"Time can never mend the careless whispers of a good friend. To the heart and mind, ignorance is kind. There's no comfort in the truth." -- Wham!
A long time ago, I wrote about the regulars, the people I encounter every single day on my commute. I've never mentioned Metro Man until now, though; he's almost always the first person I greet every morning, and he certainly deserves a blog entry of his own.
Metro Man wears an orange jacket, he stands at the foot of the staircase I use to ascend to the N train, and he hands out free copies of Metro newspaper. Every morning, he and I have the exact same conversation:
Me: Good morning.
Him: Good morning lady. [tries to hand me a newspaper]
Me: No thank you.
Him: [mutters something unintelligible]
Metro Man's mumbles never sound the same twice; hell, they never sounded like anything. For months on end, I listened very intently to Metro Man to try and determine what the hell the guy was saying to me. I'm no stranger to hopeless causes, though, and this certainly qualified as one.
I gave up trying to comprehend Metro Man's speech a long time ago, but I kept my optimism. Instead of trying to understand the guy, I've turned his rambling into my very own private joke. I have zero idea what on Earth he's actually trying to say, so in my mind, that gives me license to invent my own interpretation.
As a result, Metro Man takes a few moments out of his day to try and tell me the secrets of the universe. Last month, he named Kennedy's assassin, the location of Bigfoot, and what's stored at Area 51. A week ago today, he whispered the location of Jimmy Hoffa and what happened to the dinosaurs. Yesterday, he taught me how to achieve perpetual motion. And today, he told me I looked really pretty in my summer dress.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Ensign Ricky
"Nothing you have said is revelation. Take my blues as read! My consolation: finding out that I'm my one true obligation." -- Tim Rice
I don't work on Fridays, and since I'm lucky enough to have a few friends who share the same fortunate employment situation, we were able to spend the entire day lazing around midtown. Afterstalking an actor friend at his place of business having lunch at Ruby Tuesday's, discussing the men in our lives, and planning a camping trip or three, we caught a showing of Star Trek in IMAX.
The film is new, it's different, it screws canon to high heaven, it completely rewrites Star Trek history... and I loved every minute of it. The new cast kicked ass, the new Enterprise is stunning, Eric Bana made the sexiest villain since Khan, and the writers were able to include Leonard Nimoy in the film without campiness or contrivances. (Not to mention that I finally see why Rutila has loved Zachary Quinto for so long... he's talented, he's insanely hot, and his scenes with Zoe Saldana were way more intriguing than I thought they would be.)
We took a long walk after the film, went shopping for sheet music, and ended up meeting my coworkers at Butterfield 8. I had a few glasses of whiskey and a few laughs, scared off a few cocky bankers with the phrase "biomedical engineering," and handed my phone number to a couple of un-cocky scientists who didn't frighten so easily. I argued with a man who claimed that my straight hair and oversized sunglasses made me look exactly like Megan Fox. I watched the Yankees game, cheered and yelled and booed appropriately. I stood chest-to-chest with one of my colleagues -- a Twins fan -- as we screamed in each other's faces about whether or not Mariano Rivera has played his whole career for the Bombers. (I was right, of course; Mo is indeed homegrown.) Five of us went to Taj after that, then we went to a dive bar across the street after we were thrown out of Taj for wearing sandals, then we went to another dive bar half a mile away to sing bad karaoke. I hailed a cab on Park Avenue South a little after one in the morning, and while stuck in traffic, I watched a man throw a lit cigarette into a trashcan. He panicked as the contents caught fire and ran away as half a block's worth of garbage began to blaze. I could hear the sirens in the distance as my cab approached the Queensborough Bridge.
On my ride home, I thought about my incredibly full day and night -- the people, the moments, and, of course, Star Trek. And despite everything that happened over the course of the day, only two things really stuck out in my head: my lunchtime conversation and my in-your-face Mariano Rivera argument. The rest of the events and the individuals were interesting in their own right, but they were mentally expendable. To use a Star Trek analogy, they were my Redshirts -- or to borrow the term popularized by Family Guy, they were my Ensign Rickies.
For those unfamiliar with Trek lore, it's a fact of life that, on every away mission, the random dude in the red shirt always bites the dust first... and no one ever seems to care. It happened in the original series, it happens in the sequels, it happens in the old movies, and it happens in the new movie. And more and more nowadays, I'm starting to recognize Ensign Rickies in my own life -- people who serve a purpose at the moment, but if they were to encounter Nomad, the vampire cloud, or the orbital platform and vanish, I wouldn't be too devastated.
The complication lies in separating the truly expendable from the diamonds in the rough -- after all, Scotty wears a red shirt too. Thus, on Friday night, I made a conscious effort to fight the urge to only focus on the Spocks and McCoys of my day and take notice of the anonymous ensigns too, regardless of how little interest I initially showed in them. I thought things through, followed-up... and was pleasantly surprised. Twice.
I don't work on Fridays, and since I'm lucky enough to have a few friends who share the same fortunate employment situation, we were able to spend the entire day lazing around midtown. After
The film is new, it's different, it screws canon to high heaven, it completely rewrites Star Trek history... and I loved every minute of it. The new cast kicked ass, the new Enterprise is stunning, Eric Bana made the sexiest villain since Khan, and the writers were able to include Leonard Nimoy in the film without campiness or contrivances. (Not to mention that I finally see why Rutila has loved Zachary Quinto for so long... he's talented, he's insanely hot, and his scenes with Zoe Saldana were way more intriguing than I thought they would be.)
We took a long walk after the film, went shopping for sheet music, and ended up meeting my coworkers at Butterfield 8. I had a few glasses of whiskey and a few laughs, scared off a few cocky bankers with the phrase "biomedical engineering," and handed my phone number to a couple of un-cocky scientists who didn't frighten so easily. I argued with a man who claimed that my straight hair and oversized sunglasses made me look exactly like Megan Fox. I watched the Yankees game, cheered and yelled and booed appropriately. I stood chest-to-chest with one of my colleagues -- a Twins fan -- as we screamed in each other's faces about whether or not Mariano Rivera has played his whole career for the Bombers. (I was right, of course; Mo is indeed homegrown.) Five of us went to Taj after that, then we went to a dive bar across the street after we were thrown out of Taj for wearing sandals, then we went to another dive bar half a mile away to sing bad karaoke. I hailed a cab on Park Avenue South a little after one in the morning, and while stuck in traffic, I watched a man throw a lit cigarette into a trashcan. He panicked as the contents caught fire and ran away as half a block's worth of garbage began to blaze. I could hear the sirens in the distance as my cab approached the Queensborough Bridge.
On my ride home, I thought about my incredibly full day and night -- the people, the moments, and, of course, Star Trek. And despite everything that happened over the course of the day, only two things really stuck out in my head: my lunchtime conversation and my in-your-face Mariano Rivera argument. The rest of the events and the individuals were interesting in their own right, but they were mentally expendable. To use a Star Trek analogy, they were my Redshirts -- or to borrow the term popularized by Family Guy, they were my Ensign Rickies.
For those unfamiliar with Trek lore, it's a fact of life that, on every away mission, the random dude in the red shirt always bites the dust first... and no one ever seems to care. It happened in the original series, it happens in the sequels, it happens in the old movies, and it happens in the new movie. And more and more nowadays, I'm starting to recognize Ensign Rickies in my own life -- people who serve a purpose at the moment, but if they were to encounter Nomad, the vampire cloud, or the orbital platform and vanish, I wouldn't be too devastated.
The complication lies in separating the truly expendable from the diamonds in the rough -- after all, Scotty wears a red shirt too. Thus, on Friday night, I made a conscious effort to fight the urge to only focus on the Spocks and McCoys of my day and take notice of the anonymous ensigns too, regardless of how little interest I initially showed in them. I thought things through, followed-up... and was pleasantly surprised. Twice.
Monday, May 4, 2009
The House That Ruth Did Not Build
"Then the night turned cold, colder than the moon. The stars were white as bones. The stadium was old -- older than the screams, older than the teams. There were three men down and the season lost and the tarpaulin was rolled upon the winter frost." -- Paul Simon
Last Saturday afternoon, I paid my first visit to the new ballpark where the New York Yankees play their home games. I can't verbally call it (and won't refer to it in print as) "Yankee Stadium," which should give you an idea of how I feel about the place.
That sounds a little cruel. The Yankees' new home is a beautiful -- no, downright stunning -- ballpark. Photos of Yankees legends are plastered everywhere, most notably in the Great Hall (where soaring thirty-foot high banners portray the greats in black-and-white on one side and color on the other). The fair portions of the field are the same dimesions, even down to the short porch in right. The exterior is resplendent with gold leaf and shining white limestone and cathedral windows and looks like Yankee Stadium did before its 1975 renovation. The facade crowns the seats instead of the scoreboard and Monument Park has been restored to center field, just as they looked in 1923. Most of the dirt was carted over from across the street, so today's Yankees technically play on the same soil that Ruth and Gehrig and DiMaggio and Mantle did. The new ballpark is perfect, but nevertheless, it didn't feel right. I spent three hours sitting in a seat that's technically mine but felt nothing like my beloved Section 9, surrounded by forty thousand strong while a majestic deserted ballpark quietly rotted a few hundred feet away. I cheered and chanted and enjoyed the game, but I was always acutely aware that Yankee Stadium is supposed to sit on the opposite side of 161st Street.
The architects and designers of the new stadium tried VERY hard to pay homage to the history of the Yankees, but at best it all seems a bit cartoonish and at worst it feels like a slap in the face. To illustrate the former, consider that the foul territory has been cut in half to bring expensive seats closer to the diamond, the cathedral-esque exterior hides a shopping concourse, the gleaming white facade hangs over "cheap seats" that have been halved in quantity, and Monument Park is hidden under a corporate-branded sports bar.
I'll use a longer example to illustrate that slap in the face. When Thurman Munson, the famed catcher and former captain of the Yankees, died halfway through the 1979 season, none of his teammates could bring themselves to clean out and reassign his locker. It sat in the clubhouse untouched, looking exactly as it had the last time Munson hung up his jersey, for the remainder of that season... and the season after that and the season after that. For the next thirty years, Munson's locker was only disturbed for cleaning; the clubhouse was renovated around it, lockers were assigned and deserted and reassigned without heed to it, and subsequent Yankees captains were relocated to the locker next to Munson's. It was a private tribute made and maintained by those who shared a special bond with Munson, whether by friendship or by the ties of pinstripes. But when the Yankees moved across the street after the 2008 season, Munson's locker had to be moved as well.
The current captain of the Yankees dresses next to an empty locker before every home game, but it's not Munson's. The space adjacent to Derek Jeter's locker stands empty as a tribute to all lost legends... while Munson's locker stands upstairs in a museum, encased in glass, visible to fifty thousand people a day.
It's a perfect microcosm of everything that's wrong with the stadium itself. My Yankee Stadium, with its rickety frame and uncomfortable seats and peeling paint and quirks and nuances and undeniable baseball magic, has been replaced with a Stepford Wife fascimile and put on display for the world to gawk at. The Yankee Stadium I called home may not have had cathedral windows, but I worshipped there for fifteen years, poured hundreds of prayers into those walls, and emerged with just as many secrets and divine inclinations.
I'll get used to it eventually. I'll keep going to the games, and as my time spent in section 211 starts to approach my time spent in Section 9, I'll start to build a new set of memories to cherish and a new set of prayers to live by. But last Saturday, for the first time in my life, I sat in Yankee Stadium and felt homeless.
Last Saturday afternoon, I paid my first visit to the new ballpark where the New York Yankees play their home games. I can't verbally call it (and won't refer to it in print as) "Yankee Stadium," which should give you an idea of how I feel about the place.
That sounds a little cruel. The Yankees' new home is a beautiful -- no, downright stunning -- ballpark. Photos of Yankees legends are plastered everywhere, most notably in the Great Hall (where soaring thirty-foot high banners portray the greats in black-and-white on one side and color on the other). The fair portions of the field are the same dimesions, even down to the short porch in right. The exterior is resplendent with gold leaf and shining white limestone and cathedral windows and looks like Yankee Stadium did before its 1975 renovation. The facade crowns the seats instead of the scoreboard and Monument Park has been restored to center field, just as they looked in 1923. Most of the dirt was carted over from across the street, so today's Yankees technically play on the same soil that Ruth and Gehrig and DiMaggio and Mantle did. The new ballpark is perfect, but nevertheless, it didn't feel right. I spent three hours sitting in a seat that's technically mine but felt nothing like my beloved Section 9, surrounded by forty thousand strong while a majestic deserted ballpark quietly rotted a few hundred feet away. I cheered and chanted and enjoyed the game, but I was always acutely aware that Yankee Stadium is supposed to sit on the opposite side of 161st Street.
The architects and designers of the new stadium tried VERY hard to pay homage to the history of the Yankees, but at best it all seems a bit cartoonish and at worst it feels like a slap in the face. To illustrate the former, consider that the foul territory has been cut in half to bring expensive seats closer to the diamond, the cathedral-esque exterior hides a shopping concourse, the gleaming white facade hangs over "cheap seats" that have been halved in quantity, and Monument Park is hidden under a corporate-branded sports bar.
I'll use a longer example to illustrate that slap in the face. When Thurman Munson, the famed catcher and former captain of the Yankees, died halfway through the 1979 season, none of his teammates could bring themselves to clean out and reassign his locker. It sat in the clubhouse untouched, looking exactly as it had the last time Munson hung up his jersey, for the remainder of that season... and the season after that and the season after that. For the next thirty years, Munson's locker was only disturbed for cleaning; the clubhouse was renovated around it, lockers were assigned and deserted and reassigned without heed to it, and subsequent Yankees captains were relocated to the locker next to Munson's. It was a private tribute made and maintained by those who shared a special bond with Munson, whether by friendship or by the ties of pinstripes. But when the Yankees moved across the street after the 2008 season, Munson's locker had to be moved as well.
The current captain of the Yankees dresses next to an empty locker before every home game, but it's not Munson's. The space adjacent to Derek Jeter's locker stands empty as a tribute to all lost legends... while Munson's locker stands upstairs in a museum, encased in glass, visible to fifty thousand people a day.
It's a perfect microcosm of everything that's wrong with the stadium itself. My Yankee Stadium, with its rickety frame and uncomfortable seats and peeling paint and quirks and nuances and undeniable baseball magic, has been replaced with a Stepford Wife fascimile and put on display for the world to gawk at. The Yankee Stadium I called home may not have had cathedral windows, but I worshipped there for fifteen years, poured hundreds of prayers into those walls, and emerged with just as many secrets and divine inclinations.
I'll get used to it eventually. I'll keep going to the games, and as my time spent in section 211 starts to approach my time spent in Section 9, I'll start to build a new set of memories to cherish and a new set of prayers to live by. But last Saturday, for the first time in my life, I sat in Yankee Stadium and felt homeless.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Bigger is Better
"At last, I think I know. The past is where we keep what might have been, but it's best to let it go because we'll never be December boys again." -- Peter Cincotti
I'm fastidious about food and choose freshly prepared dishes filled with quality ingredients whenever possible. That is, until it's time for dessert. Marshmallow Peeps, the infamous "mystery pastry" my hospital serves during Grand Rounds, anything made by Hostess -- it's all fair game. Oddly enough, I grew up with diabetics on one side of the family and pastry chefs on the other side; if I ate dessert at all as a kid, it was prepared by a master. I wasn't corrupted until I started high school and met The Big Cookie.
The Big Cookie was a lunchtime legend: six inches in diameter, loaded with chocolate chips, burnt around the edges, raw in the middle, and so buttery that the grease would soak through the wax paper wrapping. I delightfully consumed one of these monsters every other day or so for four years and would practically start experiencing withdrawal symptoms during long vacations and summer holidays. Even after I graduated, I'd make pilgrimages from college every few months to pick up a Big Cookie or two.
Then, about three years ago, my high school switched cafeteria companies and The Big Cookie went the way of the dodo. Students protested and alumni ranted, but nothing could be done. Every once in a while, the administration heralds the return of The Big Cookie and we all rush back to campus... but they always hand us a small, crisp, dry, inferior cookie and pretend like they can't see the difference.
My college's chocolate chip cookies were a decent enough substitute, but since I graduated, I've been on a mission to find a beautiful, perfect, crave-satisfying chocolate chip cookie recipe. This week, I gave my quest another shot using a modified version of a recipe I found online.
Trouble was, my culinary experimentation coincided with a telecast of Dancing with the Stars. Thus, Gilles Marini sensuously dipped his partner and I boiled my butter instead of melting it. I added it to a bowl with sugar and vanilla anyway and started mixing the ingredients. Then Dmitry Chaplin sashayed around the dance floor with half a shirt on and I let the mixer run for five minutes. When I came to my senses and checked the bowl, I had a thick, viscous, caramel-colored goo instead of creamed butter and sugar
I had inadvertently created butter toffee. And because I wanted chocolate chip cookies more than I wanted toffee, I continued with the recipe (with the addition of some chopped almonds to enhance the toffee flavor). I ended up with something unbelievable: a rich, complex chocolate chip cookie that's soft when eaten hot and brittle when eaten cold. It's not The Big Cookie by a long shot, but it's a keeper.
[Insert yet-to-be-chosen recipe name here]
1/4 cup + 2 tbsp salted butter
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 cup white sugar
1/2 tbsp vanilla
1 egg
1 cup flour
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp salt
3/4 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips
1/4 cup crushed almonds, pecans, or walnuts (if desired)
Mix sugars and vanilla in a large bowl. Melt butter in the microwave or in a small saucepan until it begins to bubble, then add it directly to the sugar mixture and mix for five minutes. The mixture should be thick, viscous, and similar to caramel in color and consistency. Add egg, then add flour, baking soda, and salt, mixing after each until fully incorporated. Stir in chocolate chips and nuts, and if you have some time to kill, refrigerate the dough for a few hours before baking.
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Drop spoonfuls of dough onto a greased or lined cookie sheet. (They will spread out in the oven, so make sure to leave 2-3 inches of space between spoonfuls.) Bake for 18-20 minutes or until edges are browned. Yields ten big cookies, twenty medium-sized cookies, or a ton of small cookies.
I'm fastidious about food and choose freshly prepared dishes filled with quality ingredients whenever possible. That is, until it's time for dessert. Marshmallow Peeps, the infamous "mystery pastry" my hospital serves during Grand Rounds, anything made by Hostess -- it's all fair game. Oddly enough, I grew up with diabetics on one side of the family and pastry chefs on the other side; if I ate dessert at all as a kid, it was prepared by a master. I wasn't corrupted until I started high school and met The Big Cookie.
The Big Cookie was a lunchtime legend: six inches in diameter, loaded with chocolate chips, burnt around the edges, raw in the middle, and so buttery that the grease would soak through the wax paper wrapping. I delightfully consumed one of these monsters every other day or so for four years and would practically start experiencing withdrawal symptoms during long vacations and summer holidays. Even after I graduated, I'd make pilgrimages from college every few months to pick up a Big Cookie or two.Then, about three years ago, my high school switched cafeteria companies and The Big Cookie went the way of the dodo. Students protested and alumni ranted, but nothing could be done. Every once in a while, the administration heralds the return of The Big Cookie and we all rush back to campus... but they always hand us a small, crisp, dry, inferior cookie and pretend like they can't see the difference.
My college's chocolate chip cookies were a decent enough substitute, but since I graduated, I've been on a mission to find a beautiful, perfect, crave-satisfying chocolate chip cookie recipe. This week, I gave my quest another shot using a modified version of a recipe I found online.
Trouble was, my culinary experimentation coincided with a telecast of Dancing with the Stars. Thus, Gilles Marini sensuously dipped his partner and I boiled my butter instead of melting it. I added it to a bowl with sugar and vanilla anyway and started mixing the ingredients. Then Dmitry Chaplin sashayed around the dance floor with half a shirt on and I let the mixer run for five minutes. When I came to my senses and checked the bowl, I had a thick, viscous, caramel-colored goo instead of creamed butter and sugar
I had inadvertently created butter toffee. And because I wanted chocolate chip cookies more than I wanted toffee, I continued with the recipe (with the addition of some chopped almonds to enhance the toffee flavor). I ended up with something unbelievable: a rich, complex chocolate chip cookie that's soft when eaten hot and brittle when eaten cold. It's not The Big Cookie by a long shot, but it's a keeper.
[Insert yet-to-be-chosen recipe name here]
1/4 cup + 2 tbsp salted butter
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 cup white sugar
1/2 tbsp vanilla
1 egg
1 cup flour
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp salt
3/4 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips
1/4 cup crushed almonds, pecans, or walnuts (if desired)
Mix sugars and vanilla in a large bowl. Melt butter in the microwave or in a small saucepan until it begins to bubble, then add it directly to the sugar mixture and mix for five minutes. The mixture should be thick, viscous, and similar to caramel in color and consistency. Add egg, then add flour, baking soda, and salt, mixing after each until fully incorporated. Stir in chocolate chips and nuts, and if you have some time to kill, refrigerate the dough for a few hours before baking.
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Drop spoonfuls of dough onto a greased or lined cookie sheet. (They will spread out in the oven, so make sure to leave 2-3 inches of space between spoonfuls.) Bake for 18-20 minutes or until edges are browned. Yields ten big cookies, twenty medium-sized cookies, or a ton of small cookies.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Dream On
"Half my life's in books' written pages. Live and learn from fools and from sages. You know it's true; all these things come back to you." -- Aerosmith
Six years ago, when it came time to choose classes for my senior year of high school, I petitioned for permission to take more classes than normally allowed. My request was approved, I carefully chose my five-and-a-half classes, meticulously plotted out my schedule... and was foiled by timeslot conflicts. I was left with half a class to fill after I rearranged things, and motivated solely by the Honors curve it offered, I chose Psychology in Literature.
"I was in an outdoor cafe and the sky turned red. I looked to the west and saw a mushroom cloud. A fireball started towards us, rolling across the land. Some dude in the cafe started chanting 'USA! USA!' which struck me as the downright worst thing to say or feel at the moment." -- 12.20.2003
I don't remember too much about the class, but I'll never forget one of the teacher's weirder requests. On our first day of class, she introduced The Metamorphosis by discussing the importance of dreams to writers. Then, as a tool for inspiration and self-analysis, she asked us to start recording our dreams.
"I was in the desert at dusk with a machine gun. Bruce Willis, Steve Buscemi, the entire family from 'My Big Fat Greek Wedding,' and I were camped out on the highland, while Louis XIV, Lucius Malfoy, some storm troopers, and my old lab partner were on the lowland behind a rock." -- 11.03.2003
Every day for eight months, I kept a notebook and a green pen next to my bed and wrote down anything that crossed my unconscious mind. The practice stopped once I finished high school, and almost as punishment, my ability to recall my dreams diminished as well.
"He ran up to me, started telling me about this petite blond girl that he met, and asked me to help him find her. I agreed to help and off we went, wandering the streets, calling her name. I was searching half-heartedly because I was upset at the prospect of handing him over to someone else, but I just wanted him to be happy." -- 09.29.2003
I dug out my old dream notebook today, just to see if my seventeen year-old subconscious was more insightful than I remember. The entries shocked me; apparently, I was dreaming about dilemmas, crushes, and life crises weeks and sometimes months before my conscious mind acknowledged their existence. (Some of the stranger and/or more insightful entries are scattered between these paragraphs.) Sparked by this realization -- as well as two recent dreams on two consecutive nights that were so strange and interesting that I can't get them out of my mind -- I resumed recording my dreams this morning.
"I was a contestant on The Apprentice and had to search someone's living room for index cards bearing my name. No problem, I thought... then Donald Trump stole my glasses." -- 03.19.2004
In Thursday's dream, a man and I walked through a small-town street somewhere in the south. We entered a store filled with nothing but tomatoes and tomato products and started kissing between the beefsteaks and the heirlooms.
"Then I saw a man in black climbing the stairs to my new apartment, and I knew that the mob had hired him to kill Johnny. I had no idea who Johnny was and had never seen him before in my life, but my dream self seemed to be pretty attached to this guy. I snuck up on the assassin, disarmed him, smashed his head against the banister, and flung him over it." -- 09.23.2003
In Friday's dream, I was staying in a cabin in the Catskills, heard a weird noise in the bathroom, and walked in on someone horrifying in the shower. I freaked out, but my shower intruder locked eyes with me, spoke rationally, and I calmed down instantly.
"I went to spend the night at Columbia University and forgot pajamas and a change of clothes. I was staying in a room with eight other girls and all of them were borrowing my toiletries but refused to help with the clothing situation." -- 04.13.2004
My notebook and green pen are next to my bed. I'm looking forward to what tonight may bring.
"I was in school and my kidneys disintegrated. I ran to JS for help and he massaged my back so I'd live for five hours rather than three." -- 10.12.2003
Six years ago, when it came time to choose classes for my senior year of high school, I petitioned for permission to take more classes than normally allowed. My request was approved, I carefully chose my five-and-a-half classes, meticulously plotted out my schedule... and was foiled by timeslot conflicts. I was left with half a class to fill after I rearranged things, and motivated solely by the Honors curve it offered, I chose Psychology in Literature.
"I was in an outdoor cafe and the sky turned red. I looked to the west and saw a mushroom cloud. A fireball started towards us, rolling across the land. Some dude in the cafe started chanting 'USA! USA!' which struck me as the downright worst thing to say or feel at the moment." -- 12.20.2003
I don't remember too much about the class, but I'll never forget one of the teacher's weirder requests. On our first day of class, she introduced The Metamorphosis by discussing the importance of dreams to writers. Then, as a tool for inspiration and self-analysis, she asked us to start recording our dreams.
"I was in the desert at dusk with a machine gun. Bruce Willis, Steve Buscemi, the entire family from 'My Big Fat Greek Wedding,' and I were camped out on the highland, while Louis XIV, Lucius Malfoy, some storm troopers, and my old lab partner were on the lowland behind a rock." -- 11.03.2003
Every day for eight months, I kept a notebook and a green pen next to my bed and wrote down anything that crossed my unconscious mind. The practice stopped once I finished high school, and almost as punishment, my ability to recall my dreams diminished as well.
"He ran up to me, started telling me about this petite blond girl that he met, and asked me to help him find her. I agreed to help and off we went, wandering the streets, calling her name. I was searching half-heartedly because I was upset at the prospect of handing him over to someone else, but I just wanted him to be happy." -- 09.29.2003
I dug out my old dream notebook today, just to see if my seventeen year-old subconscious was more insightful than I remember. The entries shocked me; apparently, I was dreaming about dilemmas, crushes, and life crises weeks and sometimes months before my conscious mind acknowledged their existence. (Some of the stranger and/or more insightful entries are scattered between these paragraphs.) Sparked by this realization -- as well as two recent dreams on two consecutive nights that were so strange and interesting that I can't get them out of my mind -- I resumed recording my dreams this morning.
"I was a contestant on The Apprentice and had to search someone's living room for index cards bearing my name. No problem, I thought... then Donald Trump stole my glasses." -- 03.19.2004
In Thursday's dream, a man and I walked through a small-town street somewhere in the south. We entered a store filled with nothing but tomatoes and tomato products and started kissing between the beefsteaks and the heirlooms.
"Then I saw a man in black climbing the stairs to my new apartment, and I knew that the mob had hired him to kill Johnny. I had no idea who Johnny was and had never seen him before in my life, but my dream self seemed to be pretty attached to this guy. I snuck up on the assassin, disarmed him, smashed his head against the banister, and flung him over it." -- 09.23.2003
In Friday's dream, I was staying in a cabin in the Catskills, heard a weird noise in the bathroom, and walked in on someone horrifying in the shower. I freaked out, but my shower intruder locked eyes with me, spoke rationally, and I calmed down instantly.
"I went to spend the night at Columbia University and forgot pajamas and a change of clothes. I was staying in a room with eight other girls and all of them were borrowing my toiletries but refused to help with the clothing situation." -- 04.13.2004
My notebook and green pen are next to my bed. I'm looking forward to what tonight may bring.
"I was in school and my kidneys disintegrated. I ran to JS for help and he massaged my back so I'd live for five hours rather than three." -- 10.12.2003
Friday, April 3, 2009
Better Than Ever
"I'm twenty-two for a moment. She feels better than ever... and we're on fire. We're making our way back from Mars." -- Five For Fighting
I became an engineer to put my talent for innovation to good use, to help people without having to directly interact with them, to satisfy my curiosity about the way things work, to play with fire and electricity and chemicals and really cool machines, to solve problems, to fix things that are broken, to "improve" things that aren't broken, to feel like a total geek and a total badass all at once, to live on the cutting edge.
Those are the basics. The specifics have changed a few dozen times during the last fifteen years and will undoubtedly change a few dozen more times before I retire, but last weekend, I was forcefully reminded of what started it all. I spent a few glorious days in DC with a few old friends, and despite meals, movies, Mythbusters, and many other fun experiences, we still found time to take a seven-mile walk around the city. We didn't stop for too long at any point along our stroll, but we did duck into the National Air and Space Museum for a few moments.
I walked through the doors. The security checkpoint was new, but the Gemini command module still loomed to my left, the moon rock still sat on my right, and The Spirit of St. Louis still hovered overhead. I was nine years old when I first set foot in that room and recognized my destiny in its contents. Biomedical engineering didn't really exist back then, so instead, I wanted to be a rocket scientist.
Specifically, I wanted to be John Aaron. Never heard of him? Not surprising, since he's the most perfect example of a true engineer that I know -- he made a career out of creatively fixing other people's messes from the sidelines. Aaron graduated from college in the early 1960s, and armed with nothing more than his physics degree, he took a job at NASA on a whim. Six months later, he was working for Mission Control handling flight operations for the Gemini missions. While nationally recognized heroes like Gus Grissom, Jim Lovell, and Neil Armstrong were out testing the limits of space, Aaron was one of the many faceless men keeping them alive from behind his computer screen.
I was obsessed with the NASA of the '60s and '70s during my childhood. How thrilling it must have been to explore space when space exploration was still so brand-new, and to actually have the ability to get your hands dirty in it! Troubleshooting efforts in those early days -- astronauts fixing broken lunar rovers with old maps and duct tape, flight controllers trying to make CO2 filters out of tube socks -- always sounded like so much fun to me. John Aaron was the unequivocal master of troubleshooting, and his common-sense cleverness saved the entire space program on more than one occasion. He was the guy who figured out how to bring the crew of Apollo 13 safely back to Earth using only 12 amps of power. He was also the only person able to teach the crew of Apollo 12 how to reboot their electrical systems after the spacecraft was struck by lightning, saving the mission from certain abortion. How? Years earlier, he had heard of a similar problem during an obscure test mission, researched it to satisfy his own curiosity, and consequently became the world's only expert on the issue.
John Aaron made himself superhuman using only his brain and his ingenuity, which has elevated him to Batman-esque status in my estimation. He was my hero for most of my childhood and adolescence, and he's one of the main reasons why I had my sights set on a career with NASA for so many years. Problem is, there's no place at NASA for Aaron's brand of quick-and-dirty, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants brand of engineering any more. Everything is planned, budgeted, methodical, and triple-checked nowadays. It's neater and probably more efficient, but it's not nearly as fun.
It's not exactly better, either. On my way home from DC, I read an article on Project Constellation, the new NASA missions that plan to return humans to the moon by 2019. I learned that NASA plans to phase out space shuttles during the next few years and begin using Orion spacecraft -- which bear an eerie resemblance to the Apollo command module I wandered past in the museum last weekend. Seems like Aaron and his fellow engineers were more right about things than any of us could have guessed.
I became an engineer to put my talent for innovation to good use, to help people without having to directly interact with them, to satisfy my curiosity about the way things work, to play with fire and electricity and chemicals and really cool machines, to solve problems, to fix things that are broken, to "improve" things that aren't broken, to feel like a total geek and a total badass all at once, to live on the cutting edge.
Those are the basics. The specifics have changed a few dozen times during the last fifteen years and will undoubtedly change a few dozen more times before I retire, but last weekend, I was forcefully reminded of what started it all. I spent a few glorious days in DC with a few old friends, and despite meals, movies, Mythbusters, and many other fun experiences, we still found time to take a seven-mile walk around the city. We didn't stop for too long at any point along our stroll, but we did duck into the National Air and Space Museum for a few moments.
I walked through the doors. The security checkpoint was new, but the Gemini command module still loomed to my left, the moon rock still sat on my right, and The Spirit of St. Louis still hovered overhead. I was nine years old when I first set foot in that room and recognized my destiny in its contents. Biomedical engineering didn't really exist back then, so instead, I wanted to be a rocket scientist.
Specifically, I wanted to be John Aaron. Never heard of him? Not surprising, since he's the most perfect example of a true engineer that I know -- he made a career out of creatively fixing other people's messes from the sidelines. Aaron graduated from college in the early 1960s, and armed with nothing more than his physics degree, he took a job at NASA on a whim. Six months later, he was working for Mission Control handling flight operations for the Gemini missions. While nationally recognized heroes like Gus Grissom, Jim Lovell, and Neil Armstrong were out testing the limits of space, Aaron was one of the many faceless men keeping them alive from behind his computer screen.
I was obsessed with the NASA of the '60s and '70s during my childhood. How thrilling it must have been to explore space when space exploration was still so brand-new, and to actually have the ability to get your hands dirty in it! Troubleshooting efforts in those early days -- astronauts fixing broken lunar rovers with old maps and duct tape, flight controllers trying to make CO2 filters out of tube socks -- always sounded like so much fun to me. John Aaron was the unequivocal master of troubleshooting, and his common-sense cleverness saved the entire space program on more than one occasion. He was the guy who figured out how to bring the crew of Apollo 13 safely back to Earth using only 12 amps of power. He was also the only person able to teach the crew of Apollo 12 how to reboot their electrical systems after the spacecraft was struck by lightning, saving the mission from certain abortion. How? Years earlier, he had heard of a similar problem during an obscure test mission, researched it to satisfy his own curiosity, and consequently became the world's only expert on the issue.
John Aaron made himself superhuman using only his brain and his ingenuity, which has elevated him to Batman-esque status in my estimation. He was my hero for most of my childhood and adolescence, and he's one of the main reasons why I had my sights set on a career with NASA for so many years. Problem is, there's no place at NASA for Aaron's brand of quick-and-dirty, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants brand of engineering any more. Everything is planned, budgeted, methodical, and triple-checked nowadays. It's neater and probably more efficient, but it's not nearly as fun.
It's not exactly better, either. On my way home from DC, I read an article on Project Constellation, the new NASA missions that plan to return humans to the moon by 2019. I learned that NASA plans to phase out space shuttles during the next few years and begin using Orion spacecraft -- which bear an eerie resemblance to the Apollo command module I wandered past in the museum last weekend. Seems like Aaron and his fellow engineers were more right about things than any of us could have guessed.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Renaissance
"I could be wholesome, I could be loathsome... I guess I'm a little bit shy. Why don't you like me?! Why don't you like me without making me try?" -- Mika
"We finally did meet, and let me tell you -- we loved the first and last kind of love. I was perfect for her soul."
"I was perfect for his heart."
"And together, we are perfect apart." -- Pat Monahan and Brandi Carlile
"Hey Stephen, I could give you fifty reasons why I should be the one you choose. All those other girls? Well, they're beautiful... but would they write a song for you? Ha!" -- Taylor Swift
Those three quotes started off three blog entries I started writing and couldn't bring myself to finish. Put together, I think they relate the story I was trying to tell better than my words ever could.
Anynotoveritway, I indulged in one of my favorite hobbies yesterday: I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art with a sketchbook, some pencils, a camera, and a friend, and we spent the whole day getting lost there. Most of the American Wing was closed, security guards were uncharacteristically miserable, and the place was packed with tourists, but it was still a lovely day. I also got free admission by flashing my college ID, which didn't work when I actually WAS a college student.
I didn't get a lot of drawing done – I planned to arrive at the museum two hours earlier than my friend to make myself some time to sketch, but thanks to weekend subway service changes, I ran late and she ran early. I think Athene looks good half-finished, though, and since one tourist asked if she could take a picture of me with it, I guess someone else thought so, too.
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"We finally did meet, and let me tell you -- we loved the first and last kind of love. I was perfect for her soul."
"I was perfect for his heart."
"And together, we are perfect apart." -- Pat Monahan and Brandi Carlile
"Hey Stephen, I could give you fifty reasons why I should be the one you choose. All those other girls? Well, they're beautiful... but would they write a song for you? Ha!" -- Taylor Swift
Those three quotes started off three blog entries I started writing and couldn't bring myself to finish. Put together, I think they relate the story I was trying to tell better than my words ever could.
Anynotoveritway, I indulged in one of my favorite hobbies yesterday: I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art with a sketchbook, some pencils, a camera, and a friend, and we spent the whole day getting lost there. Most of the American Wing was closed, security guards were uncharacteristically miserable, and the place was packed with tourists, but it was still a lovely day. I also got free admission by flashing my college ID, which didn't work when I actually WAS a college student.
I didn't get a lot of drawing done – I planned to arrive at the museum two hours earlier than my friend to make myself some time to sketch, but thanks to weekend subway service changes, I ran late and she ran early. I think Athene looks good half-finished, though, and since one tourist asked if she could take a picture of me with it, I guess someone else thought so, too.
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Saturday, February 28, 2009
The Price of Kindness
"Stores are never nice to people. They're nice to credit cards." -- Edward Lewis
I'm cautious by nature and I have New York sensibilities, so I'm instantly suspicious when strangers are kind to me for no apparent reason. What? I was raised to believe that a random person -- the type I meet once and will likely never meet again -- will never go out of his way to endear himself to me unless he can get something out of it, and with few exceptions, that has held true throughout my life. This intrinsic distrust of human intentions especially extends to two groups of people: gorgeous men and salespeople, and since the former can easily spawn half a dozen blog entries on its own, I'll only be discussing the latter today.
I've done a lot of shopping and worked a little retail in my time, and I've developed a few prejudices from my experiences:
Anyway, I've enjoyed two surprisingly pleasant shopping experiences lately and the events left me feeling so happy about life that I have to share them here. The weekend before last, I wandered around a J. Crew aimlessly for a while, collecting various items off the sale racks, when a very perky blonde lady approached me and asked if I needed any help. Before I knew it, the items in my hands were placed in a fitting room reserved for my use, she was suggesting jeans for my body shape and helping me choose sizes and colors, and she continued to help me and give me clothing advice and bring me new pieces despite the fact that a line of people now waited for fitting rooms. The lady working the cash register didn't ask me for the name of my attendant, but I gave it to her anyway along with a few words of praise.
I went shopping and was shocked by good service once again today -- only this time, I was in SoHo and decided to browse around Uniqlo after remembering that my cousin once got an enviable pair of jeans there. I found a style of dark denim I liked, pulled a 2, 4, 6, and 8 off the shelf (which I always do, and which usually pisses off salespeople immensely), and entered the fitting room. The attendant smiled, encouraged me to take as long as I needed, and told me to come out and let her examine the fit of the jeans once I determined my size. The second I pulled open the curtain, the attendant swooped over, checked that the waistband didn't gap, and dropped to one knee to pin my hems to the correct length. She then informed me that, should I choose to purchase the jeans, the store would alter them to fit my body... free of charge. "So bring these up front to the register, go get yourself some lunch, come back here with your receipt in about two hours, and they'll be ready for you."
I was stunned; this was a relatively inexpensive store and these were forty-dollar jeans, for heaven's sake! I asked more questions in search of a loophole or a catch -- and I found none. Turns out that the company believes that every single one of their customers should walk out of the store with clothing that fits their body as perfectly as possible. Thus, they offer free fitting and same-day tailoring on every pair of pants they sell.
Not only is it amazing customer service -- my jeans fit perfectly right out of the shopping bag, which NEVER happens to me -- but it's a fantastic business model. I'm sharing the news with anyone who will listen, and I'm planning on going back tomorrow morning for some colored denim that I can pass off as work pants!
I'm cautious by nature and I have New York sensibilities, so I'm instantly suspicious when strangers are kind to me for no apparent reason. What? I was raised to believe that a random person -- the type I meet once and will likely never meet again -- will never go out of his way to endear himself to me unless he can get something out of it, and with few exceptions, that has held true throughout my life. This intrinsic distrust of human intentions especially extends to two groups of people: gorgeous men and salespeople, and since the former can easily spawn half a dozen blog entries on its own, I'll only be discussing the latter today.
I've done a lot of shopping and worked a little retail in my time, and I've developed a few prejudices from my experiences:
- In an H&M or Old Navy, I don't expect the sales help to ever acknowledge my presence.
- In an Ann Taylor or Express, I expect one greeting and maybe one check-in if I'm not well-dressed. If I am well-dressed, I expect a couple of check-ins, a little help finding sizes, and minimal fitting room support.
- In a J. Crew or Banana Republic, I expect to be ignored if I'm not well-dressed. If I am well-dressed and I show genuine interest in full-price items, I expect a warm greeting, lots of check-ins, and lots of schlepping of items to and from the fitting room. If I am well-dressed and I show more interest in the clearance rack than the full-price items, I expect to be ignored after this becomes apparent.
- In an Abercrombie, Hollister, or Pac Sun, I expect to be treated as if I am not cool, trendy, and/or hip enough to set foot in the place. I do not shop in these stores by my own choice. If someone drags me to one and I am treated nicely by the sales help, there is no doubt in my mind that they're making fun of me while I'm not looking.
Anyway, I've enjoyed two surprisingly pleasant shopping experiences lately and the events left me feeling so happy about life that I have to share them here. The weekend before last, I wandered around a J. Crew aimlessly for a while, collecting various items off the sale racks, when a very perky blonde lady approached me and asked if I needed any help. Before I knew it, the items in my hands were placed in a fitting room reserved for my use, she was suggesting jeans for my body shape and helping me choose sizes and colors, and she continued to help me and give me clothing advice and bring me new pieces despite the fact that a line of people now waited for fitting rooms. The lady working the cash register didn't ask me for the name of my attendant, but I gave it to her anyway along with a few words of praise.
I went shopping and was shocked by good service once again today -- only this time, I was in SoHo and decided to browse around Uniqlo after remembering that my cousin once got an enviable pair of jeans there. I found a style of dark denim I liked, pulled a 2, 4, 6, and 8 off the shelf (which I always do, and which usually pisses off salespeople immensely), and entered the fitting room. The attendant smiled, encouraged me to take as long as I needed, and told me to come out and let her examine the fit of the jeans once I determined my size. The second I pulled open the curtain, the attendant swooped over, checked that the waistband didn't gap, and dropped to one knee to pin my hems to the correct length. She then informed me that, should I choose to purchase the jeans, the store would alter them to fit my body... free of charge. "So bring these up front to the register, go get yourself some lunch, come back here with your receipt in about two hours, and they'll be ready for you."
I was stunned; this was a relatively inexpensive store and these were forty-dollar jeans, for heaven's sake! I asked more questions in search of a loophole or a catch -- and I found none. Turns out that the company believes that every single one of their customers should walk out of the store with clothing that fits their body as perfectly as possible. Thus, they offer free fitting and same-day tailoring on every pair of pants they sell.
Not only is it amazing customer service -- my jeans fit perfectly right out of the shopping bag, which NEVER happens to me -- but it's a fantastic business model. I'm sharing the news with anyone who will listen, and I'm planning on going back tomorrow morning for some colored denim that I can pass off as work pants!
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
You Bet
"I thought I knew, but now I know that rose trees never grow in New York City." --Elton John
Costco sells Fox's U-Bet in gallon jugs. I nearly bought one last week and thought better of it, but I've been craving a chocolate egg cream ever since.
I don't know if it's a result of my Queens upbringing, my family's bakery roots, or my "world revolves around New York City" outlook on life, but it flat-out never occurred to me that anyone could ever find those two sentences incomprehensible. My universe tilted on its edge when I uttered them at work yesterday and, instead of the sympathy I craved, they garnered these two responses:
1. Egg cream? Easter is coming up...
2. What about foxes?
It took me a few minutes of stilted explanations to realize that my colleagues didn't know what an egg cream was and didn't recognize the brand name of the key ingredient. "Maybe it's a local thing?" suggested one of my compatriots, so I did a little research, learned that both originated in Brooklyn, and was satisfied with that explanation.
Later that night, I marveled to a few fellow native New Yorkers that my coworkers had never heard of egg creams or Fox's U-Bet. I was met with total confusion once again, and this time, the universe imploded outright. What did these people drink after school as kids? Did no one else's father scour every kitchen supply store in the tri-state area looking for pressurized seltzer bottles? Was I the only person not allowed to consume Hershey's syrup during my formative years? How can you go through two-odd decades of life without having the "milk first or syrup first" argument?
Thus, I'm writing this as a public service. Read, my poor deprived friends, and learn. [Clears throat so Brooklyn accent becomes more pronounced.]
An egg cream does not contain eggs, nor does it contain cream. It is a delicious frothy drink that originated a century and change ago in the fountain soda shops of Brooklyn, New York. You can make your own in five easy steps:
1. Find a tall glass and stick it in the fridge for a few minutes to chill it.
2. Pour an inch of chocolate syrup into the bottom of the glass.
3. Pour an inch of cold milk into the glass.
4. Fill the rest of the glass with cold, fresh seltzer water, preferably from a pressurized bottle.
5. Stir it up and enjoy.
You can use any old chocolate syrup in a pinch, but a real, authentic, honest-to-God egg cream must use Fox's U-Bet chocolate syrup. U-Bet, like the egg cream itself, was born in Brooklyn and its parent company still operates out of Brownsville. I grew up on this stuff, and we always made sure that at least one yellow-labeled jar -- it was only available in jars back then -- was stashed in the back of the fridge. Hershey's, Nestle, and even Bosco syrups were (and are) never purchased as long as U-Bet was (and is) available, since, owing to its inclusion of real cocoa, cane sugar, and powdered milk, the flavor is distinct from anything else on the market. I can taste the difference between U-Bet and any other syrup brand with little effort.
If you have the ingredients on hand, make an egg cream for yourself and see what I'm talking about. If you don't, let me know and I'll treat you to one, preferably in an outer borough dive diner where the seltzer man still delivers pressurized glass bottles every morning. You'll never feel more in touch with traditional New York City, I promise.
Costco sells Fox's U-Bet in gallon jugs. I nearly bought one last week and thought better of it, but I've been craving a chocolate egg cream ever since.
I don't know if it's a result of my Queens upbringing, my family's bakery roots, or my "world revolves around New York City" outlook on life, but it flat-out never occurred to me that anyone could ever find those two sentences incomprehensible. My universe tilted on its edge when I uttered them at work yesterday and, instead of the sympathy I craved, they garnered these two responses:
1. Egg cream? Easter is coming up...
2. What about foxes?
It took me a few minutes of stilted explanations to realize that my colleagues didn't know what an egg cream was and didn't recognize the brand name of the key ingredient. "Maybe it's a local thing?" suggested one of my compatriots, so I did a little research, learned that both originated in Brooklyn, and was satisfied with that explanation.
Later that night, I marveled to a few fellow native New Yorkers that my coworkers had never heard of egg creams or Fox's U-Bet. I was met with total confusion once again, and this time, the universe imploded outright. What did these people drink after school as kids? Did no one else's father scour every kitchen supply store in the tri-state area looking for pressurized seltzer bottles? Was I the only person not allowed to consume Hershey's syrup during my formative years? How can you go through two-odd decades of life without having the "milk first or syrup first" argument?
Thus, I'm writing this as a public service. Read, my poor deprived friends, and learn. [Clears throat so Brooklyn accent becomes more pronounced.]
An egg cream does not contain eggs, nor does it contain cream. It is a delicious frothy drink that originated a century and change ago in the fountain soda shops of Brooklyn, New York. You can make your own in five easy steps:
1. Find a tall glass and stick it in the fridge for a few minutes to chill it.
2. Pour an inch of chocolate syrup into the bottom of the glass.
3. Pour an inch of cold milk into the glass.
4. Fill the rest of the glass with cold, fresh seltzer water, preferably from a pressurized bottle.
5. Stir it up and enjoy.
You can use any old chocolate syrup in a pinch, but a real, authentic, honest-to-God egg cream must use Fox's U-Bet chocolate syrup. U-Bet, like the egg cream itself, was born in Brooklyn and its parent company still operates out of Brownsville. I grew up on this stuff, and we always made sure that at least one yellow-labeled jar -- it was only available in jars back then -- was stashed in the back of the fridge. Hershey's, Nestle, and even Bosco syrups were (and are) never purchased as long as U-Bet was (and is) available, since, owing to its inclusion of real cocoa, cane sugar, and powdered milk, the flavor is distinct from anything else on the market. I can taste the difference between U-Bet and any other syrup brand with little effort.
If you have the ingredients on hand, make an egg cream for yourself and see what I'm talking about. If you don't, let me know and I'll treat you to one, preferably in an outer borough dive diner where the seltzer man still delivers pressurized glass bottles every morning. You'll never feel more in touch with traditional New York City, I promise.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Seeing and Knowing
"I have a friend who's an artist... he'll say, 'I, as an artist, can see how beautiful a flower is. But you, as a scientist, take it all apart and it becomes dull.' There are all kinds of interesting questions that come from a knowledge of science, which only adds to the excitement and mystery and awe of a flower. It only adds. I don't understand how it subtracts." -- Richard Feynman
Everyone has a completely different perspective on life, but just how different does the world look to someone with a strong educational background in physical and biological sciences? I pondered this question a great deal during the nine months between my acceptance to engineering school and my first day there. I thought about how an in-depth scientific education would change the way I look at the world and what the ramifications of such an understanding would be. To work through my conflicting emotions, I started writing a short story about a high school senior lured into a scientific education by extraordinary promises:
The perspective of the story flits between the curious student and the jaded doctor she becomes, between a girl searching for some beauty in life and a woman who can't find beauty in anything. It took me four years to finish writing because it took four years for me to understand what I was trying to write.
120 credits of technical courses happened during those four years, and every circuit and every metabolic pathway and every differential equation made my world look a little bit different. So much science happened so gradually that I internalized an entire new world outlook without even realizing it.
Today, I took the elevator with a woman who tried -- and failed -- to make a phone call as we traveled between floors. She frowned at her BlackBerry, I muttered the words "Faraday cage," and she had no idea what I was talking about. For the first time in a long time, it dawned on me that people actually exist who can stand in an elevator without thinking of electrical fields rearranging charges.
As I rode the subway home today, shifting my weight from one leg to the other to balance against the inertia of the moving train, I tried to remember a life before scientific enlightenment and realized that I couldn't. But why would I want to? Honestly, how can someone book a stateroom on a cruise without first calculating the center of mass of the ship? How can someone examine a windshield crack without knowing how the defect will propagate? How can someone make cream of tomato soup without understanding why a spoonful of baking soda needs to go into the pot?
I agree with Richard Feynman; I adore knowing and find that life is incredibly beautiful when you understand the science behind it. But honestly, on some level, is not knowing just as fulfilling? Does my lack of ignorance mean that I'm missing out on the simple pleasures?
Everyone has a completely different perspective on life, but just how different does the world look to someone with a strong educational background in physical and biological sciences? I pondered this question a great deal during the nine months between my acceptance to engineering school and my first day there. I thought about how an in-depth scientific education would change the way I look at the world and what the ramifications of such an understanding would be. To work through my conflicting emotions, I started writing a short story about a high school senior lured into a scientific education by extraordinary promises:
"“But when all of this is said and done, you’ll know exactly who you are and what you’re doing on this planet.”
“I won’t have time to think, let alone find myself.”
“It’s intrinsic to science, don’t you see?!” Tommy slid onto the desk and leaned close to me. His eyes, bright as hummingbirds and just as jittery, flitted across my face. “And you're going to learn more about your own life than anyone! You’ll get some paint on your shirt and visualize the chemical structure of the pigments. You’ll blink and calculate how air resistance curls your eyelashes. You’ll laugh and recognize what muscles relax to form the dimple in your left cheek." His gaze softened. "You’ll understand the reflex pathway causing you to blush whenever I look at you too closely.”
I lglanced at my hands, then remembered my molecular biology. “Beta-adrenergic stimulation activates adenylyl cyclase, which raises cyclic AMP levels, which dilates facial capillaries.”
The perspective of the story flits between the curious student and the jaded doctor she becomes, between a girl searching for some beauty in life and a woman who can't find beauty in anything. It took me four years to finish writing because it took four years for me to understand what I was trying to write.
120 credits of technical courses happened during those four years, and every circuit and every metabolic pathway and every differential equation made my world look a little bit different. So much science happened so gradually that I internalized an entire new world outlook without even realizing it.
Today, I took the elevator with a woman who tried -- and failed -- to make a phone call as we traveled between floors. She frowned at her BlackBerry, I muttered the words "Faraday cage," and she had no idea what I was talking about. For the first time in a long time, it dawned on me that people actually exist who can stand in an elevator without thinking of electrical fields rearranging charges.
As I rode the subway home today, shifting my weight from one leg to the other to balance against the inertia of the moving train, I tried to remember a life before scientific enlightenment and realized that I couldn't. But why would I want to? Honestly, how can someone book a stateroom on a cruise without first calculating the center of mass of the ship? How can someone examine a windshield crack without knowing how the defect will propagate? How can someone make cream of tomato soup without understanding why a spoonful of baking soda needs to go into the pot?
I agree with Richard Feynman; I adore knowing and find that life is incredibly beautiful when you understand the science behind it. But honestly, on some level, is not knowing just as fulfilling? Does my lack of ignorance mean that I'm missing out on the simple pleasures?
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