So, some many unfinished prematurely done posts are beginning to clog up my thought process. The saved drafts section is slowly growing to near epic proportions. There are posts about music, movies, new year rants, resolution promises and even that magnum opus on the evolution of pornography that I've been planning for many a year now.
The last one of course is never ever going to get published. For many reasons. One my research (purely academic) is never going to get done. Every day I think I have enough material to go forth and wax eloquently but a cursory check reveals some new and often unimproved piece of absolute kink that warrants more investigation. Now if we'll avoid the innuendo and the puns and the general nonsense in the comments for that I'll be glad but then again one can never be sure. Anyway thankfully all is streaming and none is stored. So they can't find me.
Got me a bigger and better iPod recently and have spent the better part of one early morning filling it up and drooling over coverflow. It's not rocket science and seeing the album covers whizz by is never ever going to change music quality but I still choose to drool.
And speaking of drool since when we have very little to actually talk about outside of an absolutely terrible start to the year with respect to work , I decided that my month in Pathology (this one) is going to be spent in the pursuit of updating this place a tad more regularly. Maybe even the porn post.
Pathology is a strange subject. It deals with the dead. In a convoluted not-so-comforting way so does neurosurgery but that'll change in the next many years. I hope. The joy in having the absolute last word is omnipresent in jars of formalin and bits of paraffin. People stare rapturously into bifocal and confocal and fluorescence microscopes deriving pleasure from little bits and blue and pink and ultimately pronouncing life and death judgments. And as I found out today, destressing with Shakespeare. They didn't take too kindly when I picked a skull up and proclaimed in a baritone, "Alas, Yoric! He was a good friend." Or when some technician was heating a beaker full of some noxious looking fluid elicited a"fire burn and cauldron boil."
Tomorrow there promises to be a session on gross anatomy (yeah that's what it's called. with good reason.) of the brain. Where we slice and dice a real thinker to learn how the hippocampus curls in around the dentate gyrus and how the choroid fissure runs in the inside of the brain and how if time and circumstance permit, the perfumes of Arabia will never wash the smell of blood off my hands.
No such humor is not appreciated. Though strangely referring to a malignant brain tumor which would translate from slide to reality as a life expectancy of 6 months, as beautiful is considered standard behaviour.
And of course the jabs at neurosurgeons who never remove the right part, neurologists who never send enough tissue for diagnosis and radiologists who never supply enough clinical data are a part of the daily schedule.
But enough about pathos.
Dinner sometime ago was a tomato and pepperoni pasta.
Straight forward stuff really. Blanch tomatoes, peel and cut roughly. Saute some finely sliced onions in olive oil, toss a crushed clove or two of garlic. Once they're soft, in go the tomatoes and some tomato puree. Add salt and paprika and oregano/basil/mixed herbs. Let it all simmer away merrily till it looks, tastes and smells cooked. Feel free to throw in some pepperoni slices/cut up sausage along the way. Al dante some pasta in the mean time and drain out the water. Mix it all up. Top with grated parmesan.
Bon appetit.
The last one of course is never ever going to get published. For many reasons. One my research (purely academic) is never going to get done. Every day I think I have enough material to go forth and wax eloquently but a cursory check reveals some new and often unimproved piece of absolute kink that warrants more investigation. Now if we'll avoid the innuendo and the puns and the general nonsense in the comments for that I'll be glad but then again one can never be sure. Anyway thankfully all is streaming and none is stored. So they can't find me.
Got me a bigger and better iPod recently and have spent the better part of one early morning filling it up and drooling over coverflow. It's not rocket science and seeing the album covers whizz by is never ever going to change music quality but I still choose to drool.
And speaking of drool since when we have very little to actually talk about outside of an absolutely terrible start to the year with respect to work , I decided that my month in Pathology (this one) is going to be spent in the pursuit of updating this place a tad more regularly. Maybe even the porn post.
Pathology is a strange subject. It deals with the dead. In a convoluted not-so-comforting way so does neurosurgery but that'll change in the next many years. I hope. The joy in having the absolute last word is omnipresent in jars of formalin and bits of paraffin. People stare rapturously into bifocal and confocal and fluorescence microscopes deriving pleasure from little bits and blue and pink and ultimately pronouncing life and death judgments. And as I found out today, destressing with Shakespeare. They didn't take too kindly when I picked a skull up and proclaimed in a baritone, "Alas, Yoric! He was a good friend." Or when some technician was heating a beaker full of some noxious looking fluid elicited a"fire burn and cauldron boil."
Tomorrow there promises to be a session on gross anatomy (yeah that's what it's called. with good reason.) of the brain. Where we slice and dice a real thinker to learn how the hippocampus curls in around the dentate gyrus and how the choroid fissure runs in the inside of the brain and how if time and circumstance permit, the perfumes of Arabia will never wash the smell of blood off my hands.
No such humor is not appreciated. Though strangely referring to a malignant brain tumor which would translate from slide to reality as a life expectancy of 6 months, as beautiful is considered standard behaviour.
And of course the jabs at neurosurgeons who never remove the right part, neurologists who never send enough tissue for diagnosis and radiologists who never supply enough clinical data are a part of the daily schedule.
But enough about pathos.
Dinner sometime ago was a tomato and pepperoni pasta.
Straight forward stuff really. Blanch tomatoes, peel and cut roughly. Saute some finely sliced onions in olive oil, toss a crushed clove or two of garlic. Once they're soft, in go the tomatoes and some tomato puree. Add salt and paprika and oregano/basil/mixed herbs. Let it all simmer away merrily till it looks, tastes and smells cooked. Feel free to throw in some pepperoni slices/cut up sausage along the way. Al dante some pasta in the mean time and drain out the water. Mix it all up. Top with grated parmesan.
Bon appetit.
