Tomorrow begins the year of the sheep. Or goat. Or ram. I suppose it depends on how macho or independent you view yourself. Or if you are born in that hazy area in January and February, you can switch Chinese zodiac signs if you feel inclined (my sister calls herself a rat, although technically she's a pig because she was born two weeks early).
I don't put any stock in astrology except for amusement in coincidences, especially when you look at the compatibility chart. Both of my parents are rats--which meant they were optimally compatible with the monkey (me!), my grandmother is a dragon (another compatible sign), and if my sister had been born when she was supposed to, it would have been an astrologer's dream of a harmonious family. Sometimes I wonder if my parents actually planned it that way. Lucky signs usually see a glut of newborns whereas some signs are definitely not auspicious to be born under and superstitious Asian parents actually attempt to plan pregnancies away from those particular years. (As for Western astrology, I'd rather trade my sign with someone else. I am totally not a sex goddess.)
The year of the sheep is rather interesting because this is the sign of half of my "peers", the people who I grew up with through grade school. Tomorrow, apparently, will mark a lucky year for them.
I seriously have to say: I don't get it. The film society is having a run of anime movies the whole term and I decided to take a brief break to watch some mindless fun. Mindless, yes. Fun, not really. Non-existent plot, poor dialogue, and gratuitous violence. Freud would have had a field day if he saw all the dream sequences.
This particular experience was heightened by the fact that the audience laughed through the bad dialogue and the girl sitting behind me was complaining about the style of animation throughout the whole film. One would have thought that this had been a comedy instead when everyone laughed at the finale. But no, the finale was a shot of the hero (who was the only character to survive the entire ordeal) crying over the bodiless head of his friend, which unfortunately reminded me of Strauss's opera Salome where the titled heroine made love to John the Baptist's head.
Something else again: Justice Department probes Texas Tech professor's policy. (Also referenced on Metafilter.) I don't think this is a case of religious discrimination. I think it's a case of students who think they're entitled to get recommendations. Professors are not obligated to recommend anyone. Personally, I think recommendations are the last frontier in which students can distinguish themselves when applying for graduate school. Excellent grades are a dime a dozen. I would hate to think that recommendations would also go that route. (I can say this with some authority--I worked my butt off to get my recommendations from well-known biologists, and I'm not happy that smarmy pre-meds want to cruise through the whole process with their photographic memories.)
I feel like Charlie when he found the fifth golden ticket. Except mine says I'm going to Boston and not Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory.
It was one of those spur of the moment things combined with cabin fever. Yes, I could go skiing like everyone else, but that was another thing too--I do not want to be in the middle of nowhere. So with my golden ticket, I thought about going to Chinatown on Saturday to see the New Year's Parade. That idea got scrapped pretty quickly though. The weather on Saturday is going to be bad. On Sunday, I could go to the Wine Expo, but that costs $60! Then I thought about going whale watching, but early February is definitely not whale watching season. And I'm avoiding the museums. I personally find the admission prices ridiculous.
Does anyone know of some good (cheap/free) places in Boston for a sightseeing, wannabe subway rat?
When I was an undergraduate, it was easy to hold contempt for those "greasy graduate students," those oddities who crashed the undergraduate parties, hung around the undergraduate meeting places, and romanced undergraduate women (which technically wasn't very ethical considering some of these graduate students were also teaching assistants). How hard was it to find someone their own age to hang out with?
It turns out to be harder than you think. I am one of the unlucky few who are at the interface between relatively carefree early twenty-something (i.e. most undergrads) and the blissfully married late twenty-something (i.e. most grads). I am like the former yet I know and work mostly with the latter. It's very hard to relate when I'm at a gathering and most of the people are gushing about their significant others. Yet I would never put myself in an undergraduate setting because I feel that that part of my life is over.
Anyways, here is a list of blogs from Dartmouth and as far as I can tell, they're all run by undergraduates. You would think that with the wireless system around here some graduate students would also adopt the blog.
For all my brain-wracking, I can't remember. I would have been old enough to remember the Challenger Explosion, after all, I was at an age when I was learning reading and simple math. In fact, I distinctly remember doing just that. I remember learning to read from a paperback red textbook, writing on worksheets, and playing in the snow. But I don't remember any news.
Perhaps that is the problem with youth. I was too myopic, too worried about myself to bother with the bigger picture. In fact, I'm quite sure I'm still not bothering as much with the bigger picture as I should. Is the sense of unreality, contributed by the television, the radio, the internet, too weak to unsettle my conscience?
Am I sorry that I don't remember? No, not really. It's enough that I know it happened. If someone kept a record, written or otherwise, of that day they experienced, I understand. However, I'm just irritated that people speak so authoritatively when they say they remember very clearly the day the shuttle exploded or when JFK was assassinated or when 9/11 occurred. How can that entire day be so crystal clear to them? I must have the worst memory in the world.
1. Are you comfortable spending time alone? Do you actually look forward to that time? Why, or why not?
Yes. I'm one of those people who need time alone. Otherwise I'd just go mad.
2. What's the next best thing to your best thing?
A battered wide-ruled magenta notebook with "3 subjects". Why is it my next best thing? Well, for one, I've been trying to finish it off for the past six years. It's been difficult because I've been using it as a back-up for my other writing exercise notebook (which is actually bigger and I go through them every one and a half to two years).
3. What do wish you'd done last week/last month that you didn't do? If you're someone who accomplishes everything you set out to do, please let us in on the secret.
Well, aside from reading the entire book, Basic Immunology (I liked Janeway's Immunobiology better), last week was a dud, partly because it was exam week and partly because I procrastinated on a homework set that I had no business with procrastinating. As for the past month, let's just say I've managed to keep up with the papers I had to read.
* * *
The more I think about it, the more unhappy I am with my living arrangements. I don't like having neighbors who cause minor fires every time they cook. I don't really like having roommates who have strange habits, use my things without telling me, come into the bathroom when it's obviously occupied, throw parties without warning. The same types of people, I suspect, who would tell me to turn my classical music down if I played it loud enough. It feels like the first year of my undergraduate career all over again, that my living space didn't really feel like mine. I got used to dorm life eventually, but this isn't exactly dorm life. In a dorm, everyone's in the same boat and comprehend that you need your personal space. This is like living with a bunch of relatives you can't stand because relatives believe they can take certain liberties.
Or maybe it's me.
Unfortunately, I'm stuck here for approximately the next term and a half. Which means I'll have to use all my extra energy for apartment searching.
Baptists* are notorious for those "call downs" at the end of each service to strongly encourage those who feel they are ready for the next step in embracing the Christian faith. It was comical, how much they made the pastor look like Bob Barker on "Price is Right" and the call itself a "come on down!" as if you didn't, you risked losing that red convertible or that trip to Baja. People who have personally met Bob Barker tell me that he's not a nice man, and like Bob Barker, the "call down" has its sinister side in its implication that if you didn't "come down" you were just a sorry excuse of a voyeuristic sinner.
They (the churches I have been to at least) were very good at doing that, making the average church goer feel dirty at the end. Far from religious. This disillusionment started when I began listening to the words--words that spoke of right and wrong and faith that more often than not, strayed into a lecture. I am not a criminal who broke all ten commandments and neither do I care for the metaphysical claptrap interspersed in between that is more confusing than enlightening. And the hymns, beautiful as they are, have been twisted to suit those attention-seeking divas, pulling on your heart like a leash, leading you to the altar.
I missed the time when the only thing I understood was the music. When I was four years old, the strange smelling ladies from church dressed me up in a white frock with a dark red collar. Apparently I had been volunteered up for the children's choir by my mother. I was the smallest, so I stood at the end of the line, next to the church organ. The first time the choir performed, what I sang did not matter, because when the organist placed his hands on the keyboard and his feet danced on the pedals below, a roar blasted from the pipes in the wall behind me, deafening. The pastor, cloaked in red and black, stood in a visible alcove behind the choir and his face was devoid of all expression. He pushed someone dressed in white down and there was the rustling of water. The initiate struggled up, red in the face, gasping, wet.
And something went through me then, not awe or wonder, but fear. The pastor acted as if something had taken over him--that wet young man could have drowned! And with the echoing notes of the organ, I began to believe that the instrument was the source of power, that God must be acting through the organ. And the man who manipulated the keys and buttons, the organist controlled all of it.
I wanted to play the organ.
It's too big**. Your feet will never reach the pedals.
The organist also played the piano. And they were similar enough that I figured, if I knew how to play the piano, I would also know how to play the organ. I begged my parents for piano lessons. My mother thought it was a good idea, thinking that I might actually be good at it if I started early enough (she herself had taken a year of piano lessons when she was a teenager--apparently too late to be of any use) and convinced a piano teacher to take me on despite her early protests that I was too young.
My first piano teacher was a pleasant old woman with infinite amount of patience. I learned the notes, how to read music, fingerings. But what fascinated me were the two electric organs in her studio. When would I learn how to play that? Occasionally, I would see the teacher's husband, a hoary bent-backed man coming in after my lesson (or going out before) to prepare for his own students. He taught the organ. But at the moment, I was simply plucking out "Twinkle, Twinkle" and thought, maybe if I became good enough, he would be my teacher.
The pastor of the church was moving away at the same time. What a fortunate turn of events! He needed to get rid of his piano; I need one to practice on. My parents took me to his house and I got a good look at it. Unlike the black grand piano in church, this was an upright piano. And it was dark red. The cover and supporting legs were intricately carved with flourishes that looked like flames. And were those faces peeking out from behind, wide-eyed and frightened? It was love at first sight.
The first songs I ever learned were practiced on this piano. Every time I touched the keys, I imagined that these faces started to smile. For the recital, I listened to the more advanced players and learned, there is music out there, more beautiful than those hymns pounded out with such ferociousness every Sunday morning on the organ. When I played my piece, I garnered applause instead of half-drowned men. I realized then what sort of control really mattered.
*Obviously, not all Baptists are rabid evangelists. Nonetheless, I feel the whole situation is about control and not about faith.
**Strangely enough, it was the same case with my secondary instrument, the cello. I wanted to play the bass, but it was too big (it's still probably too big for me). I must have a fetish on size.
You are a geek liaison, which means you go both ways. You can hang out with normal people or you can hang out with geeks which means you often have geeks as friends and/or have a job where you have to mediate between geeks and normal people. This is an important role and one of which you should be proud. In fact, you can make a good deal of money as a translator.
Normal: Tell our geek we need him to work this weekend.
You [to Geek]: We need more than that, Scotty. You'll have to stay until you can squeeze more outta them engines!
Geek [to You]: I'm givin' her all she's got, Captain, but we need more dilithium crystals!
You [to Normal]: He wants to know if he gets overtime.
The first time I ran upon the stereotype of the smart Asian was also the first time when I was in a classroom with another Asian. The only things she and I had in common were that we were Chinese, female, and had one younger sister. Other than that (and the fact that my desk was beside hers), we were day and night and I avoided her.
She was indisputably the resident genius. She had stellar grades. Occasionally she would go to the nearby middle school for an advanced math class (already doing algebra!) and doing advanced reading on her own. I, however, plodded on doing acceptable yet average work. Specifically, I remember one creative writing assignment. Ah, perhaps I would be able to stand out with my crazy fantasy story about detectives and fast food restaurants. But my hopes were dashed when she churned out a 30 page realistic epic about a pregnant woman rushing to the hospital to give birth which garnered rave reviews from the teacher.
I envied her unoriginal American first name because it made her "fit" with the rest of the popular girls that she was friends with. She was trendy (I wasn't) and she was outgoing and outspoken. She took private violin lessons. I played cello in the school string orchestra with all the other "amateurs". She and I were civil to each other, I suppose, but she made no effort on her part either to be friendly to me.
For that entire year, I felt like her poor wannabe shadow. I sympathized with the awkward heroines in those sentimental Judy Blume books I secreted away. I was conscious of the fact that in school, I was being compared to her and in no way was my quality on par with hers. In fact, I made no mention of her to my parents, afraid that they might start thinking that I could do better than all those B-'s I kept bringing home at the end of the semester.
The science fair was held at the end of the year. I entered, having no illusion that I would win because I never won before. I did some trite experiment on the effect of light on plant growth. She was studying tornadoes. Her younger sister ended up winning--her project was about studying the components of toothpaste. My classmate, the paragon, cried and threw a tantrum.
I was quietly pleased that she was not perfect. But then I also realized that I was very lucky that I never had that type of tension between myself and my sister.
Happy birthday to Marvin! One of these days, my sister is going to set up shop somewhere on the internet to sell off her chicken artwork. At the moment, she has no time to learn html.
Anyways, that paranoid feeling is sneaking up on me again. It must have been the local grocery store with half of its shelves completely empty and the cash register worked by a creepy thin man with a mustache.
"34 Million". (via Avaleeland Dot Com) Although I think it's for a good cause, this comic treads a fine line between amusement/satire and blatant advertisement. I took the red pill. (via Allied) This is one of the things that make it such a gray area. Everyday Yoga. At your desk. I hope you don't strain a muscle. My Virtual Model Inc. Fun, but scary. Toaster Art. Okay art critics, try analyzing that! Japanese Smileys. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but an emoticon is simply a mish-mash of punctuation. I'm probably old-fashioned, but smileys only convey one thing for me--that you do not take your writing seriously. If you're happy, sad, or angry, words should be sufficient to express the general feeling. (Of course, written words are no substitute of speaking in person, but that is completely different.)
It's the end of one of those weeks: the end of worry and stress, at least until three (or is it two?) weeks from now. All I want to do now is sleep, even if my dreams become plagued with diseased zombies. But before I zonk out...
I'm amused by the Bloggies. You either love it, hate it, or don't give a damn all because it's the internet equivalent of a popularity contest or one of those movie award shows. The finalists were not surprising (all of the nominees can be found over at Airbag) although if you weren't inclined to vote, it wouldn't hurt to read some excellent commentary on East West. My favorite category has to be "Best Tagline"--it has all sorts of possibilities, but the judges had to go and choose the "best taglines" from the more popular blogs, which isn't saying much. And meanwhile, I wait for the funnier Anti-Bloggies.
Even more links! What We're Doing When We Blog. (by Meg Hourihan of Megnut) Okay, so I found this through the Bloggies although there's nothing terribly original to exclaim about. It's sort of like the blog equivalent of a paper on the x-ray crystal structure of a protein compared to a more classical biochemical paper which studied the protein by running gels and columns. Find a Blog. (from the Wall Street Journal). This is also not original. It would be nice to have every single blog on the net listed and categorized so it would be easier to find the things you would want to read, but then again, blogs are like people. You can't pigeon-hole them, and if you try, you'd be better off banging your head against a brick wall. Ink-jet printing creates tubes of living tissue. I was immediately reminded of Chad's comment about selenium and ink cartridges. Or was it condoms and cartridges? AIDS Panel Choice Wrote of a 'Gay Plague'. So this morning I was scraping my brain for three ways of making an AIDS vaccine (exam question, of course) and now, I come across this article which makes me quite annoyed. Being gay does not cause AIDS. Being gay is not a "deathstyle". From what I've read elsewhere, homosexuals have higher rates of AIDS because some of them engage in risky sexual behavior, just as heterosexuals who get infected also engage in risky behavior. And then Thacker has the nerve to change the subject and say that gays can be saved through religion. This crazy reasoning just serves as another example that fundamentalist religion and medicine do not mix.
The weather is like a -80 degree freezer. It doesn't snow, but it sure is cold! I'm also feeling a bit edgy, not the restless kind but the paranoid kind (must be the combination of lack of sleep and stress). Of course it didn't help that from the bits of sleep I did catch last night, I dreamed that I had somehow gotten myself genetically altered by accident (not by much though) and the security person who was scanning my DNA was unsure of whether or not to let me into the symposium where some big shot guy was going to announce some medical breakthrough that was going to extend life. Of course, this guy was in a space suit and was slowly dying from a flesh-eating disease.
And then I went to class to learn all about anthrax. I find it ironic that the replicating phase for this little bacterium is called the "vegetating" stage and that this stage has never been observed outside the host (when anthrax senses oxygen, it goes into the spore state). And it's not the bacterium itself that causes death but the toxins it produces. Anyways, I wonder what happened to the hullabaloo about finding the person/people responsible for the mailed anthrax?
Scorpions produce 2 types of venom. I'm already thinking about possible applications of that pretoxin. It sounds like a good candidate for making a drug to target neurological diseases.
The Beauty of a Thousand Stars. "These days it seems that when two or three fans start discussing sf literature, they talk less about the books they're reading, more about the bloody awful state of sf publishing, so let's avoid yet another reprise of the same tired old subject. We will survive, we always do; it will probably take a major shake-out in the publishing industry, and it won't be pretty, but sooner or later the stuff I want to read will be once again published in abundance."
Whirl-Mart. "Whirl-Mart Ritual Resistance is a participatory experiment. It is art and action. It came into being in 2001 as a response to Adbusters magazine’s call for foolish action on the first of April. What began as a single happening in Troy, NY has over the course of a year evolved into a ritual activity that is performed across the U.S., and known around the world. It is a ritual during which a group gathers and silently pushes empty carts through the aisles of a superstore. Whirl-Mart utilizes tactics of occupation and reclamation of private consumer-dominated space for the purpose of creating a symbolic spectacle."
Tish wrote about being body positive over at Blog Sisters. This struck me because I remembered that another entry about weight was posted to Blog Sisters a little over a month ago (which of course, I commented on) and that last week, I attended a seminar where one guy was working on a drug for obesity at his biotech company (the drug hasn't moved into human clinical trials yet, but it makes mice lose weight). Yes, being body positive is a good thing, but it's one of those things that get shoved down in my mental list of what I should be thinking about this week/month/year due to, um, other things. It's probably also a self-esteem issue which means society on the whole needs to change its attitude, not just the individual. Anyways, this is the first time I've heard of Healthy Weight Week.
1. Where in the world does your lap go, when you stand up?
To the fourth spatial dimension. That's also where all my missing socks are except I have no idea how to retrieve them.
2. "Life's is mysterious, don't take it serious." Are you easily riled by things you could have laughed off? Why does,or doesn't that happen to you?
I don't laugh off things very often but neither do I go ballistic. Some people call me laid back because I easily shrug off some things that go horribly wrong. Probably because it isn't the end of the world because they go wrong.
3. On the other hand, some things are serious. What argument/situation can't you walk away from?
Sure, but it would have to be life-altering though.
Addendum: I'm actually serious most of the time. I walk away from a situation when it appears that the opposite party is obviously too entrenched in their beliefs to even consider looking at the other side. I don't yell. I don't throw tantrums. But I stew.
MLK Day. I'm not sure when I began to realize exactly what Martin Luther King, Jr. Day was. It was probably between that hazy period between second and sixth grade when the relationship between holidays and the school calendar weren't quite solidfied in my brain. Conceptually I knew what it stood for, but personally I felt nothing. How could I when people took the day as another excuse for a holiday than to be actually be aware of anything? The last school I was at, MLK Day only became an official institute holiday two years ago.
The current school, however, has drawn the day out into a prolonged two week affair. I guess I'm not surprised considering there are signs at the medical school saying that it supports affirmative action. But I still feel nothing. Today is just another day where I have to go to class, go to lab, to study. It's exam week and I have no time to get culturally enriched.
Bush declares National Sanctity of Human Life Day. Bush can declare as many national days as he likes, but that is in no way going to bully his opponents into oblivion. Anyways, I don't like the wording--"Sanctity of Human Life"--because it implies all human life and not just that of fetuses. This would also mean the lives of criminals, political prisoners and the like. It would have been more succinct and accurate to call it "National Anti-Abortion Day", but I suppose that would have been too obvious.
I don't fit into my generation. "I look around me sometimes and wonder 'How did all these idiots end up around me?' I see the way people my age generally relate to each other, and live their lives, and I just don't get it. It's when I try to fit in that I feel out of my body, out of my element, practically out of my mind. I'm not sure where I fit exactly. But it's definitely not here." Could be a new tagline. I certainly feel that way at times. But maybe because I don't have a "life".
For those of you who don't already know, I'm a soundtrack freak. And I'm peculiar about the types of soundtracks I listen to. I prefer instrumental over vocals, and instrumental firmly rooted in the classical tradition than the more modern, avant-garde. I suppose that's natural given my classical training.
My interest first began during an analysis session in a film class I had decided to take on a whim. The film was Born on the Fourth of July and the first sarcastic remark that came out of the professor's mouth during the opening titles was, "Oh. Recognize that fanfare?" The film aficionados in the class groaned in commiseration. Later, I learned that the music was composed by John Williams who I knew vaguely as that old guy who had conducted the Boston Pops Orchestra.
Film composers walk a fine line between creating an ambience for the movie and not to be so intrusive to make the movie watcher from getting up and leaving because their ears are assaulted by offensive noise. It's a distinction that goes underappreciated, probably because so many of the composers succeed in not alienating the audience.
When this site used to be called Grendel's Lair (I know, not very original), I had a whole slew of music reviews which were primarily on soundtracks. Most of the soundtracks were from movies that I had never seen before since I usually obtain scores because of who composed it and not why. Of course, nowadays, I don't get so many soundtracks to review. Besides, there are already very good review sites online (Score Reviews, Soundtrack.net). But some soundtracks are simply obscure and very little information is found about them.
Her Majesty Mrs. Brown by Stephen Warbeck. I've been looking for this one for over two years now, probably because it's out of print. None of the record stores I've gone to (be it new or used) have a copy so I had to resort to obtaining it online. Mrs. Brown works fantastically on screen, but I'll have to admit the score loses some of its luster by itself. This is one of the few soundtracks I got because I saw the movie although judging by this by itself, it's hard to tell whether or not I would go for this composer's other works.
The Mighty by Trevor Jones. This is the guy who also wrote the scores for The Dark Crystal and The Last of the Mohicans. The Mighty is more a combination of New Age/World Music and Celtic than classical, but catchy. However, this score is easily dated, especially with its resemblance to Dark City (which he wrote in the same year, 1998). In fact, the longest sequence in The Mighty is virtually identical to the finale in Dark City (although not as bad as John Williams whose later works all sound like a rehash of Indiana Jones). The only thing I really disliked about the album as a whole was the song "Let the Good Times Roll" by B.B. King and Zucchero. That just stuck out like a sore thumb.
Restoration by James Newton Howard et al. Howard is an excellent composer and before LOTR came out, I was one of the few hoping that maybe the bigwigs might sign him onto that project, but unfortunately Howard's recent work had been Disneyfied (Dinosaur, Atlantis, Treasure Planet). Restoration is one of those scores where the collaboration is almost perfect. It helps, of course, if one of the collaborators is dead. I could tell that Howard did his homework as his own compositions blended seamlessly into the work of Henry Purcell, an English Baroque composer who wrote a lot of ceremonial music for the British monarchs.
Music, sexism and war. When I was younger and more of a television watcher, I loved to tune in to PBS in the beginning of the year to watch the Vienna Philharmonic's New Year Celebration. Actually, I listened more than watched because as a musician myself, music was first. Then my father pointed out, "There aren't any women in the orchestra." That's when I started paying attention to the screen. Indeed, there weren't any women in the orchestra, except maybe the harpist, but I wasn't sure because I only saw the harp itself and not the musician behind it.
I suppose I've been spoiled into thinking that musicians were only judged by their ability and not something superficial like the color of your hair*. Maybe I'm too idealistic in thinking that music should come first because I start noticing certain things. Why were most of my music teachers female but all of the conductors of the orchestras I was a member of male? Why are certain instruments considered "girly" when kids are given an opportunity to learn music? Why are so many composers hired for movie scores male?
This chauvinism obviously isn't just confined to the Vienna Philharmonic, but I'm not sure if a protest aimed singly at this organization is going to help much.
*Except for popular idols where their only marketable attribute is sex appeal and not the validity of their music.
Joey hated his name. It was so bland and unoriginal and made one think of kangaroos pouncing around in zoo cages. If he shortened it to the more adult Joe, he would be the “average Joe,” but no he didn’t want that. He wanted to be Gomanyth or Sevedric or Lalebwyn or one of those other heroes he read in fantasy books who always got the girl and saved the day. Idly, he rubbed the bridge of his nose where an unsightly pimple had decided to pop up in the middle of the night. He was no hero, only a gangly teenager forced to work at the local bookstore in hopes of saving enough money for college.
When he first became a bookstore clerk, it was everything that he had imagined—boring. Sometimes he helped customers find a title (it was no harder than looking something up in the library), but most of the time he waited around checkout, thumbing through the latest fantasy or chatting with the other cashier who went through approximately three romances every two days.
It changed a couple weeks into his job when he noticed her. Her name was Meredith (he knew because he typed her name in the computer for her bookstore membership) and she was perfect. The first time he noticed her, she had been wearing a smart black beret above her long curls and a grey coat that accented her slim frame. And she bought an economics textbook for a class at the local college. He was in heaven when she paid for the book at his counter and graced him with a low throaty voice when she said hello. He paid a lot more attention in economics class after that.
Meredith came to the bookstore almost like clockwork on Wednesday afternoon to browse through the economics texts. So Wednesdays became sacred. Joey would arrive for work as if he would go to church. This must be what holy men meant by enlightenment, he often wondered. But aside from the occasional greeting and comments on the weather, she gave no indication that she noticed him as more than just a bookstore clerk. He began contemplating on borrowing one of his co-worker’s romances to find out what would sweep a woman off her feet as his own fantasy novels were completely impractical in instigating (swords and dragons were notoriously hard to come by).
“Hello Joey.”
He snapped out of his daydream. “Um. Hello.”
Meredith dumped her purchases on the counter, a birthday card, two pens, a copy of Consumer Reports, and something else, which had Joey looking twice. A magazine that said Bride in big, bold, pink lettering. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something sparkling on her fingers as she reached into her wallet for a ten-dollar bill.
“Someone getting married?” he asked in what he thought was a steady, casual voice.
“I am.” She favored him with a bright smile, but he felt his blood run cold at the words. “My boyfriend proposed a couple days ago.”
“Congratulations.” Joey felt all previous warmth seep through him as he numbly handed Meredith the change and watched her exit the store. His hand shook as he straightened the rack of bookmarks and the boxes of paper clips on the counter. And he wondered if he would ever find enlightenment ever again.
What can I say? I was feeling minimalist and whimsical.
* * *
What do I want to be when I grow up?
I went to a career seminar today. At this point, I feel more confused than ever. Because what do I want to do? Except for teaching, the pro for most of the jobs is money. Here are the cons of a few jobs as I see it:
Chief scientist of a biotech company - little creative/scientific freedom Patent lawyer - going to law school, billable hours Dean of an undergraduate liberal arts college - administrative work Consultant (for biotech) - getting stuck in a cubicle Editor of a scientific journal - deadlines
Right now, it's probably too early to tell. But I do know some things. I like devising experiments (i.e. looking into the details as well as the big picture). I don't want to go through more schooling than I have to. And I don't want to get stuck in a cubicle.
Links: Miller Lite's 'Catfight' ad angers some viewers. And this is surprising? Advertising executives have always made tasteless mistakes. But I'm not going to say anything as I'm the wrong target demographic (I don't watch television, I don't drink beer, and I don't like fighting). Instead, I'll leave you with two opposing views by Vincent Ferrari and Matt Enlow.
The Voynich Manuscript. "The Voynich MS is a book or "codex" which counted at least 116 parchment folios, of which 104 remain. The folio size is 6 by 9 inches, but some folios are two or three times that size and are folded to fit in the book. There is one large composite of six times this size (18 by 18 inches). The MS is written in an elegant, but otherwise unknown script and almost all pages of the MS contain illustrations. It is about 1.5 inches thick and has a blank limp vellum cover that does not contain any indication of age, authorship or origin."
Ethical Philosophy Selector. I'm not sure if I agree with its results. I believe morality is an artificial construct, a set of rules, which someone invented because he (or they) needed to protect himself from others who were stronger. There's no evidence that morality came from God. Pleasure and happiness have nothing to do with morality--they are simply terms for emotions and basic animal desires.
Am I the only one who's not surprised? It's a bit extremist to say that "scientists [are] fooling with natural laws with no regard for the consequences" or that we're going to create a "Jurassic Park." The methods are already available. Genetic engineering has always been part of molecular biology (heck, I've been manipulating E. coli genomes throughout my undergraduate career). It's no more dangerous, than say, Craig Venter attempting to build a minimalist microbe up from scratch.
The idea of other amino acids (building blocks for proteins) besides the basic 20 isn't exactly original. Nature has already provided a mechanism for alternative codes for stop codons (three letter sequences that terminate a genetic message). This is the case for selenocysteine where a stop codon also codes for this "21st" amino acid. Selenocysteine is not just something nature decided to make for the fun of it either. It's an important component of mammalian enzymes, protects against cancer, and even plays a role in HIV infection. (So don't laugh it off if someone's promoting selenium as a health supplement!) My guess is that the scientists commandeered the mechanism to make selenocysteine to make their own amino acid.
Besides, their "different" amino acid really isn't that different at all. P-aminophenylalanine (pAF) only differs from alanine because a phenyl group is stuck at the end.
Amusing: When we build it they will come! SoLa LaLa indeed. William Gibson has a blog. Why is it that writers of speculative fiction appear more active online than say, writers of literary fiction? History of Peanut Butter. "In 1890, an unknown St. Louis physician supposedly encouraged the owner of a food products company, George A. Bayle Jr., to process and package ground peanut paste as a nutritious protein substitute for people with poor teeth who couldn't chew meat."
1. Scientists have predicted the earth will be swallowed up by the sun in 7.5 billion years. Will humans still be around then? Have they already gone to another planet? Did they incinerate themselves eons before the sun ever sucked on the straw? Write 2 paragraphs on the last days.
If the exponential growth of new technologies isn't halted by religious zealots and politicians, I'm pretty sure someone will figure out a solution to the problem. From one theory, the sun will exapnd to engulf all the inner planets except Mars. If humans needed a planet, any planet, moon, or meteorite might do if the technology for making an artificial biosphere in extreme conditions exists. Heck, someone might even decide to build an entire planet to orbit the sun like a space station.
But by 7.5 billion years, I'm not sure if humanity will biologically be like humanity as we currently know it.
I will post my "two paragraphs" worth later today.
2. What does the earth's tombstone say?
I'm not sure it would really say anything profound. Probably "End of Earth (whatever date it is)" and maybe someone creative will put in a requiem or funeral dirge.
3. Do something nice for mother earth today. What will you do?
In the foyer, on the wall next to the glass doors that led to the offices, someone had taped a piece of xerox paper with the hastily scribbled message, "Free Books!" Images of flying books escaping the library came to mind.
They were old books, rough around the edges. They were no longer wanted because what they said had no more "relevance." But fascinating. These books were a little bit of scientific history because they showed what people thought before all this silly business with signalling pathways and the gazillion molecules with barcode names (CD4, IL-2, NFAT, TNF, etc.).
I looked both ways to see if the coast was clear of those sneering students that wouldn't look at anything unless it was hot off the presses. No one. I scooped up an armload of books and took off like an underground abolitionist liberating slaves.
Links: All Consuming. Find out what other bloggers are reading! Collective Terms for Animals. Ah, now here's something that's organized. I no longer have to resort to Google to find that elusive "group" word.
Cloning is ethically a very murky subject. That was probably the main reason why I decided to delay jumping into the fray when Clonaid announced that they had cloned the first human. My reaction is that of skepticism (their religious cult background didn't help any either). How can someone be already successful when sheep and mice were only cloned after hundreds and thousands of tries? And if they were indeed "successful", is the baby really healthy as they claim, or will the defects show when the child becomes older?
In the case of Dolly the sheep, cloning is still clearly an imperfect procedure. Dolly showed signs of ailments such as arthritis despite her age. Will a human child show the same things? One possible explanation is in the genetic material being used for cloning--i.e. the genetic material from a somatic (body) cell. At the end of the chromosomes are repetitive sequences called telomeres. In the theory of aging, the ends get shorter as someone grows older thus acting as a biological clock. The cloned child would receive shorter teleomeres because their genome would be from an adult somatic cell instead of gametes (sperm and egg). Perhaps a solution is a combination of cloning techniques and genetic engineering--I wouldn't be surprised if someone soon figures it out.
I believe cloning for the express purpose of procreating (like in vitro fertilization) is wrong. There are already too many people on the planet via regular means of reproduction as it is. But like the couple who delibrately conceives a second child to save their first child with a transfusion rather than for love, cloning is a necessary evil for advancing our medical knowledge. What would those opponents of all cloning say if the methods scientists are developing for medical cloning (but happen to have relevance in human cloning) would save their life?
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Is it a bet? he asked her. Shall we make a game of it? What will you give me if I get to your grandmother's house before you?
Other links: I Wish, You Wish. Wishlists certainly solve the problem I had in a previous post ,but unfortunately this only lists bloggers and not people I know in real life. The Secret War on Condoms. I just think that the people against condoms are against sex in general. If you take away condoms, people aren't going to stop having sex. It's not in the human nature to be celibate. Here are some more statistics concerning AIDS and condom use.
Today is the first time that someone told me I have an accent (not including my pre-calculus teacher who said I had an accent but couldn't tell what kind it was). Can you guess what type of accent? I find it remarkable since everyone else says I don't have an accent.
It's symptomatic of an empirical civilization where much of the populace is jaded, where no one wants to take the effort to spend their free time doing something intellectually stimulating (or at least the entertainment industry seems to think so). Rome had its gladiators. America has reality TV shows. There's nothing that I, as an individual, can do about it except not to watch the shows.
2. Are you inclined to reveal personal things about your self in your weblog that you might not be as forthcoming about with your friends/family? Why or why not?
I am as honest in this weblog as I am to people in real life. If I can't say it to the face of someone I know then I don't write it in the weblog. I try not to be dishonest in what I write here (the made-up stuff is obviously labeled as "fiction"), but I keep really personal things to myself which is probably why most people who know me call me "quiet".
3. Is there something or someone you take for granted that you shouldn't? Maybe today is the day to change that. How would you go about it?
My parents. I should call them more often, but for technical reasons, I can't call long distance until sometime in the summer.
Why is it that when I'm finished with my classes for the day, my roommates still don't have to get up?
Something else: ESP Experiment. It's not ESP. It's that stupid "fish" card trick in a different guise. Did You Catch That? I wish people would think before they speak. Too much said these days is incomprehensible. People who blab at the mouth are either nervous (understandable in a stressful situation) or attempting to sound intelligent (when it's obvious they're trying to inflate their ego). How To Seem Smarter. "The goal behind this painless four-step plan is to seem smarter without having to read any books, listen to classical music, or depend on crutches like word-of-the-day toilet paper. By making a few minor modifications to your behavior, you will give the impression to those around you that you are smarter--not only smarter than you were before, but, more importantly, smarter than they are." List of Banished Words. And my own category, overused point-makers in lectures: obviously, upshot, take-home message (a related link: 'Bushisms' make university's banned list).
I was quite tired. Lugging heavy groceries for several blocks through snow can do that to a person. I was wishing for more muscles, more stamina, or maybe a pack of huskies pulling a sled behind them.
Then three brawny young men came barreling toward me.
I was nearly shoved into the surrounding snow drifts as they pounced past me to a female of their acquaintence who happened to be shuffling along behind me. I heard not one word of excuse me, pardon me, or sorry. Instead there were grunts and squeals and laughter.
For a moment, I contemplated on lobbing my precious eggs toward the rough-housing four for revenge.
Am I turning into one of those grumpy old ladies who don't know how to have any fun? Am I forgetting so soon what it is to be young and happy and not to have a care in the world? I feel greedy and selfish for wanting my annoyance to be more important than their happiness.
"Y'know, the other day it was really warm, a whopping 34 degrees."
It's been snowing steadily the entire day--perfect for sleeping in late, reading, and drinking tea. But I couldn't resist going out especially when the majority of the town's population was probably still snug in their beds dreaming of pleasant things. My dreams had been more than a little troubling and I was itching to get out of the house.
The flakes from the slate sky were fat and downy. They looked soft, but when I touched them, they stung like numb joints. Drifts of snow rose high, twenty inches (and probably more) as the weather man had warned on the radio. I wore my fancy gray coat that almost reached my ankles and the acrylic black scarf that had an uncanny knack of remaining waterproof. I rarely dress up, usually I take the hideous coat that makes me look like a polar bear, but today seemed ripe for the ridiculous.
Of course, the coat didn't look out of place compared with everyone else's. It was just a matter of weakness succumbing to that disease, "keeping up with the Joneses". It's a college town submerged in not quite restrained snootiness and old money and just for once, I wanted to be anonymous. So I dressed like them.
But my buying habits, oh, that gave me away. I avoided the thirty dollar umbrellas and fifty dollar sweatshirts. Instead of buying a new paperback, I bought a couple of hardbacks that altogether cost less than that hypothetical paperback.
Walking in the snow is another thing. It's as if a mad scientist had zapped me to the size of an ant and had dumped me into a bowl of flour that was just slightly wet. And the cars are there too, making the roads muddy, slippery, ugly. The ones with insanely fast drivers let their tires spew the spoiled snow onto the sidewalks. Occasionally, the spoiled snow lands on one of those snooty pedestrians.
No matter the veneer, there's something not quite right. Yesterday, when it appeared less pristine, I listened to a bus driver relating the story of projectile vomiting and screaming passengers. Yesterday, an unkempt man probably as old as my father blew smoke in my face and attempted to make a pass. Yesterday, a group of shivering senior citizens stood on the street corner holding up signs to protest against a war in Iraq.
The snow is beautiful, but it doesn't hide anything--just as a woman's pretty face can't hide a nasty personality. Strange, troubled things run deep and I returned from my excursion less than satisfied.
Linkage: Why do books cost so much? Nowadays, I'm one of those people who buy books at bargain sales and used bookstores. I'd rather borrow the book from a library if it happens to have a copy. The only new books I really buy are textbooks, which is annoying by far. One professor once remarked that he only got about a dollar off of every book sold. So where does the hundred bucks go? Classical 24. I'm glad this is up. I always miss the titles and composers of the pieces I find that I like. Wilhelm. Recycled sound effects. More specifically a recycled anonymous scream.
"On behalf of Southwest Airlines, we welcome you to Baltimore instead of Manchester."
Baltimore?!
There were a few nervous chuckles at the announcement, but the enormity of the situation did not sink in until the customer service representative came on the intercom talking about "options". Perhaps it had been an omen when the non-stop flight from BNA to MHT had been rumored to be delayed until 6PM but still took off on time at 2PM. The flight reached Manchester all right, only to be stopped in a holding pattern above the airport at 29,000 feet for about 30 minutes.
Then the plane turned around and headed for BWI.
Why not Boston? Or Albany? Or somewhere in the middle of Vermont? Apparently, the entire northeast corridor was having a crappy day at the weather jackpot. MHT was inundated with fog (visibility down to less than half a mile) and closed for the rest of the day--every flight was being diverted south.
"We have several options for you folks. Now I'll give you a moment to contemplate them to choose which one is best for you. Option number one: you can get on the flight that's leaving right now for Providence, Rhode Island. Raise your hand now if you want to take that flight since there is limited seating."
Hands were raised. It was probably about two-thirds of the passengers. Providence is closer to Manchester than Baltimore, but then there aren't any flights from Providence to Manchester. And the driving options looked dismal at best.
"Option number two is that you go back to Nashville. Does anyone want to go back to Nashville?"
"No!" The answer is unanimous. Perhaps everyone detests country music as much as I do.
The rest of the passengers file out into the terminal where representatives regretfully say that no one can get to Manchester until tomorrow. At 9PM. All the flights before that one were booked full.
I stood in line to get a confirmed seating for 9PM, standby listing on all the other flights and a hotel voucher. The man behind me kept screaming obscenities, ranting, and yelling at his wife to book a flight out of Baltimore on a different airline. (I wanted him to shut up--the day was bad already--but if I told him that, he'd probably have pummeled me to the ground.) So for New Years, I fell asleep to the droning of the Weather Channel in some anonymous hotel room while everyone else (and that probably means most of the people who read this, too) was partying, getting drunk, and kissing their significant other.
So on the first day of 2003, I spent my time gate-hopping in BWI. Finally, I got into the 8PM flight, squished somewhere in the back (the flight attendants had to wrestle extra seat cushions from earlier passengers who had swiped them for pillows so that the standbys could have somewhere to sit). Most of the flight was turbulent and nauseous, and when the plane hit the tarmac, it was raining rather hard.
I guess the weather completely blew my resolution for an earlier bedtime, but I have made some observations while waiting in airport purgatory:
1. I'm easily annoyed by people who blame the airline when it's obviously not their fault. I'm especially annoyed if they're within hearing distance.
2. Gate-hopping is a lot like bar-hopping. Done alone, it's misery. Done with a group of people, you get amusingly drunk. (Of course, with gate-hopping, you don't literally get drunk. Your judgement in what comes out of your mouth degrades because you haven't had enough sleep and your personal space is constantly invaded by strange people.)
3. If male passengers are in possession of carry-on items without any discernable handles or straps, they tend to hold these items in front of their crotch.
4. I can never tell if the flight attendant is making a joke, being sarcastic, or being just plain mean.
5. All the flights in Terminal B of BWI that do not go to Manchester are two-thirds empty.
6. When going through the security checkpoint, expect your bag to go through the x-ray several times and be searched, particularly if you're carrying things that simply don't look like anything on the x-ray monitor. Like a bag full of books. Or CDs. Or feminine hygine products. Apparently sewing needles are just fine, especially if you're a middle-aged woman claiming you're making a present for your neice.
Okay, I think that's enough for now. But really, despite my complaining, I do consider myself lucky. I saw paramedics roll a moaning woman on a stretcher through the terminal when I finally got my boarding pass.
