Speaking of racism . . .
Something the Lord Made was one of those sneaker movies — if you weren’t paying attention to HBO last year, it snuck right by you. It’s the story of one of the pioneers of open heart surgery, Alfred Blalock (Alan Rickman), and his skilled assistant, Vivien Thomas (Mos Def). In the 1940s, the idea of open heart surgery violated deeply held prejudices in the medical community. “Don’t touch the heart” was right up there with “First, do no harm.” Blalock and Thomas bucked tradition to develop an operation to cure the congenital defect causing blue baby syndrome.
Thomas is portrayed as equal to Blalock in medical insight, superior to Blalock in technical skill. Since he’s poor, black, and not an MD, Thomas slips way behind Blalock when the accolades roll in.
This is not your typical Hollywood movie. First, they get the medicine right. (Trust me, this is rare.) Second, they resist the urge to promote Blalock to sainthood. Rickman’s Blalock is arrogant, a hot-head in the OR, but also kind and charitable. And yet . . . Push comes to shove, he slights Thomas when it comes time to give out credit. It’s not blatant racism; it’s the subtle variety that creeps into relationships, affecting peoples’ assumptions regarding one another.
The scene in which Thomas confronts Blalock is stirring. It’s hard not to feel a little sympathy for Blalock who, confronted with his prejudice, protests, I’ve always fought in your corner. It’s true, too. But Blalock failed Thomas when it mattered most, and Thomas has called him on it.
Thomas’s subsequent efforts to stay in medicine in some capacity, in any capacity, are heartbreaking. The scenes depicting his rapprochement with Blalock, and Blalock’s eventual roundabout apology, choke me up every time.
Something the Lord Made is a fine piece of medical history, but it’s an even finer portrait of a relationship between two great men — one of them, deeply flawed.
D.
A snowball’s chance
Following PBW’s lead, I’ve decided to give you a story for Blog About Racism Day:
When I was eight, my dad took our family up to see the snow. We didn’t get snow in LA — you had to drive two hours to have even a vaguely frosty experience. One of his fellow high school teachers, a black guy named Chuck, invited us up to spend the day at his cabin.
Chuck had a son who was maybe one or two years older than me. We hit it off immediately. My brother is seven years older than me; growing up, I often had the feeling he would rather do anything than play with me. Not this kid. Chuck’s son spent the whole morning showing me around the cabin, entertaining me, generally being an all-around cool guy.
After lunch, we had to hike across the snow for some reason. Chuck wanted to show us something. The adults trudged ahead, the kids lagged behind. I thought it would be fun to have a snowball fight (no doubt thinking, isn’t that what we’re supposed to do in the snow?), so I tossed one at Chuck’s son and missed by a mile. He retaliated, and nailed me in the face with a fist-sized snowball, hard enough to knock my glasses off.
Chuck looked back just in time to see this. He didn’t know that I’d started the fight, and he didn’t ask me if I was hurt. I think he assumed the worst. He started ripping into his son, making the kid feel about two inches tall.
I’m sure I tried to stammer out some sort of explanation when Chuck first got rolling, but I don’t think I got very far.
“Just leave him alone,” Chuck told his son, who did just that. The rest of the afternoon, I was on my own.
Maybe this story has nothing to do with racism, but I think it does. I don’t think Chuck would have blown up at his son if I were another black kid. But I’m white, so he had a different standard for how his son should behave.
I felt sad all afternoon. I’d lost a friend, and I was sure it was my fault. I couldn’t even bring myself to apologize.
It’s one of those weird, lingering, regret-filled memories. No happy ending.
D.
Professionally bad sex
Remember our Le Bad Sex competition? It was inspired by Guardian Unlimited Books’ Bad Sex in Fiction Award. Props to The Word Munger for feeding me this link to a Guardian Unlimited article providing full text of the firmest contenders.
(Sarah beat me to it, but since one or two of you don’t read the Smart Bitches, and since the above link is — apologies, Sarah, but it must be said — far more graphic, I decided to run with it.)
What is it about sex that drives such respected authors as John Updike, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and Salman Rushdie to the absolute pits of literary whiffydom? Read the Guardian Unlimited article and savor the rank odor of truly bad writing. Sorry, Daisy, I know your piece won my contest, but it shouldn’t have. It was far too well written.
Take one of the shorter entries:
The Olive Readers by Christine Aziz (Macmillan)
We made our way to the summerhouse and hid in its shadows. We lay on the cool floor and I twined my legs around Homer’s body, gripping him like a hunter hanging on to its prey. He made love to me with his fingers and I came in the palm of his hand. He stroked my breasts and neck. “Don’t wash it away” he said. “I want to be able to smell you tonight.”
Like a hunter hanging on to its prey? And what’s with the funky punctuation (“Don’t wash it away” he said.)? My high school AP English teachers would have red-lined me to hell and back.
As for content — eeew. You wouldn’t repeat this to your best friend, would you? For most people, this would qualify as too much information. If you wouldn’t tell it to your best friend, why would you share it with your readers?
Ah. I almost forgot the sole commandment of Serious Fiction: give us a glimpse of Truth. This also explains the following line from Marlon Brando and Donald Cammell’s Fan Tan:
It is the one drawback of fellatio as conscientious as hers that it eliminates the chance for small talk and poetry alike.
Guys: next time you’re gettin’ some and your gal is reciting “The Red Wheelbarrow,” tell her she’s not being conscientious enough. See how far you get.
D.
A boner for Kate
This one’s just for you, Kate.
From Pharyngula, we have a report on the genetic basis for the lack of a penile bone (baculum) in most male mammals.
Fun and interesting penis facts:
- Most men don’t need that bone!
- It is possible to fracture a penis. Top gals, the weight limit is 120 lbs. (I just made that up.)
- Cat penises are barbed. Rrrrooowwrrr!
- Foreskins secrete a neuropeptide which prevents complex synaptic connections in the brain necessary for any thought more complex than, Grog want woman. (Yup, I just made that one up, too.)
- My nurse just told me she knew an anesthesiologist who claimed “his penis looked like Yul Bryner in a turtleneck.”
Open thread to discuss your fun and interesting penis facts.
D.
NaNoWrapUp
What I learned after 50,000+ words:
1. It took me 47,000 words to figure out what my story was about,
2. 32,000 words (or so) to realize I had no villain, and
3. the first 1,666 words to see that this whole thing was, indeed, possible.
On the one hand, I increased my average productivity fourfold. On the other, the quality isn’t comparable to The Brakan Correspondent . . . but Get Well Soon isn’t total crap, either.
My favorite bit so far: when my villain asks my protagonist the rhetorical question, “Do I look like an asshole?” my protagonist (who isn’t human, but has a fondness for synthetic human prostitutes — cyborgs, essentially) thinks to himself that he had seen his share of assholes, they really were quite cute, and, no, this fellow wasn’t half as goodlooking as your average asshole.
That should give you an idea of the overall caliber of this story ;o)
A fun, clever, and exciting finish eludes me, but even with TBC, I didn’t have all the details worked out until the very end.
D.
Kra Dook, anyone?
Tonight’s dinner reminded me how much I love this sauce. Thai food rocks. Inspired by a similar recipe in Pojanee Vatanapan’s Thai Cookbook, here’s my version of Kra Dook Moo Tod:
4 pounds of pork ribs, cut into 1 to 2 inch pieces
2 tablespoons peanut oil
1 large onion, finely chopped
1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup fish sauce
2 tablespoons soy sauce (black soy sauce preferred)
Simmer the rib meat in mildly salted water for one hour or until tender. Drain thoroughly.
Saute the onion in the oil until light brown. Add the pepper, sugar, fish sauce, and soy sauce. Stirring constantly, cook the sauce over medium heat until sticky, about 6 to 8 minutes. Add the rib meat and toss to coat. Serve over steamed white rice.
I cannot think of a single meat (or vegetable, for that matter) which would not strut its stuff under this sauce. Poultry, fish, you name it. I’m betting even okra would taste good with a thick layer of salty-sweet-peppery-oniony goodness all over it.
Emphasis on salty. The white rice is essential (although, Atkins junkie that I am, I skipped the white rice and I’m alive to write about it). For those of you not wise in the way of fish sauce, that’s the source of the salt in this recipe. Oh . . . don’t be put off by the smell.
By the way: in the original recipe, the author recommends deep-frying spare ribs. Yes, this is superior (the crispiness makes the dish that much more . . . omigod I almost channeled Martha Stewart and wrote delectable . . . delicious — ack! Yummy? Tasty? God in heaven, what words hasn’t Martha ruined?) But my version is healthier and far less messy to prepare.
Now: if someone can tell me where I can buy Szechuan peppercorns, my life will be complete.
D.
Neurosurgery for dummies
During internship, I had a one month rotation on the neurosurgery service. Neurosurgery had a one night in four call schedule with no general surgery duties, so we all looked forward to this rotation. The ward was abysmal, but the neurosurgery ICU nurses had the best reputation in the county hospital.
These nurses knew more about neurosurgery than I would ever know, and they rarely let me forget it. If you think this engendered a constant struggle for dominance, think again. Only a fool of an intern would go up against one of them, and he wouldn’t survive. The neurosurgery residents had learned to trust them. They certainly didn’t trust us.
Neurosurgery is a different world than the rest of medicine. Your patient was discharged today? Huzzah! And you say he left on his own two feet? I’ll buy you a drink. (more…)
Bob Herbert on Jack Murtha
T r u t h o u t has reprinted in full Bob Herbert’s NY Times Op-Ed piece on the Murtha debate. The drumbeat is getting louder, folks. When Condi Rice starts talking about troop withdrawal, you know the writing is on the wall.
Herbert’s conclusion is worth emphasizing (ah, but I fear I’m preaching to the choir):
We need to cut our losses in Iraq. The folly of the Bush crowd and its apologists is now plain for all to see. Congressman Murtha is right, the war is not sustainable. Even Republicans in Congress are starting to bail out on this impossible mission. They’re worried – not about the welfare of the troops, but about their chances in the 2006 elections.
To continue sending people to their deaths under these circumstances is worse than pointless, worse than irresponsible. It’s a crime of the most grievous kind.
Amen. And, may I add, it would be nice to see the responsible parties punished for their crimes?
D.
Technorati tags: bob herbert, Iraq War, Condi Rice
Listen to the hand
On average, an American man will fall in love with 8.6 women before he meets the one who will love him back*. We don’t know the comparable statistic for women, since the male sociologist conducting the study fell in love with his statistician, who spurned his advances and left the collaboration before they could wrap up the work. Oh, well.
Today’s Smart Bitches Day post has a couple of inspirations. First, Deloney got me thinking about my time in college volunteering at Napa State Mental Hospital, where every last patient suffered from unrequited love (at least, those who weren’t able to slip the watch of the psych techs and duck out into the shrubbery for a bit of “mush therapy”).
The second inspiration came last night, when Karen and I were watching a bit of Four Weddings and a Funeral. You’ll remember that Hugh Grant has a thing for Andie McDowell, and that a month before her marriage to some git in a kilt he stammers out in oh-so-cute fashion “I love you,” which she counters with, “Oh, that is so romantic.” And you’ll remember how, at the wedding, Grant’s ex-wife confesses that she still loves him. Hmm. All of this unrequited love. (more…)
Undersexed men of the world, unite
You have nothing to lose but your woodies.
Overheard at The Washington Note (who says Mr. Clemons only cares about politics?): this international sex survey by the good folks at Durex. A few moist facts for your Sunday brunch:
The French claim to have the most sex (on average, 137 times per year), while the Japanese are having the least (46). Yet, knowing the Japanese national propensity for overdoing it, each of those 46 episodes no doubt involved multiple partners, mirrored ceilings, and toys so high-tech the rest of us can only watch Futurama and dream.
The British spend the most time on foreplay (22.5 minutes). Thais spend the least (11.5 minutes). Americans match the international average (19.7 minutes). And I ask: why so little time on foreplay? Even the 16- to 20-year-old cohort spent, on average, a measly 21.6 minutes on foreplay. What’s wrong with kids today?
Italians are the most orgasmic (61%), Chinese the least (19%). Hope that’s not genetic.
17% of men claim to have faked an orgasm. Huh?
The Chinese have had the most sexual partners (19.3), Vietnamese the least (2.5), with the great melting pot, the American satan, once again matching the international average (10.3).
Macedonians lead the world in spankings (42%), followed closely by the US of A (41%).
I’ll let you folks search for more tidbits. I’ve already tried trotting out the stats for Karen, but the wife? Meh. She’s unimpressed by their statistical techniques. (Actually, what she said was, “Everyone lies on those things.”)
D.