One man's meat

Should be eaten by himself. Not shared, but devoured to his own delight, on his own good time. Abovesaid man should also be provided with grill where possible to enrich his experience. Visibly, I am guilty of having visited a Korean BBQ establishment. As evidence of my guilt, my entire laundry smells of sweet beef and charcoal. My gut is also inches beyond its normal domain. I can still see my toes....but I feel significantly heavier. Like an errant man just leaving a brothel, or a drunkard tossing aside an empty bottle, I cannot help but feel a hint of guilt. But how much remorse can one feel with 3 pounds of ribsteak inside of him?

Ode to steak
Ribsteak ribsteak, burning bright
Let thy juices my body feed
Swathed in lettuce, shallots, and chill red
Revive my soul after another crazy week!


Eliza's haircut: $100
Eliza's highlights: $195
Tip for enthusiastic gay stylist: $60
Having your hairtone perfectly match kBBQ chicken: priceless
















Leo lays his meat out on the grill and handles like a true professional.

Fine print or background?

Somewhere in the annals of the Nobel institute, there lies a list of past winners, better known as laureates. Their achievements are lauded, their acceptance and banquet speeches recorded in cyber perpetuality, all alongside glossy photos (all in classy monochrome) of them during their most pristine professional moment. Nestled within all this history is a gem which details, wait for this, all the nominations made, i.e. the list of losers. More impressive is the inclusion of the actual nominators, i.e. those who handpicked the winners, as well as those who imposed the fate of "shortlisted" on many others. While the Swedish Academy could be applauded for their transparency, the list is currently only to 1968. In other words, there is no room for recourse (or revenge) as most of the nominators will have been resting under earth for a while by now. Nonetheless, it's interesting to take a peek at some of the decision processes made by those with the power (as dictated by 3 clauses), and the ultimate results. It is also tempting to speculate on how a tick of a box may have changed the future course of entire disciplines, even our pursuit of truth itself.

While the explanations for prizes in Chemistry, Physics, or Medicine and Physiology are relatively straighforward and understandable, those for the peace prize are a little more difficult to fathom. Perhaps because peace is a state of being, rather than an achievement. Perhaps because peace built throughout entire lifetimes can simply vanish between the walk from the acceptance speech to the banquet hall. Thus it is interesting to see that prizes haven't been awarded in all years. In fact, no awards are made on average every fifth year. While the world wars account for 10 of 19 of these in the last century, there were a few dry ones as well, most notably 1956, 1966-67, and 1972. Conveniently, the nominations database ends at 1955 for the peace prize. Go figure.

Those summer weekends

Rain, cool breezes, just doesn't feel like summer. The air-conditioner has been in place for over two weeks without haven't been turned on. If this keeps up, energy star rating will jump to 105.

First, congratulations go out to Rici and Sharon whose wedding took place yesterday. Best wishes as you embark on the road of marriage, though it's always seemed that you've been traveling on it for as long as I can remember.

As I was missing what Ken described as the reunion of the year, another one of those weird though not quite wonderful weekends passed by. What would have been the penultimate step towards the triple crown ended in disaster for Barbaro. The Preakness has been a graveyard for previous crown hopefuls, with over a dozen horses having been quietly, yet painfully, laid to rest in pursuit for the carnation wreath. Without the benefit of Nike Air, it's truly something to see a horse's leg shatter in 23 different places simply by running too hard. Yikes. Our claim to fame? Barbaro was sent to the Penn Veterinarian school in Bolton, PA which will now be the Ivy of Vet schools.

Home depot meets thoroughbred racing. 22 screws hold together 23 shattered bone elements plus a dislocated joint. I guess it hasn't occured that he's only a horse. Then again, his health insurance covers more than mine.

More pretty to look at. Martina Hingis, back from 4 years of retirement and only 25, won her first title after the comeback. Had it not worked out, she could have taken up modeling a little more seriously.

Broken by a fix

Funny things happen on days like today. Jon, the son-of-a-scientist-who's-also-one-of-our-external-advisors, asked to leave early for track. When I asked him about what sort of running he did, he replied that it was going to be the short stretch between the train station and his satellite hookup where they'd be airing the UEFA championship. Good ol' European sense. 3 timepoints later in what increasingly seems like a pointless experiment, I popped in to check on the scores before going to watch a rock star in action. Arsenal (formerly of Highbury), were down to 10 men, but somehow on top of the scoreline. Rock star later, Barca managed to comeback on dubious goals, built on some very suspicious umpiring. And thus the 4+ odds for the yellows submarine were never realized, but though I had no money on it, I'm still saddened because I had expected better. After last year's free for all in Istanbul, strangely considered part of Europe, we all deserved better.

Oh well. Losing a championship final will hurt for as long as about two weeks as another tournament opens. The World Cup, the mack of all cups. Less fortunate is Sir Paul, who will still be reeling from his divorce settlement with Heather Mills McCartney, better known as the woman who found fortune by stepping on a landmine.

Little did Sir Paul know that there was a worse fate than that of the Artic seal.

Just don't choke on the big one

And now to prevent choking, you shall eat from a plate...

Álright. I don't feel so bad now. Seems that all the sports people I've been rooting for lately have gone down in spectacular fashion. Following the Senators defeat in consecutive 1-goal games, the Lakers being drowned, ad nauseum, I had reason to be flustered. And now, rogueboy Rafael clinches one out of Steady Fed's hands...

Actually, reviewing the scoreboard and highlights, Roger must have had an epiphany. How else does one lose when up two breaks in the fifth? Not out of gas. Just plain distracted. I think the real deal is that he recalled the script. The one that said if he won now, winning at Roland Garros would be an anti-climax, bad for ratings, which wouldn't complement Martina Hingis winning the women's title thereby complete a Swiss sweep. Luckily, ESPN doesn't cover tennis since they can't write sports scripts to save ass.

French Open will also mean primetime for Ashley Harkleroad - the next big thing in tennis.

The one saving grace to all this is that I feel much better about myself now. If Roger can choke, on primetime, I'll take my number gladly.

Outward bound

May, undergrads moving

Streets named after trees

Clogged with parents' SUVs

The time has finally come. Two little hatchlings have made it out of the farm alive. We wish them all the best in their future swim through the sea of science. We'll miss you Eveline and Lauren!

Irony is for pussies

Which is why the day I finally purchase a new air-conditioner turns out to be one of the coolest so far in the month. Perhaps this gives me a little more time to fine tune the installation, lest my shoddy effort results in it falling over the window sill and creating a hundred dollar hunk of recyclable. From what I can remember, there have only been two periods when I have found heat to be so oppressive. For all other times, sun, humidity, and a healthy glistening of sweat seemed almost invigorating. Somehow, heat has a sad color to it, reminiscent of a kind of unhappiness bordering on hopeless. Thus, with the earnings from my latest obsession (baseball wagering), I am beginning the therapeutic road to liking heat again. Hopefully.

This week has been a little out of whack since mom is in town. Seems any place will slightly shift its bearings when she is around, though I must admit I am endlessly impressed with her ability to analyze and seize opportunities – even if there are actually none. Like the million dollar property we went through in the old city after she spotted an inconspicuous “open house” sign from the car at roughly 40 miles an hour coming off a ramp. Will I be a proud occupant of a 2000+ sq ft century old loft by year’s end, or will the words poor-scientist continue to resonate as part of my daily vocab?

Soup is good for you.

I guess it must be, which is why all Chinese mothers bring it upon themselves to feed their sons copious amounts of it. Daughters get the shaft and get piano lessons instead. While mothers further make cookies, fruit salad, and even knit, I have had the dubious honor of consuming gallons of soup. In the process, we have culled many a chicken, fish, and strange looking vegetables which resemble rocks. But to really top the whole fiasco off, she brought a pot with her. You have to be impressed…

Wall of light

In the midst of decorating her new terrace, mom is now fascinated with all things that could conceivably be installed on a rooftop. Deck chairs, remote controlled canopies, and motion-sensing environment resistant porch lamps with Victorian casing.