelenting like I love them, except that this was our sole free day away from the hospital. Brown-out in the motel. Huuuuge waves in the beach. Lots and lots of mud. Nothing to do. And for some reason Djanah and I were assigned to facilitate the day’s… activities. Of all people, Djanah and I. What were we to prepare, charades? “Game! Ano nang activities natin?” an enthusiastic, agitated batchmate said. “Wala! Mag-iinuman tayo at mag vivideoke pag nagkakuryente! YUN ang activities!!!” Djanah and I hissed.

• The weird projects we had in high school. Even then we knew how… how do I say this… pointless they were, so imagine what we think of them now that we have the benefit of hindsight. So it was raining hard and we had to make a periodic table… on a giant-sized illustration board. The storm was threatening to drag us all to hell (just have to use that expression), and we had to look for a single open bookstore or shop selling those rare, uncut giant illustration boards. So how did the giant illustration board make me grow in any way? Am I now a better person because the illustration board was one whole instead of one-fourth? Do I even know the difference between boron and krypton, or more appropriately, do I even know what the heck they are just because the periodic table was so fucking huge?!

Friday, June 5, 2009

Drag You To Hell!

TT couldn't come, he had some date. So HIV, Pyro, and I braved the storm at 10pm and went to see Drag Me to Hell and enjoyed its wonderful campiness. The gypsy woman should win an award or something, I don't know what, but she should win something. Like best evil weapon for that projectile ruler from the pharynx or something. Half the time Pyro was squirming and squirming in total inhuman contortions beside me--a few more accidental corpse-kissing with yellow goo and sudden demonic images and Pyro would have passed out. I was happy for the final fate of the horned goat, though--the goat was just so cute.

For years I would place people of varying evilness in different categories, the worst of whom would fall under Those I Wouldn't Give A Drop Of Water To In The Desert. Relatively low-time evil doers would fall under Those I Wouldn't Mind Accidentally Dropping The Vial Of Meperidine On The Floor If They Have Necrotizing Pancreatitis. Now I have a new category: Those I Would Drag To Hell With A Cursed Jacket Button. Drag You To Hell, Star Sapphire!

Vital Quotes

In the grand tradition of taking quotes out of context, here are more… vital quotes.

“What is that? What is that I smell? It smells new! A blue ring? Where did you get a blue ring? I want one!” – Larfleeze a.k.a. Agent Orange, Green Lantern #40

“WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!” –Woo Girls, How I Met Your Mother

“You grab your dick, and then you’ll have someone else work your arm. Let me show you, you grab my arm, I’m grabbing my dick, you’re grabbing my arm, now work it, work my arm, see that shit, working up and down…”—Lester explaining ‘The Dutch Rider’, Zack and Miri Make a Porno

“I think an autopsy on Paula Gray would clarify things,”—Dana Scully, “Our Town”

“Awake? Awake? Awake? Awake? Awake? Awake? Awake? Awake? Awake?”—Smoketh, text message at around 4 am.

Damn It, Graciepoopieloop!

Was recently called at around 2 am to the recovery room to check on a post-op patient whose BP was going down. So I ran up, wore the very sterile (hee-hee-hee) hospital gown, and put on a shower cap/shoe cap on my head. Oh what the heck let’s just get this over with—what’s with all this pagpapanggap for sterility? If we really want to be sterile the persons in charge would really need to spend for it—get some huge human ultraviolet bombardment chamber or something. Or I don’t know, maybe at least some running faucet water and some soap? Maybe I’m missing some vital point in this argument, but since I always get lupa and kuto on my hair I don’t think so.

And so I came in and looked at the patient who wasn’t actually mine with multitudes of confusing peripheral and central lines sticking out. What should be a straightforward incident of shock was complicated by the seeming congestion and severe metabolic derangements blablabla that will bore you cold. In confusion I called up my co-resident Graciepoopieloop on the phone. She sounded quite cogent and clear-headed when she said, “Hello?” so I fired away in a whiny voice:

Me: Graciepoopieloop!!! Pano yun kung nirefer for hypotension post-op kasi 2 liters blood loss and 3 liters ascites intra-op pero binigyan din daw ng furosemide habang nasa operating room pa kasi daw nagcongest kaya nga sila nagpa central line malamang dahil sa 4 units of blood kamusta naman tapos ngayon hypotensive pero natatakot ako magfluids ngayon kasi yung CVP 20 by the way totoo ba talaga tong CVP na gawa sa popsicle stick and wala naman syang crackles pero prominent ang neck veins and isa pa yung CVP line na lang ang available line for potassium correction yun yung pwedeng 10 meqs per hour right?

A question salad if there ever was one, to which Graciepoopieloop had only response,
Graciepoopieloop: Ah ganun ba…. Ah… Ah… basta pababain lang siguro ang fever…

She might as well have replied with, “Gee whiz! My favorite cake is blueberry cheesecake!”
To wake her up I screamed, “DAMN IT GRACE!!!”
I don’t know, I just feel like Jack Bauer whenever I scream “damn it”.


As I’ve blathered about in one of my old blog entries (back in Friendster, I think, when the porn spam invites were still manageable), I have a lot of doppelgangers—ie, I receive a lot of those don’t I know you from somewhere? when in fact I haven’t been anywhere. I have no ambitions of being fantastically handsome, but must I look too generic that I have look-alikes in Pampanga, UP Diliman, Bulacan, Cebu, and Vanauatu? The other problem with my face (okay you can probably point seventy other problems) is that someone always thinks I’m… crestfallen. Someone always asks if I’m okay, if I’m not too tired, or not too angry, or if I’m not about to stick my head in the oven, or have you taken your Zoloft? So for everyone concerned—I just look this way, okay, maybe it’s the weak jaw or the drooping eyelids or something but take my word for it, I’m a happy bastard. Just a few weeks ago I was in an elevator in the ophthalmology building after clearing a patient, and in came a consultant I haven’t seen before. Out of nowhere he asked me, “You look sad. Are you okay?” So I responded with the obvious response: I showed him the bleeding horizontal cuts on my wrists and screamed, “Do I look bleeping okay?!?”

Tuesday, June 2, 2009


In The Office Raine Wilson always intros with the word “Question!” whenever he wants to ask a damn question, and I realized it is actually a common practice in real life, some way of not asking for permission without being meek or being rude. The extremely annoying text message equivalent of this is when people begin their inquiring text messages with “Ask q lang poh,”.

And with that, I now give you, lotsa readers, 2 questions. One for each of you.

•So some patient goes into distress while at the PACU (recovery room), and I am summoned in the middle of eating COOP’s chilled taho. And now that we’re ISO-certified I discover I have to wear a gown, a shower cap, and shoe covers because the place is so darn… sterile (insert giggles here—hee-hee-hee). Question: the gown you can easily distinguish, but with everything in a single container, how do I know that I am not ensheathing my head with a shoe cover? Conversely, how do I know that my shoes are safe from somebody else’s kuto?

•I buy a Moolatte from Dairy Queen. It is a huge huge cup containing a mixture of coffee, ice cream, caramel, and an enormous whip cream topping. Also on the menu, Triple Chocolate Turtle Shell Waffle Treat, an enormous apa cup with around twenty scoops of ice cream, a crispy chocolate topping, chocolate sprinkles, and around five other toppings. And the enormous apa cup is chocolate-covered too. Question: when did we (okay just I) start becoming such a total slob? And uncaring at how expensive these darn things are? Don’t even mention The Baconator, with its ten beef patties and twenty slices of bacon dipped in lard-flavored lard. I haven't tried it myself, but it looks like one major jaw-breaking motherfucker. For the more research oriented, which is more hazardous to your health: a Baconator, or 3 cigarettes smoked in quick succession?

Monday, June 1, 2009

Fiction: Marth V.

Marth V. woke up feeling rejuvenated. It was probably the drugs finally draining out of him, what with 3 liters of Vitamin C that gave him gastritis and stuff. He ran out of his bedroom, manually removed his foley catheter, and shaved his face. He looked at himself in the mirror, and knew that indeed this is the day when he would burn in love. And burn in love he did. He ran to the mall, went to the bookstore, to the Young Adult section. He had a premonition, he did. And as if on cue a girl with the nicest hair, the brightest skin, the slenderest waist, the buxomest chest, came walking by. It was burning lust at first sight, but Marth V. convinced himself otherwise--this is divine, providential love. The girl with the nicest hair, the brightest skin, etc. looked at him with her cat eyes, walked towards him,and grabbed his face--and their lips, their tonsils, touched in a total conflagration. Their passion was hot, too hot, extremely hot, indeed, that they felt their skin blister and burn. And they burned and burned and burned, and in two seconds they were reduced to black soot on the floor, all the books burning around them, firemen rushing in. Marth V. and girl with the slenderest waist burned to the ground, and they were dead.


Sitting on my table alone, because he doesn't belong with anybody else in the eskaparate. Maybe if I could at least get Hurley and John Locke.

Gratuitous entry I tells you.

"You killed my father, Mr. Sawyer."

Meanwhile, At The Hall of Justice

I just suddenly remembered that some 8 years ago I wanted to get that DC Direct Bat Signal replica in Comic Odyssey. I had asked the guy if he could kindly take it off the box and turn the damn bat signal on--of course I want to see if it will reach the skies, but he became all snooty and superior and made all these weird faces. My neighbors in 611 Nakpil then were Abe, Tet, Ghea, Jayne, and Aimee Lou Manalo Nano, who is on her leave now and is probably in some deserted island. The Bat Signal would have done a wonderful purpose--I would only need to turn it on, Abe would see it, and in a few minutes she would deliver newly-cooked rice and I would be sated. I never did get to buy that Bat Signal. Which reminds me, back in the early 1990's my brother and I would go to the tiangge-like mall of Cash & Carry and we would marvel at the huge amount of WWF, X-Men, and Batman The Animated Series action figures. Of course we didn't have our own money, so we could only get to buy one each around every two months. In a couple of years the darn tiangge-like mall was burned to the ground. Those toys. All those toys.