Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Grey's Anatomy

Is a show I've never warmed up to. Probably because the first episode I've watched, while in the interns' corner in Rehab Ward with Smoketh, Mrs. T, Roxy, and Len-Len back in 2005, was the one with Meredith Grey craning her neck and whining, neck veins popping and all, "CHOOOOSE ME. LOOOOVE ME." After which we zoned out and resumed watching Saw 2, where Amanda jumped into a giant vat of capless syringes to look for a key.

Was surprised in the recent weeks that the show is still on going, and asked The Daw if they are already consultants. I gave it another try one week-end, and after that rather entertaining scene where the post-by-pass guy about to be discharged lit a cigarette while still in his hospital room with his nasal cannula still hissing- out oxygen resulting in a facial explosion, I zoned out again and resumed cheating in Smurfs and reached level 33.

My recent attempts at niceness-slash-pagtitimpi apparently came out of nowhere, until I realized that it is probably a subconscious fear at this Grey's Anatomy scene which The Daw has narrated. So there was this bantay asking the resident for hospital directions or something, and when the resident hemmed and hawed and showed hesitation, said bantay brought out a gun and blasted the resident, sadly not Meredith, in the face. Because truly:

Bantay: Pa-reseta po ng Ensure.
Me: Ah, eh...


Bantay: Saan po ang ABG?
Me: Ah, eh....

There you go, discovered the root cause in one day. And also, as The Daw has so wisely explained: Masarap naman talaga ang Ensure. Smoketh's wisdom is leaking into The Daw.

Monday, May 30, 2011


The whole day I resolved to be nice. Because it was the probably the best way through.

And I was nice. I greeted every patient good morning. I asked them how they felt, even though most of them felt like I've been smoking some cow dung whenever I asked them "whattup?" I've entertained every unscheduled patient who would stick their heads into the cubicle, and calmly stood up and walked all over the clinic looking for forms on which to write their prescription and diagnostic needs. I've apologized whenever I had to take a swig from my coke lite can (whatever's in that can) because my throat was hurting, and apologized whenever I missed IV insertions. I've made CTTHL as I was making timpla the chemo drugs, CTTHL being a forgotten skill I developed when I moonlighted in Boracay four years ago. CTTHL is Chika To The Highest Level, so much so that I've gotten weird looks when I would comment out of context as I was pushing the red IV drug, "So mahilig ka pala sa kape." I did not go berserk when someone interrupted to ask for prescriptions for Ensure and Nutren, because truly they must taste good. When someone asked me to rewrite his admitting orders because he lost the two other admitting orders I've given previously, I calmly rewrote the admitting orders and said thank you let's hope there would be a vacancy soon. Later I noted that a patient was hypotensive and hasn't been referred, and calmly told the monitor that we should be more vigilant for total patient care. Before going home a resident once again wrestled me to transfer the patient to our building, and I said yes we absolutely should for total patient care.

After twelve hours of non-stop zombified niceness (niceness by my standard), I developed dysphagia, all sorts of abdominal pain, uncontrollable arm twitching, and the resolve to stick my fucking head in an oven.

Niceness kills.

Friday, May 20, 2011

And In Yet Another Non-Event

My seatmate Sikh Atar was late. And he lived just a stone's throw away from school. Our Reading teacher was livid. This was back in Grade 6, when people would get livid if you get late, or if you don't submit your notebook on time, or if you put gum on their seats. Now we reserve being livid to more important things, like if we get two packs of precious packed RBC approved but the bantay just lets the approved form sit there in the cabinet to expire. Yes, I'm having these issues again because I'm still doing first year residency-hood stuff.

Back to Sikh Atar. He finally arrived, and he was all sweaty. Sikh Atar is one of my favorite people of all time. If there were already blogs back in Grade 6 he would have been a resident character, except that there were no blogs then, or internet, or even a computer. After the entire dancing around with the teacher as to why he was late and if he would promise never to do it again etc the class resumed and then thankfully ended. This is the same class where RBTDS and I got in trouble because we laughed incessantly at the teacher when she said "The girl is lapping." Obviously she meant laughing, because we could think of four reasons why that sentence would be bastos.

"Why were you late?" I asked Sikh Atar.
"Nag-masturbate kasi ako," he said. Of course he didn't use the word masturbate, he used the Grade 6 tagalog word for masturbate which we shall not use here because we are mature individuals.
"I see. Sinong pinagmasturbate-an mo?" I asked casually. Pinagmasturbate-an sounds like a weird conjugation, because obviously I didn't use that conjugation either.
"Si Priscilla Almeda." he said non-chalantly.

To the uninitiated Priscilla Almeda was an ex-teeny bopper who successfully transitioned to ST films. I don't recall what ST stands for right now, but it refers to those tagalog movies where people pet and groan and pass off the activity as sex. Sort of like a soft-core penekula. The concept of ST films can be packaged with the concept of pre-tarpaulin movie posters which were hand-painted and posted-up in Cubao or in some theater called Ligaya. My dad has a theory that a town theater was doomed to showing only bold movies because the first movie it ever screened was called "Satan".

I don't know why I'm suddenly recalling this taste-less non-event or why I think I should waste five minutes writing about it. Maybe I recently saw some Priscilla Almeda photo somewhere or heard her name somewhere. Which begs the question: Marth V, what movies constitute the filmography of Priscilla Almeda?

Hickam's Hickie

Neurologist Shipper Jack Knight has made a very interesting commentary on my high-level paranoia that I have all sorts of diseases.

"Are you aware of Hickam's Dictum?" she texted. "It's sort of the opposite of Occam's Razor of parsimony. It states that a patient can have as many diseases as he damn well pleases." I told her that this is the first time I'm hearing of it, but I'm loving the concept. In an X-Files episode Fox Mulder refers to Occam's Razor as Occam's Razor of Laziness. So far I think my chest seminoma has resolved on its own, but is now replaced with a multitude of conditions that present with muscle twitching, partial seizures, throbbing headache on walking, palpitations on seeing rare toys, and steatorrhea. Take it away, HAMI's, I know you already have differentials.

"I think I have 2 diseases per sub-specialty," I told Neurologist Shipper Jack Knight.
"Grabe not just 1 but 2 diseases pa!" she texted back. "Naisip ko tuloy si Vilma Santos in a Bear Brand commercial: not just 1 but 2 glasses a day!"

I miss my bloggable friends.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Supergirl As A Goo

I am presently geeking out on the Peter David run of Supergirl. For most Supergirl is Kara Zor-El, the cousin of Superman, and that's also the concept I grew up with, and I really love those 60's Supergirl stories where she is Kal-El's cousin with the secret identity Linda Lee Danvers of Midvale. Some think that she is Superman's little sister, cute concept but wrong, but close enough. Peter David's run from the late 90's to 2004 however veers away from this Kryptonian familial connection as a consequence of the 1985 Crisis on Infinite Earths where Supergirl was killed, a maxi-series which I think is overrated but still very seminal. To understand Peter David's Supergirl we need a new paragraph. In Peter David's Supergirl:

Matrix is a character in the form of a goo created through the DNA of a pocket universe Lana Lang by a benevolent pocket universe version of Lex Luthor. I don't know the difference between a pocket and a parallel universe. Matrix is sent to our world to ask Superman for help for some mission, and for better understanding she takes the form of a female in a Superman costume, hence Supergirl. She is eventually adopted by Superman's foster parents, the Kents, and retains her Supergirl guise with some secret identity called Mae. Linda Danvers is an altogether different character, a very disturbed girl who joins the demonic cult of Buzz and is eventually killed. To save her soul, Matrix/Supergirl fuses her soul with Linda, so we now have:


Eventually she discovers that Linda and/or Supergirl is an Earth-Born Angel, hence we have this collection of four personas in one: Matrix/Supergirl/Linda/Earth Angel with Burning Wings.

Through a series of steps which I am reviewing now each character has been separated from another as the years went by. In 2005 it was decided that this was so confusing so Jeph Loeb took the writing reins, sort of retconned the whole fused personality story, and restored Kara Zor-El as the one true Supergirl, the cousin of Superman. The story of this one true Supergirl took quite a few years to get its footing and I almost stopped reading it, until Sterling Gates took to writing the character with illustrations by the magnificent Jamal Igle.

In my quest to read all the DC comic books ever published I am now catching up on Peter David's Supergirl run. Back in the days when I was totally dedicated to the 60's Supergirl I hated that they totally changed the whole Supergirl concept, but now I think it's one excellent excellent run.

In this scene from issue 14 Linda tries to reveal to her parents that she is Supergirl. It has been one of my fantasies: revealing to a friend/family member that all these years I am actually a super hero with the ability to transfer my mind to a cat or kill noisy butangs with an exophthalmic stare. Of course before she could actually say it Linda's parents accused her of all sorts of things:

Hoping For A Pene-Kula

Recently my dad has added himself to the group of people asking me to download stuff. Apparently everyone just assumes that I lay in bed all day either staring at the ceiling, whining that it's so hot, or forming my fantasy super hero group roster in my head. They are absolutely right, so I'm happy to oblige. I've been downloading stuff for my father for many years even when he's never asked for them, but those were things that I also like like like, like old Mission Impossible episodes, Twilight Zone, comic books, and stuff. The first personal request came very recently, and it was strange.

"Please download Ang Tunay Na Ina starring Rosario Moreno," he said.

What the hellellellel. Sounds either like a pene-kula, or a really old Sampaguita film. I was hoping it was a pene-kula because then there would be more seeders. For the uninitiated a pene-kula is something I've already defined years ago, so we'll just have our trusty Smoketh to define this for us. Take it away, Smoketh.

Smoketh: A pene-kula is an old pinoy film, usually during the bomba era of the 70's, that actually involves on-screen penetration. Penetration, hence, pene-kula.

So there. Obviously there wasn't any torrent of Ang Tunay Na Ina, not even Wing Tip would take pains to upload it, so my brother who was initially given this task directed me to You Tube, and there it was. Apparently Ang Tunay Na Ina starring Rosario Moreno is not only sinauna, but it was sinaunang sinaunang sinauna. Like 1938 sinauna, and the You Tube description even claims that it's one of the five remaining pre-war pinoy movies.

"Hey dad," I told dad. "The movie is in You Tube, a site where you could post videos and stuff. It's accessible all over the world, and the number of views is recorded. Popular videos like Rebecca Black's Friday has over 140 MILLION views. You know how many views Ang Tunay Na Ina has? SEVEN."


See, AHAHAHAHAHAHA is not just an onomatopeia, it's an actual sound people make, and it transcends gender, way of life, and age.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

All Sorts of Pointlessness, But Time To Get This Out

Back in 1996 when I was in 4th year high school I started telling the girls in my class, in many, separate occasions because they kept on doing the damn thing repeatedly, that they should not comb their hair in front of me, or any guy, or any person for that matter. Of course they would forget and do it repeatedly. They had asked me many times why, but I never had the heart to tell them. I wasn't being prissy or mysterious, but I just couldn't get myself to tell them why. I remember that Ayla Ranzza Timberwolfalfa, exasperated at my supposedly pa-mysterious effect, accused me of getting a boner when I see her comb her hair-- she actually used more piquant terms than "get a boner". Well, Ayla Ranzza Timberwolfalfa, the gall, of all people to accuse me of having a strange fetish.

I don't know why nobody has figured out, even now when I tell this incident to my female friends, for all their college and post-graduate and medical and sub-specialty medical degrees, that when a pubescent high school girl in loose-sleeved high school uniform combs her hair she exposes her kinda gross bushy drippy armpit to the guy in front of her. Baka naman sinasadya mo talagang silipin, you snootily accuse. But maybe we can parallel this to that incident in the street when someone points out that there's a really disgusting strangely- configured mooshy yellow goop of a cat's crap and we give it a half-second peripheral glance instinctively.  

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Hello, Linda Danvers

Recently asked Benefit of the Daw if she's friends with Pruit Igot, then realized the tone with which I asked the question so expectedly she asked, "crusheth mo?" I said no of course not, on the contrary I'm asking if you're friends with her because I recently had ten minutes of non-encounter with her and she seemed to emanate... nega-vibes. And just when we thought we had eradicated nega in the zeitgeist.

Truly there are people who just seem to emanate this sort of thing, like they have something we can't quite put a finger on but there it is and it is scary or more annoyingly it is... annoying. Have been afraid of a lot of people recently, probably because I'm dealing with a lot of fears right now: in the past two weeks I have diagnosed myself to have seminoma, bladder outlet obstruction, lung cancer, some mediastinal mass, or parkinson's disease, and myocardial infarction. I've been having ten different seemingly incompatible symptoms at the same time (whine whine whine), and for more I don't ever want to have diagnostic exams done. In terms of really bad diseases my mantra is "ignorance is bliss". Which is not exactly true as my differentials run and run in my head endlessly so there's nothing blissful about that. Zolofta is beckoning.

I recently told Troglodytes Troglodytes Troglodytitiphus that with everything I'm dealing with right now (poverty, undiagnosed disease, fear of things, this heat) I hope I don't turn into a Final Night monster doctor aggravated by the mental control of  Gorilla Grodd. Of course you know I'm talking about the magnificent Supergirl volume 3 Final Night tie-in story as written by Peter David.

Thursday, May 5, 2011


One of my favorite superhero groups of all time is the Legion of Superheroes, particularly their early adventures as told in Adventure Comics in the 60's, written by John Forte and illustrated by Edmond Hamilton and the magnificent Curt Swan. The Legion of Superheroes is a group of teenagers in the 30th century who took on superheroing upon the inspiration of Superman. The 60's would have to be the peak of their career, as the quality of the stories were downhill from there as evidenced by two horrible reboots. It was back in 2008 when we finally got our original Legion back courtesy of Geoff Johns and Gary Frank's Superman and the Legion of Superheroes, which I think is one of the best story lines of all time. Since that wonderful comeback Paul Levitz has taken the writing reins, and things have, once again, been quite unexciting.

More on the sense of plateauing of stories in the ongoing Legion of Superheroes series later, because I've just re-read Superman and the Legion of Superheroes and I can't believe I've never blogged about Night Girl's boob window before, or called anyone's attention to it in particular Neurologist Shipper Jack Knight. Now Powergirl's boob window I've blogged about two years ago, but Night Girl's BW should rival hers in terms of  awesome creativity.

You see Night Girl was a member of the Legion of Substitute Heroes, applicants who were rejected for one reason or another. Night Girl has super strength, except she only has it in the dark. Back in the 60's she had on her chest the emblem of an owl's head. The 2008 version still has an owl, except the eyes are bare breast tissue and the beak is her cleavage. Balut na balot ang buong katawan except for.... the owl boob window.

Staring Contest, Die

I've written a year ago in Smoketh's prune state that even inanimate objects were sensing her poverty. At her lowest--when she would describe herself as a lowly chesa, something lower than a prune--even the alarms in National Bookstore in Rob were privy. Them alarms just blared out wildly as soon as Smoketh passed them by, because indeed she looked poor enough to pilfer a pen.

This time all 52 known universes are sensing my poverty. To complete the poverty experience the universes are sending rats, cockroaches, and all sorts of weird insects to attack my room. Smart and agile ones at that. Fly traps would just be turned over after a couple of nights, with the cheese bait (classic pyramid-shaped cheese with butas butas) taken effortlessly. I woke up one afternoon sweaty and hungry, and thought I would eat my left over Jack and Jill potato chips carefully stashed inside my zippered lunch box. I unzipped the lunch box, and inside is the fucking rat, looking up at me, trying to engage me in a staring contest. No staring contest transpired, because I quickly threw the bleeping lunchbox against the wall and screamed the shrillest, most embarrassing, girliest scream of all time. Of course rat just jumped out of the flying lunchbox, did a cartwheel mid-air, landed with grace on the floor, and traipsed away with glee.

Only two things could make me scream the shrillest, most embarrassing, most scrotally-incompatible scream of all time-- a flying cockroach and a rat in a lunchbox. They are the only ones I would admit to.