Father Time

Hot Fuzz and In Bruges are now two of my favorite movies. So much so that I might even change my facebook profile. Though probably not that much.

The thing about being old is that, every time my parents watch a movie, they get the uncanny feeling that they've seen the film before. It happened tonight with Hot Fuzz. Father sat through the movie claiming that he'd seen it, even though it was highly unlikely. To vindicate himself, he phoned Brother, who contributes the other 50% of Father's movie suggestions, while Mother and I looked on.

Father: Son, when have I seen Hot Buzz?

Mother and Child: It's Hot FUZZ.

Father: What is that?

Mother: F-U! Fuzz!

Brother: (on the other end of the phone, says something to the effect that he's never recommended the film to Father)

Father: But I've seen it.

Brother: When?

Father: Just now, I've seen the film just now.

Moi: (a thousand eye rolls)

Father: Seriously though, I've seen the movie. Not the whole thing, but bits. Maybe in Taiwan? Maybe on an airplane?

Because it's Father's Day, we're saying that it's not impossible that he's seen the film. Just highly unlikely.

Scooper Troopers

No, it wasn't freezing, it wasn't raining, and we weren't anywhere near hypothermia...

(Editor's Note: Matt was not a trooper. And most certainly not a Scooper Trooper. Although he did hold that umbrella over us for a very long time.)

(The Ten Scoops Club, minus Nicole. There were very strict rules regarding the Ten Scoop Club, rules that I may have not followed, such as the Lactose Intolerant Intolerant "Only 2 cups of sorbet may count" rule. I say, if they're different flavors from different brands, I can count as many of them as I want.)

It's Inanimate

Congratulations to myself. My new toy is finally here. After six years, a new computer. (Thank you, parents, for raising me well and bribing academic achievements with material goods. I know where my self worth lies.) Now soliciting names for this little beast. More updates and photos to come shortly. In the meantime, our prayers are with Dakota the Computer, who may or may not be salvaged.

Father: This computer better last you through your doctorate.

Moi: Uh... I'm only in a Master's program. What if I don't go for the PhD?

Father: Then you'll never have another new computer.

Waste Not Want Now

Dakota the Computer may or may not be dead, and I will not be seeing it and my new computer until Friday.  Until then, blogging is difficult, the computer I'm working with is old, and uploading pictures is out of the question. 

 

But I spotted this in the Times today, puked up a little in my mouth, swallowed it, only to puke it back up again.  So here it is.  And all I can say is, "Oh, Harvard.":

 

 Mr. Kushner noted that the college still asks scholarship students to contribute a few thousand dollars a year from summer and school-term jobs.

"I have friends who would spend 10 hours a week when they are not in class working at a coffee shop or in the dorms," said Mr. Kushner, 24, referring to time that he considered wasteful. "I think the most special thing about college is not just what you do in class, but what you do out of class."

Psht, working part time jobs.  What a tremendous waste of Harvard talent.  And now I've got Fiddler stuck in my head.  If I were a rich man...

Fools Gold

Group Fool:  Five black teenagers standing outside a restaurant in Chinatown, checking out the menu... "I don't think they should be serving barbecue at a Chinese restaurant."

 

Couple Fool: Two tourists zipping down Chinatown in helmets on Segways.

 

Single Fool: Marlene at lunch, who believed that MC TChu had done gotten himself an arranged marriage in China and was trying very hard to be supportive. 

 

Marlene: Do you... like her?

TChu: You mean, do I love her?

Marlene: Well, I understand love.  To some people love is more an action and not a feeling...

To Sir

Saw this note on the sidewalk today, it was in all caps, on an index card: "You left your sandwich behind.  I did not want you to forget it so I put it in your bag.  Enjoy it!"  Warmed my heart the entire walk home.

Lamentation

Is this what old age is like from now on?  Every time I run on little sleep for just 3 days, I start getting sick.  And 8+ hours sleep seems to be the only remedy.  Worst immune system ever.  How am I going to get through grad school?

Scooper Duper

Moi: We're going to go to church now.  I'm guessing you're not coming.

Zvi: Yeah, no, there's some bad blood between us.

Moi: Because you killed our Jesus?

Zvi: It was a misunderstanding.

Good Wednesday-after-Scooper-Bowl morning, everyone.  I'm feeling a little under the weather and extremely tired, unsure how I am going to get through the work day, but last night was glorious- 10 scoops of ice cream glorious.  It was the Jimmy Fund's annual Scooper Bowl fund raiser- $8 for all you can eat ice cream, and well, we ate.  In the freezing rain, with numb toes and fingers.  We ate.  And I don't think any of us threw up.  Though we sure did think about it a lot.  I'd share pictures, but Dakota the Computer is dead, the new one hasn't arrived, and the one I'm using in the meantime has no USB drive. 

It's How She Cares

Zvi calls this "the oldest trick in the book."  I got home last night, tired and starved, and was surprised to see Mother standing in the kitchen, offering me food.

Mother: Would you like dumplings for lunch tomorrow?

Moi: Oh that sounds marvelous.

Mother: Great.  I boiled some water for you.  Make them yourself. 

And Who Is My Neighbor?

Katy Helsinki likes to tell the story of her roommate from her BU days who grew up in New Jersey.  When they'd first met, Helsinki had asked, "So, are you from armpit New Jersey?  Or Bruce-Springsteen-is-my-neighbor-New Jersey?"  To which the roommate replied, "Actually, he is my neighbor."  Having heard the story so many times (that Helsinki is a talker) lately, it was fresh on my mind this morning when I rode in Laura's car (adventure stories to come later) and New Jersey came up.  So, I brought up Helsinki's story, all the way up to the big reveal, "Yeah, he really is my neighbor"-- to which Laura replied, "Hm.  I guess we're from the same town, because he really is my neighbor.  And I went to school with his sons."  Apparently, in New Jersey, The Boss is everyone's neighbor.  And now my NJ story trumps Helsinki's.  A win for everyone involved.

Can't Go Home Again

It's always fun to go home and notice that, no matter how short it's been since I'd been away (the slow death of Dakota the Computer has earned me many trips home the past month), there's always something new to notice- the drapes, a new type of cereal, and oh, yet another framed painting by a child that is not me.  My mom seems to be a collector, these days, of art by kids in the church which she then frames and displays in the house, alongside other prized framed objects such as my brother's diploma and a few favored paintings.  It's not that I don't think displaying diplomas is silly, but if it's going to go up on the wall along with kids' paintings, then I want my rightful place as well.  Heck, she could even display one of my paintings.

 

Moi: So er, Jeffrey's drawing, huh?  When exactly are my things going to be displayed?

 

Mother: Didn't I take you to buy frames, isn't that enough?

 

Moi: Oh yes, thanks for that trip to The Christmas Tree Shop-- we didn't actually buy enough frames. 

 

Mother: I don't remember where your things are.

 

Moi: In that pile of frames and awards in my room... very easy to spot.

 

Mother: It's not like they're pictures.  Maybe if you were adopted we'd hang them up.  Or younger.

 

Moi: They're only departmental awards.  I understand.

 

Mother: Maybe one of your old professors would like to adopt you.

Working Hardly

Whitecastle is just coming back from the office when he sees Young Bo' and I laughing by the copier.  (Laughing- because I'd be crying otherwise, given the copies I have to make for Doc Query).

Whitecastle: Are you actually working?

Moi: Yeah, I really am.  Look, I'm pressing buttons. 

Young Bo': And I'm… supervising.

Whitecastle (to Young Bo'): You're going to make a great attending physician one day.

Words Do No Harm

I used to think that no one at work was funny.  Then I discovered that (not very far) beneath the bow tie, Doc Query is the funniest doc I've ever met.  (It didn't so much take time to discover as take time for him to deign to talk to the new RAs)  Then Whitecastle seemed not so bad, though he still can't tell if I'm joking half the time and I think his threats are real half the time.  But maybe it's because Gak pointed out, or because I've been here nearly two years, or maybe it's just the weather warming up, but the office has been brimming with smart mouths lately, smart mouths that make me smirk, then worry what my health providers say behind my back...

(Whitecastle is "on service" this week, so he can often been seen coming to and from the hospital in his lab coat)

Doc Vice: Anyone die today?

Doc Whitecastle: No, not yet.  I try to save them.


(Doc Query shared a box of Lindt truffles with the division today)

Doc Vice: Who tried to bribe you with chocolates?

Doc Query: One of my patients.

Edith: What did you prescribe her?

Doc Vice: Was it oxycontin?  I bet it was oxycontin.

Spotted, She Wrote

Yesterday, I'm staying late at work (half accidentally) when I receive a call from Liz.  It goes something like this:

Liz: I'm at the Shawmut stop and I see an Asian boy in a Bo' t-shirt.

Moi: I'm going to need more information than that.

Liz: Who is this boy?

Moi: Um…?

Liz: I'm going to need more information than that.

Moi: Bo' people don't live in Dorchester. 

But of course, the Bo' only had 1700 people and I have one keen and shiney brain, so even with this paucity of clues (Liz wouldn't go talk to him, something about it being "embarrassing"), this mighty brain got to work and suddenly, an idea-

Moi: Wait, does he have glasses?

Liz: Yes.

Moi: Sort of tall?

Liz: Yes.  Sort of cute!  Do you know who this is?

Moi: I think it's John Mark.

Liz: Does he love Jesus?

Moi: He's moving to California, Liz.  Back off.

Mystery solved.  You're welcome.  If anyone's looking to hire, I'm also in the market of locating lost cats and untangling life's persistant enigmas. 

Let This Plate Pass From Me

On Sunday, I had a Park Street first.  (Can't be sure if it's a complete church first for me.  I vaguely remember ushering in high school).  I was summoned to collect the offering by one Sir Thomas, who likes to leave the surprise of assigning such a responsibility until the last minute (and also has trouble remembering to return glasses, though he is very powerful when he speaks of Kenyan orphans, and that's why we forgive him for everything).  I was climbing up the church steps when Katy announced, from Thomas's moving car, that I should stick close.  Given the task, I would have liked to obsess over every detail myself, but I had to instead assure Katy that everything would be fine.  "How could we possibly mes up," I asked her, "Everyone knows what to do.  You just pass the plate."  All the while, I imagined myself tripping down the aisle, plates on the ground, checks flying everywhere, and being escorted out the church by those ushers who have been 80 for the past 40 years.  My fears weren't allayed when we the offering time began and the two men in the first row, heavy in prayer, at first didn't notice me and my plate.  When they finally did, one man refused to play along and pased the plate in the wrong direction, completely messing up formation, got Katy off track, and led to copious confusion.  Though, let's be honest, there's confusion every week.  The greatest challenge of the whole ordeal, however, was in keeping a straight, solemn face, especially when we heard the loud clang of a dropped plate from the balcony.  My facial muscles twitched in a thousand directions trying to look grave- there was anxiety that I, too, might drop the plate, glee that someone else had messed up so ridiculously, and great pride that I hadn't dropped the plate and was almost done (though it didn't stop nicole from accusing us of causing the disturbance).  And yet, and yet, we managed.  Handed the money back (Thomas says my cut should arrive in the mail next week), and sat back in our pews.  Perhaps, after all, I'm capable of acting the role of a grown up.

Touching Hands, Reaching Out

O sweetness. Dakota the Computer is mine again. I don't know if you've ever been away from a computer for so long. In the five plus years since I've had it, we'd never been apart for more than 10 days. During that time, I'd been away from family, friends, my security pillow, my decade-old watch, from everything dear to me, for longer than that. But not Dakota the Computer. We're besties. We're an old couple, weary of each other (not wary), but can't imagine life apart, because while we've grown resentful and difficult, we've also grown comfortable. This is my favorite keyboard. These are the shortcuts and hums I know. One day soon, very soon, I will have a new computer. And we will be besties. But for now, Dakota is resting in my laps and I'm typing with my eyes closed. Just glad to be hearing the tapping of my fingers against it.

Er, that last bit sounded creepier than I intended.

Lazy Saturday

This happens every weekend I'm in town.  And yet I forget, every weekend.  I wake up on Saturday, feeling rested and lazy, relishing in my solace.  I pull on a pair of jeans too hole-y for polite company and an old t-shirt of the same comfort and quality.  Shunning decorum, seeking anomie, I head to the streets to run errands.  I don't want to see a single soul I know, but in case I do, I pull a nice pair of shades with me.  The errand today was finding cheese.  How perfectly yuppie, how apropos of the South End.  So I stroll out in my Saturday best- worn jeans, t-shirt, sunglasses, flip flops, thinking I look the part of a casual Saturday sidewalker.  I am, after all, looking for cheese.  But every weekend, I forget I'm in the South End.  The "casual brunch" crowd is immaculately clad.  It's nary 11am and there's a young woman outside of my building, talking on her blackberry, in three inch heels, skinny black pants, and a dressy "this only looks like I put no effort" top.  Saturday mornings are but an illusion of charm and relaxation.  Why of course.  And there I am, strolling with my log of chevre in hand, once again, feeling pretentious and underdressed at the same time, for the zillionth time.

Grow Fonder

Dear Blog:
  Remember how I used to keep a blog?  I hardly do.  Eh, what's been happening with my life?  Weekend in the White Mountains, way too much time spent photographying a dinosaur squeak toy, computer down for another week, saw Rove vs. Carville last night, came home to pound a giant lobster with a hammer, hosting a benefit on Saturday, expect some animal cruelty in my future, and oh yes, I am randomly sick.  That's life in a nutshell.  Way too much to tell you, but so little time, so little energy, and so many germs.

---
Doc Query:... so I found his email address and was able to contact him.

Moi: You out-googled me?

Doc Query: Yeah, I did.  I just wanted to rub that in.

Doc Whitecastle: You've got to put them in their place when they have a chance, you know?

Moi: In case we're not lowly enough?

Doc Whitecastle: It's like making residents cry.

Doc Query: This is the season for it, June, July.  That's when you can still break their spirit.

Did I mention that we save lives for a living?  And change the world?  Do-gooders all around.

The SADD Life

I have given up drinking.  If I must, I will drink water.  But I am keeping the Nazarite vow (except for the head shaving part, and maybe the grave part) and abstaining from alcohol.  It's not that I've hit some debauchery low, blacked out, and regret my actions.  It's much more lame than that.  The last couple of times I've had very little alcohol (as in, 1-2 beers), I have turned very, very red.  It's much worse than I remember.  And I don't like to feel my arms and legs throbbing.  So I'm accepting the fact that I am the intolerant type of aldehyde dehydrogenase deficient, instead of the alcohol tolerant type who are at higher risk for throat cancer.  Probably should have had more beers when I was more tolerant.  And probably should have not picked tonight- the work happy hour- to be the day to stop drinking.  It was a small crowd today, and as the waiter went around the table and I apologized for being lame and asked for non-alcoholic mixed drink, the Chief and Whitecastle both scoffed.  "You're the ring leader in this and you're not going to drink?"  "I didn't think it was appropriate for me to turn really red."  "Oh, come on!"  I did, however, have a sip of Whitecastle's Cocoa Cochon-- bacon vodka and chocolate liquer, just because of how ridiculous it sounded.  "Let's all watch her turn red!"  He exclaimed as I took the tiniest of sips.  Thanks, Body.  As if my life wasn't lame enough.

$5 Tibet

Doc Binks is giving away a digital amplifier to anyone who wants it and has set it out by my cabinet.  For some reason, this act highly amused Doc Fisher.  Who wants to unload some old furniture onto Jen and me.

Doc Fisher: If you really wanted to unload it, you'd charge something so people know it works.  Well, you've taken the first right step.  Put it here between their cubes and not in your office.

Doc Binks: Actually, I offered to take it back if no one took it.

Doc Fisher: That's a mistake right there.  Your goal is to unload it.  You should embrace the entrepreneurial spirit.  Make a few bucks.

Doc Binks: But I just want to share the sterephonic love.

Doc Fisher: Now, perhaps if you put that up.  Advertise with a banner that said, "Sharing the Stereophonic Love."  That might work.

My Thai

This one is going in to the Annals of Good Ideas.  The first hot day in a long while.  Blankets.  Bo' friends.  Patch of grass by the swan boats.  Thai take-out around dinner time.  That's right.  Not to brag or anything, but I had a glorious Thai take out picnique last night (Joe was assigned to bring "Thai meat" and did so by calling up the restaurant and asking "Do you serve any meat?  I would like a meat.  And a vegetable.").  You were probably not invited.  If the Commons used to be the haven for derelicts, the Garden seems to be the place of choice for couples without a room.  They were everywhere last night, but Jenny shooed them away from our area at least, with a quick, stern, "Hey, hey, hey!"  She's going to be the best mom someday.

PS. I'm going to be MIA for awhile.  Because I'm Sri Lanka.  And because my computer died.

Sweet Sensations

I walked by Doc Binks's office today and overhear Doc Vice and him discussing a graph…

Doc Vice: What are these- yes, OK- but can we get rid of these sprinkles?

Doc Binks: Do you always see things in terms of dessert?

Potty Training

Discussing some methods controversy at the division meeting today, Doc Vice shared that apparently, a grad student had scribbled something in the SPH bathroom regarding a stance that Doc Vice agreed with. Noticing that I was stifling laughter, Doc Binks turns to me.

Doc Binks: You know you just signed on for two years of this.

Doc Fisher: Going to be spending a lot of times in those bathrooms.

The Chief notices the murmurs and snickers.

Doc Chief: Well, this was in the men's room wall, right? Not the women's?

Doc Vice: I assume that he didn't go into the ladies' room to read this.

Moi: Shucks.

Doc Chief: So if you want to read it, you'll have to go to the men's room.

(great thinking-on-foot, if I say so myself)

No, it wasn't weird at all, or uncomfortable the entire time Doc Chief was explaining which bathroom I would have to go to for the next two years the latest contentions in epi methods. For the next two years, I'm only going to stick with toilets I know. And avoid drinking anything at school.

Pillar of Salt

As we age and near death, our habits change.  Our bodies adapt.  We learn that the fittest survive and thus we ought to eat fruits and vegetables, no matter what we really think of their grossness agenda.  We learn to study, else we'd never pass tests, move on to the next grade, and get fulfilling jobs like research assisting.  And we learn to blog using the 'royal we' to give credence to our statements.  It's taken years of discipline to get to this point, with so much work still to be done, but my body has decided to rebel.  More specifically, I've relapsed- my body has had a taste of what it has been deprived of for so long, and now it can't wait to go back.  There were the chicken nuggets two months ago.  And this morning, I played a game of Snake.  Now all I want to do is sit in my bed, tray of chicken nuggets on one side (ranch, BBQ, honey dijon, and of course, ketchup for dipping), a cup of Mountain Dew in front of me, and play Snake.  Over and over again.  Followed by Tetris.  (I have no patience for Pong)  It is taking every ounce of self restraint I have to be working right now, sipping tea, and sitting obediently in front of my screen.  Soul. So. Full. Of. Anguish. 

Born to Run

This morning, the shuttle bus encountered four yellow lights.  Our stubborn and fearless driver decided to chase every single one of them.  And at all four times, he ended up running red lights.  He wasn't even close on any of the lights.  Yet his tenacity and persistence were almost inspiring.  He never seemed to learn his lesson.  And, driving a big shuttle bus, it wasn't like anyone was going to rush out and hit him (they'd end up hitting me) for blocking the road.  And so, on this grim Monday morning, let's all learn a lesson from shuttle bus driver- even when things aren't looking good, just keep running, running, and running. 

(Speaking of running, I decided a couple of weeks ago that I'd start running three times a week.  I have run zero times since then.  Though on Saturday night, Landlady Chang and I agreed that we'd do so on Sunday morning, only to wake up and discover it raining outside.  "You can't run in the rain," we said to each other, shrugged, and I started watching teevee instead.  But that was before my shuttle driver put my life in danger.  Now I know better.)

Soul Train

I'm mourning the loss of my black Pilot BPS-GP fine pen. If anyone can track one down for me, I'd be willing to pay $5. Don't tempt me. I just might pay $10.

Give thanks, with a grateful heart
give thanks to the holy one

On the train ride to Dorchester this morning, a couple of guys entered with Bibles in their hand and started singing call and response. Jesus, one man would start, and Jesus, the other would echo. Healer, he continued, and healer, he followed. A woman sitting nearby laughed. "What is this, church on the subway?" And they started talking. She goes to Hope Fellowship by Porter. Their church is in Dorchester. Midway through the ride, another lady entered, singing. She sat in the far corner, away from the harmonizing duo, and sang her own hymn. Give thanks because he's given Jesus Christ, his son. I couldn't help but mouth along. It was such a surreal experience. I know that non-Christians often feel that faith issues are being shoved down their throats, but as a life-long Christian, I often feel the opposite, that my faith is something I cannot talk about except with my Jesus friends. The words 'mainstream culture' are often used by the one group to refer to another- so this morning was a rare gift for me. These two guys were singing on one end, this lone woman on the other, and the handful of us quiet, taking it all in, nodding along in recognition-- coming as we are, sitting as we are, on Sunday morning.

and now, let the weak say I am strong
let the poor say I am rich
because of what the Lord has done for us
give thanks.

Friday

I was not looking forward to Friday. I got home late the night before, and the night before that, and knew Friday would be exhausting. There was a dinner I didn't especially want to go to (especially when Sarah called around 4:30 and said that they were breaking out the grill and invited me to join) though I knew it'd be good for me. Work was not terribly exciting. And I had to wake up early on Saturday morning.

But then everything worked out perfectly. We sat outside for an extra long lunch today, the four of us not saying much of anything, just lounging in the sun and sharing the occasional mouse story. In the afternoon, we had an ice cream break for Edith's birthday. Whitecastle was in a great mood- not uncharacteristic, but always a plus. And oh, dinner. Actually, on a scale of yellow to Lincoln, dinner was good, but it was that after dinner moment that I liked the best. It was the fellowship's monthly Welcome Dinner, but afterward, six of us headed over to Nicole's place- a place that's comforting and relaxing by looks alone. Sitting outside in the warm, mosquito-less night, goofing off with my 6 Jesus friends-- dim sum brunch, movie with mother, Indian dinner with Alex, drive with my dad, LOST finale in Dorchester, Animal Collective show, discovering new pho place-- of all those awesome nuggets of this crazy week, the hour at Nicole's backyard was the highlight.

Rocking Chair Good Time

Went to an Animal Collective show last night with Zvi, and -- thanks to Amy's complicated mind-- Jared and Jared's sister (while Amy waited at a bar outside and watched the Bruins).  Zvi made me grade the show "on a scale between yellow and Lincoln, yellow being the lowest."  I gave the show a great.5-- it was great, loved seeing My Girls live, really enjoyed it (hence the extra half point), but it wasn't spectacular.  Plus, it made us feel incredibly old.

Zvi: My neck hurts.  My knees hurt.

Moi: My knees are killing me, too.  Imagine what would've happened had we actually danced.  Plus, I keep looking around thinking, "how do these kids look so young?"  I don't like this feeling.

Jared: That's because you are older than these kids.  You're old. 

Shut up, Jared.  And way to go Grouper and Bruins, for being the biggest pump downs ever.

Laundry Room

Seems like everyone is trying to be quoted today, and I haven't even gotten to my uncomfortable bathroom story.

(This afternoon, I keep walking by Jen's desk to get to Whitecastle's office and turning back.  By the third time, she strikes up conversation.)

Jen: How you doing?

Moi: I keep trying to stalk Whitecastle, but he keeps talking to people.

Jen: The nerve!

Moi: I know.

Jen: You'll have to get him alone to kill him, you know.

Moi: … (start seeing Jen in surprising new light)

PS. A delayed cyber five for everyone who got the title

Working Hardly

(after reading another gem of a whiteboard entry today)

Whitecastle: This just confirms that we've got to find you more things to do.

Moi: What?  See?  I'm working on [editing and reformatting] your CV right now.

Whitecastle: Yeah, it was good how you flicked that window up right as I walked by.

(The real injustice is, I was actually working when all this transpired.  All my windows were work related.  That never happens.)

Proud and Confused

The great thing about living in a city, even one as small as Boston, is that once the snow melts away and the sun arrives, there is always something going on during the summer.  Today, Alex and I met up for dim sum and tea because she's all finished with school and on her way of representing our fine nation abroad (cannot be more proud of that girl).  We grabbed some tea and pastries and looked for a place to sit on the Commons.  That was when we spotted big white tents, a decent crowd, and heard live music.  Naturally, we walked toward the commotion.

Moi: Oh, hey, a fair!

Alex: Look at all the colorful balloons.

Moi: Yes... balloons of all different colors... and oh, those girls I saw in purple earlier... hm.

Alex: How's this spot?

(we sit under a tree at the edge of the event, one that grants us a full view of the tents and people and a giant banner)

Moi (reading from the banner): Gay- Straight- Youth- Pride- oh.

(later, Alex gets really into the music...)

Alex: Yeah!  Fight the power, fight the Man!

Moi:  I don't think it's that kind of rally...

Mustard, Grilled Onions and Pickles

Sometimes during our Bo' lunches, we lose track of who's just being flip and who we're actually mocking. In those circumstances, however, it's best to assume that our target is Young Bo'.

(This past week, I've been studying up in preparation of an Animal Collective concert next week. Zvi was kind enough to burn me a CD.)

Zvi: You knew who they were, right?

Moi: Yes. Though when I first agreed, I was thinking of the Eclectic Collective.

Zvi: Ah, no, that's not them. They're not the Animals either. Or Grizzly Bear.

Young Bo': You know who they remind me of? The Eclectic Collective. I like them.

(pause)

Zvi: I like the color blue.

Sort of a Big Deal

My friends are glamorous folks.

Young Bo' and I have a friendship on many levels. Colleague, alumni, Jesus friend, it's a relationship that we've discussed in many DTR talks. OK, that was a lie. But it definitely works on different levels. I fetch her water, proofread her drafts, she does the same for me, and we take co-ownership of cookies and ice cream tubs. Today, she made me go one step farther. I had to put a band aid on her, on a stupid little cut on her finger. As she held her finger out and I started wrapping the band aid around the little cut, Decision Scientist walked by and immediately broke out laughing.

Moi: (to Young Bo') I hate you.

Young Bo': What? You're saving a life. You should feel good.

And then Doc Query walked by. He also found it amusing.

Doc Query: So you get into Harvard School of Public Health and you think you can save lives now?

Moi: (to Young Bo') I hate you.

Half Baked

Let's not bury the lede.  I had a baked Alaska last night.  I'd seen them on my teevee before and last night we all, for the first time, witnessed it in all its glory.  Tiller is moving to Alaska this afternoon and Sarah, being the ingenious and caring person that she is (the English adjective escapes me at the moment, but the Chinese word I'm thinking of means, literally, pasted-on-heart, to mean someone who's so intimately caring it's as if their heart is pressed against yours) thought to make a baked Alaska to send her off.  I don't care where you're heading off, a baked Alaska is always the perfect send off.  I can't even begin to pick a favorite part.  Chocolate cake.  Crushed Oreos center.  Chocolate ice cream.  A baked on meringue top reminiscent of s'mores.  And oh, that's right, fire, glorious fire, brought on by rum, glorious rum, blazing through the whole, glacial piece, like a scene straight out of An Inconvenient Truth.  It was a flawless presentation, with an all-too-eager Keith pouring flaming liqueur all over the pan and then back and forth between two cups as Sarah narrated the history of the dessert (it used to be called Alaska and Florida).  Seamless execution.  And I dare you to pick a high or low spot (no, the fire wasn't the winner because well, you can''t eat fire- you can eat crushed Oreos).  Jordan and Ewing have nothing on this dream team.

PS. My Chinese is on a roll this week.  First I help Father translate a phrase into Chinese (he was rather indignant that I came up with something better, considering how absolutely poor my skills are) and today, I can only think of the Chinese words I want, not English.  Maybe tomorrow I'll learn how to write properly.

Rose Colored Stained Glass Windows

I like my job. I can take joy in the grunt work and relish in the rare opportunities when I get to do some critical thinking. I know that that's what I'm good at. But once in awhile, I can just get lost designing posters. On some days, creating is so much more fun than analysis. Today was one of those days. This afternoon, I ran some fliers I'd made for the division happy hour by Whitecastle, to see which one would go up on his door.

Whitecastle: We've seriously got to find you more work.

Moi: I stayed late to make these!

Whitecastle: That one is too cynical for me.

Moi: What, 'cause you're just a ray of sunshine?

Whitecastle: I just call things as I see them.

(later, talking to Jen)

Moi: He said it was too cynical for him.

Jen: But that's impossible!

Waltz with Potatoes

Firstly, apologies for the worse-than-usual grammar of the last entry.  I seemed to have lost all punctuating capabilities last night.

The orange saga continues.  This past weekend, as I settled into my bunk bed, I looked up at the bookshelf and saw a pile of orange peel.  "Did you bring orange peel from home?"  I asked Nic, who had plenty of opportunities along his journey to throw out his orange remains.  "Yup, can't sleep without it actually."  It must have traveled with him from the ferry to the bus, to Joe's place for dinner, and then the car ride up through the scary woods of Maine, into a house with plenty of trash cans.  But some people have travel oranges and some people sleeping oranges. 

I, on the other hand, am suffering a case of missing oranges.  I have lost the ability to purchase produce.  For two days now, I have gone into Stop & Shop, picked out produce, put them in my basket, checked out, and gone home, only to discover that they were missing- two beautiful navel oranges on Monday, and a bunch of scallion yesterday.  The chips, salsa, cans, ham… all there.  But not the produce.  It's the strangest thing.  (An onion did make it home on Monday, but not my oranges.  I don't know why.)  I'm not sure what kind of sickness this is, and where I keep leaving my produce, but my body really needs some Vitamin C.

Crimson Pride

Yeesh, Dusty. Hold your horses.

Today at work, because Supervisor often doesn't remember, I announced to the Division, for maybe the third time what my plans are for next year. That I am going across the street to the School of Public Health. Concentration? Health policy. (Though I think it might be the quantitative track. Sometimes I forget what I've signed myself up for. Or that I'm even going to school). And everyone nicely humored me by smiling, though I believe we're all getting tired of (feigning) being happy for me. But work is one of the few places where I don't feel funny saying where I'm going in the fall, because nobody is impressed and nobody will give me a hard time. Quite simply: everyone there is better than I am.

This weekend was another story. Every other word that came from my friends' mouths (and there were a lot of them that gathered at the cabin) was Haaaaarvuhd. Is that why you're going to Harvard? How did you ever get into Harvard? I'm sorry I'm not fancy like Harvard. (This coming from future doctors and Kelso, who already has her master's and oh, works for a world renowned news organization) After explaining for the fortieth time that I was going to "fake Harvard" (it really is- it's the least pretentious degree possible), I've finally decided enough with the modesty. I have plenty of time for that in the fall, when I will literally be the least experienced and least smart kid in class, or after graduation, when I'll be even poorer than I am now, or heck, I have opportunities to be modest every single day at work, so yes, Dustin and the World, I am going to Harvard.

PS. Just as how I had to get hit by a truck the Monday I was supposed to randomize data, so out of all the collaborators and contractors we work with, and all the ways that one could possibly get hurt, it had to be our transcriptionist who broke her wrist this weekend. She's having surgery tomorrow. With all the busyness at work piling on and all the other extracurriculars that I'm behind on, whenever I needed a break today, I just thought about the poor girl, and smiled, and smiled, and smiled. That's not so wrong is it? Of course not, wrong doesn't get you into Harvard.

Missing Link

Spotted at the PolarBear Triathlon (thanks, Glenn Close!): Not a polar bear. Actually not quite sure whose mascot that is.

Does Security know about this?

Starting with ME

This morning, we got up and moved a car out of the ditch with our bare hands. And what did you do this morning? You probably had brunch. Turns out, cars are very heavy. Thanks for standing there, Belle, and thanks for taking the picture, Jenny.

This weekend was Linda's birthday and because she is crazy awesome, she decided to celebrate by running a triathlon and inviting her friends to cheer her on and share a cabin in Maine. And oh, we cheered. We made embarrassing posters ('will you marry me,' 'Hi, mom,' and others of that nature... I was prevented from penning a 'Get tested' poster) and screamed until my throat hurt- though that might be the swine flu.

The weekend was near flawless (apologies to the Mainers I didn't get to see, I was far off campus for the majority and pressed for time. Heck, I didn't even see Riles. That never happens.), though the same can't be said for Joe's logic. Joe was involved in a long Michael Jackson: Misunderstood vs. Creepy debate with Adam.

Jenny: I'm not even getting into this. Joe brings this up all the time and I always lose.

Adam: How can you lose!? This is the easiest argument to win. Name one thing that's harder to prove.

Bad Robot

US RoboCup Open. 2 May, 2009
(what did you do this weekend?)

Blue Blood, Blue Steel

Dear New York Times:
  Sometimes, I think you write incendiary articles for kicks and giggles.  I understand that I'm not your demographic, but seriously?  Seriously?  (Making me talk as if I'm in Grey's Anatomy circa 2006, that's another sin to add to your long list.)  The piece today started with a fair disclaimer, "Although we didn't work with a budget, we were strict with our choices; each piece had to be worth the money, as well as be age-appropriate."  Sensible enough.  This is, after all, the Fashion & Styles column.  Too bad it soon disintegrated, with one shopper confiding "To be honest, even though I say I would buy a T-shirt from Topshop, I'd prefer to buy one from James Perse" for about $80.  One boutique yielded "surprisingly affordable" pieces, like a $450 silk jumpsuit (WTH on all counts).  And finally, piece de resistance, the characterization of a store where most pieces they chose (except for a couple) were under $1500 as "reasonably kind to the purse."  If I spent $1500 on a shirt I'd have to eat it.  Then throw it up so I can eat it again and again for the next three months.  You're lucky that I only get my news from the liberal media (especially since that article in The Nation told me that the WSJ has lost its soul) or I'd leave you.  I would, too, but come September, I'll start my tenure as a member of the liberal elite, what else am I supposed to do?

Sincerely,

Derelicte

My Constants

Wednesday night at 9pm is a sacred time.  I've had my share of absences, but I generally trek south into Dorchester on Wednesday nights to watch Lost with my local BP affiliates.  Lost is currently my favorite show to hate.  It's pure donkey kong ridonculous.  But watching it with the BP affiliates, as we shout our allegiances and gasp over the latest twist, is as comforting and relaxing as drinking soup, because it's the best thing to be doing, best place to be setting, during cold, hectic weeks.  It's also a really funny bowl of soup.  Spicy, too, thanks to Jax's many ethnic flavors.  And then there are the real, non-soup snacks that Sarah provides.  Like the stupendous chicken nuggets last month (which also coincided with ice cream and Desmond beating Benjamin Linus into a fine pulp.  Best Wednesday ever).  My heart still expands with ecstasy when I think upon those nuggets.  I don't know when you last ate yours, but it had been too long since I had mine.  And now I want chicken nuggets for dinner every night.  Every. Single. Night.  This is why people shouldn't feed their children junk food.

Another Liz highlight from last night-- "I wish I had swine flu so I can take a week off of work."  The girl is precious.

Rule of Halves

After a long drought, someone has finally come back from somewhere and brought in chocolates to the office to share.  Someone else has left a half-eaten piece of chocolate on the counter.  Has swine flu hygiene taught us nothing, people?

I Do Declare

I guess I should come out and officially say this for the few of you out there who I never see. Come this fall, I'm leaving the little people behind and going back to school. That's right. Educated liberal elite? That's going to be me. (or starving grad student subsisting on Ramen, we'll see) This means that I'll be staying in town for a couple more years, with the folks I love, and yet completely out of my element at school. I'll be among the youngest and least experienced, with no idea what I'm going to do with my Master's when I'm done. In other words: funsies!

Watching Lost tonight...

Sarah: Do you know where you're going yet?

Moi: Yup, I'll be staying in Boston. Being snotty pants. Looking down on you guys.

Liz: (a suddenly very defensive Liz, mind you) Psssh. Not me. You'll be joining my ranks in the Ivy Leagues. That's how you have to say it- Ivy Leagues. And push your nose up, like this.

I've already started practicing in front of the mirror.

Shock Jock

For the past week, a sports trivia question has been the subject of our RA white board:

How many (sets of) professional athletes can you name who share the same nickname but play different sports?

I know.  Sports trivia from me?  (Though I did venture a couple of half correct guesses)  No, it was Sister Claire's idea.  Young Bo' and I haven't even contributed answers.  In fact, Doc Fisher has been having a hard time just discussing this with me.  But for Doc Fisher, Doc Query, and Sister Claire, this question has provided endless hours of entertainment and head scratching.  They discuss it, they mull, they love to hear about how the others are doing, and when the lightbulb flashes, they come by and write their answers down.  It's too bad that only three of them are enjoying this.  The rest of the office has been walking by, asking "WTF?"

Also, Dusty, every song in your mix CD (for Dwighters at least) sounds the same.  They all made me sleepy. 

Box Seat

Finding this toilet alone would have been worth the trip to New York, but this was only half of it. There was also hanging out with Karina and Jenny, lying in parks, browsing boutiques, sketchy art opening, and oh, food, wonderful food. We had donuts for breakfast, empanadas for dinner, and frozen yogurt in between. We also discovered that the three of us had surprisingly much in common, like having antiquated, non-text friendly phones, and never having smoked. Try finding three other Bo' grads like that. I dare you. (OK, I don't think it was any stretch of the imagination that I've never smoked, but the other two were surprising.) And now, all three of us are sun burnt, with right shoulders that are pink and tender, wishing for another weekend like the last.

Sound Judgment

In today's segment of "Are You Serious, World?"  (And by 'world' I mean self-righteous lawyers)

The lawyer for Carlos's adoptive parents, Joseph L. Hensley, said his clients had waited more than a year for Ms. Bail to demonstrate her commitment to Carlos, but the judge found that she had made no attempt to contact the baby or send financial support for him while she was incarcerated.

The full Times article here: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/23/us/23children.html

All the Children Above Average

We're in the midst of interviewing new RAs to replace me (sorry, have I not mentioned that I'm going to school in Boston in a few months? I am) and discovered yesterday that Whitecastle, perhaps because he cannot live outside the confines of academics (just as I cannot operate without kingdom points), grades every candidate he interviews. Naturally, we were curious for our grades when we interviewed...

Moi: So we heard that you grade everyone-

Whitecastle: Yes, I give each person a grade.

Moi: So all the RAs...?

Whitecastle: A pluses all around.

Moi: OK, I'll buy that lie.

Whitecastle: You think I'm stupid enough to answer that question?

Do you think I'm stupid enough to answer that?

Traveling Orange

This is not my traveling orange. My traveling orange perished somewhere outside of London, before I had a chance to take a picture. But before it gave itself for my nourishment, it traveled far with me. First from the store to the apartment. Then to New York City. I had intended it for the bus ride, but ended up sleeping the whole way through. And when I got to the City, I was too busy having amazing falafel and cupcake. So it went away with me to Jersey for Katie's wedding. Like I was going to pull out an orange then. So it patiently traveled to Pennsylvania, to Jackie's. Then back to Boston, via New York and Connecticut. Only to have me pack it the next morning and head off to London (I thought I'd have it at the airport). Where I still did not eat the stubborn orange. It was headed to Edinburgh, having arrived at the airport, made it through the checks, and onto the plane, when I decided finally, that I was thirsty, starved, and not about to spend three pounds on a bottle of water. And there on the runway, before we even took off, I finished my little travel orange.

For Gak

Portland Lighthouse.

Pin Points of Wonder

I noticed yesterday that the church got new pens in the pews, which was a terribly exciting discovery. Then I noticed that these new pens had erasers on the other end and I was terribly confused.

On the Eddie Bert Agenda

1. Mosque Curry.
Three pound fifty. Heaping plate. Mosque. Pigeons. Nothing better.

2. Arthur's Seat
I don't know why I subject myself to the climb each time. The wind was maddening.

3. Fried Snickers Bar.
We had to nix the fried pizza, but the walking into a chippy and getting a deep fried candy bar then eating its melted turd-looking goodness experience- that makes me happy every time.

PS. Turns out 'chippy' can also mean prostitute. Who knew?

Queen's English

I was under the impression that toilets were gender neutral, inanimate objects, but that's not how they roll in the UK. Male and female, He created them.

Quality You Can Count On

Moi: How are the sick people?

Whitecastle: Good, good. Sick as usual. Though no one has died in awhile.

(JenP and I look shocked and break out laughing)

Moi: Why are you surprised at this?

Whitecastle: Well, these things happen.

Our Mutual Friend

The Brits are the classiest of people. And of them, I count the classiest of them as friends. They begged me to take this picture. And I, with my American sense of propriety and duty, obediently complied.

At last, I have returned from my journey. I am simply exhausted and counting down the minutes until I can finally crash on my bed with my pillows. Perhaps stories and photos will come later. There's a small album on fbook at present. But other than that, all I can muster is fatigue.

Beggars and Choosers

I went to the beach this morning.  Smooth sand.  Quiet village.  Idyllic fishing boats.  Colorful houses.  All that good jazz plus pastries on the beach and sun beaming down on me.  What more could I ask for?  Warmth, perhaps.  Apparently the Atlantic Ocean is just as cold in Portugal as it is back home.  I was all ready to complain about the weather being in the 60s (instead of the 70s last week, I knew I shouldn't have checked the weather before I got here) but I just checked what it's like back home and well, there are worse things to be than a swinger of birches.  Like research assistants.

Universal Language

Greetings from Lisboa.  That's Portuguese for Lisbon, and one of the few words that I know in the language.  It's too bad that the Americans and Brits aren't doing as great a job of cultural imperialism as we'd like to believe and we're bumping into plenty of people who don't speak English.  Like our nice cab driver today.

 

Moi: Did he say that the buses were there? 

 

Emily: I don't know, I didn't really catch what he said.

 

Moi: But you kept nodding and saying 'Yes'!

 

Emily: That´s just because he´s an adorable old man.

 

-----

One thing we do understand, however, is how to navigate the streets. 

 

Moi: Perhaps we should wait a couple of hours in country before we start jaywalking.

 

Emily: Good idea.

 

(watch incredibly slow car row by as people stand idly at the crosswalk)

 

Moi: On second thought, it´s been two minutes.  Let´s jaywalk.

 

Emily: Sounds about right.

Gloating Glory

Yesterday, got up much later than expected (the watch mess that we've already discussed, which Hannah found inordinately amusing), and had breakfast of toast and tea with Emily, the sun shining on our backs as we looked into the garden.  Then we headed to Greenwich where I took pictures of the prime meridien.  And now, I'm in Edinburgh- sitting in Fiona's kitchen, a pile of toffee on my left (for the Paula Deen gooey toffee cake later), waiting for her to finish wrapping up her shampoo bar creations (I don't understand it either) so we can make chocolate truffles for dinner.  Oh, how has your day been? 

Earth Stood Still

Greetings from London, the capital of the world.  (By the by- British flush system, I do not miss thee.)

It appears that in my travels, I have lost the ability to do simple math.  Set all my alarms five hours behind instead of ahead (do you have any idea how hard it was to figure all this out last night, after barely any sleep?).  Now it is another day, still sleep deprived, but it's a vacation day, so who cares.  Not saving any lives today.  But I am anxious for my three watch alarms to go off in three and a half hours. 

Another Fortune

All right, kids, I'm peacing out for awhile, heading to the Motherland.

Tonight, had dinner with the parents, who dropped me off at the condo. We passed a trash heap outside the building...

Mother: Whoa, it's true what they say, rich people's trash don't even smell bad.

Moi: Please, Ma, rich people don't take their trash out. That belongs to the tapas bar [on the first floor]. Rich people use garbage chutes.

Dangerously Delicious

This morning, doc Binks gave an awesome talk to the RAs on propensity score. We really were honestly glad to learn and enjoyed his teaching style. It was amazing. Especially the part where he perfectly profiled me...

Doc Binks: Say for the exposure, you're a cheetos eater (pointing to Uzi) and you're not a cheetos eater (pointing to me)

(brief pause as he looks at us and considers the statement)

Doc Binks: Actually, nevermind, it'd be more likely that she's the cheetos eater (pointing to me) and you would be the unexposed non-eater.

I could go for some hot cheetos right now.

Sandwich Savant

  It's time to get rhapsodic about Savant sandwiches.  Very recently, the Savant Project's El Cubano has become synonymous with comfort food in my mind.  The sandwich is far from traditional (roast pork between bread is really where the similarities end, the meat isn't even cut the 'right' way), but it's delicious.  I was a late convert to the Savant Project, mostly because its tapas left me hungry after many, many bites, and its price is still a little steep for my taste (damn you, hipsters, how do you afford your lifestyle?).  But it has gradually grown from "likable enough" to a decent place I like to go with the Bo' crew.  The staff is wicked friendly and I'll be honest, their "economic crisis" lunch deals helped win me over.  (Lunch, fries, table service, and tip all for $6?  You can't beat that… and they couldn't either.  The deal has been subtly removed.)  But this isn't a restaurant review, so let's get back to the sandwich.
  Its allure lies in how simple it is.  Sliced roast pork.  Bacon.  Cheese.  Avocados.  Pressed between two pieces of toasty white bread.  Served with a side of nicely seasoned fries.  There's not a single flaw there.  How could you go wrong with those ingredients?  Warm, soft, crusty, meaty… comfort.  That's why it's one of my favorite sandwiches.  I'm not even willing to try other things on the menu anymore.  That fish taco looks fascinating and all, but what El Cubano and I have is a sure thing.  A savory and sure thing.  I'll be loyal and tied down to it as long as it stays as beautiful as it was the last time I had it. 

--
That I'm always eating this with Bo' kids during the work day doesn't hurt, either.  B*tching makes everything taste better.  We were in there last week and there was some confusion over their discount as we settled the check.  Laura tried her best, but they would only give us free drinks.  No more recession discounts…

Moi: If [Young Bo'] was here, I bet we'd get the discount.

Zvi: Please, if she was here, we could kill and get away with it.

Best Table in Town

(Three entries in one day. Can you tell that I'm evading responsibilities?) I heart the people I work with and the people I work for, even though they often unnecessarily complicate life. A few days ago, I asked Jen if she had a Portuguese dictionary. Not only did she have one, but it was just sitting on her desk, waiting for me to ask for it. I explained that I'm heading off to Lisbon and asked for suggested sights. And that was where it all started.

Turns out, much of the Division had been to Lisbon, as one of our society conferences was held there a few years ago. (The one I get to go to this year will be in Providence, Rhode Island. Score.) Whitecastle, Jen said, was the person to ask. He knew of a beautiful restaurant overlooking the city where they all met up. And so to Whitecastle I went. Who said that I had to email him. I did. But Whitecastle has forgotten the name of the restaurant. I was OK with that. A normal person would've called it a day. But Whitecastle has never proven to be normal. He cares too much.

He asked Nice Doc and Mrs. Whitecastle. Neither of whom remembered the name. But Nice Doc knew that the restaurant recommendation actually came from Mrs. Nice Doc. And she dug up the three year old email from a friend that had a list of Lisbon suggestions. Nice Doc then passed that along to me (via my personal gmail account) and Whitecastle but he could not recall which among the list I was supposed to try. Whitecastle then replied to both Nice Doc and I using both my personal and work accounts, and added Mrs. Whitecastle to boot. Now five people have pitched in and at least ten different emails have been written on my behalf so that by now, even if I have to sell my kidney to afford a meal there, I must dine at Chapito in Alfama to do all those people justice. I really hope I won't have to sell a kidney though. I was just getting fond of it.

And Henshaw, Too

Dear Self:
If you didn't have milk today because you didn't go to the grocery store yesterday, and you didn't go to the store today, you won't have milk tomorrow either. Let me break this down to you: grocery shopping = breakfast.

-Sincerely Starving


Dear Applicant:
I don't know if you were being serious or hilarious (in which case, well done), but I applaud the portion of your brain that thought to list 'dofu maker' and 'progressive Jewish poetry' as relevant experiences on your resume.

-Sincerely Soy Impressed
(oh, come on, props for being clever on so many levels there!)


Dear KaCo:
It took a second and a click of the mouse to figure out who you are. But I guess the gelato wasn't the best I've ever had in the world. Just the best I've had on this side of the Mississippi. We could even narrow it down to the best in the American Northeast. It felt so nice and delicious in my colon.

-Sincerely Screaming for Gelato

Icy Hot

All right, who put the ice bucket in the fridge?

On days like this, I am so glad that I work for one of the most prestigious medical research centers in the world. 

From Darkest Peru

My raincoat makes me feel like Paddington. And now I'm craving marmalade.

Flash Point

I miss my camera terribly. My parents are in Israel and my camera is there with them until the end of the week. I suppose I miss them, too. In all the bustle of being away every weekend, and having just so many friends to see (i.e. two) everywhere, I forgot to share this story from last week. The fifteen worst Friday minutes ever.

The evening started out innocuous enough. It was Old Ham's birthday and we waited for hours for a table at Border Cafe. There was much moaning and whining, but all was forgiven when we sat down and dug in to those chips and salsa. I'm fairly certain that I ate my weight in chips and salsa that night. Anyway, we were all there, happy and celebratory, and then we left. That was when everything went downhill.

We got into the T station at Harvard and immediately, Old Ham et al start running because they saw a train approach. We huffed and puffed and held the door open. Seven made it. Too bad there were nine of us. And one kid bumped his head in the process, and had blood gushing forth from his broken scalp. (Since we had no gauze or water, someone offered a hat for him to wipe on... and then his friends pulled out their cameras and started filming, because really, what else is there to do in that situation?) Unfortunately, all that heroism was for naught. "Why did we just pass Porter?" we all asked in unison, and realized that we had hurried onto the wrong train. So all seven got out again. Someone tried to by a cold drink for the injured boy, but the vending machine was out. The trains were not coming frequently. Jax got a headache. And oh yeah, Old Ham realized that she had left her birthday presents back at the restaurant.

Luckily, the Lord had mercy on us. And that was all the damage that was done. But broken scalp, missed train, lost people, headache, and misplaced presents... that was enough for fifteen minutes. In a little while, another train came by and there we were, back on the train, back at Harvard, back at the restaurant, fetching presents and to undo the catastrophes of that fateful quarter hour.

Striking Twice

Thank you, Thesaurus Czar.

So yesterday, I'm in Baltimore and the School gives us bottles of "Vintage Spring Water"...

Moi: I'm not sure I trust a brand called Vintage Water.

Dave: That means it's old.

Moi: Yes, thank you, I got that.

Dave: It's historic water.

Moi: ...

Seriously? Also ridiculous: worn park benches all over the city declaring Baltimore as "the greatest city in America," how warm the place was compared to Boston, two food poisonings in two weeks, and having oh so delicious gelato. Perhaps the best gelato I have had anywhere...

Shimmering Splendor

I am not used to being the overdog.  Life was much easier when I was an underdog.  Now, with this school decision, everyone is being all supportive and schools are all accepting me and I don't know how to react to options or kindness.  Is this what life is like for smart people?  I've always wondered about them.  Of course, there are always the outliers.  Sure, Riles believes that I can do no wrong ("It's a professional program, they're not going to send you home on break and ask you to read 25 books, one a day"… no, that doesn't sound familiar at all...), Father thinks that even if I mess up I will be fine, and I'm feeling good about my choices, but TChu isn't buying.

Moi: Really, there is no 'wrong decision' here.

TChu: Unless you go against God's plan.  Look how well that worked out for the Israelites. 

Touche, TChu.  And there's Sister Claire.

Sister: [School] is expensive.  You should get a job.

Moi: But I have no expertise.  And it's only a Master's program.

Sister: Hm.  And you don't want to be a lawyer?  They make a lot of money.

Moi: No. 

Sister: You're sure you want to do this?

Not at all.  Not at all.

PS.  Ha.  BriWi made a funny.  And reports the news.  A true Renaissance man.

Make a Wish

When I grow up, I want to get a full night's rest. And I want to be gainfully employed.

Job Security

Ah, it's good to be loved.  Because I will be traveling in a week and Jen will have to cover for me, Jen and I did a little switch on one of our projects the other day.  She did the work (usually my job) while I checked it (usually her job).  It went swimmingly, which quite pleased Whitecastle, who is always worried about the fate of this project, and things like Mack trucks that prevent his assistants from carrying out their work.  After yesterday though, it appears that I'm the one that should be worried.

Whitecastle: She did great.  Jen really seemed to understand the project.  So we don't really need you anymore.

Moi: I know!  And her section is a lot harder than mine…

It's OK.  I'll be out of a job in a few months anyway.

She's Not There

Ha, NESCAC reference.

If Landlady Chang wanted to, she could probably sublet my room for the month and I would not notice. Perhaps she already has. How else could I explain the mess in my room?

(I stole the picture from Nicole because my camera is traveling to the Holy Land tomorrow. Without me. It needed some time away to explore roots or something. But it's OK, because I was with Nicole when this picture was taken and took an identical one with my photography apparatus. Have I mentioned that I went to Maine? Land of lighthouses and whoopie pies, lobster-shaped everything, poutine, coldness, and "the prettiest village in Maine" that turned out to be rather average looking, and restaurants of every kind serving Mexican food.)

I keep stalling. Telling you about my weekend rather than telling you a story. Truth is, between cementing travel plans and deciding schools and trying daily to avoid disappointing Whitecastle (and daily failing at that), I'm drawing a blank on stories. Instead, I keep looking forward to the bowl of pork broth noodles I'm going to have for dinner tomorrow night. There's going to be bok choy and fried shallots and slivers of long roasted pork in a warm, salty broth. All from scratch. I can't wait to go to work now, just to get one step closer to my noodles.

Just Like King George

Did y'alls realize that it snowed in Maine today? Wet, heavy, flakes at that. And in Massachusetts, too. I would write more complete sentences about my week and weekend and life in general, but words so hard, thoughts so short... New Hampshire, Maine, Baltimore, (Atlanta?), NYC, Jersey, London, Edinburgh, Lisboa... so many trips (mostly planned, a couple taken) in such a short time... nose running, throat on fire, cold in so many ways... brain slightly fried.

Eat the Words

I don't know why, but I always seem to be going on quests for common household items.  A few years ago, it was finding regular peanut butter in Eddie Bert (hold on, Eddie, I'll see you again soon).  And last night, it was finding milk in Chinatown.  The Chinese grocer by my place always has milk and I assumed that most stores around Chinatown would also carry milk.  Wrong.  There was soy milk.  All kinds of fruit drinks.  Rows upon rows of teas and sodas.  But I had to go to three different grocery stores to find milk, poring through aisles of breakfast dumplings, scallion pancakes, buns, and trying hard to remember why it was that of all of God's delicious breakfast items on earth, I had settled on wanting cereal.  But alas, after walking all over Chinatown (not as impressive as it sounds; Chinatown is very small), I finally walked away with my half gallon of 2%, and a sad realization that New England has changed me irrevocably. 

A New Hope

Everyone, if you could all kindly hold your croque monsieur indignation and elitism allegations for one second, allow me to present to you- Gak.

Something happened to Gak senior year that transformed his heart of insider investigations into something approaching gold. I'd like to think it had something to do with his life altering ASB trip. (You're welcome, World.) BMills thinks that he was a do gooder all along. Whatever the cause, Gak spent the year post-graduation serving the common good, keeping children off of streets, and promoting service, that sort of thing. Now, a year later, Gak's heart has turned once again. He serves a new master, a fantastico gelato company. Next month, the company is teaming up with a non-profit for a fundraiser. Gelato. Local partnership. Benefitting the needy. The Gak of yesteryear would have loved such a combination. But not so Gelato Gak.

Gelato Gak is turning his nose up at the promotional posters for the event, posters drawn by those at the community organization for this benefit. He does not approve of the pictures. Apparently, the posters depicts ice cream, not gelato.

Thanks, Gak! I'm not the most absurd person in the world now.

PS. Dear World, I kid because Gak is great. Do not send boxes of melted frozen dairy desserts to Gak's abode. It would upset his mother.

Lazy Saturday

(the rusted car and canoe just looked so chill, so out of place, so reminiscent of a time and place that wasn't here, that I had to take a picture)

It is barely 1PM on Saturday and I'm ready for bed. Woke up early this morning, very, very early, for Amy's half marathon. I had my posters ready, my layers, sunglasses, granola bars, charged camera, and even surprised myself by how on-schedule I was. Around 7:50, I called Amy from Downtown to let her know what time to expect me. Only to find out that she wasn't. Turns out the marathon is tomorrow. As in not today. I've really got to learn how to read.

But I was already up and about. So I bought breakfast for myself, a panhandler, and Katy, and visited Katy at her office. We chatted over breakfast. I went to the library. Read some nice stories and got a nice stack of books for my upcoming travels. Walked all over and snapped pictures like a tourist. Got home. Roasted chicken. Registered for a campus visit. Prepared a marinade. Defrosted pork shoulder. Watched some TV. And the day is barely half over but I'm done. Absolutely done.

Defining 'Is'

One day soon, all my soc learning will be but a distant memory, but that day has not yet come.  So although I haven't heard anyone quote C. Wright Mills in years, resist the temptation to talk about cultural frameworks, and generally withhold myself from imposing sociological ideals on both my lefty and normal friends-- just give me the chance and I can still call people out.

(last night, Patrick was discussing how boring it was to be 100% German…)

Moi: Well, on my dad's side, I'm Chinese.  And I'm mom's side, I am, surprise, Chinese.

Katy: No, you're not.  You're Taiwanese.

Moi: I'm ethnically Chinese, and Taiwanese by-

Katy: No, there's a difference.  You're Taiwanese.  My friend said he was Taiwanese because his family had been there for generations.

Moi: Was he aboriginal Taiwanese?  No.  Then he's like me. 

Katy: But-

Patrick: I really like how you're arguing with her on this.

"Do you really want me to do this?"  I asked, and well, she gave me the OK.  So I gave a brief history of Taiwanese peoples (the aboriginals, 200 years, and 'mainlanders').  Then, just to drive home to point but mostly for giggles, I moved on to Taiwanese identity.  "Who of us is really Taiwanese, or any other ethnicity?"  I don't recall the details, and it must not have been as eloquent as I had intended, but I believe the phrases "identity as social construct" (that's a classic, it had to go in), "othering" (oh, I miss othering), "binary of Chinese vs. Taiwanese identity," "confluence of Japanese, Chinese, and 'native' Taiwanese cultures," were all tossed in there.  It wasn't pretty.  but I can still wing it enough to make Riles and Band Man proud.  Most importantly, I can still toss enough oblique terms around to make sure Katy never challenges my rights to Chinese-ness and Taiwanese-ness again.

Hi Ted

Hi Foot.  Haaave you met Mouth?  My Left Foot (heh) and Mouth are becoming very chummy.  At Nicole's stew party on Friday night, the five of us sat around her dining table for a delicious meal.  I had just one name to be responsible for, having met everyone else in the intimate crowd.  Just one name.  How do you think Brain did?   

Kevin: We're lucky in that John and I-

Moi: Wait, who's John?

(the entire table breaks out laughing.  the only other guy at the table, sitting to my right, raises his hand.  "Hi.  I'm John.")

In my defense, I thought he was talking about a different John.  Churches are chock full of Johns (not to be confused with johns).  But even though I stand by that logic, I must admit that it sounds ridiculous.  My head has become entirely incapable of storing proper names.  Good thing I got out of chemistry when I did.

Nothing but a Booze Hound

One of these days, I will bury this story once and for all.  But not this week.  Not when it's freaking snowing out there.  (I could have sworn that it was sunny flip flop weather yesterday.  I vaguely recall sunglasses, walking without a coat, and being too hot at church… was I high?) 

(discussing what kind of snob we are)

Moi: See, how do you know that, and not a croque monsieur?  Do you know what a Monte Cristo is?

TChu: No, but I know my wine.

Moi: I don't like wine much.  I make a bad snob.

TChu: I also know my beers.  (side note: remind me to stage an intervention for this boy soon)

Moi: Nah.  I don't.  I like beers.  I can wing it and name maybe one of each kind.  I'm bad on both counts.

TChu: That's fine, except now you come off more as a hippie, free range, non-wine vegan snob.  Which is actually more pretentious.  (apparently not all beers are vegan)

Moi: There's also gluten free beer.  Did you know- no, I'm going to stop myself right there.  This can't go on.

Peer Review

Everyone always thinks I'm a great kid. Except for those who know me.

(repeating the "you were famous for your many good deeds" story)

Lisa: Oh, that's just not true!

Moi: That's what I said- wait, hey! What do you mean?

(later, Laura is telling a story)

Laura: Did you guys know XXX?

Zvi: Did he hate people? Because then she might know him.

Moi: Hey, people love me. I got YYY to smile at me. (YYY is the infamous dining hall card swiper nicknamed by some as 'b*tchface' because she always looked bored by your presence)

Zvi: But she only smiled because you were kicking puppies.

Name Dropping

Two things on the current Favorites list: Flannel and new watch. Neither of which are very socially acceptable, but hey, subversive? That's just how I roll. Another thing on the favorites list? My week.

I used to think that I was good with names and faces. That I remembered details about people's lives. That was all before I had so many friends. By 'friends,' I mean people I've met. Not real friends. Though I might have four of those. Last Sunday, I bumped into a Bo' alum on the bus. An alum I had already bumped into once and had been re-introduced to. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten her name again. That would have been OK had I not had to chase after her after she left her hat on the bus. The bus driver must've thought it weird that I didn't call after her, but instead, went back onto the bus to pick up her hat and then ran after her for a block-- at which point it became embarassingly obvious that I had forgotten her name and was thus unable to shout after her. Those were some icy sidewalks and I had to run all the way up to her just to tap her on the shoulder with a "hey." Oh, Moment #3829 I wish I could take back.

Last night was a more pleasant running in of sorts. Went to a house party with former roommate Amy (not to be confused with me)-- a party, might I add, where amazing tacos, tamales, and dumpster dived food were served-- and, in addition to meeting fellow social justice-y kids (it's so trendy nowadays) and making random mutual friend connections, bumped into another alum who has a much better memory than I do. She was three years ahead of me and remembered my name on the spot. I had a hard time remember the last name of a good friend I'd known for six years last night, so needless to say, I had no idea who she was. Though I believe the pieces on coming back to me now. She may have played soccer. And knew me because of my poetry. God, that sounded pretentious. I love it. If only I could confirm this on facebook by knowing her name. (It was loud and we were in a hurry when she introduced herself. Amy and I have narrowed it down to: "sounds like Nicole but isn't. Maybe starts with an M.")

(after telling the hat story at Bo' lunch)

Lisa: That sounds very complicated indeed. You should just say, "we've never been introduced properly, and you are-"

Moi: But the thing is, we have been. The last time I bumped into her. Where she remembered my name and I didn't. We can't do that again.

Zvi: What you need to do now is facebook her.

Moi: I would if I knew her name.

Zvi: No, you have to go through the pages of all your friends who might know her, and search their friends list, and pray that she posted a picture.

There's got to be an easier way...

Creature Comfort

There are a lot of things in the world that only happen to Lenny. Only Lenny, would, for example, get lost getting to my house from the Water Department- on the same road, no turns, just 13 numbers down. Only Lenny would have a lung collapse for no reason. Pass out during an eye exam. Have a finger stuck in the pig heart during a bio test. And yesterday, as only she could, have a boulder smash into her car. Astounding.

Moi: Where do you even find boulders?

Lenny: I was driving along and it rolled down the hill from the farm and destroyed my door.

Moi: That sounds so traumatic. Are you, OK? And could you stop trying to upstage me? I thought getting hit by a Mack truck was impressive.

Lenny: I'm OK. And you still win with crossing three lanes of traffic to land in a ditch.

Moi: I will give you points for creativity though. That was impressive.

Lenny: You have no idea how long I had to train those squirrels to get the boulder moving.

At Close of Day

It's going to take a really learned and creative individual to understand that title. I probably won't remember myself in a few days.

As we all know full well, I haven't been writing much lately. Partly because my vocabulary shrinks every day I am away from school and soon I will be rendered completely illiterate and unable to formulate even the most asinine of posts. But mostly because I have been lazy and busy. I stay out past my bedtime nearly every day. But tonight, I give you morsels of extra thought I'd scribbled down this week:

A. I skipped breakfast on Monday morning and suddenly, snow covered trees looked like creamed spinach.

B. Riles is the best professor ever. Not only did she know what a 'croque monsieur' was, but she called people who didn't 'philistines' and 'ignorant.' I really heart that woman. Her combination of taste (well, not in everything), knowledge, humility, and intolerance for fools (though never in front of them) makes her a real role model. We have so few of those nowadays.

C. I've started a few books in the past few months, but haven't finished one since the year has started. This is the longest stretch I've gone through without reading. We need to work on this, Algernon.

D. Sign outside Sid's Smoke Shop:
"WE"
ACCEPT'
"FOOD"
STAMP'S
They were putting the emphasis on the wrong syllable, but I don't know which one.

Did I mention that I'm going to London next month? I feel like I should mention that.

Fit to Print

"Snowstorm Causes Delays and Closes Schools"  Seriously, NYTimes?  This is what passes for front page news?  They've been talking about the death of the newspaper for some time now, but this is ridiculous.

Good Night

This is getting old, folks.  Must everyone have a comment?

(I see Young Bo' and we go through the usuals, do you know what a croque monsieur, no, why, well-)

Moi: I'm trying to prove that I'm not pretentious.

Young Bo': Ha.  Good luck with that.

Non Monsieur

The quest for vindication continues...

Moi: You know what a croque monsieur is, right?

MC TChu: No. Why?

Moi: I'm trying to convince [them] that I'm not pretentious.

MC TChu: Fail.

A Croque of Sandwich

(Photo from Wikipedia)

What would you call this sandwich? Clearly, it's a croque monsieur, but I'm interested in what you would call it. Apparently, referring to the sandwich by its proper title makes me "elitist" and "pretentious." Earlier this week, discussing what we would cook for the Care & Connect lunch on Saturday, I tossed out the idea of making croque monsiers. (We settled instead of amazing- or shall I say, stupendous,- beef stew.) Katy and Nicole have not stopped giving me grief since. Apparently some Canadians don't know what they are. And many Americans as well. I'm sorry that I grew up in a public school system where we learned to call sandwiches by their proper titles.

Katy: That's not even a real croque monsieur, those things are dipped in egg batter and fried-

Moi: No, that's a Monte Cristo.

Nicole: Oh, a Monte Cristo sandwich, is it?

When did it become a crime to call sandwiches by their God given names?