This Could Be a Job for Mulder & Scully

Supposed Former Melancholia Junkie

2020-08-17T17:05:00.002+08:00

Decided to back-up this ancient bloggeth in Wordpress and found that it's a pretty nice place. It just so happened that it has also just launched this new method of typing called "block editors", which has driven me bonkers (apparently it has driven many old Wordpress users insane as well). After hours of anxiety and intense Youtube tutorials I eventually got around to using it without getting the urge to hurl breakable objects. The new site is called WilfredoLiangco.com, and I'm not sure if it's a good idea to link it to my professional Facebook page since there is nothing medical about it. Unless you count all the whinings during residency and hellowship. Let's see if I can maintain it!

Pinoy Rom-Com Reportage

2020-06-05T09:38:00.000+08:00

I've tried a few of these "prestige" TV shows from different streaming sites (ie, free trial), and you really have to be in a certain mood, with a certain attention span, to get into them. Content has exploded in the past few years, and as soon as my attention drifts away there's always something there to catch it.

That something being: pinoy rom-coms on Netflix, but even that is hit and miss. I clicked on You Changed My Life starring Sarah and John Lloyd. Everyone has been making references to Laida and Miggy for the past decade, so I thought it was time to catch-up. However it was apparently already the sequel and the first part wasn't on Netflix, so I decided to put it aside for a while until I get to see the first one (probably in another ten years). Ang Pambansang Third Wheel is always prominently featured on the home page, with a close-up of an undressed Sam Milby. The first few scenes, however, are so clunky and awkward I just couldn't continue. I was finally able to see Elise which is hilarious and heartfelt. The ending (spoilers!) though, becomes a medical mystery in the vein of House, MD. I had to text Eleesabeth Sonny Balwani to ask what his differentials are. He said pulmonary embolism or uterine atony. I said that with all that ice cream, Elise probably died from hyperglycemic hyperosmolar non-ketotic coma (HONK), hyperosmolar hyperglycemic syndrome (HHS), or whatever fancy name it comes in now--the diabetic emergency that is not DKA.

Not strictly a rom-com, but I got to see Wild and Free, a movie that features a soap-operatic twist (spoiler--she's the ex of his brother who died in a car crash). We can at least give them credit for the restraint in not making the brother alive pala and with amnesia--unless they are hoping to reserve that fantastic twist for a sequel which I don't think is going to happen. The movie also teaches us that just because something can be done doesn't mean that you should do it, ie, you should never fuck on top of a washing machine because it is not ergonomic or erotic, and you should never try to make amends and ask for forgiveness and kiss and make-up in the middle of the traffic unless you want to be reviled in social media.

Vince and Kath and James is actually pretty good, with great acting and a solid script. The only thing that ruins it for me, though is how everybody sweeps under the rug the fact that James attempted to rape Kath, and that had it not been for Vince it would turn into an episode of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit (Dun Dun!). And for more, Kath seemed to be more distressed at Vince's catfishing than the attempted rape. Apparently there has been a sequel to this movie, which nobody really talks about: James and Pat and Dave. It's a cinematic universe!

Kare-Kare Extravaganza

2020-06-04T14:10:00.001+08:00

Whenever my mom decides to cook kare-kare it turns into a two-day extravaganza that begins with the effort of grinding nuts and pressure cooking the meat, ending with everyone getting all bloated from overeating. Since the 80's mom's kare-kare has become the standard by which we measure all the kare-kare that we order in restaurants, and we biasedly think that it is the best ever. The key components, I think, are good quality oxtail and coarsely ground peanuts. We snootily look down on those that use peanut butter, and we are not impressed with variants that replace oxtail with bagnet or seafood. My mother used to mix in beef tripe for my dad, which wasn't our favorite for being too rubbery. The bagoong has to be the pink, salty kind from the wet market, as the sweet and spicy dark brown bottled variant will ruin the experience. The kare-kare should of course be eaten with copious amounts of hot white rice, downed with Coke regular for more hedonism.

Since Grade 5 I've been requesting my mom to put in ox tongue in her kare-kare, but she said it wouldn't taste great, and that good quality lengua would be difficult to find in the market. It was Toms who told me all about tongue kare-kare while we were participating in a quiz bee in Central 2. Toms was the contestant in History, while I was the Science representative for some reason. Of course I totally lost, ranking 4th in a contest with only 3 winners. My losing question was something that involved Yuri Gagarin, Neil Armstrong, and whoever was really the first man to be somewhere. Something about space vs moon. When I got much older I was able to eat in a hotel buffet serving tongue kare-kare, and indeed, it was no great shakes.

For the vegetables, sitaw, kalabasa, and puso ng saging should be enough, as they shouldn't take attention away from the star which is the soft, gelatinous meat. Or is the star the complex soup? The roasted peanuts should still be a bit coarse, ground manually in almires. In college my mom made pundar a machine that can grind stuff, but we whined that the peanuts turned out to be too fine and made the soup thin and smooth--so it was back to the almires. Beef stock from the pressurized beef is put in the freezer overnight, after which my mother would scrape off and throw away the sebo that congealed on the top layer. The soup is perfect enough that we can still have it for dinner even if all the meat has been consumed during lunch.

After the cholesterol extravaganza I then went on the elliptical, the energy consumption of which probably amounted to two pieces of peanuts.

Catastrophizing

2020-06-01T22:29:00.006+08:00

I don't know what happened, but at some point in the aging process I stopped being... cool. Not cool in the sense that I buy all my clothes from Bench in Quad II or I would only snack in Bun On The Run after buying trinkets from Gift Gate. More like cool as a state of mind, like not getting easily anxious over the smallest things, or being able to compartmentalize thoughts and emotions. Like when my patients text me that they feel weak or they are losing their appetite--although those are definitely expected among cancer patients who just underwent intense chemo I immediately get aligaga and catastrophize and run every possible horrific scenario in my brain. This is in part due to our training in internal medicine when, as first year residents, we were told by our Department Chair: "When I see fat stranding on CT scan, I don't walk, I RUN!!!"

For all its toxicity I was able to maintain my cool during training because there were people who exuded being cool, specifically my seniors like Edhel, Kate, and Lalaloo. I once frantically whined to LalaLoo, "He still has fever! He still has terrible cough!" to which she replied "You've just given one dose of antibiotics. Wait for it to work. Hey I read your Friendster blog last night!" And then in hellowship there were always the other hellows to ask when difficult cases come in. During our oncology boards review we told each other: Lahat pala ng tanong natin sa isa't isa nasa libro, hindi lang tayo nagbabasa!

But now years into my private practice, instead of the expected calm and cool that should come with experience, more and more nerve endings are getting exposed--if I started nail-biting in 2019 I would have chomped my hand off by now. Maybe once my routines are slowly established and I'm able to toy rounds and eat fast food and talk to people and laugh I would regain my cool and shed a little bit of this anxiety--only to be replaced by the anxiety of dying from fomite and asymptomatic carriers!

To be cool as Robin!

Bootcamp Bonanza

2020-05-31T22:20:00.001+08:00

Last Saturday we had our fourth weekly Writing Bootcamp with Jessica Zafra via Zoom, and this time we presented the opening paragraphs of our short story projects. One of my favorite things about writing workshops is having a trapped audience for my futile attempts at stand-up comedy. And with everyone's face on camera it's easier to read what works and what is cringe-y.

I was the first to present my story with the working title The Mansion, about a palliative care doctor who attempts to address her father's hoarding addiction by treating it like a terminal disease. I wrote the first few paragraphs rather quickly, which I find to be a sign that I will be able to see it through to the end. Here's hoping I won't get into a major roadblock. I have long avoided writing short stories about doctors, thinking it would a.) get boring b.) be difficult to inject humor in, and c.) risk crossing data privacy and other sensitivity issues, but last year Jessica asked me to try my hand at it and I think it went fairly well.

Lord, who is staying in Baguio, then presented a story based on his relationship with his nephews and nieces. Lord is a mindfulness coach who blogs at www.surrendertocourage.com. Whereas my sentences and entries are long, frantic, winding, and histrionic, his always have a soothing, relaxing quality. Ella's story is about motherhood presented through different timelines, sort of like Sliding Doors or the parallel universes in the DC Multiverse. Jillian's short story is about a man going through some mind-altering process to deal with the difficulties of being middle-aged.

For some reason I always
forget the title of this book
and I always say
"basta yung something HAPPY"

An issue raised with the type of Jillian's story is the tendency for writers of similar genre to over-explain the mind-altering mechanism, such as getting into the neurophysiology or pharmacology of it. For one, an expert in the field is bound to find some scientific errors in your story somehow. Readers might also find it too cumbersome to read if not written well.

This reminds me of a book I've read recently, More Happy Than Not by Adam Silvera, which is being adapted into a TV series for the new US streaming service HBO Max. In it Aaron, a gay teenager, wants to become straight, so he undergoes some brain-zapping procedure. The nitty gritty of the procedure is not really explained, which is something I appreciate. I'm content enough with imagining that there are 80's-looking TV screens and probes inside an aluminum foil-covered room, now the story can quickly move along. Sort of like the movie Boy Erased, with a machine instead of a self-loathing gay Christian pastor with a porn-stache.

Next Saturday's assignment: dialogue!

Imperfect Situation

2020-05-31T09:39:00.000+08:00

Apparently the Philippines will be re-opening tomorrow. Of course we are told there are guidelines, but the guidelines might only look good on paper and too complex for the enforcers or the general public to understand and implement. Since I now have a cruise ship alien mutant lifeform sitting on my head I'm most excited for the barbershops to open, but I'm not sure how "30% of the business" can be quantified. Also, my one and only barber for the past five years, Randy, has been ignoring my text messages.

What's the deal with brain?
Why am I so obviously insane?
In a perfect situation
I let love down the drain!

As such I've decided not to hold face to face clinics just yet. I personally find the numbers very alarming, and just for the safety of everyone I would rather continue slowing down. There's that profound ancient adage about cockroaches--that for every one cockroach you see crawling nefariously on the floor there are thousands in the vicinity that you don't see, plus millions of eggs. The very idea drives me nuts, but better think of the asymptomatic COVID cases that way. I've been getting the sense that recently people, including health care workers, have been getting either braver or more careless. I'd rather remind myself of the insane fear we’ve suffered the first two weeks of the pandemic when the viber groups were exploding and doctors and nurses were dying all over.

Meanwhile real life keeps knocking on the door. My accountant called me up to tell me that I should get the new receipts from her office. I had a set printed before the lockdown and forgot all about it. My Manulife agent reminded me that I'm due another annual premium this month. Sonny said Robinson's Place Manila is full of people and that shops like Miniso and Uniqlo are open, so we can now buy essentials like We Bare Bears cellphone ring holder. I wonder how the practice of fitting clothes in the mall would change—unless they UV everything that the customer tries on I don’t think it’s prudent to buy clothes just yet.

In my own little corner of kababawan I am so tempted to ask my trust toy addiction enabler Oliver if Filbar's will be opening soon. I've been looking forward to the Funko Pop of Weezer's front man Rivers Cuomo. I’m a late Weezer fan, only really getting into their fantastic music last year, which was a pretty good year, so Weezer has become the soundtrack of everything good about 2019. I can’t wait to finally get hold of that Funko and scream: Goddamn you half-Japanese girls!

Dyspnoeia

2020-05-29T22:56:00.002+08:00

Today I had a carpenter put in an extra level of wood in my closets to accommodate more stuff. Over the course of the quarantine I've tried to throw away so many things, but some very nice boxes of my action figures I still can't get myself to dispose of just yet. I also dove into some of the old bills and bank statements that accumulated through the years and was able to throw many of them. I will buy a paper shredder once the risk of dying in the mall completely disappears.

As I was fixing some of my favorite action figure boxes which were super dusty I sneezed a series of violent sneezes and immediately ran to take in an oral antihistamine and sprayed my nostrils with nasal steroids. I can't let any allergic rhinitis attack leave a trace such as a very nasal voice or red eyes otherwise hospital screeners would refer me to undergo all kinds of COVID screening tests or require a lengthy quarantine.

Viber notified me that there was a Zoom meeting about to start, this time the regular Harrison's Hour of our trainee residents. During Harrison's Hour I am nothing but a hidden spectator, so I multitask by going on the elliptical while listening to topics that are sometimes now far beyond my comprehension. I was thirty minutes into the exercise when suddenly the moderator said "I see that we have an oncologist in attendance today... Dr. Special Agent Fox Mulder would you like to give your input and tell us what you think of this case? Do you think malignancy is a consideration in this patient with a fever of unknown origin?"

I would have said thank you for that wonderful question to buy me some time but I was already too dyspneic.

Tales of Lochia And Crap

2020-05-28T21:51:00.003+08:00

Not related at all to the post: DC Collectibles DC Icons!

As I’m typing this Frichmond is probably already post-partum in the recovery room. In true pulmonologist fashion she went on labor last night wearing wrap-around goggles and an N-95 mask-- COVID could be hiding everywhere, including in the lochia rubra squirted by the other patients in the area. For some of us who will never give birth our idea of a delivery room will forever be the early 2000's version of the OB Admitting Section aka OBAS, where everyone is lying next to each other and making chikahan in-between moaning together from painful uterine contractions. Although these are trying times to bring a baby into the world, Smoketh in her infinite wisdom told us the silver lining: that Frichmond could just tell everyone that you are cordially NOT invited to the binyag, bring your own drinks and we’ll drink them together via Zoom for more katipiran.

OB was one of our first clinical rotations and as students we were shookethtd when pregnant patients would start flooding in, usually in the wee hours. Other than what's written on our small black booklet of laminated kodigo we didn't really know anything, so we would proudly do scutwork such as inserting a foley catheter to look busy. One midnight I had an obese patient lie down on the examining table, and as I nervously swathed the catheter with KY jelly I could hear my senior resident outside the cubicle screaming my name for MORE utos.

I had to quickly put the catheter in, but I soon discovered that the layers of fat on her thighs and groin make it a very difficult task. After minutes of failing to locate the urethra in pure panic I gasped "Smoketh! Smoketh help! I can't find the right hole!" Smoketh promptly stuck her head in the examining room "what do you need Will?!"

"Army navy!" I gasped.

Army navy retractors for major surgeries.

Obviously there was no need for an army navy, and as someone who knows the female anatomy better Smoketh effortlessly shoved the foley catheter in by herself.

For all the toxicity one thing we can thank the rotation for is that it instilled in us the value of punctuality, ie, if you don't sign in by 7 am for the summary rounds/conferences you're sanctioned to have an extra duty and there is no way in hell anybody would want an extra duty. In one of the conferences a resident who has been giving us students a hard time the night before took the podium to present her cases. While presenting she started to panic, stammering and saying things on the mic like:

"Tapos when the patient arrived she was profusely bleeding, and we had to do an emergency cesarian section. Tapos while we were doing the cesarian section we noted a placenta previa totalis. Tapos she also had uterine atony. Tapos I asked the intern to cross-match the blood..."

The irate consultant was not having any of it. She grabbed a microphone and said:
"STOP... SAYING... TAPOS!"

The worst experience I had in OBAS happened when I was a clerk (4th year medical student). I was assigned to get the blood pressure of everyone cramped in the cervical cancer corner, which was beside a tiny comfort room. While making my BP rounds a very pale patient walked out of the bathroom, got dizzy, and in a few seconds would fall down on the floor. I immediately ran to her and caught her from behind like a hero while everyone in the cervical cancer corner screamed in panic. When she was finally assisted back to her bed everyone, including me, screamed even more because from the chest down I was covered in her fresh brown feces ala Tim Robbins in The Shawshank Redemption. I ran--ran!!!-- to my dorm covered in human shit and one hour of scrubbing later I somehow managed to resume duty.

"Pahiram ng ballpen, hindi ko mahanap ang ballpen ko," I asked Intern Ian.
"Andun yung ballpen mo!" Ian said, snickering as he pointed to the rest room.
On the floor of the rest room was a huge mound of feces--the mother feces of the patient who passed out. And there it was--my ballpen impaled on top of the giant shit, like the fucking US flag in Iwo Jima.

SMF Cafe Friends Update

2020-05-27T22:32:00.003+08:00

Frichmond has just updated us that she is already in the labor room, waiting for her third kid to crawl out of her. I miss all my Shrine Motherfucker Cafe friends, and I especially miss kumareng Frichmond because we barely see her by virtue of her living at the other end of the universe, aka, Pampanga, aka Pampz. Any province that requires passage through both SLEX and NLEX is considered the other end of the universe. We should cum to Pampz when quarantine ends!

Frichmond, as astute readers might remember (all three of you), once uttered the immortal line, "Ano ka, DSWD?!" in response to Smoketh's penchant for enriching the lives of all their househelp. While in the labor room Frichmond has been listening to a Zoom conference on pediatric respiratory diseases, because truly not even the smell of lochia from nearby vaginas should stop us from learning.

Meanwhile... at the Hall of The DSWD, Smoketh, looking mighty fresh in her new 'do, proudly declares that she has just cut her hair using the unicorn hair tie technique from Youtube. In the spirit of being the DSWD ~~Secretary~~ President, she asks us what medications she can give to her yaya who is suffering from a burn injury on her chest. We tried, but nobody correctly guessed the cause of the burn injury: nabanlian ng kumukulong bulalo. This immediately calls to mind an incident that happened years ago when we were still hell-ows. Smoketh had a distant relative undergo endoscopy due to severe difficulty in swallowing, and they were afraid he had a tumor. Upon endoscopy they discovered multiple santol seeds blocking his esophagus and they all gasped audibly. According to the gastroenterologist swallowing whole santol seeds is actually more common than we think.

Somewhere in Antipz, Hellize is gathering positive cosmic energy by fasting from social media. She is now much happier, not being exposed to the extreme politicization and wittiness competition in twitter, as well as the failed "content" of quarantined Instagram influencers running out of props to use inside the house. She is now catching up on Gossip Girl. I started watching Gossip Girl as well, and in the first episode alone there were already two rape attempts, one failed sex scene, and one consummated sex scene on top of a bar table. We have been abusing Hellize's kindness for decades, asking her for movies and TV shows stored in her mainframe hard drive which we nicknamed Astrovision. Thanks to streaming sites, we finally stopped pestering her. Hellize was Netflix before there was Netflix.

We all rant at the insanity that comes with trying to go back into the clinics, what with all the expensive provisions that have to be set-up (no, you can't make me say that corny NN term ahahahaha). HTGOF, being in a procedure-heavy field of specialization, has already started purchasing clinic stuff like headlights to better see that deep-seated pinna melanoma. I fear-mongeringly hypothesize that there could be COVID hiding under the comedones, and HTGOF declares that there will be no suctioning or blowing procedures that will be performed during facials. HTGOF is responsible for launching me into the world of beauty after years of neglect. I ran to her clinic in Malate five years ago for acne emergency. Before arriving in the clinic I texted her that I have these huge gigantic cystic zits. Upon seeing me she calmly said, "hmmm... sir Will.. ang laki nga". She then proceeded to inject each disgusting zit with those wonderful wonderful steroids.

We awaiteth Frichmond's baby. Cheers!

Virtual pizza with friends is fantastic, it's like sharing but not sharing.

La Cuarentena Ayuda Espethial

2020-05-26T14:52:00.003+08:00

For no reason other than there's time, Sonny and I decided to study Spanish via Duolingo. It's not like we're going to any Spanish-speaking country--or any country, city, or barangay for that matter--soon, and I could die tomorrow making hours of contending with the app pointless. But to quote the judgmental, snarky Duolingo owl: Fifteen minutes a day with us will teach you a new language--what will fifteen minutes of social media teach you?! At the very least I get to discover which Filipino words are actually Spanish in origin. My current favorite for being the most relevant, of course, is ayuda meaning help.

Speaking of ayuda, we got a new ayuda pack this morning after three weeks! I excitedly opened the pack, hoping we would get more than rice and one piece of frozen chicken leg this time. So this time it is the ayuda bebida espethial: rice, instant coffee, and powdered milk. I will probably get the instant coffee and donate the rest to our regular recepients. I have been consuming inhuman amounts of instant coffee the past three months, which probably explains the laryngopharyngeal reflux symptoms I've been having. Or it could be a tumor, who the hell knows. Fuck. I mean, joder!

La cochinillo en Segovia

The last time I studied a new language was in the 90's when we were required to take 12 units of language elective. Rocky, Kaka, Anj, and I took 6 units of French, and it was quite a harrowing experience. We were horrified of our professeur and it seemed like the entire semester all our energies were focused on figuring out whether a word is masculine or feminine, because even a rock has gender. Sometimes it's easy enough to force it to make sense and create a mnemonic. For instance "window" is feminine because it's a hole, or Monday is masculine because it's the first day of the week and you're sexist and you think men always come first. Or most cheeses are masculine because obviously, smegma. Most of the time, though, we just have to memorize that blue is female, and that other cheeses like fourme or ricotta have a hidden vagina.

Come exam time we would jumble everything up and I would treat Monday as female because obviously it's the first day of the week, and as the saying goes, ladies first. For more aggravation we had a classmate from CAL who was so into French he was making all of us look bad--he was obviously the valedictorian in class. He was so bibo, in fact, that predictably he is now a government official and is always being interviewed on TV.

Some grilled chicken wings and coke
and Stephen King
somewhere in a plaza in Madrid

The following semester I decided to enroll in a relatively easier class and took 6 units of Bahasa Indonesia-Malaysia as recommended by Ms. Therese and Groin. Our guru was this nice, pretty woman with spindly fingers. She would regale us with stories of studying in Indonesia and give a daily 10-point quiz...with 5 bonus points. Sixteen years later I got to attend a conference in Jakarta, and I said terima kasih the whole weekend with conviction. The only other word I remember is syampu which stands for, of course, shampoo.

In two--or ten years, it might be safe and convenient to travel again. I would already be a regular Dora The Explorer or, dare I say it, Sancho de Guzman by that time, able to say something more than no no no, no hablo espanol!

Defer Toy Rounds

2020-05-25T10:50:00.001+08:00

And just like that another month is about to end. In a few weeks it would be three months since the world has been brought to its knees, and from the look of things it would take years before we could sufficiently recover--if we don't die first! By this time I've gotten used to walking up flights and flights of stairs to avoid elevators, covering myself up with layers of armor during rounds, and not eating fast food because it's a chore to order. At least I get to avoid daily Jollibee Chickenjoy and instead feast on my mom's home cooked meals.

Speaking of Chickenjoy, that ready-to-cook marinated version in the supermarkets is a flour-less trap that tastes like anything but Chickenjoy.

With my kumpare/besh/sizt/cyst Dan

I recently messaged my friend Dan that June is coming. By this time our wallets would be trembling, and he should already be preparing his Wonder Woman exhibit had things not been cancelledth. Dan is a rising star in the world of toy collection, and just last year he has abandoned all his clinics to dedicate himself in setting up their Wonder Woman group's exhibit in the 2019 Toy Convention in MOA SMX. He was decked a couple of hours to man their cabinet, after which we ran to the toy stalls. His wife, Hatchett, was fortunately being kept busy by their lovable kid Dean so we had the freedom to spend his hard-earned money on toys toys toys--I mean action figures.

We went around the stalls and I felt like a total virgin beside Dan as he wheeled and dealed and bought all the Wonder Woman figures he ever needed (for the day)--Wonder Woman in a cape, Wonder Woman on a horse, Wonder Woman wielding a sword, Wonder Woman in a traje de boda etc. I finally saw my personal holy grail--the DC Direct Birds of Prey boxed set from 2003!

I first saw the Birds of Prey boxed set in Comic Odyssey in Robinson's Place Manila when I was a med student in 2003. Comic Odyssey was then located on the second floor in the corner near the old Sbarro, after which it moved to a much bigger space on the third floor. After the digital format explosion busted many businesses the store was reduced to a tiny nook, before eventually disappearing. After class I would do my "toy rounds", starting at the toy section of the department store and culminating in Comic Odyssey. I didn't have money to buy anything, saving only enough for special issues like Infinite Crisis. For dinner I would get microwaved Japanese food in Asian Bites worth 65 pesos. I was surprised that Asian Bites is still alive, now located in the supermarket.

Materialism

Carrying our hauls in the spirit of materialism, we walked off to another exhibit hall. "Si Jed Madela," I whispered to Dan and Hatchett, pointing at a guy fixing his things in a corner. Before I knew it Dan approached Jed Madela and we had our picture taken. In another corner was a flock of people taking selfies with Michael Cudlitz aka Abraham from The Walking Dead and we took selfies too. Walking further we noted some people queueing up to have a picture with someone.

"Pa-picture tayo!" I exclaimed, not even knowing who it was. Finally we saw that it was... Alan Cayetano.
"Kain na lang tayo ng shawarma," I said.

Dan's Gal Gadot Hot Toys with well-parlored hair

Comfort of Non-Glossiness

2020-05-24T20:56:00.000+08:00

At first I thought my cracked attention span was to blame for my inability to watch these sleek, new cutting-edge TV shows on Netflix, Amazon Prime, or HBO Go. Each episode in a series is usually 60 minutes long, a lot longer than the usual 44 minutes from the network TV content we grew up in. Consequently there’s room for useless, lingering ponderances. After switching back and forth these apps I usually settle on old favorites such as The Good Wife, Sex And The City, Will and Grace, or Law and Order Special Victims Unit (Dun Dun!), or catch up on the old gems I’ve missed such as Wonderfalls, Law and Order plain (Dun Dun!) and the magnificent Pushing Daisies. I then realized that it’s not about my attention span, but the comfort that the oldness of the shows brings—the format, the formula, the non-HD, non-glossy look. The controlled sex and violence, the absence of cussing, the censorship—for better or worse I just need to be transported back to a simpler time. I realize that this is the equivalent of my father choosing to watch black and white movies.

It has now been 30 years since the 90’s, the same way that in the 90’s it’s been 30 years since the 60’s. The Jim Lee X-Men comics I bought in Filbar’s back then would be like the Silver Age DC Comics my father bought in Avenida as a child of the 60’s that we relished as children of the 90’s—in age if not in value. Whenever I would Zoom or Messenger video chat with old friends everybody seems to be avoiding the current events and instead fall into the bottomless well of nostalgia, not out of lack of concern but out of the need for escapism. The virus started it all, but out of the virus came the deaths, the politics, the oppression, the opportunism—and our brains and our hearts can sometimes only take too much. Once I am more emotionally and mentally recovered I’ll go back to reading that wonderful study on human behavior in times of widespread crisis—Batman: No Man’s Land. In the series Gotham City is ravaged by a horrific earthquake and is summarily abandoned by the world. The city needs to survive—both the physical consequences of the earthquake as well as the villains that hungrily take advantage of the situation.

In the meantime while we are living in our own No Man’s Land we do what we can to create a semblance of sanity. We talk to people who care and take Zoloft if necessary, bought with an e-prescription paid for via bank transfer.

The Pushing Daisies scene that predicted the future of smooching.

Hairy Worm Larva Mutant Anaphylaxis

2020-05-24T10:52:00.003+08:00

Twenty years ago Groin, Chel, Joni and I met in the kiosk in front of Palma Hall Annex. It was grad pic day, and we had to take a cab to Greenhills to the studio of Toch Peypoch. A few months prior Chel and Joni were the test models in the different studios we were choosing from, and these photos were then posted in the bulletin board for votation. Other than in Toch's pics, we commented that they looked like they had ten kids each and overdosed on crack. They now both claim that those pics worthy of being in Requiem For A Dream and Insiang are gone forever. We don't believe them!

While waiting in the kiosk a centipede or some hairy larva mutant worm fell down on my neck and immediately caused an allergic reaction. It started as redness and some pruritus--by the time we were in Greenhills my neck was peppered with gigantic wheals. "Patungan na lang natin ng maraming foundation," make-up artist Miss Cleo cheerily said as she lined us up to the photo room. Looking back I could have developed anaphylaxis and died there and then. When it was Joni's turn we discovered X-Men movie premiere tickets among his things-- we somehow coerced him to ditch his other friends and take us instead.

It was Saturday and Megamall was packed. There was a night party in the area between Buildings A and B. We got free samples of Nescafe Frothe Hazelnut and we thought it was the best sugary coffee we've ever had. We then watched X-Men in awe--it was the first good superhero live action feature in a long time, the previous decade having a dearth of superhero movies that demanded to be taken seriously. What immediately pops to mind as representative of the 90's superhero crap is the horrific Justice League TV movie shown in HBO featuring Fire, Ice, and Guy Gardner, and of course the 1997 Joel Schumacher Batman and Robin featuring turgid Bat Nipples and protective plastic lips.

X-Men and X2 movie toys
from Toybiz (2000-2004)

X-Men would eventually be followed by successful sequels and spin-offs, and could be seen as the movie that really launched the explosion of superhero films that we've been enjoying. For its unevenness the X-Men movies have a special place in my heart--I saw X2 in the summer of 2003 with my siblings and thought that it was the most fantastic movie of all time, and watched X-Men: The Last Stand with Namtab Pots while studying for the med boards. X-Men: First Class was a surprise hit and most memorable for being shown while I was in my hellowship poorita mode with Helliza and the gang. I think X-Men Days Of the Future Past is a masterpiece, rendering its immediate follow-up X-Men Apocalypse pedestrian but still serviceable by comparison. Finally, no bad review will ever make me not love Dark Phoenix.

These blog entries of reminiscences with Joni, Chel, and Groin are becoming quite frequent. Should I one day develop early-onset Alzheimers I would have these to get me by.

Collective Distraction

2020-05-23T09:29:00.001+08:00

I have recently discovered the vile rabbit hole that is the streaming services, and I must say that my 90's sensibility is shookedth. For years I've resisted using my credit card even for "free trials", but Senor Sonny Balwani Holmes (who has also lent me a Netflix account before) has regaled me with stories of fun, adventure, excess, and sexual debauchery awaiting me in these brand new multiverses. Back in the day, passing around hard drives to copy contraband multimedia was the thing, with Helliza being the Ultimate Queen for owning a virtual Astrovision. These streaming services now pose a threat to my reading habit which has just recently started to recover, so I should impose strict rules on how much I will watch.

X-Men: The Animated Series action figures from Toybiz and Hasbro

In the 90's there were very few options, and we had to wait Friday nights to watch X-Men or Batman The Animated Series, or Monday nights to watch The X-Files. Only to be disappointed sometimes that they are showing a rerun, in which case there was no choice but to wait another week. One Monday morning back in 1993 all the girls were humming Frente's Bizarre Love Triangle-- apparently the week before it was the song ABS-CBN has been using in the trailer of the latest Beverly Hills 90210 episode. Not trying to manufacture cosmic connections where there are none, but I think the lack of options in those days has created a very strong collective memory for a generation.

So I have a week to use Amazon Prime, and the first show I completed is The Boys, based on the comic book series of Garth Ennis. In it superheroes are nasty, media-trained, corporate-sponsored celebrities, so the superpowerless The Boys have their work cut out for them. Also prominently displayed on the home screen are Good Omens, American Gods, and Jack Ryan. I instead went back to an old comfort TV show, The Good Wife. Everybody wants to be Alicia Florrick, and everybody wants to have a big office with a nice view and expensive paintings. I feel like I haven't even watched enough of Amazon Prime, when HBO Go beckoned, so I downloaded a free 7-day trial! The first show I watched was McMillions, a documentary series on the scam surrounding the Monopoly Game promo in Mc Donald's back in the 90's. I only got to see one episode then gave up, because I feel like they are stretching things way too long, with different characters narrating way too much. I instead played Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Rings and marvelled once more at its breathtaking opening sequence. There was a Zoom meeting about to start, but I was not really a major participant so I just turned it on and muted it.

All of this while my time-management games The Simpsons: Tapped Out, Smurfs' Village, and Dragonvale are crying for attention, notifying me of coins to be collected or crops about to wither. I'm glad I'm not eight years old or my attention span would be whacked! Two minutes later my Duolingo owl pinged me in panic--time to train Spanish today or lose your streak! Oui! Oui! I mean, Si! Si!!!

Mr. Peppermint Patty

2020-05-22T09:47:00.000+08:00

My accountant has called me up to say that it's time to pay the monthly retainers' fees and went on to enumerate the due taxes for the past few months. Because I'm always happy seeing my financial share getting utilized for the betterment of our beloved country, I un-begrudgingly opened my Excel files and looked at whatever income I've had the past few months. I reached for my checkbook to gleefully write what is due to our country to be used for infrastructure, health care, and most importantly, public officials' salaries. I felt some severe colicky abdominal pain as I did so--my phantom gallbladder seemed to be protesting.

A few hours later the printing press also called me up. Apparently I had some prescriptions printed before the lockdown and I have to get them now (and of course pay). In an interesting turn of events nothing screams "obsolete" more than prescription pads as everyone now uses e-prescriptions. I started utilizing an online consult platform a week ago, and initially I've been feeling a twinge of unnecessary guilt whenever I would charge for consultation for my long-time patients. For some reason it reminds me of my favorite show "The Good Wife" where lawyers would always determine "billable hours". I blame this sense of guilt to the long-observed misconception of "altruism" in the medical community, as if due monetary returns renders services any less altruistic.

To focus on more important things I texted my trusty barber for five years Mr. Randy, and frantically asked him when they would resume operations. My hair has mutated and developed organelles of its own, and I suspect that it has also been causing my more intense hunger for food the past few days. Just yesterday someone brought Yellow Cab in the chemo unit, and I've consumed two slices of large pizza in a few minutes, washed down by cold regular Coke! I attempted to pay for it by immediately using the elliptical, the calorie consumption of which would probably cover for the green bell pepper on the pizza. I would turn into an obese, white-haired comic-book guy stereotype if vaccine won't be discovered soon.

It's only a matter of time before I start looking like Good Sir Peppermint Patty

I've been contemplating coloring my hair myself using boxed dyes from the drug store just to cover up some of the white roots, but I've recently watched someone on TV who developed severe contact dermatitis from hair dyes and her scalp turned into raw hamburger, to be followed by a lifetime of baldness. Randy did not reply. Last December I told my friend Andy (who has been fantastically growing his hair out to donate to wig-makers for chemotherapy patients) that I've been planning to grow my hair long, and I guess this is the perfect opportunity. The last time I attempted this was in 2006 during internship, and I wouldn't listen to anybody demanding that I get a haircut. Finally my friend and duty partner Ditz D' Titz, not mincing any words, screamed to my face, "Will... ang PANGIT MO!" That got me running to the barbershop.

Smooth and Thick

2020-05-21T17:52:00.001+08:00

Have been lying in bed most of the day, pondering on a very important, cosmic issue: what diseases would I have today? Will symptoms suddenly appear, like a thunderclap headache indicative of a subarachnoid hemorrhage, abdominal pain suggestive of cancer, or diarrhea that points to COVID? After rounds in Mary Mediatrix yesterday I ran to the house and immediately took a shower, and I then realized that the COVID particles could have been stuck on my hair and washed by the strong jet of water directly into my open mouth. When AVM (arteriovenous malformation) came into public consciousness a few years back after Isabel Granada succumbed to the disease, fake news went around that you have to take a bath from the foot going up. Wetting your head first with cold water would supposedly cause latent AVM's to rupture.

Even before entering med school I have been making the rounds of cancer paranoia. I once ran to my ENT when I was still in my teens for difficulty of swallowing, and told him that I think I have a tumor somewhere in my esophagus. He just brushed it away and said "that's just stress!". After the consult I went to Jollibee to buy myself their cheap, thick, delicious strawberry milkshake. It ran smoothly down my throat. My dysphagia disappeared.

When I was a first year fellow the psychosomatism piled on, one on top of another. I would sometimes lose track of what malignancy I was afraid I could be harboring that time, because the simplest sore throat or hypogastric pain would take on new meaning and supplant a previous symptom. At one point a lingering right upper quadrant pain led me to order a triphasic abdominal CT scan with IV contrast for myself, despite already being poor. As soon as the scanning process was completed the tech told me that there was power failure and the machine couldn't slide me out of the tube. I wriggled myself out of the machine. I then dragged Smoketh to the negatoscope to wet read the CT scan plates with me. "May bukol ba? Meron? Meron?!" I demanded.

"Ummm... parang wala naman. But I can see your penis on the plates," she said. After the scan I went back to the Cancer Institute to attend a lecture. The abdominal pain just disappeared all of a sudden. On the table was a box of Krispy Kreme and I quickly ate two donuts. The CT scan... cured me. The following day while waiting in the clinic, Uni-Horned Beef Jerky Alanis Whore caught me touching my neck. "Nagkakapa ka na naman," she rebuked. Palpating has become a vile, vile habit.

These days I feel like there's a nefarious race between COVID and a malignancy to kill me. I need a cheap, thick, delicious strawberry milkshake to run down my throat ASAP!

Or an overpriced, elaborate dessert.

Saga

2020-05-15T22:03:00.001+08:00

The authorities must really be bored, right, to run after these select few that they could easily bully and threaten. Maybe someone's pressuring them to come up with something--truly the crime rate has precipitously dropped and no one's ice-picking a random passerby or throwing a chair at a shopping mall glass window to steal a television, but come on. The power you must feel watching the little people crying and begging. Feed stray cats or something, that would be infinitely more useful and infinitely less disgusting. Or crochet a mug holder--or an entire curtain set--that should keep you busy. I am reminded of our high school student council once. Word circulated that morale was low and that the faculty felt that the student council was slacking off. So one lunch break, the council raided all the rooms and confiscated all forms of jewelry, trinkets, and accessories which were supposedly prohibited. They finally had an activity.

I'd be downing these motherfuckers if they weren't so disgusting.

On the other hand, the authorities are tripping all over themselves to defend what is blatantly wrong. These are very clear pictures of the, hee-hee, mananita, and yet they still try to lie their way out of it, horrible grammar and all. If he were on Survivor the chief would have easily been voted out for not being able to quickly come up with a remotely believable lie, and for stuttering as he does so. His alliance would spit him out and vote him off to Extinction Island. For some reason I am reminded of my classmate Yuri. For a few months rumors have circulated that our friend Cholo has a boyfriend, Lilo. This is supposedly big news because there has never been anything to suggest that he is gay. For some reason Yuri would always take it upon himself to assert Cholo's straightness, even if nobody demanded it. While we were walking in the mall an infuriated Yuri, who is rather prone to using piquant descriptions, exclaimed "Unless I see Cholo with Lilo's cock in his mouth, I am not going to believe that he is gay!"

"Pano mo naman makikita?" we asked.

By trying to parallel the horrific goings-on in the Philippines (aka Province of China thanks Instagram!) with my pedestrian, comical, mundane experiences I hope I can survive this unending saga of local tragicomedy.

A History of Losing

2020-05-14T17:12:00.001+08:00

Recently joined a Quiz Night at Bell and Dragon in Makati. We reviewed our 90's Thinkaton, we watched hundreds of Jeopardy episodes, we neglected our daily responsibilities to study the geo-political landscape of Kyrgyzstan, only to be asked on quiz night: What is "Tuesday" in Swahili?

"Bawi tayo sa round 2, baka mas alam natin yung categories," I told Eleesabeth Balwani. The hostess then exclaimed: "For Round 2 we're going to play... Bring Me! First, Bring Me a condom! Yung wrapped ha! Ahahaha!" It was downhill from there, and we never got to recover. By the third round we waved our white flag, laid down our arms, threw in the towel--we also reviewed our idioms--and was the first group to walk out in abject shame. "May mga clinic pa tayo bukas nang maaga," we tried to convince each other.

Back in high school I was chosen to join Battle of the Brains. At the time everybody was into Battle of the Brains (Saturday, 1pm at RPN-9), basically because there was nothing else to watch or entertain ourselves with. The other option, really, was Video Hit Parade or something similar in ABC-5 showing the trailers of Dolores Claibourne and Batman:Mask of the Phantasm on loop. My partner was Toules, who was the Math wizard of the batch. I wasn't really super excited to join, but at least we'd get to leave the province to tape our episode in faraway Quezon City, I told myself. "No, no, no, they would tape your episode in Uniwide Sta. Rosa," we were later told by our adviser.

Toules and I went inside the taping booth and ooh-ed and aah-ed at the lights and the set-up. There was a dining table in a corner with stacks and stacks of encyclopedia, the staff cramming the questions. "Ang galing, noh," I distinctly remember our physics coach Mr. Cruz say. "Ang gwapo ni David Celdran!" Toules whispered. While everyone was still preparing David went to the podium, gargled some water from a bottle for a few seconds, and swallowed the gargled water.

Easy round commenced and our opponents James and Joahnna were already wiping the floor with us. Before the round ended I was able to answer a question about the history of Ethiopia... from pure testmanship. It was a long question that indirectly just asked what the capital city of Ethiopia is. For some reason capital cities are favorite recall questions in 90's quiz bees, along with the types of phobias (triskaidekaphobia in particular was a quizmaster's darling). Toules took care of the Math questions.

We were starting to get our footing, but James and Joahnna quickly pulled so far away that Toules and I could only hang our heads in shame. The final nail on the coffin was when David Celdran asked the question "Who was the squire of Don Quixote dela Mancha?" To which I immediately buzzed and desperately screamed with no poise at all, "SANCHO!" Looking back, I was the original Alma Moreno yelling "PILLS!" at Karen Davila.

David looked at the cue card, and said I had to give the full name. I made a face palm and then sheepishly said, "SANCHO... DE GUZMAN?" I am just thankful that I did not say Sancho Gonzalez because it sounds suspiciously similar to the mouse Speedy Gonzalez which is more Battle of the Brainless than Sancho de Guzman. I think.

"Sino si Sancho de Guzman?" my father laughed as I sat dejected at the back of our Toyota Lite Ace on our way home. A few weeks later our episode aired, and my father recorded it in his Betamax. I've been looking for the tape and it is nowhere to be found, hopefully it is gone forever. Good thing memes wouldn't be a thing until twenty years later, otherwise a nasty bully classmate would have made one of me facepalming and Speedy Gonzalezing my way through a fucking quiz show.

Di Ba!

2020-05-13T22:42:00.002+08:00

The recent Smokey Mountain Zoom performance was the reunion we didn't know we need. The songs immediately got me and my friends yearning for the magnificent 90's, which, I think, was a pretty good decade to grow up in. In true Ray Bradbury fashion as soon as I heard the familiar songs I was transported back to my 12-year old self, all sweaty in my room, waiting for the daily 9-hour brown-out to end. By that time I've already read all of my father's Silver Age comic books and I didn't have access to a lot of fiction, so the options for entertainment were scarce. The last resort was always the song hits. Frequently gracing the cover was Smokey Mountain, with the members in their tattered clothes, looking all brooding and intense and cool. The downside of their popularity: almost all the interpretative dance to celebrate priests' day, sisters' day, environment week, Linggo ng Wika, etc. etc. had my classmates tying ribbons in their hands and dancing to Paraiso. Close contender was From A Distance.

When we got into college us probinsyano's got excited about the celebrities in our campuses. "Hulaan nyo kung sinong kasabay ko sa entrance exam ng La Salle," my friend Lolita gushed. "Si Tootsie Guevara!"

In UP Diliman there was only one legit celebrity still in the campus: Jeffrey Hidalgo. The Eraserheads were already extremely popular at the time, but they would still occasionally come back to the campus and guest in the annual UP Fair. The more ubiquitous in various events, though, was Jeffrey Hidalgo, and as he was singing Can This Be Love on the last day of the UP Fair, Joni, Chel, Groin, Kikky, and I were in a hidden pocket of the Sunken Garden getting disproportionately emo from those wonderful luminous drinks which seemed to have greater alcohol content than the unscrupulous senior fratmen claimed. After making the rounds of the various "secret" alcohol joints, we started dropping on the ground one by one. The first casualty was Kikky, and before we knew it she was sobbing and pulling out grass. "What's wrong?" we tried to ask, followed by laughter. Joni was the one in most control of his faculties that night, having learned his lesson the night before when he fell into alcoholic coma. Groin had to drag him back to Molave Residence Hall by herself, leaving behind a trail of puke. In 2013 we went back to the UP Fair after over a decade, and sadly instead of make-shift alcohol booths there were food trucks selling red velvet cupcakes, artisanal coffee, and gourmet lechon.

Nostalgia-festing with Ray Bradbury

Another recent nostalgia trigger was the Youtube presentation of Ang Huling El Bimbo. Some time in 2018 I watched its initial run in Resorts World with Smoketh, Frichmond, Aia, Helliza, and HTGOF. We remember snoozing at some point and not liking it very much for various reasons--I didn't really understand the motivations of the characters which seemed to have shifted off-screen between the two sets, while Helliza who is practicing in Antipolo didn't like the idea that a horrific event would happen in Antipolo Overlooking. The version shown in Youtube seemed to have smoothened some of the edges from the earlier runs. I enjoyed the performances more this time, but somehow the show left me again with a bad taste in my mouth. I don't think that art should always send the right message or impart moral values, it's just that Ang Huling El Bimbo for all the feel-good nostalgia-fest turned out to be quite nihilistic.

When Eraserheads first exploded into radio we were still first year students in a catholic high school. I guess in an attempt to sort of get into what the youth was really interested in, the teachers organized a "rock concert", with the students as the performers. The most popular, i.e. easiest songs to play on the guitar were the execrable What's Going On by Four Non-Blondes and of course the D-A-G-A songs of the Eraserheads. Maybe the nuns were not familiar with the songs, or maybe the screening committee members were not really paying attention, but come performance time one of the bands performed "Pare Ko". When it came to the part "Di ba...", the lead singer pointed the microphone to the audience and the entire Catholic student body wailed a solid "TANG INA!!!" The nuns got apoplectic.

Dreading One Day At A Time

2020-05-09T18:29:00.002+08:00

When I attended an annual Oncology convention in Singapore in 2018 I got into full on schizoid mode and decided to avoid large groups of people. After listening to some of the most important lectures I quietly slipped out of the Suntec Convention Center and asked the taxi driver to bring me to The Charlie Brown Cafe somewhere along Orchard Road. My first time in Charlie Brown Cafe was in Hongkong back in 2012 with Uni-Horned Beef Jerky Alanis Whore, Jaimz, and Kruskalwalis—the same friends who bore witness to the projectile vaginal juice-coated banana fiasco in Patpong (see previous entry). We found the store totally charming but a bit overpriced, with the quality of the food ranging from nothing particularly special to crap. As with any other themed restaurants (like the DC Superheroes Cafe) it was really a matter of form over substance. Our fascination with the Peanuts characters began when we started playing the popular 2011 app Snoopy’s Street Fair, which was one of the few things that made me happy during the wilderness years of hell-owship. Charlie Brown’s wisdom was such a fresh air of negativity, and my favorite saying in the game was “I will only dread one day at a time”.

“Charlie Brown Cafe? What will you be doing there?” the gregarious Singaporean driver asked.
“Uhmmm.... drink coffee,” I said sheepishly.
“You’re going all the way there to have coffee?” he laughed judgmentally. In my head, Oo bakit ba!

I walked along the perenially overcrowded Orchard road, looking for this tiny cafe which has reportedly been reduced to a nook. I found it on the 4th floor of a building which was being majorly renovated, and by the looks of it this branch seems to be on its last legs as well. I got myself a crepe and a coffee. Sadly, the youthful wide-eyed thrill of 2012 upon seeing the powdered Snoopy art on my food was no longer there. There were only the calories.

Later in the day I met a friend for drinks. I haven’t seen Tim Drake for quite sometime, and I later learned that he has been working in finance and has been doing quite well for himself. According to him he has been living in perpetual stress since he started working in Singapore. The past ten years have been a mixture of being lonely, high-strung, and anxious. We started ordering drinks and talked about the good old days because we would rather discuss anything but the here and now. We were enjoying our nachos and mojito and we were laughing and I was genuinely having a great time talking about our childhood misadventures and then without warning... he started sounding quite sad. In my drunken head I said, "No no no please don't.. no no..." And then he full on cried.

"Oh my gosh are you OK? What's happening tell me!" I managed to say, my speech slurred. Tim Drake went on to tell me about the stressful things he had to go through as an OFW, plus some relationship problems, and he just found it wonderful having someone to talk to.

I also got to spend some time with my partner in the trip, the senior oncologist and past president of PSMO Dr. Dennis Tudtud. He was one of the nicest people we know, and always fun to be on trips with. He was quite popular for being a "good shopper". On our way home he found out that I did not buy any pasalubong, so he grabbed my bag and stashed it with Irvine's Salted Egg chips which he had bought that morning. "Ipamigay mo," he said.

While waiting in the airport Dr. Dennis said that I should join him in the lounge using his free passes, which I was thankful for because I would otherwise eat Burger King again. "Make sure you get enough sealed food and drinks to take with you to the plane," he said, at which point I hoarded all the Coke Lite and cookies I could hoard like a total amateur patay-gutom traveller. I swooned at his very nice Panerai watch. His advice was to get just one good watch and stick with it. Many doctors fall into the trap of buying so many unnecessary pieces of luxury watch as they climb up the ladder and they just end up being clutter, he said.

Over a month ago Dr. Dennis and his wife Dra. Helen fell ill and eventually died from COVID. We are all heartbroken, and can only look back at our moments with him, big and small. He was the president of our society when we started as trainee fellows, and he always made us newbies feel welcome. I will miss him.

Deliver Us!

2020-05-06T22:10:00.002+08:00

“ME?!” I exclaimed in pure surprise when my classmate Bart informed me that the Directress Sister Trinia asked him to bring me to her office. This would be the second time in history that I would get in trouble with the school authorities. The first time was in third year high school. As a proactive stance, the student government has one day decided to pass around a survey asking us a question of extreme socio-economic-political importance: What brand of mineral water do you want to be available in the canteen? For some reason I wrote Cave Water. Until now I don’t know why I did that—it’s not particularly witty or funny or even smart-alecky. A few days later the student escorts raided all the rooms and rounded up all the students who did not take the survey seriously. While we were detained in the Executive Chairperson’s Office I asked Mariah, “Ano ba sinulat mo?” She said, Who Cares Mineral Water. Now that would have been worth the trip to the office.

Sister Trinia told me that she wasn’t pleased with the editorial I wrote in the latest issue of the school paper. I was the editor-in-chief, and I reported on the practice of public school teachers selling longganisa to their students. We had seen this first hand while doing catechism in the nearby public schools. It would reflect poorly on the catechism program, she said, and the school organ is not the proper venue for such an observation no matter how valid it may be. We would look like these foreign bourgeoisie looking down on native practices after we’ve been welcomed with open arms. Looking back, now in my advanced age, I see the wisdom in her advice. I apologized profusely, telling her that it would not happen again. The very next issue I wrote in big bold letters on a filler area: SUPPORT THE FREEDOM OF THE PRESS! It was very... Briony Tallis, that young girl from Ian Mc Ewan’s Atonement who inflates her own importance by creating drama everywhere. Intra-Editorializing: What is not being Briony Tallis is being concerned with all the current press freedom issues. Coupled with the extreme heat and this horrific pandemic we can only hope for someone to sprinkle us with some blessed cave water as we scream in exasperation: DELIVER US!!!!

At some point I half-jokingly said we should just call this paper The Willy

Drama or not, taking control of the school paper is one of my favorite memories of high school. They could have their CAT and Student Council positions, I could write whatever I want in the broadsheet like a total dictator. Some members of the staff weren’t really taking their positions seriously, and I happily took their jobs. Nobody wanted to do the lay-out, I did it myself like a maniac! Nobody wanted to write about pop culture, I wrote articles upon articles about The X-Files! The only thing I didn’t make pakialam was my friend Rex’s serial The Vicar Of Christ, a short story about the Pope (it was too complex for my comprehension). I and my close friends in the staff were so consumed with editorial power that we eventually decided to come up with a lampoon issue, called C#!ck@ Lang! featuring no-holds-barred, extremely lewd stories about real people. It was only meant to be shared among friends.

One day we were all laughing raucously while reading the 3rd issue of C#!ck@ Lang! when our Drama teacher Mr. Flaubert demanded that we surrender what were reading. We were a month away from graduation, we were already accepted to good universities, we have lasted this long without getting into real trouble, but as Mr. Flaubert walked towards Ruth Marx who was clutching in his palms the most disgusting issue of C#ick@ Lang! we knew we were finished.

“No,” Ruth Marx said firmly when Mr. Flaubert stretched out his hand to get the paper. “No, Sir,” Ruth Marx repeated as he folded the paper and kept it in his pocket, much to our collective relief.

“Eh pano kung nakipag-agawan sya?!” We later asked Ruth Marx.

“Kakainin ko yung papel!” He said.

We believe him. We owe our lives, our careers, our entire future to Ruth Marx.

Anxiety-Sadness-Ennui-Dread Combo Meal

2020-05-05T22:42:00.000+08:00

I opened my eyes this morning with a combined feeling of anxiety, sadness, ennui, and dread, so I had my Spam sandwich and sugar-rich 3-in-1 coffee and told myself maybe I would eventually figure this out. I turned on Zoom for a hospital conference, and at the same time wrote digital prescriptions, requests, etc of patients. This whole online consultation concept has been driving me insane. I should be used to this because even as a trainee years ago and until now in private practice I have been giving my personal contacts to all my patients, but this ECQ-induced telemedicine is a whole new level of necessary craziness. It demands more time, it opens me up to some possible legal problems, and frankly, it requires a lot of guessing game. The "tele-" really stands for telepathy.

Touristy pose sa labas ng tindahan.

Maybe it's the heat, I told myself. The simplest movement drenches me in sweat. The aircon has been malfunctioning. The bed was warm. My hair has mutated into a totally independent life form. The morning heat has sapped me of energy to ride the elliptical. The Simpsons Village app has notified me that I haven't collected money for two days already, how negligent. Tried to read a book but my attention would wander after a few pages. I have just taken a bath and changed clothes and now I'm like bleeping Niagra Falls.

Smirketh then notified me that she has been testing this telemedicine platform where the patient would actually have to pay. Sounds fun, I told her, I want in as well--I have bills piling up and so far I haven't charged anybody via online yet. To test how efficient this platform is I logged on to Smirketh's virtual consultation room. I was informed by an "automated" (hee-hee) text that I have to pay a certain amount to proceed. So far so good. I paid via the BDO app. And just like that I got in and was having online consultation as Smirketh's first ever pay patient. "I-donate mo na lang yung PF," I told Smirketh. "Or better yet, pwede mong ipang-Jollibee!"

To try and overcome this strange Anxiety-Sadness-Ennui-Dread combo meal I looked at some of my old photos and remembered how going to the comic shop used to make me happy. I have long shifted to digital comics for less clutter, but I just loved going to the store, looking at the display shelf full of colorful toys, eavesdropping at other people's conversations about comics, sometimes buying a special comic book issue. It was just genuine fun. I don't know if I could ever recapture that feeling again. Maybe when I’m geriatric and afflicted with memory loss and peeing from a bag.

Comic stores are tourist destinations. Comic Zone Perth, WA

FNAC Madrid. Wala akong mabili. Need to take Duolingo seriously!

Such Party People In Phuket

2020-05-04T23:46:00.001+08:00

Two years ago Smirketh won the grand prize in their annual convention raffle--a trip for two to Phuket for a romantic summer sex-travaganza. In the true spirit of friendship, though, she asked me, Aia, and JP to come with her instead.

"We will set you up with a hot Phuket-an on the beach!" we promised her. We haven't gone on a vacation in a long time and boy were we ready to party. We haven't even gotten past the immigration at NAIA and I have already shifted into full juvenile potty-mouthedness mode that would last the duration of the entire trip. "I cunt wait to get to Vagina-keth. Aka Cunt-eth," I said. It sounded funny at the time.

There was a long lay-over in Kuala Lumpur, so by the time we got to Phuket International Airport we were already quite spent. We were welcomed by our driver, the gregarious Mr. Mongkut, who discussed in detail all the important landmarks we were passing by on our way to Patong Premier Resort. JP, Aia, and I started to doze off--I was actually forcing myself to doze off while clutching the grab handle because Mr. Mongkut was driving like he was on a suicide mission. "Para tayong nakikipagkarera paakyat ng Sagada!" I managed to whisper before passing out. For more dizziness, Smirketh was trapped making small talk with Mr. Mongkut in the midst of our collective vertigo. As soon as we parked Smirketh barfed all the microwaved Pad Thai we had eaten on the plane.

The following day we swathed ourselves in sunblock and trooped to the nearest beach. JP and I started swigging sugar-rich mojitos, whining, "Ang init!". Smirketh and Aia feasted on fruit cups. In our wetsuits and sarong we were the most over-dressed among the almost-naked Caucasian crowd. "Para tayong naka Sunday's best," we remarked. We saw one other Asian girl--she was wearing a wide-brimmed hat and was carrying an umbrella.

While in the water, waiting for the sun to set, Smirketh and I lamented and whined and bemoaned some aspects of our failed romantic and professional lives--we had no idea that in about two years we wouldn't even be able to go to the beach or eat pineapple rice or slurp tongue-scorching tom yum. That we wouldn't be able to go anywhere. Had we known, we would have slapped ourselves for being so... shallow. That night we walked by the party area/ red light district along Patong Beach, and in true party people fashion we bought... fried ice cream. We were then swarmed by locals with laminated card boards featuring naked pictures of hot Thai performers.

"Laminated card boards featuring naked pictures of hotThai performers" is a phrase I have come to dread, as this has exhumed long-buried memories of our Patpong misadventures back in 2012. I was with my friends Uni-Horned Beef Jerky Alanis Whore, Kruskalwalis, and Zangief for a conference in Bangkok. After days and days of wholesome picture-taking inside all kinds of temples, or baking under the sun in that melanoma-inducing trap called the floating market, we went to the supposed highlight of every Bangkok trip that we've been hearing about for decades. Suffice it to say, we were so traumatized that we stuffed our faces with Swensen's Ice Cream afterwards. But the true victim that night was my iPad bag that was bulls-eyed and thwacked by the gigantic banana propelled out of the ultra-powerful Thailander Clitoric Propulsion System 3000. Truly my bag has incurred the ultimate stain of immorality. (click link for the sordid details of that trip)

"We are NOT watching any show!" I told Smirketh, Aia, and JP in panic. "Patong and Patpong sound suspiciously similar!" I declared. We walked past the card board carrying pimps and went straight to the non-banana fruit stand instead.

Competitive Bitchiness is Cancelledth

2020-05-03T12:08:00.001+08:00

Without fanfare May 1 has come and gone. I should be seeing Instagram posts of drug-crazed frolicking and all kinds of sexual debauchery on the beach, but for now we should be content with images of bookshelves, ube cheese pandesal, and people who genuinely "woke up like this". The value of looking pretty has dropped precipitously, at this point we all just need to not die.

May 1 used to have particular significance for PGH interns who have just earned their freedom--they could finally sleep until 9 am and in a few hours feel bored. On the night of April 30 everyone would celebrate the final day of the schoolyear by creating effigies of the most reviled personalities in the hospital which they would then summarily BURN! The criteria for being on this Sunog List vary--sometimes all you need is to have a resting cunt face. Some of my classmates have earned the distinction of being included for 3 consecutive years, and they have grown so inured to being hated on that they wanted to file a protest when they failed to make it the fourth time. "Someone's bitchier than me now?!" Grizella once laughed as she flipped back her hair and sipped her Vanilla Ice Blended Coffee in Shrine Motherfucker Cafe. For now, competitive bitchiness is deferred until further notice.

Over a decade ago when it was our turn we failed to come up with a list or make an effigy--more from laziness and lack of coordination. By 9 pm everyone trooped to the basketball court, and since we did not have anything to burn Cal just ripped off his clothes, lifted the entire trascription box (the size of a cabinet) and threw it to the fire. We all then got drunk, temporarily succumbed to being emo, and took photos of each other using our hi-tech Canon Powershots digi-cam. I did not have a digital camera, so I used the 2nd worst gadget in all of history--Palm Pilot Zire 72 (the worst was Zire 71).

Ward 3 taken using the magnificent Zire 72

After the ceremonies Thines, Ardeekid, Hippura, Burrata, Keyser Sosi and I decided to do some contemplative melodrama and walk along Roxas Boulevard. For some undisclosed reason, then-rumored lovers Hippura and Keyser Sosi seemed to be getting quite annoyed at each other, so Keyser decided to walk ahead of us and disappeared into the night. Hippura seemed quite unaffected, making jokes and laughing the whole night. Looking back, Hippura must have been weeping inside, regretting that Keyser was not holding her hand on our last night as medical interns.

At the time Roxas Boulevard was still teeming with restaurants, and we ended up in the now defunct Mocha Blends. Ardeekid and I showed our affection to Thines by laying our heads on her shoulders and purring like demented kittens hungry for milk. Burrata took our photo (this photo would eventually get me some death threats, which is a story for another day). I would find out the next morning that Keyser has lain on the cement pavement beside Manila Bay all by himself, marinating on his feelings for Hippura as he waited for sunrise to bathe him in clarity. He would marry Hippura seven years later.

Somewhere else in Manila, my other friends Smoketh and Frichmond were having drinks with their sorority sisters. Some of our other classmates were signing out of their final hospital duties. At this point in our lives we were all afraid and sort of excited for what the future would bring, unaware just yet of the crap that delayed adulthood would unleash.

Touch

2020-05-02T09:36:00.000+08:00

Excesses

The supposed re-opening of the clinics is getting closer and I am dreading it. I predict that I would always be afraid of flicking one viral particle from one patient to another, and would constantly wonder if the delicious, irresistible red velvet cheesecake given by the febrile and coughing patient is teeming with them critters. In the olden days as soon as a patient leaves I would grab a handful of any food given to me and stuff it in my face like a total patay-gutom, but now I won’t be able to do that. As consolation prize, I should expect to lose some weight from stress and the physical inability to feed.

I’m also not sure how I would do physical examination. In the spirit of poverty and attempts at avoiding intricate imaging tests I usually palpate nooks, crevices, and nether regions in search of a mass. I already feel like quarter of a battle is won whenever I discover a hard scrotal mass like the one Mr. John Doggett felt important to leave out, but now every touch would throw me into paranoia. The archetypal lola patient would also pose some problems, as they are the ones who usually just grab your hand or hug you or beso/kiss/sniff your neck. For now the neck sniffing would be the safest—but STILL!

In my solitary, reflective state I am now bewildered at how remiss I was when it came to certain sanitary practices that I didn’t consider to be clinically significant. I'm lucky I didn't get anything from the many, many intubations I did as a resident without a protective mask or goggles.While in a conference in Makati one night Dr. Eclair had asked around if we disinfect our luggage after a trip. Everyone just laughed—apparently Dr. Eclair was the only one doing it, and now in hindsight who knows what alien fungi-viral hybrid mutant we could have been carrying across continents!

I’ve learned a lot from Dr. Eclair, specially that one time when we got to room together in a trip out of the country. He was already known for being well-kempt and clean, but I was definitely impressed when I saw how organized his things were and how neatly he would use the hotel room shower. I got so insecure and embarrassed when I saw my clothes strewn on my bed that I tried to cover them all with the duvet. It looked quite horrible, so I ended up folding them properly after all.

One afternoon we were informed that it was the designated free time (aka time to shop), so everyone in the group went insane and got dispersed. I asked to be left behind in the hotel, telling them I would just follow after a brief online meeting, but in truth I found it to be the perfect opportunity to poop in the hotel room liberally. It was indeed a fantastic, majestic, grand defecation, finally expelling the horrific products of gluttony and excesses of the past few days.

After multiple flushes, though, to my horror, stool smudges were still malignantly stuck on the toilet bowl walls! I sprayed the smudges with the bidet, which only succeeded in disseminating drops of fecaloid water on the floor. I couldn’t leave it like this, I couldn’t let Dr. Eclair of all people see this monstrosity, so I reached for the disposable hotel toothbrush, knelt down, and manually brushed the nefariously adherent poop smudges off, nervously laughing like a total idiot. I then opened the door and the windows and sprayed perfume all over, trying to cover up the evidence of my crime.

Emotion-assessing GARAHE outside the hotel.