A great nonsensical piece from a guy named Jon Carroll at the Chronicle:
I know this makes me a bad person, but genetically modified food is right down there with shoddy plumbing supplies on my list of things to worry about.
The idea is to create food that feeds more people and grows in more places and lives longer. I don't have a problem with that. Sure, people are planning to get rich from it, but people are getting rich selling me peaches and yogurt, too, and I can't bring myself to get irritated at them.
It's not as though we just started messing with nature; we've been doing it almost as long as we've been human. We fill in wetlands, which messes up lots of nature, and then maybe we re-create the wetlands, which also, by the way, messes up nature. Not only that, nature is always messing up nature -- hurricanes, floods, heat waves, ice ages.
Indeed, I think it's a fallacy to say that things built by humans are not natural, whereas things built by beavers are. We are natural. We came from the soil just like the lily and the lizard. If our natural brains get natural ideas, then that's part of the plan. Or the non-plan; I'm agnostic on that matter.
But here's my real point: The genetically modified food train has long since left the station. For good or ill, we're way beyond that. Might as well protest the destruction of the commons. I hated that too, but I'm trying to bear up.
So I was reading this article in California Monthly, the alumni magazine of UC Berkeley. The author was Kerry Tremain. The subject was the 8th Annual Biotech Summit, held last month at the UC Berkeley Art Museum.
Among the speakers was Dr. Peter Schultz, a chemist from Scripps. He and his collaborators have been making non-natural amino acids -- "what God would have created if he'd worked on Sunday," he said modestly. Their latest experiment, he reported, involved giving non-natural amino acids to mice in vitro.
According to the article, "they've designed mice that can eat a diet of McDonald's French fries without spiking their cholesterol." OK, now read that sentence again. They've designed mice -- had you considered "mice" as being in the category of things that are designed, like furniture and frocks? -- that can eat a diet of McDonald's French fries -- now there's brand placement, friends; do you suppose they got the fries for free? -- without spiking their cholesterol -- meaning, by extension, that by 2013 or so (date approximate), they'll be designing people who can eat sugar in mass quantities and not rot their teeth, or people who can drink bourbon all day without a hint of liver damage.
Or, maybe, people who can hit themselves in the head with hammers all day without a hint of concussion. Talk about new avenues of weekend fun!
So the point is, the designer corn thing is pretty much a 20th century problem. We're way beyond that now. You may recycle your picket signs and go have a garden burger.
Oh, and just by the way, Dr. Schultz's team also designed mice that can resist cancers and regenerate tissue. Let's run that by the fire station one more time: regenerate tissue. Cut off a finger? Hope you have some of those fine new designer genes. You'll be deci-digited in no time.
Some people might say that there's a potential that these new technologies could be used for what we used to call evil. Eugenics has always been a tricky business. The science may be all clean and altruistic, but the people who pay for the science may have other ideas. How about, say, bulletproof humans? Shoot them, nothing happens. Now envision an army of those humans. Run!
Another participant in the conference, George Poste of the Arizona Biodesign Institute, said that genetically modified humans were inevitable. The only people who oppose them are "populists, activists, terrorists, fundamentalists, romantics, regulators, the media, deconstructionists, litigators and myopic politicians." He disapproves of all those people, in case you couldn't tell. (You know, "deconstructionists" are the most elderly of straw men; perhaps they should be retired and moved to the old straw men's home, there to mingle with the Bolsheviks and the Trilateralists.)
It will no doubt comfort you to know that Poste chairs the military task force on bioterrorism. Hey, Ms. Romantic, you want a nice soft blankie to cry in?
7.15.04
Is it just me, or does Brie cheese possess the same gag-inducing quality as American?
7.3.04
It is interesting to observe the gradient that runs along Malibu to Redondo Beach, kids on the street looking progressively less and less like they were the most popular kid in school. Kind of makes you wonder what the most popular kid in their school did look like. James Dean, probably.
By the by, I think Britney's 55-hour marriage to Jason Allen Alexander was a very strategic move. For people who are obssessively in love with her (i.e., half of America and way beyond) it took the sting from the news of her real engagement, thus reducing the number of self-inflicted wounds that result from their broken hearts. So I say smart move, Brit!
Also, I'm going to have to retract my comments about Napoleon Dynamite. It is really quite a funny movie, but I stand by my assertion that 86 consecutive minutes of it is just too much to chew at one time. It's like cheesecake -- one bite at a time, please, so I can digest.
6.12.04
We went to Santa Monica today to see the 12:45 showing of Napoleon Dynamite. It was like watching lame third grade version of a Wes Anderson production. It does pick up a little towards the end, but that really doesn't justify the $6.50 for the ticket, $5 for parking, gas money and torture of the 405 on a Saturday afternoon. I think it would have been better as a rental on one of those days when you wonder how you can possibly make it from morning to nighttime without some kind of major worthless distraction. I would recommend watching it in five-minute pieces, because sitting through 86 minutes of the same exact thing over and over again should be reserved for, I don't know, something like a physics lecture.
Anyway, since we paid for all-day parking, we decided to stick around to see Ben Stiller and Christine Taylor promote a book. (I'm still not so sure what their ties with the author is. Heck, I'm still not even sure what the book is about.) Anyway, while Ben Stiller looked exceedingly uncomfortable, Christine Taylor looked like cheery perfection. If I were a hormone-driven adolescent boy, I would probably swoon right there on the spot. Anyway, they each read a few paragraphs from the book, and went into a book signing. Since I don't really believe in autographs (and I'm still trying to not to believe in celebrity, which is hard especially since about all I've done since coming home is watch Extra and Access Hollywood) I didn't get in line. However, I did eventually think of a lot of things I would have said to him, had to gone up to meet him. Here are a few off the the top of my head:
1. Hey, Ben, my dad has a Torino. You can come over and drive it, if you want. You know, for fun and stuff...
2. Hey, Ben, can you sign my special edition Zoolander VHS?
3. Hey, Ben, are you really obsessive compulsive about cleanliness? Because I am too.
4. Hey, Ben, you have really subtle humor, and I just wanted to let you know that I get you.
I also didn't realize until later that this dude has been in almost every single one of my favorite movies: Zoolander, The Royal T's, Meet the Parents (that one was a mad hit with my whole family). It's so funny how those characters that I enjoy so immensely can be locked up in so small a man, the kind who responds with "all right" when someone says "thank you" or "you're my absolute most favorite actor in the whole entire world." I suppose I might be a little maladjusted, if you will, if I felt like an animal in a cage at the zoo, which is what the two celebrities looked like, with a crowd of people just staring at them and no one speaking. How awkward. It must suck to be famous.
5.23.04
So whenever I come home, my mom leaves literature that she thinks will interest me next to my bed. I think it's to make up for all the Guitar Center catalogues that she hides from me. (She'll deny this if you ask her.) This time, along with the Los Angeles Times Magazine Men's Fashion edition, I found a glossy catalogue of this season's WB shows, complete with an interview with the ever-elusive Kristin Kreuk.
"How did this get into the house?" I ask. "I'm insulted, whoever thought I would be dumb enough to care about this stuff."
"You're reading it," my mom says from the doorway.
Touche.
"This summer, I'm going to read Chomsky, Kerouac, and Rand. You must be shaking in your boots."
[Shakes head] "You'll poison your mind."
5.22.04
I wake up, and the heat is beaming straight through the window and onto my head. Peter, Paul and Mary are being blasting, if you can call it that, from the car speakers, I am confused. Where am I? Oh yes, I'm in the car, traveling back to Southern California with my dad and his best friend.
In my half-sleep state I hear something mentioned about Vietnam. I think about yesterday, how I spent an hour and half at Amoeba trying to find a suitable Carpenter's album for my mother. After looking multiple times at the Rock, Used Rock, Used Miscellaneous Rock, and eventually even Soul, Used Soul, and Miscellaneous Soul, I finally found it among the Pop Vocal section, which is, strangely enough, tucked away in the second room next to something obscure like "Used Country casettes."
Things that I didn't understand used to make me feel exceedingly uncomfortable. After watching "Jurassic Park," I thought I would go mad at the thought of my ignorance regarding issues of paleontology and film making. It's a strange psychological disorder, to be sure, but is, I think, fully treated with each piece of knowledge gained in the past two years. (I say the past two years because I truly believe my education heretofore to be virtually useless, save for what, the alphabet? The muliplication table?)
So this stuff's all right. I don't feel weird at all. The world is huge,and old.
That was yesterday. Since then, I've learned that overdosing on Hershey's Dark Kisses and Flamin' Hot Cheetos are not the wisest lifestyle choice.
5.whatever date is it.04
A quick Google search immediately tells me that something is wrong.
www.rockstar69.com? They couldn't think of anything better, or at least something marginally closer to its actual product name?
It doesn't even have a 1-800 number, according to the can, althought its worldwide distribution is clearly indicated.
I am referring, of course, to this mysterious 16 oz. can of gold that I guzzled yesterday around 9:00 p.m. and which has, after two hours of restless sleep trailing three hours the night before and not more than five for the past week, led me to now, 3:50 a.m. on Wednesday, and I am not at all phased.
(In general, I think people should use caution when deciding whether or not to drink beverages obtained second-hand from someone who got it for free on Sproul. But we did find it way overpriced at Safeway tonight, which provided a little comfort.)
Its effect could be compounded by the numerous "small mochas" that have weaseled their way into my malnourished body (by malnourished I mean subsisting on a diet of Hot Pockets and boxed pink lemonade -- I suppose this evaluation is relative) everyday for the past week and half.
And finals season is finally over, though I never really knew when it started. Just like that, and everything is done. Back to Southern California and good riddance to this filthy, brilliant town.
5.7.04
Yesterday, when I was taking the elevator up the 7th floor of Eshleman to spend some quality time with my books, a girl stepped on and pushed the button for the 6th floor. We're the only ones in the elevator.
In her hand, she held a ziplock bag of grapes, plucked off the vine.
"I hate grapes with seeds," she says, almost forcefully.
Awkward.
"Yeah...they suck..."
So I'm thinking, do I know this girl? She's heading up to the Daily Cal office. A page designer, perhaps? I think hard. No, I do not know this girl. She is a bona fide weirdo.
So I hear that Friends ended. Boo-freaking-hoo. If there were a superlative for "overrated," this would be its perfect application. NBC killed pure genius after 18 episodes. Anyone with me here?
4/30/04
I wonder what Justin Jeffre is up to these days...
Anyway, I'm seriously considering starting my memoir this summer. (Stop laughing.) I figure I should get things down before something really big does happen, because then it would just be too predictable.
4/17/04
In retrospect, I suppose it was a good thing that my parents did impose some limitations. For instance, we never had Nintendo. That was too bad, because I rocked at Duck Hunt. I was telling my next door neighbor this last semester and he immediately called my father a Nazi. I sort of resented that because my father is really a pretty sensitive guy. And if anyone is going to call him a Nazi, it's me. Anyway, in the mid-90's my uncle, in a fit of rebellion, give us a Game Boy for Christmas and we had to wrangle a little with my dad before he let us open it. Thus began endless rounds of Super Mario Brothers and Mortal Kombat (and when those became excruciatingly boring, we'd drag out the Dr. Mario. But that was only when we were desperate.)
4.16.04
As I sit here staring at my new hot pink wooden pencil, with a tiny red strawberry embedded in its eraser head (a parting gift from my mom to send me back to school -- apparently these things don't excite the kiddies anymore), I am reminded of how silly I have been more than once in my life.
Hello Kitty. Why my mother ever let me browse for hours in a suffocating little room that smelled like a grape-flavored plastic factory is beyond me. Somehow, toeing the line between office supplies and comestibles had an infinite appeal (does anybody remember Sanrio gum?) and I completely bought into it.
Celebrity paraphenilia. Now, my mother is really a sucker when it comes to my puerile fancies. There was one time that I came home really late from going out with some friends and was extremely grumpy (it was way past my bedtime). I waved my mother aside and stormed into my room only to discover that she had purchased two framed *NSYNC posters. There they were, JC, Justin, Lance, Joey and Chris, propped up against my bed. I really felt bad after that one. On an earlier occasion she had returned home with a full color Backstreet Boys picture book that she had purchase from the third grade Scholastic catalogue.
Boy I was spoiled. I've decided that if I ever have children of my own, they will be limited to a piece of twine and maybe a smooth rock each. I certainly don't think there is any value in purchasing every album (including limited edition Christmas albums and raw cut compilations), single, and vinyl that a band has ever generated. I also don't think that a kid needs to own every flavor of lip balm from page 45 of the Avon catalogue (that stuff became addicting anyway).
If I could, I would give it all back.
Over spring break I was re-analyzing my life -- you know, mentally charting the progress of my own development, making sure certain things are checked off and squared away -- when I came to a possible explanation of why I might not always be the freshest apple in the orchard.
You see, I used to take piano lessons every Saturday morning. (That's right -- I never slept in. I know, it's sad. I used to cry every week.) Right after piano lessons, my father would drop my brothers off for their lessons and take me home, whereupon I stationed myself in front of the television to watch "Saved by the Bell." I did this through the mid '90s, and when the show ended its run, I latched myself onto its offspring: "Saved by the Bell: the New Class," "Saved by the Bell: The College Years," and so forth. Meanwhile, after my brothers finished their piano lessons, my father would take them to the library for a couple of hours.
I brought this tremendous disparity in parental investment to my mother's attention.
"Hey, mom, I realized why I'm slow at math."
"Why's that?"
"Because every Saturday after piano lessons I would come home to watch 'Saved by the Bell' while Isaac and Jonathan went to the library with dad."
"Oh. Well, I'm sure you learned some things from watching all that 'Saved by the Bell,' didn't you?"
"...No, mom. I don't think I did."
And that will be the limit to any of my blogging with meaning. In other news, while I've been slaving away at my academics this week in preparation for midterms, my parents went to Vegas to see Jackie Chan. Tell me, how is that fair?
4.4.04
It's high time to get some work done. I've finally learned that stuffing myself inside a library with no windows is better than sitting in my apartment, trying to resist the temptation to watch grainy music videos on Real Player and eventually giving in every time. Why did Avril have to do another sessions@aol? Why does the "Taylor" video have to be so good that it makes me want to cry and watch all over again?
Anyway, losing an hour of sleep was really uncool, considering that for the past few nights I've been staying up really late, until I start to feel paranoid and looking closely at myself in the mirror gives me the heebie jeebies.
This has led to me making coffee a core part of my diet. Today I had a mocha from the Free Speech Movement cafe, which I describe with a phrase borrowed from my parents. Roughly translated (ok, exactly translated): "It tastes like dog piss."
I really don't have time for this at all. And I just swallowed a tangerine seed.
4.1.04
I never used to sleep in the fetal position. But once the apartment hit below 50 degrees, it became necessary. Now I can't stop.
3.20.04
Welcome to Los Angeles indeed.
It's hard to believe that merely two mornings ago I managed to fail both my English midterm and biology quiz. But that's nothing that a hop and a skip and a 45 minute plane ride back home couldn't fix.
Sadly, though, I've noticed a few changes around here that I make me feel a little left out. For instance, when did "Hand Job" carwash on PCH turn into "Hands On" carwash?
At least some things are the same. The new releases wall in the rental section of the Wherehouse is completely as I left it. And there are still fools who glide past the stop sign on Ocean Ave., where I was turning to go to said Wherehouse.
So this has been my diet for the past three days (I'll use today as an example):
Breakfast: Ha ha, yeah right. Like I'd get up for breakfast.
Lunch: Roast beef, melted swiss and grilled onions on a hoagie roll, fries, half a pancake, and a root beer.
Dinner: a bag of Doritos and a slice of chocolate cherry pie.
I also note that I failed to pack my running shoes in my duffle bag.
3.11.04
The weather is delicious.
I could crawl into it with a good book,
Then fall asleep on the couch.
Because I have been up all night studying.
It is not so
For my favorite flower
That resembles a miniature white tulip
With its head hanging down
Like it is sad
Because they are all dead now.
And I see them
On my way to class.
3.2.04
We had a day of non-heinous weather here for the first time in a while. I was beautiful, and it reminded me of home. (More specifically it reminded me of lunch period in high school, sitting on the grass and eating lunch out of a brown paper sack).
Anyway, my sense of smell seemed especially acute today. Perhaps it was caused by the weather. Things like roses during English lecture, baby powder on the way to bio lab, and maple syrup in the administration building scented my day. It was brilliant.
2.27.04
I'm seriously considering removing the word "great" from my personal lexicon, after I've realized that I can't possible execute such a word with any sort of sincerity whatsoever. Just horrible execution, even though I usually mean it. So good-bye, my dear adjective!
Today I bought a bag of day old baked goods from the bakery. Since I have class at 8:00 in the morning when no other reasonable human being should be awake, I nabbed the cream of the stale baked goods crop. Score!
So my grab-bag of goodies included:
1. A blueberry scone. I couldn't really taste the staleness of the scone (or the blueberries, for that matter) because I think most scones have a naturally stale texture, right? It was enjoyable, quite nice for a morning snack before bio lecture started. (I got to the lecture hall about 20 minutes early because I somehow thought that crossing to the other side of Telegraph at 7:30 in the morning and choosing a bag of old pastries out of a wicker basket would take me half and hour.)
2. A cheese danish. There was this guy at my high school whose name was Danish. Some people told me that his name was pronounced "Daaneesh" and some claimed it was "Danish" as in the pastry. I never asked him about that.
3. A raspberry jelly-filled donut. I'm not really a huge fan of donuts, and this wasn't an exception. I haven't actually eaten it yet. At first I thought it was a plain donut with crosshatches instead of a hole in the middle, and I was a little dismayed because even though I don't like donuts I at least like to have one look like a donut when I do have one. But I suppose that is a recent development because when I was little and my parents were feeling generous and would take us to Dunkin' Donuts after a long day, I would get a Long John. Invariably.
3. A bran muffin. I think. It is definitely brown and definitely not chocolate, which was what I was hoping. I suppose they threw that one in for good measure, since the rest of the gang is going to clog my young arteries. Needless to say, I haven't eaten that one yet either.
2.20.04
So as a nice break from all the maudlin introspection I've been noticing on other people's weblogs (not that I read them, of course) I'm here, as always, to give you a fun story about my life that makes me seem like a loser and makes you feel good about your non-neurotic self.
So yesterday my bio GSI took us on a nature walk around campus. Exciting! you might think. Well, no, but I was pretty happy about since I'm sick right now and the only time my nasal passages are even slightly cleared is when I'm outside.
Anyway, we don't get further than the cherry tree right outside the discussion room when I loose my contact in the grass. Since I lost one of my other contacts last year in a dorm shower mishap, an expensive mistake to say the least, I was determined to find this one. So there I go pawing around the stupid cold wet grass, looking up occasionally at my classmates (colleagues, as any respecting professor would call them) and explain "I lost my contact."
So this results in a few gracious people around me helping me look for my stupid contact, a lot of them watching sympathetically, and some of them even sharing their own experiences in losing their contacts. I tell the rest of the class to go on with their little nature walk, I'll be fine, I'll stay here and look for my contact.
So there I am, still, on my knees, looking for my contact. At this point my knees are soaked through with the residual morning dew, though it is not morning (a result of the insane weather that has plagued this city since I started living here).
Anyway, I look at my watch and decide to call it a day. I also remembered that I had another contact left over from the last time this happened. So I walk home (with muddy knees) in the direction of my apartment, when I notice this older short bald guy walking a few paces in front of me. He suddenly stops, turns around, and starts walking directly beside me. I am a little stunned at first, right? Because he doesn't say anything like "do you know where the nearest bathroom is, I'm busting for a pee." No, he just starts walking beside me. Then he quickens his pace and walks ahead of my again, only to suddenly dart in front of me and peer into the bushes.
So I ignore this man, because, heck, it's Berkeley. So I a few yards in the direction of my apartment still, when he finally turns around and says, "I lost my car key here. For my Thunderbird. I don't know where it is...I had it on this chain [shows me the chain] and now it's gone. It could be here, anywhere along here, or it could be at the pizza place in North Campus, or anywhere in between..." He looks very sad.
Well now! I felt an instant connection. We are part of the brotherhood. So I tell him about how I just lost my contact, just now in the grass! But I think he was preoccupied with finding his car keys, plus his English was poor and it's not impossible that he didn't know what a contact was.
Anyway, I help him look a little bit for his keys, and explain to him quite futilely that I can't really see all that well because I just lost my contact. We don't find his keys either.
I guess the moral of the story is that you shouldn't think people are crazy when they are pawing around in the grass on their knees or darting to and fro in the bushes. Maybe they are just looking for something they'll never find.
2.8.04
I've discovered a new way to distract myself while I should desperately be doing something constructive. This is what I do: Stick in my Gene Krupa/Buddy Rich The Drum Battle into my computer, open Windows Media Player, set the display to something hot like "Blue Flame" and watch it go crazy at all the solos.
Now how much this is an indication that need a life I'll let you be the judge of.
2.6.04
Sometimes a person gets curious.
Sometimes when a person sits by herself in a half-empty, dimly lit, crimson-colored Victorian-style reading room furnished with over-stuffed couches and magazines that aren't Rolling Stone or Spin, or anything else she likes to read, and she thinks that she will tear her hair out if she has to open her physical chemistry book again, she gets curious.
Sometimes she will pick up the nearest magazine, see Melissa Etheridge on the cover, be so happy that she isn't seeing integral signs and other silly numbers but instead human faces, and start reading.
She quickly figures that she's reading a gay magazine, but she doesn't know anybody around her -- afterall, who sits in the library on a Friday morning during the second week of classes? Besides, it's Berkeley. So she doesn't care, even though she's a little nervous. Afterall, this is a far cry from the articles on elle.com that she likes to occasionally indulge herself in.
Then again, she's by herself, so it doesn't matter that she feels a little funny.
Then she hears...
"Hey Lydia!"
1.23.04
Give me a pat on the back. Or, if you live too far away, tell me to give myself one. I'm finally learning the Bay Area network channels. Soon I'll be able to stop saying "turn it to channel 13" when I want to watch "America's Next Top Model." Instead I'll be saying "Bust out some channel 44!" Of course, I'll still have to get used to the whole "Today on Oprah at 4:00, Oprah (I don't know) gives former Backstreet Boy Kevin Richardson an eyebrow make-over." Today I turned on the TV at about 8:00 pm, and Dr. Phil was on! I was like, wha--?"
I still have things to work on. Since the networks are so widely scattered, I can't use my big toe to change the channels directly on the television set anymore.
Such is life, I suppose.
1/21/04
Today I was walking by People's Park (which has come to house more people over the winter season, it seems) and I saw his older black man with a boom box up to his shoulder coming towards me. I anticipated listening to what he had playing, hoping that it would be hip hop or funk or reggae (all of which I secretly enjoy while walking past Funky Riddm Records everyday, sometimes more than one if I'm lucky), but as he walked closer than past me, I learned which station he tuned into -- Cantonese.
1/2/04
Everybody loves Johnny Depp. A few days ago I was my dentist's office and my hygenist, amid ravaging my gums, tells him that she "loved the movie that he showed them." Then he asks me if I've seen Pirates of the Caribbean and I nod, then he goes on to say things like "wasn't he great? He just made the movie! He played his part to the T! Oh man, I love that movie."
Yep, everybody loves Johnny Depp.
12/29/03
As far as I'm concerned, there is no limit to how much entertainment news one can take in a day.
There was this one time long ago when I was shown an issue of Bop magazine (or something of the like) and asked (by some older, bigger girls) if I thought Johnny Depp was cute. Naturally, I said no so as to save myself from any pre-pubescent (my favorite word) embarrassment. But I was assured that I would, soon enough, think that Johnny Depp is cute.
Now I think it was funny.
Did you ever think of what it would be like if you could speak in more than one tone at the same time? I do, a lot. Imagine, one could speak chords! Fabulous.
12/23/03
If you asked me today what I think the worst movie ever is, I'd probably answer "Serendipity." Then I'd consider what happened today, and I'd say, with confidence, "Better Luck Tomorrow."
If ever $1.08 were worse spent from my pocket, I'd be hard-pressed to name it.
To anyone who cares to further propagate degrading Asian American stereotypes, I say thank you in advance.
Oh yeah, and for the sake of accuracy, there is absolutely no speed/buzzer element to the academic decathlon competition, FOOLS!
12/22/03
Hmm...Tom Cruise. I remember in the 4th or 5th grade (I know that it was one of these years because we had all been promoted to the big kid playground) I found my friend Chrissy sitting in the middle of the field. I asked her if I could sit with her because back in those days you needed permission to sit with a friend in the middle of a field. (What twisted relationships we developed back then, eh?) Her response was "Well, you're not Tom Cruise but OK."
Then funny thing is that I think she changed her last name to Cruise sometime in later years, but I don't think it was because of any desire for matrimonial ties to the actor. I think her mom remarried or something.
Anyway, the Last Samurai is a good movie if you like that kind of stuff.
Tom Cruise...
11/18/03
I get the warm fuzzies inside when I know I've done something good for humanity. Or dogs, for that matter.
Today, as I was walking out of bio lab (which, by the way, had been turned into a veritable petting zoo, complete with a 3-foot crocodile, a chinchilla, and various other furry whatnots) I saw a dog defecating on the lawn. Obviously, with my newfound knowledge of animal diversity (I had just spent the past three hours appreciating it) I was intrigued, because I had heretofore not witnessed the actual process, but had only experienced the aftermath through various sensory organs. So the dog was doing his thing, and the gracious owner was standing right by with a newspaper tucked in his hand, poised for some serious clean-up action. I appreciated that, especially since in my hometown neighborhood they eventually had to erect signs with a red bulldog on them saying something like "pick up your dog crap or I'll pounce on you." Then I noticed that, there, tucked in the palm of his hand, was the Science and Technology page of the Daily Cal. My article came out today.
Contributing writer at your service.
11/17/03
I listened to the *NSYNC "Celebrity" album almost in its entirely for the first time tonight. Scratch that, it's more like I squirmed through it. I don't know if it's my faulty headphones, or what, but the part when Justin starts to beatbox made me feel like spiders were crawling up my spine, much like the sensation one experiences during the Abraham Lincoln animatronic presentation on Main Street at Disneyland. (The tension as a result of that, by the way, gave me a neck ache that lasted for days.)
I couldn't help but wonder why such a talented, accomplished young boy group could fall so hard. The album, with the exception of snippets here and there on "Gone," is atrocious. No wonder Justin doesn't care if they make another album or not. It's ash, it's all ash. I came to the sudden realization that Lance, Joey and Chris were, indeed, part of the original five. There was nothing in the "Celebrity" album that convinced me that they still were. It's such a pity; who else would there be to mumble sweet nothings in a deep and soothing bass? Who else can hit those notes that are otherwise only achieved by the youngest members of the Vienna Boys' Choir? And who else ... was in Rent?
In other news, today I had Britney's "Me Against the Music" stuck in my head, until I realized, wait, I can't even recall the melody. How can I possible have this stuck in my head? So I did what any law-abiding citizen would do, and listened to the streaming audio of "In the Zone." I have to say, MAtM is growing on me, and the second track, "Boom Boom" sounds promising. The rest of it, though, I think has gone to the same place as the four *NSynchers whose nicknames names aren't "Curly."
11/16/03
I imagine anyone who reads this has all but given up on me. But, alas, here I am, ready to bare my soul.
Today I was buying dirt cheap oranges in Chinatown and considering the $0.29/lb bananas when the Chinese man at the roasted chestnut stand said something to me in Cantonese that, if I remember correctly, meant something like "Yes, and you can buy those if you want."
One time I saw a whole bunch of people in Hell's Angels get-up walking out of a string of consecutive stores on Telegraph, and it made me think of road trips when I was little, and carsickness.
10/15/03
Ah, the sweet smell of neoprene in the morning.
The kit is up and rearing to go!
9/30/03
This is a note I found in my lab locker a couple of weeks ago:
DATE: 090903
LOCKER: 49-C
This locker has had the equipment items replaced that were listed by you as missing or broken on the locker inventory shetts that you filled out when you checked into the locer. Please remember that it was your responsibility to inventory the locker and to list the missing or broken items. This inventory sheet is kept on file in the 315 Latimer Storeroom and is available for you to see at anytime when the storeroom window is open.
All of us who work in the Organic Storeroom wish to welcome you to the organic labs and wish you the best of luck for the coming semester.
No emphasis added.
O.K. So the first day of lab is when you learn why you should wear safety goggles and not take huge whiffs of your reaction mixtures, and so on. It is also when you check off, from an illustrated list, all the equipment in your locker to ensure smooth sailing for the rest of the semester. If something is not there, or it is broken, you make a note of it on your list, then turn it in to the stockroom. Everything, you assume, will be taken care of. They've got you covered.
Then I found this note in my locker a couple of weeks after my equipment inventory. I find, screaming at me underlined and bold, what seems to be an excessively harsh reprimand for my supposed absentmindedness, along with the acknowledgement of my request for the missing items. It was my responsibility. It was my responsibility that resulted in a letter that reproved me for my lack of responsibility.
I am offended and confused. Above all, I don't understand this stylish way of recording the date.
9/20/03
So in the end I wanted an eyepatch, but had to settle with warm compresses and eyedrops.
Moving on, I'll tell you a story about a very bad girl.
This is a girl I confronted in the bathroom. No, she didn't drag me there by my ponytail; nature merely called at the same time for the both of us. So my bathroom routine is as follows:
1) Kick open the outer door. If it's one of those nasty doors that you can only open by pressing a bar, find the point nearest the axis while torque's still on your side (and where people are less likely to touch with their dirty, germ-infested hands). Push from there.
2) Check for legs, kick open the stall door.
3) Do your business, and flush.
4) Unlock, grasping not the little knob that's meant for unlocking, but from the body of the lock itself.
5) Dispense some paper towel then
6) Wash your hands, using soap. (for the love of goodness, use soap.)
7) Use the previously dispensed paper towel to shut off the faucet.
8) Kick open the outer door and get on with your happy life.
Now this is usually a surefire way to ensure a germ-free visit to the public bathroom. Except this time, a very bad girl did a very bad thing. Are you ready? SHE TOOK MY PRE-DISPENSED PAPER TOWEL! I was forced to go over my whole routine again, practically starting from the beginning. I almost flushed my whole routine down the toilet -- that's how disturbed I was.
On the food front, we bought a package of what we thought was individually packaged "Sharp Cheddar" cheese slices, and brought them home only to discover that they are actually American cheese! They actually had the audacity to parade around as genuine sharp cheddar! Gag me with a spoon! Or with some salty orange cheese with the consistency of half-dried Elmer's glue! I swear, just because it walks like a duck...
8/25/03
Before you continue on with this story, please ask yourself one question: What would I do if I woke up on a Sunday morning with a swollen eyelid?" Take some time to think about that, then read on.
If you're anything like me, you'd plan a visit to the university health center to get it checked out because despite being a pre-med, thus having two whole semesters of one of each general and organic chemistry under your belt, you can't seem to diagnose your own eyelid problems. Oh wait, I'm really thirsty right now so I'm going to buy a drink with my friend. To be continued, but let me tell you, this story includes heavily jaded hippie Deadheads (just one, actually. The other one was just a poser.)
(Let's see if I can recount this correctly. It's been a few weeks, and my brain is rusty.)
I shortly discovered that the university center was not open, and I eventually ended up at a local hospital, which, to be honest, looked a little shady. I was ushered into the waiting room, where I found a seat furthest away from all the other sick folks (lest I contract something horrible that would leave me permanently damaged) and watched "Anne of Green Gables" for about an hour and half. They called me in to measure my blood pressue and gave eye exam, which, I must say, I aced with flying colors (they let me keep my glasses on). I returned to the waiting room for another rousing episode with tempestuous Anne and stuffy old Marilla, when I caught wind of a conversation across the waiting room that went something like this:
Young man with dreadlocks: "Hey, I never hear the Dead anymore. When's the last time you heard a song?"
Weather-beaten old man with long hair, listlessly: "Last night."
Young man with dreadlocks: "The last I heard them I wasn't even awake. It was in my dreams.
Shortly thereafter, it was my turn to confide my insurance information to a noticably bored clerk with overwhelming acrylic nails. When I returned (again) to the waiting room, I found that a sickly young girl curled up in my comfortably remote seat, and my only other option was to sit closer to above mentioned weather-beaten man with long hair, and a different young man who was reading an academic book. They strike up a conversation, mainly, I think, because the old man likes to talk. And boy does he like to talk. So I listened to old man and young man discuss everything under the rainbow, from religion to, well, religion. Young man was called out of the room, but, as I noticed in a glance, left his book on the seat.
"Yeah." says the old man, as he verified my observation.
So now we had a window to talk. And talk he did, telling me everything under the rainbow about how he was arrested for this and that, telling me his various theological beliefs, most of which contradicted, and many of which I agreed with. Eventually, he goes out for a smoke with young guy in dreadlocks.
And now I think I should be doing my homework. This will have to be concluded at a later date.
8/6/03
Making good inroads in project "Clean Up Your Old Email from Middle School." All I can say is "oh boy, I sure liked that band a lot, didn't I?"
8/5/03
Attractive, headstrong daughter wins permission from high-ranking (with the exception of crazy Maurice), overbearing single father to wed lovestruck demi-pauper, or at least someone that is seemingly incompatible, if not socially (for example, possesses bipedal mobility where the former lacks it). The deal is sealed with a kiss/hug/dance/what have you. There, that's the story of 95% of Disney movies that concern blossoming young women. But hey, when your very own Orli plays said underdog, I don't see a reason to complain.
I just spent about half an hour deleting emails from middle school, whereupon I discovered that 1) I used to direct my 'net writings to specific people, "friends," you could say, and 2) I did, at one point, sandwich my words between astericks in a cheap effort to emphasize them.
8/1/03
After much deliberation, I've decided 1) I have too much boiling inside of me to not express in some form, be it an amateur online journal, scribbles on a full-sized yellow legal pad, or nasty shuffle grooves and 2) I have too much boiling inside of me to not be doing this at work. (I swear, if I hear the sentence "Hey who took my taq polymerase" one more time...) This, of course, means that I could, at any time, be caught by some chief scientist or primary investigator, or anyone, for that matter, because I'm almost definitely the lowest ranking employee here. (Ahh, such is the plight of the summer intern).
So the question of the hours is this: "What in the world happened to my summer?" Between work and sleep, I hardly find time for indulging in the pop culture that defines home. Soon I will be thrown back into the world of vicious pre-meds who are way too stingy with their lab data and kids who have failed to rinse away residues of their parents' hippie interests. Oh, if I have to see another rack of tie-dyed shirts...
Of course, living within a one mile radius of where I did the growing up thing for 18 years is just a plan for disasterous boredom. If I remember correctly, I used to like the mall. It's just been so long since I've plunged into that sprawling mass of spaghetti straps and stretch jeans that I don't really miss it anymore. Besides, there are other things to be done. Like sit.
Then again, it seems like a long time since I left school, "driving 405 past midnight," (seriously, it was like 3:00 in the morning, and that song was, seriously, stuck in my head) prepared for a summer free of any obligation whatsoever. I've since come to realize that I can be free of obligation anytime I want! What a liberating discovery. We'll see how long this feeling lasts until a mix of an unhealthy competitive spirit, pride, and guilt has me in its clutches again.
