The Geeks Were Right

"Egghead boys with thin white legs. They've got modified features and software brains, but that's what the girls like." -- The Faint

Today is Geek Pride Day, America's excuse to dork out with impunity from ridicule. According to Wikipedia's description of the holiday, it's celebrated on May 25th in commemoration of the premiere of Star Wars on that date in 1977.

Appropriate, then, that I just encountered a woman on First Avenue trying to rein in a squirmy child. "Get back over here, Anakin!" she shouted. "Don't wander off! Anakin!"

No words. But I salute her for celebrating her geekery so boldly.


- Posted from my iPod Touch

What You Own

"I'm wearing someone else's clothes and looking better. I'm wearing someone else's clothes and feeling fine." -- Jason Robert Brown

It's finally warm enough for me to spend time outside without freezing to death and I actually left work on time today. Thus, when I got home, I dug out a pair of shorts and my Viva La Zvi t-shirt, laced up my sneakers, knotted my curls into a ponytail, and went for a brief run.

A couple of hours later, I took a good look at the shorts I wore.

They're black cotton, size medium. The label says "Discus." They're loose-fitting and, if the shape and stitching of the crotch is any indication, they were definitely designed with a man's anatomy in mind. The elastic band sits at my natural waistline and the hems end about three inches above my knees.

What's wrong with this picture? Working out -- sweating, turning red, getting winded -- makes me feel gross, so when I do it in public, I try to disguise the disgustingness by wearing incredibly flattering workout gear. Meaning my pants are skin-tight, my shorts are short, and my waistbands don't venture any higher than my hipbones. And today's baggy, high-waisted shorts with the mysteriously misplaced crotch seams do not fit that paradigm of hotness.

Which leads me to one regrettable conclusion: I did not purchase the shorts I'm wearing.

This in turn leads me to a second regrettable conclusion: I borrowed the shorts I'm wearing from someone and completely forgot to ever return them.

If they once belonged to you, my sincerest apologies. I'll happily send them home if you're willing to own up to them.

Now I Know Better

"Tonight, you arrested my mind when you came to my defense. With a knife in the shape of your mouth, in the form of your body, with the wrath of a god. Oh, you stood by me. And I stand by my belief." -- Gavin DeGraw

I graduated from college in May of 2008, and two days later, I started my first full-time job. My first week of work was spent in typical fashion for a career in science -- catching up on data entry, doing lots of literature searches, completing half a dozen web training programs, etcetera ad nauseam. I couldn't get through all of that without background noise and I couldn't justify keeping my iPod on for eight hours a day, so I turned to Pandora Radio for my music fix.

I don't remember the name of the Pandora station that occupied my workdays back then; I chose the music specifically for non-distracting background noise and it served its purpose beautifully. Every so often, though, a song would play that cut through my concentration and made me focus on the music. And every time that happened, the artist was always the same.

Gavin DeGraw. A cute guy with a grand piano who had albums on the charts for five years before I discovered him. And when that happened, I couldn't believe what I was hearing. If someone told me that Gavin was practiced in the art of telepathy and regularly rifled through my thoughts as a part of his songwriting process, I wouldn't doubt it. Not many musicians are able to sing lyrics that feel ripped out of my chest, or play instruments with the same passion or misery I'm feeling, or choose melodies seemingly orchestrated to my daily routine. I purchased Chariot during the first week of June and listened to it nonstop for the next two months.

Those two months were some of the most nerve-wracking, mindwarping, emotionally draining days I've ever experienced. I was settling into real life, meeting new people, and trying to balance what was left of college with my newborn career. I admitted attraction to someone who actually reciprocated -- hey, this never happens -- but I was powerless to do anything about it. A very good friend made a very bad decision and I took it too personally. I said some cautious hellos and one earth-shattering goodbye. Gavin and his piano were there to narrate all of it, to give a voice to my frustration, and to help me make sense of everything that was happening to me. He managed to awaken thoughts I didn't know I was thinking and feelings I never realized I was feeling.

The world kept turning. Things got worse, then they got better, then they got really bad, then they got better again. I gained a few new musical obsessions. My type and quantity of work changed, so I couldn't get distracted by Pandora's uncanny song choices any more. I fell for someone best described by Taylor Swift and Peter Cincotti. I left Chariot to languish on my iPod's ample hard drive.

Fast-forward nearly two years, to March 2010. Thanks to Rutila and her excellent taste in literature, I had the privilege of reading a collecion of essays called Heavy Rotation: Twenty Writers on the Albums That Changed Their Lives. Each author chose an album and crafted an essay around it, taking care to explain the music in terms of social impact, emotional relevance, coming-of-age, or inspirational value. The collection blew me away; the writers spoke about their subjects with the same reverence I often feel for favored pieces of music, and it heartened me to learn that I'm not the only lost soul who uses other people's lyrics to shove my own experiences into sharper focus.

I've tried to examine that tendency before. I've written about the poetry of Bob Dylan's songs, sang West Side Story in concert during a time when Maria's situation mirrored my own, borrowed a Jonathan Larson lyric that he had borrowed from Stephen Sondheim. I'd never penned an homage to a complete album, though, and reading Heavy Rotation made me want to try.

I was inspired. I was itching to write. I couldn't decide on an album, though. Sure, I have favorite lyrics -- they show up as the first line of every blog post I write, and they often express what's really on my mind far more frankly than my prose does. I have favorite songs that could easily inspire a blog post or two. Albums, however, stumped me. There's my all-time favorite album (Twentysomething by Jamie Cullum), the first album I ever bought with my own money (The Nylon Curtain by Billy Joel), the album that changed my personal definition of music (Jethro Tull's Thick As A Brick), and the album that I hated when I first heard it and loved a year later (the Les Miserables 10th Anniversary Concert). But I couldn't write more than a few sentences about any of them. They all told a story, but none of them told MY story. Or any story I wanted to tell, for that matter. I set the project aside and decided to revisit it another day.

My PIs were out of town last week, so I settled in to enter data and opened Pandora for background noise. I wasn't in the mood to listen to any of my more recent stations, so I scrolled down to the very bottom of my list and clicked on something random. An advertisement for Axe body spray aired, followed by a hushed, plaintive, nearly a capella lyric:

"You need a friend? I'll be around. Don't let this end, for I'll see you again. What can I say to convince you to change your mind to me?"

As Gavin sang about unconditional love in the face of rejection, I was transported to a lawn on a mild summer night, fighting desperately to stay calm despite the undeniable recognition that I was about to lose something forever. I turned off Pandora, fished my iPod out of my purse, and turned on Chariot for the first time in years.

The album used to serve as the theme music to my existence. Now it evokes emotions, sensations, and experiences with far more clarity than the mere act of remembering ever could. "I Don't Want To Be" fills me with blinding rage, utter betrayal, and just a little bit of disappointment. "Belief" recalls lying on a bare mattress on a bare floor in a bare dorm room in light so faint I can barely see what I'm doing but it doesn't really matter anyway. "Crush" makes me feel like I have a secret... sad, but in a nice way. "Follow Through" sends me walking home with a Silver Moon baguette in my hand, smug as all heck and anticipating the next step in my life.

As an exercise prior to writing this essay, I gave Chariot the American Idiot treatment -- I rearranged the songs to tell my story, added some narrative between the tracks, and made an iTunes playlist. Listening to it was like living it all over again... and it was all a lot better the second time.

Elements of Style

"Maybe it's been crazy and maybe I'm to blame, but I put my heart above my head. We've been through it all and you love me just the same." -- Neil Diamond

The fashion trends of spring 2010 need to die a quick, horrible death. But before I rant about why I can't walk into clothing stores without cringing any more, I need to define my own sense of style so you'll know where my feelings are coming from.

I have a typical southern European look -- dark hair, dark eyes, and an hourglass figure. Consequently, my current sense of style tends to recall the fashions worn by the women of classical Italian cinema. Sophia Loren, Gina Lollobrigida, and all of Fellini's women dressed themselves using a simple, flattering set of rules:

1. Wear curve-accentuating clothing to look sexy without showing too much skin.

2. Choose high-quality fabrics in classic silhouettes for a sense of timelessness.

3. Keep most of your clothing low-key and mix in a select few eye-catching elements. Use color judiciously to add dashes of drama.

4. Tailor your clothing to accentuate your best assets.

Though each of those women reached her prime more than fifty years ago, styles like theirs are visible on the streets of Rome to this day. The principles behind their fashions perfectly flatter women who look like me, and they're great guidelines for building a wardrobe that will transcend fads and pay for itself in the long run.

Their rules are amazing for me, in any case. I work in an environment where I need to dress conservatively, so looking good while keeping covered up has become an art form for me. My waistline is my favorite part of my body, so I like to show it off whenever I can. I buy quality items so they'll last me years. (Yeah, I indulge at H&M as much as the next woman, but I'd rather have one well-made Theory blouse than a dozen Abercrombie tees that will fall apart in the wash.) I wear a lot of black, grey and solid jewel tones because they complement my coloring, but I can never stay away from carefully chosen punchy accessories. I choose my skirt lengths, pants cuts, and shoe styles to provide the illusion of long legs and added height. And if something I own doesn't fit me perfectly, I get it tailored so it does.

So... what am I seeing when I go shopping lately? Neutrals and whites all over the place, which make me look pastier than I already am. Florals and big prints everywhere, which would be awesome if I didn't get lost in patterns. Blousy shirts and frilly dresses seemingly designed to hide the best parts of my body. Embroidery and fabric embellishments, which screw with my silhouette. Activewear, see-through shirts, and metallic lame, which look cheap and won't last me more than one season. Military jackets, which I've been wearing for years already. Clogs and Oxfords, which are ugly as hell. And, worst of all, SOCKS WITH HIGH HEELS, which is an easy way to make one's legs look six inches shorter than they really are.

Sophia would not approve. And neither do I.

Fancy Pants and Flooring Inspectors

"You fight like a dairy farmer."
"How appropriate. You fight like a cow." -- Orson Scott Card*

The sun is shining, the birdies are chirping, the cherry trees are blooming, the new series of Doctor Who premiered last night, and the ovens in my house are filled with delicious Easter cooking. In other words, the world is reborn.

And yet, today, I'm going to forego turning over a new leaf by writing about a man I used to have a huge crush on. I've outgrown it by now, but he still means a lot to me. He was prideful and slightly mean and a bit of an asshole, but he was smart, selfless, and deliciously sarcastic... not to mention sexy in an awkward, gangly sort of way. If you want to be melodramatic about it, I guess you could call him my first love.

It's been years, but lately... we've sort of reconnected. I've had the opportunity to spend some quality one-on-one time with him over the last few days, and though I'm older and wiser than I was when he first captured my heart, he's still a pretty amazing guy.

His name is Guybrush Threepwood and he's a pirate.

Hopefully a few of you will recognize his name from your own pasts. For those of you who do not, Guybrush Threepwood is the hero of the Monkey Island series of video games, where players can swashbuckle their way through various quests in a choose-your-own-adventure format. The first game in the series, The Secret of Monkey Island, was released by LucasArts on floppy disc in 1990. I met Guybrush in 1994, when I got my first computer.

Yes, 1994. Which implies 1994 gameplay and graphics. Which means that my first crush looked like this:

Suffice it to say, I didn't fall for Guybrush for his looks. I fell for him because he was a cool, confident smooth-talker who knew he was destined for greatness despite all evidence to the contrary. He could trade insults with masters and seamlessly toss pop culture references into normal conversations. He was clever and resourceful and could solve complicated puzzles with ease. He was still human, though -- bumbling and awkward and prone to making mistakes. And as if all of that wasn't enough reason to love the guy, he was noble enough to risk his life to rescue Governor Elaine Marley from zombie pirates. He was also secure enough in his own masculinity to fall in love with Elaine, even though she was smart, powerful, and never really needed rescuing in the first place.

After I sprayed the zombie pirate captain with root beer to win the game, I was rewarded with a glorious, pixelated, 256-color closeup of Guybrush Threepwood's face:

Yes, he's a hottie, but I was smitten long before I knew what he looked like. (And whether I subconsciously modeled my current hairdo on Elaine's is a blog entry for another day.)

I found an archaic CD-ROM version of The Secret of Monkey Island yesterday afternoon and played it yesterday night. It only took me a few hours to get through it, as opposed to the weeks I spent solving the puzzles when I was a child. It was just as funny, irreverent, and intellectually fulfilling as I remembered it, though, and the jokes and puns still sparkled with clarity and relevance twenty years after they were written.

Right after I vanquished the zombie pirate captain to unlock the portrait of Guybrush that used to make my nine year-old heart melt, I realized something astounding.

My sense of humor -- my wry, snarky, intellectual sense of humor that I adore and often use as a compatibility test -- is identical to Guybrush Threepwood's sense of humor. Both of us quip. Both of us make random remarks about inanimate objects. Both of us can switch from poetry to intellectual banter in a heartbeat. Both of us have a natural gift for rhyme. Both of us can insult someone so smoothly that they don't even realize they've been mocked. And, most notably, both of us enjoy peppering our conversations with quotes and images from old computer games, George Lucas films, and The Graduate.

My sense of humor is definitely on the quirky side of normal, but it's one of my favorite things about me. And since it came into being around the time I first met Guybrush Threepwood, I'm pretty sure he inspired it. Guess I just found another reason to love him.

* Yes, Orson Scott Card wrote all of the exchanges used in the famous "insult swordfighting" sequence of The Secret of Monkey Island.

Curves Ahead

"Picture-perfect memories scattered all around the floor. Reaching for the phone 'cause I can't fight it any more. And I wonder if I ever cross your mind... for me, it happens all the time." -- Lady Antebellum

I've started drawing again. I've also started reading a lot about New York City architecture and infrastructure. One thing led to another, and before I knew what was happening, I had a sketchbook full of this:

From top to bottom: Wallace Harrison's Metropolitan Opera House; Harrison and Fouilhoux's Trylon, Perisphere, and Helicine from the 1939 New York World's Fair; Eero Saarinen's TWA Flight Center (i.e. my favorite building in the world); and, of course, Frank Lloyd Wright's Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum.

Checking Out

"One day I'll be thirty. One day I'll be fine. One day I'll make fun of this dramatic life of mine. One day I'll be older and then I'll write a book about the choices that I made. If that's what it is, then that's what it is... at least until Disney can rewrite it." -- Jason Robert Brown

This endless New York City winter is starting to melt into spring, which means I'm craving chocolate egg creams more often than not. I took a long walk to Johnny Rocket's for my egg cream fix on Thursday, but today, I decided to pursue a more economical approach to egg cream creation.

Thus, I found myself in the supermarket during my afternoon coffee break, clutching bottles of unflavored seltzer, whole milk, and Fox's U-Bet to my chest. My chosen checkout line was unnaturally short -- the man in front of me held one bag of dog food and the man in front of him was purchasing a six-pack of Fiji water and a bottle of San Pellegrino. Perfect; I only had fifteen minutes to spare, and I had used five of them walking here.

I settled into my place (and a huge cart settled behind me, barring any hope of escape) just in time to hear Water Man say that he required delivery of his purchases. He needed thirty cases of the Fiji water and fifty bottles of the Pellegrino, you see. Fine, I thought; I'd only be delayed by the length of time it took for him to fill out a delivery receipt.

However, my cashier -- a veritable rocket scientist of a woman -- did not realize that modern cash registers possess the ability to ring multiples of the same item by scanning said item and keying "x 40."

Instead, she scanned the Fiji six-pack thirty times.

Then she scanned the Pellegrino bottle fifty times.

Then she squinted at the register screen for five minutes, poking at the tally with a pen cap, to make sure she counted correctly.

Halfway through her Fiji scanning, Dog Food Man and I exchanged incredulous glances. Halfway through her Pellegrino scanning, Dog Food Man and I traded a few snide comments. Halfway through her recount, I picked up a copy of the National Enquirer. Halfway through Kendra Wilkinson's struggle to lose her baby weight, Water Man finally departed and made way for Dog Food Man.

Dog Food Man was my companion in suffering during Water Man's debacle, so I respected him. That is, until he decided to pay for his dog food using a handful of quarters. At this point, I began to wonder if Dog Food Man and Water Man were conspiring to drive me crazy. Our rocket scientist cashier was no help to my fragile mental state, either -- she hadn't gained any mathematical proficiency from her earlier counting exercises, so it took her a while to figure out how much money Dog Food Man had handed her.

After wasting entirely too much of my life in that damned supermarket, it was my turn to check out. I swiped my card, bagged my own groceries, and got the hell out of there as soon as humanly possible. The cashier, in a rare moment of lucidity, seemed relieved to see me go.

Fake Tales of San Francisco: Day Five

"Come back from San Francisco! It can't be all that pretty when all of New York City misses you." -- The Magnetic Fields

03.08.2010

I'm trying to fit three pounds of sourdough bread, my new dress, two new books, and my coat in my suitcase along with all the stuff that actually belongs there. I gasp. I pant. I pinch and pull. I throw myself face-down on the suitcase lid. I pull some more.

Yes! Optimal atomic packing factor achieved!

I take one last walk around Union Square, grab a croissant from Boudin Bakery for the road, and end up getting to the airport obscenely early. There's a line at the security gate despite the hour, though, and as I get closer, I realize why: SFO uses full-body scanners.

I step in and lift my arms. The beam sweeps across my field of vision. I lower my arms and step out of the scanner.

Security guard quote: "Looks like you've got about sixty cents in change in your front right pocket, a twenty dollar bill in your front left, and a driver's license in the back. Show them to me and you're good to go."

As any self-respecting engineer can understand, this amazing application of technology makes me really excited and I ask her if I can look at my scan. She inclines her head towards the scan's monitor and I peek at the image. It's hairless, high-contrast, and naked, but it's undeniably me.

How cool is that?! I laugh, give an excited little hop, and turn to retrieve my bags from the conveyor belt. The cute hipster is standing three feet away, staring at me.

I wonder if he saw my full-body scan image. Never mind; don't want to think about it.

He definitely saw the conference title emblazoned across my messenger bag, though.

Two long-haired skateboard-toting teens sit next to me on the airplane. They spend the entire flight watching Real Housewives reruns.

Once again, I'm awake for five and a half hours. I read a little, listen to some music, watch Alton Brown add soy sauce to caramels and take a kitchen torch to a grapefruit. I read, edit, and rewrite two sets of notes in my Moleskine. Half of the pages detail technical information learned at the conference and half of the pages will eventually become five blog posts outlining my trip. Cute hipster is seated directly behind me, and it doesn't seem like he's able to sleep much either.

Eventually, I can see the lighted streets of the Rockaways out the plane window. A few minutes later, we touch down at JFK.

Cute hipster helps me retrieve my suitcase from the overhead compartment. I thank him and offer a sweet smile before exiting the aircraft. I know I'll regret not giving him my name or my card in the upcoming weeks, but right now, a smile seems like enough of a promise.

Do I think I'm ready to fall in love? Nope. But I'm getting there.

Fake Tales of San Francisco: Day Four

"I wasn't born there. Perhaps I'll die there. There's no place left to go, San Francisco." -- The Animals

03.07.2010

I'm an author on two of the posters hanging in the exhibition hall today. I'm still not used to seeing my name in print, so I take lots of pictures of both posters. I wonder if my colleague ever gets used to the fact that an entire classification system is named after him.

I'd like to see data on the prevalence of performance status overestimation.

The conference is over! I'm walking out of the auditorium for the last time. Someone with an instantly recognizable smile crosses in front of me, suitcase in hand, and walks out the hotel's front door. Crap; I was looking forward to that conversation.

Homeless guy quote: "You have a lovely face and figure, ma'am."

It would make too much sense to sell Muni fare cards inside the Muni stations.

It would make too much sense to have a place to swipe or tap said card on each turnstile, instead of being forced to wander around in search of a station agent to let you in.

It would make too much sense to have complete maps of the Muni on the walls of the Muni.

The Muni trains would also make the G train feel well-endowed if they ever had to pull out the rulers and measure.

Zuni Cafe for lunch. I came for a chicken roasted over a wood fire, but I can't eat one by myself and all of my remaining colleagues are vegetarian. Thus, I order a tuna steak with grilled escarole, baby potatoes, and a hard-boiled egg crumbled on top. I should crumble hard-boiled eggs on my food more often.

A light fish course calls for white wine, so I order a glass of Santa Barbara pinot blanc even though I prefer my vino red.. I can't believe how fresh it tastes. I spend a few minutes swirling the wine over my tongue, exhaling, trying to recognize the finishing flavor before I finally place it: green grapes. I drank a wine that tasted like grapes. Unbelievable.

My dessert was an espresso granita. An espresso snowcone. Frozen, chopped-up coffee with whipped cream on top. I must try making one at home.

My waiter is muscular and very handsome. And he is being incredibly sweet and attentive. Maybe because I'm in a classy restaurant by myself, furiously scribbling in a Moleskine between bites?

A small girl keeps kicking the wall next to me. The heels of her sneakers keep lighting up on impact. The whole restaurant is shaking.

Taking the trolley up the godforsaken hill is a lot easier than walking up the godforsaken hill. I think walking might be faster, though.

A street musician near the Cannery is pretending to play the guitar along with a recording. I wonder if he's related to the guy in Grand Central who pretends to sing. At least this guy isn't selling CDs of "his" music.

Never mind. He is.

Having a Girl's Night In on my last evening in San Francisco, complete with ice cream, a romance novel, and the Oscars.

What happened to Barbara Walters' face?!

Fake Tales of San Francisco: Day Three

"A heart floats in the Bay. I hear it beating far away. There's no telling what I'll do if I don't return to you." -- Alkaline Trio

03.06.2010

Thank goodness for my red Tsubo pumps and their sneaker padding. I can't even feel my blisters while wearing them, which is a necessity considering that I'll be spending my entire day walking around at the conference.

My calves are on fire, though. And don't get me started on how my injured knee feels.

The chairman of my department -- all six and a half feet of him -- sits in front of me during the first lecture. It's like trying to see a projector screen through a brick wall.

MD quote: "This is why your hospital is so good. You come here while your PIs are away. My study coordinator goes skydiving while I'm away."

The dosing schedule for BCG therapy -- six cycles -- was originally determined because each shipment of the drug contained six treatments. Hahaha.

Among the few women here, the style of the moment seems to involve long denim skirts and Clarks. I feel very chic in my little black suit and red pumps.

One panel session includes audience polling! And question asking via Twitter and text message! Oh, I love technology -- and what a perfect forum for it!

MD quote: "You've been voted off the island."

The epigenome changes as a function of aging, so examining methylation patterns for cancer predictors may not yield accurate results in elderly patients.

A young man with long platinum hair just sat next to me. He's wearing a white suit. He looks fantastic, like Draco Malfoy's guardian angel.

One of the speakers presents a painting of Adam and Eve with a diseased kidney Photoshopped over the apple. His point? Don't be tempted into performing a radical nephrectomy when a partial will do the job just fine.

Quote from several MDs: "I love your red shoes. Can you click your heels three times to go home?"