Thursday, September 21, 2017

Indio In The City

I was in NAIA 3 by 2 am for my 6 am flight to Spain, and I couldn't be any more disinterested. Trips are fantastic and I enjoy them immensely once I'm in the destination, but I abhor the long waits in the airport, the security checks, the anxiety that I would lose an important document or that I would develop a stroke, the worry that my patients would get febrile neutropenia while I'm having sangria, etc etc whine whine WHINE.

"I can't check you in," the Emirates check-in girl said.
The fuck are you talking about, I said... in my head.
"Oh, why?" I politely asked.
"Your VISA is valid starting September 7. Your flights will get you to Madrid on September 6 8:30 pm."
The two other delegates behind me were also having the same problem, and I left the ranting to them:

"I will call Gwyneth! I will call Gwyneth and wake her up! She has always been so disorganized!" Dr. Hokey Pokey said.
"Can't we make tambay in the airport for 3 and a half hours before going to immigration?" Cherry asked the Emirates girl. We couldn't.

I went home and slept. 

I eventually did get to go to Madrid about 3 days later, and as there were only a few days left I had to cram the things I wanted to do, the places I wanted to visit, the food I wanted to eat! The culture! The people! REAL MADRID! FLAMENCO! CHURROS! PAEYA! Who am I kidding, left to my own devices I would just walk around planless and drink. And I was, indeed, alone, and the good thing with these European cities is that almost everything is walkable. I try to avoid train rides if possible unless I have everything mapped out. Last year in Copenhagen I got lost after multiple train transfers for 3 hours and I finally decided to go to the Central Station to recuperate and formally scream I AM SO STUPID! Watching me shivering in the cold and trying to idiotically read a giant map, a kindly elderly man approached me and asked, "ARE YOU LOST? DO YOU NEED HELP?"  To which I replied a genuine, enthusiastic, grateful, loud "OH YES!!!!!!"

Not knowing what to do this time I observed all the Kastila walking around and a lot of them are drinking and smoking and kissing in the street at 3 pm, so I went on a beer run on my own. I jumped from one bar to the next and drank my face off. I can't tell one brand of beer from another, but if it gets me dizzy I am good with it! I was binge drinking by myself like never before while the sun is still blazing hot and boy was I enjoying it! Sitting outside surrounded by blonde principalias, transferring from one bar to another, tipping the bar guy with euros, street performers playing the violin, boy am I ONE SASHAL INDIO!

The next morning I was shitting my brains out. "I am not drinking eveeeeer again!" I wailed as I pooped in the hotel, pooped during the convention, pooped in the mall, etc. This of course was a short-lived promise, as I got paella and beer for lunch that day, followed by MORE defecation.

Luckily the major defecation episodes resolved before Carinez, Johnny, and I escaped and flew to Ibiza. Carinez was wearing kneeless pants, I was in a very thin kamison-like shirt, and Johnny was in shorts--and we were still the most overdressed jeje elderlies in Casa Maria where, Carinez said, Paris Hilton used to DJ. 

"I am not taking my shirt off unless I see someone UGLIER THAN ME!" I declared. We looked around. Let's just say that if I'm an easy 8 in my daily environment, in Ibitha I am a fucking zero. This reminded me of our high school teacher who asked us:

"Caucasians, what are caucasians?"
Some raised their hands but our teacher answered the question herself.
"Caucasians... sila yung matangkad, maputi, matangos ang ilong, blue eyes, blondie ang buhok... in other words... PERFECT!"

Hail Hitler!

Friday, January 27, 2017

The Doodie Chronicles

By June 2016, seven months after we have enthusiastically submitted our application forms and paid a hefty amount for gym membership we have finally decided to actually work-out. We were getting old, cholesteroly, and dyspneic at rest, so we knew there was no escaping this basic requirement for health called "moving". Dan, Hatchett, and I hauled our unhealthy asses to that center for pain and punishment and even hired a personal trainer, Cumi, who would oversee our journey to temporary hotness, I mean health, we were totally there for health reasons.

Our excuses for not working out were long, varied, and totally weak-- too much work, already tired at the end of the day, running causes rapid aging, too many hot people making us feel useless and insecure, people could be having disgusting sex in the gym showers, etc etc, but my favorite was that I was thoroughly convinced that I was terminally ill. I was so sure that I was harboring a nefarious colon cancer that has metastasized all over my body that working to be fit and hot would be quite pointless because I would soon be feeding through a tube. As i was kneeling in front of the toilet bowl dissecting my own bloody feces with a barbecue stick in my hand and a flashlight in my mouth I knew that instead of planking I would rather spend my remaining time as an ambulatory, relatively asymptomatic cancer patient having wild nights of fucking and debauchery. This terminal state would quickly be disproven by a gastroenterologist friend who happily inserted a scope up my ass.

"I want to be awake when you probe my anus!" I frantically told Hank. "I want to see the tumor that has unceremoniously uninvitedly uncouthly entered my life when all my life I have been a good son, a good doctor, a kind..."
"All right all right we won't put you to sleep geez the drama."

Having ruled out any sort of tumor I knew, to be perfectly dramatic, that I was gifted with a new lease, a second chance, a bright new day, blablabla no more excuses. As Coach Cumi was judging my body "You have soooo much fat here, you have absolutely no muscle mass here, you are disfigured like a complete troglodyte" (I imagined him saying, I think) I was just awashed with the fun thought that there's no tumor up there, none! Coach Cumi, rightfully so, created an exercise program fit for an 80-year old grandmother with a Colles' fracture. He did so because I told him that I am as fit as an 80-year old grandmother with a Colles' fracture.

Coach Cumi has proven to be a patient trooper, except when he is preoccupied with grossly unrelated stuff. While I was sweating horrendously, thinking good thoughts to distract myself from the pain, and looking all sorts of stupid planking with my elbows perched on that giant pink ball and trying to make it to 1 minute Cumi asked, in all earnestness:

"Ano po ba ang mas importante, PUSO, or ISIP?"

In response I think I've mumbled


which is totally a combination of "this is not the time", "fuck this shit", and "introspection is the killer of the soul".