Hopelessly unrecoverable

I feel like sulking. Although I should have noticed the telltale signs much earlier, my [lack of] accuity has once again held me to dear circumstances. Last summer's visit to Philly should have taught me two things: a) the city isn't particularly interesting and b) it's far too hot for me here. For some reason, it has a tendency to attract heatwaves. The sort which toasts the sidewalks so that they continue to radiate fire well into the night. The humidity only makes matters worse. Unlike the summers where outdoor strolls and soccer games rule, I find myself clamouring for the shade....and air conditioning. Like the hot man's opium, I drift into shops whose names are unknown, stay far too long at the lab, and consume an environmentally unfriendly amount of electricity.

Despite the hottest day of the year so far (a scorching 37 degrees), my discontent tonight stems from two other events. My bookshelf, a proud erection of my home improvement ability, collapsed sometime today. CSI does not work in uninteresting muggy cities, and there is no foresnsic evidence to suggest when this may have happened. The only thing that is obvious is that it happened between when I left the house at 8 and when I returned at 9. The distinctive butterfly pattern in which all the contents were strewn over the floor also indicate a violent crash which would have stirred the neighbors downstairs. Will definitely investigate the incident in more detail. No photos today as my camera was perching one of the shelves.

Even the pigs tan black in California

What better to do than to reminisce on fatigued Saturday nights. After all, the thermostat's in the 90's, as is the humidity and there really isn't anything more interesting to do except to mull on the better things in life.

One of those better things happened a little bit earlier in the calendar. In fact, before even the impression of keeping a blog came to mind, I made a brief visit to the Bay Area. A few things made the trip especially great. Firstly, no trip to California can be bad. Secondly, I was accompanied by blackpig, who had gotten blacker by the end of the trip.

Even rain in California is more delicious to the senses, which sort of sums up what a great place it is. The weather is always amiable, and the people laid back. While our touristic menu was somewhat filled to the brim, the whirlwind was more like a waltzing hurricane. Yes, very laid back. Like all good things, the visit seemed brief. By the end, we decided to move there eventually. Victor, our gracious host and guide (for a fourth consecutive visit, I should add) continues to lobby me westward. In the meantime, we will feed ourselves with memories.

At the Fisherman's wharf

Standing pretty on top of Telegraph hill

Residents at Pier 39, whom we visited each day while we were there

Vivian thanks our host for a great weekend

It's only a state of mind

Still figuring out how the font sizing option works here. Again, my lack of e-publishing knowhow is exposed. Today actually started at around 7pm last night. The pager that I had been assigned had been left in my drawer while I was happily working away at the final protein purification that will now epitomize my failures here at a high profile lab. Instead, Christine again impresses me with her quick wits by calling me on my cell instead. I think she's the only one who's figured out that my number is in the emloyee list and that it was in fact a cell number. "I know most people to turn on their pagers till Saturday, but there's a case," were the first comprehensible words I heard, "There's one coming in tomorrow. It's unfortunate, but that's the fact." How curt, simple, yet informative.

10:45am this morning, we were cleaning up the neat little spots we had left on the stainless steel cutting board in the basement autopsy room. It's amazing that brain banking requires storing every little bit of tissue, leaving very little mess to contend with. While I don't want to make this a habit, I must admit it was quite fun. It did, however, cause me to miss my 10am tennis appointment with Leo, which is regrettable.

Fortunately, I've learned the value of contingency plans. Most notably with protein preps, but in other facets of life now. Plan B for today was to have lunch with Leo, Xiao, and Wenkai. Dim sum in particular. Leo was just drifting into consciousness when I called him after the dissection though he promptly set a meetup time for 25 minutes later, which was physically impossible. The lag we enventually agreed on allowed me to find out that the two others couldn't make it, and recruit Eun Jin as a replacement.

The Korean kontingent and I took lunch at what was apparently a well known Chinese establishment. Wenkai later told me that even the previous president of China, of whom I had no clue, had visited once on a trip to Philadelphia. Joy Tsin Lau, with its menacing dragons and dirty carpeted red walls turned out to be a very pleasant experience. It's amazing how a little familiar food can feed both gut and soul. An ectopic turnip cake does wonders. It also turns out Koreans consider the turnip and type of radish. And all the cute girls didn't hurt either, though it may have resulted in a near catastrophic burn for Leo. Eun Jin made do instead with her favorite shrimp dish.

Played soccer with Wenkai in the afternoon, who graciously drove us up to Radnor once again. With the temperature in the mid 30's, I went through the gallon of iced tea from the local Wawa's by the end of the afternoon. Apparently, I can place the ball now (i.e. kick it). Currently tired and sleepy at home.

The most unlikely of streaks

It's official. Two days running, I have departed the lab before 7pm. In fact, today was even more flagrant, with me vacating the premises before 6:30. I could hear screams of sacrilege over the sound of my footsteps on the hundred year-old staircase. Tonight's cause de celebre was compliments of Eric, pictured below in the skybox that he arranged for the Phillies vs Dodgers game and Citizens Bank Park. Playing urban cat and mouse in the subway, we managed to meet each other at the park after we realized that Broad St station does not exist and that there are multiple token guichets at City Hall station.

Fortunately, skyboxes are designed with unwinding in mind. Open bar, complete with orange juice and Smirnoff meant that I soon forgot why I should be sweating in the 35 degree heat, while the Coors made me forget why we were there in the first place. If corporate sponsorship is the oil that greases the economy, then more of us should be better lubed. Free drinks, grilled treats, and LCD screens surrounding seats that overlook homeplate like an opera balcony should be enough motivation for the typical Philadelphian to work, if not a little harder.

A fifth inning stroll down to the cheap concourse seats proved to be the clincher for everyone in the park except the two of us. In the time it took to get the picture of me by the hotdog stand right, the visiting team scored nine runs. If you look carefully, you can see them loading the bases as we figured out how to work the flash on my new camera. By the time we returned to the suite, the score was a whopping 10-0. We left during the 7th inning stretch, though not before a grilled veggie salad and some Haagen Daaz to boot. On our way to the subway, the Phillies scored their homerun. I just hope they didn't make a comeback.















Sadly, the action is in the back of this photo...

An early goodnight, dear desk

Matt Winton, king of the 11th inning at the lab, bet me it wouldn't happen. But against all odds and conscience, I did manage to leave the lab by 7pm today. A record, if one excludes holidays. The last week has been especially crazy and it is well reflected in the laundry that's piling up. Postdocs not being paid overtime is an atrocity comparable to neuronal genocide. Then again, my desk is well lit, air conditioned, and provides a homey corner away from, well, home. For those long dog days of summer, it's actually a treat to chew on a half-dried pretzel and read the latest gossip off the BBC. It's surprising how productive this little cubicle has been for me lately. New ideas spawned, notes neatly kept, running shoes and gym clothes quietly tucked away for that short temporal oasis to apply body rather than mind.

One step closer.

After six months of walking the soil as a legal alien, I find myself taking yet another step towards naturalization now that my wallet is encumbered with the extra weight of a Pennsylvania photo ID. While I will never be granted a green card, I am still eligible for social security and, more importantly, a driver's license.

Incidentally, the PennDot office was one of the first official visits I made upon my arrival. Then, they were unable (which when stirred in with native Philadelphia attitude equates to unwilling) to process my request to transfer my Quebec license to the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Without social security, I possessed no status (official or otherwise) at the time. Thus, today marks a signficant victory for common sense as well as personal pride. One rather unpleasant side effect is that my Quebec card has been officially confiscated and voided. While I was somewhat attached to one of the few flatter official photographs of myself, I also find the mutual exclusivity of being American and non-American starkly cold. Nonetheless, it's finally here. I recommend pedestrians look both ways before crossing as I celebrate this right (sic) of passage to the New Country.

Not that much changes, after all. The only irony is that the Discovery Channel made me aware. Almost five years ago to the day, I set up my first homepage. The impetus was the sinking of the Kursk, the Russian submarine that was destined for catastrophe from its conception. Large, cumbersome metallic hulls of nuclear material being transported a half-mile beneath the sea is not a particularly smart idea. With neither headlights nor stop signs, it was a matter of time before an "incident" would surface. Like a pimpled North American teenage given his first automobile at the age when he is just discovering drink, here classic Russian denial and incompetence prevailed with an atomic twist. But the Internet boom was at its height, the Nasdaq nearly eclipsed the Dow, and the Carolina Hurricanes made it to the Cup final.

As I mull over the Kursk, other related matters come to mind. Like how Scottish tycoon Gary Winnick offered the use of his company's submersibles for rescuing survivors on the 200 tonne underwater weiner. At the time this seemed a noble reach of assistance. Five years later, I find myself signing a deed of gift to rid myself of Global Crossing stock that cannot be sold as it has an official listed value of $0.000.

Exactly one year and two weeks after the Kursk tragedy, four convoys of extremists took aim to the WTC, the Pentagon, and the White House - this time with winged metal weiners. This week, four suicide convoys boarded the ultimate underground phallic symbol, the Tube, packed with dynamite. It seems as though things are simply repackaged, reconsumed, and taken to be today. Instead of a homepage, I now update my blog. Tragedies still centre around phallic objects, and people are still trying to take my money. I should start taking bets on what the next five years will bring...

the Foreigner goes home

One of many residences, but few homes. They always say that the trip home is the quicker one. And that upon arrival, there is a sense of relief, elation, and ultimately belonging. Precisely the emotions I experienced on my way back to Montreal. Even though on this occasion (and likely many to come) it would not be the return trip. It seems that after nearly 9 years in the Paris du nord, I've come to know it as home.

Which is also why I was somewhat distraught to find myself unfamiliar in what should have been my usual surroundings. Buildings and landmarks that looked remarkably familiar took on estranged shapes. Even old faces somehow contained previously undiscovered lines and features. Friends whom I feel closer to than ever before have taken on a surreal unrecognition.
I am beginning to think that the 6 months since moving away has been more than what it seems. Perhaps it's something in the water that through my ghetto neighborhood pipes. Part ice cream trailer, part hip-hop, the lingo, heat, and angst may well have caught me up in its web and indentured me in its ways.

Meanwhile, off the Decarie, we spot Eva Longoria. Tanned and lovely, her every step calculated with audience in mind, she boards the 162. In the recesses of my mind, HBO has hitched a ride to French Canada. From the Villa Maria, it should be a short ride to suburbia.