Official Bodily Function Euphamisms

Everyone knows what you mean when you go into a bathroom and declare that you are "going #1" or "going #2". I kind of like it; it's not terribly crass and it comes in handy when you only have one small bathroom and you have to decide who gets to go first after a long car ride (#1 obviously). But I always thought that it was an overly cute way of referring to urine and feces.

Until my building installed new two-way handles on it's toilets because we are in a drought and have to conserve water. The sign gives careful instructions that you should pull the handle "Up for #1" and "Down for #2", "depending on your needs." That's right; I shit you not. The official instructions for peeing and popping are "#1" and "#2".

Sad Tableau

This morning I was riding the 6 train and as I descended into the subway, I saw something that truly saddened me. An old man, probably in his sixties but with a hunched over stance and white hair and moustache that made him look much older, was scrubbing graffiti off the wall. Of course, the first thing that popped into my head was that episode of South Park where someone drops a deuce in the urinal and it leads to Kyle being blamed for September 11th.

Although graffiti can be considered a valid art form, this was just straight up vandalism. And this poor man, who has probably labored a great deal in his life, was forced to clean up after some horrible thug who has no respect for his neighbors. Heartbreaking. It's as bad as taking someone's newspaper in his own home. And that's seriously bad. It's almost enough to make my middle-class white guilt overcome by liberally-educated homosexual sense of entitlement.

Illiterate Ph.D.s

Yesterday, somebody in my building took my copy of the Wall Street Journal. I know someone took it because it was in the hallway waiting for me when I left for the gym, but when I returned it was no longer there. So I used my tightly honed powers of deductive reasoning to conclude that someone took it.

Now, it's possible they were confused. Apparently the guy who delivers the paper to us can't walk thirty feet down the hallway, perhaps because of some affliction to his lower appendages (although were that the case he perhaps would have chosen a less mobile profession), and instead merely tosses the paper out of the elevator and doesn't care where it lands. Sometimes it lands in front of someone else's door. Sometimes it barely makes it out of the elevator. It has never made it in front of my door. So maybe that's why someone took it.

Maybe someone saw the paper on the floor and said to themselves, "Hmmm, isn't it nice of the building to leave this copy of the Wall Street Journal just lying here for anyone to take. Hey, I like to read! Maybe I'll read this paper!" Or maybe they said to themselves, "Hey, perhaps in a drunken stupor I accidentally ordered the Wall Street Journal to be delivered to my hallway, and even though I can't remember doing it, I'm going to pick it up and read it anyway!"

Except the problem with my little hypotheticals, which might seem reasonable to the casual observer, is that they neglect a very salient fact: the person who picked up my paper mistakenly cannot possibly know how to read. How do I know this very important and what might be considered highly improbable piece of information?

I know this because if they could read, they would have seen the big fat address label that does not have their name on it.

The kicker, of course, is that every single apartment on my floor has at least one Ph.D. living in it. It baffles the mind that, in an entire floor of Ph.D.'s, there lives someone who is not capable of reading an address label.

Either that, or one of my neighbors is a gigantic douche.

Fun Summer

The boy and I had a very pleasant Sunday in the sun a few days ago. We began by getting up at the ass-crack of dawn and schlepping down the street to our newly acquired car that has its own newly aquired parking space at the Motorgate Parking Garage above the Gristede's on Roosevelt Island (which is where we live, of course). Then we drove to Target because we realized in our hasty planning that in order to properly enjoy the beach to which we were headed we were going to need to purchase beach chairs. This, a day after we made a special trip out to Target for other necessary sundries.

And of course, because we can't do anything ordinary, we didn't go to a popular, common beach like Jones Beach or Coney Island. No, we had to find the quiettest beach in the five burroughs; a beach that no one in their right mind would want to go to because it is impossible to reach by public transportation and nearly as impossible to reach by car and doubly impossible to park once you get there because you need a fishing license to do so. Oh, and it also had to be the former home of supersonic air defens missiles. I give you: Fort Tilden. Let me just say that New York Magazine didn't mention the $50 fee for a parking permit!

Regardless, we found a beautiful spot on the beach which wasn't nearly as vacant as I was led to believe but was still far quieter than any other beach in the metropolitan area. It was also probably windier. The wind, in fact, prohibited me from properly applying my spray-on sunscreen. To wit, I have horrible streaky bright red sunburns all over my legs, in very uncomfortable locations.

That didn't deter us, however, from having a pleasant work out at the gym and then having dinner in Long Island City at a delicious Thai place, Tuk Tuk. I had the pinapple coconut duck curry. It was exquisite. Then we had a scotch at our new favorite outside bar, LIC, on Vernon Blvd., where we were serenaded by a local band that specialized in surf music. I kid you not.

As it was, I enjoyed my weekend immensely. It fit well into our theme for the summer which is: "Fun Summer". Not original, I know, but then again it wasn't me who came up with it. Next Fun Summer weekend? Blueberry picking and Harry Potter reading....

Triumphant Return!

After about a year, I have decided to return to blogging. I'm not entirely sure what prompted it but I'm certain that it has something to do with ego and self-esteem issues. And maybe akrasia.

So I hope to keep this up. You can expect me to blog about the usual stuff. Pop culture. My goings-on about New York. Probably a little intelligent design creationism thrown in amongst some other sciency stuff. Gay marriage. Maybe my gay marriage, if we ever get around to setting a date. I might even talk about some politics, like how the vice president's quasi-QM metaphysical musings about his state of existence rival the existential poetry of the former Secretary of Defense. Or how much, no matter how hard I honestly try, I still can't like Hillary Clinton. And if I'm really lucky, I'll get to turn this into a Mike for Prez blog.

But more likely than not I'll just complain about things that piss me off. Like the smug sense of entitlement every person in this city seems to have. Or how people never exit at the back of the bus. Or how livery cabs merge in front of you on the BQE at the very last second even though they, of all people, should certain know better.

Oh, and I'll probably extol the virtues of plaid on a regular basis.

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:

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?

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!!!!

Gays and Wealth

An idea that is often floated around is that gays, as a group, are wealthier and more successful than the average bear. This is often used by gay supporters as evidence that they will generally make good homes for children, are useful members of society, are more creative, etc, etc. It's also used by the far right to show that gays aren't really an underprivileged class since they do so well financially and occupationally.

But does this mean that gays are actually more successful or that gays who have come out of the closet are more successful? Or, similarly, does one's success help determine the ease with which he can accept his sexuality? Successful people have access to better psychiatric care; they are more prone to live in urban areas, which are more liberal; they tend to have jobs where the barriers to success are no more than women and probably less so; and they tend to be more self-confident due to their current or projected affluence that the negative social and emotional consequences may not affect them as much as if they were in a stifling or confining work environment.

Basically, what I'm getting at is that there may be the same ratio of gay to straight factory workers as gay to straight stockbrokers or academics, it's just that they're not very visible. Although it's hard for me to pinpoint why I'm smarter than the average bear.....

It's Colder Than A...

Witch's tit or a snowman's balls? That was the erudite debate I had last night. In case you don't live here in the City, we've been having unusually warm weather for January. For example, last week we had a day or two in the 60s. The 60s! But yesterday the temperature dropped to the teens, below 0 wind chill. So it was a lot colder than we'd been used to.

So we were walking to the Banshee for an after dinner drink when the subject of how cold it was came up. Jen said it was colder than a snowman's balls; I said it was colder than a witch's tit. We were thus at an impasse. Which was colder? We settled on the snowman's balls but for entirely different reasons. Jen maintained that the witch's tit would be at normal body temperature whereas part of the function of the testes is to maintain a temperature slightly less than 98.6 (95 I think) in order for sperm to be happy. I claimed that a tit would have a much lower temperature than 98.6 because external body temperature is significantly different than internal body temperature. However, a witch's tit is only metaphorically cold whereas the snowman's balls are literally made of snow and ice and would therefore be colder in general.

Now it's your turn: what's colder, a witch's tit or a snowman's balls? And why?

The Weirdest Compliment I've Ever Received

In an email from a colleague:

So here's the story...you have the greatest blood ever. In particular, you
have kick-ass PMNs. As such, we're going to save you until Olivia needs
blood later this week...

So, in addition to my many other talents and positive qualities I can add "kick-ass PMNs" to the list, whatever that means. New York Blood Center eat your heart out! I got someone that wants to pay me for the greatest blood ever. Boo-ya-ka-sha!

Kyrce Swenson Is A Big Fat Whore

WARNING: This post contains very, very, very bad words that should not be read by anyone. Please proceed at your own risk....

If you're name is Kyrce Swenson, and you used to be a filthy, unemployed loser who lived in East Harlem, I have news for you: you are the biggest, wettest cunt in the world. That's right. Kyrce Swenson is the biggest, filthiest cunt in the world. What kind of whorish, filthy cunt sits in her apartment, unemployed for two years while trash and cat filth and moldy, rotting food builds up around her? Kyrce Swenson, that's who! What kind of twat-licking douche breaks eggs in the refrigerator and then doesn't clean them up for six months while they sit and fester and grow new species of mold? If you said "Kyrce Swenson is that kind of douche!" then you'd win a gold star! Because that's the kind of twat-licking douche Kyrce Swenson is. What kind of ass-licking cunt-whore signs a sublease agreement, moves out of town because she hasn't been able to find the perfect socialist, pinko-commie leftist job to suit her nutbag fantasies, and then doesn't resign her lease, even though she had a legal, binding agreement to keep the apartment? That cunt-whore would be none other than Kyrce Swenson. I mean, come on people! How big of a fat, lazy cunt-bag do you have to be to NOT SIGN A PIECE OF PAPER? I guess you could be as fat and lazy a cunt-bag as Kyrce Swenson. Because that's just the kind of cunt-bag action that someone as lazy and whorish as Kyrce Swenson would do. Because in case you didn't know, Kyrce Swenson is a big, fat, lazy, cunt-licking, twat-sucking, worthless piece of horseshit. Just in case you didn't know.

Oh, and if you are Kyrce Swenson, and you are reading this right now, you can go fuck yourself.

Hello, It's Winter!

That's kind of how I feel about the term "Season's Greetings". It's extraordinarily impersonal and actually downright stupid. That's why I'm happy the boy and I had a Christmas (not Holiday) party a few weekends ago. I don't mean to make anyone feel out of place or anything, but 'tis the season. And it's not like Christmas can't be appreciated by everyone. Heck, I usually celebrate Bastille Day and I don't have an ounce of French in me.

But regardless of whether or not you are a godless heathen who can't stand the thought of someone genuinely wishing you well, today I give you permission to say "Season's Greetings". Because today is, um, the first day of winter. Hello, Winter!

And Season's Greetings!

Guess Who's Done...

... with all their Christmas shopping with 24 days to spare. Go ahead. Guess....

Things That Piss Me Off

I haven't blogged in awhile because I've been busy with the holidays and my birthday (turning 27 was a real drag). I just spent two afternoons in a row teaching high school students the wonders of DNA profiling and they kept calling me mister. Godammit. I am so not that old. So during break time I had to bond with them over [adultswim]. Until it was time to talk again and then I had to make them turn off their computers and be quiet. I felt so frickin' old.

Now, I'm pissed off because my tech didn't change the nitrogen tank last week because he's an idiot even though he was told and now I'm out of nitrogen and can't do any work. You'd think that that would be a good thing but no it just pisses me off because I was supposed to work all night.

You know what also pisses me off? Intelligent Design. It's so frickin' stupid. I've been working on a workshop using evolution and intelligent design to illustrate correct and incorrect uses of the scientific method. I thought all the research I did was going to make me more informed and able to better articulate how idiotic "creation science" is. But no. It's just made me angrier that there are such ignorant, stupid people in the world. Just read this idiotic display of, well, idiocy by Kelly Holowell, quite possibly the world's worst scientist. Is it possible, just possible that the Jews decided to circumcize their boys at 8 days because they noticed that they bled a lot if they didn't wait that long, instead of the other way around? How does this crap get published? And repeated? People can't have brains this small. It's not possible.

And Pakistan! Pakistan pisses me off. Check out Bernard Henri Levy's book Who Killed Daniel Pearl? and you'll see what I mean. Ally my ass. It's unbelievable that this book, or the role of the ISI (Pakistan's shadow government) and al-Qaida in everything bad happening in the world, hasn't gotten more American press. Actually, scratch that. It's not unbelievable. It's par for the course for a country as wacked as this one. Do you realize that not one major Hollywood director has publicly denounced the murder of Theo van Gogh? Not one.

Why? Why are there so many stupid people in the world? Why?....

Defend Traditional Marriage!

The Faithful Skeptic wants to defend "traditional" marriage. Hiliarious!

Similarly, I've never liked the term traditional marriage, because it tends to lead to disengenious arguments about the state of modern marriage and its links to ancient or older traditions. But I'm hard-pressed to find another one. However I will say that the best PC term I've heard to date was from the New York Times last month: 2-sex Marriage.

Two Guys, a Camaro and an Alpaca

This weekend the boy and I to the Homaro into Guilford, CT for some apple- and raspberry-picking. For some reason he got it into his head that he wanted to do a lot of baking this week and I got into my head that you can't make a proper apple pie if you don't pick your own apples (similarly, if you can't harvest your own mussels you should make sure that the ones you buy from your fishmonger were grown on a rope in the middle of a fjord). So off we went, picking about 35 lbs of apples and 3 lbs of raspberries.

Now I love raspberries, but we had to cart them back to New York on a train and since we were rushing to catch it we didn't have time to put it in a proper bag or something so they were sitting open in a carboard container. Right next to me. So I picked at them. The whole ride home. For those of you who have never eaten a pound of raspberries in one sitting you have absolutely no idea the kind of upset stomach and noxious gas that they induce. It was also amusing to be lugging 35 lbs of apples and (now) 2 lbs of raspberries down 125th St. to the subway. We had a few people eyeing us suspiciously, a few people eyeing us confuddled, and one woman on Metro North eyeing us longingly, hoping against hope that I might miss one of the apples I kept dropping on the seat.

In the end we got to make a delicious raspberry tart and a (hopefully delicious) apple-raspberry pie. And since we have approximately 32 lbs of apples left, I see a few more pies, streussels and tarts in my future. And probably a lot more gas...

Must See TV

After a less than stellar dinner at Wondee Siam II (Wondee Siam I was packed and their sister restaurant across the street isn't nearly as good (can we say $10 corking fee?!)) I was tired and headed home where I watched a little TV before crashing early. I caught a bit of The Apprentice, but like to wait until Saturdays to see it because they have amazing, juicy extra footage from the board room. Trump still kicks ass. As does Carolyn (if not more so this season). I never warmed up to George. This season, my money's on Pamela or Ivana (although her name might put her at a disadvantage). I can't get behind any of the men, although I'd like to get behind a few of them, if you know what I mean (oh, smack!).

But afterwards I slid back into my old standbys for an evening alone, South Park and the Daily Show. I don't know how or why I'd missed this, but the South Park episode where the kids go on a Lord of the Rings quest to get the One Video (the porno Backyard Sluts 9 in a LOTR box) back to the video store is pure genius. Genius. Although less genius then when Jon Stewart suggested to Gwenyth Paltrow that she let his kid bang hers. His newborn and her newborn. I have a feeling that Gwenyth won't be accepting any more invitations to appear on the Daily Show.....

Relaxation...

So I haven't blogged in a while because I've been out of town a good deal. Since I didn't get a chance to get a real summer vacation, and since summer was ending, I decided it was time to relax. And relax I did! My relaxation reached fairly epic proportions at one point.

I shall begin with Labor Day weekend. I decided to join the boy and his fam in a cabin in Georgia. We started relaxing early on Thursday by renting the gayest car on the planet, the PT Cruiser, against our will. We relaxed for 16 straight hours in which we made many relaxing detours through various inner cities in an attempt to find a multitude of Starbucks Skyline mugs. We paused briefly from our relaxation in North Carolina since too much relaxing in a PT (Poon-Tang) Cruiser is bad for your health.

The cabin was in a loverly spot in the Blue Ridge Mountains, far away from everything, which meant we spent most of our time having his sister, our Relaxation Coordinator, driving to various spots of relaxation, where we enjoyed a non-stop barage of relaxing mountain activities such as rafting a class 4 rapids, galloping through the woods on a flatulent horse for two hours, and trying to stay afloat on an inner tube in a chin-deep river travelling forty miles an hour while trying not to spill our beer. So blissfully relaxing!

When we weren't doing such relaxing outdoorsy events, we were relaxing in front of the Weather Channel in an attempt not to wonder if the boy's parents (who live in Florida) would have a house to go back to after their relaxing vacation.

After a few days of this, we decided it was time to relax some more, so we piled back into the gay-wad mobile and drove back to New York. I then got to wake up 6 hours later so I could get to work early, scrample to get my poster ready for my conference and then get up even earlier the next day to spend the rest of the weekend relaxing on the Cape. And by relaxing I mean going to relaxingly long talks about phophatydalinositol involvement in cell signaling, without a break, from 6pm on Wednesday until noon on Saturday. Literally. Which was wonderful because who wants relaxing activities like an hour long lecture about PIP2 binding to FYVE domains in an un-airconditioned auditorium with 127-year-old wooden seats to be interrrupted by something as horrible as sunny weather and all-you-can-eat-oyster bars?

It's a good thing that I got to relax so much because when I got back to work I was saddled with the wonderful job of training our new technician, which means that if my vacation hadn't been relaxing and I wasn't terribly eager to jump right back into my own work and try to get the hell out of graduate school in a reasonable amount of time, I wouldn't really have been able to anyway.

Oh well. At least I know I'm never buying a PT Cruiser.