A [small] Pox [scar] on the Web[b]

New Blog

2008-12-31T18:57:00.001-05:00

Oh yes, just in time for the new year:

http://notpot.wordpress.com/

Put a fork in it

2008-03-09T10:01:00.003-04:00

...it's done.

Most things, good or bad, typically come to some kind of end, and this blog is no exception. Like plastic bags, toothbrushes, DVD cases, and those six-pack rings, this blog will not really ever go away-- undergo silicodegradation, whatever-- but will instead settle into its place in the giant electronic midden of The Internet.

As an upper-level graduate student, I feel like more should be expected of me (see the last image in the previous post). More logic, more cohesive thinking, more brow-furrowing. Like, I should really hate myself if I put some toast in the toaster without having thought to see if there is soft butter under the dish. Double the hatred if I find that there is none, and I have no alternative hypotheses as to what my snack might be. Thinking isn't just for fun anymore, it's my job.

Thus, my next blog will include the following: a common theme (i.e., all posts will fall under the umbrella topic of, say, "Dogs of the World"), and scientific rigor (i.e., small animals and serious quantification will be involved). As soon as the groundwork has been laid, I will post the new link here.

Lab mates

2008-02-02T16:52:00.000-05:00

Something I didn't get for Phartoona

2007-12-31T00:04:00.001-05:00

Now that I'm back in filthy snow-encrusted Waltham I can truly begin to reflect on Phartoona in its entirety.

...Or can I? Is it over? How am I supposed to know? What did I even do this week? Was it necessary to string all those cranberries? Did the girl at the craft store think awful things about me when I put that fake banana down on the counter, laughed, and said that I didn't know why I was buying it either? I'm not even close to being done asking these kinds of questions, let alone answering them. I need more time to reflect.

There is, however, one thing I am sure of. I did not get a T-shirt that has "Mary Todd Lincoln" printed on the front in rhinestones.

Uh-oh. You're thinking Lena's getting to be that kind of weird where it's just mostly annoying. Do you remember those people in elementary school who would say something random like "I want a T-shirt that has 'Mary Todd Lincoln' printed on the front in rhinestones" to no one in particular and everyone in earshot would cringe and ignore it because all the person wanted was a really sad form of attention? Well I wasn't one of those people-- I was homeschooled. And now I celebrate fake holidays and keep a blog.

And I'm serious about the T-shirt. Mary Todd Lincoln happens to be a very popular first lady, and it looks like someone who probably attended elementary school and had big dreams is trying to beat me to the finish line on this one:
I'm a fan of the redundant use of both the word "love" and the big red heart, but I guarantee you if Mary Todd googled herself today and found this shirt she would be asking where the rhinestones were.

(There happens to be quite a few websites where one can order customized rhinestone t-shirts-- like this one, for example. I'm just saying.)

Phartoona 2007 preview

2007-12-27T17:09:00.000-05:00

Instead of doing Christmas this year, my mom and I did something else and we called it Phartoona. Yeah, it involved drugs. In the coming days I'll figure out a way to explain it, but here's a simile for now:

Phartoona is like this egg timer I bought my mom for Phartoona. The egg timer ticks and counts down the time normally enough, but it also does a lot of sporadic pre-emptive dinging. So it ticks and it dings every so often, and when it gets to "0 minutes" it stops doing both of those things. It's like the opposite of an egg timer-- it rouses your attention by going silent.

Really, this has nothing to do with Phartoona, I just felt like complaining about having bought a broken egg timer...

Wine Review

2007-12-16T17:25:00.000-05:00

Name: Cono Sur
Date: 2006
Origin: Chile
Alcohol content: 14%

About a year ago, Pearl and I had a bit of a falling out with our natural gas provider, Keyspan. They just stopped sending us bills. Was it something we'd said? They'd been sending us bills that we paid every month-- things were going well. We pretended Keyspan's frosty behavior didn't bother us, but it did. The last bill we'd gotten had been for $0.00, and there was $200 worth of credit noted on the bottom. Were they hinting that we should buy something nice for ourselves and stop calling? That's exactly what we did. We pretended that we'd never signed up with Keyspan. For some reason, we kept getting gas deliveries but not a single bill.

As the months went by and spring approached, the pings of our baseboard heater stirred up pangs of anxiety and guilt regarding our failed relationship with Keyspan. Eventually, we would have to call and figure out what had happened. We needed closure.

What we ended up with was a bill for $1200. We knew something like this was bound to happen as a result of our cowardice, but we still felt entitled to a certain bitterness. Keyspan had been a real d-bag to us.

This year, in a lame kind of protest, Pearl and I decided to keep our heat off for as long as we could stand it. This meant getting into bed at around 8:45pm and falling asleep within 15 minutes as our metabolic activity ground to a near halt. If you didn't sleep perfectly still, you risked touching a part of your bed that hadn't been warmed by your precious body heat. Then you would wake up, slightly panicked, with all your limbs clenched up close to the tense core of your body.

The first weekend of December had particularly cold temperatures in its forecast, but I ignored this fact and made plans to buy some heavy red wine and cook up some fresh pasta for dinner-- obviously making sure to be in bed with my socks on no later than 8-8:30pm. But when I walked into the apartment and realized that I basically shouldn't remove my coat for at least an hour, my will faltered a bit. Then I saw this note on the table:
Turn on the heat? Admit defeat? Alone? Absolutely not. I cracked open the bottle of wine I'd chosen and took a whiff of its metallic vapors for strength.
Cono Sur translates to "The Southern Cone," which surely must refer to someplace warm, but me and my dripping nose didn't really think about it too much. Its deep red color made me think of something else that was warm and probably a lot closer than the Southern Cone of wherever-- my Carhart union suit.
Yes, this wine is best enjoyed in a union suit. Also, it is highly recommended that instead of pairing Cono Sur with fresh pasta, one takes the time to boil dried pasta to a slightly beyond al dente state (10+ minutes). Fresh pasta only takes about 3-5 minutes to cook, which means you have less time to huddle pathetically near the stove burner.
Ultimately, this was not a spectacular wine. Its high alcohol content helped me forget how cold it was for the night, but when I woke up at 7am on Saturday morning with a nosebleed and numb toes, I was mostly unimpressed. And also freezing. I turned on the heat for the first time that morning, and came to terms with the fact that our awkward relationship with Keyspan would be starting up again.

Plain Yogurts of the World

2007-11-17T09:11:00.000-05:00

I have recently come to a wonderful yet horribly limiting conclusion about yogurt-- plain yogurt is the best yogurt. And not just plain yogurt, but plain yogurt from foreign places.

Upon sampling several plain yogurts of the world, I have come to the conclusion that ubiquitous corporate "Big Yogurt" yogurts like Yoplait and Dannon are essentially unbearable. I can't believe there was a time when I both purchased and enjoyed them. Below is a list of demerits deserved by Big Yogurt:

1. The flavors they are offered in are absolutely ridiculous. Key lime pie? Chocolate mousse? Mixed berry? Boysenberry? Banilla?

2. The "fruit-at-the-bottom" concept is ill-conceived and poorly-executed. Yogurt should never serve as a vehicle for the consumption of low-quality high-fructose corn syrup-laden fruit. Who knows what is happening to the bacteria at the cellular level in the presence of such a concentrated carbon source?

3. The vivid colors are unnecessary. I've never eaten a boysenberry, let alone spent any time thinking about what color they might be-- so I won't be disappointed if it's not really lavender. Also, again stop to consider the potential consequences of exposing the bacteria populating this "live and active culture" to the chemical compounds used for artificial coloring. I'm thinking lots of random genetic mutations that could eventually result in a strain of L. acidophilus that secretes anthrax toxin.

4. Yogurt should not exist in certain textures. In my opinion, textures like "custard style" and "whipped" should be eyed with great suspicion. If you are uncomfortable eating mouthfuls of living cells, you should be eating custard anyway-- stop kidding yourself.

I think that about covers it. Now I'd like to describe the plain yogurt of the world that I am currently enjoying.

First of all, they spell it "yoghurt." The brand name is Fage [pronounced fah-yeh] and it's made in Greece. Unlike Big Yogurt, which tries to distract you from the fact that you are eating bacteria, the people at Fage offer a detailed description of how their yoghurt is cultured right on the container:

Cows are milked at various farms across Greece and milk is delivered to FAGE controlled collecting stations

Cows' milk is delivered to FAGE’s factory in Athens

Milk and cream are pasteurized and then cooled prior to the addition of the live cultures lactobacillus bulgaricus and streptococcus thermophilitus.

Yoghurt is then incubated at 40 °c for 5-6 hours.

The whey is strained from the yoghurt using a separating process. This process makes the product a suitable cooking ingredient as it does not curdle at high temperatures.

Yoghurt is then filled into pots, lidded and date coded. Pots are then stored in a computer controlled warehouse ready for shipment to the UK in temperature controlled lorries.

That's right, in a computer controlled warehouse. I took some pictures of the yoghurt this morning while I was studying its unique material properties.
Notice that the label indicates that it is "strained yoghurt." This gives the yoghurt a silky yet strangely dense consistency that adheres with great strength to both its container and foreign objects [in this case, granola].

It has a very mild taste for a plain yogurt-- not tart at all. It is a pleasure to eat, and I recommend that you give it a try. Just understand that going back to Big Yogurt might not be easy, and that it shouldn't be easy. Embrace your opportunity to eat millions and millions of living cells, and appreciate what they taste like.

Old cartoon

2007-10-08T20:19:00.001-04:00

Adding certain numbers

2007-10-06T07:03:00.000-04:00

While grading with Kene, I admitted that "adding 8 and 7 has always been really hard for me."

With a horrified look on his face, Kene proceeded to tutor me using sentences like "But 7 and 7 is 14, right??" and "So, what is 9 and 7 then?" and "I can't believe you." In the end, I was left with the impression that 8 and 7 is probably about 15.

The whole interaction ultimately made me want to die, but it also reminded me of how I've been unsure of numbers my entire life. As a child, I was constantly asking questions like "is 9 plus 8 seventeen?" and my mom would reply "every time." I hated that answer, and it never really assured me that the next time 9 and 8 were together, seventeen would be the result of their union.

Now that I'm older and even less confident about life and the world in which we live, I did what every quailing individual with an embarrassing problem does: I Googled "adding 8 and 7 difficult."

As expected, I didn't get a lot of valuable information. However I did find an article in the American Psychology Association's Monitor, where the following paragraph was highlighted:

Children in the United States eventually learn that the number system is base 10 and that teens are tens plus ones, but only the most mathematically adept children ever learn to add by adding up to 10 and then adding the remaining ones (as with adding 7+8 by breaking 7 into 5 and 2, adding 2 to 8 to get 10 and then adding 5 for 15), says Fuson.

I took two things away from this. First, in the miasmal and amorphous realm of single-digit addition, 7 and 8 must be the most challenging pair to really wrap your mind around. Even mathematically adept children must deconstruct the numbers for it to make any sense at all.

Second, I'm an idiot.

Wine Review

2007-09-30T10:12:00.000-04:00

Name: Sauvignon Republic Cellars' Stellenbosch
Date: 2005
Origin: South Africa
Alcohol content: 14.0%

NOTE: My Blood Alcohol Content remained between 0.01 and 0.03 while grading all lab reports (Webb et al., 2005). How this may have affected my heart rate is yet to be determined.

The Stellenbosch Sauvignon Blanc is the perfect way to say hello to Autumn. Its pale straw color is accompanied by a surprisingly forward leap of summer citrus, but nipping at its heels is a hint of fall spice. This wine would make a great hiking companion-- the smell of fall leaves crushed under your sturdiest shoes providing effortless enhancement.

But that's only if you're not a Teaching Assistant. For TAs, this wine is best enjoyed with Cornflakes.
In terms of the contribution of the Cornflakes, the 45% and 25% contents of Iron and Niacin, respectively, made the Teaching Assistant feel both healthy and ill simultaneously. It is known that Teaching Assistants are relatively fragile, and that their diets require a delicate balance of alcohol and vitamins (Wikipedia, 2007). Cornflakes and a mimosa is the ideal administration method for the maintenance of this equilibrium, but in this case the TA substituted the mimosa's champagne with Sauvignon Blanc and did not add orange juice.

The Vitamin C (2-oxo-L-threo-hexono-1,4- lactone-2,3-enediol) content of orange juice is ~150% (www.tropicana.com) and could potentially decrease the risk of Scurvy development in the Teaching Assistant, and a future experiment could be to monitor the Teaching Assistant in the continued depletion of Vitamin C (2-oxo-L-threo-hexono-1,4- lactone-2,3-enediol) as a function of modified mimosas.

This work was supported by The Science Company and the Howard Cunningham Fundation.

Terrible Disease of the Month Club

2007-09-09T10:08:00.001-04:00

To kick off year two of graduate school in style, I thought I would make you all members of the Terrible Disease of the Month Club. I'm enrolled in a Human Genetics course and while familiarizing myself with the Online Mendelian Inheritance in Man [OMIM] database, I stumbled across this little gemstone:

Fatal Familial Insomnia is September's Terrible Disease!

That's the OMIM entry, which is neatly and less-accurately summarized by Wikipedia. Skip right to "Presentation" if you want-- it's what I did.

So if you find yourself at age 45 with a complete inability to sleep, you probably did something so heinous in a past life that, at the moment your parents' gametes fused, the Mutation Fairy gave your genome the middle finger and waved her wand at aspartic acid 178 in your copy of the PRNP gene, changing it to an asparagine residue. Granted, this change would only result in a disease phenotype if the amino acid residue in position 129 happened to be a methionine-- but let's assume you did something extremely heinous in that past life.

Actually, there is no correlation between how shitty you acted in a past life and your chances of harboring this rare mutation, but I'm sure sufferers of FFI do a lot of apologizing to no one in particular in those last six months.

My favorite part of the Wikipedia entry is the "Treatment" section because it is absolutely 100% grim. Let's highlight all the words that contribute to the excruciatingly hopeless tone of this little paragraph:

There is no cure or treatment for FFI; hopes rest on the so far unsuccessful gene therapy. Sleeping pills have no effect. While it is not currently possible to reverse the underlying illness, there is some evidence that treatment modalities that focus upon the symptoms can improve quality of life.

Big sigh.

I'm curious about these "treatment modalities that focus upon the symptoms" and what kind of improvement they could actually make in the life of a deranged middle-aged person who hasn't been able to sleep for six months and is definitely going to die. Like, are we talking about upping their Netflix membership plan to the 8-at-a-time unlimited option? Getting rid of their bed to make space for one of those mats with dance steps printed on it? Sun lamps? Moon lamps? If it were me, I would ask to be locked in a room far from my friends and loved ones and get into some heavy duty drug experimentation. I would make the best Christmas cards.

I would also make a really terrible Genetic Counselor.

Cranky reflections on "Sunshine"

2007-08-04T16:56:00.000-04:00

Directors, producers, astronauts: that's the Sun. Don't try to go near it or land on it, or make another movie about either of those two things.

But if you really have to, then you need to make sure everyone acts as though they are about to die at all times. A sheen of I-Can't-Believe-it's-not-Butter spray on their faces isn't going to cut it-- especially not after they dart out into Space for a mo, wrapped only in some Pink Panther insulation. I think someone in the movie even said "You can't go out there, it's -273 degrees Celsius!" However, it seems that what is physically unattainable can't hurt you any more than getting drunk and passing out ice-fishing in Canada can. The tinfoil-swathed crew member that made it back to the safety of the airlock sustained only a mildly frostbitten thumb. For having spent more than 10 seconds at the temperature at which atoms and their components purportedly cease to move, I'd say things went pretty well. To quote Lord Kelvin, "whatevs!"

If you hadn't already guessed, today I saw the movie "Sunshine" as part of the Lena's Solitary Summer Saturdays Series. I thought it would be a fun thing to do on a 95 degree day, and someone had also recommended that I go see it. So I walked down the poorly-shaded street at 1:30 prepared to experience psychological cooling by way of cinematic astronaut charring. Two hours later I left feeling cranky and jaded-- and I continue to sweat.

But it's as silly and unproductive as the movie itself to rant about the moments that not only required that I suspend my disbelief but that I also set its dangling body on fire, so I'll end with a list of pithy observations.

1. The sleaziness of Cillian Murphy's hair is directly proportional to its distance from the Sun. Evidence: his weird little ponytail becomes increasingly obvious.

2. The rapidity with with the Sun burns you is inversely proportional to your distance from it. Evidence: en route to the Sun, crew members are charred to ash within seconds of Sun exposure but when Cillian and Rose and the Insane Guy are plummeting through the Sun to its core, there is only some sweat. And when Cillian is confronted with the Actual Core of the Sun, he is able to stretch out his hand and watch it become slightly discolored/burnt before being consumed.

3. The best sex you will never have is analogous to plummeting into the core of the Sun. Evidence: Rose Byrne stays alive until the end, which allows both her and Cillian to writhe separately on the floor of the spacecraft and moan.

4. In the event of another Ice Age, children will still make snowmen.

5. Going to the Sun is always a bad idea and everything will go wrong and you will die.

A Faux Pas

2007-07-28T20:40:00.000-04:00

This morning at around 10:25am I headed to campus to run and do some lab work. I was in my athletic clothing with a strip of t-shirt acting as a headband, and I was blasting Petula Clark's "Downtown" with the window open. I stopped at the end of the street and proceeded to sing along while I waited for an opening in the traffic.

After I had belted out that there are "movie shows, Downtown" I realized I had been stopped for longer than normal. I continued singing, but unfocusedly examined the traffic at the same time-- and eventually I noticed these on the cars:
I had been singing the whole time and by the time I realized it was a slow-moving and well-attended funeral, the song was practically over.

I don't know how many of them had their windows open, or how many of them noticed my passionate accompaniment to the horrifically upbeat song, but I do know that I had to wait 5 whole minutes to make a right-handed turn on to Moody St. While waiting and singing, I made a mental addendum to my own personal Funeral Specifications list: everybody goes their own separate ways afterwards-- none of this parade crap. Or at the very least I would encourage carpooling. I'm thinking 7 black Windstar minivans to carry guests to and from the event. I haven't decided what type of event it's going to be yet-- maybe just your standard funeral.

In the end, I didn't really feel bad for having ignored their presence. They're asking for this kind of thing if they process down Moody St-- it's not a very classy street.

Yes, I run. On Mars. It's awesome.

2007-07-22T14:57:00.000-04:00

Today I purchased my very first pair of purely athletic sneakers. It was such a difficult purchase for me to make, being a lover of shoes. All running shoes are hideous, and to spend more than $50 on footwear that looks like it was designed by MTV VJs masquerading as NASA engineers, well it's unpleasant.

I tried on a pair of dusty blue and white Asics that felt like mini hotel mattresses, followed by a pair of neon orange and white New Balances that felt like Barbie Ferraris melted onto my feet. Looking up and down the aisle I realized that my only options were absolutely hideous-- so I decided to embrace the hideousness.

I shut my eyes, grabbed a pair of size 8 Nike "Reax," and stuffed my socked feet inside. They were comfortable enough so I opened my eyes to study the exterior. White, grey mesh, metallic gold details, and a big toothpaste-y blue Nike logo. Perfect.
The metallic details really get me. Also, the intricate heel-- the VJs really must have put their heads together on that one.

Hideous or not, I expect these shoes to protect me from fallen arches, shin splints-- and I expect them to hold up to Martian standards. I also want some Aliens to abduct me and eventually upgrade my shoes.

Before paying for the hideous sneakers I was informed that it was "buy two pairs get one pair 1/2 price" day. Desperately needing to walk out of that store with something other than awful single-purpose footwear, I also bought these. At 1/2 price.
Now I own a pair of "cute" shoes.

I also bought a new digital camera.

This post is dedicated to Mary Todd Lincoln.

Tropical Depression

2007-07-19T20:44:00.001-04:00

We've all heard about Seasonal Affective Disorder [SAD], characterized by a Winter depression that can be treated with sunlamps or trips to Florida. But what about those of us who become depressed in the Summer? It's seasonal, it's affective, but is it a real disorder?

What does the literature say?

So they noticed it in 1987. In 2002, the New York Times ran an interesting article on "reverse seasonal affective disorder." To me, it makes perfect sense. The Summer has always screwed me up a bit. The persistent but asynchopatic chants of the katydid, the hot and heavy air, the early bright sun, sunburns, sweat, dehydration, exhaustion, anxiety over its ultimate end and concomitant return to academia-- they all add their respective weights and contribute to my personal disdain for the season.

Of course Summer is supposed to encourage a more carefree attitude but when you don't sleep well and you sweat more than your gin and tonic, the fun isn't sucked out but rather trickles out over the course of 3 months.
But I was raised without an air conditioner, so I guess none of this really bothers me. I'm used to it.

Bonus Post: Find Figure Two Location Update!

2007-07-08T15:45:00.000-04:00

As the summer approaches its hottest, the Find Figure Two extravaganza also approaches its hottest. Here are the latest locations and their hiders:

In the DVD player [Lena]

In the fish food [Pearl]

Under Pearl's musk body spray [Lena]

In my birth control pill case [Pearl]

In the vitamin jar [Lena]*

Behind the first slice of bread in the loaf [Pearl]

In the flap of the unopened butter carton [Lena]

In my underwear drawer [Pearl]

* Figure Two spent a lot of time with the vitamins, which helped to point out an enhanced feature of the game-- the hider gains insight into the daily routine of the seeker. Clearly, Pearl had been neglecting to take her supplements. Should I have not found Figure Two on the top layer of underwear strata in my drawer this morning, Pearl would be free to modify her secret opinions of me.

But where is it now????

Lab Doors

2007-07-07T14:40:00.000-04:00

Because I am a very incipient second year
it means that I've chosen a lab in which to do my PhD thesis, and that I've been working there for about a month. I am interested in better understanding how the position of the nucleus impacts cell polarity in Drosophila melanogaster's developing photoreceptors. I will also be addressing the importance of centrioles in nuclear positioning. And this is where I will sit while doing so
I bring my laptop and sit at my window seat, and surround myself with flies
I also tear out the brains out of fly larvae and spend some time with various microscopes, looking at the position of the nucleus. In this picture, I'm not looking at anything at all
But there is much more important research being conducted in the Science Center. In fact, I have recently stumbled, inadvertently, across some highly sensitive experiments in the hallway near the elevator
The rusty rooster is critical to understanding magnets.

Now we are going to get to the feature of this post: Lab Doors.

I have only photographed three of them so far, but I'm awfully sure there are hidden treasures on almost all of them. Lab doors are decorated, plastered with regulations and restrictions, but mostly they want to remain shut. And locked.
I see that tape-strangled door every morning, and every morning I wish the window wasn't covered with butcher paper.

These following notices are taped to the door I have to open and walk through every morning. This is by far the most demanding lab door. Because it is self-locking, I always carry my bunchy metal keys in my back pocket and end up sitting down on them, and that is painful. Often, I unlock the door for the day-- breaking all rules painstakingly taped to the Obnoxious Door.

Here are some other random lab door signs:
I have a feeling I will be TA-ing in that room.
Whatever SNAC panels are, they are beyond this door. But what IS beyond? Can we find out if we walk through this door?
And, finally, the instructions for getting clean in the Emergency Shower Once you bathe yourself in the Emergency Water, the Emergency Eye will come and also be bathed prior to saving you from whatever horrible chemical burn you are suffering from.

This is how we do.

These guys!

2007-07-03T18:00:00.000-04:00

These guys comprise some kind of Latin jazz band, and they are also my backyard neighbors-- and they sound pretty good! They were having an outdoor rehearsal. It's nice to have a live band around on your average Tuesday evening.

Now that it's dinner time, they have courteously disbanded. The sounds of birds and playing children tell me that this is a time to reflect. I learned a few things this past weekend:

1. Limoncello-Vodka martinis are superb
2. Heavy cream, sugar, a bowl, and a whisk make hard-earned and delicious whipped cream
3. YUM!
4. A new RNA granule has been named! Uridine-rich small nuclear ribonucleoprotein-containing RNAs have been shown to localize with snRNP assembly factors in discrete cytoplasmic foci!

But wait, there's more.

Just as the infamous Processing Body [PB] has been shown to interact with the equally infamous Stress Granule [SG], the U-rich snRNP Body [UB] interacts with PBs! The dynamics of the observed interaction have not yet been studied, but I'm thinking we need to cut to the chase and assume that there is a HUGE RNA granule that encompasses most of the cytoplasm and consists of a mosaic of unique RNA clusters. It will be called the ribonucleoplasm.

Count it!

Brooklyn and back

2007-06-29T18:20:00.000-04:00

Last Thursday Mackenzie, Jamie, and I bravely boarded a New York City-bound Lucky Star bus. I was going to Brooklyn to visit Uberfriend Will Murray '03 and I had a flask of Wild Turkey whiskey. Also, I had made three unique peanut butter and jam sandwiches for us-- cherry, blueberry, and classic strawberry. Additionally, Mackenzie also had a flask of whiskey. Too.

While we feared flaming gasoline leaks and exploding tires and overturnings, we were somewhat comforted by the silly dragon Lucky Star logo. This dragon is so very clearly drunk and also tripping on acid while smoking a blunt-- if the bus does explode, he's not going to care. We thought that was a pretty good attitude and proceeded to pay homage to the Dragon Spirit.

We tried to play a drinking game that involved drinking whenever we saw a blue tarp or a Howard Johnson's. The blue tarp component comes from my youth when, on road trips, we would count blue tarps. As I was explaining this to Mackenzie, we actually passed a blue tarp and were able to drink immediately. Unfortunately, that was the last blue tarp we saw for the duration of the time we still had alcohol. We saw a Howard Johnson's on the way back, but we didn't have any whiskey then either. Discouraged by the lack of blue tarps, we switched to drinking while making eye contact with Truckers and drinking again if they honked at us for being awesome. That happened twice. We drastically underestimated the amount of alcohol we needed to sustain ourselves on the bus and as sobriety increased, awareness of intense urine odor increased in a directly proportional manner. We stayed awake just long enough to buy delicious ice cream sandwiches at a seedy pit stop-- chocolate ice cream with nuts! Then, I woke up at midnight in Chinatown.

I took the subway to Will's street. This is Will when he lived in Flushing-- he did a lot of thinking then.
Now he lives in Brooklyn with the World's Largest Cat

He also lives with the World's Luckiest Kitten, but he can tell you that story another time. In the morning we had a nice brunch, took a walk around Prospect Park, and discussed the Battle of Brooklyn. I said that it sounded fake and that there was no Battle of Brooklyn, and Will insisted that there was a monument and the war was a reality. We walked a little further and Will spotted a monument.
Anticipating an informative block of text on the other side, we walked around to the front.
Now there's no way I'm ever going to believe any Brooklyn war stories!

Later, after an aborted game of Scrabble, Will told me that we were going to go "meet Richard at the Sleep Lab." Richard [Image Unavailable] is Will's Uberfriend and Classmate, and together they are steps away from guy duo-movie stardom. Richard works in a Sleep Lab on the 13th floor of a building in Manhattan and, more specifically, in a room filled with medical records. Will and Richard enjoy Philosophy and picking on Science. Or scientists, at least. You know, theoretical physicists and how they define information. I pretty much have to wake up each morning feeling confident that electrons are the minuscule droplets of glue that hold everything together, so their philosophical harangues fell on already ruffled feathers. But this is exactly what I enjoy most about Will and his friends-- the heated debates. We also played Pétanque under the bridge and attended a rooftop barbecue, which are both classy things to do.

I also managed to visit Ben where I gave him a bottle of Groth and he gave me this bird book and a jar of honey.
The bird book is great because it consists entirely of casual answers to casual questions. Example-- Q: How much do birds eat? A: It depends on the bird!; Q: Do birds have knees? A: Yes, and not where you'd expect! The honey is delicious stirred into plain yogurt. Also, I want an Xbox now thanks to Ben's demo.

It was sad to leave on Sunday, but even sadder was the fact that I had to walk from the Riverside T-station to my street at 11pm. The minute Lexington turned into Moody a pick-up truck containing two Mexican men slowed down and I was addressed in their native language. They were subsequently addressed by my native language which consists of several variations on the Icy Scowl.

Back in Waltham, the temperature was 95 degrees Fahrenheit and Pearl suggested we check out a public pool. After Pearl effortlessly lied about being residents of Newton, we scampered through the nightmare of a locker room, failed to take the mandatory pre-shower, and hopped into the People Stew. We made some observations:

1. People around you hate it if you talk about peeing in the pool
2. There are no average-build kids anymore-- they are either sticks or butterballs
3. Public pools aren't as fun as they used to be [Pearl is faking mirth in the upcoming picture. I'm not.]
Also, I cut myself washing a cracked wine glass and wrapped dental floss around it to stop the profuse bleeding. I'm reasonably sure it might be a touch infected.

And now I'm back to farming flies and tearing their developing brains out such that I can study neurons-- those ion-pumping conduits [and electrons have nothing to do with ions, I swear]-- in their proto-eyes.

The summer is grand!

Ugh.

2007-06-17T16:12:00.000-04:00

This is where I should have stayed on Saturday-- pillow nest cradling my head and the NPR line-up keeping me immobilized until 4pm.

But no. Instead, these things happened:

1. I had to get out of my car and lead a blind man back to the sidewalk after he and his lousy seeing eye dog decided it was best to walk directly in front of my car.

2. I blew a tire and had to endure an hour of courtship from a mechanic named Calvin who began to yell at me when I didn't commit to dinner and a movie that night.

3. I spent the rest of the afternoon throwing up my special sandwich after it was prepared incorrectly via the addition of tainted prosciutto.

And all of this had happened by 1:30pm-- If only I had stayed in!

Find Figure Two!

2007-06-09T13:47:00.000-04:00

A recent grocery store trip brought back both edible sundries and tampons. The food was put away, but the tampons just kind of stayed on the dining room table for the rest of the evening. Pearl and I started reading the box during dinner as it sat next to the salt and pepper shakers, and after we were finished we took it to the living room for further study.

Inside was the "instruction manual." It was written in three languages which all shared one common set of simple line drawings detailing the steps of product utilization. Figure one showed the correct way to hold the product, and then came Figure two. Pearl saw my expression change and asked if I was looking at "that one with the cross-section of the pelvis to show where the product sits once utilized" and I shook my head and just handed her the manual.

Figure two:
A simple yet surprisingly graphic image illustrating how best to utilize the product, shown above tactfully censored. After the initial "Oh my!" response we started laughing and soon after that, Find Figure Two was born.

I cut out Figure two and mounted it on some cardboard, and laid down the rules: Hide Figure two for other house mate to find. When other house mate finds Figure two, she must re-hide it without announcing its discovery. The game is over when Figure two fails to be found, or when we get sick of it. So far Figure two has been hidden:

- In the sugar bowl [Lena]

- In a cosmetic container in the medicine cabinet [Pearl]

- ????? WHERE IS IT NOW ?????

That is for Pearl to find out.

To everything (turn, turn, turn)

2007-06-04T20:26:00.000-04:00

When we could no longer ignore the fact that we were standing in ankle-deep water by the time the end of the shower rolled around, we realized it was time to maybe start considering calling our handyman. Soon.

The little drain cover had always remained firmly screwed in place, and we were always mindful to remove the population of lost hairs that would invariably gather-- and, really, what else can one do? Our hair is going to fall out until we die, and then it will keep growing and falling out after we've died. It's Nature's Way.

But goodness me our bathing experience was getting grim! So grim, in fact, that I was getting preemptive twinges of shame when I thought about Sweet Dennis the Semi-Responsive Handyman encountering what must be an almost certainly grotesque quantity of our... byproduct. I couldn't exactly picture myself sitting on the toilet seat, holding a gin martini, sighing, and telling Dennis that "it's Nature's Way" while he wrestles with our slimy hairball. It wasn't Dennis' hairball, now was it? His hairs probably just slide down the drain with ease, and lazily sink to the bottom of his septic tank-- for Dennis, that is Nature's Way.

And so, propelled by the need to accept responsibility for the things that fall off of my body and collect in places that usually only male strangers accept money to explore, I unscrewed the drain cover and probed away with a pair of needle-nose pliers.

The amount of hair I first extracted made sense. I noted the resistance I encountered when pulling it out and took it in stride, figuring it had wrapped around some critical pipe component to cause the sluggish draining. I decided to try one more angle just to make sure I had gotten it all before reassembling the drain. What happened next was absolutely disgusting.

The tip of a thick mass of hair, lubricated by old soap scum, pushed its way out of the hole as if propelled by free will. My face contorted as I let go of the pliers and the mass managed to continue forward for almost a centimeter. The only reason I didn't allow myself to become completely hypnotized was because of my intense belief that it was going to try to reestablish its rightful place in my scalp and take over my brain. When Pearl came home, I would have no choice but to encourage her half of the scummy hair clod to do the same-- and this, Dennis, would NOT be Nature's Way!

I grabbed the hideous nub and pulled. There was the quintessential sucking noise, and It Emerged.

And now, just as I faced my responsibility, you [The Reader] must face yours. Look upon it.

Look upon it and face your responsibility.

Wine Review

2007-06-02T17:54:00.000-04:00

Name: Groth
Date: 2006
Origin: Napa Valley, CA
Alcohol content: 14.5%

This isn't so much a review of the Groth as it is a recap of my Epic Day. The wine is the period and my day was the sentence.

I woke up at 9:51 am, which is supremely late for me. It was gray, humid, and I had been sleeping under an inappropriately heavy blanket. I woke up with the notion of having a Delightfully Mundane Day, and I peeled myself out of bed to do just that. First stop: the lab.

Now that I am in the business of fly farming I have to factor Drosophila melanogaster's breeding cycle into my daily plans. Newly hatched female flies will remain virgins for 16 hours at 18 degrees Celsius, so I got to the lab post haste. I arrived and put the virgin females in vials with male flies from the Bloomington Deficiency Kits-- a collection of flies that have huge genomic mutations.

Then I went to the mall and bought this ridiculous article of clothing.
It is a short-sleeved hooded sweatshirt. And I paid for it. I can only hope that, someday, the perpetuation of my life will be dependent on the ownership of a short-sleeved hooded sweatshirt-- as in, somebody tells me that they won't shoot me if I make the biggest idiot out of myself that I possibly can. I wouldn't be shot because I would simply put on the short-sleeved hooded sweatshirt.

After making my confusing-and-potentially-humiliating-but-ultimately-life-saving purchase, I headed to my local farm stand/grocer to buy a delicious sandwich and, if possible, mulch. It turns out that the place not only has several varieties of mulch to choose from, but it is also crawling with Future Husbands. While waiting at the deli, I noticed an incredibly attractive Italian man wheeling a cart filled with ingredients for what must have ended up to be the World's Most Amazing Meal. Fresh ricotta cheese, LOADS of basil, an amount of crimini mushrooms, and many other groceries I failed to gawk conclusively at. I gawked very conclusively at the man. I basically morphed, momentarily, into a 67 year old man with erectile dysfunction stopped at a red light in my silver convertible while a 23 year old restaurant hostess lopes across the pedestrian stripes. As the man navigated his cart towards the cashiers I noticed he was wearing TeVa sandals and black socks. Then I got my sandwich and paid for 8 items at the 6-item express lane. I ended up buying spruce mulch, and my car was rapidly saturated with the smell of Christmas as sweat beaded on my upper lip. As I drove, the wisps of air-conditioning delivered intense odors of pine forests and bearded men capable of building two-ton rafts.

Last stop: wine store. During the course of the drive I decided that I was going to ask the purveyor to recommend a wine for me to drink. I didn't feel like being disappointed, and I didn't want to read any labels. I wanted someone to set a frosty bottle of white wine in my hand and shoo me towards my car-- or better yet, provide me with a frosty drive-thru window.

Once inside Auburndale liquors, I quickly found an employee and told him exactly what I wanted him to do for me. I said "dry, white, fifteen dollars" and I was given a lesson on Sauvignon blancs, their dominant flavors, and regions. To summarize:

France: apparent citrus

California: "grass" and "lemon" and "cheaper"

Australia: sweet, fruity

So I rolled up to the cashier with the 2006 Groth from Napa Valley. He asked for my I.D. as I pulled it out of my wallet along with my debit card, and after inspecting it told me that "he wasn't sure if he was going to be able to accept this." This was the same pudgy red-headed guy that had allowed me to purchase several other bottles of wine in the past! What was the deal? I balked at his trepidation and reminded him of how many bottles of wine he had authorized my purchase of, and how I was an embarrassingly frequent customer, and etcetera. My lovely day was NOT going to come to a screeching halt with gasoline explosions and limbs flying through the air-- not here!

Then I noticed a tall man in a suit standing near the cashier. The cashier was blushing as I protested, and I realized that the suited man was clearly some kind of supervisor. When my license had been approved after several tense moments, I whispered to the flustered cashier "did I just get you in trouble?" To which he sullenly replied, "I hope not..."

I smiled apologetically and swished out to add my final purchase to the mound of acquisitions in the passenger's seat. **Of note: the two New Age Beverage containers in the cup holders**
Upon arriving home, I hoisted the bags of spruce mulch into The Enclosure.
Here is a detail of the mulch bag, because this bulleted list very nicely outlines the perks of mulch.
What can't mulch do? In addition to mulch, I purchased four small basil plants and one bronze fennel plant.

So where is this wine review? Did I drink the wine? Does it compliment mulch? You bet! Here it is:
The first sip I took generated a volatile puff of tartness that rocketed through my nasal passages and brought tears to my eyes. After the first mouthful hit my stomach, shriveling it like a long bath, I almost savagely began consuming my sandwich.
Soon I was actively sweating and wondering if this wine would be good to drink during a yard sale, and then I wondered if it is legal to be drunk at yard sales. I almost went and put together a yard sale.

What I'm trying to say is that this is an inspirational wine-- a Big Ideas kind of wine. It's the kind of wine that you drink after you buy four cubic feet of mulch.

A Question to Never Ask

2007-05-31T20:08:00.000-04:00

Tonight, Pearl brought home salmon and the battle for the title of Side Dish raged as follows:

A Bundle of Super-thin Asparagus Spears vs. A bag of ~30 Brussels Sprouts

I didn't know much about Brussels sprouts, their preparation, or recommended portion size-- so I cut off the ugly parts, steamed them for 17 minutes, and steamed all 30 of them. It went pretty much exactly as one would expect.

Soon, Pearl and I were tucking into our substantial piles of roughage. We marveled at how each one seemed to taste just a little bit different and how they were, essentially, very small cabbages. We noted the extreme temperature of the vegetable's dense center, and studied the way the dark green leaves packed together to create these veritable Vitamin C hand grenades.

And then a question popped into my mind. A horrible question.

Without thinking about what I was doing, I blurted it out:

"So, why don't we hear about more people finding bugs inside these? If you look, these really are excellent places for bugs to hide... Right? I mean, I would..."
Pearl stopped in mid-chew and stared at the table, and I realized what a mistake I had made in asking my question-- a mistake that impacted us both.

"Great" said Pearl. As she swallowed, I looked at the Brussels sprouts as we both entertained identical images in our minds.
The rest of our meal stunk of fear and sickness, and we left half of the edible cocoons on our plates.

I suppose the moral here is most vegetables probably contain insects, or have contained them at some point. And that is just awful.

Goodnight, you granules of stress...

2007-05-21T09:12:00.000-04:00

...you bodies of processing.

And just as Michael Caine gently closed the door to that room filled with wheezing orphans, I closed the door on my Outside Defense topic. And then I got really drunk, made out with a cast-iron bust of Louis Rosenstiel, and ate my very first burger. Just as Michael Caine would have.

I'm right here!

2007-05-12T18:13:00.000-04:00

I am busy preparing for my Outside Defense Proposal [ODP] which involves choosing a biologically relevant topic [see previous post for a really clear and accurate description of my topic], coming up with 2 or 3 novel experiments, detailing your methodology, and speculating on/interpreting potential outcomes. You submit a written proposal and then defend it in front of a committee. I will be doing the latter on the 18th at 11:00am-- and then I will be able to update my blog regularly once more. Wish me luck!

"It's complicated" with Processing Bodies and Stress Granules

2007-04-15T20:21:00.000-04:00

And now, when anyone else in the world performs the Google search that has been haunting my fingers for 5 months, they will get this entirely unhelpful "model."

Processing bodies (PBs) interact with stress granules (SGs) to recruit Lena Webb (LW) which, in turn, upregulates the expression of love and interest (here symbolized by a "heart"). Interestingly, this is a negative-feedback loop and leads to the degradation of LW.

Lena gets rude with Linux

2007-04-05T10:26:00.000-04:00

Seriously, quit messing with me. I am not staying here with you. I'm calling a cab.

Things to Never Admit

2007-04-04T12:38:00.000-04:00

re: times I have cried

1. Once during the first part of "Freebird"* (age: ~20)

2. Finding out that morning glories were annual and not perennial (age: ~5)

3. After being ruthlessly mocked by my peers for saying my favorite music was Vivaldi and not New Kids on the Block (age: ~8)

4. During an episode of Tiny Toons when one of the characters loses a special kite (~15)

*But I have since found out that this is what I should have been doing:

Happy Birthday to Me!

2007-04-01T20:42:00.000-04:00

Well my birthday was certainly not entirely mathematical! I had a wonderful time, and I am most grateful to my excellent friends who so wonderfully showed me a fantastic time this weekend!

I will put up a more extensive celebratory post when all the pictures taken find their way to me.

But really, thank you darlings!

Happy Birthday to Me.

2007-03-29T23:23:00.000-04:00

The next time you spend your birthday in a windowless room with an electron microscope, then you are duly entitled to ask yourself, well, how did I get here?

AND YOU MAY ASK YOURSELF
HOW DO I WORK THIS?

So shut up and wish me the happiest of birthdays:

Suppose x is a complex-valued Lebesgue integrable function. The Fourier transform to the frequency domain, ω, is given by the function:

X(\omega) = \frac{1}{\sqrt{2\pi}} \int_{-\infty}^\infty x(t) e^{- i\omega t}\,dt, for every real number \omega. \,

When the independent variable t represents time (with SI unit of seconds), the transform variable ω represents angular frequency (in radians per second).

Other notations for this same function are: \hat{x}(\omega)\, and \mathcal{F}\{x\}(\omega)\,. The function is complex-valued in general. (i represents the imaginary unit.)

If X(ω) is defined as above, and x(t) is sufficiently smooth, then it can be reconstructed by the inverse transform:

x(t) = \frac{1}{\sqrt{2\pi}} \int_{-\infty}^{\infty} X(\omega) e^{ i\omega t}\,d\omega, for every real number t.

The interpretation of X(ω) is aided by expressing it in polar coordinate form, X(ω) = A(ω) · eiφ(ω), where:

A(\omega ) = |X(\omega)| \, the amplitude
\phi (\omega ) = \angle X(\omega) \, the phase

Then the inverse transform can be written:

x(t) = \frac{1}{\sqrt{2\pi}} \int_{-\infty}^{\infty} A(\omega) e^{ i(\omega t +\phi (\omega ))}\,d\omega

which is a recombination of all the frequency components of x(t). Each component is a complex sinusoid of the form eiωt whose amplitude is proportional to A(ω) and whose initial phase angle (at t = 0) is φ(ω).

[edit] Normalization factors and alternative forms

The factors 1\over\sqrt{2\pi} before each integral ensure that there is no net change in amplitude when one transforms from one domain to the other and back. The actual requirement is that their product be 1 \over 2 \pi. When they are chosen to be equal, the transform is referred to as unitary. A common non-unitary convention is shown here:

X(\omega) = \int_{-\infty}^\infty x(t) e^{- i\omega t}\,dt

x(t) = \frac{1}{2\pi} \int_{-\infty}^{\infty} X(\omega) e^{ i\omega t}\,d\omega

As a rule of thumb, mathematicians generally prefer the unitary transform (for symmetry reasons), and physicists use either convention depending on the application.

The non-unitary form is preferred by some engineers as a special case of the bilateral Laplace transform. The substitution ω = 2πf, where f is ordinary frequency (hertz), results in another unitary transform that is popular in the field of signal processing and communications systems:

X(f) = \int_{-\infty}^\infty x(t) e^{-i 2\pi f t}\,dt
x(t) = \int_{-\infty}^\infty X(f) e^{i 2\pi f t}\,df

We note that X(f) and X(ω) represent different, but related, functions, as shown in the table below.

Variations of the three forms can be created by conjugating the complex-exponential kernel of both the forward and the reverse transform. The signs must be opposites. Other than that, the choice is (again) a matter of convention.
Summary of popular forms of the Fourier transform angular
frequency
\omega \,
(rad/s) unitary X_1(\omega) \ \stackrel{\mathrm{def}}{=}\ \frac{1}{\sqrt{2 \pi}} \int_{-\infty}^{\infty} x(t) \ e^{-i \omega t}\, dt \ = \frac{1}{\sqrt{2 \pi}} X_2(\omega) = \frac{1}{\sqrt{2 \pi}} X_3(\frac{\omega}{2 \pi})\,

x(t) = \frac{1}{\sqrt{2 \pi}} \int_{-\infty}^{\infty} X_1(\omega) \ e^{i \omega t}\, d \omega \
non-unitary X_2(\omega) \ \stackrel{\mathrm{def}}{=}\ \int_{-\infty}^{\infty} x(t) \ e^{-i \omega t} \ dt \ = \sqrt{2 \pi}\ X_1(\omega) = X_3(\frac{\omega}{2 \pi})\,

x(t) = \frac{1}{2 \pi} \int_{-\infty}^{\infty} X_2(\omega) \ e^{i \omega t} \ d \omega \
ordinary
frequency
f \,
(hertz) unitary X_3(f) \ \stackrel{\mathrm{def}}{=}\ \int_{-\infty}^{\infty} x(t) \ e^{-i 2 \pi f t} \ dt \ = \sqrt{2 \pi}\ X_1(2 \pi f) = X_2(2 \pi f)\,

x(t) = \int_{-\infty}^{\infty} X_3(f) \ e^{i 2 \pi f t}\, df \

[edit] Generalization

There are several ways to define the Fourier transform pair. The "forward" and "inverse" transforms are always defined so that the operation of both transforms in either order on a function will return the original function. In other words, the composition of the transform pair is defined to be the identity transformation. Using two arbitrary real constants a and b, the most general definition of the forward 1-dimensional Fourier transform is given by

X(\omega) = \sqrt{\frac{|b|}{(2 \pi)^{1-a}}} \int_{-\infty}^{+\infty} x(t) e^{-i b \omega t} \, dt

and the inverse is given by

x(t) = \sqrt{\frac{|b|}{(2 \pi)^{1+a}}} \int_{-\infty}^{+\infty} X(\omega) e^{i b \omega t} \, d\omega.

Note that the transform definitions are symmetric; they can be reversed by simply changing the signs of a and b.

The convention adopted in this article is (a,b) = (0,1). The choice of a and b is usually chosen so that it is geared towards the context in which the transform pairs are being used. The non-unitary convention above is (a,b)=(1,1). Another very common definition is (a,b)=(0,2π) which is often used in signal processing applications. In this case, the angular frequency ω becomes ordinary frequency f. If f (or ω) and t carry units, then their product must be dimensionless. For example, t may be in units of time, specifically seconds, and f (or ω) would be in hertz (or radian/s).

[edit] Properties

In this section, all the results are derived for the following definition (normalization) of the Fourier transform:

F(\omega) = \mathcal{F}\{f(t)\} = \int_{-\infty}^\infty f(t) e^{- i\omega t}\,dt

See also the "Table of important Fourier transforms" section below for other properties of the continuous Fourier transform.

[edit] Completeness

We define the Fourier transform on the set of compactly-supported complex-valued functions of R and then extend it by continuity to the Hilbert space of square-integrable functions with the usual inner-product. Then \mathcal{F}: L2(R) → L2(R) is a unitary operator. That is. \mathcal{F}^*=\mathcal{F}^{-1} and the transform preserves inner-products (see Parseval's theorem, also described below). Note that, \mathcal{F}^* refers to adjoint of the Fourier Transform operator.

Moreover we can check that,

\mathcal{F}^2 = \mathcal{J},\quad \mathcal{F}^3 = \mathcal{F}^* = \mathcal{F}^{-1}, \quad \mbox{and} \quad \mathcal{F}^4 = \mathcal{I}\quad

where \mathcal{J} is the Time-Reversal operator defined as,

||\mathcal{J}\{f\}(t) - f(-t)||_2 =0

and \mathcal{I} is the Identity operator defined as,

||\mathcal{I}\{f\}(t) - f(t)||_2 =0

[edit] Extensions

The Fourier transform can also be extended to the space integrable functions defined on Rn

\mathcal{F}:L^1(\mathbb{R}^n)\rightarrow C(\mathbb{R}^n).

where,

L^1(\mathbb{R}^n) = \{f: \, \mathbb{R}^n \to \mathbb{C} \;\big|\; \int_{\mathbb{R}^n} |f(x)|\, dx < \infty\}.

and C(Rn) is the space of continuous functions on Rn.

In this case the definition usually appears as

\mathcal{F}\{f\}(w) \ \stackrel{\mathrm{def}}{=}\ \int_{\R^n} f(x)e^{-i\omega\cdot x}\,dx.

where ω ∈ Rn and ω · x is the inner product of the two vectors ω and x.

One may now use this to define the continuous Fourier transform for compactly supported smooth functions, which are dense in L2(Rn). The Plancherel theorem then allows us to extend the definition of the Fourier transform to functions on L2(Rn) (even those not compactly supported) by continuity arguments. All the properties and formulas listed on this page apply to the Fourier transform so defined.

Unfortunately, further extensions become more technical. One may use the Hausdorff-Young inequality to define the Fourier transform for f ∈ Lp(Rn) for 1 ≤ p ≤ 2. The Fourier transform of functions in Lp for the range 2
[edit] The Plancherel theorem and Parseval's theorem

It should be noted that depending on the author either of these theorems might be referred to as the Plancherel theorem or as Parseval's theorem.

If f(t) and g(t) are square-integrable and F(ω) and G(ω) are their Fourier transforms, then we have Parseval's theorem:

\int_{\mathbb{R}^n} f(t) \bar{g}(t) \, dt = \int_{\mathbb{R}^n} F(\omega) \bar{G}(\omega) \, d\omega,

where the bar denotes complex conjugation. Therefore, the Fourier transformation yields an isometric automorphism of the Hilbert space L2(Rn).

The Plancherel theorem, a special case of Parseval's theorem, states that

\int_{\mathbb{R}^n} \left| f(t) \right|^2\, dt = \int_{\mathbb{R}^n} \left| F(\omega) \right|^2\, d\omega.

This theorem is usually interpreted as asserting the unitary property of the Fourier transform. See Pontryagin duality for a general formulation of this concept in the context of locally compact abelian groups.

[edit] Localization property

As a rule of thumb: the more concentrated f(t) is, the more spread out is F(ω). In particular, if we "squeeze" a function in t, it spreads out in ω and vice-versa; and we cannot arbitrarily concentrate both the function and its Fourier transform.

Therefore a function which equals its Fourier transform strikes a precise balance between being concentrated and being spread out. It is easy in theory to construct examples of such functions (called self-dual functions) because the Fourier transform has order 4 (that is, iterating it four times on a function returns the original function). The sum of the four iterated Fourier transforms of any function will be self-dual. There are also some explicit examples of self-dual functions, the most important being constant multiples of the Gaussian function

f(t) = \exp \left( \frac{-t^2}{2} \right).

This function is related to Gaussian distributions, and in fact, is an eigenfunction of the Fourier transform operators. Again, it is worth stressing that the mere fact that the Gaussian is self-dual does not make it in any way special: many self-dual functions exist.

The trade-off between the compaction of a function and its Fourier transform can be formalized. Suppose f(t) and F(ω) are a Fourier transform pair. Without loss of generality, we assume that f(t) is normalized:

\int_{-\infty}^\infty f(t)\bar{f}(t)\,dt=1.

It follows from Parseval's theorem that F(ω) is also normalized. Define the expected value of a function A(t) as:

\langle A\rangle \ \stackrel{\mathrm{def}}{=}\ \int_{-\infty}^\infty A(t)f(t)\bar{f}(t)\,dt

and the expectation value of a function B(ω) as:

\langle B\rangle \ \stackrel{\mathrm{def}}{=}\ \int_{-\infty}^\infty B(\omega)F(\omega)\bar{F}(\omega)\,d\omega

Also define the variance of A(t) as:

\Delta^2 A\ \stackrel{\mathrm{def}}{=}\ \langle (A-\langle A\rangle) ^2\rangle

and similarly define the variance of B(ω). Then it can be shown that

\Delta t\, \Delta \omega \ge \frac{1}{2}.

The equality is achieved for the Gaussian function listed above, which shows that the gaussian function is maximally concentrated in "time-frequency".

The most famous practical application of this property is found in quantum mechanics. The momentum and position wave functions are Fourier transform pairs to within a factor of h/2π and are normalized to unity. The above expression then becomes a statement of the Heisenberg uncertainty principle.

The Fourier transform also translates between smoothness and decay: if f(t) is several times differentiable, then F(ω) decays rapidly towards zero for ω → ± ∞.

[edit] Analysis of differential equations

Fourier transforms, and the closely related Laplace transforms are widely used in solving differential equations. The Fourier transform is compatible with differentiation in the following sense: if f(t) is a differentiable function with Fourier transform F(ω), then the Fourier transform of its derivative is given by iω F(ω). This can be used to transform differential equations into algebraic equations. Note that this technique only applies to problems whose domain is the whole set of real numbers. By extending the Fourier transform to functions of several variables (as outlined below), partial differential equations with domain Rn can also be translated into algebraic equations.

[edit] Convolution theorem

Main article: Convolution theorem

The Fourier transform translates between convolution and multiplication of functions. If f(t) and h(t) are integrable functions with Fourier transforms F(ω) and H(ω) respectively, and if the convolution of f and h exists and is absolutely integrable, then the Fourier transform of the convolution is given by the product of the Fourier transforms F(ω) H(ω) (possibly multiplied by a constant factor depending on the Fourier normalization convention).

In the current normalization convention, this means that if

g(t) = \{f*h\}(t) = \int_{-\infty}^\infty f(s)h(t - s)\,ds

where * denotes the convolution operation; then

G(\omega) = \sqrt{2\pi}\cdot F(\omega)H(\omega).\,

The above formulas hold true for functions defined on both one- and multi-dimension real space. In linear time invariant (LTI) system theory, it is common to interpret h(t) as the impulse response of an LTI system with input f(t) and output g(t), since substituting the unit impulse for f(t) yields g(t)=h(t). In this case, H(ω) represents the frequency response of the system.

Conversely, if f(t) can be decomposed as the product of two other functions p(t) and q(t) such that their product p(t)q(t) is integrable, then the Fourier transform of this product is given by the convolution of the respective Fourier transforms P(ω) and Q(ω), again with a constant scaling factor.

In the current normalization convention, this means that if f(t) = p(t) q(t) then:

F(\omega) = \frac{1}{\sqrt{2\pi}} \bigg( P(\omega) * Q(\omega) \bigg) = \frac{1}{\sqrt{2\pi}} \int_{-\infty}^\infty P(\alpha)Q(\omega - \alpha)\,d\alpha.

[edit] Cross-correlation theorem

In an analogous manner, it can be shown that if g(t) is the cross-correlation of f(t) and h(t):

g(t)=(f\star h)(t) = \int_{-\infty}^\infty \bar{f}(s)\,h(t+s)\,ds

then the Fourier transform of g(t) is:

G(\omega) = \sqrt{2\pi}\,\bar{F}(\omega)\,H(\omega)

Wine Review: Lena does Riesling

2007-03-27T18:26:00.000-04:00

In the close quarters that the Lab Dudes and I share in my current lab rotation, it is no secret that Lena is a Wino. Usually people put it a little more gently, stating instead "Wow, you sure like wine!" And I can't lie-- I sure do like wine.

But NOT Riesling.

I have no idea how this wine comes from Germany, because it is the biggest pushover, cavity-inducing, melted popsicle of a wine I have ever choked down. I have had two Riesling experiences, and after the second one I put "Don't EVER drink Riesling" in my Google calender and every day, for all of my days, at 4pm it reminds me.

One of the Lab Dudes, Kene Piasta, and I started talking about the wines we like and I told him: dry, acidic, tart, dry... And he said something along the lines of "then you might like this Riesling..."

I said hold it right there. Rieslings are bad, Rieslings throw like girls, my Dad's Riesling is worse than your Dad's Riesling which is also extremely terrible, etc, etc. Kene, being a certified Lab Dude, would not hear any of this. He proposed a wine swap in which he would receive a nice red wine I think he'd like, and I would get this Riesling and that I had to review it.

Tough crowd.

So this morning we met at dawn's first light near a construction site for the handoff. The brown paper bags crinkled and a flock of starlings raucously departed from a nearby tree, and I almost dropped mine. I can't say I wouldn't have been just a little bit happy if I had...

When I got home I put the "wine" in the freezer for maximum chillage and assembled my safety net: the Riesling Emergency Response Kit.
The sugar, maple syrup, and Coke are for counteracting the almost assured 50 times more intense and insipid sweetness of any given Riesling X, the grapes are to remind me that what I'm actually doing is drinking wine and not making out with a hummingbird feeder, and the shooter holds an Argentinian Chardonnay chaser.

Oh, and the actual wine is called Saint M, 2005. Product of Germany. 11% alcohol content.

And with obvious and almost crippling trepidation, clutching my chaser, I had some Riesling.

Oh and there it was! Both my hard and soft palate broke out with subcutaneous acne and the osmotic gradient of my mouth was so violently shifted that I was sure all 70% of my bodily water content would drown me in its haste to balance the sugar pucker I was currently experiencing-- but...
But all that took place in about 0.005 seconds. Then there was a tartness more pleasant and snappy than any experienced alongside your typical dry white. It's like having been starved and beaten for weeks and then given a single water cracker with a thin slice of extra sharp cheddar cheese on top. And so I drained the glass like that bruised, hunger-crazed nomad.
Then, after all that, I was faced with the hardest task of all-- admitting to Kene that this was actually a decent wine. And because this is a sentence that I am physically incapable of uttering, here it is on printer paper in Sharpie.

Wine Review

2007-03-24T23:47:00.000-04:00

I stole this wine.

Actually, WE stole this wine and I drank it. I would feel bad about this normally, but because the members of the lab I co-stole it with [from a prospective candidate event, don't worry] know that I am good for anything having to do with wine, I think this is okay.

So as I dragged this wine out of my car this evening, after it had been aging and stuff in the back seat, I felt the warmness of the bottle and thought... Well, whatever, it's just red wine, right?

And that is when I started to feel like a hipster. With my hand wrapped around that warm bottle. Typical.

Whatevs. Here's the bottle.
It is called "Adegaborba.pt." And I'll admit I have named some PowerPoint presentations in a far lamer fashion. But because this wine is like a lobotomized hipster, I will say it again-- whatevs.

This wine nullified my ability to taste. Was it because the wine itself was the antithesis of everything, or was my palate just failing? I sighed, had another sip, and decided it was the prior. This whine, excuse me, wine had its' own boring agenda. So I put on my boots sans socks and headed to the fire escape to better understand this beverage.

And I thought, I really did, that the best way to get along with this wine was to be as obnoxious as it was-- I was going to evade everything, well, with the exception of rust. I wanted some kind of tang, because this wine-- and I am not joking-- literally has zero start or finishing tastes. Whatevs.
No seriously, whatevs.
And then my other senses kicked in, perhaps heightened due to the residual depletion of my sense of taste, and I realized I was cold. It is March. I should be in bed. So I put on some Suburban Kids with Biblical Names and felt a lot better than anyone else. In the World.

Latest SCQ submission

2007-03-20T08:33:00.000-04:00

...and this one is about cyronics! Kind of.

Have a look

Wild Brid

2007-03-18T23:51:00.000-04:00

When I was little, I was obsessed with birds and wanted to learn only about birds. I read field guides, and made fake bird magazines-- the most popular of which was entitled "Wild Brid." I invented new species of birds (brids?) with extravagant names like "Double-breasted Towcheet" and "Tufted Radinal." I'm sure the names I came up with as a 5-year-old are a lot better, but we are going to roll with the stunted imagination of a nearly-burned-out 24-year-old and call shit "crested chipperwills" all we like.

Even better than bird names, are the textual descriptions of their songs. Here are is a classic:

"Chew! Chew! Too-whit? Too-whit? Too-whit?"

And that would be a cardinal. Let's try another:

"Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!"

Of course you're right! That's a chickadee, during winter. I could be totally wrong about this but I know that chickadees have two distinct songs-- the latter and then also a song that I could only whistle for you in person. To me, it screams "SUUUUUM-MMMERRRR!!!!!" but not in any literal sense. Just because I love to hear it in some sort of field situation when it is sunny and warm and green.

Here is a loop that gives examples of both songs, and I guess they describe my summer song as "fee-bee." Whatevs.

The point of this bird post is that during my Sunday phone conversation with Mom, she told me she saw three Juncos perched somewhere together-- and I realized I hadn't taken note of a single Junco this winter.

These little nuggets of bird make the winter almost adorable. Observe:

And my goodness they are plump!

And they don't seem to mind winter one bit!

So those are Juncos, but let's try to imagine what kind of fun they have in the Spring! Because that is coming very soon!

Wine Review: The Crios de Susana Balbo Family

2007-03-16T07:15:00.000-04:00

I met the Crios Torrontes at a tasting, and I have since been introduced to its relatives. The Torrontes was incredible, an initially deceptive pop-tart of a wine that kept me skeptical-- but only for as long as it took to make its indignant follow-up slap feel like a seasonal rain immediately sucked up by cracked desert soil.

I picked up the Crios Syrah-Bonarda on the way home from the gym and was both excited and confident, having met its sister. We uncorked and poured, and I was amazed at how dark and complex this wine was. As this viscous ichor coursed through my body, fortifying my own endorphin-saturated humors, I felt the need to continue exercising and dropped to the ground and did a rigorous series of crunches. Then I lifted some very small weights and, in order to keep the rage raging, the wine bottle.
Just don't try to handle delicate things after a goodly amount of the Syrah-Bonarda-- like hollow eggs or peoples' feelings.

Wine Review*

2007-03-07T21:09:00.000-05:00

*Please note the titular modification: I drink far too much wine for it to be monthly.

Name: A to Z
Date: 2005
Origin: Oregon
Alcohol content: 13%

This Pinot Gris is a sharp little wine and, outwardly, highly recommended. I impatiently chilled it in the freezer and it was, outwardly, forgiving-- immediately revealing a wonderfully aromatic and round beginning before snatching those ridiculous adjectives right out of my mouth and replacing them with... Ascorbicity (shockingly, not a real word).

But after a glass or two, I found this wine lacking in a critical component. Something was missing. Oh-- that twinge and tang of salty copper I taste when a Scrabble board is laid out in front of me and I am biting my lip with far too much pressure as I rustle around in the letter bag. Clearly. So, I supplemented.
The wine pulled out its 7 tiles, and I mine. Immediately, I saw a clever intro to the game and, in lieu of big points, I anticipated much mirth.

Apparently, the outwardly playful nature of this wine completely dissolved during game play, because it played the following dispite my nudges and winks.
Now, this is exactly the Scrabble attitude that gets people punched in the mouth during Lena-a-mano games, but I held myself back because I was so fancying this wine. With a skeptical glance, I played another jovial pun.
And then the sonofabitch bingoed with "jizzface" for 104 points.
The line was drawn and I was indignant, ordering the wine to check that bullshit slang out at dict.org because I was challenging it in a big way.
But the wine just sat there, unphased, infuriating. And so I did what only nasty bitch Scrabble players do-- I tipped the board while uttering spittle-launching expletives.
...and I stomped into the other room to play online Boggle.
This wine is an inward sonofabitch.

The Order of the Science Scouts

2007-02-28T08:54:00.000-05:00

The Science Creative Quarterly has managed to totally delight me again, this time by calling together those of us who take science so seriously that we're extremely aware of how ridiculous it can actually be. Together, we are The Order of the Science Scouts of Exemplary Repute and Above Average Physique [OOTSSOERAAAP]. Individually, we are nerds. Nerds with badges.

After careful consideration, here are the badges I feel entitled to thus far. Click on each badge to read what merits it represents!

If you listen carefully, you can hear my wine-soaked voice saying "so you can insert this sequence that folds up into a loop and binds the MS2 protein, which you have tagged with green fluorescent protein, and then you can see your mRNA inside the living cell! Wait, I should draw this-- do you have a pen?"

You're looking at it! Maybe even reading it!

I made my 10th grade biology teacher an oil painting of a thromboid mass as a "thank you" for doing such a great job teaching me about the clotting cascade. And I've seemed like a particularly obnoxious kiss-ass to other science students ever since!

Oh, I'm very confident... To smell your own burning hair is to know yourself on a level that doesn't even exist for most.

For example, this is just plain crap-- am I right or am I right? I won't back down, you can't make me.

When sorting out male fruit flies for my crosses, I always pick the ones with the "most apparent" genitalia. Because I'm a shallow whore.

...and also a prick. I once punched a guy for asking me "well did you add dNTPs?"

I toured the Mass General Hospital's pathology department and was encouraged to put my index finger inside a disembodied human bladder from a "fresh autopsy." Well, of course I did!

I froze an egg, and it was pretty boring!

Pearl literally had to drag me away from the cuttlefish tank at the Boston Aquarium. I could have tried to communicate with them using my mind all day!

Yeah, okay, but one [especially a scientist] should never say never!

I will be so drunk when this drinking game is invented. I really hope one of the rules is "if you have ever undertaken a step in the cloning process while drunk, drink!"

I once "made wire" by burning the fuzz off pipe cleaners! Guys? Are you still there? Hello?

This badge exactly depicts me "working with acid" and I have the drop-sized scar on my hand to prove it! 18M nitric, baby.

It's true, I do. And so do you! Congratulations, you are a scientist!

Mini-Review of the Tissues/Wine!

2007-02-25T17:37:00.000-05:00

This wine [Cab Suav, 2002] tastes just like blowing up a large pool toy, but instead of making inflation progress you are getting wine all over you! Don't drink it like this!

The tissues are actually torn up paper towels! Don't use them!

Achoo, I'm drunk and stuff.

2007-02-24T19:13:00.000-05:00

For just $9.99, you can put a few tissues in this ridiculously portable amount of boxed wine and not only get sympathy for having a cold but also be drunk at the same time. Which makes the sympathy feel all the better.

Put it on your desk. Fool millions.

iShit

2007-02-22T19:27:00.000-05:00

The toilet paper is only an extra 30 dollars per roll

LW = 25% of new blog

2007-02-21T18:40:00.000-05:00

Here I [LW] go:

www.themildbunch.com

It's a Forms of Entertainment Review Blog [FERB]. These people asked me to write with them, and so far I think we are still friends:

Brendon

Ben

Matt

Kitten! Komedy!

2007-02-18T18:24:00.000-05:00

This weekend I shed the sallow, malnourished, hates-fun-and-daylight layer of skin that instantly encased the entirety of my body upon entering graduate school-- revealing the vibrant, ruddy-cheeked, drunken college senior of yesteryore. My molting was in preparation for the 18th Annual National College Comedy Festival, which I was attending in support of Liz and Barn-- the last Sketchies from my era. Cue poignancy:
This is my view of the sunset over 787 North. I was stuck in rush hour traffic. I couldn't find my local NPR station. I hadn't urinated in 6 hours.
Uh oh, Lena still thinks she's in graduate school! Look at the sallowness return! Ewwwww, go back to the lab, Lab Nerd!

But after that minor traffic delay, I was zooming towards Janet Kinghorn Bernhardt Theater. Then I was sitting in those seats again, chuckling at all that was chuckleworthy. Barn's "Friar's Club Roast of Jane Goodall" was, obviously, my favorite and I think it was generally well received-- with the exception of the girl sitting behind me who asked "So wait, who is Jane Goodall?" I told her "the girl astronaut who tried to kill the other girl astronaut over some other astronaut." She was like "Ohhhh-- well that sketch was totally weird!"

Totally.

Then we [150-200 people] tried to have a party in a Scribner house. I confess, I'd never gone to a Scribner party--or maybe I did for like 5 minutes-- so this was my first. My glasses fogged up immediately upon making the descent into the gamey-smelling first floor. You couldn't move. People were all yelling because they each thought they were the funniest of them all. And I wasn't drunk. I felt as if I didn't belong with these people-- I mean, someone asked me if I was 27! Then they asked me if I was going to "get back to doing comedy" after I "get my PhD." Of course I will. And I assume you're going to get back to living with your mom after you get your degree in theater?

One Pabst and several bouts of claustrophobia later, I went back to Brendon and Kristen's apartment to meet and care for their kitten, Baryshnikov.

I wasn't prepared.

This thing is like the Vietnam War hiding in a bedroom slipper. It took me 20 minutes to get my shoes off, starting at 4:35am.
And here is a grand hiding spot! [5:00am]

So busted!

Well gee, it is almost time to wake up so maybe we can do the falcon training stuff later? I'm going to have some tea, browse the Calvin and Hobbes complete collection... FINE WE'LL DO FALCON ARMS
Be brave my little falcon.
I SAID BE BRAVE!
Amazing. We love this game. Barn loves this game

All in all, it was great to visit Saratoga and have a charming apartment in which to stay-- with complementary kitten. All the hijinks made me miss my own kitten, Bean, so here she is:
That's her "I can't believe you brought me to Georgia" face.

Wine of the Month Review #6

2007-02-10T18:54:00.000-05:00

Name: Fleur
Date: 2005
Origin: California
Alcohol content: 13.5%

I love Pinot Noir, and I loved this label. The fact that this wine is "quaffable now" and has a "soft, velvety finish" factored not into this purchase-- this was pure aesthetic idiocy.

At home I tossed the paper bag in the corner, put on my finest floral print button-up, and poured a botanically-detailed glass of this darling wine. At first inhalation, an obvious comparison begged to be made-- and the gustatory follow up provided further solidification.

A craft store.

How fucking perfect! Here I am sitting in my pretty shirt, with this pretty wine, hands folded at my waist! So I made an arrangement.
And then the ornamental bird and I got wasted. We sang!
We drank some more!
We joked!
We read stories!

But when there was a lull in the thus far pleasant evening, the bird said "You know, you're just a retarded 23 year old wino. You don't know anything about wine, and this one definitely tastes like some of the raunchiest cloacal byproduct I've ever had the misfortune of encountering."
"After all our fun? You just come out with this angry bullshit? I knew I should have just left you on the coffee table-- you are one rancid piece of shit, you shit-filled wooden bird." And I mean that.
So, great. I was drunk in my kitchen and in a fight with an ornamental bird. What now? WHAT NOW?!
Hey, do you like Pinot Noir? Yeah, I'm here alone. I was talking to this total asshole a while ago, but he left. A.C. Moore? Oh my GOD-- I totally hear you.

Brilliant

2007-02-07T21:44:00.000-05:00

... but readily accessible to the wrong people.

The Border Crossing Experience

Selling Out and Selling Stuff

2007-02-06T08:41:00.000-05:00

Today on NPR's Morning Edition, while I was taking my fiber caplets and rubbing liniment into my bad knee, I heard a montage of some classic rock clips-- American Woman, Takin' Care of Business, and Just What I Needed.

The story was addressing how much money these bands can make by offering up their greatest hits to the advertisement industry. While many have shamelessly forked over their musical gems to shitty companies like Best Buy and Lowes, at least a few have put their foot down.

For example Randy Bachman, that literal Joan of Arc, refused to have his [only?] hit "Takin' Care of Business" played during an advertisement for toilet paper. Atta Boy, Randy! You rest easy knowing that moms and dads dragging swaths of Cottonelle across their toddlers' asses won't be singing a goofy babytalk version of your masterpiece while doing so.

But apparently Office Depot is a worthy enough showcase, and I guess it makes sense because they sort of do take care of business, don't they? Yeah! Let's go buy some hanging file folders and blow a few lines, okay? Do you have that old song on cassette somewhere?

They finished up the report by listing a few artists who have thus far resisted the temptation to get paid a pantload while millions of Americans hit their mute buttons. Neil Young, Bruce Springsteen, and Tom Waits comprised the list and started me thinking of what products their music could possibly complement. Norelco razors and "Transformer Man?" The Special Olympics and "Born to Run?" What about:

Leonard Cohen's "Last Year's Man" for Viagra

The Smiths' "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now" for Monster Jobs

Joy Division's "She's Lost Control" for Depends

J-Zone's "Too Many Babies" for Huggies

And the list could go on. It's perfect for long car rides!

Tips

2007-02-04T16:43:00.001-05:00

Live with someone who, upon returning home with a warm basket of laundry, suggests the following:

"Lay on my bed and I'll dump all my warm laundry on you"

Oblige.

A Flowchart, starring: The Internet, me, and David Ng

2007-02-02T10:20:00.000-05:00

The World's Fair is an example of the kind of blog I wish I was responsible for, but only for a fleeting moment because I enjoy browsing it so. One of its authors, David Ng, is the editor of The Science Creative Quarterly-- a website I like so much, that I recently ventured a contribution.

Apparently, my contribution leaked from the SCQ over to the The World's Fair, with additional commentary from David Ng in flowchart form!

Molecular Biology Comic a la Far Side

I suppose this means I should find the time to draw more cartoons, huh?

Boston is a child that shits itself from Fear

2007-02-01T11:15:00.000-05:00

I don't know which is worse: The fact that no one in Boston was able to recognize one of the Mooninites from Aqua Teen Hunger force, or that the city spent millions of Emergency Response dollars to protect its citizens from... Lite Brites.
I was quite surprised to hear the tranquilized and sardonic voice of Ignignot the Mooninite on NPR's Morning Edition. My interest in keeping up with Aqua Teen Hunger Force, and Adult Swim in general, was abandoned around the same time I no longer found myself being woken up at 9am by a housemate nudging me with a bong-- but I still love the episode with those angry little Mooninites.

Then my jaunt down memory lane was cut short by the rest of the news story, which explained that the city of Boston was basically shut down yesterday due to presence of "electronic devices planted at key transportation sites." Yes, Terror struck in the form of a giant angry 5-year-old girl carrying around explosive Lite Brites and hanging them around to make Boston A LITTLE LESS FUCKING BORING.

Actually, the terrorist in this case was Turner Broadcasting employing the technique of "guerilla advertising" in 10 major cities around the country. Only Boston freaked out. If they think random glowing cartoon images on buildings is scary, just wait until flat panel TV screens are calling out your name and embarrassingly large pants size as you slog through your local shopping mall.

Here is one of the news reports. I definitely agree with Mayor Menino that the 20-something guys who put up the advertisements should get 2 years of prison for each of the 9 deployed Lite Brites. And I also think we should mandate a monthly gathering where the citizens of Boston dig a huge trench, sit on the edge of it and lose control of their bowels by imagining scary things, and then empty their wallets into the shit-filled ditch.

Things to Never Do

2007-01-28T21:17:00.000-05:00

In the spirit of a previous post, "Things to Never Say, re: babies", here is this post.

re: marriage proposals

1. Put the ring in a little plastic grocery store toy bubble thing and set it right inside the little chute. Ask significant other for quarters. Pretend to insert quarters and turn the knob. Pocket quarters, present bubble. Kiss in the vestibule amidst irate shoppers, and ask for security tape. Show security tape to family and friends.

2. Buy the minimum quantity of custom message M&Ms [4 bags worth, $47.96] with the messages "OHMYGOD PLEASE" and "HELP ME" on pink and white candies. Then construct and elaborate trail of alternating treats that ultimately leads to the bathroom. Leave the door ajar and be splayed out in the bathtub with all your clothes on and the shower running. Look dead. And have a ring and stuff.

3. Set a cornfield on fire. For her.

My Brothers in Arms

2007-01-23T09:05:00.000-05:00

Some girls want chocolate

Some want a date to the movies

I want a Dire Straits reunion tour.

Don't stare-- they like that.

2007-01-21T21:57:00.000-05:00

I third-wheeled it to brunch with Pearl and Tom this morning, on a quest for smoked salmon and bagels. Actually, my morning had begun about 4 hours earlier when I found myself awake at 6AM for no good reason. I suspect it had something to do with our heroic thermostat trying to protect me from the near zero temperature, as I woke up feeling like someone had been blasting me in the face with a hair dryer all night long. So I had some water, started the crossword puzzle, and watched it get lighter outside.
Basically, I belong in a nursing home somewhere in Yawn City.

But the real story here isn't about me, it's about Mr. Juggles. We took the T to Croma and it was a pretty empty train-- save for one bearded gentleman. He smiled politely at us, and once the train started moving he took off his jacket to reveal a purple button-up and took out his juggling balls.
He was good, but not fantastic by any means. He frequently dropped the balls and had to chase them around.

Now, I hate obvious pleas for attention, so I only took furtive glances. The next time I turned around, he was drinking orange juice out of a recycled jar.

Come ON.

At this point, more people were starting to get on the train, and so Mr. Juggles turned his attention to a very rumpled piece of paper extracted from his pocket. Maybe it was his set list?

1. Juggle
2. Orange juice/jar
3. ...?

Pearl and Tom had a better view, but were also trying to remain tactful.
Pearl told me later that he went on to write a lengthy note on a Georgia O'Keefe postcard.

I suppose it's hypocritical of me to disparage these Free Spirits and then spend time photographing/writing about them, but

...well no, it's definitely hypocritical. I hope Mr. Juggles had a good day. Sort of.

THAT outfit

2007-01-18T19:02:00.000-05:00

You all have at least one, even if you don't know it. My latest was born yesterday, the marriage of a 7 degree morning and a flaccid turtleneck.

I knew I needed my neck to be warm, but my turtleneck slips down sometimes. So I bolstered it with a rarely-worn long-necked zip-up.

The moment I was sealed in I felt like I shouldn't be headed to the lab anymore, but rather strapping myself into a racecar, ejecting myself from an exploding spacecraft-- or at the very least headed to the lab to make an elixir that would integrate powerful alien DNA into my own.

And then I made the most intense oatmeal.

Work it like your brain is on a slide and you're dead

2007-01-16T20:50:00.000-05:00

I am working with Drosophila melanogaster, the fruit fly, as a model organism in my latest lab rotation-- and all models love to be photographed.

Unfortunately, these models can't blow lines of coke off make-up counters and enjoy bottles of Dom prior to their 30 seconds of strut time. My models have their brains ripped out through their mouth holes with metal forceps. That's what my people want to see-- not their tiny bodies, but their tiny brains.

But while they're waiting in the glass vials I make sure to play Prince, or whatever it is fashion models enjoy walking too, just for irony's sake. Here is an image of fruit fly larvae waiting in the wings, sans wings:
Hopefully this gives somewhat of a sense of how big they are. If not, they are about the size of a bold 12 pt Arial "l". Their brains are probably about 1/20th of that, and I take pictures of them using a digital camera hooked up to a Zeiss Axioplan light microscope.
This brain is magnified 4x, and yes, it does resemble a dick and balls with some other stuff. The dick is the nerve chord, the balls are the two brain hemispheres, and the other stuff is the two eye disks. You can see that parts are brown in color. That is because I stained the brain with an antibody-conjugated dye that is specific only to the axons of photoreceptor neurons in the eye disk. The eye disks are the developmental precursors of actual fly eyes-- larvae don't need eyes because they just live in their slushy food and eat their way around, kind of like little Roseanne Arnolds. Here is a 40x magnified image of the axons that connect the photoreceptor cells to the brain hemispheres:
In this case, they're not connected because someone's touch isn't delicate enough for micro-histology.

While the axons are lovely, I am most interested in the position of the nuclei of these cells. I won't tell you why because I don't feel like it, and I was taking these pictures mostly for practice and it turned into more of an aesthetic adventure than anything truly informative. So I also used a stain that stains only the nuclei of photoreceptor cells, and here is a 10x magnified image of the two eye disks separated from the brain and bespeckled with nuclei:

And here are just two lovely images:

I'm glad that I'm able to see these things, and show them to you as well. I'll make sure to post the vacation photos soon-- the vacation where they go to the beach and get their brains torn out through their mouth holes with metal forceps.

Figure 1. The Crumpet

2007-01-13T09:50:00.000-05:00

My life is a series of dark early mornings, and getting out of bed can feel like being torn daily from my mother's womb. "I didn't ask to be born, you know" is what I say, outloud, from under the heavy flannel blanket that keeps me safely pinned down throughout the night.

But as I'm heaving the blanket aside and exposing myself to any number of chills, I know what awaits me in the kitchen. Something as warm and porous as my own beating heart. Prepare to wax.
The contradictory answer to the English Muffin, in the form of an epic sestina-- The Crumpet. No bisecting, no crumbs, no things but good feelings.

I have a feeling that the world's most beautiful person, who happens to have an advanced degree in Theoretical and Applied Surface Tomography, sat down with some English Muffins and quite a bit of Ecstacy, and wrote recipe-poems until The Crumpet was described.
In fact, it is through one of those very pores that Jodie Foster traversed space-time in "Contact." No words.

McSweeney's for REAL nerds

2007-01-09T06:30:00.000-05:00

Today the Science Creative Quarterly will be featuring a submission of mine, which in turn features some old cartoons of mine.

Check it out and peruse the site here

Alternative endings for "Sideways"

2007-01-06T23:40:00.000-05:00

1. Instead of being wine, the contents of the bucket is gasoline. The main character-- being so hugely depressed because he's a boring, ugly, middle-aged, divorced loser-- lights himself on fire.

2. The contents of the bucket is wine, but it's Merlot and he dies of sheer disdain. Then the main character's ugly, middle-aged, horny friend has sex with with his ex-wife after pounding a bottle of Blue Nun.

3. It turns out wine carries a trace amount of a certain mutagen that causes certain people, namely middle-aged losers, to become hypersensitive to flesh-eating bacteria. There are lots of scenes with flame throwers and in the end everyone dies.

4. Everyone dies.

Babies being seen, heard

2007-01-04T08:17:00.000-05:00

Namely, in my and Pearl's favorite Thai restaurant.

We like to joke that it's like our second home because we eat there so frequently, and we have a good rapport with the waitstaff who love us as much as we love them. So when we walked in this Tuesday, I sang out "We're hoo-oooome!"

We were seated in a new and exciting location, a table not yet conquered, partially surrounded by bamboo shoots. What atmosphere! The usual Thai-style elevator music was passively leaking from hidden speakers, and we had just settled on fresh rolls and crab rangoon as our appetizers when I caught the eye of a nearby toddler.

It smiled in a way that toddlers generally don't when looking at me, so I gave it a toothy grin in return and turned my attention back to the menu. Shortly thereafter, the toddler started to "talk" loudly. I re-evaluated their table and saw that it was a large party, approximately 7 people. Meet them!

Dad: Definitely a doctor, most likely with a sleazy family practice who sleeps with [only blonde] pharmaceutical representatives.

Mom: Drab, spent most of the time with the 4 year old daughter in the bathroom.

Grandma and Grandpa: Wealthy-looking, cute sweaters, tasteful hair-dos, definitely summer on the Cape. Possibly have owned horses during lifetime.

13 year-old daughter: Spoiled, spoiled, spoiled. Maybe sexually abused in subtle ways by Dr. Dad. Wearing a faux-velvet headband.

4 year old daughter: Mostly in bathroom but when not was kind of prancing around the table, saying things that no one even pretended to be interested in. Doomed.

Toddler: Named Kennedy, moods very dependent on degree of Dr. Dad's bestowed attention. Smiles at strangers too much.

Now imagine them all talking about dumb crap in a super-audible way. Imagine Dr. Dad speaking gibberish to the toddler, louder than the toddler had begun to scream. Imagine Dr. Dad abruptly switching his tone of voice to speak rudely to the waiter. And, finally, imagine the mother reappearing in the restaurant with a bag of Christmas presents.

With the children wandering around near the table, falling over stuff, clinging to pant legs, they distributed and opened gifts. They oooh-ed and aaah-ed over the boxes from Crate and Barrel for the grandparents, a pearl necklace for the 13 year old, Winnie the Pooh toys for the younger children. Pearl and I felt so bad-- we hadn't brought them anything!

After Dr. Dad boomed over the squealing toddler that his 13 year old daughter should wear the pearl necklace "that way! Yeah, the way it twists in front makes it looks like there's a cloud of pearls floating around your neck," Pearl and I decided that we wouldn't be having that cup of post-prandial tea after all. We payed, tipped, and left.

On the sidewalk we made all sorts of horrible noises and wondered how on Earth people could display and justify such behavior.

"Maybe their house burned down? On Christmas?"

"Yeah, well..."

"Yeah. Then they should be crying somewhere else, quietly."

"Yeah. Like on Cape Cod. With their ponies."

"Yeah. Eating them, not Thai food."

"Yeah."

The Lab, part II, etc.

2006-12-31T16:55:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was kinda technical, and I apologize. All those machines... Today will be more visual, verbal, and sardonic.

Being a graduate student, I have to park in the commuter lot. This means that I have to walk up a lot of stairs, across a bridge, and up some more stairs. Now that there is a little bit of snow I can see the footprints of other dedicated students, and I'll honestly tell you right now that I'm disappointed. If I ever try to tell you I'm not judgemental, feel free to slap me and assume I'm obliteratively drunk because I pretty much hate this person:
You know those shoes, you hate those people. Right?

Next, I'll show you the banner that has been spread across the street bridge for months. If you can tell me what, to you, says "Jubilee" about sunken red eyes, then I'll give you $150 and a hand job, regardless of gender.

And here is that first set of stairs-- my frail calves are literally crackling with anticipation!

I just noticed yesterday that some of the windows of my building are mirrored! I think it's time for someone to get over him/herself. I hope they loved watching me take this picture, and that they snickered and turned back to their lame-ass neuroscience or whatever.

Here are two gross things I forgot to photograph yesterday: In sequence, the radioactive waste cabinet and the discarded media plate bucket.

The latter smells REALLY AWFUL.

On a more personal note, I fucked up in a huge way in the lab today. I literally tipped over all my samples and set myself back about 3.5 days. I only have 5 more days until the end of my rotation, and so I would call that a major setback. I couldn't do much about it, except throw all my little tubes in the trash and inoculate some new starter cultures [see last post for equipment used in said process]. So I thought I'd mosey to the break room for a break. On the way, I passed by the Sunny Nook. It's the most apparently comforting area in the hallway, and it is actually about five degrees warmer than anywhere else.

And this is "anywhere else"
Does this say anything other than "busily walk into some other door and GET TO WORK?"

In the break room I noticed this mug:
I would very much like to steal it, as it's only being used as a pen holder but I won't... I'll just covet from afar.

Also in the break room is a manual for lab heads or Principal Investigators [PIs] and I find it amusing if not downright hilarious. Why? Look!
Oh no! What have I gotten myself into here?? This next page offers some kind of support for the PIs of a lab in which someone has committed suicide:
But it probably WAS your fault, PI! You probably made your student feel like ASS and completely overblew the importance of your research and made the student want to DIE! WAY TO GO!

This is another funny page in the manual, simply because I went through hell applying to graduate school and here is a little bulleted list that makes people like me sound like a population both sought after and easily found!
I have a few bullet points to add.

1) Side of the road wearing a modest sweater but VERY INSISTANT that he/she will suck your dick!

2) For free!

3) In a local liquor store, buying Yellowtail

4) In a library, crying

What a shitty stupid book. The name of it is "At the Helm: A Laboratory Navigator" by Kathy Barker-- who also wrote "At the Bench: A Laboratory Navigator" which is supposedly for graduate students. Well Happy New Year, Kathy Barker, and fuck you! Any idiot knows that the graduate school experience differs vastly based on MANY FACTORS so for YOU to write a MANUAL is RIDICULOUS. I hope everyone in your lab commits suicide. You probably work for some mail order make-up catalogue anyway. Go back to high school.

But that brings me right up to the New Year's Eve. I pledge [resolve, whatever. This is all dumb boy scout shit anyway] to eat better. Like this:

I also pledge to drink more Bloody Marys.

The Lab

2006-12-30T19:59:00.000-05:00

I'm nearing the end of my second lab rotation in my first year of graduate school, and if there's anything that the first rotation taught me it's that you spend lots of time trying to get great data towards the end. [one of] My current rotation projects is to determine if a splicing factor is recruited to pseudo-5' splice sites in intronless genes. What? Why is that worthwhile? Genes with introns get spliced, and if you don't have an intron why are you recruiting splicing factors? That's all!

But I won't go on with the molecular biology, I just want to show you my lab environment, and some of the highlights in detail. I'm very aware of how lovely some of these scientific apparatus [plural noun!] can be, but I always forget to bring a camera OR I'm too embarrassed to be taking pictures of the centrifuge when other people are around.

Today, Saturday, I figured not that many lab folks would be around so I packed my bag and went to school.
I brought my radio for NPR, half n' half for tea, a banana for me, and mittens.

1.8 miles away is my lab bench, and here it is. It is very messy.

My first imperative was that I find out the optical density of my starter cultures of yeast-- the organism our lab uses to study RNA splicing, and it's the same yeast used in beer and bread making so it smells great.

This is the machine that tells you what your optical density is, and I spend lots of time sitting in front of it. It's called a spectrophotometer, or spec.
You put your yeast culture in a cuvette and put it in the machine, and it will tell you how dense the culture is based on how much light it can pass through the sample. The cuvettes are pretty, and come in Styrofoam boxes like this:

Once you find your optical density you inoculate a bigger culture using sterile technique, which means being in close proximity to a FLAME! Here is my Bunsen burner.
It doesn't look very dramatic, but it's very warm-- I promise.

Once I've inoculated the larger cultures I bring them to the shaking incubator, which is set for 30 degrees Celsius [a little less than body temperature]. The neat and terrifying thing about this shaking incubator is that the culture flasks [below] are secured by only sticky strips of stickiness!

And this thing really gets going!

With the large flasks dubiously shaking on the dubious sticky surface, I went back to the bench for the second task: "frogging" yeast cultures onto solid media plates. The yeast in the shakers were growing in liquid media, but yeast also grows on solid media. First I had to make serial dilutions of concentrated yeast cultures, a task which involves many stereotypical science images. Like these two:

Blah, blah I'm on some TV show doing science with these multi-well plates and this multi-channel pipettor. But what about sterile technique? I need some FLAME!
Here, I'm flaming the "frogger" which "hops" from my multi-well plate with yeast culture dilutions to my solid media plates. In between each hop, I have to set the frogger on fire with ethanol and FIRE to make sure I get a clean hop each time.

I did a few other things today, but I'm going to just show the highlights of those in picture form. For instance, I had to spend some time in the cold room. It's a walk-in fridge where we store solid media plates and do experiments that need to happen at 4 degrees Celsius. Also, there is beer!

So if you find yourself spending lots of time in there, you can sit down and have a legitimate cold one, like so:
But shhhhh, don't tell the Howard Hughes Medical Institute!

Here is a long shot of the whole lab-- you can see my coat at my desk.

And here is the view outside my window at noon-- you can't escape the fluorescent lights, even when looking outside!

And here is the view at around 4pm-- it snowed!

This is the centrifuge-- it spins my samples. Which makes it sound like an underground DJ. Which it's not.

Here is another thing that spins stuff, in a more complex manner. See all those little tubes positioned around the "merry-go-round?" I have to fill all of those with a complicated mixture of CRAP-- 72 tubes, filled with 10 microliters of complicated liquids. It's my least favorite task.

Here is one of boxes of samples stored at -80 degrees Celsius.
It's not as lonely as the label makes it sound-- see, they're all together! In that very cold box!

And this is the most important piece of Scientific equipment of all-- the Eppendorf tube. Eppendorf is a company, and they make the little tubes that ALL our small amounts of fluid are stored in, spun down in, heated in, etc. We love Eppendorf tubes, because we have to!

I'll be there, in the lab, again tomorrow so if I've missed any great things I will take more pictures sans embarrassment because who would be there on New Years Eve day? We'll see!

The Little Christmas that Tried

2006-12-27T16:59:00.000-05:00

My mom and I don't really attack Christmas with the same kind
of fervor so many of our friends seem to possess. At least outwardly.
Based on this Holiday season's unfolding, I'd have to say that both Webbs have some level of pathological devotion to Christmas, and that might partially explain the heavy self-medication.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I pulled into the driveway on Friday, the 22nd, all pumped up to do my duty. Each year, I am responsible for:

1. Fixing myself a grapefruit and vodka
2. Dragging the ancient fake Christmas tree from the attic
3. Putting the white lights on
4. Repeating step 1
5. Putting the silver beaded garlands on
6. Repeating step 1

and then I am both jolly and prepared for my mother to arrive home from
work, when she and I will put on [in sequence] the Mormon Tabernacle
Choir's Christmas cassette, and The Temptations Christmas cassette,
while we clothe the naked tree with Ornaments of the Past.

I dumped my bags in the front room and made for the freezer. No vodka. I
peered into the living room and was confronted by this ugly scene.

The quality of the picture is poor, and that is most likely due to my quivering body. Not unlike a crime scene, the ancient fake tree was propped in the corner with a sheet hastily thrown over it. Upon closer inspection I saw that the sheet read "Feliz Navidad." There was a note by the tree from my mother, explaining that she had tried to assemble the tree and had some trouble with the lights. And the tree stand. She presented me with two choices, either fixing the tree or pushing out the door and setting it on fire. If I chose the latter, then we would go collect pine boughs and red berries as a substitute.

I am very much the opposite of a quitter, and I knew that I could right this wrong. I plugged in the lights, just to see.
I could see where my mom had just bunched the remaining lights into a wad and stuffed them, most likely just prior to the sheet covering. I wondered if that's where all the vodka had gone. But I set to work just the same, struggling against the weight of my old metal Christmas tree in an attempt to secure it in its' stand. The heavy scratchy tree kept falling on me, and I decided from under its mass that I would do a partial disassemblage maneuver to lighten the load.
There are two piles there, a pile of lights and a pile of branches. As I continued to struggle with the top-heavy metal pole, I could feel my strength and will begin to sap. The stand was
insufficient for securing an artificial tree, and I didn't have a drink, and so I just dragged it all back up into the attic and put my coat on to go get some pine boughs.

In my bathroom, the warmest and thus most thought-conducive room, I stood wrapping on my scarf staring face-to-face with our fake ficus tree. Duh. There's a tree. Presents can go under it, lights can go on it, and ornaments, and blah blah blah!

At this point my mom was home and was delighted by my innovation, and had vodka, and so we cranked up the Mormons on our sound system [see below] and decorated the small tree [also below].

We spent the 23rd making cookies and listening to more carols, but with the 24th came a great disturbance. My cats, who had been allowed to explore the basement for a period of months in the fall, had come up with fleas. My mom had resolved the issue-- but not in the basement. When I came up the stairs after putting my laundry in the dryer, I sat at the counter until my mom screamed that I was "COVERED IN FLEAS!"

I was. I ran outside and awkwardly stripped on the porch, leaving my pyjamas in a heap. Normally insects don't bother me, but the sheer volume of the fleas had me psychosomatically itching all day, after two showers. My mother was upset. I was upset. We were infested.

It was approximately noon on Christmas Eve Day and my mother and I had already yelled at each other, I had already cried, and we both weren't quite sure what to do given that even pest control companies must get these important all-encompassing holidays off. So my mother, in all her wisdom, suggested that we go get some pine boughs.

After we abuse some prescription drugs.
I think my mother was trying to determine the chemical composition of Percoset in a semi-empirical manner. In about a half hour we were headed for the gun factory at the end of my street, I with a can of gingerale and mommy with hedge clippers.

Perhaps it was the stress of the earlier hours, perhaps it was my empty stomach, but upon returning to the home with an armful of pine boughs [and red berries, too] I felt both extremely warm and extremely calm-- kind of like a small child in a snow suit being pursued by a hungry wolf through 8 inches of snow. I dumped the boughs in the urn and retreated to my womb-like bathroom still wearing my pine bough-collecting hat and dilated pupils.
I felt kind of sad, sitting there in my bathroom reflecting. Some people were probably preparing a nice dinner, some might be seeing a film, some might be visiting family-- but my mother and I, we were sitting in opposite rooms of the house high on pain medication. This sadness, much like all of my other feelings at the time, was fleeting and quickly faded into a dull put poignant happiness. I was glad to be in my bathroom, high on pain medication. The pest control people would come on Tuesday and I would pay for the cost as a strange and ridiculous Christmas present to my mother.

And then my mother called to me, saying that we should put this magic egg we purchased in the town of Woodstock in a bowl of water and watch the duck hatch. Of course we should, Mom! So we dropped the magic egg in a bowl of water and sat there for 30 minutes before getting bored and playing a game of scrabble. Approximately 36 hours later, the magic egg looked like this:
And today before I packed my bags and drove back to Waltham, the duck's head was completely free of the magic shell.

The pest control people came on Tuesday and while they were spraying the house with the cats safely tucked away in the attic, my mother and I went to the mall and were confronted by many families getting huffy with clothing store cashiers and making returns of ugly horrible clothes they never wanted. Given our demeanors, the average citizen would have never guessed we had been infested with fleas on Christmas-- because they were so bent out of shape regarding some ugly sweatsuit. Or sweater. Or something.

And I swear, our demeanors had nothing to do with additional self-medication. It was the Christmas Spirit. I swear.

In the Science Library

2006-11-30T19:39:00.000-05:00

Because I suffer from the rare and alienating disorder known as paruresis [read: BASHFUL BLADDER], it is very difficult for me to pee in the busy bathroom on the first floor of my building. Instead, I use the bathroom in the Science Library.

I walk in, go down the stairs, and listen for a moment outside the women's room. If there is ongoing rustling or tinkling, I take a stroll through the shelves. Right outside the bathrooms? The physics section!

Mind you, I'm not really looking at any of these books because of my almost blinding need to urinate, so I kind of pace around looking semi-intellectual. On one of my laps, I caught a glimpse of these books out of the corner of my watery eye:
...and I was all like "HARD ON, what?!"

I did the quintessential double-take and then laughed a little bit, but by that time the bathroom was all mine. Today, I typed "hadron" into google and found that it's virtually impossible to not type "hardon." I feel so bad for all those PhD students typing up their thesis work.

So in case you didn't want to look it up yourself and accidentally type the word "hardon" into google, a hadron is a subatomic particle that experiences the nuclear force. They are made up of fermions and bosons.

Bosoms.

Jesus Christ.

A Thanksgiving Miracle

2006-11-25T10:45:00.000-05:00

This Thanksgiving I was expecting nothing more than to have a few arguments with my mother, have some turkey, get drunk, sleep in, and go back to graduate school having done no work for any of my projects and classes. What actually happened couldn't be less ordinary-- in fact, I would say it was completely extra-ordinary. I'm not even sure if the Internet is ready for this kind of disclosure, but I simply must share this story: The Miracle of Thanksgiving.

I was in the kitchen, rummaging around in the chest cavity of our Holiday bird, when my slippery fingers brushed against something hard and ovoid. Having already touched and directly confronted handfuls of turkey parts, I was feeling pretty desensitized and pushed the object into view.
An egg? Surely these birds are pumped full of hormones that prevent ovulation, and surely these birds aren't allowed to have sex. And how could an egg have survived the brutal processing events following neck sli--

Suddenly the egg wobbled and cracked open into two perfect halves. Now standing inside the dank turkey cavity was a small and vaguely luminescent being. It demanded that I lift it at once.
What was probably most shocking was that the thing didn't have a mouth and was totally communicating with me telepathically. Using its mind, it told me to set it on the counter top preferably in a sunbeam.
I was able to get a good sense of the thing while it stood there, arms spread to accommodate its blunt spines. I asked it [with my mind] "Where do you come from? Another plan--"

"Blah, blah, blah, yeah I'm not from around here and frankly I'd like to get on the road."

"Yeah, it is Thanksgiving" I said. "I understand, you probably have a little-- uhm, pod of family members..."

"What?"

"Nevermi-"

"Listen, you have to do me a favor," The thing told me. "Get some chrome spray paint and a hollow egg. Just spray the egg and I'll do the rest."

I obliged, and watched as the thing cut a hole in the shiny egg and got in.
"Alright, I'm out of here."

"Wait!" I cried. "Don't you have anything to teach me? Something from your planet? Do you know what love is? Do you have songs?"

"You need to take a break. Concentrate on this Shared Imagination Event, and write down these geographical coordinates. I got you this Thanksgiving Present-- thanks for the chrome egg."

And with that, the following image flashed in my mind and the thing was gone.
So now I'm in Sicily and I have a pretty good idea of the true meaning of Thanksgiving.

It's awesome.

This Thanksgiving, give thanks for...

2006-11-18T23:00:00.000-05:00

your telomeres, and the telomeres of your loved ones!

Molecular biology is full of cute shit if you squint hard enough while looking at it. Being a little drunk helps too. So next time you find yourself getting a little misty-eyed while thumbing through your bio text book, a gin martini at your side, you should definitely still feel weird because most people don't engage in this type of behavior.

And that's why this Thanksgiving I will force people to share my enthusiasm for all the things that are successfully occurring in your cells, without much of your conscious input. Just keep eating and staying out of direct sunlight!

If you're still wondering what telomeres are, and why we should be thankful for them, you're probably drunk. I'll start with this graphic:
So if your chromosomes were-- god forbid it-- shoelaces, then telomeres would be the aglets. And you would be a shoe.

Why do your chromosomes need this kind of protection? The way your DNA replicates is a bit of a struggle, and it leads to something called the "End Replication Problem." I won't go into detail, but the problem part is that each time your DNA is replicated one of the strands ends up a little bit shorter. This means that during the next round of replication, the DNA will get even shorter. Essentially, you would be losing small amounts of important genetic information every time your cells divided.

This would kind of be embarrassing, not to mention evolutionarily short-sighted, for our cells and ourselves. Hence telomeres! Telomeres are stretches of repeated non-coding DNA sequence that get added onto the gimp strand during replication. Some cell types are estimated to contain 8000 base pairs worth of telomeric repeats at birth. Because these telomeric repeats are known sequences, you can visualize them using a fluorescently labeled probe complementary to the telomere region-- in humans, the repeated sequence is TTAGGG. In the picture below, the telomeric regions are yellow and the rest of the chromosome is blue:
But telomeres don't completely solve the End Replication Problem, they just delay its potentially devastating effects. Your DNA still gets shorter with every round of replication, but you're losing telomeric repeats not necessary genes. For those cells with 8000 base pairs of telomeric sequence, the number is reduced to about 1500 base pairs by the time you can collect senior citizen discounts.

Read more about telomeres if you have questions about how they influence aging events, but you could also just be glad they get added in the first place.

Josie, on her far away vacation

2006-11-11T01:35:00.000-05:00

Ah. Waltham, MA. Home of...

... well, okay, so Pearl and I have kind of gotten into this local cover band. We're so into them we don't even know their name. All we know is that they are easily coerced into playing "Your Love" by The Outfield. It's pretty important that you all get intimately reacquainted with this song. If there are still people who are into Journey, there should at least 4-fold as many people into The Outfield.
There they are. And here we are, "tipsy" and sitting in front of Photobooth getting our five dollars warmed up to exchange for admission into... the place where that cover band is. A bar, we think.

"I 'aint got many friends left to talk to
No one's around when I'm in trouble
You know I'd do anything for you
Stay the night and keep it undercover
I just wanna use your love tonightI don't wanna lose your love tonight!

And with that we headed down the street towards our Valhalla. Of course they played it. And we only got humped by 1.5 citizens of Waltham, MA-- the home of CLASS.
...and The Swinging Johnsons--a simple Google was all it took to identify the best cover band ever by name! Let that be a lesson to you.

How to be the most popular kid in grad school

2006-10-29T16:36:00.000-05:00

First, it's really important that you have a Liberal Arts education and are able to see the connectedness of all disciplines. Second, it also helps if you are lazy. Too lazy to empty your pipet tip discard cup:
Meet Tip Explosion. She represents many things, but a few obvious ones are the ever-upward progress of Science, the tremendous amount of non-biodegradable waste produced by Science, and that there's always some shithead in your lab that has to "be different."

To be fair [to myself], Tip Explosion was born quietly and without exploitation. In all simplicity, she was just the product of much pipetting. See?
This is how pipet tips come. Just like a carton of eggs! Then you push the end of your pipet into the pipet tip like so:
Then you draw up an aliquot [great Scrabble word] of whatever colorless solution you happen to be working with, and put it into another tube-- usually on ice. Molecular things enjoy being chilled.
Then you ditch your dirty tip in your discard cup.
Today I destroyed Tip Explosion. She was becoming unstable and I had quite a bit of pipetting to do. So yet another metaphor might be that, whilst in the pursuit of Scientific Knowledge, most fun things are usually destroyed.

Science

2006-10-26T00:01:00.000-04:00

Don't worry, we've got it under control.

No microwave left behind

2006-10-22T23:39:00.000-04:00

This pretty much ruined my day. Sure, maybe I shouldn't let these things affect me so much but come on.

It will never be able to correct the mistake it is forced to make with every warm drink prepared by Residence Inn patrons. Every day someone humiliates the stupid microwave.

Things to Never Say

2006-10-17T07:25:00.000-04:00

re: babies

1. "Let's make a baby."
2. "I want my baby inside of you."

Should the baby thing happen, never say the following:

1. "Feeling my baby inside of you is amazing."
2. "There is a miracle in your belly."
3. "You are so beautiful right now."
4. "I'm so jealous of our baby because it's in your beautiful miracle chamber right now."

Graduate School: Month One

2006-10-15T17:09:00.001-04:00

The crisping leaves, the plump sparrows, the shortening days, the nippy mornings, my dry lips, my dry eyes-- my new life. It's autumn, and clearly time to reflect.

I'm sitting here in my kitchen drinking some Trader Joe's Organic Ginger Lemonade admixed with Tanqueray Non-Organic Gin. Thus, I find myself neither rolling down any streets nor smoking endo, but indeed sipping [tactfully, always tactfully] on Gin and Juice.

Graduate School is hardly a metaphoric day at the beach.

Was I expecting a day at the beach? Not really. Do I even like beaches? No. Do I get the sense that with each passing day I am prematurely dessicating into a husk of a human being? Sometimes, but not when I'm drinking gin.

Was that a cry for help? Absolutely not.

Cutting through the shit, I'm enjoying myself. I learn new things [nearly] every day, and I have already been thrilled to bits by the toilsome Irony of Science. i'll try to explain:

My current project involes the construction of a chimeric [look it up] form of two proteins found in budding yeast. I am exploiting the very same yeast cells that convert sugar to ethanol in the beer that all those undergrads are able to consume to excess on Thursday nights. Am I bitter? Only a little. The two proteins, called Bni1 and Bnr1 are responsible for assembling the building blocks of the yeast cytoskeleton [skeleton of the cell] into the filaments and cables that give the cell its shape. They both serve the same purpose, but they do it in different parts of the yeast cell with the help of different interacting proteins. My chimeric form of the two proteins will help us to understand how the location of the proteins affects their function, more or less.

To be a good scientist, I have to make sure that all the genetic manipulations I must make to construct the chimera don't somehow alter the natural behavior of the full-length protein in the cell. So you basically perform all the steps involved in making your whacked out chimera, but you rebuild the full length protein.

So guess what parts of the chimera I've been able to make so far? Well, I've cloned the N-terminal region of Bni1 into a vector and I've been able to clone the C-terminal region of Bni1 into the same vector. Yeah. So I've spent 6 weeks deconstructing and reconstructing a protein. While it is an important control I would have had to do anyway, it's still pretty ironic. And kind of hilarious.

In other news, you can add labels to your posts now using the Blogger beta version. For examples of what to label your posts, they have listed:

e.g. scooters, vacation, fall

I hate.

Graduate School: Week Two

2006-09-10T23:10:00.000-04:00

Sans Cable

2006-08-25T21:54:00.001-04:00

My housemate, Pearl, and I have been living in Waltham for 14 days now. We are both eagerly anticipating our incipient graduate-level coursework at our respective institutions, and to pass the time we read, eat, chat, sleep, listen to the radio, and watch antiquated National Geographic videos. But we have no cable television.

Every night, at 7:30pm [+/- 10 minutes], the ice cream man drives down our street playing a worse-than-midi quality version of "The Entertainer" and at first we would exchange wry glances over our library books. Then we began to exchange stony deadpan stares. And then we were sure we were losing our minds.

Two nights ago, while reading an issue of Cosmopolitan during that most difficult stretch of TV-less time-- 11am-11pm, I asked Pearl "If one were a paraplegic with no friends, how would one get on the toilet?"
Who needs reality television when reality without television can be so surreal? And with that I rolled off the couch.
One shouldn't underestimate the density of one's own functionless legs. I felt like a mermaid whose lower half was a dead Weddell seal. The friction of denim against carpet made the going slow and my elbows red, but I pressed on.

Once in the cramped bathroom I realized that upper arm strength was going to play a large role in my success in mounting the toilet by conventional means.
After a few hardly-valiant attempts, I realized that I wasn't strong enough to mount the toilet with conventional results. I was also unable to shut the door. Everyone would see me urinate like some kind of skateboard or cookie sheet or some other 2-dimensional thing that isn't meant to urinate. But then I remembered that I was a paraplegic with no friends. I wouldn't be in this situation if I had any, so I let the feeling of isolation bolster my spirit and sense of adventure.

And, much like the Weddell seal might have, I mounted the toilet in a thoroughly unconventional way.

Pearl, who was cheering me on from the bathtub, expressed concern that if I were truly urinating, my stream would escape the confines of the toilet. I began to counter with the concepts of gravity and self-control, but it was then that we heard "The Entertainer" and decided that tonight we should meet the ice cream man.

New Apartment

2006-08-16T22:15:00.000-04:00

Flux, change, better shower curtains. A logical progression which has most cleanly been affirmed. Behold:
Our new shower curtain is a map of The World. Now, as bare as our ancestors, we can study the vastness of our dominion on planet Earth-- but backwards. And without the helpful colors found on most maps. From the showerer's side, and especially for those showerers with poor eyesight, The World is as heterogenous and confusing as it will be for the aliens when they arrive. The closest thing to my eye level, and within my capacity to see it, is Baffin Bay. I assume it's cold? I know little of this Bay.

If nothing else, this new shower curtain has instilled an unprecidented global awareness within the inhabitants of 42A Wadsworth Ave. After confusing reports on the conflict in the Middle East broadcast on NPR, we now report directly to the bathroom. And while I sit on the toilet in the wee hours, I am faced with our World. And I marvel.

Part II

2006-08-10T10:51:00.000-04:00

Not quite made-for-TV: Part I

2006-08-03T14:19:00.000-04:00

To be continued...

Wine of the Month Review #5: LOST EDITION

2006-07-31T15:58:00.000-04:00

Name: Mano a Mano La Mancha
Date: 2004
Origin: Spain
Alcohol content: 13%

Like a freshly-birthed calf still encased in its placental vestments, it is recommended that Mano a Mano be allowed to breathe for at least 30 minutes before enjoying. I lost the original tasting/accompaniment notes, so I thought I'd spend the half-hour of pre-enjoyment time productively. Now I'm no sommelier, but in addition to the barbequed meats and aged pecorinos this wine must effortlessly enhance, a wig, tasteless makeup, a sleeping pill, and vodka shots with tomato wedge chasers sounded right to me. And 30 minutes is a long time.

With the Mano a Mano breathing at my side, I put on ABBA's greatest hits and slammed back a couple three "aperitifs" and just as I was starting to think all bloody marys should be ingested in this raw form, I smelled something.

MEAT.

I'd never had a olfactory hallucination so vivid! It was meat alright, and probably bacon. But where was it coming from?
At this point I was already too drunk to search much further than the drawer labelled "meats" in the fridge, and so I just drank the wine instead. I'm pretty sure the 30 minutes wasn't up.

My hazy recollection of the wine is little more than thoughts such as "dark" and "red" and "bacon", but the medly of finishing flavors stayed on my palate long through the night and into the morning when I woke up on the kitchen counter.
If I'd retained the tasting notes, the mystery of the meat would have been instantly solved-- it turns out "bacon fat" is one of the featured hints of flavor found in a mouthful of Mano a Mano. How confusing, how modern. I'm really surprised they didn't think of the wig thing, though.

is THAT why I'm going to graduate school?

2006-07-28T00:39:00.000-04:00

Should stumbling onto this kind of questionable "pornography" make me feel liberated or even more liberated?

I'm just so confused.

Too soon?...

2006-07-27T10:49:00.000-04:00

...or not soon enough?

Because my dear friends at the CDC are staunch supporters of their institution's motto, "Safer. Healthier. People.", I receive critical insider public health updates from them should they arise. The latest news accelerated my heart rate more than just a bit:

Deadly "Pandemic" hits Hallmark

A four-hour miniseries? The Hallmark Channel? NEXT SUMMER?!?!

On my first readthrough I had missed the "next summer" part and was already half way finished penning my Preparedness Party Plan [PPP] which includes 4 bottles of Crystal Palace vodka [one for each installment of the miniseries], ingredients for peking duck, and a gasmask. But then I realized that my level of Preparedness would exceed that of our federal government because Hallmark wasn't planning on rocking my life until NEXT SUMMER. Why?

Is Hallmark concerned about competing with the film "World Trade Center" in theaters everywhere on August 9th? Do they remember seeing another made-for-TV pandemic film on ABC about, ohh, three months ago and figure they should aid in staggering the national hype? Does Hallmark know something the CDC doesn't?

By next summer we will either be coughing up blood and being bulldozed into mass graves, or drunk on the protective elixer of GlaxoSmithKline's new and recently-lauded H5N1 vaccine. The vaccine, much like Hallmark's perhaps prognostic miniseries, will be out NEXT SUMMER. Wanna grab a vaccination and come back to my place for that bird flu movie? I've got some vodka...

A concern of mine

2006-07-26T00:06:00.000-04:00

Tonight I saw the third part of a three-part NOVA series on "Our Elegant Universe" which largely deals with String Theory. During these episodes my mother intermittantly falls asleep and wakes up, complaining that I should wake her when they've proven the theory.

But my concern is in regard to Fermilab's atom smasher, and its liberation of gravitrons. When atomic particles [the ones we know and some of us love: neutrons, protons] approach the speed of light and collide head-on, myriad SUB-atomic particles are released. You know, quarks! One of these quarks may be the ellusive gravitron which can only be detected by noting its absence. Why are they absent? Why don't they stay bombarding the walls of Fermilab's atom smasher?

It's because they have passed into other dimensions. You know, the ones that Rod Serling is so fond of imagining. So every time Fermilab achieves a successful head on collision, X number of gravitrons are released into other dimentions.

THIS BOTHERS ME.

For what impact do these excess gravitrons on the other dimensions they escape into? Here we are complaining about this ozone-depleting whatchamicallit and who knows what gravitrons are doing to folks in other dimensions! I have a picket sign ready to stop atom smashing, and I'll be outside Fermilab at the end of the week protesting. WHO'S WITH ME?!

WHO IS WITH ME? WHO?!

I'm like a Super Hero

2006-07-20T10:41:00.000-04:00

...with the ability to BRUISE!

We all have this ability, but I do it so well. Almost instantly! Like the chameleon rapidly changing its pigmentation to better blend in with its surroundings, so do I bruise. If I were going to lie about this I would go on to say that my bruises, also like the chameleon, mimic the hues of whatever surface I find myself sprawled on or whacked into. But they don't. Should I ever find myself in one of those annoying curled-up-and-getting-beaten-by-many-fans-of-violence situations, I won't melt into the background at all. If anything, my insta-bruises will make me even more obvious and easy to strike.

The reason for all this is that I walked into three separate things this morning. While "Lating dancing" to the lovely songs of Omara Portuondo and friends I whacked into an open door. Then I tripped over the sink-side kitchen rug that the cats had apparently spent all night bunching up and banged my knee. I had been on my way to bring the litter box that the cats apparently spend all their time shitting in outside for a hose cleaning and I banged my upper arm into the quickly closing metal screen door.

While these aren't the worst* bruises I've ever had, they certainly sprung up quickly and I was left to marvel at both my own clumsiness and the splendor of things biological.

It also prompted a nearly immediate google image search to see where my bruises stack up. I was expecting it, but I was still delighted by the amount of personal bruises the world feels compelled to share with their fellow everyman via the Internet. A Sampler:
Oooooh!
Aaaahh!

Okay, that's enough. I guess the lesson to be learned is that we're ALL Super Heros when we get really bad bruises. Which may have something to do with why I walk into so many things. Maybe.

*This photograph, taken by Mackenzie Firer-Sherwood and posted on her blog without my consent, illustrates one of my worst bruises achieved by falling off our front porch and onto a cast iron candlestick/wine bottle holder. I think that's what happened to the second guy up there. But not the first one.

Laundromats

2006-07-10T23:01:00.000-04:00

Laundry Mats? Laundrymats? Laundromats... Whatever you call them, there's always an unshakable feeling of getting mugged-- or worse yet-- coming out with empty pockets and damp clothes.
I'm afraid of Laundromats. I have been ever since I was forced to wait with my mother for our mixed color load to dry. I must have been 5 at the time, string beanish as ever, and there were two older men playing video games kindly provided by the laundromat while we all waited.

They were very violent. Kicking, jamming, swearing over the game of pinball. I was very nervous.

I don't think I'd been in a Laundromat since that one time, but I always knew they bothered me. And I always knew that those gamesters would still be there. Whacking on the side of the pinball machine while I delicately sorted quarters from nickels.

To the point, I will be moving to a place in Waltham, MA that has no on-site laundry facilities-- BUT has two delightful laundromats within walking distance. Okay. It's okay. This is what I imagine:
People, strange people, wanting to make conversation with strange YOU while you're sorting your lights from your darks [I don't, but I'm trying to get to know my audience]. People who would want to chat with you through the first spin cycle and beyond. This is when I say I have babies. Many babies in baby school-- you know, like pre-school, that need me... and then I slip out.

But what use is it? They'll still be there, still folding and fussing and chatting. I will just have to become one of them.

Or cut through to another dimension and find this laundry faciliy:

[IMAGE UNAVAILABLE DUE TO SECURITY CONSTRAINTS]

The clothes come out keeping you warm when it's cold, cold when it's warm, and sexy all the time. I won't tell you what laundromat it is, but it clearly exists.

Near Death Experience

2006-07-04T10:45:00.000-04:00

Now that I am safely re-nestled in the Catskill Mountains, ~926 miles away from Atlanta, I can detail the only funny thing that happened during the 19 hour drive. Funny in retrospect but at the time, potentially hazardous to my life.

North Carolina. How bad can it be? It has "North" in its name, so surely we've left behind the drawling alcoholic gun-owning grits-enjoying slow-walking folks of the True South. Even those traits we had begun to see in ourselves after 10 months of Southern Exposure were begining to melt away with every mile travelled in the opposite direction [for reference, "alcoholic" is the only one of the aforementioned traits I willingly ushered into my ATLien lifestyle-- grits are okay, but not nearly as good as vodka].

We stopped for gas in North Carolina, and I had just finished 3/4 of a serving of Yoplait brand custard style blackberry harvest yogurt. Not wanting to leave traces of something perishable in the car, I asked my mother to pull up alongside a garbage can next to the gas pumps. Because my cat was also in the car, I didn't want to open the door and risk her escape so with one arm wrapped around my panicked orange cat I rolled the window down and tossed the container.

The container hit the rim, and with no chance for a rebound, splattered my formerly delicious lilac-colored snack all over the side of a shiny red pickup truck. Adrenaline surged through my veins and a brief montage flashed through my mind:

Then I screamed "DRIVE" and clung to my cat as we peeled out of the gas station. I never saw the owner of the truck, as they were hidden by the gas pump, but I know they had a gun. And I bet they'd shot people for less.

The Moral: North Carolina is still The South so be nice.

Leaving Poxlanta

2006-06-27T17:13:00.000-04:00

Sing it, Sheryl Crow.

Colbert Returns?

2006-06-25T10:57:00.000-04:00

Why was this casting call so universally overlooked? Someone please tell me.

Stephen Colbert is hot, plain and simple. Who needs kryptonite when you can do that thing with your eyebrow? I can see a bullet racing straight for Colbert's eye and at the last moment his eyebrow shoots upwards and the bullet EXPLODES! Yes.

Playing the role of Superman would also really help diversify and maturate Colbert's acting career. So far, we know him as that delightfully sarcastic fake news anchor and, uh, Darren in the modern movie based on the sitcom "Bewitched". Is Colbert incapable of seriousness? Could he really represent the Zeus of all Superheros?
Yeah he could.

Also, while simultaneously pondering these Superman-related questions and searching Google images, I came to a second definitive conclusion-- there should, by all means, be a movie entirely about Clark Kent. The movie should be called "Clark Kent". He's just as exciting as Superman, really.
He runs this way.
He runs that way.

And he's an excellent journalist! The grit! The reality! The glasses...

Do we really get a good idea of what sort of psychological turmoil Clark Kent must be going through having to transform his entire being into an immortal man capable of flight? How does it feel to know that everyone likes your muscular bespandex'd self infinitely more than your still really attractive, intellectual, well-spoken and bespectacl'd self? I've seen movies about far stupider things, that's for sure.

Like "Mulholland Drive".

"Clark Kent" would be a dark movie for sure. A film noir open work, rich in textural density, it would invite multiple readings, reward repeated viewings, and contain frequent allusions to itself and countless other classics of cinema. It would be a puzzle-box of a movie, one that presents hallucination and reality as equal and indistinguishable partners. Saturated with erotic colors and dark with oblique menace, the film would glide through a dreamy landscape where the hyper-real is in constant collision with the fantastic. Identities shift and merge, false trails are projected and abandoned, and the viewer's perception is always hostage to the illusions of the characters.

So basically, "Mulholland Drive". But starring Stephen Colbert.

Public health: EXPLAINED!

2006-06-12T16:00:00.000-04:00

So the public talks with the decision-makers, the decision-makers talk to both the public and the partners, in addition to extending a thin yellow arrow towards the metaphysical realm of "health impact goals and action plans" while the science-based policy proposals are disseminated to all three: the public, the partners, and the decision-makers. The "health impact goals and action plans" are influenced by SCIENCE, but also by the public and the partners who are already interacting with the decision-makers, and also by the thin yellow arrow extended directly from the decision-makers themselves.

Please make note of the helpful definition of Health Policy, and try not to think too hard about how SCIENCE is actually the main ingredient in this easy recipe.

Literary Kudos

2006-06-09T17:03:00.000-04:00

...to me!

I am the proud 12th winner of McSweeney's "Convergences Contest" which makes me the proud 2nd blog author to be published on McSweeneys.net.

Mert was the 1st!

I have an extra ticket!

2006-06-07T23:06:00.000-04:00

So who's coming? I have a backpack full of whippets and we can put some SoCo in bottle of Veryfine cran-apple!
This was the setlist from their last show:

1. Under my Desk, on the Air
2. [Condoleeza] Shouldn't Smile
3. Playin' Grabass
4. Viewers Like You
5. Suck my Kiss [cover]
6. Another Roadside Bombing
7. So Convincing/The Ray Suarez Song
8. TIAA CREF: Fund that Shit
9. Rape Charlie Rose
10. Chelsea Hotel No. 2 [cover]

I slept through the encore, but I read on pitchforkmedia.com that it was 19 minute jam session they introduced as "Too Soon."

A [not so] startling glimpse into my future

2006-06-04T17:22:00.000-04:00

Gee, don't look so surprised.

While the thought of being near death and playing Scrabble with myself gives me a slight tension headache, I am comforted by the fact that I already play Scrabble with myself and it's not so bad. Other comforting things in this brought-to-you-by-a-crystal-ball image include:

1. There appears to be pictures of grandchildren hanging by my hearth
2. I'm wearing purple velour pants
3. There's a nice fire going
4. I have a walker, so my health insurance must be decent
5. I made the word "BLAZED" even though that's kind of a wasted Z
6. I have plenty of pencils
7. There don't seem to be too many cats around
8. Someone visits me and takes pictures of me. It's probably Mackenzie, and right after taking it she said "Now THIS is good Facebook picture!"

Then she giggled and passed the vodka.

Public Health needs more tact and smarter people

2006-05-31T10:05:00.000-04:00

Maybe it's just me, but when I got this announcement in my CDC inbox today I was pretty weirded out. The subject reads:

Reminder-- Commemoration of the 25th Anniversary of the First Reported Cases of AIDS

followed by this graphic:
Why does this bother me? First of all, it looks like a big company's Fourth of July barbeque invitation-- 25 years of great service! Second, snippets of the American flag appear FIVE times throughout the poorly-constructed collage-- once suspended in front of [gasp] SKYSCRAPERS. I don't know about you, but the little seizure induced by such imagery reminds me that my government protects me and that I am safe.

What is the most bothersome, however, is that AIDS wasn't called AIDS until late 1982. Prestigious medical journals and newspapers [The Lancet, The New York Times] were calling it Gay Compromise Syndrome, Gay-Related Immune Deficiency, and Community-Acquired Immune Dysfunction. The CDC finally suggested and stuck with Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome in September of 1982.

Also, the HIV virus was first linked to a group of AIDS patients in 1984. But is this cutesy patriotic banner supposed to make me forget that when Dr. Mason of the CDC said

"I believe we have the cause of AIDS."

he was referring to the French virus isolate, LAV, and he was basing his opinion on the findings made in the preceding weeks by the researchers at the Pasteur Institute who had discovered the virus the previous year. The very next day, the infamous Dr. Gallo reported he had isolated the virus that caused AIDS, called it HTLV-III, devised a rapid test for it, and slapped a on big fat patent. As it turns out, LAV and HTLV-III are the same virus, the one the International Commitee on the Taxonomy of Viruses didn't officially dub HIV until May of 1986.

So while all these grinning federal weenies are blowing up their AIDS balloons in time for their totally innacurate and meaningless party date, you'll find me taking a leisurely crap in Dr. Julie's billion dollar koi ponds.

Wine of the Month Review #4

2006-05-26T21:44:00.000-04:00

Name: Lacrima Christi del Vesuvio
Date: 2004
Origin: Italy
Alcohol content: 13%

Bottled in Sorrento, Italy, this wine is best enjoyed with buffalo mozzarella, tomato, and basil. This red's lively offerings begin on the nose with acidic cherry hints and follow on the palette with a literal explosion of dark red fruits-- plum, blackberry, and empty cedar chests.

And divine guilt.
Flashes of the exhausted once-Christ child strobe before your eyes and you can almost taste the grit and sweat in your own mortal mouth. What was going through Jesus' mind as he was prodded and flogged along the path to his own crucifixion? This wine tells me it was almost 100% along the lines of

"My tears mixed with the blood of my wounds continue to reveal their fleshy sensual side by offering up plenty of forward fruit, tender softness, and tactile pleasure."

But what about the Vesuvio part? Clearly, these ruby-pure tear-sized drops that grace my sinner's throat have the power to keep Mt. Vesuvius from blowing for another eon at least.
But inspite of the tannins, the smooth finish, the surprising bouquet, all I'm left with is the following

Wine of the Month Review #3

2006-05-20T01:16:00.000-04:00

Name: Undurraga Reserva [that means RESERVE wine, bitches]
Date: 2004
Origin: Chile
Alcohol content: 14%

So, this wine is great.

And that's pretty much my review of this wine.

For a long time, apparently, Chilean wine was not so great. But upon the globalization of the Undurraga-- you know, The Dance of Many Scarves, this particular wine took a place in our tiny cold hard ugly cholesterol-ridden American hearts.

The depictions above illustrate the Undurraga. This dance, inspired by the redolent aromas of fresh apples-- and conjuring up myriad daydreams of both apricot orchards and otherwise-- reveals to you the real meaning of this wine.

Accompaniments? Whatevs. I recommend this wine with a peyote bud and a field of rye.

If the hiccups plague, I reccomend this wine with more dancing. Shut up about the hiccups, they're all in your earthbound mind.

Wine of the Month Review #2

2006-05-18T19:02:00.000-04:00

Name: H de l'Hospitalet Blanc
Date: 2004
Origin: The Languedoc, South France
Alcohol content: 14%

I opened this bottle even though a sinus infection had wedged snot in my nose tighter than this cheeky white's cork. Why didn't I wait until I could effectively take in the subtle tastes promised and surely present? Because everyone knows that H de l'Hospitalet means H is for Hospital in French.

This wine, when poured into a chilled glass [no white should be served otherwise, really], is as clear as the liquid byproduct of any authentic sinus infection-- and just as whimsical. In fact, I'm awfully sure that with every labored sip of this self-proclaimed elixer of health, at least 1/3 of what I swallowed was my body's own interstitial fluids. It tasted faintly of pineapple.

What the movie "Sideways" doesn't mention is that the forward fruits of any good hospital wine follow only after you blow your nose. Into a sheet of store-brand paper towel. After doing so, the forward fruits were very apparent.

It is recommended that H de l'Hospitalet be served quite chilled at "about 40 degrees Celsius" and because of my sensitive teeth I ignored this recommendation after the first few nerve-cracking sips and decided to let it warm up a bit. I took this time to learn about the Languedoc region.

According to the wine's tasting notes, the Languedoc stretches from the Spanish border to the banks of the Rhone-- a vast domain. In the 19th century phylloxera, the most devastating vine disease, plagued the region and rendered the Languedoc wines "insipid" and whose only virtues were "high alcohol and cheap prices." Like the wines I drink during the other 3 weeks of the month.

Untrue to its name, the H de l'Hospitalet did not make me feel any better. In fact, it left me with throbbing teeth and a nasty "white headache." But the forward fruits were notable indeed.

Here is a picture of Gerard Betrand's Chateau de l'Hospitalet:
It's a really nice hospital; the vineyards are in the back.

"BOOOOOO-YAAAAHHHH!!!!"

2006-05-18T10:26:00.000-04:00

"Hahahahahaha-HAHAHA!!!!! Remember me? I'm YO YO MA, bitches! I was on Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood and I talked about my feelings!!! Remember Itzhak Perlman? I THINK NOT! He was only on Sesame Street."

Wine of the Month Review #1

2006-05-04T22:34:00.000-04:00

For my birthday, dear friend Mackenzie signed me up for a "Wine of the Month" club. Technically, it should be [Billy Joel's] Wine[s] of the Month club, because today I received both a bottle of red and a bottle of white. I didn't have to sign for them or anything-- I guess my mailbox does come off as pretty mature.

Because these wines look like they may cost more than $8.99, I thought I should review them. Cheers, Kenz.

Name: Boccadigabbia
Date: 2003
Origin: New Jersey. Ha ha, just kidding. Italy.
Alcohol content: 14.5%

"Denominazione di origine controllata," reads the label, right below the name Rosso Piceno. As I take the first sip of this nearly opaque red wine the phrase translates itself.

"Slaves made this wine."

The image on the label is of a humble estate and a rusty-looking old flatbed pick-up truck carrying three barrels-- so very clearly oak barrels-- filled, presumably, with the 2003 Boccadigabbia.

This wine, when swirled, does not drip back down the sides of the glass. It shellacs the concavity of the wine glass until it's cylindrical. This wine doesn't just have legs, it has legs and cankles. Thick, sturdy, legs capable of long hard hours on the job. I'd say this wine could probably work at least 19 hours a day, maybe 17 in the sun.

Did I mention that "Boccadigabbia" is Italian for "human mouth bit"?

The last sip of this wine brings with it intensely tart cherry flavors, with following hints of gooseberry and a whispering finish of vanilla. The cherry flavors are so intense, that if you breathe through your mouth and nose simultaneously while holding the wineglass just below your lips, you may drool. Just a little. Until you get the feeling that a wiry, thin-lipped, Italian man is standing in the corner with a whip. Then you pull yourself together and swirl the glass a bit.

When you Google "Rosso Piceno" you get some pictures of other wine bottles, and this estate:See that tower on the left? That's where the 37 wine slaves sleep.

New art

2006-05-03T22:58:00.000-04:00

"All is Quiet on the Eastern Front"

[Stupid] vanity plate, [Really stupid] ring tone

2006-05-03T11:52:00.000-04:00

This morning I pulled into the CDC behind a champagne colored sedan with a vanity plate reading:

SHARONL

Wow. That's so boring.

I thought the point of a vanity plate was to make you and your car seem more clever than your average roadmate. SHARONL has failed to do this on a few levels and has instead inspired half a blog-rant from a stranger. Actually, we're on a first name basis now... Sharon.

Reasons why SHARONL is a stupid vanity plate

1. "Sharon" is a boring name
2. Now Sharon will have a harder time pulling off that hit-and-run
3. It's not this vanity plate:

Even more annoying at the CDC today is one of my lab mates' ring tone. It's a baby. Making baby noises and crying, punctuated by a standard cell phone "wind chime" sound. I'm guessing the name of it is "hate me".

Other Recommended Ring Tones based on Sounds People Love

1. Spongebob Squarepants' continuous laughter
2. Heavy mouth-breathing
3. Someone's feces dropping into a public toilet
4. The screaming of the lambs

I think it's important that I leave work soon.

Seeking single male theoretical astrophysicist to confuse the fuck out of me...

2006-04-03T11:11:00.000-04:00

...and also marry me. And then spurn my affections because there just isn't enough room in his crazy-ass brain for love. But he would name an equation or two after me-- maybe a new particle or form of matter. That would be so hot. Call me.

So I'm still hot for theoretical astrophysicists-- big deal. I thought it might be just a phase, kind of like when all my friends had New Kids on the Block sleeping bags, but upon reading the following sentence it all came back to me:

"Nichol was part of a team that detected dark energy's 'shadow' on the ancient cosmic microwave background radiation, a relic of the cooled radiation from the Big Bang."

Hot! I'm serious-- it's time to go slut around the local planetarium. But even if I do things like that, I bet I won't bag me a theoretical astrophysicist because they're all holed up, too busy being brilliant and stuff.
...and drinking RED WINE.

Me: Do you want another glass of the Chateauneuf-du-Pape?
Him: [2 minute silence, then distractedly] No... No thanks, I'm almost there.. I just have to plot the...
Me: Plot the what? What are you working on?
Him: [thrusts a supplementary figure in my direction]

Me: Ohhh... Neatsville... [takes his glass and retreats to the sunporch with the wine bottle]

The Long Tunnel-y Parts of Atlanta

2006-03-26T18:49:00.000-05:00

Here are some that I've found:

The gutted, illuminate body cavity of a fish? NO! The Marriott Marquis from the 47th floor!

Being born? NO! The Marriott Marquis from the 3rd floor!

Near death experience? NO! The escalator up from the Five Points MARTA stop

Angels?? NO! EID Fellows!

A pile of sleepy EID Fellows!

Get ready

2006-03-24T22:14:00.000-05:00

...for a huge science diss.

Ready?

OK.

What'd you do, scientist? Crumple up your SDS PAGE, go back to your bench, sniffle a little because you went through so much getting your protein sample, loading the sample, and running the gel-- and you just HAD to see the results? You rooted through the gel bag, didn't you? I bet you only put on one glove.

So you transferred it to a membrane, thawed your antibodies [between your legs, perhaps?] and then incubated your blot. It looks like you grabbed the blot and squeezed it a little, perhaps for good luck?

Well, THAT didn't work. So you scrawled "anti-tubulin" on there with a fat Sharpie and called it a day.

And now it's on the internet, and I'm talking about it.

Dream Job

2006-03-16T09:41:00.000-05:00

For those of you who get Skidmore's Career Servies Newsletter and actively peruse it [cough, Lucas], you may have stumbled upon this little gem:

http://www.lacn-group.org/jobdetails.php?jobid=1203

How many immediate and obvious perks slap you on the brain? I can think of about 84, right off the bat. My top three are as follows:

1) You get paid to live with a crazy person
2) Your housemate is insane, and you get a stipend
3) The space you share is shared by you and a mental patient, but you don't have to share your stipend or, ironically, your health benefits-- both of which you receive.

Also, think about the art therapy opportunities! Fun for your crazy housemate AND you! Doesn't this look like fun?

And then you get to hang things like this on the refrigerator:

Basically, you'd be a fool to pass this opportunity up. But don't apply for the job. Because I want it.