ISleepInADrawer.com

Comfort and Joy

There are days where I apparently need a sugar cookie with pink frosting to get through the afternoon.

Number Crunching

Today, I rode the 66 Express into work with at least 47 other people. Among them:
23 were dressed in professional (suit/tie) attire
10 were plugged in to their iPods
12 read paperbacks
1 read the Bible
2 read the Economist
1 talked on his phone (and prided himself on his Prince Albert)
1 was a Nobel Laureate
28 had coffe/tea travel mugs
1 wore a "F*** the Vote" t-shirt
1 had a facial tattoo
30 had cranial piercings
1 sneezed at my cologne
2 held hands
1 had a mohawk
2 had shaved heads
14 wore hats
1 had a Homestar Runner shoulder bag
2 were asleep
13 got off at the Hutch/SCCA stop along with me
1 was the Cute Short Guy from work
1 was the Cute Scruffy Guy from work

And one was looking at all of them thinking, "God, I love people-watching..."

The Winter Years

When did it happen? When did I age? When did "I'm too old for this sh*t" move from the once-a-month utterances of a seasoned youth to the daily lamentations of an angst-ridden droll?

Lately, the thrills of my evenings have been:
--Forming my own model for UN reform, and debating such a model with Z.
--Dining with one or several friends, and then creaking home while the sun is out "'Cause it's getting late."
--Complaining about aches and pains (specifically, a spider bite on my thigh).
--Convincing Z to watch Casablanca with me.
--Lamenting that I seem to be the only person left on this Earth who sees Halloween for what it is, a glorified popularity contest.
--[Gulp] Crafting.
--Applying to graduate school.

Never before has 23 looked so arthritic. Too bad 24 is only weeks away!

Recollection

Today I had four conversations concerning my hopes for future graduate studies. Three were encouraging, supportive, uplifting, and generally inspiring. One was demeaning, conniving, manipulative, and downright abusive... condescension cloaked as caring.

The fact that the "downright abusive" conversation happened no more than an hour ago, while the other three conversations are distant memories six hours (or more) in age, is making it very difficult to keep the fourth conversation from entirely ruining an otherwise quality day.

But, Two Things in Particular give me pause:
Thing One: During the first three conversations, elation and logical optimism took hold and I quite frankly couldn't shut up. I was giddy with the prospect of potential graduate projects. During the fourth conversation, however, I was taken so off guard that I couldn't mutter a coherent word in my own defense.
Thing Two: The implications of the last sentence from Thing One (particularly the implications concerning my self-image, my communicative and social abilities as a hominid, my mental abilities and capabilities, my dependence on the mammalian fight-or-flight instinct, and my sociocultural status) have so flabbergasted my (so-called) mental clarity and subverted what should have otherwise been a Day of Utter and Complete Zen (in a dorky science sort-of-way) that I cannot sleep. But the damage goes far beyond my Rapid Eye Movement cycle... the caustic nature of the poison from that fourth conversation has seeped into my stomach. For the very idea of coffee ice cream or banana pancakes, two of my most cherished comfort foods, has made me want to ralph (which, being my middle name, is a colloquial synonym for "to vomit" that I am completely free to use).

Perhaps the fourth conversation would be a bit easier to digest had it not been with a seasoned graduate student who knows more and achieves more than I... and was once someone I looked up to.

Three

Well, I did it. After a thoroughly successful Basic Sciences Division Retreat in a most luxurious (and free-food-filled) setting, I returned to the city this afternoon inspired with graduate school aspirations. So, I contacted three people begging for letters of support for graduate school. One, from my undergraduate institution, will hopefully consent with no hassle. I've equally high hopes with the other two, who are connected to my humble existence through two internships and post-undergraduate employment.

Now, all I have to do is wait for their replies... and eat ice cream.

As for the retreat itself, I've actually found five labs I'm interested in. And what model systems do some of these labs utilize, you ask? Why, three-spined sticklebacks, Drosophila, and foamyviruses, of course! And I thought the organism I currently torture was fringe.

Update: One Two All three said yes!

Blatant Luxury

The Division my lab is in at the Hutch takes an annual trip up to the Semi-ah-moo Resort near the Canadian border for an overnight "scientific retreat." All expenses paid, no strings attached. Free meals, pressure-less talks, and let's not forget the complimentary drinks. Plus, my roommate is extra-cool this year!!! I even painted my toenails for the event.

This will be my second year attending the retreat as "just a tech." When I came back last year, Blogger had inexplicably killed the weblog I was using at the time. Here's hoping Movable Type is a bit kinder. If not, and if history does indeed repeat itself, then expect yet another weblog to pop up sometime just prior to Thanksgiving. Damn technology.

Another One Bites the Dust

An Open Letter:

Dear Louisiana,

P.S. Remember your jewel, New Orleans? The Big Easy? Yeah, it's definitely sinking. And there's not a damn thing you can do about it.

Talent

Growing up, my parents stressed "Intellectual Extracurricular Interests." My older sister had no interest in athletics, and I had no talent for athletics (How many times do I walk into walls?... And let's not forget the Falling-in-the-Shower-Incident.). Music is a family tradition... on dad's side, you've got gifted singers (he was trained as an opera singer, you know), pianists, organists, and so forth. My mother's side is a bit more modest, though my grandmother is a self-taught pianist and organist with perfect pitch (alas, she didn't pass those alleles on...). Since my Skills and Talents were pretty well mapped out at a young age (I can hear it now: "He falls down a lot and can't color within the lines... His renditions of Jesus Loves Me approximate the sound of feline strangulation... but he has long fingers..."), I was gently, along with my sister, urged to take up the family tradition... music.

Since singing was out-of-the-question, I took up piano... and later added the double bass. Leave it to me to pick two of the largest instruments out there... I might as well have taken up the harp, too (which I apparently did in Montessori School... but that's another matter entirely). After my parents divorced, he took the piano (he's the opera and piano whiz, after all), and we could never afford a double bass (always rented... always rented). I was never particularly good at either... but played both all through public school and college. So, having an "artistic outlet" seemed perfectly logical to me.

For my boyfriend, however, things were different. Whereas I was actively encouraged to take up music and/or art (my sister did both... but I got bad grades in art... which is very discouraging since I'm pretty much the type to base my intelligence on my school performance), Z apparently was discouraged... at least from music. Assuming bitter feelings on Z's part about the cello-lessons-that-never-came-about (knowing that I'd feel poor if my piano lessons had been denied in kindergarten, I'm assuming others would have similar reactions), I've never broached the subject further.

Until we each bought a painting from this wonderous man.

At the informal reception where we officially bought the paintings and met the artist, I overheard Z telling the artist about an apparent "hobby" of his that his parents encouraged as an alternative to the cello... drawing. He apparently drew all through high school, and nearly pursued a major in illustration in college. But, artistic tendencies were apparently shelved for political science, law school, running for the state legislature, and other "stuff."

Now, he's feeling the tug again. How do I know? Well, since the paintings were purchased, he's been talking nonstop about watercolor pencils, sketchbooks, paints, and so forth. This afternoon, we finally ventured to an art supply store and loaded him up with stuff I never knew existed... he knew exactly what he needed, and even managed to engage a few employees in "art supply dialogue" while I stood off to the side about as useful as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. I played around with the brush displays for awhile, until Z informed me that the particular brush I was holding as a microphone as I sang along to "Respect" on the radio cost $45. Ouch.

I've never seen Z's works. Apparently, most of them are back in Iowa, if they even exist anymore. He hasn't done any sketches or paintings for a decade, at least. But hey, it only brings down the Ugly Truth even more for me: artistic outlet! I'm relieved that he's reviving an apparently beloved hobby... and am anxious to see his "style."

But, of course, I'm also hurting now for my own artistic outlet... I haven't touched a double bass in over a year... and the closest "piano" is a keyboard I can play for an hour at a time in a not-so-soundproof room in the Seattle Central Public Library. Ouch.

Is it too late to put "baby grand" on my birthday list?

Disenfranchisement

Today, Washingtonians (those-who-live-in-Washington) went to the polls for the state primary. At least, some of us. Apparently, most are staying away because:
A. It's a primary.
B. For the first time "in history" (1935), Washington has a closed primary. Thanks to court action, we must now declare a party, and stick to that party, when voting.

Being from Illinois, where such a primary system is commonplace, I walked up, listened to the spiel of "you must stick to one party on the ballot" thinking "Uh... yeah. I've done this before...", and then tried not to scream out loud each time another voter came in, outraged and bitching with, "What do you mean I have to pick a party?!... You're taking away my democracy!!!!" Oh, grow up, Washington.

As for me, when I finished voting, I had my own complaint:

Those f*ckers at the polling place didn't have an "I Voted" sticker to give me.

I might as well vote absentee ballot from now on... the thrill is gone from voting in person. The State of Washington owes me a f*cking sticker.

The Name Game

Z and I have been getting into pseudo-arguments lately over names for our cats. The whole ordeal began several weeks ago for "us" (as a couple), but it really began several years ago for me.

I never had pets growing up, save for some minor goldfish when we lived in Arkansas. When my mother announced to me sometime around the age of 4 or 5 that she was allergic to cats and dogs, I began to bring up alternative pets - hamsters, rabbits, mice, etc. But each one was struck down for the same reason: my mother's extensive allergies. I've known my whole life that she's had a wide range of severe allergies - epi pin in her purse, allergist practically on speed-dial, and a wide range of pills and self-administered shots. In fact, I can pretty much trace my fear of needles to an incident when I walked in on her giving herself an allergy shot just prior to our move to Florida when I was 4. When she eventually made me realize that "anything with hair" would cause an allergic reaction, I then spent the next year or so anguishing in extreme and agonizing guilt thinking that my mother was allergic to me. I was willing to shave my head to alleviate her sufferings, but then I realized I also had eyebrows and eyelashes.... and the thought of removing my eyebrows and eyelashes, for some reason, was just too much for me to handle. I also had some problems resolving the idea that my mother could be allergic to her own hair, too. Bringing these concerns to my mother two years later (I apparently enjoy anguishing), she finally told me that the genus Homo has yet to cause a hypersensitive immune response.

But, to make a long story short (too late), I grew up with no pets. But naming pets has been a top priority of mine. Any close friend knows how obsessively I label and organize things in my big, squishy brain... so it should come as no surprise that, growing up, I formulated lists of names for my offspring and my future army of cats. I wanted cats because I figured, at a young age, that since I hated dealing with poo, I wouldn't want to associate myself with a creature that I'd have to take outside to poop each day. I wanted creatures that could easily be trained to deal (quite literally) with their own crap. Cats, I was told by friends, have a natural "digging" instinct when it comes to... well... crap. And humans, it turns out, are easily toilet-trained. So there - I knew I'd have cats and kids.

But now, of course, things have changed. I've grown up to painfully realize that I, at the age of 23 almost 24, have no patience for children. Which is a shame because... well... not to toot my own horn... but I have some bitchin' names picked out. These names are golden. Though, some people might disagree. But who needs them when I'm too busy basking in my own brilliance? I've satiated my own desire to name humans with the thought that... someday... somehow... someone will come to me and say, "James, I'm going to be a parent... and I want you to pick the name my offspring will have." Sweet.

But, back to the argument-at-hand. Children are now out of the question. I'd be the sh*ttiest parent on Earth. But, cats are another story entirely! And hence what Z and I have been arguing about... what to name our cats! When we each resolved to come up with names, I thought long and hard here. I searched through science and literature... the greatest books, legends, tales, and stories... the best in composition: operas, ballet, symphonies... heroes, leaders, and great statesmen from history. I explored the most thought-provoking realms... and I came up with pure magic.

Now, Z and I gather to present our names.

Me: "I've decided on two names for our cats."
Z: "Me too. Well, I actually only have one name I'm attached to."
Me: "Well, I definitely want one to be named Grendel."
Z: "Grendel?"
Me: "Yeah. You know... from Beowulf. The creature that attacked Hrothgar's realm."
Z: "Oh."
Me: "Want to hear my other one?"
Z: "Sure."
Me: "It's Pongo!"
Z: "Pongo?"
Me: "Yeah, isn't it great?! You see, you know I'm all about primate evolution. Well, evolution in general is just fascinating. But, when we were at the zoo the other day, I remembered that the genus of orangutans is Pongo. And orangs are my favorite taxon of higher primates. It just sorta... fits. You know?"
Z: "Uh... I guess..."
Me: "You don't like them?"
Z: "Well, what about my name?"
Me: "Well, let's hear it."
Z: "Puffy."
Me: "Puffy???"
Z: "Yeah."
Me: "Well, what the hell is that from?!"
Z: "Nothing. I just want to name a cat Puffy. I didn't even have to think about it."

We've put the argument on hold for now.

And actually, we can afford to put it on hold because... well... we don't have any cats yet.

Hot Dog

You'd think that, since I reside in the state that has the U.S.'s only case of Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy [Mad Cow Disease], I wouldn't eat beef.

Yet, sometimes I do. And Friday I was reminded why...

Because how often can a Nobel Laureate serve me a hot dog at the Hutch's annual picnic?

Two years in a row! Damn, I love this company!

In the Bathroom

It's amazing what you read on bathroom stall walls these days. Some in Seattle seem to be trying poetry.

Take this... gem, for example. Taken from Julia's of Wallingford:

"Symbolizing a Broken Heart"

Should I go sleep in the gutter?
Or lube my anus up with butter?
Not sure if I'm convincing here -
The smartest kids are always queer...

Honestly, though, I was bothered most by the fact that line two has an extra syllable.

One Thirty

New to my room.

Hats off to the artist.

Global Election

It's no secret that Bush isn't exactly loved worldwide. But now polls have been taken in a variety of nations asking, "World Citizen, which President would you rather have in the U.S., Bush or Kerry?" The answer, overwhelmingly, was for Kerry. The margins of victory varied greatly... from 74%-7% (Kerry-Bush) in old Norway to 47%-16% in Queen Elizabeth II's most humble domain (I wonder who she'd vote for?).

In some nations, dislike for Kerry did not automatically translate into votes for Bush. In India (34%-33%), a full third of the respondents simply shrugged their shoulders and said, "I don't know." [Or perhaps, worse yet, "I don't care"?] Only in the Philippines (32%-57%), Poland (26%-31%), and Thailand (30%-33%) did Bush have a statistically significant lead. Other nations, such as India and Nigeria (33%-27%), went to Kerry, but not with a significant lead. Europe, Canada, and Latin America went full-force for Kerry over Bush. Asia and Africa were more muddled. Victories came for Kerry in Indonesia, Japan, China, and Nigeria, but sometimes the close margins made the results moot.

The poll itself is more of a judgement against the Bush presidency than a leg-up for the Kerry campaign. Poll respondents still know little of Kerry or his policies. I'd guess most of the world has Anyone-But-Bush Syndrome, a disease which has escaped epidemic proportions so far here in the U.S. (except for some extreme urban population centers).

The poll apparently also asked about prevailing transatlantic attitudes. It seems Americans are losing touch with their old-school allies, the Europeans. Eighty percent of Americans thought war could achieve justice, while only half of Europeans (perhaps after having two world wars in their backyards?) thought as much. Seventy-five percent of Europeans in ten nations disapprove of the President's international policies. Ouch.

What does it all mean? Well, take the results in stride. Notice that this article was written by the BBC, the war-cry for conservatives and moderates in the U.S. for "liberal-biased left-wing media." I have no doubts that the BBC swings to the left - but then again, some noted American news services swing a bit to the right. The story also briefly points out the study's greatest shortcoming - for logistical reasons, the survey limited itself to questioning folks in urban population areas. Oopsie. Logistical reasons aside, I almost decided to discard that survey right then and there. If one conducted polls in Seattle, San Francisco and New York, I'm sure we could all guess that Kerry would beat Bush by a landslide. But, any fool knows urban voters tend to swing to the left... and rural voters tend to swing to the right. National politics aside, that trend is seen in most stable nations.

So, here we have a worldwide survey of selected urban centers. Left-leaning bias? I'm willing to say yes. But, it's the first reliable global survey of the Bush presidency, I believe. As for the results, I'm sure the Republican campaign is glad that only American citizens can vote this November. We may just do what the rest of the world doesn't want.

You Want It

Alas, they just serve hamburgers.

Commando

Z and I finally broke off doing the "couple thing" last night. Don't misunderstand me - we're still dating and all that. But, we'd had enough of the "just the two of us" game. So, to seek out other humans, we actually did something we hadn't done in months... we went out to "the bars."

Actually, it was just one bar. The Cuff is officially a "leather" place. But, well... I don't really see that when I go there. I see a refreshingly diverse group of gay guys and fag hags, though - from all walks of life. That diversity in of itself ushers along with it an atmosphere I find much less judgemental. Thus, I'd labelled it a "safe" place where I can go, drink, look generally ill-kept, and still have fun.

Except that we showed up on "Underwear Party" night. Great timing, eh?

A good third of the men there had taken the Cuff up on their offer of half-priced drinks for patrons in their skivies. Z claims he would've done the same, had he had more "classy" underwear on. Nothing on God's Green Earth, however, was going to make me part company with my clothing. The same could not be said, however, for one of our friends we me up with there. I had to help Josh check his clothing up front, and found it to be a rather memorable, albeit awkward and rather laughable, milestone in my friendship with him. Though I now know he wears boxer-briefs.

As for me, I proudly paid full-price for my drinks, did a lot of "looking around" with Z, hid Josh when he felt "too exposed," and got incredibly drunk.

On the naughty side, I also did something I hadn't done in almost a year. I smoked a cigarette. And the horrid, scratching, scraping feeling in my throat this morning, accompanied by a dull drumroll in my temples, hammered home one highly logical conclusion: I am never doing that again. You'd think, working at a cancer research facility, that such a point would sink in easier. But, I think it'd almost be easier to get me to strip to my underwear. Almost.

Linguistics

After a visit to the Asian Art Museum today, I've finally decided that my favorite four-syllable word is dromedary.

Just say it with me, everyone. Dromedary.

Magical, isn't it?

For your information, my favorite three-syllable word is still syllabic. For two syllables, it's still a tie between atlas and hamper. For one syllable, I've no clue.

Isolation Tank

Some enlightened folks out there have asked me why, over the past few weeks, I've attempted to avoid as much news as I'm able to concerning domestic politics. I hardly watch news TV programs anymore (not that I did much to begin with), and I don't join Z any more for his traditional (dare I say "religious"?) viewings of Sunday morning "political talk shows." With the Republican Convention this past week and the previous trend of a neck-and-neck Bush-Kerry race, I just found myself overwhelmed with the horrible thought that Bush may indeed win - whether by the skin of his teeth or a comfortable margin.

In the "liberal biased" press, I'd read reports of the Bush-Cheney campaign "slipping ahead" in key battleground states, or yet another blunder by the Kerry-Edwards camp, and hear such news sugar-coated into some sort of "This may not entirely help the Republican camp, though" tall tale. And... well... it just depressed me. I stopped reading domestic news beyond browsing the headlines. The "United States" section of The Economist has gone unread for weeks (save for their breathtakingly fair-minded critique of the president's first term). I did my best to skip some of the party-loyal and Bible-thumping rhetoric of the Republican National Convention, though some well-meaning co-workers, knowing my love of current events, would mistakenly assume I'd been glued to Convention coverage when they'd ask, "Did you hear [Name-of-Republican-bigwig] say [various anti-gay, pro defecit-spending, anti-environment comments] last night?" And demoralizing news, of course, trickles out in spurts. It's all largely (save from this post, of course), driven me into numbed silence.

I don't know what else to do. I've done voter registration drives, of course. My Kerry-Edwards campaign sticker is on my car. And, most important, I encourage folks to think outside the box (i.e. "think globally") when they vote in November (and hope, by my speech, that they don't mean I think Bush is the best choice... yikes). But, other than that, the constant stream of news with battleground states, Vietnam records, gay daughters of VPs, pollspollspolls, this campaign stop and that campaign stop, and attack advertisements... it's just too depressing. And too tense! So, like an ostrich, I've stuck my head in the sand. I'll surface now and then to read more insightful commentaries.

Like Edina and Patsy, I'll stick to my Iso Tank, and come out for state, local, and international politics... Sidran or Senn? Sims or Gregoire>? Decisions decisions!

There Are Days

Some days are more blatantly nostalgic than others.
And that's why we have coffee ice cream and Pink Floyd.

So... so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell?
Blue skys from pain?
Can you tell a green field
From a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?

How I wish... how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls
Swimming in a fish bowl,
Year after year...
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears.
Wish you were here.