crw,jr.+

Bivalves and Bounty

2011-11-26T18:44:00.003-05:00

“Now I know SOMEONE is coming into to town, I just don’t remember who?”

I’d like to blame the string of visitors as to why I couldn’t remember right off, but it may have been just my need for a strong South Asian tea. As such, within the day, I get a text from none other than Saman. A swift exchange of texts led to dinner plans at our bivalve palace, B&G Oysters.

Although nervous that now-too-familiar manager would reveal my addiction to North Atlantic shellfish, she was, thankfully, off for the night. Unfortunately, D couldn’t make it (high quality clinical care with zaftig multiparous obstinate Caribbean women awaited him the following dawn). But, it gave Saman and I a chance to catch up over a gastronomic geography lesson. The waiter, I suspect, was relatively new, because I didn’t get one genus species of the evening's oysters. Not. One. Genus. Species. Nor did he give Saman an adequate introduction to each oyster's bouquet.

They were out of Bee’s Island, and Wellfleet wasn’t listed so I asked for recommendations for one that was meaty, briny, clean, and overall Massachusettsy. I grew suspicious when he paused for an inordinate amount of time, and then recommended the most expensive on the list from the very geographically dissimilar Prince Edward Island. Fail.

After a tidy apology to Saman, we discussed allergy & immunology (he was here for a conference), and his near disastrous hookup at the Costa Rican wedding a couple of weeks ago. The former had made many advances. The latter had made many advances. I explained her dramatic transformation from classay to trashay complete with mousse-pregnant cascading 80s ponytail à la broke Selena, not to mention her accompanying zebra/leopard top. He confirmed his suspicion that D and I were now Asian yentas. I confirmed his confirmation so he wouldn't kvetch or get all mishugina.

It seems relatively easy to pick up where you left off after having lived with someone for most of your 20s. I was exhausted, and it was a school night so I walked Saman to his bed and breakfast. We were already in the heart of the Asian part of town (although most Asian Bostonians slip under the Asian-dar now anyhow), but WOW, was his B&B ASIAN. The chances are high with any brownstone B&B in South End, but combination of the faux fur throw, the silver leaf back lit headboard, and the micro-crystal (read sequin-like) chandelier were more than the non-Asian designer/proprietor could bare. Exceptionally. Well. Appointed. I teased Saman for a bit and admitted that I’d have done the same. Bade goodnight and slipped into a cozy slumber at home.

5pm Friday took FOREVER to arrive, but mercifully made an appearance. I’d forewarned Saman that I needed a nap before commencing the evening’s activity. I awoke refreshed and excited. I chatted with D about his recent work/interview and remembered why I prefer the solitude of the psychiatrist’s office to the cacophony of chatty staff and the ego-ridden. Poor guy, but he makes awesome decisions. At high enough temperatures though, sugar melts. Bootstraps pulled, we rallied around Saman’s newly adopted on-time arrival habit. More yenta talk over old-man Persian tea, and almond cookies plated over Automobile Magazine. Claims to all manner of household objects abounded (he previously owned only 70% of what was claimed, I feigned ignorance to most however). “Is that my fan?” “Hey D, don’t you love this high quality Persian rug?” “Is that my takhteh board?” He left each fair and square. That's what happens when you think you can pack all of your stuff in the space of 3 hours.

D and Saman chuckled at my efforts to minimize exposure to our unseasonably cold weather. I held off on gloves to avoid further embarrassment. Goepfert offered quick and spot-on recommendations for a gastronomically adventurous place with a robust drink menu. The Franklin. Well done. Any place that has both drinks with black tea simple syrup AND Pabst Blue Ribbon is a winner in my book.

Saman was shocked both by the bartenders upper body girth that betrayed her Asianese heritage, and her lack of engagement in being a bartender (at least to us and most non-female patrons). It was busy, but damn. Thankfully, the bebidas more than made up for her lack of genteel disposition. I can only assume that the tattoos and feather-festooned coif must have had consequential neurobehavioral effects. D was a little disappointed with the wasabi coated cod, but my pumpkin ravioli was delish. I didn’t get a good look at Saman’s plate given the speed with which he ate. Tape worm confirmed, although that thing must have gotten osteoporotic by now. D headed out and Saman and I decided on more bebidas.

He was on his second Mo Cocktail before he figured out what ‘Mo was. This delighted our waiter infinitely and apparently this served as cart blanche to get Texas sassy (much to our delight). Saman laughed it off and exaggerated shock. I really admire the Persian. Finally finding comfort in his skin. We tidied up our check, but not before identifying our waiter’s name as “Kiko.” He didn’t appreciate my Free Willy questions. Who knew that it was short for Francisco?

We headed to a place I’d checked out before with a very indeterminate ethnicity. It’s hard to tell who’s Asian in Boston. Saman opted for the less Asian place next door. The bartender asked Saman to sample his drink given his lavender allergy (who has a lavender allergy??) and explained to Mr. Bartender that he was in good company as Saman was an allergist. He warmed up a bit, but still asked us to finish up since the bar was closing. He was getting heat from his amazonian she-boss. Dropped Saman off, headed home, and enjoyed a blissful sleep until 11.

There are a few people that I wish had more an opportunity to hang out with in the past, but UCSF is one of them. She was looking into joining our Cambridge family but we enjoy competition from MGH and Children’s Hospital. Why anyone would give up the glory of the San Francisco Bay is anyone’s guess but she’s here looking around. We met up at Boston Commons before deciding that Food Network-endorsed bakeries always deserved our full attention. She had the sausage soup and the last sticky bun (HEAVEN) and I enjoyed a tomato bisque that should have been framed and the second to last sticky bun. We chatted about our shared med school and what things were like out in SF. I could see that the lacquer of training has rubbed away a bit. I shared my own experiences of needing a touch up and shellacking before Cambridge. I think I volunteered more than necessary about Cambridge but it seemed in welcome company. Anyone foodie with two fashion shows under their belt and a deep desire to provide high quality psychiatric care to the children of America and beyond is okay in my book.

We walked off some of the deliciousness and talked about Boston and life. Its such a small dating world! How one forgets this. We left the Asian neighborhood to arrive at the tony Back Bay neighborhood for some more tea. We elbowed our way past the Europeans to sweetly establish ownership over a table soon-to-be-unoccupied by a young nuclear family. As UCSF continued to stake our claim to our nine square feet, I ordered two pots of tea. The cashier was painfully new, and looked over her shoulder repeatedly and desperately, for any number of touch-screen related questions. “It’s my first day today,” she stated. I told her welcome, later realizing that I hardly go to L’Aroma often enough to stake claim versus the Black Hole, Antidote, or Inversion of Houston. Sigh.

My two pots of tea somehow managed to mutate into a single glass of tea, but this was quickly rectified. Saman arrived and enjoyed our surplus and company. He looked decidedly perky and rested despite his 5 hours of sleep the evening prior. I’d asked that they’d join me in hanging out with this thrupple I knew. Apparently I’m not the only one in the dark about novel Asian romantic relationships, but they, as I, seemed much more interested in fun lawyers, sharp architects, and shyer than expected software engineers. Although I love hanging out with the trio, I was more excited to let UCSF ‘try on’ Boston life for the day. Today would be decidedly skewed.

We took a nice stroll by the park and arrived at a Spanish tapas place I’d never ventured to before. 2/3 of the trio (New Hampshire and Massachusetts) arrived much to our delight. Saman was ecstatic that someone else was both knowledgeable about and had a strong love of Persian architecture. His enthusiasm was tempered only by the constraints of socially acceptable interpersonal rules. New Hampshire was accosted by a woman at the bar in a way that’s unusual for Boston, but we paid little attention given the Persian show beyond him. Later however our group was approached by said woman. She was dressed like New Year’s Eve by her own description.

“I don’t want to be that girl. I’m sorry. I just had a fight with my friend.”

(Add awkward pause here; in London this would be social suicide)

My curiosity betrayed my desired to remove her mildly negative energy. “What did you guys have a fight about?” I said.

“Oh, I couldn’t talk about it," she demurred.

She, of course, talked about it. And talked about it. And talked some more. Fortunately, Massachusetts held her attention while the others continued their discussion of Persian poetry and the concept and large category of ‘non-women.’ I was surprise and pleased that Massachusetts was really empathetic and adroitly asked her to forgive her friend. She did let some crazy out to include relatively sensitive personal health information, and childhood memories that felt incongruent with our current level of intimacy, but Massachusetts didn’t seem to mind. Is architecture the psychiatry of the physical world? I pondered.

Goepfert, provided an invitation to join some of his friends at TT the Bear. I thought he mistexted the name, but this was in fact the case. He promised “Freaks. Queers. & Trannies” much to the delight of 2 of the trio and UCSF. Saman was down to go but purchased UCSF more drinks in exchange for protection from the latter aforementioned group. We piled in Massachusetts’ truck (gasp) and New Hampshire made haste toward the Republic of Cambridge. UCSF isn’t surprised by anything! I assured her that this was a totally normal Boston weekend day.

We arrived to see freaks, queers, but no trannies. They were all replaced by hipsters. Goepfert arrived delightfully and shared his satisfaction with a small mirror purchase. “Isn’t it awesome.” I agreed although the coat check gentleman thought we were suggesting its use for powdered illicit substances. No sir. Don’t think so. I don’t know how I forget Geopfert is so much fun. His entropy is so friendly. Why fight it?

The DJ at TT the Bear was quickly compared to the villain in Who Framed Roger Rabbit by Massachusetts, but all was forgiven by his choice of Ace of Base. I was disinhibited enough to share my unvarnished opinion about a colleague and Goepfert did the same. I suppose things aren’t always as to another as they are to us sometimes (this works in both directions obviously). As predicted by New Hampshire and Massachusetts the music began to deteriorate into marginal 80s electro-clash without many standouts, but this was balanced by the lesbiana on the stage and the youngish pseudo-police officer in the tutu. 1 am came again, but much to our dismay TT decided the evening was complete.

Massachusetts garnered a free Cold Play CD much to the chagrin of a girl who credited her “cuteness” as qualification. We heard about that for a while. New Hampshire obliged his request for late night food. Massachusetts was taken aback by the line of one late night place. A young woman in line did not seem to realize my request for the location of the express line was a joke. We herded the cats again in search of other eats, and Massachusetts was taken aback again with the alternative of IHOP. “Isn’t that where I got food poisoning for three days?” quickly developed into, “That’s where I got dysentery for a month.” After some mozzarella sticks, I slumbered away to a very pleasant sleep.

Non Sequitur

2011-11-21T19:18:00.001-05:00

Provincetown under a late summer shawl.

Non Sequitur

2010-01-18T17:04:00.003-05:00

So, unfortunately, my old camera is no more. Vanished. Finito. In an effort to console myself in my grief, I bought a new one, which is remarkably similar to my old one.. I was testing her out on the roof of PBM4's labyrinthine parking garage. We shall herald in a new era of photography no doubt.... alright some doubt.

Vroom

2010-01-10T22:10:00.000-05:00

Week at work was decidedly more smooth than last. I’d like to personally thank a perfectly free weekend as my saving grace. My iCal hadn't looked so clean in about a month. It’s a shame that idleness has become a luxury. When exactly did that happen? I fully enjoyed an AMAZING sleeping-in on Saturday and awoke to the steady sound of construction and less-than-distant Tejano music. Celebrity Cupcakes has opened, dare I say, next door and so far both my wallet and desire for refined sugars have been good. I patiently await mywillpower to erode so I may bathe my palate in warm yummy goodness.

Croissant Brioche fully welcomed me into complete consciousness. Same cast of characters were present. Octogenarians and monied 30-somethings with their sticky-fingered progeny. Ironically relaxing in that it feels so French (read crowded with the steady clank of coffee cups, and plates filled with yummy treats). VK and I relayed our respective positions on race in America. It would probably be more accurate to say I shared my position and he played coy devil’s advocate. The conversation spilled over to a new very Asian furniture store on the way home owned by delightful Asians. Pants remained clean and wallet intact. I’m not sure why but there were a group of young women that annoyed the hell out of me there. Perhaps its because they seemed clueless and got in between me and the mirrors.

“Audi dealership? Sounds like a plan to me!” VK in his recent focus on practicing in the future has been quite avid on spending some of his future earnings. To be perfectly fair this desire of his has waxed and waned, but this certainly well within wax. Who am I to decline a trip to an autohaus?

There are few things that bring me to my knees, but German cars are definitely on that list. Damn. I clearly hadn’t given enough credit to the venerable badge of Audi. VK was a bit disappointed by an anemic A5. This was is marked contrast to his practical euphoria with the S4 as predicted. Our dealer Tyrone seemed to be quite busy but very relaxed and allowed for an unchaperoned drive on the Allen Parkway. As I fumbled with the seat warmer and radio, I’m pretty sure VK’s eyes dilated with pleasure of acceleration.

As a suitable bookend, we stopped at the Fish Gallery where I showed VK around where a sizable portion of my recent earnings have gone. There were some South American Parrot Cichlids that seemed more frightened than Nigerians in a security queue. They were decidedly not on the list for potential purchases. Fortunately, I managed to abstain from purchasing more Yellow Labs but not without hesitation. VK seemed amused in my deep ambivalence. Time slipped and he went off to call.

Arash and I shared a BBC period movie based on Sense and Sensibility; apparently I’m not the only one repulsed by and attracted to English traditions. He was dumbfounded that the word “bumkin” had its origins beyond his move to the US in the 1980s. 16^th century. Who knew? After making fun of the girl from Plymouth (absolute Valley-girl), we parted and I headed out to hang out with pharmacy Asianese Asians.

There were an unnatural number of pretty people everywhere. Well beyond the dismal numbers expected in freezing temperatures; this is HOUSTON after all. Most impressed. Yuan had twin missions of late to expand his confidence and his chest size. He’s been working out and was recently hired as a trainer. Pharmacy and weight lifting. Who knew? Another Asianese Asian caught his fancy but a variety of circumstances lead to a very constructive failure. All was forgiven as a New York Asian nearly tripped over himself staring. Approach. Shake. Chit Chat. Rejoining of group. Chit Chat. Numbers. Hug. Mission accomplished. At least Yuan has a template to follow now. It was nice to help others in the hunt.

Sunday came too quick, but I found comfort in sloth. Somewhere between hot chocolate, Nutella toast, tangerines, and watching my aquarium Monday came much too quick, but my lungs were filled with a warm respite.

High School Pre-Reunion

2009-11-27T23:59:00.002-05:00

Friday I bade my family’s new-ish Texan homestead Dancing Oaks farewell to attend to my dearest Washington, DC; my class reunion awaited. Fortunately I had the pleasure of touring my dad’s “man cave” as my mother puts it. Sometimes I swear they do more projects than 2007 Dubai. Its nice to see Dad continue to realize his engineering education. It would certainly be classier to call it a “lodge” but I think my mother’s moniker will do. Unfortunately, I left the ranchito prior to my mother returning from her Black Friday activities. There was a Tom Tom to be purchased, and she was to have it for an amazing low low price. Thank you Walmart.

Hugs and besos, and off I go to the 100 mile trip back to my Houston abode. Somehow I managed to forget to pack my trusty iPhone headphones AND charger. What was I thinking? The rolling hills slipped by with the eager assistance of my new La Roux and Jay-Z albums (not as euphoniously divergent as one would initially postulate). I pondered when on earth I was going to get back to regular gym outings, a possible sky trip, healthcare reform, and of course how despite my high levels of planning (i.e. my airline seat choices, hair product bottling, highway traffic determining, magazine placement, and Netflix DVD choice) I still forget something silly.

Vroom. Eeek.

I quickly dropped off nonessentials, picked up headphones, and of course bathed my patio garden in some refreshing water before locking apartment three up again. My journey to the airport was actually fully restricted to neo-soul with Jill Scott and Erykah Badu. Car park. Shuttle. Security. Gate. Some texts reached notables announcing the abdication of my presence in Texas. Schwoosh. Off I go. I thankfully was near neither airplane talkers nor need of nap and made quick work of the Economist, Car and Driver, and a bit more of the Fountainhead (which I have officially be reading forever).

I cannot relate the protest of my entrails as we got the runway with the alacrity of a Tiger Woods press release. Not. Good. It was nice to walk with a sense of purpose again as I chucked some slow walking passerby on the airports moving sidewalk. To be fair, the nature of the Texas Medical Center is no less than fast-paced. Multiple Thanksgiving brunches, lunches, snacks, naps, and dinners can take its toll on an economic use of time. Nonetheless, I gleefully emerge from the cavernous vault that is the Foggy Bottom/GWU Metro station and head to New Hampshire and M Streets where my hotel awaited. Some quick coordination with Dave yielded a very promising pre-party near the U Street corridor. I quick shower relieved me of any superficial weariness. Scarf. Long johns. Amber Ale. A quick thank you to the Google gods. Voila. I arrive at U Street and 17th. Dave would arrive in moments to deliver me the rest of the distance to the house party.

It was nice to see him again. TEN years since our high school graduation. I can only say with any confidence that we’ve hung out reasonably in the last 4 months. Its strange, some people you would be remiss not to spend more time with. He apologized for his inebriation. Within the hour I apologized for joining him with mine. This was all in the setting of a buzzing house party full of Asians (à la Micke)...and a 50 year old Dutch woman. My adopted status as a social butterfly courtesy of my six years in Texas was tempered by my previous status as uncongenial courtesy of my nine years in the DC Metro. Fortunately, most of the Asians there unburdened me by either fully engaging me or benignly ignoring my presence. I did enjoy learning about flip-cup, development of media materials for the American College of Cardiology, and of course who the 50 year old was. Apparently, a large gaggle of Asians were out imbibing that evening for a “Century.” My liver shutters at the thought of what THAT may be. In any case, the older Dutch woman revealed herself to be one of the Asian’s mother. Huh. Imagine that. She was kind enough to deliver the gaggle to the present party. Mystery solved. Dave shared some new developments. Apparently its become de rigueur to get a MBA in this economy. We also discussed some parallels in our lives with upcoming changes and of course waxed lyrical about high school shenanigans.

At the time, having strawberry yoghurt wasted in your lap is...not that funny. Somehow that changes with time. We shared a French class senior year and joked about the (useful) pain that we experienced there. He further caught me up with developments with other friends of course. A divorce, a doctor, and an updated roster of Asians were some highlights. Someone insisted on opening a window (it was a bone-chilling 36 degrees outside) and I quickly retreated to better interior climes opposite the Dutch woman. I noted to myself that these are a curious and interesting people the Dutch, the few that I’ve met. I may have to see the country that produces them. They were among the first to issue us debt to fund our American Revolution against the British; perhaps I’ll have to check them out.

The hours slipped by and my hunger betrayed my desire to stay much longer. Dave expressed a desire to get some rest and avoid unwanted consequences the next morning. He offered a great all night pizza place a block away and we parted ways and the inky darkness. Baffeto's was my beacon beyond the cold, glistening road bathed under those nauseating yellow street lights. The clerk followed me in. Perhaps he’d just finished a cigarette or just wanted some air. In any case, I didn’t know, nor could I decide if he were Ethiopian or just a Pakistani. Immaterial as my stomach growled in protest to my dithering. “Italian sausage special.” I realized that asking for recommendations was as useful as asking Americans their thoughts of healthcare reform beyond vapid vitriol.

It. Scent. Is. Of. HEAVEN. As I was chatting with VK, who was unfortunately stuck in the bowels of the hospital, I was greeted with an unceremonious delivery of a pizza box as I lazily learned over the counters facing 18th street. Perhaps they have become immune to the olfactory delight that greeted me and the leggy loitering Persians. Wow. It was my plan to walk the 1.3 miles back to the hotel as I have previously, but anything that would have adulterated the current state of the pizza was intolerable. I exchanged pleasantries with VK via my fully charged iPhone, explained the situation, and promptly hailed a cab. HE was Pakistani and pleasantly continued his conversation via his Bluetooth headset as we rolled toward the Renaissance M Street Hotel. His breaks squealed and chassis rumbled as all good DC cabs should. I hopped out but it seemed I couldn’t walk fast enough. Double doors. Concierge. Elevator button. Wait. Curious nearly oval elevator. 7th floor spills in front of me. Door. Keys. Wallet. Jacket. NOSH.

I couldn’t have predicted how delicious those six slices were. Pleasant satiety enveloped me and I quickly went off to sleep. Tomorrow would be our ten year high school reunion. What lay ahead?

Non Sequitur

2009-11-13T23:26:00.000-05:00

VK and I ventured to get some tacos from midtown's Taco's-A-Go-Go. Delightfully tacky yet unrefined.

Touring Towers

2009-05-22T22:00:00.000-04:00

It was Abby (AKA Abena), one of the ‘Brits for Obama’ contingent that campaigned with my parents in Ohio some months ago. She kindly inquired if I would be available that evening for a tour of Parliament and perhaps a drink.

Great! Recently there has been a great deal of scandal and worry surrounding MPs and spending. I’d gathered that theses Parliament office workers were more than busy as of late, so I was very surprised to hear from one of them.

The irony of the evening is that I arrived at the visitors gate of Parliament promptly at 6:15pm. I was to meet Abby inside. I approached the guard and inquired if I may pass, as he was blocking my path. I couldn’t tell if his response of “I’m sorry its closed now” was saccharine, sarcastic, or seemingly genial. In any case, I feigned ignorance and cordialness and called Abby.

She flew around the corner and I could see her frenetic energy out of the corner of my eye as I took some more photos.
“Are you Cecil?”
Abby was a shortish, smooth-faced, and round Ghanaian. She would be my guide for the evening.

At first? Yeah, it sucked. After the initial thrill of being taken in to a separate entrance wore off, I began to realize that she probably hasn’t given a tour before. Just prior to introducing me to some colleagues at one of three Parliament pubs, she intimates,
“You know, even though I’ve worked here for all this time, I guess I don’t really know much about this place.”

Duh.
Worst tour ever.

But, as we say in Texas, “Bless her heart (add ample diphthong here).” We breezed by some of the most amazing stone and gilded ceilings that I’ve ever seen. We trampled hastily over well-worn marble floors. We glided by immaculately glistening stained glass. Intermittently we would stumble upon a 17th century statue of some notable, and I’d hear a light British-kissed voice inquiring, “Hmm...what does the plaque say?”

Then we began to meet the Diaspora. A thin Afro-Caribbean security guard brightened at the sight of Abby, introduced himself and then showered me in Jamaican patois. I caught maaaaybe 70% of it. My blank stare and staccato response betrayed my ignorance.

“Sorry, I see one of us and then I get going.”
Inside I agreed, though my words said, “No, not at all.”

We exchanged pleasantries that I had since become unaccustomed to since being in relatively staid England. He was warm and pleasant, and reminded me why I love my people so much.

Abby hesitantly asked if this gentleman had keys to the crypt. He said he didn’t but pointed us in the direction of a fellow officer that did and eagerly obliged. We immediately began our decent in the cold, twisty halls below the most ancient part of the Houses of Parliament. A large wooden door swung open to an incredible gilded chapel. To call it gorgeous would be an understatement as to call Houston summer-sun warm would be also in error. The other security guard related to us a small morsel of its history, but needless to say I don’t think I was supposed to take pictures.
Good tour.

We began our ascent again and spilled out into the ancient Westminster Hall Abby began her entreaties of completing the tour as we entered the Common Hall. Her knowledge and likelihood of a better performance was dismal. As a last ditch effort, she kindly asked another guard if he knew anything about the Hall.

To begin, his name was Minty. He was the sort of gentleman that you’d imagine that had a favorite pub, noshed proudly on English food and English football wins, and was seemingly ambivalent but deeply devoted to his wife. He was a Londoner.

Minty at first teased us with a little knowledge of our surroundings.

He talked about the ceiling with its many symbols, he sprinkled minor dates and peoples, and shared a simple joke or two. I ate it up. As did Abby. Seeing an opportunity, Abby kindly asked if we could see the House of Commons. He eagerly obliged and walked us there.

The talked about EVERYTHING. About Churchill, about the rebuilding of the House of Commons after the War, about the ceremonies involved in the Queen’s annual visit, about ‘modesty drapes.’ He discussed the origins of the word “tally” that was born there, and the phrase “toe the line.” I was enchanted. I wouldn’t call myself a history buff, but a thorough understanding of origin is oh-so-much fun. Abby, Minty, and I laughed and sighed in awe.

Minty was quite the history buff and hilarious in a high school teacher sort of way. He whisked us to where they vote, to the venerable although seemingly anachronistic House of Lords, to halls, corners, plaques, and even regal dressing rooms. He explained the British Royal family tree with the assistance of the many paintings on the wall with the clarity and hilarity of Maury.

BEST TOUR EVER.

“Well, we should say hello to my friend before we go. Do you have time? I warn you he’s a bit off” Even if not entirely true, he could have asked for a kidney and I would have said yes.

We joined another guard with who he’d been working with for the better part of two decades. Within 10 minutes he showed us his tattoo, Mayhem I think it was, (on his upper arm) and graced us, without hesistation, to his passionate and riotous performance of a NUMBER of his favorite bands song. He cajoled into joining. In a surreal moment, I thought, “Yup. I am karaokeing in Parliament.” Not your average evening. We talked of Obama’s senatorial visit to the Houses of Parliament and debated if Obama shaking your hand counts as “meeting” him (we for our karaokeing friend it did). I hadn’t laughed that hard in a house of government in quite some time. Our friend insisted that we take photos in his hat with his new (beautiful) Blackberry. We obliged.

“Oops. Its 10! We’re no longer paid to be here! We’ll see you later!”
And just like that, off they went after hearty hand-shakes. Thus concluded the evening, never to be repeated again.

I'm Just a Lucky So-and-So

2009-05-22T21:43:00.006-04:00

So the day started innocuous enough. I had an early afternoon free and decided that I would remain in my decision to do as much exploration as possible. I’d already purchased my hat; this had freed considerable mental capital, so I made my way to Coventry Gardens. I stumbled upon store after store of posh threads that contained items that were well beyond my pocketbook. Another Paul Smith store teased me we further sartorial delights. I even managed to stomach an Abercrombie & Fitch look-a-like store. I’d pretty much decided to venture back to the flat, when voila!

Neal’s Yard

Tucked just beyond the street in a tiny courtyard beyond an alley layed the former residence of Monty Python, delicious vegetarian fare, and an excellent perch to do some more people watching. After requisite picture taking under the watchful protection of my new hat, and a quick seat at a café table, I was (eventually) accosted by a waiter.
“Are you vegetarian?”
I stumbled, “Uh...no, but uh...”
“Then I suggest these.” He turned to the back of the menu phlegmatically and began pointing to their ‘non-veg’ fare.
“Hmm...that sounds good, how about the quiche?”
“Excellent choice.” He quickly disappeared.

The meaty quiche was...palatable. In any case, it was a beautiful afternoon. I considered a desert, but decided that I’d better get the bill since the service took a remarkably long time.

I failed at taking a photo of a delightful 60 year old with red leather boots and matching hair, but low and behold:
I’ll call her violet. Violet was reading a newspaper near some important statue, her husband dutifully and eagerly looking over her shoulder. I’ve never, ever, seen someone match their skirt, to their, purse, to their cardican, to their earings, to their HAIR. Well, besides in some parts of Atlanta, but I digress.

I continued my sojourn to an art supply store that was housed under a canopy of chimneys.

My ring tone, I’m Just A Lucky So and So, chirped through my new skinny jeans (gasp). I struggled additionally to receive the change from the purchase of a hilariously British card. “Hello?”

Yes We Did

2009-01-20T13:43:00.000-05:00

Above is a poster by Lance Wyman who was commissioned for the above piece. Its practically de rigueur for artists to be involved in this past election, but I'll take it. You may remember Lance Wyman as the guy behind the Olympic Mexico 68 Posters.

In any case, its nice to proud of the leader of the free world again. We'll see where this takes us. It seems like everyone has an opinion (1, 2, 3). Mine? Its nice to have smart people running the country.

Non Sequitur

2009-01-05T17:46:00.000-05:00

Chamberlain and I were joined by our favorite future pediatric interventional cardiologist at one of my favorite haunts in Houston, Poison Girl. And no, you're not imagining things. That is in fact a giant and rather ironic/anachronistic Kool-Aid Man with his similarly enormous 80s compatriot, Cabbage Patch. I needn't say more. Just go.

And a Happy New Year.

2009-01-02T16:42:00.000-05:00

There are absolutely no words. My only hope is that you had as an amazing send-off to 2008 as I did....but I doubt it.

Merry Christmas

2008-12-25T22:32:00.004-05:00

Somehow my parent's managed to entertain and feed around thirty people of multiple branches of our family for Christmas. They certainly have more energy than they claim. In any case, welcome to Dancing Oaks.

Solstice.

2008-12-21T22:07:00.009-05:00

Our resident Cherokee compatriot ironically emailed our whole class...except me...for his annual gathering (this slip, I'm sure, is largely because I send most of the social emails to our class and don't include myself on the list. Right?).

In any case, my local Bengali go-to is out of commission given the watchful eye of her baba, so I trek it alone. Cherokee always has a tendency to surprise with a seemingly anachronistic calm demeanor. He holds court in his rapidly gentrifying neighborhood (read still 'hood but with character). I park behind another of Germany's finest, in a gaudy yellow. My fingertips and palms tickle the rosemary bush as I clank up the wood plank steps. Its decidedly quiet on the porch as I reach for the door knob.

Tap, tap.
Enter.

As a quick aside. I love Houston (and not in the narcissistic self-referencing sense). Its just so random. If non-blue, oddly shaped post-cards could be made of soirées, I'd have to send this one out to DXB. I'm greeted by an older married Black couple who smile and ask my name before I even have a chance to take my scarf off. I reply softly and smile as my eyes gauge this odd tableau vivant:

Young, engaged, yuppyish couple painfully resisting yuppydom.
Multiple short-coiffed former/current hippies.
A heap of Native American
A pinch of East Indian
A hint of Asian

And a hint of Asianese.

This is all set in a woody, creaky 1920s bungalow that is Cherokee's and his roommate's dwelling. Teal walls embraced the light and delightful smell of tannin-y wine. Yum. I glide past the couple and those already in intimate conversations, passed a table of cranberry chipotle cheddar, brie, and gouda to head toward the kitchen. The crystals in the window sparkle.

"Oooh hello! Great to see you!"

Deb's hands open wide as she sweetly moves for a hug. Deb is one of those people you meet once and are bewitched by. You wonder how did America manage to produce someone who has remained so innocent and warm. Her long gray hair catches the light and wind from the back door as she points.
"He's out there by the fire" she says referring to Cherokee.

As promised in the invite, Cherokee has the firepit going and this may be one of the only nights this 'winter' where it may be more utilitarian than simply visually appealing. Cherokee shares some wine and asks if I've grabbed a Tarot card and paper.

"Deb's really into that stuff." Deb fluently joins with eyes wide, "It'll predict 2009 for you."
"Also, be sure to take a blue paper, write what it is you'd like to let go of this year, and throw it in the fire."

Clever. Done.

I warm my hands and we exchange light chat, and swiftly I return inside to pick up a Tarot card and paper. Before I do, I go to sign the evening's guestbook, but have trouble deciding whether to leave a superficial yet quick holiday message or a substantive yet time-intensive holiday message. I decide to leave my signature. On to the paper betrothed to the fire.

Humility forbids me from revealing what I wrote, but I'll let you imagine.

"_______ __ __ __________."

As for the Tarot card, I'll be less bashful:

"Hey Debra, is the Magus one good?"
She pauses as her gaze remains fixed down before responding. Enter wave of panic. She finally meets my eyes and intimates, "That's very good. That's the best one of all the cards."

If it were bad, of course, it was my plan to remain in ignorance about the details of the card, but her exuberance piqued my interest. So I picked up the well-worn Tarot book to get the quick and dirty.

None to shabby, but kinda freaked out.

Note to self. Only use powers for good.

So, Cherokee and I are joined by Rockstar and Hans outside by the fire. We discuss our shared fascination with fire and compliment Cherokee on his wood stacking skills. We're interrupted gracefully by a woman who discusses mental health, and the utility or beauty of taking pictures of fire. Our other quasi-German, Iranian fellow psychiatry resident joins much to our delight (he's on call, but is apparently more efficient with his time than we originally estimate).

Debra laments the lack of use of the smores she's provided and Cherokee beautifully redirects with an aplomb that suggests plenty of experience of doing just that. Cherokee and I chop some more cheese and apples (by we I of course mean Cherokee) and I swirl about for a bit.

My next exciting and rather unexpected meeting is with this one woman that I can only describe as...uncanny. Her hair was cut in a fashion that suggested a mushroom and it framed a raceless, blank face with ironically intense eyes.

"Hello, you work with [Cherokee]?"

"Oh..yeah. My name is Cecil."

She stares.

Further, she continues to shake my hand for what was undeniably an uncomfortable period of time.

Enter wave of mild anxiety that by now had become quite familiar this evening.

"That was my father's name...that's a very unusual name."

I pray that my concern does not show on my face and am reminded of my times being tested by more adventurous patients.

With half a smile, "Yeah, its also my father's name."

I half listen, to her pleasant yet gauche response, as she continues to hold my hand.

Odd.

"Oh, hey [Cherokee]." I turn back to this odd one, "I'm going to help our friend here bring out some more wine. It was a pleasure meeting you."

I give the Cherokee a very knowing stare, and my thoughts are communicated clearly. In the kitchen Cherokee confirms my initial impression and we share a small laugh.

More fire, a half-glass of wine, some more delicious cranberry chipotle cheese and the evening winds down.

Austin

2008-10-13T19:01:00.003-04:00

I love Austin, Texas. That is all to be said. Thanks so much to Firewoman Frost (not some clever sobriquet) who helped make the above happen. No further explanations.

Rapprochement: Scene 1

2008-08-16T19:41:00.005-04:00

I like creeks. So when cajoled (I was clearly over eager) to accompany some amigos on a journey to that liberal bastion Austin, I of course accepted after some protest of practicality. Last week was buuuusy. As with all institutions the balance between selflessness and self-interest and slips precipitously under the following circumstances: inordinate pressure. Given a fake-hurricane, missing bosses, and a repellent schedule I clearly slipped by Friday. Forgive the lack of detail.

But let's start at the beginning. I quickly finish my work/academic responsibilities in Houston's western concrete bowels and swiftly navigate slow drivers, evening traffic, and an insufferable heat in Eva, my trustworthy 1994 E320. She (until that point) hadn't experienced that level of brutishness since Bavaria I imagine. I arrive to Rice Village and quickly find parking and run to Uncle Funky's Daughter for my appointment. Gotta get the locks maintained.

Tonya is gracious as always, and we (her more than I) comfort a newly dreadlocked Texan/New Yorker. My spine tickles with the cool drops dripping from my immaculately clean locks and watch the clock earnestly. My flight to Austin is at 7:50p and its about 6:15p (we'll ignore the obvious yuppiness of flying the 174 miles to Austin, but I assure you my schedule was that tight). Tonya insists that I go under the dryer, to which I protest in vain and find myself suppressing waves of panic as the time remaining draws nearer to record times for driving to Intergalactic.

The dryer stops. Wallet emptied of fee. Tie catches the breeze as I run to my car. The door stiffly shuts after its grating chime. Two minutes later I've changed at home and back inside my auto looking at traffic maps on my non-iPhone. I-59 changes to I-45. 7:20p and painfully slow ribbons of steel sow fears of missing my flight. Mierda. Change of plans. 610 to I-59. 7:35p. I feel some hope returning as I've never managed to get to the airport this quickly during the weekend rush. I see in my minds eye which garage I'll park and where and map in my head quickly the shortest root to Gate C34 all while approaching the Houston Intercontinental Airport sign.

There's a limo that refuses my passing, but its okay 7:39 and I've got a plan. Damn. Cones. CONES & "Closed for construction." Panic. I whisk around the airport again for more parking and realize the immensity that is IAH and come to quiet resolution that I'll never make it on time. "When the next flight?" I follow inane signs directing me elsewhere to another terminal that seems about a half mile past Hades. I see the purple garage that I want to park but am frustrated by a tiny plastic ropes in my way.

"F***-it. I'm parking here and running."

Weekender bag in hand I reexamine myself for metal and make the appropriate changes. Terminal C in all of its 80s modernity greets me with its obnoxious angles and fluorescent lights. "Is this the Elite Access line?"

I don't have Elite Access but do have an amazing deficit of time 7:45p. Maybe there's a chance. Airlines suck now right?

"Wow. You're pretty." The young Negresse's co-worker who's zaftig curves betrayed her starched polyester and shiny name-tag, elbows her immediately in disbelief.

"What? He is."

I'm nonplussed. I'm clouded by the abruptness of her comment, the need to get through security, and my a terrible sense of urgency.

"Uhhhh....thanks." I manage to squeek out a tepid and equally worried smile. I fly over that forbidden blue carpet release my sandals from my feet and hurry through all manner of x-rays and metal detection in record time. Off to C34.

I see a queue of people. Damnit. They're already boarding the next flight. Whoa, wait. "Sorry for the delay folks. Let's begin boarding our first class passengers at this time."

7:50p

Thank goodness for 15 minute delays.

30 minutes of flying. I arrive at the tiny Austin Airport with my hand-baggage and am delighted to find the Barton Creek Resort van that L'Evêques arranged. I tolerate the rosy-cheeked driver's banter about Scotland, and his papers in college, and relax at the site of the beautiful hotel. Though there are no brown-people in site, I am comforted by merely being awak from Houston at the very least. Drop the bag at the room, change into my swimming drunks as I am reminded of Phelps and Dubai, and feel a bit naked as I navigate the lobby toward the pool.

BLISS.

The pool glows under the stars, live oaks and palm trees, and I'm wrapped in a soothing Texas zephyr.

"Hey! Cecil's here!"

My weekend begins.

Non Sequitur

2008-07-14T01:18:00.003-04:00

The roof of my favorite Houston arts venue, Jones Hall. Kevin, the former roomy, graduated from our med school here last month. He's now off to beautiful La Jolla for internal medicine as expected.

Bruthas wanna know

2008-07-05T18:18:00.007-04:00

"Why don't you ever update the blog no more? bruthas wanna know."

The short answer is that they don't have internet-capable computers in hell. This brutha's been working...hard. Thankfully though I am no longer a lowly intern (since July 1st). This being said, privacy and medico-legal constraints forbid me from divulging details of my trip through Hades these last couple of months, but I can share with you the following (absolutely unrelated) thoughts I have had in the last couple of months:

1. "32 hours of no sleep = 3 Vanilla Stolis and Coke"

2. "Nurse, please don't be stupid. I have no energy for stupid."

3. " This bath needs to be 10 degrees warmer to soak the pain away."

4. "Most beautiful wedding EVER."

5. "That's a hot tranny mess."

6. "Is everyone Asian now? Why are they so much more fun?"

7. "Scheiße. Am I losing weight? Back to the gym."

8. "Please let there be noting else wrong with my car besides 27 cents."

9. "Calling me doesn't make it faster."

10. "I guess I'm trading in Persians."

Recently, I've thoroughly immersed myself into the task of making my once-forgotten and neglected patio into something a bit more respectable. Thankfully, I've had plenty of help to enable my burgeoning addiction to Ikea clay pots. Its gotta be a dozen already. Basil for pesto, oregano chicken, mint for mojitos; yummy. Hibiscus, roses, palms, vines, vinca, and a variety of annuals now grace the patio. Add a dash of halogen for the night, garnish with small fountain, and voilà. Its actually NICE to look outside now.

I See London, I See France

2008-04-21T08:13:00.000-04:00

Dreams are a funny thing. One of my fellow psychiatry resident LOVES to interpret them. As I was fully immersed in the most fulfilling sleep in recent memory, I had the following dream.

I was with a female friend learning Arabic at some slick looking institute or something when her teacher kept saying. “Yamaz.” Then I asked,

“What’s the difference between ‘yamaz’ and ‘yella?’”

Knock, knock, knock

Apparently it was NOON. Merde. Clearly I had underestimated my sleep deficit or overestimated my abilities. Dubai very kindly reminded me of the time, and offered use of the bathroom for grooming. Scrub, wash, brush. I straightened, inspected, and gave a nice Blue Steel in the mirror.

Off we went.

It was Dubai’s goal to find some food that was both delicious and not available in America. In the matter of availability this removed all but the most remote of food in the world, and in the matter of deliciousness it conversly removed all English foods. What’s left?

Japanese pizza. Kid you not.

Dubai stood proud and donned a big Scandinavian smile as we arrived at Abeno Too to have said pizza. I chose the Osaka Mix and they cooked it right on the burner in front of me. It was thankfully less acrobatic than our American Japanese steakhouses, for I fear the consequences of such with a ‘pizza.’

It was a weird combination of eggs, onions, bacon, parsley and thinly sliced dried ham and moved in a strange serpentine manner like a hundred tiny vipers to a charmer. I’d never seen anything like it. Dubai chose a decidely less active omelety looking Japanese burrito thing and we both delighted in the experience. Hoji cha (that robust and woody Japanese tea) was poured, we cleaned our palettes and left.

We were making our way toward the Parliament building when we stumbled on a demonstration in Trafalgar Square. MY PEOPLE! Dubai looked a bit bewildered as there were no fewer than a thousand Bengalis shouting about saving curry houses. I of course explained my inordinate intense love of India, love of Bengalis, and love of curry houses. His furrow brow lifted, and he cheerfully suggested pics be taken.

Laura, a friend of Barré’s I met in Houston, was studying in London but called to say that she would unfortunately not be able to meet us given her massive paper on the efficacy of the HPV vaccine. Sighs were exchanged and Dubai and I approached the Parliament Tower.

We were absolutely dumbfounded of how to reach the small park in front of it. There were people there sitting and relaxing yet there were no identifiable crosswalks and pretty harried traffic circle poised to take kneecaps quicker than Tony Harding. Just as we were discussing the above, there was a whole flock of small children in Boy Scouts (or their British equivalent) led briskly across the street despite imposing buses and spirited hatchbacks.

We looked at each other and bolted across the street...safely...to reach the curb of the park.

Perfect. Dubai remained uncharacteristically passive and cheerless as I gathered snaps of him in front of the Tower (and then gave into the silliness), the same way I used to protest pictures in front of any Washington monument, memorial, or other neoclassical DC building. So we exchanged spots on the grass and attempted to add another jumping shot to my collection. Successful. Kudos to Dubai’s photo skills. We then walked toward the Tate Modern. Before approaching the behemoth former powerstation turned art museum, I again became distracted by a flurry of acrobatic skaters under a bridge in a cocoon of graffitied walls. I intimated to Dubai my childhood desire to be a skater (very unfortunate), and off we sauntered. We quickly stopped at a giant, curious metal cylinder with cameras on its periphery that was installed on the walkway. A jumpsuit-clad dark haired Briton explained "The Memory Project." Must be more art. I was disgusted with a rather candid shot of me eating caramelized nuts, but Dubai gave another big Scandinavian chuckle.
After taking a call in what I can only assume was some Eastern European language, we arrived in Tate’s side entrance. The giant crack in the floor of the museum’s foyer (it was artistic people) was filled as was the elevator to the top floor for tea. Tea ordered, Dubai verbally slaps my wrist for attempting to tip, and I put my chair-seeking skills in overdrive and score two bar stools looking out onto the Thames and St Paul’s. Nice.

I became chagrined as more light, deep, and in between conversation with Dubai made me internally question this worlds horrible immigration policies.
In keeping with our rapid pace, we headed over that previously shaky Millennium Bridge to Old old London. We giggled as we passed Ye Old Cock, debated the ease of learning Farsi (easy), Urdu (hard), and Bangla (still up for debate), and mulled over potential countries of citizenship and career. Though I probably should have said it, I clearly think of Dubai as one of this world’s singular creatures and it really kinda pains me to think citizenship could strangle potential global contributions. Alas...the road ahead.

I was immediately blasted from sympathetic melancholy by Muji. This is the super simple Japanese store that I had been cyberstalking for MONTHS. Dubai seemed perplexed by my fanaticism as apparently this store is apparently as common as fog in London. I remained restrained and purchased a mere two postcards, and some small passport sized books. Dubai suggested I jot down quick points about my day as I travel and my eyes dilated.

A breeze through Chinatown led back to Dubai’s where he was preparing some curry cabbage. He stuffed his near sacred swim gear in a bag and walked me back to the train station. Hugs, and promises of meeting in Buenos Aires next followed lightly and fragrantly. My sadness to depart from such a WONDERFUL time was balanced by my desire to thoroughly consume Paris’ glory.

Train ride was short and child-free, merci à Dieu.
J’arrive à Paris.

Non Sequitur

2008-04-20T18:38:00.001-04:00

Per usual, I've got another jumping shot to add to the collection courtesy of my friend Dubai, and Augustus Welby Northmore Pugin (1812- 1852).

Asianese Please

2008-04-20T15:08:00.001-04:00

Unskinny Bob’s. No. We were not being impolite; this was the club we were to frequent Dubai and I. After a short tube ride, we arrived a bit astonished; more specific, I arrived astonished. At this quasi-rickety nouveau-chic, East-End building, we confronted a queue that hugged the corners of the sidewalk. A part of my initial anxiety was lifted as Dubai was again greeted by warm coterie of 80s-fashioned Asian women.

Asian women are fun.

There was one whose countries of heritage did not match her ethnicity. She would be our main liaison for the evening. Polish bred, Swedish-raised, with Surinamese siblings. Yes....of course. How 2008. Given London’s relatively lax open container laws, cider was purchased and shared in line. We spent the next 40 minutes or so discussing London, Dubai’s accidental non-Scandinavian birth, and Lego earrings. The latter of the conversation was not well-received by the wearer, as she thought of this as essentially de rigueur for any posh Londoner on the scene to don any manner of 80s children’s toys or other pop icons of that era.

12:04am

The door guy (for he was not the bouncer) was this emo-sque, cardigan wearing gentleman with equal hefty helpings of tattoos and piercings of most visible skin and/or cartilage. He reminded me of an unfortunate malnourished mule given his wild shock of red hair.

“Unfortunately, we will not be able to let you in. Please don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”

These were the words that he related to the trio of young women just in front of the Asians and myself. The protested, cajoled, and huffed with arms crossed then waving in a manner similar to the taxi driver from that morning at the Paris airport.

Def-eat-ed.

No worries though, the scene and the company alone was more than enough to satisfy the trip for me. Dubai related the proper British use of “twatting it up” as it related cogently to our company. Thus, we left all the Asians, who were formulating (far too slowly) plans for later. Our plans for later included walking to Dubai’s neighborhood now.

My astonishment found new home in Dubai and his Polish/Swedish friend. It is impossible, as Dubai intimated, to do anything spontaneously in London. This served in stark contrast to my experience in Paris where it is impossible to anything with any level of planning. Dubai apologized for unnecessarily and we instead decided to eat some Asian food.

The restaurant had some amazing music but was located in the basement for unknown reasons. Dubai, and moreso myself, found nothing edible, but dabbled, lived in the moment and left. The rest of the evening can be summed as follows:

Walk, gasp at queue, walk gasp at queue, walk....

It was GREAT. My people watching was on hyperdrive and I learned all about the Asianese subcultures and scenes. There is apparently an incredible diversity. We arrived at Dubai’s postcard-festooned flat, had warm red currant watched the Office and various other Amerovision programming and passed out.

It was the most beautiful, merciful, and replenishing sleep EVER. Dubai has a cozy-spare bedroom with a equally cozy down comforter. After a 10 hour flight, a two hour train, and a total of three countries in 24 hours, IT WAS BLISS. And off I slipped to dreamland.

Reservations

2008-04-20T13:29:00.001-04:00

Beautiful, merciful, and replenishing sleep.

Didn’t get any of that on the train. I did however receive the cacophonous chorus of the most delightfully hyper kindergarteners this side of Disneyworld.

I peaked from under the brim of my hat to notice that I was literally surrounded by Barney’s key market (or whatever the French equivalent is). My heart certainly skipped a bit, but I was reliably distracted by the shrill of “ARRÊTE! C’est la mienne!” as it drowned out even the most powerful Aretha Franklin on my iPod. This was of course accompanied by the intermittent light and heavy kicks to the back of my seat. Defeated.

Somehow I squeaked out some sleep during the 2.5 hour journey across the English channel and but I’m sure the endorphins from my excitement of escaping Neurology in Europe evaporated all but the most stubborn of my sleepiness. I briskly walked toward the train exit but this time my distraction took hold of the most beautiful train station I’ve ever seen, St. Pancras.
Apparently I was some sort of church or something prior, but it is no less than a spectacularly remain train station that delivers you into central London from the Continent. As I peer out the doors, I see brown figure tower over some homely Britons. That would be Dubai and this would be our third country (France, United States, UK).

Joyous salutations abound and we are off to get Ethiopian food per (Ribs, my med school friend and sister-from-another-mister, somehow influences effortlessly everything she’s involved with, even in absence). Dubai waves and glows as he fraternizes with the workers whose own smiles suggest more than a casual knowledge of this Londoner. Unfortunately, they ain’t got no room.

“Hmmm....come back in 30 minutes. We should have something then.”

Off to Rouge Lounge across the street:
Vanilla Stoli and Coke
Vodka Soda
Work, Play, Travel and combinations thereof
Ribs, Chicago, schedules

Voilà. 30 minutes and we’re back at the Ethiopian restaurant. It was nice to share Ethiopian with someone who I may argue likes the East African food more than me and the sharp use of English was garnish. It pained me that I perhaps would missed this opportunity despite the very independent nature of my cousin and Halles back in Paris. No matter, as the past washed away and we were off to pre-party, or better yet, prepare.

We went to Dubai’s and shared his red currant vodka and I shared with him when we in the medical field most often refer to the berry (intussusception if you’re curious). As is often the case when one visits the place of someone’s residence, there were three surprises.

1. Dubai has wall after wall of postcards from corners of the earth that would fill Odysseus himself with wonder; and quite the odd collection too. He apparently requests the oddest-shaped and least-blue postcards from his and his friend’s travel.

2. Dubai seems to be no less than an indefatigable individual, but even I wouldn’t have imagined that he would live literally across from his work in an architecture firm. This was thankfully balanced by his admission that he is regularly late despite the cross street walk.

3. His door says 88. This may not seem so unusual save for the fact that down the hall of this second story hall, the apartments are designated as follows: 1, 2, 3, 88. Apparently there was a Asianese guy there before that preferred not to have the number of death, 4. After sharing some more Zoot Woman, and talk of Tecktonik were hopped on the Tube to rendez-vous some friends of his at a suitable locale to hang out. Thus began our evening.

Après Moi, le Deluge

2008-04-19T13:02:00.000-04:00

So things got off to a rough start despite starting out as smoothly as can be. Think Clinton’s Presidential campaign circa December 2007. Barré was kind enough to let me freeload in his Town Car to the airport, courtesy of Emirates’ business class. Gracias. The airport screen was slow but painless, the flight was on time, movies acceptable, with 9 and a half hours went by faster than junior high. Then I arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris. I love Paris despite its best efforts affronts to airport civility (see last year). I arrived what can be best described as a spaceship, Terminal 2A. It’s the sort of round shaped concrete that may be both architecturally praised and admonished, but more than this it doesn’t make much sense. I was assured by the crew in Houston that I would be able to remain behind security to reach Terminal 2E were my cousin Leon and his friend Halles were in the arrive.

Nope.

After being needlessly corralled, and subject to yet more queues and what seemed like the longest glass walkway in France, I found myself spilling out into the airport dropoff road; I gathered a simple rendez-vous with Leon and Halles would not be possible at this point. So after a circuitous shuttle ride, I arrived at 2A...30 minutes later. I’d all but given up christening our trio at the airport, seeing as I had the address to the apartment we were renting, but ALAS I see my cousin with his signature and paradoxically frenetic saunter coming out of customs. Hugs exchanged and lets find a taxi.

“Need a taxi?”

Normally my travel instinct forbids such potentially troublesome accosts, and this was no exception, but just as I was about to shoo away the francophone African, Leon blurts out:

“Taxi? Yeah. Let’s go.”

Hmm... Why not?...I guess. I tried out some of my French and ask our new friend, who is quickly whisking us to the bowels of the CDG’s ground transport, how much is a trip to the 1st arrondissement where our apartment awaited. In a baritone West African staccato, he paused looked up and responded, “Uh...€60.”

FISHY. But Leon is impatient, and so Halles and I are off to the ATM. A young taxi driver pulls me aside in the hall and intimates in his native French, “You know that’s not a taxi right? That’s a private car. A trip to downtown should not cost more than €40-45. How much is he charging you?”

“Il est un VOLEUR!” and all manner of angular gesticulation followed the aforementioned €60. Subsequently two...then four ironically paramilitary-clad French Police officers began lazily hovering around this man’s gestures like flies to honey.

Was it something a said?

Leon face looks perplexed and concerned as a number of police officers follow me outside to this private car. Our bags were mercilessly packed tightly in the tiny euro-hatchback and I could feel the drivers pensive worry as I tried to bargain down the price to €40.

Nope.

The bags come out with a speed that belies this country’s inefficient nature after I refuse a €50 fare. I’m sure our African friend’s celerity was encouraged by a healthy fear of becoming familiar (or perhaps more familiar) with the French po-pos. In either case, Leon for a moment was speechless as I explained what had just taken place.

Let’s try again.

We then were ushered to the proper taxi stand and hired a bigger cheaper car to take us to the city center. Halles looked peacefully out the window as Leon fidgeted with something or other and I tried to give the address to the driver, also a member of the African diaspora. After a perplexed look, which by now I had unfortunately become accustomed to, he corrected my pronunciation of “quarante-deux.”

Can’t catch a break today.

After a €44 cab ride we arrive. Leon did an excellent job of scouting for an apartment to rent. Café directly below us, boulangerie and patisserie and four markets literally 20 steps away from the door in any direction. I must admit the events of the morning slipped away as new mothers forget the pain of childbirth in the eyes of her new child. In an incredulous and equally loud manner Leon of course, wondered where our apartment contact was, as we had called him from the taxi with our well-predicted time of arrival.

I called again, fumbled through more French and he came around the corner with his apron still on. Apparently he also owned the Lebanese restaurant not a block from the building. Keys came out, instructions given, linens delivered, and cash exchanged.

Nous arrivons.

I had booked a Eurostar train to London for an impromptu visit to my Pakistani-bred, Emirates-born, California-schooled London resident and fellow wanderlust-ailed friend, Dubai. I grabbed my trusty green daybag, which I prepacked in Houston and found myself blissfully navigating the urine-fragranced Metro to Gare du Nord. I jumped out when the train became suitably West African and made my way to the Eurostar terminal. Thus began my London sojourn.

Tecktonik! Super chouette!

2008-04-07T13:26:00.008-04:00

I can't stop watching.

During my recent trip to Chicago, my Pakistani, Dubai-native, Londoner friend kept teasing me with what he described as "TECKTONIK! C'est super chouette (its super cool). I'll send links." Dubai had the same level of excitement he reserves to relating stories about Turkish trysts, or Scandanavia so I assumed it had to be something. So, alas, after a whirlwind Chicago weekend when Dubai was Stateside, I have been the very fortunate recipient of the aforementioned links. I'm certainly no stranger to electronica, but this is a weird mix of dancing that borrows alot of break-dancing, hip-hop, and techno. Add some arm-flailing and bingo, you've got yourself Tecktonic. Its interesting that this has been brought to the same people that produced Descartes & Sartre. In any case, I thought I'd share. I've got vacation in Paris later this month and my desire to check this out...or even participate...is struggling with my desire not to be a herb. That and my Afro-American pride refuses to be recipient of retro-grade trends from that side of the Atlantic. It's supposed to be other way around right à la rock, jazz, blues, hip-hop, break-dancing, etc., right?

Perhaps not always. We'll see if I get all Tecktonik in France.

Friday in Chicagoland

2008-04-02T01:01:00.007-04:00

The unfortunate thing about floor to ceiling windows is that let it a hot tranny mess load of light in the AM. My eyelids protested in vain against a flood of piercing and cold white light as I stumbled across the hall to take the most urgent tinkle of my adult life.

After washing les mains in lavatory, I let out a very substantial, "WHA?"

It was snowing.

This makes 2/3 times I travel to Chicago in what seems and endless barrage of snow. No, matters. It does look gorgeous from the 17th floor, but lacks any true threat to my now, comfortable and infinitely less urgent constitution.

Back to sleep... and sleep.....and sleep.

DAMN! I woke up hella late. My ambitious plans for tackling phase three of my Chicago personal tour is quickly evaporating. I haven't woken up this late since....well...probably the day after Ribka's Halloween party with the Mexicans and Poles. Always a footnote. Guided tour of Southside Chicago will have to make due with the Japanese tourists today.

Self-tour of DuSable Museum it is. Decided.

shower

vigorous vents and dents

cower...

ravenous brunch of crunch

I ponder why orange juice always taste funny after toothpaste as I put on my wooly armor in silence. Ribs is working, the Man is gone to see his beautiful mamma in Minnesota. Keys in pocket, I confidently saunter out the front to meet my new companion niège. She's kinda cold.

Taxi it is.

Blocks blocks and blocks roll by anonymously. There's a cool steely yet gossamer el-train tunnel to the left with a near perfect modern compliment building below and beside it. Birds flutter in the white sky. Michigan Ave spills into deeper numbers, we cross a crystalline Washington Park, and arrive....kinda.

I pay the cabby who insists the 80s groupthink-designed rear entrance is the front entrance. "You tryin' to go to the museum? You gotta go around to the front."

Humbly, back to the slush I trotted around to a remarkable granite-heavy front. Its a bit bewildering considering I can't make out road, from park, from sidewalk. This could be a gaudy backside for all I know à la pre-Diddy, J.Lo.

I museo-dork around but am disappointed. I misspelled Word docu indicates that the gallery of the second floor is closed and I'm forced to take the elevator town passed a terribly romanticized account of African history. There I people watch, wondering who are these other fellows visiting a museum on a Friday at 4pm. Student, hospital visitor (next door to U.Chicago hospitals), and security. Some of the art is compelling, but then I shutter to think what the National Museum of the African-American will look like when its completed in DC. Let is not be stale. You'd think with an amazing history as the gateway from the South for the American urbanization of the Negro, they'd have more stuff.

Always good to see a fellow alumnus MLK,Jr. and his speech. Very pleasantly surprised to see my favorite African American artist Henry Ossawa Tanner. Okeedoke. Time to leave.

Peruse the gift-shop, lose my hat, found my hat. Left gift-shop sans purchases. I bundle again, by now an expert at a quick exit from zero and decide to ditch the idea of taxi. I see what looks to be the U. of Chicago hospital where Ribs works, but quickly dismiss the implausibility of being so near where she works.

I take a very pleasant stroll through the park, and obviously bother some geese. How on earth do they stay so warm in that cold water? Texts from the boys indicating imbibes and Mar's place, so I decide to head downtown to meet up with Ribs later and grab some tea.

What was life before cheap internet phones? Googlemapped, the funky sounding Argo Tea Café. Hopped on trains, texted with Ribka briefly on the train about plans, as she planned to be off by 6pm. Walk around a bit the Loop and am delighted by the bustling activity. If the weather were in Houston, grandmas and abuelas would admonish any attempt to navigate, or God-forbid, enjoy it. I unwrap at a more-corporate-than-I'd-like tea shop. Order a tea and chicken wrap made by a infectiously bubbly barista and somehow end up spending somewhere north of $10? Who says this country is cheap? Then I recall that my friends that say that earn Euros or Pounds.

Using my table-getting skills honed in Atlanta coffee-shops as a study and tea-addicted college and medical school student. I snag one with a nice view of the shops denizens. There was a SoCal sounding duo to my right who insisted that their 'No War in Nepal' fundraising shirts be 'cute.' I withheld a small gag, but the Asian one was hot, so the male within me gave her special dispensation. There was a motley crew of gents to the left who for the life of me I could NOT figure out what they were up to. My phone indicates that Ribs will be on her way back home soon and its a mess of a day.

I pack, contemplate getting her some tea, but realize the silliness of training it back to South Loop then walking it for 20 minutes to deliver tepid tea. Besides, second busted locale of the day.

Train,

Michigan Ave,

18th,

doorman wave

keys,

hat,

scarf,

plop

Ribka phones ahead to summon her emergency reserve of champagne for another kir royale. Most of been a worse than expected. I doggedly tried to force the champagne in the ice maker and eventually became victorious. Poured the pumpkin seeds in the bowl and readied the glasses. The door begins to click and echo against the shiny wood floors and a exhausted and yet smiling Ribka drags through the door.

We sit after agreeing on the proper color for a kir royale and toast to a quasi-nasty day complete. She is now off...for a day. We catalogue "one of the the worst 10 days of [her] residency" and trade med stories again. I caught of guard a bit as Ribs used to pride herself for her lack of med-speak, but realize that she's seen far worse than I. Hugs. Pumpkin seeds. Well-worn decisions.

86'd the idea of deep dish in favor of one of my holy trinities of food, Ethiopian (beside Soulfood, and coconutty North Indian). Fitting. We leave late per usual, and indulged in some nostalgia on our way to the Northside to meet some of her friends.

We get a sweet parking spot right in front of the restaurant and cater-corner to my beloved Green Mill of my first pre-blog Chicago trip in 2004. We wait at the bar for inordinate amount of time for a table considering Ribs speaks Amharic and is a regular. Her friends arrive in pairs and are cooler than I expect. The Asian holds back a biting humor that I bathe in, and the other is another example of the delightfully blunt Jewish woman I seem to keep running into these days.

We finally snag a table and palm the honey wine to the table despite it looking a bit déclassé. We've got needs. Ribs orders per usual and we slip into a quasi-uncomfortable med speak, but quickly lighten things. Ribs protests that she still hasn't seen Dubai and insists on having the upper hand in the matter of meeting. Dubai, always adroit obliges and shows up after ping pong with Berlin, Mar, and Mar's cherubic man Cob.

At first echoed Ribs concern that these two groups may not mix well, given Dubai's fine taste in friends and exquisite adaptability it was HILARIOUS. The sharp Asian tirelessly attempted to fix Mar's zipper on his jacket; I was more concerned that his jacket was obscenely thin and quickly lost interest in Asian's success. Berlin gushed. He waxed poetic about the glories of Germany and its punctilious mass transit. He's had a few elixirs and is exudes his patented pleasant sea of calm. Dubai entertains. Mar is Mar, and still no time to really get to talk to J yet. Ribs' other friend silently joins the table amidst platters wot, kitfo, enjera, and numbers 12, 14, and 20. I'm not even sure what her voice sounds like, but Ribs insists she's good people. Good enough for me.

Time to party.

Ribs bids farewell to her medicine girls and we join our United Colors of Benetton crew for a lively night out. We leave a frou frou place for another, then in favor of grungy cross-town trek. Dubai notably and justifiably raises concerns about the distance. We bitch and whinge but it brings the former Paris redux and better focus. LOVE it.

Ribs tells Dubai that I'm visiting Paris April and he goes through his mental calendar. Busy guy. We scratch our heads for a reredux given limited time and joke about meeting in Fiji or something. Then I realize the plausibility of this happening and am warmed. We arrive at the country bar turned poppy palace for after hours, and then realize that this may be were L'Évêque concluded his evening during the December Chicagoing. Huh. I can see it. We have to stand outside for 1o minutes or so but are perplexed, then surprised, and then thankful for these incandescent heaters. Niiiiiiiiice.

Dancing with Ribs as Mar and J wiggle at the periphery. Dubai towers and bubbles and again I take in the scene and moment. Berlin, who is normally good for a nice exchange, even at a bar, has remained sentinel and is committed to having a little fun in the States. Night ends with another line at the coat check. We spill out the door. Most of us conclude the night.

Ribs demonstrates the lower friction coefficient of black ice, and we somehow manage get upstairs before passing out.

Keys, jacket, scarf, shirt, longjohns, jeans, bed crash.

End of day two.

Still More

2008-04-02T00:57:00.003-04:00

Yeah, I know. There is still more Chicago to come. Shooo...

Experienced, Imagined, and Delightfullly in Between

2008-03-25T14:28:00.010-04:00

Chicago.

Yup. Again.

Thanks to an insanely light schedule on sleep medicine (seriously people, I’ve have had stress dreams), I was able make a quick four-day sojourn to recreate that amazing and dizzying weekend in Paris of yesteryear. Yup, that one. Remember the pics? Ribs, my favorite Ethiopian is an intern up in Chicago, and her college friend Dubai was doing another world tour with a stop in the Windy City. The stars aligned, the gods smiled, and it was PERFECT time to meet up.

So, I arrive at O’Hare, and am instantly reminded of my last trip in December to Chi-town (here, and here) with L’Éveque and Barré. Out of the airport, I get my 3-day visitor pass, hop on the CTA, and am whisked towards Ribka’s current digs in South Loop (it would be much more accurate to say I was very slowly rolled toward the South Loop as anyone knows who takes the lamentable Blue Line to and from the O’Hare). In any case, I escape from the bowels of the red line and am thrust to the less-than-bustling street at Roosevelt.

I am quickly reacquainted with winter despite the very recent vernal equinox. Out comes my trusty black scarf, leather gloves, and billed skully. Next comes a shabby black Honda that suggested a recent snow (or in Ribs’ case, no time for car washes). The car stopped at the green turning lane complete with Ribs clad in her best scrubs, East African cordiality, and light post-call veil of fatigue.

Talk of marginally competent nurses, 3am pages, frenetic days and other red badges of interns filled the frigid Japanese auto and laughter soon followed to an audience of slowly passing orange tinted street lights. SOOO, wonderful to see Ribs after a 8 month absence.
We arrive at her kick-ass apartment in South Loop which provides remarkable unobstructed views of the inky blue Lake Michigan and its counterpoint, glittering phallic representations of capitalism thrusting toward the sky. As a suitable start to the weekend, and merciful end to Ribs’ insane clinical day, we enjoyed a kir royale (one part crème de cassis and five parts champagne) for old times sake and light conversation. Her gregarious Eritrean husband and I insisted that she retire to bed (girl’s gotta work the next day).

I’m always in awe of Aman. While remaining perfectly engaging and affable, he’s able to tactfully explore a seemingly inexhaustible supply of financial, engineering, political, and cultural information. There was Calatrava’s new Chicago building, the arriving snows, planetariums, and of course Abisha (Ethiopian and Eritrean) everything. Always enjoy a great exchange.

Brrrriiiiiiinnnnng.
“OMFG! I’m hurrr! We r going to hubbard and state, o callahans?”

12:41a. First text message arrives from Dubai. His number spills over the lines of my phone betraying its transatlantic origin. Apparently he’s just arrived in Chicago from visiting family in California and is already getting started with shenanigans.

After a short and unconvincing assertion to Aman that I should call it a night, Aman gave me instructions for the best area to catch a cab. I of course briskly made my way toward the cabs and onward toward the aforementioned Irish bar. Off I went to my Pakistani, Dubai-native Sverge-phile, Londoner, and as the text indirectly suggested, some friends of his. The kir royale has the pleasant affect of providing suitable bastion against the bitter cold of Chicago, and the grand dame welcomes my arrival with her dizzying city lights. As we arrive closer, I point my South Asian cabby in the direction of O’Callahans across the street. The squeal of his brakes is quickly followed by the course cold sound of my Hamilton across the Plexiglas threshold. My excitement burgeons as I approach the Irish bar, and I’m asked for ID.

I effortlessly reach into my pocket to flash my Texas driver’s license. My excitement is quickly replaced by an increased sense of doom as I can NOT find it. Thankfully, the bouncers were in now mood for waiting and just asked my age and ushered me in. Though, it was a comfort that I wouldn’t have to be returning to Ribs’ immediately, I was understandably haunted by images of my lonely ID being trampled on the floor of Intercontinental by the flip-flops of sunburned Floridians, and the unwashed toes of intrepid Hare Krishnas. But alas, there are more important matters.

Immediately I spot Dubai, whom I haven’t seen in a year. I honestly hesitate thinking that it should be nearly impossible to spot him so quickly, but then I remember that he is 6’3” or thereabouts.

“Whatsup! I can’t believe I’m seeing you in your home country!” As always his language and observations are spot on. Stout American embraces and rapid exchanges and updates flurried about:

Me:
Psychiatry internship.
Flights.
Spring in Houston.
Ribs’ horrible day.
South Loop.
Vanilla Stoli and Coke.

Dubai:
ARUP engineering.
More flights.
Balmy California.
Swimming.
Cowboy boots.
Vodka soda.

Then introductions. Since I always love first impressions, I'll share them. First introduction was to his high-energy fellow Stanford alum, whom we'll call Mar. Mar is half Euro-Jewish and half Pakistani, and besides South Asian heritage, shares Dubai’s indefatigable nature; I instantly understood why these two fellows were friends. Instantly and equally intense and pleasant. Certainly a rare combination. Mar was just getting over a cold, but despite the scratchy nature of his voice, he did not hesitate to share it. Mar just matched into Emergency Medicine in New York seemed very bright and driven and self-confessed a very limited attention span (Emergency Medicine jackpot). His level of excitement was abuzz. That level is usually reserved for beauty pageant winners and oil execs after Ahmadinejad admonitions. I think I may like this guy.

Next up was Berlin; he was strangely a sea of calm amidst the maelstrom of energy and friendly inebriation of his amigos more than happily provided. Perhaps it was the liberal use of his pearly smile, or maybe it was the warmth of his words for Germany. Homeboy really likes Germany. Whatever it is, his neatly shabby flaxen coif and brow ring belies his very type-A job. I think I may like this guy.

There were other intros of course, but they came too late after my Vanilla stoli to have made a lasting impression unfortunately. The Irish pub, which like many places in Chicago was white as the snow is certain. We garnered no shortage of looks of course, not simply because of our unusual excitement. As a Black man in America, it becomes easy to shrug off the expectations and enjoy oneself, which I thoroughly participated in. I was delighted by Mar's excitement for New York as I recall my own anniversary of excitement, Match Day 2007. My thoughts that I would like this fellow were confirmed when I realize he reminds me of my best Cape Verdean Rhode Islander friend from college. I have a brief word with Berlin, and a briefer word with others, and before I know it I'm in a cab.
Poor cabby. Five 20 somethings with frontal lobe disinhibition, and not even a word of protest. Chicagoans are stout creatures. Goodness knows where we were going, though I thought that this would be an excellent point to chronicle the journey. This picture is one that was pretty indicative of Mar. "Fierce." This is of course one of 7 phrases that Dubai recounts as being used ridiculously often this trip. I digress.

We are whisked to some quasi-1980s building with a cavernous lobby, motionless and emotionless guards redolent of those Chinese guards in front of Tiananmen that time in Beijing. "Oh its the Hilton." K. Thanks. Berlin is apparently spending some Euro on the digs and we listen to "music." I was having trouble figuring out exactly what genre or even language to no avail. Dubai prophetically protested against the loud American decibel level, and Mar protested against his protests. There was smack about London and Europe thrashed about, Berlin and a ginger remained content. All I could think was that this situation was terribly random. Just the way I like it.

"KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK."

Yeah, so at least it wasn't the po-pos, but we instantly knew what a 3am knock on the door meant. As Americans, we most undemocratically selected the foreigner, Dubai, to answer to perhaps charm whomever was at the door with his exotic accent. Deferential, and apologetic, Dubai managed to shoo homeboy away. The vast majority of us elected to scram for the evening (as it was closer to 4am now). Dubai was staying with Mar and they walked back to his place, and I cabbed it back to Ribs'.

Waved at the doorman, walked to 17th floor door, fiddled with the door. Keys, jacket, scarf, shirt, longjohns, jeans, bed, crash.

End of day one.

Chee Chee Chee

2008-03-25T00:54:00.004-04:00

“You say ‘chee’ if someone has done something that needs to be called out and “chee chee chee” if its something REALLY bad.” This is one of the many things I learned from my pocket-sized and pleasingly sharp-tongued Bengali friend Ritu. Incidentally she provided more than suitable instruction on proper stroke work-ups and how to more efficiently have patients discharged. Go neurology!

I digress if only to distract myself from the impeding shame. Given my inexcusable absence from chez moi éléctronique, I must auto-admonish.

Chee chee chee, Cecil Ray. Chee chee chee.

So, check it out for updates soon. Promise. Since this is the season of renewal and repentance, I will fully recommit myself to chronicling things experienced and imagined and in the case of this weekend, those things delightfully in between.

Best Movies of 2007***

2008-01-12T14:42:00.000-05:00

There Will Be Blood: This is hands down my favorite movie of 2007 (though it just premiere here in Houston. Its writhes with psychological tension, demonstrates a sharply skillful screenplay, and probably one of the more beautifully shot movies of the year. Furthermore, its got an amazing and appropriately unsettling score to accompany what is without a doubt a brilliant film. Without giving too much away, it's a psychiatrist's dream. Get out your DSM-IV! I anticipate a very lively BCM movie club with this one.
Ratatouille: I must admit, that I just saw this movie on a whim in July to better get to know some of my psychiatry residents, but instead I fell in love with a truly flawless, fun film. Great writing, computer animations with warmth? Imagine that? Favorite scene? Clearly the gastronomic childhood flashback. Until I saw There Will Be Blood yesterday, Ratatouille firmly held it position as my favorite for 2007.
Eastern Promises: The reviews promised a film that pulsates, breathes, and challenges, and certainly they weren't off the mark. I headed the warning that its violence was unvarnished with a bristly sobriety and attempted to prepare myself. Nope. Clearly not enough. The director's decidedly unglamorous approach was a critique more of American audiences than an attempted to be gory (vis-à-vis A History of Violence). Go Cronenberg.
No Country for Old Men: Violence is empty and unforgiving
Waitress: Nothing in the world like Southern pie and existential despair
Away from Her: Alzheimer's steals a partner away
The Diving Bell and the Butterfly: Locked-in-Syndrome, with a great imagination
Charlie Wilson's War: Money and power rule this world. Tradition mostly.
The Host: Good times with Korean monsters
Superbad: Super good high-school antics
Knocked Up: Super good young-adult antics
Sweeney Todd: Who knew that musicals could be bloody?
The Darjeeling Limited: Too be considered only with the addition of the short film Hotel Chevalier
Juno: I never thought that teen-pregnancy could be so hilarious. Thanks America!
American Gangster: cause Denzel is a badass. Period.

The following films have not been viewed yet...cause I don't have THAT much time...

Before the Devil Knows Your Dead***
Atonement***

Cecil's Best Films of 2006

Cecil's Best Films of 2005

Barrack the Vote

2008-01-07T00:46:00.000-05:00

Non Sequitur

2008-01-01T23:41:00.000-05:00

After a whirlwind impromptu tour of Houston with PBM4 and Barré, I've got a treasure trove of non sequitur photos. These were taken on my New Years Eve recovery day with the two in the warehouse district in Houston's eastside. Goodness knows where all we went, but I love it. Thoughts?

(Second) 24 Hours in Chicago

2007-12-22T17:06:00.000-05:00

The following morning we paid our debt to our hedonism. Barré opened the curtains and flooded the room with a menancing, bright, white sky and John Hancock much to the chagrin of my no sensitive eyes. The following hour was nebulous. I spent it drifting in and out of consciousness, tearing myself between the need for more sleep and the desire to reconquer Chicago. I tried to recall if I had done anything suitably embarrassing the prior evening and was sweetly soured that I had not.

As any good young professional, I quickly checked my email on my shiny Treo and made sure the world wasn't falling apart in my absence via my beloved Washington Post. By this time, Barré was finished with 90% of his grooming and L'Évêque was finished with 90% of his swooning. Thus, we gussied up and layered to prepare for those bitter glacial gales that Chicago, in all of its glorious hospitality, shared so readily with us.

Now, I really haven't been to Starbucks since that one chick on Westheimer nexus-of-the-universe Starbucks got that paper stuck in her cheeks (especially since I found Inversion), but of course when its 25 outside, any heated place with hot beverages will do. After a blizzard of text messages, L'Évêque joined us for light fair and we formulated our next plan...more clothes.

The Magnificent Mile provided us with no shortage of places to browse all sorts of cold weather garments. We envied their style and the warmth they promised, and lamented that we would wear such fare maybe twice a year. Thank you balmy Houston. In any case, L'Évêque of course caught no shortage of attention from passersby. I'm going to assume it was his cologne. We walked along the Chicago River, pretended the snow was cocaine, and tried to retain any heat that we could. This was rounded out by another stroll through the eerily familiar Halstead and its galleries. Modernist oil paintings corn fields, cowboys, and coy boys captured l'Évêque's heart or the very least attention. Unfortunately, a gallery owner wasn't able to capitalize on l'Evêque's receptiveness given his abrassive and less than sincere nature. This was juxtaposed by other new friends later that evening.

We later joined a friend of l'Évêque and her boyfriend. We'll call her Mittens. Mittens hails from l'Évêque's days at Rice. We arrived at a gorgeous condo on Lake Short Drive, quickly waved goodbye to our Nigerian cabby, and were whisked up to a deluxe apartment in the sky. As we walked out the elevator, the ebullient and equally sharp-tongued Mittens greets us at the glossy, and newly painted door. L'Évêque and Mittens had their requisite excited exchanges of past, present, and future, wine was poured and hearts were opened. Oh, yeah. I'll introduce you guys to HAM. If it is any reflection of Mittens, HAM is the acronym that she had given her boyfriend. It stands for Hot Asian Man. There are rumored to be sections of Chicago that don't know her Asian adonis' real name (and quite honestly I've also fallen victim as well).

In any case, we made dinner plans down the street, braved the newly falling snow, hailed a new Nigerian cabby, and arrived with new exchanges of accounting, Bangkok, and psychiatry. Dusk had apparently pounced our quintet without warning and we were once again enveloped in a inky night and snow glowing orange under the street lamps. We arrived at our restaurant. In very much the vein of the evening, we introduced ourselves to the waitress who was cousins or something-or-other with a bartender in Houston that l'Évêque and Barré knew. This didn't necessarily speed the wait for a table, but at the very least gave us no excuse for declining a round of aperitifs. The evening flowed fluidly...as did the increasingly worrisome curtains of snow outside.

"Any plans tonight?" Mitten's inquired

"Uh, yeah, we're going to take it a bit easier tonight; we're going to Second City." L'Évêque responded in a tone that lightly alluded to his valiant defense of youthfulness the prior evening.

With the assistance of Mittens we grabbed another cab (not a Nigerian) and headed to Second City. Second City is a venerable Chicago institution that serves as a feeder school for Saturday Night Live. Live comedy sketches and improv. Oodles of fun. We were fortunate to grab some tickets for "The Pratfalls of Civilization." Per usual in my friendly nature, with heaps of goodnatured sarcasm and a hope, with our tickets in hand, I asked the Matre d', "So are you going to give us some good seats?" Add wide, toothy, puppy-dog smile here.

She straightened her back, peered above her black-rimmed glasses, and loosely grasped her wax pencil between her fingers as a night-walker would a cigarette in front of her john. With a startling sobriety and a Midwestern economy of words she responded, "You know we don't give good seats when people ask for them." Add the nervous laughter of our Houston trio here. Fortunately, my apparent faux pas was not punished, and received what could be described as three very decent seats. We close enough to the stage to fear involuntarily participation but were thankfully not subjected to such. The show was hilarious and random. My favorite was the unrelenting (and of course, cute) Niki Lindgren, the hilarious jihadi "comedy terrorists," and what can only be described as a miraculous impromptu opera performance from a visiting Japanese audience member with a shirt that ready, "I'm kinda a big deal." Agreed. The couple in front of us reeked of first-date. She was tepid and less than engaging thin blonde who managed to keep her coat on the entire performance. I'm sure she thought of it as her armor against her date. He was a docile (and terribly hopeful) 30-something that smelled of Old Spice and defeat. When the show had slow spots, it was at the very least entertaining to watch those two. Despite their somber mood, the rest of the show was hysterically funny.

For those in the know, I have this habit of crying when I laugh too hard, and I was in no short supply that evening. I worried that my hard lemonade would dehydrate me, but fortunately it didn't have nearly enough alcohol to be in any real danger. We glowed after the show and were off like a prom dress.

"Damn."
We gazed outside to what can only be described as Siberia. The earlier fiercely billowing snow portended the oppressive and unrelenting force just outside the theater. Each yard seemed like a mile. My initial frivolity hardened to memories of shoveling these blankets in front of us, slipping unexpectedly to find the bottom of my shoes acquainting themselves with the brisk air, and the odd sensation of not having sensation or control of my previously dexterous fingers. We trudged through the stuff and eventually found (read as stole) a cab to our now beloved homebase Sofitel Water Tower. As it was about 2am or so, we quietly retired to a well-deserved slumber.

The next day?

We fed our exhaustion at a New Orleans style brunch, had a quick tour of the impressive Art Institute of Chicago, and of course bade farewell (for a few days) to l'Évêque as he was to stay for a little more business and pleasure.

Clearly the best three day weekend I've had in these 6 months as "Dr. Webster."

First 24 Hours in Chicago

2007-12-21T18:04:00.000-05:00

As on homage to the New York Times' "36 Hours in ____"I thought I'd share similarly for my rather impromptu getaway to the Windy City.

I must admit I was a bit reticent at the thought of a rather rash decision to go to Chicago. Usually my trips are planned a bit more methodically. However, given my new modus operandi of Do if you have no reason not to do, I surrendered my compulsions to control to a really exciting prospect.

At my favorite wine bar, La Carafe, my favorite pedigreed PMB4 and I were joined by the gregarious Barré. As the Malbec flowed, so did conversations about life as a psychiatry resident, an amazing free party Barré scored with, and of course travel. Travel is a recent sore spot for me as my ex-lover wanderlust has been malevolently murdered by my beloved and jealous Menninger Department of Psychiatry. My stories of Bangkok and Beijing, Buenos Aires and beautiful Paris are the only remaining vestiges of a life once lived with a well-worn passport. But I digress.

"Yeah, I'm going to Chicago in two weeks...Hey, you wanna go?"

Add the startled, faltering thoughts of yours truly. "...Chicago. What reason do I have NOT to go...nope....nothing yet..."

An abrupt "Yyy..Yeah!" freed itself from the cold grip of my superego and leaped from my tongue joyously in an octave unfamiliar since 8th grade.

And thus 60 Hours in Chicago was borne.

I nervously filed for my first vacation day since starting residency six months ago and thus, Barré and our friend l'Evêque set off to a road less traveled. Actually that's a bit untrue. They've got Continental Elite status, and were bumped to First Class, and Chicago is nothing less than a thoroughfare.

"Um...excuse me. Yeah, someone in First sent you a screwdriver...I mean, you can have it if you want. They already paid for it." A rather reluctant stewardess intimated as my fellow coach passenger in the aisle seat casually glanced at his watch.

Yeah, I know its 8:20, but you know its been that sort of week.

After we braved an hour subway ride into town, given Barré's amazing rewards points we were able to drop our bags at the ubermodern and swank Sofitel Chicago Water Tower. Though cabbing it was clearly the yuppie thing to do, slumming it to the Sofitel seemed to ironically delicious to pass. Our eyes widened as we were accosted by a huge window that seemed to leap to the street and invite the terrifyingly large Hancock building intrusively close.

"Damnit."

Barré hit his head on the glass.

"Did you see that?" An incredulous Louisiana native points to the evidence of his miscalculation , a small smudge on an otherwise immaculate window pane.
First? Deep dish pizza of course. Our waiter was slower and more elusive than information from the Bush Administration. Drinks at the John Hancock Building? Of course. Why pay $20 for an imbibeless observatory when you can get $12 drinks at the bar above it? Food coma followed, a preparatory nap was ordered, and then off to have tapas with my med school campadre and Nashville-London-Saudi Arabia native, Dr. Mathew (she's the one with the staw in her mouth). She and her more-than-enjoyable co-resident joined our Houston-based trio for tapas at the delicious Café Iberico. Sangría flowed as did sentences like "One of my favorite Ugandan pop stars...," "She's so not Mexican...", and "In my unbiased opinion as a mental health professional, he's an asshole because..."

Bliss.

Bliss was followed by a rather cozy ride to Lincoln park to hang with l'Évêque's former co-worker's friend's birthday party. Yup. That's how we roll. Fortunately my attentions were concentrated on learning about life in Chicago from the two emergency medicine residents and of course singing along to the one-man band with a spars coterie of corn-fed Anglos. This is John Mayer country.

We parted ways with my fellow brown people, and the trifecta cabbed it suitably to Halstead. Although partially out of my element, I had an amazing time. The music was somewhere between P. Diddy and Daft Punk but my friend Tom Collins took care of that. Of note, never accept drinks called "Screaming Nazi" from even your closest friends.

Relatedly l'Évêque found true love on the dance floor in the form of a rather youthful looking 29 year-old with convenient digs around the corner. I must say, I've either underestimated l'Évêque's cologne or overestimated his superego.

"Did you see that?" An incredulous Maryland native points to the evidence of his miscalculation , a small smudge on otherwise immaculate Carmex. Clearly some of use know how to have more fun than others.

The 27 degree wind seemed naive and coquettish as Barré and I stumble blissfully to the street buzzing with new pairs. It seemed the intoxicating mix of music, frigid temperatures, and Chicago sensibility allowed for hasty excuses to begin parties of their own. Houston sensibility allowed us to hail a cab to be whisked warmly to homebase, the Sofitel.

That was just the first day.

Non Sequitur

2007-12-20T18:22:00.000-05:00

Absolutely ecstatic. Hopefully this photo will one day be used as a photographic metaphor for two future Menninger Department of Psychiatry graduates. Certainly its got to be a lot more compelling than those stodgy Freud photos. Kheli khoob Arashjoon!

Joie de Vivre

2007-12-19T17:41:00.000-05:00

First and foremost, its been quite the hectic few weeks. Here are some of the highlights:

Fender bender mi madre's Mercedes (fixed).
More call than the law allows (three left).
Patient's that won't talk to me, or talk FAR too much (committed, and medicated)
Triple booked appointments (mercifully canceled)
Ms. Ella's passing (expected and cathartic)

Fortunately, its also been amazing:

60 amazing hours in snowy Chicago with Barré and L'Évêque (that I can recall)
Balmy December evenings in Houston (merci à Inversion Coffee and my parents above)
A thoroughly polished pecan pie recipe (merci à Mme Ella)
Amazing post-Grand Rounds conversations (19th century French artists' depictions of the mentally ill)
Great new additions to our class next year (gotta love those Persians)

So in short an absolute whirlwind. The recent passing of my grandmother certainly has put in focus the fragility and preciousness of life. As such, I've redoubled my efforts toward the pursuit of happiness. Its amazing what can be done when your thinking shifts from, "Why?" to "Why not?"

The result has been an amazing macroweekend (read three-day weekend) in Chicago; this was my first vacation day in 6 months. Increased efforts toward writing with Psychiatric Journals in mind. More meetings with faculty for career development, and meeting with friends for social development. Lastly, and most importantly, more savory and satisfying morsels of the marrow of life.

I've got three more psychiatry calls left before I head to the dark side (6 months of non-psychiatry) and I'm trying to convince myself that these endeavors will not fall victim to rotations that do not value quality of life. In any case, I'll certainly try. At the very least, my fellow psychophile, Leroy will join me on Neurology come January.

I certainly hope the future remains as bright as it seems.

Shut Your Pie Hole

2007-11-21T23:40:00.000-05:00

These beauties were courtesy of my grandma's recipes. My contributions to what will no doubt be a part of a memorable meal tomorrow. Yuuuum. Mom is buzzing away in the kitchen downstairs, dad has tucked away to bed after his apple cake and prep work. I've stolen a moment before sleep, blissfully away from the constant frenetic motion that is my life in Houston's Texas Medical Center. The life of an intern.

Non Sequitur

2007-10-27T12:49:00.000-04:00

Things are pretty fluid right now so it only seemed fitting to post this picture of a fountain outside the Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires.

Baba Yega and Sunshine

2007-10-21T23:05:00.000-04:00

This is the view I had from my blanket in Hermann Park. This is why I love Houston.

For a city that can be plagued by the most distressing adjectives and the unfortunate association with petroleum economy, it certainly has the best fall, winter, and spring.

Today, I had the pleasure of sharing a wonderful brunch with Renu, Dowin, Lindsay, and Kay ay are aye tee ayche (he likes to spell it) at Baba Yega. Like Houston, Baba Yega is made up of a seemingly unwieldy patchwork of parts, is defiantly cheap, and is absolutely delightful in the fall. We were ushered to the second level which looks into the oak and palm shaded courtyard and its merciful and beautiful fountain. A nice breeze swept its way through the wood floors and conversation. We must have eaten ourselves silly with the omelettes, quiche, smoked salmon, bacon, but our collective creativity gave way to a novel Houston experience.

"Yeah....we should go to the park."

And thus we went as a matter of course, after of course a round of mimosas. These are the days that I covet. Plenty of sun to bronze and warm the skin, awkward water foul wandering about, and the music of ticklish leaves vibrating with the autumn zephyr. Sigh.

The hours slipped by under the oak canopy by Hermann park lake. I didn't clutch to my James Baldwin novel as closely as I thought I would; it was simply to gorgeous to ignore such beauty around. Instead, I only made it through a couple dozen pages and spent the rest of the time gabbing it up with my favorite South Indians, Nashvillian, and the premier Blackmanophile this side of the NBA.

KC and I were later joined by his petite amie and her incredibly high energy Jack Russell Terrier that I inadvertently christened "Fancy" versus his more aptly designated name, "Turbo." Relentless this little bugger was. Every dog that passed, Fancy felt that it was his personal responsibility to fervently demonstrate his enthusiasm with the most remarkable display as follows.

1. An imperceptibly quick turn and subsequent silent glare to confirm the presence of a fellow canine approaching on the walk.
2. The most tense and spring-loaded launch from his hind quarters that would with a torrent of barking that would make any White House spin doctor green with jealousy.
3. Subsequent vain attempts a quieting and calming Fancy followed by apologetic smiles and shrugs from our blanket.
4. A good laugh and repeat.

Afro-Mexicano Party

2007-10-20T20:24:00.000-04:00

So first, off there are no pictures. Sorry, somehow I managed not to take a single picture of the twin birthday party of Leroy and myself. Although I would like to say that it was simply to avoid future political liability, our little fete was in fact fairly tame.

Fortunately, given my OCD hosting tendencies, I was not a casualty of the lychee martinis, the birthday cake shots, the pomegranate margaritas, the Red Stripes, the Moscato d'Asti's, the Gevurztraminers, or any of the fancifully named libations of that evening. Thankfully however, others did not share my fate. It was quite the motley mix that evening of hetero/queer, brown/white, and med/anything else. Certainly these are the places that I find myself most comfortable, so it was a suitably enjoyable evening.

I found some clever inspiration and decided to have some random artsy photos you may have seen (for example 1, 2, 3, 4, 5) displayed on my beautiful 32" Samsung. Pretty fitting given that most there were fairly random and at the very least interesting. There were the incredibly lively coterie of small Asian women of Leroy's partner, the random Houston energy workers, physical and occupational therapies finest practitioners, and of course the nations next wave of surgeons, psychiatrists, pediatricians, and goodness knows who else.

The best part? A very awkward cake cutting (with pictures I've yet to verify) after a lively late 20s rendition of "Happy Birthday to You." This was immediately followed by a quick retreat by yours truly of all things that pertain to marriage. Conversation of my colleagues' past relationships, Eddie Murphy's early music career (see below), and Red China (the unfortunate consequence of ethyl alcohol and our Chinese friend Ben).

Overall a GREAT night without wincing from the politely invited and delightfully absent neighbors. 26 it is.

¡Feliz Compleaños! Friday

2007-10-19T18:16:00.000-04:00

26? I thought the view from up here would be a better, but I can't say I'm disappointed.

Courtesy of a beautifully flexible call schedule, I've managed the near impossible: a gorgeously sunny and warm, call-free weekend. Usually, I can squeeze out warm but not call-free, or oppressively hot and call-free. Gorgeous (read as upper 70s accompanied by a cheek kissing breeze) is hard to come by when I have the time, but alas I digress.

It was my birthday! And what a birthday it was.

Let's start with Friday. Friday, the venerable Colonel and his missus joined the ranks of Houston's restaurant goers to celebrate the anniversary of my birth and newly complete financial freedom at the tastebud bewitching Hugo's. Let me not misguide you; while we've established a pecuniary independence, this was on their dime, their very generous dime. In any case, as has been the case since I've been able to make restaurant recommendations, I attempted to pick a place that would please the most picky of palates (read as the Colonel) or one most suffering from ennuie (read as my more adventurous mother). Several weeks ago at a resident gathering at the posh Bustamante-Barré's, PMB4 and I were discussing his recent experience at Hugo's. You could practically see his pupils dilate with the gastronomic memory, and thus my decision was made. Authentic upscale Mexican it is.

So, my (as usual early) parents arrived, swiftly began taking the first photos of me in a long white coat, danced a bit, joked a bit, and finally we were off for our rather difficult 6:30 reservation. The woman over the phone offered us a patio seat (remember that its a gorgeous weekend), but Texan sensibility overcame us all and we opted for an interior table, by a very busy and jovial hostess.

"You're waitress will be right with you."

Immediately the coolness of the vent began to wear out its welcome. Mom quickly requested that the colonel navigate valet and obtain her scarf, and then just as quickly we then requested another table. And thank goodness too. The second table was near a thoroughfare, but at the very least our eyes could venture through the windowpanes to enjoy the beauty of east Westheimer and the 1970s minimall across the street (who is blissfully camouflaged by trees and lights). My eyes are always a bit hungry for dynamic scenes, so this suited me nicely. My parents are always a bit hungry so this suited them as well.

"Hmm...how about this one. " I chose a nice aperitif before deciding on a course, and as a matter of course, my mom chose to join me in my drink, with a reluctant "I'll have one too" from my dad. Minutes later these words were regretted by their pseudo-retired owners as the drink was not in fact iced tea as my mother originally surmised. Hilarious.

"Oh my goodness. I can feel it burn my chest." The irony of my mom feeling warm did not escape my father and we had a nice laugh as usual. Conversation swirled around their recent 30th anniversary trip to Rome, recent events on the ranch-ito, plans for a family trip, dad's shiny Canon SLR, psychiatry, and of course, like all good Black people, the ridiculousness of "compassionate conservatism" and its loathsome father, Republicanism.

We shared the most delicious ceviche I've had since Panama, cochinita, barbacoa, salmon, mexican hot chocolate, churros, crepes con leche, and some really great togetherness that my residency schedule has made a bit more rare.

Memories of grade school confession flooded me as my tongue was absolutely nonplussed with the most deliciously sinful flavors it has experienced in a while. Roasted cocoa beans, chipotle pork, salmon that melts and entrances. I needn't waste time with what cannot be adequately described, but needless to say, it joins some other pretty notable dining experiences.

Without question on e of the best evenings I've spent with our trio of Websters and certainly one of the more delicious. With half-open eyes, a suitably lazy gait, and beautiful smiles, we made our way to the valet. Hopefully we'll be able to recreate the experience in the near future. I also hope this bodes well for 26. In the meantime...thank goodness for family.

Best Meals...EVER:
Peking Duck - Beijing China
Medallón de Lomo Tenderloin at Cabañas las Lilas in Buenos Aires
Confit de Canard - Paris
Glâce Bertillon (Citron vert) - Paris
Pomegranate Sorbet One Midtown Kitchen - Atlanta
My Uncle Wayne's Barbecue - Brenham, Texas

Orange Wheels of FIRE

2007-10-02T22:58:00.000-04:00

Despite spending more time with these guys than Tyra's legion of pseudo-ingénues on America's Next Top Model with eachother, we still want to spend more. Last week we had a psychiatry resident retreat (i.e. a day off together). Entire hospitals were sans residents for we were at...guess where...a ROLLER SKATING RINK. I can't begin to tell you for how many weeks I looked forward to that glorious day.

After an incredibly awkward period of group activities that these things necessitate (believe me, I can't even BEGIN to tell you), we were accosted by a 6in taller, rolling fourth year resident fresh from an empty floor.

"Are you guys going out to skate?"

Everything within me tried to hold back from running to the rental desk as I rather briskly walked toward an impossibly far counter. The rental guy asked, "What size?" to which I cooly replied, "Hmm...11.5. That should do."
"Oh we don't have half sizes."

(flash images of less than elegantly rapid turns as I gaze toward rows of hypnotizing orange wheels)

"Oh wait, you want the standard four wheels? Oh."

(flash images of beautifuly elegant rapid turns of my grade-school youth)

"SWWWEEEET."

As I pushed past pleasantly bemused future mental health professionals the smell of rented leather and plastic quickly brought me back to at least a dozen birthday parties for the brace-laden, at least three of those parties were mine. How great. I fantasized about the turns, ducks, swishes, and of course aborted falls of the YMCA, Carousel Skating Rink, and many others.

My age betrayed me.

Apparently 25 year olds are much less malleable than 10 year olds so I thankfully aborted an immediate attempted fall. After 10 minutes of reintroducing my 4th grade fearlessness to my higher center of gravity and earnings potential, I was good to go. Much to the chagrin of Candace and Jenn I was turning, ducking, swishing, and of course aborting falls...which of course led to their own. Sorry guys. For the next couple of hours, we were playing pop the whip with people who normally would consider such a phrase a sexual fetish or satomasochism. There were relay races with the admirable efforts of our binary residency directors. I miraculously won a race against an intern, a second year, and a fast looking child and adolescent psychiatry fellow. The second year had a bit of a spill of the floor and as such I was obliged to replace him as the leader just before the finish line.

And the steal.

A great time by all. We interns topped it off with an afternoon of margaritas at Jenn's house so as to forget about the rapidly approaching soreness from the days activities. If I hadn't already begun planning my birthday party I would SO rent out the place for a birthday.

CLARO.

$3 a month

2007-09-17T22:39:00.000-04:00

Actual conversation:

Mama Hoang: There's a benefit for old poor people at Kim Son. Would you be interested in going? You know you can feed them for $3 a month.

Leroy: Really? We should go there.

Good thinking Leroy.

Non Sequitur

2007-09-03T18:43:00.000-04:00

Yeah, I don't get it either. I spotted these at the Labor Day Classic with Prairie View A&M University vs. Texas Southern University.

Let Me Ex-spain.

2007-08-31T15:01:00.000-04:00

So its official. We're Spanish. ¿Qué sorpresa?

So, as some may know, my dad's family, the venerable McAfees, trace their history in the Americas to Atlanta (then Terminus) in the early 19th century. We all get together every year around the country to celebrate our shared heritage and of course our rather idiosyncratic proboscis. This year, apparently, they decided to do a little ancestral digging, Watson style.

So there has been some talk of using DNA testing to discover what would otherwise be, impossibly difficult to attain African ancestry. Fortunately, the McAfee's have been blessed with pretty solid records of our ensalved African ancestors, and of course our European forefathers. Native American? Well, they're in there somewhere. In any case, this year they decided to do a some DNA testing, which is apparently quite popular, to see where in Africa we all come from.

Guess where?

Apparently, a little known part of Africa called Spain. Kinda of a surprise. Not that it means so much, but apparently our Spanish nucleotides are quite obstinate. Anyway, just thought I'd share. Unfortunately, this has done little to sharpen my Spanish language skills.

Somos españoles.

Non Sequitur

2007-08-12T21:26:00.000-04:00

Ah the country. It serves as a good counterpoint to the hustle and bustle of work. I didn't get a chance to go recently but CLEARLY I've got a nice weekend approaching rapidly. Maybe, I'll see you there at the Webster ranchito, Dancing Oaks. You can smell sweet sunshine there.

Hurricane Engagement.

2007-08-11T20:31:00.000-04:00

Finalmente.

So, My closest Morehouse friend and Boogers got engaged. Unfortunately I was in such a rush to get over there that night after brunch (yeah you read right), that I completely neglected my camera.

Sigh.

In any case, I'll post the photo of the two I framed for them; it was the first evening they were all googly-eyed to each other in public. Think David Beckham and his paycheck.

Admittedly, I clearly was the last to know about the two being an item. I've known DB since college (way back when) and I've seen my dearest Malyalam Bedford-native vomit in one star southern Egyptian 'hotels.' The odd thing is, my relationships with them were completely independent. I'd shoot the Scheiße with DB over some sort of organized sport, esoteric indy film, or some delicious multi-culti food. For the flaca South Asian we'd play ping pong ad nauseum, feign resistance to game night at the Afropersian's place, and globe trot together. Great stuff, eh?

Then they had to get all lubby dubby. I'd call one and get the other. I'd want to go out mysteriously they'd be unavailable during evening hours. Then the most miraculous thing happened.
Hurrican Rita.

I know, I know. Acts of God generally aren't thought of as blessings. Especially hurricanes in the Gulf of Mexico circa 2005, but let me explain. As any logical human being would, I decided to evacuate, mercifully ending my surgery rotation. So who do I take with me to inland Texas? DB and Flaca of course (Kevin my roomy declined a speedy logical exit for other reasons).

People reported spending 18 hours in traffic, suffering from late summer Texas heat reflected by a rivers of concrete highway. Others say they siphoned gas just to get going given the shortage. We shopped for routers and were greeted by my grandmother's pie. With some creative motoring and back roads we were 100 miles inland in two hours.

Essentially we made an extended weekend of the ordeal and got allot closer (in a non-biblical sense). Our trio traded stories, ate delicious food, watched movies, soaked in some cool night air, and star-gazed. Since then the whole DB-Flaca thing was demystified and any question of how and why was replaced by "finally."

Two years later I still feel this and am terribly grateful that I will forever be able to see them together. We toasted the couple after a emphatic 'yes' response earlier that Sunday evening. In any case, congratulations again! My your new relationship be as delighful as our Hurricane...and less initially anxiety provoking.

Incognegro

2007-08-03T08:18:00.000-04:00

I promise I'm still alive. Many many things to talk about. Fortunately things have gotten a bit more busy than my beautiful lazy days of fourth year medical school. So, alas, patients (there is a not so subtle pun in there).

Just so you know, I'm not near the picture above, but think of it quite often. Its no Shetland Islands but everyone needs something, eh?

Just a moment

2007-07-17T21:41:00.000-04:00

That first day in July

With what I can only accurately describe as an absolutely miraculous white coat, I entered blazing, sunny court besides the garage. Patients, physicians, and nurses seemed to slowly vibrate and swirl around me as my walk to the building seemed imperceptibly slow; like mountains or childhood. The wind flickered the heavy fabric that would be my shield (the shield is a reference to our white coat ceremony speech given by an amazing pedi surgeon).

...as for the ides?

My shield, it wears the scent of veterans, evening travails, 2am tears, and my favorite and very carefully chosen indefatigable micro ballpoint pens. It protects my path as I glide through the Commons, down the halls, and through daily allegory. Its tightly woven cotton paradoxically shines to the deepest corners of my new sense of profession and warms my clumsily honed practice of empathy.

Though at the end of the day, when I exit the building and take the same path through the court, my miraculous white coat scrubs away any (for now, gossamer or forgotten) frustration and makes indelible those reasons I deftly and delicately placed in the interior of my heart. It oddly, but perhaps appropriately, reminds me of those ubiquitous intensely sweet and glowing countenances emblazoned on new mothers that betrayed even the most pain-replete and exhausting births. Though these two weeks are but a moment, a few grains of sand in the glass, I certainly hope I can always revisit this place in time. Its bliss, its mine to share, and we're just getting started.

Non Sequitur

2007-07-05T22:49:00.000-04:00

My favorite Houston haunt, La Carafe, with some friends. David and Kiran are pictured, but sheepish Ina declined the photo (by declined I mean repeatedly put her hand on the lens). A very recent pre-residency Tuesday night.

Anxiolytic Calls

2007-07-04T22:22:00.000-04:00

"I've got a suicidal patient on the line, would you mind if I merged the call?"

Yeup. I was to manage a suicidal call into the hospital. Compared to the fake Code Green of earlier today, I must say that my heart rate went astronomical. How was I, a novice intern on his first night of call, going to talk someone out of lethal action and get them to the hospital? Huh. Quite the formidible challenge. Thankfully, again for training call, I had my now favorite Atlantan by my side to coach me through with rapidly written questions on some loose leaf.

We'll call the guy Mr. Sad.

"Mr. Sad this is Dr. Webster, can you tell me what's going on right now? Alot of people are worried about you."
"Well. I just want to end it all. Its too much."

Thus began our talk. I clearly donned my most calming, empathetic voice and prayed my anxiety would not bleed through the line. Think, midnight slow jams DJs on R&B stations.

Mr. Sad talked of his recent failure out of college, his loss of a job, loss of financial security, and the threat of being kicked out of the house by his mother. Apparently, he had been experiencing a debilitating depression since his December despite taking his medications.

"I just feel like everything makes me snap...I just...feel low and stuck."

Well, as for the latter half of his sentence I must admit that he was not the only one that felt a bit low and stuck. All I could think about is just keeping the guy on the phone and trying to organize a way for him to get to the hospital.

We spent about 20 minutes chatting while we (the nurse on the phone and I) located his brother to get him to our ER (he declined an ambulance or police officer ride). He seemed to finally be letting off some of his steam and simmering down a bit. Similarly the newness of the situation melted off a bit and I found a warm compassionate place to come from. It worried me that there were firearms in the home (as so many vets have), but I was comforted by the arrival of his brother to his house and hearing his mother in the background.

"Alright. Its absolutely important that you come to the ER as soon as possible. We'll all waiting for you so we can help you through this difficult time. I'll be waiting for you at the ER."

Those were a long 30 minutes. Mr. Sad lived far from the city and although my sense was he would definitely be arriving there is always that fear. We eventually saw in the ER and admitted him to the ward. He seemed deeply thankful for our visit. The nature of psychiatry is such that you never really have control. It becomes painfully more clear when your twiddling your thumb on the cord as you stare at a computer screen tens of miles away from a very acute situation.

My Atlantan training wheels put my mind to ease and congratulated me on a fine job.

"Your voice. You'd be a great psychotherapist. Its just so relaxing. It just makes me want to go to sleep."

Let's hope so. Speaking of which I hope I can pack in some sleep. The blood pressures on the floor have cropping up again. Let's hope the night staff is resilient and my drug choices adequate.

One life saved.

Code Green

2007-07-04T11:36:00.000-04:00

"Code Green Unit 5A, Code Green Unit 5A"

Thus began my first Code Green (i.e. psychiatric emergency). As this is my first call, I've got a set of beautiful training wheels, a very capable and calming third year resident. As I was, ahem, updating the blog (after a looong break courtesy of orientation week), the words above dispassionately filled the room from the intercom and drowned out Venus Williams' vocal serves on the waiting room television. We briskly exited the clinic.

"Is your heart rate up yet?"

Yup. Certainly was. Remarkably though I was still grasping calm. I was desperately trying to clear the clouds of our orientations to think of exactly what to do. Thankfully, I had the fast-walking Atlantan by my side to elucidate the details. What level of Haldol? How much Ativan? I'm not supposed to use Benadryl, right?

This was quickly replaced images of what awaited us on internal medicine's fifth floor. Images of a charging half-naked, obese, gray-haired veteran came to mind. Then there was the thought of a feces-flinging new schizophrenic break. By the time I had psyched myself out (no pun intended), we arrived to hear an exasperated :

"Yeah, no problem now. He was just trying to leave AMA (against medical advice) and with his IV still in his arm (a big no no). His doctor told him that he can't be discharged right now; he's in an emergency surgery."

That's it? Huh. So, we enter this patient's room to find a IV-less ornary old man with an incredibly appropriate hat that read, "Dysfunctional Veteran, Leave Me Alone." Will do. After some coaxing, and of course the arrival of half a dozen police officers, he calmed down a bit and was allowed to leave donning a scruffy disposition with his physician's new blessing ten minutes later.

Apparently the threshold for calling for a Code Green on the internal medicine ward is a bit lower than I expected. The rush melted away, and I've retreated to the clinic.

Chuy Margaritas

2007-07-04T10:31:00.000-04:00

A whirlwind. This is how I can best describe my transition between Cecil Webster, Medical Student to Cecil Webster, MD.

We might as well start at the beginning. As you may know last week was the official start of orientation. Five days of orientation. Nine fresh new interns, two second year residents and myself were to arrive at the formidable MEDVAMC (Michael E. DeBakey Veteran Affairs Medical Center) a hospital as large as its name. While some love the VA with its design-by-committee color scheme and federal-government-mauve tile, I admittedly was a bit reticent about beginning my psychiatry career here. So, after finding some parking I walked past a river of muddy flag-adorned trucks, Buicks, and of course the gaggle of valets that attended to them.

I got lost of course somewhere on the cavernous sixth floor, but I did bump into Leroy, a fellow intern. With a bit of walking, and my apologies for not being better oriented to the building, we made our way to the bright, albeit windowless, orientation room. After a steady stream of smiling faces, and introductions we got down to business. As anyone that has worked for the federal government knows, there was a deafening bureaucracy to wade through. Patience and enthusiasm was still fresh so we tolerated this 10 hour imposition. This was followed by the public hospital's orientation, BCM's orientation, the Department's orientation, and of course the orientation for psychiatry specifically at each of those hospitals. Sprinkle on some Compliance training (still think of that as an odd choice of words) and voilà. Orientationed out.

Thankfully, my fellow green colleagues are really cool. We're quite the motley crew. There are New Jerseyans, Tennesseans, Floridians, Marylanders (I suppose I can still count myself as one)and of course Texans near and far. The program director, at an evening party at her house, described us "quite a fun group" hopefully not euphemistically as we stayed about 45 minutes past the scheduled party's end. One of the very things that attracted me to the department was the sense of togetherness (not a stuffy remoteness that I experienced frequently although not invariably in the Northeast), and it seems like we'll have no problem with that. Already we've had a casual happy hour at Amazon Grill and an inaugural round of margaritas at Chuy's. We learned a little more about eachother. Jenn is uber-eager to buy a house, Alauna is hilarious as all hell, and Ben flushes at a quarter of a margarita. Nice.

Besides this there are other tidbits. There are former Nepal Peace-Corps members, siblings of spellers featured in Spellbound, and well-worn passport porters.

After a mercifully restful Sunday (my patients were seen by the soon-to-be-offservice second years), coupled with the arrival of my roomate back in town, and a visit from my mother, all was well. I pressed my gorgeous white coat...and its quite the handsome medi-cape. Laid out my best I-promise-I'm-older-than-I-look shirt, tie, and slacks. Tucked myself in to my newly cleaned bedroom and blissfully dreamed of sunny days with fanciful well-managed, compliant, schizophrenics. While I do not doubt that may I come up a bit short in regards to my career-eve dream, I do think that I will don a drowsy smile for the next four years. C'est commencé. Wish me luck.

Mon Mal

2007-06-30T13:44:00.000-04:00

Okay, so I haven't been updating so often, I know. But its not my fault, promise. I've been in a tireless streak of orientations, departmental get-togethers, dinners, and happy hours. So, alas, today is the last day, and I begin real life on Monday. I WILL update properly I promise, but in the meantime, I've gathered the following information during this week.
1. I've got free healthcare insurance!
2. I'll be working hard. HARD for the next two years of my four year residency.
3. I'm going to LOVE my fellow residents, they're hilarious, fun-loving and incredibly interesting.

The rest will fill itself out. In the meantime, gotta get back to the orientation.

Whoa

2007-06-26T07:31:00.001-04:00

First day of orientation. Its mere minutes before I head out for the first of five days of orientation (read insatiable boredom). Though there are some butterflies in my stomach that feel remarkably like the first day of school circa 1994. This time, however, I have neither a hypercolor shirt nor watertight Trapper Keeper to take the edge off. Wow. A doctor? Me? Here we go.

UPDATE: I love my fellow interns. This is going to fun. Hectic, but fun. More to follow in a bit.

crw,sr.

2007-06-17T03:17:00.000-04:00

Happy Father's Day dad. May your days be filled with endless outdoor projects, and well oiled tractors. Love you.

Havenwood

2007-06-17T02:29:00.000-04:00

Wow. So this deserves note. The strangest drunk dial I've ever received.***

First some background. As many of you know, I had quite the nomadic childhood. At the end of college (which is probably the last bit of childhood I can squeeze out) I'd lived in about 7 states and a Canadian province. Fresh from the Ottawa winter of 1994 I arrived in Huntsville, Alabama. Yeup. The Rocket City (so called because the insane number of rocket scientists and ballistic missile programs of the US Army). With a flattop and my best Hypercolor shirt we moved to Havenwood Drive, right next to who would become my best friend in the neighborhood Raj.

Raj was cool. We would hike on the mountain where we lived, catch frogs, play in the rain, and compete in any number of Sega or Nintendo games. During the blizzard of 1996 we spent the week sledding down our driveway with terrible abandon. We discovered that Raj was immune to poison ivy and I was not. We also had the most amazing games of Frisbee football on Havenwood's beautiful asphalt. So why all the Raj talk?

Raj just drunk dialed me from a bar in Birmingham. Nice eh? Thank you Facebook. Seeing a 256 number flash on my Razr, I of course thought it was my cousin David returning my call at an appropriate 1:30a. Nope.

"Hey man. Its Raj. I'll be in Houston in the next six months. I'm at a bar in Birmingham. Let me let you talk to Ian."

After talking to a very bewildered Ian, and recommencing my late night snack and Soul Train viewing (God bless Soul Train), I realized we live in a crazy crazy world where 8th grade friends can drunk dial you at 1:30a a decade since you last spoke.

As a random tangent: Given the recent flurry of weddings I have been delighted to attend I must say that I have been thinking about what my would be like. I've decided it must include a Soul Train line. This necessitates a Soul Train Scramble where various wedding attendees would unscramble the name of music artists currently playing on some sort of festive board.

***With the notable exception of a 2002 drunk dial received from a Spelman College Caribbean native.

Isla Africanos

2007-06-12T18:11:00.000-04:00

Ribka and Aman's wedding. I've finally whittled my 700 photos (yeah, I know I have an addiction) down to a manageable 200 on my site. Just follow the link here. As this was a Jewish/American/Ethiopian wedding in Isla Mujeres, México it was more than a bit unusual, engaging, and no less than amazing. I'm not sure words would ever be able to describe the incredible collection of people, conversation, and emotion. Apparently one of the taxi drivers on the island said, "Muchos africanos hoy." Yeup. That's us.

Jewish Ethiopian Eritrean Weddings in Mexico

2007-06-11T01:55:00.000-04:00

Much more to come after oodles of uploading.

Sushil! Chai kabe?

2007-06-04T22:20:00.000-04:00

Another amazing weekend in a painfully overcast and mercifully cool Atlanta. What was on the agenda?

1. Wedding reception: Ayan, his Asiastani family, his friends, and of course yours truly came for a great reception. Its was soooo wonderful to see my Kolkata family who christened me "Sushil" five years ago. MUST return to Kolkata. How I miss them.
2. Temorary Insanity: Skydiving? Yeup. More on that bit later, but needless to say its been crossed off the list for now.
3. Obscenely priced (in my last-minute favor) hotel rooms + upgrades: I'm SURE I didn't pay for an apartment at the Georgian Terrace. But I'll take it.
4. Morehouse Redux: Rawle, Shanoor, and I together again. Oh the fun. Old haunts, and new eats.

More to come on this weekend after I get done running around.

South Park Cecil

2007-05-31T13:29:00.000-04:00

As Is apparently en vogue these days, I've recently received a South Park version of myself using this handy website. Thanks Dallas. I had tremendous pleasure receiving this emailed gift so I thought I'd pay it forward a bit.

Here's Sasha. She was so kind as to share my 'South Park Character'

Here's Kevin

and of course Renu.
Enjoy.

Dirty Power.

2007-05-30T12:04:00.000-04:00

This is my new baby. Surprised?

Thanks to the shocking largess of my parents, family, and family friends for my highly anticipated (on my part) graduation from medical school, I’ve finally been able to afford a gorgeous new flat-screen television to support my film addiction. Now I know what you are thinking: “Cecil? With a television? Really?”

Despite common assumption, I have not lived these last two years without a television out of some grand protest against mind-numbing and equally vapid American programming, or against deeply distracting global fascination with celebrity, or even against that jolly juggernaut that is conspicuous consumerism. My apartment (henceforth described as the Afro-Persian Palace), has comfortably been sans boob-tube simply because...welll...I couldn't find a decent place to put it. More specifically, my old 13-inch television/VCR combo from a previous apartment (that I owned since I was still a Power Ranger viewer) was just terribly awkward in the living room. So, why clutter things with big black boxes? Of course, in the end, it did become more about anti-vapidity, anti-celebrity, and anti-consumerism but only after months of slowly awakening from the deeply penetrating and bewitching spell of that American siren: television airwaves.

So why the change? Namely Netflix. As described before, I love Netflix. I enjoy all the juicy obscure, psychologically dynamic, artfully shot, exquisitely written, socially critical, painful, joyous, and truly satisfying films I want. Three at a time to be specific. Given that residency is a Goosebumps-inducing, one month away, and graduation is one week behind me, I’ve got quite the unique opportunity to endulge in my independent/foreign genre-heavy habit.

After months of toying with the idea, days of CNet browsing, and a recent windfall, I decided to head to Circuit City. Thus begins our story.

My not-so-high-strung Dallas-native compatriot, and recent LCD television owner, joined me for moral and objective support. It was objective in that I knew it would be much more difficult for me to drain my account on something with intoxicating enormity with an attentive audience (particularly one from Dallas).

We arrived at Circuit City replete with sales (after leaving to quickly compare at the less-than-customer-oriented BestBuy) and I knew exactly which model and size I wanted. My mind’s eye, which hadn’t fully committed to a location in the Afro-Persian Palace's living room (aptly described by Nirav as similar to those posh back rooms of clubs 'where people hook-up'), pictured the most appropriate size and brightness necessary to not overwhelm viewers and provide a impressive experience. The Samsung 32” LN3242H (though its sounds remarkably like a Canadian postal code). Who would gain the commission? Let the games begin.

“Ah...You’re back. What can I do for you?” Said the slightly scruffy and similarly thin East Asian Circuit City rep. His red polo shirt was about 2 sizes to large for his frame.

“Yes....I want this one.” I said with my Texas sun-bronzed and fully extended index finger firmly directed with all the confidence and conviction of Napoleon Bonaparte in so many of his portraits, at the shelved aforementioned LCD screen.

“Uh, okay. Well...”

Off we went to his cryptic green and black monitored sales screen to briskly tap away at dozens of buttons with a strange exciting staccato. Then came the upsell. Perhaps he didn't recognize my titanium certitude.

“Have you thought about a service plan? We have a three year limited warrantee to guarantee.......(I began at this point to tune out his parroted monologue)...."
"Uh, yeah, I'm not interested. Thanks though." I politely retorted.
"What sort of service plan to you have now. For example, for your computer? This is very sensitive equipment and with the service plan...(I again my attention becomes listless)..."
"No. Thanks."
"Alright."

Bliss returns. My imagination quickly fills with the sort of jocund family scenes that Rockwell would have painted if 1080i, high definition liquid crystal displays were invented during his day. My mouth waters at the possibility of a High Def Dashboard display of my pictures, movies, and music. Hmm...I think I'll watch Happiness again. Kirin and Sharj would lo......

"What about your power supply?" He said, interrupting a rather pleasurable daydream.
"Huh?"
"What sort of surge protector do you have? We have a great range of power consoles that will clean your 'dirty power.'"
My my enthusiasm for a quick sale waned and was swiftly replaced by skepticism and vexation with these words 'dirty power.' I mean come on. What sort of fool am I?
"I'm sorry what power?"
"Dirty power. Look."

Before Sasha and I was a large red glass encasement of a rather severe looking metal powerstrip with the female counter part to every plug imaginable. This was all accentuated with a central similarly foreboding red nob with three settings: clean, off, and dirty. Sasha was looking up at the newly irksome gentleman with a glance that reminded me of my requests for her to accompany me for some chicken tikka masala, country dancing, or until very recently red wine. Its somewhere between polite reticence and disgust. I shared her look.

He flicked his angular wrist to reveal a whir and a constantly changing digital reading of some sort. 63.2, 58.9, 64, 61.9.

"You see the dirty energy? Your product is sensitive to dirty energy. With this power center you decrease your risk of damage to your television's interior."
With a raise eyebrow I asked, "Sure. But was is this number. Is it current, or resistance, or what? What am I looking at here."
"Its a representation of dirty energy. Dirty power can damage your television's interior...."
"Yeah, but you want me to buy something, and I don't know what this number is. I know its...
'dirty energy' but what am I looking at? What's this number?"
"Its dirty energy."
Sasha with a mock seriousness, repeats 'its dirty energy.'
He quickly glances at my Indian sandals and begins again with equal momentum.
"Would you run a mile in your sandals? No. You'd rather run in tennis shoes, right?"
With an incredulous stare and pause, I retort, "Yeah, but at least I'd see the blisters, and blood. But you still can't tell me what this flickering number is."
"Its dirty energy." His shirt size is 3 sizes too small for his relentless sales bravado.

At this point Sasha has had to remove herself due to her uncontrollable laughter. My compassion returns and I take delight in an impossible situation, and begin to chuckle myself.
"I appreciate your metaphor, but I'll have to pass. I'm not interested."

I guess I should expect a 30 year-old Circuit City worker to be well-versed in some basic physics, though he is trying to sell me something I have absolutely no need for. He'll have to come much harder than 'dirty energy.' He of course tries his monologue again, but I continue to smile and restate mine.

Eventually, I open my trunk to a (unnecessary) dolly-chauffeured large thin box and drive off to relive the situation with Sasha. Later that evening I enjoy literally hours of Indian film and gorgeous (albeit understandably vapid) high definition broadcasts of Hidden Palms on the CW.

Graduation Was Da Bomb!

2007-05-23T03:24:00.000-04:00

Details to follow but quick recap

5:45 arrival to Jones Hall
Hoards of people outside
Office whispered 'threat to building'
People inside evacuated
Graduation cancelled
Graduation uncancelled and planned for Baylor campus in Texas Medical Center
Graduation speakers short and hilarious
Graduation memorable
Hippocratic Oath said
Degrees conferred
Jumped in Cullen Fountain
Tried Amy's for dinner/champagne
Went to Hotel Derek for cousin's graduation reception
Went to Marquis II for further celebration
Asleep in bed with most memorable graduation to date

More photos etc to follow

Shock and Awe

2007-05-22T15:29:00.000-04:00

So, I've got about 3 hours to go before the start of graduation.

"It just seems like such a silly thing to be anxious about." I clearly agreed with my friend's assessment of our apparently shared insomnia. Benadryl, which normally takes me out until well into the morning was hardly sufficient to carry me to 6am. Am I anxious about graduation?

Apparently. But so far so good.

Today was the Luncheon for graduating medical and graduate student from Baylor COM. There were these insane looking 8 feet tall puppet-like contraptions that one normally sees at a Caribbean or Latin American Carnival. Very incongruous with the normally staid administration; well except for that whole Baylor/Methodist split of course. What they were doing in a ballroom of future physicians and researchers (and their equally delighted family and friends) is beyond me. One particularly delightful mother of one of my friends confided, "I'm not sure why they are here either, but I'll just take a picture."

I'm sure her sentiments were shared by many others.

So with these sorts of quasi-bureaucratic functions also to be shared were speeches and awards. Thankfully, the speeches were brief. The faculty receiving teaching awards were also well received (certainly well deserved). Then there were the awards of the Alumni Affairs Office.

So there was the requisite award to Stacey given her tireless, den-mother-like efforts at keeping our class together and organized these last three years. I believe her husband at one point suggested that we solve our nation's energy crunch with her seemingly inexhaustible supply. This was followed by another plaque to another student who I haven't talked to much, but who is apparently in very nicely with the Alumni Office.

Then there was the Alumni Student Award of Recognition. This award was given based on a write in ballot amongst students for a fellow classmate who is apparently in very nicely with other students. I was still finishing a rather adroit exchange with Ribka and then, "This award goes to Cecil Ray Web...Web..ber, Jr."

(add blank stare and a curious look of disbelief here)

I was clearly shocked. First, the mispronunciation of Webster kinda took me back, but with the realization that there are no other students named Cecil Jr. at Baylor, I figured it was me. So, I stood up more than a bit stunned and less than gracefully made my way to the stage to receive my fancy new plaque. The flashes from well-wishers didn't help my disorientation, but I'm very grateful.

Once again, Mrs. Brown was right about the "Bright student. Social butterfly" thing. I clearly never thought I'd collect certificates or awards for my time at Baylor. The excellence in psychiatry award was enough to last me well into residency. In any case, thanks to whomever keeps keeping me in mind.

Well, 3 hours to go and I've still got to iron my robe.

Lori's Wedding (Yup, You Read Right).

2007-05-21T23:21:00.000-04:00

4am Chai

2007-05-21T23:01:00.001-04:00

In kindergarten, my teacher wrote on my report card, "Very bright. Social butterfly."

Saint Mary's, Mrs. Brown is apparently still right (about the latter).

I had an exhaustive day with my dearest Ethiopian friend, Ribs. From the moment I picked her up from the terribly far and terribly named Bush Intercontinental Airport, it was as if her weeks of absence evaporated. This made me a bit more comfortable with the prospect of not having her around for the next three years of course. A wonderful exhaustive day. There were some difficult to answer questions about the psychology of family dynamics, bags/boxes/books, and our national (read Texan) pastime of eating. (As a matter of grave importance, I must go on the record as saying that I'm a zealous new fan of bacon & blue cheese hamburgers à la Baby Barnaby's. Aye.)

So, as with any great wine-kissed evening, we bade each other good night and headed to the comfortable solace of our respective beds.

This is until 11:30p.

"Hey, we're in the Village. Wanna hang out?"

I think I only hesitated for 0.2 seconds. My initial exhaustion vanished with the prospect of soiréeing with my favorite "browns (you'll have to ask Kiran about the origin of this moniker)." Within 10 minutes, the living room was again busy with the lovely Ms. Das (pictured under protest above), the nihilistic and equally sharply poetic Sharj, our cryptically sarcastic friend David, and of course our conspicuously sarcastic friend Kiran.

Sharjeel sipped away at his Veronica (1 part Crème de Cacao, 1 part Frangelico) as our suitably and conspicuously sarcastic friend Kiran, as usual, began to air his protests to the world. David, Rini, and I played audience to his hilarious tirade against various head of state, stupid people, and ironically flakiness. This was all topped off by a reviewing of our 2004 class skit "General Hospital." In order explain the inane BCM/Methodist Hospital split my friend Steph and I co-wrote this hilarious mock-soap opera with David cast as Luke (as in Saint Luke's Hospital), Lori as Nell (as in Cornell University), Steph as Bay (as in Baylor College of Medicine), and myself as Meth (as in Methodist Hospital). I'll have to post it one day, but needless to say we relived David's brilliantly cheesy performance as the handsome man-of-the-hour Luke. We must make another.

After a late night run to the supermercado, we made some ginger chai and called it a night...finally...around 4am with droopy smiles and what would be later sore abdominal muscles. Clearly must do this again. Fortunately, we didn't wake Kevin who is currently mercilessly tortured by the insanity of the gynecology department. Perhaps we can recreate the whole thing Saturday at Dancing Oaks.

Rock the Boat

2007-05-20T02:42:00.000-04:00

Miraculous. This is the only word to describe our class' ability to organize together one last time (as a large group at least).

At 5:30 the Afro- Persian Palace was empty save for some multi-culti electro- tango. Suitably, I suppose, since I did invite people over to my place at "5:30p brown people time." A half hour later, the doorbell rings to reveal some fellow Scandinavian cinephiles and a China travel partner. 6:15 (about 30 minutes before we were technically supposed to be at the Rice University parking lot to catch the buses down to Clear Lake) there is a flood of nears and dears all swapping recent travel stories. I love fourth year. The living room became abuzz with future cooter cutters (OB-GYNs), pediatrons, shrinks, and of course the ubiquitous Morehouse Man. So, after quick refreshers we headed out to the Rice Parking lot around the corner to catch our ride out to our class party.

We headed out to Clear Lake (which is apparently between the Gulf of Mexico and Houston) to have one last class party out on a boat. Correction. Out on two boats. The first boat seemed to me, someone who is sensitive to Texas stereotypes, a bit on the honky, Mississippi riverboat, Adventures of Tom Sawyer side. But much to my delight it was actually none of those things. Just casual Texas exuberance on two levels of party deck (one of which was a frigidly air-conditioned). The second was a one level casino boat. While gambling laws in Texas and certainly the restricted funds of Baylor College of Medicine's Office of Student Affairs forbids us from real gambling, we did enjoy fictional chips and the raffle tickets they garner.

Relatedly, this was perhaps the last time I will see some of my classmates. This is obviously both good and bad. It was a great opportunity to say adios to the needlessly borracho, the gauche conversation hogs, and of course, those unfortunate souls who refuse to discuss anything but tests and medicine. To them, I say adieu. But I will miss the Jewish-Ethiopians, my Saudi-raised Indian country-dancing teachers, the high-stung and just as fun grandmother-approved Dallas natives, and many more. I them, I say à bientôt.

The night progressed suitably. Thanks to Edward (and his approaching move to Los Angeles), my alcohol collection has burgeoned. So as any good receiver of gifts, I decided to pay it forward and share. Using my fellow future psychiatrist's Australian "Go Green" bag, we packed away our boating essentials and dropped it off with the bar tender. "So, is this for just your friends or everyone?" the Southern blond inquired.

As any good Morehouse Man, I decide that there needs to be an appropriate password. This was with the knowledge that the password would essentially become useless in 20 minutes or so, but would still require those that would like to partake blithely in spirits to know where it came from.

"The password is, 'I love kicker dancing.'" Add wink to the bartender here subsequently followed by the big toothy smile and slowly raising eyebrows of a bartender resigned to the idea of a Black physician kicker dancing fanatic.

Needless to say it was a fun night. Our East Texas drama-queen, I'm fairly certain, crossed some personal space boundaries with one of our Lebanese classmates with a fairly popular Michael Jackson song accompanying her. There was also the requisite quasi-homo erotic kisses our Indian friend was giving out to his golfing buddies' cheeks. This is not to mention any number of plausible would-be sexual harassment claims. Man-nipples are not to be pinched. At the very least, not on boats.

There was a suitable amount of drama from desi former couples and homophobes, newly returned faces from the bowels of academia, and of course my 7 year old Panameño rum. The music was great (good work Guzu) and I enjoyed myself thoroughly. Sigh.

Non Sequitur

2007-05-19T12:17:00.000-04:00

Though I do think of the Ronald Reagan Building and International Trade Center as pretty failed in its attempt to add vitality to the Federal Triangle, AND dislike how Republicans try to name everything in DC (a city that disliked him as equally as he disliked it), AND seems like yet another neoclassical marble mausoleum I really do love this little sculpture in the plaza. Its a stylized flower. Very stylized. I love it. At the very least, the RRBITC (awful acronym) has the miraculously hilarious saving grace of the irreverent Capitol Steps. Think pre-1995 Saturday Night Live replete with the delicious political humor. Lovely.

3 days 6 hours 45 minutes

2007-05-19T12:10:00.000-04:00

Until the start of graduation. They can't stop me now. Updates to follow soon. Yet another wedding and other notables.

I Seem to Recall

2007-05-17T01:40:00.000-04:00

As long as we're being nostalgic, here is a picture of our lovely facilities at the Fouad Hotel in Al Iskandariyah, Egypt. Notice the handmade bidet with a special frigid water feature to keep those sphincters perky. As a reactionary contrast here are some amazing flowers from Golden Gate Park in San Francisco. Who doesn't like flowers?
À la Gonzo, I'm currently listening to that polyglot misnomer band Brazilian Girls. I saw them at Austin City Limits last year and LOVE them.
"Jique" from "Talk to La Bomb"

Non Sequitur

2007-05-16T23:00:00.000-04:00

This whole graduation thing has got me all nostalgic. First off, I'm sooooo delighted to be receiving graduation gifts (read, very well received checks for financially vulnerable medical students). My paternal grandmother, Big Mama in my Bryan, Texas family parlance, for decades worked in a small restaurant preparing the most amazing pies. The owner of this restaurant recently gifted me a book entitled "Wisdom: 365 Thoughts from Indian Masters." So let's follow my stream of consciousness. As I sat on the floor reading all sort of great words of thought by Krishnamurti, Mahatma Gandhi, the poet Rabindranath Tagore, I curiously picked my journal from India (circa 2002) from the shelf. I could smell the curry. This of course led to Egypt (circa 2004) and China (circa 2003) journal browsing. In a new twist on my 'non sequiturs' I decided to publish three entries; one from each would do. Enjoy.

25 December 2002

2007-05-16T22:59:00.000-04:00

Tangent:

In their bedroom and bathroom walls were posters of cowboys. Besides providing a bit of nostalgia, it provided me a seed of thought. What about this country and its people do I find so similar to my native land [the United States]. More specifically, what does Texas have in common with this subcontinent?

ONE
The most obvious: Hospitality in India is rivaled only by Texas. No where on earth are you provided the same care from strangers as you would get from your own grandmother. This is, of course, unless if you share your last name with that of a shrub. But that's neither here nor there.

TWO
The food. Though completely unrelated in origin and development, the food of both India and Texas share one common element. The quality of prepared food is measured in the severity of sniffle and sweat. Spiciness seems to be the common culinary currency. Unlike Bengla, I am thoroughly familiar with this language.

THREE
Family structure. This seems to be more distantly related form my eyes. Though not uncommon in Texas, it is a bit more difficult to find multiple generations of extended family in the same house. Grandparents, their children, and their children's children. However, the inclusiveness of family friends is all too familiar. Mr. Das becomes uncle, Sharoni becomes sister. Mrs. Child becomes Aunt Wendy and Allycin, cousin. It feels warm and just as pleasant.

FOUR
Bovine reverence. Both Texas and India hold high esteem for the cow, though for, to say the least, very different reasons. Both, however, can be described as religious fervor. In both Texas and India close contact with a cow would not be out of the ordinary.

9 July 2004 1:30pm

2007-05-16T22:58:00.000-04:00

Hmmm....

Unfortunately, the art of bargaining seems to be ultimately limited by my lack of Arabic. In a country where you bargain for everything, this can be a bit of a problem, but there are some bright spots (better get your shades).

"I need some sun glasses"

As most of the group split off to go back to the [Fouad Hotel], to include the fiercely independent [crazy, wild-berry eating] Swede, I thought it best to keep the Galveston-native company.

Kelly browsed the ubiquitous local selection of sunshades that mimicked every Euro/American brand available in the known world. Within seconds, a nice young, and very well-tanned Egyptian approached. WIth a big curious smile and the slighted hint of malintention, he began to colorfully hawk his wares. Once he realized that neither of us comprehend his language, he said,

"Where are you from?" with the typical North African rolled 'r.' Of course, Ms. Gallagher did not answer. It is more difficult to bargain in the shadow of the world's economic behemoth. He asked me multiple times. As Kelly further browsed and incessantly replied curtly "La" or "no" to his hand-picked selections, I answered his former question.

"Brazil"

No sense in not having fun.

"A Rinaldo! Football!"
-add vigorous soccer movements and a very enthusiastic countenance here. After a minute of insisting I play football, Kelly picks out a pair of shades.

"Beckham?" (How much)
"Twenty."
Laughter from the pseudo-Brazilians
"Ten"

Our friend was smiling but obviously a bit hesitant.
".....Okay Okay."
As Kelly reaches in her wallet, "Twelve?"
"La."
"Okay okay."

By this point our Egyption friend has heard "La" and its Anglo-equivalent "no" at least a dozen times and half a dozen times he echoes. With her new shades in hand with possible UV protection (for even the regular 'glasses' were labeled as such) we head past the tracks to our beloved [hell-hole] Fouad Hotel.

8 April 2005 2:07p

2007-05-16T22:57:00.000-04:00

...The rest of the night, however did not favor us.

After a gleeful and certainly eye-opening evening we return to Shanghai Second Medical University [now Shanghai Jiao Tong University School of Medicine]. The guard at the entrance of the university I am sure was wondering why these four Americans were out so late on a school night. But we laughed and joked and Edward, Shaheen, and I bid our goodnights to Audrey for she stayed in the oh-so exclusive and posh women's dorm), and made our way jovially to our's.

Locked.

Locked with of all things, a bicycle lock.

Crap. The three of us males immediately see if Audrey shares our fate. At best we could bunk with her and at worst we could commiserate together.

"Is your locked too?!" a still happy albeit a bit taken aback Audrey calls out to us. "I forgot, they told me to be in by midnight the first day!" Us boys had no such warning so we found ourselves at a loss for words at 1:05 in the morning. So, in true American style (i.e. a disregard for rules and a go-it-alone mentality) we thought it best to break into our dorm and of course stow Ms. Sung in Shaheen room since he had an extra empty bed. With the sort of agility only reserved for acrobats and tax-evaders each of us one by one wiggle in the crevace between the not-so-thoroughly secured glass doors. First Audrey, then myself, and followed by an apprehensive Edward, and an equally awkward Shaheen. Despite muling over possible Chinese felony convictions and the impossible to exclude potential of execution by firing squad, we trailed to our room glowing, gleeful, and thoroughly exhausted. Both Edward and I had pleasant dreams of north-western Chinese prison camps. It remains to be seen if that will indeed come to fruition.

Where in the World?

2007-05-10T02:04:00.000-04:00

Kolkata, India
Dubai, UAE
Paris, France
London, England
Panama, Panama
Buenos Aires, Argentina
These are the places that I've decided that are acceptable to quench my desire to leave the country for 5-10 years. Clearly, this has got to give my (future) psychiatry skills a new dimension, right? Perhaps this will translate to a pan-cross-supra-cultural expertise in psychodynamic psychotherapy. Or is it that I'm a restive, visa-monger? Won't know until I try.

I think the above is in order of likelihood. Kolkata being, of course, where I picked up my Sushil nickname and indophilia, it seems like the most logical choice. Balmy winters, English speakers, suitably familiar, and very unlike these amber waves of grain. In any case, anyone have thoughts on any of the above?

Apparent Parents

2007-05-04T22:51:00.000-04:00

If you felt a comfortingly warm zephyr scented with an uncanny sensibility in Houston today, it was the oh-so pleasant arrival of the Colonel and his missus. Mom and Dad came to take care of some family matters in addition to graciously humoring me with hilarious pictures on the couch. The two are currently deciding where to flex their passports next as their 30th anniversary is quickly approaching this summer. I'm clearly lobbying for Buenos Aires (though I'm clearly not going), but I think the Colonel is pulling for Italy. Any thoughts?

Non Sequitur

2007-05-04T07:25:00.000-04:00

I know its a bit early for another 'non sequitur,' but I just love this huge sculpture, called "Cupid's Span" by Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen on the Embarcadero in San Francisco. Clearly gotta move there.

Inversion

2007-05-03T21:28:00.000-04:00

Okay, I've found a new favorite coffee shop. Inversion Coffee House. Since the terrible departure of the Westheimer Deidrich, there has been a noticeably gaping hole in my collection study/pleasure reading/people watching venues. Starbucks, as any pre-hipster knows, is passé and better left to the corporate masses. Trapioca and Tea House are only suited for marathon study sessions given its middle of nowhere location. Ecclesia (aka Taft Street) still leaves a needlessly Christian aftertaste despite its hip/bookish vibe. Lets not even discuss painfully early closing hours. This place settles nicely in the black-rimmed glasses, grad school, my-other-car-is-a-Prius demographic. After all, it is the Art League of Houston's ground zero. Furthermore, this aptly puts to rest the rumor that Dan Havel and Dean Rucks's installation sculpture Inversion (pictured above) would become yet more three level, soulless, stucco townhomes.

The irony of this all is that I actually detest coffee. I prefer to find comfort in a warm, straight from the third world, cup of tea. That being said, I'll take any place that pipes in the most random mix of delightlfully tacky 1990s Montel Jordon, brow raising Beach Boys, pulsating Come and Ride the Train by Quad City DJs, and other anachronistic pop anthems in the same breath as Nelly Furtado's Promiscuous. I mean come on. This is what this city is about, right?

Sitar Warehouse

2007-05-02T20:41:00.000-04:00

Last weekend at the behest of our friend Kevin, Sarjeel and I accompanied our aforementioned friend to a performance of classical Indian Music. Where? The Hobby Center? Nope. Wortham or Jones Hall? Wrong again. It was at the very underground Free Range Studios. As the three of us (mind you our trio represented Iran, Pakistan, and Black America) approached what looked to be a rather shabby warehouse we were a bit hesitant. The last whispers of a post-industrial vermilion sunset were escaping, the pock-marked street was nearly deserted, and our awareness of our browness sharpened. But much to our relief we spotted a silver Mercedes accompanied by its a confidently exiting white owners. Clearly white Houstonians wouldn't be here unless they knew what was up.

We followed our alabaster guides just past a truly démodé chain link fence which betrayed the amazing performance that was to come. After a simple set of instructions from some very relaxed group of South Asians, the three of us Indophiles shuffled in what clearly looked like what has become surprisingly typical in Houston: a 'only if you know its here,' pan-visual & performing arts workspace. The warehouse, in long neglected and soon-to-be gentrified east Houston (quelle surprise), was replete with a strangely beautiful, semi-prostrate, giant Gumby, a cacophonous collection of painted works, and (my favorite) another random assortment of 'multi-culti' denizens of Houston.

Add one part accented English, one part gritty rationalism, one part honey-dipped aural pleasure, and shake until delightful.

Only a fool would assert that Houston's charm is easily accessible to the casual observer, but that is precisely what makes this city so much fun. You put in a little work, and follow some white folk and voila. We witnessed an amazing two and a half hour performance and left nearly teary eyed.

Feral Peril

2007-05-01T00:41:00.001-04:00

Okay. This is why I can visit but never stay in the Texas countryside. We all know the incredible beauty that are Texas wildflowers. Every spring the fields explode with a cacophony of color, scent, and tourists. But as my mother, fellow and Morehouse alumnus Dowin, and I were heading to Chef Pasqual's in bucolic Round Top what do we discover?

Wild hogs

About 18 of them scurrying across the road with all the impatient zeal of Bayrou's political French center. Given my fumbling with the camera, I was only able to capture three of the less detestable hairy piglets. These were the 'cute' ones of the feral bunch as compared to the hygenically unimaginable trio of full-grown adult hogs escorting the "passel of hogs" (as they are apparently known). I'll be off ham for a while.

Non Sequitur

2007-05-01T00:30:00.000-04:00

My uncle, DeWayne Burnett (known in some circles as DB), with his oh-so-delicious Texas culinary skills, has recently opened a barbecue stand in Brenham, Texas. To say the least he has quite the knack for double entendres. Stop by if you can, but you'll have to bring your own sense of decency; its not included in the price.

À Bientôt

2007-04-29T18:28:00.000-04:00

Of course I miss Paris.

Not for the obvious reasons of beautiful weather, wondrously delectable food, gorgeous avenues, and an intangible joie de vivre. Instead, I miss the people: the hypomanic goal-directed Ethiopian-French lawyers and their dazzling Air France stewardess sisters, the West African-born East Arfican-raised Heinz representatives, the Abu Dhabi interior designers, and even the GI Jehovah-Catholic proselytizers. Especially, I’ll miss hanging out with surly, infectious, Jewish-Ethiopians and witty, ebullient Asiastani Dubai natives. The former I can hardly imagine a daily life without (she’s on her way to Chicago) and the latter I hardly had a chance to explore (he’s a migrant soul in London).

More so because we’ve just sent her off. After a cozy evening of brie, tomatoes, olives, and wine, we’ve bade our farewells to Ribka. She protests of course that she’s not going that far, and that she will certainly keep up through an elaborate system of text messaging through the next three years. Dubious as all of this sounds, we are feeling a bit melancholy. Perhaps its just that the idea that this dream of fourth year is slowly coming to a slow and beautiful end.

Swimming with the Fishes

2007-04-28T03:56:00.000-04:00

“Oohh....what’s uh....what’s that?”

These words, said with a slight air of confusion, fear, and aversion, are usually the first words people utter when they’ve seen my aquarium. It was pretty disgusting. After months of neglect, a tepid, unnaturally virescent one inch (or 2.54cm) of ‘water’ remained in the tank, holding my two surviving African cichlids captive.

A shame.

More so because its so cool. Years ago, before my three day sojourn here to the Lone Star state, I stumbled on an old 1950s television in the basement of our Maryland home. Given my mother’s creative clairvoyance, she’d already taken out the cathode-ray tube ages ago. Now it was ready to begin its new life.

As an aquarium.

Given an amazing set of circumstances (the tank was snug, the filter fit, and the light tube was invisible to the casual observer) and my experience as a pimply, fresh and saltwater specialist at Fairfax’s One Stop Pet Shop and Aquarium, the tank looked as amazing. At every party, chai soirée, book swap, casual drop-by, salsa-lesson, or night cap I’d invariably be the recipient of a “Whoa. Nice aquarium.” These words, of course would be scented with Bailey’s, ginger, or Malbec.

In any case, thanks to a glorious several hours of boiling, scraping, and wiping you are now looking at my RCA Radiovision Aquarium back to its former glory. While not on the scale of the Tate Museum, or even Jamiroquai’s last album (they got a new bassist), I still incredibly satisfied with the results.

“Enuaj” and “Teloiv” certainly are.

Brrrrr....

2007-04-26T00:47:00.000-04:00

I love recent immigrants. No matter where they are, they always seem to the hardest working individuals in any economy. And especially in France were it is practically de rigueur to be closed, bored, or striking. The other day, we were waiting for Ribka’s friend, Mickey, near the Garre du Nord, the train station that would deliver her ex-college mate fresh from London (thanks again Stanford and Chunnel). Despite him being of the ‘Asiastani’ persuation (and moreover a London resident), we decided on a relatively nearby Indian restaurant, full of the aforementioned.

As expected around any European train station, the neighborhood was a wee bit ‘dodgy.’ But my initial apprehension of the approaching sunset melted when I inhaled the oh-so-familiar smell curry, masalas, and naan. Let’s keep in mind that we are still in baguette and aperitif Paris. So, of course, I spill my requisite polite French to try to order a mint tea (as I had the unfortunate habit of doing so) with the South Indian waiter with his pen in hand.

With a quick shake of the head, he replied, “Non, monsieur. Nous ne l’avons pas (Sorry sir, we ain’t got it, yo).”

Add a momentarily perplexed countenance, followed a knowing sigh at the prospect of NOT ordering chai at an Indian restaurant. “Do you think they have chai?” I quickly relayed to an amused Ribka. I was clearly off my game.

A clear, “Yes, we have it” came from the waiter to his now excited albeit cognitively maladroit patron. Within moments a delicious ginger chai in a tiny white cup met my lips. “Merci...er....thanks a lot” I stumbled. I clearly hadn’t had a recent situation where the waiter and I spoke the same language natively in a while. It felt great. Especially since I’m a known Indophile. Although terribly confusing to use casual English to a French worker, it was soooooo nice. As a random Black guy I’m not sure he felt the same sort of lingual, and much less likely, cultural relief as myself, but he nonetheless obliged my next request for a mango lassi without further look at the menu.

In short, its so strange to go to Indian restaurant in France. That pesky French here seems nearly as disingenuous as the governments desires to assimilate its immigrants. The language just seems so needlessly formal, especially when ordering 'Poulet' Tikka Masala, or ‘Poulet’ Tandoori. Its perhaps simply that I hadn’t been accustomed to a fluid English conversation.

“[Mickey]! What’s up? I haven’t seen you in forever!” Ribka’s high-octane friend arrives (with equally enjoyable and witty English), to further this dizzying mélange of culture, language, and nations. After some catching up, and howdy-dos. We were off to the subterranean bowels that is the Paris Metro.

An Abu Dhabi-native, ethinically Italian/Ethiopian friend of Ribka (like all of Ribka’s friends apparently) recommended that we try Ice Kube Bar.

As with any place in Paris that is neither student-laden, gay, ethno-centric, or terribly run down, you’ll have to imagine the requisite level of Parisian pretense. After a huge 9 foot gate, manned by a rather well dressed yet surly West African, you enter a giant glass cube, not unexpectedly, in a magnificent small courtyard outside of the boutique hotel. The deal is you pay for 30 minutes in what is essentially a bar made of ice just inside. Wow. The kicker? All the drinks your want. The caveat? All within those precious 30 minutes. The thought of such burgeoned our desires and expectation for a great evening out.

Now, all of us had pretty low levels of European ancestry so our speed of consumption was set accordingly. Absolutely amazing though how even the glasses were made of ice. I took it relatively slow, but I must say, at some point I was teaching the avid students Ribka and Mickey how to properly Electric Slide. This is all while my Asics shoes kept temporarily freezing to the ground. The other Western Europeans, and bartender just smiled in puzzled amusement. Would I do it again? Probably not, but certainly nice to say that I’ve done it.

So, what better way to top off the evening with La Boîte à Frisson, which roughly translates to the shivering club. This is a bit of a misnomer: Its pretty flaming, though we did just come from a bar made of ice to be fair. You see, Ribka and I decided not to drag our Mickey friend to a hetero club in favor of experiencing a (very tame) club ‘of the homo persuation.’ Mickey was delighted. For good reason. The music was actually amazing. I rarely get to hear both decent American rap AND Jamiroquai in the same sitting. After garnering our fair share of attention (we were all matchless dancers as compared to the docile Frenchmen and Frenchmanwomen), we tried out our new Electric Slide moves (as any Black ambassador must), but the French seemed a bit hesitant in joining our melanin trio. Perhaps they were a bit nervous.

Ribka related that someone asked if we were American; as if that would be the only circumstance that a Pakistani, Black guy with locks, and a Jewish/Ethiopian woman could ever reasonably find company with one another. Well actually...perhaps so. That not withstanding, our French spy probably heard our accents as we sang all the Rap/Madonna/old school rock songs. All. Just a thought. Would I do it again? Probably not, but certainly nice to say that I’ve done it.

In any case, an amazing evening, which I tend to have with Ribka (1, 2, 3), to say the least. I'm a big fan of Mickey as well. They both have the sort of energy reserved for those patients I see in Taubnotch Hosp after a painfully positive U Tox. Hopefully we can recreate the aforementioned exercise in another European capital of hedonism another time.

After a short cab ride with a chatty and equally warmhearted Algerian, we found respite in a very satisfying slumber. A job well done.

Non Sequitur

2007-04-26T00:44:00.000-04:00

Yeah, I don't get it either. This is a rather random wall tag in the Montmartre neighborhood of Paris. If anyone can explain this one, I'm all ears.

J'adore Paris

2007-04-25T23:26:00.000-04:00

“What is it with the American fascination with Paris?”

This was the question posed by Ribka’s college buddy. We’ll call him Mickey. Mickey, an ‘Asiastani,’ Sverige-phile, and exquisitely rare Dubai-native living in London, seemed both disgusted and utterly perplexed, as he read a rather superlative description of the cultural seat of France in our Fodors guide.

For fear of American litigation I’ll paraphrase; Ahem...

“Paris is our modern-day Eden, replete with the finest fruits of humanity. This city is what civilization (and your Visa card) have been waiting for; it is the ultimate expression of how our world, at its heart, should aspire to be. If you haven’t been consider yourself void of any true pleasure, virtue, or capacity for love.”

At least that’s what it said between the lines.

So of course, this begs the question, just as Mickey did, why do American’s adore this city? Granted we aren’t nearly as bad as the Japanese. Rumor has it the Japanese Embassy has set up a hotline for those suicide-pondering Japanese tourists who, having grown up with the media-sponsored nearly delusional belief that Paris should be an indeed perfect heaven on earth, are disappointed beyond words at a very...well...French city. For reals. I can’t claim to know why per se America is so fascinated, but I can offer suitable reasoning for why we shouldn’t be.

Paris is magnificently and elegantly inefficient.

Let’s take the sojourn of Ribka and I through the labyrinth that is the Charles de Gaulle airport. As we parted the doors of the cavernous ticketing counters we were greeted by not one, but two Air France representatives asking for our destination, passports and the like (only to be ushered to an automated check-in kiosk). After discovering that we needed again to interact with another representative at the counter, we decided that the process was unnecessary. As we, still blissfully, arrived at the counter of Air France, the representative briskly typed away and sent our luggage swiftly to wherever they go. Then a pause.

“Euuuh.....(add consternated and nasal Parisian accent here).”
“Yehs. This will be a bit difficult. You arrrrh leaving from gate E83.”

With a rather smooth grace that is truly a French birthright, she began to draw the path to our awaiting plane on a smooth square of paper.

“You see you muhst take tis corrrridohr heerrre and follow the signs to the foyer. Once in te foyer, a bus will take you to the auxiliary gate.”

At this point, I was a bit annoyed with the idea of having to walk so far, but thought little of it. That is until this:

“The bus will take approximately 20 minutes.”

What? The two Americans before her quickly raised eyebrows and exchanged a stare that said, “What about our duty free wine?” We would barely make it to boarding.

So off we went. Our persons, tickets, our hand baggage was inspected, cross-inspected, and practically molested on practically every 10 yards. Glorious inefficiency. We stopped counting at about 13 checks (this actually does not count we actually boarded). Amazing.

Thankfully however, the French system of inefficiency worked in our favor vis-à-vis our duty free shopping. With mere moments to spare before our supposed boarding time, a honey-toned disembodied voiced called over the intercom.

“It is impossible to board at this time, as the plane is currently refueling.”

Obviously, this meant an extra 45 minutes to try our hand at the French wines (another story all together). I suppose the socialist job-creation system combined with an inane government mandated 35-hour work week is responsible. For a person from the United States, where efficiency and economy are always of paramount concern, it can be incredibly frustrated.

That being said of course, it is blissful to have the opportunity to annoyed by France. It makes one feel...how-do-you-say...French. Its any wonder that anything gets done, except for bewitching American tourists.

Home Again

2007-04-24T21:04:00.000-04:00

You'll have to excuse my initial vanity here, but I really do love this picture that my "super-cool" (add nasal Parisian accent here) Ethiopian travel companion took. As we strolled in the Marais neighborhood of Paris, we spotted this lovely nook with appropriately French manicured garden. She apparently is very skilled at taking photos. That aside, I must admit that it is a bit hard coming off of a Paris sojourn to return to Texas.

Let's paint a picture. In a rather cramped, and essentially Parisian, restaurant I was surrounded by bewitching beauty. The delightfully sour smell of enjera, the promising kiss of roasting Ethiopian coffee beans, and of course an incredibly exotic mix of language, culture, and smiles. I was sitting with the various multinational friends of Ribka at a wonderful Ethiopian restaurant named Menelik. Our incredibly sweet friend, Miryam, who went to high school with Ribka in Ethiopia, coordinated a quasi-reunion of Ribka's friends currently residing in Paris.

French, English, and Amharic all raced gracefully across the table of 12. More than certainly, this was all quite dizzying to me as I was just getting a handle on understanding most of the French. It was pleasureable to be frustrated (very similar to my impression of Paris). In any case, conversation flowed about spirituality, film, wealthy Arab design clients, assimilation, and how even the truth can seem ridiculous when in Eastern European customs. Actually for those rare Pakistani national, Dubai native, London residents, the truth can seem absurd.

Vive la France

2007-04-24T13:36:00.000-04:00

Well, before I begin relating about the glorious inequities of la Républic Française, I should let all know that I've already posted photos here on my website. Enjoy. I did.

Non Sequitur

2007-04-24T12:51:00.000-04:00

Street corner at "2th" Avenue in San Francisco during the SNMA National Conference.
Zooming in the Berkeley Hills with Fellow Morehouse Alumnus Travis Brown in his gorgeous 1970 Porsche.
The view from the Castro Muni stop in San Francisco. It must be a government sponsored beacon.

Je suis très désolé

2007-04-24T11:49:00.000-04:00

Okay, okay. I know that I've been absent for a while. And for good reason. So instead of boring your with senseless endless detail, I thought I would provide senseless detail (sans the 'endless' bit). Think if it as buck shot of the mind.

5-12 March

Grandma is about this close to becoming Brenham mafia. "Moo Supplements and Smoothies" has a splash of an opening off highway 290.
Gevurtztraminer for first time: La Carafe's bartender, I commend you
Prayed I pass the MMD final as my motivation had evaporated as quickly as those soon approaching summer afternoon rains: wish granted

13-19 March

~$400; rough estimate of Audrey's birthday dinner. Gratis for me and all but one of 20 others. Payed for with Houston's ears, noses, and throats.
Opened envelope that has clearly defined my next 3, 5, or 50 years. Matched at Baylor College of Medicine for Psychiatry. Sorry Yale, maybe next time. Next up? Chief Resident? Blasted American ambition.
$38 (27.91 Euros or 1,548.82 Indian Rupees) three longer than comfortable hugs, one consuming glare; amount I garnered at the AMSA Date Auction. Winner will collect prize shortly: chocolatey Black man. We'll ignore the obvious irony of a young verile Black man on sale in America.

20-26 March

Average continuous time studying for Step 2CK continued to be 2 hours; I could coast through 5 hours at a time circa 2003. Academic senescence (AKA senioritis)
Parked only one block from Rice Hotel for the annual Charity Ball with the lovely Sasha. Her feet were blissful. At least I think so, there was an open wine bar. In any case, I clearly think we were the hottest there. If only I were able to ride home with the top down, it would have been perfect. Although, an askance glance and a huff forbade such things.
I love going to the golf range. Yes, left-leaning, anti-elitest, eco-conscious Cecil loves the driving range.

27 March - 2 April

Roasted almonds, Cadbury Bunny Eggs, Dried cranberries, 2 Clementines, our Lord and Savior: My sustenance during the 8 hours computerized Step 2CK. Smells like freedom.
Dad's birthday Thurs., Mom's birthday Friday: went to Round Top near my parent's ranch Dancing Oaks, and had the most delicious salad I've ever consumed at Chef Pasqual's. The most indelible sun-dried tomato vinaigrette dressing. Thanks Patrick.
5 Bougainvillea and 2 Yellow Roses. Planted and gorgeous

2 - 9 April

"Coffee" with Dr. Gabbard turned to tea. Thanks to a silent auction at Charity Ball, I had a whole interrupted hour with America's foremost psychoanalyst discussing film, travel, language, and life.
Step 2CS: Why am I here? I already speak medical English
San Francisco for Student National Medical Association conference: Stayed with Uncle Butch in the Castro, met up with 3 other good Morehouse buddies, partied hardy

10 - 23 April

Paris -the most indifferent, inconvenient, and inefficient cities in the first world. How have they managed to survive their 35 hour work week, lipid-laden meals, and olfactory offenses?

Finally Saw the Gulf of Mexico

2007-03-03T19:31:00.000-05:00

Despite living in Houston for the last 3.5 years, I have not been to Galveston, nor seen the Gulf of Mexico. Now, while this may sound really cool at parties, especially given a nearly passport replete with various multinational customs stamps, I must admit that it was time to let the aforementioned truth lay to rest. Thusly, at 7:00am, with a humid brisk breeze as my witness, I have run my fingers through the crystal...er...reflective waters of our beloved Gulf. Sarjeel, Rini, Saman, Naveen, and myself all ventured last night to experience an invigorating sunrise on the sea; this was after a delightful short respite in Clear Lake involving Mrs. Das' guacamole and Hindi films. Thanks guys. I wouldn't have changed a thing.

Bye bye.

2007-02-28T11:51:00.000-05:00

We'll miss you Panama. Off to America.

Non Sequitur

2007-02-27T11:49:00.000-05:00

Wow. That's hairy. A very unwelcome sight at Isla Taboga. Someone get some wax.

Canine Al-Qaeda: Panama

2007-02-26T23:01:00.000-05:00

Now, I'm not saying that this dog is a member of Al-Qaeda, but certainly it terrorizes Americans trying to protect freedom from the air-conditioned comfort of Chevrolet Cavaliers. For two nights, on the way to our beloved Panama psychiatry mentors house, our friend Lisa and her unfortunate passangers have been victim to dog terrorism. Somewhere between Costa Del Este and the Texaco Gas Station and Correador Sur, there waits a slack-jawed vessel of auto-destruction.

Friday night while traveling 25mph in Lisa's car:
"Oh yeah, Panama is great. I certainly love all that Panama has to offer, Lisa. You are so lucky to have found suitable employment here in this fine country...Hey, fellow Americans, what is that yonder? It appears to be a rather slack-jawed young dog. Is he walking toward the road? Get out the road! AHH!!!" Add the terrified screams of innocent young Texans as the car swerves to avoid a joyful suicidal terrorist dog running for the front right tires, intent on destroying American freedom. Furthermore, add the staccato halt of Chevrolet's over-active anti-lock brakes.

"Did we hit the dog? Where's the dog? Everyone alright?" Our sweat-moistened brows glowed in the reflection of the high-beam light off of the mongrel's freedom-hating Al-Qaeda coat of a terrorist perro. "Wow, fellow Americans, that was close. Did that dog actively run in front of the tire?" Add the very concerned all-American faces of apple-pie and open spaces.

Monday night while traveling 25mph in Lisa's car on the same street:
"Oh, yeah Panama is still great. I'm certainly still impressed with all that this great country has to offer, Lisa. Hey, fellow Americans, is that the same dog as that previous horrific evening? Hey. HEY! Its doing it again!" Add the terrified screems of innocent young Texans as the car swerves to avoid a joyful suicidal terrorist dog running for the front right tires intent on destroying American freedom. Add, again, the increasingly scary staccato halt of Chevrolet's over-active anti-lock brakes.

"We've better hit that damn suicidal dog." Our sweat moistened brows glowed with anger in the reflection of high-beam light off of the mongrel's freedom-hating Al-Qaeda coat of a terrorist perro. "Wow, fellow Americans, that was close." Add the very concerned all-American faces of apple-pie and open spaces.

Three things. First, we are obliged to call Homeland Security to protect Amurica. Certainly, if we must fan the flames of Iraq, toy with Iran, and chastized North Korea despite only an Afghanistan role in September 11th, surely we can use some of those billions to spend on protection from Panamanian terrorist dogs. Second, in Catholic country, do suicidal dogs go to heaven? At the very least its not evolutionarily beneficial. Third, there is no way that this dog survives the week should Lisa be accosted by its flapping tongue, and death wanton eyes, on the pavement again. There would be minor fender damage, traces of dog hair, and American pride for protecting Freedom.

America: These colors don't run. They run over.

Luego Mi Amigo.

2007-02-25T11:00:00.000-05:00

Despite my best efforts, I must return to the United States. Who knew that a four hour flight could hold such amazing possibilities. Truly one of the worlds great modern crossroads, it pains me that I have to leave. However, that being said I thought I would share what it is I look forward to most in Texas.

Vasodilation: its been a full month since I've had a pressurized 90 degree ducha. Vaya.
Amigos: Clearly its been a while since I've had a hearty conversation about the relation of 1960s desegregation and American politics over some delicious Ethiopian food at Blue Nile. Yuuum. My United Colors of Benetton friends rock. I'm comin' home!
Not having to be cognizant of the toilet seat: Living with women is hard. Living with two women is harder. Despite everything smelling like flowers and various tropical fruits, Alauna and Leah aren't bad at all. Though I need to return to Houston to talk about German automobiles, HDTV technology, and even organized commercial sports.

Esté es Panamá

2007-02-24T16:26:00.000-05:00

This is Panamá. As we were forming our plans for the afternoon, the lovely Lisa gave us a telephone ring on the way home from her tireless work at the UN. Given her adriot eyewitness skills, and the unusual amount of traffic on Via España, she knew that her camera-happy fellow Americans would soon cherish another 'Esté es Panamá (this is Panama)' moment.

As previously mentioned, the buses (AKA diablos rojos) are less than tip-top American hand-me-downs. As such, it is expected that these buses have a certain level of maintenance issues, however, the above picture is far beyond a broken taillight or a burnt out interior lamp.

As we approached a small lecherous crowd, we passed a hand-waving witness in front of an avid news crew. They parted to make way for four visibly frustrated men who were pushing what is considered some of the most essential elements of a vehicle: the tires and axels. This is obvious to even the most casual of observers. What's not so obvious is how a bus can lose it wheels on a smooth street and not have it make CNN. I haven't seen this sort of auto sans wheels since those unfortunate fourth grade Hot-Wheels incidents, but apparently this level of disrepair is far from uncommon. Oddly enough, no ambulances, no 30-somethings grabbing their necks and promising legal action. Just a number of frustrated motorers in traffic as (not so) usual.

Esté es Panamá afterall.

Non Sequitur

2007-02-23T23:40:00.000-05:00

If you can't stand the heat...maybe you shouldn't nest your wasp larvae on an incandescent lightbulb. This is a photo of an unfortunately placed hive in Las Tablas, Panamá. If you look closely the wasps are beating their wings relentlessly to try to cool things down a bit. I like to think of it as a metaphor for recent US military efforts in a historically heated Middle East. Good luck guys.

Dude. Lighten up. Its Just Depression.

2007-02-23T23:38:00.000-05:00

So, Leah, Alauna and I are enjoying a lovely conference on the symptoms, psychopathology, and treatment of depression. The president of the Sociedad Penameña de Psiquiatría sponsored us and as such we’ve merrily obliged. Now, I’m not saying that my level of Spanish is anywhere near where it needs to be to understand the nuances of Colombian psychopatholical theory, but I do understand enough to know that one of the presenters was...er...a little bit off.

Well, as someone with a burgeoning interest in psychoanalysis I was excited to hear one of the presenters was going to talk about a more psychodynamic approach to depression. His thoughts? In a nutshell, it is the patient’s fault and religion, which so many Panameños in particular rely upon, is simply a construct of guilt. Alright, now while it provides excellent fodder for thought and discussion with my psychiatry hero Rogelio, it was kind of startling. Not so much because of the verbal content of the talk, but because of the visual accompaniment of the presenters PowerPoint.

The pictures. When one is confronted with slide after slide of pictures of blurry child reflection in broken mirrors, a hanging men in trees at dismal vermillion sunsets, and a cleary 1980s New Yorker on a public graffiti-adorned bathroom floor moments before slitting her wrists one has to wonder two things. Who amasses such a collection of photos, and who’s married to this guy. What a drag.

At the very least, it provided suitable motivation to play close enough attention to navigate the hour talk. It was also clearly entertaining to look across the row to find Rogelio enthusiastically shaking his head in protest to the presentation. Immediately upon its completion we found ourselves benevolently debriefed.

“Remember, if you start blaming the patient for everything you lose everything. I don’t agree at all with this...”

I can’t wait for tomorrow.

Holographic White Jesus

2007-02-23T23:27:00.000-05:00

Admittedly, I am no stranger to Catholic-kitsch. Anyone who has visited mi casa is greeted at the door by the fragrance of votive Neustra Dama de Gaudalupe candles and a washroom replete with my favorite quasi-Coptic icons. But I was accosted by a new level of kitsch at the house that the Báez family and we gringos were crashing in, in beautiful Las Tablas.

Upon the oppressively orange walls hung Holographic Jésus. You move your head back and forth and so does the Divine Shepherd.

Now I’ve seen floating baby Jesus, Black Jesus, action figure Jesus, neon Jesus, and a personal favorite Jesus-drives-a-Chevy Jesus, but for the first time, I have witnessed a holographic, pseudo-three dimensional framed representation of Western European Last Supper Jesus. Now, first off as a disclaimer, its clearly historically inaccurate that Jesus of Nazareth would look remotely rubio seeing as those Homeboy is from pre-Arab...Nazareth. As such, I’m never a fan of Scandanavian impressions of the carpenter’s Son. Similarly, the intelligently satirical comic “Boondocks” has cleverly referred to this image of the Son of God as 'White Jesus.' We will referred to this thusly as Holographic White Jesus.

Holographic White Jesus, this is coolest White Jesus I’ve seen to date and am dying to know where I may also purchase the aforementioned depiction of that Temple Rabble-rouser. After much continued discussion between BCM’s finest future psychiatrists, we’ve clearly adopted this as a new mission. Wish us luck.

Hola Ola.

2007-02-23T22:42:00.000-05:00

In lieu of another Colecos Dr Báez and her equally adventurous husband Eric, decided on a day trip to Isla Iguana, much to the relief of the woman who maintains my locks. Despite the unfortunate departure of Lisa back to work (for reasons unbeknownst to reasonable men), we were bursting with delight at the prospect of seeing some tropical nature and giving our cameras a good aperture work-out. Oh, we have to leave at 7am? Aye.

“Yeah, we will need to take a ferry to the island.” This was the statement that led me to underestimate our nautical journey to Isla Iguana. While I’m sure the language barrier prevents perfectly fluid exchanges of information, I’m not entirely convinced that ‘ferry’ was not used tacitly avoid any conflict with the less intrepid of our group.

“Huh, where are the ferries?” Alauna adroitly expressed on our arrival to the beach of the mainland facing our destination.

“ There they are. we’ll have to go in one of those.”

Eric pointed slightly hesitantly to the speeding, fiberglass and aluminum vessels whose apparent age and frame seemed all but shattered by the very 'calm' (read very choppy) ocean channel before our eyes. I am not too familiar with watercraft navigation world, but I do know that white-capped waves, and seven people in a boy scout boat seems like a bad idea. I gripped my camera tightly as scenes of an airborne, wave-bound Canon S2IS in a ziplock bag flashed before my eyes. I silently scorned myself for not bringing more of those Rey Supermercado bags.

Drs. Báez, grandma Báez, Leah, Alauna, myself and of course ‘Mio (an awkwardly dense short form of Emelio) climbed one by one in the reasonably stable Benedic Katalina. Fortunately, Mio provided quite the adrenaline experience to distract from the fact that the waves looked bigger than the boat. Though, I still clutched my camera to my chest with all the zeal of an antebellum Belle to her newly returned Southern soldier, the fresh salt air through my locks and the frequent feelings of momentary weightlessness suitably replaced fear with excitement.

After half-an-hour, we arrived on the most beautiful cotton-soft white beach I’ve seen (much in contrast to the equally startling black beach of Santa Clara). An army of tiny hermit crabs felt similarly. They blanketed the beach so well that it appeared to undulate just inside the range of perceptibility. Furthermore, what’s an Isla Iguana without Iguanas? They were far more reluctant to make the acquaintance of gangly homeotherms with prosumer cameras in tow. They preferred the rocks and sand just out of reach. As our adventurous Panameño-American herd filed through the forest to find flora and fauna that normally graces the ‘tropical’ section of Lowe’s greenhouse. On the other side of the island we find another gorgeous beach and small cove eerily similar to San Diego’s verdant coastline. Claro, instead of joining the others, I lathered on more sunscreen and headed for those micro-oceanic environments. The intertidal area of the rocks, if one is pacient and patient enough reveals amazing wildlife secrets. Puffer fish, brilliant blue fish, sheepish octopi, and fish as ‘ugly as sin’ (as my grandmother would say). This was in addition to the countless birds in the sky. One could hardly throw a stone without fear of an Icarus returning most ungracefully to the earth or the sea.
A great day. As we trekked across the island again to the beach of our landing, we were surprised to find that the Pacific’s notoriously wild tides had receded to trap our beloved Benedic Katalina on those soft sands, and exposed a bastion of coral. Clearly, we promptly took a nap under a palm tree for a couple hours and awaited the return of the ocean. Best siesta yet.

Los Carnavales

2007-02-23T00:23:00.000-05:00

Bienvenidos a los Carnavales. In the weeks approaching Carnavales, whenever our American medical trio would answer the cordial dinner-party question of “Are you going anywhere for Los Carnavales?” immediately upon answering “Las Tablas” we would be subject to a rapidly melting smile, the sort of short inward breath reserved for those feminine film noire protagonists (just before their murder), or a pause followed by a wide-eyed “Niiiiiiiiice” and an equally hearty slap on the back. Invariably, any of the above would be swiftly accompanied by a euphemistic (and cautionary) praise of Panama’s most renowned pre-Lent celebration.

Our gracious and apparently intrepid pediatric neurologist attending, Doctor Báez, signaled no such concern when she gleefully invited us to stay with her and family in Las Tablas, Panamá for Los Carnavales. Las Tablas is the seat of Panamanian culture; it is roughly the equivalent to America’s heartland without the acerbic aftertaste of Bush’s political follies or the threat of an endless ennui. Like many countries and cities that have effortlessly mixed Catholic tradition with enjoyable albeit pagan practices, this small town and the rest the country, in the four days before Ash Wednesday, celebrate tirelessly.

So, Saturday we met with Doctor Báez at her San Fernando office with bags, sunscreen, and the unspeakably cheap and water-ready Albrook Mall attire in hand for the four-hour journey to Panamá’s south. Similar to most developing countries and France, time is clearly just under conceptual here. Therefore, our first stop was Santa Clara, the gorgeous beach here about an hour from the city. I’m always amazed at this country’s diversity. Not just the thoroughly blended shades of Afro, Euro, and Indian that make race an impossible task, but at the diversity of landscape. This area is home to the architecturally clever beach house of Doctor Báez and her family. The beaches are a dazzling and brilliant black & the air is cool and virgin. If I am able to work out moving to Panamá in the future, this is certainly a place to play weekend warrior. But, I digress. On to Las Tablas.

As we’ve said before, the country of Panamá is just a big small town. So it isn’t any surprise that the cities empty to descend on the towns to celebrate with family and friends. The central square swells to a river of brown like the mouth of the Mississippi. And its hot. In terms of temperature of course. So, Panameños being the equally skillful and merry people they are, have invented… Colecos. Colecos is the sort of event that makes lingual slips between embarazado and embarazada irrelevant.

Colecos as a massive outdoor party has three main ingredients. The first, the people. Mothers, hedonists, septuagenarians, and apparently drag queens collide and are packed under the oppressive 90-degree sun. Second is the music. The deafening pulse of reggaeton bewitches the ordinarily pious to gyrate in ways that would make your grandmother giggle. The inexhaustible supply of alcohol is used further facilitate the above. Sounds pretty straight forward, eh? Well then there’s the water.

For those readers that have had first-hand experience with Colecos, you’ve probably paused to yield to your first Colecos memories while letting out a small, knowing chuckle. For the rest, think of those elementary school summers when your water guns, slip-and-slides, and an adroitly and nefariously managed garden-hose served as the only neighborhood weapon against the heat besides your grandmother’s lemonade. Now only add full-pressure water hoses and thousands of people and we can begin to comprehend it. Thankfully the music is suitable distraction from the fact that everyone…everyone, is being the subject an absolute soaking from all directions and from anyone. It kind of blurs the line between water terrorism and benevolence. I haven’t been this soaked since I was caught on my bike in one of those Texas thunderstorms. All of my remaining attention was spent on trying to keep up with Dr. Báez. Her enthusiasm for Colecos forbade her from remaining sessile and betrayed her age. I’m not saying that she’s old, of course not, but I’d like to think myself and three other 20-year-olds would be able to navigate the crowd with the same dexterity and determination as a neurologist…a pediatric neurologist…whose been practicing for 30 years. In any case, Colecos surrenders to the late afternoon need for a siesta and the second celebration of the day begins at night.

Calle Arriba and Calle Abajo are roughly translated into uptown (wealthy) and downtown (regular). Along these lines Las Tablas (and most other towns) divide to elect queens, construct floats, and fashion horribly personal attacks on the opposing queen in the form of song. Amazing. Around 11pm we found ourselves (dangerously) close to fireworks to mark the beginning of the parade. First, Calle Arriba. A huge, garish float turned the corner to meet the town square and a huge expectant crowd. A cacophony of colecos song counterpointed the beautiful array of glorious plumes of decadence married to the soft turns of the Calle Arriba court. The joy and the intractable kinetic energy raced through the crowd only to burgeon with the second float with garnished with the beguilingly adorned dark-haired queen, Ms. Renata Alexandra Díaz Núñez. The whole process is repeated with the equally enjoyable Calle Abajo, Ms. Sara de Carmen Bello Herrera, and her court. For the remainder of the evening (until well into the small morning hours) the two courts circle each other in the square with the tireless chants, lingually Spanish-Caribbean flavor of their respective anthems for that year.

Thoroughly enjoyable. Equally tiring. Multiply by four. The quintessential Carnaval experience.

Los Carnavales 2007

2007-02-17T13:43:00.000-05:00

Vaya! We're going to Los Carnavales! Again serendipity has smiled in our direction once again. Our beloved pediatric neurology attending Dra Báez has graciously offered to host us in the quintessential Carnavales town of Las Tablas, Panamá (about four hours southwest of Panamá City). We will be meeting her shortly, but before we head of for what has completely shut down and emptied the city, I thought I'd at least share lest I never return. Adios!