Thanks for the fish

You may not share our intellect,
That may explain your disrespect;
But thank you for the fish.
- Douglas Adams


My favorite pikefish and I. I now have bigger fish in mind.

At 29,000 feet above Siberia, my long haul flight to HKG is just over half-way completed. Why I have yet once again taken such a long journey in coach is a mystery. Hopefully, with all the miles amassed in purchasing, flying, and signing up for their credit card, the airline will reward me with enough miles to upgrade my return flight. Then again, they are more likely to file chapter 11 before that date.



In flying transpacific for the first time in nearly 9 months, I realized that I have forgotten how boring flights are and thus forgot to pack some essential entertainment – namely a good book and a stash of magazines with plenty of eye candy to keep the, um, mind occupied. It seems, in thinking over my previous post, that I am also forgetting a lot of things a lot of times lately. While William can blame his on repeated general anesthesia, I am more at a loss for explanations.

Fortunately, I have been well-entertained for the last 12 hours. A complimentary copy of the Financial Times gave me a more descriptive overview of the economy – and what’s wrong with it - than a month’s worth of CNN. After that channel was exhausted, I found a delightful short story by Frederick Waterman commissioned specifically for the airline (http://row22.com). Love or money will be posted in a subsequent entry for all to enjoy. I take it the lesson is to be smart, rather than outsmarted.

The real treats though, were the feature presentations on the rickety projector. Dirty cops and cons duking it out on a football pitch (The Longest Yard) was followed by something I had intended to watch on Oct 3 – The Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Having never read the book while in junior school, I nevertheless did catch up as went through a renaissance on the BBC last year. Stereology and BBC online. What a great cocktail for a an entire summer in order to add one more line to a resume. While seeing it in movie form still has not clarified what 42 really means, it was definitely a fun way to burn away another 2 hours of my life. Ready to eat away at another 120 minutes right now is A Lot Like Love. Ironically, I have the movie on my hard drive downloaded from some immemorial website nearly a year ago but have yet to figure out how to open it. I have a feeling now that it’s a 1GB virus waiting to explode like a bad avian flu.

My problem turns out to be bigger balls

As the week finally drew to an end, and vacation time officially started, I find myself both tired and uplifted. It's as though everything is happening to a drole pace where the unlikely is the norm, and the common just simply boring. Having dispatched Eliza and Xiao with their duties for the next while, I cleaned up what I could at the lab and proceeded to the anticipated highlight of the day - the Penn Ping Pong Club. At PPPC, I undusted my play from the last century and tried to see how I'd match up against the collegiate elite of the new millenium. Armed with the cheapest bat I could find on sale at www.Ping-pong.com, I was curious how quickly I could pick up from where I'd left off. Come to think of it, it'd been 5 years since I last picked up a bat (probably to swat mosquitoes), and over 12 years since I'd last played a match. All started well as I sneaked into the level 2 group, one off the pace of those hoping to join the A-team and secure ping-pong glory at national tournaments. As a postdoc with experiments that are spacey, I was somewhat tempted until I realized that there would be practice every saturday morning in a room with 8 other guys without air conditioning. Plus, saturday mornings are now the sole domain of brunch.

Action in level 2 was not like the typical level 1 affair where things would be over in a wink. Instead, there were some wicked spins, strange technique, and a lot of big misses on display. In my first match, hotshot Arif wielded a tough backhand but had nothing on the other side. He also shook his head a lot, which probably put him off balance as I saw him off the first two sets at deuce. Staying calm during those final points indicated that I had matured over the years and could now remain cool at the big moments. Staying calm during the same moments during the second match against William showed me how, with age, I am no longer as motivated to win these things as before. I went down 3-0 to him, though in retrospect I should have taken the game more seriously, especially considering that people were watching. Nonetheless, I hold a lot of respect for Willie for his consistency, and the fact that he had recently underwent some twenty odd surgeries following a major car accident. He tells me he is slowly losing his memory, all the while wizzing balls past me in the corners. A third match with Dan was more bizarre, with this opponent deciding to switch bats, then sides of bats, and then grip, all within a 5 minute span. While still in my stoned zone, I send him packing 3-0, though I stopped counting score after a while. As hunger set in, I further lost my initiative, and my attention, as I had Scott on the ropes but failed to finish him off as I tried to rediscover my slice backhand (missing in action), my slice forehand (also missing), and short game (probably where the first two are). Ending the night 2-2, I was quite content that I wasn't embarassed or heckled, but somewhat disappointed that I didn't do any better and reminded me of a listless draw between Liverpool and United. The only downside is that I won't be advancing to level 1 where Minnie, the cute chick named after a mouse, was imposing herself with her fast play. From her form, she appears to play tennis too, which means I could potentially introduce her to Anderson or Matt, once he recovers from those nasty scratch marks...

W: Did you buy your bat? It looks nice.
K: It's from the Walmart of ping pong.
W: But it's very light.
K: That's because it contains nothing.

In my postmortem on the bus afterwards, it became apparent that I had been thrown back into something that I once knew intimately, but had been distanced from. That it would resurface to bring me such joy so far down the road is a pleasant surprise, and I'm rearing once again to hear the clicks and pops of balls zooming on pearly tables. What I had also failed to realize during the matches was that balls were now bigger and orange (not white), played on blue tables (instead of green), and that the score goes up to 11, not 21, with 2 serves each, not 5. As I board the plane tomorrow, I will start to dream in blue, learn to spin orange, and adjust to swagger with bigger balls, and figure out how to outfox the competition. Yes it has been such a very long time, but the hunt is on again.

Fame is a commodity

While oil becomes increasingly scarce, it seems as though other things expand to fill its void. Take fame for example. A single posting from Saturday's brunch entry has already stirred much interest. No less than 4 individuals, all male, have inquired about the identity of Sophia, who featured in one of the photos. Unfortunately, I have no clue either except that she also admires accordion music.

Serendipitously, my red snail T-shirt generated similar interest today both in the lab and outside. I will now forever be remembered as gentle, fun, and the guy who directed the cute chick to Houston Hall from across the street. I will pick up more T-shirts with cartoon arthropods while on vacation. Also generating much attention today was the arrival of the ping-pong bat which will be used in action against members of the ping-pong club tomorrow. Apparently, James is also a ping-pong star and we are contemplating forming a team should Eric Leventhal's league materialize sometime soon. Adam and Matt have expressed interest as well.

Even worse than rotten

On some days, it seems that things cannot get any worse. This week ranks as 4 of those days. Not only have there been numerous upsets in the Premiership, but now the entire European league appears to be misbehaving. How whipping-boy den Haag manages to beat Ajax with two men down will haunt me for months to come. As if taking a cue from the soccer gods, even recombinant proteins are not pulling their molecular weight as they either precipitate or fail their most basic assays. What a great way to begin a vacation.

But before vacation commences, two more things to rant about. The first is that my online present arrived in the wrong colour. And size. And style for that matter. In the second, I should have known better than to buy food from Chinatown and questioned its origins. Thinking that it would make a tasty start to the following morning (or at least the evening before if I had the urge), I purchased a pineapple bun. It's a sweet custardly member that forms the backbone of most breakfasts in Chinese families and is definitely a treat. In this case, the irony was only realized after having just paid for the pictured object, as a small antennaed creature climbed on top of neighboring tray.

I need to call my lawyer. That was the first thing that came to mind as I weighed the pros and cons of demanding a refund for a bun worth my entire monthly online ad revenue. Moreover, the offending roach was only seen climbing on neighboring buns, but not the exhibit in question. Such an argument would not hold in any respectable court. Reasonable doubt (which the Chinese are uncapable of). Resisting arrest. As I went over the possibilities and last week's ESL vocab list, it soon became apparent that this was a lost cause. Fate 5: Kelvin 0.

Disappointment is only a feeling

"Baby I need you, like the poet needs the pain..." - Bon Jovi, In these arms

The lyrics just came to mind after reading Ken's blog. In other words, you're more entertaining when you're miserable. There is almost a surreal beauty to being buried alive by life itself. Regroup, focus, carry on, and cash my cheque for me.

Finally, Google's adsense has started to kick in. In a nutshell, the program basically selects contextual ads for this very blog that you're reading (scroll down, on the left). The actual ads you see have been specially selected based on an intelligent algorithm used to scan all the words and phrases from previous posts. Thus the nuanced abundance of fried chicken recipes are a reflection of the pork and chicken post. The brunch post likely inspired the ad for online cheese merchant www.cheese.com. While LiFeng points out that this gives the blog an uber-glossed commercial feel, it does provide a healthy stream of advertising revenue (to the tune of 3.00 / 1000 clicks). Once I receive my cheque for the $0.45 earned in August, I will start adding "founded online forum with succesful advertising revenue" in my current resume. After all, I figured that this is big if the current crop of pre-meds can convince Penn Admissions that having visualized minute biological speciments through a microscope constitutes impressive research lab experience.

Anatomy of a brunch

Forget morning tennis, lab work, or catching more Z's. Brunch is the best thing to happen on a warm Saturday morning. Come to think of it, any morning should time permit. Leo's smashing idea to pay Sabrina's a visit was definitely the highlight of the day, especially since I napped away most of the afternoon and early evening. To make things more interesting though, we again assembled a kontingent of Korean folks (Eun-jin and Sophia). Tucked near the edge of the Italian market, the cafe was lively and even boasted a walk-by accordian player. Since chicks dig accordion music, Leo also got Nikolai's business card for future reference.

Outside Sabrina's. Our plan to have the ladies get a table while while Leo and I find parking paid dividends as those in line stared jealously.


"I'll take your order once I finish copying your handsome friend's number"


Modern culinary geography: the big hill on the right is my jalapeno salmon burger with mango mayo, between Leo's magical pancake stack and my shrub of salad. Note - jalapenos, mangoes, and Cheerios don't mix in vivo!


Brunch was followed by a stroll through the market proper where we went on a miniature quest to find smoked gouda, which ironically is Dutch (we settled on Mozza instead). South Philly is such a great place for groceries. Can't wait to get a car. And a house. And win the lottery.



A: With rugged determination, we tried to locate the cheese. B: I wonder how they raise boneless pigs? C: The big cheese.

Trivia question for today:

Is the following a yes/no question? (please answer Y/N)

Do you have a hot sister?

Lost in translation

Another week has passed by at lightning speed, and once again, I'm left gasping for air, for sleep, and for a rational explanation of why it wasn't spent by the beach or fishing for marlin. Ironically, I just might be doing exactly that a week from today when the fateful trip commences.

Over the last few weeks, I've been dreaming during my sleep frequently. Under normal circumstances, I daydream instead, which suggests that my mind is too occupied with eyes open - the dreams are likely a form of psychological backlog being cleared. For (literally) the better part of the week, the bosses were away, which should have shifted the balance back to daydreaming, but this was not the case. Unlike the Babylonian kings, my dreams tend to be much simpler to interpret as they are normally an extension of some aborted diurnal thought process. Thus it was reasonable that a dirty swimming pool (a flooded New Orleans), a wheelchair derby (impending surgery), and falling into hot coals (lab meeting) featured recently in the wee hours of night. Once in a while, though, a strange one slips past the net
and I found myself stuck in a convenience store on the 45th floor of a rundown apartment building. As if that weren't flippy, 4 ex's, none of whom I recall in real life, lived on the 46th. I think I'll go back to daydreaming this coming week...

Repeat after me: "It's your fault."
Once a week, I find myself in the heart of south Philly standing in front of a dozen people, saying the same phrase to them, over and over again. Yes, this is my ESL class which I have come to cherish as both a sanctuary from incessant intellectuality, and a way to connect with Asian immigrants who are forming the new face of cities all over North America. Often illiterate in even their native tongue, it's fascinating to see how their thought processes work in the absence of ink or grammatical structure. But people raised in tough circumstances are resilient (one could also argue that perhaps only the resilient persist) and one can't help but think what it would be like if there was effective aid, but no effective communication following, say, a hurricane. Hmmm. Sounds eerily like a recent dream.

This week, my students tried to absorb the basic tenets of a conversation. The textbook, generously donated by the Free Library of Philadelphia, outlined the phrases for greeting someone and introducing themselves, before seeing them off with a compliment. While that may have been useful for building community comraderie one brick at a time, the bottom level class next door could be heard repeating after their teacher the all important line: "I want to call my lawyer." How could I forget that it was paramount to knowing the time, one's address, and the name of their kids? Once again, I have let my students down, by teaching them to run before walking.

Sometimes, it's all just a blur, no matter how you try.

A fruitful day

Today was another fruitful day in many respects. Work got done, TV got watched, and I got the chance to really test out the gut that had gotten me in bind these past few months. While I have been steadily increasing the daily mileage on the bike, it was rather interesting to see what it would be like to run following a four week hiatus. After an afternoon of rather dubious soccer, it seems that it would be wise to rethink that early morning gym schedule. Nonetheless, it was a joy to once again be tired, typing, and watching TV.

No, not the eye candy!

Over the past few weeks, I've been fortunate enough to have met with a number of great scientists both within and without Penn. One particular fellow was Mark Mattson, who arrived this week to preach his message of longevity through caloric restriction. In a nutshell, he believes strongly we should be eating half of what we normally do. This of course, does not apply to those who normally eat far beyond normality. My meeting with Mattson intrigued me for a couple of reasons. The first is more sentimental, him being the former half of "Mattson and Kater, 1990" a manuscript which described the intricacies of neuronal extension in response to neurotransmitters. Much of my thesis carries the dogma generated by this early work. The second is his near religious practice of what he preaches, as his gangly frame testified to. As I replay the scenes from lunch, Graham Greene's Fallen Idol, another piece that has influenced my own work, comes to mind.

As is typical of a curious crowd, conversation in the lab again melanges the various hot topics permeating the group at any given moment. Thus the inevitable hybrid question arose: does caloric restriction apply to eye-candy? Will I need to curb my conspicuous consumption of Entourage in order to live to see my grandchildren cut their teeth at Yale? Or would cutting down on chicken alone suffice? If we used Heff as a case study, the evidence points towards the reverse. Curiously, it seems that the thing that, on the surface, appears good and nutritious to the body will prematurely kill it, while vices our parents warned us against (coffee, smoking, gambling, etc.) are now being shown to help. Go figure.

Still on the theme of eye-candy...I had actually determined myself to visit the gym early in the mornings. Anthony has kindly agreed to lease his locker to me and all I would have to do is get up earlier than I'm accustomed to. However, in order to achieve this, while attending all my morning committments through the week, would require an earlier wake up time, which in turn requires an earlier bed time. This would then cut down on precious TV time, my coveted indulgence in the absence of anything else really fun to do. Nonetheless, I thought I'd give it a chance and put in a few early nights. The first night, James Blake played Andre. This will never work...

Will that be pork or chicken?

It's funny how much your juniors know sometimes. Even more remarkable is what they know. For example, the concept of Chicken & Porn. Porn & Chicken, I am corrected by Lauren, as she slowly deconstructs the foundations of this movement for the culturally uncouthed (namely James and I). Even Chi's interest was piqued until we clarified that porn cannot be roasted, though it could conceivably be served with rice one day should Yale decide to open a branch in Shanghai in the footsteps of the University of Nottingham. The take home lesson is that: a) I should beware of leftover chicken; b) my education would be more complete had I been sent to Yale. The Magna cum Laude (the latest Leisure Suit Larry title, which once again shows college is where it's at) experience would have surely helped me survive. I shall ask my good friend Beatrice, a second generation Yale grad, what else she may have learnt in New Haven.

In the meantime, Eliza's curiosity with Ron deserves the following logo is for (yes, really!) a mobile (i.e. cellular, for North Americans) phone service. Once again, I'm frustrated at Google as it continues to find great logos, but can't direct contextual ads to this blog.

Neck pain will now play a less pivotal part of my desk life now that my new iCurve has finally arrived. Though I initially balked at shelling out 25 bucks (+ shipping!) for a piece of acrylic made in China, I must admit it's wonderful. Not a bad alternative for those who can't afford a fancy new 20" iMac or Vaio for the home desktop. By sheer accident, Northern Ireland's 1-0 effort against England will also help fund my purchase a decent dinner, and probably another crack at the Danes for Saturday. Less fortunate, Sven's will more likely spend next summer in an Ikea warehouse than at Germany 2006. Without Roon and the gang, there will officially be no decent jerseys at the tournament.

And finally, Entourage continues to build a wider audience base, namely guys looking for eye-candy. I'm glad that Holly Valance's guest appearance has turned Ken from down and out to regret for not taking more interest in the girl I tried to set him up with.

Those polka lessons may cost Rooney a Cup

Stroll in the park

The entire day, the scent of grilled meat has hung in the air. As the final embers gently fade in backyards all across the city, I am reminded that another Labor day has come and gone. The weekend of parties all seen to, there was little left to do except to take a relaxing promenade around the neighborhood.

Despite it's reputation, West Philly has not quite lived up to its potential as a menacing crime-ridden patch. But as Ken correctly pointed out, it's all a matter of time (and timing), as the word potential implies an eventuality not unlike a typical bet slip. However, with one winter and one summer officially past without a single bullet discharged within earshot, there may be some hope.


(right) My bike, which actually costs more than the car I'm considering, remains the best mode of transport on balmy days like today. (left) The canine neighbors are much more interested in sniffing than pushing.

Of the parties over the last few days, I must say that Anderson and co. takes the award. I have yet to figure out what this award would be for, but it certainly deserves one for its interesting attendees, and the sheer number of these people that they managed to huddle into their quaint abode. Only after the meds left at 9:30 in the evening, roughly 11:00pm after readjusting for their newly learnt clinical time (read consulting, re-consulting, and further consulting), was there enough room to squeeze in more guests. With all the booze, music, and a front door that was just freshly painted, it just couldn't fail.

Setting free

A lot must have happened in the last few days, but it all seems to have passed by. Today's news quickly finds itself beneath tonight's headlines, adding yet another layer of detritus that eventually compounds into the fossils we know as history. With each passing era, it is then dug up and refined to a certain flavour, usually political.

This week, Katrina paid the southern states a brief visit. From a reductionist viewpoint, it was simply a big gust and some rain as a side dish. However, like bourbon, it's the quantity that matters. As it stands, New Orleans will now suffer her worse hangover ever. In fact, she may never wake up again. Like other notable comatosed individuals in this country, she is now surrounded by hordes of people (important or not), lights, cameras, and opinions - though no court order has been filed for pulling the plug. Unfortunately, I don't think anyone can save her now. I have always been fond of the cobblestone streets, the catfish bars, and the eery gas lamps which light the path to a miserable Audobon Zoo. I still savour the nights at Emeril's Delmonico and the only hot gumbo that can claim to be soulfood. I am, nonetheless curious. After the last drop of the basin is drained, and the last floating grave replanted, what will we find? Would closer examination reveal a barely audible murmur hiding underneath a lake of social rot? Or will autopsy reveal a frail skeleton in which the brain has collapsed upon itself as is common under such circumstances.














Mopping up Andy's mojo proved to be a much easier task