By popular demand

By popular demand from the folks, more photos from Breck have been posted. While none of these will make anyone famous (though I do expect them to drive traffic for a few days), they do illustrate how hardworking we were at the meeting. Hundreds more of us attending seminars, studiously notetaking, could be posted, but Keystone prevents us from publishing them here or anywhere - in any form. In the meantime, you'll just have to take our word for it, just like how James skiied uphill in the photo below...





Walk on water, ski on snow, diss the 'Quist. James can do it all.




















Gearing up for a big day ahead.


















Dynamic duo of Winton and Soper: nowhere but up.

What would Rob say about this: Matt sizes up the menu at Red Rocks to see if we could get away with a reimbursement.

Poster in hand, WK is ready to spread the Tau.

James and I with the roof that cost more to build than the CNDR. At least it brings joy to travelers from all over while they wait for their lost luggage.

Coffee in hand, Matt strategizes with James on how to snag chicks bound for the Las Vegas flight while waiting for boarding. In this instance, the tiger crouched, but couldn't pounce.

Bitchin' in Brekinridge

Sometimes, you see beautiful people with no brains. Sometimes, you have ugly people who are intelligent, like scientists. - Chelsea coach Jose Mourinho on why the Stamford Bridge pitch isn't as bad as it looks.

Life is normally quite unfair. However, to hear it from a dumb bitch who claims to have the only three Lancel bags in America is a little too much. Life is not unfair for these people - it is so because of them. And the luggage handlers at US Airways who have managed to lose our bags on both legs of our trip to Denver. Somewhere out there, my blue Keystone Symposia shopping tote is sitting on a cold runway, no doubt bitching that it deserves better than the PoS Lancel bags sitting beside it.


The view from the grocery store parking lot - simply stunning.











Backtrack 72 hours however, and life was better. Not fairer, but definitely better. 72 hours ago, Matt, James, WK, and I were all sitting in front of the TV, watching Sasha Cohen asswipe the ice twice while joyfully lamenting how our legs were just as sore from carving the Colorado slopes. Without my trusty bark-stained helmet, I did not venture into the woods this time, and instead cruised with the crew (+ James' friend Mark on one morning) for two incredibly nice days. The unfair part was that these otherwise perfect days were truncated by talks and poster sessions about proteins. Yes, here at Keystone, proteins are a topic of discussion ad nauseum while most sensible people would be content to simply eat them. Also unfair is the fact that there is absolutely no eye candy at these meetings where, for example, Anna Kournikova is misfolded into Anna Kournilova, a much more toxic confomer. Nonetheless, it is a life I would easily accept, altitude sickness and the fact that hair gel doesn't settle well in the mile-high dry air.

Matt and James: happy campers.

Happiness is skiing in the mountains with your feet cut off by Matt's framing.

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Much more happened at Breck. But what happens in Breck stays at Breck; or if you are luggage, transits via Vegas. More will be declassified shortly, after I decide how much they should be blackmailed for...

Cute always wins

Late into the evening, I was faced with an intriguing choice. Who's cuter? Chick skater of the moment Tanith Belbin, or the chick on the cover of National Geographic's March of the Penguins. And while Tanith has the entire editorial staff at ESPN all gaga for all the right reasons, I voted for the penguin anyways. But that's of little importance, since with a silver medal, she will be the new face of Coke, spur a reality show, and feature in at least one cover of Modern Bride. The one I can't figure out though is Anni Friesinger. Cindy Klassen has nicer hair, and skates faster, yet hasn't featured in any centrefolds. What gives?

Boredom is slowly giving way to normalcy as a somewhat normal work week resumed again. It's funny to actually want to return to work, no matter how daunting monday morning meetings are and how pale and drole the weather outside. There may even be excitement on the slate as we all take off for Breckinridge tomorrow for a conference. And while the theme is a Keystone symposium for misfolded protein disease, it fails to shroud the real purpose of its existence - for bored scientists to go skiing on research funds. The only lingering question now is whether to haul those planks all the way across the country once more, a la Heavenly 2004, or rent. Tired shoulders at the airport for the chance to ride my favourite twintips. The choice is killing me.

Not everyone's a closer

I'm trying to evaluate my fascination with sports. The will of individuals or teams to push the envelope to achieve seemingly impossible goals, the insane hysteria of winning, and the incredible atmosphere of fans be they cheering or jeering. And that was before any thought of money on the line. So almost a year after winning the lab March madness pool, it is a good time to reflect on what has been, could've been, and should've been. By far the brightest days have been those on which we should've wagered everything, and the darkest those when I should have simply stayed in bed and not lifted a finger. But who could've foreseen the slide and Man Utd? Or catching the 1 in Duke's 22-1 record? Then again, I should also be thankful of disasters avoided, like Real's entire season, Bode Miller reaching the podium, and UEFA. And the biggest fish missed? Marcos Baghdatis' run at the Aussie. But with the pot sitting slightly above where it was during the summer, there's [hopefully] plenty of interesting moments left to experience. At least until March.

In the backdrop of all these numerical happenings, an examination into this habit (i.e. putting money on what is essentially other peoples' business) is due. None of the usual list of suspects like greed, insanity, or trying to establish bragging rights to professional sports omniscience, seem particularly compelling. After all, the pot is too small, the bets not quite crazy enough, and there's no one to whom I'm comparing my record. So the culprit? Yep, back to my companion of late - boredom. As innocuous as it may seem, I now understand the force that drives people to shop obsessively, eat out of no apparent need, or to jack someone else's car and drive around for an afternoon before pulling out a gun and shooting a few things (people or otherwise) at random. So perhaps this is the least destructive form of venting my frustrations.

In an attempt to make peace with myself, I set out shopping for the afternoon yesterday. On a blustery Saturday, my trek for a pair of tennis shoes, a new jacket, and a new armchair went nowhere. Once again, Philly has failed me, earning it's second strike (the first being a town synonymous with crime and stolen bikes). My only purchase? A bottle of chianti that I brought to Leo's as he and Sophie prepared a pot of apple beef stew with an assortment of pickled vegetables. Curiously, despite being here much longer than I have, Leo shows very little signs of the boredom or frustrations that are eating me up. Undoubtedly his new squeeze has provided a significant outlet for his pent up energy, though at this rate, I would need several slices to revert me to normal. But whatabout all those other highly-touted activities like work (going nowhere), working out (gym seems boring somehow these days), and tennis nights (no fun without new bling tennis shoes). I'll make a point of taking up cooking after Colorado (I wonder what a ski-trip at this time will do?).

Boredom sandwich anyone?

If there's one thing more painful than disease, it's boredom. Having been ill for a week, I was definitely not prepared for being stuck at home for yet another day. But then, with nothing to do outside, and with nothing to do at the lab with a conference looming next week, it's a big dose of boredom on a Saturday afternoon. The erratic spring/winter weather, the poor choice of TV programming, and the lack of any new fun toys at home have made it nearly unbearable.

Except for the winter olympics on TV. While watching hockey with American commentary would be my second choice anyday, today's fare makes commentary obsolete. Sweden sweeps Latvia, the Italians draw with Germany, and Switzerland shuts out Canada. Did I see that right? Rubbing my eyelids over and over again, the score looked wrong. Very wrong. And although there will always be memories of the Torpedo incident, and Belarus, this simply didn't go down well. Unless your name is Linsey Jacobellis and hotdogging is your employment.

Something seismic must have been occuring on the European continent this morning, as Juve drew with Messina, after playing with 10 men (they were leading until the 87th minute), Bayern lost to Hannover, and Fenerbache lost 2-1 to a team that hasn't been able to pay its players for the last month. But topping the list is Man Utd's Alan Smith whose season is done after falling over his own leg and breaking it. Yes, all things are possible if you try hard enough.

All things possible: If Martin Brodeur willed it, he could stare the puck out of the net.

Oh those French!

Every once in a while at the races, an unknown comes with a loaded gun and the big names are left biting the dust after it settles. So with Hermann Maier, Daron Rhalves, Bode Miller, and those other Austrian mecs in leotards, Antoine Deneriaz came along with the package. And rip it up he did as by the first 25 metres of the race, he had already racked up a half second advantage - roughly 15 yards over the closest competitor. Now that's guts.

In the meantime, the large white dump today that left a grand 6 inches of powder outside effectively shut the city down, which meant that I too had to abort my activities for the day. In the future, I will be careful to choose a residence that either a) doesn't snow or b) is sophisticated enough to clear it before its wreckless driving inhabitants turn it into Death Race 200X.

The silver lining to all this was that febblues is still in my system and an extra day imprisoned inside, safe from the elements, and basically doing nothing actually helps. Then again, doing nothing is also extremely boring. Surfing the net, cable, and then perusing my impressive collection of mail order catalogs all proved to be rather non-entertaining. These are the days when I actually miss being able to work, to be productive, to bust my ass on 12 hour shifts grinding out data for phenomena that could one day prove to be the imagination of some very educated people (i.e. still bullshit). Thinking about it further, it was probably all the work that got me in this conundrum in the first place. What gives. I think it's time to start a new career.

My preference was to be a pimp, but I think I'd make a good professional curler.

Bad bet

Looking back, the febblues started with a diet consisting of far too many bananas (why I don't know). Add to that a meal with some really greasy sausages, and the symptoms started to develop. It's a familiar drill, either of these foods taken at the end of winter just about works everytime. So it was a bad idea that coming home with a mild cramp in my leg, I decided to replenish my potassium with...one more banana. I'm paying for that today as I contemplate my vast repetoire of liquid food recipes.

Febblues

It's finally hit me. Chicken soup in one hand, TV remote in the other, I've fallen victim to the bug that's been going around. I definitely prefer simply laughing at people who have it. But that group has recently grown to just about everyone around me, so it was inevitable that eventually the sword would point this way. Should've took those vitamins this morning...

Only consolation? The advantage of not being Wayne Gretzky: your wife can put money on games. Oh Wayne, what were you thinking? Those wagers were a pittance!

They’re just messin wit ya

How I wish I were a lawyer, throwing damning yet logical arguments at the enemy and getting paid gobs for the pleasure. Better yet, being the even wealthier client of a top-notch lawdog would mean I could do it sitting on top of a monstrous pile of green. If the sensitivity to insensitivity to religious caricature irked me this week, then the shameless cries for restitution from purported victims of the Great War certainly drives me to the piss. While there were certainly victims, perhaps more than anyone will ever know, the concept of restitution, as they call it, seems farcical at best. Then again, considered together, it does sound like a sensible, if somewhat macabre, plan. After all, given that the overwhelming majority of victims were originally vaporized, someone does have to carry the torch. Wait another six decades and the remaining handful who haven’t succumbed a more dignified fate have all the more reason to push for their cause. And what better to ask for than art? After all, for all their pain and suffering, nothing could possibly provide solace like a true van Gogh. Or Klimt. Or van Dykc (pronounced “dyke”, not phallus). They even had the temerity to demand a legally acquired van Gogh from none other than Elizabeth Taylor (who has had more masterpieces than husbands). To quote what one wealthy client’s lawyer said to another: "When they sit on their alleged rights for decades before attempting to dispossess an innocent, good-faith purchaser, the law owes them no special deference."
So on second and third thought, maybe rioters in Syria and Lebanon, and now Egypt, aren’t so wrong after all. The flagrant example of asking loudly (then use force, legal, media, military or otherwise) has been applied all too often before their eyes – often by the very people who now indict them.









How do you give such an ugly woman such a magnificent painting. The ugly woman on the right, however, bought it with her own money.

Just like bad medicine

And it all falls back to one. It's the end of the week. It's late. And I'm not feeling recharged. Once again, I'm more tired after the weekend than when it started. Sort of like bad medicine, where the ills outweigh the healing powers. After a fruitful discovery at the end of the week when all seemed lost and at sea, there's hope again and I've been prompted to work hard. Motivated further by the fact that just about everyone else is making progress so that to not move forward is akin to falling behind. An additional relief comes from finally finishing a grantesque application which the boss did not drown in red ink (or yellow filled-in text on Word). And to have someone lie out of their teeth about how great you are in your reference letter? Priceless.

The one up

It's probably the water, and the new water filter I'd bought for the tap probably won't reverse the effects of polluted ground water, old pipes, and sniffing too much misfolded protein at work. In the latest development of my neuronal dysfunction, it took me an entire two days to retrieve the word hypocrite. Thus, while the Danish was burning in Syria, I had drafted a prelim in my mind. By the time I remembered that hypocrites was the word for describing one whose actions shouldn't be put up against his words, the embassy in Lebanon was also alit. There's an eery feeling that I might have to change courses yet again if I forget any more words. So I'll keep it swift. If there's a point to be made, it's that free speech is as strong as ever. Just be careful you may lose your life for voicing your view.

Were I able to draw better, I might be one of the most powerful figures on earth. I will insult my next arch-enemy with a hard dose of allegory - take that! Given the demonstration of the powerful nature of a cartoon, I will also be more careful not to post any more Far Side to avoid offending dogs, smart people, and vegetables.

"Those Danes were wrong. It so much easier to make smoke than to draw it. "