Dip Into Serenity

Chaiyya Chaiyya

2008-08-11T22:43:00.000-07:00

Interior of a jet airliner.

Flight attendants offer a choice of tea or coffee to those passengers who have awoken, though many have chosen to stay asleep. A few have risen from their seats to stretch their legs as the flight nears its destination. One of them is pushing against the bulkhead at the rear of the cabin like he's trying to move it out of his way. He is also observing his fellow passengers. Right now he's watching a family of Americans in the adjacent center row.

Mother and son are asleep in the middle, father and daughter are in the aisle seats with books in their hands. The father has the unmistakable bearing of a military man, possibly retired. Possibly not. He is reading a weighty hardback, tattered and frayed at the edges, its cover black and crinkled, its pages brittle and flecked with dark stains. The coarsely typed text is in an unfamiliar script - arabic perhaps? He holds the book in one hand and with the other he traces the lines with his fingertip as he reads them. His eyes scan the pages as if he is searching for a code. Perhaps, after all, that is what he is doing. Occasionally he reaches for the plastic cup of water sitting on his tray table, but nothing distracts him from his reading. The daughter is writing in a slim volume with a smooth, shiny, jet-black cover on which is written a single word in plain white. We can not quite make out what it says - it seems to start with a "D". The pages are crisp and the text is not in typeface but in neat and fluent handwriting. She is wearing a well-worn and faded red hoodie, its hood pulled over her head, so we can not see her face as she bends over her book. After a while she picks up a pen and adds another line of text to the page, then puts down the pen. Perhaps it is her Diary. Perhaps it is not.

On the other side of the aisle a Japanese couple are watching a movie playing on their laptop. They share a headphone set, their heads close together, one ear listening, the other transducing. They bob their heads from side to side in unison, to the rhythm of music. On the screen a large group of men and women, clad in bright and varied colors, dance atop a moving train. The leading dancer, who also seems to singing, though we can not of course hear the soundtrack, leaps forward onto a new carriage, taunting the camera. The observer inclines his head, raises one eyebrow and half smiles. It's a look that suggests he recognizes the leaping actor but can not quite match the face to a name.

In front of the Japanese couple sits a woman wearing a tight powder-blue sweater, generously filled and topped at the shoulders with bouncing blond hair. She is talking to the passenger by her side, thin and athletic, his skin darkly tanned, his hair closely cropped. From his demeanor and movements it appears that he neither knows his neighbor nor wishes to hear what she has to say. Nonetheless, the woman continues to talk, often gently and creatively gesturing with her hands. It seems she is trying to explain a complex or abstract concept to her neighbor, who, in spite of her efforts, still could not care less.

On the other side of the aisle sits a young man, no doubt hailing from somewhere in the South-Eastern corner of Asia. On his tray table lies a small stack of medical books; anatomy and physiology distilled to their base concepts for medical school preparation. The stack serves as a useful rest for his forearms - radius and ulna bones, radial and ulnar arteries and nerves, flexor and extensor muscles - as he plays his Gameboy. To his left sits a curiously rotund fellow, his ears looking more like......

- It's Shah Rukh Khan. The girl in the red hoodie looks up through jade green eyes at our observer, her expression resolute yet questioning. Shocks of golden hair peek through the sides of the hood.

- Uhmmm, excuse me? replies the writer, somewhat taken aback.

- The guy singing and dancing on top of the train - it's Shah Rukh Khan.

- Yes, yes, so it is. I should have known that.

- Well, you did know that, it just slipped from your mind for a while there.

- Yes, yes. Indeed, indeed.

- And it's the Quran.

- What is?

- The book my Dad is reading - you were curious to know what he's reading.

- Oh, oh. I suppose my curiosity will land me in deep water sometime!

- Let's hope it's not today, huh? And to make the point, she glances downward.

- Yes, indeed, let's hope not! So your father can read arabic?

- Yes he can. He reads it all the time these days - the Quran that is.

- I see. Very admirable, I'd say. And he does say.

- Not really, you see its too late. Its really much, much too late. And with that, the girl returns to her slim black book, pen poised above a new, blank page.

Silver

2008-07-02T22:40:00.000-07:00

You can tell me anything

But not what the future brings

Surrounded by a forest of ferns that rose high above his head (he was, it should be said, kneeling) Shuya felt like he'd been plunged into a prehistoric world. There was, however, nothing prehistoric about the Smith and Wesson leveled at the back of his head. He slowly closed his eyes and held Noriko's hand tight in his.

- If you have anything to say to each other, now would be the time to do so. It was the voice of his friend, their friend, who'd saved their lives over and over and who was now going to take them away.

There was nothing to say. They knew and shared each others' thoughts and feelings - no reason to articulate them.

The first gunshot was so deafening that he felt the next one, seconds later, more than heard it.

He slowly opened his eyes and blinked. The ferns were a shade of green he hadn't seen before - bright and bold like he imagined emeralds would be, though he'd never seen one. Flowers now peeked through the emerald leaves, blue like the deepest blue of a summer sky, and ladybugs crawled among them, red like a shiny new corvette. Aggressive shades of orange, soothing yellows and pastel pinks meshed with classic violet and vermillion in a working, ever changing palette of vibrant colors. Shuya could only imagine he'd entered Hayao Miyazaki's vision of heaven.

Directly in front of Shuya a large drop of dew hung from the tip of a fern frond. The dew drop bobbed up and down slowly, pendulous. Around its edges the light diffracted into rainbow spectra, prismatic. And in its center it reflected back, prescient. Shuya looked into the mirror and saw Noriko smiling back at him. Next to her, he saw himself, head bowed, eyes tight shut. And behind them stood Shogo, his finger raised to his lips.

- Sshhhh......

Shuya slowly opened his eyes. After all those years the colors were fading.

Silver's just another gold

Handlebars

2008-05-26T23:36:00.000-07:00

- Enjoying the book? asked Kit, nodding towards the copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude in front of his fellow passenger, after the flight attendant had left them their beverages of choice. Tea with milk for his neighbor, black coffee for Kit.

- Yes indeed, exclaimed the neighbor enthusiastically with an english accent that Kit had somehow not noticed before. Have you read it?

- Yes, I have. One of my favorite books actually.

- Indeed! Kit liked the way Brits repeatedly used the word indeed. It spoke to their respect for Truth, meaning, as it did, in truth, in reality, in fact. And Kit believed in truth. Indeed, it was probably the only thing he did believe in.

- What a storyteller, eh? If I could only write just the tiniest fraction as well as him!, continued the brit, dunking a tea bag in his hot water.

- So you're a writer then? asked Kit

- Well I try, but to be quite honest, I haven't written all that much for quite a while now.

- "Quite a while?" He hasn't written fuck all for eons! It was a deep, yet curiously sing-song voice harboring a transatlantic accent, neither American nor British, or maybe both - it struck Kit as strangely distinctive by its lack of distinction. The source of the voice, a head peering above the headrest of the seat directly in front of Kit, was also distinctive. Reddish-brown fur, pointy ears, white snout with whiskers - in short, a fox. Just like the one at the top of this page. Indeed, exactly like the one at the top of the page.

- Fuck me, a flying fox! Kit thought to himself.

- Fucking eons, I tell you. Repeated the fox, turning his head towards Kit. His dark eyes glinted playfully and it struck Kit that his eyes were the only means to tell the fox's mood. He seemed quite happy and decidedly friendly, but as Kit looked deeper into his eyes, he couldn't help but get a sense of something less than friendly - something sinister even. Of course, as anyone familiar with them could tell you, looks can be quite deceiving when it comes to foxes.

- I think you'll find that's spelt "aeons" actually, replied the writer somewhat defensively. Besides, how would you know just when and what I've been writing?

- Oh you know I know everything you've done, are doing and will be doing next, said the fox, to which the writer had no immediate reply.

It was clear to Kit that the fox and the writer knew each other quite well. While the two of them traded barbs, Kit noticed two white wires, dangling from the fox's ears - he was apparently listening to an iPod. Indeed, he now saw paws on either side of the fox's snout rested on top of the headrest, the left paw tapping out a rhythm in synchrony with the tip of the fox's bushy tail which waved from side to side between the fox's ears. Kit wondered what a fox might be listening to and whether they made earbuds specially designed for fox ears. If they did, the noise reduction was not very effective, as Kit found he could hear music coming from them. It was a song that Kit knew well, a song he was very fond of in another place and time.

"Me and my friend saw a platypus,
Me and my friend made a comic book,
And guess how long it took,
I can do anything that I want cos, look,
I can keep rhythm with no metronome,
No metronome, No metronome"

- And I can see your face on the telephone, said the fox, head cocked at an angle, eyes locked on Kit.

- Oh, sorry, didn't mean to stare, its just.... said Kit, not for the first time at a loss for words.

- Its okay, I get it all the time, said the fox, waving a paw in the air. I was just encouraging my friend the writer here that he should make use of his current surroundings to fashion his next piece of writing.

- He suggests that I should write a story based on the lives - as I imagine them, that is - of our fellow passengers, explained the writer.

- So your friend should create imaginary histories for some of our companions, give them each a new life? asked Kit, turning from the writer to the fox.

- Not quite. I had more in mind the creation of real futures for our fellow flyers - after all, crossing the Atlantic seems as good a transition as any to do that, explained the fox.

- I see. But, continued Kit, I'm not sure what you mean by real futures.

- Well, said the fox, consider that the past and present are fixed and finite and that anything that deviates from what happened or what is happening is fiction, and always will be. But the future is fluid and infinite. Everything written about it now is fiction, but might one day be reality. It should be possible to weight the odds towards that reality. After all, its been done before. The fox looked down and nodded towards the book lying on the writer's table.

- Yes, I see what you mean, said Kit, remembering the end of the novel. The writer, not having got that far, looked on bewildered.

- But that's just a novel - it never became reality, continued Kit.

- As far as you know, it didn't. But can you be sure? After all, you remember the day you discovered ice, don't you? The fox cocked his head and raised an eyebrow - it seemed to be his inquisitive look.

Kit was certainly impressed. It seemed the fox knew far more than one might expect a fox to know. (Of course, as anyone who knew anything about them could tell you, foxes always know more than you'd expect from them.) Could it really be that he had some insight into the future?

- Me and my friends understand the future, I see the strings that control the systems, Dr. Thomson, added the fox, as if reading and answering Kit's thoughts. And on saying this the fox slowly dipped down below the top of the head rest, 'til only the tips of his ears were visible above the seat.

- Well, my friend has had some pretty good ideas in the past, said the writer enthusiastically, I'm prepared to give it a go! Besides, he's quite right, I really haven't written fuck all in quite some time.

- Eons, came a muffled voice from in front.

- Yes, indeed, aeons, agreed the writer reluctantly.

- He seems quite a multi-talented fox, observed Kit, what else can he do?

- Quite a bit, actually, replied the writer. He even tells me he can ride his bike with no handlebars.

- Now that I'd like to see! exclaimed Kit.

Like a Hurricane

2008-03-20T21:09:00.000-07:00

I am just a dreamer, but you are just a dream......

Noriko looked up, startled.

Two days before she'd asked Shuya what he liked about her. Shuya had discovered that girls did this quite often, so he wasn't surprised by her question. He was a little taken aback by his answer though. You are like a hurricane, he replied, there's calm in your eye. (He almost added, and I'm getting blown away, but thought better of it.) It probably should have come across corny, but it was spontaneous and Noriko knew it and Noriko liked it.

Just for a second the calm was gone. As she looked up at him, Shuya saw turmoil, confusion, even fear. Her eyes were usually like the dark brown pebbles on the beach at Shodoshima, polished by the surf and sand, and Shuya could occasionally catch his own reflection in them. Now they'd seemingly become translucent, as if they were those lenses that changed from dark to light when you stepped out of the sun. Noriko had always been there to support and defend Shuya. Her vulnerability exposed, he realized, in that second, that the time would come he'd have to protect her.

Just for a second and then her composure returned. Shuya felt relief. Until he saw the knife in her hands, its blade smeared with blood, not yet quite dried and glinting in the glare of the hallway's fluorescent lights. Someone had stabbed Kitano earlier that morning. He was badly hurt but not critically. He'd be back to torture Shiroiwa Junior High with denominators and differentials soon enough. He knew instantly it wasn't Noriko who did it.

- Well, don't just stand there, give me a hand to hide this, said Noriko, standing up and placing the knife between the pages of a copy of Blenda magazine.

- Okay, but who....

Noriko raised a finger to her lips.

- Let's go, Shu.

It was, of course, Yoshitoki who'd shanked Kitano. Even though it was so many years ago, a wave of sadness passed through Shuya as he remembered his old friend. The way he'd raise his eyebrows and grin like an idiot whenever Shuya fell for one of his practical jokes, the way he'd bubble with uninhibited enthusiasm whenever he talked to Ms Ryoko and the way his head disintegrated into thousands of bits of bone and brain when the bomb around his neck was detonated. If he was dying, Shuya was not being spared such memories. But he still didn't know where he was. He had no reference point, there were no shapes, nothing defined. Just light and colors.

Photochromic. That was the name of those lenses.

If he was dying? Now, there's a thought, Shuya thought to himself.

A New Morning, Changing Weather

2008-03-15T23:07:00.000-07:00

Dreaming of drinking wasn't unusual. It had featured in every dream since he'd quit two years, five months and twenty three days ago. In fact it usually played the starring role. But dreaming in a language he couldn't speak - now that was a first. He would google translate it later to find that it even made sense. Look Mama, a shooting star.

Kit rubbed his eyes against the bright white of the clouds below and turned to the screen in front of him. The laptop had fallen asleep just after he had, no more than fifteen minutes ago. It woke with a brush of his finger, revealing a single white page.

"Switching addictive behavior in mice by genetic manipulation of the Stand Alone Complex."

Kelvin I. Thomson

The Waystead Institute for Synaptic Engineering

Running title: Tweeker squeekers.

It was a review he'd been commissioned to write for Nature Mindfuck. Not a journal he had much time for, but one with sufficiently high visibility to keep his benefactor happy and generous.

- You must be a scientist. The passenger sitting next to him was gesturing sheepishly towards the laptop screen.

- So I've been told, Kit replied.

Indeed it was something his father had told him on many occasions, usually after a lengthy discourse on the grand tradition of scientific endeavor in the family. The tradition stretched back to William Thomson, Baron of Kelvin, who had given to the world an absolute scale of temperature founded on that most unattainable of certainties, Absolute Zero. Successive generations of Thomsons followed his footsteps, some excelling, most faltering, but all with a determination to put everything in its rightful place in the universe. For the Thomsons there was no room for uncertainty in the physical world; Kit's great grandfather's claim to fame was once having landed a right hook on the jaw of Werner Heissenberg, exclaiming "Observe the position and velocity of this, you scoundrel!" Kit's decision to study the ambiguity of the human brain rather than certainties of the atoms and the forces that held them together broke family ranks and his father's heart. Some in the family saw it as a blessing that his father was in the early stages of Alzheimer's (which was in fact one of Kit's motivations for entering neuroscience) and indeed after some time his father became quite oblivious to Kit's heresy, not long before he became oblivious to Kit himself.

Kit turned to the window while he thought of something friendly to say to his neighbor, who he'd noticed had been reading One Hundred Years of Solitude, one of Kit's favorite novels. He'd ask him how he was enjoying it. As Kit looked out the window he saw that they had passed over the mountains and that the shiny white clouds had given way to a carpet of grey. Not the rich slate grey of rain clouds, but a dirty, mottled grey that seemed to be sucking in all the light reaching it. He was getting close to home.

Eighteen thousand feet below Johnny opened his eyes and looked up into a vermillion sky. Another weird dream, must be something to do with being alone in the desert. He was still in the desert when suddenly he got the feeling he was surrounded by horses, horses, horses, horses, coming in from all directions, white shining silver studs with their nose in flames. Pretty scary. No horses here though. Cougars, coyotes and collected critters circled him, but no horses. He was sure of that. Sort of. Actually, he encouraged the desert's creatures, leaving out candy and jerky for them. And there was still plenty of water for them. When the fairways turned to fireways and the rich angelitos fled for their gated havens they left the water - took the booze, but left the water. In plastic bottles. And Johnny. They left Johnny. Things sometimes worked out for the best. That was almost six weeks ago. Forty days in a giant sand trap. If only he could do something about getting some wine from those plastic bottles.

Still, horses. Pretty scary. Not as scary as the fires, but still. Pretty scary. He just couldn't shake the feeling that the horses were a sign. That something bigger was on its way. Something very big.

A New Morning....

2007-11-14T22:17:00.000-08:00

- What was that Shuya? I could not hear your answer. And I don't suppose anyone else in the class could either. Am I right class?
- Yes Miss!
Once again Shuya had been isolated. Still, it was no surprise Miss Saeki had not heard his answer - he, after all, had not heard the question. He focused on the scrunched up piece of pale blue paper lying on the classroom floor. Within its folds he could make out a crane, like the ones his sister would create from sheets of shiny colored paper. He saw it take shape and then take wing, headed for the very same window he had been looking out of when Miss saeki had asked her question.
- And I'm quite sure that everyone else in the class knows the answer. Who can answer the question for me?
Shuya could feel the breeze as hands all around him waved frantically in the air.
- You see, do you, Shuya, how alone you are in your ignorance?
Reluctantly Shuya withdrew his gaze from the scrunched up paper and he glanced around himself. Indeed every student in the class had his or her hand raised. Except for Noriko, sitting in the front of the class. Now, surely Noriko would know the answer to any question set by Miss Saeki. Had she also been daydreaming and not heard the question? Inconceivable. But at that moment Noriko turned her head and looked directly at Shuya and he realized why she had not raised her hand.
Shuya blushed.
- Yes Shuya, I can understand why you would be embarassed. You see I am quite certain that you know the answer to my question, for surely noone in class is as familiar with Soseki as you are. So I can only conclude that you had not heard my question, that your incoherent reply was just a stalling tactic. Am I right?
Shuya nodded.
- I thought so. Perhaps you will learn from this, Shuya Nanahara, that having all the answers will not mean anything to anyone, let alone yourself, if you do not listen to the questions. This you may find to be true in many ways and at many times in your life, Shuya.
- Yes Miss saeki.
Miss Saeki was full of crap. Shuya had known this for quite some time. He now wondered if perhaps Noriko did too.

At the end of class Noriko again caught Shuya's gaze. And this time she smiled just so slightly. And Shuya wondered whether maybe a bond had just been formed between them. Or maybe not.
He smiled back. Just slightly.

Shuya was fairly certain this was not a dream. After all, though it had happened many years ago, it was a real event, a real memory, and as far as he could remember, he had never before dreamt of things that had actually happened. Besides, it was so clear, like watching a DVD and being in it at the same time. Yet he had the distinct impression that the the memory had replayed in just a fraction of real time - like turning off the alarm, dreaming an epic saga of a dream, then waking up five minutes later.
Curious.
More curious was the fact that he couldn't remember much about more recent - much more recent - events. He remembered being with Noriko, though that was inevitable. He vaguely recalled falling from a red sky. And the smell of smoke. And not much else.
In fact, nothing else.
He was a little worried.

A New .....

2007-06-20T23:46:00.000-07:00

The walls of the buildings on either side of the narrow street loomed so high and leaned so far in that neither day nor night could be seen. The ground was darkest grey and if there were sidewalks and a pavement there was no indication of where one ended and the other began. The buildings, too, were shades of grey with an almost metallic sheen and here and there a touch of blue. Blue? Windows perhaps? Could there be someone looking down on the street from above? There certainly wasn’t anyone on the street.

Two figures stood at the street corner. One wore a black leather jacket, the other was in police uniform. They were smoking, talking between themselves, their attention now focused on him. His attention now focused on his feet. One foot in front of the other, straight line, watch out for that crack. He walked into a post. Not a standing structure of any kind for blocks upon blocks and he had walked into one. It wasn’t even serving any purpose. No lamp, no sign, no wires. Just a post.

Just a post!

“Good evening,” the man in the leather jacket whispered – he was that close – through a plume of smoke. He looked curiously familiar.

“We couldn’t help notice that you walked into one of our posts.” One of our posts? Strategically placed to catch the careless and the inebriated off guard?

“Have you been drinking?” asked the leather jacket guy with a sneer. Of course!. He was a character from a TV show – Shane from The Shield. Or he was the actor who played Shane. Either way it was a worrying development.

A pointless dialog would follow in which his sobriety, his honesty and his integrity would, one by one, be called into question. Shane struck his Zippo to light another cigarette. A vision of him dropping a grenade into his friend’s lap. And then running.

A screaming came across the sky. The Zippo, now a huge ball of flame arced toward the running man. On the side of the street a little girl, clad in a tiny, shiny blue raincoat, tugged at the hem of her mother’s dress. “Mirada, mama, una estrella fugazi!”

Then. White.

Just white.

Pura Vida: Unfinished Sympathy.

2006-08-12T16:05:00.000-07:00

How can you have a day without a night?

The morning’s rain had fallen and the early afternoon sun was resolutely returning it to the clear sky. A brilliant blue butterfly flopped through the open window, casting off its shadow as it crossed the room’s threshold. It landed on a weighty manuscript, open at the middle. The paper was thick, textured and faded in a way suggesting great age. The script was elegant and measured, yet even a fluent reader of spanish might have had difficulty deciphering its context from the extravagant loops and tangents that overflowed into adjacent words and lines. Throughout the text words and phrases were crossed out, replaced, in the same handwriting, between the lines and in the margins by alternative expressions, making it even harder to read. The original text was faded but distinct, while the marginalia were various darker shades of black, sometimes dark blue. It seemed it had been revised on many occasions during its lifetime.
The manuscript, on which the butterfly now rested, flexing its azure wings, sat in the middle of a large oak table, otherwise unadorned save for a black box sitting in the corner. Lying in front of the box was a small stack of photographs. The table was of a kind oine might describe as a kitchen table, were it not in a room that was clearly not a kitchen. On two other tables, and on the shelves that lined all the walls of the small room, were sprawled and stacked all kinds of books, scrolls, folios, codices and manuscripts. Many were bound in fine leather, red, gold and black, many were bound by vellum or parchment, while many were unbound, tied with red or gold cord, as the one on the table. Most were clearly of some antiquity, yet despite the absence of any protection from the elements – the window had been open, as usual, during the morning’s downpour and the late afternoon sun would soon be streaming into the room – they were exquisitely preserved.
Above the open the manuscript a white Montblanc pen, embellished only by a black opal at its apex, hung suspended in the air, seemingly poised for writing. The butterfly took wing as the pen arced toward the page and, as it did, its support, hitherto unseen, became starkly visible. The hand was thin, its skin deeply tanned, tight to the bone. Well manicured nails glinted in the dark of the room, as if reflecting light that was not there, and tiny hairs on the hand’s surface illuminated themselves with crystal clarity. A sleeve of white, sheer silk hung loose from the arm, brushing the paper’s surface as the pen slowly drew a line through ‘abrazo chozas‘, replacing it with ‘incinero hogares‘ in the tight space above. Through the arm and the hand, the page’s text was quite clearly readable.
The arm retreated, the pen resumed its point of suspension and a red light blinked on the black box. A photograph slid out from a slit in the box and flopped onto the stack. It was of a town square, in the background a grand hotel in front of which huddled small groups of people talking, taking photos. In the center, apparently the focus of the photo was a man in his forties wearing a white linen shirt, black pants and sandals, walking across the square away from the hotel. His attention seemed drawn to a spot on his left shoulder.

As Kit walked across Plaza de Santa Ana, the water that had hung in the air all day, casting a heavy shroud over the city, started to coalesce and fall from the sky in large drops. The few tourists dotting the small square snapped their cameras and cell phones at the grand hotel where the bullfighters stayed, the old theater where once-great actors took the stage and the cervezeria where a great writer once drank. Pausing at the signs of rain, they looked skywards and deliberated whether to join Hemingway's ghost or retire to their hotels for shelter. Kit headed for a once familiar haunt.
He placed his book on the metallic bar and ordered a drink. The barman placed a green bottle and a glass in front of him and resumed his one-sided conversation with the other customer, sitting at the other end of the bar. The topic of conversation - monologue, really - was the big game coming up on Saturday. It was not so much about who would win, but about how many goals Athletico would crush Real by and who would score them. Times had certainly changed, thought Kit. Real's domination of cross-town Athletico, and every other team in La Liga, had surely been perpetual. As the barman revelled in this change in fottballing fortunes, the other patron stared at the ice melting, slowly yellowing the last drops of liquid in his glass, as beads of sweat dripped slowly down his face. His name was Arturo and he used to have season tickets at the Bernebeu, Real’s own theater of dreams. Over the years he had negotiated himself into one of the best seats in the stadium, just in front of the president's box. Other regulars in this section of the stadium would greet him and ask his opinion of the latest line up or Real's game plan. During a Champions League game against Inter Milan, Arturo was so impressed by Inter's young, speedy striker that he turned and yelled towards the president, "This guy's got some talent, Senor Presidente, you should buy him!" Sure enough, next season the prodigy was suited in Real's famous white strip, scoring goals the likes of which hadn't been seen on the hallowed ground for many a year. Of course Arturo did not shirk the credit afforded him by his fellow Real fans and his reputation as a tactical visionary blossomed. On one occasion the legendary Raul, retired for some years and carrying a reputation rivalling that of Di Stefano before him, shouted out from quite a few rows away; "Hey Arturo, 4-4-2 or 4-5-1 against Depor next week?" "Even you fared better with a partner, Maestro - 4-4-2, of course!" Arturo had replied, bringing smiles and nods of approval all round. It seemed he had the ear of the entire Real family. But now Arturo went to games no longer and no one listened to him. Now he listened, or feigned listening, to his barman's tabloid sports column regurgitation. And that was just fine with him, as long as he continued to serve him.
Kit looked around the small bar. It was much as he remembered from his previous trip to Madrid, which surprised him, having seen it before only from the depths of a mojito-fuelled haze in the midst of a crowd of late night revellers. Beautifully tiled walls, scenes of bullfighters majestically dispatching their ferocious, unnaturally large quarry in shades of ochre and red, were trimmed ornately by brilliant blue and yellow patterned tiles. Wooden stairs led up to an even smaller room, served by a bar about the size of a subway ticket kiosk where he had spent many a night-time hour before.
Today he had taken the afternoon off from the conference he was attending "At the Crossroads of Molecular Biology and Psychiatry: How do we pave the road ahead?". The afternoon session promised a discussion of signaling pathway and gene expression aberrations in schizophrenia. But two and a half days spent in the company of the "elite" of the emerging molecular psychiatry field had exposed him to more than enough delusional grandeur and paranoia. Instead he'd walked to the Prado, not for the full tour but to revisit some of the highlights of his previous visit to the museum, some five years ago. Lingering in front of the Garden Of Earthly Delights any remaining feelings of guilt about skipping the afternoon's session soon disappeared. The depiction of the garden of Eden on one side of the tryptich, hell on the other and in the middle some kind of terrestial mish-mash of the two, the corruption of human desires and needs born of original sin, left him in no doubt that Bosch, some five hundred years previous, was as familiar with the workings of the schizophrenic mind as his esteemed colleagues. Leaving the museum he had wandered the narrow, grey streets, now and then coming across a tapas bar or cerveceria he remembered from before. He would have stopped for his favorite pimientos de Padron in one of them had they not been closed. Though siesta was no longer widely practiced, its influence persisted, the city dragging its past through the current.
Lighting a cigarette, Kit picked up his paperback and continued reading. Benny Profane was still hunting alligators in the New York sewer system. Kit smiled at that.
“Uno ottro Perrier?” asked the barman, barely disguising his disapproval.
“No ….. gracias. Una Chivas Regal, por favor.” replied Kit.
“Ah, yse”, the barman’s demeanor visibly improving, “With ice?”
“Si.” replied Kit in his best spanish.
Kit put out his cigarette, closed the book, picked up the glass and walked over to the other end of the bar. He placed the glass in front of Arturo, nudging aside his empty one and whispered “Viva Real!”. Arturo looked up, startled. A flicker of recognition passed between their eyes, though they’d clearly never met before, a fleeting glimmer of understanding lightening Arturo’s face before the shadow cast itself again.
Outside people were emerging from their temporary shelters as the downpour subsided. Kit turned to the right and started making his way towards the heart of Madrid, the center of Spain.

He put down the pen and closed the manuscript. The front page bore the work’s title and underneath a sketch of a man’s arm upon which rested a collared falcon. Circling this were the words ‘EX TENEBRIS SPERO LUCEM’.
A bright blue paper origami crane now sat on the black box, from which another photo slid. The man in the white shirt and black pants was walking away from the camera. In the background loomed the fountain and the crowds of Puerta del Sol. He picked up the photo and his thin lips materialized, twisting into a smile of recognition, and whispered “Take care, Dr. Thompson, not to fly too close”

They think it's over ...... It is now!

2006-06-08T00:41:00.000-07:00

It seems like just a few weeks ago - in fact it was five - that the world sat agog in front of its TV set, awaiting the kick off of FIFA World Cup 2006. It was the hosts, Germany, who got the ball rolling, against the minnows– albeit minnows protected by conservation statutes - of Costa Rica. Despite plucky resistance, the German machine soon overcame the Ticos, rolling to a comfortable 4-2 win. The Germans went on to coast comfortably through the group phase, while Costa Rica regained their composure to follow them through in second place.

Elsewhere in group play, England allayed the concerns of their supporters about Wayne’s foot, Stevie’s back and David’s coiffeur to qualify easily for the knockout stage. In the “Group of Death” Serbia and Montenegro shocked the football world as their stellar defence unexpectedly declared independence from the midfield, just minutes before the kickoff of their first game against Holland. Nonetheless, S&M dominated the submissive Orangemen to claim an emphatic victory; “Serbian Group of Death Squad Squashes Orange” the tabloids would yell the next day. In the Group of Near Death, the Czech Republic, their coach fresh off coaching Hogwarts to its fifth consecutive quidditch title, quickly picked up three wins and strolled through to the knockouts. Team USA followed them, their strategy of pre-emptive strikes against their opponents’ goal before kickoff paying high dividends. Elsewhere favorites failed to deliver as Spain and Porugal made it 0-for-Iberia, french joy de vivre fizzled as they saw déjà vu and failed to progress, while the Italians couldn’t even buy their way out of the group phase.

As the knockout phases progressed rivalries were renewed. The showdown between USA and Mexico saw the americans employ defensive tactics with the mexican strikers repeatedly coming up against a defensive wall, only to be called back for offsides each time they broke through. Not surprisingly the encounter ended in stalemate, with the US, predictably prevailing in the penalty shoot out. England and Argentina resumed their long running vendetta, with the divine digits of Argentina's Messi deciding the issue in dubious fashion. Meanwhile the confidence of the plucky Ticos soared as they mashed the Swedes, bounced the Czechs and then humbled the mighty Brazilians in the semi-finals.

Finally the scene was set for the grand finale, a repeat of the opening libretto; Costa Rica v. Germany, the guardians of the rain forest against the gargantuans of the Black Forest. As kickoff approached, Ticomania spread, the supporters of ousted countries staying on to cheer on the Ticos. The dutch fans, a splash of orange in grey Berlin, sang "Do you know the way to San Jose?" to the rhythm of the brazilian samba drummers. The english fans drank warm Imperial cerveza by the liter, while the french fans, who noone knew had been there to start with, gleefully tucked in to rice and beans and plantains.

But, soon after the kick off, it seemed the german juggernaut would continue its teutonic roll, with two goals from their center forward putting the men in black and white up 2-0 at the half - it seemed the Ticos had been klosed out. But they bounced back, scoring twice to send the game into overtime. A thunderous strike from Wanchope's boot thudded against the crossbar and bounced down behind the line - 3-2! With seconds to go and legs failing, Paulo completed his hat trick, thumping the ball into the back of the net. It was all over. Costa Rica 4 - Germany 2!

Costa Rica, and the world outside Germany with it, celebrated. The streets of Alajuela rang with "Hallejula!" And, around the world, on the lips of the followers of the beautiful game was the beautiful phrase from the beautiful country.

Pura Vida!

Not dead yet.

2006-06-02T19:52:00.000-07:00

Reports of my cyber-demise greatly exagerrated. But, still, thanks for stopping by and commenting after all this time, P.
Posting to resume here soon with Pura Vida.
Really.

Haiku vaccine.

2006-03-19T22:45:00.000-08:00

foxy: "Happy six months' anniversary."
cali: "What? Oh yeah, that. Thanks."
foxy: "Now, if you were still going to those meetings you could've got a token."
cali: "And I could've told everyone how, if it wasn't for them 'just being there', I wouldn't have made it 'one day at a time' to be there to accept the token."
foxy: "And the higher power - don't forget the higher power."
cali: "Right, can't forget the higher power. Or should that be Higher Power?"
foxy: "So are you going to celebrate?"
cali: "Could do, except I haven't really learned how to do that without .... y'know? Maybe we'll go see V for Vendetta - watching someone blow up Parliament seems as good a way to celebrate as any."
foxy: "Six months alcohol-free, two months nicotine-free and one month SSRI-free. Good thing you've still got your memories, otherwise you'd pretty much be running on a brand new brain. Kinda like that Steve Martin movie."
cali: "The Jerk?"
foxy: "I was thinking more along the lines of "The Man with Two Brains" but that'll work too. So, are you going to post on the blog again?"
cali: "Yeah, I'll post something in the next few days. Least I can do to thank the haiku poets."
foxy: "What is a haiku anyway?"
brad: "Its a style of japanese poetry consisting three lines of five, seven and five phonetic units."
foxy: "Hey, Brad, how's it going? Thought you were doing the Mr. and Mrs. Smith thing in Italy this weekend."
brad: "Nah, the press were all over it like pesto over gnocchi."
cali: "And you were all over my TV screen this morning;
BRAD 72
PITT 66
brad: "Yeah I watched that game, couldn't decide who to root for. Anyway, Angelina didn't want the wedding the same weekend as Milosevic's funeral."
foxy: "I can see that. Apparently his daughter already wants him dug up and reburied in Montenegro."
cali: "How about they dig up and rebury the motherfucker several thousand times. In the same fucking grave."
foxy: "He's kind of down on tyrants today. Anyway, Brad, I've got something for you."
brad: "Serial killer with deadly sin MO systematically murders hollywood movie stars partying on a movie set?"
foxy: "First rule of Ocean's Se7en is never talk about Ocean's Se7en? No, not that one, you'll like this one."
brad: "Okay, where is it?"
foxy: "Stay tuned to this spot."
cali: "Just be very, very patient....."

Never trust a scientist. Or an alcoholic.

2006-01-29T22:23:00.000-08:00

Foxy: "Whatcha reading there?"
Cali: "Its an essay in PLoS Medicine explaining why most published research findings are false."
Foxy: "Wow. What's it called?"
Cali: "'Why most published research findings are false.'"
Foxy: "And why are they?"
Cali: "Well, the guy reduces it down to a pretty simple relationship between positive predictive value, error rate and bias; PPV = ([1 − β] R+uβR )/( R+ α − β R+u−uα +uβR )"
Foxy: "What?"
Cali: "PPV = ([1 − β] R+uβR )/( R+ α − β R+u−uα +uβR )"
Foxy: "And, umm, what does that mean?"
Cali: "I've got no fucking idea. But, still, are you surprised?"
Foxy: "That more than half of all published science is wrong? Not really. Most scientists use blind faith as a benchmark, arrogance as their guide and follow trends with all the awareness of a fourteen year old girl walking into Abercrombie and Fitch. No, not really surprised."
Cali: "Of course publication, or numbers of publications, are the currency of scientific careers, so its not likely to change. Maybe if those who regularly publish results later proven to be false were to face some kind of consequence?"
Foxy: "Yeah, make em appear on Oprah; 'I feel duped'. Did you see Frey last week? Looked like someone had sprinkled coke on his cornflakes."
Cali: "But she didn't ask the question that really needed answering - if he told a million little lies about his past life and relationships, did he also lie about the road to his recovery? Did he really travel it alone, without the twelve steps and a serenity prayer to his higher power? Inquiring alcoholic minds need to know."
Foxy: "A few persuasive words from the associates of his friend Leonard might be a more effective way to the truth. Another trip to the dentist's chair maybe?"
Cali: "Couldn't be much more painful than Oprah's couch. Who can you trust these days though?"
Tom: "Me! Me! Trust me!"
Foxy: "Oh for fucksake. Did you let him in?"
Cali: "No, he must have been hiding in the closet. So you're here to tell us the Truth, Tom?"
Tom: "You can't handle the truth!"
Foxy: "That wasn't you Tom, that was Jack shouting at you. And, no offence Tom, but you're no Jack."
Tom: "I'm no Jack, I'm Tom! I'm Tom!"
Cali: "Jesus. Can you get him off the couch and back into the closet? I'm off for a drink."
Foxy: "You quit drinking, remember?"
Cali: "Whatever. Maybe I was lying ....."

So, Santa's Really Imaginary?

2006-01-13T18:21:00.000-08:00

We returned from the hols spent in the UK. Being my first sober Xmas/New Year for quite a while (!) it was actually more fun than I'd anticipated. Yup, still sober.

While we were there, there was some discussion as to whether the time had come to disabuse my ten year old niece of the notion that Santa Claus (Father Christmas as they call him over there) exists. I think she'll wake up to cruel reality soon enough without anyone forcing it on her. Besides, I merely traded in Santa's sleigh for Tanqueray, so who am I to do the waking. Of course, addiction is not the only sleigh ride from reality that some of us embark on. For instance;

A famous hollywood starlet ranted "There's no such thing as a chemical imbalance!"on morning TV not so long ago. Of course, Tom Cruise also believes that humanity's problems stem from the implantation of negative memories into the souls of our forefathers by extraterrestrial detainees visiting Earth on intergalactic DC-8's. But still, could there be at least a grain of truth in what poor deluded, sexually insecure, couch jumping Tom has to say?

Not according to the Zoloft TV commercial in which a very unhappy blob creature is transformed into a happy one with the aid of this SSRI anti-depressant, a class of drugs pioneered by Prozac, market led by Zoloft and diversified by Paxil. In the Zoloft commercial we're told, with the aid of a diagram of a nerve synapse captioned with the disclaimer that its only a representation (lest we believe its the real thing), that depression may result from a chemical imbalance in the brain and that Zoloft works to correct this imbalance. The commercial confidantly states that "scientists believe that it could be linked with an imbalance of a chemical in the brain called serotonin", a belief founded on a theory proposed about forty years ago.

The fact is, though, there is no actual direct evidence for serotonin imbalance in depression. Scientists can't yet directly measure serotonin levels in the brains of depressed people. Of course they can measure serotonin levels in the brains of dead people, but I'd guess that most people get a bit down just before dying. In fact, the supposed success of SSRI anti-depressants, which boost serotonin by blocking its reuptake at synapses, is itself most often cited as proof of the hypothesis. This is a little like explaining headaches as being the result of aspirin deficiency and is about as good a piece of evidence as finding the cookies and milk eaten on Christmas morning. In fact, one could argue that the additional presence of the carrot, half eaten by reindeers, provides stronger support for Santa's existence.

But, if the drugs work, why should we care whether the pharmaceutical industry markets SSRI's by misrepresenting scientific findings. Well, leaving aside the question of whether or not they do indeed work (in case you're wondering, I've been taking Lexapro for years now), claiming a collective scientific belief legitimizes prescription not only for depression, but apparently for a whole host of other ailments including anxiety, panic, obsessive-compulsive and pre-menstrual dysphoric disorders. Just how such a variety of disorders with widely different behavioral symptoms could all be due to serotonin imbalance is beyond me, though not the FDA's guidelines apparently. Curiously the pharmaceutical companies also market new anti-depressants which don't act via serotonin - Wellbutrin and Edronax, for instance - which perform just as well as SSRI's in trials. To my knowledge their commercials don't claim "scientists don't believe that it could be linked with an imbalance of a chemical in the brain called serotonin".

Ultimately, it seems to me the only difference between the belief systems of kids at Xmas, the pharmaceutical industry and Tom Cruise is that the kids don't ram it down our throats on TV (though they may occasionally jump on the couch).

Still, at least Pfizer doesn't care if we've been naughty or nice.

Happy Holidays.

2005-12-23T09:21:00.000-08:00

To those of you who still visit this post-deficient blog, thanks and have a great Xmas and New Year. I hope to resume posting on a more regular basis in the New Year - my thoughts on the 12 step program, science's misunderstanding and pharma's misrepresentation of depression, the return of Fox Force Five, the introduction of Foxxy Love, Mystery Solver, the Memoirs of Morris E., the Melancholy Mouse, and anything of note that may have happened over the holidays.
Until then, have a wonderful holiday season and don't forget to be jolly.

Georgie.

2005-11-29T13:51:00.000-08:00

Best remembered leaning against air, not a bar.
Gone, never forgotten.

Dopaminutiae.

2005-10-23T23:35:00.000-07:00

Part One in a series of short pieces describing my perspective of ongoing research into my favorite neurochemical and its role in the physiology and pathology of addiction. Will there be a Part Two? I have no fucking idea.

Alcoholics, junkies, crackheads, pill poppers, tweakers. Stick 'em in a detox unit together and they'll soon realize they have something in common. They all smoke. But, apart from that, they share a common goal. It can be summed up in two words. Gimme more.

Nerves transmit information which is processed by particular areas of the brain to elicit a response. The information is transmitted as an action potential, a transient change in the resting voltage that exists across a nerve's cell membrane. When this wave of depolarization reaches the nerve ending, pockets of a chemical neurotransmitter are released into the space between that neuron and the next, the synapse.

The neurotransmitter interacts with receptor proteins on the outside of the post-synaptic neuron and the action potential is regenerated. Since persistent neural transmission is generally undesirable, the signal is rapidly terminated by re-uptake of the neurotransmitter by protein channels on the surface of the pre-synaptic nerve ending. Each neuron typically uses one particular neurotransmitter to relay information.
When we consider that this form of neurotransmission can be "filtered" by the impact of other neurons using different neurochemicals, known as neuromodulators, and the fact that each part of the brain uses different sets of neurotransmitters and neuromodulators, we start to see the immense complexity of the brain.

Less than 1% of the brain's neurons use the neurotransmitter dopamine to communicate with other neurons. Yet this fairly simple chemical (its chemical structure is next to Foxy's head, above) plays a central role in behavior such as motivation, pleasure seeking, survival and learning. Disruption of dopamine levels underlies psychosis, schizophrenia, Parkinsons disease and addiction.
Part of the brain is responsible for sensing and processing information that is important for survival and preservation. Sensory information related to fundamental cues that are key to survival, such as food, sex and danger is relayed to the ventral tegmental area (VTA) of the brain, from where it is sent to the nucleus accumbens (NAc) for processing. The response to this processing is either one of attraction (the smell of fresh baked bread, the sight of Jessica Alba/Brad Pitt in a swimsuit - take your pick) or repulsion (the sight and smell of Dick Cheney in a swimsuit). Since it was once thought that pleasant stimuli were the overriding motivators, the NAc used to be referred to as the brain's reward center. Now that its realized that fear signals equally impact the NAc, its function is more often referred to as a salience processor. In chemically dependent individuals, however, the VTA-NAc axis might best be referred to as the Gimme more center of the brain.

All drugs of addiction produce an increase in dopamine levels in the NAc. Some drugs have a direct effect on dopamine levels. Amphetamines increase release of dopamine from pre-synaptic nerve endings. Gimme more tweak. Cocaine decreases reuptake of dopamine by these nerve endings, causing an elevation in synaptic dopamine. Gimme more coke. Other drugs exert their primary action on other neurotransmitter systems, but ultimately impact dopamine levels. Gimme more booze, smokes, smack, vicodin, xanax, ex, weed. Just gimme more.
Normal environmental stimuli, like food and sex, elicit a satiety signal once enough has been experienced, mediated in part by another neurotransmitter, serotonin. However, although some drugs, like nicotine and heroin, may create a temporary feeling of satiety, most drugs, including alcohol, override this signal completely. Enough is never enough.
In response to the ever increasing supply of drug-induced dopamine in chronic addicts, the NAc starts to compensate by decreasing the number of post-synaptic dopamine receptors. This desensitization causes the need for even more drug to achieve the same effect as before and tolerance sets in. The addict becomes faced with two alternatives; continue the upward spiral of tolerance and craving or quit. Titrating off the drug is no longer an option. The former option almost inevitably results in death. Choosing the latter option slowly resets the balance between dopamine and serotonin in the brain and craving becomes less intense and less frequent.

But, why do most addicts relapse, often many years after gaining sobriety? Though there are many reasons, one of the strongest provocations for relapse is drug associated memory. A recovering drunk or crackhead puts him or herself at risk simply by walking into a bar or a crackhouse. Proximity of the previously used drug, even years after use, can trigger powerfully persuasive memories. Often the drug associated memories are more subtle; the clink of ice cubes in a glass tumbler for the recovering alcoholic or the early morning coffee for the ex-smoker.
Two recent scientific studies have shed some light on the nature of this phenomenon and point to possible avenues of clinical intervention.

In last week's issue of the journal Nature, the world's leading science publication (yours truly has a couple of papers published in it, LOL!), Liu et al studied the effect of repeated doses of cocaine on the VTA in mouse brains. Mice and rats are most often used in addiction physiology experiments because their brains are sufficiently similar to those of humans to allow extrapolation of the results to people, besides alcoholics and addicts are not the most reliable of subjects. Cocaine is most often used as the drug of addiction because it directly impacts dopamine-using neurons and rats and mice evidently like it.
The researchers found that repeated doses of cocaine induced a phenomenon called long term potentiation (LTP) in the VTA of mouse brains. LTP is a basic form of memory in which subtle long lasting changes in synaptic function can store information. They determined that the effect of cocaine was to block the impact of another neurotransmitter, GABA, on dopamine synapses. GABA is a so-called inhibitory neurotransmitter which tunes out many neuronal pathways. Its receptors are a major target of both alcohol and benzodiazepines like valium and librium, indeed the researchers found that valium inhibited cocaine-induced LTP. The results suggest that stimulation of GABA receptors in the VTA might be an effective way to reduce craving and drug associated memory in individuals addicted to cocaine and quite possibly many other drugs. Notably the anti-epileptic drug vigabatrin, which mimics GABA, is currently in clinical trials for coke addiction.

In a recent issue of the journal Neuron, the effect of cocaine on the retrieval of memories elicited by environmental cues in rodents was examined. The establishment and maintenance of drug associated memories by conditional stimuli is known as consolidation. The retrieval of these memories involves a reinforcement process termed reconsolidation which requires the activation of a pattern of genes within neurons. Miller and Marshall identified a signaling pathway inside the NAc which appears to mediate reconsolidation in response to an environmental cue. Such signaling pathways are chains of molecular events which transduce a message, in this case from dopamine, from outside a cell to the cell's nucleus where gene programs are activated to produce proteins. The particular pathway activated by dopamine is one very familiar to scientists working in the field of cancer research, since it is hyperactivated in many types of cancer. For this reason it has been the subject of intensive research and drugs have been developed to block the passage of information along the pathway. Using one such drug, the researchers showed that inhibiting the pathway markedly reduced stimulus-elicited reconsolidation. Although the drug used is probably too toxic for use in chemically dependent people, the results identify multiple potential targets for clinical intervention.

Taken together, the studies reaffirm that expanding our understanding of how drug associated memories are retrieved may lead to the development of specific drugs to reduce drug craving and the danger of relapse in recovering addicts.
Until then,
Gimme more espresso, gimme more smokes, gimme more diet red bull. Just fucking gimme more!

Then and now.

2005-10-09T15:06:00.000-07:00

In one of my few memories from childhood I remember the parties my parents used to throw. We would be allowed to stay up to greet their guests, most of whom we knew well. There would be much laughter and a sense of anticipation of the party ahead. Dad was renowned for throwing the best parties. After the guests had arrived we'd go to bed and as I lay in bed the soothing sound of conversation and laughter percolating up from downstairs would soon send me to sleep, happy in the knowledge that I, too, would one day be able to join in the partying.
The next morning I would get up early and creep quietly down the stairs, the same ones i'd run up as fast as possible at night to avoid being jumped on by whatever it was that lurked in the shadows of the landing. I'd go straight to our large living room - we lived in a huge boarding house at the school where Dad was a teacher, and all the rooms were large, or so they seemed to me - and stand in the doorway. It would be quite dark, the curtains still drawn shut, and there would be many, many glasses of all description on the tables and floor, some empty, many half empty. Ashtrays filled to overflowing with extinguished cigarettes and cigars nestled between the glasses. The air would be musty and stale, at once both acrid and aromatic, with lingering traces of perfume. I'd walk carefully around the room, stopping to pick up glasses, sometimes taking a sip of their half empty contents. They all tasted quite disgusting but i knew that one day I'd discover the reason that adults so clearly enjoyed drinking these drinks.
Soon enough Mum would come down to clear up and, after drawing the curtains open, I'd help carry the glasses out to the kitchen for washing and i'd empty the ashtrays. I'd draw the curtains, rearrange the furniture while Mum vacuumed and the living room would be back to its usual self, clean and bright.

I woke up and tried to focus through the gray blur. I could see the hard, gray floor I was lying on and, by moving my eyes, the lighter gray wall opposite. I moved my head slightly up and down and saw, on one side, a toilet bowl in front of another gray wall and, on the other, black metal bars. It was hot, very hot, and the stench of urine filled the still air. I tried to sit up and winced as pain swept through most of my upper torso. Slowly I pulled myself into a sitting position and the pain started to ease until it was a dull soreness around my ribs and stomach. I pulled up my shirt and lokked for bruises. None. I figured I should stop feeling sorry for myself, it couldn't be that bad if there were no bruises.
I drifted in and out of half-sleep until I heard the lock being turned. I looked up and a cop was standing at the door pointing to his right. He didn't say anything, he just pointed. I slowly got to my feet and the pain returned. I stumbled towards the barred door and followed the direction of his finger. I didn't expect him to help, didn't want him to, and he didn't. At the main desk the duty sergeant pointed to the door. I walked out. The sun was bright, blinding. When i was able to see again I inched down to the steps and started the long walk home.
As I walked up Broadway I tried to piece together the strands of memory of the previous day and night. I had been at an afternoon lab party, that much i remembered. Playing with the kids, talking, laughing and drinking, and drinking. After I got home I must have hit the gin pretty hard. i remembered standing outside B.'s door yelling at him to come out drinking with me. He'd tried to calm me down, that much i remembered, but must have given up after a while. The cops arrived and bundled me into the cop car. One of our neighbors must have called them. I would find out who it was and go and thank them. The cell was full when they threw me in. Any cash and cigarettes I'd had were soon gone. My cellmates scared the hell out of me, drunk as i was, and i needed out. I vaguely remembered banging on the bars, shouting for them to let me out. Their warnings to shut the fuck up went unheeded - what did they expect?
I bummed a cigarette off a homeless guy and for the first time noticed the dried blood on my hands. As i walked past the medical center i started to question whether it was indeed the Nashville Police Department that were responsible for the pain still emanating from my upper body. I decided to let it go. Better them than my cellmates.
Eventually I got home. I walked into my apartment, the carpet was strewn with broken glass - so that's where the blood came from. I headed for the fridge and opened it. Beer. Thank God. I grabbed a six pack, headed for the couch and switched on the TV. I was going to have to go out for gin and cigarettes but it could wait. For a while.

"This is a life-changing event for you!" insisted M. from behind her reception desk. I was skeptical and more focussed on what lay behind the closed doors of the detox unit to my right. S. and I said our farewells and I walked in. Less than three hours later, sitting in my room, it started to rain. It doesn't rain in San Diego in September. I found it hard not to wonder whether this was an omen of some sort. Washing away a dusty film of false protection or just a sign of the approaching storm? Sure enough, that night the thunderstorm arrived. We don't get thunderstorms in September. Another portent? Or just confirmation that we've fucked up our atmosphere beyond saving. Probably.
Though my old friend was, of course, not allowed to be there with me, my new, transient, chemical friend helped me through the next four days. I was introduced to "groups", sharing and, of course, The Big Book. We've yet to become friends, and maybe never will, but at least I no longer demonize it. My fellow in-patients and i killed the time exchanging our stories, our secrets, deceits and hiding places. For the first time, whether it was booze, crack, H or vicodin, i realized the undeniable, unbreakable bond we shared, whether we liked it or not.
One morning we were sitting outside in the designated smoking area, smoking, when three elderly folk walked by. They were clearly lost, pointing this way and that, no doubt trying to find a particular building or unit within the huge hospital complex. One of them started to walk towards us, apparently to ask for directions. Before reaching us one of the ladies shouted after him, "Don't asked them, they probably don't even know where they are!" We cracked up. She was right.

And now? Well, now is really just exactly what its all about. When i was drinking the past offered little consolation and less to learn from. Yet i insisted to myself that my blurred, hazy memories of what had gone would serve to guide me through the future, to change its inevitable course. For more than twenty years i labored under this delusion. Characteristic of the alcoholic #27; we do the same thing over and over and over again, expecting different results. So now the past is past, like a mountain stream its still there but its not the same, and though i can guess where its going, i can neither predict its course nor change it. So its down to "now". AA and Leah have written about this recently - it ain't easy but i'm gettin there. And though I won't dwell on it, i'll occasionally look back, not in anger, just look back at the times spent with my estranged friend. Just now and then.

Opportunity.

2005-09-25T16:46:00.000-07:00

I had written a post last week entitled "The End". I couldn't resist the irony of using a song written by an alcoholic who drowned in a bathtub to describe an alcoholic's surrender to detox. It started something like this ......

"This is the end,
Beautiful friend."
J. Morrison.

A beautiful friend who ......
stood by me for more years than I can remember and helped me forget them,
lifted me up when I was down and let me down when I was in need,
embraced me as an lover and embarrassed me as a fool,
disclosed secrets to strangers and hid them from those I love,
made me powerful, invicible, all knowing and weak willed, pleading, lost,
made me lie to myself and made me lie by myself,
encouraged my desires and disabled my ability to achieve them,
boosted my Ego and destroyed my Self,

and so on.

But now, upon more sober reflection and in the light of the support of those close to me, the experience of those who have been through this and the wisdom and support of Penny and other blogger friends, I prefer to consider my current situation as an opportunity, a possibility, there to be seized.

"The sea's the possibility
There is no land but the land
There is no sea but the sea
There is no keeper but the key
Except for one who seizes possibilities, one who seizes possibilities"
P. Smith.

or, in another poet's words,

"You only get one shot, do not miss this chance to blow
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo
..... Success is my only motherfuckin' option, failure's not"
M. Mathers.

Maybe I'm overblowing it a lil, but how many chances do you get?

As he pondered his future, waiting, anticipating in unfamiliar detox
Realizations dawned, futures unfurled, somewhere in the mind of fox
A change in course from failures to triumph, remember the Red Sox?
Or more of the same, one big step closer to a cold and lonely pine box
Woefully inept poet.

So, what's it gonna be, fucker?

Get Pissed, Destroy!

2005-09-18T18:47:00.000-07:00

We were hanging out in Victoria Square, outside our sleepy town's only record store, conveniently located next door to Blewetts, where the best pasties in town were sold. I ate one of our county's famous delicacies with one hand, the other clutching my latest purchase, Generation X's debut single, "Your Generation"/"Day by Day". Though I was eager to get home and listen to it, we first needed to decide on what to do later that evening, it being Friday. Dibs scoured the West Briton for signs of nightlife, rarely spotted in our quiet backwater.
"The Garden, Penzance. Friday night, Mystery Band. You don't think it could be...." he wondered aloud.
The Garden was a smallish club, the only respectable venue for rock bands in our languid county. We'd been there many a time to see mid-level british rock bands, the likes of Hawkwind and Be Bop Deluxe. But now our ears and hearts were tuned to a new sound, one of vitality and energy that we hadn't experienced before, but which we could immediately relate to and feel part of.
"Nah. Why would they play down here?"
"They'll play anywhere. We should at least check it out."

In early 1977, the lead singer of the Sex Pistols used the word "fuck" in an interview on national TV. Instant infamy. Just as they attracted fanatical followers, they attracted many who wished them and their fans more than a little harm. As much as they revelled in the hatred levelled against them, after getting the shit kicked out of them after every gig, the Pistols decided to start playing anonymously. We had to check it out, of course we did.

We rolled into the cozy fishing port of Penzance in the late afternoon. The doors to the Garden were still closed. After a brief stroll down the promenade to take in some sea air, we claimed a table in the pub next door. As time passed the pub started to fill with people around our age, with the same expressions of anticipation and subdued excitement. Eventually the Garden doors opened and we got tickets. But still no confirmation as to who was playing. As we walked back to the pub (if they were playing that night they'd most surely come to the pub first), it was apparent that the local cops were patrolling in unusual numbers. An excellent sign.
More time passed, more pints were consumed and pernods were added to the rounds. By about 9.30 we were getting not only well pissed, but also somewhat concerned that no one was showing up. It was my round and I forged my way to the bar, now quite filled with expectant drinkers. As I tried to catch the barman's attention, I noticed the volume level drop somewhat around me. I got his attention and was about to order when, in my left ear, came an already unmistakable voice. A nasal, sneering half-whine that suggested both malice and derision.
"Four pints of bitter." Lingering on the "s" as if "four" needed more explanation.
I turned my head slightly. John Rotten looked back with his head cocked.
"We're thirsssty." He sneered.
"Sure, sure. Go ahead." I mumbled.
"Thanks."
"He said thanks, he said thanks!" I thought to myself giddily.
The Pistols established themselves at the bar and started drinking several pints in quick succession. About a half hour before closing time they headed out. We and the rest of the pub followed.

Within no time they were on stage, ripping through songs we knew, "Anarchy", "God Save the Queen" and "Pretty Vacant", and songs we were hearing for the first time, "Holidays in the Sun", "EMI", "Liar", "Submarine". We were in the midst of a seething, surging, sweating mass of energized bodies. The energy level in the small club was unmatched by anything we'd experienced before and wouldn't even quite be equalled by the even more kinetic Clash a few weeks later.
Afterwards, while my friends headed to the bar, abuzz with the electricity of the show and the pernod, I ventured backstage. After asking Rotten, sitting, slouched and soaked with as much sweat as me, about the upcoming album - he was polite, friendly but clearly not too interested in chit-chat - I asked Sid if he fancied a beer.
"Sure."

We sat at the bar, had a couple of beers and chatted about stuff - the album, the ex-record labels they hated so much, Sweden (they'd just toured there - "fucking boring, fucking cold too"), football - regular pub talk really. Finally we were kicked out as the club closed. Though not before Sid scrawled his name on the sleeve of my denim jacket.

While we staggered toward the car, though I was clearly the most drunk of the six of us, I fished out the keys from my pocket. Still buzzing from the show, meeting Sid and several pints and pernods, I took off, completely ignoring the mini-roundabout outside the club, instead driving right across it. We sped down the road running parallel to the promenade and seafront, talking excitedly about the show. At the end of the promenade the road gently curved right, towards the quay where, as a child, I had so often boarded the Scillonian for our annual family summer trip to the Scilly Isles. As the road curved, the car continued on its linear path, ending with an inevitable, yet surprisingly quiet crunch as it hit the wall lining the pavement.
Within seconds, it seemed, we were surrounded by three police cars. They had been expecting trouble and had finally found it. We staggered out of the car aided by the cops, actually a pretty friendly bunch, no doubt happy that something had finally happened. No one was hurt, though Dibs would complain for days afterwards that his thumb had been bent and hurt like hell. Frankly, the little fucker deserved it. Though there was no damage to life or limb, my dad's Datsun was completely totalled. This was not good - he really liked his Datsun.

Weeks later a friend of my parents, a locally respected lawyer, would stand before a judge pronouncing me a fine student, planning to go to a well respected college at Cambridge who didn't know that pernod was a strong drink. Naturally I received the maximum possible fine and suspension.

A few years later I would be sitting in the bar of that same respected college when a friend would walk in carrying a newspaper,
"Well your old buddy's really fucked up this time" (I'd played the story up a bit).
Throwing down the copy of the Sun on the bar, I read;
"SID KILLS NANCY!"
Yeah, he'd fucked up real good this time. Though I'd spent barely twenty minutes drinking with Sid Vicious, I'd grown to resent the media's treatment of him, first demonizing, then ridiculing. Something like this was, at least in hindsight, inevitable.
A few days later, just as inevitably, he too would be dead.

The day after wrecking my dad's car I decided it would be diplomatic not to drink.
To the best of my recollection, that day in 1977 was the last that I went without a drink.
The last day until tomorrow.

I'll be back.
Soon. I hope.

Fox Force Five! (continued!)

2005-08-24T00:35:00.000-07:00

As you may recall, the Fox Force Five! are looking for clues as to the whereabouts of a missing super-secret stealth bomber and its pilot, Lt. Col. Brock Towers. The trail of clues has led them to the world renowned Getty Center in the L.A. hills. Team leader Lark is scouring ancient korean documents in the South Pavillion, in the hope of coming up with a clue. japanese martial arts expert Suzume, frustrated by everyone's mistaking her nationality, is keeping a low profile in the azalea garden, while Michelle, the french bombshell, is having cautious sex with a docent in the cactus garden. Meanwhile Raven and Robin are sitting in the central courtyard, reflecting on what they've seen so far over iced lattes .......

"Sure, he's a great painter, you just have to look at the nuances of the apostles' expressions to see that, I'm just saying it's all so freakin dark. I mean, didn't they have windows back in seventeenth century Holland? How about some candles?" asks Robin of the exhibit of Rembrandt's Late Religious Portraits.
"What do you expect? He painted his girlfriend as the Virgin of Sorrows - how happy could the guy be? Besides, these paintings were pretty revolutionary in the way they portrayed the apostles as real, vulnerable people. You can only knock down walls one at a time." countered Raven "But maybe it would be a good idea to go look at some lighter stuff."
"SHOW ME THE MONET!" yells Robin.
The two of them burst into laughter.
Their reverie is interrupted by the shrill ring of Raven's phone. She fishes it out her pocket.
"Hello ....... Okay, we'll be right there." she looks to the South Pavillion, "Lark thinks she's found a clue, lets go."

Lark is closely examining a very large, beautifully engraved book, clearly of great antiquity and value judging by the broken glass and comatose guards on the floor around her. Suzume is already there, clearly irritated that Lark had taken out the guards before she got there.
"What've you got Lark?" asks Raven.
"Where's Michelle?" asks Robin.
"Something that shouldn't be here....... She said she'll be coming in a few minutes." replies Lark to them both.
Raven, Robin and Suzume roll their eyes.
"Look here", Lark points at a section of faded parchment. "If my memory of ancient korean dialect serves me right, this is a reference to the hunting of the great black hawk by the ancestral followers of Tangun. Do you agree Suzu?"
"Japanese, you fucking bitch," Suzume mutters under her breath.
"What's that Suzu?" asks Lark, engrossed in the manuscript.
"I wouldn't know, Lark hun, I'm Japanese, remember." she chirps merrily.
"Oh yes, sorry Suz - you know how it is." responds Lark with a wave of the hand.
"Sure, I'll know how it is when I kill all four of you bitches. We'll see who can remember who's japanese, chinese and korean then!" Suzume thinks to herself and grins.
"And thai?" thinks Robin.
"Fuck!"

"So what's out of place, Lark?" asks Raven.
"Well, it's this," says Lark, turning a huge, fragile parchment page gingerly.

"Wow, that IS out of place," exclaims Michelle as she walks in, tucking her blouse into her jeans.
"Yes, but there's something even more out of place" exclaims Lark with urgency, "I need to get to the library!"
"What is it?" asks Raven.
"It's a large building with books in it. But that's not important right now," replies Lark, hurrying out of the door.

As the five make their way across the courtyard towards the Getty's impressive research library, Raven spots something unmistakeable in the reflection of the window opposite - the reflection of of a sniper's telescopic sight! Or someone wearing sunglasses. She spins, in one fluid movement reaching to her boot to retrieve the knife and flinging it upward in a perfect spiral. A body falls from the roof, a rifle crashing beside it. The Five! gather around the fallen sniper, knowing they have little time before having to call in some favors. Reaching into the dead man's jacket, Robin pulls out an ID card. "Ngoyen Van Luc; Vietnamese Department of Virus Control, Special Attache to the Centers for Disease Control".
"The guy's a virologist - why'd he be shooting at us?" she asks, bewildered.
"And why are the vietnamese involved now?" asks Suzume, fearing yet another misunderstood asian nationality trait.

From behind them a commanding voice exclaims,
"I might have guessed the Fox Force Five! wouldn't be able to go to a museum without killing someone!"
The Five! whirl on their heels, unaccustommed to being referred to by their supposedly covert group name.
"And who may you b..." starts Lark, instantly recognizing the face of the person standing before her.

Guest Starring Vincent Vega as Special Agent Cliff Powers

"The face you clearly recognize is that of my identical twin, Lieutenal Colonel Brock Towers." says the tall, dashing man standing before them. He holds in front of him an ID card; "Special Agent Cliff Powers. FBI, MI5: Super High Level Clearance."
"Wow! FBI and MI5," exclaims Raven, clearly impressed.
"My mother was british," explains Special Agent Powers.
"But I saw no mention of a brother in Lieutenant Colonel Towers' dossier, and it was pretty detailed." recalls Lark, once again calling on her photographic memory.
"Well up until just recently I didn't know I had a twin brother ....."

Cliff Powers goes on to tell the Five! the story of the two twin brothers. Their parents had both been deeply engaged in espionage at the height of the cold war, Rock at the CIA and Rosie at MI6. They had made many enemies between them, not only in the Soviet block, but all around the world, even in their own home countries. Each of them had made decisions that no person should ever have to make, often resulting in the death of not only their adversaries, but also their colleagues. But when Rosie Flowers discovered she was pregnant and, later, that she was expecting twins, they faced the hardest decision they would ever have to face. They decided that, since both they and their children would be at risk of assassination for the rest of their lives, they would separate, never to see each other again, each assuming new identities and each taking one of the twins. Rock took Brock and Rosie took Cliff. No one, including the twins, was to know of this.
In 1981 Rock was tracked down and killed with a botulinus toxin-tipped umbrella by a vengeful bulgarian widow. Perhaps because she had children herself, she spared Brock, who rapidly rose through the US Air Force's ranks. Rosie had covered her tracks well and eluded assassination by enemy counterparts. only to be defeated by her own genes and habits. She had succumbed to lung cancer just six months ago. But before dying she revealed the whole truth to her beloved son Cliff. Eventually Cliff had uncovered the identity of his twin, only to find that he was missing in action during a routine training flight over North Korea.

Engrossed in the Special Agent's story, the Five! temporarily forget about the dead vietnamese virologist with a knife sticking out of his chest at their feet. As Cliff starts to relate his own meteoric rise to Super High Level Clearance in the FBI and MI5 he is interrupted.
"Do any of you know anything about the dead guy with a knife sticking out of his chest here?" asks a California Highway Patrolman.
"Oh my god! Look Raven, there's a corpse right at our feet!" exclaims Robin.
"Oh my god, oh my god!" replies Raven.
"Okay folks, move it along, this is a murder scene." orders the CHP officer.
As the Five! and Cliff walk away, Michelle uses her experience, and the knowledge that she's not wearing a bra, to divert the attention of every cop at the scene, while Raven reaches down to retrieve her favorite knife from the virologist's chest.

As they walk away Luc breathes a relieved, if very painful, sigh of relief.

Within minutes the Five! are headed south on the 405 in the Big Mutha Foxmobile, their customized SUV. Lark is at the wheel with Raven beside her. Suzume and Robin are seated behind them and Cliff and Michelle are in the back.
"Where are we going Lark?" asks Raven.
"South, we're headed South." replies Lark mysteriously.
"Wouldn't be the first time," chimes Robin.
"Hey, where's Michelle?" asks Lark looking in the rearview mirror.
"Umm I think she uhh dropped something on the floor," replies Cliff distractedly.
"MICHELLE!" yells Lark.
Michelle's head suddenly bobs up from behind the back seat, a startled expression on her face.
"You know the rules!" continues Lark, anger in her voice. "No intimacy with team members!"
"I'm sorry Lark, I forgot for a moment," replies Michelle apologetically.
"Actually I'm not technically a member of the ......" Cliff starts timidly before being cut off by the harsh glare from the rearview mirror.

To break the ensuing uncomfortable silence Robin makes a suggestion;
"How about one of your jokes Rave?"
"Yeah, lets hear a joke, Rave," chime in the rest of the Five!
"Okay. So three tomatoes are walking down the street- a poppa tomato, a momma tomato, and a little baby tomato. Baby tomato starts lagging behind. Poppa tomato gets angry, goes over to the baby tomato, and smooshes him... and says, Catch up."

To break the ensuing uncomfortable silence Robin makes a suggestion;
"How about some music, Rave?"
"Yeah, lets hear some music, Rave," chime in the rest of the Five! and Cliff.

Raven flips on the music. Soon the Five! are singing along, as they usually do when listening to the Bangles covering a song by one of their favorite girl bands. This time its Sleater-Kinney's "The Fox".

"Shiny pretty fox" thought the duck,
The duck came up on to the land
The fox saw her and he just laughed ....

"Great song," remarks Cliff as the music fades out. "Reminds me of a guy I used to work with in the FBI some years ago. Claimed his sister had been abducted by aliens. Good agent though. They retired him in the end to keep him quiet."
"What does he do now?" asks Suzume.
"Apparently he's getting his message out through the internet. He's got a blog under some pseudonym. Duke Of Me or something like that." replies Cliff.
"Good for him, everyone has to maintain their belief in something," comments Robin.

About a mile behind the Five! on I5 a sleek black limo with black tinted windows cruises in the same direction. Sunglasses in the passenger seat follows the red blip on the laptop in front of him.
"Looks like they're headed for San Diego," says sunglasses, turning to face the suit in the back seat.
"Just follow and keep distance," replies the suit in a calm, level, measured tone.
"I think I know where they're going," as he lights another cigarette.

Join us after the commercial break, when the trail of clues lead the Five! to the San Diego Zoo, where Suzume takes on a pair of ninja pandas and Michelle takes on a bunch of horny meerkats.

FOX Breaking News.

2005-08-22T18:55:00.000-07:00

"We interrupt your regularly scheduled broadcast to bring you this FOX exclusive news story. FOX News has learned that a group of liberal anti-americans has issued a request to the government of Venezuela to assassinate the Reverend Pat Robertson.
We go live to our political correspondent in Washington, Dick Risingtall.

"Yes, indeed, Brat, I have in my hands a copy of the written request sent to the Venezuelan President by this coalition of liberal subversives. If I hold it up to the camera you can see it reads as follows:

"We the people who have sined underneath, formerly request that the government of Venezwailer take out Pat Robinson.
Sined,

"Now unfortunately, Brat, FOX News is currently not able to show the signatures or to release the names of those signing the document. However, I can say that there are some notable liberal politicians and namby pamby hollywood celebrities included in the list."

"Dick, has there been any word from the White House on this?"

"Yes, Brat. A spokesman for the White House has said that this threat to a highly respected US citizen will not go unanswered. Unofficially, Brat, its been known for some time that the President has been wanting to hit back at some of these jackasses, especially after seeing himself on film sitting in a children's classroom for several minutes."

"Well thanks, Dick. FOX News of course joins all americans in supporting the Reverend Robertson and condemning these evil, liberal anti-americans.

In other breaking news, at least one person is feared dead after a mysterious automobile incident on a bridge in New England.

We now return you regularly scheduled programming."

2005-08-21T15:28:00.000-07:00

Cali/steve t has started tutoring biology and chemistry to high school kids as a first step in career transition to teacher/science writer wannabe. Since he has to re-learn high school/college chemistry, his mind is somewhat distracted by dissociation constants, perturbed by the periodic table and submerged in subatomic particles. Therefore I, Foxy, will take on more blog posting responsibility. Expect more foxiness.

2005-08-17T23:51:00.000-07:00

time out.

please check back later.

sabbaticali.

2005-08-05T22:47:00.000-07:00

I never noticed before, but it seems the flags of Romania and Belgium are almost identical. Its not like they have much else in common.

Ancestral home of Count Dracula and assorted undead misfits. More recently home to one of the most evil dictators of the past hundred odd years. Play football with more flair than yer average east european team. Hate being mistaken for hungarians.

Home to a bunch of useless bureacrats. Good chocs, if you like 'em. Great beer, if you like gettin wasted. Play football with as much flair as a doorstop (Scifo excluded - with a name like that he should be italian anyway). Hate being mistaken for the french, but deserve it.

Now, if I was either Romanian or Belgian I'd probably be pretty pissed off about these stereotypical generalizations. But between them they've only visited the blog twice, so I'm not too worried.

Madagascar (sp.)

2005-08-03T22:52:00.000-07:00

I'm Mad As Hell and I'm moving to Madasgascar.

2005-08-03T00:56:00.000-07:00

It was cold .... and it was dark
What I was looking for.
Light!
I switched on the flashlight.
all was clear.
All would be absorbed.
Light, sound, existence,

Who took the bomp from the bompalompalomp?

2005-07-28T19:03:00.000-07:00

"How many times have you bust, Jane?"
"I don't know, I don't think I have yet," replied the dealer with an apologetic smile.
I think she was right. But it came as no surprise. The previous night had seen the start of a quite impressive losing streak, one which I'm sure would have contended for some kind of record, had it been recorded. Yet all around me seemed to be raking in the chips like the clean up guy in a Pringles factory. For instance,
"You sure you want to split them?" asked the dealer looking at the pair of two's in front of the guy to my right, then at her ten.
"Ummm, yes, I think so..."
Needless to say he won both hands after she (and I) went bust. But this was how it went all night.I was finally persuaded to quit after losing my last two chips to consecutive blackjacks.
I consoled myself with "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas". Or so I very much hoped.

My mood level was elevated (lets say to pink on a totally arbitrary and meaningless color scale) when, while walking through Mandalay Bay, I discovered that Le Tigre were playing that very night at the House of Blues. Woohoo!
They totally ROCKED! And the delicious irony of seeing them play in Vegas made it even sweeter. If you know Le Tigre and you know Las Vegas, I think you'll know what I'm talking about.

In other news there seems to be a veritable dogfight going on for bronze medal position on the counter on the right, between UK and Taiwan. Familiar territory for the brits, but, I suspect, less so for the Taiwanese.

Okay, clearly this is one of those filler posts. Next up, continuation of Fox Force Five!

BTW - what's YOUR take on Cassavettes?
Misogynist? Genius?
Alcoholic? Messiah?

2005-07-20T23:31:00.000-07:00

The creative element of the blog ("What creative element, Cali?") is temporarily in limbo (who's limbo, Foxy?).

In the meantime, I just finished watching tonight's Daily Show - the only consistently excellent TV show in a lake of pond scum. Tonight's guest was Robert F. kennedy Jr., who seeks to increase awareness about the danger of childhood vaccination. In particular he points toward a "scientifically proven" link between the use of thimerosal (mercury) based vaccines and autism, which he claims to account for frightening increase in autism incidence in kids over the last twenty or so years. As I've discussed before, the increasing rate of autism diagnosis is truly alarming, but there simply is no good scientific evidence, as far as I'm aware, that it's linked to thimerosal-based vaccination. The simple fact that autism and autism spectrum disorder diagnoses are continuing to skyrocket, while thimerosal-based vaccines have been used for more than twenty years, argues against a causative link.

People need someone or something to blame for that which they don't understand and which hurts them; mercurial vaccines seem to be the moslem vehicles of the medical world. There's no doubt in my mind that Kennedy's heart is in the right place, and research should still be rigorously applied to the possible link between vaccines and autism, but such strident rhetoric can only deflect from real research into the causes of these disturbing developmental disorders.

After quite a few weeks, and one postponement, I saw my therapist today; 9 am appointment, as usual arrived at 9.30 with an excuse. It was a short session to catch up with a few weeks of being "off schedule". I explained, or excused, myself about the wedding trip and pointed our upcoming trip to Vegas this weekend (we have an old friend staying - we're driving there). Bottom line? Back on schedule next Sunday or we talk about detox. It is a very scary prospect for me.

K. asked me again about how I would feel living without alcohol. Out of the blue I mentioned a few blogger friends (not by name!) who were bipolar. The descriptions I've read from them of being bipolar and off the meds, and the reluctance to go back on the meds seem to mirror so closely what I can only imagine it will be like to live without alcohol. It should be no surprise, after all, addiction and psychological disorders are controlled by the relative levels of certain neurotransmitters (fuck you, Tom Cruise!) It's the sense of loss, the feeling you'll never experience THAT feeling again. But, more than anything, its about being prepared to endure the unendurable lows for those ephemeral highs. Or is it? Let me know, hee hee hee!

2005-07-15T18:46:00.000-07:00

Amazing Anonymous was kind enough to ask Fox a set of five questions. My answers and the mandatory instructions are below. I'd be quite happy to ask anyone else who wants to play another five questions.

Instructions.

1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying "Interview me." "Blow me" or "Eat me" are not acceptable substitutes.

2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different. I'll post the questions in the comments section of this post.

3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.

4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.

5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

1. Most important discovery of the last century?

Penicillin.

2. Candy is dandy, but liquor quicker. Which do you prefer, though?

Kandy Kiwi Mousey. Yummy!

3. What do you have in your pockets right now?

The 8 ball. (Don't ask me what that means, I've no idea).

4. 'Twas brillig and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe. All mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe. Explain.

I'm going to let Scully handle this one.
"Oh, freakin' great! You couldn't give me the most important discovery question?"
Just thought you'd be familiar with Jabberwockies and Jubjubs, that's all *smiles pathetically*.
"Loser."

5. Who is your favorite Bob?

I'm torn between "yer uncle" and the great Sir Bobby Charlton. But glancing across at the nationality hit counter, it seems pretty unlikely that anyone will know either of them.

2005-07-14T23:09:00.000-07:00

I'd planned a post about our week in TN, and M and J's wedding.
Somehow I can't do it.
It was a wonderful week though.
To share with two very special young people entering a new life, to enjoy being part of a large, new(ish) family, to sneak out for cigarettes with a whole bunch of new friends.

Priceless.

See what I mean? Blogger's block.

2005-07-01T19:17:00.000-07:00

We're off to Tennessee tomorrow - family wedding. Back in a week or so, not that that will affect post frequency! Still in the stone age of photography (no digital) but maybe I'll post pics.

Happy Canada Day, Canadians!

Happy Fourth of July, Americans!

Happy, well, just Happy, Spirit Of Owl and any other non-North American visitors!

2005-06-30T04:22:00.000-07:00

Well, its 4.30 in the morning, and I can't sleep. I can hear the rats in the roof - they're obviously pissed off they can't come down. I have two posts in mind - one is a Fox Force Five follow up, the other is, well, something else.

Did y'all see the "nationality" hit counter over there on the right? Cool yet retarded, huh? But kinda interesting - I really didn't think so few people visited here. Whatever.

I lied when I said it was 4.30, cos its now 4.22. I just hate this time of the day. It takes away from me any sense of being - its cold when I'm sweating, its smothering when I've thrown off the sheets. Yet it offers the promise of sweet daylight.

Daylight's promise tends to depend on twilight's demise. The more consumed, the deeper the sleep, the shallower the soul. If I were to believe in such things as souls, that is.

I'm going back to bed - and will no doubt delete this later.

Blogenesis.

2005-06-26T14:11:00.000-07:00

"seizethenite writes much better than you" observed S. as she browsed through my bookmarked blogs. I agreed.

"What's your blog about, anyway?" She asked, while reading a now de-posted post about a "Fox" character describing to his imaginary partner a devious scheme to create a mass market for highly profitable anti-depressant drugs in China.

I was going to answer with the well-worn Seinfeldism of it being about nothing, but replied with "Connections, its about interconnectivity" since the post she was reading was connected both to the Foxy theme and to the previous post. So I guess that is what it will be, if it hasn't so far been, about. After all, the site's logo is the molecular structure of dopamine, a neurotransmitter which enables one neuron to connect to the next.

The science blog started life as a means to an end, one not yet reached. It was intended as a forum through which to present pieces of science writing to potential publishers. Suffice to say my career as a science writer is still taxi-ing on the runway. However, if it didn't attain the goal of launching a new career, it did introduce me to the world of blogging. A few bloggers stumbled upon the blog and apparently liked it enough to leave comments, setting in motion the reciprocation/appreciation cycle.

Since my only means of "personal" blogging was through commenting on others' blogs, I decided to start another one and came up with the brilliant idea of a blog composed solely of lists. I labored under the delusion that this was a brilliant idea for a few days, posting my lists of most and least favorites in sport, music, cinema and so on, until I realized it was quite stupid and changed the blog title appropriately. These days I don't pay it much attention, but plan to at least post a list or two every now and then, if only for the one person who graces it (hehehe) by visiting.

After a while I realized that its pretty easy to create a new screen name and blog, and so could blog in a way that would not compromise my career goals. This blog began as a chronicle of my life with alcoholism. Not my "battle against alcoholism" or my "endless struggle with addiction" but more how I was (and am) trying to embrace it and convince it that it needs to moderate itself "a lil". I deleted those early posts, mainly because they were mostly written not only under the influence, but also at some very low points; it defeated the purpose. I think Super Kitty was the only person to see them. So I determined the blog would become more upbeat, focusing on the highs more than the lows.

And so it went. And one day, not so long ago, on a whim, I invented Fox and his foxy blog. It soon became apparent that having three screen names was more trouble than it was worth - leaving comments at others' blogs and having to decide who should be leaving them was just not worth it. So Fox joined Cali and here they are, apparently with an inspired agenda of interconnectiveness in mind.

Oh yeah, I shouldn't forget Pura Vida. This is where the novel that stirs and develops within me will some day find its stage. Until then its an empty blog - not sure which is most stupid.

Ohhh, that post about poor old Fox? I removed it because it was pretty stupid.

But when has that stopped me before?

"Hello, Scully? Look, can you get over to the National Institutes of Health as quickly as possible? I'd like you to find Dr. Riccardo Cerrione at the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases, he's an old friend."

"Well it looks like our friends have hatched up a new plan to increase their power base and we'll need Ricco's help in figuring out how to deal with it."

"Yes, I'm pretty certain he's behind it, but apparently he's using a nicorette patch these days."

"Okay, I'll explain. As you know, they've been buying up shares in high profit business sectors for a while now. Well, it looks like they've pretty much got a stranglehold on one of the highest profit sectors."

"Yeah, that's the one. And they're not wasting any time in using it."

"Okay. You may have seen a story on the wire about a new drug which can counter SARS infection."

"Yeah, Cinanserin. Like you say, its curious, but its not coincidental. Seems they've tweaked the SARS genome so that it produces a protease with an active site that accommodates a molecule of Cinanserin. We need Ricco to prove that this strain of SARS has been purposefully genetically engineered, and didn't just arise from random mutation."

"Well, as you know, Cinanserin was first introduced as an anti-schizophrenic. It blocks serotonin neurotransmission by acting as a 5HT-2 receptor antagonist."

"Exactly, just the opposite action of SSRI anti-depressants. Can you imagine the consequences of treating even a fraction of the Chinese population with a drug that may induce severe depression?"

"Well how would you treat it?"

"Exactly! With long term SSRI treatment. Bottom line? There's a SARS outbreak in China and overnight you've got the largest market the world's ever seen for a profitable psychoactive drug. And the Chinese Government pays for it! My source tells me they've already started ramping up production of Prozolaxil about a hundred-fold."

"Okay, great. While you and Ricco get to work on the virus' DNA I'm going to take a trip to Beijing - someone's getting ready to release a virus, and I plan to be there. Call me if you make any progress Scully.
Scully? Scully??"

2005-06-22T16:30:00.000-07:00

After screening a large chemical library, researchers have come up with a drug that may be useful in treating infection by the SARS virus. They found that the drug Cinanserin could inhibit the SARS protease and thereby halt the SARS life cycle in much the same way as HIV protease inhibitors block HIV proliferation. If another outbreak were to start in China, or anywhere else, it's hoped that drugs like this, even if not 100% effective, would be able to stop the outbreak before it becomes epidemic. Curiously, and coincidentally, Cinanserin was first developed as a treatment for schizophrenia, based on its ability to block the neurotransmitter serotonin. In a simple sense it has the opposite effect of the "SSRI" anti-depressants like Prozac and Zoloft. Hopefully with the help of Cinanserin, the people of China will feel secure in being SARS-free.
Really fucking depressed, but SARS-free.

Batman began, came and went. And it totally rocked! Christian Bale was so impressive as Bruce wayne/Batman that its hard to fathom how Keaton, Kilmer and Clooney were ever picked to play the role. Clooney? What the hell were they smoking when they came up with that idea? Cillian ("28 Days Later") Murphy was superbly creepy as Scarecrow and Michael Caine defined the role of Arthur.
Talking of miscasting (the Clooney thing), on getting home, being too boring to go out on a Saturday night, and there being nothing else to watch, we started watching the movie "The Jackal". Now, in contrast to the inspired casting of the original "Day of the Jackal" which I've already referred to, this one featured Bruce ("Yippee-Kai-Yay, M*therf*cker!") Willis as the suave, low-profile, man-of-many-disguises, super-smart Jackal. But, even stranger, Richard Gere played the imprisoned IRA terrorist! Each time he came on screen I couldn't help smiling, then laughing ou loud when he started talking - didn't do much to suspend the tension ...... which was pretty much non-existent anyway.

The soundtrack to this morning's workout on the Precor. Not because you care, but because I can:

"Bela Lugosi's Dead" Bauhaus; "The virginal brides file past his tomb/Strewn with time's dead flowers/Bereft in deadly bloom"

"A New Morning, Changing Weather" The International Noise Conspiracy; "Hey independence, we're playing a little game"

"Gut Feeling" Devo; "I look for sniffy linings, but you're rotten to the core"

"Take It Off" The Donnas; "Stop staring at my D cup....Come on baby just give it up"

"Search and Destroy" Iggy and the Stooges; "Honey I'm the world's Forgotten Boy/The one who's searchin', searchin' to destroy"

"Regaining Unconsciousness" NOFX; "And you still believe this aristocracy gives a fuck about you/They put the mock in democracy and you swallowed every hook/The sad truth is you'd rather follow the school into the net/Cos swimming alone at sea is not the kind of freedom you actually want"

"Columbia" Oasis; "This is peculiar/We don't want to fool ya"

"Commando" The Ramones; "Second rule is be nice to Mommy"

"Alex Chilton" The Replacements; "If he was from Venus, would he meet us, on the moon/If he died in Memphis that'd be cool"

"On Top of your World" Sahara Hotnights; "Once and for all and forever to be"

Fox Force Five!

2005-06-14T10:55:00.000-07:00

Long thought to have been destroyed by jealous husband Marcelus Wallace, the last reel of a legendary TV show was recently discovered collecting dust in the wine cellar of director Jimmie Dimmick's Beverly Hills home. Now, after more than ten years waiting, we bring you the pilot episode of Fox Force Five!

As the Fox Force Five theme, a Bangles cover of "Foxy Lady", plays, the opening credits roll.....

Starring:

Mia Wallace as Raven McCoy. Expertise; knife play, acrobatics

Beatrix Kiddo as Lark Dakota. Expertise; team leader, photographic memory

Go Go Yubari as Suzume Taka. Expertise; martial arts

Vernita Green as Robin Banks. Expertise; demolition

Jaqueline Brun as Michelle Auspree. Expertease; coolness, seduction

And with Bill Caine as "Falconer"

Episode 1. The Pilot.

The Fox Force Five are lounging, bikini-clad, around the pool at their luxurious Malibu beach house. Suddenly a large, two-sided screen emerges from the center of the pool. As the water streams down the shining black surfaces, an image of a man appears on each side of the screen. Perhaps in his late fifties, yet with a youthful glint in his eyes. He reclines in his black leather chair and speaks with a quiet, understated, yet strangely commanding voice.

"Hello Fox Force Five."

"Hello Falconer" reply the Five in unison.

"Fox Force Five, I have a code 1, top priority, maximum security, super secret assignment for you. At oh six hundred hours eastern standard time this morning, a top secret US Air Force prototype Solaris supra-sonic stealth fighter bomber carrying a full complement of short-range, search and destroy, air to surface, laser-guided, nuclear smart missiles and its pilot, Lieutenant Colonel Brock Towers, went missing during a routine training test flight over North Korea. The Vice President just called me to fill me in on the details and instructed me to assign you to the mission ASAP. Our national security depends on you finding and recovering the top secret prototype supra-sonic stealth fighter bomber, the search and destroy, air to ground, laser-guided, smart missiles and Lieutenant Colonel Towers."

"You can rely on us Falconer."

"Lark, as usual, as team leader you will be responsible for making executive decisions in the field and for communicating progress to me. However, since you'll probably be encountering some Koreans along the way, you should make full use of Suzume's experience and language skills."

"Ummm, actually I'm japanese...." Suzume interjects sheepishly.

"Okay, enough talking, Fox Force Five. Let's kick ass!"

In no time at all (quite literally), the Five are headed down Sunset in Lark's Chevy convertible, Lark at the wheel, Raven beside her and Suzume, Robin and Michelle in the back, swaying from side to side as the Chevy lurches around the bends and curves.

"Where are we headed, Lark?" asks Raven.

"I saw a piece in the Times last week about a visiting exhibition of ancient korean art at the Getty. I thought we'd start there. 너 생각한다 무엇이 저 아이디어에 관한 Suzu?" She asks Suzume in fluent korean,

"Japanese!" hisses Suzume through clenched teeth, glaring at the back of Lark's head.

Robin and Michelle stifle their giggles, and to diffuse the situation Robin shouts out,

"Hey, Rave, put some music on!"

Raven turns on the CD player and the speakers burst into life with the Bangles playing a cover of Bikini Kill's "Rebel Girl". Soon all five of them are singing along;

"Rebel Girl, Rebel Girl,
Rebel Girl, you are the queen of my world"

As the music fades and the Chevy winds its way northward toward the Getty Center we cut to commercial.

When we return .......

The United States, North Korea and China at the brink of nuclear war. And Raven tells the tomato joke.

I drink therefore I am.

2005-06-13T17:50:00.000-07:00

Hedonism

90%

Existentialism

70%

Utilitarianism

70%

Nihilism

60%

Justice (Fairness)

35%

Kantianism

25%

Apathy

25%

Strong Egoism

Divine Command

What philosophy do you follow? (v1.03)
created with QuizFarm.com

Hire Me ....... Please!

2005-06-08T19:11:00.000-07:00

Cali: "Man, reality TV reached a new low last night. I mean, admittedly I've been pretty picky about trying to get a job, and I probably could have tried harder to get one, but there have been many jobs I was perfectly qualified for, yet didn't get. To watch a bunch of jerks being given a job and then trying to fired on their first day to win $25,000 makes me pretty sick. There must be a hell of a lot of people out there who need jobs much more than I do - how the hell must they feel if they watch this crap?"
Fox: "Hopefully 'Fire me - please.' will bomb in the ratings and the m*therf*cker who came up with the idea, the asshole who produced it and that total dickhead of a presenter will all get their sorry asses FIRED. That would be sweet justice indeed, my friend. Though primetime redeemed itself a little with the Brad Pitt interview on ABC afterwards. I mean, Diane Sawyer was her usual sugary self, but Pitt really came across as a cool guy - someone who really means what he says about issues and cares enough to follow through on it."
Cali: "Yeah, he's a good guy - you know he did a guest appearance here before you joined us."
Fox: "Get outta here - really? Did he say any more about Angelina than he did to Diane?"
Cali: "Wouldn't stop talking about her. He was saying that during the filming of the movie they used to ......"
Angelina: "Hello boys."
Cali: "Oh shit, ummm, I mean hello Ms. Jolie, how are you? What brings you here?"
Angelina: "Brad sent me, said you were looking for someone to comment-whore for you."
Cali: "I thought he was sending Clooney - I mean, not that we'd rather have Clooney here ...."
Fox: "We were just talking about the great job that you and Brad were doing helping out in Africa and all that."
Angelina: "Thanks boys, now you'll stick to that topic, right?"
Foxycali: "Yes Ms. Jolie!"
Angelina: "Good. Now I have to get going, we're shooting a remake of Fox Force Five and I'm playing Raven. I'll see you later boys."
Foxycali: "Okay Ms. Jolie - may we call you Angelina? No, okay - that's fine, can't wait for the movie - who's playing Lark?"
Angelina: "Can't tell you boys, watch the original and maybe you'll get a clue."

Introducing Fox.

2005-06-05T22:52:00.000-07:00

"Look Vivica, duckies! Quack, quack!"
"Hmmm, nice."
"And over there Vivica a giraffe! See how long his neck is!"
"Yep, long, nice."
"And look Vivica, a fox!"
"Whoa, get her freakin' autograph! She totally rocked in Kill Bill!"

Okay, you thought that was bad? Fox and Cali decided to join blogs - this is just an example of what you're gonna get! Just wait til you hear the Fox Force Five tomato family joke - again.

Of course I managed to delete all my links while introducing fox.

2005-05-31T19:43:00.000-07:00

I really should be posting something, but i don't really have anything, so i guess this will be one of those rambling, pointless posts that so many of y'all sometimes post (ohhh - just kidding).

Saw Star Wars Ep. III yesterday. I'm not really a big Star Wars fan, but everyone (well, except NYPinTA) seemed to really like it. I was surprised how much i enjoyed it, and gratified that i'd been filled in on Anakin's "I shouldn't have killed an unarmed man" line by Trina - i think i would have missed it. Having not seen I or II, I couldn't quite get why Obi Wan and Natalie Portman's character (hey, its not like she had an easy-to-remember name like Molly) saw so much in Anakin, who came across to me like a complete dickhead, even before he crossed over. And can someone answer this? If Obi Wan had finished off the job, instead of leaving him to be rebuilt as Vader, would Harrison Ford have been offered the role of Indiana Jones?
Since I have one of those Blockbuster All You Can Watch, Two At A Time deals for a month while its cheap, we followed light SciFi with light RomCom (I don't know if that's an accepted abb. and it turned out to be not as light as i thought it'd be) with Garden State. The second half of the movie and Natalie Portman's great performance as Sam (See? Now that's easy to remember) won me over, despite some pretty lame scenes in the first half. The one thing that kept holding me back from really liking it though, was the soundtrack which sucked except for Zero 7's wonderful "In The Waiting Line" and the Thievery Corp song. If you're gonna make a soundtrack so prominent (and it was), pick some good songs, not songs from artists you think will be seen as cool. There again, I'm not the target audience - oh well.

Whenever y'all get the chance, go check out the Complimenting Commenter, its a very cool idea. Leave him a compliment and maybe he'll visit you and leave one for you. And talking of blogs, I started another one the other day (different screen name). As it is I barely manage to maintain this one, the science one and the stupid list one that i think only one person reads. How stupid am I?

Okay, I've fulfilled my posting duties on this blog, now off to the science blog edit page. Hey, I did warn you I didn't have anything, didn't I? What do you want - a refund?

This post brought to you by Tanqueray.

2005-05-20T15:38:00.000-07:00

Steve: "Dude, the babbling brook that was your comments box has dried up into a trickle since last weekend."

Cali: "Yeah, I thought I saw a comment on your blog the other day, it turned out to be a mirage. Looking back at previous comment boxes its easy to see why. Lets just hope NYP doesn't decide to go off-line too."

Steve: "How about asking Brad Pitt to do another guest post appearance to pick up the flow?"

Cali: "Uh, uh, last time he was here he was all Angelina this, Angelina that, and if you mention anything about her exes he goes all Tyler Durden on you. Nope, not Brad. Besides, this isn't a popularity contest for me - its really no big deal."

Steve: "Yeah, I feel the same way - strange how we always seem to do that, huh? But maybe I should spice up the science blog - maybe the science behind the female orgasm, that's in the news these days, y'know, coming attractions."

Cali: "Dude, stay true to the science, after all what's our logo?"

Steve: "Yeah, point taken. Can you believe some bloggers actually get sponsorship for their blogs?"

Cali: "No way! Besides, who'd I ever get to sponsor a post here?"

Stem cell rant.

2005-05-17T23:14:00.000-07:00

An opinionated comment on this.

Although it's difficult to get reliable numbers, it seems likely there are between one half and one million in vitro fertilized embryos frozen in clinics in the US alone. Its estimated that of these, tens, probably hundreds of thousands are unclaimed. It seems inevitable that the fate of these forgotten embryos will be to remain in frozen homostasis or to be thawed out and destroyed. Of the claimed hundreds of thousands of embryos in frozen storage, a significant percentage would not survive the freeze/thaw cycle prior to implantation, were that even to be attempted. Each time a couple enters a clinic upwards of twenty embryos are produced in vitro. Of these a few are used to attempt implantation. The majority are immediately destroyed.
The religious/political right apparently has no problem with any of this. Yet they have a serious problem with using a small number of embryos, only 4 to 8 cells large, for the generation of embryonic stem cell lines that may one day be used to alleviate people of the ravages of degenerative disease; perhaps to cure them.
Tell me again just how this fits in with their "Culture of Life"?

Question time

2005-05-11T23:48:00.000-07:00

Now who can answer these questions?
1) The molecule you see above (under "Calismanic"), what would you call it?
2) If it were to indulge in an electrophilic substitution, at which carbon atom would the substitution take place? No, really, I want to know....
3) If you were to try and enhance the effects of said neurochemical with a legal substitute, where would you go?
4) Would you be wise in doing so?
5) Is this neurochemical important to us, I mean in terms of physiology and personality?
6) Do you find the simplicity of its structure somehow comforting, given the complexity of its effects?
7) What's your favorite color?

"You want me to hit you? What, like in the face?" "Surprise me!"

2005-05-04T10:34:00.000-07:00

Steve: "Why don't you write one of those 'Things about me that might surprise you' lists that other bloggers sometimes do?"
Cali: "Nah. Been done."
Steve: "Well how about 'Things about me that might surprise myself'?
Cali: "Wow, that'd be pretty tough - gimme an example."
Steve: "Well, lets think ...... Okay, how about this; 'I've never seen the movie Fight Club'. How's that?"
Cali: "Get the fuck outta here dude! You've never seen Fight Club?"
Steve: "Right, we've never seen Fight Club. Surprising, huh?"
Cali: "Damn right it is! Didn't you know you'd love that movie? Didn't you read Chuck Palahniuk's 'Lullaby' just recently and loved it?"
Steve; "Yep, he's my kind of writer, like an american Irvine Welsh."
Cali: "And aren't you a big fan of Norton and Pitt? And, hey, doesn't Brad think he looks like you?"
Steve: "Both true. And yes, Fight Club may be one of the most cited movie in blogger profiles - whatever THAT means."
Cali: "So you haven't seen it why?"
Steve: "Because everyone else has? I've always been kind of like that - unless I'm one of the first there, its tainted somehow. Stupid really."
Cali: "So, are you gonna see it?"
Steve: "Some day, some day."

Well, that's a conversation that may have taken place a few days ago. On the last day of my All You Can Watch For Free DVD month I rented out Fight Club and watched it for the first time. It actually surpassed expectations - simply brilliant. Rarely does a movie resonate so strongly with me, Trainspotting comes to mind, to extend the analogy. Pitt and Norton were outstanding and Helena Bonham Carter was a revelation as Marla. Moreover, the central theme of the movie strikes a chord truer now than when Palahniuk wrote it and Fincher filmed it. Besides, i don't remember ever watching a movie again the next night and enjoying it in a whole different light (knowing the ending).
So now how do I surprise myself?

Cali: "So shall i add Fight Club to my blogger profile?"
Steve: "Ummm, actually you don't have a profile."
Cali: "Well shouldn't I be the one to have the profile and you the one to have the resume?"
Steve: "Hmmm, maybe so, maybe so."
Brad: "Hey, you do look like me! And, by the way, you just broke the first and second rules."

Note: The conversation between S and C was a literary device. I'm not actually schizophrenic. At least not as far as we're aware.

Women are from Venice, Men are from Mars.

2005-04-29T18:39:00.000-07:00

On the subject of the differences between the sexes, which seems pervasive in many of the blogs I read, this supposedly from an English Professor at the University of Phoenix;

"Today we will experiment with a new form called the tandem story. The process is simple. Each person will pair off with the person sitting to his or her immediate right. As homework tonight, one of you will write the first paragraph of a short story. You will e-mail your partner that paragraph and send another copy to me. The partner will read the first paragraph and then add another paragraph to the story and send it back, also sending another copy to me. The first person will then add a third paragraph, and so on back-and-forth. Remember to re-read what has been written each time in order to keep the story coherent. There is to be absolutely NO talking outside of the e-mails and anything you wish to say must be written in the e-mail. The story is over when both agree a conclusion has been reached."

The following was actually turned in by two of my English students:

Rebecca (last name deleted), and Gary (last name deleted).

THE STORY:
(first paragraph by Rebecca)
At first, Laurie couldn't decide which kind of tea she wanted. The chamomile, which used to be her favorite for lazy evenings at home, now reminded her too much of Carl, who once said, in happier times, that he liked chamomile. But she felt she must now, at all costs, keep her mind off Carl. His possessiveness was suffocating, and if she thought about him too much her asthma started acting up again. So chamomile was out of the question.

(second paragraph by Gary)
Meanwhile, Advance Sergeant Carl Harris, leader of the attack squadron now in orbit over Skylon 4, had more important things to think about than the neuroses of an air-headed asthmatic bimbo named Laurie with whom he had spent one sweaty night over a year ago. "A.S. Harris to Geostation 17," he said into his transgalactic communicator. "Polar orbit established. No sign of resistance so far..." But before he
could sign off a bluish particle beam flashed out of nowhere and blasted a hole through his ship's cargo bay. The jolt from the direct hit sent him flying out of his seat and across the cockpit.

(Rebecca)
He bumped his head and died almost immediately, but not before he felt one last pang of regret for psychically brutalizing the one woman who had ever had feelings for him. Soon afterwards, Earth stopped its pointless hostilities towards the peaceful farmers of Skylon 4. "Congress Passes Law Permanently Abolishing War and Space Travel," Laurie read in her newspaper one morning. The news simultaneously
excited her and bored her. She stared out the window, dreaming of her youth, when the days had passed unhurriedly and carefree, with no newspapers to read, no television to distract her from her sense of innocent wonder at all the beautiful things around her. Why must one lose one's innocence to become a woman?" she pondered wistfully.

(Gary)
Little did she know, but she had less than 10 seconds to live. Thousands of miles above the city, the Anu'udrian mothership launched the first of its lithium fusion missiles. The dim-witted wimpy peaceniks who pushed the Unilateral Aerospace disarmament Treaty through the congress had left Earth a defenseless target for the
hostile alien empires who were determined to destroy the human race. Within two hours after the passage of the treaty the Anu'udrian ships were on course for Earth, carrying enough firepower to pulverize the entire planet. With no one to stop them, they swiftly initiated their diabolical plan. The lithium fusion missile entered the atmosphere unimpeded. The President, in his top-secret mobile submarine
headquarters on the ocean floor of the coast of Guam, felt the inconceivably massive explosion, which vaporized poor, stupid, Laurie and 85 million other Americans. The President slammed his fist on the conference table. "We can't allow this! I'm going to veto that treaty! Let's blow 'em out of the sky!"

(Rebecca)
This is absurd. I refuse to continue this mockery of literature. My writing partner is a violent, chauvinistic semi-literate adolescent.

(Gary)
Yeah? Well, you're a self-centered tedious neurotic whose attempts at writing are the literary equivalent of Valium. "Oh, shall I have chamomile tea? Or shall I have some other sort of FUCKING TEA??? Oh no, I'm such an air headed bimbo who reads too many Danielle Steele novels!"

(Rebecca)
Asshole.

(Gary)
Bitch

(Rebecca)
FUCK YOU - YOU NEANDERTHAL!!!

(Gary)
Go drink some tea - whore.

(TEACHER)
A+ - I really liked this one

........ I particularly liked the way that Rebecca killed off Gary at the very first possible opportunity. From that point on Gary knew he'd missed a golden opportunity and was defeated, futile retribution being his only recourse. Score one to the Venetians.

It ain't over 'til the fat guy sings.

2005-04-28T17:11:00.000-07:00

The Gods Must Be Crazy! Well, at least the american TV viewing public. Scott is still on 'Idol' - he wasn't even in the bottom three! Could it be that TV viewers now dislike Simon so much that they'll go out of their way to pick up the phone and vote for whoever he tells to "pack their suitcase"?
I can't believe the american public would vote to retain someone who repeatedly fails to meet even the most modest standards of ability.
Ohhh, wait a minute........

Bush cancels Earth Day.

2005-04-22T14:33:00.000-07:00

This is the headline that greeted me as I opened up Yahoo this morning. Widening the box, I read the full headline, "Bush cancels Earth Day visit to the Smokies."
The sad thing? I wasn't surprised by the first headline.

Blogger is a jerk

2005-04-21T20:02:00.000-07:00

Blogger is a jerk. Last night it started redirecting me to its home page when i clicked on certain links - after a while it wouldn't let me get to my own blog. I did get to one of my most frequently visited blogs (no doubt blogger was taking a much needed break from sustained jerkissitude) and then, being in a bad mood and apprehensive of a job interview (kinda) today, proceeded to leave a thoughtless, inappropriate and unnecessarily antagonistic comment on one of my favorite blogger's posts (sorry P). I went to bed in totally the wrong frame of mind in preparation for a job kinda interview.
I got up next morning, realizing I'd run out of my SSRI prescription and didn't have time to get it filled - nice start Steve. The interview was not so much an interview - a mutual friend had passed on my resume to someone at a local Biotech company - and we were to meet for lunch to "sound each other out". I got to the Biotech, waited in reception and shortly heard "Hi, you must be Steve." i turned and instantly both of us recognized each other. "We've met before." In unison. Within milliseconds I realized that the only time we could have met was at our mutual friend's party, one at which I'd gotten AMAZINGLY drunk, even by my extreme standards. Great, fucking great!
Lunch actually went okay, and for sure I didn't order a beer with it! I'm not holding my breath over the position - I've been rejected or, more often, never heard from them again, so often I don't really care anymore.
Apparently I'm also incapable of relearning organic chemistry for the MCAT teaching - its clear the human brain is not designed to assimilate the details of the Friedel-Crafts reaction after a certain age.
This post is so fucking whiney that I think I'll delete it soon.
Blogger is a jerk.
(edited)

Q time (via P)

2005-04-16T00:53:00.000-07:00

Apparently I don't have a visual memory. Can't come up with "mostest" answers for the pic Q's, representatives are;

What picture has brought to you the most joy?

S on the beach in Costa Rica collecting fallen almonds

What picture has brought to you the most introspection?

Sunset over the Pacific (also Costa Rica, but really a generic - could just as well be California or anywhere else looking west)

What picture has brought to you the most sadness?
An old photo of a close family friend taken at our (once) annual family/friends Xmas party, which i came across soon after he died of cancer. Usually the life and soul of the party it was a rare pic of a sad, reflective K, almost as if in anticipation

What picture has brought to you the most laughter?
Any one of many photos of K and our dear friend M (who also died of cancer not so long ago) at same Xmas parties, making everyone else laugh

What picture has brought to you the most frustration?

What song will always make you cry?
Anything by Good Charlotte. (I could have picked any one of a number pathetically lame artists/bands but I picked them because, well, I can)

What song will always make you dance?
Return of Forever - High Contrast

What song will always make you drive really, really fast?
Suburban Train - Tiesto; very loud, very fast

What song brings your best (in order to narrow the selection) outdoor memory?
Purple Haze - Jimi

What are you listening to right now?
In the Waiting Line - Zero 7

What book was last given to you by someone else?
"Looking for Spinoza. (Joy, Sorrow and the Feeling Brain)." - Antonio Damasio

What book did you last refer to someone else?
"White Teeth" - Zadie Smith

What book will you keep with you always?
My PowerBook

Where do you like to be quiet?
In the kitchen when pouring another drink

Where do you like to be loud?
In the car

What is your favorite fruit juice?
Fresh grapefruit

I tag; Nelson Mandela, Trent Rasner, Stephen Hawkins and Lisa Simpson

Vacillation and acylation

2005-04-15T15:35:00.000-07:00

I'm starting to wonder whether having four blogs - well, three really, since one is totally devoid of content - is such a good idea. I know what you're thinking - "he hardly ever posts on any of them, what's he complaining about?" - but it seems i'm becoming less and less able to multitask. Give me one thing to do and there's a slim chance it will get done. Give me a bunch a things and its a dead cert that not even the easiest will get done. Besides, i'm trying to memorize a whole organic chemistry course to take this MCAT teaching application test and its using up pretty much every available neuron. And, believe me, there ain't too many to spare. I hated organic chem way back in college so i skipped just about all the classes. I suspected that one day it would come back to haunt me and how right i was.

For the science blog i'm planning to write a follow up on embryonic stem cell research, based on recent progress in research and lack of progress in swaying the ideology of the current administration. However, I've been stalled by both inertia and inability to access key papers - the science publishing community is every bit as elitist as the science research community. In fact i was also considering a post on the failure of science publishing to communicate that which its meant to communicate. I've also been meaning for a while to write a piece on the biology of aging, but for some reason whenever i start to think about it I become disinterested. I wonder why this is.

As for the stupid lists blog, i've forgotten why i thought it was such a good idea in the first place. Maybe i should follow up my stupid list of Canadians with a list of stupid Americans. Plenty to choose from.

And this blog.... I did consider starting "Zerotonin: Memoirs of a Melancholy Mouse", which was to be included in Pura Vida, here instead; The story of Morris E. Mouse, a mouse with no serotonin receptors, in his search, along with his sister Marrie, for happiness. But it seems like so much work. And then there's the TV chat show interview with Genghis Khan. I don't know, I think the effects of SN1 nucleophilic substitution on chirality are making me kinda brain dead.

Woohoo! My first pointless post about nothing in particular. I'm just like you guys now!

On the beach

2005-04-09T23:44:00.000-07:00

“So this guy wakes up on the beach only to find he’s the last person alive on Earth. Of course he has to leave the beach to find this out, but, anyway, seems the rest of humanity has been wiped out in some kind of nuclear Armageddon.”
“So how did this dude on the beach survive it?” one of the surfers asks perceptively.
“Uhh, I don’t know. Sunblock maybe?
“Anyway of course he finds he’s not really the last one alive and that there are other survivors and they band together to start civilization over. There’s a love interest there too I think. So it begins at the end and ends at the beginning, y’know?”
“So that’s why you come to the beach? You sleep on the beach and maybe the rest of the world goes away?” The perceptive surfer again.
“Hey, maybe it is, maybe it’s a metaphor.” But, how to explain just how the beach mirrors my destiny, how it comforts and then torments, how it nurtures and tortures. How the surf, sand and rocks are freedom themselves, and yet the beach entraps, between the raging surf and the hard, dry world. And how it gathers the lonely and the together, the happy and the dreamers, the adventurers and the voyeurs.
“I thought this was the metaphor.” Indee interrupts my reflection, arms in the air, hands open, meaning everything around us. The gesture and her comment seem to have attracted everyone’s attention.
“What??” I have no idea what she’s referring to.
Indee looks right to left, back again, eyes shifting, faux conspiratorial, leans forward and says, hushed but loud enough for all to hear, slowly,
“The blog.”
“What blog?” I reply, genuinely perplexed.
“This blog.” Again hushed yet loud enough.
I stare at her incredulously, no idea what to say. But she and everyone else are waiting for an answer.

Pura Vida

2005-04-07T17:30:00.000-07:00

I should be writing my novel, to be posted on Cali's sister blog (Pura Vida), but I'm not.

Settings: It is set largely in the US Southwest; San Diego, San Francisco, Las Vegas, and in Costa Rica. I imagine other locations will emerge.
The Premise: It features a small group of people from diverse backgrounds, though with strangely similar traits, dedicated to exposing untruths and deception within Science and the Pharmaceutical Industry. In particular, the rumored existence of the ultimate life-style drug being developed by a mega-international Pharma consortium. The drug in question, in ways laid out in the novel, is able to reset the brain's homeostasis mechanisms in the event of disturbance thereof. The question is, therefore, what is the brain's default status? Happy or sad? Passive or aggressive? Enlightened or in the dark? I don't know - that's why I'm writing the novel.

I should be writing my novel, but I'm not.......

No lo vamos a olvidar!

2005-04-04T16:09:00.000-07:00

I got one of those Blockbuster pass things; ten bucks for all you can watch for a month. So far we've seen the following;
"Purple Butterfly" with my favorite actress, Zhang Ziyi, or is it Ziyi Zhang. The movie was okay, she was as wonderful as ever.
"The Return", a thoughtful russian psychodrama, which pretty much sums it up.
"The Incredibles"; lots of fun. Plus, Mrs. Incredible (Elastica) is pretty hot.
"Harold and Kumar go to ...." Surprisingly fun and funny.
"Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter and Spring again" or something like that. I didn't watch it - S did while recovering from a cold, she says its sad - good thing I didn watch it.
"The Motorcycle Diaries" was quite simply one of the most amazing movies I've seen for, well, ever! What surprised me is that the movie, and the original diaries, had passed me by and I didn't know, until the very end of the movie that the main character and narrator was indeed a young "Che" Guevara.

I wish this movie had gotten more attention when it was in theatres. We desperately need another "Che" now.

Deposted.

2005-04-04T14:12:00.000-07:00

I deleted a post I had put up a couple of days ago ("Pope dead, Illinois and North Carolina survive") since i thought some might find it disrespectful, which wasn't my intention. In spite of disagreeing with him on some obvious issues, the late Pope was, after all, opposed to the Iraq war and the death penalty and was clearly at heart a good and honest man. Which, lets face it, is more than be said of the world's most powerful religious leader, George W. Bush.

Judge me not lest I come kick your ass.

2005-03-31T23:17:00.000-08:00

I took the MCAT practice test and I suck - I REALLY suck - I suck worse than I'd imagined - I suck like a Dyson on meth. I wouldn't have gotten into UNLV med!
Now its personal........

Back to School

2005-03-30T22:47:00.000-08:00

I decided to apply for a part time position preparing kids for MCATs - a friend had suggested it and it seems a good idea. It would bring in some spending cash, give me something to do and it might even be fun. I visited the Princeton Review website and proceeded to fill out their questionnaire, submitted a resume and was about to nonchalantly click on the button that would send me to the admission test, when I paused. Would this be a test of my personal MCAT aptitude? When was the last time I took an MCAT anyway? Never. Hmmmm - maybe I should research this test before I fall flat on my face at the first step.
So, it was off to the library in search of MCAT practice test manuals. Now this, in itself, was quite an experience. Having spent many, many years studying, training and educating in science, one would assume I'd have detailed knowledge of the inner workings of libraries, yet in each of the institutions I've been at, I couldn't tell you where they are.
A remembered exchange when at Cornell;
Me (to an undergrad student working in the lab): Can you copy an article for me from the library please?
Her: What is it?
Me: It's a big building in the middle of campus with books in it.
I did, however, find an MCAT test book and proceeded to check it out - then I realized I'd have to check it out! I actually had a library card, since S had dragged in there some time before, and it turned out to be quite painless and easy.
Anyway, its just as well, since I clearly need some serious revision time before taking this application test. On the very first passage they got two of the seven questions wrong! Its gonna take some time to figure out just what kind of answers these morons are looking for. I'm gonna take a practice MCAT exam tomorrow morning - they better not question any of my answers.

Leaving Color.

2005-03-28T22:18:00.000-08:00

We drove up to LA yesterday to visit S's cousin, family and a bunch of friends on the occasion of "Holy", a Hindu celebration that I have no idea what the history of is. Got there around midday in time for conventional party-style stuff - lotsa delish indian food, beer and so on, after which was to come the "Festival of Colors" part of the party. I knew about this in advance and had purposefully worn one of my better linen shirts, to enable my justifiable excusing from the event. Naturally our hosts found an expendable T-shirt - I was not to escape coloring - no one was.
After clearing everything - everything! - away from the back garden, evnts started with a water fight. Water balloons, buckets of water, just the plain old hose - lots of running and screaming from kids - and more from grown ups (the water was freakin freezin). Then came out the bags of brightly colored paint powder - pink, red, orange and yellow - the object being to "paint" as many people as possible. Soon we were a blurred, multi-colored mass and, oh no, it dunn't wash out, uh uh.
Really it was a lot of fun - the kids enjoyed it tons - as did the grown ups. Those who'd grown up in India I think enjoyed the tradition and memories it evoked, the rookies enjoyed the strangely extreme yet fun nature of the festival. Though one guy was quite seriously contemplating just how the hell he was gonna drive home without seriously depreciating his car's value (this is, after all, Bel Air).

This morning i woke up a fairly bright pink, the red, orange and yellow having transferred to the sheets. Running late for my appointment with my therapist I took a not-long-enough shower, emerging still largely pink, and set off for Hillcrest. Now, Hillcrest is to san Diego what the Castro is to San Francisco, so I didn't feel too out of place, but I always like to keep a low profile at Psychiatry Outpatients! Another shower later and most of the pink's gone - except the toe nails, which seem to have a permanent nature to their coloring. Now, don't get me wrong, I have no issues with what others think about me in terms of my sexuality or anything - it matters nothing to me - its just that if I were to ever paint my toe nails, they would NOT be pink. They'd be some kind of metallic hue, like bronze, or maybe copper.

2005-02-27T01:14:00.000-08:00

On the last day of his life, Hunter S. Thompson woke with his usual breakfast of fresh fruit inside a thin layer of jello with gin and Grand Marnier drizzled on top.
His wife, Anita, carefully put a lemon on the side and hovered near his chair. It was 5 p.m., the time the writer normally began his day.