Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Friday, September 7, 2007
Would You Like Some Cheese With That W(h)ine?
It’s September 2007.
I began graduate school in 2002.
That’s five years of my life. Five years of my life working my ass off for bupkiss and feeling like a failure 9 out of 10 days.
And when I look back over my life it’s also the point at which I begin to feel the “seven year itch”. It doesn’t seem to matter what I’m doing, who I’m with, or where I live. Five years is my max in any same surrounding. And while I have no desire to switch careers, as I truly love being a biologist, I feel it is time to switch institutions…cities…states. But I’m trapped both by obligation to and love for my research.
I wonder if this is how the married with children feel when the magic is gone. You don’t want to stay…but you can't/don’t really want to leave either.
My boss wants me to take a tenure track faculty position, after another 2-4 years of working my ass off for bupkiss and feeling like a failure 9 out of 10 days. And I dont even have my PhD yet!
From Dictionary.com: Tenure- status granted to an employee, usually after a probationary period, indicating that the position or employment is permanent.
PERMANENT?!?!?! Thanks, but I don’t do permanent. And, quite frankly, I don’t understand people that do. How do people look out over the landscape of their future comfortable in the knowledge that little will change so long as they have anything to say on the matter?
What have I gotten myself into?
Someone once said to me that “there would be a lot less suicide in the world if people just realized that everything is temporary”. And I believe that. Because, what is really permanent? What is really constant? And should we trust anything that is?
Nothing is permanent and everything is temporary.
So, I spoke to my boss about being a science editor for a someplace like Science magazine or a newspaper. Maybe even Scientific American. Not a bad rag if you ask me. And we both know that literature reviews and writing papers are my strong suits.
But don’t underestimate your talents as an experimentalist he says.
And I don’t. I know I have good hands and if it can be done I can figure out how to do it. Hell…I work less than most an accomplish more. My skills or lack thereof aren’t what’s in question. What is in question is what I actually want to do.
But it’s so hard to get back into “hard-core” science once you leave, he says. And he’s right. Despite Brian May’s recent ascension to the ranks of PhD after 36 years playing guitar for Queen it’s not the same for us biomed geeks. Things move faster in the world of biomedical research than they do in Zodiacal Dust Clouds.
But is that a reason to chain oneself to being one thing? Would I really be making a point of no return decision should I decide to “leave the bench”?
I used to be an accountant…and I got to tell you…as dull as it was…sometimes I miss it. I actually miss the dull. Which means at some point I’ll probably miss the daily knots in my belly over that which I cannot control or that which I do not understand.
And on that note…I’m going to go start in on the w(h)ine…
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Jen Left...Spacey Stacey Returned.
My keys were in my purse when I left my Sisters house in Sacramento this morning. I’m almost positive I saw my car keys in my purse. Almost.
Whether they were in my purse this morning or not is absolutely beside the point because they weren’t in my purse by the time I looked for them on the shuttle ride from the terminal to the parking lot. Where had I been? What had I done? When could they possibly have removed themselves from my purse without my knowledge?
Perhaps I only imagined seeing my Ralph’s Club key card poking out from beneath the assorted lip glosses and hair handlers that populate my purse.
Who knows? The fact of the matter is I was stranded in the airport parking lot. I and one sad looking little tree that only Charlie Brown could love were surrounded by 102 degrees of heat radiating black asphalt. With a dying cell phone battery, and all the water I possessed in the world locked in the car I carefully weighed my options of whom to call to help get me out of this little jam.
Would triple A be able to help me? I knew they could get me into my car, but could they fashion a temporary emergency key for me and get the thing started? Maybe, but not being sure and not wanting to waste precious battery time finding out I ran through my list of friends trying to decide who would be best set up to help me get my show on the road (both literally and figuratively). The most likely choice would be one of my roommates who have easy access to the lair where the spare key is stored. One of them would be chosen to assist me in my starring role as “damsel in distress”.
Whether they were in my purse this morning or not is absolutely beside the point because they weren’t in my purse by the time I looked for them on the shuttle ride from the terminal to the parking lot. Where had I been? What had I done? When could they possibly have removed themselves from my purse without my knowledge?
Perhaps I only imagined seeing my Ralph’s Club key card poking out from beneath the assorted lip glosses and hair handlers that populate my purse.
Who knows? The fact of the matter is I was stranded in the airport parking lot. I and one sad looking little tree that only Charlie Brown could love were surrounded by 102 degrees of heat radiating black asphalt. With a dying cell phone battery, and all the water I possessed in the world locked in the car I carefully weighed my options of whom to call to help get me out of this little jam.
Would triple A be able to help me? I knew they could get me into my car, but could they fashion a temporary emergency key for me and get the thing started? Maybe, but not being sure and not wanting to waste precious battery time finding out I ran through my list of friends trying to decide who would be best set up to help me get my show on the road (both literally and figuratively). The most likely choice would be one of my roommates who have easy access to the lair where the spare key is stored. One of them would be chosen to assist me in my starring role as “damsel in distress”.
After that it was easy. You chose either the most dependable or one that will give you the least amount of grief for being a complete and utter space case. All else being equal I would have called the person with the most time on their hands. The one sitting around in his underwear most days out of the week should have been the one I called. But I didn’t. I called the guy with the job. In other words…I called the dependable one (who also happens to be the one that is least likely to tell me a blonde joke every time he sees me for the next 6 months).
Me: Hi __________...how’s it going…what are you up to.
The Saint: Just working.
Me: Are you super busy right now?
(pause)
The Saint: Not super busy…
Me: Here’s the thing…
I go on to tell him my situation and that I am sure I have a spare key for the car in the little box on my desk near the dresser in front of the lamp.
40 minutes later…as I’m considering breaking one of my windows to get at that water…the phone rings.
Me: The key isn’t there?
The Saint: The key isn’t there.
Me: Try here
The Saint: Nope…nothing that looks like a car key.
Me: What about over there?
The Saint: I see it, but there is no key.
Me: Try the bathroom.
The Saint: Ah HAH. I see a key that looks suspiciously like a car key (insert boring description of key)
Me: Yes, that sounds like it.
The Saint: On my way
40 minutes later…as I’m looking for a rock to throw through the window of my car...he appears…with an old house-key. Not the car key I was hoping for. Dejected and unsure just how long it was going to take me to figure out how to get my car out of the Airport parking lot I put a smile on my face and climbed into his car.
You looked here? You looked there? Stare out the window wondering how much this little stunt is going to cost me in both time and money.
Wait, I said to “The Saint”, “which box did you look in…was it the little box on my desk next to the dresser in front of the lamp…I mean…was my MJ in it?”
“Why yes it was…in the box by the lamp…just like you said” replied a grinning Saint.
“OH”, I replied. “You looked in the little chest on my desk by the closet next to the lamp. I keep the key in the little box on my desk by the dresser in front of the lamp. It must be there.”
After all I distinctly remember putting it in there. Just like I distinctly remember seeing that Ralph’s club key card this morning…
As luck would have it…it was there. Right near the top in the little brown bag I’d imagined it in. So I grabbed the key and that Saint took me BACK to the airport to get my car. What? It's not like he has a job or anything...right?
After all that all I can say is...all’s well that ends well.
But before I go…I’d like to offer up a piece of advice.
But before I go…I’d like to offer up a piece of advice.
Don’t be too dependable.
If you are…you’ll only get space cases like me calling you up asking you to bail their dumb asses out.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Another Scientific Duh Moment...
According to veterinarian, Carolynn MacAllister of Oklahoma State University, secondhand smoke causes cancer in pets.
I’m not surprised. Are you?
And while I love dogs and can tolerate cats I don’t know that I would ever go changing any of my habits just because one lived in my house. I mean...if it were suddenly found that the pets of people that eat pizza are 6 times as likely to be fat when compared to the pets of people that don’t eat pizza I wouldn't stop eating pizza.
I would simply change my cats name to fat ass.
Oh wait...her name already is fat ass.
Read all about it...
I’m not surprised. Are you?
And while I love dogs and can tolerate cats I don’t know that I would ever go changing any of my habits just because one lived in my house. I mean...if it were suddenly found that the pets of people that eat pizza are 6 times as likely to be fat when compared to the pets of people that don’t eat pizza I wouldn't stop eating pizza.
I would simply change my cats name to fat ass.
Oh wait...her name already is fat ass.
Read all about it...
Last Weekend To Wear White!
It’s the last holiday weekend of the summer and I plan to do what I do best which is to get the hell out of dodge. When life throws me curve balls I like to get out of the way, and these days the curve balls of life in Los Angeles look a lot more like basketballs than baseballs. Sacramento might not be far enough...
Summer weekends with the family have always been the best. My nieces and nephews grow so fast. Watching them morph into the adults they will become provides endless hours of entertainment and fun. So pliable. So impressionable. So fresh. Untainted by the cynicism that holds so many Angelenos in its deathly grip, chatting with a child provides a fresh perspective to the “troubles” that plague our adult lives.
And since the addition of a speed-boat to our treasure chest of adult sized toys there is no better place to de-compress and shuck off the grime of life’s daily stresses.
The sun beating down, a beer in my hand, and I’m next behind the boat. Skimming along the water as Nickleback asserts their desire to be “Rock-stars” and Kid Rock belts Bawitdaba da bang a dang diggy diggy diggy said the boogy said up jump the boogy…I try to turn…and end up with a nose full of lake. Pull the boat around and she’s back up…but not for long.
What can I say…I’m learning.
Unfortunately, for this summer the lessons are over. A lack of rain and snow has left the lakes dry, leaving mere puddles in the sun. Not even sufficient for inner-tubing. And the river, while full and running strong is cold despite the Sacramento heat.
But the pool will be cool, and the volleyballs, basketballs, and skateboards have been largely ignored this summer…by me. Perhaps this weekend they’ll get some attention.
Then again…we might just sit around, have cocktails, play cards, and introduce the kids to the magic of E.T.
What will you do with your last holiday weekend of summer 2007?
Whatever it is…have a blast…I know I will!
Summer weekends with the family have always been the best. My nieces and nephews grow so fast. Watching them morph into the adults they will become provides endless hours of entertainment and fun. So pliable. So impressionable. So fresh. Untainted by the cynicism that holds so many Angelenos in its deathly grip, chatting with a child provides a fresh perspective to the “troubles” that plague our adult lives.
And since the addition of a speed-boat to our treasure chest of adult sized toys there is no better place to de-compress and shuck off the grime of life’s daily stresses.
The sun beating down, a beer in my hand, and I’m next behind the boat. Skimming along the water as Nickleback asserts their desire to be “Rock-stars” and Kid Rock belts Bawitdaba da bang a dang diggy diggy diggy said the boogy said up jump the boogy…I try to turn…and end up with a nose full of lake. Pull the boat around and she’s back up…but not for long.
What can I say…I’m learning.
Unfortunately, for this summer the lessons are over. A lack of rain and snow has left the lakes dry, leaving mere puddles in the sun. Not even sufficient for inner-tubing. And the river, while full and running strong is cold despite the Sacramento heat.
But the pool will be cool, and the volleyballs, basketballs, and skateboards have been largely ignored this summer…by me. Perhaps this weekend they’ll get some attention.
Then again…we might just sit around, have cocktails, play cards, and introduce the kids to the magic of E.T.
What will you do with your last holiday weekend of summer 2007?
Whatever it is…have a blast…I know I will!
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Music of Life
Many of us have sat down in front of our iTunes for the purpose of arranging our favorite songs into what I like to call “the soundtracks of my life.” Even if you’ve never heard of iTunes you likely have at some time sat cross-legged in front of your stereo surrounded by a pile of records, tapes, and CD’s in order to put together a “mixed tape” for yourself or someone you love. But have you ever wondered what your body would sound like if your blueprint, or DNA, was converted to musical notes instead of, well…you?
Now, thanks to researchers from the University of California at Los Angeles you can stop wondering. Read more
Now, thanks to researchers from the University of California at Los Angeles you can stop wondering. Read more
Saturday, August 25, 2007
What Do Asics And Prozac Have In Common?
There is nothing like a good run to chase the blues away.
I didn’t always feel this way.
Last year at about this time I was struggling through 2 mile runs on the treadmill. I had never liked running, favoring the Stairmaster where I could read a book while I dripped like a pig in June. But, as with so many things in my life, I grew bored of the Stairmaster and decided to try this whole running thing.
I fell in love.
There seemed to be no easier way in the world to keep the flab at bay and the endorphin rush was just what I needed to power through a strength routine. But…I didn’t really intend to do more than incorporate running into my regularly scheduled cardio routine.
That was until I got a flyer in the mail encouraging me to train for the Los Angeles Marathon with the Leukemia Society. While I didn’t relish the idea of hitting my friends and relatives up for donations the whole idea of running a marathon began to take shape in my mind. Could I? The girl who would blithely say “Yeah…I only run when chased…and even then I try to get out of it” run 26.2 miles?
A quick trip to Google and I found what I was looking for in the form of a running group that meets on Saturday mornings in Santa Monica to train for the Los Angeles marathon.
For 6 months I went to bed early on Fridays and woke early on Saturdays to run anywhere from 7-23 miles. And yes…I did in fact complete that marathon.
It changed my life. I found that I was more focused, slept better, and felt less stressed. I was, in general, a happier person all around. I even continued meeting with the group for “fun runs” after the official training season was over.
But life gets busy, and giving up every Friday night out with the girls gets old…so I let myself slip a little. A head-cold, sore knee, family vacation(s) and two months not running at all and the focus left, the insomnia crept back, and the stress mounted.
Going back to training this morning was a little like going back to school. There where hugs and shouts of “How have you been? Do anything fun this summer? Check out my cool new running shoes!”
Five miles later and the blahs that have been plaguing me all week are gone. I know its only temporary and that to really keep the happy pill effect I will have to give up those Friday nights and heed my alarm clock on Saturdays.
But that’s OK…the pubs open late Saturday night!
I didn’t always feel this way.
Last year at about this time I was struggling through 2 mile runs on the treadmill. I had never liked running, favoring the Stairmaster where I could read a book while I dripped like a pig in June. But, as with so many things in my life, I grew bored of the Stairmaster and decided to try this whole running thing.
I fell in love.
There seemed to be no easier way in the world to keep the flab at bay and the endorphin rush was just what I needed to power through a strength routine. But…I didn’t really intend to do more than incorporate running into my regularly scheduled cardio routine.
That was until I got a flyer in the mail encouraging me to train for the Los Angeles Marathon with the Leukemia Society. While I didn’t relish the idea of hitting my friends and relatives up for donations the whole idea of running a marathon began to take shape in my mind. Could I? The girl who would blithely say “Yeah…I only run when chased…and even then I try to get out of it” run 26.2 miles?
A quick trip to Google and I found what I was looking for in the form of a running group that meets on Saturday mornings in Santa Monica to train for the Los Angeles marathon.
For 6 months I went to bed early on Fridays and woke early on Saturdays to run anywhere from 7-23 miles. And yes…I did in fact complete that marathon.
It changed my life. I found that I was more focused, slept better, and felt less stressed. I was, in general, a happier person all around. I even continued meeting with the group for “fun runs” after the official training season was over.
But life gets busy, and giving up every Friday night out with the girls gets old…so I let myself slip a little. A head-cold, sore knee, family vacation(s) and two months not running at all and the focus left, the insomnia crept back, and the stress mounted.
Going back to training this morning was a little like going back to school. There where hugs and shouts of “How have you been? Do anything fun this summer? Check out my cool new running shoes!”
Five miles later and the blahs that have been plaguing me all week are gone. I know its only temporary and that to really keep the happy pill effect I will have to give up those Friday nights and heed my alarm clock on Saturdays.
But that’s OK…the pubs open late Saturday night!
Friday, August 24, 2007
Anyone Else Feel The Blah?
Something about this week. Everything is blah....
Food doesn't taste right, my clothes don't look right, and everything seems a little bit washed out.
Perhaps it's because I'd rather live closer to my family than I do (I often feel blah when I get home).
Perhaps it's because my research is so unpredictable (and Im currently working with someone that makes this even more so than when Im going my own way).
Perhaps I expect too much out of life.
Perhaps it's because I'm ready to move on...
Ready to do something different. Live somewhere different. Just be...different.
I think about this a lot. Doesn't eveyone think about it...at least a little...or am I the only one?
But to be different means letting everyone down. Once again changing my mind. It means not being "able to commit." Not even to myself.
And...is that actually a bad thing?
And while introspection itself is never a bad thing it might not be me at all. It might be that into each life a little blah must fall and its just my turn in the wheel.
Perhaps I'll feel better after a run...
Thursday, August 16, 2007
What A Week!
Rove resigned (Cheers!), Jenna got engaged (Yawn), sub-prime mortgages are tanking (feigning shock and awe), Hurricane Dean is heading to Texas while Peru gets a shake up (no Virginia...this isn't Armageddon on the way), and things are going just swimmingly in lab (thank "god").
But, before I head off for a weekend of wake-boarding and beer drinking I'd like to share with you a fantastic tale of "passing the buck", "shucking responsibility", and not taking responsibility for ones own actions.
A Dozen Red Roses Can Mean Trouble...
Washington - A US florist company which sent written thanks to a customer for his order of a dozen roses now is being sued by the man, who says the note tipped off his wife about the new love interest in his life.
US media reported on Tuesday that the company - called 1-800-Flowers, after the phone number customers dial to place their orders - sent a written acknowledgment to Leroy Greer for his $100 order of an arrangement of one dozen long-stemmed roses and a stuffed animal.
According to the report carried by the American Bar Association Journal, a legal publication, the note was spotted by Greer's wife, who placed a call to the company seeking clarification about the order.
The floral company faxed her a copy of the sales receipt, along with the note sent by her husband to his new girlfriend."
Just wanted to say that I love you and you mean the world to me!" read the greeting, according to the report.Greer's wife has since filed for divorce - armed with the invoice as evidence of his infidelity.For his part, Greer has filed suit against the floral company in his home state of Texas, blaming it for the break-up of his marriage.
Greer reportedly has accused the company of breach of contract, insisting a sales representative told him there would be no notice of the flower purchase sent to his home or business.
The ABA contacted the flower company, which responded: "We take all matters relating to our customers seriously."
It added, however: "We are not responsible for an individual's personal conduct."
But, before I head off for a weekend of wake-boarding and beer drinking I'd like to share with you a fantastic tale of "passing the buck", "shucking responsibility", and not taking responsibility for ones own actions.
A Dozen Red Roses Can Mean Trouble...
Washington - A US florist company which sent written thanks to a customer for his order of a dozen roses now is being sued by the man, who says the note tipped off his wife about the new love interest in his life.
US media reported on Tuesday that the company - called 1-800-Flowers, after the phone number customers dial to place their orders - sent a written acknowledgment to Leroy Greer for his $100 order of an arrangement of one dozen long-stemmed roses and a stuffed animal.
According to the report carried by the American Bar Association Journal, a legal publication, the note was spotted by Greer's wife, who placed a call to the company seeking clarification about the order.
The floral company faxed her a copy of the sales receipt, along with the note sent by her husband to his new girlfriend."
Just wanted to say that I love you and you mean the world to me!" read the greeting, according to the report.Greer's wife has since filed for divorce - armed with the invoice as evidence of his infidelity.For his part, Greer has filed suit against the floral company in his home state of Texas, blaming it for the break-up of his marriage.
Greer reportedly has accused the company of breach of contract, insisting a sales representative told him there would be no notice of the flower purchase sent to his home or business.
The ABA contacted the flower company, which responded: "We take all matters relating to our customers seriously."
It added, however: "We are not responsible for an individual's personal conduct."
I would probably divorce this guy too. Not just for infidelity...but for terminal stupidity. And, lets face it, how hard is it to not get caught? Really? In my humble opinion...he wanted her to find out.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Ever Hear Of An Earth Bong?
I hadn't until today...
But, this story really begins on Saturday when I had occasion to visit the Santa Monica pier and subsequently laze about on the beach.
Going on sunset, as my friend and I sat on the beach staring out at the ocean, three young men congregated in our vicinity carrying buckets, shovels, and a long lenth of bamboo. Our interest piqued we watched as they proceeded to bury the bamboo stick, upright, in the sand. For the next 10 minutes or so my friend and I tried to figure out what the purpose of this "stick mound" could be.
Going on sunset, as my friend and I sat on the beach staring out at the ocean, three young men congregated in our vicinity carrying buckets, shovels, and a long lenth of bamboo. Our interest piqued we watched as they proceeded to bury the bamboo stick, upright, in the sand. For the next 10 minutes or so my friend and I tried to figure out what the purpose of this "stick mound" could be.
Were they looking for as yet undiscovered in Santa Monica oil reserves? Maybe it's a flagpole for washed up underwear? Midget tetherball?
But, before we could determine the identity of this construction project they abandoned plan, ripped the stick out of the mound, and proceeded to build "mound". Confused and maybe just a little bored we left them to their mound and continued up the beach.
Upon sharing stories of weekend adventures with a lab-mate this afternoon I relayed the story of "stick mound". His reply? Oh yeah...an "Earth Bong".
A what? I mean...I thought I'd heard of/seen/experienced just about any way that a person could smoke marijuana, but considering who I was talking to I decided to take him seriously.
So, I googled it, and while I can neither confirm nor de-bunk the information I think that what we saw was a failed Earth Bong erection.
So, I googled it, and while I can neither confirm nor de-bunk the information I think that what we saw was a failed Earth Bong erection.
For as long as mankind has been around, he (or she for yo' ganja smokin' feminists) has been walking the earth. Now you can become One with our planet and smoke a bowl of sticky green using "The Earth Bong".
The Earth Bong was originally introduced by the Chinese fighting-monks who could kill an opponent with their left pinky by inserting it at high- speeds into the victims right ear-lobe. After a triumphant battle, the monks would smoke Hash or Marijuana to declare their victory.
In several Asian languages, the word for 'assassin' is very similar to 'pot-head' because of the frequent juxtaposition of the combined activities. Please do not take this to mean that you should smoke and kill people.
Earth Bongs are inherently simple, but you should feel free to modify them as much as you feel you need to since the human race has progressed somewhat in the recent industrial and information revolutions. I will elaborate on the version the Stealth Monks used in lower Mongolia (88 nautical miles ESE of Ulaanbaatar).
Take a strong bamboo shoot that has not cracked or chipped too much. Toward the bottom, make a hole with a drill (or you can shoot it with a bow-and- arrow from a safe distance like the Voovaxe Monks did in the earlier part of the 13th Century) and insert a pipe/slide. You bamboo shoot now looks like a bong, except it has no actual bottom to it. It's a bong with a wide open bottom section. Fully vulnerable to the extremities of the outside world.
The bottom of this modified bamboo shoot is then dipped into a puddle so that when you pack the bowl, and pull a hit, it filters the smoking contents through the muddy puddles water. You can get a monster hit from a good bamboo shoots and mother nature will be getting high with you and will most likely create a beautiful butterfly that will help promote world peace, eventually leading to another cold war, a decline and renaming of the iron curtain, and eventually a space race that will ultimately lead mankind to the polar canals of Mars and there too, one day, man will smoke a big fat bowl, re-dubbed "The Mars Bong".
Monday, August 13, 2007
Paris, Lindsay, Brittany, Paris, Lindsay, Brittany, Paris, Paris, Paris...
Let me start by saying that I do not hate Paris Hilton. I have never met her. I do not know her. Nor do I want to meet or know her. I dont like to shop aimlessly, and Im not partial to little dogs so I doubt that we would have much in common.
What I dislike about Paris Hilton is what she represents. She represents the undeserving sense of entitlement that we all see far too often. She emulates a certain distain for the non-rich, non-beautiful people of the world. She is, to put it quite simply, better than the rest of us common folk.
But really…why shouldn’t she feel that way? Have we done anything as a populace to let her know that we find her behavior to be unacceptable? Or have we, as a society, sent quite the opposite message? Furthermore, what kind of message does this send to the young women in this world trying to figure out who they are and what they should be?
I offer you the following sentiments regarding what Paris has done to earn all this fame and fortune (and then I’ll let you know why this upsets me so):
Commenter #1: “Paris Hilton is one of the most successful women on the planet and she’s only 26."
Commenter #2: “And what did SHE do to receive that distinction? Now I asked you what SHE did, not what her NAME did.”
Cave-man’s response #1: “Her looks plays a big deal in her charm, she could have surrendered to sloth and gluttony [sic] like so many American have these days, 65% overweight? Maintaining that beautiful slender look of hers requires tremendous amount of will and discipline, none of which your typical "it's what on the inside that counts" self-righteous obnoxious fat chicks can grasp.”
Cave-man’s response #2: OK so I don’t have a chance in hell with that hottie, why should that stopping me from admiring (and drooling and wanking over) her? I still find her to be breath-takingly [sic] cute despite I am well aware that I got a snowball’s chance in hell to be with her. I could have resorted to sour grapes attitude and lie some more “I prefer woman with substance” (for whatever that supposed to mean), my chance with her has no bearing and will not change the fact that in this beholder’s eyes (moi) she is insanely beautiful… Next time before you foaming in the mouth about the importance of character or ethics perhaps you would want to explain why is it you think that dudes who pick women based on look will be sorry? Everyone has character flaws, what is it that hot-looking women as a group don’t have what plain-looking women as a group have?
EXCUSE ME? Are you f'in kidding me? This guy is saying that she earned her money (which she didn’t because no one would be paying her the kind of money they are simply because she’s hot…there are far hotter women out there that don’t get nearly the press or compensation) by starving herself? Oh wait…I’m sorry, she isn’t starving herself. She has a “tremendous amount of will and discipline”. It would seem, to this observer, that this is the only arena of her life in which she has displayed a “tremendous amount of will and discipline”. It certainly wasn’t on display when she drove with a suspended license. Furthermore…Am I the only person that has friends who are skinny yet eat like cows along with those that eat right and exercise yet struggle to keep their weight down to society’s standard of beauty?
But that isn’t even what bothers me about this kind of attitude…
What really chaps my hide is that this cave-monkey is completely cool with her deplorable behavior because she is HOT and has a “beautiful slender look”. The glorification of a juvenile delinquent (albeit a rather attractive juvenile delinquent) is A-Ok because he has been provided a perfect explanation for the line of drool coming out of his mouth while he gets his wank on?
Now, I’m not suggesting that this “man” go out with someone he isn’t attracted to. If skinny is your standard of beauty and that's what you're into…fine…but can we glorify people that are both beautiful AND have substance? Can we stop assuming that just because someone is not taken with her and the media coverage that surrounds her that he is gay/a loser, or she is fat/bitter?
Yeah...we should all just turn a blind eye to the absolutely HORRIBLE example she is setting for young women everywhere because men like cave-man need a fantasy for their evening wank. Cause...what we really need these days is a bunch of young women growing up knowing that as long as they look pretty and “watch that weight” they can do whatever they want...just so long as there are chumps like him to lap it up.
I’d say all of this to him, but he wouldn’t get it. He wouldn’t understand that by glorifying this behavior he says to the very women that he so desires that they can treat him like shit because he’ll keep on coming back for seconds. Just so long as long as he gets to keep “tappin’ that hot ass”.
He’d just say I’m jealous and/or fat. Some of you reading this may well be thinking that. I care. Really.
In the end, Paris is going to be fine no matter what. She’ll always have plenty of money, and when her looks fade she can afford the plastic surgery. I’m not all that worried about her.
But…I am worried about the message we are sending to our daughters/nieces/friends little girls etc. I am afraid that one of my nieces will fall prey to the idea that what is on the outside is more important than nurturing your whole self (and by that I mean…both your inner and outer beauty). I worry that one of these “men” that feel a woman’s worth and self esteem is or should be 100% tied up in the assessment of how “beautiful” they are on the outside will cause them heartache, or even worse, to feel that they are less of a person if they don’t measure up.
I really do…
What I dislike about Paris Hilton is what she represents. She represents the undeserving sense of entitlement that we all see far too often. She emulates a certain distain for the non-rich, non-beautiful people of the world. She is, to put it quite simply, better than the rest of us common folk.
But really…why shouldn’t she feel that way? Have we done anything as a populace to let her know that we find her behavior to be unacceptable? Or have we, as a society, sent quite the opposite message? Furthermore, what kind of message does this send to the young women in this world trying to figure out who they are and what they should be?
I offer you the following sentiments regarding what Paris has done to earn all this fame and fortune (and then I’ll let you know why this upsets me so):
Commenter #1: “Paris Hilton is one of the most successful women on the planet and she’s only 26."
Commenter #2: “And what did SHE do to receive that distinction? Now I asked you what SHE did, not what her NAME did.”
Cave-man’s response #1: “Her looks plays a big deal in her charm, she could have surrendered to sloth and gluttony [sic] like so many American have these days, 65% overweight? Maintaining that beautiful slender look of hers requires tremendous amount of will and discipline, none of which your typical "it's what on the inside that counts" self-righteous obnoxious fat chicks can grasp.”
Cave-man’s response #2: OK so I don’t have a chance in hell with that hottie, why should that stopping me from admiring (and drooling and wanking over) her? I still find her to be breath-takingly [sic] cute despite I am well aware that I got a snowball’s chance in hell to be with her. I could have resorted to sour grapes attitude and lie some more “I prefer woman with substance” (for whatever that supposed to mean), my chance with her has no bearing and will not change the fact that in this beholder’s eyes (moi) she is insanely beautiful… Next time before you foaming in the mouth about the importance of character or ethics perhaps you would want to explain why is it you think that dudes who pick women based on look will be sorry? Everyone has character flaws, what is it that hot-looking women as a group don’t have what plain-looking women as a group have?
EXCUSE ME? Are you f'in kidding me? This guy is saying that she earned her money (which she didn’t because no one would be paying her the kind of money they are simply because she’s hot…there are far hotter women out there that don’t get nearly the press or compensation) by starving herself? Oh wait…I’m sorry, she isn’t starving herself. She has a “tremendous amount of will and discipline”. It would seem, to this observer, that this is the only arena of her life in which she has displayed a “tremendous amount of will and discipline”. It certainly wasn’t on display when she drove with a suspended license. Furthermore…Am I the only person that has friends who are skinny yet eat like cows along with those that eat right and exercise yet struggle to keep their weight down to society’s standard of beauty?
But that isn’t even what bothers me about this kind of attitude…
What really chaps my hide is that this cave-monkey is completely cool with her deplorable behavior because she is HOT and has a “beautiful slender look”. The glorification of a juvenile delinquent (albeit a rather attractive juvenile delinquent) is A-Ok because he has been provided a perfect explanation for the line of drool coming out of his mouth while he gets his wank on?
Now, I’m not suggesting that this “man” go out with someone he isn’t attracted to. If skinny is your standard of beauty and that's what you're into…fine…but can we glorify people that are both beautiful AND have substance? Can we stop assuming that just because someone is not taken with her and the media coverage that surrounds her that he is gay/a loser, or she is fat/bitter?
Yeah...we should all just turn a blind eye to the absolutely HORRIBLE example she is setting for young women everywhere because men like cave-man need a fantasy for their evening wank. Cause...what we really need these days is a bunch of young women growing up knowing that as long as they look pretty and “watch that weight” they can do whatever they want...just so long as there are chumps like him to lap it up.
I’d say all of this to him, but he wouldn’t get it. He wouldn’t understand that by glorifying this behavior he says to the very women that he so desires that they can treat him like shit because he’ll keep on coming back for seconds. Just so long as long as he gets to keep “tappin’ that hot ass”.
He’d just say I’m jealous and/or fat. Some of you reading this may well be thinking that. I care. Really.
In the end, Paris is going to be fine no matter what. She’ll always have plenty of money, and when her looks fade she can afford the plastic surgery. I’m not all that worried about her.
But…I am worried about the message we are sending to our daughters/nieces/friends little girls etc. I am afraid that one of my nieces will fall prey to the idea that what is on the outside is more important than nurturing your whole self (and by that I mean…both your inner and outer beauty). I worry that one of these “men” that feel a woman’s worth and self esteem is or should be 100% tied up in the assessment of how “beautiful” they are on the outside will cause them heartache, or even worse, to feel that they are less of a person if they don’t measure up.
I really do…
Friday, August 10, 2007
Vacation Anyone?
Although I have many things on my mind today, and many things I would like to write about…it’s Friday and there is a beer or two with my name on it down at the pub.
I did, however, come across a little news ditty that I felt compelled to write about for Broowaha.
Mark Your Calendars and Pack Your Bags
And don’t forget to check the balance in your checkbook, because the vacation I’m talking about won’t be cheap. But how much is too much for a chance to circle the globe in 80 minutes, see the sun rise 15 times per day, and crawl around on the ceiling like Peter Parker? If you said $4.1 million dollars then you’re in luck because a 3 day stay at the “Galactic Suite” space hotel will only cost you $4 million.
(Or as Dr. Evil would say: Four miiiiiilion dollars)…read the rest here.
I did, however, come across a little news ditty that I felt compelled to write about for Broowaha.
Mark Your Calendars and Pack Your Bags
And don’t forget to check the balance in your checkbook, because the vacation I’m talking about won’t be cheap. But how much is too much for a chance to circle the globe in 80 minutes, see the sun rise 15 times per day, and crawl around on the ceiling like Peter Parker? If you said $4.1 million dollars then you’re in luck because a 3 day stay at the “Galactic Suite” space hotel will only cost you $4 million.
(Or as Dr. Evil would say: Four miiiiiilion dollars)…read the rest here.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Its like wax on apples
Did you know that they put wax on apples? In case this is the first you’ve heard it, every time you eat an apple from your grocer you are eating just a little bit of wax. It all started some time ago when some farmer somewhere realized that waxing his apples made them more appealing, which in turn made him a bigger profit. So when the farmer down the road saw the shiny apples he started…
Can you see where this is going? Now everyone waxes their apples and we just take it for granted that apples are shiny. Really they aren’t.
And kids aren’t made of cardboard.
Huh? Kids aren’t made of cardboard? What the hell does that have to do with wax on apples?
Rack focus: Ohio, the residential section of Main Street
Despite the speed limit being reduced as drivers enter the residential section of Main Street the traffic past one Ohio mans home often dashes by at 55mph or more (or so he says). Frustrated with this dangerous situation he made life-size cardboard cut-outs of his children and placed them by the side of the road.
Now, while teenagers and the elderly make excellent targets, no one wants to hit a kid and the cutouts appear so real that they are actually causing drivers to slow down. Some have even called out in anger, admonishing him for allowing his children to play so close to the road (Oh…sorry my kids got in the way of your drag race buddy). The idea is so popular that it has been posted on law enforcement web sites and he’ll even make you a cardboard kid for the sum of $60.
So what’s the problem you ask?
What if people start using the cardboard kids as target practice or in some sick and twisted version of mailbox baseball? Will they be able to tell the difference when a real child is standing by the side of the road? What happens when people get de-sensitized to seeing children on the side of the road? Will they stop slowing down? Will they speed up? How will this affect the safety of real children?
Only time will tell. Let’s just hope it doesn’t turn out like wax on apples.
Can you see where this is going? Now everyone waxes their apples and we just take it for granted that apples are shiny. Really they aren’t.
And kids aren’t made of cardboard.
Huh? Kids aren’t made of cardboard? What the hell does that have to do with wax on apples?
Rack focus: Ohio, the residential section of Main Street
Despite the speed limit being reduced as drivers enter the residential section of Main Street the traffic past one Ohio mans home often dashes by at 55mph or more (or so he says). Frustrated with this dangerous situation he made life-size cardboard cut-outs of his children and placed them by the side of the road.
Now, while teenagers and the elderly make excellent targets, no one wants to hit a kid and the cutouts appear so real that they are actually causing drivers to slow down. Some have even called out in anger, admonishing him for allowing his children to play so close to the road (Oh…sorry my kids got in the way of your drag race buddy). The idea is so popular that it has been posted on law enforcement web sites and he’ll even make you a cardboard kid for the sum of $60.
So what’s the problem you ask?
What if people start using the cardboard kids as target practice or in some sick and twisted version of mailbox baseball? Will they be able to tell the difference when a real child is standing by the side of the road? What happens when people get de-sensitized to seeing children on the side of the road? Will they stop slowing down? Will they speed up? How will this affect the safety of real children?
Only time will tell. Let’s just hope it doesn’t turn out like wax on apples.
Why Im Here (or...a typical first blog post)
My friends have always told me I should write, though until recently I never have. I have been submitting stories to an online newspaper, Broowaha. Though, some of what I want to write about just doesnt really fit into the realm of responsible citizen journalism. Sometimes I just want to shout at the rain, and where better than here...in the blog-o-sphere?
In order to aquaint you with my writing check out my articles on:
Embryonic Stem Cells, Pharmacists Rights of Conscience, and dating in L.A.
You can read all of my articles by visiting my profile at the Broo
Until next time...
In order to aquaint you with my writing check out my articles on:
Embryonic Stem Cells, Pharmacists Rights of Conscience, and dating in L.A.
You can read all of my articles by visiting my profile at the Broo
Until next time...
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