DID YOU KNOW? Twenty-five percent of all construction cranes currently operating in the world can be found in Dubai.
So I'm taking three classes this term, which is totally a ton. Two are ChemE classes and one is a joint Chem/MCB class on enzymes. Each class had one exam. Do you think it's a bad thing that my best exam grade this semester, like, by a lot, came in the class that isn't in my major? You know, I just had prelims testing me on my knowledge of kinetics and transport phenomena, and I haven't pushed electrons since 5.07 three years ago. This is really not something that should happen.
Not that I even did particularly well on my enzymes test. An example of the brilliance that earned me my highest test grade for the semester: the last question asked me to draw a binding site for an enzyme, given that the reaction catalyzed by that enzyme needed to involve a certain substrate and a certain cofactor. I made something up using the one amino acid that I remembered to have a positive charge and the one that I remembered to have a negative charge.
Then the second question was, "Can you propose an alternate cofactor for enzymatic epimerization? What type of substrate would you expect to be acted on by the alternate cofactor?" I resisted the urge to write "no, I can't" and instead supplied as my answer "the one that reacts with amines; it would react with primary amines form an imine intermediate and result in a racemic mixture of products."
Apparently this was good enough for Judith P. Klinman, the first woman faculty member in the department of physical sciences at UC Berkeley, who awarded me full points for that response. Granted, I did draw that awesome picture of the cofactor in question: a pyridine ring with an aldehyde hanging off and the note "forgot functional groups." Professor Klinman, a member of the National Academy of Sciences, wrote in her answer key, "There was no need to write the mechanism, but a number of you did this correctly (!)". Yeah, lame-o chemistry kids. No need to write the mechanism; "the one that reacts with amines" is totally worth full credit.
DID YOU KNOW? At this year's Coachella, Prince played a cover of Radiohead's "Creep," and it was amazing, but he used his Prince powers to take all of the videos down from YouTube. Man, he is so very special.
Do bands just never play your favorite songs either, or is it just me? As I've mentioned in the past three blog entries, I went to see Devotchka last night, and they were outstanding, except the sound system ruined "How It Ends," and they played neither "Sunrise on Cicero" nor "Venus In Furs." I kept waiting for them, because all the band members played two or three different instruments throughout the concert, and I knew that both songs required a particular combination of electric guitar, violin, double bass, and drums. But no! The only old song they played was "Queen of the Surface Streets" and the only cover they played was "The Last Beat of My Heart." Lame. Come on! "Venus In Furs" was the first video on your website for like an entire year.
In other news, though, pretty much every other aspect of the concert was amazing. For the first time I really started digging a bunch of the songs off their most recent album, particularly "Undone." The second song had the most amazing blistering theremin solo I have ever heard, and, you know, that was probably the first one I ever heard. The Fillmore was just a great venue; the purple chandeliers just complemented Devotchka's music better than perhaps any other interior decoration could have. I think that should actually be the name of their next album. Purple Chandeliers. I am totally in love with Tommy, their accordionist, and his totally pimped-out rhinestone accordion. And I found out that their tuba player is a girl!
I mean, I already knew that, kind of, but seriously, having her just a-tooting right up there on stage ten feet away from you is another matter entirely. A lot of people in the audience yelled out "TUBAGIRL! GO TUBAGIRL!" and I'm not sure if they had ever seen the internet or not. I hope not, because that would have been kind of mean.
This morning I found out that the 10-page paper I thought I had due tomorrow is actually only 1,000 words. I know there's a more appropriate 30 Rock quote to express my joy, but right now all I can think of is "Suck it, monkeys! I'm going corporate!"
DID YOU KNOW? People boycott POM pomegranate juice because they test it on animals. Seriously. There is just so much that confuses me about that statement. Also one of those people is Pamela Anderson.
If you're every gay man that I've met in the past five years, you know that I'm really bad at flirting. That being said, I've been flirting with vegetarianism for a couple months now. Basically I already cook vegetarian at home because I usually forget about meat in the fridge and then it goes bad and rotted, not that vegetables can't do that too, but it's generally not quite as objectionable. I went veggie for the entire month of February and it was not unpleasant, and I managed to do it totally covertly, totally avoiding any of those awkward "oh, no, can we order vegetables?" moments in restaurants.
Honestly, you know, there are a lot of reasons for becoming a vegetarian. Wikipedia lists eight. But ethical, environmental, psychological... I really can't justify any of those for myself in my head. And "vegetarian of convenience" just seems to trivialize the matter. In the end, I've pretty much decided that I'm going to go bi-vegetarian, if I can borrow a term from the British Coupling. You know, vegetables are great. I'll eat them mostly. But if I see some chicken nuggets sitting around or something, nothing's gonna stop me from macking on them. Not even the prospect of becoming a gay vegetarian registered socialist. Not even the Supreme Master Ching Hai. No, nothing.
Not even PETA's Super Chick Sisters starring Pamela Anderson, which I have only played for 45 seconds but I'm already sure is the greatest video game of all time.
Basically what I'm trying to say is that I'm making no tangible change in my life while simultaneously affirming my love of vegetables. I'm also trying to say that you need to save Pamela Anderson from the evil clutches of Colonel Sanders.
DID YOU KNOW?The Winner Takes It All, my favorite Abba song by two or three miles, was written by Bjorn and sung by Agnetha--during and after their divorce.
Seriously, I love Neko Case. A lot. 38 of the first 50 songs I downloaded off of iTunes were Neko Case songs. Followed by 10 Nico songs, but that's another story. And seriously, I used to love this interview with Neko Case, where she goes all crazy dissing autotune and Shania Twain and Celine Dion and anybody who has every used autotune, eventually concluding that the only two respectable artists on Earth are herself and Nelly Furtado, because neither one of them ever uses autotune.
Like, seriously, she has some really kind of classic lines.
...it's for people like Shania Twain who can't sing. Yet there they are, all over the radio, jizzing saccharine all over you. It's a horrible sound and it's like, "Shania, spend an extra hour in the studio and you'll hit the note and it'll sound fine. Just work on it, it's not like making a burger!"
I mean, Neko is right. Singing isn't like making a burger. What an awesome analogy. She goes on:
And if Celine Dion is supposedly the great singer that she says she is why is there auto tune on every fucking word in her songs? Can't you just hit it, Celine? Do you have another baby book to shoot?
So tonight I was looking up some New Pornographers videos online in anticipation of them possibly adding a San Francisco tour date and, yo, Neko. You could use a little help yourself there sometimes. Like, lady, you have some nerve telling Shania Twain that she actually can't sing when this is your breakout vocal performance:
And this is what you sound like singing it live.
It's okay until the first chorus, and then she's just like all fierce tranny yelling. The bridge almost made me cry. Seriously, girl, did you just kind of forget that you double-tracked your lead vocal on the album? Come on, Neko, just sing it once, really well, and you'll get it right. It's not like making a burger.
Regardless, nobody's perfect, so I still love Neko Case, and I will still go see the New Pornographers the next time they're in the bay area, also I don't lack respect for Shania Twain anymore, and especially I'm still really excited about Devotchka tomorrow, because the more notes that Nick Urata misses, the more awesome he's going to sound. Oh, he'd chew his own heart out for me.
I've been having the hardest time waking up lately. One of my aunts one time said not to use the term "can't" because it's a psychological thing; for example, the only time you can't wake up is when you're dead. Any other time it's an exaggeration.
I'm guessing my alarm clock goes off an average of seven times every morning, which I'm sure is much to Michael J's consternation, but it seems like he sleeps through a lot, like last weekend's Radke Lab party. This evening, lying around in jean shorts, I noticed that some of the finish had worn down around the snooze button after five years of overuse.
Apparently not only does my alarm go off seven times every morning, but also, my aim isn't very good upon my brief awakenings.
Speaking of Radke Lab partying, I have had the most Jewtastic week. On Thursday night I went to the Radke Lab Seder, and it was really neat, and we ate bugs. Not because that was part of the seder, but because Dan's supply of Kosher food was really old. Among the planned festivities, I was the youngest, so I got to sing the song about asking the questions about why the night was so special, and also I pretended to be Elijah, even though apparently he's not supposed to show up or something. Also, there was a song that we sang to the tune of "Oh My Darling Clementine." Anyway, I'm pretty confident that it was the best seder ever.
Then last night I went to see the aforedescribed concert where Black Francis from the Pixies played the soundtrack to a 1920's German silent film about the Golem. It was interesting. Sometimes it worked, and it was really spectacular, like this one part where Rabbi Loew is summoning the dread spirit Astaroth, Black Francis was just kind of rocking out and yelling "TELL! ME! THE WORD!" and it was pretty awse, really augmenting the summoning action onscreen, and there was also this kind of dirgy song about ghetto walls that was beautiful. Then sometimes it didn't work, and it was just kind of like trying to watch a dated silent film for your 1920's German Art History class while your roommate is listening to The Pixies too loud. But the parts that worked, I mean, dang, transcendent.
Speaking of the dread spirit Astaroth, if you think The Merchant of Venice is offensive in its portrayal of Jews, you definitely haven't seen Der Golem: Wie er in der Welt kam. Like, I thinkt here was one yarmulke somewhere in the film, and one clip of people wandering in the desert, but other than that the protagonists of the film, supposedly the Jews of 16th century Prague, are basically just dirty crazy occultists whose daughters are all whores. Like, Rabbi Loew kind of looked like a few homeless people I know from Berkeley. Anyway, in the end, at least the film ended up being kind of sympathetic to the Jews, like, you saw that they had a hard time, and the emperor does laugh at Rabbi Loew right before the Golem destroys the palace. But, I mean, in the movie, the emperor's allegation is that the Jews are using black magic, and I mean, as far as the movie shows, they kind of were. Like, Rabbi Loew definitely talks to Bat Boy at one point in the film.
Anyway, thanks Paul Wegener, for making this the least-culturally-sensitive entry I have ever written. Which, I mean, after my MISTIblog, is saying something.
DID YOU KNOW? Prior to 1980, the women's first place medal for the Boston Marathon was smaller than the men's first place medal. However, after Rosie Ruiz cheated to win the marathon in 1980 and was subsequently stripped of her medal, Canadian Jacqueline Gareau was awarded a first-place medal larger in size than Ruiz's medal--and equal in size to the men's.
So I gave a presentation about the Marangoni effect today. It followed my usual theory of presentations--if you can't be coherent, at least be entertaining. Which, I mean, I did an okay job of that. You know, when you speak as quickly as I do while giving oral presentations, you have to balance slides like this...
...with slides like this. Madonna was born the same year as this review paper was written, okay? If you've been reading this blog through all of its sixty incoherent entries, you know that I'm kind of obsessed with the fact that Madonna is older than Sam's Mom, and, as an engineer, I thought I'd use that as a kind of "scaling parameter" to put my paper in historical context. That's my new unit of measuring linear time, really: Madonna lifetimes.
Adding to the incomprehensibility of my presentation this morning was a Mac-to-Windows translation error, which the smarmy dude with the tragic bangs from the Apple commercials told me should never happen anymore. Apple dude, I'm never trusting you again. I don't even know if I believe that a MacBook Air fits inside a manila envelope anymore. Just so you know, the font Futura is not always compatible with Windows. I had given it a shot on a Windows machine the night before, and it looked okay. But somehow I think I just failed to notice that all of my Futura text had gone all crazy and was bleeding off the slides.
And seriously, how could I not notice the loss of this extraordinary prettiness?
God, it almost makes me weep just looking at it. Nobody has ever set the words "unspecified xz-plane periodicity parameter" more beautifully, I think. But no, all of it, all of it just turned into some nasty unicode font, which not only resulted in half of my text going missing, but also made my presentation look less like it came from the future and more like it came from the lame-o present day.
Anyway, I showed a picture of Madonna, who is older than Sam's Mom, so it was okay.
I felt kind of vindicated when I went to a presentation by David Baker this afternoon, where he announced that we were total losers in the protein folding game that lets you cure cancer while you fail to study for your enzyme kinetics test tomorrow, and, like, I didn't really know who David Baker was beforehand, but all of the pictures he presented were captionedwith Science or Nature, and also Jay Keasling called him "kind of a rock star," and seriously, Jay Keasling has more rock star cred than pretty much anyone in the world. Maybe except Bono.
But the important part is not that David Baker routinely publishes in Science and Nature, but that he used Futura as the principal font in his presentation today. And you know? I'm pretty sure that's the only reason that Jay Keasling was impressed by him. Therefore, I'm most logically going to assume that Jay Keasling also thinks I'm "kind of a rock star." And that's good enough for me, for tonight.
The one time I met Jay Keasling in person, he just said, "Hi, I don't think we've met!" and I said, "My name's Sam!" and he said "Nice to meet you!" and walked away. You know, when I meet rock stars, I don't bother telling them my name either.
DID YOU KNOW? The trivection oven, basically used as an absurd joke in the pilot episode of 30 Rock, is an actual product sold by GE, and Jack Donaghy's description thereof is taken almost verbatim from the GE website.
You all know that I really love making food porn, which means that it's probably only a matter of days before it shows up on stuff white people like. Seriously, I had been doing well for a while, if you define "well" as "not being white," I guess, which is probably another thing white people like, but then they got me today with New Balance shoes. Contrary to their description, I go running in Brooks, but New Balance has been the only brand of walking shoe I've been using for the past three years. Oh well.
Anyway, because I felt the need to bring some pictures back into this blog, and because my dinner tonight was actually really delicious, and because I've been inspired by Gustavo's recent return to blogging, and because I just keep looking for ways to break in, but not break, my new digital camera, here's my dinner tonight.
Quinoa, asparagus, roasted red pepper, edamame, avocado, half a bunch of cilantro, and a little olive oil. By the way, as long as we're talking about food here, I'm in love with Heidi from 101 Cookbooks and her strawberry panzanella is truly an inspiration. I just love the elegant and creative words she uses to describe food. While watching a Peking Duck preparation on the travel channel this evening, Michael J commented that he loved food that could be described with verbs such as "lacquered" and "pumped." That's basically what Heidi does for all her recipes. Here, let me try. My dinner was:
A fluffy bed of earthy brown quinoa, studded with crunchy steamed asparagus and edamame, speckled with chunks of roasted red pepper and rich avocado, then tossed with a verdant burst of cilantro and kissed with a few drops of extra-virgin olive oil.
New Balance sneakers or not, this is truly the whitest entry I've ever written.
Our mailperson recently delivered my new point-and-shoot digital camera, which I'm unsuccessfully trying to justify in my head as my "tax-refund" camera, my "Amazon Rewards" camera, and my "gave up my seat on an overbooked United Flight" camera. I figured that the best subject for an inaugural picture would be this awesome unfinished painting that I grabbed for $2 at Goodwill yesterday.
I know it's not a free art haul of biblical proportions (I'm of course referring to the Book of Ruth), but, you know, I'm pretty proud. His name is Pinchy.
DID YOU KNOW? The Discovery Channel is currently filming a new reality show that involves a countrywide recycling competition between Tommy Lee and Ludacris.
So I have this song stuck in my head today. DON'T WORRY, it's not a real song, so it won't get stuck in your head too. It's not like I'm going to be all, "Hey, you know what is a really catchy song? 'Zombie' by The Cranberries" and then you'll walk around all day cursing me.
No, this song came to me in a particularly interesting dream last night, a dream that was perhaps brought to me by, once again, Lotus Vodka. I was competing on The Next Great American Band, which, for those of you that missed it, was an off-season Idol replacement on Fox that was too unthinkably bad for even me to watch. Seriously, the bands were kind of uniformly terrible, and the show was probably most noteworthy because viewership was so low that Vote for the Worst managed to get the prepubescent shirtless death metal quartet Light of Doom into the final four. Seriously, Light of Doom.
So much like American Idol, The Next Great American Band had theme weeks every week, and surprisingly, they usually managed to get bigger-name artists than American Idol did. There was a Queen week, a Bob Dylan week, a Rolling Stones week. Like, some pretty impressive songs in there. And on the one episode I watched, it was kind of cool to see something like, say, "Tangled Up In Blue" reinterpreted as a progressive funk song. Not particularly well or anything, but you know, the idea was there.
Anyway, I was a contestant on The Next Great American Band and I was the lead vocalist of my band. We were performing a song; I don't remember much about it except that our drummer was really, really awesome and critics were saying that this was the only reason for our success. He must have been a pretty good drummer, because by my recollection we sounded kind of like an amalgamation of the worst facets of Kansas and The Smashing Pumpkins, both of whom, are, you know, okay in small doses, but not really bands that you'd ever want to combine.
So, yeah, awesome drummer pulled us through to the next round, which was the round where there were only two bands left, and it turned out to be TS Eliot Week. Like, you have to write a song where the lyrics are a TS Eliot poem. When I woke up, my first impression was that this was one of those weird things that could only happen in a dream, but then I later realized that this is actually the basis for one of the longest-running Broadway musicals of all time. Oh well. So much for having weird dreams.
But anyway, leave Old Possum to the amateurs. My band headed right for Prufrock, because I've always had a special relationship and fascination with Prufrock. Or, well, I guess we toyed with The Waste Land at first too, because I have the riff for "April is the cruelest month, breeding" running through my head every so often, too. But let me tell you. Prufrock. We totally rocked that mother, as only Billy Corgan and Kansas could. Like, it had a capella parts, guitar-filled parts, crunchy riffs, changing time signatures. Whatever. Everything. We rocked. No xylophones, though. Oh, "Disarm." This wasn't the intention, I know, but I seriously think that's one of the funniest songs of all time.
So what's been going through my head all day is the quiet angsty part of my Pruf Rock, where I kept singing "And 'do I dare?' and 'do I dare?' ... disturb the universe?" over and over again as a refrain, drenched in infinite sadness, accompanied only by a lonely electric guitar. I actually ended up singing that way more times than that phrase actually appears in the poem (once, kind of), but seriously, if I sang it to you, you would totally excuse me for taking a little bit of artistic license here.
Also, you'd kind of want to punch me, because it would be in your head all week. In your head. In your head. Zombie.
DID YOU KNOW? Marvel Comics has trademarked the onomatopoeias THWIP! (the sound of Spider-Man's web shooters) and SNIKT! (the sound of the deployment of Wolverine's claws).
As much as I want that plural to be "onomatopoeiae," I don't think it's going to work out like that. Stupid Greeks.
I mean, the Democratic primary campaign is probably going to tear the country in two, but I'm really happy about that, because finally people are becoming aware of the term Pennsyltucky. Seriously, I've introduced myself to three people recently, and said, "Oh, I'm from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. It's near... Hershey. With the chocolates?" and they all have been like "Oh, Harrisburg? Pennsyltucky, huh?" Considering the usual response I get is, "Oh, really? There's a whole theme park devoted to chocolates? You're kidding, right? Really?", I think this is an improvement. I'm kind of proud.
As far as I can tell, the idea of Pennsyltucky was originally coined by James "Cajun-Style"/"You Are Judas" Carville, who said in 1992, "Between Paoli and Penn Hills, Pennsylvania is Alabama without the blacks." And seriously, I can't say that it doesn't sometimes feel like I live in the capital of a large Southern state or something. You have all the hustle and bustle of the capital building and the Ed Rendell and the Girl, Interrupted going on, but in the end, you just want to head over to the Farm Show to grab some fried broccoli in the middle of the afternoon. Basically my life whenever I go back home.
So there's a lot of terms for it. Pennsyltucky. Alabama. Whatever. I like to call my neck of the woods "The Real Pennsylvania." You know? In my version of United States geography, Philadelphia is the westernmost part of New Jersey, and anything past Pittsburgh is a part of Ohio. Seriously, they say "pop" out there. I don't even know how they get to consider themselves part of a state that almost has a border on a body of water that nearly touches the Atlantic Ocean. Pittsburgh is Total Midwest. So, yeah. The Real Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Ohio. That's the True Hollywood Story of Pennsylvania. According to Sam. The real test: if you don't worry about your car getting stuck behind an Amish horse and buggy anywhere within a one hour radius of your house, you're not from The Real Pennsylvania.
And, you know? You know, Barack Obama and his lovely wife DeBorah? I'm a total elitist about being from The Real Pennsylvania. The Real Pennsylvania vs. Road Rules Challenge. I've gotten in the habit of asking people, "Hey, where are you from?" all the freaking time. And if they say, "Pennsylvania." I'm all, "OH REALLY?" like some sort of deranged barn owl. "Where?" I ask. And then if they say something like "Oh, just outside Philadelphia" or "Oh, I went to Carnegie-Mellon." I just say, "Oh." But I don't just say "Oh." I say, "oh" in the same tone that Kelly says "oh" upon finding out that her feet are "kinda big." And since everybody else on Earth has watched "Shoes" as many times as I have, I feel like they know that I'm expressing my complete disdain for them, their loved ones, and everything that they stand for.
So, yeah, anyway, The Real Pennsylvania. I just wanted to give you all a heads-up that it exists, in case you are not mathematically aware and you didn't know before. Also, I wanted to go on record saying that Philadelphia and Pittsburgh are for total losers. Also, I would be a little dishonest if I didn't tell you that this entry was brought to you by Yelp, Apartment 24, and especially Lotus Vodka.
DID YOU KNOW? A video of the Connie Chung musical number on the final episode of the news/punditry show Weekends with Maury and Connie has received more views on YouTube than the actual show did, total, during its original six-month run.
You know, how long has it been since I mentioned 30 Rock on this blog? Probably like a week. So I'm mildly spoilered for a guest appearance on tonight's 30 Rock, and if you know me, you know that this is just tearing me up inside. Anyway, I'm super good at not spoiling things, unless it's The Crying Game, so I'm not going to say anymore about this sore subject.
So my first thought on last week's 30 Rock was "did they really get Omarosa to play DeBorah?" Then I found out that they actually didn't get Omarosa to play DeBorah. I was simultaneously relieved and disappointed, like when you're watching Olympic figure skating and nobody falls the entire time. You know, that woman shouldn't actually be famous; she doesn't even deserve to have me write her name in my blog. I'm sorry, society.
Then I saw last night's Colbert Report interview and I went to bed a little confused inside and I didn't know why, but then I woke up this morning and sat in bed half-awake for no less than two hours, debating whether to go running or not, when finally it hit me: Michelle Obama is actually DeBorah from MILF Island! Barack didn't come here to make friends, he came here to be number one! Actually, I guess he's kind of been doing both recently.
Of course, everyone's favorite moment from last week's 30 Rock was chocolate, chocolate, chocolate, ack and, I mean, I have an ex-friend who thinks that Tina Fey is just an inherently unfunny person, and seriously, I don't know how anybody can think that after watching her transform four words, three of which are the same and one of which is an onomatopoeia for strangulation, I guess, into pure comedy gold. And when she sticks her tongue out in the last half-second of that scene? She inscribes her name upon the Emmy.
Anyway, further confirming that Tina Fey is actually a gnome that lives inside my brain and steals my ideas and life experiences in magic bubbles, as soon as I saw this scene I had a flashback to second grade in Miss Rita Hunt's class. It was near the end of the school year and we were all filling out some sort of personality profile or test or something, and one of the questions was "What is your favorite comic strip?" I don't know how it's even physically possible that I could have answered anything other than Calvin and Hobbes, because seriously, it was 1994, but for some unknown reason I decided to write down Cathy. Cathy was my favorite comic strip when I was in second grade.
Oh, wait, you know what? I do know why I wrote down Cathy. It's all coming back to me now. Because the question was not just "What is your favorite comic strip?" it was "What is your favorite comic strip... and why?" And do you know what eight-year-old Young Sam wrote down in response to that question?
"Cathy. Her views on shopping and men."
Nature, nurture, who's to say? But let it be known that when I was eight years old, my favorite comic strip was Cathy, because of her views on shopping and men. And really, as far as I can remember, that was the very first sign that I was ever interested in things such as shopping and men. And chocolate. Chocolate chocolate. Ack!
DID YOU KNOW? There exists an ultra-endurance triathlon by the name of Enduroman Arch to Arc that spans the distance from London's Marble Arch to the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. The swimming portion crosses the English Channel.
Yesterday I realized that with Mahendra's graduation from UC Berkeley, now I am become the tallest person in Radke lab, and therefore also the destroyer of worlds. I mean, as I often advertise, I'm only 5' 9 3/4" tall, which, according to Wikipedia, is pretty much exactly the average height for an American citizen over 20 years of age. And I am the tallest person in Radke lab. This kind of never happens to me in any social setting. But here I am. Sure, maybe the fact that there are only eight people in our lab right now helps out the statistics a little, but I'm still going to make them all call me Spamdor the Crushinator, lest I smash them all under my mighty heel.
At the same time, grad school decisions are due tomorrow, and our class has been keeping really careful tabs on which prospective students have accepted and rejected Berkeley, totally working the department secretaries, facebook, and personal contacts. You know, it's interesting, it's a drama, it's cool to see how well our recruiting weekends worked out, but in the end, I think I'm the only person in the department who really has a vested interest in this. I mean, we all like feeling superior to people, and height is as good of a metric as any. I therefore want all of the taller prospectives who showed any interest in Radke lab to reject Berkeley, and I'm working hard to make this dream into a reality. Seriously, just give me this one thing. I'm not going to win the best thesis proposal award or the most outstanding TA award, but as long as I keep possession of the coveted "tallest person in Radke lab" trophy, I'll be extraordinarily happy in all of my years at Berkeley.
At the same time, today I had noticed that I accidentally left iTunes playing while I was at that Mormon garden party, and I had left the search term "he poo" in the search box. This meant that my computer played the four songs I downloaded (legally, go figure) from the Final Fantasy album He Poos Clouds over and over again for three hours, making each of these four tracks skyrocket to the top of my Top 50 Most Played smart playlist. And seriously, I work that playlist. For the longest time I wondered whether "The Argus" by Ween or "Venus In Furs" by Devotchka was going to come out on top, but at some point "Letter From An Occupant" by The New Pornographers usurped both of them.
So, while my samples ran in lab this afternoon, I cleared the play count for those four songs in iTunes and played them each about 15-20 times, bringing them back to their previous and rightfully-earned mediocrity. And now all is right with the world. Seriously, "Song Song Song" is up there, but there's no way any of the others are better than "Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands" or anything.
...and just now I noticed that in the process of doing this, I accidentally let "He Poos Clouds" play continuously for 4 hours. Man, you just can't win sometimes.
DID YOU KNOW? West Side Story will be revived on Broadway in late 2008. It will be directed by 90-year-old Arthur Laurents, who wrote the original libretto for the musical in 1957.
Our kinetics TA passed back our only midterm of the semester on Wednesday, and here is how he did it. He took our tests and graded them. Then he took each test and placed it in a manila envelope. Then he took each manila envelope and labeled it with the name of the student whose test was contained inside. Following this, he individually sealed each manila envelope and arranged them all in alphabetical order. Finally, he left them in the mailbox outside of our professor's office.
I don't know. This is kind of brilliant, because my reaction upon walking out of the exam was, "Yeah, I would be happy just never knowing that grade and just seeing how I do at the end of the semester." The basic rule of grades in our graduate program is "A is for Average, B is for Bad, C is for Catastrophe" so, I mean, there's not much room for... anything really. And, I mean, now you can't even accidentally see your grade. You have to really want it. You have to say, "Yes. I would like to know my grade. I am going to tear open this envelope." I'm trying to decide whether he knew that most people in the class didn't want to see their grades, or whether he's just one of those really private people who never wanted other people looking at his test scores, and is trying to make everything all right for his students. Either way, it's kind of perfect.
For two days I left the envelope on my desk and debated what to do with it. Colin wanted to burn his, but growing up on a farm in upstate New York, that's kind of his solution to a lot of things. Perhaps Michael J made the most compelling argument: if I opened it and looked at my test score, I would have an empty manila envelope. Then I could buy a MacBook Air and repeatedly take it in and out of the manila envelope while listening to YaelNaim. Assuming I downloaded her MP3, because, you know, I wouldn't be able to play a CD on the MacBook Air.
In the end, I did end up opening my envelope on Friday after morbid curiosity got the best of me. And let me tell you, figuratively speaking, I did discover a dead cat inside.
DID YOU KNOW? The word "dairy" is derived from the Middle English word "dey," meaning a female servant. Because that's who was usually responsible for milking the cows and churning the butter.
Yeah, no blogging recently. I don't know why. It's been kind of a chill week out here in California. This afternoon I went to a Mormon garden party to celebrate the recent wedding of one of my classmates, and let me tell you, it was actually a really exciting occasion. Although I guess marriage is, in general, a pretty exciting concept. But the best thing there was this one dessert that one of Jakob's Mormon friends had made, which consisted of a layer of crushed-up pretzels covered with cream cheese, and then a layer of raspberry jello on top of that. It was amazing. Apparently Mormon cooking is really interesting, and there is a cold war between Mormons and Lutherans over who invented funeral potatoes. With all the historic tension between Mormons and other early American pioneers, I'm kind of glad that this is the only thing that they're still fighting over.
You people know that with the exception of the incomparable Bingo, I'm not really an animal person. So I was kind of surprised by this one dog at the garden party, who was fitted with a magical collar that detected vibrations and thereby sprayed Citronella whenever the dog barked. This dog apparently didn't like Citronella, thus the dog was kept quiet for the duration of the party, and in the unhappy event that the dog did bark, well, at least there were no flies around to ruin our enjoyment of pretzel-cream cheese-jello casserole.
In other news, Panasonic's warranty on digital cameras kind of sucks, and I ended up recently impulse-buying a new one, figuring that my tax refund will cover it. No, to make up for it, I'm also giving up my sweet M.I.A. tickets, for which I would incur a $6.50 service charge in addition to their already steep $35 price tag. Seriously, dude, I like to bongo with my lingo and beat it like a wing, yo, but not quite that much. But, yeah, I really was not doing anything strenuous to my digital camera, like, I hadn't even dropped it yet, and I just took it out of my pocket one afternoon to discover that the screen had cracked. I called Panasonic and they told me to send it to Precision Camera, who informed me that Panasonic was not down with my warranty and that repairs would be $150 on my $200 camera. But after the repairs, my warranty would be reinstated. Score!
You know I like used stuff. Vintage. But, I mean, I don't see this as anything other than an opportunity to buy a new digital camera. I really liked having a digital camera with a 10x optical zoom and 4x digital zoom. Seriously, look at what I could do.
I could zoom in THIS MUCH on the Pepsi can in the above photograph. Seriously.
So I was kind of used to that, and let me tell you, it was hard giving it up. I consulted with Ruthie, who told me not to buy another Panasonic Lumix, providing several logical reasons (recent mediocre reciews, bad warranty, screen might be easy to crack, sunk cost!) and then concluding that if I didn't find any of those satisfactory, then I could always fall back on spite. Spiting a company that basically pooped in my shoe. Because spite is always the right reason to do something, be it digital camera purchases, dating, or choosing your class schedule. Oh, Ruthie.
In the end, I did decide to go with a Canon A720, which is better-reviewed and still manages a 6x digital zoom. And lets me spite Panasonic. I will let you know how that works out for me. But anyway, I have spent my evening lying on my couch, drinking Merlot and reading about the chemistry of cooking, while eating an arugula salad, whole wheat toast, cheese and apples, and listening to the vocal music of Charles Ives. Between this, Mormon garden parties, and astounding sandwiches, and the protein folding game that lets you cure HIV while you punt work, I am kind of becalmed right now. No worries.
DID YOU KNOW? Artichokes are a member of the daisy family.
You're going to be getting a ton of DID YOU KNOWS? like this in the near future, because Cousin Glo was here and we went out for vegan Japanese food and I ended up in an exceptionally good mood, so I popped into Half Price Books on my way home and picked up On Food and Cooking: The Science and Lore of the Kitchen, which has already turned out to be way more interesting than any of the papers I need to read relating to my grad school research.
My camera is in the shop, so to speak, and is gonna be there for the foreseeable future, but I think that you deserve some pictures in this blog, because, well, you are just special. So very special. So here are a few pictures of the vast, vast internet that I snapped during my daily browsing, connected by a few of my trademark brilliant segues.
So, inspired by tales of my astounding cousin's impending wedding, which will reportedly involve Fatty Arbuckle's mansion, a mariachi band, a magic show, and a taco truck, and will be officiated by my other cousin Glo, I decided to go through with it and get ordained on the internet. And it took like 8 seconds. They really only require your name. And a valid e-mail address. Actually, just your name and a fake address. Idonno, maybe it's like watching "Chocolate Rain," where I'm the last person on the planet who hasn't become an ordained reverend over the internet. But I think that instant online ordination is still one of those things like blackberries, cell phones, and GPS that just makes you sit around and go, "Dang. It is actually the twenty-first century right now."
Speaking of the twenty-first century, now, facebook. You are getting kind of creepy. You are a weirdo. Like, you're a super freak. Freaky tranny. From Transylvania. And you are not apologizing for it. Seriously. This is probably the weirdest thing I've ever seen. Granted, it was more astounding before I reloaded the page, because they were displaying people that I actually wanted to be friends with. Oh well.
Speaking of creepy, did you notice that Janet Jackson looks TERRIBLE? Did you know she is only 41?! Seriously, she either had the worst plastic surgery ever or a stylist who makes her look like she had the worst plastic surgery ever. I was trying to estimate her age the other day, and just looking at her face I arrived at a guess of 65. Seriously. Janet. I'm sorry. "Feedback" has a catchy chorus though, and I love that the beginning of the video is clearly inspired by Super Mario Galaxy.
On the other hand, Madonna is older than Sam's Mom, and seriously, girl is still kinda fine. I was watching the "Hung Up" video the other night with some people, and none of us could avoid noting that, yo, that booty is toned. Seriously, think of all your friend's moms and dads, and ask yourself if any of them would appear plausible in a music video wherein they are required to dance in front of a mirror for an unspecified length of time and then break into a secret underground dance club, seduce a grody dude wearing a beret, and play Dance Dance Revolution. Cougar, thy name is Madonna.
DID YOU KNOW? Project Runway was recently bought by Lifetime, but NBC is taking them to court.
Did you notice that this season of American Idol kind of majorly sucks? Like, I liked Chikezieze when he did She's A Woman and that's been kind of it for the whole season. Idonno. And Brooke took my "Jolene" performance from me. So angry. That was one of the things contributing to last week being a major bummer in my life, in case you're wondering.
But anyway, since American Idol has failed to provide me with an idol this year, you know who my American Idol is? Rose Grabowski. Seriously. Earlier this year, she articulated her new philosophy of life, which includes saying "yes" to as many social invitations as possible. And, you know? I think that's a pretty good philosophy, and it's one that I've been trying to follow to the best of my abilities. I learned during my junior year at MIT that overscheduling social events is far more depressing and stressful than underscheduling social events, but seriously, there will be time for solitude when I'm dead; for now, my life should be more or less a nonstop spring break.
Simultaneously, I'm trying to reinvent myself as someone who attends lots of live musical performances, although thus far I've only been successful at going to one Of Montreal concert last term. An AWESOME Of Montreal concert, even if they didn't play Forecast Fascist Future. One of my biggest regrets in life is when Devotchka and The Dresden Dolls were playing a Halloween show in Boston in 2005, and Megan "Fucker" Tsai had MULTIPLE FREE TICKETS through WMBR, and I decided not to go because I had choir rehearsal. Seriously, I had choir. I didn't even like anything were singing in choir that term. I don't think I will ever forgive myself for that. So I decided to kind of Grabowski up with respect to live music too, and resolved never to miss any performance for any reason, choir-related or otherwise, ever again.
So I bought that Devotchka ticket even though I couldn't find anyone else to go with. Whatever. Devotchka is awse, I'm sure there will be tons of other people there for me to stand still with. No, no, really, if anyone is standing still during the part in Sunrise on Cicero that goes "Chew my own heart out! Chew my own heart out! Chew my own heart out for you!" I might try to incite a riot.
Then I got invited to a performance of Mamma Mia! in San Jose the night before that. And, I mean, okay. I'm down with that. ABBA. They were pretty good. I'm always worried when people connect to my iTunes, because the first six tracks that come up are ABBA, because no, I can't live without listening to "The Winner Takes It All" one a month. So I said sure, why not, I'll go to that; maybe "Take A Chance On Me" will even be in it.
So last night I found out that everybody's favorite Sri Lankan rapper, M.I.A., who has the greatest website design ever, is coming to San Francisco in May, and yo, I was just about to write a blog entry about how I wanted to have a knife fight with M.I.A. because she was touring in Portland, Oregon and not San Francisco. But, I mean, this was the point where things are starting to pose a challenge to my wallet. Still, you know? Grabowski on. Tickets go on sale Wednesday, and I'm pretty set on this too.
Now, then, today I was just browsing Yelp's events page and I discovered that during the San Francisco International Film Festival, they're going to play a 1920's German silent film about the Golem featuring an original soundtrack performed live by Black Francis from The Pixies. Seriously. That's going to happen. And, really, is there anyone out there who could possibly be more excited about the combination of Golem, German silent film, and Black Francis than I am? I mean, probably; maybe someone who likes Pixies songs other than "Cactus" and "Monkey Gone To Heaven." But, still, yo, this is still pretty exciting. I'm definitely gonna be there. Except, I now realize, it's the same weekend as both Mamma Mia and Devotchka, and four days before I have to give my first research presentation at Radke group seminar. Oh well, there will be plenty of time to present research to Professor Radke when I'm dead.
So since then I've also been invited to a documentary about water management in China, a Mariners-A's game, and a Distilled fashion expo in San Francisco, all before the end of this month, which has but 30 days to begin with. Plus a final presentation for a class, an exam, and jury duty. In Oakland. Oh my, I'm kind of afraid of even the prospect of going to Oakland to perform jury duty. But seriously, I'm not so worried about the time strain anymore, but the financial strain is really starting to get to me, especially because I'm anticipating a New Pornographers concert in San Francisco sometime in the next two months, and I've got three weddings to hit this summer. Oh well, there will be plenty time not to spend money when I'm dead; for now, poor little Gilgamesh will be left penniless.
And anyway, I should be thankful, because there is one event going on in the near future which I would be unable to avoid if it were occurring within one thousand miles of my apartment. An OutKast ballet. Including ballet dancing to "Bombs Over Baghdad." Seriously. For reals. I almost contemplated using the free United ticket that I got during my Christmas layover, but decided that I'd eventually need it for Midwest Wedding Explosion this summer. Oh well, there will be plenty of time to watch OutKast ballets when I'm dead.
DID YOU KNOW? Operating a bicycle while intoxicated is illegal in the state of California and carries a fine of up to $200.
So I was on accuweather.com again today, even though, as faithful blog readers know, I had previously sworn off of it. But there might be a picnic planned for later this afternoon, and I needed to determine what the warmest hour of this otherwise unseasonably cold day in Berkeley, California would be.
You know, I pay a lot of attention to weather reports. That's pretty much why I crapped out at Mile 17 of the 2007 Boston Marathon and had to be physically dragged to the finish line holding on to Mitra's shoe: I refused to go running outside in Boston anytime that the temperature was below 32 degrees Fahrenheit. And since I owned a MacBook prior to the 2007 Boston Marathon, but not the 2006 Boston Marathon, that meant the outside temperature was never more than one click of F12 away. In conclusion, Steve Jobs nearly broke my legs.
So after the marathon, I realized that the temperature was not really the deciding factor in whether to go running or not; rather, that decision actually involve the solution of a nonlinear differential equation that included the wind gust speed and the cold & flu index as parameters. So since last year sometime, I've been pretty aware of all those funny little indices that pop up next to the weather report. The cold & flu index. The pollen index. The arthritis index. You know, I'm not sure how they're calculated, but I've always just kind of taken them for what they are, at face value, and assumed that there was some good science behind them. Like, pollen. That can't be too hard to quantify.
Anyway, we're planning this picnic, and these are the indices that showed up on accuweather.com when I went to check the temperature.
So, I mean. For reals. The John Deere Lawn Index is excellent today. Score! I was totally planning to mow my lawn. Using a John Deere tractor. My lawn, as we have discussed just this week, is the entirety of Tilden Regional Park. I mean, okay. A lawn index. I can kind of get behind that. I mean. I always wonder whether it's a good day to mow my lawn or not.
But seriously, The John Frieda Collection Frizz Advisory? What's a frizz advisory? It sounds like something out of a Saturday Night Live sketch that aired shortly after the formation of the Department of Homeland Security. Anyhoo, the origin and calculation of the John Frieda Collection Frizz Advisory is not something for me to worry about on this otherwise very sunny, yet unseasonably cold day. But let it be known that I will be checking my hair every few minutes if we do end up having a picnic. Checking my hair for Frizz. I'm well-advised.
Of course, I'm kind of upset that there's no Jellystone National Park Picnic Index on the website, too. But I guess we shouldn't be using taxpayer dollars to fund something as sinister as Accuweather.
DID YOU KNOW? The Boston Marathon's famed "Heartbreak Hill" is named not for its difficulty, but for a particular event in the 1936 race, when defending champion John A. Kelley passed race leader Tarzan Brown and gave him a pat on the shoulder on his way. Less than a mile later, Tarzan sped up, passed Kelley, and went on to win the race, forever breaking Kelley's heart.
Blerg. I think I've said that word more this week than I have previously in my entire life, which is not terribly surprising because I just learned it from an episode of 30 Rock that I saw like two months ago. But anyway, yeah, this week has been kind of a bummer for a bunch of totally unrelated reasons, which the margin of this blog is too cheerful to contain, because remember that the first rule of Turkey vs. Spam II Turbo is "no angst."
Although my spirits were lifted a little bit, for a bunch of reasons, when my amazing transport TA wrote this URL on my homework in response to a picture of her that I drew.
But as I learned in Study Skills class in 6th grade (that was the class that almost made me drop out of school because Mr. Clemons was so frightening), nothing cheers you up more than setting goals. There's three stages of goals. There's SET goals, GET goals, and... a third one, that also rhymes... uh... I'm gonna guess it's MET goals, because BET goals, LET goals, and HET goals just kind of don't make any sense. I actually had a nightmare about this particular class once, wherein Mr. Clemons was like, "There's three kinds of goals. There's GET goals, LET loals, and LMNOPQ lmna." (I think this pronunciation was inspired by Dan Aykroyd's old "metric alphabet" sketch on SNL, which you really should watch). Anyway, the point is that I woke up crying from that dream, and I almost dropped out of school.
Man, I love blogging; I feel better already.
No, actually, I think the point is that it's good to set goals. And, I mean, that was probably the only thing I learned in my 6th grade study skills class, considering that I had a kinetics test today but I still found time to write four new Yelp reviews last night, including one about a parking garage. So, I decided, after some deliberation, that unless some major leg injury befalls me between now and then, I am going to run the Golden Hills Marathon on October 11, 2008. It's blogged. It's confirmed. No way to stop it, even if you try.
I was initially a little bit worried about the prospects of running a trail marathon, mostly because I'm used to all these city-type marathons on nicely paved highways and roads and stuff. Then I looked at the course map and saw that they had posted an elevation profile that was, well, a little daunting, to say the least:
Compare this to the heartbreaking hills that made me cry at mile 19 of the Boston Marathon...
And, I mean, this is a good example of why you always need to pay careful attention to the scale of graphs in scientific research. They look kind of similar, but the first hill of the Golden Hills Marathon is about the same elevation gain as the total elevation gain for the entire length of the Boston Marathon. Also, I mean, the course map is in red, and that just looks kind of scary.
So I was a little worried about that. But then I found the HeyWhatsThat Path Profiler and decided to put my 16-mile training course into that. And, you know? Not too bad.
Not quite as hardcore as the Golden Hills Marathon is going to be, I know, but it convinced me that I might be ready for the massive 4-mile long ascent that starts it off. And, I mean, from there, it's all downhill. Mostly. Except for the mile-long uphill stretches at miles 8 and 17. But really, how bad could that be?
Looking a little further into the marathon, I noticed that the starting line is basically a 15-minute bike ride from my current digs. And really, given that I drove to Napa and back twice in one night just to run my last marathon, how can I say no to one that is pretty much in my proverbial backyard? Yeah, I consider Tilden Regional Park to be my own personal backyard. And judging by the reviews of this marathon online, apparently I have a pretty sweet backyard. One runner raves about "cathedral-like" configurations of redwood trees. I can't say that I've seen anything cathedral-like in my previous marathon experiences, unless you count Wellesley, where the cacophonous yelling of thousands upon thousands of girls for an entire mile is kind of reminiscent of a church organ.
Then I checked out some information on the aid stations during the marathon, worried that Boston and Napa had spoiled me with their aid stations every mile that were basically as well-stocked as a hotel minibar. Seriously, I think another goal I have in life is to run the Boston Marathon and drink a beer in the middle of it. Anyway, aid in the Golden Hills marathon turned out to be a little more sparse, however, they assure all participants that the aid stations will all be stocked with "water, GU 2 0 Hydration drink, Gu, ice,fruit, cookies, candy, potatoes, P.B. & J sandwiches, pretzels, salt, wonderful volunteers, etc." Now, if you know me, you know that I saw that and instantly yelled out, "POTATOES!" Seriously. Potatoes. My favorite food. My favorite punchline! Well, except for "a brick!" Maybe I'm setting my expectations too high here, but I think that if I run this marathon and I don't get tons and tons of freaking potatoes on the way, I'm just gonna give up around Mile 6.
And then there's a barbecue at the end. Seriously. A barbecue. In my backyard, right? Where the marathon is being run. With free potatoes. I'd be crazy not to run it. So, everyone, just letting you know right now, that on October 12, 2008, you're going to have an awesome blog entry to look forward to, with tons of pictures of cathedral-like redwoods and potatoes.
Seriously. No way to stop it. And I'm gonna link back to this entry, too.
DID YOU KNOW? In Korea, it's traditional to wear white to funerals.
So let me start by saying that I took part in what was possibly the greatest April Fools' Day prank in the history of Susquehanna Township High School during my senior year, therefore I'm always pretty aware of April Fools' Day in general. So I read the headlines on April 1st every year with some degree of suspicion. Gmail Time Travel? APRIL FOOLS'! A thong attachment for the Wii? APRIL FOOLS'! xkcd replaced by a lamer webcomic? APRIL FOOLS'! My name isn't on the list of NSF recipients? APRIL FOOLS'! Seriously, guys, bad day to announce the results. Connecticut-sized ice shelf breaks off of Antarctica? APRIL FOOLS'!
But no news made me wish for the comforting cry of APRIL FOOLS'! today more than hearing that my second cousin Sarah's beloved dog Bingo had been struck by an errant car and killed. Now, I mean, it may seem a little strange to get bent out of shape over the death of my second cousin's dog, but let me preface this by explaining that my second cousin is one of the coolest people who has ever lived. Like, you wish you were related to my second cousin. Basically, she got kicked out of multiple high schools and played as a drummer in a riot grrrl band for a while, but she now owns a punk rock clothing store in LA, and despite all this her life is still more stable than yours will ever be. Mitra and I loved her from the moment she asked, "So, what's you guys's... major? Is that what you call it?" And that was before we discovered that she had also acted as a magician's assistant, videotaped Jennifer Aniston naked, and starred in the original 1-800-CALL-ATT commercial. Like, the one with David Arquette, not the one with Carrot Top.
So clearly, any dog owned by Sarah has a lot to live up to. Like, with her jet-setting, punk-rocking, perpetual spring break lifestyle, most dogs would just sit at home and collect dust, or pass out from exhaustion and never get up again. But not Bingo. No, Bingo was a truly glorious dog. Far surpassing reasonable expectations of any animal that Sarah could have possibly owned, Bingo quickly established himself as the official mascot of Pull My Daisy, Sarah's punk rock boutique, and also as the unofficial mayor of Silver Lake, Los Angeles. But don't take my word for it. Just ask Cuddy from House...
...who came out to support him in the Wienerschnitzel wiener dog racing regional championships in LA. Seriously, Bingo. Total celebrity. Total babe. You can see in the pictures linked above that Cuddy's wearing one of many t-shirts bearing Bingo's glorious image. Apparently people buy these shirts at Sarah's shop and then go off and take pictures of themselves in faraway locations, like Rome.
His name was Bingo. He liked bacon.
But I don't want to just talk about Bingo the celebrity here. I want to talk about the Bingo I knew personally. And, I mean, Bingo and I had a lot of time to get to know each other personally over Spring Break last year. Mitra and I decided to head out to LA, and bought tickets in October or something, because they were cheap. So three days before we left I got a call back from Sarah telling me that we were totally welcome to stay at her place. And, I mean, I had only met Sarah once before, on Christmas Eve, which she spent mostly requesting that we sing "the one where God and sinners reconcile." But I was still pretty excited. And LA turned out to be, hands down (or rather, hands up), the most overwhelmingly enjoyable Spring Break that anyone could have ever had.
Like I said, though, Sarah is a pretty busy second cousin, so she wasn't able to be around that much during the week. She said she was checking out new fashions for the store or something, but I secretly think she was off filming more celebrity weddings or having surreptitious meetings with David Arquette or something. Anyway, that meant that we were basically Bingo's houseguests for the week. And, really, we totally could not have found a better host in LA for a week than Bingo. He was the most kind, thoughtful, compassionate, and bacon-loving canine host that we ever could have found, anywhere. Not at all like that sketchy French dog Pierre from next door. Seriously, I don't trust any dog that you have to greet with "Bonjour, Pierre."
Not that I trust most dogs. You know that I don't like dogs, right? I basically don't like any animals, or children under the age of four. I mean, cats are the worst, because they're malicious, and smarter than we are, and they know it. But dogs and children, you know, they're just kind of dumb. I mean, they're cute, but kind of dumb, and it bugs me. This is usually one of the first things people find out about me, because we'll be walking down the street and we'll see someone with their pet, and I'll be unable to restrain myself from saying, "God, I don't like animals. Or children."
So the first night we spent in LA, we eventually got tired of waiting up for Sarah, and, totally jet-lagged, we decided to settle in on the couch at 1 AM. But, oh man, Bingo was in my spot. I mean, I don't usually trust dogs, right? They don't understand reason or human language. Again, kind of like children who are less than four years old. So, I mean, my first instinct upon seeing a dog or child in a spot on a couch where I intended to sleep would be to pick it up and throw it across the room. But just one look into the dark chocolate of Bingo's eyes and I knew that wasn't going to happen tonight.
And so, for perhaps the first time in my life, I found myself having a conversation with a dog. "Okay Bingo! Okay. We're going to bed now. Come on Bingo! Get up! Get up! We want to go to bed! Mommy will be home soon! Okay! Come on! Come on Bingster! Okay! Okay, good night! Good night, Bingo!"
"Man, I totally didn't expect you to be a dog talker." said Mitra.
"I know!" I replied.
Five minutes later:
Bingo was always there for us. No matter how crazy our spring break got, no matter how much chicken and waffles we ate, no matter how ill-advised the decision to take a bus down Santa Monica Boulevard at 10 PM was, we could always count on Bingo being there when we got home to listen to the story of our day, recounted by me, in doggy talk, and then lick us to sleep. Such incredible loyalty to cousins that he didn't even know he had.
Seriously, I have known a lot of dogs in my life, and Bingo is quite possibly the only dog that I have ever even liked, or been able to tolerate, let alone felt genuine affection toward. I was in Cheeseboard one day last September, proudly sporting my Bingo shirt, and the dude at the counter was wearing a Felix the Cat t-shirt, and he taunted, "My cat could beat up your dog." I just said, "Oh, well, I don't know man" because I'm usually kind of conflict-averse when ordering pizza. I mean, actually, if I had brought Bingo to Cheeseboard, I know that Bingo would have ripped the shirt from his body and peed on it, then run around the totally vegetarian store looking for bacon, leaving a trail of destruction behind him, and then, after his search was unsuccessful, totally devoured the hundreds of uncooked pizzas that the collective had prepared for their dinner service, all while the dozen worker/owners cowered in fear in the corner. All I would have had to do was ask. But I like Cheeseboard, so I wouldn't have done anything like that. But I know, if I needed an estabilishment totally destroyed, Bingo would have been the dog to call. He'd always have my back.
And then there's the issue of the upcoming wedding. Sarah's getting married in June, and all that we know about the wedding apart from the date is that the ceremony was going to somehow involve both Bingo and drag queens. And seriously, my first thought, even before, "Drag queens? Can one of them be me?" was, "Oh, Bingo! I can't wait to see Bingo! Yay! Bingster!" Seriously, I was dog-talking in my head. That's how much I loved the little guy. Now I'm kind of worried that there's just going to be some kind of a black void in the wedding for which no amount of eyeliner can compensate.
To quote Pulitzer-Prize-winning playwright Tony Kushner once again, "O my queen, you know you've hit rock bottom when even drag's a drag."
And there you have it. Those poor words are all I have to memorialize the greatest dog I will probably ever meet in my entire life. And now, left without a reasonable conclusion, I feel like the only way to end this entry is by addressing him directly.
You were such a good dog, Bingster! Yes you were! Okay? Okay? You were my fave, okay? I'll miss you, okay? Yes I will! Yes I will, Bingster! Eat tons of bacon in Doggy heaven, okay? Okay! Yeah! Okay, Bingo. You were such a good dog!
