2001-02-11 - Night
Just because I don�t know any polyamorous lesbians in San Diego who�ll make me pancakes doesn�t mean I can�t whip up a good Saturday-morning breakfast all on my own. Now that MST3K is back on at a decent hour (10 a.m. Pacific instead of 6 a.m.) I�ve resurrected my weekend ritual of breaking out the TV tray, preparing a simple yet filling meal, and letting Mike and the bots entertain me as I eat. Nothing fancy--just two eggs sunny side up, seven-grain toast with butter and strawberry jam, a thick slice of ham fried in olive oil with cumin and chili peppers, Sumatran coffee from Peet�s, and a tall glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. Yum.
I need to cook more often. I have one of those how-to-be-single-and-not-die-of-malnutrition cookbooks lying around here someplace. I�ve also got a copy of The Joy of Cooking--a QPB selection I never sent the card in for--and a circa-1970 Betty Crocker cookbook that I once borrowed from my mom and never gave back. (The main courses in that last one give me a coronary just reading the recipes, but the desserts are great, which I think is why I kept it.) One of these days I�ll dig them out--after I�ve pulled all the computer boxes and miscellaneous crap out of the pantry so I can actually store food in it, and after I�ve had a HazMat team in here to clean out my refrigerator. One of these days.
Damn, med students sure know how to party. I left my friend�s birthday bash at midnight and they were still going strong. Fuck, I�m old. I had a blast, though.
Several things come to mind while watching physicians-in-training get blind:
1) They�re allowed to wield sharp objects.
2) In a few years, they�ll be allowed to wield them on me.
3) No wonder ABGs hurt like a mofo.
4) I�m never setting foot in a hospital again.
What�s an ABG, you ask? In docspeak it�s also called a "blood gas." When Dr. Green on ER orders someone to do a blood gas, what he�s really telling him or her to do is to find a pulse point on the patient, jab a needle into the pulse point, then wiggle it around for about six hours until it punches its way into the artery. Apparently it�s something that hungover med students need a lot of practice doing.
Read a Gina Arnold review of the new Rocket from the Crypt CD and oddly enough, she didn�t annoy me. Normally Gina is like this monstrous hybrid of the worst pompous name-dropping idiot rock critic in the world and the worst PC punk feminist who�s ever eaten lentils out of a recycled paper bowl--even when she likes something I like I still end up wanting to kill her. Plus she once dissed the Pixies and that just about damned her in my eyes forever.
This review, however, was actually halfway readable. I shrugged off the whole "I got pissed at [Rocket] once for inviting a stripper onstage" part (yeah, yeah, Gina, you�re an Empowered Womyn--now go bake me a pie) as well as the whole What-Is-Punk argument at the beginning, since making grand statements defining Punk is the most un-Punk thing imagineable. But other than that, it�s worth a read, or not--it mostly depends on whether you give half a shit why I babble about this band at every opportunity and are interested in finding out. It�s no skin off my ass either way.
(Did that last part sound Punk enough?)
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