Friday, July 31, 2009

Tales of a Gym Buff. A Gym Buff, I Tell You.

I’ve discovered how out of shape I am (indeed I only need to look in the mirror, but don’t interrupt) when I checked on a patient one day and discovered that he was dead. I looked around for a nurse or a manong, but there was no one sight so I yelled “code” as loud as I could and started the chest compression myself. So I compressed the chest one, two, three, and after the third compression I was… panting. I was out of breath, making a weird panting-yelping-whining combo sound as I gasped. Luckily someone barged in to save me from embarrassment (an insensitive thought really, when what I should have said was someone barged in to save the person from totally dying). It was once taught in basic and advanced life support that some of the reasons to stop resuscitating are if the person is brain dead, if there are already signs of lividity, and my favorite, if the one doing the resuscitating is exhausted. So don’t ever fall dead if I’m the only one in sight, I'd pronounce you in two minutes.

In the summer of 2004 I actually went to the gym for the first time. I know. There was a new gym near our house—it was new but it looked run-down, and you can use their treadmill with just your tsinelas on. After 30 minutes of walking down the treadmill I got totally dizzy, went to the bathroom and hurled. Then I tried those dumb bells. My arms were shaking and getting all wobbly from lifting those 10-lb dumb bells, but the flimsy girl beside me was doing the bench press with ease. The instructor or whatever must have noted how anxious I looked at that moment so he approached me, touched my shoulder, and said with much patronizing encouragement, “Iho… kaya mo yan.” And then some huge, muscular guy once asked me to spot him. I didn’t know what the fuck spotting meant, the word spotting instantly triggering thoughts of imminent abortion or something, so I said yes, and realized it meant I should watch over him as he bench pressed those crazy, enormous barbells. I was afraid—for him. If he got crushed under those huge things it would take me hours to dislodge them from his crushed sternum. The sheer boredom of that summer enabled me to frequent that gym for two months, and I remember making the vow that those two months worth of exercise should be good enough for five years. This is the fifth year, but fuck all if I should step in a gym ever again.

Die, Kid.

In particular, you with whom I’ve had the misfortune of having an encounter in the rest room of Robinson’s Place. I don’t know what you were thinking, or if you were thinking at all, or if you really have no control of your faculties, but did you really have to pee on my foot? You were peeing in a urinal, I was peeing in the urinal beside yours. I was doing an excellent job shooting my pee, but what did you do? You saw I was wearing tsinelas, aimed your wiener at my foot, and bathed my foot in warm, fetid urine. Yours. So maybe yours was the type that sort of leaned to the left, but the more I think about it the more I think you did it on purpose, a very nefarious one at that. Drag you kid, drag you to hell. And I don’t think it’s far out, remember in the excellent Sam Raimi movie Drag Me To Hell the first person dragged to hell was a kid who just stole something. See, he just stole something and he got dragged to hell, so tremble, kid, tremble.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Yelp!, I Yelped.

Without having read a very old blog entry (Set-up a Bleeping Cheese Trap, Lloydie!) Lloydie has finally set-up a bleeping cheese trap. The callroom was bombarded with ultraviolet rays a few weeks ago in an attempt to kill off some spreading virus, but the UV has obviously caused the rats to mutate. Not in the expected transmorphism into biped rats or cock-a-mouse, but them rats have definitely developed… an attitude. They are now bolder, and they care less about your feelings. They would eat a dropped biscuit in front of you not minding if you cross your arms or tap your foot in annoyance. They would continue nibbling, occasionally taking a glance up to check if someone would step on them, but otherwise they would just not care. Eventually the callroom became theirs, with us staying there out of their kindness. It was high time to revolt, and revolt we did. Lloydie set up an extremely sticky rat trap, and laced it with a bunch of fries to entice the 3 frivolously frolicking fuckers. In a few hours one of them was caught, and we delighted at the sight of him squirming and squirming and crapping from stress. Just two more rats to kill, we thought.

Until I woke up this morning at 3 am and saw, clumped in the trap, twelve—TWELVE!!!—disgusting rats, squirming, clawing at each other, trying to get a bite at the French fries before they die—DIE!!!—from dehydration. "YELP!" I yelped, but after 2 seconds of yelping I marveled at the future carcasses (carcassi?). This was a cause for celebration, and everybody was in a good mood because of that. Until we realized that if there are twelve, then surely there could be… thousands. Willard!

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Lur! Lur! Lur!

I've recently asked TT who he thinks he is a reincarnation of, and of course he rebuffs me immediately, going on a lengthy theological argument that reincarnation is not true. So I just asked him, if he could get reincarnated into the past, ie, he would die and his soul would live on as a person in the past, who would he be? For his benefit, I told him he could be any of the Bible characters. TT then went on a lengthy theological argument that reverse reincarnation is not true either. Since the conversation was going nowhere, I insisted that he answer this question: If you could get reverse reincarnated as a Bible character, who would you be, the pig possessed by the seven (or twelve?) devils, or the harlot beside the dragon monster thing in the Revelations? Come to think of it, the choice is not merely between the entities, but actually between the concepts of reverse reincarnation and reincarnation, since the harlot is still yet to appear at the end of times, so I'm probably more complex and less shallow than I give myself credit for. TT said neither, but just so I wouldn't feel offended he offered that his favorite Bible character is David.

Djanah then sprang out of nowhere and crooned "Lur! Lur! Lur!" and off I went.


In the jungle that is the emergency room where there is very little room to move around, where the general smell constantly shifts from the usual diabetic foot to fecal stench (and just yesterday, an extremely strong mutant urine smell that pervaded the entire complex), and where the charts can be found taped underneath the tables and hidden in some other secret spy panels, traipsed a walking shaft of light—specifically, an extremely white oriental-looking dude who seemed to be an exchange student from Japan or somewhere. We feared for his safety, more specifically, for the safety of his skin, like he would grow full-body allergies in any second. Shuta and I immediately thought that we should fix Walking Shaft of Light (WSOL) up with our batchmate JJL, who is also a walking shaft of light in her own right, and a taller one at that. We excitedly told JJL of the existence of this potential mate, and things would have come to pass until we realized that WSOL is twenty diamond peels whiter that JJL. The quest for JJL’s perfect mate continues.

The quest for charts that vanish at 2 and 10 pm also continues, and what an epic quest it is. It used to be that they would just be hidden behind that supplies cabinet or in drawers but now they can totally disappear without a trace. I got so desperate once I looked inside a trash can.

A lot of foreign medical students always seem to be fighting their way to take their electives in this hospital. Last year I was paired up with med students Huang and Lauren, who were interesting kids. It was a busy month, and we barely had any time to interact significantly. They were very nice people and showed a lot of interest, asking a lot of questions and such. The only question they asked me that I can remember now, however, was something I could not answer. “I’ve just loaded my cellphone last night and haven’t used it since then but now the load’s all gone. WHY???” Huang asked one morning. “Uh-huh,” I could only mutter. “Hey, want to read some ECG’s?”

Foul-Mouthed Motherfucker

Mexican Devil Alanis Whore has been lingering at the Emergency Room for hours now, and she is already off-duty. She has been there during her entire 24-hour duty, and she looked tired. She has done well in her shift, and the reward should be immediate egress and sleep. Still, hours have passed since she has been relieved, and she was still sitting there, writing something, talking to her patients. I don’t know what gripped me, I couldn’t stop myself, I just had to tell her and I did: “Hey, Mexican Devil Alanis Whore, go home. Go home and fuck.” Mexican Devil Alanis Whore didn’t slap me, but she did grumble something incomprehensible in sheer sleepiness.

Maybe it’s all the Irvine Welsh I’ve been re-reading, or maybe it’s the heavy metallic and rap music playing repeatedly in my player, or maybe it’s the bunch of Vertigo comic books I’ve been recently obsessing over, but I’ve noticed that I have been extremely potty-mouthed the past few days. Irvine Welsh, of course, is the writer of such cult classics such as the novels Trainspotting and Marabou Stork Nightmare, and the wonderful short story collection The Acid House. His novels are always filled with white trash European characters beset by the same problems—addiction to drugs, addiction to alcohol, addiction to sex, etc. For those who want an introductory read I highly recommend The Acid House. Stay away from Filth and Ecstasy. His Porno I haven’t read yet.

Back to me and my attempts at making excuses for my potty-mouthedness. Just a few days ago I was attempting to suction the ET of a congested, anuric patient with overflowing frothy secretions, and the patient coughed, spraying a huge amount of lung fluids all over my face, at which point I just screamed unabashedly, “Fuck!!!” I was reporting on black walnut toxicity three weeks ago in front of them consultants, and the black walnut bottle fell on the floor and rolled away, and I muttered as I ran after the rolling bottle, unmindful of their highnesses, “FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!” How burgis, you point out, trying to stretch the issue, so let me just say that those were the only times I’ve said FUUUUCK in recent memory. 99% of the time I would utter the more piquant “P()T@!”

Just so you’d know—If you care—I am not always like this. I tend to use these cuss words in my short stories when appropriate, but in real life I always manage to contain these words in safe thought bubbles. I’ve brought up this issue with HIV while eating in the callroom, and he pointed out that I might be having some unresolved issues these past few days that bring about this cussing spree. This is an interesting theory, except for the fact that being a totally shallow person I rarely have issues. I usually finish the things I have to do, move over to the next task like a zombie, and whenever I have to complain or stress-out over something I blog about them. Wait, that could be it. I haven’t been blogging the past few weeks from sheer laziness, so maybe the whirling thoughts of nastiness had to be cathected some other way. Cathected. What a totally poser word.

The Blackest Night

Has finally started. The premise: The DC universe has suffered hundreds of deaths of major and footnote characters alike over the years, and while some (actually, most) of them have been resurrected like Superman and Tora Olaffsdotter, a few have remained dead. The Green Lantern Corps is the peace-keeping corps of the universe, and in recent months we’ve learned that there are actually red, orange, yellow, blue, indigo, and purple corps as well, each one operating on a different emotion in the emotional spectrum. The color bit might seem a bit excessive, cloying, and very 80’s at first, but once I found out how each one is fully fleshed out I realized how they are all actually very cool. But now there is a new corps—The Black Lantern Corps. Black rings are raining down all over, recruiting none other than the dead characters of the DC universe as members of its corps. In the first issue of The Blackest Night we see the first Black Lanterns: Elongated Man, Sue Dibny, The Martian Manhunter, and the dead Green Lanterns from all various sectors. The Black Lanterns need to charge up their rings, and to do so they have to kill people by ripping their hearts off their chests. Excellent first issue, although I doubt if the series, or if anything, can live up to the hype and excitement and build-up that have accumulated over the 2 years we’ve been teased about it.

I had my first issue reserved, but as in the case of Jim Lee’s X-Men # 1 released in the 1990’s, I knew there wasn’t any reason to panic—there were boxes and boxes of copies waiting to be bought. Being in a post-duty temporary insanity I also got a copy of the wonderful Superman and the Legion of Superheroes trade paperback also written by Geoff Johns. To top everything off, I also got a plastic replica of a black ring of the Black Lanterns for forty pesos. It was a very cheap-looking, ugly replica, but I wore it in the emergency room in our next duty.

The zombified DC superheroes who are now Black Lanterns have various issues. The Martian Manhunter, for instance, tells Green Lantern Hal Jordan and Flash Barry Allen, who have both been dead for quite some time until they were resurrected recently, “YOU SHOULD BOTH BE DEAD!!!” If those black rings can make their way in our universe I foresee all my mortalities rising up and accosting me and ripping my heart away.

Pain Series (First Part of 1)

Give me your heartbreaks, your painful pining for unachievable love, your guilt over the patient you’ve killed. Your emotional chaos at having discovered that you will forever be alone and that you can’t take the loneliness because you’re unluckily unschizoid. All your fears that you will get past thirty without achieving anything, all your excruciating realizations that you will go back to work tomorrow and see the exact same people, all your apprehensions that you are the same scared ugly kid you have always been trapped in the superficial adult world—all of them, throw them in my direction, cast them at me like heavy, fucking rocks. Give me all your loathings, your loathing at that fugly girl who snagged your boyfriend, your loathing at that fucking, self-righteous superior, your pure and utter hatred at the fucking administration. All your unrequited love, your spiritual crises, your identity issues, your emotional garbage, your discontent. I will take them all, take them all happily and embrace them, and I will carry them for you and I will be a total, psychological wreck, but I will take them all with much joy and acceptance, much joy and acceptance if you could only take away this fucking cracked toe nail that’s been killing me for days. It’s debilitating, it’s physical, it’s tangible, it’s fucking painful. I have been encumbered by this for many, many days and it’s been making me whinier than ever. Give me all your intangible problems, just take this crap away. Awaaaaaaaaaay!!!!


It takes a lot to make me feel alone. For instance, I have been watching movies by myself for many, many years and I have never felt alone—it’s sometimes just too cumbersome organizing a common time, which is not to say that I don’t find watching in groups highly enjoyable, particularly movies that are extremely boring. Case in point, Harry Potter. Saw this on its opening night with TT and others, and ten minutes into the movie I was texting and checking my watch incessantly. “Nabasa ko na sana ang aplastic anemia by this time,” TT harrumphed. “Teka, yan ba si Gandalf?” he then said when Dumbledore appeared.

I also go on toy, book, and comic book rounds alone—it’s just faster, not to mention that I have very few friends who are interested in finding out how Dick Grayson does as the new Batman. I have no issue at all eating by myself—I've been recently finding out that eating is a task that should be done with quickly, much like going to the bathroom. In the spirit of whining let me just add: I haven’t been enjoying food the past few weeks. If it were not for the cancer-like abdominal pain after not eating for ten hours I wouldn’t touch food. And no, I don't have some para-masturbatory construct dissociation or crap, I just don't feel like eating most of the time.

Last Friday night I woke up at 8 pm extremely parched and sweaty, sweat pooling on my philtrum and other nether regions, much to your disgust. I ran to the nearest 7-11, and realized that I want to drink… beer. I hate the taste of alcohol, I drink around twice a year during the obligatory batch outings, but for this particular night drinking one can of beer sounded just right. So I opened the store fridge and as I touched the beer I felt… alone. I don’t know, I just felt a wave of melancholy hit me on the face along with the cold fridge air--and I totally hate melancholy, it’s just too time-consuming being melancholy. Of course I could text message some friend to accompany me, but I was too lazy to do so. So I unhanded the blasted beer and bought Coke instead. I then went back to my room, flipped open a bunch of comic books, and read for hours on end in extreme pleasure, drinking soda supine, testing if it would really cause me to aspirate.

Thursday, July 2, 2009


As if on cue Smoketh has just revealed that months ago she has been exhibiting the strange ability to see a dead girl in white. While in the seniors' callroom she would note, in her peripheral vision, a girl in white with long hair standing over Thorn's desk. This has happened more than once, and she has been keeping it a secret. Renal then disclosed that she, too, has been visited by this white lady, to Smoketh's relief. Renal, however, has extensive dead seeing abilities. Since childhood she could see dead people, until recently. Must have been the Lasik she recently got.

While in the college paper office way, way back, a co-editor revealed that she could see the vivid colors around a person, ie, their auras. She also claimed that ghosts would always appear to her in the UP campus. To elaborate her claims she said that the ghosts do not usually discern if they are walking on floors, hence whenever they walk towards the Sunken Garden they would keep on walking and float when they get to the sunken part.

I haven't personally seen a ghost, but I've seen a UFO once. One 3 am on a Sunday I was on my way to Diliman for the weekly ROTC, and I saw something floating and zipping wildly in the dark sky. I did read in one survival guide that if you see a malevolent alien your best defense is by poking it in the eyes, the eyes being their most vulnerable part. Well and good if we're talking about the X-Files Zeta Reticulan version, but not if it's the Aliens monster alien version, in which case we would need to have Ripley's big muscles and be able to shoot a missile launcher with one arm.

Speaking of Ripley, I've recently listened again to the Official Soundtrack of one of my favorite films, The Talented Mr. Ripley starring Matt Damon, an adaptation of the novel of the same name written by Patricia Highsmith, which bored Mrs. Therese, who is now very much pregnant and is trapped inside their room, her husband Paenguin having been stricken with flu-like symptoms, and her brother living in their house in Cubao having the same darn flu-like symptoms. Her brother is a Janet Jackson junkie, and I once happened to see him yelp as he saw a just-released Janet Jackson album. I also yelped when I saw The Talented Mr. Ripley album in the racks eight years ago. It features My Funny Valentine sung by Matt Damon, the eerie Lullaby for Cain by Sinead O' Connor, and a bunch of wonderful jazz tracks by Dizzy Gillespie, Guy Barker, and such. From Smoketh's strange abilities to Guy Barker. Heh.