This heat

For the third time this year, we're suffering a heat wave. Hopefully, W will eventually be able to pronounce "global". If the word nuclear were any hint, it might take a while. Meanwhile, people are actually frying on the West coast where it's supposed to be cooler. Two kids actually died while sleeping in a non-air-conditioned bedroom. To add to their own woes, their hunger for air conditioning has tipped their power grid over. Like what they taught us in kindergarden - when everyone grabs, no one wins. You never know when these little lessons come to bite. Then again, Everything I needed to know I learned in Kindergarden was a topseller on the NY Times list for months. Short of suffering simultaneous lapses in memory, hundreds of thousands should be in the know.

As the mercury hits the upper thirties for five days straight (12 in California), with little sign of reprieve, I'm left to wonder about those who live in perpetually blistering climates. Like those in the jungles of Paraguay, the Libyan desert, etc. If temperature does indeed lead to temperment, then there should be rife civil war and constant clashes in such "hot" areas. While Paraguay has not suffered a civil war for a while, insurgencies appear to be the norm. And Libya? Well, ít's Libya. By the same reason, it's easy to see why the sons of Abraham are in a constant state of upheaval.

Unfortunately this argument falls apart when one considers the hottest of all inhabited places. In Vegas, everyone gets along, bread and wine flow freely (as does the booty), and people of all races sit together at the poker table taking jabs at each other without gun or sword. Perhaps cheap electricity and air-conditioning is the real solution to the problems in the Mid East. Instead of Condi Rice, we should have sent a convoy of 60 virgin Miller lite girls.

Burn baby burn

Awoke this morning to a sharp pain in my back. With no workout over the weekend, the offending agent wasn't obvious. A stress attack? Not quite, though it would have made a wonderful excuse for exercising the mental health benefits we receive (and likely pay for through some mysterious monthly contribution), and call it a short week. Alas, it turned out to be the moment I've been waiting on for almost forever. An abscess.

The word itself draws on some mystical significance as I started visualizing what lay underneath that warm and hardened shard of skin encapsulating the object of my obsession. The excitement jolted me up like few things have of late, only for me to realize another problem. The abovementioned beast was on my back. Nestled comfortably squarely along the spine, between the shoulders and waist. How unfortunate that I could not witness it face on in all of its glory.

With yet another Monday morning meeting awaiting, I pondered my options while carefully walking to the lab. It's quite astonishing how much these things hurt, and I can finally empathize with poor Doris who descended her staircase over the weekend on her back (ouch!). With the many surgical tools available at the lab, I decided I could lance, suction, and loculate any remaining material. Then common sense took over again, reminding me that tools used for cutting rats and dead people were not medically prudent.

While I forget the actual conversation that brought up my past as an Immunology major (along with the much more interesting Microbiology), I started recalling for all the lectures I had sat through about inflammation. Noting how I barely remained awake during three years of daily classes, it was all cytokines and chemokinesis, and short on pus and infection which would have definitely kept me interested and could have altered my career course.

Back home, as rubor (redness), doulor (pain), calor (heat), and tumor (mass) all aligned like the stars of Jupiter, I initiated the Process. But not before immortalizing the occasion with a quick snap. For those who have never tried, taking a photo of your own back in high macroscopic detail is quite a task. To show for all my effort, I also have numerous shots of my arms and neck, and my ass, for all those misses.

Looks like a zit; but can your zit fill a shot glass? If so, I'd prefer we not see each other, ever again.





The (excruciatingly painful) deed done, I am now sporting a sore, but much less painful wheal on my back. According to Ursula Utz, the only lecturer to whom I have directly called an expletive, the swelling should subside within 48 hours. Unless if gets reinfected, of course. Examination of the contents revealed a tiny back hair, indicative of a classical carbuncle (result of an ingrown hair), as opposed to a faruncle (arising from purely filthy skin). Which leads me to think what "uncle" means in Latin...

The gator awaits

It's been a long week. And what a week it's been. As with previous occasions, I had predicted it to be slow and somewhat idyllic given the bosses were away. Usually, that turns out to be the case but with looming deadlines, impending vacation, and everyone else already in holiday mood, things aren't moving so quickly. If there's one thing that separates manhood from, say boyhood, it's having to see things through - often to the painful end. Unfortunately, there are no ends to semesters, no one to cook you dinners, no one to settle the tab at the country club. Unless one marries [but of course], though I will not delve into that murky pool.

Only extraordinary calls come to me at the lab through the main line. Either it's to inform me I have ruined an expensive piece of equipment at the core facility. Hence my surprise when I received a total of 3 very unique calls this week. I'll reveal the thickening plot once it gels.

This can't be true...

Woke up in a bit of a sweat this morning. This time, it wasn't the night terrors which have been creeping in episodically. Instead, it was the heat of the sun beating on the roof (which must be paper thin - allowing both heat and demons to enter through). The walk to work was equally oppressive as I struggled to wipe sweat with one hand, and while making sure with the other that my shirt would not be stuck permanently to skin. And thus went another semi-productive day, where we find out that things aren't quite as great as they should be, nor as awful as they could. Thus, a sense of calm. And a chance to go shopping online so that I will have something to wear during the upcoming vacation. If shopping were a cure for all ailments, then I understand why money is the blood of this country. For the record, the shit and guts are, um, nevermind.

Walking through the backdoor of the building, which also happens to be located at the front, I was reminded of the oven state of affairs outside. Which would have made the surprise tennis engagement tonight especially rough. But just as surprising as the afternoon call that set the whole thing into motion, it began to rain at precisely the time we arrived on court. From #$%@^& 36 degrees to 25 in the span of about 4 minutes, followed by wild gusts, thunder, and then lightning. And as quickly as it all happened, we scuppered back into the car and drove off in search of a drink. Apparently, storm clouds have appeared not only above the skies of Philly. In fact, clouds seem to be popping up everywhere, and they've been converging if only to seek an opinion. For whatever reason, everyone wants my opinion this week (we'll see how long this lasts). In the meantime, I will now officially deem this to be advice column week (ending next Tues). Please send your questions, agonies, or experiences to the email link. Confidence assured, unless you'd like to serve slander on some phutz next to sports betting ads.

Work it

It's so hot today that I've declared the kitchen a danger zone. Since the bathroom also lacks air conditioning it, too, has been affirmed the same label. All face washing and bathing must be conducted with cold water. For safety reasons. On nights like these, I wonder why I ever moved here. And also why I have raving lesbian neighbors who are most affectionate in the pre-dawn hours. Yes, another ordinary summer day has passed in Philly. Somehow, I can imagine tomorrow being exactly the same. Except maybe two degrees hotter. For those thickskulled enough and still don't feel their brains slowly cooking, it is now a fact - global warming is reality. Just like inflation, warfare, and cheating Italian soccer players. The question will now be who wilts first. One suggested preferred solution would be for the crisis in the Middle East to escalate to the extent of total destruction of the region, thereby ablating the majority of the world's oil, and some pestering people as well. The imperfection to that is that pollution from coal would still be enough to melt icecaps, raise sea-levels, and encourage spread of disease. For more on the topic, read the thoughfully written, though much too short, brief in the MIT Technology Review.

In the meantime, it's all been about work. Working hard, and then working out. Another day spent on the deck producing protein, troubleshooting, and then wondering why things don't go smoothly like described in journals and textbooks.

Instead of opting for a protein shake made from leftover grass, I went with nature's equivalent. An entire fish, fried to perfection and topped with green onions and mayo. There's nothing like having your own fish and eating it too.

You're better than what you eat

Hopefully. A glimmer of novelty prompted me to pick up the bottle of Paul Newman's own Vodka pasta sauce off the shelf of a respectable, if somewhat preppy supermarket. In my eagerness to try it out tonight, and hungry after a hearty workout, I prepared pasta and added the abovementioned sauce. And then I remembered. Vodka and pasta don't quite belong together. In fact Vodka doesn't go with anything (i.e. best taken alone, unless it's with chicks) and the only time that vodka and pasta are found together?

...you guessed. And that's how my otherwise perfect dinner went. In addition to bean sprouts and tofu, I now have another food combo aversion. I hope Paul Newman tastes this stuff.

Fix!

Lesson number 1: Recognize a fix when you see it.

Somewhere, tucked away in FIFA's rules and regulations of association football, there must be a short line, in fine printed italics, stating that red cards may be given for dangerous (i.e. violent) behavior, handling of the ball outside the penalty area by a keeper, and other events deemed necessary by the referee.

When a fifth referee points out to the fourth referee, who then assembles, consults, and directs the main referee to pull out the dreaded card, one should be at least somewhat suspicious. That it was for a headbutt to the chest which knocked down a professional athlete by anything but a two tonne bull, and it looks rather farsical. That it eventually helped a country, mired deep in a matchfixing scandal which may see four of the top domestic teams being relegated and banished from the Champions' League for a year, and you can see the motive. Look at the results, and you can see the crime.

Dirty hands.

Take off the most influential player of the last two decades, hack down the most prodigious striker in Europe with an unpunished tackle, and still they couldn't complete the sin. Only when Trezeguet, shooting in the place of the injured Henry rang it off the crossbar (which then landed on the line), did the Azurri complete the heist. Les bleus showed the meaning of l'esprit de vivre tonight and got robbed. However, they will be remembered for their valiance. History will not be kind to Zizou. Perhaps the truth will be more forgiving...

Choke minus one

My rule for Saturdays is not to set the alarm. Which in recent weeks has meant that I have woken up at inordinately early hours thinking I have already missed something great, namely a tennis match or a soccer game. Today, eyes opened at precisely the correct time to catch Amelie flounder against Justine the Terrible Belgium Henin only to then turn the tide and win the whole thing. Now that the biggest choke in tennis has been hexed, effectively twice, I await only the dismantling of the ugliest [active] player on the men's side. I will definitely set my alarm for that one.

Winning is what really matters. But what's with everyone wearing pink?

Justice done

The best thing about irony is that it comes out of the blue yet somehow still manages to extract a context in which to place itself. Fittingly, after having my gums minced by dental student, then her heavy-handed resident, I was escorted into the dental students' lounge. There, three big plasma screens revealed what I'd been dreaming of while on lidocaine for the previous 45 minutes. France 1, Ports 0. Incidentally, in between all the diving, haranging, and whatever else goes on during a European football match, it was a Zizou penalty kick that settled the score. And once the dust had settled, the theatrics subsided, it was clear that there were only the Ginos left. Can't wait until Sunday.

Then again, maybe Sunday could come a little later. For irony has dictated that my forgotten lab presentation would be less than a week from now. Of all the monthly talks scheduled for the third Thursday of each month, mine was the only odd one out meaning that it would be a week early. A week too soon in which I would potentially have to recover from the Italians winning, Feds losing Wimbledon, as a well as a meeting with the boss. The summer is definitely snowballing into something much too big to handle. Fortunately, I have already gotten leave (always ask before you're about to commit a huge faux pas).

On a lighter note, there will be a sushi party on Sunday as well, hosted by the most secretive couple within driving distance. As a treat, they also invited the new chick whose name currently eludes me.

In the meantime, I have found a coffee table worthy of my abode.

Soon we will have a winner

I now know why the gave me a free subscription to Nature. A brief flick through the weekly journal (or "international" science - what would be the alternative?) and I am reminded that there's no way I would pay out of my own pocket for this. One recent example was a breakdown in the day of science. Listed by different timezones over a 24 hour stretch, it documented things that scientists did. An Israeli lab tried to harang a supplier for a discount on a DNA quantifier, scientists in Borneo were out sampling Orangatuan droppings for bird flu. Definitely the stuff of international science...

The ball is round like the earth. The goal is big like the universe. And the net full of holes like my manuscript.

More importantly, it shows that each day means something different and unique, if not patently prescribed, for everyone. Today being the 4th of July, it meant one thing - Germany vs Italy. An interesting matchup made possible by some even more interesting developments. Germany beat the Argies on PK (unlike the English, now 4-0 in such tense forays) while the Italians connived their way past the Socceroos before demolishing Ukraine. Two things made watching the match a fun experience. Firstly, we had once again commandeered the conference room projector, adding our own touches with subwoofer and pub food, which I will have to remember to pay for tomorrow. Second is seeing how my support shifted between teams during the event. With my allegiance pinned to France for the remaining 6 days, I couldn't bring myself to root for any particular participant today. Nonetheless, the action was frantic, the pace quick, and it turned out to be quite fun to watch myself sway. In the end, I realized I sided with the team playing the joga boca (i.e. beautiful game) which in the end were the ginos. Anytime that a team scores twice, within a minute, in extra time, you have to respect them. And while sympathy goes out to the Germans for a good tournament, their work is not yet over as they now have to avenge the world by thrashing Portugal for third place after France whips them tomorrow. Allez les bleus!

It ain't gelin'

And they should shudder. Le duo dynamique take centre stage. Finally.

Victory comes in many flavors. Defeat only one. The most bitter of bitters. And thus in one flash, in an effort worthy of Olympic footnote, the Portugese diving team overcame the England football team. From FIFA's decision not to review Figo's headbutt against Holland to Cristiano Ronaldo's short "chat" with the referee, and finally Jamie Carragher's penalty kick which went in, but then had to be retaken. The word fix comes to mind. And though football, fixing, and Germany have a rich history as bedfellows (see archives), cheated is the more appropriate word. Unfortunate, tragic, disappointing, disgusting.

On a brighter note, Zizou and Henry have found the switch. Za za zoum is now a reality and not just a motto for cheap Renault ads. With the latin conglomerate vanquished, one can only hope they will do the game proud and sink the Ports.