Ipanema...what girl?

I'm too busy to blog right now, except to note that the weather in boston is balmy, with blue skies and a hint of manure due to spring plantings. I also wish I were in Brazil right now, because apparently this is what Brazil looks like: pure eye candy. Thank the lord!

brotherbrow photoblog

I've felt every sinew beneath those abs...for my anatomy exam next week.
Thinking back, of all the places in the world I've visited, why didn't I go here?!?

installation part 1

Partial mock-up of the art installation at the SMFA. The final installation at SCCHC would be 12 feet tall, floor to ceiling, on a wooden support. It's finally crunch time.

the camera works

Hmm..lenses

Out of sheer boredom while studying for an exam 2 days ago, I went online and made the biggest impulse buy of my life to date: a camera. It's a Canon film SLR, the 'cheap' kind with only 1.5 fps and a plastic body, but it's something I can afford. I've always wanted one. No more ripping off other people's wonderful talent online; from now on, I'm on the straight and narrow. Feel free to read whatever meaning you want into the previous statement.

The impulse camera purchase forced me to think hard about buying lenses, and the result was 3-4 hours of online research for lenses that could have been used for studying. That said, I didn't think studying for this test actually mattered too much. I think I was right. Let's hope the results are as rosy as I thought it would be. As for the lenses, I've done more than 18 hours of reading about various kinds and comparisons by now, and am no where close to feeling comfortable with any of them. I decided to buy two low end Canon lenses, a 50 mm f/1.8 and a kit zoom lens that's been rated by everyone to be crap. We'll see. There's plenty of beauty in a blurred photograph.

Spring break is almost here. yay. bermuda shorts! In boston (hopefully!?!)

In Defense of Flirting (for those who judge)

(Ken Rosenthal)
A look, a smile, an eye contact that obliterate the outside world to leave only the interaction between people: this is, among other things, flirting. Some people have problems with it. I want to defend it. Sure, there are plenty of other ‘ills’ of the world that may need a rhetorical defense, and this one is the most frivolous of all. But frivolities often reveal something more fundamentally important than their innocuous shells. Flirting as something frivolous--and how one may respond to the act of flirtation--is a window into our individual moral qualms and judgments, our perception of acceptable personal expression and outlook on human relationships, and even perhaps our self-esteem--all things that demands serious attention if we are to live happy, contented lives.

Kate was right. She and I had this conversation a long time ago, when we were still freshmen--it was about, of all things, flirting. At the time, I was practically puritanical about it. Several years and a coming-out later, I concede defeat. Kate has always been right about flirtation. It doesn't always have to bear a sexual burden, anymore than a skimpy dress is an open invitation for getting yourself molested. A flirtation is not an indicator of sexual promiscuity, or intentions of infidelity. Webster dictionary defines flirting as being able "to behave amorously without serious intent" and "to show superficial or casual interest or liking." Clearly, those people at Webster can instruct me on the true meanings of 'behaving amorously', but I'd prefer to stress the 'without serious intent' or 'superficial' part of the definition to make my case.

There are many uses for flirting, and woe is the person who reads it as only a prelude to sex. In the animal kingdom, flirting in terms of sexual relations for nonsexual aims abound. Male giraffes stimulate each other to erection, but they seem to do it to reinforce social bonds. In certain societies of monkeys, females rub their external genitals together for many things, including saying hello. While I've yet to see this behavior between 2 women at a bar, it's not a stretch to understand that humans, too, use sexual identity and sexuality in social contexts that go beyond the sexual act.

Nurses flirt; doctors (the good ones that patients like, and plastic surgeons) flirt. Flirting is flattery, endearing if done with taste. In many instances, it allows the user to get what he wants out of others, which is, after all, the point of most social interactions aimed at specific goals, be it extra help on an assignment from the TF, or getting a co-worker to do a favor. It is, coincidentally, a way of self-expression, of relating to others in a social context. Casual flirting makes the day more colorful for all involved, gets attention, opens up conversations and boosts self-esteem. It doesn't necessarily have anything to do with relationship status, age, loose morals, or predatory behavior. Like anything else, it is about context.

True, flirting is a romantic act. But as Webster defined it, it is at best a superficial romantic act, done without necessarily an expectation of something more. In this context, flirting is a way of being kind to others, paying complements to that which any of us, deep down inside, wants: desirability. As a medium of exchange, flirting thus becomes a potent social lubricant; like alcohol, it intoxicates those who are on the receiving end, breaks down barriers of communication, and lays open the opportunity for further interactions. Whether the result is sexual, or casual, or business, is entirely up to the persons involved.

People define the boundaries for flirtation, so it is true that what some find as permissible may not appeal to others. This is only fair, but it beckons the question: what defines permissibility anyway? Is it relationship status? Is it intent? Is it content? It is easy to criticize the one who flirts, because we superimpose ourselves into the situation and use our lens of experiences to cast sweeping judgments. But if we all take a step back to see the myriad of contexts that exists outside our preconceived notions and experiences with flirtation (i.e. previous flirtations were about sex, therefore all flirtations lead to sex), then we can begin to appreciate how others may use the act for different ends--fun, humor, conversation…are all good applications of flirting. As a bonus, we may even realize that we have misread flirtations in the past, that our experiences have been colored because of our inability to appreciate the nuances of human interactions, leading to missed opportunities for friendship, discovery, and dialogue.

In a world so hung up on what one does in the bedroom, can't we all just relax about casual relations between people outside of the boudoir? Judge not, lest ye be judged.

Confidence...

My art pieces are now hanging in the school of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, in the student gallery. After 3 hours of hammering nails, fussing about borders, and trimming edges, finally, I think it looks decent. I feel an undeserved sense of accomplishment, even though the bulk of the piece is not yet made and I'm only displaying about one half of the final installation. The piece is thus half dressed, half nude, like the guy here, open for criticism. So far though, I've had 3 SMFA students commented favorably on the installation. I was further pleasantly surprised that they all looked just like this guy. Mmmm art students.



Mona Kuhn

I have a job!

Okay, so it doesn't pay, and I don't have an office with a window (ahem, Mikey!), and I'm pretty much the office bitch, but still it's a job. With any luck, I'll be able to crank out 3-4 papers this summer: (it's clinical research, with pre-op and post-op data, so things move faster) possibly some review articles (it's just a giant book report, except you use Medline instead of the local library), and/or some interesting surveys (again, highschool stuff).

The beauty of this is that my boss is an MD, who is on the residency committee, and understands exactly what a first year medical student like me needs: papers, papers, and more papers. He's not any random Ph.D who has all the time in the world to ponder the big questions and drag on the quest for truth; no, he's a "get the most bang for your buck" kinda guy. Me likey!

I just have to learn everything about the cornea now. Dry eyes anyone?

All things Indian

Jo Whaley

This weekend has been all about community, Indian style. I went to Ghungroo, an Indian cultural show sponsored by the Harvard South Asian Association. Lots of Bollywood, some dark satires, and overall a great time. It was great to see old faces (very old faces...like people who graduated 2 years ago...) and the usual turnout of so many people on campus who are not South Asians to participate in or watch the show. For a brief moment, I believed in multiculturalism.

Back at old sleepy Med School, my dorm-mates also coincidentally decided to have Indian food night, and went out to buy a bunch of exotic ingredients (fenugreek anyone?) to cook things like Chicken Tikka Masala and Keema and Kofta, and even Roti. I decided to chip in with the cooking. I had great success with the chicken tikka masala, and although we did set off one fire alarm, evacuate the building, and have the Boston police and fire department visit our humble abode, we pulled off the night with all around successful food. The roti was seriously good; it even puffed and everything! In retrospect, chicken tikka masala takes a looong time to make (3 different recipes in one!), so I will reconsider that choice in the future, but the keema and kofta was simply decadent. There was a real sense of community that was created simply from us all cooking together, rolling roti dough balls, and setting things on fire. The smoky, charred smell of success and cardamom was overwhelming.

Upon leaving after the alarm, one police officer turned around and told us, "damn, that there smells good!" as he gestured to my chicken tikka masala.

oh yeah.

True resident stories....

These colorful stories are not meant to be humorous or making fun of patients, but were presented to us as a sampling of the myriad of delicate issues encountered in a hospital. They are, conveniently, stories having to do with the abdomen, because we're covering that region this month. I'm reproducing them here because I am fascinated by the pathos inherent in each.
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An ER resident was called in late one evening to see the case of a man, in his early 20's, with a bowel obstruction. Upon entering the room, the resident heard a persistent buzzing noise and couldn't identify it.
He asked the man, "Do you hear that buzzing? Or is it just me?"
The man replied, " Um doc, yeah that's me."
The resident asked, "So can you tell me what happened?"
The man, timidly, recounted the story of how his girlfriend had stuck a small vibrator up his anal canal, and it got stuck there. Previous attempts at another hospital to try to remove it using an enema did not work, and actually pushed the object further up, pass the bend into the colon.
The resident then asked, " So how long have the buzzing been going on?"
The man replied, "The vibrator has been on the whole time...we just changed batteries..."
The resident ordered an x-ray, which confirmed the location of the object. Using a rubber covered metal wire, which was bent to resemble a hook, the resident went fishing for the vibrator. He managed to grab hold of the object and drag it back toward the anal canal, when the man exclaimed " Okay doc, I think I got it now..." The man then forced a bowel movement that ejected the black, plastic, still buzzing vibrator.
The resident proceeded to clean up, when the man asked: "Um, so doc, can I keep the thing?"

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A 3rd year medical student doing his psychiatric rotation was called down for a consultation on a patient on the surgery ward. Reading the patient's chart, he found the following story:
"the patient had a ruptured colon due to his partner fisting him in an act termed 'spleening' whereby the goal was to travel through the colon to reach the spleen and massage it in an effort to induce a 'high'. According to the patient, he was high on crystal meth during the act, and did not notice the pain. The ruptured colon had to be surgically tied at two ends, with the descending colon emptying bowels into an externally placed bag, and the anal canal tied off for at least 6 weeks in order for the colon to recover. The primary reason for the psychiatric consult: the surgeons didn't know how to assess whether the patient might attempt fisting again, thus rupturing the colon before it could heal. They thought a psych consult would know how to do it better.
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An 82-year-old woman comes into the ER complaining of pain in her lower abdomen. An abdominal X-ray revealed the presence of a bottle cap inside her vagina. The attending kindly asked the woman: "I see what looks like a bottle cap here, could you tell me what happened?" The woman replied, " Well, it was my 82nd birthday yesterday...and I felt lonely after my husband died..." (Apparently this case is a common one, as in beer bottles used as dildos can sometime loose their top, or in other cases, glass objects may break inside the vagina, thus requiring surgical intervention)
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A 30 yr old man comes in and complains of lower abdominal pain, claiming that he "accidentally sat on the sprinkler" after an x-ray reveals the sprinkler head well within his anal canal.

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"call me Kevin..."

Physical diagnosis class: 4:00 pm

We were working on diagnosing the thorax and associated structures. I, meanwhile, couldn't hear a thing through my stethoscope. In came a resident. He wasn't very tall; brown hair, Spanish features, or perhaps Italian--I couldn't tell. He looked in his mid twenties, spirited and clean shaven. There was no ID badge in sight, but I have ran into him wearing his white coat in the past . Hazel eyes. Always smiling.

I stopped him and asked," I'm sorry, what is your name?"

He stopped. Laughed a bit. "Call me Kevin."

"Would you like us to call you Dr. Kevin?"

"Oh no, no." I think he blushed. " Dr....I mean Kevin is fine."

"Could you help us?" I asked with a smile. "All I hear is meat." I smiled again.

He chuckled loudly. "All you hear is meat. hehe."

He had beautiful hands.

Chapter 1; Casa Fleming

Medical school is mind numbing. My Id longs for escape. Lots of thoughts have been roaming through my head lately…Now, if you're tempted to stop reading right this minute, wondering if this is one amuse-bouche-for-the-mind too many--relax. 'Chillax' if you will, as I attempt to convince you that my mind's musings are worth your time, during lunch breaks, at your cubicle. To start, Molly's meditation on traveling has spurned me to conceive what I hope to be a series of entries on my travel experiences, in bite size, stylized vignettes. Call it a retroactive travel journal if you want.
Here goes...

-CASA FLEMING-

We arrived in Tuscany via bus, crossing the Swiss/Italian border on a day trip across luminous fields of wheat and tall cypress that I glimpsed intermittently between naps. The driver left us at the bottom of the hill, forcing me to drag my uncooperative Samsonite up-hill, grinding the wheels against the coarse gravel pavement lining the path to the house. From the drive way, the house was reminiscent of an old barn, and it was not until I cleared the row of cypress blinding my view that I realized how gracefully proportioned it was, this old thing, with red tiles for a roof and stone facades and uneven ledges, worn from years of use. Casa Flemming was old; apparently the house stood on a medieval fort, its foundation a collection of stone slabs gathered from all across Italy by long dead descendents of Roman gods. The stately house stood on a tall hill that oversaw what seemed to me an endless carpet of olive trees--their waxy leaves fluttering in the midday sun--stretching as far as the eye could see. The nearest neighbor was at least four hills away, I counted.

Mrs. Flemming, our host, grabbed my hand. "Welcome! It's good to see all of you." Her bejeweled wrist flickered as she talked. Casa Flemming was her summer residence, her rejuvenation before returning to the business of running the 'American Schools,' a European educational empire stitched together by her own two hands half a century ago. Except for Mrs. Flemming, her cook, and assistants, we had the house to ourselves. In her opera night robe, she cut a billowing trail of black embroidered silk and perfume as we followed her to the back patio to see the stone swimming pool buttressed on one side by 2 tall cypresses, the white cast-iron benches strewn about with ease, and the fuzzy hills of Tuscany undulating before us, unfolding into a misty haze before emptying into the blazing sunset.
I think I gasped.