Delicious. My paternal grandmother, lovingly known in Texas parlance as 'Big Mama,' has graciously shared her delicious recipes for sweet potato, lemon meringue, and pecan pie. Clearly the best Christmas gift a bachelor can get. And now for more turkey. Have a great Christmas.
Take a good look. Not simply for more obvious reasons such as deeply, dazzling, dark eyes, but for being witness to one of the best actresses of our times. As of today. For me at least. I had the pleasure of seeing 'Volver' (To Return) today with my dearest Pakistani future-radiologist friend and fellow cinephile. Within River Oaks Theater's beautiful main hall, and with apparently addictive Raisinettes in hand, we witnessed the coming of age of Penelope Cruz in no uncertain terms.
'Volver', set in Spain's beautifully bleak and windy La Mancha region, is the latest work of Pedro Almodóvar. This is the writer/producer, who defies any casual adjectives to describe him, is the man behind such controversial films as the audaciously brilliant 'Hable con Ellas' (Talk to Her), and boldly humanistic 'La Mala Educación' (Bad Education). For those familiar with his other works, and for the historically Puritan (read American) Volver is significantly less controversial in that there are no doe-eyed transsexuals. Promise. However, Almodóvar does hypnotize your sense of reality. Sharj and I decided we could most accurately describe the film as somewhere between warmly absurd, and illogically reasonable. Similar to Penélope Cruz herself.
When speaking of Penélope, we obviously need to shrug history. I think its more than safe to say that Penélope Cruz has not always lived up to her apparent potential as an actress. Even the casual film observer can rattle off the unfortunate 'Vanilla Sky', physically startling 'Blow', and...shiver...'Gothika'. Past pejoratives such as cinematic waif, or even simply 'decent' seem vulnerable to argument. Moreover, in 121 minutes, these past film transgressions are engulfed by her luminous performance as Raimunda at hand. Think post-Lewinsky Clinton amidst an unprecedented American economic growth. Ms. Cruz imbues a terribly beautiful and vulnerable strength of emotion. Perfectly genuine. Equally tangible. Penélope Cruz done growed up. If this is what happens after you break up with the enigmatic and anti-psychiatry Tom Cruise (vis-à-vis Nicole Kidman), Katie should be Oscar-worthy in no time.
Second, it gives a shot out to the Texas Medical Center more than once. When Blanca Portillo's character Agustina is asked why she shamed her family by going on a trashy mid-afternoon Spanish talk show, she responds,
"Prometieron llevarme a Houston. Curan todo en Houston ("They promised to take me to Houston. They cure everything in Houston.")."That's right. Everything. This is possibly the first time I've heard a direct endorsement of the Texas Medical Center. I'll take it.
My Uncle Wayne! After several months of being incognegro, Uncle Wayne has resurfaced. Alright, so he hasn't resurfaced per se. Its probably more accurate to say that I've finally come up for air during these tireless weeks of interviewing and seen my family again. In any case, word on the street is that Uncle Wayne is starting a catering business called The Rib Tickler. CAN'T WAIT. If you know anything about Uncle Wayne's barbecue, you know that it shouldn't be anything short of hypnotically palate-pleasing. Three cheers for Uncle Wayne.
161 Days and 16 hours until I graduate. To be clear its not so much that I'm counting down seemingly endless days of ennui as they are noticeably absent, rather its an acute, feverish elation of FINALLY getting to the good stuff. While I won't actually find out where I'm going for residency until the Ides of March, I do know that I want a couch in the future. I'm thinking this one above is a bit dramatic, but maybe this one, or this one. In any case, I'll be sure to keep you guys abreast of any new preferences for chaises.
A la Gonzo (may his tendons recover quickly):
Listening to as I post
Umi Says by Mos Def
(Haven't listened to this one in AGES, but thanks to the visionary Gil, I've immediately placed it back on heavy rotation. As a thank you to the President and CEO of the Cream Team, below is a thank you.)
Gils the strapping New Englander and Morehouse Man to the left.
Yesterday I fell in love. Who is she you ask? She's incredibly intelligent, sharply socially conscious, passionate, open-minded, has an incredible library, and loaded. Really loaded. She's Cambridge, Massachusetts most venerable institution; this is where I had the pleasure of interviewing the other day. As I walked from the subway along Prospect Street, a wet snow fell as wet as the Gnarls Barkley I was listening to on my hard, cold iPod. After a frightfully frigid 15 minute walk, I arrived at on old, stone garnished brick building to be met by an unexpected warm, unstuffy staff and faculty. One of four departments of psychiatry, this one on the other side of the Charles feels very much in the same vein as Berkeley. Think shiny loafers but Birkenstocks. After four great interviews I walked away that evening (HOURS of interviewing and touring) with a strange sense of urgent excitement usually reserved for children in the last 20 feet of a Christmas morning spring for evergreen-shrouded gifts.
She's hot. I know. But she comes with some perks. Want an Master's of Public Health, go ahead! Access to the libraries? Of course! Want to go to India for a month? Wanna go during your intern year? All this in a quirky, heady mix of intricate brick colonial streets, Indian restaurants, and boba shops.
Furthermore, I'm staying with a college friend Gil. If you know me, you probably know at least one mythical Gil story, but I assure you that he is no specter. In fact, he's got a nice place in South Station, Boston. Its certainly nice to have reminders of years past in a unfamiliar city. I dare say that its a great asset to have a familiar ear calm, pre-interview jitters. From tolerating post-Indian food comas, to encouraging cross-Boston treks, to just sharing Morehouse memories its been more than enjoyable. But I suppose Morehouse (or any decent and socially cohesive institution) will always provide that sort of nameless gossamer epoxy that allows its alumni to pick up tone, timber, and conversation briefly interrupted by 4 years of graduate studies.
In any case I fly back to the barbecue bastion Houston soon, but for now? Nostalgia and veritas.
Ina in Georgetown's H&M. They actually sell 80s apparel that we worked so hard to put behind us. Sigh. Makes for some great pictures though.
First and foremost, residency interviewing is fun. Second and quasi-foremost, Atlanta is more fun. As you might have guessed, that's the Santiago Calatrava Bridge in Buenos Aires and Forbidden City in Beijing. They all have something incredible in common now.
Its great to be back in Black Mecca. The sun is shining, the breeze is still with ephemeral emblazened maple leaves, and the night is filled with the expectant soulful elegance. Though, as most know, I thoroughly enjoyed my Morehouse years, it seems as though some of Atlanta's fine leadership got together and said, "Yeah, this city is fun, now lets make it undeniable."
Today, actually WALKED (as in pedestrian activity) all over the apparently vibrant Midtown Atlanta. As my iPod augmented my already verdant sense of the city (I now can confidently ascribe it as such) with the cacophonous melodies of London's Lady Sovereign through my white earbuds, my eyes burned with desire over sleek modern potential psychotherapy couches, ached for fresh healthy alternatives to Taco Bell, and longed to comfort my covetous stomach in the varied fusion and American restaurants.
One diserves particular mention. No no no. You misunderstand. Its name is One; One Midtown Kitchen is its extended name (vis-à-vis Egypt and the Arab Republic of Egypt). Its entrance glows a soft purple and is found in a pretty nondescript part of town betraying its superchic and urbane interior. The food? Now, let's reestablish that nothing could compare to my Uncle Wayne's barbecue. There is a certain emotional element that can only be conjured with knowing someone's soul for most of your living days. It becomes an expression of love in addition to tickling every gastric pleasure center.
While I know no one at One, they somehow managed to come pretty damn close with their Steak and Frites. It was that same exhilirating guilty pleasure experienced from a Ribka Halloween party at 4am, a first kiss in the style of the French with a short-term fling (from hearsay of course), enjoying while on call a novel by Zadie Smith, delicious delicious Zadie Smith (from experience certainly). Dripping with a sweetly tangy sauce of existential pleasure topping a hot, crispy fries whose inside is softer than your grandmother's heart on Christmas. Both were sliced with a supernatural perfection as if to suggest that our Heavenly Father is in the kitchen with the sort of furvor reserved for Abramoff lawyers. It was good.
Then it got better.
Some background: I went to this restaurant courtesy of the residents of the psychiatry program I'm applying for here in Atlanta (kudos to whomever chose). I was enjoying all of this in the company of four other applicants and two current residents. I was trying to hold back my more base instincts but my civility gave way as the pomegranate sorbet casually and confidently arrived on a bright rectangular plate. I used to mentally chastise those glowing, sweaty, new couples in Houston lounges and bars but felt in league with them as I softly (and noticeably) moaned with deep delight as I thoroughly enjoyed every spoonful of sorbet.
Honestly and without question, the best sorbet I've had and in the top three of best meals experienced and now joins Peking Duck in Beijing, and Medallón de Lomo Tenderloin at Cabañas las Lilas in Buenos Aires. I recommend the restaurant to all. My cousin Trey, who has certainly NEVER disappointed me in restaurant recommendations, has told me that the owner's second restaurant Two Urban Licks, is even better. I shutter to think what would become of me if I went.
Oh, Atlanta. You've grown up and have gotten a hell of a lot more sexier.
If any of you are familiar with those quirky, "I'm a Mac, I'm a PC" commercials from the creative largess of Apple, I'm sure you'll find their new Mac Japanese commercials oh so entertaining. The one here is of that venerable straight-laced PC with a new virus. For a cross cultural comparison, you can see the original English-language American version.
It was a long night to say the least, and it certainly felt eerily like 2000 when I went to bed thinking the world was safe from ex-Yale cheerleader Imperialists. However, kudos to my state of birth, Virginia! Finally (and as predicted) the Commonwealth has elected a Democratic senator again during this years mid-term election (or at least Webb has claimed victory); much much sooner than I thought. Well, that is to say, if Republican's stay consistent in resisting court involvement in major elections (à la Florida 2000 and Ohio 2004). This, obviously, remains to be seen.
Apparently the rest of the world shares in my happiness. This is in addition to Rummy stepping out to let an ex-CIA Aggie from Pappa Bush run things for a bit. Certainly the winds of change have blown into town, like this picture of Washington National Airport (ironically in Northern Virginia) in Nov 2003. I'm eager to see in what direction they lead the country.
After years of thinking, "Well, things couldn't POSSIBLY get any worse," I have something to be politically joyful about. The circus is over. The skies are blue. Now for Obama '08. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow perhaps?
Alright. Before I begin, I too admit that there has been an onslaught of press recently about this supposedly great movie "Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan." And initially I must admit I was more than a bit recalcitrant against the entertainment-industrial complex's saturation of its adherent, drunken vassal: The Media (à la man capris, Britney Spears, and of course Titanic). My lack of HBO furthered my Borat darkness.
That is of course, until I saw the most hilarious preview for 'Borat.'
If you haven't seen it, I'll won't spoil the surprises, but just know that despite appearing inane to its core, its actually quite the scathing satire of a vast swath of America; Civilized Southern Society, thoroughly inebriated college men, and the belly of the beast itself, the Upper East Side. Some would say that the character 'Borat' created by the British Comic of Ali G fame, Sach Baron Cohen, is a startling misogynist, anti-Semite, racist, with the acumen of a dim-witted Abramoff Republican. But contrastingly his benignly ignorant interaction with (somewhat) everyday Americans lures these poor souls to reveal their own startling misogynist, anti-Semite, racist, sides with Abramoff-esque dim-witted acumen. Sharply hilarious and scathing.
However, Cohen has been chastised by a number of rights groups, most aptly the Anti-Defamation League. This NY Times review sums it up best when it writes:
"...some people are definitely not in on the joke, though only because some people are too stupid and too racist to understand that the joke is on them."
Such is America. Sigh.
In any case, the only criticism with any teeth that it definitely portrays Kazakhstan, the nouveau-oil riche nation with a per capita income of about equal to the Kelly Blue Book price of a 1999 Buick Park Avenue, in a very, very....very poor light. Apparently, and not surprisingly inaccurate. Even the opening scene showing Borat's 'home village,' was filmed (stunningly) in Romania; remind me never to go to Romania. While at first the Central Asian nation tireless worked to block his website borat.kz, calling for a public apology, and vaguely insinuating imminent legal action, they've tried to take a cultural offensive and taken out ads in US newspapers, funding culturally accurate movies, and goodness knows what else.
In any case, take the film for what its worth: a hilarious critical look at the American Contradiction.
Borat, I support your War of Terror.
Perhaps Amy's dog is experiencing a weird sort of sibling envy. Congrats again on Amy's new kid!
Just the other day I got the shock of my life (or at least of my formative years given that birth and Vitamin K shots are more than disquieting). At 7:30 I received an interview to my number 2 residency program in Boston! Wahoo! This was after having to schedule a flight to interview in the only two states never to ratify the 18th Amendment (Prohibition), the home state of the oldest African-American church, the second capital of the United States, the city named for the 15th century Spanish Catholic saint St. Didacus, and of course a former independent Republic led by a known drunk and malfeasant.
I had to decline going to the city who one author described as 'loving a woman with a broken nose.'
I'm not a big fan of plastic surgery.
Okay, okay.
I know. I have been away for a while. It's certainly not because I was jet-setting to aid orphans in Botswana, strategizing with Democratic think-tanks over mid-term elections, or even preparing the psychiatric community with my yet-to-be-release NY Times bestseller grand œuvre "Psychopathology Matters." Nope, Halloween, man.
This Halloween specifically. For two explicit reasons, Coffeehouse and Ribka's Co-Op's Annual Halloween Party. If you aren't familiar with either this year, consider yourself remiss in your obvious miscalculation of what to do Halloween weekend, or amiss in that you obviously had way too many spirits...non-paranormal spirits.
First off. Ribka's Soirée:
So, yeah. Don't have many pictures of the evening as to not incriminate too many people, but if you remember anything from last year, you knew to keep you schedule clear 12 months down the road. As any true embodiment of Jimi Hendrix, I sauntered out my car with the lovely cowgirl-for-the-evening Sasha to be met at the gate of this Melrose-esque apartment complex by a clearly inebriated Roman Empress coquettishly slapping the derrière of her Wrangler boyfriend...or at least I'm assuming this was her boyfriend. This is, of course, to an audience of leather-bound ghouls and pixies (only some of which were in 'costume').
In any case, upon entry to the first apartment we found our gracious host appropriately dressed as Rosie the Riveter, a WWII icon that promoted the work of women in manufacturing jobs to support the war effort. Quite clever of the future ID doc, eh? The night was filled with throwback 1980s Hip-Hop and R&B, bewildering techno, and an incredibly smooth mix in between. Seemingly endless supplies of etOH flowed as comfortably as the deeply entertaining conversation with pseudo-cops, security guards, Supermen, and Nigerians dressed as 'Sexy Black Man.'
Huh. Your thoughts?
To the say the least a great night.
The second part of this weekend was Coffeehouse. For those that are not familiar with BCM's less academic traditions, Coffeehouse neither involves 'coffee' nor 'house.' Rather its more of a variety/talent show that's somehow morphed into a crazy Halloween party for the student body. This year, Shaheen AKA 'Afro-Persian,' Stacey, and myself decided to organize and host this year given our amazing 12 Days track record. So, mere hours after Ribka's party, I moseyed on down to Cullen Auditorium to start dress rehearsals, decorations, and general glitch-guruing.
After weeks of planning, late afternoons auditioning, early mornings decorating, and seeming endless piles of audio cables/connections/speakers/doodads, 8pm rolls around. This year, I thought I'd continue the acutely apropos political theme.
Previous costumes:
2004 Devil with construction hat that read 'Halliburton'
2005 Arab Sheik
This year:
North Korean leader Kim Jong-Il (with matching nuclear bomb)
I'd say a solid 70% of people didn't initially get it. I too share the love of my psychiatry compatriot of quasi-obscure costumes. Needless to say there were a number of 'and who is he?' stares that night as I talked to the audience. The audience however REALLY enjoyed the performances. Particular highlights were comical arrangements in honor of on-line-lecture-watching, getting 'down to business' in medical school, residency survival highlights, and of course, the infamous Stacey.
Just so you know, she's probably the saving grace of our class; she's, highly organized, always available to lend an extra pair of hands, and her energy knows no end. Think Cub Scout Den Mother meets Amphetamines and Klonipin. She had a VERY entertaining mix of Madonna's greatest hits with lyrics expressing her joy at the end of forced exposure to surgery. This is all complete with choreographed backup men. Absolutely priceless. Also, she can sing? Who knew?
The night drew to an end, we packed up Cullen for a well deserved afterparty...though very very wearily.
I was DEAD tired. I slept clear until 3pm the next day (which is WITH daylight savings time).
Wouldn't have traded it for the world.
By the way, something scandalous was said at exactly this moment. Happy Halloween.
Yup. Its my birthday.
Here's me during my 2nd birthday in TEXAS. Full circle.
Tengo veinticinco años hoy. This is not be confused with 'Tengo veinticinco anos' which I inadvertently declared during my first Spanish class in college.
Just like the importance of the 'ñ', I've learned many things during these 25 years.
Going to Dancing Oaks this weekend to celebrate having survived OB/GYN to make it to the big TWO FIVE. If you would like to join (it supposed to be gorgeous weather) don't hesitate to drop me a line.
It has certainly been a while since I've been to the ATL. I can't wait to revisit old memories (and hopefully create some new ones) next month.
Alexandria, Egypt 2004. I'd REALLY rather be there at the moment. I've always loved this photo. It serves a cloudless counterpoint to my life on obstetrics/gynecology. Its raining babies in the Taubnotch Hosp and I don't have an umbrella.
I LOVE the political cartoons in Slate magazine (subsidiary of my beloved Washington Post). This David Horsey cartoon pretty much explains my position on Democrats and Republicans before this fast approaching election. Further more, if any of you are poll junkies like myself, you'd appreciate their Senate and House poll coverage as well.
"Quoi? Oui, un peu."
This is my response to the question that led to my very first (useful and clinical) use of French in medical school, yesterday. In what turned out be a bit of serendipity for my French language skills ego, I was breezing through the gynecology lounge and was rather brusquely accosted by the question, "Hey, do you speak french?"
It came from one the more surgeon-like (read socially oblivious, and a paltry knowledge of first names) ob-gyn residents. Despite being on labor and delivery, I quickly forgot my med-student misery and cheerfully responded "Oui, un peu!"
I was quickly whisked off to ob-gyn surgery holding. One of the more ornery nurses apparently had been holding up surgery because she was not convinced that the patient was properly consented (i.e. knew what surgery she was having that day and the risks and complications associated). The ob-gyn residents flailed their arms and the anesthesiologists grunted in impatient disgust; apparently myself and another quasi-French speaking med student where brought to abate any further loss of OR time. After all, this is gynecology; moreover, this is the Ten Baub.
I introduced myself to a lovely Black woman trying to use the Ten Baub phones in vain; her husband knew English and French. Myself and the other medical student, tried to inquire about her knowledge about what surgery she was to receive and navigate explaining the risks with a limited medical-French knowledge. A lingual hopscotch resulted.
Risk = There exists the possibility that...
Uterus = that with which you may have babies from the vagina...
Get the idea?
In any case, much to the delight of the gynecology resident, we fumbled through the consent; the woman paraphrased all that we had just said, much more fluently of course and with all of the words that slipped our unpracticed minds. Uterus = utérus and more shamefully risk = risque. My high school and college French teachers I'm sure felt unexplained shivers yesterday afternoon.
After all of this we then asked this woman if she was explained by her physicians the aforementioned before, at the insistence of said nurse.
"Yes, of course, they told me all of this yesterday," she flippantly replied.
Needless to say the nurse was on the receiving end of some rather annoyed glares. Imagine that. Although a demonstration of Ten Baub's inefficiency, I'll take its effective luster to my French language skills ego.
QUOI? PLUS?
So today, on labor and delivery, still glowing from my glowing albeit faltering and in the end unnecessary French usage, we were picking patients to follow. It is, as you know, the job of the medical student to follow a number of patients in the delivery ward until they...ahem...deliver. As glamorous as this sounds, I assure you it is not. In any case, today we had a bit of a United Nations on the names board.
Burkina Faso, Morocco, El Salvador, and of course Mexico were all heavily represented. My student team partner, the super cool Galant, blurted, "Oh, yeah they speak French in Morocco. I went there for my honeymoon."
ANOTHER?
Moments later, I felt a bit timid as I was familiarly whisked away to L & D room 8. I introduced myself, and quickly tried again to hopscotch translate explanations and questions of another of the more brusque ob-gyn residents. The patient was very kind. Despite being in mild labor, and unexpectedly having broken her water, she tolerated my efforts. She even managed to relate how she was only here from Rabat to help with a marriage. In any case, this time at least I had 'utérus' and 'risque' at my disposal.
Pain? Vertex? If there are no complication with your child cesarian-section will not be necessary at this time?
Merde.
This one was a bit more difficult, but somehow, we communicated this (she paraphrased back to me much to my relief). Her brother-in-law, who had an excellent command of English and apparently Arabic, arrived later in the morning, equally to my relief.
In any case, before today, FOUR YEARS and I used absolutely no French (there was a rumor of a French-speaking pediatrics patient on my first month of rotations, but that a bit remote). Now I can't seem to escape it! Imagine that. C'est la vie d'un étudiant en médecine.
236 Days, 23 hours, 14 minutes, and 7 seconds until graduation.
Given recent events on certain baby-delivering rotations and their stress ill-adapted residents, I cherish every second that passes. That's all I got to say.
Just received my residency interview request from my home institution! Wahoo! And although I'm (still) waiting for one more letter of recommendation to come in, this will do quite nicely. Seeing as though I'd LOVE to stay here in Houston at a department that I both meld beautifully with and is only getting better, this is great news.
Maybe a mid-century modern couch for psychotherapy?
In an effort to navigate the masses and meet up with the people you came with, some at Austin City Limits Music Festival were bright enough to fashion flags. I just thought I'd include a few here.
