ISleepInADrawer.com

Nightshade

Earlier today, I cheered. The Washington State Senate, by a one-vote margin, passed HB 2661, the so-called "gay civil rights bill." Twenty-nine years in the making, it failed in the State Senate last year by a single vote. An apparent change-of-heart by a moderate Puget Sound suburban Republican led to today's victory. With the State House of Representative's already overwhelming approval, Governor Gregoire has announced she'll sign the bill into law on Tuesday.

There are apparently celebrations all over the state tonight. Zach and I made a brief (five second) appearance at Seattle's, and abruptly left when we remembered that we don't have any "gay friends." We instead joined heteros at Zach's favorite Mexican restaurant in Belltown. I was in high spirits: following Gregoire's signature, gays will be protected from discrimination in regards to housing, employment, commerce, and insurance.

But, it's a bittersweet victory. It takes only a quick browse through the reactions of the general public to see that there are plenty of Anita Bryants out there - who think I've somehow chosen to be gay; who see it (at best) as an illness or (at worst) the epitome of immoral "behavior"; who think HB 2661 is a conspiracy to bring about backdoor gay marriage. That in of itself was a bit demoralizing.

But then, we hear that Iran and the U.S. have found their own reasons to get along suddenly.

To make matters slightly more complicated, the more vocal gay rights activists spent much of this week not lobbying solely for HB 2661, but also gleefully anticipating a decision from Washington State's Supreme Court striking down the state's own Defense of Marriage Act. I believe both sides of the debate, for better or for worse, anticipate DOMA dying. But, the real question is, what comes next? I fear too many of my fellow Seattlites think gays all over Washington will sign up to marry, no questions asked. During our five seconds at the celebratory party earlier tonight, in which I heard about five thousand utterances of "Gay marriage is only a few months away!", I felt like standing up on a soapbox and screaming at the top of my lungs, "My God! Don't you folks understand that the rest of Washington has said, time and again, no to gay marriage!? And that a constitutional amendment defining marriage as a union of a man and woman only will not only pass by huge margins despite Seattle voting against it, but will also bring Republicans out in droves to either kick Maria Cantwell out of the Senate or Christine Gregoire out of Olympia?! It's just a matter of which year the amendment goes on the ballot! And, if we really offend them, a citizen's initiative will also seek to repeal HB 2661. Perhaps a more quiet approach would be better, eh? Sure, equal rights aren't a matter of public approval - but, baby steps, folks! Baby steps! We live in a state where a citizen's initiative could end it all overnight!"

Somehow, I think, had I mentioned such a pragmatic viewpoint (which was about as unpopular in that room as gay marriage is in Washington), I would've been crucified by an angry mob.

What a tangled web we weave.

Maturity

I'm currently taking a class on protein structure. Yesterday, the professor lecturing about various protein fold decided to write the phrase "assigned folds" on the board. But, with one important abbreviation.

"Ass. folds"

While most of my entirely mature peers drank in the information on protein folds, unphased, I faked a coughing fit in a generally unsuccessful attempt to hide my childish giggles - which persisted, on and off, for the next hour.

Jingle All the Way

Despite my previous protestations to the contrary, I fear I am slowly becoming a Seattlite. For, though I retain many useless jingles in my head from Quad City commercials, I recently caught myself singing a jingle for Lynnwood Honda ("Experience the difference!") while doing the dishes.

I'm amazed by my mind's selective memory. Yesterday, I deplored my apparently inability to grasp the vocabulary to "talk the talk" of yeast genetics to my labmates... "Which is especially sad," I noted, "Since, instead, my mind has decided to file a whole host of 'useless' knowledge rather than the intricacies of the yeast kinetochore. I'll name for you every Israeli prime minister. I can understand and recall 75% of what R.E.M. is saying in 'It's the End of the World as We Know It (and I Feel Fine)'. Hell, I can even identify my socks when I'm folding laundry! But, I cannot seem to 'talk the talk' when it comes to yeast."

Coworker: "Socks?"
Me: "Well, yeah. Zach isn't too careful with his dirty clothes; they usually end up mixed in with mine. And he can't tell which socks belong to him and which belong to me. So, we rely on my power to identify my socks whenever we do laundry."
Coworker: "Uh..."
Me: "I also remember a slew of commercials and jingles from when I was little in Illinois. Want me to sing the jingle for the Davenport NBC affiliate?"

Now, rather than remembering the components of the yeast kinetochore, my brain is apparently packing in new connections that will let me sing the Lynnwood Honda commercial on command. This morning, as I was getting ready to go into lab (first year graduate students usually don't get the weekends off), I vented my frustrations to Zach as he played with the cat. After I was done listing the inadequacies of my cerebrum, both he and the cat looked up and gave me simultaneous, sympathetic looks.

Zach: "Don't worry, Jim. I'm sure you're being too hard on yourself. In fact, I KNOW you are."
Me, putting on a shirt: "Oh, really?"
Zach: "Really. I'm sure you'll get the hang of yeast. Just give yourself some time."
pause
Zach: "Is that my sweatshirt you're wearing?"
Me: "Yeah. I like it."
pause
Zach: "Is it only a matter of time before every item of clothing I own becomes yours?"
Me: "No. I'll let you keep the suits."
Zach: "Thanks."
pause
Zach: "Hey! You're wearing my socks!!!"

The Finalists

We're down to three finalists, and Governor Gregoire has the final say:

Personally, I'm a fan of #2. Such a jovial Cetacean.

Sphere

late last night:
Me: "The Emir of Kuwait died tomorrow."
pause
Zach: "Huh?"
Me: "The Emir of Kuwait died. But, it's tomorrow in Kuwait, and it's still today here. So, he died tomorrow."
Zach: "Oh."
Me: "It's funny how that works."
Zach: "Yeah."
pause
Zach: "I just love your cute little lovehandles!"

Dark Forest

A friend of mine from the other Washington sent me an article from The Washington Post describing the so-polite-it's-scary behavior of your average Seattlite and the authoritarian-politeness-issued-from-on-high laws that govern (or might govern) the city.

Based on these rules and characteristics as cited by the article, which I'm listing below, there is one simple conclusion I'm forced to draw: though I might pretend otherwise, I am not a Seattlite.

Seattlites...
1. don't honk: Pretty much every time Zach drives me to our destination, I invariably attempt to instruct him on the proper times to honk, yell out the window, and (if absolutely necessary) bring out the middle finger. Since Zach doesn't take orders too well, minor bickering usually ensues. Granted, most of the city's traffic woes are attributed to poor infrastructure development and upkeep; but, getting from point A to point B isn't helped by drivers, on a massive scale, failing to take basic and practical measures when operating a motor vehicle such as checking one's blindspot.

2. frown on jaywalking: Yeah, I know. I get dirty looks for it daily. I'm therefore apparently of "low moral character." Be that as it may, I also get home and out of the rain faster than the rest of ya'll - which is somewhat surprising considering that Seattlites...

3. love their caffeinated beverages: Sure, I indulge three or four times a week... but, the same people in the same endless lines in front of the same coffee shops each and every day? Jesus, that's dedication!

4. require their strippers to stand four feet away for lap dances, tell their smokers to stand twenty-five feet away from doors/windows/vents, and fine citizens who don't properly sort recyclables from garbage: Insufficient interest, insufficient death wish, and insufficient desire-to-overfill-already-full-landfills. In that order.

So, when I honk at you, overcaffeinated citizen, for sitting-for-five-minutes-at-a-stop-sign-doing-nothing, remember that I also spell it Seattlite, not Seattleite.

"Others went north to live here in a dark forest in the rain." - It's day twenty-seven, after all, and I'm starting to get impatient.

Single File

Seattle is in its twenty-third consecutive day with "measurable" levels of rain.

"Measurable" levels of rain?

Yes. You see, we don't count the days where drizzle spits out and clings to the skin.

I almost hadn't realized that we've had persistent rain storms for the past twenty-three days. Sure, if you'd come up any of those twenty-three days and asked me how this winter compares to the others, I would've showed you wet-and-smelly coats, umbrellas (I'm not a brave Seattle native), and hats draped on hangers and Zach's beloved exercise bike - and my favorite pair of shoes which, this winter has shown, are no longer waterproof, thanks to six years of abuse by this pesky habit I have: walking. Yes, my third winter as a Seattlite has been by far the most difficult.

The sun? I have vague memories.

But, now I'm seeing a real downside to a "healthy," wet, Northwestern winter: Zach is in Olympia... I'm in Seattle... and currently, there's a mudslide in between. I have to stick to sidewalks now - as stepping on the grass (I learned this Sunday) carries the added risk of turning the ground into a muddy sinkhole. But, on those sidewalks, I have to keep as far as possible from the road, as the streets are often small streams, and speeding SUVs, kick up tidal waves that leave James with wet jeans (I learned this yesterday).

Thus, with pedestrians learning that the muddy, unpaved ground has the power to swallow one's shoe, while the paved sidewalks lie dangerously close to local automobile-induced tsunamis, I trudged home last night along with a number of other pedestrians, in a line - on the extreme edge of the sidewalk farthest from the street.

I've graduated from college only to march home again in the single-file fashion that I was subjected to in kindergarten. And, just as in kindergarten, the woman behind me kept stepping on the back of my shoe, letting more water in. But, when I left the line to leap across mud puddles home, I shook my wet umbrella at her.

Triumphant, I turned, and slipped on the wet grass.

Event Horizon

I got a haircut today.

This isn't exactly a life-changing moment. I've been a mammal my entire life; hair comes with the territory. But, I've lately been pondering, at the barbershop, whether hairdressers are ever tempted, by some sadistic (yet, to me, entirely understandable) desire buried deep in the primeval realm of the human psyche, to leave the job half-finished.

I usually ponder this when I'm at the most vulnerable during the haircutting process. I usually receive a monthly buzz-style cut from a very pleasant, quiet Vietnamese immigrant named Kieu. She speaks so little that I only knew her name from her hairstyling license, which she keeps framed next to the mirror. My haircuts are brief, simple processes. She doesn't need to turn my chair or anything like that. So, facing the mirror, I am treated to ten minutes of various degrees of horror as I watch my mane reduced from a length of approximately 1 inch to something along the lines of 0.25 inches. Sure, it's what I asked for - I like a short, simple cut that, though it leaves me looking like Charlie Brown at the end, will keep me from the barber's chair for another 4 or 5 weeks. But, from the time the clippers make their first attack (always on the upper right side) to the time the gross mowing is over (and all that's left are cosmetic questions concerning sideburns, the widow's peak, and so forth), my mind is awash with:
"She could totally screw me over now... kick me out with the top of my head at a quarter inch, and my sides long and bushy... just like the time I left half the lawn unmowed when it started hailing."

I believe my mind resurrects memories of mowing lawns as a child and teenager to calm my mind - to soothe the soul, and chase away thoughts that, at any minute, Kieu could decide that, generous tip or no (I tip quiet barbers generously, since I generally don't like to talk to strangers or near-strangers), she's had it with Charlie Brown, and toss my half-cut body out on the street - leaving me with a panic stricken run up six blocks to my car in the free parking zone, my uncut hair flowing freely in the winter breeze while my freshly-buzzed-yet-short-and-stiff cranial zones resisting the raw wind. Half of my head cushioned better against the cold than the other, I imagine hyperventilating in the car as I ponder how I will go through life with half of my hair (usually the right half, based on her pattern of attack) a full 0.75 inches shorter than the rest. I imagine that the thought wouldn't occur to me to simply have the rest of my hair cut at a different establishment, as that would require being seen in public with the hair on the left of my head a full 0.75 inches longer than the hair on the right side. Instead, I imagine my back-up plan consisting of:
1. hyperventilating some more
2. going home
3. having Zach shave my head entirely.

But, usually at this point in the haircutting process, Kieu has now cut 75% of the hairs on my head, and the rough course of her buzzing device across the surface of my head has reminded me that my head is far from a smooth, round Charlie Brown-style melon. Based on the flow of her clippers (or lack thereof) over my head, like an all-terrain vehicle, I'm reminded of Phobos and Deimos, the Martian moons. Phobos and Deimos, I imagine, would probably like to hide their craggy surfaces with a nice coating of hair... perhaps even as little as 0.25 inches. I, with a cranial surface most likely to win a contest as the third Martian satellite, should never shave my head. Thus, my imagined back-up scheme has a fatal flaw - I'd have to wear a knit cap for two weeks.

Though, I'd also save money on shampoo.

It is at this point in the haircutting process that I remind myself that Kieu has been nothing but respectful towards me and, perhaps due in part to my generous tips, has never displayed outward distaste at my resemblance to Charlie Brown OR Martian moons. In fact, she's surprisingly never pointed it out.

Thus, my mind begins to imagine other scenarios in which I could be screwed over. Usually, as the haircut is complete by this moment, I get no further than the scenario in which the entire planet loses power forever - and Kieu, with no power to run her clippers or process my debit card payment, must send me home with hairs of two different, distinct lengths on the top of my head. If a buzz cut would only take a little longer, I could no doubt concieve of other scenarios in which the Fates, always humbling in their acts, could leave my hair crippled. But, alas, Kieu is usually shoving my glasses into my hand and pronouncing, "All done!" approximately ten minutes after I first graced her establishment with my large-headed presence.

Thirty seconds later, debit card receipt in hand, I'm back out on the street, pulling a knit cap over my head. Not out of embarrassment, but because my nearly-bald head is always so cold after such self-induced psychological trauma.

At least my knit cap is a comforting shade of blue.

Established

Zach and I took a day trip down to Olympia today. For him, it was partially work-related. I was just along for a promised free lunch and a chance to see the State of Washington's concrete-laden capitol building.

When it came time for a meal, I grabbed a South Puget Sound telephone directory and began to scan for restaurants. Regardless of our eventual selection, I was struck by something I'd noticed for years - but never thought about.

Why on Earth must businesses let you know - with a great deal of pride, no less - that they've been around for five freaking years?

Established 2001.
Since 1998.
Established 1988.

Is anyone actually wowed by such statistics? Granted, I'm no expert at small business administration. But, I'm an Average Joe. Thus, the average person won't give two flips either. Yes, I've heard how difficult it is to run a business in this country, particularly with every politician out there vowing to help the small business owners. So, it's obviously difficult to stay around.

But, do you want to impress me? Then, if you've been around since the Vietnam War, broadcast it. Been around since the Eisenhower Administration? Climb up the tallest building in your town with a megaphone and let the world know. Did your business, small or large, survive the Great Depression? Streak (and I do mean streak) through downtown Seattle screaming it at the top of your lungs. Better yet, did you espresso stand serve Roman centurions conquering Gaul? Pat yourself on the back, champ.

But, did your opening day coincide with the impeachment of Clinton? The controversial swearing-in of Governor Gregoire? The break-up of J-Lo and Ben? Yawn.

On second thought, there's a marketing scheme here that's just ripe for exploitation. I could set up a clothing brand:
-T-shirts labeled "serving you since 1980" (or other birth years).

Perferrably blue.

Would you buy that?

Scatological Humor

In the past, when "toilet problems" have arisen, there's always been a second toilet on hand to act as a back-up. Last night, as useless flush after useless flush failed to... well... flush, each rush of water in the porcelain bowl, unfortunately not accompanied by a satisfying "gurgle" indicating that all has flowed well, mocked me - saying, "Now, little prince, you've no functioning toilet at 10:45PM!"

I feared that we, like the cat, would resort to peeing on the orange chair.

Of course, as Zach constantly reminded me through the closed bathroom door (I wouldn't let him in), a possible solution lay a foot away - the plunger.
Me: "I can't use the plunger."
Zach: "Why? Is it gross?"
Me: "Of course not. Something's plugging up the pipe down where we can't see it."
Zach: "The plunger'll fix it."
pause
Me: "But... what if?..."
Zach: "What?"
Me: "What if it doesn't fix it? What if, instead, it brings up something gross?"
Zach: "Huh?"
Me: "You know... something regrettable."
Zach: "Jim, it won't. Let me in and I'll show you."
Me: "No, I've used one before."

Alas, I had indeed. For a relative who was afraid to take care of the problem him/herself. And, alas, it did bring up something... regrettable. Since I vowed at that moment that I'd never again see anything regrettable, I simultaneously vowed to use plungers only as a last resort. And I wasn't there yet.

Unfortunately, I hadn't bet on seventeen pages on the yeast cell cycle due the next day.
Me, opening the bathroom door: "I have to do homework."
Zach: "So you'll let me take a look?"
Me: "No! Don't go in there."
Zach: "But Jim, I'll fix it."
Me: "No. I'll take care of it. Go to bed. I'll run by that 24-hour pharmacy later on and buy some Liquid Plumber or something.
Zach, rushing in the bathroom: "Oh, for crying in the night, James! Here's what you do."

And within two seconds, the toilet crisis had ended, with no regrets.

Unfortunately, I felt so relieved that nothing "regrettable" had occurred, I spent the next twenty minutes thanking Zach profusely. The praise has gone to his head: he now believes that two-second plunger skills now make him worth of the title "man in this relationship." When I reminded him of the time he kept trying to kiss the cat on her lips for a half hour straight, while she writhed in agony in his arms, he feigned grief.
Me: "The truth hurts, doesn't it?"
Zach: "Not really. At least I know how to use a plunger."
Me: "At least I didn't try to kiss kitty on the lips because it looked like fun."
pause
Zach: "It WAS fun."

As if to drive the point home, I'm pretty sure my cat just farted.

New and Improved

I've been eagerly awaiting the new year for a very important reason:

New episodes of Battlestar Galactica begin this Friday!

But, Zach and I have been so excited by the continuation of the show's second season that we've actually pondered having a few friends (all devoted fans like ourselves) over for the first few episodes (which resolve a mid-season cliffhanger). Only yesterday did I realize that such a move would entail a huge amount of cleaning on my part...

Well, more like a combination of shoveling-crap-in-the-closet and making-sure-no-one-can-smell-cat-pee.

With such a public admission concerning my feline's bladder (which, for her, I'm pretty sure is a behavioral manifestation of a combination of pre-Zach-and-James childhood trauma and the psychological stress of having two gay parents), I'm pretty sure now that no one now will EVER want to enter our... ah... cave.

Except for President Roslin, I hope.