Dawkins and the Pope

This weekend there was an article about Intelligent Design in the New York Times Magazine. While the author doesn't say anything particularly new, one paragraph at the end pretty much sums up my entire position about evolution v. theism, namely that it's not an either/or situation. He writes:

One beauty of Darwinism is the intellectual freedom it allows. As the arch-evolutionist Richard Dawkins has observed, ''Darwin made it possible to be an intellectually fulfilled atheist.'' But Darwinism permits you to be an intellectually fulfilled theist, too. That is why Pope John Paul II was comfortable declaring that evolution has been ''proven true'' and that ''truth cannot contradict truth.'' If God created the universe wholesale rather than retail -- endowing it from the start with an evolutionary algorithm that progressively teased complexity out of chaos -- then imperfections in nature would be a necessary part of a beautiful process.

He perfectly juxtaposes an avowed atheist and an avowed theist in the same paragraph, something that needs to be done more frequently. I'm becoming more and more convinced that we need an organization called "Christians for Darwin" or something like that. Kind of like "Jews for Jesus" only not as cult-y...

I'm Just Mad About Saffron

Like most environmental art, The Gates must be viewed from afar, because if you get up too close, you realize that they are made from cheap, industrial plastics and are proportionally off. However, if you don't look to closely and just amble through the park beneath the billowing fabric, it's quite breath-taking, even though Christo and Jeanne-Claude fail to convince us that Home Depot orange is really "saffron".

It did, however, lead to an amusing exchange between me and the boy. I, of course, began to immediately sing "I'm just mad about saffron / Saffron's mad about me". Of course, it was badly off-tune. A short while later, we were looking for baked goods at Two Little Red Hens and they had orange fabric in the window with a sign that said "We're Just Mad About Saffron". The boy was quiet for a while and then asked, in sheepish bewilderment, why the bakery had a sign up with the same words as my stupid, ficticious song. He apparenlty didn't remember the ubiquitous Gap commercials of 1999. Or Donovan. Or bananadine.

I wonder what life would have been like if he'd continued to think I made that warped song up. Apparently he didn't have hippy parents.... E-lec-trical banana!!

Why Does It Always Rain On Me?

Was it because I lied when I was seventeen?

California, for those of you who care, was fun. But wet. Very wet. The first five days I was in Long Beach, which, because I lacked a car and couldn't go anywhere, reminded me very much of every other convention town I've ever been in. They even had a Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. The conference (Biophysical Society) was long but good, chock full of lipid-y goodness. The National Lecture left something to be desired, although some of the pretty videos of protein synthesis at the atomic level was pretty damn cool. I have no idea what science is going to be like even ten or fifteen years down the road, let alone when I'm an old man.

My poster presentation was long and arduous but I got some good feedback. And yes, for those of you who have never gone to a science conference before, it really is pretty much just like a science fair. Two prominent scientists who'd gotten into a pissing fight over their differing models a few days earlier resumed their battle over my data while I stood by in wonderment, like watching a ping pong match. It was flattering that they chose me to argue over, to say the least.

The Long Beach aquarium was wonderful, mainly because they let you touch stuff. The Queen Mary is a very big boat. The House of Hayden is a very bad goth bar. And the beach, while admittedly long, isn't so much a beach as it is a garbage dump.

And then, it rained. A lot. Just in time for my vacation part. The boy arrived late on Wednesday and after a delicious breakfast of crepes in the "East Village" artsy neighborhood, we rented our car and went to Hollywood! The Ho-Mustang, as I like to call it, was a sweet ride. 2005, less than 400 miles and shiny silver. I felt good driving into Beverly Hills.

I made a few observations while I was there:

1) Smoking isn't as anathema as I had thought it would be in California, although I'm assuming there's a huge difference between the Bay Area and LA. Cigarettes were sold in bars and as far as I could tell, everyone smoked.

2) Celebrity's do exist. In actually real life. I shouldn't be that shocked, considering I live in New York, but I've seen very few since I've moved here, probably because I don't get outside of the Upper East Side all that much. And don't pay attention even when I do. But I had two, genuine, A-list celeb sightings. First, I dined next to Tyne Daly at Lucques. I don't consider that all that exciting because a) I was in an upscale restaurant in West Hollywood and b) she's on Judging Amy. But she's definitely A-list. Second, after a miserable experience at the Museum of Television and Radio which was less of a museum and more of a warehouse of old Apple IIe's, we were driving around the neighborhood, in the rain (which was a running theme) and, stopped at a stop-sign, I spied a well dressed woman walking briskly. "Does that look like Rachel Griffiths to you" I asked the boy. As if on queue, the woman turned and looked at us. And it was most definitely, without a doubt, Rachel Griffiths, which was really exciting because a) she was just, like, walking on the street in the middle of nowhere (relatively speaking) and b) she's like totally on Six Feet Under which is like the totally most awesome show ever!

3) The desert is both beautiful and scary. Saturday we drove out to Palm Springs in search of a Starbucks mug. Needless to say, when it wasn't raining, the dark rolling clouds over the mountains, the vast expanse of white windmills and pink sunset were, um, breathtaking. If I had any semblance of writing ability I would attempt to say something poetic. However, in the dark, in the rain, with massive amounts of flooding and gigantic looming windmills, the desert is, um, terrifying.

4) It is extraordinarily disconcerting to be showering when the only thing separating you from the bedroom and the person watching TV in it is a glass wall which doesn't quite entirely fog over all the way.

That said, rain and all, it was a great trip. Except for the 8 hour airplane fiasco getting back, the landing in the snowstorm (FYI, planes: they land on snow), and the world's scariest taxi-ride back where the cabbie kept stopping to fix his windshield wipers when he should have been stopping to replace his tires.

More Miscellaneous Crap

I wanted to post about this talk I went to on Tuesday in which William Dembski spoke about Intelligent Design and Robert Shapiro of NYU responded. I also wanted to comment about Connecticut, New York and gay marriage. I've also had this short essay that I've been thinking about writing about polygamy....

But I have to leave for California in an hour. So it will all have to wait. I will, however, leave you with an image of the view from my old balcony, this time at night:

A World Without Pat Kiernan Reading the Papers to Me in the Morning at Forty Past the Hour...

... is like a world without sunshine. Color me crazy, but I don't want to live in that kind of world, a world in which I have to actually read the papers myself.

Miscellaneous Stuff

Yesterday, besides being the Superbowl, was also another important day. The Gipper would have turned 94. God rest his soul. "Republicans believe every day is the Fourth of July, but Democrats believe every day is April 15." The man was a genius, even if his wife's "Just Say No" campaign was a dismal, misguided failure.

And speaking of old people, I also realized that the Third of the Month used to have a very special meaning for them, up until 1997 and probably never again after 2042. Apparently, social security checks used to be received on the third of every month! How exciting that right around 1997 was when the Third of the Month was first celebrated in its official capacity, back when we, no stranger to plaid or moist towelettes, began to spread the self-actualizing joy that is the Third of the Month to the myriads of people who need an excuse to love themselves. I think that old people getting money is an extremely appropriate way the Third of the Month can be celebrated. Are we not doing good for others by paying into social security and doesn't doing good for others in turn help us appreciate our own marvelousness? Or have I been sitting in front of my computer too long trying to link a linear Y axis to a logarithmic one and scale by a factor of RT?

Happy Third of the Month!

Well, the Third of the Month is upon us again and, if as if history was mocking me, I'm pretty much in the same boat that I was in last February around this time. According to my records I was hopped up on Day-Quil and stressed about my poster for a conference. Today I'm still getting over my miserable cold from last month and stressed out about my poster for a conference. But unlike last year, tonight I'm going to see a kick-ass friend perform in the one-act play of another kick-ass friend. Neither of these kick-ass friends knew each other until I joined them together with the awesomeness that is me.

See how awesome I am? See how awesome this day can be?

So what do we do on a day like today? We love ourselves. We love ourselves because, even though that frickin' groundhog saw his shadow and that I'm still exhausted from my move u-town, I still love myself enough to treat myself to an evening of off-off-off-Broadway drama. Because this day isn't about how much colder it's inevitably going to get; it's not about how you're never going to get this damn poster finished; it's not about how you've piddled the day away in meetings.

It's about how smart and beautiful and wonderful you are.

And how much you love plaid.

Oh, and moist towelettes. Don't ever forget about the moist towelettes....

Time Warner Cable v. Drug Pushers

My move has apparently coincided with the loss of my introductory high speed internet rate. It also has apparently coincided with rate increases. They slapped a big ol' package at me without my being aware of it so that now I have HBO, Showtime, Starz! and Cinemax, plus On Demand plus Roadrunner plus DVR, all for a whopping $132 a month. A hundred and thirty-two dollars a month! Well, all I really want is HBO. With DVR I never use my On Demand and I hardly ever watch movies on the other channels. But to only keep HBO, Roadrunner and DVR will cost me $119 a month. One hundred and nineteen dollars a month! So for 13 extra dollars I get three more channels and On Demand.

What I could is drop stuff like the internet, or the DVR or even HBO. But I can't! I'm addicted. And why? Because when I first signed up there were all these wonderful introductory offers and they were cheap! And then they started offering me more features! And I bought more! And then they raised the price, but I couldn't stop. I couldn't get rid of DVR! Do you know how hard it is to watch live TV and not be able to rewind or pause?! Do you?!?! It's so frustrating to be watching someone's provincial, regular TV and be a slave to real-time and predetermined time-slots. You see the problem, don't you? I can't stop. I just can't. And it keeps getting more and more expensive and I keep paying and paying and sooner or later I'm going to realize that 4 premium channels isn't enough and I'm going to have to order a sports package or get a TiVo or something. Because TiVo is smarter than DVR. Actually, I think I do need a TiVo.

See, the thing is, I told myself I could cancel my account at any time, if it got too expensive. But what's too expensive really? In the whole scheme of things. I'm not poor. I can afford it. Maybe not after I buy me an iPod, but I can finance it. Hell, I have good credit. I've got that 20 minute commute now; I need that iPod.....

Oh God. Somebody. Please. Stop. Me. Ah! Amazon! Damn you and your super-saver shipping!!!!

Farewell, Sweet Balcony...

Yesterday I turned in the keys to my apartment. I was there for almost four and half years. That is a very long time. Last night I had some friends over to help me say goodbye and only two of them even knew me before I'd lived there.

There is something extraordinarily monumental about something like this and it seems as if it happened all so fast.

That was my first real apartment. I entered it with a futon and some old Dartmouth posters. I left it with whole living room set and bonafide art. I threw the best party the graduate school has seen in a long time. I threw the best New Year's Eve party I'd ever been to, which included both vomiting and fire. I learned to grill and roll sushi in that apartment. I spent so much time on my balcony that I invested more money on lanterns from Pier 1 than I spent on bedding. I learned the ins and outs of horticulture there (well, more the outs than the ins, as my rotting parsley will attest to). Lisa and I performed "Once More With Feeling" in its entirety in that apartment. With a sword. Sam coated every wall with some form of alcoholic beverage. I came out in that apartment. I changed thesis labs and turned my life around in that apartment.

I fell in love in that apartment.

And I wonder, will that apartment see such levels of debauchery again? Will it's new inhabitants set fire to the window by grilling with an open flame? Will they leave fish on the balcony to rot throughout the winter because they completely forgot about it? Will my beloved Contessa return when spring comes and wonder where I am? Will the new inhabitants hurl objects from seventeen floors, some of them lit? Will the labs at SKI wonder where that guy who used to have blue hair and sunbathe half naked on the balcony went off to?

Well I'll tell you where he went off to. He moved into a pre-war duplex in the East 90s, where he has is first real lease, his first queen bed and his first (and hopefully last) real boyfriend to share it with. I guess I'm moving up in the world, even though I've moved down about 15 stories.

So to say goodbye, here I am (you'd think that's the only shirt I own), and my beautiful view. And if you look closely, you can see the Chrysler Building in all it's glory....