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Tonight, for the third year in a row, Zach and I ventured to the home of two dear friends to take part in their Halloween pumpkin carving contest. Zach was riding a wave of victory from last year, where his intricate carving of the United Nations emblem into a pumpkin earned him first prize (a wind-up skull toy that scared the living daylights out of our cat). This year, he opted for a musical theme: a treble clef swimming among eighth notes.

I've always admired Zach's creative side. He's expert at both drawing and photography, whereas I can barely color in the lines. Time and again, I've been told I'm abysmally "scientific" when it comes to art -- that is, I've neither the creative eye nor the originality to design and execute a work of visual art. It's taken me twenty-six years to admit this... but, honestly, those harsh words are a fairly accurate diagnosis.

Thus, this year, I decided to abandon hopes that I'd be bitten by the Creativity Bug -- that some brilliant, deep, and intricate idea would spring forth in my hopelessly "scientific" skull, and unfold through the blade of a carving knife slicing through pumpkin flesh.

"Screw it," I thought. "They say I'm not creative. So, I'll embrace my anti-creativity."

And so, thinking back to my home of fourteen years, the place where my scientific brain chose to embrace science, I chose a simple design intimately connected with the Quad Cities local economy.

Apparently, my sudden acceptance of my hard-edged anti-creativity lead to the acceptance of my hard-eged anti-creativity by others. I was awarded first prize, despite my pumpkin's corporate endorsement.

Of course, as Zach pointed out, most of the folks present voting were scientists. But, at least now my cat has two wind-up Halloween toys to fear and flee from... and my confidence has received a small yet significant boost.

The President of Latvia

Yesterday, I was running to catch a shuttle from the university medical center back to lab. My shoe came untied and I had to pause long enough to hear this genuine gem:

Woman #1: "Well, it just came down to one dose of harsh reality: I just couldn't be Secretary-General of the United Nations!"
Woman #2: "Really?"
Woman #1: "Really really. I mean, think about it... could I really be the first female Secretary-General on top of my other job?!"
Woman #2: "Hon, I just don't see how you could."
Woman #1: "Exactly. So, I told Boutros 'Thanks, but no thanks.'"
Woman #2: "When?"
Woman #1: "Last week."

I looked around for some sign stating that I was near the psychiatric ward. But, these women weren't in straitjackets. I became both concerned with the state of mental health in the United States and mildly amused with the conversation's content: "Mental instability AND international politics?!" I thought to myself as I boarded the shuttle a few minutes later. "God herself couldn't create such a suitable overheard conversation for me to overhear!" I returned to lab filled with glee, and relayed the conversation to one of my labmates.

I thought she'd get a kick out of it. For, though this woman was obviously out of her mind, I was astounded that she could recall at least one former Secretary-General to the United Nations ("Boutros" = Boutros Boutros-Ghali of Egypt). But, that's not what really impressed me.

Me: "Do you know what REALLY impressed me about this crazy woman, though?"
Labmate: "What?"
Me: "That her dementia manifested itself in such a way that she thought she was Vaira Vike-Freiberga!"

I'd placed a particularly dramatic emphasis on the name of Latvia's President, the only female candidate during the recent selection process for the U.N. Secretary-General. As I'd said her name, I paused with arms wide, a huge grin spread across my face. I expected my labmate to respond with the same shock and awe I'd been struck with upon realizing that the woman I'd overheard in the hospital obviously believed she'd been a candidate for Secretary-General of the United Nations. Instead, a twenty second pause followed my utterance of "Vaira Vike-Freiberga" and, after some awkward shifting of feet, I had to explain who Vaira Vike-Freiberga was. I explained that she, and five other candidates, eventually withdrew from consideration for the Secretary-General position in favor of South Korean foreign minister Ban Ki-moon, who will take over the position after the New Year.

My labmate sighed and looked at me with an expression I'd been wearing on my face some hours prior (when I encountered the Vaira Vike-Freiberga wannabe some hours prior): my labmate was wondering whether she'd mistakenly entered some psychiatric ward.

I backtracked... literally backing away slowly and simultaneously muttering the most transparent lies to leave these lips since I'd once tried to convince my mother that I hadn't knocked a basketball into her flowerpots ("It'd just bounced up on its own and flown into 'em, ma!"): "Well... I actually don't know that much about the UN... and I think I might've been wrong about the Latvian lady... that probably isn't her name anyway... er... she doesn't exist... I lied... I gotta go pee."

I didn't really have to urinate. I use bathroom trips as escape mechanisms. I wanted to stay in the bathroom for the rest of my days on this good Earth, but I humbly admitted that even ten minutes staring into the mirror would've been pushing it. I used those ten minutes to purge my mind of all facts relating to United Nations Secretaries-General AND President Vaira Vike-Freiberga of Latvia.

Unfortunately, I lack the mental discipline for proper mental purgings. I hadn't been in lab more than five minutes afterwards when I'd blurted out to another labmate that Vaira Vike-Freiberga was ranked as the 63rd most powerful woman in the world in 2006 by Forbes, and that Ban Ki-moon will be the second U.N. Secretary General to hair from Asia (after U Thant).

At this point, I've packed my bags and am ready to change my identity and start a new life in a place where there are no psychiatric wards. I really think it's the only way I can salvage some dignity from this incident.

Wager

This November will be the fourth election Zach and I have spent together, but only the first election in which we've come up with an excellent way to mark this profound statement of democracy: bet on the outcome.

I thought other folks in my life would find such an idea "cool." I thought they'd look at Zach and I, and the dozen Senate races, dozen state governors' races, and fifty House of Representatives races on which we bet dinner-at-an-expensive-restaurant, and think, "These two characters are all kinds of hip!" I thought they'd especially like our tie-breaker question: By what margin will the Democratic candidate beat the Republican candidate in the Illinois 17th Congressional District?

This past weekend, we began to spread word of our brilliant wager. We started with one of Zach's friends. We ended up telling her in a movie theater, while we wated for the previews to begin. Unfortunately, since neither Zach nor I have any tact, we ended up telling her quite loudly, and half the theater heard us as well. After she, and half the theater, finished wiping the tears of laughter from her (and their) eyes, I realized that I'm way too naïve for this planet.

I told Zach that, when he's buying me dinner-at-the-expensive-restaurant, we shouldn't tell the waiter why we're there.

After the Exam

Today, for the first time in four years, I took an in-class-finish-this-before-you-leave-the-room exam. Four essay responses in fifty minutes.

It took me twenty minutes to finish the first question. Needless to say the other three responses were, at best, rushed to the extent that my handwriting began to resemble some sort of alien script.

Later in the day, I spoke with one of my classmates about my apparent difficulties in completing the exam within the time alotted.

"Don't worry. I don't think many people did. Besides, they did say we'll be graded on a curve here anyway."

I buried my pride and attended my afternoon course section for the same class. We were comparing and contrasting different early stages of embryogenesis in a variety of animal species.

T.A.: "So, let's talk about discoidal cleavage again... who wants to get up here and draw a picture of a chick - [cough]"

We all knew what she was going to say: Embryo! Chicken embryo! Gallus gallus. An unpleasant cough, no doubt brought on by recent spouts of colder weather, interrupted her briefly. But, perhaps due to the sheer exhaustion of staying up so late all weekend to study for a fifty minute essay exam in which I was only confident that 25% of my responses were even halfway adequate - and now grasping with pitiful desperation only with the consolation that we'll be graded on a curve (for which I must resist the urge to shudder) - I suffered a complete failure in the maturity centers of my twenty-six year old brain.

T.A.: "So, let's talk about discoidal cleavage again... who wants to get up here and draw a picture of a chick - [cough]"
James: "Ha ha ha ha ha!"

Twenty-six pairs of eyes stared at me in disbelief. My gut-splitting guffaw had not apparently been confined properly to the darkest depths of my consciousness. I'd been found out - exposed as a junior high school student masquerading as a graduate student in molecular and cellular biology. They looked upon the Emperor and discovered that he was indeed naked.

"So James, why don't you come up here and draw a chick for us with discoidal cleavage?"

If you're thinking of anything other than avian embryogenesis, you'd be sorely disappointed with my drawing. But, fear not: I hear they're grading me on a curve.

Telepathy

Though apparently my relationship with Zach lacks many characteristics typical of homosexual relationships, we have proven adept at reading each other's minds.

Unfortunately, this clairvoyance operates within a rather narrow set of circumstances: after unsatisfying meals in restaurants.

Invariably, we'll have a ho-hum meal at a restaurant-we-always-go-to-out-of-habit. It's a glorious trainwreck: we're both very much creatures of habit. After long days at our respective jobs (actually, the very notion that I have a "job" is utterly preposterous), we'll slump over the futon and, harnessing proto-hominid communication skills (mostly grunts, gestures, and visual cues), we'll determine that neither of us wants to cook, and eating the cat is just out of the question. So, we'll drift out of the apartment and either walk or drive to some habit-forming establishment. It doesn't really matter where - there's a small collection of restaurants that have, almost randomly, become regular destinations.

At least until the horrific meal experience... which invariably strikes. I consider it only a matter of time, actually: so-so establishments, which hold us only by habit... eventually, a tiny slip up on their part, and Zach and I find ourselves walking home, dissatisfied. And then the telepathy strikes.

"I didn't like that."
"Me neither"
"Let's not eat there for awhile."
"Or ever again."
"Yeah."
"Do you know where we should go next time we get this urge?"
"Oh, [insert name of restaurant we always forget about]?"
"Whoa. Exactly! How did you know I was thinking that?"
"No idea."

It's been happening more and more lately, but never outside of the context of restaurants. I would usually stop at that point and ponder how and why our deep, personal connections only revolve around food consumption, but by then we're usually re-hashing the latest episode of Battlestar Galactica.

Beacons

Today truly started out as one of the first Dark Days. I walked out of the apartment in near pitch-black, and paused, unsettled, squinting to glance at my watch's glow-in-the-dark arms. "Surely this is too dark for 6:50AM," I thought to myself. I even considered the possibility that all of the clocks in our apartment had magically jumped ahead two or three hours during the night, thus waking us up way-too-early, with the sun still distant. Unfortunately, it really was 6:50AM, and it really was a dark morning.

As any Seattlite will no doubt remind me, not every morning following this will be such a bleak journey under black skies. I had largely a thick cloud cover to thank. But, of course, that's largely what makes the Pacific Northwest's notoriously depressing winters so bleak: short days (Earth's axial tilt) combined with persistent cloud cover makes the sun a distant memory. While I usually press on through, relatively content, with bleak Seattle winters (I tend to embrace cloudy days more often than I shun them), there are moments where I understand entirely with folks who find persistent, sunless, wet, and dark days difficult at best. Last winter was particularly pressing: Seattle itself had twentysomething days in a row of rain, with only brief glimpses of the sun in the late afternoons, just as it set below the Olympics. Zach, spending much of his days in Olympia to the south, fared even worse: over thirty days of heavy, clinging rain, with absolutely no sign of the sun by day or stars at night.

This morning's black skies, albeit rain-free, couldn't help but remind me: this will be the first of many such days. Sure, tomorrow could be cloud-free, allowing me to watch the sun rise as I commute to the lab. But those cloud-free mornings will be fewer and far between, at least until next April.

It was still largely pitch-black once I left the bus, and began my ten-minute walk across South Lake Union to lab. Most offices and businesses were still shut for the night - black windows less inviting than the open skies. Car headlights flashed menacingly, darting down tunnels and alleys, or inching their way downtown toward half-lit skyscrapers... they stood tall, sharp, and utterly ridiculous against the dark horizon: challenging the sky to show its true colors.

As I walked toward the complex of buildings and labs where I'll attempt to carve out a Ph.D., the sky seemed to oblige - a little. The clouds still mocked us, covering the area like a blanket... but, gradually, the black blanket shifted to dark grey. Turning from the skyscraping becons of the downtown, I faced the neon-white beacons of my workplace. Short and stocky, and dwarfed by Capitol Hill rising behind it, the complex's persistently lit windows still beckoned me, step by step - the unholy lighthouse - yet still a warm and inviting shelter from the black dark grey skies.

I entered the building, however, and didn't feel very warm or welcome. Compared to the near-darkness of my journey, the destination seemed harsh - neon lights beating against my skin, as my wet shoes squeaked along bare floors. The awkward color clung to my face, my clothes. Different rooms had slightly different shades of glowing light - slightly different shades of discomfort. At my desk, in a small cove embraced by a large window, the contrast of my indoor neon-yellow baptism with the dark light grey outside could not be more clear. The greys and browns and greens of the sky, ground, and trees suddenly seemed much more inviting than the neon beacons that had challenged the dark sky.

I grabbed the papers I'd been reading, a cup of coffee, and sat outside, reading... until it began to rain.

Vocabulary

Zach: "Do you remember when he asked us what sorts of snacks we'd like?"
James: "Yeah."
Zach: "And how he asked us if we liked things like salmon?"
James: "Yeah."
Zach: "In retrospect, I should've said we liked something really expensive and outrageous."
James: "Like what?"
Zach: "Oh... I don't know... like, furqut, for example."
pause
James: "'Furqut'?!"
Zach: "Yeah."
James: "What the hell is 'furqut'?!"
Zach: "Uh... isn't it the liver of an overfed goose? You know - the French delicacy!"
pause
James: "Uh, do you mean 'foie gras', which means 'fat liver'?"
Zach: "Oh, I guess so."
pause
Zach: "You won't tell anyone, will you?"
James: "I can't get to my computer fast enough!"

Flexibility

Late Friday afternoon last week, I attended a somewhat unorthodox scientific seminar. The speaker, wanting to put his most recent findings in the largest perspective possible, spent several minutes expanding on concepts of biological fitness vs. biological flexibility. To paraphrase, the former roughly refers to one's capacity to cope with environmental conditions, while the latter is one's capacity to change with environmental conditions.

(To those more learned biologists who would like to flood my inbox with diatribes berating me for "oversimplifying a fundamental biological concept": get your own weblog.)

For an example, consider the body temperature of me (a mammal) vs. a reptile - warm-blooded vs. cold-blooded: fitness vs. flexibility. In a room at 24°C, my body forces its temperature up to 37°C, while the reptile conforms to the environmental temperature, 24°C. If we raise the room's temperature to 30°C, my body's still at 37°C, while the reptile raises its temperature to 30°C.

always 37°C vs. from 24°C to 30°C
Fitness vs. Flexibility.
Capacity to cope vs. capacity to change.

Of course, I don't mean that mammals embody "fitness" while reptiles are forever shining examples of "flexibility." Such labels would depend on the criteria for comparison (should I change "body temperature" to "ability to survive and diversify following the K-T boundary mass extinction," the labels would no doubt be reversed).

As the speaker elaborated on fitness and flexibility, my mind momentarily wandered... considering the meanings of such words with a more narrow focus: my own life. What do my own environmental responses reveal? Am I fit or flexible? Both? Neither? What do I do when things change?

Such a multifaceted question has kept my mind occupied for days now. I've considered practically every aspect of "fitness" or "flexibility" my mind could come up with: from my ability to scratch my back to my inability to concentrate in loud rooms; from my evolving ability to troubleshoot experiments to my nagging inability to remain calm and comfortable in large, unfamiliar crowds. And, though there are some bright, shining examples in which I can approach change with a more flexible perspective, it has become quite clear that I, a vast majority of the time, approach change with a "fitness" mindset - almost to the point of being downright stubborn. When change comes, I seek preservation over innovation, constancy over creativity. Metaphorical warm-bloodedness.

It remains to be seen whether my lean to fitness over flexibility is typical of humankind, or even good or bad. I can see as many benefits as there are drawbacks. Inflexibility, on the one hand, could be painted as blind "clinging to the past" in some situations, while in others it could be seen as strict "adherence to principles." Flexibility is an attractive as a source of plasticity, innovation, and creativity in one situation, and a blind and reckless gamble in another.

But, I'm concerned that my fitness principles, these days, might be more corruptive and self-defeating than supportive and enriching - dragging me further and further from a happy medium in my journey... I began framing this fitness vs. flexibility debate in such a manner around Monday morning, when I woke up with a horribly stiff neck.

During growth spurts in puberty, I often had neck pains. I accepted them, along with leg cramps and acne, as embarrassing reminders of an approaching adulthood. But, before Monday morning, I'd been free of neck pains for years. I resisted the urge to complain, and popped iburpofen tablets periodically. Gradually, over the past few days, the pain has lessened; today, in fact, the stiff muscles and general-pain-associated-with-turning-to-the-right are distant memories. As my recent birthday has reminded me, though, I'm not getting any younger. Is this just a sign of things to come? The first sign that my years spent walking (consequence-free) in an awkwardly stiff and inflexible body are over? After years of valuing brain over body (mind over matter), is it time to pay the piper?

I discovered early on in life that my mind did not have particularly effective control over my body - poor coordination and a stubborn pride slowly molded me into the anti-athlete: the type of kid for which P.E. teachers the world over crafted the policy of "A for effort." What was an initial and innocent difficulty with sports evolved linearly into:
1. a general disinterest in sports
2. a general disinterest in athletics
3. a general disinterest in any sort of physical activity.

While I (specifically, my mind) is ultimately responsible for this attitude (which, late in elementary school, was cemented as Gospel), it was reinforced regularly in culture clashes (read: P.E. class). The inflexible mind stubbornly adhered to its course (fitness!) every time was forced to acknowledge an equally inflexible body: when P.E. teachers would sigh or laugh at my persistent inability to sit on the floor, straight-legged, and touch my toes. I cannot, to this day, sit straight-legged on the floor and touch my toes.

As my disinterest in any sort of physical activity hardened, I sought to compensate with the ultimate computer: my brain. When my interest in athletics waned, my interest in school-and-all-that-goes-with-it grew substantially. I became bookish, nerdy, and almost smart. The development and expansion of my mind took priority over the needs of the body; the body was reduced to a state of chauffer... only good for ferrying my precious brain from one class to the next, one book to the next, one long and drawn out weblog post to the next.

My already inflexible body was dragged along for the ride, and subjected to the two physical activities I could subject myself to, with only a small amount of embarrassment: walking and running. As Zach can no doubt testify, I enjoy long walks, either alone or partnered. I enjoy the opportunity to think, ponder, or even just clear my head and hum. It is, I'd expect, still an awkward sight: residents of Seattle's Westlake and Queen Anne neighborhoods can see me on weekdays walking home with an overloaded backpack (no doubt contributing to my recent neck pains) and a ridiculous Kinky Friedman baseball cap, wincing through pains in my foot and knee (because I, now being twenty-six and unaware of how to take care of my body, do not have proper walking shoes). Running happens less often, particularly since my mind is so hellbent on maintaining the status quo (fitness) in which I cannot sit straight-legged and touch my toes, and do not even know how to begin to learn.

Occasionally, I hear rumors. In high school and college, friends concerned with the rigidness of my gait, and its apparent correlation with the inflexibility of both mind and character, would ask: "Have you ever had a massage?" What has followed about a dozen times consisted of awkward attempts to give me an amateur massage, followed by this general declaration: "James, you carry all of your tension up here, in your neck and shoulders!"

That might explain why those dozen or so massages have ended prematurely, as I couldn't bear the pain that they were inflicting on my... well... neck and shoulders.

Monday, bearing pain in my neck and shoulders, but lacking a recent massage to immediately point to and blame, my mind cracked open a little - just a little - and allowed me to wonder: is there a better way? Is there a better way to carry all of this? Eventually, my body will give way, as my inflexible mind finally admitted. For the sake of my mind, which is entirely dependent upon my body, I even dropped the self-loathing, the adherence to fitness, the pain and embarrassment, and the brain-over-body routine long enough to consider the unthinkable:

Is there some fathomable way I could learn - REALLY learn - to sit, straight-legged, on the floor and... and... touch my toes?!

My body gleefully shivered and quaked, as my mind pondered the possibilities. Unfortunately, with such predictably strict inflexibility spanning several decades, my mind is lacking even the most basic plan of action. How... in what setting... and by what capacity... can the mind relax, and become flexible enough to permit the body to repair itself, rising into a more flexible existence. Last night, I sat on the bedroom floor, straight-legged, and tried, for the first time in years, to reach a toe... tried and failed, of course - as my mind is impotent in this subject. Luckily, the cat thought we were playing a game, and distracted me before I could even think of pouting.

I have vague recollections of advice from others, who were concerned with my train wreck of a body years before I even acknowledged the problem... stretches?... some vague concept called "Yoga"... jogging shorts?... I hear the words, but they honestly make no sense to me at this point. If you, the reader, have the patience to offer detailed suggestions... well, my flexible mind would offer thanks.

Starting with such low capacity to change, one must wonder whether I could even survive this world long enough to reach halfway to my toes. I, however, have to believe that, given time, guidance, and a little luck, I can learn - because I believe, in principle, that change is always possible... always an option.

And I always stick to my principles.

Diabetes

Last night, I had difficulties falling asleep. I tossed and turned in bed for about half an hour before the cat, who'd been stirred by my stirring, unceremoniously leapt onto the softest contours of my belly and meowed. Surrendering slumber temporarily, I decided to get up and do something "productive," hoping such a task would tire me.

Usually, I wouldn't consider making a sandwich for lunch tomorrow a "productive" act; but, I'd found Zach stretched out and snoring in the den, having accidentally fallen asleep after The Colbert Report. Zach's also had trouble falling asleep lately, and I was overjoyed to see him dreaming so peacefully. I obviously didn't want to disturb him. Thus, my "productive" activity could not take place in the den. Quietly, my sluggish self crafted a modest lunch for work tomorrow. When it came time to wrap up my sandwich, however, I discovered we were out of bags and plastic wrap (typical sandwich-wrap-up-items).

The human mind is an amazing computer. Self-aware and sensitive, the human mind has spanned the brilliance of Einstein and Shakespeare - shining full light on the awesome potential of humanity. Unfortunately, the human mind is also to blame for me - and my sudden inability to remember, at that moment of delicate sandwich-crafting, that Zach was asleep in the next room.

He reminded me as I, with as much unceremonious cacophony as the cat's prior leap onto my torso, tore a generous piece of aluminum foil and wrapped it around my sandwich:
"What the hell are you doing in there?!"
"Oh... just wrapping up a sandwich for tomorrow... I didn't wake you, did I?"

My feeble apologies won him over. We retreated into the bedroom where, eventually, we fell asleep again. He had to remind me this morning, though, to take the sandwich with me - an irony that left my skin prickling with a hint of guilt. No doubt sensing this, and sympathizing with the fact that I'd overslept and therefore had to skip breakfast, Zach beamed at me and cheerfully chriped, "Don't worry, Jim. Have a good time in class this morning!"

Oh yes... class.

The term "graduate student," I believe, often misleads the general public. In my case, at least, I do not spend hours and hours each day chained to a desk piled high with ancient, dusty volumes; I do not spend days at a time trapped in a dimly-lit basement classroom teaching hundreds of undergraduate students; I do not sit time and again in lecture halls with my fellow graduate students, being berated by sages in the scientific field for our collective ignorance on the molecular details of oogenesis in Drosophila melanogaster.

At least, I have not had those experiences yet (teaching, for example, comes next quarter).

Regarding the "student" label, however, I actually spend a vast majority of my time not sitting in a classroom. Most of my time has, is, and will be spent in the lab: reading, running experiments, learning. My lab, furthermore, is far removed from the university campus - a fifteen or twenty minute drive south, depending on traffic. I finished the vast majority of my class requirements last year, spending lots of time riding back and forth between lab and the campus on buses and shuttles. And, even then, those classes would all meet in the same isolated corner of the campus - adjacent to the university hospital - an environment far removed form undergraduate life (particularly my undergraduate experience), as I'd worm my way through crowds of medical and dental students shuffling in scrubs to their next mass lecture or clinical rotation. This past summer was absolutely refreshing - no classes, and therefore no daily rush back and forth between the university hospital complex and lab.

This academica quarter, however, I've suddenly found myself attending another class on campus. And not just any usual class adjacent to the hospital - but a course buried deep in the bowels of undergraduate life at this large state university. The environment couldn't be more alien - the navigational hazards more treacherous. Not a medical student or a dental clinic in sight, I instead dodged recruitment tables for fraternities and sororities. Instead of tiny classrooms occupied by graduate students casually debating the molecular fundamentals of transcription, I found Goliath lecture halls packed with undergraduates furiously transcribing the lectures of distant authority figures. My first day finding my class, a woman eyed the badge identifying me as a graduate student in the biological sciences, and pressed me to teach GRE prep courses at Kaplan, incorrectly assuming that halfway-decent scores on the GREs suddenly makes me qualified to teach others. Vendors from Starbucks and Tully's shoved unsought coupons in my pockets. Thrice in one day, I was asked if I believed in Jesus.

Now I, three mornings each week, must venture into this terra incognita before retreating to the safety and familiarity of my lab.

Early in the academic quarter, Zach picked up on the sheer stress of such alien encounters, and has sought to encourage me on "class mornings" as much as he can. Including this morning, despite the fact that I carried the cause of last night's sleep disruption in my backpack - a foil-wrapped sandwich. On my way to class, however, rather than mocha coupons or invitations to an Evangelical Christian luncheon, an advertisement was shoved in my hand for an event in the student union building today: Quakefest.

Apparently, FEMA annually partners up with the university to put on this public safety awareness booth show - advocating active planning for natural disasters that are a part of life in the Pacific Northwest. My life in the Pacific Northwest, however, hasn't included exposure to any of these disasters - no earthquakes, volcanos, or tsunamis. But, despite my studies of geology in college, which stuffed by brain full of intimate details of the Unified Theory of Plate Tectonics, I still have no idea what to do in the event of... well... an earthquake, a volcanic eruption, or a tsunami.

Luckily, what I lack in knowledge I make up for with adequate justification:
"For God's sake, people, I grew up in the Midwest! Tornadoes! I know EXACTLY what to do in the event of a tornado. Even a hurricane - with three years in Florida, I know what to do in the event of a tropical cyclone. But, I'm pretty sure tsunami warning lessons in Illinois public schools would've been seen as a waste of taxpayer dollars."

Beginning my fourth year in Seattle, however, I felt that the Fates, having caused this unsought Quakefest advertisement to be shoved into my hand, were telling me that I could tempt them no longer. Now was the time to learn.

Plus, Quakefest's "special guests" are the firefighters who take their shirts off and make a calendar. Surely, I thought, lab could wait for this. And I could at least sign Zach up in a raffle to win a free firefighters-who-take-off-their-shirts calendar to make up for the foil-wrapped sandwich.

Unfortunately, attendance at Quakefest required finding the student union building. Since I attended an undergraduate institution with a modest enrollment of 2,200 students, navigating across a campus with a student body roughly the size of the Arkansas city in which I was born twenty-six years and three days ago presented a considerable challenge. A group of undergraduate students gathered around a recruiting table for an organization of Asian students (once they got over the shock of a dumpy, white, gay, twentysomething guy approaching the 'membership' sign of their table) were kind enough to point me in the right direction. They also gave me candy from their Big Bowl of Candy.

Once I got over the fact that the student union building was as big as my high school, I meandered through cafeterias, lounges, and e-mail computer stations, finally finding Quakefest on the second floor. First, the disappointment: the firefighters were fully clothed, and obviously heterosexual. But, almost as a consolation prize, Halloween came early - for, in addition to safety brochures about what-to-do to prepare for earthquakes/tsunamis and other disasters, officials gleefully passed out free candy. Quakefest quickly evolved into Sugarfest, as I and other students and university faculty/staff simultaneously learned about first aid kits and the joys of holding a Krackel bar in one hand and SweeTarts in the other. After chatting with a scientists working in the university's seismology lab, I skipped (read: sugar high) over to what appeared to be the second-busiest booth (the first being the firefighters selling their shirtless calendars), only to discover that it was a table of free refreshments. The line between child and adult was blurred considerably as I witnessed kids of all ages, having probably skipped breakfast like myself, gleefully swiping frosted cookies and cupcakes with abandon.

Having already consumed a metric ton of free candy while learning the necessity of "duck, cover, and hold" in an earthquake, my stomach was reeling (post-Halloween style, in uncomfortable flashbacks to childhood). In addition, my Fates sought, at that moment, to remind me of a recent incident involving my expanding stomach and my "funeral suit." Though my frontal cortex was still ablaze with sugar thanks to this Diabetesfest, I showed enough restraint to pick up a frosted cookie and vow: "This is for Zach."

I did, after all, wake him with foil. And, since my chances of winning a firefighters-taking-their-shirts-off calendar for him are, at best, slim (many women were also entering the drawing), I figured a cookie would suffice as a consolation prize.

Unfortunately, I absentmindedly ate that cookie (and a small cupcake) chatting with a woman giving advice on how to care for my asthmatic cat during an earthquake.

After about a half hour and two metric tons of free candy later, I decided that I should either leave or propose to the hottest of the firefighters. My mind, in a rare moment of clarity, pressed me to do the former, as the latter was an obvious side effect of an intense sugar high. Returning to the more familiar territory of the university hospital complex (from which I would catch a shuttle to get me to lab), I decided to walk on the ceiling (another side effect of this sugar high), rather than dodge medical students. Waiting for the shuttle, however, I rang Zach and broke the news concerning the firefighters-who-take-off-their-shirts calendar.

"Zach, I'm afraid you probably won't win it."
"Uh... That's okay."
"And I ate the cookie I got for you."
"That's okay, too. I shouldn't eat all that processed junk food anyway."
"I guess I shouldn't either. Especially since my funeral suit doesn't fit."
"Yeah. Are you alright? You're talking pretty fast."
"I think my body's in shock from all the sugar. This was a Diabetesfest."
"Okay. Just make sure you didn't spoil your lunch."

My lunch...

Hours later, dinnertime approaches. I still walk on the ceiling to get to places. The foil-wrapped sandwich, which interrupted Zach's valuable slumber last night, is still sitting untouched in the lunchroom.

I haven't yet told Zach that the foil-wrapped sandwich will serve as lunch for Thursday. I haven't told him yet because I'm hoping that one of two things happen first:
1. He'll win the firefighters-who-take-off-their-shirts calendar, which will soften the blow.
2. The copious amounts of sugar ravaging my body will destroy my ability to regulate blood sugar levels, giving me diabetes, and therefore Zach's pity.

Right on Track

Twenty-six:

"As one grows older, one becomes wiser and more foolish."
--François de la Rochefoucauld

Indeed.

Anticipation

Ah, my dear, sweet Laura... tonight's the night!

The Blame Game

Adam showed this gorgeous gem to me last night. Ms. Sykes has a point - and a hilarious one to boot.

Wouldn't it be refreshing for someone to stand up and just admit, "Hey, I did [insert thing he/she did: whether it involves Congressional pages, a botched war, or an allegedly illegal coroporate spy probe]; I'm sorry for this shameful deed. It was my fault - not the [insert pisspoor excuse: alcohol, Democrats, media, liberals, priests, God, etc.]. I hereby resign/step down/turn myself in/throw myself on the mercy of the court."

I never thought I'd grow up to be such an advocate of personal responsibility. But, honestly, I'm not a particularly bright or talented fellow. I make mistakes - huge, awful mistakes - all the time; and if I can take responsibility for my actions, then anyone can.

P.S.: Amen.

Inspired

Last month, Washington state held its primary election for 2006. In most cases, I got what I wanted: Maria Cantwell will advance to the November poll to seek re-election; two of three state supreme court justices seeking re-election received over 50% of the vote, and therefore do not need to stand again in November (though, between you and me, I'm not entirely comfortable electing judges at all).

But, in one case, I didn't get what I wanted: state representative.

Before you, the reader, grumble and fantasize about punching me in the face ("God, I wish he'd shut up about politics), let me explain. Washington state is divided into 49 legislative districts: each sends one state senator and two state representatives to Olympia. I live in Washington's 43rd legislative district, quite possibly the most liberal in the state. I often half-joke, half-bemoan: "I swear, it is so far left that it's gone to the right and come back 'round left again!" My fragile, centrist Midwestern upbringing is often left politically marginalized in such a polarized political atmosphere. I remember the Democratic Party caucus for President some years back: how one speaker advocating a candidate who wasn't Howard Dean or Dennis Kucinich, being booed and hissed off of his soapbox. Needless to say, the 43rd legislative district is a Democratic Party lovefest, albeit too much of a lovefest for this center-left, mild-mannered, political idealist.

Since this district will only elect a non-Democratic candidate after snowballs remain crisp, cold, and compact in the darkest depths of Hell, any open legislative seat will be competitive in the primary election, NOT the general election. As it so happens, we had an open seat for a 43rd district state representative position and - true to the above statement - six Democratic candidates were battling in the primary to win it.

Here they are, in alphabetical order:
Lynne Dodson
Dick Kelley
Jamie Pedersen
Stephanie Pure
Bill Sherman
Jim Street

I leave it up to you, the reader, to dive into the candidates and their backgrounds. They all had similar beliefs and philosophies (for example, all support gay marriage - essential to win in this district); they differed, though, in their legislative priorities. All six scrambled for endorsements from unions, interest groups, newspapers, party organizations, and even prominent private citizens. I was particularly amused by the endorsement split mong three Seattle papers: Jim Street by the center-left Seattle Post-Intelligencer, Bill Sherman by the centrist Seattle Times, and Stephanie Pure by "Seattle's only newspaper," The Stranger. It became impossible to keep it all straight: so-and-so endorsed by such-and-such union, while this-and-that endorsed some-other-so-and-so.

I attended an amusing six-way debate before I found my guy: Bill Sherman. I won't go into extreme detail of how I came to this decision: suffice it to say that, of the six candidates, one didn't seem to have much of a brain, two scared the holy hell out of me, and one didn't deserve my vote. That left two candidates who, frankly, inspired me - left me feeling hopeful about democracy and the principles of the republic. Their idealistic tendencies were tempered by their pragmatic apporaches to issues - and, frankly, both Bill Sherman and Stephanie Pure had personal charm to boot! Of those two, however, Bill Sherman outstripped Ms. Pure in experience, and I supported him all the way. I was excited; I was invigorated. And, with probably only a handful of registered Democrats even bothering to cast a vote in the primary, a couple of votes could determine the winner!

Alas, I was right. A couple of votes did determine the winner. Though it wasn't my guy. Bill Sherman came in third place. Stephanie Pure came in fourth place.

I can't help but feel uninspired now. The victor, openly gay attorney Jamie Pedersen, rose to fame in the true blue 43rd legislative district attempting to overturn Washington State's Defense of Marriage Act - a noble approach, no doubt. But, the state supreme court upheald the DOMA statute; and, I personally pouted at the attempt, since I feel it's an issue that should always first be addressed in a legislatve body.

Mr. Pedersen will ride to victory in November, due to the Democratic Party's huge advantage in this district. His fight is done, and I wish him luck.

But... my idealistic soul craves inspiration... and, I can't help but notice that all my inspiration dried up once the final results of this primary were tallied, and my guy got third place.

I'd been thinking I must've been alone here. I hadn't heard many others uttering similar misgivings, or having similar pseudocrises. "They must all be happy," I told myself. "I guess I'm just a freak..."

Today, however, I stumbled on this brilliant prose on The Stranger's website from another disaffected citizen:

"Let me get this straight (so to speak): Bill Sherman protects the Endangered Species Act, volunteers to defend abortion clinics, and fights for victims of domestic violence; Stephanie Pure organizes a renters’ summit, defeats the Teen Dance Ordinance, and restores funding to Seattle public libraries; and the voters elect Jamie Pedersen, who represents companies that manufacture vinyl windows, sings with the Seattle Men’s Chorus, and loses the pivotal Supreme Court marriage-equality case? If Pedersen failed to convince five judges to invalidate DOMA, how is he going to convince 49 representatives to repeal it? By singing to them?

Todd Weiner

At least I'm not the only one.