MEDSCHOOL...101

Terribly unoriginal

2007-09-20T12:13:00.000-05:00

And....we're back! It's been a wild ride these past few months. How best to update the blog? Serial updates? Back-blogging? one gigantic rant? What's a narcissistic megalomaniac to do?

Montage. I got the idea from another blog, but truly, it's perfect. Cue music--something ripe with major chords and a sense of urgency. Screen brightens to the glare of an overhead lamp. Loud noises, a flutter of hands obscuring the view. A shadow emerges into the light. The screen focuses. Me, in scrubs, smiling " Welcome back-you scared us a bit there!" Cut to a hospital corridor, brightly lit. A flash of white coats. A swirl of indistinguishable faces. Zooming out beyond the corridor, floating beyond the hospital. A view of Springfield in the horizon. A blush of clouds. A title in blue fade into view: "Medschool...101." Cut to a hospital ward. More white coats. I'm busy writing in charts, inquiring nurses, putting in orders. An image of a running clock is superimposed onto the screen; It's 6:00 am. The arms of the clock swirls ever faster as the action speed up in the background. The screen fades to black. Voices appear. "Mikey, so we are getting married?" Screen fades back-I'm on a peak overlooking lake Winnipesaukee. Miles of New Hampshire stretches out in all directions. I turn to Mike. He smiles. Our eyes lock. The view diffuses into a wash of greens and blues. The green begins to flash. My pager alarm is blaring. Zoom out. It's 2:00 am. I stumble in the dark, searching for my white coat. Another category 1, male-22 years old, motor-vehicle-collision. Cut to corridor view. I disappear around a corner. Words fade in "...to be continued."

Doctors play hardball!

2007-06-05T20:03:00.000-05:00

Health coverage and access

Medicare cuts will reduce patient access to physicians. In a news analysis, the UPI (6/5, Pierce) reports that "facing down the perennial threat of Medicare physician payment cuts," the American Medical Association "said Monday slashing what doctors are paid would keep many seniors from accessing care." Dr. Cecil Wilson, board chair of the AMA, told reporters, "The physician foundation that Medicare's promise [to seniors] is built on is at risk." The sustainable growth rate formula, which "determines how much Medicare pays doctors for services," calls for a 10 percent cut in 2008. Notably, "for the past five years, Congress has stepped in to overrule the formula, but so far this year, no such bill has been introduced." However, if "that rate reduction goes through, about one in three doctors will decrease the number of Medicare patients they accept, and more than one in four doctors will stop accepting Medicare patients altogether," according to a survey of almost 9,000 physicians conducted by the AMA. Also, "about 8 percent of those surveyed even said they would stop treating seniors on Medicare who are already their patients." HealthDay (6/5) notes the AMA poll in its health highlights section.
AMNews (6/11, Glendinning) adds, "organized medicine wants a permanent end to the current Medicare payment formula for physicians, but it is willing to give Congress some time to move to an alternative system." Nearly 80 organizations, including the AMA, "signed a May 17 letter to every lawmaker outlining recommendations for overhauling the Medicare reimbursement system. The first recommendation calls for a full, immediate repeal of the payment formula that has doctors lined up for a decade of annual cuts." However, the "signatories acknowledge that immediate abolishment of the sustainable growth rate formula might not be possible. If lawmakers cannot enact permanent reform right away, they should establish 2016 as the 'date certain' to complete the transition to a new system that would update physician pay based on increases in the cost of providing care, the organizations write."

-Morning Rounds. AMA members communication. June 5th 2007
-------------------------------
This further confirms what I've always known: that economics run American medicine. People, get real.

"Jesse"

2007-06-02T23:39:00.000-05:00

I can't get this song out of my head. The first time, I did a double take. He said--boy. He said love. No sly innuendos. No furtive euphemisms. Just a boy talking about a boy he loves, one who doesn't love him back. Wow.

In many ways this is the oldest refrain, a hackneyed theme for a song. But say it with enough sincerity in a compelling context, and it becomes a powerfully beautiful song. What's even more amazing is the fact that this piece is by Ivri Lider , one of Israel's most popular contemporary recording artist. I find it incredible that an openly gay musician can sing these sultry words in a part of the world where gays are still stoned and killed for being themselves. The fact that Ivri can be successful in Israel is a testament to his talent, but also, I think, to the remarkable diversity that is secular Jewish culture. We can criticize Israel for many things, but people like Ivri Lider have given me new-found respect for the society that makes all this possible. I am obliged to support his music, not only because it's important to have voices like his heard far and wide, but also out of sheer admiration for a truly talented musician. You can find out more about Ivri at http://www.ivrilider.com/. I know some of you would love to hear what he has to say, and more importantly, how he's saying it.

Bisexuality, NSFW

2007-05-03T23:49:00.000-05:00

I wish I knew spanish! Can't believe that this is a real music video that could be aired on TV. wow.

my new musical obscession

2007-04-10T20:10:00.000-05:00

She's really, really good, Terra Naomi. I'm sure if you frequent youtube you know her already. Whatever, I'm always late to the party. She's a great blend of Alanis Morissette, and a hint of Jewel. Alanis Morissette is an alto, and the style reinterpreted here in this soprano range is just truly beautiful. Terra's tone is clearer than that of Alanis, approach the thinner, more lyrical voice of Jewel. At least in this song, her voice is largely situated between these two singers in terms of tonal quality. And she knows how to use those high notes to great effect. About her musical style, the stream of consciousness lyrics may be overdone, but it has its poetic moments. Overall though, Terra is pretty freaking awesome.

hypochondriasis...maybe

2007-04-10T16:18:00.000-05:00

I wonder if Mikey has Diabetes Insipidus....after reading the endocrine section. Hmm, he does seem to drink (H20!) and pee a lot...

confessions of a med student: step 1 sucks

2007-04-08T21:49:00.000-05:00

I tell myself this everyday as I skim the website studentdoctor.net : 'Breathe. You need to breathe. If you die before the exam, it's no good.' Right.

Despite appearances, I've officially entered freak-out zone these past few weeks as June 22nd approaches. Just the other day I felt the instinctive urge to visit CVS for more highlighters. But I already have 15. In my backpack. I still went to CVS...but for instant coffee instead.
Every time I go to out to dinner with friends I get a nauseous feeling that I'm being really really naughty for not spending the time studying. It's a nagging, sinking feeling of guilt that lingers all night until I give in and sneak a couple peeks at biochem or something equally nerdy, like pharm. But the most disturbing thing I've done to date has to be this: I've begun listening to Goljan lectures while I sleep (Diffusion don't fail me now!) I haven't been doing it for very long, but I have begun to notice his voice echoing in my head at random times, the way songs get stuck in your head and you can't seem to get them out. Occasionally, a coherent tidbit like the steps of the clotting cascade would bubble to consciousness with Goljan's voice. Sadly, such pearls of wisdom are at the moment, irretrievable on command. I don't know if the night listening thing is working, but it sure makes for some really trippy moments.

It's raining men.

2007-04-03T14:55:00.000-05:00

Watching '300' was hilarious. Not the least for the ridiculous dialogue, but for the ridiculously plastic looking Ken-dolls that populated the screen. Not that I'm complaining. This youtube clip sums up my sentiments exactly.

The full story

2007-03-26T20:51:00.000-05:00

She lay there, dying. Around her a scatter of red lottery tickets planted themselves like newly bloomed poppies. Lottery tickets continued to fall from the sky, having been tossed so high into the air they fluttered aimlessly, a silence descending softly onto the bloody pavement. It was an accident. I didn't see her when she fell.

I had been sitting at Givral away from direct sunlight to avoid a tan. Hours ago, the temp soared over 100 degrees Fahrenheit with 90 percent humidity, the kind of weather that made cotton shirts clung in perpetual films of sweat. Still, while the air around me tasted of damp earth as if anticipating a summer storm, there was no cloud in sight. My waiter--gaunt, wafer-like, and slightly comical in his over-sized black pants with an ill-fitting tuxedo top--bowed when he approached my table. His face--a shade of burnt umber framing a sharp, protruding nose beneath a pair of blood-shot eyes--mustered a slight smile, crooked and shy as he delivered my coffee, allowing light from the edges of my silver spoon to enter the deep valleys receding from the corners of his mouth. He asked me, gingerly, in heavily accented but still understandable English, about my stay in Saigon. I told him two weeks.

My Vietnamese had surprised my waiter. He thought I was Korean. In the new Saigon, he was right to be cautious; foreigners were a fact of life. I had told him two weeks, and maybe an extra couple of days, depending on whether I was to head north, to Hanoi, to view the property. He nodded knowingly. "Another land deal," he repeated in Vietnamese, as if assuring himself he had assumed correctly, "Another land deal. Are you coming back to live? If so, welcome!"
"No…too many uncertainties," I mumbled a non-answer, my hesitancy betraying an obvious unease. He had understood. A quick, slight bow, and he was gone.

It was hours before, when the white heat outside intensified as she lay dying, that I sought shelter from the light at Givral. This old restaurant, I was told, had survived three governments, unmarred by the upheavals and bloodshed, protected inside its own bubble of colonial glass and copper for nearly a century. My grandfather took me here when I was five, for ice-cream and air-conditioning, rare and expensive treats back then. Two commanding Corinthian columns still framed the entrance to this grand bistro, columns whose creamy marble, imported from Italy, gleamed in the midday sun, assured of its own decadence. Now, instead of looking out onto run-down shops, Givral faced the five star Park Hyatt across the street. With its exquisite facade of white walls, the hotel glorified Indochina in ways that for a time, had to be publicly forgotten in this socialist republic. But no more. In this freshly air-conditioned Saigon, everything old was new again.

He was what brought me back here, back to this city of a thousand newness. I palmed the envelope delivered to me this morning by his caretaker, feeling the thick stationery with its reflected whiteness burning in the glare. In between sips of coffee dark and deep, I closed my eyes. I allowed the hot, humid world beyond my senses to disappear behind glass windows. "Yesterday" began playing on the overhead speaker. An eternity passed. I opened my eyes to the envelope, still there, on the table, waiting. I reached for it. Amidst the muted din of cityscape rushing past me, I opened the envelope to read--old news. The house was mine for the taking, but I could sell it. Some company wanted the villa turned into a boutique hotel, another Indochina revival, but this time in brighter pastels. They said the house had great bones, what with the location, and the history, and the promise of more tourist dollars pouring into this place. Bones. Was that all that was left?

Dead noon. It was two hours before the accident, before the fall. The light was becoming unbearable. Shades were drawn.

"Sir, sir." My waiter interrupted me in a delicate, but insistent manner to be expected of a well-trained attendant. "Is everything you like? Would you want another cafe?" He uttered in English.

"Uh no, thank you. A bottle of water, if you please. And the New York Times." I mumbled, trying my best to not sound imposing.

"Certainly." He said, bowing.

I put the letter back into its crisp white envelope. Squinting through the thin bamboo slats of the drawn shade, I was surprised to see streets once choked with motorbikes suddenly empty in this terrible heat. It was as if a camera flash had gone off, freezing this moment, and the blinding light had vaporized all the bustle and noise and people to leave nothing but the glaring mansions of new wealth, the stately paved roads lined with white and green taxi cabs, the bleached white park benches, and leaves--curling high on trees draining parched earth.

"It's too hot today." The waiter spoke from behind me, breaking my reverie. "We have air-conditioning! Very lucky."

One past noon. It was one hour closer to the accident. I thanked my waiter for the paper and water ,and scanned the room. There were more people in the restaurant, tourists with saggy breasts saddled with children emerging from an unpleasant steam bath. Sweaty, overheated, they entered wearing white T-shirts soaked to translucency, with large oval swaths of perspiration around their armpits and necks, their skin baked to a blistery red. At the patisserie counter their children were pointing, tugging at their parents' shorts as they picked out sticky, glazed pain-au-chocolat while clamoring loudly for ice-cream with flavors like strawberry and chocolate, avoiding the more exotic, foreign offerings of mango and kumquat. The slight-figured boy with short-cropped hair and a broad smile behind the counter delighted in the new business. Stooping down to their height, he asked the children, "This one? You want this one? Or that one?” He couldn't resist noticing the blond children’s inquisitive eyes, pretty like colored glass, intensely sparkling in shades of blue and gray, so different from his own. They delighted him so much, these beautiful children, that he neglected to mind their pudgy, sweaty fingers smudging the pristine glass panels he had so meticulously cleaned moments earlier in anticipation of the afternoon rush.

Two past noon. The accident would soon be upon us. Despite the late afternoon hour, the scorch of midday was still in full swing. The children, meanwhile, were quieted finally with tubs of ice-cream and French fries. Overhead, 'Yesterday'. Still 'Yesterday'. I lifted the shade near my table; the light, although harsh, had been peaceful, and I was beginning to miss it. A couple more tourists with children entered, this time waiting by the front door for seating because the restaurant was full. My waiter visited my table for a fourth time. Smiling.

I got the hint. "Can I have the check please?"

"Yes sir," he responded, and quickly departed.

My eyes were drawn to a new couple who had just entered. They were fair-skinned, with rosy cheeks and brilliant mops of golden hair draped on top angular features betraying strong bones and good teeth. A young couple who spoke an inscrutable language--Swedish, maybe--they were unremarkable except for their gargantuan height. They had a son, a sprightly boy of six or seven. He, who refused to stand still while his parents waited patiently, darted between the front windows of Givral framed by Corinthian columns to make faces at passers by.

There she was, a girl, not much older than him. He made her laugh. I'd seen her wandering the streets across from Givral, furtively darting from corner to corner selling lottery slips for about 2 cents a piece while avoiding the police. She, no doubt, had risked being harassed by the police in order to rest in the shadow of the giant red awnings that shielded the stately windows of Givral from the harsh summer sun. It was nice and cool underneath the shade, with window boxes still in bloom despite the heat.

She reminded me of so many others, children who wandered aimlessly on these streets selling cigarettes or plastic trinkets or lottery tickets in threadbare pajamas and plastic sandals. Gaunt, shrunken, and blackened by the sun, they sell by begging for pity, appealing to anyone who would make eye contact. But their kind was not welcomed here. The new market economy needs no guilt for business.

A frail woman approached the girl from behind and scolded her. The woman, a street vendor cloaked in black pajamas and floppy sandals, carrying a basket of oranges, took the girl's right hand. She led the two of them away from the restaurant, toward the intersection separating the Grand Hyatt and Givral. The girl, looking gawkish in worn pink pajamas two sizes too small, with bright darting eyes and a toothy smile, waved goodbye to the teasing Swedish boy behind the glass, slightly frowning as she departed. The boy paused and, facing the loss of his sole adoring audience, turned to his father. They uttered something inscrutable, after which the father reached for his wallet, withdrawing some cash. Excited, the boy grinned and waved wildly, gesturing the girl to come back.

"Your check, sir." The waiter said, smiling. I proceeded to sign.

It was two past noon. I didn't see her when she fell.

"Oh my God!" exclaimed the Australian woman to my right. Parents shushed their children. Startled, I turned. It was as if a flash had gone off, freezing this moment, and the blinding light had vaporized all the bustle and noise and people to leave nothing but the glaring mansions of new wealth, the bleached white park benches, and a little girl lying in the middle of the newly paved boulevard, her limbs haphazardly arranged, her head cocked to one side as if sleeping. Around her a scatter of red lottery tickets planted themselves like newly bloomed poppies. Lottery tickets continued to fall from the sky, having been tossed so high into the air they now fluttered aimlessly, a silence descending softly onto the bloody pavement.

My waiter rushed out the front door. "Someone should dial the police!" the Australian woman yelled. The crowd of tourists drew themselves to my window for a better view. Outside, traffic snarled as an enlarging circle of people gathered around the girl and the frail old woman prostrated on the ground, whose wails and shrieks can be heard echoing through the glass windows. I could see my waiter, his tuxedo frame nimbly filtering through the crowd, leading policemen toward the scene. He soon came back.

"What happened?" Inquired the Australian woman. "Did they catch the guy? He didn't stop! The motorcycle kept going! How awful! And where's the ambulance? Is there an ambulance coming?"
"I don't know, madam." Stammered the waiter as he reached for his bag, grabbing his wallet." They...we...no did not catch. She will go to the hospital. Everything...ok. Please...try to continue your lunch."
"How are you getting her there?" I yelled to the waiter in Vietnamese and surprised him.
"In taxi. I will take her to hospital, in taxi, sir!" He replied quickly in English.
"Do you need any help?" I continued. "I can go with...Do you need money? Here, I have..." I muttered, scrambled, looking for my wallet. The Swedish boy's parents, still aghast at what happened, reached for their wallets and thrust up wads of cash.
Other tourists followed.

"Would they take traveler's checks?" The Australian woman yelped, waving a fist full of notes. My waiter turned to me. He gently pushed his hand against mine, thrusting money back towards my chest. "We don't need money, sir. But thank you." He told me calmly in Vietnamese, His eyes flickering with an exasperated gratefulness. He then turned to everyone else, "Thank you all. You are too generous." With a dash, he was gone. He didn't take anyone's money.

It soon began to rain, a miracle breaking the sweltering heat. I watched from Givral's windows to see the crowd outside dissolved as quickly as it had formed. Traffic thinned in the dissipating heat. Above, the sky turned an orange hue that deepened toward the horizon, and the wispy trails of clouds from earlier soon gave way to large, nebulous gatherings, gravid and gray with impending rain. With certainty the clouds broke, hurling sheets of water toward this parched city. Downtown Saigon was strangely empty again, its gleaming benches deserted, its rivers of tar devoid of motorbikes and taxicabs, cleansed of blood and lottery tickets. Except for the occasional thunderclap and the pleasant drizzle of rain splattering across my window to the tune of the Beatles' greatest hits, there was no sound inside. We had all been hushed by the storm, hushed by the uncertainties that marked our day, silenced by the inexplicable fortunes of our lives in light of the cruel fates of others. The numbness we felt was as intangible as smoke. And so we sat, in silence, as the Beatles strummed on.

The light, meanwhile, had dimmed considerably. Apart from spectacular bursts of lightning that flared intermittently, all was gray. As the rain continued to pour, water overflowing from the gutters began to wash refuse onto the pavement, bringing forth discarded newspapers and plastic water bottles and empty Coca-Cola cans once hidden from view. The intersection in front of Givral slowly filled with bits of paper and plastic bags and orange rinds that floated like little rafts across dark, uncertain waters. The water soon spilled onto the footsteps of the Park Hyatt, lapping up at the whitewashed masonry. There, it delivered bits of trash in cracks and crevices unseen in the blinding brightness hours before. But in this gray light, the crevices stood out like the deep wrinkles of a newly laundered shirt. In a slow, but deliberate manner, sewer water worked its way into the paint, depositing films of mud onto whitewashed walls, staining the satin-finish already peeling in the rain.

The Deed: part 2

2007-03-21T17:42:00.001-05:00

The follow up and conclusion to the story I posted in July. The deed part one can be read here.
comments welcome.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't really have to open the letter; I'd already known what Grandfather was leaving me. The house was mine for the taking, to do with as I pleased. A company had offered to buy it for a sum that could pay off all my loans. They wanted to make it into a boutique hotel, another neoclassical imitation of the Indochina past, this time with brighter pastels. They said the house had great bones, and the location in Hanoi was ideal for tourists. Bones. That was all that was left.

It was now dead noon. The light soon became unbearable. Shades were drawn.
"Sir, sir." My waiter interrupted me with his delicate, but insistent, English. "Is everything you like? Would you want another cafe?"

"Uh no, thank you. Although I would like a bottle of water, if you please. And the New York Times." I muttered, trying my best to not sound imposing.

"Certainly." He bowed.

I put the letter back into its crisp white envelope. Squinting through the bamboo slats of the drawn shade, I was surprised to see streets only moments ago choked with cars and motorbikes, now suddenly abandoned. It was as if a camera flash had gone off, freezing this moment, and the blinding light had vaporized all the bustle and noise and people to leave nothing but the gleaming mansions of new wealth, the stately paved roads lined with taxi cabs, the bleached white park benches, and leaves--curling high on trees draining parched earth.

"It's too hot today." The waiter spoke from behind me, breaking my reverie. "We have air-conditioning! Very lucky."

I thanked him for the paper and water, and scanned the room. There were more people in the restaurant now, tourists in baggy shorts and multicolored sandals who looked as though they've just emerged from a steam bath. Sweaty, overheated, they came in wearing white T-shirts soaked to translucency, with large oval swaths of perspiration around their armpits and necks, their skin a blistery red. At the patisserie counter their children were pointing, tugging at their parents' shorts as they picked out sticky, glazed pain-au-chocolat while clamoring loudly for ice-cream of various colors. The slight figured girl with short-cropped hair and a broad smile behind the counter was clearly overwhelmed. "This one? You want this one? Or that one?" She asked the blond children with their inquisitive green and blue eyes, pretty like the glass eyes on expensive import dolls, children with pudgy, sweaty fingers smudging the pristine glass panels with their incessant pointing. She exchanged knowing glances with their haggard parents, and found instant camaderie in their mutual exhaustion. It was okay, her eyes seemed to say. There was air conditioning now. Welcome.

The children were soon quieted with treats of ice-cream and french fries. The Beatles made a come back on the overhead speakers. 'Yesterday'. Still 'Yesterday'. I lifted the shade near my table; the light, although harsh, had been peaceful, and I was beginning to miss it. Already one hour past noon, the scorch of midday was still in full swing. A couple more tourists with children entered, this time waiting by the front door for seating because the restaurant was full. My waiter hesitated, then visited my table for a fourth time. Smiling.

I got the hint."Can I have the check please?"
"Yes sir," he responded.

My eyes were drawn to the new couple who had just entered. They were fair-skinned, with rosy cheeks and brilliant mops of golden hair draped on top of angular features betraying strong bones and good teeth. A young couple who spoke an inscrutable language--Swedish, maybe--they were unremarkable except for their gargantuan height. They had a son, a sprightly boy of six or seven who refused to stand still while his parents waited patiently, instead darting between the front windows of Givral framed by Corinthian columns, making faces at passers by.

His antics attracted the attention of a girl, not much older than him, who was selling lottery tickets outside. He made her laugh. I'd seen her wandering the streets hours before, across from Givral, furtively darting from corner to corner selling lottery slips for about 2 US cents a piece while avoiding the police who patrolled the area for unlicensed vendors and beggars. She, no doubt, had risked being harrassed by the police in order to rest in the shaddow of the giant red awnings that shielded the stately windows of Givral from the harsh summer sun. It was nice and cool underneath the shade, with window boxes still in bloom despite the heat.

She reminded me of numerous others, children who wandered the streets selling cigarettes or plastic trinkets or lottery tickets in threadbare pajamas and plastic sandals. They all had the same face: gaunt, shrunken, and blackened by the sun. They sell by begging for pity, appealing to anyone who made eye contact. They were often chased from gentrified areas like Givral so tourists wouldn't feel uncomfortable, and could instead focus on more important things, like which silk pillow to purchase. Gone too were the beggars who crawled on amputated legs and arms, the illegal rural migrants from Sa Dec who sold fake Gucci plastic sandals, the mothers with infants on their backs who offered Pho noodles for 50 US cents a bowl out of pots they carried on shoulder slings, the girls who peddled sugarcane chunks and tart cherries snacks for 10 cents a bag. They were all purposefully erased from images of this newly minted Saigon. High class, Western commerce, after all, needed a clean slate for business.

A frail woman approached the girl from behind and scolded her. The woman, a street vendor cloaked in black pajamas and floppy sandals, herself carrying a basket of fruits, took the girl's right hand. She led the two of them away from Givral, toward the intersection. The girl, looking gawkish in worn pink pajamas two sizes too small, with bright darting eyes and a toothy smile, waved goodbye to the teasing Swedish boy behind the glass, slightly frowning as she departed. The boy paused and, facing the loss of his sole adoring audience, turned to his father. They uttered something inscrutable, after which the father reached for his wallet, withdrawing some cash. Excited, the boy grinned and waved wildly, gesturing the girl to come back.

"Your check, sir." The waiter said, smiling, still as efficient as ever. I proceeded to sign.

"Oh my god!" exclaimed the Australian woman to my right. Parents shushed their children. I turn toward the direction of their gaze out the window. It was as if a flash had gone off, freezing this moment, and the blinding light had vaporized all the bustle and noise and people to leave nothing but the gleaming mansions of new wealth, the bleached white park benches, and the little girl lying in the middle of the newly paved boulevard, her limbs haphazardly arranged, her head cocked to one side as if sleeping. Around her a scatter of red lottery tickets planted themselves like newly bloomed poppies. Lottery tickets continued to fall from the sky, having been tossed so high into the air they now fluttered aimlessly, a silence descending softly onto the bloody pavement.

My waiter rushed out the front door. "Someone should dial the police!" the Australian woman yelled. The crowd of tourists drew themselves to my window for a better view. Outside, traffic snarled as an enlarging circle of people gathered around the girl and the frail old woman prostrated on the ground, whose wails and shrieks can be heard echoing through the glass windows of Givral. I could see my waiter, his tuxedo frame nimbly filtering through the crowd, leading policemen toward the scene. He soon came back.

"What happened?" Inquired the Australian woman. "Did they catch the guy? He didn't stop! The motorcycle kept going! How awful! And where's the ambulance? Is there an ambulance coming?"

"I don't know, madam." Stammered the waiter as he reached for his bag, grabbing his wallet."They...we...no did not catch. She will go to the hospital. Everything...ok. Please...try to continue your lunch."

"How are you getting her there?" I yelled to the waiter in Vietnamese and startled him.

"In taxi. I will take her to hospital, in taxi, sir!" He replied quickly in English.

"Do you need any help?" I continued."I can go with...Do you need money? Here, I have..." I muttered, scrambled, looking for my wallet. The Swedish boy's parents, still aghast at what hasd happened, reached for their wallets and thrust up wads of cash. Other tourists followed.

"Would they take traveler's checks?" The Australian woman yelped, waving a fist full of notes.

The waiter turned to me. He gently pushed his hand against mine, thrusting money back towards my chest. "We don't need money, sir. But thank you." He told me calmly in Vietnamese. His eyes flickered with an exasperated gratefulness as if he had carried this conversation before. He then turned to everyone else, "Thank you all. You are too generous," yelled the waiter. With a dash, he was gone. He didn't take anyone's money.

It soon began to rain, a miracle breaking the sweltering heat. I watched from Givral's window to see that the crowd outside had dissolved as quickly as it had formed. Traffic thinned in the dissipating heat. Above, the sky turned an orange hue that deepened toward the horizon, and the wispy trails of clouds from earlier soon gave way to large, nebulous gatherings, gravid and gray with impending rain. With certainty the clouds bore fruit, hurling sheets of water toward this parched city. Downtown Saigon was strangely empty again, its gleaming benches deserted, its rivers of tar emptied of motorbikes and taxicabs, cleansed of blood and lottery tickets. Except for the occasional thunderclap and the pleasant drizzle of rain splattering across my window to the tune of the Beatles's greatest hits, there was no sound inside the restaurant. We had all been hushed by the rain, hushed by the uncertainties that marked our day, silenced by the inexplicable fortunes of our lives in light of the cruel fates of others. The numbness we felt was as pervasive as smoke, as though we blame ourselves for the wrongs of the world but were unable to articulate our guilt. And so we sat, in silence, as the Beatles strummed on.

The light had dimmed considerably. Apart from the spectacular bursts of lightning that flared intermittently, all was gray. As the rain continued to pour, water overflowing from the gutters began to wash refuse onto the pavement, bringing forth discarded newspapers and plastic water bottles and empty Coca-Cola cans once hidden from view. The roads slowly filled with bits of paper and plastic bags and orange rinds that floated like tiny rafts across dark waters as muddy as the Saigon river, a stream once swimming with bodies from a war long ago, whose sorrows today lay buried beneath its turbulent flow. The water soon spilled onto the footsteps of the Park Hyatt, lapping up at the white-wash masonry. There it deposited bits of trash in cracks and crevices unseen in the blinding brightness before, crevices that now, in this illuminating grayness, made the white walls appear grimy, dingy, and no longer glamorous.

Biology, how I love thee

2007-03-14T17:55:00.000-05:00

Normally I don't double post similar content on different sites, but this is just too good and too perfect to not be on my blog. Yes, this is news that we can all put to good use. Like I've said before, I feel vindicated.

I will temper my adoring praise of this recent study by asking if the study's participant were randomly selected, and if there is enough representation of different orientations just so we're not skewed either way. For that matter, I'd love to hear someone repeat this study parcing out any differences between orientation and pattern of visual scanning. What the hell am I talking about?
Read this: Men stare at crotches

"The Online Journalism Review reports on Jakob Nielsen's use of an eye-tracker to look at how different people read the Web -- particularly news. There are lots of interesting findings, but the best is the revelation that men fixate on any visible genital areas in photos -- even animals' crotches come in for a good eyeballing.

Although both men and women look at the image of George Brett when directed to find out information about his sport and position, men tend to focus on private anatomy as well as the face. For the women, the face is the only place they viewed. This image of George Brett was part of a larger page with his biographical information. All users tested looked the image, but there was a distinct difference in focus between men and women.

Coyne adds that this difference doesn’t just occur with images of people. Men tend to fixate more on areas of private anatomy on animals as well, as evidenced when users were directed to browse the American Kennel Club site."

Meh. Old news.

2007-03-14T00:44:00.000-05:00

Ok, I'm too busy to blog right now, but apparently I have enough time to procrastinate (see the past 5 posts). This one just affirms that O.M.G. I'm, like, totally gay.

You Are Most Like Charlotte!

You are the ultimate romantic idealist
You've been hurt before, but that hasn't caused you to give up on love.
If anything, your resolve to fall in love is stronger than ever.
And it's this feminine optimism that men find most appealing about you.

Romantic prediction: That guy you are seeing (or crushing on)?

Could be very serious - if you play your cards right!

Which Sex and the City Vixen Are You?

hah! my card's already played...where's my bridal registry?

Canadians were way ahead of our time-NSFW

2007-03-13T18:40:00.000-05:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YC75m8zmESs

being gay and asian.

2007-03-12T16:40:00.000-05:00

Quite a good Australian documentary. Amazingly accurate.

Forbidden Fruit
Uploaded by nonightfan

latch key.

2007-03-12T15:33:00.000-05:00

In the name of procrastination, and gay short movies. hilarious.

Latch Key Gay - Straight Themed Short
Uploaded by gaysrkool

Dare.

2007-03-11T21:00:00.000-05:00

This is a great short.

Dare
Uploaded by mrwildwildwest

What never was

2007-03-03T02:44:00.000-05:00

Cole Porter said it best:

In the still of the night
as I gaze from my window
at the moon in its flight
my thoughts all stray to you.

There he was. Smiling. I'd recognize those eyes anywhere.

I'm Rob.
Oh, right. Hi Rob. Nice to meet you.

He offered his hand. We've never met before, but I felt I knew him. The resemblance was uncanny: same touch, same hair, and those same, unmistakable eyes, glinting at me. I had seen a ghost.

In the still of the night
while the world is in slumber,
oh, the times without number,
darling, when I say to you

It was Saturday. Too cold to be fashionable, but I insisted that Mike and I at least drop by. An innocent dance at the college, made more sketchy by the presence of grad students insinuating ourselves into the tangles of freshmen on the dimly lit floor, was taking place. I'd invited Ben, himself a grad student. He brought Rob.

Rob, how do you know Ben?
I'm year 2.
Oh.
Yeah. And you?
Oh. I'm with Mike. That's how I know Ben.
Don't we feel old here.
Yeah. (he laughs). Ah well.

We didn't talk very much, but we didn't need to. Somethings, you just know. Familiar associations were everywhere--Texas, Duke, Harvard--it was all too familiar; the old rush to the head, the dizzying, stupifying intoxication of a former obsession became real again.

I clung to Mike. Steve found Ben, and soon there were five, two couples and a loner who had no choice but to make the best of the situation. He smiled. A lot. He knew I watched him dance, and liked the attention. Did some floor moves--quite the acrobat. Ryan would never move like this. But still, I could hear that Southern swagger, the same bravado, the soft spoken gaze that to me said more than he ever did out loud. Suddenly, it all came flooding back, the old refrains.

"Do you love me as I love you?
Are you my life-to-be, my dream come true?"
Or will this dream of mine
fade out of sight
like the moon growing dim
on the rim of the hill
in the chill still of the night?

Mike snuck behind me. I felt his strong arms around my waist, his breath on my neck--warm, familiar, lovely. I turned my gaze to find him smiling; I smiled back. With a sigh, I buried myself in his chest, surrendering. His scent enveloped me in a calming balm.

Is something wrong?
No. no. Everything is fine now.
Everything is fine now.

Escapism

2007-02-08T21:25:00.000-05:00

Just picked up Hemingway, again. Not that I have time, but who can deny this mental vacation:
""The house was built on the highest part of the narrow tongue of land between the harbor and the open sea. It had lasted through three hurricanes and it was built solid as a ship. It was shaded by tall coconut palms that were bent by the trade wind and on the ocean side you could walk out of the door and down the bluff across the white sand and into the Gulf Stream."
- "Islands in the Stream," Ernest Hemingway

photoeye

Because it's...

2007-02-02T21:19:00.000-05:00

February. Hallmark season. And I'm a sucker for Cole Porter. A new playlist; something old, something new, something lovely for you.

Stunning!

2007-02-01T21:26:00.000-05:00

The above is a rendering of the cultural arts center as part of the new cultural district to be built in the UAE's city of Abu Dhabi. It is so awesomely cool it can never be built in the US. Ever. Because we like our buildings clunky and chunky, like our expanding waistline.

Frank Gehry is contributing, and so are several other internationally famous architects. The building above will house a concert hall, some exhibition space, and probably a gift shop or two.
Abu Dhabi is trying to build its tourism industry. I guess if you put bucket loads of money together with the williness to embrace modern design, you get fabulous in return.

[sigh] If I weren't in fear for my life because, well, the whole gay issue, I'd so go there to visit.

A missed diagnosis?

2007-01-28T18:09:00.000-05:00

"Come, I want to show you something."

These are the words that I dread, especially since coming from my attending, they usually mean some kind of test. So far, doing rounds in the hospital has been fun because the challenges have been reasonable. Take a history. Conduct a physical. Present findings to the attending. Check, check, and check. I'm beginning to sound like I know what I'm talking about. "CBC creat and BUN are high, but not stable so I'd hesitate to calc a GFR. Crit's high, and she's hypenatremic; I think she' dehydrated. We should watch her drip, and monitor that IV antibiotic dose... "

This case, however, was something else.

"Come on, I want to show you something."
"Okay. Should I grab the chart?"
"No, just come. She' my patient. I want you to do an H&P on her. Right now."
"Right now...in front of you? And everybody else?"
"Yes. You up for it?"
"[me thinking: OMF...shit.] sure!"

Half an hour later, I had no idea what was wrong with her. Imagine my relief when the attending himself admitted he didn't know what was wrong with his patient. Still, it was a peculiar case: young mother comes in with diffuse, non-radiating abdominal pain for past 72 hours. Has not had a bowel movement due to her pain. Urination and urinalysis was normal. Abdominal CT scans were unremarkable. Blood count was normal. Electrolytes were normal. No burst appendix. No signs of appendicitis. Everything was so normal, in fact, that there was nothing we could do but give her a morphine drip for her ever present, ruminating, tear inducing pain.

She was a young, pleasant woman, just delivered twins via C-section four weeks ago. She said everything was fine until 2 nights ago when she woke up with 'extreme abdominal pain'. Apart from the stress of dealing with twins and a five year old daughter, she seemed a happy new mama. My attending was flummoxed. The radiologists who looked at her CT scans were flummoxed. Surgeons were coming in droves to examine her, checking out the C section although her scar was healing nicely. By the time my shift ended, we still didn't know what was wrong with her. The attending promised me he would let me know what happened. And I went home.

It wasn't until I was well on my way that a question I'd brushed aside earlier bubbled up to consciousness: "What was that bruise on her belly?". It was the size of a fist, no evidence of skin break indicating that it mostly likely was a blunt trauma of some kind. But I didn't ask her about it. I don't think my attending asked either. We had noted it on the physical, but both of us ignored the finding and continued to look elsewhere for clues: in her lab results, in her CT, in her history...everywhere but the place that now seemed ripe with clues. Come to think of it, the bruise looked to be about several days old--its edges have begun to heal, but the center was still a deep purple. How could it be that numerous other doctors before me had examined her and not a single one remarked on her charts the patient's explanation for her abdominal bruise? Did all of us forget to ask?

A recent article in the Boston globe criticized doctors for a phenomenon call 'attribution'. It was basically an attack on the way doctors think, the way we are taught to think along the lines of stereotypes, salient classic associations that help us make standard diagnoses but too easily make us miss other important clues. Sure, the bruise could have been nothing. But I doubt anyone of the doctors know for sure. I don't know what happened in this case, but I suspect that had she been black, young and poor as opposed to white, suburban, and well to do, many more doctors would have paid more attention to the orange-size bruise on her belly and asked more questions about the stresses that can wreak havoc on a young family regardless of race or socioeconomic. They would ask if only to rule out a diagnosis of domestic abuse. In retrospect, it could have been the most important question of all.

A question of Faith.

2007-01-22T12:47:00.000-05:00

I wrote this letter to Andrew Sullivan recently, regarding a post that was a reader's response to an ongoing dialogue between Andrew Sullivan and Sam Harris, book author, intellectual, atheist. I doubt Andrew sullivan would answer my email, but in any case, my questions were genuine, and so I post them here. You can go here to read the AS post that inspired my response.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Andrew,

I am an avid reader of your blog. I am also a person of no particular faith tradition, having been raised Buddhist but without parental compulsion to practice it. I, however, have a Catholic boyfriend, and while I do not understand his devotion, I deeply respect it. It is with this general outsider perspective that I feel compelled to respond to several points in the reader's email regarding Sam Harris that you have posted.

Your reader is right. Religious books are not just books. Rather, they seek to offer guidance on how to conduct a virtuous life. They are moral texts. However, this says essentially nothing about their origins. Humans have been writing moral texts about the nature, the mystery, if you will, of life since the beginning of recorded history. Many gods and goddesses have come and go, and we today largely relegate these figures to the realm of myths. What primarily differentiate religious texts from nonreligious ones is a reflexive reliance on the supernatural to lend credence and power to particular moral systems. The question thus remains: why rely on the divine? Is it because the Judeo-Christian's 'God is Truth' as you say, or is it because invoking the divine can do so much: help enforce moral points, assuage human fears of the unknown, provide a sense of collective identity...etc?

One should not doubt the power of these books to change lives, to structure moral behaviors, to beget civilizations. But these are all end products of religion that, again, do not answer Harris' central assertion: Why couldn't it all be bogus? Clever human solutions for human concerns? As your reader claimed, most of us need religion to show us 'proper conduct' based on 'very old traditions'. But if anything, this need lends Harris' suggestion of an earthly origin for all religions even more weight. Just because something is old doesn't make it right or supernatural. If most other 'ways of knowing', to use a Harvard coinage for general education, are undoubtedly products of human curiosity and our desire to understand, why not also religion?

Moreover, to dismiss the charge that writers of religious texts are 'regular guys', as the reader tried to do, is avoiding the issue. While I agree that they are not merely regular guys in the sense that anybody can fill their shoes, the possibility exists for their inspirations to be earthly, not godly. First, the human population bell curve certainly allows for outliers with extraordinary intellects like Newton and Einstein, and religious writers of old are probably of a similar lot. By most accounts, Einstein was not divinely inspired; why couldn't this also be true for religious writers? Second, assuming that religious writers felt ecstatic exhilarations they interpreted as divine inspirations, there is little external proof to let us know that such ecstasy is, indeed, 'of the Spirit'. Essentially, those of us who are not religious must take these writers, and by extension all religious persons, at their word. The question remains to be why, and in today's global climate of competing religious systems all claiming to know Truth while threatening to tear the world apart with ideological differences, can we afford to?

Going back to the practical benefits of religion, I fully empathize with the reader for commenting that nonreligious moral philosophies do not seem to help us navigate everyday life. Ignoring the problem of jargon and non-intuitive, highly abstract arguments commonplace within contemporary philosophical discourse for just a moment, these philosophical models are fundamentally scary for most of us in their general supposition and acceptance that we are free moral agents (to a great extent) without anybody above. By suggesting that human existence stands always at the brink of oblivion--with no afterlife, no external judgments or punishments for virtue or vice at the end of time--the question of why we should lead an ethical life, whatever that means, becomes very troubling. However, it can be simultaneously exhilarating, liberating even. An answer that includes a self-imposed responsibility for decency, kindness, and virtue, irrespective of cosmic rewards, is, at the end of the day, the formation of a personal moral compass and the beginning of an ethical life. While religion may claim this compass to be a gift of 'God', a hypothesis of human origins for such a phenomenon represents, for some, the true ecstasy of existence.

With great respect,
PLN

kewl. the future

2007-01-21T15:24:00.000-05:00

bloody

2007-01-19T22:05:00.000-05:00

I just devoured a blood orange, and my fingers now smell of citrus. My room wafes scents of citrus too. The rinds are drying in the wastebasket, curling slowly.

So this is boredom.

it's been 2 years

2007-01-19T00:26:00.000-05:00

I don't know what to do for our anniversary. We have so little time, he and I, busy with school, not to mention the odd timing. But oh, what I wouldn't give for just 3 days to fly to Bermuda. Sand bars of pink coral, crushed over millions of years into a fine powdery blush. Salty breezes. Emerald waters. We'd rent scooters and zoom up and down Hamilton, maybe head out to St. George's Sound, or just lounge around Coral Beach. Brunch at the Royal Yatch Club. Dinner at the Waterloo.

I know he'd like it. If only we had the time.

Massachusett's heartland

2007-01-12T14:43:00.000-05:00

Decisions, decisions. It's about that time of year, the rite of passage: picking medical clerkship schedule. The clerkship is our first real exposure on the wards as clinicians in training, learning trial-by-fire. The school keeps telling us this is the light at the end of the tunnel--only we don't know which end we're about to get. In the midst of cramming for pathophysiology, studying for the USMLE, deciding on clerkship, I am now presented with an additional choice of spending my *entire* third year in Western Massachusetts. The only obvious drawback: it's in Western Massachusetts. Rolling hills of snow. Amber waves of nothingness. Medicine 24/7.

I'm a cityboy, always have been. I like my cafes around the corner, my local grocery pretentious and pricey, and my company queer. This is a big decision. Of course the school knows; that's why it is trying so hard to make the site attractive, promising a dedicated staff to care for the 30 odd medical students all from my school (without the added competition with students from other medical schools that would happen if I were to complete my clerkship in Boston), and brand spanking new facilities with state-of-the-art technology and dedicated teachers. I could pursue 1 uninterrupted year of research on top of my medical clerkship, have a mentor of my choosing, and potentially, get some really nice recommendations out of the experience. To a 'gunner', as we'd like to call those in the medschool class who are always willing to go one step beyond to best the competition, this sounds like a heavenly opportunity. It probably is.

I cannot deny the fact that I can personally benefit from this arrangement. Third year of medical school really boils down to 2 things: getting honors on all clinical rotations and really good recommendations. Since many medical schools stopped recording grades for the first two year of training, residencies can only use three markers to gage candidates: board scores, third year clerkship grades, and letters of recommendations. If I go, I will have a good chance of maximizing my return on 2 of the above criteria, and the one year of research can do nothing but add to my chances of landing a better residency. Somehow, a place at MGH seems more possible, and an eventual life in Boston more certain.

Many of my friends are not considering this option. They say that the 30 that end up at this hospital will be the gunners of the class, thus distilling the competition and raising stress for everyone involved. We are largely stuck with each other the entire year, although everyone will have his own rotation schedule. Relationships will be strained because of the distance. Medicine 24/7 is never healthy. Life sucks out there.

For now, I have not made up my mind. I do like the reduced stress of having everything at one site within 5-10 minutes of where I will live, and having clinicians who will know my name, know my needs, and see me not as another lowly medical student groveling for grades, but one who might actually want to learn something. The site visit next week should give me a better gut feeling for the place. So many of life's major decisions are really based on instinct anyway, why should this be any different? Additionally, I'll see who is actually interested, and if indeed this distillation effect everyone fears is actually happening. Whatever. Bring it on.

Early gaypril

2007-01-07T16:01:00.000-05:00

I've had a traumatic holiday season. In lieu of this, and the fact that I will not have a social life for the next six months due to studying for the boards, the music player will now feature really really gay club music, for a very long time. Rock out with your (for some, metaphorical) c%*k out sort of thing. The older playlists are still around, but they will be featured less frequently. You can select for other playlists under the 'user profile' section of the finetune media player.

The new playlist has Cher. What could be better? Oh and, Oxford street refers to Oxford Street, Sydney, where the party never ends. If you're ever in town, do check it out. The drag shows are a hoot!

So queer

2006-12-21T16:06:00.000-05:00

So I've been home for a couple of days now, sipping eggnog, eating cookies, watching the Home and Garden TV channel on basic cable. I know what you're thinking...but save it for now. For those who aren't in the know, HGTV is what happens when Martha can't stay up 24 hours a day to entertain you with her table setting skills and home baked Christmas ornament extravaganzas; somebody has to take up the slack. Personally, I alternate between HGTV and Animal Planet to watch monkeys go at it...while reviewing for the USMLE. Isn't life rich?

HGTV has been even more interesting since I last watched TV (about 3 months ago). I don't know who they think their target demographic is, but pairing programming about how to coordinate draperies and wall color with techno beats is just deliciously subversive. So much so that I had to tell myself several times while watching a kitchen redo in an idyllic suburban home that behind the sound stage is not the 'Ramrod' on Oxford Street, and indeed, half-naked go go boys are not about to burst onto the screen to show me how to faux finish my rustic chicken-wire fence.

Are they *that* attuned to the fact that only straight women and gay men watch this channel? And if so, are straight women really enticed by rhythmic techno bass beats and the scintillating repetition of synthesizers? Who the hell cares, I know, but it's quite funny to view even HGTV's more 'manly' shows with hyper-buffed carpenters rebuilding a barn through the lens of a leather bar musical experience. Surely, suburban housewives are getting a kick out of this, even if they don't realize it. And the gays, who can forget the gays...

Cascada and decoupage? What could be better!

Pathological Liars

2006-12-16T20:58:00.000-05:00

There are certain kinds of duplicities that I can understand; the closet, for example, is one of them. I've been guilty of this, and while it lasted it was not pretty. Nonetheless, I'm out of it, and am so glad to have done so. Having gone through the process, I empathize with those who come out and feel the need to reinvent themselves, usually in an effort to be more true to who they are on the inside. What I don't understand, though, is the attempt to hide an entire part of one's past in the process of self reinvention. Of course, this is largely futile because the truth always comes out, especially in a closed universe such as college where everyone has overlapping circles of friends.

Aggravating is the fact that the attempt is directed at me. Aside from insulting my intelligence, this person has demonstrated to me that he is immature and idiotic to boot. And to think, I've been nothing but kind and civil in the past. He and I joined the same singing group, but due to circumstances, he didn't have a good time. Regardless, I'd like to think that a mark of maturity is the ability to separate the person from the circumstance and maintain civility. On both counts, he has failed miserably. I suppose I could have seen this coming; I have learned how this man treated other people in the group, acting like a spoiled brat most of the time while lying through his teeth for all of the rest.

The whole world knows this man is gay. I hope he realizes that, and also realizes that no one gives half a rat's ass. Despite this, he tries to hide/deny any association he has had with the singing group or people associated with it in the past, going as far as ignoring facebook-friend requests and casual eye contact on the street. For him to think that he can openly date a good friend of mine now but still carry on ignoring me is rather juvenile. While I can empathize with this man's desire to wipe the plate, hide the skeletons, and paint himself a new gay face, it's stupid to do so by blithely denying any association with people who knew him from before. That's not coming out--that's just fucked up.

Deep down, I fear for my good friend and dread his ability to always find the most duplicitous of drama queens to carry on relationships. This kid, in particular, is just bad news. I don't care how much he wants to reinvent himself; he can dress up shit with nice clothes and mask the stench with perfume, but at the end of the day, it's still shit.

when lecturers try too hard

2006-12-11T20:27:00.000-05:00

A recent jewel of usage in my lecture notes reads:
"In contradistinction to the localized forms of scleroderma....etc"

Um, how about 'in contrast to' . I know, it doesn't quite compare to the quasi-intellectual ring of 'contradistinction', but it's a better companion to the rather plebian text, riddled with ill-conceived modifiers and utterly lacking in niceties such as subject-verb agreements. I've been reading too many horrible examples of writing so far in the medical literature. At first, that was funny; now, it's just irritating.

wallet biopsy

2006-12-10T15:14:00.000-05:00

So err, I'm very embarassed to admit that I've spent, to date, over 1000 dollars for this USMLE step 1 board exam business. 470 dollars to sign up for the exam, and close to 800 dollars worth of review material. I suppose it is rather sad that one would need to buy comprehensive review books when arguably medical school is supposed to teach all this material in a comprehensive way. However, it is a fact of life that school curricula (specifically at this school) are blissfully ignorant of the type of material and presentation that is on the USMLE. To put it another way, as a friend recently confesses, my knowledge base is more like a disparate series of wooden rafts bound together with twist ties, and life thus far at this medical school has been spent jumping from raft to raft, adequate enough to avoid drowning, but not good as a base for anything substantial. To be fair, many classes here are taught remarkably well and are comprehensive. But it's a pity that those courses are in topics that are considered minor on the USMLE, otherwise know as 'low yield'. The truth is, there is simply too much basic scientific material to be presented, and while a broad knowledge base is the aim, the result is often spotty coverage. To be really thorough, this process of basic science education would probably take 4 years, if not more. The content based exam, alas, tries to ensure some kind of uniformity in medical graduates, and that is a commendable goal. That still doesn't make studying for it any easier. Or cheaper.

some technical stuff

2006-12-07T21:07:00.000-05:00

This page is best view with Firefox 6.o. You will need macromedia flash version 8.0 at least to hear the audio player. look in my 'links' section on the right for the download. thanks :)

musical jetset

2006-12-06T22:10:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure if anybody actually listens to the music player (to your right, yes right there, you can scroll through it with your mouse--it's like and Ipod shuffle, refresh the page if it doesn't work right or seem to go forward no further), or it's just me, but I rather like my portable music collection. The last one was jazzy, snazzy, and rather classy in a hotel lounge sort of way;) This next one may appear disjointed, but fear not. I sifted through various personally nostalgia-inducing musical numbers out there and have gathered here those that to me carry a sense of place, a kind of mood, a marker for memory. This is my audio eau-de-toilette, if you will, a whiff of songs to remind me of places/events/experiences I've sampled throughout the years. From Tokyo lounge to Shinto shrine, to semi-authentic South African beats reminiscent of morning Safaris, to Fado, to Latin clubs, to Bollywood, to Middle Eastern fusion, to East Asian rock, or to American classics, the music will linger in dainty Paris, get lost in old Indochine, dabble in Tuscan flair, meander through a rainy London, bask in the Bermudan sun, dine in New York, and land at Hollywood's version of Bostonian life.

So go ahead, leave it on like you would a radio station. After about 20 songs or so, it will stop, and just refresh the page and a new set of songs can be played. Have a listen, fast forward through what you don't like, and stay awhile. Happy travels:)

And oh yes, there's Christmas somewhere in the mix. 'Tis the season and all, you know.

Fate? hmmm

2006-12-06T18:31:00.000-05:00

I have recently developed a love for boiled cabbages.
Mike should be very happy. This is meant to be.

Think about it;)

Family Matters

2006-12-06T13:38:00.000-05:00

I, for one, am happy for Mary Cheney and Heather Poe, her partner of 15 years, who are expecting a baby girl! The 'base' is none too happy about this, of course. They invoke a lot of biology in their pseudointellectual attacks, and since I privy myself a biologist, I figure I'd take a stab at their questions here. A telling excerpt from the social conservative right, and my responses:

"1. How did the exclusive sexual union of these two women bring about this conception?"
It's basically a turkey baster. and a sperm donor. The donor could be unrelated to the couple, or could have come from, in this case, Heather's family, to confer the child with biological relatedness to both Mary Cheney (who is carrying and we are assuming the egg donor) and Heather Poe.

"2. What does it mean, from a biological nature to realize that a man WAS in fact necessary for this conception to take place?"
It means exactly that genes are needed from different sex parents in order for successful conception to take place. By the way, it is stupid to gleam morality tales from biological facts (infanticide is practiced all over the animal world, should we do it too whenever there's a famine?). This fact, in otherwords, is amoral, and dictate nothing about moral behavior, or the moral worth of the child. However, it does say plenty about the deep drive to have children and raise families, regardless of orientation, and the general desire of humans to use technology to overcome biology for human ends. That is significant.

3. What does it mean to the supposed "intimacy" that "two people share" which was intended by the Creator to be a function that creates life, to be forced to include a third party?
Intimacy is relative, and so is religion. As for the third party issue, infertile hetersexual couples are 'forced' to consider this option too if they want to be biologically related to their child. This is part of the human (social/biological/both?) instinct to share genes with one's progeny. Sure, one can argue that this instinct needs to be abolished in contemporary society, and I'd entertain that notion, but for the time being, gay couples and infertile couples have similar biological obstacles, and gut wrenching choices still need to be made.

4. Doesn't it make a rather strong statement that biologically speaking, the sexual union these two women share - is in fact, scientifically speaking - inadequate?
Sure, it does. But our society's treatment of people should not be based on their supposed evolutionary worth. I refer to Hitler and the eugenics movement. To muse on the biological meaning of infertility or sexual orientation or genetic mutants within the human germ line is one thing, but to talk about whether these people deserve their dignity as human beings is an entirely separate, and more relevant, issue. I suggest a reading of the US constitution as a starter.

5. Is it healthy for a society to celebrate inadequate sexual unions that lead to everything except what it was designed to be?
Good question. Is it healthy for a society to at least respect all infertile couples' struggle to follow their instincts to build families, as we have already done for infertile heterosexual couples? Isn't it healthy for society to allow people who have disabilities or genetic defects or anything else that causes them to fall short of biological human 'norms to live free of stigma, prejudice, and discrimination?

6. Knowing from scientific data that children excel best when given the full and natural parental structure of one mother and one father, is it moral to bring a child into such a scenario - purposefully, simply to stroke one's own desire to have a child - sort of like a new handbag, or pair of shoes?
First of all, what data? Second of all, well referenced studies have found that children with 2 gay parents do as well as children in straight 2 parent homes. (see/search Ellen C. Perrin, MD.-Tufts). But the moral question is a different matter; is it 'moral' for children to be raised in 1 parent homes? With their relatives instead of their biological parents? In foster care/adoption? Such a hypothesis of morality ignores and belittles actual human conditions that often fall far short of idealized norms. And yes, having a child should be a purposeful decision; that's not debatable. Finally, is it ever apt to compare the overwhelming biological and social drives to have children with the desire to buy a pair of shoes? Now that is an immoral and incoherent analogy.

Nostalgia: Hiro-o

2006-12-04T16:57:00.000-05:00

Finally, the Office of Student Affairs had something I wanted to read. Ignoring the piles of useful but depressing fliers--gems like 'Pass your boards with Kaplan review!’ or 'Join the Army Corp! Free medical tuition!'--as I looked for something to pass the time while the secretary was away, I instinctively grabbed at a sliver of red poking through, finding something most gloriously unexpected. "Study Abroad Opportunities". I flipped through the glossy pages, mumbling to myself happy thoughts about a simpler, more decadent time (read: college). I'm sure something like this had been misplaced. It should be in the Dental school's office, at least these people have time to spare. Whose cruel joke is this, flaunting and taunting med students with words like 'leisure', 'introspection', and 'humanity'?

Whatever. I'll take any bit of escapism I can get. The brochure is pretty standard, offering chances for college credit at Beijing U. or language immersion classes in Florence. Been there. Loved it. Next.

And then I found the ad for Tokyo. The content I skimmed right past, but the pictures--this was my photo montage. There they were: the Hiro-o stop on the Silver line. Japanese schoolgirls in uniform knee-high socks, smiling with funky hair and peace signs posing for the camera. Ropongi at night, with glitzy lights and a million people rushing across its streets. A steaming bowl of Udon. I know, these are all standard commercial images some underpaid intern probably found on the Internet and slapped together for the study-abroad office. Still, they brought back memories of my home stays in Hiro-o, gregarious British and American ex-pats who host us year after year, sponsoring bbq parties at the Harvard Club and black tie events in 100+ degree weather at 99% humidity. I remember the confusion and panic that accompanied the end of every performance, the onslaught of Japanese high school students storming the lobby to purchase our overpriced wares. I tried to answer their questions while furiously scribbling my signature on napkins and shirts and CD jackets, smiling, nodding, posing for pictures, overwhelmed by it all. And then there was Ropongi, the party district, decked out in nightclubs and chocked full of hip harajuku girls ignoring cat calls from what seemed like roving packs of American frat boys, drunk and obnoxious. Giants ads were everywhere: Suntory Whisky, Tom Cruise promoting shampoo, 24 hour game arcades. Jamaican hustlers who lined the sidewalks of Ropongi, greeted all who walked passed them in every language imaginable, beckoning for customers, often succeeding with Americans and fanny pack-wearing Russian tourists. In the middle of all this sensory over- stimulation, quiet moments were rare and special. But they could be found, like the calming sound of trickling water in the gardens of Shinto shrines, so many of them tucked away behind narrow streets around Hiro-o. Beautiful solitary spaces these were, with immaculately kept bonsai landscapes and air that tasted of incense. I miss it all, especially those steaming bowls of Udon with shrimp tempura in rich dark broth, ‘student food’ for 500 yen (5 dollars), dirt cheap compared to any other meal to be had in Tokyo. This city was an amazing, perplexing place.
If only Mike could see it the way I saw it. If only we had the time and money to go. If only...

And so it begins:

2006-11-29T18:15:00.000-05:00

The free-fall.
I have to sign up for the step 1 USMLE tomorrow. This is the firstpart of the medical licencing board exams. The exam is in June. My, how time flies.

photoeye

Bet ya Ho Chi Minh never saw this coming:

2006-11-19T16:59:00.000-05:00

Weird.
I love Bush's lackluster response. I would be too.

pic from cnn

Food for thought

2006-11-19T00:03:00.000-05:00

Ok, I'm been meaning to say this for a while now, so I'm just gonna go ahead and speak frankly:

Why are the dental students so damn hot?
Clearly their admissions criteria involved some sort of photographic screening process. Unfair, so unfair.

Reunions are not for kids

2006-11-18T13:19:00.000-05:00

I love reunions. Nothing like seeing friends in a context of nostalgia, even if it means awkwardness with people you once knew but now, for one reason or another, don't really care to know again. I love it enough to pull an all nighter studying in order to make the 7:30 breakfast reunion at Leverett. It was very worth the sleepless night to confirm, once more, that on the surface nothing has changed very much. The place looks the same; the people, older, grayer, less coherent maybe, but still affable, while my friends are as witty as ever. But all are not as they seem. Early reunions like these allow us to glimpse each other zipping along into wildly divergent futures. The experience is invigourating, but largely frightening.

"[Looking around the dining hall] Everything is still the same, huh?"-me.
"Yep. That's good. Isn't it?"-Andrew.

Sure, it is disturbing when we see how much the House kids have grown, or how some tutors are now parents, their babies staring back at us. However, this change somehow feels less confrontational. We expect it, and have no problems integrating it into the fabric that is our memory of this place. We incorporate and obliterate these memories all at the same time, making them fit our notions of how things have always been, and will be. Paradoxically, we are willing to gloss over all this newness, but we are disturbed and intrigued by news of how our own friends are getting along, evolving.

I sense there is something truly comforting about the notion of constancy at Harvard, especially since this place is integral to our notion of self (for the majority, it would seem). To lose the vision of Harvard as unchanging, at this moment, is to lose control over a major part of ourselves, forcing us to confront how uncertainty dictates our current lives, and defines how much we too have been changing in order to adapt. We are in transit, indeterminate, if not physically, then mentally. I sense the farther we go, the more we will reach back. Leverett has not changed, we tell ourselves; Harvard has stayed the same. The dining hall still has the same food; Chief still takes random pictures. In this mental construction, only we have changed, but for now that's okay. We can always reach back and reclaim a bit of our old selves--the ones we knew well--be it via reunions, or spying ' ivy blogs', or constantly visiting [every freaking weekend...errm yeah].

For now, we can only tolerate this much truth. Memory is one of the few things we can still control.

Beacon Hill is beautiful--so are fantasies

2006-11-12T23:36:00.000-05:00

Cobblestone streets, gas lamps (with electric bulbs, but a nice effect nonetheless)...human size architecture. It's lovely. Walking there saturday night with M to have dinner at a friend's appartment, I couldn't help but notice how deliciously the air smelled of crackling fires and aromatic roasts, how quiet and tastefully lit the houses were, squeezed together, glowing. There were wreaths on the door, and petite topiaries on the sidewalk. It was a cold night, so we didn't linger long outside, but it didn't take much for me to realize that it would be kinda sweet to be able to afford living here. Oh yeah, MGH is less than 5 minutes away. So let's see: a hospital job at MGH so I can walk to work at anytime, a compact fuel efficient car that can carry 4, a brownstone with enough space for M and kids, on Beacon hill. A dog. That would be wonderful.

Eventually, maybe a cabin on the Cape, or one of those timeshares in the West Indies.

Oh yeah, I don't care for picket fences. Wrought iron, please!

Ah well, I have M. That's one down on the checklist. 200,000 dollars worth of debt to go 'till I can even consider other stuff....

pic stolen from here

Wee small hours...continued

2006-11-04T02:02:00.000-05:00

"She's pretty incredible, don't you think?" I ask her. A second goes by. "Yes. Yes she is." She replies, her gaze unchanged. "My name is P...Peter." I respond quickly, filling the void.
"Nice to meet you, Peter." She turns, sparkling, her complexion fairer than I'd had thought. "Call me...Ruth." She answers with a flash of teeth. "Would you like a seat? I have two to spare." I pull up a chair adjacent to her spot against the window edge. The rain is abating outside, and one can almost make out the shape of buildings. The lights of traffic below us reflect in those buildings, a moving mosaic of crimson and gold dashing about in rhythmic monotony. She orders another martini. "I've noticed you here before." I begin, hoping to move the conversation. "Tuesday, same table. I guess you like jazz."
"I see you like to watch people." She quips, laughing. "You are right, but for the wrong reason. I like to watch people too; music is the ambience that sets my mood."
"I come here for the jazz. People watching is secondary," I try being coy.
"Ah, well. Apologies then." She smiles again. " Do you want a drink?" She flicks her wrist, catching the gaze of a waitress standing patiently by the entrance. I decline, modestly, half standing up. "Oh no, thank you, I'm good for now. I just wanted to say hello, maybe find a fellow jazz lover."
"Oh no, don't go!" She sounds almost wistful.” Company is always welcome at my table." She insists. "Truth be told I came to hear her sing, she's not doing many shows in Boston, but I'm sure you know that already. Sit, sit!" I oblige, settling back into my seat. The houselights have returned, forcing the room's mystique into dark crevices above the hanging lights and into the night. The wind howls outside. Boston shimmers in the dark.

"Most men in my office don't have conversations with me. You're brave, I'll be honest." She flashes more teeth, except this time it is a full smile; her face stretches, not afraid to show the crowfeet peeking behind her eyes.
I laugh. "That's the first I've heard someone call me brave. Thank you!" I responded. "Is there a reason....?"
"A casual chat never hurts." She assures me. "I should say, my nephew looks about your age. You are very brave."
"I'm an...aspiring writer. " I offer her partial honesty. " I want to write about this night. You are intriguing. And like you said, a chat never hurts."
"Here, a cheer to conversations, Lord knows the world doesn't have enough of them." She offers up her martini, a pink, dainty thing, with rose petals floating about the glass. I offer her my glass.

We sip, a toast to conversations. The world sure doesn't have enough of them.

A bad...queer..?

2006-10-30T19:39:00.000-05:00

We've all heard the expression: " I'm a bad Jew". A self-admonition (if you're Jewish), yes, useful for avoiding prolonged explanation of dietary choices/not going to synagogue/hilarity. But is there an equivalent for a bad...queer? The closest I've felt the need to use such a phrase came yesterday, when I was blind-sided by a phone call from the HRC. A nice voice on the other end, (male, probably young, very articulate, says he's from the Harvard GSD!) asked me if I could volunteer for November 8th election push, basically, hang out at voting stations with the HRC crew and try to convince voters to vote against the gay marriage amendment. It sounds innocent enough, and it's a righteous cause. They're apparently in desperate need for volunteers.

I haw and hemmed through the entire phone call, not wanting to hang up, fully knowing that this nice man's spiel will be wasted when I ultimately have to say no. November 8th is also the day of the BGLTQ panel that I'm organizing. Deep down though, I'm not the activist type, and I shy away from such in-your-face campaigning, even if it's a cause I hold dear. The nice guy on the phone even gave me his own telephone number to call back in case I changed my mind. And he apologized several times for disrupting my dinner, probably because of several instances where he probably heard me chewing--I had food inside my mouth when I picked up the phone--even though I tried really hard to hide it. The fact that he was so sweet on the phone--with delayed silences and appropriate inflections indicating emotional states (a professional?) made it agonizing to say no.

I'm sure they're all a bunch of swell folks, and I really should try to squeeze in some time to help out. In the meantime though, I can't help but feel that I'm a bad queer for turning down the HRC, but more specifically, the nice boy on the other end of the line, who sounded so darn nice. Bad queer, bad queer.

ICA opening!

2006-10-29T23:30:00.000-05:00

Great news. The Boston Institute for Contemporary Art is set to open in December 2006. After so many delays, finally, finally! I'm curious to see the installations they've chosen to feature at the opening--maybe this will give more hints as to what they will choose to display in the future. The structure itself is ultra chic, with a cantilevered space appearing to hover over the harbor, encased in glass. My only reservation with the design so far has to be the potential for over-exposure of artwork to sunlight, given how much of the building is just glass, but I'm sure they've thought about it.

The collections to be featured here should be pretty interesting, and the new building itself is critical for a city like Boston that desperately needs to have more contemporary art spaces. I am very intrigued by what they will choose to feature in this space though; the kind of theme/movement museums highlight somehow always end up being legitimized by virtue of having been displayed, thus shaping the future of art development. Interestingly, the director of the MOMA was just at Harvard in a discussion about trends and the future of contemporary art. It's a pity I wasn't there, but I heard he defended the mission of museums to select and display not what's popular, but what is of merit and value to the development of art. Given how diverse and globalized the themes and origins of contemporary art that belong to no one particular past tradition or critical approach, museums are surely going to have a grand ol' time defining and defending 'merit' and 'value'.

Less esoterically, the glass building at night looks like it'll be a good romantic make-out spot. hmmm....

My big fat mouth

2006-10-29T15:46:00.000-05:00

Me: "...these are really nice knives!"
Steve: "Umm...thank you!"
Me: "So do you eat out often or..?"
Steve: "No, no I cook...nothing much, but..."
Me: "Oh, really! I was under the impression that you don't cook..."
Steve:"Really? Who told you that?"
Me:"Well this other time Ben was telling me that your roommate cooked for the dinner party you had...and he sort of gave me the impression that you don't cook very much at all..."
Steve: "Well...!No I do cook. Why whould he say that? Well that time my roommate helped out...but I do cook!"

......(2 hours later)

Ben: "Oh hey, listen, Phil, Steve and I want to invite you and Mike over for dinner sometime. When's good for you?"
Me:" Oh, um...I don't know yet, email me. Will you guys... Steve? yeah? Ok, Steve, need us to bring anything/help out?"
Ben: Oh no. It won't be much...nothing fancy....yeah [chuckle, knowing look, smirk]."
Steve [by the door]: "Oh...Ben what did you mean by that?"
Ben: "Uhh what?"
Steve: "Did you tell Phil that I can't cook? No...yes.. you did...you told him at some point that I can't cook."
Ben: "I....don't recall that....at all."
Me: "Oh um...shit...um...no, well no Ben didn't say that, I just understood it...."
Ben/Steve (simultaneously): "No/yes/ no I didn't say that/yes you did/ what's wrong with my cooking/I don't recall/what/hold on....."
Ben [chuckling, to me] :"Ayyy...ya, No I don't recall....[phil] you rat....Ok bye guys! See you later!"
[door shuts]

.....in the corridor [overheard]: Steve: [mumble mumble...]"I do cook."

Wee Small Hours

2006-10-24T14:22:00.000-05:00

She sits one table away from me, against the edge. The band is anxious. It's a typical weeknight, Tuesday, mix crowds but few tourists. A lady, as I'd imagine my grandmother, only twenty years younger, sits one table away from me, her back to the endless sea of lights beyond, oblivious. She seems to be here alone, alone in a sea of others, nursing her martini. It starts to rain, a gentle tap against the windowpanes. Boston melts into a shimmering horizon. Another Tuesday evening at Top of the Hub, and the band is starting again.

The sax takes the lead; percussion starts, the low rumble of bass follows. Fly Me to the Moon somehow manages to sound fresh tonight. I see her ears perk up, her head slightly turning, straining to hear above the din. Off goes the band; tap tap tap, the drum solo wins a few claps. The lady smiles. She orders another martini. Her eyes sweep the room with a longing look, not quite a search for anyone in particular, just an acknowledgment of self. She re-adjusts her briefcase underneath the seat. The second martini comes--a pink, dainty thing, with rose petals. She greets it with a generous smile. Suddenly, the lights dim, and the space is transformed. We are awashed in the golden glow of candlelights. She looks like my grandmother, only twenty years younger in the glow of candlelights. Hushed silence fills the space: the evening's main attraction is about to begin.

A tall, slender figure in black approaches the stage. The band strikes a chord. With a delicate breath, she begins to sing. In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning somehow manages to sound fresh tonight. She sits one table away from me, against the edge. I can see her eyes glistening in candlelights, her hands nursing a pink martini. Teardrops roll down her cheeks. One. Two. Tap. Tap. Tap. The city melts. Another Tuesday evening. Mix crowds, with few tourists.

It's wonderful

2006-10-24T07:01:00.000-05:00

I'm awake. Will be attending class. Somebody give me a trophy.

amazing free embed audio player

2006-10-20T02:42:00.000-05:00

For a better web reading experience.

http://www.finetune.com/

I'll follow you into the dark

2006-10-20T00:40:00.000-05:00

"You're not going to get cancer, are you?" M. would ask me, often. "You better not." He'd warn me. He's serious about it.

I know, it may seems strange, or morbid, that we talk about things like this in a relationship when we're so young, the chance of one of us leaving the other, not out of choice, but out of inevitability. But it comes up, periodically, largely because of my current preoccupation with diseases. But that aside, it has been discussions about the end of life that has marked the deeper moments of our relationship. Our first serious conversation, the moment I knew that I'd found him, was about dying and the world beyond: no hell and no heaven, just love. Because, as M. puts it, there can be no real heaven, no real happiness, if heaven means being separated for eternity from those that you love who are, for some reason, not there at the end of days. Such a god would be a cruel God.

I have always assumed that he'd survive me. Something about him and his ability to always lead me through, to make things easier necessitates his perennial life. I think it's mainly me that fear the thought of loosing him, of having to bear it--it fuels my irrationality. He fears it too, but rather than assume my immortality, he's very practical. He'd rather I avoid cancer, or heart disease, or car accidents--anything to have control over that inevitability. It's sweet of him.

The song "I'll Follow You Into the Dark" by Death Cab for Cutie (thanks Kate) reminds me of our conversations. It is sentimental, at times too innocent and unsure of its own implications (how does one 'be close behind' a partner who's recently died to be hand in hand at the pearly gates, unless it's a decidedly mutual embarkation?). But I still like it, and I can only hope that, as the singer alleges, M. and I too will get to see everything there is to see. And maybe it's not necessarily death, but any great unknown can lie ahead in the dark. Regardless, it's nothing to cry about. I'll follow him into the dark.

One gram...

2006-10-12T19:35:00.000-05:00

"One gram of tetanus, botulinum, or shiga toxin can kill about 10 million people...1 pound could theoretically kill all humankind."

-from my Infectious Disease book: Schaechter 's Mechanism of Microbial Disease

Compasionate Conservatism

2006-10-12T17:25:00.000-05:00

I decided that I was a conservative after taking the Harvard Social Analysis 66 course : Race & Politics in America. It surprised me, because one would think that Harvard tend to create liberals in the modern sense, but that was one of the few classes that I managed to find the time to read all the assigned readings, considered all the viewpoints, and came out in agreement with a governing and social philosophy very close to a classically liberal viewpoint, which at some point in time had morphed into the conservatism of Barry Goldwater and became elements of libertarianism today.

Modern 'Compasionate conservatism' can once traced its roots to the old conservatism, but what passes for conservative philosophy these days is so far flung from what conservatism used to mean: measured change based on pragmatism, small government, and a willingness to engage in civil arguments, to accept uncertainty and the possibility of error. While it's been said many times over, it doesn't hurt to reiterate: the Republican party of today is manipulative, hypocritical, and truly souless. Those from the inside can describe it best. David Kuo, who once worked for the Office of Faith-Based Initiatives from 01-03, released the following statements describing the inner workings of this administration: (from Andrew Sullivan)

"[Kuo] says some of the nation's most prominent evangelical leaders were known in the office of presidential political strategist Karl Rove as 'the nuts.'

"National Christian leaders received hugs and smiles in person and then were dismissed behind their backs and described as 'ridiculous,' 'out of control,' and just plain 'goofy,'" Kuo writes.

"More seriously, Kuo alleges that then-White House political affairs director Ken Mehlman knowingly participated in a scheme to use the office, and taxpayer funds, to mount ostensibly 'nonpartisan' events that were, in reality, designed with the intent of mobilizing religious voters in 20 targeted races."

The current Republican party is no longer the party of McCain, or Lincoln, or Goldwater. Its willingness to sacrifice one group of Americans for the vote and money of another group is blatant, and by now, not that surprising. I once considered voting Republican. Doing so today would be signing my own death warrant.

Thomas Allen

2006-10-10T14:49:00.000-05:00

I find this image sublime. Very cool. Reminds me of a painting I'd seen at the MFA (cannot remember the name) of men on a raft after their boat had been hit. The endless gray that darkens at a horizon line here seems a mirror of the other painting with its icy blue-green translucent strokes of paint, evocative of the salty Atlantic, full of dark, forboding barrels of cloud with barely a shimmer of light.

I stumbled onto this artist after visiting a blog (thanks, Queerty). Together with an old paperback, an X-acto knife, and his camera, Thomas Allen makes images that are, as he says, all about creating 'false realities'. In many of his works, the false realities he stumbles on is one of outmoded but still desirable masculinity that were as much a part of these vintage stories as they are historical elements of americana. I admit the men on these old books are pretty hot, even if (or maybe because) they're stylized distillations of unattainable manliness.
But I digress. This is about art. Really. Visit here to see moreThomas Allen works.

Body World

2006-10-03T10:25:00.000-05:00

I don't know how I feel about it.

Yes, it's kinda neat, and having dissected cadavers, I do have an appreciation for the techniques required and such. But there's something about the way the bodies are posed that's very disturbing, the juxtaposition of death and art that's very Damien Hirst in a way, but more directly confrontational. Although not novel, the exhibit is fresh (pardon the pun) in its 3-D exploration of the human condition, a stripped, biological indictment of life and its varying effects on the body. Controversies about consent aside, the very idea of a biological display of human curiosities is very carnivalesque, and I suppose that's one of the reason for my inherent uneasiness about the whole thing. To be fair, I've seen old anatomy textbooks with illustrations of Man holding his own skin, or a 'thinker' stripped of his skin to reveal muscles in motion. Still, an illustration of motion is different from actual human remains posed in motion (I'll get back to the posing later). Medical uses of cadavers, although illustrative, are different. The teaching there is less about wonderment about the body, and much more so about practical principles of anatomy and organization (although again, wonderment comes with the territory of having your hands on someone's once beating heart). Secondly, part of the experience has to do with allowing the bodies to eventually decompose, to return to their families. The human condition is realized in this case, whereas plasticized samples of human corpses seem denied of this finality (and the emotional/cultural norms that comes with it), and it's the viewer that's doing the denial.

I say this fully knowing about the canopic jars filled with dead babies floating in formaldehyde in the anatomy lab at the school. Something about that unnerves me too, but the necessity there is about education, and I think the argument can certainly be made here as well. The public does get an educational experience from all of this, and so what if the exhibit people want to pose the bodies so as to get more variety into their 'show'. Maybe it's the posing that disturbs me more; the false life bestowed upon the lifeless seems incongruous with how we think dead people should be:eyes closed, lying flat, and in general, non-confrontational. So is this art? Is it spectacle? Is the 'education' worth the spectacle?

I'm conflicted about it.

pic stolen from here

Something in the water? Maybe?

2006-10-01T18:43:00.000-05:00

Sometimes all it takes is five minutes to tell the difference between a good lecturer and a bad one. Even less to tell who is speaking out of his ass. It came as a pleasant surprise to me the other day to hear a series of lectures delivered with clarity, insight and energy come from lecturers at this medical school. I was struck by how eloquent the information was presented, how organized and clear the lecturers made their slides, despite cramming tons of primary literature into the process. It reminded me a lot of lectures at Harvard, especially those from the hummanities and social sciences. One of the lecture at the medschool recently was about smoking and smoking cessation. Yeah, we've all heard plenty on the topic, so I was gearing myself for yet another boring hour with lots of repetitive rhetoric and probably obscure, poorly explained facts. Instead, the lecturer was funny and precise, and she gave plenty of interesting facts:

1) there's very little convincing evidence that nicotine causes cancer (other components of smoke cause cancer)
2) smoking increases wrinkles, infertility (both sexes), early menopause, blindness, hearing loss...etc
3) never too late to quit (even after the age of 65, incremental reversal of pulmonary (heart related) damage happens very quickly, and can add years to life)
4) clinical trials for several new drugs are quite promising at helping people to quit
5) an exciting clinical trial that's going on right now for a nicotine vaccine, with the theory that if we combine nicotine with a hapten and trigger an immune reaction, the nicotine-antibody complex is too large to cross the blood brain barrier, and people who smoke (after receiving the vaccine) would never get addicted to cigarettes...wow! (or it could help addicts lessen dependency on nicotine).

She isn't the only lecturer that's been so engaging in recent months. Infact, it would seem there's an influx of exciting lecturers and professors who know what they're talking about, and can really teach. Where are they all coming from? yep. Harvard.

point of interest...hmm

2006-09-26T11:48:00.000-05:00

10:00 am. monday. class is as boring as ever, and we're about to start another lecture. I'm sitting in the 4th row from the front, along side Ron and Tim. Ron wispered to me:

" Pss, phil, look over there!" He points to the 1st row, on the left side of the auditorium.
"Who? oh, yes. he's cute...very cute." I concurred.
"No, not him! the other one!"
"Oh okay, yeah, but that doctor is definitely cute." Tall, dark hair, medium complexion with a chiseled jawline you can probably grate cheese with--this was one hot doctor.
I noticed his perfectly fitted suit beneath the white coat, impecable shoes, and neatly trimmed hair. "He's a neurosurgeon!" I exclaimed to Ron.
"And he's also married," Tim chimed, "Notice the ring?"
"Lucky wife. Damn!" I sighed.
"No, no, not necessarily." Ron adamantly protested. "First of all, it's Massachusetts, so it may not be a wife. And second of all, plenty of gay guys wear wedding rings."
"You mean because they're in the closet?" I asked.
"Not exactly, they wear it so people won't question their private lives. " Ron patiently explained to me," This single gay guy I know from my gym says he wears a wedding ring because he works at a school, and he doesn't want people to ask questions."

"Really! That just makes it even more confusing! You know there was a Dean at Harvard who dressed impecably like the doctor over there, and it took me 2 years to figure out that he was gay." I exclaimed.

"Was it because he wore a ring?" Ron asked.
"No. Well, he had shirtless pictures of himself in his office though...very sporty, and he wore really nice shoes." I responded.
Ron sighed, and responded: "And it took you 2 years? In that case, Phil, your gaydar needs a tune up."

tipping point

2006-09-23T12:46:00.000-05:00

It is simply not fair for parents to use their childrens' love as a bargaining chip in order to get what they want. In my case, they're saying: "If you love us, then don't live your life." Fucking great. I think it's time for another brutal re-coming out party to remind them of their denial. I'll beat this issue to a bloody pulp if I have to. I don't think they know how cruel I can be, but they're forcing my hands.

Uncomfortable

2006-09-19T16:27:00.000-05:00

"Um, hello?"
"It's mom."
"Oh hi mom!"
"How are you? How was the test?"
"Oh, it was okay. Nothing too bad."
"You always say it's 'okay'. hm. [slight chuckle; pause]. So grandma and grandpa, and Uncle S is coming to boston this weekend....they want a copy of the CD to take back to France."
"Oh really? Well I'm flattered..."
"I know you left the one copy we had back in Vietnam though...I didn't know if you could get another copy soon enough..."
"Oh well, yeah [pause]. Mike can get it for me."
"[silence.] Right, Mike. I don't think I'm comfortable with that Mike helping out or anything..."
"He's still my boyfriend."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"[pause] Of course not."
"And remember that we're not talking about it infront of your grandparents, you understand?"
"[long silence]. The only reason I'm coming home is because you asked me to."
"[pause]. Well, I don't want you to bring it up."
"Of course, why would I ever want to share my life with them, right?"
"[silence]. Call your dad when you get home."
"Will do. bye."
"Bye."

just because

2006-09-18T19:30:00.000-05:00

H

2006-09-18T14:32:00.000-05:00

Do you ever get the feeling that the people you meet in life are not due to accidental happenings? Yes, that sounds cliche, but perhaps only because the question has been so frequently asked and dismissed at the same time. This past weekend was great: complete avoidance of all work, just hanging out with friends, catching up on their lives. I could say that about the WOFIGO retreat too, but this was different. It wasn't so much a time to shore up existing friendships, but to start them anew. I met someone. We said 'hi' in the elevator, and I mispronounced his name. He and I share a mutual friend, and her revelation about him has stayed with me. It is changing my life outlook in a way I have not thought possible.

At school the focus has turned to neurology, and case presentations invariably expose us students to strange and terrifying disease states, such as tumors and strokes. Brain tumors are especially hard cases to deal with, not in terms of their pathology, but their progression and outcome. Tumors in the frontal cortex change personalities, while in other areas obliterate memory, speech, and awareness--eating away at everything that makes an individual himself. To think, the prospect of loosing ones self is terrifying enough at any age, but to see cases in children and young adults in the prime of their lives...

I have tremendous respect for him, and admiration for what he is going through. The caregiver within me wants to leap out and help in some way, not out of pity, but out of sheer hope and a desire to learn from him. That, and he seems like a really cool guy. I hope I get the chance to become his friend.

Harvard: no more early admissions. Um...yay?

2006-09-12T21:32:00.000-05:00

Apparently this is a shocking news flash on CNN, and as I was eating my dinner--home-made bean and lettuce wrap, refreshingly cold from my fridge with at least 94% of my recommended daily intake of fiber, mind you--numerous thoughts of What Would I Have Done (WWIHD) raced through my head.

So yes, I got in early action, as did most people I know at Harvard. I applied to Harvard as a wager with some friends that I'd never get in (I still owe those guys the dinner I promised). Early action seemed logical. Figured I'd get the fanciful application out of the way, and get ready to deal with 'real' apps for school like Tufts and BU and UMass. Early action had other sweet advantages: if I did get in, it's straight to senioritis-ville for the second semester. Sweet cruising, no real learning. yep. Life would be good. If I didn't, well, I never expected I'd get in anyway, so life would go on as planned. Sweet.

I feel the need for a medal now when I think about how I schemed all by myself, since the CNN article made it sounds like it was only the advantaged prepschool kids with in-the-know counselors/$20,000 consultants who can deviously scheme such a cost-benefit analysis and execute said plans. To be fair, it appears that in general more advantaged kids are the real recipients of the benefits of early action at the expense of more disadvantaged applicants. Hopefully abolishing the system will encourage a more diverse application pool, as Harvard thinks it will, and create a fairer process. I'm still skeptical about making the process less stressful, however. If anything, now one has one more school to apply to, at the same time as plenty of other ones, to add to the innevitable 'ball of stress' come senior year.

I was scheming, and calculating, but on my own. Whatever. Without early action, I don't think I would have applied to Harvard, and the bet with my friends would have remained just another lunch time conversation in the cafeteria. I'm so glad I applied early though, especially since senior spring was awesome once my brain check out in January. Ahhh, those were the days......

Hipocrisy in the Harvard CSA

2006-09-12T09:28:00.000-05:00

pic taken from here

This, on the surface, is not my issue. I am not a member of the Catholic Church, and as an outsider, I am rightfully myopic in my view of internal matters of the Church. Harvard student organizations, however, have a duty to serve students, and the Harvard Catholic Church, a duty to minister to all those who consider themselves among the faithful. This Harvard church is about to lose 1 more soul.

It is heart-breaking to see someone loses his faith in an organization where he once had so much faith and love. I see it as a slow death, a choking, stifling suffocation that rots from the core but leaves the gilded exterior unmarred. M. loves the church. He is a devout member and goes to church every Sunday. He also happens to be gay. The greater Catholic Church at the moment isn't exactly welcoming to gays. Still, M. runs a student support group within the Catholic Student Association for GBLTQ name Cornerstone, helping to fulfill a central mission of the CSA, a mission that is supposed to bring the faithful into communion, regardless of their differences, to celebrate the miracle of Christ's love. The CSA in the past has been a welcoming haven to people like M. Tiptoeing the line between loving the individual and hating the 'sin', the CSA has managed to strike a seemingly impossible pose of tolerance and doctrinal coherency in supporting an organization like Cornerstone. I once strongly respected them for this. I now realize my respect is misguided.

Recently, Cornerstone's fliers were banned from the CSA table at the Harvard Freshmen Activities Fair. There is no explanation, other than a previous lie told to M. by the President of the CSA that because no other group had advertising, Cornerstone couldn't advertise. But M. found plenty of fliers and buttons and advertisements from other CSA groups on the table at the fair. When he again inquired the President and the Priest advising the organization about whether he could put his innocuous fliers (devoid of gay pride flags or 'celebrations of the lifestyle' or 'activist/leftist propaganda'; it's a simple notice for the group's first event), at the CSA table, all he got was a stern 'no.' This maybe the first instance of direct opposition, but M. has been sensing support for his organization waning in recent years, support for an inane organization that holds weekly meetings with a chaplain of the Church, in a small room at the Catholic Student Center, to talk about current events, watch a movie, or discuss Catholic life within the greater Harvard community. In his own words, he thinks they want Cornerstone to die.

A dark pessimist would conclude that perhaps the CSA wants Cornerstone to exist in name only, to claim the title of tolerance as sword and shield with which to beat back criticism and trump dissent, without any true effort. But why this false-face hypocrisy? Is it because the trick has worked so well throughout the history of the Church? I see something deeper, more intrinsic, more sinister still. I can imagine why the current CSA would not want a group like Cornerstone to survive, to advertise to incoming Freshmen who may be grappling with issues of faith and homosexuality, to offer support and pastoral leadership to those who would seek it. In effect, the spirits of old Judeo purity laws from the times of the New Testament come into mind. From the outside looking in, it is as if those who are less than perfect need not taint the purity of the Church and the CSA, these afflicted sinners who seek fellowship, and communion, and God's grace. But if the gays are to be treated like lepers of the New Testament, then surely the CSA and its Church could remember Jesus and his lessons about purity and true compassion. At a time when Catholicism is losing its flock, at a place like Harvard and a student organization like the CSA, is there any room left for such lessons of Jesus to be truly contemplated?

What the CSA is doing is hypocritical and antithetical to the very meaning of Christian faith and fellowship. On a personally level, it is hurtful and devastating to M. I feel vicariously the silent erosion of his faith, and I refuse to let such withering go unnoticed. We shall see how this calamity progresses, but I am obliged to cry foul, if only for M. who loves the organization still, and doesn't want to see it falter in the eyes of the public. However, when so many in the Church have remained silent in the face of injustice and hypocrisy, and they themselves perpetuate the disease, sometimes it takes an outsider to act. I am that outsider.

Food Club

2006-09-06T20:20:00.000-05:00

It's not like fight club. You can talk about it. And as much as I thought bravado might be involved, I was pleasantly surprised. Food club is our medical students' version of pearls and slinky black dresses, of canapes and martinis and petit amuse bouche on a quiet evening with friends. We have pot luck dinners together, and until recently, I've shunned the club, fearing a reprise of the Harvard cocktail hour I've grown to both desire and dread. I was wrong.

It was Italian night. Pasta puttanesca. Tiramisu. We were swamped with delectable food. The president of the class offered up his recently redecorated spectacular downtown loft, which he shares with his gorgeous wife and two years-old daughter. I spent a good amount of time taking in the black granite kitchen counters, the tasteful chocolate colored wall and red exposed bricks, admiring the smartly designed space with bursts of color and beautifully placed art. It was a real home, a young, hip home, which made the event felt more like a gathering of twenty-something professionals and less like a college dorm party. People I hadn't thought of as existing outside the classroom came. They were cordial, interesting, and the conversations finally buzzed about something other than school. Ben's girlfriend was studying at the Cordon Blue in Paris. Eikero traded recipes with Elana for flour-less molten chocolate cake. We talked about the news, and news of friends dating, having kids. We talked about Mike. Suddenly, these personalities that irked me in class became interesting, human, and fresh. I finally realized that my impressions of them were incomplete, and I stand very much corrected.

In the end, I also realized this: I really should get out more.

Hushed

2006-09-05T23:55:00.000-05:00

Mona Kuhn

So much has changed in the past couple of weeks. I feel different, not necessarily more content, just--cleansed. The parents were informed. Much was left to be desired in our conversations, but life is all about desire, isn't it? Desire is, afterall, the cog-wheels of dreams, the potential for newness. For now, they live in silence, hoping, desiring change. We do talk, but the words are largely meaningless; I can see them melt away, the way ice cubes slip into non-existence on the hot pavement, silently, without protest.

There is an inescapable sense of stillness within me, one that I cannot shake, and it scares me to think that the stillness should remain for good. I, too, see all around me a marked change in my classmates; the second year has imparted upon us a sense of reckoning, the realization that this is the true calm before the storm. We are quieted by the fear of the unknown, and I feel the overwhelming silence encroaching on all sides. It hushes us all.

So much has changed in the past couple of weeks. And I'm waiting for the storm.

The Deed-1

2006-07-27T12:36:00.000-05:00

I sat at Givral away from direct sunlight, trying my best to avoid a tan. It was over 100 degrees outside, with 90 percent humidity, the kind of weather that made cotton shirts cling in perpetual films of sweat. Curious, though, while the air around me tasted of damp earth, as if anticipating a summer storm, there was no cloud in sight. My waiter--gaunt, wafer-like, slightly comical in his over-sized black pants and ill-fitting tuxedo top, his face a shade of burnt umber framing a sharp, protruding nose beneath glassy blood-shot eyes--bowed as he delivered my coffee. He mustered a slight smile, crooked and shy, as the light bounced from the edge of my silver spoon to the deep valleys receding from the corners his eyes. He asked me for how long was I visiting, in heavily accented, but still understandable, English. I told him two weeks.

Vietnam was becoming a new country. My generation, children who left after the war, had joined the ranks of tourists pouring back to this place of a thousand newness. Cell phones and internet, I-pods and cars--these were the shiny fruits of globalization in the modern Vietnamese economy, an arranged marriage of convenience between Western capitalism and socialist impulses that still littered Saigon's government-sponsored billboards. Fighting to rise above the din of KFCs and Calvin Klein ads, these banners often portrayed forever smiling, androgynous children in dark school uniforms against red backdrops of sickles and stars. "Children are our future!" exclaimed one such banner, overlooking the rotary in front of Saigon Market Square. The banner was right, of course. The war had been fought in the name of countless Vietnamese children for their future peace and prosperity. The children had to smile and be grateful; it was the dutiful thing to do.

My Vietnamese surprised my waiter. He thought I was Korean. In the new Saigon, he was right to be cautious; foreigners were a fact of life. I told him two weeks, and maybe an extra couple of days, depending on whether I was to head North to Hanoi to view the property. He nodded knowingly. "Another land deal," he asked in Vietnamese, "Are you coming back to live? If so, welcome!"
"Too many uncertainties," I mumbled a non-answer.
He understood; I didn't want to talk about it. A quick, slight bow, and he was gone.

The white heat outside seemed to have intensified since I sat down, but I was safe here. This old restaurant, I was told, had survived three governments, unmarred by the upheavals and bloodsheds, protected inside its own bubble of colonial elegance for nearly a century. My grandfather took me here when I was five, for ice-cream and air-conditioning, rare and expensive treats back then. Two commanding Corinthian columns still framed the entrance to this grand bistro, columns whose creamy marble gleamed in the midday sun thanks to recent renovations. Instead of looking out onto run-down shops, Givral now faced the five star Park Hyatt across the street, with its exquisite facade of white, modernized colonial splendors and rusticated masonry, impulses reminiscent of the old French Indochina that, for a time, had to be publicly forgotten in this socialist republic. If my grandfather had lived to see it, he would have been happy, perhaps, that we now had more ice-cream dining options in this freshly air-conditioned Saigon.

He was what brought me back here, back to Saigon. I palmed the envelope delivered to me this morning by his caretaker, feeling the thick stationery with its reflected whiteness glittering in the sunlight in ways that pained me. The brightness was overwhelming. In between sips of coffee--an intense, bitter brew that burned on its way down--I closed my eyes. I slowly succumbed to the darkness, allowing the world to dissapear beyond my senses as the Beatles' "Yesterday" floated around me. An eternity soon passed. I opened my eyes to see the envelope still there, on the table, waiting. I reached for it. Amidst the muted din of cityscape rushing past me, to the soft hum of air-conditioning as the Beatles strummed on, I began to read.

a little behind..

2006-07-18T14:20:00.000-05:00

I will need to post soon. apologies for the extended silence.

I'm doomed.

2006-05-24T13:38:00.000-05:00

"Congratulations, you've received the distinction of "Honor" for Growth and Development."

Oh. Really? Really? Because I rarely went to class, read the book the day before the final exam, and um, made fun of the professor all the time when I was in class. This is the second time this has happened in a class taught by this professor, who is a psychiatrist. Granted the material is piss easy, and the exams had questions like "True or false: old people have sex" but 'honor' is a mark that is scaled so that less than 10% of the class would receive it.

The alternative theory is that it's my fate to become a psychiatrist, because these two classes were geared toward precisely that. It's ironic because as a psychiatrist, I will need to also see a therapist to work out my issues about being annoyed at having to listen to other people's problems.

Damnit, where's the Paxil when I need it?

Summertime at Trauma 1

2006-05-22T10:50:00.000-05:00

First year of medical school is over. The final anatomy exam was a breeze compared to the 3 days of studying without sleep (5 hours of sleep total, actually) that preceded the exam. I really liked anatomy, and I think I will miss it dearly. I'll sleep when I'm dead.

Speaking of not sleeping, I will be shadowing an anatomy professor of mine who also happens to be an ER doc at MGH. I will follow him on his overnight shifts, and will possibly do some triage work with him as well. And unlike humbling experiences of anal premeds who volunteer for the ER and end up pushing carts/delivering flowers, I will have my white coat and the pretense of knowing what I'm doing to fend off these menial tasks. Oh, and Dr. S will protect me. I hope.

In the day time, I've signed up to do some clinical research over at NEEC. I'm honestly much more excited about the ER gig, if anything, for the chance to really see what it's like to live the life of an ER doc who's relatively young and married, with a newborn daughter that is beyond cute. I like ER docs, and I don't mean the ones on TV. In real life they tend to be sharp, inquisitive, athletic-looking, funny, and um...cute. I suppose I shouldn't pick a profession based on the advertising, but hey, a little bit of projection and self delusions now and then can't hurt. MGH is a trauma one center and Harvard affiliated, which means they get all kinds of interesting cases. The 'Havaaad' bit, meanwhile, makes them *the* preferential care center for any celeb or politician. I don't know why this last factoid matters, but in the words of an ER doc at BU talking about the ER at MGH: "They get all the hot socialites in car accidents!" Hmm, interesting.

Albino Whale (I mean Kaavya) Sighting

2006-05-17T00:59:00.000-05:00

From 'Nick', edited to protect the innocent, and 'recrafted' for dramatics:

"'Ben, Sybil, and I were having dinner in Mather, a Harvard dining hall, and we spotted what appeared to be the behind of Kaavya's head as she was heading toward the tray carousel and heading out. In the most blatant way possible, Ben and Sybil shrieked: "Oh, um, we're going to check our mail!" The mail room, coincidentally, is in the direction KV was heading. They banged their chairs against the table in the mad scramble to get up, when suddenly, Sybil yelled loudly: "Wait, she's coming back!" In true awkward form, they sat back down, pretending to eat as if nothing had happened. I watched Sybil stuffed a huge bite of salad into her mouth, her stupified gaze directed at the back of this girl's head. A cherry tomato that didn't quite make it, fell out. Someone else nearby, meanwhile, muttered rather loudly, "What is she doing parading around like that?"'

"Parading"? Err sure, if parading now means the girl was just getting a bite to eat in a dining hall. Wowza. The cherry tomato bit, however, is hilarious. As I've said before, she's a campus celeb now, for better or worse. Johnathan Taylor Thomas, eat your heart out.

pic stolen from here

back-logging

2006-05-16T10:19:00.000-05:00

My psyche returned to me this morning, after the Physiology final. Don't you worry, the old noggin was working during the exam. It was my temporal-spartial-memory-thingy that took an early vacation. Now that it's back, it's telling me that I never recounted the unique experience of participating in the memorial service for Anatomy. The event is a rite of passage for first year medical students, the conclusion of a whirlwind tour through the human body, in celebration of those who gave us their remains and confer in us a different way of seeing. I, for instance, will never look at beef the same way again.

Humor aside, the event was very nice. Lots of flowers, and professors reading poetry and choking up on the podium. What wasn't so nice was the ad nauseum stream of musical contributions from the student body, of which I was also guilty. In my defense, I channeled every fiber of blackness within me into finding the right voice and expression for "Wayfaring Stranger". I think everyone was pretty much surprised that the quiet asian kid who sat in the back could sound like a 200 pound member of the Tuskegee Singers. Thank god for DayQuil, although it did make me forget 2 lines of lyrics. I thought about scatting, but decided to spare further insult to the quiet diginity of the spiritual I was butchering, and decided, instead, to lift lyrics from various dramatic points in the song. Unfortunately, the lyrics were printed. Appart from a few raised eyebrows from stupid Dental students, I escaped unscathed. I didn't think Barbara would mind.

I don't have nice words for the school's a cappella group, however. I felt like crying, for all the wrong reasons. They need to retire, or at least spare the old folks in the old-folks home who can't physically get away everytime, and captive audiences like students at the memorial service. Seriously, what's with the pitch pipe? They didn't need it, since everyone in the group made up his own starting pitch anyway.

Adding insult to injury, the ceremony ended on a low note, or should I say, a very badly sung high note that became a low note because the Dental soloist stopped trying. It didn't help that his guitar was sharp, the piano was flat, and the trumpets were playing a different tune. It's bad to criticize such sincere efforts, since the act is morally equivalent to making fun of mentally retarded children. I know. But really people. Really. Have mercy on the rest of us, cadavers and all, please!

More Asia Watch: Chinese Cheating

2006-05-15T14:47:00.000-05:00

NY times, Monday: "In a Scientist's Fall, China Feels Robbed of Glory"

A top Chinese computer scientist had recently been accused of fraud and intellectual theft by stealing plans for digital signal processing computer chips from a Western company, designs he had previously claimed were his own. The word 'glory' caught my eye, for similar language was used to describe the fall of the S.Korean scientist who worked on cloning, late last year. I can't blame the NYtimes for employing words like shame, glory, and pride. That's just Asia, folks.

Money quote: "In a society where honor is particularly important and where the fear of public shame runs especially deep, the story of Mr. Chen has a profound resonance. Now, after all the honors and accolades bestowed on this 37-year-old favorite son, who returned home to China from the United States with a Ph.D. from the University of Texas at Austin six years ago, people here are beginning to question whether China is pushing its leading thinkers too hard to innovate and catch up with the West. Could Mr. Chen's downfall, they ask, represent an example of how even smart and successful people in China are being forced to cut corners to meet the nation's hyper-ambitious goals?"

Sounds familiar? It should. KV rings a distant bell here, too. Of course, KV is American, but her South Asian roots smack of similar codes for honor, pride, and unrealistic expectations.

More money quotes: "'Professor Chen is really unlucky," said a male student named Wu, who asked not to be further identified for fear of recriminations. "He lied and was caught. I think there are other people faking their research, but they haven't been caught yet. He's probably not the worst."

"Another male student named Wang, who also would not give his first name and cited the same reason, said: "I'm not surprised by the scandal. Now a lot of professors are like businessmen. They are good at talking and promotion, and many of them have their own companies and make as much money as they can."

This is alarming to say the least, because these students are the future Chinese scientists in training. But the problem is not restricted to China. The decrepid state of Asian scientific research ethics has been discussed at length within scientific circles, which I need to find sources for to cite here. Still, from what I gleamed, the discussions usually lament the foundation of Asian work ethics that are top-heavy, defferential to authority, and especially, based on the concept of shame vs. honor. These concepts are detrimental to the sciences, fields that demand teamwork, openmindedness, and the ability to accept failure. From many accounts, Chen Jin is a very smart man, and is well educated. True, he has demonstrated much greed and contempt for the very nature of intellectual inquiry. However, shaming him into oblivion will not help China's problems, but will perpetuate the same pressure cycle that will lead to the very 'shame' these cultures claim to abhor.

Asia Watch: "White or Wrong?"

2006-05-14T15:42:00.000-05:00

NY times, Sunday:

"An ad for a skin-whitening product in Hong Kong says: "White or wrong? The right choice. Beauty White makes your whole body white."

Ah yes. I remember seriously freaking out when I watched a 5 minute commercial in Tokyo advertising L'Oreal White Perfect cream before the screening for War of the Worlds. My friends and I were stunned. I thought only my backward community had this obsession. My mother and her family instilled this nasty little bit of wisdom in me, and their paranoid relationship with skin color is, at times, down right racist. At least now it's good to know that it's not just my family; it's most of Asia too.

Skin bleaching is a booming industry in most of East and South East Asia, and while the message is disturbing or strange to non-Asians, apparently people are very open about admitting their own use of such products. Skin bleaching even extend to bleaching nipples to achieve a pinker hue. Given the prevalance of these creams, it's no wonder that at some point somebody will get hurt using cheap brands. I guess not everyone can afford L'Oreal 'White Perfect'. The name says it all.

White skin is desirable, not unlike tanning in the West. However, my own observation (and this article) seems to confirm more dangerous dimensions to this obsession. While the West prides tanning, it doesn't actively denigrate those who don't tan or insinuate that those who don't tan are of a lower socioeconomic class or belong to an inferior race. Asians actively denigrate those who have darker skin colors. The association is harsh, and it starts with language. Case and point: phrases calling people 'black as a duck's liver' or 'black like savages' are commonly used as insults in Thai and Vietnamese. The Vietnamese one is most telling, isn't it?

I frankly do not buy the argument that white domination in the form of colonialism or cultural global influences plays a large role in creating this trend. Rather, Asians have always had an intrinsic notion of class and race that is tied to physical attributes, and skin color is the most obvious. What is truly sad is the inability of these cultures to shake these beliefs from within, co-opting the message of beauty from the West to bolster existing prejudices and intrinsic racism. Quite pathetic, really.

another one bites the dust

2006-05-12T17:04:00.000-05:00

Just took the final for Physical Diagnosis, which included me pretending to know what I'm doing on a standardized patient (a trained actor who pretends to be a patient). He was really cool about it, and afterwards, gave me pointers on techniques that he said was "usually meant for 2nd or 3rd year students". I'm proud to say that playing pretend with Mike really helped. I only forgot to examine 1 thing, but really, who needs intact hearing anyway.

My hands however, were uncooperative. They were not shaking, just bone chillingly cold, the kind of thing that I have vowed not to inflict my future patients because I hate doctors with cold hands. I apologized at least 4 times. Nothing I did to warm them up worked. Not even sticking it in between my legs, although that looked awkward and I decided to stop. Fun times. Fun times.

Can't say I did equally well on the written portion though. Stupid cranial nerves. If you have peripheral nerve palsy or something like that, don't ask me, because apparently I have no idea what the hell is wrong with you. Oops.

What's in a name

2006-05-10T01:08:00.000-05:00

Harvard Medical School. It really shouldn't hold any sway over me. It really shouldn't. I thought I gave that up, the pangs of jealousy mixed with respect. I thought I left it in highschool.

While perusing thefacebook after some friends here at the medschool friended me, I found myself searching for alum'05, and an old aqquaintance popped up. We were never friends. Ethan, not his real name, and I took two semester of organic chemistry together, and on occasions, in class, we chatted. We had the same Teaching Fellow, and eventually, we sought this man's help throughout the semesters. Organic chemistry was one of those courses that can make or break a pre-med, and we knew the stakes were high, both because Orgo is a hard subject, and failure at it had consequences for our supposed futures. But Ethan didn't ever seem to me to be the intellectually inquisitive type; he was more cavalier, the premed-by-day, final-club-party-by-night kinda guy. I guess he knew how to live.

I still remember the time he asked me for help to study for the Orgo final. I never got any good vibes from him as a student, and truth be told he was terrible at it, but not because he was dumb. It just seemed like he didn't study enough. I explained the problems to him. He thanked me. We never talked after that. All the years at Harvard, he rarely acknowledged me when we pass on the way to the same dining hall, even though we live in the same House. I felt used. I still do.

He's at Harvard Medical School now, an MD-MBA candidate. I'm not.

It really shouldn't matter; it's just a school. His success does not mean my failure. It shouldn't mean anything at all.

But in this game, clearly, he did something right.
He always knew how to live.

MI III needs better medical consultants.

2006-05-08T23:43:00.000-05:00

I am ashamed to admit that I've watched MI III and enjoyed the 2 something hours of Tom Cruise in human skin, doing what only a Thetan level 7 being can do: defy gravity, death, and logic. I can't say the same for the writers though. Whoever decided that a crucial plot point has to hinge on a defibrillator requiring 30 seconds to charge needs to be shot. Haven't they ever watched ER?

Common Denominator

2006-05-06T16:32:00.000-05:00

Mona Kuhn

I've received words from dear readers (okay, who am I kidding, 'reader') regarding the length of recent entries. As any attention-starved publisher will admit, sometimes it is just easier to give the crowd what it wants. Brief. Frivolous. Innuendo. Have fun.

Night walks

2006-05-03T20:40:00.000-05:00

I love rain. It makes sidewalks glisten in the city lights. It layers onto the air at first a veneer of dampness, then slowly infuses it with a haze that dithers the light and makes everything glow.

I took my usual, post-examwalk earlier, after sunset, around Chinatown, up toward the Lowes and caught the afterglow light across the Common. Had to wear my wool winter jacket because it was rainy and nippy, the kind of cold that was just enough to weave one's breath into wispy strands with every heave of the chest. Times like these, I wish I had smoked. Something about it seems appropriate for this damp, monotone cityscape all around me. I walked pass the new Ritz Carlton hotel restaurant, with its dimly lit mahogany interior and glass tables perched on top of glowing bands of marble, backlit to highlight bejeweled simplicities, while svelte people posed behind half-tinted mirrors as they drank cosmos and popped nuts into their mouths. Casual glamour. Tonight, the sidewalk along the strip of the Ritz caught my eyes; something about the concrete they use and the kind of sand that, at night, reflected light to create the starry constelations beneath my feet. On this night, when everything was wet, it more than glittered. A fine diamond dusting lit my way.

People in Chinatown always stare at me. Maybe because I stare back with the same glazed, overcast eyes. I don't know. Cooks from little restaurants the size of matchboxes tend to spill out onto sidewalks around 7:00 pm to steal smokes. I see them, but then again, I don't. Their gawkish looks and manners often fade into the muddy browns and reds of Chinatown, as nondescript as any one of those blinking neon signs and greasy windowfronts that line these streets. They hang around dumpsters, never too far away from those unmarked doors cracked ajar and held in place by an old newspaper, or a shoe. I follow the lights.

That KV thing

2006-05-03T01:24:00.000-05:00

Is there life after national (scratch that, international) humiliation?

I'm clearly late to the media table, but just in time to "internalize" the word schadenfreude, adding it to the vocab list I have always promised myself I'd learn before taking the SAT, exiting Harvard, or anytime thereafter. I will admit, I have had my share of emails to friends commenting on this bruhahah, in part gleefully, with a sprinkle of morbid fascination thinly veiled as an attraction to 'literary news'. Like many, my attraction to this story began with a mixture of admiration and envy of the girl before news of plagiarism broke, when the superstar landed at Harvard, and after the story broke with a mixture of shock, amusement, disgust, and finally, dissapointment. Now, I'm even beginning to feel sympathy (Salman Rushdie's admonition is the latest low; surely no one deserves that much wrist slapping). Pure, unadulterated, exasperated, sympathy. That is, until a nonHarvard friend rightfully pointed out the most obvious spin that will make everybody happy:

"How Kaavya Viswanathan Got Sorry, Got Redeemed, and Got a New Life"

Yes, in perhaps much more clever wordings and stylish fonts, KV will write a book documenting her fall from grace and her journey back into respectability, complete with bits of Prada studded Hallmark moments thrown in, because we all really, deep down, love that kind of prose. Speaking of love, everybody loves a sinner, but Americans worship sinners who repent publicly, and on occasions have made said sinner President (Dubya), or buy his book (Clinton, anyone?). For old times' sake, Alloy Entertainment will again 'package' her book, providing help for those tricky plot points and those bits of character development that are best left to the 'pros'. Even a nonfiction (one can only hope it's nonfiction, ala James Frey) needs a good born-again plot. Little, Brown will publish it, her agents will rave, and she will be on Oprah's couch recounting the trauma and lessons of a hard public life two years from now. Oprah, America's populous patron saint, will grant KV ultimate amnesty and millions in readership. Even better, I doubt there will be new charges of plagiarism. Afterall, redemption is the most plagiarized, hackneyed concept in the world; it's practically vetting-proof. Again, unless she's another James Frey...but that's a can of worms we won't go into.

At least this is what I would do. Lemons make lemonade. The world goes on. And this saga is not over if KV is as smart as she looks. There's spunk in her yet--I trust Harvard will bring that out of her, sooner or later. Can you smell a college speaking tour about the dangers of "internalization"? I sure can, along with her agents, I'm sure. In the meantime, I do hope to run into her at some point and maybe get an autograph. I may not be able to meet John Updike, but KV is within reach. And a celebrity on campus will always be a celebrity.

Oh and, in case someone else out there has already thought of this last contorted twist to the KV story, all I have to say is, "I'm sorry for internalizing your work. Really."

It's a guard!

2006-05-02T19:41:00.000-05:00

Me: "No Seth, you need a thyroid guard before you go in."
Seth: "What's a thyroid guard?"
Me: "This." [handing him mine.] "Put it on, apparently it prevents radiation cancer."
Seth:"Yo man, can this get any tighter?" [adjusting straps]. "jeesh, it smells."
[Seth enters the operating room.]
[loud laughter ensues]
[nurse comes out.]
Nurse, to everyone: "okay, which one of ya made the med student wear a groin guard on his chin?"

I've got a bonechip in my eye...and more substantive updates

2006-04-26T21:30:00.000-05:00

We cracked open the head today. "Crack" really isn't the operative word here, since it was more like a wet, sloppy sound as the calvaria (skull cap) was being removed. As any shellfish eater can tell you, it's the sound made when opening a crab or severing a lobster head from its tail. Yeah, that sound. Aside from the prerequisite mechanical saw, a hammer and a chisel were also involved. While the saw was a lifesaver (I can't imagine doing it with a handsaw), it came with a spray radius of approximately 4 feet as bone dust flew literally everywhere. In retrospect, I could also compare the process to opening a coconut, because approximately the same amount of liquid came pouring out, to the delight of our professor wielding the saw, as the rest of us try to hide our grimaces and not think about cleaning up the mess later. At least Barbara's keeping herself hydrated.

It's been brain back-to-back these past 2 days, what with open head surgery yesterday and the cadaver dissection today. I wish the order were reversed, so that at I had more of a clue while watching the surgery. Well, probably not. I still don't have much of a clue, although I did learn that the absorbent pads the surgeon, Dr. M, placed between the brain and the suction tube were there to prevent him from accidentally sucking out the brain. Yep. Accidentally sucking it out. I'm glad he thought of everything.

The most interesting episode during the past 2 days for me actually came from watching how this surgeon dealt with delivering bad news. The surgery mentioned before was actually considered a 'heroic effort' by Dr. M, or as one of his colleagues put it, 'an academic exercise' because of the extremely low survival rate predicted due to the condition of this patient. That explains why Dr. M didn't react when the anesthesiologist reported that the patient's pupils were bilaterally dilated and unresponsive, as this is never a good sign (the brain is dying). As I later found out, the family had requested the surgery even though the patient was found in this state, and had remained there for at least 4 hours, possibly more, at another hospital. The surgical part was easy--it went by without a hitch. Telling the family afterwards that there is less than 10% chance of recovery was hard. Very hard. Lots of crying, tissues everywhere—confusion abounded. I applaud Dr. M for his textbook delivery of the news, despite the fact that he was addressing a crowd of 14 very distraught family members. Still, he sweated a lot.

We grabbed an ABP break. Dr. M devoured a chocolate covered pastry. We went back to his office where he began to review the next case. With a few clicks, his computer screen flowered with images, scans of all sorts, from all different angles. I'm flabbergasted by all the imaging technologies available. From a distance, it looked as if Dr. M was playing Zelda on his computer.
Another patient soon came in. It was more bad news: a brain aneurysm. That meant more tests, and possibly open head surgery. The patient and his wife were young: mid-forties, maybe even less. The wife asked all the questions. Dr. M spent 40 minutes explaining procedures. He had to rush it; the patient wanted to leave to pick up his daughter from school. They nodded awkwardly to me as they headed for the door. I think I smiled, although in retrospect, that was probably inappropriate. How do you smile to someone who's just been told that his aneurysm could pop any moment, and that'll be it? Dr. M, meanwhile, is back on the phone. He had another case coming in. And I was on my way out.

Hilarity

2006-04-16T14:07:00.000-05:00

There is a tendency for hilarious things regarding bodily functions that seem to always happen around me. I admit, I most often am the gifted engineer, the blind watchmaker, if you will, guiding such events to fruition to the delight of everyone around me, or at least, myself. Our PBL seminar class was covering a case last week involving infertility, and it was my job to deliver a mini presentation on the causes and diagnostic signs of male infertility. The conversation that began as soon as I opened my mouth, went like this:

Me: "....On average, the sperm count of a normal fertile male should be around 20 million/cc, and our patient has only 10 million/cc. In total, the typical male produces 100 million/cc per ejaculatory period, with 5 cc being the average...and"

Girl : [interuppting me] "Oh wait...really? Only 5 cc? Because I swear it's more, sometimes, I mean..." [turning bright red] "Oh, god, well, that's... I'm going to stop talking now."

The fact that she was the only married person in our seminar made it abundantly obvious about to whom she was referring. My group leader, a 4th year med student, added a final comment:

"Well, I'm sure it depends on how often the guy gets off and how much gets emitted. Phil, you wanna research that too?"

boredom, continued

2006-04-13T16:42:00.000-05:00

This roll came out better than expected.

boredom with camera

2006-04-12T16:14:00.000-05:00

BGLT issues in health care

2006-04-08T12:55:00.000-05:00

There are many. Below is a sampling of shocking findings that (if true) are just really sad.

1990: survey of lesbians in Michigan: 61% would not disclose sexual orientation to their health care providers

1996: survey of physicians in New Mexico: 4.3% would deny gay and lesbian people acceptance into medical school; 10.1% believed gay and lesbian physicians should be discouraged from OB/GYN training

1998: survey of nursing students: 13-24% 'despised' LGB people or thought they were 'disgusting'; 40% believed LGB people should keep their sexuality private (from their health care providers)

I got these stats from a conference talk on BGLT issues in health care delivery yesterday at school, and while I've not had a chance to verify the stats above (sampling error? investigator bias? how were questions phrased?), they are from a credible source. I hope the future looks better.

delerium

2006-04-03T15:31:00.000-05:00

Freedom, horrible, horrible freedom!

The 3rd anatomy exam is over.

Now I have to start studying for physiology and pathology exams next week.

It never ends....

S2, 3, 4...!

2006-04-01T22:44:00.000-05:00

Anatomy can be a huge drain. Its effects on the student body here are varying, but the quotes below, I think, capture our sentiments up to now:

***A female 2nd year anatomy lab tutor:
"You know what, that's the one thing about taking antomy that makes me sad. It takes all the mystery out of sex. I mean, take the cremaster reflex. I thought it was so cool when I tried it 'for real' and saw that it works. And then you realize that it's an automatic response, and that just kills it."

note: cremaster reflex: the reflexive action of the cremaster muscle to retract the testicles if the inner thigh is slightly stroked, presumably to protect them.

***A fellow classmate, enacting a 'cheer' thought up as a memory device for the nerve roots of the pudental nerve:

"Ready.....S2, 3, 4, keeps the penis off the floor!"

Priceless.

Ipanema...what girl?

2006-03-31T11:27:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-28T01:26:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-27T00:48:00.000-05:00

Hmm..lenses

2006-03-16T00:14:00.000-05:00

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)

2006-03-12T17:09:00.000-05:00

(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...

2006-03-10T01:06:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-03-07T13:26:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-05T21:50:00.000-05:00

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....

2006-03-03T15:07:00.000-05:00

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.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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?"

----------------------------------------------------------
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)
------------------------------------------------------------
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.

------------------------------------------------------------

"call me Kevin..."

2006-03-02T18:34:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-01T18:08:00.000-05:00

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.

Lovely Train Ride...

2006-02-28T00:02:00.000-05:00

Traveling. A metaphor.

Molly is the greatest.

blue: fixed.

2006-02-27T18:52:00.000-05:00

Mona Kuhn

some changes

2006-02-27T16:23:00.000-05:00

I've decided to fiddle around with a new template, and this is the result. I admit the blue is a bit odd, but I've yet to figure out how to change that...if you can help, I'd much appreciate it. Oh and, of course, I WISH medschool were like the people in the artsy photos above--languid, oddly hot, and full of gratuitous nudity. Eh, one can dream right?

Confucius, why won't you die already?

2006-02-23T23:01:00.000-05:00

A disturbing article in the NY times Education section gave me a mild temper tantrum today. I usually don't get this bitchy except maybe over bad decor, but still....

The article was about rich asian immigrants (they're shopping for homes in Scarsdale, people! Scarsdale!) moving to the US in order to...you guess it: train their sons for MIT. It is highly ironic, I might add, that the purported reason for this departure from the motherland to America is to 'free' their children from the stress of competing in the rigid formal educations of the Far East (i.e. drone factories for future Microsoft programmers). Apparently, over there, it's just too much pressure; but over here, it's all fun and games like SAT prep courses in middle school, college coaching to get into MIT., and violin lessons even though the son is tone deaf (but Harvard LOVES to see forced-labor overcoming intrinsic lack of talent, so I guess there is a sick logic at work here).

The quote below, from an immigrant mother whose businessman-husband in in Beijing while she lives alone in in the States to tend to their coached prodigy, sounded freakishly familiar to me:

"Seven more years before he finish[sic] college. Then? I don't know," she said. "Whatever he will [sic] do, where[sic] he will go, I will go. To give the boy good life[sic]. That is all."" (Sick!)

Damnit woman! It ain't the 1800's anymore! Get a life! Let your son get a life! Jeesh! Enough with this Confucius bull crap about the 3 duties of a female: 1) attend to parents until you marry 2) attend to husband until he dies 3) attend to son until he...is sufficiently suffocated to death from your relentless cultural tyrrany!

Just you wait until he tells you he's gay, dropping out of college, and dating a black transvestite name Yvonne. Oh yes. God has a great sense of humor too.

Okay, so I actually pity her, and the son, and this whole warped mindset of achievement that makes victims out of everyone. After 5,000 years of cultural brainwashing, Confucius is still going strong. Damn old bastard.