if I could believe that stuff, I'd say that woman has a halo

I'm just not that into this blog right now. I know, I know, neither are you. But here we both find ourselves. I guess we should make the best of it.

I spent a lot of free time reading up on hepadnaviruses today. That sentence was so wrong. But let it never be said that I have held back the inner geek here.

Also, today, I was reading more closely two articles about HPV that were recently published in the NEJM. The Human Papilloma Virus is one of those nasty sexually transmitted infections that stick around, mostly unbeknownst to the body, for quite some time. Recently, you might have read the news that a vaccine has been developed against HPV that is thought to be 100% effective. This is particularly notable because HPV has one of the tightest correlations to cancer of all viruses out there. Specifically, it accounts for nearly 90% of all cases of cervical cancer in women. Let me repeat- 90%.

There are two sides to this story. On the one side is the vaccine. It's highly effective, but it only works if you have not already been infected with the virus. In many cases, viral infection occurs early in life (through sexual transmission), and the resulting cancer does not emerge until much later. So, in order to truly make this vaccine effective, it would be ideal to immunize adolescents before they are sexually active. This has caused a controversy, predictably. Immunization advocates and health professionals are proposing mandatory vaccinations for children somewhere between the age of 10 to 12. There is a contingent of opponents, who worry that vaccinating at this age gives children yet another free ticket to have premarital sex at a young age. Basically, if you've heard these arguments about condoms and birth control, you can pretty well substitute the HPV vaccine in there. This is pretty disturbing to me, for a couple of reasons:

• Would parents really rather their daughters potentially developed cervical cancer? I mean, yes, these parents believe their daughters are not going to be sexually active until they are married. But, are they willing to bet their daughters' health (or lives) on it?
  
• How does getting a shot in the arm or thigh lead to a kid thinking hey, you know what I can do now? Go get busy! I truly do not see how that logic works.
  
• Let's say you have a perfect angel of a daughter who has every intention of waiting until she gets married. This is, of course, the worse possible scenario, but what if this daughter gets sexually assaulted? In addition to the terrible trauma of being assaulted, now she might also be at risk of being infected with HPV and developing cervical cancer.

But that's just one side of the story. Here in the developed world, we have the luxury of choosing whether or not we would like to prevent developing cervical cancer. Even though getting HPV vaccines to Americans is important to eradicating the virus, we have good screening procedures in place for catching HPV and cervical cancer in the US. Okay, maybe not all women would characterize the screening procedures as good per se, but they are reliable.

In the developing world, there is a bigger problem. Forget the vaccine- for one thing, it is likely to be cost-prohibitive in the short term to implement in developing countries. In these countries, they have trouble even diagnosing women with cervical cancer until it is too far progressed to treat. But, the two articles in the NEJM point towards some hope in developing countries. Strategies have been developed to figure out how to screen for cervical cancer amongst a population of women not likely to be able to come into the clinic more than one or two times. Not only that, but an analysis has been done that proves that these one- or two-time screens are, in the long term, more cost-effective. They tend to catch the cancer early, there are very few false positives with the new screening technologies, and more lives are saved as a result. This translates to a 25-36% decrease in risk of developing cancer. That is highly impressive. The same can not be said of the handling of women's health issues in our great land of freedom.

the ringmaster smiled and shook my hand

Let's get the shout-outs out of the way first. Please, by all means, stop wasting time on this paltry post, and congratulate maisnon (ESQ, b*tches). Wait, before you go, also take note that you ought to go wish Saheli a very happy birthday.

Yesterday, the bro-seph's SO/girlfriend/hanging out person (what's with the hang ups around terminology, peeps? Is it so bad to call a woman your girlfriend? Does that imply a shiny bauble from Cartier must soon follow? Seriously, I don't understand.) and I went to see the latest Cirque du Soleil. It should be noted that this is not really my thing. What's hilarious is that I have managed to see Cirque du Soleil twice in my life, both times quite without having any real choice in the matter. When it's your first outing with your bro-seph's hanging out person, however, you stifle the inner b*tch, put on a happy face, and make the best of it.

All of that said, my mind wanders whenever I have gone to see such a show. Everyone in the show is completely insane, with their abilities to stick their legs behind their ears, or to dance along a tightrope, or to hurtle themselves off a see-saw without betraying a hint of fear. It's undeniable that many of them nurtured such skills since they were wee little ones. How did they fall into such a life? And what sort of life must it be? It occupied my mind every time a solo performer came out to contort himself or herself, or dance, or juggle eleventy billions frisbee-like objects in the air. What compelled them to do it? Did they have a natural predilection towards it? Did they come from a long line of overachieving acrobats who would have disowned them if they had gone off to work a nine to five gig? Did they consider their lives normal, traveling from town to town, performing these wild antics to crowds of the masses? Did they look out from the stage and contemplate, looking at me, how I came to be one of their audience? I doubt it, but I was quite content to think on such things.

In other complete randomness, I know this is old news, but I just want to say that, if this guy is considered the sexiest man alive, I just might have to take switching teams under serious advisement. Is trailer chic the new big thing? Wash your hair, McConaughey! And then, drop down on your knees and beg John Sayles to cast you in another one of his films. Your cameo in Lone Star was probably the best role of your career.

let's go down to normal town

Maitri might have been right. I am definitely suffering from a little sleep deprivation. Some of this is, unfortunately, unavoidable, when you’re working a daily grind while taking exams that break your brain. The last two days in a row, I’ve totally been in fire drill mode in the morning in order to get to work at the right time. Even though my work does not motivate me, I have realized it’s actually been counterproductive to blow it off. When I do that, there is this feedback loop that follows, involving massive waves of guilt and shame. I would rather get what I need to get done, take some small amount of pride in that, and keep feeling satisfaction.

I was thinking of a line from About A Boy this morning. I never went for Hugh Grant when he was playing a foppish, aw shucks bloke, but, wow, does he make a good cad. Anyway, there’s this line, as he’s walking through a store and hears the muzak, that goes: November the sodding 19th... Six weeks before bloody Christmas and they were already playing that song.. Even though the 19th is tomorrow, technically, this quote flashed into my head this morning because I discovered that there is a radio station here in the Bay Area that has been playing non-stop holiday music since the beginning of the month. And can you guess what song came blasting onto my airwaves this morning? Feliz Navidad, b*tches!

This song was so absurd that I snapped out of my frazzled senses, and burst out laughing. Never underestimate the power of absurdity. It changed my life. I was quite somber when I was young, but I can remember the very night that absurdity finally revealed itself to me.

I do not consider Boston my city- it isn’t a place I consider home, or that I feel I must one day return to. But I wasn’t anyone until I moved to Boston. I was amorphous. I was a sponge drinking in my surroundings. I was a child who was convinced she was an adult. And holy h*ll was I melancholy. I look like a cheerleader now compared to how morose I was before I went to Boston. Living there shaped me. Sometimes, it’s hard for me to think of that city without associating it with a hundred beautiful and miserable things I discovered there.

But, among the highs and the lows, there was absurdity. I had just spent a semester brooding, licking my wounds, in a cocoon of Pearl Jam’s Black among other unhappy songs. Then, one evening, the cocoon just would not hold me any longer. The sadness simply would not contain me anymore. I could not remember why I was in such an inconsolable state.

That night, there was much debauchery. On the way home, practically skipping along the cobblestone sidewalks, fuzzed and fading, I started singing, if you need me, let me know, and I'll be around. If you got no place to go, and you’re feeling down. Do you have any idea how hilarious this song is? Something about the lyrics was so incredibly pathetic that it launched me into a fit of giggles that I’m not sure I have recovered from to this day.

I find that whenever I am truly devastated, after an appropriate period of brooding, a solid splash of absurdity goes a long way to curing me of my ailments. In this case, it was Jose Feliciano. Whatever works.

if I get home before daylight

Good things about Lost last night:

• Two weeks sans Kate & Jack in a row.
  
• Hey, it's that guy! (TM FT) sighting.
  
• Shannon, still dead.

Bad things about Lost last night:

• Pretty much everything else.

Completely random thought that popped into my head today- is there any song that Adam Duritz can't soak in melancholy? Even when he's singing about happy things, he sounds like he is about to burst into whine. The man completely took out any and all whimsy of Friend of the Devil in his cover. Like I said, completely random.

I think I have post-final associated listlessness right now. Luckily, I have to snap out of it in a hurry. The bro-seph's birthday is tomorrow, and quite a landmark one at that. I need to decide whether to buy a birthday cake, or make these chocolate cupcakes with peanut butter frosting that I have baked for him on previous occasions. My brother is something of a peanut butter fiend. When we were children, he was absurd about it. First, it was peanut butter on apples. Then, it was peanut butter and fluff sandwiches (incidentally, the broseph and I are convinced this is some kind of Northeast-centric food combination- please confirm whether we are mistaken). Finally, he gave up on the trimmings, and took to slapping a mound of peanut butter in one of the bowls my mom would use for serving dal at dinner. Hey, I never said he was normal.

I'm also experiencing some sort of nature withdrawal issue, so I really want to go for a hike this weekend. One of my professors always asks these questions that start, "Anyone an avid hiker around here?" I never raise my hand, because calling myself avid about anything besides consuming chocolate and listening to random music seems like a massive stretch of the truth. But, then, he always follows up that question with an exaggerated one, like: "Anyone ever been outside of the city limits? Seen more than a dozen trees?"

I would shoot him a dirty look, except that would mean the end of my imagined love affair. I would yell back, "I haven't been outdoors because I've been studying for your exams, you evil bastard!" But that too would put an end to my infatuation. And I need that infatuation; my delusions keep me warm at times.

I just keep losing my beat

Highly structured people disturb me, but I have to admit that I have certain routines, definite patterns. They may not be as rigorous as some of your more Type A OCD folks out there; they are more of a fingerprint. It may seem like a mess of scribbling at first blush, but there is signal among all that noise. One nice thing about getting longer in the tooth is that you start to learn to recognize these patterns. You can even compensate to counteract them, if you are so inclined. Some of the time, I am. Other times, not so much.

Thing is, I have a tendency to befriend my foibles, perhaps because calling them foibles is disingenuous right from the start. I truly do believe that most of our faults are reversible. The bottleneck comes when we decide we actually like that which we are trying to change. What's with the vague, voice of experience nonsense? Sorry, my head was filled with hot air for a moment, obviously. I have a friend from NJ that used to say "What do you, have a mouse in your pocket?" whenever I said "Well, we thought ---."

Where was I? Cut me some slack. If I do not write something down for a few days, I forget how. That is one of my patterns. Another is my need to consume, quite literally, a bag of chocolate when I am studying. If I was not so against cancer sticks, I would probably take up smoking, because this is clearly some kind of nervous fixation sort of thing.

Yet another habit of mine is to treat a certain type of music the way some people treat macaroni cheese and mashed potatoes. Yes, I believe there is such a thing as comfort music. I do not mean soothing music; I am not thinking of something that is going to sound like a babbling brook, or is some sort of easy listening that plays in the background when the dentist is trying to make light of taking a drill to a tooth. I am talking about music that feels familiar but doesn't have a negative or positive memory associated with it. I am neither nostalgic, nor filled with melancholy. These types of songs mostly can be filed under classic rock in my case. Here are a few:

• Somebody to Love by Queen
  
• It's a long way to the top by AC/DC
  
• American Girl by Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers
  
• Down on the Corner by Creedence Clearwater Revival

... among many others- you get the general picture. By the way, if you don't like Queen, I really don't understand you.

Another one of my patterns is that stress in my life tends to amplify what usually annoys me only slightly. Because I have recognized this pattern, and because this is a particularly distasteful foible, I devised a counterstrategy over time. I find a quiet corner, and pull myself into it, a makeshift cocoon where I can do little damage. So, that's where I am right now, if anyone's looking. I will not come out a butterfly, but at least I will minimize the drama until I am ready to walk amongst the real world again.

it happens more than I'd like to admit

Apparently, I am a little behind on my laundry, because I am wearing an oversized pair of cranky pants today. So, this is all I have, rather than subject the few readers of this with vitriol and whining of massive, invalid proportions.

Your Birthdate: trust me- I put in the real thing

You are resilient, and no doubt your resilience has already been tested. Sure, I’ll buy this one for a dollar, especially the part about it being tested, considering I’m going to be tested for two days straight. You've had some difficult experiences in your life, but you are wise from them. The former is true, the latter is a matter of much debate. Having had to grow up quickly, you tend to discount the advice of others. Not true. Especially since I still act like a child, and refuse to engage in adult-like activities, like buying a house or cooing at small children. Also, I only ignore advice if it is a) spoken out of sympathy or b) spoken by an utter moron. You tend to be a loner, having learned that the only person you can depend on is yourself. Fine, there is no sense in denying this one, since I break out into hives if I have too many social engagements in one week. Your strength: Well developed stability and confidence Laughably untrue. I keep a blog, for peet’s sake- how stable can I possibly be? Your weakness: Suspicion of others Maybe. Wait, why do you want to know? Your power color: Eggplant Yes, even though I’m allergic to them. I’m also allergic to the J-Crew-ification of all colors. What happened to PURPLE?!? Your power symbol: Spade I don’t know what this means, but I guess if I ever pull a Prince-like meltdown and decide to stop referring to myself with an already fake moniker, I will replace it with a spade? Your power month: October Well, I’m not sure that could be said about this October, but what the heck.

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

fading into beautiful light

I am woefully tardy in writing about this, but last Saturday, I was very generously extended an invitation to V & K's wedding reception. Wedding receptions, especially Indian ones, can some times be spectacles that are all style and little substance. In true V-style, there was a healthy dose of both style and substance at this wedding reception. And spicy Indian food that caused me to drink five glasses of water.

But, in all gravity, I felt a bit voyeuristic, because there were definitely people who knew V&K far better than me that were in attendance. Still, I think it is always a lucky thing to witness two people who are genuinely happy. I am pretty cynical, and I tend to think there are a lot of factors that can contribute to pulling people apart in life- there is entropy to consider, after all. But every factor in V&K's lives seems to have pulled them together. There is certainly not enough of that in this world.


This is the happy couple with one of their most honored guests. Unfortunately, because I was recovering from a cold, had much studying to do the next day, and am generally a lame old hag, I left the reception a bit early. As I drove home, there was a crescent moon cutting its slight sliver into the night sky. The sharpness of it caught my attention and distracted me from the bog-like odor that can often be smelled when crossing the Dumbarton Bridge. I like to think it was a sign of good things to come for V&K, and for everyone else too.

Of course, I am going to negate all the optimism and earnest happiness from last Saturday by spending this Saturday making fun of supersized turbans and cheesy dance numbers, courtesy of Paheli playing at The Castro, with a certain partner in crime. I'll still be happy, but I suspect I'll be chasing that happiness with a whole lot of sarcasm and eye rolling. Let me know if any of you plan to be there!

full of grace

I caught one of my classmates sort of plagiarizing (which feels like saying a little bit pregnant) this week, and it sent me into a spiral of an ethical dilemma yesterday- I still have not come up with a course of action. That might be why I did not come up with a post. It might also have been due to the fact that I was gleeful in a schadenfraude way about all of the Governator's propositions flailing; I feel a little wrong about that, because I do not feel like I understand every proposition thoroughly. Of course, it might also have been that I am incredibly lazy.

Thoughts on last night's Lost:

• Dude, don't try to tend to the wounded with a badge of "I'm a clinical psychologist." Wha?!? It would be better to just reply, "I'm not a doctor, but I play one on TV."
  
• Internal monologue at the beginning of the episode: Okay, someone's going to die, and Sawyer's looking a little worse for wear, what with taking a bullet, pulling it out himself, having a gaping wound that should have gone all gangrene by now, and getting punched in the face several times by Ana-Lucia. It better not be him. Dude, these a$$hats at ABC have already taken away one of my main sources of eye candy. They best not take away the Sawyer, or I'll be relegated to renting Jake Gyllenhall films instead of watching the idiot box.
  
• That Walt sure is good at playing dripping wet, creepy kid.
  
• Am I supposed to feel badly for Shannon based on her back story? Because, uh, not so much.
  
• Wow, this show is pretty enjoyable without much of Jack & Kate.
  
• Ah, I am the biggest sucker on earth for male bonding. I do not know why. If a bunch of women get all ya-ya sisterhood on television, I usually feel the gag reflex coming on, and the eye roll close behind. But, put a trio of guys together who begrudgingly become friends, and I'm all squee! about it.

Thoughts on last night's dinner with the ever effervescent D:

• We walk into this new, french restaurant in my neighborhood, and the host asks if it's one of our birthdays today. Both of us reply it's not, although I throw in, "I don't mind celebrating mine though, if you want." They arbitrarily decide that it's D's birthday. Throughout dinner, there's mention of her birthday. The creme brulee comes out with a candle in it. The waitress shoots me a dirty look when we go dutch. As we're leaving, we get one last "Happy Birthday, again!" from the waitstaff.
  
• They played one song three times while we were at dinner. Personally, I'm convinced this was just part of D's birthday celebration. I think they saw her singing along the first time, and just could not help but play encores for her.
  
• YUM. Seriously.

The upcoming exam onslaught is causing me a background level of stress- I have not actually started studying, but I have started worrying. How very Aunty G of me.

Also, screw you Keane- the little Britpop jerks have lodged Everybody's changing into my head, and it will not. get. out.

and I can't unravel riddles, problems, and puns

Some times, I wish things were as simple as cause and effect, but, then again, were it that simple, what fun would science, or life, really be? The crazy thing is, even if you eliminate the complexities of science itself, there are sociological & ethical issues that add another layer of wha? to a lot of things.

Consider rotavirus, a common cause of viral gastroenteritis in infants and children. Now, though this is a pretty icky virus that certainly wreaks havoc on a little one's intestinal tract, it only causes an average of 100 deaths per year in the US. It causes a lot more fatalities in developing countries.

You might be tempted to write that off to the spread of the virus being more common in developing countries. Not true, actually. It's been shown that sanitary conditions have no impact on rotavirus incidence. So, why does the virus cause so many more deaths in developing countries? In the US, we have Pedialyte, and good healthcare, so that it's highly unusual for a child to die of dehydration. In these developing countries, more often than not, it's the inability to effectively treat infected individuals that leads to mortality.

Two drug companies (Merck & GSK) have been developing vaccines for rotavirus. Even though it causes few deaths in the US, we live in a culture of fear. So, why not have a vaccine for it? Here's what troubles me about this- both of these trials had to enroll greater than 50,000 patients in it. What this says to me is that these vaccines are going to be prohibitively expensive. Not to your average pre-schooler in the US, but definitely to your average kid in Southeast Asia. That means the vaccine will go to the people least in need of it, in a sense. I can't help wishing that we could somehow have used the money and research efforts that were spent in developing the vaccine to actually improve healthcare aid in the developing world. I know it does not work that way. It's not like these drug companies are going to go throw money at increasing availability of Pedialyte in impoverished areas of India. But I can't help wishing the money could have gone there.

On the other hand, some times our hypersensitivity to fear has an unexpected side benefit. For example, in the 1980s and 1990s, no one spent much money or manpower looking into what was going on with Marburg or Ebola virus, unless they were researching a role in some crappy Hollywood alarmist film. These are extremely nasty viruses, that causes hemorrhagic fevers, and have mortality rates that make all the avian flu overestimations look like chump change. However, they tend to sweep through at a rapid rate, clearing out a whole village, and then disappear from the clinical radar. They don't really have pandemic potential, and they tend to affect poor communities in Africa.

However, in the 2000s, with heightened concerns about biowarfare and bioterrorism, all of a sudden, the government became more interested in these deadly viruses. Thanks to all the hype, money is being spent on developing vaccines to Marburg and Ebola. Even though it may be that these vaccines also may not get in the hands of those who really need it, I am holding out hope. Maybe these vaccines, that were developed out of fear, will serve to eradicate this life-threatening virus all over the world. Perhaps that is too much to hope though.

In the usual, unrelated news, the TO saga continues. Personally, I'm guessing Parcells is going to pony up for him. Which is fine, since I've never much cared for the Cowboys. Of course, I can't talk too much smack since Peyton Manning's crew soundly trounced the Pats last night. That hurt.

I'm just waiting on a friend

As J would say, I'm done with all this noiz. By noiz, I mean, in this particular instance, whining. So, I'm not whining at this moment, but more, pondering a current dilemma of mine. Compare and contrast, peeps:

Friday night, I am walking to a Chinese restaurant in Stroller Valley with my iPod mini keeping me company. All is right with the world. I almost trip out of my slides at one point as I cross the streets, because my head is nodding to Ibrahim Ferrer. The guy across the street looks at me, and I just laugh at myself. It's best to just laugh when you have tripped. Believe me, no one is buying the look-down, hey, what just jumped up from the sidewalk and caused me to stumble? glance. I've tried it, it doesn't work. But anyway, I am content. It is a beautiful evening, and I am having dinner with friends I have not seen in nearly a month.

It's one of those San Francisco evenings. It's not foggy, but there's mist in the air, like a cool humidifier, sprinkling barely visible drops of water. My kind of evening. I get to the restaurant, and I am a little stuffed up. It happens some times when the weather is like this. My eyes are watering ever so slightly as I meet my friends at the table.

MG turns to me, and says, "Have you been crying?" She says this and she is unable to hide her excitement, near enjoyment at this prospect. She has never seen me cry. She does not know what could break me. I did not think it was something your friends yearn for, but apparently, she has been yearning for a breakdown.

Here's the thing- by the end of the dinner, I had the right response for the question. If I had known how fun dinner was going to be, I would have answered, "No, but I will be after two hours with you guys." Seriously. When did it become fun to spend a Friday night with a side of Woe Is Me on the menu? Especially when the only source of woe is your single status. One of these days, the dam is going to burst, and I am going to go all Shatner-on-SNL on these people and yell out, "Get a life!"

Contrast this to Sunday morning. I am usually awake on a Sunday morning at 8 a.m, but mobile? Yeah, not so much. But sure enough, it's closing on 8:30, and there is J, joining me on a little tour of San Francisco. Also known as a drive to Vinod's apartment, to pick up a surprise guest. A surprise guest who was none too pleased about being awake at this hour, but a surprise guest nonetheless. Fifteen minutes later, we are sitting with maisnon and Vinod, having breakfast in same said Stroller Valley.

I might shed a few tears at this breakfast. There is a lot of laughter, and my lacrimal glands some times go haywire when I'm laughing so hard that my sides hurt. It is ferociously early in the morning, reminding me of how my friends and I would drag ourselves to the dining hall after a late Saturday night, and talk over pancakes and omelets for three hours. And just like college, after brunch, I must dutifully trudge back home to study.

Something, beyond the pancakes and eggs, is satiating about it. It is the lack of drama, the lack of a gloomy cloud, even on an overcast morning, darkening my dish. Everything is light and airy and easy. On some level, I know that a sincere, deep friendship requires more density than that. But on another level, I think maybe I don't want a deep friendship just now, in that case.

Completely unrelated-- after leaving J et al, I got in my car and turned the radio on. I was then compelled to call the bro-seph immediately, and blare Don't Cha in his ear through my cell phone for three minutes. The last time we were out at a club together, he was praying for this song to get on rotation. Not that this negates the weirdness of our behavior towards each other. The day before, I had nearly driven him off the deep end by suggesting that, rather than getting a professional car wash, I could just wait for the rain to inevitably take care of the job. His head almost spontaneously combusted.

ain't gonna get it unless you give a little bit of sacrifice

W wrote me this week from another country, to inform me that DCFC are playing here on November 13th, and 14th, and throws this in:

You better be there! Even better, attend with one of the personal Dictaphone recorders, make a boot leg and send me a crappy sounding live concert so that we can feel like we're young and still in college.

Reading this was followed by a big, long, weary sigh. Yeah, I will not be attending either of said concerts. And even though I don't feel like I'm young or still in college, my reason for missing the concerts is not that they're sold out. Which they are. But I knew about them a while back, and already had a good temper tantrum over the fact that they line up perfectly with my next exam. This is why I have to conjure up love affairs with professors. It is the only way I can keep myself from bursting into tears about all the fun moments I will have to miss.

Let me throw in an Anthony Kiedis-esque, now that is a lie to that last sentence. I chose all of this, I brought it all on myself, and I want it, probably more than anything else I have ever wanted or will ever want again. Sure, I may get Whiny McGrumpypants about it from time to time, but nothing worth pursuing is easy, not now. The bro-seph was complaining the other day about there being no obvious options for him, and I gave him a dose of tough older sister love. I said, "Dude, the time for easy choices is long gone. That's fine when you're twenty-one, and you're a little punk who hasn't invested that much in anything to begin with. Anything worth wanting now is going to take some effort." Maybe that was a little harsh, but I really do believe that. There are two things that rankle me when it comes to a person's lot in life- when they act like a victim and when they say there are no choice. You are not an innocent bystander in your life, so you cannot, by definition, be a victim. There is always a choice; it just always comes with a price. So, what is it worth to you? That's the real question.

So, it's time to suck it up. Leave the party early, and let others say what they will. Nose to the grindstone, head to the stars. Stop trying to make everything fit perfectly into a puzzle that should only have my pieces in it.

do you remember when we used to sing

When my cousin, the teeniac, S, was visiting here earlier this year, the bro-seph and I continually marvelled at her ability to sing along to every song. Her mastery of 50 Cent lyrics did not bowl us over, but she also knew the words to songs that were not quite of her generation. We were shocked to find her bopping her head along to stupid classics like Kung Fu Fightin' and the like.

But when I really gave it some thought, I am pretty sure it has to do with growing up in EBF. We grew up in a place where at least 80% of the radio stations were playing music from different eras- classic rock, oldies, disco. I associate all of this quite old music with my childhood, and think that is when the music fit the time, but it didn't. Even then, it was anachronistic.

Because, one day in junior high school, on a long bus ride to a mediocre ski area, the windows cold as ice, but the sun lighting us up with anticipation, I remember this kid T singing My Girl. I had a bit of a crush on him at the time. We had all heard the song on one of the ancient radio stations. Other kids were joining in with him, as he sang out:

When it's cold outside, I got the month of May

I remember looking at him dreamily, wistfully, and just as quickly, snapping right out of it. Dude, My Girl is not a song you sing to a scrawny Indian twirp who's bundled up in ski pants and a parka that comes down past her thighs.

Funny. T was one of the popular kids, and really, he was earning cool points by the minute for crooning a Motown song in one of the whitest places on earth. All the girls were sighing. This kid sitting across from me, N, was eyeing him with veiled disgust. N kind of despised T, because T was the type of kid that was always garnering accolades for basically being boring. Did T ever take a stand? No. Did he ever have an opinion on anything? Not without checking around the room first.

N, on the other hand, was the sort of kid who had something to say about everything. He was always getting in trouble for talking in class. He was forever angering some cool kid by finding some really biting quip to hurtle. If you stated anything to him as a matter of fact, he would question you until you wanted to choke him. My first year of junior high school, when I was possibly the most introverted person at school, and still wore my hair in two braids that fell past my knees, N once grabbed the braids as if they were reigns. I turned around and landed a right hook in his arm. That is how we became makeshift friends.

And yet, it is still a mystery of modern day science, what happened next on the bus that afternoon. T was still basking in the limelight, with the eyes of a gaggle of girls trained on him. And suddenly, N, as if he was ripping the mic from a rival MC, belted out the lyrics to Brown-Eyed Girl at the top of his lungs. Initially, I found this strictly amusing. N was channeling Van Morrison, while T had completely turned My Girl into a vanilla milkshake. N was screeching just like you would imagine Van the Man doing it.

Suddenly, I noticed that a good portion of the bus was looking at me instead of N. Only then did I recognize that he was singing directly at me. I could feel myself slinking down against the shoddy green bus seats. It was the first time I had heard a song that someone could have actually been singing to me. There was nothing in it that was about beauty or appearance, but for the presence of those dark eyes.

N and I never spoke about it afterwards. We went back to our routine: him throwing out wisecracks at me, me doling out tomboy beatdowns at him. Meanwhile, I continued to moon over that Jordan Catalano-vacuous-o T for the rest of the year. But those two songs, both recorded well before I was born, remind me of sunlight filtering into a yellow school bus, and the bad decisions that stupid little kids make. When I think back on it, and ponder who I would want to have a conversation with today, the choice is obvious. But choice did not even play into it when I was a kid. Maybe it never does.

the melody always finds me

This is probably, ultimately a good thing- I have had music on the head for the past week or two, hardcore. I say it is good, because it certainly does a good job of keeping me from belaboring nonsense that I need not. It also keeps me from waxing nonsensical about convoluted scientific theories or from ranting about my latest pet peeves.

No, instead, a piece I heard on NPR a while back leapt to mind today, discussing the intersection of movies and music, the makings of good movie soundtracks. The piece spent a lot of time talking about the demise of original scores, in favor of canned songs. I do not have any strong feelings about this. There are appropriate times for both- Il Postino would not have been so swoonworthy without its pretty, pretty score. On the other hand, Goodfellas would not have been as effective without using the extended fade out of Layla.

Anyway, I started thinking of those songs that will forever be associated with a movie for me, that just fit perfectly with what was being conveyed in the film at that moment. Oh, and I know you care, so much, so of course, I had to share:

• The use of Don't Think Twice It's Alright by Bob Dylan in Dogfight kills me. every. time. I remain firm in my stance that this is a criminally overlooked film. But, add to that, this song, that I am already partial to on its own, placed at just the completely correct point in the plot, and I am a goner.
  
• There's this incredibly bright song called Nulla in Mundo Pax Sincera in Shine, played during a massive shift in the movie. The music, in this case, basically lifts the film from the previous dark Armin Mueller-Stahl-gravitas vortex. Which is a good thing, because this movie spends a long time down in the dumps. The song is a breath of fresh air that lets us all know the film is not going to end as a tragedy.
  
• Stuck in the Middle with You by Stealer's Wheel will forever be associated with a dude losing an ear thanks to Michael Madsen and Quentin Tarantino. Shudder.
  
• Van Morrison's music is employed in millions of films, it seems. I think he's actually a little overexposed in films, especially of the chick-flick varietal. All of that said, Sweet Thing plays at the end of Moonlight Mile, and it very beautifully closes an imperfect, but pretty (hello, Jake Gyellenhall, people) film.
  
• I'm a little embarassed to admit this, but I really, really get the warm fuzzies during the Tiny Dancer sing-a-long in Almost Famous. I know it is cheesy, but I cannot help it. Especially when Crudup finally breaks out of his funk and joins in.
  
• There is only one version of the film Sabrina that I accept as valid. In that one, Audrey Hepburn quietly sings La Vie en Rose in French to Humphrey Bogart. It is so understated that I prefer it by a mile to Hepburn's Moon River warbling in Breakfast at Tiffany's.
  
• The Pixies get a rare and much-deserved citation at the end of Fight Club. Where is my mind is, after all, such a post-apocalyptic song in so many ways. It almost makes me like Helena Bonham Carter. Almost.
  
• Look, I find Quentin Tarantino one annoying pain in the neck. Watching him in an interview, or, for that matter, acting, is like listening to nails on chalkboard to my mind. But the man really knows how to make use of songs in film. That's why he gets a second mention. Malaguena Salerosa by Chingon is played at the end of Kill Bill: Vol. 2, and it's a culmination of a pitch perfect soundtrack. But I think this particular song is fantastic, because he uses it as the character credits roll, and it fits phenomenally. This is amazing to me since the credits span different parts of the films, which have the Martial Arts and Spaghetti Western themes. Yet, this lilting Spanish song works for every single shot. Damn you, Tarantino! I want to hate you, and you're making it difficult.

That's off the top of my head. I bet there are many more. I haven't even included the funny ones- like Dust in the Wind in Old School or that song playing in Office Space when the dudes beat the hell out of the fax machine. Join the fun, and open my eyes to the other gems.

putting down my guard because I've been here before

Yesterday, when I got home, I was all about the Grumpy McB*tchypants. I was the Grinch who stole Halloween. And this is why I am one lucky b*tch. Every time I am on the verge of packing it all up and closing up shop, silencing the mindless blog-blab, something comes along and kicks me in the pants. In this case, it was a small package of excellent music.

But there was something in this package that really gave me pause. Aside from the obvious, visual aspect, does this blog always seem blue? I could not find fault with someone if they characterized my writing as such. I do whine a lot, oh, a lot. But, I am not actually sad that often. Even when I am wallowing in melancholy, it's not often that I am sad. I get nostalgic, I get swept away in moments or thoughts at times. Count on me to overanalyze the simplest of statements. Still, you could walk up to me on any given day, and it is likely that I would quote Old School before I would quote Morrissey.

Of course, after writing all that, I am about to dive into another somber thought that popped into my head yesterday during class. I was daydreaming in class about innate and adaptive immunity. Which, I guess, is better than daydreaming about Gael Garcia Bernal. Except not really.

Innate immunity is what you bring with you into a battle with viruses, bacterial infections. Or bad relationships, if you live in my head. Innate immunity is not a reaction that is specific to who you're fighting. It is who you are. It was with you all along. Some times, you did not know you had it in you until you are invaded. Innate immunity, surprisingly, even though it is not highly attenuated to a particular invader, is pretty adept at ridding you of most things. But with the pesky things, those relationships that hit you right where it hurts, the innate immune response will not do. It keeps things under control, keeps you from falling apart, but it is losing the war.

But that's where adaptive immunity comes in. This part of your immune system gets schooled. It started out naive, a blank canvas. When that first invasion happens, when you get slammed that first time, you recover thanks to your innate immune system. But behind the scenes, your adaptive immune system has been irrevocably altered in the process. You have realized this invader is no good for you, that it only brings you harm. Your adaptive immune system doesn't show it outwardly, but even when you're healthy, it's cursing under its breath never again, b*tches, never again. So much so that when that bad relationship virus comes along again, it launches an all-out offensive. It mounts a response faster and stronger than your innate system ever could have.

The thing about the adaptive immune system is that it doesn't last forever. Your body remembers earlier insults, but, just like our true memory, it forgets after a long time. So, we can conquer those previous bad influences swiftly, ferociously, as long as we can remember how bad they were for us. But should we forget, it's a big circle jerk. It is that thought that induces me to remember the things I would much rather erase from my memory.

they say "why are you dressed like it is halloween?"

Here's the initial thought that ran through my head on Saturday night, while two butterflies fluttered close by: "They're killing Independent George... worlds are colliding!!" The bro-seph met maisnon, Anna, and Vinod that evening. Though there were a few mentions of mutinies and even the word brimful, it all turned out just fine.

I think I finally have to own up to the fact that my eyes roll strenuously at the thought of Halloween. This is a nearly blasphemous confession if you live in San Francisco. But, I said it, b*tches. Look. I have bills to pay, I have journal articles to read, I have mindless surfing to do on the internet. I have neither the inclination nor the time to plan out and shop for a Halloween costume. Dude, I turned 30 specifically so that I would no longer feel any pressure to participate in such stuff. Seriously.

This year, I'm feeling particularly grinch-y about the whole occasion because it seems to have lasted forever. Friday, everyone at the company was dressed in costumes. Would it surprise you to learn that I chose to work from home on Friday because of this? Have you been reading this blog at all?? Sorry, but if I'm going to spend three hours eating candy and shooting the breeze with people, I will do that at home, or in a bar with my friends, not my coworkers. Then Saturday, every bar, club and library in the city was sponsoring Halloween parties, so again with all the costumes. Sunday, people in my neighborhood were legitimately (thanks for shattering the last shard of sanity I had left, oodles) celebrating Dia de los Muertos, which, in my opinion, sounds fantastically cooler than Halloween or even All Hallow's Eve, so there. And now today, finally, we start seeing signs of actual children wearing costumes. The poor things have probably been feeling mighty left out until now.

All I have to say is this: if all the nonsense keeps me from getting to class on time, everyone is going to have something to truly fear tonight. Boo, b*tches, boo!

sometimes I panic- what if nobody finds out who I am?

Have I told you how much I lurve A N N A? So much that I'm actually posting twice in one day. She decreed it so:

She hated hiding things. The idea that they did not get her, really know her, could make her despair. But they had ideas too, ideas of her. This revelation would not compute.

But ultimately, she was lazy. Occasionally, instead of coming up with an intricate excuse, she wanted to blurt out, “I have a blog.”

dance with me, my old friend

Last night, at Le Colonial, I arrived a few minutes before JG and her dude. Did I retreat to the waiting area, a perfectly nice parlor with pretty trees and heat lamps? Of course not. I barreled upstairs to the bar. When I got up there, I immediately thought of maisnon, and of how much I would have loved this scene just five years ago. A swing band was playing old standards, and a handful of couples were showing off lindy circles and rock steps and west coast footwork. Me, I was delighted to find Charbay at the bar. Then, like the wallflower that I really am inside, I stood at the side of the wall, observing.

I enjoy watching people dance together. The sloppy ones, the happy ones, the snappy ones, all of them. Last night, there were two guys who were clearly ringers. One was young, the other a fossil. There's something I have noticed about young guys who can dance well: they tend to know it. A young guy who's a well-versed swing dancer will move his partner around the floor expertly, gliding effortlessly. But he looks a bit removed, seems ever so slightly detached. There was an air of "whatever, man, I'm so on top of this beat" going on in the young dude last night. His eyes connected with his partner from time to time, he smiled politely, but then he would glance away, lost in his own mind.

The old man who dances well is a different character altogether, and I'll admit to being partial to fossils in this particular instance. I noticed it more clearly last night. The skills between these two dancers is just about the same. But the old man is no longer interested in showmanship, no longer about patting himself on the back. Oh, the old man does not hold back the moves. Some of his fancy footwork made me think of Fred Astaire. But what made him so swoonworthy was his face. The man was overjoyed. He was happy to be there, dancing, soaking up the music, but he was also thrilled to be dancing with a woman. His eyes were never on his feet, never on the scene, always on his partner. And the woman, who was obviously not unfamiliar with having attention, was loving it. This old man could have led her into the dining hall or the kitchen, and she would have followed him, so connected was she to him. He did this with woman after woman, and each time, the woman looked like she had just been awarded a diamond-crusted tiara.

We women, we love a good dose of undivided attention.

walked across that burning bridge

How do people manage to stay in touch with friends over long courses of time? Someone please explain this to me. I barely manage to keep in touch with my current friends. It really seems as though I am missing some key socialization gene that keeps me attached to people. They just fall away. It is not because I do not care about them. It is not because I do not think highly of them. It is not because I do not miss them when they are gone. It is just the effect of time and place. Or maybe it is the incongruence of reconciling who you once were with you are now.

This is all on my mind because I am meeting the only person I have kept in touch with from my hometown tonight. She and I used to live five blocks apart. We went to the same elementary school, junior high, high school. I can still remember, vividly, painfully, the first Thanksgiving after we had all gone off to college. A bunch of us all gathered at JG's house. She was somehow in touch with everyone. We sat around exchanging stories. Did this happen to you too? Do you think classes are hard? Is living in a city hard? Is he cute? All these stupid questions that naive freshmen cannot ask their fellow classmates, but can ask their former high school friends, for some reason.

Maybe most people come home on break from college and immediately meet up with all their friends. That was rarely a possibility for me. My mom's two brothers and two sisters all lived in my hometown. My grandparents lived in my hometown. My eight cousins, all under 10 years old at the time, all lived there. When I came home, even before I had put my bags in my bedroom, some little twerp would be waiting.

Not that I am complaining. In college, you spend day in and out around other people your age. There is something about coming home to an excited hug around your knees, something about having your cheek pinched by an aunt, or even about getting yelled at by your chauvinistic but lovable grandfather about gaining weight that lets you exhale, makes you feel like you are part of something permanent. I would love to wring my hands, cry woe is me that my parents bullied me into not seeing my friends from high school, but the fact is, I have always been of my own mind. Had I really preferred to hang out with friends from high school, I would have.

Also, there is a pesky detail I left out: I loathed high school.

JG and I actually lost touch over the years too. There was a span of time during which I knew no one from high school. She and I wound up reconnecting in Manhattan six years ago, through a coincidental mutual acquaintance. It was one of those bizarre, surreal, small world connections. Now she is visiting, and I wonder how I will seem through her eyes. I wish I could see her vision of me as a kid, and whether it is so vastly different as I think it is.

singing a thing fit for a king

it's evolution, baby

Last night, I had to admit that I believe in miracles. I came home to find this box sitting outside my apartment door. This means someone in my building actually had the grace to leave the box outside my door. This may mean nothing to most people, but it astounds me. The packaging left little to the imagination as far as what was inside, and still, no one absconded with it.

Anyhow, now that I have received this far too generous gift, anyone want to take bets on how long it takes me to actually open this thing and get it functional? Before you hazard a guess, keep in mind that my iPod nano still has the plastic wrapping that chides "Don't steal music" on it. Maybe this embarassing admission will actually cause you all to coerce me into getting my act together. Rrrriiight.

Dennis Overbye got me again. This time, he has nearly convinced me to go see the new opera Dr. Atomic. An opera about the days leading up to the atomic bomb, and the fallout thereafter- well, it doesn't quite pop to mind as the best subject matter for operas. In fairness, I am not a frequenter of operas. But this one certainly seems promising. Quoting John Donne while waxing philosophical about science is a fast track to my heart.

And I do find the story of the atomic bomb wholly fascinating and dramatic. Overbye sums it up well in his closing:

The first part of the atomic story ended with the worst fears of the scientists confirmed - more than 100,000 dead in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The idea that half a century later there would be some 50,000 nuclear warheads on the Earth was beyond their worst dreams; the fact that none of them has yet been exploded in anger since that summer, beyond their wildest hopes.

I wish I could get into the head of just one of those physicists, to see what sort of effect such an amazing and horrifying discovery had on their perspective on life.

there is a safe place that I used to know

Though I have never been bowled over by Norah Jones' vocal stylings, and I have lost interest in what Wyclef Jean is up to musically since The Carnival, it turns out they can string together a pretty song between them. It is as though Jones' usual bland, vanilla gets a much-needed infusion of soul, and Jean adjusts to a level of mellow that's actually just right for his Caribbean roots-leanings. Or I could have made that all up. Jean & Jones paired up to quickly put this song together for Katrina Hurricane Relief fundraising efforts. For some stupid reason, it's only available through MSN Music. But personally, I think it's worth it and certainly for a good cause.

I overwhelmed myself yesterday, and I have to admit that I rather liked it. Like when you stare at a painting too long, and all of a sudden you start seeing things that were never intended to be there. Or like a bad acid trip. So I'm told, of course. I am a good girl, V! Reading about latent viruses brought this latest brain melt on.

Let's set aside your garden variety flu, which tend to infect you, wreak havoc on your body for a short period of time, and then continue along their merry way. There is a whole subset of viruses that infect people, first acutely, during which you have clinical symptoms. Then, these viruses take a deeper dive, and plunge into a kind of dormant state in your body, called latency. They're just hanging out in your cells, not doing much, along for the ride. Some viruses do this forever; others, under the right conditions, re-activate and start messing with you again.

A good example of this is Varicella Zoster Virus. The first time this virus gets you, it's Chicken Pox. You have the itchy scratchies, and maybe a fever, but it's bearable. That's the acute stage of VZV infection. The thing is, when you've gotten over Chicken Pox, your body hasn't cleared the virus. It's still sitting around in your nerve cells, biding its time. In about 20% of people who have had Chicken Pox, the virus reactivates later in life, and causes Shingles. And Shingles= painful. Not good.

There are quite a number of viruses like this out there- Epstein-Barr, HSV, etc. And we all tend to get them as children. So, it just started me thinking that most people have a whole slew of viruses hanging around inside of them on any given day. And it's just a matter of time, just a matter of a confluence of the right factors, before one of these viruses decides it's time to kick it up a notch again. This happens more as you get older, since your immune system starts to suffer. I was thinking last night, wouldn't it be nice if there were some sort of reset button? It would be great if there were some sort of preventative therapy you could take, that would just wipe out any latent viruses that are sticking around in your system.

I am a huge fan of a clean slate, in nearly all things. But I know the complexities of life make clean slates an impossibility. There are things we carry with us from which we will never be free.

I live like a hermit in my own head

Well, it turns out listening to DCFC can be hazardous to your health. Sort of. The NYT has its faults of late, obviously, but it saved you from reading a bunch of nonsensical whining. Two things in the NYT brought me some hope today.

The first is something I do not bother to write about much, because I cannot even believe it is still a matter of debate- unintelligent design. In the last few months, however, the science and academic communities are starting to actually grow a spine about the situation. In addition to a few editorial journal articles I have come across issuing a call to arms, Cornell University's interim President, Hunter Rawlings III, came out swinging on Friday against ID. Sure, he is only an interim appointee, and was kind of setting himself on fire in a final blaze of glory, but at least someone from the university set is finally coming out and calling a spade a spade. Every time someone calls this issue a matter of tolerance, my brain implodes. And that is problematic, because I am running low on brain cells, people. I need all my neurons to study those pesky viruses.

The second story is more near and dear, and unexpected. The NYT reviewed a recently published book on Lincoln that focuses on his depression. What's interesting is that the author of this book has had his struggles with depression himself. There are people who have real chemical imbalances and need medication to live their lives. Believe me, I'm not going to start accusing people of being glib or anything. But here's something Lincoln wrote in 1841 that really resonated with me:

"I am now the most miserable man living. . . . I must die or be better"

Again, don't get me wrong- there is no need to mail order a straightjacket for me. But there's something to be said for hitting rock bottom, and coming to the decision yourself that you have to pull yourself up from the mire. There are problems with Shenk's analysis of Lincoln. I don't think it's fair to attribute all of Lincoln's greatness to his battle with depression.

But the idea that you might be miserable, that you might fall into a deep low, and that you might someday be able to fix your thoughts on something you find meaningful, that you might use it as your compass, that it might ultimately steady you- well, that's cause for optimism and swoons.

I had a bad weekend, and I can't even explain why. I brought it completely, wholly on myself. But yesterday, I gave myself a much-needed kick in the pants. And by night fall, when the fog was descending on the city, I was back from the ether. That has to count for something.

P.S. To the reader who found me through googling "antisocial misanthrope", I think we are meant to be.

just a series of blurs like I never occurred

Making a return showing this week, thanks in no small part to listening to the new DCFC album and a call for blue:

The contentment came spilling forth in her voice, impossible to conceal. He heard the message, and the sky darkened from cornflower to midnight. The moon seemed sallow. There was conservation of matter to consider, only so much happiness to split between them. On her side of the seesaw, she teetered high. He had no choice.

I know DCFC are too emo and whiney for a good many people, but sometimes, a good, moody wallow is in order. If nothing else, the San Francisco weather demands it.

little secrets, tremors, turn to quakes

My favorite kind of stories are these. Over 25 years ago, scientists were fiddling with the genetics of fruit fly development. There were two organisms scientists toyed with most in those days: fruit flies and worms. Also known as Drosophila Melanogaster and C. Elegans, respectively (like you cared). Both were chosen because they are easy to work with- they are easy to manipulate and they reproduce quickly. Researchers could mess and mutate the genes of fruit flies, and within a few days, they would discover they had found a way to get the fly to grow an extra set of wings, or a leg where its antenna should be, etc. etc. In the course of messing around in this manner, they found this mutation:You can't see it so well from this picture (which was taken in 1980, before we had all the nifty camera technology that still doesn't help me take a worthwhile picture), but this fly wound up a spikey ball with no wings. So, they called the gene that had been mutated Hedgehog. And back then, most people rolled their eyes, and shrugged, thinking nice work, fruit fly dudes, but I really wonder if we should be funding you crazy scientists for this random work that has no applicable value. A classic issue that comes with working in basic research.

As it turns out, all of this work in fruit fly and worm development wound up being immensely important. It turns out fruit flies and worms are not that different from you and me, especially in terms of how we decide what we want to be when we grow up. As embryos, our cells figure out what they want to be by listening carefully to what is going on around them, reacting to small changes. It turns out what keeps a normal fruit fly from looking like a hedgehog also helps human embryos figure out how they should be growing. The researcher that found this structurally similar gene in humans wanted to piggyback on the original name, and also was something of a videogame buff, so guess what he came up with?
You can't say these dudes didn't have a sense of humor. At this point, people became a little more interested. Hmmm, cool, we've got this same development pattern as flies, but... so what? Well, have I got a story for you. It turns out that Sonic Hedgehog is activated in embryonic cells that are figuring out what they want to be. Then they get shut down for the most part, because we're all grown up- our fate has been decided to a large extent. But, there's still a small part of us that's constantly renewing, certain things in our body have to be recycled. In those instances, Sonic Hedgehog is still doing its thing, telling cells these are not the droids you're looking for and sending them to become what Sonic Hedgehog wants them to be.

Here's the thing. If Sonic Hedgehog goes haywire and doesn't behave as it's supposed to, it goes to the dark side of the force. It programs cells improperly, and the next thing you know, the dreaded big C looms on the horizon. In fact, researchers have found that almost all basal cell carcinomas, a type of skin cancer, have defects in Sonic Hedgehog signaling. Dig that.

In an even crazier, parallel development, some sheep farmers found that ewes eating corn lilies were giving birth to mutant lambs with only one eye! Be glad I didn't dig up a picture of that. Some scientists got on the case, and discovered that there's actually a substance in corn lilies called cyclopamine. And guess what cyclopamine inhibits? The Sonic Hedgehog pathway. Now, even though that was bad news for those poor lambs, cyclopamine turns out to be very good news in fighting cancer. It basically tells Sonic Hedgehog to STFU, so that adult cells remain behaved.

I could never do the work of those fruit fly researchers, because I am short-sighted and impatient. But I am a big advocate of funding those mad scientists doing their seemingly fringe research. Sometimes, you have to take it on faith that a small discovery that might seem irrelevant will eventually serve to sharpen the big picture in important, unforeseeable ways.

breaking the laws that the signmakers made

Though I really want to write about an elegant example of basic research that yielded applicable value, I am putting it off until tomorrow, because today I am mastering the fine art of procrastination. Also, I am distracted today, and that topic deserves some slight amount of focus that I can't manage to muster just now. More evidence of that can be found at partyben's site, where you can check out a Tegan & Sera mashup that I cannot get out of my head. I have been walking with a ghost for something like 24 hours straight now. Please don't insist.

Today, a coworker was complaining about how hard it is to turn a year older. I have to be honest here- I banish thoughts like these from my head. Birthdays feel arbitrary, but I suppose they are useful for marking time. And time can easily feel like it is slipping away if you do not pay attention. So, I engage in healthy competition. With myself. Every year, I push a little harder, to do a little more. Last time, it resulted in an adventure I never really imagined myself capable of. Topping that is going to be difficult, but I have to try. Suggestions are always welcome. Right now, I've only been able to come up with quitting my job. That doesn't fly for two reasons:

1- too easy.
2- too inevitable

Here's a good example of how I can seem a walking contradiction. Last Friday, super swanktastic, over-the-top dining for no reason whatsoever. Today, when I actually have good cause, slumming it up tacqueria style. All I can say is, don't underestimate the joy that accompanies hanging out with a gay bf and consuming a good enchilada.

and I have no compass and I have no map

Stephen Colbert and Stone Philips in a gravitas-off = enough reason to stay up late on a Monday night. Even if I am paying for it dearly today.

Occasionally, my professors make statements that seem ridiculously obvious, and yet, somehow, manage to throw me into a pondering tailspin. Yesterday's gem was: "You have to know what you're looking for in order to look for it." See. I know. DUH, right?

But it's a fundamental challenge in an early stage of basic research. In the beginning, you are just looking around, without a clue what it is you're really looking for. Think of the Human Genome project- scientists wanted the map of the human genome, and initially argued it would unlock the answers to everything that ails us. I know I'm exaggerating here, but so did they, so let's call it even, shall we? Ultimately, the project did yield a map, which resulted in more questions. But they were better, more informed questions. Slowly, we're figuring out what it is we're looking for. That improves the chances of finding it considerably.

You can develop a test to confirm whether or not someone has a virus, but first you have to know quite a lot about that virus. Only by studying the virus at the molecular level in detail can someone design a test to specifically identify that virus' presence in a person. The same is true with a multitude of other diseases.

It seems so simple, to remember to know what you're looking for before you look for it. But I can't think of too many times in life that I have actually followed such a credo. I am more likely to get in my car and drive until something catches my fancy than I am to map out a route to a destination. Some of this ties into what the ultimate goal may be. If it's the searching that is the goal, the place where you stop may be irrelevant. If it's the destination that matters, though, you better know where you wanted to end up.

Of course, I don't know, not exactly. But this time, I have an idea of what the destination looks like. It's blurred around the edges, it hides behind a veil of fog, but I can make out the shape of it. I know when I'm heading away from it and when I'm heading towards it. And that's just about the level of certainty I need at the moment.

the bright lights, the people, and the moon and all

Call me a vampire or a werewolf, but I have a thing for the moon. I have been known to interrupt conversation to excitedly point out a particularly beautiful moonlit night. Usually, this is met by a glance that says Yes, the moon, it's up there every night, dumbass. But I never tire of it. The moon is one of those things that come and go forever, and I am a sucker for that phenomenon. Both changeful and constant at the same time.

There were other lights that caught my eye on Saturday, however. On my way to dinner at Maverick's, every cafe, every art gallery, hell, even most of the furniture stores in my neighbhorhood were brimful with hipsters. The Litcrawl was upon me, and I felt simultaneously raw about not being able to attend and genuinely tickled that such an occasion occurred in this city. There were over 150 authors reading on Saturday, most of them along this very street I was walking. The fact that so many people were in attendance just reminded me of the great literary enthusiasm of this city. I went to the very first Litquake- it was held in an auditorium in the public library, where authors read 15 minute-excerpts of their latest work. To see how far it has evolved in three short years gives me the warm fuzzies. It is so easy to be cynical about people's intentions, and roll my eyes at hair-brained schemes, but this city is not afraid to ignore all that buzz and build on something they find valuable. For all my razzing the hipsters, there are a considerable subset that genuinely believe they can make something happen. I find that immensely impressive.

You know you have had a good night when you get clocked in the eye, and can still call the evening enjoyable. Serving as maisnon's wing-girl comes with hazard pay, you know. We went to Levende Lounge, which, for those of you who care, used to be Butterfly. I really do not care about anything about this lounge, except that they need to keep whoever it is that is the mastermind behind their bartending skills. They know how to make a good cocktail there.

That said, let me assure you that I was completely sober when I got b*tchslapped. As maisnon characterized it, I was soon scheduled to become a pumpkin, and we wanted to say a quick hello to Vinod. As we made our way through the crowd, a wildly gesticulating woman smacked me in the eye with the back of her hand. Hard. Like stop in your track to check if your eyeball is still in the socket hard. Nice. Even though the woman did not apologize, her male friend apologized profusely. Once I had collected myself and realized that my eyesight was intact, I dispatched him with a whatever, yo, it's all good.

One other thing that dawned on me on Saturday evening: I need to go shopping. Either that, or I need to stick to hanging out in seedy dives where sweatshirts and jeans are de rigueur attire. I am guessing, however, on the extremely generous side, that there is a 0.5% chance that I actually will go shopping before 2006.

I leave you with one of the two Sandburg moon poems I most love. The other one is well known, but this one gets me every time:

I sang to you and the moon
But only the moon remembers.
I sang
O reckless free-hearted
free-throated rhythms,
Even the moon remembers them
And is kind to me.

Swoontastic, bitches. If you know the other poem, I officially lurve you.

a hundred million castaways looking for a home

If I have to read on a Thursday night, most of the time, I will do so at home. My neighborhood is usually crawling with carousing hipsters on Thursday evenings, and I worry that I might feel cheated, walking to a cafe to read. But yesterday, I was feeling a bit invincible, in case you did not notice. Well, that and my apartment has reached a state of such clutter that it actually distracts me from being able to read peacefully.

So, journal articles in hand, I marched over to Ritual. This is clearly a streak of insanity revealing itself, because I do not, for one thing, under any circumstances, drink coffee. Also, Ritual is the nuevo hipster of all hipster cafes in my neighborhood. The last time I was in there studying during the day, I saw Om Malik working with a friend, both of them typing away furiously on their laptops (I was too intimidated to say "Hi, remember me? I'm the one who has the blog about nothing!"). Techtards have no place there, but I sidled up to the counter anyway. The pleasant hipster behind the counter gave me an enormous cup of white tea with roses, and I carried it over to the main seating area.

I was surprised to find that Ritual was packed on a Thursday night. More than that, I timidly looked up from my journals at one point, and realized that nearly everyone was sitting alone, typing away on their iBooks. I am glad I did not bring my non-Apple laptop to the festivities. I might have been lynched. Or at least ridiculed. So there we were, all of us, alone together on a Thursday night. Did I mention that I love my city?

Today, there is a hint of stress, because I have been designated the sponsor of a blow-out dinner. The stress relates solely to the necessity of looking presentable at these sorts of establishments. I haven't looked presentable since 2001, people. Start placing bets on how soon before we'll be asked to leave the super chic restaurant.

I was out on the radio starting to change

Have you ever found yourself genuinely surprised at your own reaction to something? This week has been one, big surprise for me. First, I was surprised that I was stressed out about my first exam in a millenium or so. Next, I was surprised at the endorphin rush that gripped me following completion of my second exam. Then, I was surprised that I dealt with a recent development maturely, when normally, I would be running around searching for an industrial-sized bottle of vodka to sink myself into a hole of melancholy. Last night, when I expected to completely sloth-out while watching tv, I found myself unpredictably dissatisfied. I thought that after two exams and the threat of drama, I would be mentally taxed. Instead, the only thing that quelled my hyperactivity last night was reading a journal article.

In fairness, I think I can blame the meh reaction to watching television on J.J. Abrams. This guy has never met a promising show that he can't ruin. There were many signs reading "Welcome to the suck", among them:

• Oh look, I can speak English! Oh wait, no I can't, it was all just a dream.
  
• "At least we all have jobs again" = welcome to Gilligan's Island.
  
• Hi, my name is Naveen Andrews, but you can just call me the resident handy man. Any signs of my character having real personality in Season 1 were just written to get me to sign an extended contract.
  
• Punching Sawyer in the face once, yes please. Punching Sawyer in the face as being the standard way to court his interest, no thanks. Also, I think his arm should be chopped off due to gangrene by the next episode.

It doesn't look good, peeps. Maybe I'm just sensitive because this makes up 85% of the television I watch these days.

I woke up without an alarm this morning. Nothing makes sense, and the absurdity is delicious. I should be stressed out, I should be paralyzed by the amount of things I have to get done. I should be freaking out about a gentle breeze from the past. But I'm not doing any of those things. Maybe it's that phenomenon of gradual changes that go unnoticed having a cumulative effect. You tend not to notice that you have learned how to handle an issue until it presents itself again. Maybe it's that I really have picked a path worth walking. I read too much into most everything, and in this case, I have created an entire novel out of nothing. Still, I feel a little invincible at the moment. I expected to be in the dumps, and instead I find myself energized. Normally, this would feel penultimate, like the inevitable downward spiral was just waiting to follow. But today, all I have are surprises, and the strangely comforting thought that I have no idea who I have become.

all seven and we'll watch them fall

San Francisco is so perfect at times. This morning, I drove through a haze of love to get to work. Cool mist, images appearing in and dissolving out of sight. It matched so succinctly how I felt that I could not help but smile to myself. Really, I am coming out of the fog that was the last two days of crazed cramming and exam taking. And last night, just when I was ready to rub the clouds out of my eyes, an injection of the past into the present caused another wave of confusion to wash over my brain.

But the fog starts to burn off as the sunlight starts to assert itself, as all good San Franciscans know. And I am warmed by all the well wishers.

I do not usually undertake these, but then again, I have never been tagged to do this, and Andrea tagged me, so I had to give it a stab, and let me say, I think this might be the last one of the sort for me, because this requires effort, and I am one lazy b-:

7 things I plan to do before I die:

• go to Spain
  
• learn to speak Spanish fluently
  
• admit I'll never be a rock star and sell my electric guitar & amp
  
• find a new line of work
  
• make amends with all the XYs I've flipped out on in my lifetime
  
• collect all my photographs and put them into an album
  
• tell the bro-seph I lurve him.
  

7 things I can do:

• organic chemistry
  
• slam into walls, shatter into pieces, collect the debris, put myself back together, brush myself off, and slam into another wall
  
• get a sunburn (an unfortunate discovery in the last few years)
  
• commit intensely to something I want for a finite time
  
• knit passably
  
• sign the alphabet
  
• read and write Gujarati at a second-grade reading level (hey, look, there's not much I can do especially well, I'm grasping for straws here)
  

7 things I cannot do:

• drive standard shift (so embarassing)
  
• friends with benefits (the effect of age)
  
• live without chocolate
  
• eat mussels, oysters, assorted shellfish, eggplants, coconut
  
• maintain a good poker face
  
• keep my apartment clean
  
• headstands, handstands, yoga in general
  

7 things that attract me to another person:

• a unhealthy love of virusesscience
  
• an ability to be self-deprecating while not being insecure
  
• tough exoskeleton, soft underbelly
  
• a streak of mischief
  
• a streak of protectiveness
  
• a forgiving nature, especially in regards to insane behavior
  
• pheromones
  

7 things that I say most often:

• Mine's on the 45
  
• Son of a- !
  
• I can't, I have to study.(a recent addition to my repertoire)
  
• Dude
  
• I'm going to need you to go ahead and...
  
• WTF?!?
  
• Yeah, come in.
  

Sheesh. Well, I don't know about you, but thanks, I'm full.

I can hear machinery

On my way to work this morning, I passed a movie production crew, just starting to set up. Unfortunately, there was no getting jiggy with it. Actually, scratch the unfortunately part.

I really have nothing else to say. Yes, amazing, but true. The fact is, all my brain cells are currently focused on recovering from the exam I took yesterday, and energizing for the exam I have in a few, short hours. So, rather than bother anyone with incoherent, half-baked ramblings, I will go back to cramming another one-quarter of a textbook into my skull.

when I come back down

Between avian influenza, the earthquake in South Asia, and mudslides in Guatemala, the news feels like one big bastion of doom of late. Because I believe in science, I can't believe the end is near. But really, all these disasters really make me ponder why so much is happening of this sort. But... on to the self-absorption:

When molecules are pulsed with energy, they are thrown into an excited state and then there is relaxation that follows. In some ways, I am fortunate, because I always manage to get into the excited state well in advance of the moment of truth.

Saturday, after several hours of class, I walked out of class to a sun-drenched San Francisco day. One of my classmates was trying to recruit me for a job at his start-up. I was like, "classmate, please." The kid's a total punk. We were walking towards BART, and I gave him some tips on how to hire someone who would actually be foolish enough to take the job he was trying to shill off to me. I stopped short of BART, and he looked at me quizzically, then asked whether I was taking BART. "Not today," I said, feeling as if I were cutting classes.

Then, as I started to walk to the Ferry Building, I started to feel like I was cutting classes. As I was approaching the Embarcadero, my phone rang, and it was A. We had the following exchange:

Me: Do you know what I just finished doing?
A: Something to do with studying?
Me: Three hours of classes, dude.
A: Did you make out with your professor?
Me: Dude, our love is pure, and I will not have you sully it with that kind of talk.

Still, I was feeling anxious. I wasn't feeling guilty, necessarily, because I have enough sense to know that it's just not possible to study after you have spent three hours in a lecture. Your brain is goo, and nothing is going to be absorbed at that point. By the time I got to where SJM was waiting, I did not know what to make of what was going on in my head. It was equal parts impending doom at the thought of the tests that lie before me and inconsolable funk that I was not out enjoying such a day to its fullest.

In the end, I forced SJM to check out the Ferry Building, and its crazy, overpriced wares, like buffalo mozzarella cheese (upon inspection of this, SJM remarked, "Does the buffalo know about this?"). Then, maisnon picked us up. Originally, we planned to dine at the Ferry Building, but there were two problems:

• The Ferry Building is filled with tres chic, overly pretentious nonsense.
  
• The entire pier/waterfront was filled with droves of tourists.

As usual, maisnon to the rescue. She drove us back to my neighborhood, because it is the only area of the city where I can be trusted as far as directions and restaurant recommendations go. That said, of course, the first place we went to was closed and also somewhere that maisnon, Bay Area resident since September '05, had already been to! Luckily, where we wound up was fine. However, we completely ruined SJM's plans to check out the Fleet. Each time a plane roared dangerously, thunderously above us, SJM threw us guilt-trip-imbued looks. But as maisnon points out, we're immune to that sh*t, because we have Indian moms.

Upon returning home, I kind of crumpled into a million, tiny pieces. I had a crisis of faith and a panic attack all rolled into one. Some day, I will get this sort of stuff out of my system for good, because it is nothing but counterproductive. I was in that crazed, excited state, highly unstable and bouncing around so much that I was getting very little accomplished.

Nothing particularly even snapped me out of it, just the fact that I had to snap out of it. By Sunday afternoon, everything felt possible again, and nothing felt so awful and depressing. It's amazing what a good pizza and eleventy billion hours of studying can do for a person. Walking into an exam in the relaxed state is best.

back to that flat, fine line

He lived in a subtle, massive place, but would say he lived in San Francisco. He entered contests, but would claim little interest in winning. Every day, he sat in front of a computer, yet he would pause interminably when asked his occupation. In that pause, the weight of two realities pressed down upon him.

Yes, folks, I have become one of the lemmings. For now.

It is going to be a lovely weekend here. There are a million things happening, and I would love to do every one of them- Litquake, fleet week, nice weather conducive to hikes, a big sale at REI. Living in the bay area can be difficult at a time like this. I told someone once that I think SF is a good place for an over-motivated person; it takes the edge off. Similarly, it can be a dangerous place for a passive person; you could tread water for years. I, as usual, fall somewhere in between. So, a weekend like this, with so much to offer that I ultimately must refuse, makes me a bit blue.

underneath the armor is another good girl

When I grow up, I want to be Ana-Lucia Cortez. I love me some Sawyer, but punching him in the face? Much more sex-ay and badass. And she gets to punch him again next week- squee!

I’m still fixated on viruses, especially since I apparently contracted one of the stomach varietal yesterday. Tricky viruses come in layers. They have envelopes that protect them, a capsid inside the envelope, like onion skins. These layers are designed to protect the precious part of a virion, the genomic material. Everything about the virus, its past and its plans for the future, can be found in the genomic material, the blueprint.

The reason viruses are so successful is that they are designed such that the envelope will protect the inside of the virus when it needs to be protected, and will breach when the virus needs to be let loose. A virus has to know when to keep up its guard, play the field, and when to get serious, unpack and settle down. An M&M melts in your mouth, not in your hand. A virus keeps itself separate from a cell until it senses the right cell for the job.

The fact is, we all have the potential to keep our shell in tact, or to melt. Anyone can melt under the right circumstances. It became clear to me today that it is not time to disrobe just now. Now is the time to keep the precious insides inside. Stay self-contained. There will be time, but that time is not now.

The weird thing is that it’s usually those times when it’s most necessary to stay tough that I am most tempted to become weak, to melt. An exaggerated internal battle, a self-destructive special. I'm a walking contradiction. But at least I’m fighting on the right side for a change.

sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe

Every once in a while, the symphony of existence starts to feel like it has reached this frenzied crecendo that sounds suspiciously more like cacophony. What I would not give to be dedicated to one cause right now, and one cause alone. My hermano and I were talking today, comparing our bumbling ways. Here's what we came up with: the bro-seph is fumbling for a light switch to illuminate his path, while I am just bounding forward in the dark, running into tables and walls along the way. His way seems more passive, but it's anyone's guess which of us will actually get to where we're trying to go.

It is important, at such moments, to take a deep breath, and, quite simply, give up. Do you know that, in the influenza epidemic of 1918, nearly a third of the world's population passed away? It has always been called Spanish influenza, because that's where it was first identified, but, in typical style, we blame the Euros for something we started, as the virus was later discovered to originate from an American military hospital. Normally, flu hits the very young and the very old, because their immune systems are usually more sensitive, and unable to mount a response to the virus. But the 1918 influenza was nasty, and its target was 15-35 year olds. It killed over 25 million people. I repeat, over 25 million people. That sort of epidemic boggles the mind.

Usually, I am the first to roll my eyes at alarmists. I cannot stand it when one major tragedy turns into an evening news running commentary soundbyte: Next up, tsunamis in South Asia, how it could happen on the 7-miles of New Hampshire coast next week.. It smacks of self-absorption, really. But in this particular case, I am willing to make an exception. If a flu pandemic really does manifest in our lifetime, with all our advances in science, medicine, and understanding of viruses, it is going to be nearly impossible to minimize in a timely fashion.

Yesterday in class during lecture, the instructor got a little red in the face and corrected himself when he said, "the cells decide," because, I suppose, it's anthropomorphic. Cells neither have feelings, nor do they weigh their options before deciding what to do. It's either a pre-programmed response or based on random chance. And I know that the instructor would frown at me for writing this, but so much feels like it's either pre-programmed or random chance. And so, I just think it's best, when it feels like the war against entropy cannot be won, to simply think back on Dylan, and know that all you can do is do what you must. I find some strange measure of contentment in that.

can't find my way home

happy happy joy joy

Only I could get lost getting from my neighborhood to the lower Fillmore. The debate is still on as to how someone can manage to get that turned around in their own city, but I did it. And therefore made maisnon & I tardy to our meetup with oodles and ads. Luckily, maisnon's sparkling new car served as a shiny object of mass distraction to gloss over this. After the appropriate cooing, we headed into Happy Shabu Shabu.

The place is quite new, as you can see by the cleanliness of the exterior (a rare sight in the lower Fillmore until recently). You can also see that maisnon's the only one of us that isn't camera-shy. The inside was equally spotless, although it was also devoid of other human beings. We remained unphased. We were not disappointed (although I personally found the techno beats a little bizarre at lunch time). Afterwards, maisnon made fun of oodles & me for our tendency to wear sunglasses at the slightest hint of natural light. She laughs now, and come to think of it, since she is living on the peninsula, I suppose she will continue to laugh for the foreseeable future.

It might have just been a two hour escapade. It may have seemed short to the folks like ads and maisnon who travelled a considerable distance for this get-together. But it was perfection for me. I have been raising the ire of friends lately because I haven't been able to play in all of their reindeer games. The problem is that the clock is against me. And meeting up with people out of guilt is not a pleasant way to socialize; once again, I master the knack for stating the obvious. What I am (very poorly) trying to get at is that it was nice to see everyone, because it was just what I needed to catalyze me into getting my work done. After HSS, I spent the rest of my afternoon in a fit of surprising productivity.

By the end of the weekend, I had completed all my reading for class. I'm convinced this was due to the collective coolness of the HSS meetup, and dinner Friday night with LS and Mr. LS. Those two operate on some different vibrational frequency, I am now convinced. Here I am, on a path that seems to proceed at a sluggish pace, and they are on some sort of femtosecond course. Engagement, marriage, moving to the suburbs, in the blink of an eye. The most impressive aspect of this is them: they are so serene, just all chill and peaceful-like. If I were in their shoes, I would be on medication right now. Everything in its right place, indeed.

Oh, last night, upon picking up the bro-seph, I told him about Happy Shabu Shabu. He wrinkled his nose and said, "That's like calling a place Happy Hamburger." That b*tch cannot bring me down this time- the place was cool.