watching the israel - hezbollah - syria - lebanon thing turn to crap. amused/angered that Condi Rice has been sent to get syria to back off when it was israel that kicked the shit out of lebanese civilians.
thinking that this will get lots worse before it gets better.
thinking that this is where this ends...wondering where this crap begins?
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
bulletin
More interesting things happening in the world than in my life right now.
Zidane vs that Italian guy
Israel vs Hezbellah
John Howard vs The Environment and the Greenhouse Effect and Peter Costello
One of the above is fascinating and terrifying, and the other two are funny because they're so ridiculous.
***
Miss Sydney. It always feels like coming home, each time I visit. It feels like I've never really left, probably because part of me never really did. Returned to work bleary eyed on Monday morning after a weekend supersaturated with old friends and the Emergency department waiting room was positively repellant.
***
Good luck to BST candidates!
***
Saw two girls making out the other day. It goes without saying that that was Pretty Cool.
I have been asked why it is that guys find the sight or idea of two girls kissing such a turn on. My simple-minded reply at the time was that it was mathematically a case of taking something that is Cool (a girl kissing) and multiplying it by two, thus making it Pretty Cool.
I have since been told that girls do not find the reverse holds true: two guys making out is Not Cool, nor Pretty Cool, but simply Gay Porn.
***
New music:
Justin Timberlake's new single is absolutely whack, from the grammatically retarded title "SexyBack", to the infuriatingly-repetitive-and-therefore-catchy drum beat. I'm not sure what the song's producer Timbaland is trying to do exactly - the composition, it is simplicity, is a polar opposite to their previous collaboration on "Cry me a river," which was a mini-symphony in its density.
It seems to take a page from the Gwen Stefani single "Hollaback girl", or even the recent Timbaland-produced Nelly Furtado singles "Promiscuous" and "Maneater" - all "songs" without much melody, driven on sparse, catchy beats and futuretro synth.
I suppose Nelly Furtado had to do something different after Corrine Bailey Rae took her spot as "songstress with lilting wispy voice."
Zidane vs that Italian guy
Israel vs Hezbellah
John Howard vs The Environment and the Greenhouse Effect and Peter Costello
One of the above is fascinating and terrifying, and the other two are funny because they're so ridiculous.
***
Miss Sydney. It always feels like coming home, each time I visit. It feels like I've never really left, probably because part of me never really did. Returned to work bleary eyed on Monday morning after a weekend supersaturated with old friends and the Emergency department waiting room was positively repellant.
***
Good luck to BST candidates!
***
Saw two girls making out the other day. It goes without saying that that was Pretty Cool.
I have been asked why it is that guys find the sight or idea of two girls kissing such a turn on. My simple-minded reply at the time was that it was mathematically a case of taking something that is Cool (a girl kissing) and multiplying it by two, thus making it Pretty Cool.
I have since been told that girls do not find the reverse holds true: two guys making out is Not Cool, nor Pretty Cool, but simply Gay Porn.
***
New music:
Justin Timberlake's new single is absolutely whack, from the grammatically retarded title "SexyBack", to the infuriatingly-repetitive-and-therefore-catchy drum beat. I'm not sure what the song's producer Timbaland is trying to do exactly - the composition, it is simplicity, is a polar opposite to their previous collaboration on "Cry me a river," which was a mini-symphony in its density.
It seems to take a page from the Gwen Stefani single "Hollaback girl", or even the recent Timbaland-produced Nelly Furtado singles "Promiscuous" and "Maneater" - all "songs" without much melody, driven on sparse, catchy beats and futuretro synth.
I suppose Nelly Furtado had to do something different after Corrine Bailey Rae took her spot as "songstress with lilting wispy voice."
Monday, July 03, 2006
Synchrony
Felt well bummed out for the first time in a good few months on Saturday. It was weird. I had lunch with my friends and Christian Work Friend which, at the time, went great. Everyone got along and we met my friend's new lady friend which was terrific. Everything was going fine until I was on my way home and started to play Analyze This.
(Let's be clear: Christian Work Friend is Just a Friend. (Same as Gorgeous Christian Med Student) So I really shouldn't have to scrutinize how the lunch went, but I did.
Maybe you shouldn't have done the whole "James Blunt can rot in purgatory for Goodbye My Lover" schtick. And the mimed forking of said Blunt was probably unneccesary too.
Maybe she doesn't need to know about how you and your mate used to belt out Backstreet Boys songs in the car.
Maybe...
By the time I'd arrived home I'd welcomed back that old friend, Insecurity, and all over a girl that I'd resolved NOT to pursue!
To top it off, Insecurity brought his drinking buddy, Loneliness, and by the time I got online and read esme and Dr J's blog entries about similar issues I was wishing that things could go back to a place where I was just a retard who couldn't get a girl because I was basically, well, a heathen. Or a Pagan. Whichever. Because that was fun, and it was new and refreshing to be able to have dinner or breakfast with a new lovely lady, religion notwithstanding.
I've seen the Insecurity/Loneliness double feature before, and it wasn't funny the first time. Or the second.
Anyway, I shook it off with a good drive down the highway with my shiny new Creative Vision:Mp3 player blaring Ghostface Killah*, but looking forward to the end of the week, already. Hola Sydney!
*free internet advertising for you Creative, now send me $$$
(Let's be clear: Christian Work Friend is Just a Friend. (Same as Gorgeous Christian Med Student) So I really shouldn't have to scrutinize how the lunch went, but I did.
Maybe you shouldn't have done the whole "James Blunt can rot in purgatory for Goodbye My Lover" schtick. And the mimed forking of said Blunt was probably unneccesary too.
Maybe she doesn't need to know about how you and your mate used to belt out Backstreet Boys songs in the car.
Maybe...
By the time I'd arrived home I'd welcomed back that old friend, Insecurity, and all over a girl that I'd resolved NOT to pursue!
To top it off, Insecurity brought his drinking buddy, Loneliness, and by the time I got online and read esme and Dr J's blog entries about similar issues I was wishing that things could go back to a place where I was just a retard who couldn't get a girl because I was basically, well, a heathen. Or a Pagan. Whichever. Because that was fun, and it was new and refreshing to be able to have dinner or breakfast with a new lovely lady, religion notwithstanding.
I've seen the Insecurity/Loneliness double feature before, and it wasn't funny the first time. Or the second.
Anyway, I shook it off with a good drive down the highway with my shiny new Creative Vision:Mp3 player blaring Ghostface Killah*, but looking forward to the end of the week, already. Hola Sydney!
*free internet advertising for you Creative, now send me $$$
Friday, June 23, 2006
The wagon
Thinking about God lately.
As the stories roll in, and continue to roll in, from my intern colleagues about how swamped they are and how tired they are, I keep wondering when the wheels are going to fall off my wagon and when I'm going to be hit by "the REAL intern experience."
This is the third term out of five and somehow I've managed to dodge dipshit registrars, tyrannical consultants and even heavy patient loads. I've also managed to hide the fact that I probably know a lot less than my 6th year Medical Student.
Meanwhile my colleagues here in rural Victoria are struggling - one with doing essentially a registrar's job because her reg is a lazy know-nothing and the other is going so bonkers with her patient load that she thought it was a good idea to tie my shoes to the light fittings for fun and then drop chip fragments into my hair.
I have other friends and colleagues dealing with moderate depression and personal tragedy.
In some cases, such as with my colleagues here, I can give them a hand and offer my time after my shift and my severely limited expertise, but what I really want is to give them, and the rest of you, bits of this Four-Leaved Clover that I somehow stumbled upon. I know it sounds f**king hokey, but it's true. I'm probably just a little bit of a Communist Lesbian at heart.
You can have my luck - I think I've had more than my fair share, and besides, a little adversity builds character, right?
I don't pray, because I'm not a religious person (even though I've met yet ANOTHER gorgeous, lovely and single Christian girl just recently and it's driving me BONKERS), but I'm thinking about you guys, all of you. (That is, everytime except when I'm concentrating hard on not killing patients)
And so, I've been thinking about God. Not necessarily the Christian God, or the Catholic God or even Buddha, but just "a" God. I'm wondering whether he/she gave this blessing/lesson for any particular reason, or if it's just a random scatter of the fairy dust.
I guess it really doesn't matter what he/she planned, but what I do with this.
So if you suddenly discover money, food, or hot supermodels raining down on your doorsteps, you'll know I've figured out a useful way to send my luck your way.
Until then, thinking will have to do.
***
Addendum:
If God places anymore gorgeous and likeable single Christian women in my path I will be convinced that he is in fact, a she, because only a woman would tease like that.
***
Addendum II:
GO SOCCEROOS! Retarded British refereeing and rough-housing Croatians couldn't keep us down!
***
That is all.
As the stories roll in, and continue to roll in, from my intern colleagues about how swamped they are and how tired they are, I keep wondering when the wheels are going to fall off my wagon and when I'm going to be hit by "the REAL intern experience."
This is the third term out of five and somehow I've managed to dodge dipshit registrars, tyrannical consultants and even heavy patient loads. I've also managed to hide the fact that I probably know a lot less than my 6th year Medical Student.
Meanwhile my colleagues here in rural Victoria are struggling - one with doing essentially a registrar's job because her reg is a lazy know-nothing and the other is going so bonkers with her patient load that she thought it was a good idea to tie my shoes to the light fittings for fun and then drop chip fragments into my hair.
I have other friends and colleagues dealing with moderate depression and personal tragedy.
In some cases, such as with my colleagues here, I can give them a hand and offer my time after my shift and my severely limited expertise, but what I really want is to give them, and the rest of you, bits of this Four-Leaved Clover that I somehow stumbled upon. I know it sounds f**king hokey, but it's true. I'm probably just a little bit of a Communist Lesbian at heart.
You can have my luck - I think I've had more than my fair share, and besides, a little adversity builds character, right?
I don't pray, because I'm not a religious person (even though I've met yet ANOTHER gorgeous, lovely and single Christian girl just recently and it's driving me BONKERS), but I'm thinking about you guys, all of you. (That is, everytime except when I'm concentrating hard on not killing patients)
And so, I've been thinking about God. Not necessarily the Christian God, or the Catholic God or even Buddha, but just "a" God. I'm wondering whether he/she gave this blessing/lesson for any particular reason, or if it's just a random scatter of the fairy dust.
I guess it really doesn't matter what he/she planned, but what I do with this.
So if you suddenly discover money, food, or hot supermodels raining down on your doorsteps, you'll know I've figured out a useful way to send my luck your way.
Until then, thinking will have to do.
***
Addendum:
If God places anymore gorgeous and likeable single Christian women in my path I will be convinced that he is in fact, a she, because only a woman would tease like that.
***
Addendum II:
GO SOCCEROOS! Retarded British refereeing and rough-housing Croatians couldn't keep us down!
***
That is all.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Away
Started a rotation in Emergency in a country town two weeks ago. It's not the smallest country town by any means, but it's small enough that myself and the other interns have been starved of entertainment. It got so bad that the other night four interns, four MBBS-qualified and usually intelligent people were gathered around a small grate searching for a two-dollar coin using only the light from a mobile phone and we were finding it ABSOLUTELY HYSTERICAL.
***
Had some friends down from Sydney visit last weekend and among the various things we talked about over dinner was a hope that newspapers could cater to the busy medical intern and print little sidebars that help keep you up to date on any long running news item. It would be like a little "In case you missed" column, or like how your favourite TV show often has a recap at the start of the episode - like "Recently on Grey's Anatomy/Scrubs/the Conflict in the West Bank."
Basically, there are times I really want to get stuck into a particular world issue but simply need the salient facts and can't physically sift through the endless backstory. Medical people like dot points. I think I understand now the glazed look in the medical registrar's eyes when I present a patient to him - the look that means, "Just the facts man!"
This concept would easily be incorporated online. I don't think the major papers have "Related articles" links on their online publications.
***
CARS; Pixar Studios - 2.5/5
The first major misstep from an otherwise untouchable studio. An unfortunately rote storyline and uninspired character designs fail to meet Pixar's incredible technical prowess with CGI.
***
***
Had some friends down from Sydney visit last weekend and among the various things we talked about over dinner was a hope that newspapers could cater to the busy medical intern and print little sidebars that help keep you up to date on any long running news item. It would be like a little "In case you missed" column, or like how your favourite TV show often has a recap at the start of the episode - like "Recently on Grey's Anatomy/Scrubs/the Conflict in the West Bank."
Basically, there are times I really want to get stuck into a particular world issue but simply need the salient facts and can't physically sift through the endless backstory. Medical people like dot points. I think I understand now the glazed look in the medical registrar's eyes when I present a patient to him - the look that means, "Just the facts man!"
This concept would easily be incorporated online. I don't think the major papers have "Related articles" links on their online publications.
***
CARS; Pixar Studios - 2.5/5
The first major misstep from an otherwise untouchable studio. An unfortunately rote storyline and uninspired character designs fail to meet Pixar's incredible technical prowess with CGI.
***
Thursday, June 08, 2006
What's the male form of Bridget?
Somehow I had not one but *two* dates this week with not two but *three* women (I'll do the math for you in a bit). I don't know if you can tell, but I'm not as tickled as someone with my lame dating situation ought to be about the situation.
Frustrated with getting nowhere with She Who Would Deny Me and being the last week of the current rotation I decided some kamikaze-style dating effort wasn't entirely uncalled for - should I crash and burn at the hands of some lovely lady my ashes would soon be transported to rural Victoria anyway.
Kamikaze indeed - you might think I would try to give myself a good chance for the next one.
As they say in the NBA, you go hard or you go home.
I thought I would ask this other lovely health professional to coffee - a girl who I hadn't in fact laid eyes on in the last five weeks, and had perhaps only three verbal exchanges with in my entire medical career. Not only that, she worked on a ward that I had no medical reason to visit.
I strapped the bombs to my plane and took off in the direction of ward 15North.
As I approached her airspace she smiled at me but continued to talk to the health professional she was working with at the time. Needing to look busy I grabbed a portable phone and promptly paged my registrar.
She hovered by, files in hand, and said with a smile,
"Hi Dave..."
(She knows your name? Is this a sign?)
She continued,"...um, what are you doing here?"
(ABORT! ABORT! ABORT! DETONATE! DETONATE!)
I suddenly remembered the phone in my hand, and thinking it could be a good diversion, used the Force to make it ring. Or maybe, my reg just rang back at the right time.
"Oh sorry - I have to take this call, I'll talk to you later?"
Phew. I had a few hours to regroup, and paged her, mustering as much nonchalance into a text message as anyone ever could. She called me back,
"I'd love to have coffee, but I'm really busy today - what about something after work?"
This was problematic. I had already arranged with my high school mates to have dinner, but here I had an attractive, intelligent young lady on the phone happy to meet me. In my group of friends we've tried to foster a culture where we don't just ditch our friends for some dame, but surely - what else could I do - this cute woman was waiting on an answer from me. What else could I do?
I panicked. "Sorry, I have to have dinner with my mates tonight."
When I told this to my good friend Marcus later that night his face wore the sort of look that you have when you see a real ugly dude with a hot chick and you can't believe what's you just saw (or heard) - so, he probably would have had the same look on his face had I got the date anyway. He said,
"Dave, I'm about this close - " He measured out a the size of a bee's penis -"to slapping you up, you newbie! You're supposed to be out with this chick!"
I promised him that I would get her number the next day. And I did. And we had dinner and dessert. And I heard the words that no secular man wants to hear.
"I'd like my partner to be Christian."
Ah...drat.
Now let's not get all fired up about religion, because that's not the point of this particular story. It would have been similar, if somewhat weird, if she said, "I'd like my partner to have two heads." I'm not here to get on any religious soapbox - the only bad Christians are the Christians that think George Bush is a good Christian. The fact that this girl is Christian changes nothing about how attractive or intelligent she is, which is what makes this situation such a shame. But it's just the way it is sometimes - people are entitled to want what they want, and when it comes to faith and important values like this, I've learnt (sometimes the hard way) that you can't change someone just for what you want. That, and it would be slightly dodgy if I converted to Christianity just to chase some tail.
At the very least, I now know another lovely young lady, hardly the worst thing in the world.
***
The other date wasn't quite as enjoyable, and in fact made me feel somewhat like a piece of meat. A girl I know at work offered to set me up with her sister. Setups, as much fun as they are, are tricky things. They take some care, and whomever is doing the setting up has to be an invisible puppet master, so that the two people don't see the strings leading them to each other. Or, at the very most, only one person can be privy to the plan. Another nice pre-requisite is that the two people who are to meet should have some decent common ground.
Not, for example, as in this particular case for me, that the young lady was "young and pretty and tall" and that I was "a good doctor".
Can you guess the race of the people trying to set me up? I'll give you three guesses, and the first two don't count.
I was fairly reluctant initially, but my friend insisted, and I gave in. I agreed, with one caveat only - that my friend come with her sister to lunch, as a buffer. Who am I to turn down meeting a pretty, young, tall girl? No, really?
It was, however, all wrong. The sister was indeed pretty, young and tall. But she looked uncomfortable to be there, and I felt bad for her, not knowing how much she had been pushed into this meeting, and wondering what she thought of me - this random single loser swinging his MBBS around like it was supposed to be some sort of currency.
After a couple of hours at lunch, a couple of uncomfortable silences and long sips at my coffee I was really no closer to knowing who this person was that had been somewhat presented to me, and I felt sad. I think I had given it a decent shot, but it probably was a shot that should never have been lined up in the first place.
Dave: 0; Axis of women: 6
Frustrated with getting nowhere with She Who Would Deny Me and being the last week of the current rotation I decided some kamikaze-style dating effort wasn't entirely uncalled for - should I crash and burn at the hands of some lovely lady my ashes would soon be transported to rural Victoria anyway.
Kamikaze indeed - you might think I would try to give myself a good chance for the next one.
As they say in the NBA, you go hard or you go home.
I thought I would ask this other lovely health professional to coffee - a girl who I hadn't in fact laid eyes on in the last five weeks, and had perhaps only three verbal exchanges with in my entire medical career. Not only that, she worked on a ward that I had no medical reason to visit.
I strapped the bombs to my plane and took off in the direction of ward 15North.
As I approached her airspace she smiled at me but continued to talk to the health professional she was working with at the time. Needing to look busy I grabbed a portable phone and promptly paged my registrar.
She hovered by, files in hand, and said with a smile,
"Hi Dave..."
(She knows your name? Is this a sign?)
She continued,"...um, what are you doing here?"
(ABORT! ABORT! ABORT! DETONATE! DETONATE!)
I suddenly remembered the phone in my hand, and thinking it could be a good diversion, used the Force to make it ring. Or maybe, my reg just rang back at the right time.
"Oh sorry - I have to take this call, I'll talk to you later?"
Phew. I had a few hours to regroup, and paged her, mustering as much nonchalance into a text message as anyone ever could. She called me back,
"I'd love to have coffee, but I'm really busy today - what about something after work?"
This was problematic. I had already arranged with my high school mates to have dinner, but here I had an attractive, intelligent young lady on the phone happy to meet me. In my group of friends we've tried to foster a culture where we don't just ditch our friends for some dame, but surely - what else could I do - this cute woman was waiting on an answer from me. What else could I do?
I panicked. "Sorry, I have to have dinner with my mates tonight."
When I told this to my good friend Marcus later that night his face wore the sort of look that you have when you see a real ugly dude with a hot chick and you can't believe what's you just saw (or heard) - so, he probably would have had the same look on his face had I got the date anyway. He said,
"Dave, I'm about this close - " He measured out a the size of a bee's penis -"to slapping you up, you newbie! You're supposed to be out with this chick!"
I promised him that I would get her number the next day. And I did. And we had dinner and dessert. And I heard the words that no secular man wants to hear.
"I'd like my partner to be Christian."
Ah...drat.
Now let's not get all fired up about religion, because that's not the point of this particular story. It would have been similar, if somewhat weird, if she said, "I'd like my partner to have two heads." I'm not here to get on any religious soapbox - the only bad Christians are the Christians that think George Bush is a good Christian. The fact that this girl is Christian changes nothing about how attractive or intelligent she is, which is what makes this situation such a shame. But it's just the way it is sometimes - people are entitled to want what they want, and when it comes to faith and important values like this, I've learnt (sometimes the hard way) that you can't change someone just for what you want. That, and it would be slightly dodgy if I converted to Christianity just to chase some tail.
At the very least, I now know another lovely young lady, hardly the worst thing in the world.
***
The other date wasn't quite as enjoyable, and in fact made me feel somewhat like a piece of meat. A girl I know at work offered to set me up with her sister. Setups, as much fun as they are, are tricky things. They take some care, and whomever is doing the setting up has to be an invisible puppet master, so that the two people don't see the strings leading them to each other. Or, at the very most, only one person can be privy to the plan. Another nice pre-requisite is that the two people who are to meet should have some decent common ground.
Not, for example, as in this particular case for me, that the young lady was "young and pretty and tall" and that I was "a good doctor".
Can you guess the race of the people trying to set me up? I'll give you three guesses, and the first two don't count.
I was fairly reluctant initially, but my friend insisted, and I gave in. I agreed, with one caveat only - that my friend come with her sister to lunch, as a buffer. Who am I to turn down meeting a pretty, young, tall girl? No, really?
It was, however, all wrong. The sister was indeed pretty, young and tall. But she looked uncomfortable to be there, and I felt bad for her, not knowing how much she had been pushed into this meeting, and wondering what she thought of me - this random single loser swinging his MBBS around like it was supposed to be some sort of currency.
After a couple of hours at lunch, a couple of uncomfortable silences and long sips at my coffee I was really no closer to knowing who this person was that had been somewhat presented to me, and I felt sad. I think I had given it a decent shot, but it probably was a shot that should never have been lined up in the first place.
Dave: 0; Axis of women: 6
Saturday, May 27, 2006
So there's this girl...
Let's get all Bridget again.
There's this girl at work who I've been trying to have dinner with for basically the entirety of my surgical rotation. It is now the end of the rotation and the outcome of ten weeks of mildly persistent flirtation is...nothing.
(Sounds a bit like a rash..."oh, it's just a mildly persistent flirtation, it'll probably go away by itself.")
I noticed her fairly early. She is pretty in a simple way - fresh features, nice eyes and a cute smile - more than stunning in a pick-your-jaw-off-the-floor way. She was friendly to get along with, and so I thought she might be someone to get to know better.
Opportunity was kind enough to stop by, and so after she bailed me out with a couple of patients of mine I decided to offer dinner as thanks, as my olive branch. Because I was on the phone (and to look more nonchalant) I scribbled on a piece of paper - "Owe you for your help --> dinner?" and passed it to her, just like in primary school. She laughed and replied, "Well, I think dinner's not quite enough to make up for it..." (settle down, it doesn't get exciting) "...I think *two* desserts might also have be thrown in."
Okay. We're thinking, in the moment, that we're Neil Armstrong on the moon, and made that first step for mankind. However, remember what I told you in the introduction - we're really much more like poor Michael Collins with his arse up in the orbiting module of Apollo 11 , going round in circles, going nowhere fast, and wondering when the party's going to head his way.
I spent most of that day expecting a cute page to say "Get dinner underway." 48 hours later I'm standing in the carpark hearing,
"Oh, you meant for dinner *then*?"
"Uh...yeah. But, um, don't worry about it, no big deal."
"Oh, sorry! Maybe next time?"
"Well, sure, but you know, this offer is for a limited time only..."
"Oh really?"
"Yeah, it doesn't have extended expiry." (Lame Group and Hold reference)
(You've got to try and bounce back with some witty crap. I bounce like a waterbomb)
Over the next few weeks we have several similar conversations in between making small talk on the ward. I throw around phrases like "this dinner is getting cold" and "this dinner is getting so old it's decomposing."
(I know, some of you reading this are probably thinking, "Dave, there seems to be a fairly logical reason why she doesn't want to have dinner - your lame-ass metaphors are about as funny as [insert funny metaphor here as I clearly don't have the knack for it]" I swear to you though, she laughed at the time).
Only one time had she tried to make a plan with me, which I had to unavoidably bail on due to an unexpected friend turning up with a mini-emergency. I ended up calling the girl back after I had finished with my friend (and this was not at an unreasonable hour) but she was by then busy.
Anyway, let's pretend we're in ICU. I've decided to pull the plug on this one. Apollo 11's running out of gas and I'm happy to let in burn up in re-entry. Slap a big NFR/DNR order on it. I've got nails, a coffin and I'm looking for a hammer. Flatline. I've got one more week at work and I don't want to care about this one anymore.
I won't get into the reasons why she had to bail so often, as that's probably a little more specific than it needs to be, but they were fair reasons. However, I think my friend Marcus summed it up best when he told me - the fact that this girl made no real attempt to reschedule any dinners was a fair sign it wasn't going to have good outcomes.
It's a funny dating scene these days where the etiquette is fairly up in the air. Is it proper for a girl to make the first move? Where's the gender equality? Why does a guy have to do all the legwork? Where's the pride-saving response to "Oh, I thought we were just friends"?
"Oh, the reason why I asked you dinner fourteen times is just that I have this incredible recipe for quiche and the chickens I keep in my backyard just happen to produce a hell of a lotta eggs."
I *don't* think so.
Let's not get confused though - we're nowhere near the frenzied intensity of "my only love sprung from my only hate!" or somesuch. All I want is a quiet half hour to maybe find out who this girl is, what her hopes and dreams are, and maybe get a sense of whether we're heading in the same direction.
Is that too much to ask?
There's this girl at work who I've been trying to have dinner with for basically the entirety of my surgical rotation. It is now the end of the rotation and the outcome of ten weeks of mildly persistent flirtation is...nothing.
(Sounds a bit like a rash..."oh, it's just a mildly persistent flirtation, it'll probably go away by itself.")
I noticed her fairly early. She is pretty in a simple way - fresh features, nice eyes and a cute smile - more than stunning in a pick-your-jaw-off-the-floor way. She was friendly to get along with, and so I thought she might be someone to get to know better.
Opportunity was kind enough to stop by, and so after she bailed me out with a couple of patients of mine I decided to offer dinner as thanks, as my olive branch. Because I was on the phone (and to look more nonchalant) I scribbled on a piece of paper - "Owe you for your help --> dinner?" and passed it to her, just like in primary school. She laughed and replied, "Well, I think dinner's not quite enough to make up for it..." (settle down, it doesn't get exciting) "...I think *two* desserts might also have be thrown in."
Okay. We're thinking, in the moment, that we're Neil Armstrong on the moon, and made that first step for mankind. However, remember what I told you in the introduction - we're really much more like poor Michael Collins with his arse up in the orbiting module of Apollo 11 , going round in circles, going nowhere fast, and wondering when the party's going to head his way.
I spent most of that day expecting a cute page to say "Get dinner underway." 48 hours later I'm standing in the carpark hearing,
"Oh, you meant for dinner *then*?"
"Uh...yeah. But, um, don't worry about it, no big deal."
"Oh, sorry! Maybe next time?"
"Well, sure, but you know, this offer is for a limited time only..."
"Oh really?
"Yeah, it doesn't have extended expiry." (Lame Group and Hold reference)
(You've got to try and bounce back with some witty crap. I bounce like a waterbomb)
Over the next few weeks we have several similar conversations in between making small talk on the ward. I throw around phrases like "this dinner is getting cold" and "this dinner is getting so old it's decomposing."
(I know, some of you reading this are probably thinking, "Dave, there seems to be a fairly logical reason why she doesn't want to have dinner - your lame-ass metaphors are about as funny as [insert funny metaphor here as I clearly don't have the knack for it]
Only one time had she tried to make a plan with me, which I had to unavoidably bail on due to an unexpected friend turning up with a mini-emergency. I ended up calling the girl back after I had finished with my friend (and this was not at an unreasonable hour) but she was by then busy.
Anyway, let's pretend we're in ICU. I've decided to pull the plug on this one. Apollo 11's running out of gas and I'm happy to let in burn up in re-entry. Slap a big NFR/DNR order on it. I've got nails, a coffin and I'm looking for a hammer. Flatline. I've got one more week at work and I don't want to care about this one anymore.
I won't get into the reasons why she had to bail so often, as that's probably a little more specific than it needs to be, but they were fair reasons. However, I think my friend Marcus summed it up best when he told me - the fact that this girl made no real attempt to reschedule any dinners was a fair sign it wasn't going to have good outcomes.
It's a funny dating scene these days where the etiquette is fairly up in the air. Is it proper for a girl to make the first move? Where's the gender equality? Why does a guy have to do all the legwork? Where's the pride-saving response to "Oh, I thought we were just friends"?
"Oh, the reason why I asked you dinner fourteen times is just that I have this incredible recipe for quiche and the chickens I keep in my backyard just happen to produce a hell of a lotta eggs."
I *don't* think so.
Let's not get confused though - we're nowhere near the frenzied intensity of "my only love sprung from my only hate!" or somesuch. All I want is a quiet half hour to maybe find out who this girl is, what her hopes and dreams are, and maybe get a sense of whether we're heading in the same direction.
Is that too much to ask?
Monday, May 08, 2006
Rumble rubble
The aftermath of the strike I blogged about previously was not much to blog home about. We got a light slap on the wrist, but business pretty much went back to usual.
This suggests to me that my reg (who we weren't real happy about last week) was probably just having an off week, as people have pointed out to me in person.
Big ups to Danny Bhoy, who we saw on the closing show of the Melbourne Comedy festival last night. I've long wanted to speak with a Scottish brogue...for some reason it seems to add 2+ charm to anything you say...
This suggests to me that my reg (who we weren't real happy about last week) was probably just having an off week, as people have pointed out to me in person.
Big ups to Danny Bhoy, who we saw on the closing show of the Melbourne Comedy festival last night. I've long wanted to speak with a Scottish brogue...for some reason it seems to add 2+ charm to anything you say...
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Rumble 2
Probably going to get a serve from the boss tomorrow.
I went on strike today at a doctor's stop work meeting, and didn't tell my boss I was going. I did hand my pager to another intern to cover but after that I just left.
I'll tell you why.
This week, as the previous posts have alluded to, has not been a Good Week. I've been bounced up and down trying to organize tests for my patient with PR bleeding who is such a lovely man that it infuriates me every time my boss flips the script and tells me to tell him we've got a new plan.
My fellow colleague was doing her best to be the advocate for another patient who our boss deemed to not have a surgical problem - so she had to go home. She was still vomiting and complained of dizziness. Physiotherapy was not happy to let her go home. My colleague had to fight to suggest that we at least transfer her care to the Medical team.
I was Not Impressed. Check that - We were Not Impressed.
It probably would have taken me two seconds to send my boss a page saying I was going, or duck into theatre to say so, but at that point in time I Simply Did Not Care Enough.
I realize that that action was very passive-aggressive of me. I should probably have the stones to say out loud to my registrar that he ought to pick up his game. Maybe I should have the heart to just shoulder this rubbish. Maybe I should have the brains to get a step ahead.
The tin man, lion and scarecrow rolled in one.
I envy you who aren't all that worried about being nice or polite. I really want to rumble and rage but I fear that just don't know how.
I went on strike today at a doctor's stop work meeting, and didn't tell my boss I was going. I did hand my pager to another intern to cover but after that I just left.
I'll tell you why.
This week, as the previous posts have alluded to, has not been a Good Week. I've been bounced up and down trying to organize tests for my patient with PR bleeding who is such a lovely man that it infuriates me every time my boss flips the script and tells me to tell him we've got a new plan.
My fellow colleague was doing her best to be the advocate for another patient who our boss deemed to not have a surgical problem - so she had to go home. She was still vomiting and complained of dizziness. Physiotherapy was not happy to let her go home. My colleague had to fight to suggest that we at least transfer her care to the Medical team.
I was Not Impressed. Check that - We were Not Impressed.
It probably would have taken me two seconds to send my boss a page saying I was going, or duck into theatre to say so, but at that point in time I Simply Did Not Care Enough.
I realize that that action was very passive-aggressive of me. I should probably have the stones to say out loud to my registrar that he ought to pick up his game. Maybe I should have the heart to just shoulder this rubbish. Maybe I should have the brains to get a step ahead.
The tin man, lion and scarecrow rolled in one.
I envy you who aren't all that worried about being nice or polite. I really want to rumble and rage but I fear that just don't know how.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Rumble in the jungle
I've hit the mid-term hump. Monday was one of those days that got such an ass-kicking that Tuesday was still rubbing it's rear wondering what happened. Wednesday is fearful for the morning and I think Thursday is willing itself into non-existence.
We took in many patients on the last weekend, and for the first time in our spoilt rosters our unit was faced with a list that stretched over a page.
The almost knee-jerk reaction from our superiors was to tell us to spend the first half of Monday trying to turf these patients to other units.
I didn't like coming to work and then solely working to make someone else's work harder, even if that someone is a registrar who likes to point out our unit's problems.
I was starting to see the dreariness of paper pushing that I had been fortunate to avoid with such a light patient load. By lunch I felt disconnected from my patients, even more so the ones that I had successfully disconnected my team from by turfing them off.
Tuesday started badly when I forgot my pager, lost the previous day's blood results and came to work to find out one of our patients hadn't had an important colonoscope. This gentleman came in with rectal bleeding. He has mechanical heart valves which mean his blood needs to be thinned somewhat so that it doesn't clog up the valves. We had stopped his blood-thinners so that he wouldn't continue to bleed. We wanted a colonoscope to investigate the bleeding as urgently as possible so we could restart his blood-thinners and prevent him from having a heart attack, a stroke or some other catastrophic event.
I spent this morning shaking my tin for pennies at the feet of the Colorectal and Gastroenterology teams who do the colonoscopes. As apologetic as they were, Charity was not forthcoming. My colleague spent the morning getting crap dumped on her by the Haematology team for not restarting the patient's blood-thinners, and then had to endure further crap-showers from our registrar for apparently taking the Haematologists too seriously.
Again, by lunch we were feeling disconnected, and about ready to rumble.
We decided to let the man have lunch. He had been fasted for two days in preparation for this test, which was looking like it might materialize in the next millenium.
At 1500hrs I get a call from the Colorectal registrar who tells me that three (count them, 3) patients didn't turn up (punks) and my patient could be seen straight away.
Crap. We had let him eat. Or had we? I called the ward.
"No, actually he hasn't had anything to eat yet." Hurrah! Out of the mess that was today, there might be something to celebrate yet. I struggled through the rest of the afternoon, looking forward to seeing the scope report, looking forward to telling the gentleman and his frustratingly anxious wife, "There's nothing to worry about, and you can (both) go home."
At 1700hrs, with a fair batch of menial tasks still left to do I hopped on down to ward 1E to read the report that would help power me through the last of my busywork...
"Bowel preparation was unsatisfactory. Clear to splenic flexure. Colon not fully visualized. Suggest repeat colonoscopy as outpatient."
God.
Damn.
It.
We took in many patients on the last weekend, and for the first time in our spoilt rosters our unit was faced with a list that stretched over a page.
The almost knee-jerk reaction from our superiors was to tell us to spend the first half of Monday trying to turf these patients to other units.
I didn't like coming to work and then solely working to make someone else's work harder, even if that someone is a registrar who likes to point out our unit's problems.
I was starting to see the dreariness of paper pushing that I had been fortunate to avoid with such a light patient load. By lunch I felt disconnected from my patients, even more so the ones that I had successfully disconnected my team from by turfing them off.
Tuesday started badly when I forgot my pager, lost the previous day's blood results and came to work to find out one of our patients hadn't had an important colonoscope. This gentleman came in with rectal bleeding. He has mechanical heart valves which mean his blood needs to be thinned somewhat so that it doesn't clog up the valves. We had stopped his blood-thinners so that he wouldn't continue to bleed. We wanted a colonoscope to investigate the bleeding as urgently as possible so we could restart his blood-thinners and prevent him from having a heart attack, a stroke or some other catastrophic event.
I spent this morning shaking my tin for pennies at the feet of the Colorectal and Gastroenterology teams who do the colonoscopes. As apologetic as they were, Charity was not forthcoming. My colleague spent the morning getting crap dumped on her by the Haematology team for not restarting the patient's blood-thinners, and then had to endure further crap-showers from our registrar for apparently taking the Haematologists too seriously.
Again, by lunch we were feeling disconnected, and about ready to rumble.
We decided to let the man have lunch. He had been fasted for two days in preparation for this test, which was looking like it might materialize in the next millenium.
At 1500hrs I get a call from the Colorectal registrar who tells me that three (count them, 3) patients didn't turn up (punks) and my patient could be seen straight away.
Crap. We had let him eat. Or had we? I called the ward.
"No, actually he hasn't had anything to eat yet." Hurrah! Out of the mess that was today, there might be something to celebrate yet. I struggled through the rest of the afternoon, looking forward to seeing the scope report, looking forward to telling the gentleman and his frustratingly anxious wife, "There's nothing to worry about, and you can (both) go home."
At 1700hrs, with a fair batch of menial tasks still left to do I hopped on down to ward 1E to read the report that would help power me through the last of my busywork...
"Bowel preparation was unsatisfactory. Clear to splenic flexure. Colon not fully visualized. Suggest repeat colonoscopy as outpatient."
God.
Damn.
It.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Overtime
Twice in the last four days I've gone into hospital out of rostered hours to check up on patients of mine that were a little sicker than most. My reg and my fellow intern would probably roll their eyes if I told them that. We have this on-going joke that if it's my afternoon off, they know they can still hand me work to do at 4:45pm. I'm weird about taking afternoons off. My reg assures me that that is a passing phase.
One of these patients had been under our care for about a week. When she first came in she was a little wary of us, and we thought she was a little weird too. I think we had all pegged her as someone who might retreat into the sick role and give us some trouble in terms of refusing tests, procedures and just generally be someone we couldn't get along with.
We found that she was, in fact, a real trooper. It probably helped that she was getting opiate analgesia four times a day, but she was a good sport about our repeated failed attempts at getting intra-venous access and the multiple blood tests and radiology tests we needed to essentially tell her we weren't sure what was going on.
Yesterday, after a week of tests, fate pushed the agenda, and her bowel perforated. We rushed her to surgery yesterday afternoon. My fellow intern and I assured her that she was in good hands and that we'd see her after the Anzac day holiday.
Today I called the hospital just to see how the surgery went. The ward told me, "She's not here, she's just in recovery after her procedure and she's going to ICU soon." I didn't like the sound of that. What procedure? She couldn't have gone til today without having her surgery, which meant this 'procedure' must've been something else entirely.
I padded into the hospital, feeling somewhat naked without a tie or stethoscope, and far too comfortable in sneakers.
I found her in the recovery ward. She lay there with multiple arterial and venous access lines, and her breathing was assisted by a large ungainly BiPAP mask. Being a public holiday the rest of recovery was entirely empty, and the mechanical Darth Vader like hissing from the mask created a surreal mood.
I quickly flipped to the last entry in her notes.
CT Pulmonary angiogram: multiple pulmonary emboli. 1st and 3rd segment of some artery in some lobe or somesuch. Even if had known what they meant I had stopped registering the words after "multiple pulmonary emboli." They are, for the non-medical, blood clots in the lung, the same entity that drove the media wild back when they bayed about "economy class syndrome."
They are a complication in surgical patients we try to aggressively prevent.
I explained what was going on to our patient. She could hear me, despite the fairly heavy analgesia that was running in her veins. She seemed to take it well, the trooper that she was. I stood by her bedside for another 20mins while the nurses got things ready to move her to ICU. Before they moved her she looked up at me and I gave her a crooked smile. I was wondering whether I had done all the right things to prevent this, whether we could have picked it up earlier, whether she'd be okay.
She reached up for my hand and I gave it a little squeeze. It might as well have been the other way around.
One of these patients had been under our care for about a week. When she first came in she was a little wary of us, and we thought she was a little weird too. I think we had all pegged her as someone who might retreat into the sick role and give us some trouble in terms of refusing tests, procedures and just generally be someone we couldn't get along with.
We found that she was, in fact, a real trooper. It probably helped that she was getting opiate analgesia four times a day, but she was a good sport about our repeated failed attempts at getting intra-venous access and the multiple blood tests and radiology tests we needed to essentially tell her we weren't sure what was going on.
Yesterday, after a week of tests, fate pushed the agenda, and her bowel perforated. We rushed her to surgery yesterday afternoon. My fellow intern and I assured her that she was in good hands and that we'd see her after the Anzac day holiday.
Today I called the hospital just to see how the surgery went. The ward told me, "She's not here, she's just in recovery after her procedure and she's going to ICU soon." I didn't like the sound of that. What procedure? She couldn't have gone til today without having her surgery, which meant this 'procedure' must've been something else entirely.
I padded into the hospital, feeling somewhat naked without a tie or stethoscope, and far too comfortable in sneakers.
I found her in the recovery ward. She lay there with multiple arterial and venous access lines, and her breathing was assisted by a large ungainly BiPAP mask. Being a public holiday the rest of recovery was entirely empty, and the mechanical Darth Vader like hissing from the mask created a surreal mood.
I quickly flipped to the last entry in her notes.
CT Pulmonary angiogram: multiple pulmonary emboli. 1st and 3rd segment of some artery in some lobe or somesuch. Even if had known what they meant I had stopped registering the words after "multiple pulmonary emboli." They are, for the non-medical, blood clots in the lung, the same entity that drove the media wild back when they bayed about "economy class syndrome."
They are a complication in surgical patients we try to aggressively prevent.
I explained what was going on to our patient. She could hear me, despite the fairly heavy analgesia that was running in her veins. She seemed to take it well, the trooper that she was. I stood by her bedside for another 20mins while the nurses got things ready to move her to ICU. Before they moved her she looked up at me and I gave her a crooked smile. I was wondering whether I had done all the right things to prevent this, whether we could have picked it up earlier, whether she'd be okay.
She reached up for my hand and I gave it a little squeeze. It might as well have been the other way around.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Boy's club
Things you don't expect to hear a man say while fondling/manipulating another man's genitalia, even if it for a vasectomy:
Surgical registrar (losing traction on the vas deferens): "Prick!"
(coaxing it back): "Come here, you..."
(grimacing): "It's a little tight in there."
Surgical registrar (losing traction on the vas deferens): "Prick!"
(coaxing it back): "Come here, you..."
(grimacing): "It's a little tight in there."
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Matlock'd
People exert and display their power in different ways. My consultant has several tricks up his sleeve to let people know that He is the Boss.
He is, firstly, an imposing figure - by towering over most medical staff at at least 6'3" he can simulatenously give you an inferiority complex and create a vertical illusion that diminishes his middle-aged pot-belly. His voice is deep, controlled and also distinctly Australian. He is, I'm told, a incredible surgeon with tens of thousands of operations under his belt.
He is also a wily fox.
Yesterday he asked myself and my registrar to look up the results of a patient's test for him. The results weren't back, so we said we'd chase them up. Today he asked me, "Did you see the results yet?"
I said, "No, I haven't had a chance, I'll look it up as soon as possible sir." (I had actually forgotten).
I managed to check the results and hours later when I was passing him in the hall I decided to try to prove that I was a hard-working intern. "Sir, those results..."
"I already know. I already saw them. I just wanted to see if you had."
A few weeks ago my colleague attended his theatre list as our registrar suggested it would make this consultant happy. The registrar helpfully briefed my colleague on the sorts of questions to expect from this operation - it was an excision of a pleomorphic adenoma, so the anatomy of the facial nerve was the key information. My colleague studiously memorized the branches of the nerve and their relations. When she arrived at the theatre, she was met with,
"Which number cranial nerve is the facial nerve?"
She knew the right answer, "The seventh."
"....are you sure?"
(For the non-medics, imagine the previous exchange like so: After you've prepared for a high-level maths exam including imaginary numbers - "What is 2 plus 2?" "Four." "...are you sure?")
It reminds me of an episode of one of those legal shows back in the early 80s - I think it was Matlock. Tha Lock had some poor schmuck on the stand for brutally assaulting some other poor schmuck. Matlock didn't have quite enough evidence for a conviction, so he says,
"What if I told you that your victim has just died in hospital?"
The schmuck on the stand breaks down and confesses, sobbing, to the whole crime.
The victim then turns up, making a grand entrance into the courtroom. The schmuck on the stand, shocked, turns to Matlock and yells, "You lied to me! You said he was dead!"
Tha Lock quips back, "I only said 'What if I told you he was dead?'"
Wily. I'm still not sure what to think of my consultant. He seems to have sent a clear message: "I am two steps ahead of you - because I am one step in front and you one step behind."
He is, firstly, an imposing figure - by towering over most medical staff at at least 6'3" he can simulatenously give you an inferiority complex and create a vertical illusion that diminishes his middle-aged pot-belly. His voice is deep, controlled and also distinctly Australian. He is, I'm told, a incredible surgeon with tens of thousands of operations under his belt.
He is also a wily fox.
Yesterday he asked myself and my registrar to look up the results of a patient's test for him. The results weren't back, so we said we'd chase them up. Today he asked me, "Did you see the results yet?"
I said, "No, I haven't had a chance, I'll look it up as soon as possible sir." (I had actually forgotten).
I managed to check the results and hours later when I was passing him in the hall I decided to try to prove that I was a hard-working intern. "Sir, those results..."
"I already know. I already saw them. I just wanted to see if you had."
A few weeks ago my colleague attended his theatre list as our registrar suggested it would make this consultant happy. The registrar helpfully briefed my colleague on the sorts of questions to expect from this operation - it was an excision of a pleomorphic adenoma, so the anatomy of the facial nerve was the key information. My colleague studiously memorized the branches of the nerve and their relations. When she arrived at the theatre, she was met with,
"Which number cranial nerve is the facial nerve?"
She knew the right answer, "The seventh."
"....are you sure?"
(For the non-medics, imagine the previous exchange like so: After you've prepared for a high-level maths exam including imaginary numbers - "What is 2 plus 2?" "Four." "...are you sure?")
It reminds me of an episode of one of those legal shows back in the early 80s - I think it was Matlock. Tha Lock had some poor schmuck on the stand for brutally assaulting some other poor schmuck. Matlock didn't have quite enough evidence for a conviction, so he says,
"What if I told you that your victim has just died in hospital?"
The schmuck on the stand breaks down and confesses, sobbing, to the whole crime.
The victim then turns up, making a grand entrance into the courtroom. The schmuck on the stand, shocked, turns to Matlock and yells, "You lied to me! You said he was dead!"
Tha Lock quips back, "I only said 'What if I told you he was dead?'"
Wily. I'm still not sure what to think of my consultant. He seems to have sent a clear message: "I am two steps ahead of you - because I am one step in front and you one step behind."
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
The circle
I was invited to sit at the table in the nurses rec room today. I was only looking for a working tap to quench my parching tongue but it was nice to be included. The nurses rec room is a private sanctum, and interns don't intrude on tea breaks unless something Truly Bad is Going Down. I sat there quietly sipping lukewarm water and listening to amusing stories about wrangling maternity leave and having babies. This is the second time in a couple of days that something similar has happened. I appreciate that maybe this means I'm not messing up too much on the ward. The first time it happened, one of the NUMs had just made me a nice hot cross bun and said, after I thanked her, that it was because she "looked after those who looked after ours."
There are small things in everyday that keep you going and this was one of them. A small word from one person to another takes seconds but it's enough to give things meaning. I'm starting to feel at home on my ward and I feel ready to give that extra mile if needed. Granted, I'm not on a busy team so I have quite a few extra miles to give. I'll look after those who look after mine.
There are small things in everyday that keep you going and this was one of them. A small word from one person to another takes seconds but it's enough to give things meaning. I'm starting to feel at home on my ward and I feel ready to give that extra mile if needed. Granted, I'm not on a busy team so I have quite a few extra miles to give. I'll look after those who look after mine.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Make with the clicky
I've been heavily censured all round for the delays in posts. My "friend" Marcus likes to call me "Milo", because I'm not "Quik" har har har (not in regards to blogs, just in regards to life). And my other "friend" Carmen loves that joke so much that between them I can never again drink flavoured milk.
So I thought I'd give a shout out to some other noteworthy blogs from terrific people that you might like to read (all medical interns, btw) in lieu of my tiresome tardiness.
Chronic Vertigo - esme's blog is (much like the author) true grit and no nonsense
The Intern Experiment - Another well-written blog from the always amusing Dr J
my aimless ramblings - from the bubbly Themis
Peekaben - from the equally bubbly Ben Lee
So make with the clicky. In the company of such esteemed writers I have no choice but to lift my game. Or send their sites trojan horses.
So I thought I'd give a shout out to some other noteworthy blogs from terrific people that you might like to read (all medical interns, btw) in lieu of my tiresome tardiness.
Chronic Vertigo - esme's blog is (much like the author) true grit and no nonsense
The Intern Experiment - Another well-written blog from the always amusing Dr J
my aimless ramblings - from the bubbly Themis
Peekaben - from the equally bubbly Ben Lee
So make with the clicky. In the company of such esteemed writers I have no choice but to lift my game. Or send their sites trojan horses.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Back in the game...but still losing
Humour me for a few minutes and let channel a bit of Bridget Jones. Somewhere in the last three months I had bought into the myth that as a fresh new male doctor I suddenly represented security, benevolence and good grooming to the opposite sex - the next best thing to George Clooney. My mojo, despite being battered through some abortive campaigns during uni, had been instantly rejuvenated! Bouyed by an inflated sense of self-worth and amnesia over past failures I headed back into the trenches of the dating battlefield.
Day 1; 2000hrs, Dizzy's Jazz club 6/4/06
I roll up to Dizzy's alone to see Axle Whitehead, the VJ on Video Hits and a former Idol contestant. It's an extremely crisp night in Melbourne. Dizzy's is a cute little club where the people standing at the bar are literally within spitting distance of the performer. It used to be an old post office, so what it loses in floor area it makes up for in history. It is so small though, that the poor girl selling tickets at the door is sitting outside the club in an equally tiny vestibule warming her hands to an element heater that might just be warm enough to heat her left pinky.
I pay for the cover charge, and she says to me, "I really like your jacket." This in itself is unfamiliar enough to make me bluster and bluntly change the topic to the weather. I excuse myself and head indoors. Indoors it's warm enough for the mojo to thaw out, which somehow gives me the chutzpah to head back out.
"Do you, um, want something to drink?"
She seems surprised by this for a moment, but goes with it and smiles,
"Um, a peppermint tea would be great."
"Uh, one or two sugars?"
"A dollop of honey, thanks a lot."
We exchange names. She speaks with confidence and ease and it doesn't surprise me when she says she's a politics/english major hoping to become a journalist. Her nature is easy-going and inquisitive which I find initally very comfortable until she stumbles on the fact that I'm a doctor which she finds fascinating.
I'm not particularly ready for this - she has a myriad of interesting questions to which I have boring answers (dropping the gory details of the latest failed faecal disimpaction is fun with friends but simply kamikaze with a stranger), and as anyone who's seen the 40 Year Old Virgin knows, you really ought to be talking about her, not you. I find myself trying every conversational tact but each somehow leads back to doctoring - parents: her father is a doctor, what's uni like: must be nothing like working as a doctor. It's like trying to play chicken, only you're driving a tram.
After the show I try to find her to say goodbye but she's gone. As I drive off I spot someone that looks suspiciously like her making out with a bald dude at a tram stop.
Scoreboard: Dave 0; Axis of women 1
Day 2; 2400hrs, Lavish nightclub 7/4/06
I go out for after work drinks to try and get to know some of my colleagues and end up trawling with two hotshots who dress big and talk bigger. When I talk about buying into the myth that young male doctors are the shit, I've only got options. These guys are majority shareholders.
Lavish on Fridays is an Asian club. I've been wary of trying to meet women at Asian nights, not just for fear of rejection, but for fear of getting stabbed, trolley-pole'd or otherwise violently beaten down for looking at someone's woman the wrong way. Tonight I swallow these fears with a few potent Jager bombs. For those of you not familiar with the Jager bomb - it's a shot of Jagermeister thrown down in half a can of Red Bull. It is essentially a drink that mangles your common sense by over-caffeinating your senses to the point where you gleefully allow the Jagermeister to sneak up on your inhibitions and stomp on them.
I'm wobbling somewhat, and decide that the previous night's trial of the "I'm a doctor" card was not rugged enough. Shamelessly I go up to a girl who caught my eye earlier in the night. She's got good game - well dressed in a slinky strapless, and stylish looking despite rocking the 80s hairstyle that's in fashion these days. I can't complain, because it means her hair is up off her shoulders, and she scores points for elegance.
Amateurishly, the words that come out do not reflect the situation. I hear myself say,
"Hi, I like your style. Let me introduce you to someone, this is my friend, he's a doctor."
I'm such a n00b. Now, granted, my opening gambit wasn't particularly clever, but my friend should have prepped me a little better - as it turns out this girl I tried to introduce him to was friends with a girl that he has this on/off thing with. She came back to me later,
"Your friend? He's a player. He's a doctor? You're a doctor? You know, I don't trust doctors. You and lawyers, you're all full of shit."
So much for elegance. And please, don't ask me why I tried to introduce this girl to my friend, when I had my own eye on her. I blame the Jager.
Scoreboard: Dave 0; Axis of Women 2
Day 3; 2300hrs Unk cafe, 8/4/06
I'm at a 25th birthday party of a friend of a friend. I'm telling my good friend what I have just told you, and he's talking out of his ass, the sort of talk you can talk when you are fortunate enough to be in a stable relationship. He's goading me into chatting up the waitress. There's no alcohol on board, but he's talking just enough to make me do this so I can shut him up.
His girl offers me a way in - this waitress has an accent. Why not ask her where she's from?
Some of you might know that I've not had a great record at chatting up foreign waitresses. The most famous knock-back I've received was, "I'm sorry, I don't speak English" followed by an immediate exit.
Still, let the fact that I continued impress on you my immense desire to shut my boy up. The cute waitress turns up with some appetizers, and I take my chance,
"I notice you have an accent..." (again, no points for an elegant opening) "...where are you from?"
She's from Germany, on a working Visa. In a couple of weeks time she's heading off to New Zealand. I recommend the South Island, having *never* been there, and desperately try to dig some high school German out of the dusty crate I call the hippocampus. Banishing the long repressed memory of Frau Graham's tobacco stained teeth and oddly masculine voice I sheepishly utter,
"Um...wie heissen Sie?"
She laughs at the stilted formal grammar and answers,
"Katie"
and walks off.
Scoreboard: Dave 0; Axis of Women 3
Day 1; 2000hrs, Dizzy's Jazz club 6/4/06
I roll up to Dizzy's alone to see Axle Whitehead, the VJ on Video Hits and a former Idol contestant. It's an extremely crisp night in Melbourne. Dizzy's is a cute little club where the people standing at the bar are literally within spitting distance of the performer. It used to be an old post office, so what it loses in floor area it makes up for in history. It is so small though, that the poor girl selling tickets at the door is sitting outside the club in an equally tiny vestibule warming her hands to an element heater that might just be warm enough to heat her left pinky.
I pay for the cover charge, and she says to me, "I really like your jacket." This in itself is unfamiliar enough to make me bluster and bluntly change the topic to the weather. I excuse myself and head indoors. Indoors it's warm enough for the mojo to thaw out, which somehow gives me the chutzpah to head back out.
"Do you, um, want something to drink?"
She seems surprised by this for a moment, but goes with it and smiles,
"Um, a peppermint tea would be great."
"Uh, one or two sugars?"
"A dollop of honey, thanks a lot."
We exchange names. She speaks with confidence and ease and it doesn't surprise me when she says she's a politics/english major hoping to become a journalist. Her nature is easy-going and inquisitive which I find initally very comfortable until she stumbles on the fact that I'm a doctor which she finds fascinating.
I'm not particularly ready for this - she has a myriad of interesting questions to which I have boring answers (dropping the gory details of the latest failed faecal disimpaction is fun with friends but simply kamikaze with a stranger), and as anyone who's seen the 40 Year Old Virgin knows, you really ought to be talking about her, not you. I find myself trying every conversational tact but each somehow leads back to doctoring - parents: her father is a doctor, what's uni like: must be nothing like working as a doctor. It's like trying to play chicken, only you're driving a tram.
After the show I try to find her to say goodbye but she's gone. As I drive off I spot someone that looks suspiciously like her making out with a bald dude at a tram stop.
Scoreboard: Dave 0; Axis of women 1
Day 2; 2400hrs, Lavish nightclub 7/4/06
I go out for after work drinks to try and get to know some of my colleagues and end up trawling with two hotshots who dress big and talk bigger. When I talk about buying into the myth that young male doctors are the shit, I've only got options. These guys are majority shareholders.
Lavish on Fridays is an Asian club. I've been wary of trying to meet women at Asian nights, not just for fear of rejection, but for fear of getting stabbed, trolley-pole'd or otherwise violently beaten down for looking at someone's woman the wrong way. Tonight I swallow these fears with a few potent Jager bombs. For those of you not familiar with the Jager bomb - it's a shot of Jagermeister thrown down in half a can of Red Bull. It is essentially a drink that mangles your common sense by over-caffeinating your senses to the point where you gleefully allow the Jagermeister to sneak up on your inhibitions and stomp on them.
I'm wobbling somewhat, and decide that the previous night's trial of the "I'm a doctor" card was not rugged enough. Shamelessly I go up to a girl who caught my eye earlier in the night. She's got good game - well dressed in a slinky strapless, and stylish looking despite rocking the 80s hairstyle that's in fashion these days. I can't complain, because it means her hair is up off her shoulders, and she scores points for elegance.
Amateurishly, the words that come out do not reflect the situation. I hear myself say,
"Hi, I like your style. Let me introduce you to someone, this is my friend, he's a doctor."
I'm such a n00b. Now, granted, my opening gambit wasn't particularly clever, but my friend should have prepped me a little better - as it turns out this girl I tried to introduce him to was friends with a girl that he has this on/off thing with. She came back to me later,
"Your friend? He's a player. He's a doctor? You're a doctor? You know, I don't trust doctors. You and lawyers, you're all full of shit."
So much for elegance. And please, don't ask me why I tried to introduce this girl to my friend, when I had my own eye on her. I blame the Jager.
Scoreboard: Dave 0; Axis of Women 2
Day 3; 2300hrs Unk cafe, 8/4/06
I'm at a 25th birthday party of a friend of a friend. I'm telling my good friend what I have just told you, and he's talking out of his ass, the sort of talk you can talk when you are fortunate enough to be in a stable relationship. He's goading me into chatting up the waitress. There's no alcohol on board, but he's talking just enough to make me do this so I can shut him up.
His girl offers me a way in - this waitress has an accent. Why not ask her where she's from?
Some of you might know that I've not had a great record at chatting up foreign waitresses. The most famous knock-back I've received was, "I'm sorry, I don't speak English" followed by an immediate exit.
Still, let the fact that I continued impress on you my immense desire to shut my boy up. The cute waitress turns up with some appetizers, and I take my chance,
"I notice you have an accent..." (again, no points for an elegant opening) "...where are you from?"
She's from Germany, on a working Visa. In a couple of weeks time she's heading off to New Zealand. I recommend the South Island, having *never* been there, and desperately try to dig some high school German out of the dusty crate I call the hippocampus. Banishing the long repressed memory of Frau Graham's tobacco stained teeth and oddly masculine voice I sheepishly utter,
"Um...wie heissen Sie?"
She laughs at the stilted formal grammar and answers,
"Katie"
and walks off.
Scoreboard: Dave 0; Axis of Women 3
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Circadian again
24 hours after I left my final night shift I stepped back into hospital and it was, once again, a strange place. I joined my new surgical team at 7am and by 8am I could feel the physical pressure of having people around me again, palpable and almost measurable with a barometer. In amongst the throng, I am once again a lowly intern - answering a page with simply "Hi it's Dave" is no longer enough, but I have to include my full branding "Hi, it's Dave, General Breast Endo Surg Intern number six-one-five."
The compensation to anonymity is the relative abundance of pretty young things wandering about. In one day I almost managed to walk into two IV trolleys after my retinas re-registered what a cute woman looked like. Go Pharmacy! Go Physio! Go hot older NUMs! Go! Go! Go!
Big ups (or downs) too, to cute medical students too, who wear totally impractical clothes to hospital! Girls, you look cute enough to make my brain temporarily dump the definition of heart sound S3, but if you brought handbags big enough to fit a Talley O'Connor in there you wouldn't have to ask me, would you?
I decided to send them to see my favourite patient, who wasn't surgical in any way. He was initially seeing our surgeon for a lump and they found he was anaemic. I was the one who admitted him to hospital and it turned out his anaemia was haemolytic, a condition where the immune system breaks down red blood cells. We turned him over to the haematologists and a few days later I spoke to his wife who told me that he was disappointed that I wouldn't be looking after him personally, which warmed my heart and made my day.
There's a general feeling that surgeons just like to cut things, and don't really care about their patients. I think it's more a product of an overloaded public health system. If you've only got five patients on your list (like I have), then you can afford to take a few more seconds with a patient and make them feel unique. If I've got a light list, then it's not just a privilege, but a responsibility to take those few extra seconds.
I have to thank Caz and Paul, friends of mine who were holidaying and staying with me this week. It made the transition to surgical internship much more enjoyable knowing I had something to come home to in the evening.
Two small plugs:
1) Masala Magic in Flemington - great, affordable Indian food.
2) Hyde bar on Russell St - managed by my fellow intern Marty, who was nice enough to hook me up on the guest list for the grand re-opening on Thursday. The decor was eclectic - plush couches sat next to thumping RnB, while Terracotta warriors sat at the bar either reading the random books about the place, or checking out the gorgeous bartenders. Caz, Paul and I turn up to see Marty sitting in the back corner with his posse looking like he's this town's Jay-Z and I think to myself that sometimes a little bling ain't a bad thing.
The compensation to anonymity is the relative abundance of pretty young things wandering about. In one day I almost managed to walk into two IV trolleys after my retinas re-registered what a cute woman looked like. Go Pharmacy! Go Physio! Go hot older NUMs! Go! Go! Go!
Big ups (or downs) too, to cute medical students too, who wear totally impractical clothes to hospital! Girls, you look cute enough to make my brain temporarily dump the definition of heart sound S3, but if you brought handbags big enough to fit a Talley O'Connor in there you wouldn't have to ask me, would you?
I decided to send them to see my favourite patient, who wasn't surgical in any way. He was initially seeing our surgeon for a lump and they found he was anaemic. I was the one who admitted him to hospital and it turned out his anaemia was haemolytic, a condition where the immune system breaks down red blood cells. We turned him over to the haematologists and a few days later I spoke to his wife who told me that he was disappointed that I wouldn't be looking after him personally, which warmed my heart and made my day.
There's a general feeling that surgeons just like to cut things, and don't really care about their patients. I think it's more a product of an overloaded public health system. If you've only got five patients on your list (like I have), then you can afford to take a few more seconds with a patient and make them feel unique. If I've got a light list, then it's not just a privilege, but a responsibility to take those few extra seconds.
I have to thank Caz and Paul, friends of mine who were holidaying and staying with me this week. It made the transition to surgical internship much more enjoyable knowing I had something to come home to in the evening.
Two small plugs:
1) Masala Magic in Flemington - great, affordable Indian food.
2) Hyde bar on Russell St - managed by my fellow intern Marty, who was nice enough to hook me up on the guest list for the grand re-opening on Thursday. The decor was eclectic - plush couches sat next to thumping RnB, while Terracotta warriors sat at the bar either reading the random books about the place, or checking out the gorgeous bartenders. Caz, Paul and I turn up to see Marty sitting in the back corner with his posse looking like he's this town's Jay-Z and I think to myself that sometimes a little bling ain't a bad thing.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Jaz made me do it
The last post managed to generate THREE replies, which is a record for the Lone Banana.
The first was from Jaz, who I named in the post. I should clarify that I wasn't picking on Jaz when I singled her out for saying she was often too tired to read a post that didn't grab her immediately. Although it was funny that in her reply she should say the mention of her name in the third paragraph was enough to get her attention. (I should use name-dropping more often). Anyway, for the record let it be known, Jaz Is A Lovely Lady. She brought this up:
"actually my thing about blogs is.. is there a point if no one reads it?"
My buddy Meng followed that up with
"does a tree falling in an empty forest make a sound?"
The general consensus was that each writer needs to create their own goals for their blog, just like any other creation. Oh, and that photoblogs are better. But I am Poor, and cannot afford a digital camera.
In other news, JESSICA ALBA still stalks the screens with Latina good looks and B-grade acting talent. (Can you feel the name-drop hit the floor like a dope beat from Timbaland?)
JESSICA!!!
Does a name-drop in empty cyberspace make a sound?
The first was from Jaz, who I named in the post. I should clarify that I wasn't picking on Jaz when I singled her out for saying she was often too tired to read a post that didn't grab her immediately. Although it was funny that in her reply she should say the mention of her name in the third paragraph was enough to get her attention. (I should use name-dropping more often). Anyway, for the record let it be known, Jaz Is A Lovely Lady. She brought this up:
"actually my thing about blogs is.. is there a point if no one reads it?"
My buddy Meng followed that up with
"does a tree falling in an empty forest make a sound?"
The general consensus was that each writer needs to create their own goals for their blog, just like any other creation. Oh, and that photoblogs are better. But I am Poor, and cannot afford a digital camera.
In other news, JESSICA ALBA still stalks the screens with Latina good looks and B-grade acting talent. (Can you feel the name-drop hit the floor like a dope beat from Timbaland?)
JESSICA!!!
Does a name-drop in empty cyberspace make a sound?
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Small fish in a big pond
I found out pop/blues/acoustic artist John Mayer blogs on his Myspace page. I've been thinking about the purpose of blogging a bit lately, and this latest development has me floored. (Is there anything this man can't/doesn't do?)
It's hard enough to read the newspaper these days, even online. The advent of Blogging, as with many things tied to the internet, expanded and exploded the reading choices of your average web surfer. In this age of the 2 second attention span it's almost impossible to catch someone's reading attention unless you've got a flashy animation/cool graphic or some mention of sex somewhere in there. Even that doesn't work so well anymore since any self-respecting email client will spam anything with "HUGE 36DD BREASTS PENIS ANAL" anyhow.
My friend Jaz said to me the other day that my blog had nice prose but she was just too tired to read the whole thing. Which was nice to hear, but it presents a new set of problems. We used to be taught in English class in high school that writing articles meant you needed to get 90% of your important information out in the first paragraph and a half. Which means most of you probably have opened a new browser by this point in this article, and that if you're still reading here I should send you chocolates.
That model of writing is like writing/assembling a movie trailer. You've got to get the best bits and cram them into a 30 sec spot, and to hell if you ruin the suspense or reveal the ending. It's not even like writing a pop song, where the catchy hook hits you hard about 1 minute into play. It sure isn't like writing a symphony.
My friend Shona has this neat trick she uses when sending travel emails: a short blurb and a long version that follows - a considerate and flexible format. Unfortunately it doesn't transfer so well into this blog, which is not so much about itemisation of the day-to-day events of a lowly intern. I have to work harder than that to earn your readership.
Which brings me back to John Mayer. I know many people read celebrity/gossip related blogs, but here is a blog one better - a blog *by* a celebrity. I'm guilty of a fair amount of celebrity worship, and I could probably be easily tempted into reading some mundanity that John Mayer ate Oreos for breakfast, or ties his left shoe first. But Mayer, the bastard, goes one up on that - he can actually write, with much of the humour and insight his lyrics suggest he would. His blog is pretty random, but very readable. There's a recent blog entry that posts a hypothetical response to one of those "HUGE 36DD BREASTS PENIS ANAL" spam emails.
I ask you then, what chance does a small blog like this have against a Goliath like that? Mayer already sings, plays guitar, has a swag of Grammys and now he blogs too. If he gets anywhere near a stethoscope I'm leaving and going to live on a mountain somewhere.
It's hard enough to read the newspaper these days, even online. The advent of Blogging, as with many things tied to the internet, expanded and exploded the reading choices of your average web surfer. In this age of the 2 second attention span it's almost impossible to catch someone's reading attention unless you've got a flashy animation/cool graphic or some mention of sex somewhere in there. Even that doesn't work so well anymore since any self-respecting email client will spam anything with "HUGE 36DD BREASTS PENIS ANAL" anyhow.
My friend Jaz said to me the other day that my blog had nice prose but she was just too tired to read the whole thing. Which was nice to hear, but it presents a new set of problems. We used to be taught in English class in high school that writing articles meant you needed to get 90% of your important information out in the first paragraph and a half. Which means most of you probably have opened a new browser by this point in this article, and that if you're still reading here I should send you chocolates.
That model of writing is like writing/assembling a movie trailer. You've got to get the best bits and cram them into a 30 sec spot, and to hell if you ruin the suspense or reveal the ending. It's not even like writing a pop song, where the catchy hook hits you hard about 1 minute into play. It sure isn't like writing a symphony.
My friend Shona has this neat trick she uses when sending travel emails: a short blurb and a long version that follows - a considerate and flexible format. Unfortunately it doesn't transfer so well into this blog, which is not so much about itemisation of the day-to-day events of a lowly intern. I have to work harder than that to earn your readership.
Which brings me back to John Mayer. I know many people read celebrity/gossip related blogs, but here is a blog one better - a blog *by* a celebrity. I'm guilty of a fair amount of celebrity worship, and I could probably be easily tempted into reading some mundanity that John Mayer ate Oreos for breakfast, or ties his left shoe first. But Mayer, the bastard, goes one up on that - he can actually write, with much of the humour and insight his lyrics suggest he would. His blog is pretty random, but very readable. There's a recent blog entry that posts a hypothetical response to one of those "HUGE 36DD BREASTS PENIS ANAL" spam emails.
I ask you then, what chance does a small blog like this have against a Goliath like that? Mayer already sings, plays guitar, has a swag of Grammys and now he blogs too. If he gets anywhere near a stethoscope I'm leaving and going to live on a mountain somewhere.
Bangers and mashups v3
The remix frenzy continues...I suppose it's easier to push other people's stuff together than to make new stuff of your own. *sigh*
Anyway - for your enjoyment, StudioGypsy presents:
Beyonce feat Blackstreet - Work it out (No diggity) and Beyonce and Amerie feat Jay-Z - Crazy in love - One thing (remix)
Pop music almanac: Work it out was featured on the Austin Powers 3 Soundtrack and originally produced by Pharrell Williams and Chad Hugo of the Neptunes. Williams and Hugo initially got their start co-writing for producer/singer Teddy Riley, the founder of Blackstreet.
Beyonce's monster hit Crazy in love was produced by Rich Harrison, the man also responsible for Amerie's One thing.
I *am* a geek.
Anyway - for your enjoyment, StudioGypsy presents:
Beyonce feat Blackstreet - Work it out (No diggity) and Beyonce and Amerie feat Jay-Z - Crazy in love - One thing (remix)
Pop music almanac: Work it out was featured on the Austin Powers 3 Soundtrack and originally produced by Pharrell Williams and Chad Hugo of the Neptunes. Williams and Hugo initially got their start co-writing for producer/singer Teddy Riley, the founder of Blackstreet.
Beyonce's monster hit Crazy in love was produced by Rich Harrison, the man also responsible for Amerie's One thing.
I *am* a geek.
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