Land of Yajeev

Fan Fix

2011-07-19T23:52:00.002-04:00

For those who are dissatisfied with the rate of output from the Land of Yajeev, I encourage you to consider that which has brought satisfaction to readers who have wanted more from their favorite literary universes than the authors have provided (e.g. Rowling's Hogwarts, Cuse and Lindelof's mystical island, Albert's Molecular Biology of the Cell): Fan Fiction.

I authorize you, dear loyal readers, you heartbreaking few who visit the blog twice or thrice daily in hopes of espying a new (mis)adventure from your humble narrator, to imagine for yourselves and document the antics in which I might find myself. Feel free to take liberties as to the (alternate) universe(s) you imagine me to inhabit and negotiate. Crossover interactions with characters from other narratives (e.g. fantasy novels, blogs, reality shows, scholarly research) are wholeheartedly endorsed.

Monetization of the Land of Yajeev without Yajeev's written consent is expressly prohibited. Please be charitable in your extra-canonical depictions.

Response to Recent Comments

2011-01-09T18:35:00.004-05:00

In the great blog post drought of 2010, I have received many comments that have, until now, gone unaddressed. Here, I will respond to a representative few.

My November 16, 2009 entry entitled "Dear Bob Gunton..." generated a lot of buzz in the comments section. Anonymous wrote:

Hello, I think this is the coollest blog I`ve seen. I really like your theme.
Tramadol Buy Online

Anonymous, thank you for your kind words. I know you've read a lot of blogs with a variety of interesting themes. To think that mine is the coollest you've seen really means a lot. Best of luck with your online Tramadol sales.

Another anonymous reader commented on the same post:

Hello! Excellent site, keep up the good work!
Order Cheap Accutane

Thanks, Anonymous! I will do my best not to let you down. I'm sorry it's been so long between posts. Best of luck with your cheap Accutane sales.

A third anonymous respondent shared:

I usually don't post in blogs but your blog forced me to, amazing work.. beautiful !
Buy Cheap Ultram Online

Anonymous, I don't know what to say. I am honored that, after reading my blog, you felt compelled to share your positive feedback. Might I say that I admire your creative punctuation usage. Best of luck with your cheap Ultram sales.

The December 13, 2009 post, "A Cold Day in Hell" resonated with a lot of readers, many of whom left comments.

オテモヤン wrote:

オナニー
逆援助
SEX
フェラチオ
ソープ
逆援助
出張ホスト
手コキ
おっぱい
フェラチオ
中出し
セックス
デリヘル
包茎
逆援
性欲

I'm speechless. オテモヤン, I hope you know that you are welcome to comment here any time, but please remember that this blog is family entertainment, so keep it clean.

Anonymous wrote, quite flatteringly,

nice post. I would love to follow you on twitter.

You're in luck, Anonymous. During my extended blog hiatus, I have been sharing 140-or-fewer-character morsels of wit and wisdom. Check it out here!

Yet another anonymous commenter chimed in:

Hi all. How are you?

Hello. I am fine, thank you. How are you?

Finally, Mark wrote:

Isn't that the final irony of life -- isn't it????

Mark, I have no idea what that even means. In the future, if you wish to comment on the blog, have a point. It makes it so much more interesting for the reader.

Thank you, everyone (except Mark--you can do better), for your comments. It brings me great pleasure that such high-caliber conversation continues at the Land of Yajeev even when new blog posts aren't forthcoming. The comments section at the end of each post represents the leading edge of intellectual discourse of our society. Keep your comments coming!

Inaugural Post of the New Year

2010-12-28T22:55:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year! I can’t believe it’s already 2010. I meant to write this a few (hundred) days ago, but you know how crazy things get after the first of the year. Thanks for standing by. My New Years Resolution is to post at least one entry per week for the duration of this calendar year. Here goes nothing.

I’m sure you’re wondering how I’ve spent the first three hundred sixty-two three hundred sixty-fifths of the New Year. I won’t bore you with all of the details, but here are a few highlights.

I’ve tweeted slightly more regularly than I blogged.

I consumed more than 10,000 calories over the course of three epic intra-departmental eating contests. I won two out of three (details to follow).

I went for several walks to the Connecticut River and back.

While my two fantasy football teams (The Fighting Fungi and The Hartford Wild Yeast) performed miserably, my little lady took home the virtual trophy after her Independent Variables won this weekend’s championship match-up. I’ve never been prouder.

Also, I’m caught up on Dexter.

That about sums it up, but the year is still young. I can’t wait to see what blessings and surprises 2010 has in store for me.

A cold day in hell

2009-12-13T18:28:00.004-05:00

“I’d like to wait inside a little longer. I lost my dad,” I explained Thursday night to the security guard attempting to herd straggling Cleveland and Pittsburgh fans through the stadium exits. Probably because it was 14 degrees outside (the news said it felt like six below with the wind), the bundled enforcer had mercy on me.

I circled the stadium concourse, hoping to find my father who had come to the game almost completely prepared: long underwear, two pairs of pants, two jackets, a shirt, a Hines Ward Super Bowl replica jersey, gluten bread, a blanket, his Terrible Towel, scarf, hat, gloves, and video camera. One thing he lacked, however: his cell phone.

I was similarly cloaked but still felt especially vulnerable to the 40 miles-per-hour wind ripping through the stadium after an unimaginable 13-6 Browns victory. I had brought my cell phone, but it was worthless in locating an off-the-grid father. One moment, I had been standing next to my dad and on the phone with my mother to coordinate a stadium pick-up. The next, I had hung up to find that Dad had wandered off, distracted by some flashing lights or tantalizing mirage of warmth or bratwurst.

I circled the stadium in the opposite direction, still unable to find my dad (or a suitable replacement). My phone rang. It was my wife. She was crushed by the Steelers’ loss. “I can’t talk,” I interrupted her. “I lost my dad!” I shouted over the rumpus of rowdy Browns fans (class of the Midwest) chanting “Pittsburgh sucks!” and other assorted non-bloggables.

I was tired and cold and inexplicably carrying two commemorative Cleveland Browns travel mugs that Dad and I had received with the hot chocolate we bought during the third quarter. “I don’t want to keep this,” I had said to my dad at the point of sale. “I want to save them,” my dad insisted. “I’ll cover the Browns’ logos with Steelers’ logos!” Against my better judgment, I acquiesced, and now I was wandering the halls of Cleveland Browns Stadium clutching two Browns’ mugs. Enthused Brownie lovers attempted to high-five me, assuming I was a rank-and-file member of the Dawg Pound. “No thanks.” “No way, man.” “I’m not celebrating.” “No high-fives for you.” And so on.

My phone rang again. It was my mom. Having attempted to meet us at the stadium entrance, she had found herself inextricably locked into the flow of exiting traffic with road closures and police officers directing all vehicles away from the stadium and onto the highway. “I’m on the interstate heading to Erie!” she shouted. “I have to go!”

“I’m in no hurry,” I comforted her. “I lost Dad.”

I returned to the spot where I last saw Dad and waited for several minutes, hoping he might appear there. He did not. I scanned the faces of the now thinning crowd of football patrons. None belonged to Pops. Mom called again. “I’m on the highway heading back to the stadium. Have you found Dad?”

“Not yet,” I reported. “Call me when you get closer.

Another ten minutes elapsed. My phone rang anew. It was Mom. “Good news. They found Dad.”

“Found Dad? Who found Dad?”

“The police. He’s in the West Third Parking Lot.”

“Isn’t that where you were parked before you tried to find us?”

“Yep.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

I found Dad, blanket-swaddled in a police car, his gluten bread nestled snugly in his lap. Oh, God, they’ve arrested him, I thought. When I got closer to the car, Dad rolled down the window and said, “You left me! I had to fend for myself! Get in the car.”

I got in the backseat of the car, and Dad explained that when he lost me, he began to wander through the stadium concourse. After a few minutes of searching, he aggravated a previously pulled groin muscle and fell to the ground, where he sat for several hellish minutes, sans cell phone, unable to call either me or my mother. Not a single good Samaritan was to be found among the Browns fans (big surprise) to help him to his feet. Finally, a stadium employee came to his assistance. Dad told him that his ride was waiting for him in the West Third Parking Lot (though, unbeknownst to Dad, his ride was actually heading away from the stadium toward Pennsylvania in a sea of traffic). The employee fetched a wheelchair and pushed Dad around the stadium to the indicated lot, whereupon he deposited my father saying, “This is as far as I can go. I need the wheelchair back.” Dad stood up, and the man and wheelchair were gone. Dad, believing that Mom was somewhere in the West Third Parking Lot and not on her way out of state, limped pathetically to find her. After several minutes, a police officer had mercy on my father and offered him the use of his cell phone and warmth of his car.

About ten minutes after I found Dad, Mom showed up (fortunately, she thought better of skipping town). The only reason my mom had even come to Cleveland was to make the adventure a little simpler for Dad and me. The plan had been for her to drive us to the game (which she did), deposit us at the stadium before the game (which she did), work in the heated car during the game (which she did), and retrieve us near the stadium after the game so that we would have minimal time walking to and from the stadium in the bitter cold (which she did... not). Altogether, Dad and I spent nearly 90 minutes post-game wandering the streets and stadium of Cleveland and were among the last few fans to escape the elements on one of the coldest nights of the year.

Thanks to Dad’s friend Jeff who let us use his season tickets for this game. Thanks to Dad for braving the cold. And thanks to Mom for attempting to make our lives a little easier.

Dear Bob Gunton...

2009-11-16T19:05:00.003-05:00

Dear Bob Gunton…

As I’m sure you’ll agree, it was a pleasure to meet at the Atlanta International Airport a little over a week ago. I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but as handsome as you appear on 24 and in the Shawshank Redemption, you were even more striking in real life. Once again, I apologize for so eagerly approaching you. As a blogger with tens of readers and a yeast biochemist with ones of individuals who are familiar with my research, believe me, I know what it is like to be harassed by the adoring masses.

Thank you for the sage advice to continue to “tune in to 24” for “another exciting season” and to “keep cheering for Ethan” (your character, the Chief of Staff to the President of the United States). Had our encounter not been so late at night, I’m sure we both would have had more interesting things to ask and say to each other.

Below is the picture we took in the airport. I figured you’d want it for your scrapbook or facebook page (which, oddly enough, I couldn’t find—please be sure to add me as a friend as soon as possible!).

I’ve told all my friends about our chance (nay, fated) encounter. I’m sure you have as well. Keep up the great work, and I’ll do the same.

Keep in touch,
Yajeev

P.S. I was so glad to see that you were completing sudoku puzzles on the plane. They say it really helps to keep the brain sharp.

Wildest Fantasy

2009-10-31T16:21:00.005-04:00

This football season, the wife and I have been introduced to the all-consuming obsession that is fantasy football.

For those who are unfamiliar with this nifty little pastime, here is a quick explanation. Each member of a fantasy league is the "owner" of a fantasy professional football team comprised of actual professional football players. Prior to the opening game of the real NFL season, league owners assemble (in person or, more commonly, via the interwebs) for a draft, wherein teams are assembled as owners take turns selecting players to fill out their rosters. As the real-life players compete on the gridiron, their fantasy counterparts score or lose points accordingly. Quarterbacks, for instance, earn points for total passing yards and touchdown passes but lose points for interceptions or lost fumbles. Every week, your team goes head-to-head with another in the league, and the winner is the owner with the most accumulated points on his roster. Throughout the season, adjustments can be made: benching players (you don’t want to be the idiot who plays an injured athlete or a guy on his bye week), making trades, etc.

I dove headlong into this venture, joining two Fantasy Football leagues in this inaugural year of my participation. In keeping with the central theme of my life’s work for the past six years, my teams are the Hartford and New Haven Wild Yeast. The wife, a bit more prudent in her fantasy expenditure, is coaching just one team: The New Castle Gangstas. Her mascot is a hooded sweatshirt—which is about as gangsta as the little lady gets. Other teams in our leagues include the Angry Muffins, Community Organizers, Fighting Boobies, and Casey Hampton Fit Club. Additional teams have family-blog-inappropriate monikers.

Allegedly, smacktalk abounds in fantasy football, with an online "smackboard" provided for each game. We have been terribly disappointed by the dearth of smack. We do our best to egg on our opponents (insulting their players, their mothers, their players' mothers, their mothers' players, etc.), but none have taken the bait.

We now watch football in a new way. No longer do we simply cheer for teams to win or lose for the simplistic reason of liking or disliking them or for the impact that their performances will have on the standings of our beloved Steelers. Now, we switch from game to game, cheering members of our own squads while wishing fumbles and interceptions and missed field goals on our opponents’ athletes. Each week, we scour the statistics and make our best predictions for who will be the highest point getters based on past performance, conditions in which they thrive (or not), who their opponents are, etc. and make trades and select starters accordingly. We read columns by dedicated professional fantasy football analysts, track each player’s projected point total throughout the week, and monitor our adversaries' lineup changes, logging in to the league pages several times per day. So addictive is fantasy football, I have not yet found time to assemble my McDonald’s Monopoly game pieces or enter the winning codes online (no worries—I'm confident that I’ve won—my winnings will be waiting for me whenever I get to them).

Fantasy stats and potential roster adjustments are always on my mind. Last night, the wife was describing to our friends an educational research study she would like to perform for her PhD dissertation. Part of the proposed investigation involved tracking individual students’ academic performance by monitoring the grades of each pupil over time. As she described her plans, I interrupted her; my new idea was of much greater import than whatever research-statistical-significance-improving-education-and-bettering-mankind mumbo jumbo she was spouting, so I blurted out, "We should have a fantasy student league! We could pick students and get points for their grades and stuff!"

The moment passed— only minor interest was generated by my proposition, but I believe my idea is truly innovative. Last night's friendly get-together might not have been the appropriate venue in which to expand upon my scheme, so I will elaborate upon it here. At the beginning of a school year, members of a fantasy student league ("fantasy teachers") would draft a classroom. To make educated decisions, fantasy teachers would have access to dossiers on each potential pupil with information such as: past academic achievements and failures, grade-point-averages, athletic accomplishments and embarrassments, birth order, religion (you wouldn't want to draft all Jewish pupils, for instance, as you'd have an empty fantasy classroom on Rosh Hashanah and a dreadful score for the week!), attendance records, classroom participation statistics, medical charts (you'll want a fully vaccinated classroom roster), relationship history, and job data (you might not want to draft a student who's working 20 hours a week at The Gap).

Each week, your classroom will compete with another assembled from students in the same school or district and you will earn or lose points as appropriate to your students' performances. Below is a proposed scoring schedule for students in such a league:

Performances on Quizzes and Tests:
Grade of D or F: -3 points
Grade of C: 0 points
Grade of B: +1 point
Grade of A: +2 points
Grade of A+ or 100%: +3 points

Homework completion:
No assignments turned in complete and on time: -3 points
All assignments turned in complete and on time: +3 points

Classroom participation:
Every 3 questions or comments: +1 point
No questions or comments for the week: -2 points

Participation in a fight:
Wins the fight (and is not caught): +3 points
Loses the fight: -3 points
No decision (or caught fighting): 0 points

Consequences of Bad Behavior:
Missing Recess: -1 point
Detention: -3 points
In-school suspension: -5 points

Awards and Recognition:
Make the honor roll: +4 points
Student of the Week: +3 points
Earn a pizza through Book-It: +3 points
Win a spelling bee: +2 points
Win a game of Around-The-World: +1 point

Extracurricular Activities:
Weekly participation in recognized extracurricular activity: +1 point
Being a member of a winning athletic team: +1 point
Being a member of a losing athletic team: -1 point
Winning in a solo sport: +2 points
Losing in a solo sport: -2 points

Relationships:
In a relationship: +1 point
It's complicated: -1 point
Dumping: +4 points
Being dumped: -4 points

It would be prudent to disallow participation of "fantasy teachers" in districts in which their children attend school. 'Twould be a real shame to have a parent sabotaging their child's in-class performance to gain a competitive advantage over an opponent who has that student on his or her roster.

Depending on how successful the Fantasy Student League becomes, we can roll out an entire lineup of Reality-based Fantasy competitions. I've got a few in mind already, admittedly inspired by my own life experiences. In the Fantasy Science League, for example, participants would act as virtual funding agencies, drafting a lab of professors, post-docs (such as myself), graduate students, technicians, and undergrads. Points would be distributed for successful experiments that yield novel findings, authorship on papers in peer-reviewed journals, book chapters, and pretty western blots; points would be deducted for broken equipment, scientific fraud or misconduct, poor mentoring of younger scientists, and being scooped by competing labs.

Following naturally from Fantasy Student League is Fantasy Higher Education. In Fantasy Higher Ed, players earn points for academic achievement in proportion to the average amount of years it takes for an individual to make such achievements (4 points for bachelor's degree, 2 for a master's degree, 5 for a PhD, 3 for a JD, 1 for an LLM, 1 for each year of postdoctoral fellowship training, etc.). In contrast to most fantasy games, this fantastical competition, of course, would take much longer than a single year, as players would be tracked for the duration of their academic pursuits.

Perhaps the ultimate in Reality Fantasy contests is Fantasy Life, in which fantasy players ("gods") draft a team of real-life people as their own mock creations. Points are earned for life successes such as getting promotions, finding love, making babies, or purchasing hot tubs and detracted for missteps like going bankrupt, committing felonies, or traffic violations.

What Reality Fantasy competition would you like to see and how would points be allocated? Leave your ideas in the comments section!

A face only a mother could love

2009-08-30T21:24:00.009-04:00

“Don’t be alarmed,” I said calmly, standing in the doorway of the living room.

My wife turned her head, and upon glimpsing the monster that I had become, jumped from her chair and took two steps back. Even the dog didn’t recognize me. Aroused from his slumber, he leapt to a sitting position, cocking his head perplexedly. Not until after he tentatively licked my face did he become convinced of my identity.

The reactions at work were no less dramatic. One person burst into laughter. Several didn’t recognize me until after I had spoken. “Who the hell is that guy?” I heard one say. Each acquaintance I passed in the lab stared, wide-eyed. Those with whom I don’t work intimately mistook me for a new guy on the floor and greeted me warily, but politely.

The truth is that, staring in the mirror after my metamorphosis, I was more startled than the others. The beauty-to-beast transformation was remarkable.

After nearly ten years, I had finally put razor to chin. The face that had spent a decade in hiding (and protected from the sun’s harmful ultraviolet radiation) had been unveiled for the world to behold. The bush on my face was no more. An hour earlier, my wife had removed ten inches of hair from what was recently described as my “half Jew-fro” (my mother is a gentile). Hair that had most recently resided at or above neck level now overflowed a plastic grocery bag.

As I held the razor in my hand, memories swirled through my mind like cookie bits in a B/blizzard. My father had recently asked me, “How long will you be allowed to look like...this?" (“This” I gathered designated the furry mask and shaggy mane that I had borne for so long.) When I first met and wooed my wife, I had donned a stylish, trimmed goatee and well-trimmed locks. Over the course of our relationship, the goatee blossomed into a sweet garden of beardedness all over my face and the short locks into a tangled mop of ringlets. Indeed, until last Saturday, she had never laid eyes on my face. (“I didn’t know your lips looked that,” she told me after staring for several minutes.) I recalled the sensation of wearing a scarf during the dog days of summer, living under the oppression of matted tresses and thick facial hair, sweat rolling down my face, reflecting off of my hairs like a Plinko chip on the Price is Right.

Someone asked me if this reflected some kind of quarter-life crisis. In truth, my 30th birthday lurks around the corner. In less than three months, I will leave behind the rollicking exuberance of my late twenties and enter a decade of maturity and solemnity. I will be faced with the decision of what it is I actually want to do when I grow up.

But, this molting was no quarter-life crisis, nor was it a more realistic 39%-of-life crisis. I simply decided that I would like to know what I looked like. Now I know. I’ve taken a good hard look at myself, and I’ve decided: It’s time to grow my beard back.

Allium in the family

2009-07-10T00:11:00.008-04:00

The produce section of our grocery store has useful descriptions printed on cards above each variety of edible vegetation. For instance, naval oranges are "seedless and easy to eat". Jalapeno peppers are "delicious in salsas", and mangoes are "sweet and pulpy."

Novice that I am in all matters vegetarian, these twitterish descriptions were quite helpful the other night as I ricocheted semi-stochastically from one plant product to the next, warily collecting the (mostly green) items on my shopping list prepared by the wife.

While I may be inexperienced in the ways of cabbages, onions, and serrano chili peppers, I am no stranger to the strange and wonderful bulbousness of garlic. I appreciate a good garlic naan (and hyperbolic vegetable characterization) as much as the next guy, but even I was dubious when I read the description: "can be used in any recipe".

Seems a bold claim: "any recipe". Garlic in salsa? Of course. Pizza sauce? Oh yeah. Fruit salad? Perhaps. Chili? Why not? Sure, garlic can be used in "any recipe" in the strictest sense of the description, but I'm betting 2-1 against this anti-vampiric being a welcome additive to Grandma's lemon fluff dessert or the wife's strawberry pie.

But, as Aunt Josephine was fond of repeating, "To each his[/her] own." Just don't kiss me after enjoying your garlic-spiked lemonade.

This little piggy had naan.

2009-07-05T10:30:00.004-04:00

I have never been more proud to be an American.

Congratulations to Joey Chestnut, a true American Idol and model citizen, for his exemplary athletic performance this weekend. He outperformed long-time Japanese rival Takeru Kobayashi in an Independence Day classic. Chestnut is a living testament to how beating your body into submission, years of dedication and preparation, and family support (his mother helped him train) can enable a person to reach his or her dreams. He is a paragon of intestinal fortitude, a competitor nonpareil.

The skeptics said it couldn't be done, but yesterday, Joey Chestnut surpassed his own personal best, setting a new world (and likely galactic) record in the Super Bowl of competitive eating. The beast of feast consumed a mammoth 68 hot dogs (and buns) in 10 minutes to take the championship belt at Nathan's Famous Fourth of July International Hot Dog Eating Contest in Coney Island, New York.

A hero of mine, Chestnut inspires me to consume more than is believed possible, to perpetually strive to improve upon past dietary achievements. A few personal bests I aspire to beat: 70 Quaker Steak & Lube chicken wings in one sitting, 4 consecutive nights of India Oven chicken vindaloo (with cheese and garlic naan), eating main courses from every restaurant on the main drag in my hometown in the course of one New Year's Eve celebration (thanks, Dad!)...

I may be no Joey Chestnut, but I will never cease striving to be more like JC.

Come to Jesus.

2009-06-11T09:21:00.004-04:00

Looks like she's finally found God.

Good for her.

Return of Russ

2009-05-24T11:38:00.007-04:00

Land of Yajeev readers, I have been waiting a long time to be able say this: our voice has been heard. After abruptly euthanizing his blog, readers of this blog overwhelmingly (by a margin of 4-to-1) cried for Russ Parker's return to the internets. Return he has, and in marvelous form. He has broken his months-long silence with a handful of entries sure to delight!

He inspires me, and he's sure to please you. Please join me in welcoming back to the webisphere the inimitable Russ Parker.

Return of Russ

Turns out Obama was a decoy...

2009-05-23T17:43:00.004-04:00

... and LeBron is the messiah we've been waiting for.

He may just dull the memories Mike so painfully etched into the collective psyche of Cavaliers fans two decades ago.

LeBron = Dragonslayer.

The Other White Meat Flu

2009-05-11T22:09:00.007-04:00

The dreaded H1N1 virus has finally reached my fine town of Hartford, Connecticut. As a public service, I encourage fellow Connecticutians to avoid all superfluous human contact. If you find it absolutely necessary to interact with others, please take precaution.

Here are a few helpful tips:

Hold your breath.
Avoid excessive fistbumping and high fiving.
Keep kosher.
No wallowing.
Do not share straws with strangers.
Refrain from trough feeding.
Keep your windows closed and air conditioners oriented toward the outdoors.
Maintain a safe distance from all who oink maniacally, as I suspect this may be an early and too often undiagnosed indicator of swine flu infection.
Keep it tuned to the Land of Yajeev, your voice of reason in uncertain times of public health crisis.

Click the thumbnail image for H1N1 virus at low magnification:

Click the thumbnail image for H1N1 virus at ultra-high magnification:

Be cool, Planet Earth.

2009-04-25T12:53:00.012-04:00

In honor of Earth Day, the Land of Yajeev brings you this planet-friendly message.

By now, I am sure that all of my readers have succumbed to the brainwashing, er, well-reasoned arguments, of the liberal media elite and self-proclaimed scientific establishment about the imminent threat posed by global warming and the culpability of mankind in said threat.

To remedy this planetary malady, we have been encouraged to reduce our carbon footprints by reducing, reusing, recycling, and paying bottle deposits. Which we, as a species, have been doing for many years to little avail. Glaciers are still melting, water levels still rising, and the mercury still upticking.

To the end of finally reducing temperatures, I offer the following proposal. This summer, I exhort all of mankind in possession of window air conditioners to install their units facing outside and crank them up to their maximum capacity, blasting cold air into the great outdoors. For those fortunate enough to be chilled by central air, I recommend positioning fans facing open windows while running your air conditioners at their highest settings. This measure will require great sacrifice: we must be willing to endure squelchingly hot apartments and houses and swallow the enormous utility bills that will accompany the inconvenience.

For this effort to be successful, we must work together. One outward-facing AC will have little impact, but hundreds around the world pumping frigid air into the so-called environment may just forestall the cataclysmic, apocalyptic, nightmarish warming of the globe we've been so conditioned to fear. This should work--I am a scientist.

No trees or polar bears were harmed in the writing of this message.

You stay classy, San Diego

2009-04-18T21:26:00.009-04:00

I am coming off the longest drought in yajeev postage since the inception of this blog, and for that, I sincerely apologize. My (blog) readers are on the losing end of long workdays, long commutes, and long hours writing grant applications. I am woefully behind on blog posts and even woefullier behind on returning phone calls. I can only hope that my application readers are as kind to me as my blog readers.

Thus far, I've applied for six grants. Unfortunately, one agency has already informed me that my application was "excellent" but unfundable (the non-"outstanding" need not apply). Another told me that I was on the cusp of fundability... and asked me to politely wait two more months while they deliberated.

Today, we're ending a one-week vacation in Ron Burgundy's home town, San Diego, California. I had hoped to have enough free time to repopulate my languishing blogsite with several delightful little posts. Unfortunately, this dream did not materialize, as I received an email from one potential research funder (the one which placed me on the cusp) informing me of a last-minute telephone interview to take place this upcoming Tuesday morning. Thus, I've spent my non fun-in-sun (or, more accurately, non marching-in-sun-through-zoos-and-state-parks-and-along-beaches-or-from-airports-to-hotels-instead-of-waiting-for-complimentary-shuttles) time boning up on the details of an application I wrote several months ago.

Don't give up on me, dear readers. I keep a running list of blog post titles, waiting for the time to flesh them out... Please stay tuned.

Josh

2009-03-15T19:26:00.004-04:00

While I was preparing to move from Pittsburgh to Hartford last summer, unbeknownst to me, one of my best friends from early childhood passed away. I learned today that Josh, the boy who introduced me to The Legend of Zelda and invited me to play at his house when other kids in my class teased me mercilessly, died following an epileptic seizure and subsequent head trauma.

The (single) highlight of my athletic career came at Josh's hands. He was one of the strongest, most respected pitchers in Little League, and I one of the weakest, least regarded hitters (with a batting average hovering at .000). In the bottom of the final inning, Josh had all but wrapped up a no-hitter, when I came to bat. I swung at and missed (by a wide margin) the first two pitches. With a count of 0-and-2, I closed my eyes as he wound up for the third pitch (since keeping them open had brought me no success following the first two). Eyelids clenched, I swung and to everyone's surprise (especially mine), I had hit a line drive to an unsuspecting outfield and made it to first base before the ball. This story has long been the feather in the cap of a completely unillustrious personal sporting history... today, it falls flat.

Although I haven't seen him for over a dozen years, it is shocking and sobering when someone so vibrant, so healthy, so decent, so friendly slips away. He was 28.

The nitty gritties

2009-03-03T21:44:00.007-05:00

Many thanks to all who have expressed concern in the wake of my car accident. I must admit that I was puzzled by Benjamin's remark in his comment to my last post. He wrote, "I agree with most people: I'm glad you're alive!!" Most people? As if to imply that there exists a (vocal?) minority who might not be so glad...

The insurance adjuster called to inform me that my car had indeed been declared a total loss. I visited my beloved 2008 Honda Civic at the body shop last week to say my final goodbyes, retrieve some CDs, my umbrella, and a lawn ornament that had been in the car since we moved, and turn over my spare key. I've included a few pictures from our emotional final encounter.

I was surprised to find my car sitting in the parking lot with the key in the trunk. While it's not much to look at, and the front passenger tire is a little flat, the engine still runs. An industrious, opportunistic thief could have 'er up and running in no time, I'm sure.

In any event, I recovered the chocolate bar. Should tide me over while I look for another car.

Life

2009-02-19T14:15:00.005-05:00

On my way home from work last night, I hit an icy patch of highway and my car spun out of control. Supposedly, your life flashes before your eyes just before you die. Here is what went through my mind in the five seconds of spinning, careening, and repeated guard rail slamming.

uh oh... this can't be good... wonder if i'll make it home in time for lost... i hope the unopened chocolate bar in the passenger seat survives this ordeal... i'm due for an oil change in another few hundred miles... i'm hungry... what does a yeast loving cow say? schmoo! i better not repeat that joke outside the yeast community... no one will get it... wish i had something to blog about haven't updated for a while... ouch hit a guardrail... i wonder what bark's made of... no, but i'll have a diet coke... andrew bird sure can whistle what a songbird... lips are chapped... what's for dinner?... i miss tee ball... i haven't been to a zoo lately... sorry folks park's closed moose out front shoulda told ya... would be pretty sweet if the cavs acquired shaq... 4 8 15 16 23 42... if 42's the answer, what's the question?... when you're ready let me know i'll be waiting to make arrangements for the trip... ouch guardrail again... coming to a halt... in the middle of the highway... putter to the shoulder... breathe...

Thankfully, the stretch of highway was strangely empty when this transpired such that my car and the guardrail were the only casualties of this misadventure. I was protected from serious injury, walking away with minor back pain.

In reality, it is true: my life did pass before my eyes. As I spun out of control, I saw bright white lights and my wife's beautiful face. I said to myself, "This is it," expecting all to cut to black in a flash. There was no time to be scared. It would be over soon.

A moment later, I was sitting in my car straddling two lanes with a cliched white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. I was stunned to be conscious and breathing after two dizzying twists and two loud bangs. I maneuvered the metal and fiberclass cage in which I sat to the side of the road and waited for help. Miraculously, I live to blog again.

Mooving on

2009-02-15T09:23:00.005-05:00

Dear cows of Chick Fil A,

By now, you have no doubt noticed that I have become an official Facebook fan of the quarter pounder with cheese from your beefy competitor, McDonald's. I want to assure you that, truth be told, I'd prefer a Chick Fil A #1 value meal any day of the week (except Sunday) over the competition's burgers. It's just that you are nowhere to be found in all of New England. There are rumors that you are in one location near Boston and that you have a presence at a single amusement park in the Northeast, but there is no Chick Fil A haven within a realistic driving radius of Hartford.

It doesn't have to end this way, but you will need to make an extra effort. I will be more than glad to meet you half-way. Heaven knows I've spent many sleepless nights on behalf of our relationship. Were you to open a store within 40 miles of Hartford, I would happily make the trek (not every day--perhaps twice or thrice per week). The wife and I already make such a commute for each of our current jobs. We'd certainly drive as far for waffle fries and the best milkshakes in the biz.

Happy belated Valentine's Day, Chick Fil A. My heart will always be yours, but, for now, my stomach belongs to McDonald's. The nugget is in your court.

Love,
Yajeev

Pork barell

2009-02-06T15:58:00.007-05:00

For lab meeting snacks this morning, one labmate provided bagels and bacon cream cheese. Since then, I have been unable to get bacon out of my head. No matter which way I turn, bacon beckons me. Even as I have attempted to conduct my daily lab business, bacon confronts me on all fronts.

Check out a few of the links below to see how my day has proceeded in HD bacovision.

www.pubmed.com

http://landofyajeev.blogspot.com

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vegetarianism

www.sciencedaily.com

www.cnn.com

(thanks a lot to blitz and rt for filling my stomach and mind, respetively, with bacony goodness)

A picture is worth XLIII words

2009-02-01T22:34:00.003-05:00

courtesy of ESPN.com

Super Snub

2009-02-01T13:38:00.003-05:00

Somehow, I was not included in Sports Illustrated's recent online feature profiling celebrities and their Super Bowl picks. Which may, in the long run, be for the best... I don't want to be the jinx that costs my team the Lombardi Trophy.

So, rather than make an official Super Bowl prediction, I will merely report to my readers that I endorse the rational judgment of President Barack Obama, Howard Stern, Artie Lange, John Legend, Crystie Stewart, Patrick Dempsey, Julie Henderson, Tito Ortiz, Jessica White, Judah Frielander, Keith Olbermann, Wolf Blitzer, Misty May-Treanor, Kerri Walsh, Clyde Drexler, Tommy Davidson, Mike Alstott, Marcellus Wiley, Bobby Labonte, Jim Florentine, Abby Brammell, Chris Johnson, Matt Ryan, Matt Forte, Steve Slaton, Myron Rolle, and Deron Williams. That's 28 out of 40 celebrities. Would have been 29 out of 41 had my vote been recorded.

Perhaps next year the Super Bullies at SI.com will recognize the broad reach of the Land of Yajeev and consider my opinion in their VIP Big Game forecasts.

PS: Yes we can!

Make that the second most trusted name in lab banking...

2009-01-25T23:23:00.003-05:00

I proudly announced in my previous post that I had apparently surpassed a particular threshold of trustworthiness at my new job and had been named official lab banker.

It must have been all of the sweet science bling that coincidentally appeared on my bench that raised suspicions, because my title was soon after adjusted to official lab co-banker. Moreover, I have been relegated to the much less glamorous aspect of financial management: bookeeeping. The other co-banker is in charge of actually managing our collective assets.

...now how am I ever going to pay for this gold-plated pipette?

Yajeev: The Most Trusted Name in Lab Banking

2009-01-15T19:11:00.005-05:00

I must be doing something right in my new(ish) job, because yesterday I was named unofficial laboratory banker. I will be the guardian of lab recreational funds. As of today, we are about 50 dollars in the red. If projections hold (and lab members remember to bring their money to contribute to the fund), we will have a 20-dollar surplus by this time tomorrow. If not, I may soon be in line for a bailout.

I pledge to maintain utmost integrity and complete transparency as I faithfully execute the office of banker and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, defend the financial status of this laboratory.

(... please disregard my fancy new lab coat... coincidental timing, I assure you...)

Spontaneous Combustion

2008-12-30T14:00:00.002-05:00

‘Twas the night before Christmas many moons ago and on top of the coffee table, not an object was stirring except for a wildly flickering jelly candle… and next to the flickering jelly candle rested an artificial flower arrangement. As the flame turbulently twittered in every which direction, my family lounged, reveling in each other’s company and the holiday spirit. I had assumed my official holiday position, sprawled by myself across the loveseat which visibly bore the punishment of years of insubordination to my mother’s injunction against “plopping”. My parents shared the couch, and my brother and sister each occupied a comfy white armchair. We were engaged in some edifying holiday family togetherness… I think we were reading Dickens or eating plum pudding or (most likely) reciting Christmas Vacation lines to each other when the small undulating blaze emanating from the jelly candle licked the very tip of the lowest fabric leaf of the artificial flower arrangement.

Initially, no one noticed the dueling flames dancing atop the coffee table, but after a few moments, my sister pointed at the six-inch conflagration in the middle of the living room and sputtered, “F-- f--f--.” Try as she might, she could not get “ire” to follow the “f”.

“What is it, honey?” my dad asked.

“F--f--f--,” she stammered, still pointing.

I injected myself into the conversation. “Um, Dad… the flowers are on f-“

I did not stutter. Before the “ire” could pass over my tongue and through my lips, my dad had jumped to his feet and yelled, “FIRE!!!” He immediately transitioned from holiday to survival mode, leapt from the couch and, in one heroic sweep, scooped the burning arrangement into his hands.

The fireplace was four feet away.

Unfortunately, he did not deposit the fire into the fireplace.

The front door, leading to our snow-covered front walkway was six feet away.

Unfortunately, he did not pitch the miniature inferno through the front door to our snow-covered walkway.

Instead, Dad ran. His goal had been to run through the living room, through the dining room, through the kitchen, and through the garage to the driveway wherein he would drop the burning flowers, compose himself, and determine his next course of action.

Unfortunately, his scheme did not go as planned.

As he ran, the flames spread across the surface of the decoration in his hand. He attempted to blow them out but his breath only encouraged the fiery expansion. He made it to the cusp of the kitchen when the flames began to burn his hands, at which point Dad’s Plan B took effect.

Plan B was to dropkick the plant the length of the kitchen to the garage door… and… actually, that’s where Plan B ended. There was no clear exit strategy. Which did not matter, because what seemed to Dad at the time of its inception an infallible course of action turned out to be quite fallible after all.

Arms outstretched toward the garage door, Dad held the glowing orb of flames before his face and dropped it like a punter preparing to send a football flying down the field. He kicked the basket. Instead of catapulting forward (the typical result of having been kicked in a forwardly direction) the basket wobbled up and over and behind his head, barely missing his hair. It landed five feet behind Dad, still in the living room, the flames now two or three feet high.

The smoke alarm finally recognized the potential disaster under its nose and began warning us of impending doom, when Plan C took effect. My sister, finally breaking free of her “F-- f-- f--” paralysis, yelled, “Fire! I’ll go get some water!” She ran to the kitchen, filled a Dixie cup with water, returned to the fire, splashed the water on a Dixie cup-sized satellite flame about eight inches from the main flame (which, thanks to Sister, was almost extinguished), then repeated as necessary, incrementally diminishing the magnitude of our indoor brush fire. Roused from our Christmas perches, Little Bro and I stood by watching, helpful only in the respect that we were not making the problem any worse. Dad stood by with his hands on his head. Black smoke began to fill the living room.

Where, you might ask, was my mother during these escapades? She was nowhere to be seen. We all assumed that she had grabbed her most precious possessions and hit the road, leaving us to fend for ourselves. Turns out, we were wrong: she was readying Plan D. She coolly returned to the room with an old blanket and draped it over the former faux flower arrangement and extinguished the fire by smothering it.

In the midst of the black intoxicating smoke and shrill detector siren, my dad fell to his knees in despair in the aftermath of our Griswoldesque holiday disaster. Before him was an incinerated patch of once white carpet and the remains of his favorite fake flowers. The living room furniture was subsequently rearranged to hide what resembled the last vestiges of an (sub)atomic disaster. Since this nightmare before Christmas, my family has traded their air freshening candles for fragrance oils, and “fire” is a four-letter word around the holidays.

For other death-defying fiery posts, click here or here.

Letter to Santa Paws

2008-12-21T00:32:00.007-05:00

Dear Blogosphere (especially Santa, Mom and Dad, Grandparents, and anyone else who loves me)...

It's me, Watson, Yajeev's Dog. I have been snooping all over for my dad's password for his blogsite so I could post this note to my loyal and adoring fans in cyberspace. Turns out, he keeps his passwords to all his online accounts in a cryptically titled Word document called "Online_Passwords.doc". Who'da thunk it?

It has come to my attention that America is suffering something of an economic downturn, what the economists are calling a "recession". The talking heads on the cable news outlets claim that people are losing their jobs and houses. Worse yet, they're buying fewer Christmas presents. In fact, I've heard that some concerned individuals, in sensitivity to the financial struggles of their loved ones, are asking their friends and family members not to buy them holiday presents this year.

I just want to make it clear that, while I understand that we are in a crisis of historic proportions, I am not one of those aforementioned concerned individuals. I know that 'tis better to give than to receive, and I dare not rob the pleasure-- nay, blessing-- of those who wish to bestow upon me tidings of holiday cheer. Especially tidings that taste like bacon or squeak. Of course, if you could find a tiding that tasted like bacon and squeaked, that would be ideal. Some would call such a tiding a holiday miracle.

Please, feel free to spare no expense in your holiday expenditures on my behalf. We'll both be glad you did.

Sincerely,

Watson Steve

Remains to be seen

2008-12-14T12:19:00.003-05:00

Warning: This post may be considered by some to be beyond the pale of decency. If you suspect that you may be someone who is easily appalled by borderline indecency, click here to be redirected to something more innoucous.

You have been warned.

Death is a natural part of life, so I'm told; thus far, personal experience has confirmed this notion-- I have never met a centenarian (though Willard Scott assures me that they exist). Thus, from a very early age, I have braced myself for the eventuality that I will someday cease to exist in the manner to which I am currently accustomed. I know that some people think a lot about their funerals... who will be there, which people will be crying or laughing, what they will say about the dearly departed... Some wonder about the after party: Will the attendees be somber or jovial? What will they serve? Will there be assigned seating?

These are interesting questions, but, to be honest, I am most concerned with the after-after-party. I am preoccupied with what will happen to my body once my soul has, umm, left it for dead. For some time, I have been torn between the options of cremation and burial. Despite my multiple close calls with fire (see this entry for an example and a Christmas remembrance soon to be posted), the idea of being condensed to a few pounds of calcium phosphate and minerals sort of freaks me out. I know that I will no longer be inhabiting this ultimately temporary structure of oxygen, carbon, nitrogen, and hydrogen, and that burial only postpones the inevitable decomposition of this organic container of soul and mind and blog... but I have a deeply rooted visceral opposition to being reduced to an urnfull of ashen remains.

The only problem I have with burial, however-- in addition to the impending cemetery space crisis-- is that I am sort of in love with the romantic idea of having my remains scattered over places that mean a lot to me. I've heard lovely stories about the charred remains of loved ones being redistributed (downwind, hopefully) by family and friends in the mountains, rivers, trails, and foreign lands they once held dear-- becoming one with nature in the truest possible sense. I find this idea to be truly beautiful.

While beard trimming a few weeks back, I found myself pondering my ostensibly incompatible desires for corporeal integrity and decorating nature with ashen yajeev remains. As my shavings drifted to the saran wrap trap I had rigged for their easy disposal (to prevent their clogging our bathroom sink drain), I had an epiphany. As if by angelic courier, the solomonic solution punctured my awareness with the perfect cadaveric remedy. My body could be preserved for burial (or taxidermic treatment if anyone would like a lifesize Land of Yajeev souvenir in their living room) and a certain portion of my remains could be scattered amongst the locations dearest to my heart: rather than prepare my ashes post mortem, my loved ones could collect dispensible parts of my organism while I walk and breathe. Previously trash-bound personal components such as excess hair, fingernail clippings, and dry skin-- all legitimate members of my cellular composition-- will hereby be preserved for their future distribution. My body will remain at peace, and I will be eternally connected with my favorite locales: Chick Fil A, cyberspace, the yeast lab, and movie theater.

May I rest in peace.

Land of Yajeev honored by MSNBC.com

2008-12-02T20:35:00.005-05:00

MSNBC.com recently listed the 11 lamest blogs on the internets, and the Land of Yajeev was decisively not among them.

If X is the total quantity of blogs on the blogosphere, then MSNBC.com has ranked the Land of Yajeev in the top x-11 blogs on the web.

Congratulate yourselves on reading the best.

Land of Yajeev: The Early Years

2008-11-30T20:57:00.006-05:00

Have you ever wished you could have a hardcopy of the Land of Yajeev for posterity or in preparation for the unlikely eventuality that the internet goes out of style? Ever hanker for the wit and wisdom of Yajeev but couldn’t find a portal of entry to cyberspace? Do you long to read this blog while sitting on the john? Are you tired of draining precious ink cartridges printing Land of Yajeev posts?

My friends, if you answered “yes” to zero or more of these questions, then your wildest dreams have indeed come true. The Land of Yajeev is now available in book form! For my birthday, the wife spent hours upon hours compiling and editing the first two years of posts and comments of the Land of Yajeev and has packaged them into a slim 400-page hardcover or (more modestly priced) paperback volume now available for purchase at the brand new Land of Yajeev Mega-Bookstore. Perfect for display on coffee tables to impress your guests or to keep handy at your bedside, you will be able to enjoy and relive Land of Yajeev posts over and over again sans pesky computer. You can underline your favorite quotes, write in the margins, dog-ear notable posts, or leave your own personal comments at the end of each entry.

It has become a Land of Yajeev tradition (one year running) to make holiday gift recommendations, and I can think of no more meaningful present than the gift of bloggable humor. You will want to purchase copies of Land of Yajeev: The Early Years for all of your friends, parents, offspring, co-workers, acquaintances, mail-delivery personnel, sponsor children, neighbors, teachers, and significant others so that all of your kith and kin can experience the unbridled pleasure that is the Land of Yajeev. Information on book-signings will be posted as soon as the deluge of invitations from bookstores around the country hit my email inbox (any day now). In the meantime, if you want a signed copy, send an email to landofyajeev @ yahoo . com, and we will make special arrangements.

Visit the Land of Yajeev Mega-Bookstore to buy your copies today (and be among the first to rate and review the book)!

And, don’t forget—a panoply of Land of Yajeev merchandise is available at the companion Land of Yajeev Megastore. Stocking stuffers and Chanukah gelt abound!

Warning: You should not consume alcohol while experiencing Land of Yajeev: The Early Years. Do not drive or operate heavy machinery until you know how Land of Yajeev: The Early Years affects you. Insomnia caused by inability to rid your mind of Yajeev is a rare but treatable side effect. Consult your physician if symptoms persist for more than one week.

Daily Value

2008-11-26T20:28:00.006-05:00

Per my doctor's recommendation, I had a consultation with a nutritionist this morning. Unfortunately, I was so hungry during our meeting that I had great difficulty focusing on our conversation. There was mention of food as I recall, but the precise details of our exchange elude me. I also seem to remember there being rubber chicken breast replicas and a bowl of fake oatmeal, but these may have been malnutrition-induced hallucinations.

Before returning to work, I stopped at Dunkin' Donuts for a glazed stick (far lower in sodium than V8--it's practically health food) Wish I'd done that before my appointment--I might remember what we talked about.

Where's the beef?

2008-11-24T23:24:00.003-05:00

Today, I did a very grown-up thing.

Succumbing to peer pressure (the rest of my lab was eating there), I ate lunch at a vegetarian Indian restaurant.

All veggies. No meat. Not even bacon.

"It's not like you eat meat at every meal," one of my co-workers (the one who picked the lunch spot) had said to me. Pause. Then she asked, "Do you?"

After some thought, I replied, "Not every meal. Usually not for breakfast. But for lunch..."

"If you can't find something you like, I'll buy you a burger afterwards."

"Deal."

I managed to order the meatiest non-meat item on the menu: fingerling potatoes in tomato curry with giant hollow fried balls of bread. It was the meat and potatoes (sans meat) of Vegetarian Indian cuisine. It shocks me to see these words appear on my screen, but I must admit that it was delicious.

I might even go back. Though next time, I'll probably smuggle in some meat (like my dad smuggles his Atkins' diet-approved bread into sandwich shops).

Oh Cap'n! My Cap'n!

2008-11-19T21:36:00.003-05:00

Dear Wife,

First, I would like to sincerely thank you for all of your hard work—your clothes laundering, dish washing, (really spicy) chili cooking, chocolate chip oatmeal cookie baking, dog-hair vacuuming, and grocery shopping. Your dedication to the smooth functioning of our household is very much appreciated and has not gone unnoticed.

There is something, however, I need to tell you. I am sorry to have to confront you in this venue, but I thought the blow might be softened if we were in the company of many anonymous and non-anonymous blog-reading friends.

There is one crucial fact of life that it is time for you to learn. I had hoped when we got married that your parents would have taught you, but I am prepared to take the helm of your educational development for this teaching moment. Sweet, dear, loving, warm, beautiful wife, there is something you need to know:

Peanut Butter Crunch is NOT the same as Cap’n Crunch.

Sure, they both have the Cap’n on the cereal box, but these two cereals are as fundamentally different as Rice Chex and Wheat Chex—two completely different animals. Cap’n Crunch consists of textured rectangular yellow bits of crisp sweetened corn goodness, while Peanut Butter Crunch bits are smooth, puffed spheres of peanut butter. I poured the cereal in the dark kitchen, and thus didn’t carefully inspect the packaging. Surely, you can imagine my surprise upon inserting that first spoonful into my mouth.

Listen, I don’t blame you for purchasing the wrong Crunch. If anything, I blame myself for assuming you knew the difference. I can certainly understand how such an error in judgment could befall a newbie Crunchaholic when confronted with the panoply of Crunches in the cereal aisle: Cap’n Crunch, Crunch Berries, Peanut Butter Crunch, Choco Crunch, Chocolatey Peanut Butter Crunch, and Christmas Crunch (not to mention the generic imitations). Your childhood was obviously a disadvantaged one, and I love you all the more for it. For my part, I commit to you that I will no longer take it for granted that you are as well-versed in the ins and outs of sugar cerealdom as I am when we write a shopping list.

Love forever,
Your husband

P.S. Please don’t return the Peanut Butter Crunch to the store. I’ll suffer through it.

* For an expansion upon this post's title, please click here.

Raindrops keep falling on my head

2008-11-11T21:07:00.014-05:00

Wherever there is moisture, I will be there…

Whenever thunderstorms threaten to wreak havoc on picnics, yard sales, or outdoor church bazaars, you can count on me…

When dark clouds lurk behind silver linings, you will know whom to call…

Before you feel the first droplet of dihydrogen monoxide, I will have darted behind a lamppost or sapling or other such sufficiently massive object broad enough to hide my girth and will have mysteriously undergone the superheroic transformation from Yajeev the Blogger to Umbrella Man!

Shielded by a magical webless umbrella and cloaked with a spokeless umbrella sheath, I will project a forcefield of dryness around the eye of the storm.

Delusionally powerful, I will vaporize the liquid invaders by force of hot air that resides deep within me.

The only fluid in sight will be tears of joy shed by those whose days have been saved by Umbrella Man!

Concession

2008-11-04T22:59:00.004-05:00

My fellow Americans...

It is with great pride in a well-fought but poorly executed campaign and tremendous sadness that I concede this Presidential election to Barack Obama. It has become abundantly clear that I will be unable to pick up the additional 270 electoral votes necessary to secure the election in my favor. Unfortunately, I have been unable to get through to Senator Obama via cell phone (he must have turned his ringer off) to concede voice-to-voice. I am sure that he is checking the blog every few minutes.

Perhaps it was my failure to go negative or the fact that I neglected to name a Vice Presidential candidate or enumerate a platform of scope greater than Department of Motor Vehicle reform. I will not put the American people through the national debacle that would be a recount (although I like my chances) nor will I follow-up on the innumerable (non-)instances of voter fraud which have resulted in tonight's result. I trust my fate to the judgment of the citizens of this great nation (and offer my services to President-Elect Obama as a potential Secretary of Yeast Biochemistry and Molecular Genetics).

Thank you to all who have tirelessly supported my candidacy and those who, with great principle, wrote Yajeev on their ballots today.

This concession speech is supported by Yajeev for President 2012. I am Yajeev and I support this message.

Rehab

2008-10-18T12:28:00.005-04:00

Note to self (and any others who happen to read this and find themselves able to relate to self in that they have recently undergone root canal procedures): new S'mores ice cream treats from Burger King, while delicious, are not pleasant while you are undergoing dental rehab.

Dumpster Diving

2008-10-17T15:55:00.003-04:00

In an age when the economy is in the tank, banks and megacorporations are dropping like flies, and government-packaged stimuli and bailouts have become commonplace, there remains only one secure investment plan.

I have been paying into this plan for years and look forward to the glorious day when I can cash out and retire on my earnings. Like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, my treasure awaits me at the end of two glorious Golden Arches. That's right: Monopoly at McDonald's is back!

Yesterday, on the way to my car, I noticed that someone had thrown away a large soft drink cup-- get this!-- without peeling the affixed Monopoly game pieces! Of course, I overcame germ and grime and reached into the trash and removed the stickers for my own collection of this year's properties (you need to be willing to get your hands a little dirty-- or punctured by random sharp waste products-- if you want to be successful in this or any other worthwhile venture). Then, after work, I hit the McD's drive thru, specifically ordering so as to maximize game piece acquisition. I ate dinner while driving home (the wife is out of town). I pulled into the driveway around 8:00, and in my haste to let Watson out after a long day, I accidentally threw away my wrappers, game pieces still attached, in the trash can that we share with our neighbors.

I didn't realize this until I was driving to work this morning, mentally reviewing all of the properties I own (many in duplicate) and couldn't remember which ones I had earned yesterday. I replayed the post-large fry/"southern" chicken sandwich/ large diet coke consumption events in my head and could see myself, almost in slow motion, recklessly tossing the game pieces into the garbage. Needless to say, the first order of business when I arrive home this evening will be to retrieve those (probably winning) game pieces from the trash.

I haven't hit the jackpot (**yet**), but I have garnered two free breafkast sandwiches and 25% off my next purchase at Foot Locker. I'll keep you posted.

For a review of last year's Monopolooza, click here or here or here or here.

Molarity

2008-10-12T11:30:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, our apartment building was on the course of the Hartford Marathon. Runners who had trained for months and months jogged, ran, and speedwalked past our home. I have on multiple occasions remarked that I would rather have a root canal than run 26.2 miles. And in fact...

Things went from bad to worse yesterday morning as I reclined in the dentist's chair. While Aiesha, the dental assistant, hummed along to Billy Joel's Only the Good Dye Young, which played soothingly in the background, my dentist's descriptions of her exploration of my buccal cavity became ever dourer.

As my dentist, whose white lab coat simply read "Dr. B", poked and prodded my cracked molar, the prescribed course of treatment progressed from simple filling to crown to (I shudder to recall it) two of the most dreaded words in the dental lexicon: root canal. In total, I spent three hours under the bright lights, shiny instruments, and careful hands of my dentist and her assistant.

Apparently, my dental infrastructure is remarkably resistant to the numbing effects of novocaine. My lips, tongue, and cheek went completely numb and tingly after the first injection, but it took 4 shots to prevent surging jolts of pain as the dentist drilled and scraped the exposed pulp of my tooth. Meanwhile, the two dental experts openly marveled at the volume of saliva I produced.

"It's like a river of saliva," Aiesha, the dental assistant remarked.

"No, no," my dentist, Dr. B, corrected her. "It's more like a spring."

"Yeah, a spring of saliva," Aiesha agreed. Then she looked down at me and added, reassuringly, "That's not necessarily a bad thing."

My previous dentist was awed by the size of my tongue, this one by the volume gushing forth from my salivary glands. My oral anatomical wonders never cease.

Just found this article about diversionary video goggles that allow the patient to watch distracting tv shows or movies during dental procedures... I'm looking forward to the day when I can liveblog a root canal.

Happy Wacky Wednesday!

2008-10-01T21:35:00.006-04:00

Some posts just write themselves...

While I stayed up last night to watch the Twins lose in a one-game playoff against the White Sox, the wife went to bed early. When it finally came time for me to join her, she asked me, sounding alarmed, "Wait! What day is it?"

I responded matter-of-factly, "Tuesday."

"Do you know what that means?" she asked dramatically.

"No, what does it mean?" I asked.

"It means that tomorrow is Wacky Wednesday!" At this point, I realized that my wife was communicating from beyond the pale of sleep. My wife's impressive nocturnal communication skills have been previously noted (click here, for example); I was eager to continue in this conversation. "What happens on Wacky Wednesday, dear?"

"Everyone wears hats with googly eyes!" She giggled.

"What else?"

"And they might wear their overalls backwards!"

"Does anything else happen on Wacky Wednesday?"

"Yes--you wear shirts with little polka dots... and..."

She was fading. I didn't want to lose her. "What about the polka dots, honey?"

"The polka dots... they... talk..."

"What do they say?"

"They say, 'We're hungry. We want to eat donuts.' And then I give them little tiny donuts, and the polka dots are all happy." Her tone changed abruptly. "But the next day is Troubling Thursday." In her sleep, it seems, she believed Troubling Thursday to be as alliterative as Wacky Wednesday.

"What's so troubling about Thursday?" I prodded.

"I don't know what the trouble is... that's what's so troubling..."

She began to mumble, almost imperceptibly. I knew that I was losing her. I tried to revive her without actually waking her, but she was gone--lost to the deep, silent slumber that that follows RMM (rapid mouth movement) sleep.

I never learned what was so troubling about Thursday. I hope it doesn't involve nauseated polka dots. Godspeed to us all.

Retreat!

2008-09-29T19:43:00.003-04:00

I spent the weekend at a departmental retreat, the ostensible purpose of which was to discuss the latest biochemical and biophysical breakthroughs of the scientists with whom I work.

The real highlight of the weekend, however, was Trivia Night. My team, "Team Food Table" (so named for our not entirely random proximity to the snack spread) succeeded in not finishing in last place. As it turns out, despite my timeless hipness, a fivesome comprised of me, three native Chinese scientists, and an Austrian postdoc could barely compete in the realms of pop culture and know-your-faculty minutia. We managed to hold our own in the famous historical scientists and identify-the-obscurely-photographed-common-lab-item rounds, but tune (and artist and year) naming would be our achilles heel.

At the very least, Team Food Table was well fed. Like doing good, eating well is its own reward.

Proud to be an American

2008-09-19T22:08:00.005-04:00

One visiting German student will finish his research experience in our lab at the end of next week. I asked him about his plans were for his last weekend. He told me that he had a few important American experiences to check off his list: an all-you-can-eat buffet, IHOP (not this IHOP--although it's a good one, too), and a legendary Massachusettian (!?) state fair.

Sounds like one giant meal. God bless America.

What To Do With Dummies (for Dummies)

2008-09-07T15:41:00.019-04:00

We celebrated the wife's birthday with a dinner-and-a-bookstore Saturday evening date. We had an otherwise delightful evening, but I must report that I was shocked and awed by a few of the titles on the self-help book shelves.

While there may well be some individuals for whom this world would be better off were they not to propagate, I am loathe to issue broad, sweeping decrees promoting the sterilization of any particular demographic.

The overwhelming technical difficulties of implementing such a policy notwithstanding, we must rise above the temptation to compromise the reproductive potential of even the least among us.

Some of the other volumes made nearly as offensive recommendations:

Where have we come as a people when we wish or plot such calamity for those of lesser intelligence?

Perhaps, instead of subjecting them to all sorts of diseases and afflictions, we should provide those with diminished brainpower more opportunities for support and uplifting experiences, such as the following:

If some strong parental figures, snuggly puppies, and good career advice don't keep the learning-impaired off the streets wreaking all sorts of dummy-inspired havoc, then there's always one last-ditch response that has, at the very least, kept yours truly from spreading dummy pandemonium far beyond the reaches of cyberspace:

It was good knowing you, Russ Parker's Blog

2008-08-29T17:26:00.006-04:00

True to his word and despite the desperate measures undertaken by loyal LOYers and Russ-lovers everywhere, Russ Parker dismantled his blogsite on August 18, 2008, exactly one year after his most recent post.

In honor of this dark, dark occasion, I will go silent for the rest of the evening.

(the silver lining is that i've taken the liberty of copying all of his blog posts into word documents, so the possibility for an unauthorized version that is immune to russ parker's efforts to self-destruct still remains. don't tell his loyal lawyers.)

Looking for my marbles

2008-08-26T20:26:00.008-04:00

Since moving to Connecticut, we have conformed to the hands-free cell phone driving laws by utilizing bluetooth earpieces... which I have begun to use beyond the confines of my automobile, perhaps against better judgment.

I had a minor victory this morning, but given how overwhelmed I have felt during this past week, a minor victory was a real high point. A small confidence-boosting experience would carry me a long way, or so I thought. I was so pleased with myself that I gave the wife a call to share with her the small, but significant, good news.

Invigorated, I called my wife to communicate the high-point of my nascent postdoctoral career. As we spoke telephonically via bluetooth earpiece, I walked back and forth across the inner quad next to the building in which I work; I had no idea that I was at that very moment supposed to be attending a lab meeting... a meeting at which all but one of my ten-or-so co-workers were waiting for me to join them... a meeting in a room with a view of the inner quad... the very same inner quad on which their newest labmate was at that very moment pacing back and forth gesticulating semi-wildly, speaking animatedly, as it appeared, to himself... or the voices in his head.

One of the lab members mercifully came to retrieve me and tell me about the meeting I was supposed to be attending. When I came to the meeting room and saw that the entire group had watched me apparently cracking up on the lawn, I nearly did for real.

I've decided to take it one hour at a time. A day is just a little too much to ask for.

I was just following orders

2008-08-25T20:19:00.005-04:00

On nights like tonight , I wonder just how much my PhD can really be worth...

Tonight, on her way home, my wife asked if we could go out to eat. I was the bad guy, citing a heavy workload, but I offered to prepare a frozen pizza if she would walk me through the steps...

Set the oven to 400 degrees.

Check.

Remove the pizza from the plastic.

Check.

Put the pizza on the shelf 6-8 inches above the oven floor.

Check.

Set the timer for 20 minutes.

Check.

I know what you're thinking. She neglected to mention one of the most important steps: Remove the pizza from the cardboard tray. As in, DON'T COOK THE CARDBOARD.

She didn't tell me. Tonight we had four cheese corrugation. Delish.

(for my wife's account, click here)

When your best just isn't enough

2008-08-24T18:41:00.002-04:00

As the astute reader will have determined from reading my previous three or so posts, I have begun a new job, and the transition has been a little on the stressful side. As a result, my neediness index has increased fairly significantly over the course of the past several days. I am fortunate, because I have quite an understanding wife who has put forth a heroic effort to provide love and comfort.

As I feel myself becoming more needy of my wife's encouraging words and warm hugs, I worry (irrationally, I tell myself) that I might wear out my welcome with her and that at some point she will tire of giving, giving, giving of herself so that I can feel reassured.

She was on her way out the door this afternoon to take Watson to the dog park when I asked her, "You're not going to get tired of me are you?"

"I'm gonna try my best," she said, joking.

"Try your best!?" I asked incredulously, insecurely. I had expected her to give full commitment that she would do more than "try her best"... that she would with certainty declare that, No, she would not become tired of me.

Before she left, I made her guarantee that she would definitively not tire of my neediness.

I was glad for the assurance.

Day 4, and still blogging (if you call this blogging)

2008-08-21T20:33:00.004-04:00

4 days into my new job.

Social anxiety and personal insecurities are at an all-time high. The situation is probably a bit better than the way it feels (it just has to be)... My stomach is constantly churning--when will my new co-workers figure out how much I actually don't know? I just know they'll find me out for the impostor that I am.

Beginning a new job reminds me of pursuing a girl--a total roller coaster of emotions... excitement-- terror-- calm-- diarrhea (I know, diarrhea is not actually an emotion)-- peace-- anxiety-- sleepiness-- restlessness-- "I can do this... what's the worst that could happen?"-- "oh, right, that's the worst that can happen... and I'm not sure I can do this." At least with a new job, I'm not worried about that first kiss and not burning her socks.

Day 2, and still blogging

2008-08-19T14:39:00.005-04:00

This is probably the last thing I should be doing right now, but I'm just signing in to give all of the loyal LOYers (Land of Yajeev'ers) a brief update on the new job...

My co-workers are quite friendly, but I am still overwhelmed by the newness of my situation and the mass of material I need to both comprehend and produce in a short period of time... but as has been historically the case for me, the degree to which I am caffeinated reflects the degree to which I feel up to the task. Unfortunately, compared to my previous lab, this lab actually enforces the rules: no drinking coffee at the bench. Bleh.

So, like the nicotine fiend who has to sneak out for an hourly cigarette break, I am the caffeinaholic that requires his regular fix to make it through the day. This might be a problem for long-term success.

I'd blog more but I'm supposed to be working.

And I need some coffee.

At least I'll be caffeinated

2008-08-17T21:23:00.001-04:00

I start a new job tomorrow.

Fortunately, the wife bought me a new coffee pot. Compared to our previous brewing machine, this one is sleeker, shinier, and futuristicker. I haven't read the instructions yet, but it may double as an mp3 player, protein gel transfer apparatus, or time machine--there are lots of shiny buttons.

Hopefully, I can forestall the occurrence of work-related mishaps so characteristic of my very existence at least until I've endeared myself to the new boss and batch of co-workers... I've found that endearment prior to mishappening makes the latter much less awkward (though perhaps less bloggable as well).

Here goes nothing.

coffee pot broken

2008-08-14T11:50:00.006-04:00

this morning everything foggy head hurt watery eyes confused

need caffeine systems shutting down control alt delete help

must find coffee need soon

hallucinations dancing painfully shades of brown taunt me

send help or coffee soon or may not make it

cant think cant focus cant punctuate

anguish thirst unsatisfied running on fumes sputtering

hot coffee on the horizon or is it a mirage

like a fish out of water drowning in air

flopping

writhing

fading

Poll Results: Blog on, Russ Parker

2008-08-13T11:20:00.005-04:00

Despite his radio silence on the blogging front (even in the face of pleading for postage by his devoted fans), Russ Parker is in high demand. When asked if Russ Parker should continue blogging, Land of Yajeev readers overwhelmingly responded: Affirmative! In fact, LOY readers were 4 times more likely to say that Mr. Parker should persist in posting his unique blend of literary analysis, political commentary, and whimsical reflection. Further, if my suspicion that one of the "no" votes came from Russ Parker himself holds true, then non-Russ Parkers favor his continued blogging by a recount-immune 8-to-1!

Russ Parker, if you're reading this, I hope you will consider the desires of our mutual readership. On Saturday, it will be exactly one year since your most recent post. Let's not let another year go by before your next 'un.

n = 10

Final tallied poll results:
3 voters selected "yep yep yep yep"
3 selected "oh sure"
2 selected "oh heck yeah"
2 selected "no (don't click this one)"

Going Public

2008-08-12T21:40:00.003-04:00

The wife has finally decided to make her Journey public. Please check out her new blog.

I endorse the Olympic proposal outlined in her latest entry and commit to work tirelessly for its implementation if elected President.

Gender Confusion

2008-08-10T18:28:00.009-04:00

Despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, one online source has declared with 99% confidence that I, your humble blogger, am a female.

Mike (not to be confused with this Mike), at his advertising/technology blog Mike On Ads, has adapted a piece of javascript to analyze all of the websites in a web browser's history to determine one's gender (just in case you required assistance for such a determination). To try it for yourself, click here.

Once you request a review of your browsing history, you will find a list of all the websites you've visited with a corresponding male-to-female ratio for each site. Any website with a male-to-female ratio of less than 1 is more heavily visited by females. Likewise, a greater-than-1 male-to-female ratio value indicates web traffic skewed toward male viewers for a particular website. A score of 1 means the website attracts the same amount of men and women. A magical formula accommodates all of the ratio values of your visited websites and assigns you a gender.

I had my own preconceptions with respect to my gender identity, but ever curious, I wanted to know what the webgenies had to say. Below is a list of the sites in my browser's history and their corresponding gender ratios. I have ranked my viewed sites from most female (my newly assigned gender) to most male (my formerly presumed gender).

Website & Male-to-Female Ratio
abc.com 0.47
bet.com 0.54
crateandbarrel.com 0.56
snapfish.com 0.57
cbs.com 0.6
barackobama.com 0.68
amctheatres.com 0.69
americanheart.org 0.71
nature.org 0.75
whitepages.com 0.75
nationalcity.com 0.79
netflix.com 0.79
cafepress.com 0.8
sixflags.com 0.82
att.com 0.83
facebook.com 0.83
mapquest.com 0.83
progressive.com 0.83
statefarm.com 0.83
yale.edu 0.85
bankofamerica.com 0.9
business.com 0.92
fox.com 0.92
msn.com 0.92
youtube.com 1
sciencemag.org 1.04
blogger.com 1.06
imdb.com 1.06
weather.com 1.08
ebay.com 1.11
flickr.com 1.15
honda.com 1.2
johnmccain.com 1.27
mlb.com 1.33
cnn.com 1.35
pepboys.com 1.67

There are some interesting observations to be made from the data in this list. For one, it is way manlier to support John McCain than Barack Obama (compare johnmmcain.com's male-to-female score of 1.27 barackobama.com's, 0.68). So, all you dudes out there who want to stay dudely, you know who to vote for (or at least whose website to frequent)... dudes who hope to get in touch with their feminine sides might consider the Obama ticket this November.

It may come as no surprise to many readers that MapQuest is found among the ranks of female-dominated websites (0.83), while the more masculine among the webisphere are perhaps inclined to trust their noses in their navigational pursuits. Likewise, chicks (I hope you will not find "chicks" a derogatory term--especially now that I can be found among their ranks) will consult whitepages.com (0.75) when they need to find a phone number; apparently men will just guess.

Women are far more likely to visit the websites for the television networks ABC (0.47), BET (0.54), CBS (0.6), or FOX (not Fox News) (0.92); men spend much more time than their womanly counterparts at the web pages for CNN (1.35) and The Weather Channel (1.08). Are ladies more interested in entertainment and men in information of a more political or climatic nature? It's difficult to conclude otherwise.

Youtube is the great online equalizer, devoid of gender bias; it has a score of exactly 1. Men and women are equally likely, for instance, to want to check out this great man.

Like the results from a carefully controlled DNA microarray experiment (performed in triplicate, of course), nearly unlimited quantitative and qualitative analysis can be performed on the data presented in this report, and I have just barely skimmed the surface for the wealth of information that can be derived from this list. I invite my readers to contribute their own interpretations of these provocative data.

Based on the accumulated ratios of these websites, I am, with 99% certainty, a female. Please feel free to try the site out yourself and report in the comments section to this post if you were surprised by your gender designation.

Ron Evans: My Hero

2008-08-07T23:39:00.005-04:00

I spent my five-year tenure as a graduate student studying the yeast version of the human enzyme called AMPK. The most widely prescribed medications used to treat patients with Type II Diabetes activate AMPK. Ostensibly, the goal of my research and that of others investigating this same enzyme has been to better understand the biochemical processes whereby these medications are therapeutic for Type II Diabetics.

Certainly, however, I am not alone in having harbored ulterior motives in making AMPK the center of my (professional) existence—motives which I have been made ashamed to admit by the liberally/ conservatively biased media and political elite which maintain that no gain can come in the absence of pain. In truth, I outwardly maintained the guise of searching for the cure for diabetes, while I toiled under cover of night on a quest for the holy grail of translational biomedical research: an instant fitness drug. Apparently, Ron Evans shared this secret passion.

There have been clear indications for some time that the compound designated AICAR directly activates AMPK, my favorite enzyme, but only since the recent publication in the journal Cell authored by the venerable Ron Evans and colleagues at San Diego’s Salk Institute has become clear that this AICAR-mediated AMPK activation represents the most significant biomedical breakthrough of our (all?) time.

Mice medicated with AICAR for one month performed as well in fitness tests as their siblings did that had been sweatin’ to the oldies on mice treadmills during that same month. The AICAR-treated mice had lost weight and were legitimately healthier than they were before the study began. Unlike many other diet medications which act by suppressing appetite or speeding up body metabolism, AICAR actually tricks cells into thinking they have exercised—that they have been burning energy (ie calories!) and ought to continue doing the same. In short, AICAR is exercise in a pill, and Ron Evans and friends have proven it.

It did not take long for critics of this miracle drug to cry foul—accusing anyone who would consider taking such a medication of supreme laziness. Skeptics decry would-be AICAR consumers as cheaters. I would like to provide an opposing viewpoint.

For people too lazy to eat their vegetables (or pre-menopausal women too lazy to drink their milk), we provide dietary vitamin and mineral supplements—in the form of a pill.

For people too lazy to get the recommended eight hours of sleep a night, we provide liquid energy—in the olden days, it was in the form of a cup o’ joe or a diet coke; in these newfangled modern times we offer Starbucks Skinny Venti Triple Café Mochas (I perk up at just the mention!).

For people too lazy to learn their ABC’s and 123’s on their own, we provide pre-fabricated encapsulated learning experiences—in the form of a formal public education.

For people too lazy to manually control their labored breathing or exercised-induced respiratory challenges, we provide asthma medications—in the forms of aerosols and pills.

You may not know this about me, but I am just such a person who has at times been too lazy to eat an adequate supply of vegetables, too lazy to get all the sleep I need, too lazy to be a self-taught man, and too lazy to manage my asthmatic tendencies, and I have benefited from each of the above mentioned supplemental nutritional/ alertness/ educational/ respiratory enhancements.

Listen. I am no professional athlete, nor do I continue to aspire to be one. Unless I receive a (practically) unexpected last-minute call from the US Gymnastics Team (I’m a little past my prime), I am unlikely to ever participate in any activity which will preclude me from consuming fitness-enhancing chemicals. I will never engage in any function which will demand effort-derived wellness.

Exercise supplements (nay, replacements!) promise only to improve the quality of my life. When AICAR becomes available to the general public, I just might be first in line for this silver bullet. Think of all the time I will then have that was formerly (ha!) spent exercising-- that will then be freed up for other productive activities that will have a more substantial benefit for all mankind, chiefly further scientific research (any special requests for my next topic of investigation?) and blogging.

Call me a cheater if you will. But if you do, you must also call Christopher Columbus a cheater for using a ship to reach America, Helen Keller a cheater for using her hands to “hear” people speak, and George Bush a cheater for using hanging chads to reach the high office of the Presidency of the United States.

God Bless America!

* Ron Evans image accessed from the Salk Institute website

Doggy Differences

2008-08-04T23:48:00.007-04:00

My folks and their curly blond haired cockapoo, Harley, are visiting Hartford for their first time since the wife, Watson, and I have become Connecticutians. One thing that has always been clear to the wife and me and my folks is the striking personality differences between our canines.

Toward those who have gained his trust, Watson is boisterous and playful, eager to deliver doggy kisses when permitted. Harley is guarded and fashionably smug-- he is reluctant to give his heart to anyone other than his dad or mom. While Watson shows affection with jumps and licks, Harley is far more demure and would would prefer to be admired from afar with polite compliments. When he feels particularly moved, he may shake your hand or tip his hat to you and ask, "How do you do?"

Watson loves the dog park. He jumps and runs and sloshes in the mud with the other dogs. Harley paces in the corner and can be heard muttering to himself about the modern decline of canine decorum ("Pups these days...")

Watson fantasizes about playing fetch or kissing his grandfather; Harley rehearses math facts in his head.

Watson passed obedience school--and promptly ate his diploma. Harley is currently weighing the pros and cons of a handful of graduate programs in international politics.

Watson is obsessed with the ant crawling across the carpet, pouncing at it, baring his teeth at it, picking it up gingerly in him mouth and spitting it across the room, begging for it to play with him (and crying when he accidentally brings the ant to its untimely demise, depressed that the bug refuses to play any longer). Harley is halfway through The Grapes of Wrath.

Watson has a memory like a sieve: he does not even know my wife's or my name (despite our gratuitous repetitions). Harley's memory is a steel trap: he knows the names and birthdays of everybody in his extended family. In his spare time, he is constructing a family tree that extends several generations into the past. "It's far from complete," he'll tell you. "Just a hobby, really."

Watson sits like a champ. Sometimes he seems to understand "come" (especially sans squirrels in sight). Harley, on the other hand, understands such subtle terms as "almost" and "focus" and "please, Harley, give me the packet of parmesan cheese, and I promise that I will help you review your spelling words" (Harley just loves the English language).

Watson begs for treats; Harley devises elaborate multi-step plans for coaxing his people into giving him treats.

The following is a true story about Harley that requires two pieces of background information:

Background fact #1: My parents (Harley's people) have hired a plowing service to clear their driveways following heavy winter snows. If it snows in the middle of the night, the plow will come in the wee dark hours of the morning to clean their driveway. Whenever the plow arrives, Harley, sensing an intruder on the premises, runs to the living room window and barks to alert his people of the uninvited guests. His people have to come to the living room and reassure him that the snowplowmuhn is a welcomed visitor.

Background fact #2: Whenever Harley's people witness him running through his doggy door to his personal lawn space to "be a good boy" (i.e. produce a numero uno or dos), he is rewarded with a treat.

One non-snowy winter evening, my folks (Harley's people) heard Harley barking maniacally as he is wont to do in the presence of the ominous snowplow. My dad looked outside and saw that there was neither snow nor plow, and found Harley in the living room. Pops attempted to reason with Harley, but before he could explain that there was nothing about which to be alarmed, Harley had bolted from the spot at the living room window through his doggy door and to the spot that he normally "is a good boy". As soon as he reached that spot (and saw that my dad saw him there), he sprinted back inside past my dad and stopped just in front of the cabinet door, behind which he knew was the mother load of doggy treats for "good boys". Harley had formulated a two-step plan to wake my dad up (by barking as if there were a snowplow when none was to be seen) and trick my dad into thinking that he was a "good boy" (by running to the spot where he normally is one and back) in order to get a midnight snack.

And now, a true story about Watson:

One time (before he had graduated Obedience School, mind you), when the wife and I were away for less than thirty minutes, Watson found an unopened bag of Beggin' Strips (a value bag with 20% extra free). He ripped the bag open and consumed the entire supply of Beggin'. Then he threw up (a giant ball of congealed Beggin'). Then he located and destroyed a scarecrow we had attempted to secure in our storage area. Then he found our latest Newsweek and ripped it to shreds. When we arrived home, Watson was totally unaware that he had behaved inappropriately, and he jumped for joy and attempted to lick us all over.

Harley is the gifted, borderline antisocial dog. Watson is the special needs canine with a nearly unflappable heart of gold. Harley is George to Watson's Lenny; he is Moe to Watson's Curley.

In truth, it takes all kinds (in case you always wondered what it took).

UPDATE: Russ Parker: Beyond Salvation?

2008-08-03T12:16:00.010-04:00

Despite the persistent efforts of Land of Yajeev readers commenting passionately on this blog and his, Russ Parker has shown no signs of renewed blog activity.

It's not looking good; this from the Google chat archives:

Me: you gonna rethink dismantling Russ Parker's Blog?
Russ Parker: not planning on reconsidering

Thanks to all the readers who have expressed their support for this progressive voice... Unfortunately, I fear his words may be available for an extremely limited time (unless of course, some blogger friend has taken upon him- or herself to dutifully save all of Russ Parker's blogs to his computer such they can reposted at some later date to an unauthorized unofficial Russ Parker's Blog--I'm just saying).

So, head on over to Russ Parker's Blog and soak in all the Russy goodness while you still can.

Let's hope this public figure returns quickly to the limelight. He may just have coulda been The One (for what, I'm not sure).

Pride

2008-07-29T15:03:00.012-04:00

After two years of blogging, I have finally been tagged for a meme. The instructions were to list six things of which I am proud. The always inspirational Velvet Sacks tagged me and predicted that my list would "probably be as funny as it is inspirational." I assure you that if this post is the former, it is so merely by stroke of luck; likewise, the latter I could accomplish only unintentionally.

Nevertheless, in keeping with the rules, I am proud of the following six things (though not necessarily in the order in which they appear):

1. The many times I have managed to not lose the love of my wife, despite my apparent subconscious efforts to undermine our relationship (such as this debacle).

2. The time I rolled a 532 on Cell Phone Yahtzee Deluxe (with photographic proof).

3. The time I raced a perfect 16-cup-tour on Super Mario Kart Double Dash (also photographically verified).

4. The time(s) I earned an entire year's worth of free chicken by battling the elements in a Chick Fil A parking lot.

5. The time Mike admitted to laughing at one of my posts (check the comments).

6. The time Velvet Sacks tagged me for my very first meme!

I am sure there are other things I have to feel proud of... Obedient dog, devilish good looks, points I've accumulated doing this or that, what have you. The above is a random sampling. Though I must disclaim that, in truth, I feel less pride for the enumerated items than gratitude, for I am quite often reminded of my own shortcomings and shortgoings and realize that any good thing that I may be tempted to take credit for is truly the result of (often accumulated) blessings over which I have little to no control. Except for the Yahtzee score. That was pure skill.

As I have gathered is traditional for memes, I now proceed to tag Mike, Russ, Trevor (and any others of his motley Good Night, States Crew), Joe, and Sara. This (tagging) is a lot of fun, because when I was "it" as a kid playing freeze tag, despite my heroic efforts, I rarely (if ever) actually successfully tagged any of the other children (whose legs were considerably less chubby and rate-limiting than mine). So, you're it!

I conclude with a brief, oft-quoted (at least between Little Bro and myself) dialogue from The Mighty Ducks that illustrates how my purposes in blogging resemble that of the ancient Greeks in their similar ventures:

Miss McKay: Why did [the ancient Greeks] compete?
Goldberg: Falafels?
Someone in the background: You wish, Goldberg!
Miss McKay: No. Anybody else?
Charlie (breathily): Pride.

Cease and Desist

2008-07-28T02:08:00.004-04:00

Dear Yajeev Impersonator,

You may have thought that it would be funny to dress just like me (i.e. wear khaki pants and glasses with short wavy hair) so that Watson would think that you were me walking towards him on Capitol Avenue (when he thought I was attending a yeast genetics and molecular biology meeting in Toronto) and nearly choke himself to death as he strained against his leash to get ever closer to me (you).

Certainly, you learned your lesson when, as you drew nearer, Watson realized that you in fact were not me and that he had been duped, at which point, his leash-pulling ecstasy morphed to stranger-barking anger for toying with his innocent doggy emotions. If I had been there, I might have barked at you, too.

Shame on you.

Sincerely,
yajeev

Oh, Canada!

2008-07-25T10:29:00.011-04:00

I find myself this week in a strange and wonderful foreign land-- our mighty neighbor to the north: Canada. I am at the semi-(bi-?) annual North American edition of the yeast genetics and molecular biology meeting (the event that, two years ago, provided some wonderfully bloggable moments: click here or here or here and certainly here for some oldies but goodies).

Each day is packed with 20-30 speakers, and the evenings are filled with giant poster sessions (think: science fair for grown-ups) where the nations leading (and following) yeast research scientists gather to share ideas, debate hot button issues in yeast genetics and biochemistry (like this one), and conspire to collaborate on what they hope will be the next yeast-world-shaking fungal breakthrough. The scientists also get together at the much-anticipated conference-ending dance (which occurs tomorrow night). It is a week-long love-affair between man and Saccharomyces cerevisiae, a veritable cornucopia of yeastiality.

A highlight of my experience so far was being one of the first 20 participants to complete a yeast-themed crossword puzzle to win a baseball cap with the superhero budding yeast SuperBud, the microbial caped crusader. An eight letter word for "yeast food?" beginning beginning with V, ending with E? * A five-letter word for "Yeast cell form named after a comic strip character", second letter C? ** Here's a clever one: A ten-letter word for "GO:0005813"? *** My utmost thanks to the fine folks at the Saccharomyces Genome Database for the lovely hat. Without reservation, I recommend their site for all your yeast genetic informational needs.

Stay tuned for additional yeast meeting updates.

* VEGEMITE

** SCHMOO

*** CENTROSOME

Poll Results: The Connecticourt has ruled

2008-07-20T10:46:00.010-04:00

Attention fellow Connecticuters, Nutmeggers, and Connecticutensians:

The masses have have spoken, and an overwhelming plurality (40%) have denominated the citizens of Connecticut as Connecticutians, and it seems only fair for us, Nutmeg State residents and lovers of democracy, to follow the will of the people, disregarding the underwhelming majority, whose votes have been split among the gentilic designations Connecticuter (30%), Nutmegger (20%), and Connecticutensian (10%).

I will be the first to officially adopt this demonym; I hope you will follow me as I follow the people.

Thank you for exercising your American right, duty, and privilege by participating in this historic survey. Your voice has been heard!

n=10

Yajeev for President Campaign Materials

2008-07-18T21:16:00.013-04:00

My fellow Americans (and other citizens of the world), today marks the two-year anniversary and 200th post of the Land of Yajeev blog.

On July 18, 2006, I first put fingers to keyboard for the first entry of what would become my cybervoice. I wasn't sure that anyone other than Russ, Andy, or my wife would ever read these words, but two years and over 10,000 hits later, I have tens of astute readers, a few of which even link to me from their websites!

On Monday, I posted a video announcing the Yajeev for President write-in campaign (never mind that technically I'm 7 years too young--we'll leave that matter for the courts). The groundswell of support has been 0verwhelming, and since no unofficial write-in campaign would be complete without campaign materials, today I unveil the official unofficial Yajeev for President paraphernalia, exclusively available at the Land of Yajeev Megastore.

At the Land of Yajeev Megastore, you will find all manner of reasonably priced Yajeev for President gear, including organic cotton or fitted t-shirts, tough sleeveless tees, junior spaghetti tank tops (available in four lovely colors), kids t-shirts, coffee mugs, keepsake boxes, framed tiles (just what you've always wanted!), ball caps, messenger bags, and stickers.

If you appreciate the unique voice that the Land of Yajeev brings to the interwebs and think it's time to take this show on the road, then please, show your support by visiting the Land of Yajeev Megastore (and recommending that your family, friends, neighbors, and co-workers do the same)!

Making it great in 2008,
Yajeev

Waiting for Auto

2008-07-15T22:38:00.014-04:00

I wonder who will believe us when we tell them how long we were here.
- the wife

No wonder there are so many illegal immigrants--they're too smart to wait in these *%&@ lines.
- another satisfied DMV patron

You know that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you've been waiting on a hot, sticky summer day for a chance to ride your favorite amusement park roller coaster and you think you're near the front of the line when you turn a corner to discover yet another endless of sea of would-be riders snaking slowly through a new series of turnstiles in front of you and you realize that you're still an hour or more away from actually boarding the coaster?

Yeah, our day at the DMV was sort of like that... except that no cool ride awaited us after we spent over 5 hours in a series of a half dozen or so lines... just two Connecticut drivers' licenses and vehicle registrations ringing in at a grand total of $527.

What made matters worse was that the DMV employees actually seemed to enjoy the collective misery of those languishing in motor vehicle purgatory. When we got to the front of the first of several lines, I asked the lady behind the counter if we would have to wait with the crowd of people to my left. "No," she answered, convincingly deadpan. "I don't know what they're waiting for. They must be here for something else." Moments later, the wife and I found ourselves waiting for our requisite eye exams in the midst of the same crowd.

Later, after we had filled out our second or third or thirteen-thousandth form of the day, I asked another attending cheerful DMV employee, "How long do you estimate we'll have to wait once we've completed this form?"

"The wait will be about two hours," he responded. He paused, looking from my face to my wife's and back to mine. "I'm just kidding!" He began to laugh, then abruptly ceased. "I'm not kidding. There are 60 people in line ahead of you right now."

"You are kidding," I half-asked, half-demanded.

"Yeah." He paused again, waiting, presumably, until relief had begun to reveal itself on our faces. "No, I'm not kidding." He smiled broadly.

We walked away, bemused.

"Was he joking?" I asked my wife.

"I don't think so," she replied.

"He must have been joking," I concluded.

He wasn't joking.

By the time our visit to the Connecticut DMV concluded, I had become completely disoriented, dazed and confused, nearly unresponsive to the normal stimuli of the external world. I was practically catatonic; neither pizza nor Watson nor latest issue of the New Yorker could rouse me from my stupor.

It wasn't until hours later when I watched the spastic wide-eyed unwitting Wipeout contestants, limbs flailing, stochastically caroming from one giant red bouncy ball to the next in hopes of winning $50,000 that I began to awake from my DMV-induced walking coma. In fact, our 5-hour DMV experience may have been rendered less excruciating, if not downright bearable, had Wipeout been broadcast throughout the facilities rather than the thirty-minute loop of DMV trivia and news they pipe through their closed-circuit television systems.

When I'm President...

Yajeev for President

2008-07-14T21:50:00.004-04:00

An official platform is soon coming.

I first learned about this video here.

Goodness, gracious, ping pong balls of fire!

2008-07-14T01:30:00.006-04:00

At a party last night, I learned a trick for removing dents from ping pong balls: holding a flame near the dented ball causes the air inside the ball to expand and push the dent out.

It turns out that holding a flame near a dented ping pong ball doubles as an effective method for conflagrant projectile generation.

I thought we were going to be on the news last night after a blazing (formerly dented) ping pong ball was flung from a back porch into a cluster of beautifully landscaped bushes (rather than, incidentally, into a large cup of water immediately in front of the hurler). Fortunately, the brightly burning missile was entirely incinerated before any of the shrubbery could catch fire. Were it not for the rapid and complete combustion, Connecticut would have soon been added to the list of states with raging wildfires. It was close.

For the visual learners among you, here is a clip demonstrating both outcomes of flaming a ping pong ball. For those seeking less igneous techniques for ping pong ball dent removal, click here.

Yahtzee Redux

2008-07-10T14:01:00.016-04:00

For months, I have grieved the loss of a special friend that provided endless hours of comfort, entertainment, and thrills. Though this friend has left me, the legacy of shared memories of companionship and mischief has survived. I had thought that this friend was irreplaceable, that the void left in my soul by my friend’s absence could never be filled by another.

Nearly 10 months ago, cell phone Yahtzee deluxe (my dear friend) and the cell phone that housed it perished in what can only be described as a tragic loss of cataclysmic proportion (I believe the insurance companies call this sort of thing an act of God), and I was forced to bring out of retirement an older cell phone incompatible with modern Yahtzee Deluxe software. The addiction Yahtzee Deluxe had fed was suddenly starved; the withdrawal was excruciating.

Many were those who attempted to ease the pain: my sister-in-law found a website with Yahtzee Deluxe downloads for cell phones of all makes and models—attempts to load it to my aged phone proved nearly fatal to its creaky circuitry. The wife and I tried to play Yahtzee the old-fashioned way: with analog non-virtual dice. The little black-dotted white cubes were so loud, and sometimes the dice would take a hard bounce and fall onto the floor—the game just felt too out-of-control and in-color.

No, I would have to muster whatever resolve I could to face life alone (almost alone, anyway—the wife and dog do provide a significant amount of companionship, but unlike the ultra versatile Yahtzee Deluxe, they are not willing or able to spend their every waking moments in my pocket waiting to amuse me at the drop of a hat).

This sob story does have a happy ending, my friends: I have just acquired the latest in touch screen technology, and, perhaps to your surprise, it was not manufactured by Apple. I recently splurged and purchased a replacement friend: handheld touch screen Yahtzee. This pocket-sized electronic appliance with a bright blue backlight is the ultimate portable gaming device.

The advantages of hand-held touch screen Yahtzee are almost too numerous to list (but that won’t stop me from trying). Unlike its major competition, the gimmicky iPhone, which is bogged down with internet connectivity, voice and e-mail communicative capabilities, and expansive music and movie storage capacity packaged in a single sleek shiny black exterior, handheld touch screen Yahtzee is the no-fat, no-frills trimmed-down device that meets all of my (non blog-related) technological needs, unencumbered by needless fluff (who needs maps with GPS technology?).

No one ever calls my handheld touch screen Yahtzee, so my games are never interrupted. I’m afraid that the iPhone gamer can’t boast the same. Additionally, the handheld touch-screen Yahtzee is quite bulky (measuring a hefty 5¾" x 3½"), so it’s much more difficult to accidentally lose than today’s newfangled miniature cell phones (pictured, left, with really, really ridiculously good-looking model Derek Zoolander). Plus, handheld touch-screen Yahtzee comes with its very own hard-plastic screen protector to avoid all those nasty scratches that have plagued every miniature electronic device I’ve ever owned.

I can already hear the protests from the Nintendo crowd: “Sure, yajeev, you have your handheld touch screen Yahtzee but we have the Wii, with its incredible graphics and motion-sensing controllers.” And to you wee Wii players, I reply thus: “Yes, but can you play your Wii while stuck in traffic? While riding the bus? While using a public restroom? Furthermore, no handheld touch screen Yahtzee has ever (to my knowledge) been responsible for damaged plasma televisions, windows, pets, lamps, or limbs (click here for details) during the course of normal gameplay."

(with respect for Todd Beamer,) Let's roll!

Disclaimer: that Yahtzee, like any addictive recreational activity, has the potential to wreak havoc in personal relationships professional success.

The forecasted surge in posts to this blog may be compromised by the handheld touch-screen Yahtzee insurgency.

For previous Yahtzee-related blog posts, please visit:
* Warning: Not for the faint of heart
* Addiction
* Yahtzee Deluxe Update
* RIP: Yahtzee Cell Phone Deluxe

Save Russ's Blog

2008-07-06T20:03:00.013-04:00

I have caught wind of an unsettling rumor circulating throughout the interwebs. I just hope that it is not too late for us to take action. One of my favorite bloggists and political personalities, Russ Parker, after several months of silence has reportedly decided to officially pull the plug on his blogsite August 18, 2008.

Russ has blogged with great eloquence on such diverse topics as the war in Iraq, the passing of Kurt Vonnegut, yard signs, facebook groups, voting, voter registration, absentee voting, trails in Alabama, and the weather.

You can do your part to keep this behemoth of the blogosphere online!

Please visit Russ Parker's blogsite, read his posts, like what you read (you won't be able to help yourself), and leave your emphatic comments encouraging, begging, cajoling him to keep on blogging on (no threatening entreaties, please). We can only hope that the massive influx of comments will convince him to persist in the art and craft of blogging. Let your voice be heard, so that his may be read for weeks, months, and years to come.

Land of Yajeev readers unite!

From Keystone to Constitution

2008-07-05T13:33:00.020-04:00

Two weeks ago, my wife, my dog, and I transported all of our worldly possessions from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to Hartford, Connecticut in a high-speed (50ish mph) two-Honda Civic, one-Penske truck caravan across Pennsylvania, New York, and Connecticut.

With the help of an unexplainably high-spirited crew (including the wife's sister and brother-in-law-to-be, occasional blog commenter and devoted friend Andy, and two of the wife’s classmates (one current classmate, one former classmate accompanied by her husband—who graciously donated his time and strength to a couple of Pittsburghers he barely knew), we spent several hours dodging raindrops while lugging, maneuvering, forcing, wedging, wiggling, and finagling boxes, shelves, beds, dressers, couches, and televisions up two narrow, steep flights of stairs and through an unusually and frustratingly narrow front door to a then-un-air-conditioned third floor apartment. By the time all of our stuff had been forced through the entrance, the entire crew was thoroughly exhausted.

This was the easy part. We all went out to eat to celebrate the mass movement of stuff and got a good night’s sleep, and the next morning, Andy and I got into my car and returned to Pittsburgh, where I would attend the closing of the sale of our house, complete the microbiology course I taught at the community college, and officially submit the final version of my dissertation.

Stereotypical man that I am, I left the hard part (i.e. getting our new home in order) to the little lady, who was assisted for one more day by her sister and sister’s fiancé. (“No, dear, I insist: you stay in Connecticut with Watson and enjoy our new home, and I’ll work hard in Pittsburgh for one more week.”) The wife worked tirelessly for eight straight days of arranging, rearranging, cleaning, shopping, logisticating, assembling, while I spent my days working and nights and weekend, well, relaxing in a true yajeev-style vacation, chilling out, maxing, relaxing all cool and all shooting some b-ball outside of the school (minus the b-ball part).

The first four nights were spent with Andy, who treated me to dinner at a different fancy (or fancyish) restaurant each evening. At night, we watched movies on DVD, played video games, watched funny video clips on YouTube, and listened to some sweet tunes. As I write this, I’m imagining a split-screen movie with my wife working to exhaustion on one side of the screen and me lounging on Andy’s couch popping cheddar chex mix into my mouth, guzzling diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper, and laughing at Stephen Colbert on the other. The wife is Cinderella, and I the gluttonous evil stepsister.

These four glorious nights were just the prelude to the indulgence of the weekend that followed: Saturday and Sunday were spent with my folks, and the entirety of my waking hours was spent in a rapid-fire alternation of large meals and movies. When I awoke on Saturday, I ate breakfast, which was soon followed by lunch (we had a movie to catch, so these first two meals had to be compressed—though, not combined to brunch). Pops and I drove to the theater for the first movie of the day (I had nachos with cheese), after which we met my mother at Outback Steakhouse (where there are very few rules) for a filling dinner. Immediately after finishing our steaks (mine was crowned with blue cheese), we zoomed to the cineplex to catch movie number 2. I abstained from snacking during the second movie, as I had caught wind of a rumor (which later proved to be true) of an after-movie stop at Pizza Hut, where my father and I each ate our own P’zone (contrary to what some might tell you, they are delectable) as my mother watched in horror. Exhausted by the exertions of the day, Dad and I retired to the house for a cinematic nightcap: we watched a third movie, this one on DVD from the comfort of my parents’ den.

Sunday, traditionally a day of rest, was accordingly lower-key—only two large meals and two movies—and a visit with Grandma. While I rested in the Midwest on Sunday afternoon, the wife struggled in New England for several hours to assemble a bathroom storage unit (which I broke yesterday in one of the myriad careless flashes of coordinational ineptitude that serve to connect the otherwise mundane moments of my life).

This past Monday morning, after an exhausting week of leisure, I tied up the few remaining loose ends of my life in Pittsburgh, completed my final round of goodbyes, and hit the road. I arrived in Connecticut late Monday night to what no man deserves: an apartment lovingly and meticulously assembled and cleaned and (best of all) a wife and dog excited to see me.

We’ve spent much of this week acquainting ourselves with our new surroundings: exploring the city parks, checking out a few of the tourist attractions, and, most importantly, systematically surveying the local dining landscape. In the past four days, we’ve eaten at The Pantry (a heavenly breakfast, lunch, and dinner greasy spoon situated within easy walking distance from our apartment), a charming BAEYOB (bring and exchange your own books) library/coffee shop called La Paloma Sabanera (which I think is Spanish for Starbucks), an incredibly cute Laotian/Thai diner (where I ate my third delicious serving of Pad Thai in less than five days and an out-of-this-world fried flour-shell-banana-mango dessert), an upscale downtown after-work martini (and APPETIZERS) bar for which my wife and I were shamelessly underdressed (but we enjoyed it just the same), pizza delivered from an upstart joint called Domino’s, the Red Rock Hartford Tavern (an independent bar and grille), a van parked by the capital building serving Chinese food, and a little place I like to call (pseudo) Mexican Heaven (Taco Bell--we've been there twice).

The most wonderful aspect of our new home is the plethora of Dunkin Donuts, apparently the primary source of nutrition of New England. En route to our closest Wal-Mart (less than two miles from our apartment), there are at least 4 Dunkin Donuts to choose from.

Lest you think my new Connecticutian life consists of one giant vat of donutty laze, I will have you know that I have contributed to the upkeep (if not the setup) of our new Hartford home: yesterday, I completed two loads of laundry and I washed the dishes—by hand—and I’ve checked the mail almost every day!

The Unofficial My Friend's Friend's Brother-in-Law Ben Fan Club

2008-07-01T21:40:00.014-04:00

It only took about five minutes into last week's premiere episode of "I Survived a Japanese Gameshow", ABC's latest foray into reality television, for me to know that this was no Banzai (history's finest in Japanese- American entertainment). This show was too much reality and not enough Japanese gameshow.

I had all but written it off when I learned that one of the nine remaining contestants, Ben, is the brother-in-law of a close friend of a close friend. I also discovered that Ben is the official handler of Punxsutawny Phil--that's right the most famous groundhog in all of Pennsylvania who, based on the sighting of his own shadow, prognosticated six extra weeks of winter this year.

Re-energized by the prospect of a brother-in-law of a friend of a friend appearing on (inter?) national reality television donning nothing more than a giant diaper and bib, I re-committed to the show--in fact, I nearly transformed the Land of Yajeev to a My Friend's Friend's Brother-in-Law Ben Fansite, posting weekly BenWatch updates and opening a forum for readers to discuss the latest Ben gossip and submit their cell-phone-camera-snapped candid photos of Ben on the street.

The wife and I tuned in to tonight's second episode, eager for the extravaBENza. We were disappointed to see, in the first few moments of this week's installment, a tearful Ben tell the camera that he felt "sick". A minute later, the show's host was explaining to the other contestants that after Ben had fallen ill, he been taken to a hospital and would be leaving the show.

That was it: in a mere five minutes, my love affair with a reality television show and its woodchuck-handling contestant was over. Unless I hear word that Ben is making his dramatic return to the show, I'm afraid I've seen my last of this summer's guilty pleasure.

Ben, if you're reading this, I want you to know that while your stint/stunt on this show may have been cut short by unforeseen Asian maladies, my admiration and support for you will not cease. Thanks for the (really, really brief) memories.

Readers may demonstrate solidarity in their pro-Benness by indicating in the comments section that they'd like to join the unofficial Ben fan club.

Retraction

2008-06-24T07:49:00.005-04:00

While at least one reader has demanded a retraction for my last post , another has brought to my attention the fact that the content of another recent post has been exposed as a hoax.

Reader Kathy emailed me the following:

I'm sorry to tell you that the 'lost' tribe are not new readers for Yajeev. They've been found since 1910 and if they haven't found the Land of Yajeev by now, well, it's time for a new advertising strategy!

I've been bambooozled and have, in my zeal, propagated the bamboozledness to the Land of Yajeev readership, and for that, I am very sorry. To read about the hoax that shook cyberspace, click here.

I also extend my sincerest regrets to the heretofore presumed-to-be-uncontacted tribesmen and tribeswomen. If you reply to this post with a valid Amazonian jungle address, I'll send down a coupla Land of Yajeev t-shirts. You're going to like the way you look in them. I guarantee it.

... on a separate note, the course I am teaching is drawing to a close, my wife and dog have officially moved to Connecticut, and I am soon to follow... as are several posts which are already written in my head (as my dad would say) ... I'm forecasting a surge in postages. No promises. Just predictions.

Stock Boy

2008-06-14T23:52:00.004-04:00

Tonight, I overheard the nice teenage boy who rented me skates at the ice rink tell his co-worker of about the same age, "No, seriously, I want to be a famous stock broker when I grow up."

Poor kid's setting himself up for a life of disappointment. He should set his sights on something a little more realistic. Like becoming President of the United States. Or hitting the Powerball. Or curing cancer. Or brokering world peace. Or simultaneously determining a particle's position and velocity.

But a famous stock broker? I mean, has there ever been such a thing?

I considered giving the young man a healthy dose of reality but thought better of it. A boy should to be free to dream.

Big Russ

2008-06-13T17:22:00.008-04:00

Your very Russertness will continue to inspire.

You've gone to meet that giant press in the sky. May you rest in peace.

Tim Russert, 1950 - 2008

(feel free to leave your favorite or most meaningful Russert memories in the comment section)

UPDATE: I recommend this tribute by Velvet Sacks.

Morsels

2008-06-11T10:32:00.005-04:00

My apologies for the blog-drought of late. I don't expect this to satisfy my readers starving for yajeev wit and wisdom, but I leave you with an inspirational quote and a link.

The mental benefits of exercise are all in your head.

-Father of Yajeev (a la Yogi)

Click here to read a post about the one of the blogosphere's most opinionated and dictatorial contributors who seems to have gone dark of late. I've been meaning to share this link for some time. I'm told an update may be in the offing.

Teacher's (so late it was) Early Retirement

2008-06-02T21:16:00.009-04:00

Last night, I did something that I never had to do in high school, college, or graduate school. I've only ever done it while wreaking havoc at childhood birthday parties, playing video games with my wife, or waiting in line for free chicken. I've done it in the past because I wanted to--never because there was work that actually had to be done.

I pulled an all-nighter.

Even though I don't teach until tomorrow, I stayed up to finish preparing my lectures for the week, grading and recording scores of exams and lab reports, and writing quizzes (I had been working on these since Friday morning). By the time I went to bed, the birds had begun chirping and the sky had already turned from pitch black to a terrifying shade of royal blue. It was 5:00 am, exactly 24 hours from the moment I would wake up to get ready for school on Tuesday morning-- a depressing realization. I considered staying awake for as long as I could, extending Sunday until I was no longer able to keep my eyes open-- and then going to sleep until Tuesday-- just forgetting about Monday altogether.

I did slept for a few hours, got up, initiated the caffeine drip that has lasted until about thirty minutes ago, walked the dog, did some laundry and dishes, and worked again until now (9:22 pm).

Actually teaching this class is a lot of fun. Preparing for the class is like running a marathon every weekend.

When I began writing this post, I am sure there was some sort of punchline I had in mind... but, between then and now, I have become bleary eyed and forgetful. Goodnight.

Welcome, new readers!

2008-05-31T09:37:00.009-04:00

I learned yesterday via CNN that a tribe of Amazonian natives never before contacted by the outside world has been spotted and photographed by passengers in a small airplane flying over their thatched-hut community. The survival of this village is threatened by expansion of the a burgeoning illegal logging industry.

The indigenous Brazilians, mostly painted orange (one seemed to be painted gray) seem to have interpreted the flyover as a potential threat, brandishing bows and arrows, spears, and what appeared to be giant spit ball shooters at their aerial observers.

For better or for worse, I suspect that these tribesmen and tribeswomen will soon be exposed to the technology and advancements of the so-called "developed world". And, when they are introduced to the likes of the Chick Fil A chicken sandwich, underwear, Lost on ABC, Cedar Point roller coasters, the wheel, surely there will be no turning back to their old way of life (they'll have to tune in each week to see if the Losties finally get off the island). And, before long, they will certainly stumble across this great world wide web of communication I like to call the Bloggernet.

My goal is to make this blog as interesting and accessible for as wide an audience as possible, including the previously uncontacted. Because, beneath our clothing or protective gourds, we're all people with similar hopes and fears, frustrations and dreams. We all want to be loved. We all have the same experience of trying to pick the quickest line at the grocery store and having to wait as the customer ahead of us with eight items or less waits for a price check on their Kikkoman Soy Sauce or fruitlessly searches their purse or wallet for coupons they just know they couldn't have left at home. We've all had that dream of showing up for class on the day of the final exam naked (or gourdless) and having forgotten to study.

Orange-painted spear-wielding aborigines, may I be the first to officially welcome you to the blogosphere! I hope you'll find the Land of Yajeev to be your online home away from home! Please check out the archives for older posts and feel free to leave your comments whenever you feel so moved.

photos by Funai-Frente de Protecao Etno-Ambiental Envira via Reuters via MSNBC.com

Teacher's Pet

2008-05-28T23:26:00.005-04:00

Last week, I began teaching a 6-week microbiology course at one of our local community colleges. This is the first course that I am in charge of from beginning to end. The lectures, the labs, the assignments, the quizzes (bwa ha ha!) , the exams (double bwa ha ha!!)... all mine. The class meets just two days a week from 8:45 am until 3:30 pm. It's a grueling day for student and teacher alike.

I know it's asking a lot of my students to learn all of the material normally presented over the course of an entire three-to-four-month semester in six weeks. It may be asking even more of me to plan, create, and teach such a course. I have literally spent almost every waking (non-eating) moment in the past week writing lectures and quizzes and exams and lab outlines (which explains the recent dearth of fresh bloggage and chattage)... And, don't tell my boss (or my students!), but even though I am a yeast microbiologist by trade, I have never taken a microbiology course in all my days. So, I am learning with my pupils.

Teaching at a community college presents some special challenges. As one professor kindly stated, "Our students are the bottom 50% of the bottom 50%." Which is to say the bottom 25%. As it turns out, this is not entirely true. The ability and motivation range of my students is huge, and I am already impressed by the dedication of some of my students who have faced a great deal of life challenges in their few years. Some have strongly disadvantaged backgrounds, in terms of material upbringing and education ("My favorite part of today's lecture was the part about DNA," one student told me enthusiastically. "Because I haven't ever heard of it before.")

Per my wife's recommendation, on the first day of class, I had my students fill out a "student interest form" with questions like:

Why are you taking this course?
What topics in microbiology are you interested in?
What other biology classes have you taken?
What other time commitments will you have over the next 6 weeks?
What grade do you plan to achieve in this course?
What are your interests and hobbies?
Below please give any other information that you feel would be important or helpful for me to know as your instructor.

None of my students answered the first question by writing, "To satisfy an enduring passion for microbes." Most answers were along the lines of, "Because I have to."

Most of my students (including the one who had never heard of DNA) are aspiring nurses completing a pre-nursing Associates Degree, and this is their final required biology course at the community college. A few are students from local colleges and universities fulfilling a core requirement for their particular undergraduate degree programs or picking up a course which they hope will help them get into medical school. Most at least hope for success in this class-- nearly all wrote "A" or "B" in response to the question, "What grade do you plan to achieve in this course?"

I could tell from the very first hour that one student, however, was special. His reply to the anticipated grade question: "C is for continue."

When asked to provide any other information that might be helpful to me as an instructor, two students informed me that English is not their first language. This is certainly helpful for me as an instructor. Others told me about their time commitments and potential conflicts (like picking their kids up after school or working at the Olive Garden). A couple told me that they struggle to learn but would try their hardest (one has admirably lived up to his commitment thus far, the other I doubt ever truly intended to).

My special student, Mr. C is for Continue, wrote the following helpful information (/warning/threat): "Here at Local Community College our instructors get evaluations from their students EVERY [triple underlined] semester!"

So I better be on my very best behavior.

A few minutes into class on the second day, Mr. C is for Continue announced, unsolicited, that there was no way he was going to remain in class after the final exam on the last day of school (which was still five weeks away), assuming, unjustifiably, that I would (a) suspend my attendance policy on the last day of school and (b) give the exam first thing in the morning.

Taking notes has become tiresome for Mr. C is for Continue (I lecture from PowerPoint slides that I have printed out for my students with blanks for them to fill in--usually a few words per slide), so I am now being tape-recorded for posterity and Mr. C is for Continue's study purposes.

By the third day of class (yesterday), Mr. C is for Continue had begun participating and asking questions. And his performance on the first two quizzes (yes, I give quizzes every single day, can you believe it?!) are surpassing even his expectations (B is for Better than a C?). (To those who fear I am a pushover, I have a handful of quiz grades to establish otherwise.)

Tomorrow is the first exam or, as one of my college professors would call it, the semester's first celebration of knowledge. I am looking forward to it. My students are not. I am offering extra credit for students who will write a poem about microorganisms.

Maybe I am a sadist, but I love writing quizzes and exams. I don't write trick questions, but I do amuse myself by including funny options in multiple choice questions.

Here are a few of my favorites for your self-testing pleasure:

1. How long have microorganisms been on this planet?
a. 3.5 billion years
b. 3.5 million years
c. 350,000 years
d. since Tuesday when this class began

2. Which of the following is NOT a member of Eukarya?
a. Algae
b. Fungi
c. Humans
d. Protozoa
e. Actually, all of the above are members of Eukarya, but thanks for asking.

3. Who is credited with initiating a trend towards aseptic technique in a clinical setting?
a. Ernst Abbé
b. Anton van Leeuwenhoek
c. Joseph Lister
d. Robert Koch
e. Carl von Linnaeus
f. Professor Yajeev

4. Who is credited with initiating a trend toward aseptic technique in the lab for this class?
a. Ernst Abbé
b. Anton van Leeuwenhoek
c. Joseph Lister
d. Robert Koch
e. Carl von Linnaeus
f. Professor Yajeev
(That was supposed to be an easy one, but a few of my students failed to see the humor in it.)

Here are a few from the True or False section:

5. Aseptic technique is so outdated. It’s not as if I should treat every microorganism in the microbiology lab as if it were a pathogen. Please.

6. Human Immunodeficiency Virus (HIV) is alive.

7. The agent that causes Mad Cow Disease is alive.

8. I am alive. The “I” in this sentence is the test-taker reading it, not the professor writing it.

Don't worry, though. There are plenty (and I do mean plenty) of other questions that are not funny, ironic, or cutesy. However, as promised, tomorrow's exam concludes as follow:

Bonus:
Please write a poem about some thing(s) you learned in this class. The poem does not have to rhyme. The poem must be at least 5 lines long. You must use at least 4 names or words specifically associated with this class to receive credit. Please underline those words. While all scientific facts included should be accurate, the poem does not have to be completely scientific in nature—it can represent the innermost thoughts and feelings you’ve always had or have just developed for some topic microbiological in nature but have been afraid to express—until now. Your instructor will provide you with extra paper, should you find it necessary.

If any of my readers feel so inspired, feel free to compose your own ode to bacteria in the comments section or email them to me at landofyajeev @ hotmail . com

Sliding Scale of Celebrity Doppelgangerness (or is it a slippery slope?)

2008-05-15T11:01:00.012-04:00

It just might be the fact that I've lost about 35 pounds: I have noticed a shift in the celebrity comparisons I have received in recent months. In the past, I have been likened to esteemed filmmaker Michael Francis Moore (particularly when I donned baseball cap and flannel shirt). Lately, however, on multiple occasions, I have been made aware of a resemblance to another charming leading man: the Superbad Seth Rogen.

I consider this a move in a positive direction and an incentive to keep losing weight (I can't wait to see who's next on this spectrum of Hollywood lookalikes).

In related news, the wife took me to my favorite wing establishment (obliquely referenced here) for all-you-can-eat wings to celebrate my recent graduation. It is with mixed emotion that I report to you that I consumed only 7 Thai R Garlic wings, 5 Parmesan Pepper wings, 6 Arizona Ranch wings, 5 Cajun wings, and 1 Barbecue wing for a paltry grand total of (drum-roll please...) 24 chicken wings. Pathetic. At the height of my career, I once consumed 72 chicken wings on all-you-can-eat night (which pales in comparison to the 100+ wing my buddy Jordan had eaten that same night). This time, 24 was all I can eat--a three-fold reduction in wing capacity. For additional perspective, the wife only consumed 6 Louisiana Licker chicken wings and 5 onion rings (it's hard for me not to snicker as I type that).

Finally, for those who are so inclined, may I recommend to you the free eatings and drinkings at your local fast food establishments.

Today, May 15, 2008, Dunkin Donuts is offering free Iced Coffee from 10:00 am until 10:00 pm. No strings attached. However, just try to walk out without buying a donut. Or two.

Also, today, McDonald's is promoting its new Southern-style chicken sandwich. It can be yours for free... as long as you purchase a medium or large beverage.

This collective free goodness has earned the fast food industry as a collective unit an Honorable Mention in the ongoing Land of Yajeev Best Free Stuff competition.

Living the dream...

2008-05-14T16:28:00.005-04:00

...and it's a not a good one.

Yesterday I shared with you my horrific nightmare, in which I accidentally purchased a Dell computer instead of a Mac PowerBook.

Computer Karma got the best of me today, however, as I spent two futile hours attempting to perform what was supposed to be the straightforward task of converting my dissertation from a Microsoft Word document to a PDF file (without losing any of the formatting, bookmarks, or links). My department's Mac Information Technology professional and I attempted to use three different Mac computers and countless combinations of older and newer Microsoft Word and Adobe Acrobat versions to effect the .doc-to-.pdf transition.

After over two hours of fruitless labor (and a discouraging email from the Electronic Theses and Dissertations help desk), we threw our arms up in surrender. I conceded defeat, swallowed my pride, and took my dissertation to the computer lab-- where I used a brand new (and yet still strikingly sluggish and decidedly non-multitasking) Dell Computer to successfully complete the task.

Dude, I am still a Mac snob.

Apple of my eye

2008-05-12T10:10:00.007-04:00

I knew that I preferred Mac computers over PC's, but I didn't realize the extent to which I had become an actual Mac snob until I woke up this morning in a cold sweat from a nightmare in which I had accidentally purchased a Dell (dude!) instead of a new MacBook Pro.

When I realized what I had done, I desperately (and unsuccessfully) pleaded with the computer salesman (who happened to be a member of the Best Buy Geek Squad (they're so cool)) to allow me to return the Dell. He kept trying to tell me how great the Dell laptop I had just bought was, but he was saying things like "It's got a huge 10-gig hard drive" and "It has a floppy disc drive instead of a clunkier CD/DVD drive", "The battery will let you work for up to 30 minutes without being plugged in", "Newer Dells only crash once every two or three days of use, although current models like yours haven't been around long enough to generate good reliability statistics".

The giant storeroom began to spin, and I pounded my fists on the counter in front of me. "Nooooooo!" I screamed. The scream must have been intense enough to nudge me into consciousness. My eyes popped open and I glanced around the room without moving. It took me a moment to realize I had been dreaming.

I rolled over and reached over the side of the mattress to feel for the laptop nestled under my bed. My fingers caressed the cool, frosted metallic surface of my trusty 2005 15-inch PowerBook G4.

All was right with the world.

Tell me, Brother, can you quantify?

2008-05-08T18:42:00.016-04:00

Last night, Little Brother and I spoke on the phone to catch up with each other's impressions of the most recent installments of three of our mutual loves: Lost (the sci-fi drama about hapless plane-wreck survivors stranded on a desert island), Survivor (the reality series about hapless game show contestants stranded on a desert island), and Gilligan's Island (the TV Land comedy about hapless three-hour-tourists stranded on a desert island).

(OK, not Gilligan's Island.)

In order to demonstrate to each other that we are both still serious fans of Lost and Survivor, at some point during the course of these exchanges, the conversation inevitably degenerates into some semblance of the following dialogue (which has been abridged for readability):

Little Bro: Are you liking Lost?

Yajeev: I like it.

Little Bro: Do you love it?

Yajeev: Yeah, I love it.

Little Bro: How much do you love it?

Yajeev: I love it a lot.

Little Bro: Yeah, but how much?

Yajeev: How can I quantify it?

Little Bro: Well, who's your favorite character right now?

Yajeev: Sawyer's probably my favorite character, but Michael Emerson is my favorite actor on the show.

Little Bro: How much do you love Sawyer?

Yajeev: Yeah, he's great, Bro.

Little Bro: How great are the things he says?

Yajeev: They're the best. I loved when he warned Locke about harming "just one curly hair on Hurley's head."

Little Bro: That was the best! How much did you love that line?

Yajeev: I just told you: it was a great line.

Little Bro: Yeah, but how much did you love it?

Yajeev: A lot. I loved it a lot. How can I answer these questions?!

A few minutes later, the conversation turned to our favorite contestants on past seasons of Survivor.

Little Bro: How much did you love Frank in Survivor: Africa?

Yajeev: He was great.

Little Bro: Yeah, but how much did you love him?

Yajeev: Brother, I loved him a lot.

Little Bro: How much?

Yajeev (searching for some frame of reference): I love Frank as a Survivor contestant almost as much as I love Lost as a show.

Little Bro: Right. (pause) How much is that?

Yajeev: Uhhhh...

Little Bro: Wait--let me ask you this. How much did you love how he didn't know the meaning of the word "brunch"?

Little Bro proceeded to recount verbatim the conversations that took place during a Survivor episode he'd seen only once, on its original airdate in late 2001.

Yajeev: Yeah, that was great.

Little Bro: How great?

And so on.

This conversation has made it clear that when it comes to how much I like something, I have no clear method of quantitation, which makes my descriptions of the degree of like/love I maintain for a given television show or character or Survivor contestant vague and devoid of real meaning.

By contrast, most important traits can be quantifiably determined and so communicated. The piquancy of a chicken wing drenched in Louisiana Lickers sauce (my poultry coating of choice) can be conveyed in Scoville Heat Units (SHU) (Louisiana Lickers wings are a zippy 1,220 SHU on a scale of 16,000,000). Likewise, when I visit the doctor tomorrow and step on the scales, I hope to weigh in at about a slug (not this kind of slug) less than I did four months ago. Similarly, when I wish to express to someone how much of the enzyme invertase a given yeast culture secretes under conditions of glucose scarcity, I can give a near exact value: 4o0 milli-units of invertase per 1 milliliter of cells at an optical density of 1.0 in light of 600 nanometer wavelength (mU/OD).

Towards the end of being able to specifically delineate the degree to which a person, place, or thing is liked, I hereby propose a new unit of fondness: The philiac.

Of course, before this term can be introduced to the public lexicon, the scale must be calibrated. In order for this new unit of fondness to be useful, we need to be clear on what a philiac is.

Below are a list of things and people that I like to varying degrees and their corresponding philiac values.

The wife: 1,000,000 philiacs = 1 megaphiliac (1 Mp)
Coffee: 50,000 philiacs = 50 kilophiliacs (50 kp)
Watson Steve: 10,000 philiacs = 1 kilophiliac (10 kp)
LOST: 1000 philiacs = 1 kilophiliac (1 kp)
Frank on Survivor: Africa: 950 philiacs (950 p)
Monte Cello's pepperoni pizza: 800 philiacs (800 p)
Pittsburgh Steelers: 700 philiacs (750 p)
Yeast genetics and biochemistry: 500 philiacs (100 p)
Minnesota Twins: 350 philiacs (350 p)
Tomato soup: 50 philiacs (50 p)
Mowing the lawn: 20 philiacs (20 p)
Clipping my fingernails: 1 philiac (1 p)
Walking uphill half a mile: 0.1 philiacs = 100 milliphiliacs (500 mp)
Removing splinters: 0.03 philiacs = 30 milliphiliacs (50 mp)
Gram staining bacterial isolates: 0.005 philiacs = 5 milliphiliacs (5 mp)
Preparing radioactive waste for removal: 0.00005 philiacs = 50 microphiliacs (50 μp)
Using gas station restrooms: 0.000001 philiacs = 1 microphiliac (1 μp)

I know that I am not the first to attempt to generate a numerical rating system. However, the advantage of the philiac is that, by virtue of its nearly limitless span, the philiac allows a far-greater range and much higher resolution than do the more commonly used five-star or two-thumb systems-- consider, for example, the trillion-fold difference in likedness of the wife (1 megaphiliac) with that of using gas station restrooms (1 microphiliac).

It is the hope of this bloggist that the philiac will facilitate and enhance communication among those who love to rate and rank.

Caveat Emptor: Land of Yajeev Blogxposé

2008-05-02T14:00:00.009-04:00

I take no pleasure in what I am about to tell you, but the truth (even (/especially) scandalous truth) must be told. At the risk of being mistaken for Hard Copy or A Current Affair, I present to you one of the more troubling scandals the blogosphere/ onlineauctionosphere has seen in recent memory.

Several months ago, I brought to your attention a unique investment opportunity. eBay user lazyjoecox put up for auction the extra hour he gained in last fall's time change. Below is the pitch he used to lure unsuspecting bidders:

Ready for an amazing deal!!!! I am putting an hour of my life up for sale. As you know, this weekend time changes and an hour is gained. Instead of using my extra hour for fun and festivities, I am willing to sell it to you. Once I receive payment, I will mail you a certificate which certifies that YOU now own my hour. As you can tell from my picture, my time is very valuable. Don't worry if purchase is made after the time change, because I will not be using my hour. I am saving it for you!!!! Good luck bidding!!! Use wisely.

Despite my efforts to own lazyjoecox, if only for an hour, I lost the auction fair and square. Or so I thought.

The Land of Yajeev has learned (via a trusted, independent source*) that the auction was a hoax. Sad, but true: lazyjoecox's fiancée was the "highest bidder" and would have been no matter what the highest bid was--she would always outbid the leading offer. Moreover, no transaction ever actually took place! No money changed hands, no certificate was mailed (as had been advertised) or even created, and there is no evidence that this extra hour was transferred from lazyjoecox's possession.

Remarkably, lazyjoecox boasts an impeccable member feedback profile, with a 100% positive feedback rating! I wouldn't be surprised, though, if each of the supposedly independent eBay members with whom he has transacted was actually his fiancée with a different online pseudonym. "chucknbecky", "baldguy0722", and "empire_liquidators", might actually be noms de plume of the future Mrs. lazyjoecox.

To what end was this deception concocted? What heartless man would execute such vainglorious chicanery? Who would offer 60 minutes of himself to the neediest, highest bidding soul only to cling even more tightly to his supposedly superfluous moments?

Why would someone do this? There was no monetary gain (unless he, by his faux magnanimity, endeared himself to bidders of future auctions). I see no likelier explanation than this: he did this because he could. To display (if only to himself) the power that he holds over the mass of groundlings huddled together, clamoring at his feet just for his one extra hour. An hour which, like a mirage, at first shimmered, but then disappeared the closer one was to it.

I am troubled.

* lazyjoecox

(Mostly) civil defense

2008-05-01T18:43:00.011-04:00

His first question was funny.

My advisor had slipped my father (a marketing consultant, not a biochemist) a piece of paper with a query that he should pose during the question period of my dissertation defense.

"Have you considered a possible role for the yeast 14-3-3 proteins as regulators of the phosphorylation event you've discussed today?" he asked, having no comprehension of the words that were coming out of his mouth.

"That's a very interesting question, Dad," I responded. "In fact, I have considered such a role for these proteins, as you might have known this had you been paying attention during the conclusion of my presentation." He had of course been paying attention--he'd videotaped my every word and gesture for posterity. The language barrier, however, for the uninitiated can be intense, as every other word in such a presentation tends unavoidably toward the jargonish. Phrases like "altered sensitivity to an adenine analog", "half-time of dephosphorylation in the absence of de novo phosphate addition" and "multimerization of heterotrimers into higher-order structures" can be overwhelming even to a scientist working in a different subfield.

The audience laughed at our little exchange, certainly not a typical Ph.D. defense Q & A. I prepared to take other (legitimate) questions, but he continued with a new line of interrogation, this time of his own invention, asking about the naming conventions of yeast genes: "Why are your words sometimes in capitals and other times in lower case?"

I laughed politely and asked, "Are there any other questions?" I asked, attempting to restore some semblance of post-presentation normalcy.

"And, sometimes, you have them in italics!" he added, enthusiastically, to scattered chuckles in the audience. It was clear from his exuberance that my dad was in fact proud of me. It was also clear that he'd never been to a biochemistry dissertation defense before (most haven't).

Fortunately, my dissertation committee was (nearly) as supportive as my father. In the closed-door portion of the exam (no proud fathers allowed), the committee members asked a few obligatory questions to ensure that I was capable of sustaining scientific conversation. Four of the five members were willing to accept my dissertation without revision. The fifth member I had run into at a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball game two nights prior.

"Shouldn't you be studying?" she had asked me at the home plate entrance to PNC Park in front of the Honus Wagner statue.

"Shouldn't you be reading my dissertation?" I retorted, feigning confidence. Touché.

"It's on my things-to-do list--I'll read it by Monday," she promised.

She lived up to her word--and then some. In fact, she read the document more thoroughly than the other committee members and was equipped with a list of questions and concerns. "Why didn't you include a discussion of the connection between XYZ enzyme and the subject of your work?" she asked.

"Well," I began, attempting to craft a careful response, "There was one paper written that connects these two in the manner to which you elude. It was written by a research group in Wisconsin, but as far as I know, there hasn't been any additional significant work corroborating this linkage."

"There is one other paper," she responded.

"I'm not aware of it," I replied.

"I wrote it."

My advisor and I responded, simultaneously: "You did?!"

She did.

Fortunately, despite my oversight, she and the other committee members were willing to sign off on my magnum opus, asking for minimal adjustments (two to three additional paragraphs). Forms were signed and handshakes exchanged, and the deed was done: I had passed my final exam.

Bonus feature for today's blog entry:

Pictured at left is one artist's rendering (mine) of the heterotrimeric enzyme that is the subject of my dissertation research. For the sake of the pseudoanonymity I manage to maintain on the blog, I have replaced the protein names with their generic designations: alpha, beta, and gamma.

Watson and Cricket

2008-04-25T22:11:00.020-04:00

I defend my dissertation tomorrow.

I took Friday off to prepare. I re-read my dissertation in the morning, brushed up on the details, and attempted to practice the PowerPoint presentation I'll be delivering to a crowd of students, professors, friends, and family in a mere two days. This turned out to be a fool's errand. I never quite made it through the entire talk without an interruption.

I set my timer and attempted to deliver my talk. Five minutes into my presentation, Watson needed something to drink and his bowl was empty. I filled his water bowl and began again. I made it through the introduction slides when Watson decided it was time to play. I took him for a walk in an effort to tire him out.

Watson did indeed become fatigued, and he crashed at the foot of the bed, so I felt it was safe to try once more.

It wasn't.

"Beep beep beep," the Instant Messenger chimed, announcing incoming messages. Time for a chat break.

Chat chat chat.

Finally, I mustered the willpower to terminate the texting. "gtg," I concluded.

I closed my chat window and recommenced the rehearsal.

"Beep beep beep," repeated the Instant Messenger not many minutes later. A few more lines of chatting were required for closure before I could in good conscience terminate the application.

Time was slipping through my fingers. The wife would be home in three hours and I had not made it through the entire PowerPoint one time. My anxiety intensified. Convinced, though, that I had seen the last of the interruptions, I took it one more time from the top. I would surely be able to complete the 45-minute presentation at least once, if not twice, before the little lady returned home from work. Soon after that, her parents would arrive, and the weekend festivities would begin.

I made it through the first several slides without a hitch. I had been talking for 25 minutes and was on slide 29 of 47 when my cell phone rang. My wife's name flashed on the screen. I was a little surprised, because I thought she was in a meeting and wouldn't be leaving for home for at least another hour. I paused my presentation to answer the phone.

"Hello," I greeted her.

"Um, yajeev, I did something really bad," she replied. I could hear that she was in her car already. I wondered what thing she could have possibly done that she would have categorized as really bad. The wife is practically incapable of doing really bad things. Did she say something to accidentally offend someone at her meeting? Could she have made a parent of one of her students angry? Might she have gotten a traffic violation?

"What is it?" I asked, emoting preemptive supportiveness.

"I'm bringing home a puppy."

I laughed aloud. She was joking. "You're joking."

"I'm not joking." She wasn't joking.

I paused. For a long time. I opened my mouth to speak, but only silence escaped. It was if my vocal cords had been snipped. The pause continued.

"Are you mad?" she asked.

"You're bringing a puppy home?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Tonight?"

"Yes."

"You really are joking."

"No."

She really wasn't joking. She arrived at home about thirty minutes later with a 5-week old black lab/beagle mix. Apparently one teacher had given this puppy to another teacher, but the recipient's husband had informed her that he would not allow that puppy in their house. By the time the conversation between the recipient and her husband had transpired, the puppy donor had already left for the weekend. And somewhere in the time between the husband's refusal to welcome the puppy into their home and the phone call I had just received from my wife, the puppy recipient had talked my wife into taking the puppy for the weekend. The coercion, I understand, took the form of the puppy recipient placing the puppy in my wife's lap, where the puppy quickly fell asleep.

That was all it took. And now, we had a five-week-old puppy in our home for the next few days. A puppy was exactly the last thing I thought we needed at this particular junction in our lives. I knew that a puppy would mean being awakened every few hours during the nights that we had it (which is what happened). I knew that a puppy would mean strong emotional attachment and delusional fantasies of keeping the puppy far into the future even though finding a reasonably priced apartment which would accommodate two dogs in the city we were moving to would be next to impossible (which is what happened). I knew a puppy would mean a distraction from preparing for my dissertation defense (which is what happened).

"I'm so sorry. It was really stupid. I should have asked you."

I was truly speechless. Shortly after we hung up the phone, the wife and little canine arrived at our front door.

"See, look how cute she is."

She was really cute. "Huh," I grunted.

"Don't you just love how soft she is."

I pet her head. She was really soft. "Huh," I grunted again.

Watson, on the other hand, could not hide his enthusiasm for the potential of a strange, new, wonderful little playmate. The two were fast friends. Watson led the puppy to our backyard, where he showed her all the cool places to go potty and good spots for eating grass. He was enamored by his new pint-sized pal, and they began to size each other up, jumping on top of each other. Watson, for the most part, and to his credit, was careful not to crush the tiny, tipsy pooch. He stood up on his hind legs, extended his front legs as if to pounce hard on the little girl, but descended ever so gently.

"What's her name?" I asked my wife as the two played.

"She doesn't have one yet."

"What do we call her?"

"I don't know."

Just call her dog. Just call her dog. Just call her dog, I kept telling myself. To give her a name would be to create a point of attachment, and I most certainly did not want to become in any way attached to this thing. "How about Cricket?" I volunteered, involuntarily. "Cricket is a great dog name," I added, not believing the words that were coming out of my mouth. I said their names aloud: "Watson and Cricket."

"That's a great name," my wife replied.

Throughout most of the evening, the dogs alternated between incessant (borderline annoying) playfulness and sudden bouts of sleep. The narcolepticness was almost endearing. Almost. Watching that teeny tiny little puppy curl into a little ball on a velvety blue blanket on the living room floor. The only major scuffle occurred when we attempted to feed Cricket some special gourmet puppy food (provided to us by the original puppy recipient). Watson has never had to share food before, and this wet dog food smelled much, much better than his daily dry doggy kibble. Watson bared his teeth and growled at Cricket, attempting to create a barrier between Cricket and her puppy food. Ultimately, Cricket, with a little help from the wife and me, was victorious: I carted Watson up to the bedroom, where he pouted and sulked, while the wife served Cricket her fancy dinner.

I deliberately made no effort to initiate contact with Cricket. Which apparently made me pretty attractive to her. My wife had picked her up to sleep in her lap, but Cricket would not settle until she had wriggled into my arms. I pushed her away, but she kept returning. Later, as we lay in bed (and as I attempted to blog), my wife pulled Cricket to her chest to snuggle, but Cricket would lift her little head, point it in the direction of mine, and forage her way around pillows, over sheets, until her head was resting on mine. Her head on my head. That was how she wanted it. The cycle repeated several times: I brushed her off of me, she returned with greater resolve, each time more determined to burrow herself into some nook or cranny on or around my body. It seems that the less interested in an animal I am, the more they want to be near me.

(I have a way with animals I have no desire to have anything to do with. When we house sat for a favorite professor (one of edutainment's finest) several years ago, he assured us that we would never even see his cat, Smokey. That was good news to me, because I didn't particularly care for cats. And, I was allergic. As you can probably guess, then, Smokey did not leave my side for the duration of our house sitting.)

Cricket struggled to be close to me, as, the wife looked on in pleased satisfaction. Her eyes sparkled with the ecstasy of having a puppy, if even just for a weekend, even as it clamored to snuggle with me.

"I figured you out," I told the wife.

"What do you mean?"

"You want me to decide to give this puppy to you as a congratulations present for bearing with me until I graduate."

Silence. She began, "I had no ulterior motive-- I just thought having a puppy for a few days would be nice." There was a long pause. "That would be a nice present." Another pause. "but, no, that's not what I'm trying to do." Not consciously, anyway.

Yesterday afternoon, the wife returned Cricket to the teacher who had yesterday given Cricket to the wife. Parting was such sweet sorrow.

Pain and suffrage, or Don't be disenstickered!

2008-04-22T09:14:00.006-04:00

Today and today only, if you live in the fine Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, you are entitled to a free sticker that has the words "I voted" with a little American flag.

You know that I am a fan of all things free, and while the sticker is not quite worthy of a Land of Yajeev Best Free Stuff Award, I was motivated enough to drive to my local free sticker outpost (a gymnasium in our local government building) and touch a few rectangles (that had words like "Hillary" and "Barack" printed across them) on a computer touch screen.

I was so invigorated by the whole process that, after I touched a few random boxes on the monitor and a button that said "Vote now", I walked straight out of the gymnasium toward the free coffee and doughnut-for-donation table without claiming my free sticker. Fortunately, I noticed that my wife (whose primary motivation for playing with the touch screens I suspect was not in fact a free sticker) had the oviform decal emblazoned on her sweater. Immediately, (free) coffee in hand, I marched back into the gymnasium and asked for my sticker.

"But you haven't voted yet, sir," the man told me. "If you vote, then I can give you a sticker."

"I did vote."

"Well, then I would have certainly given you a sticker." I wished I had a receipt or a touch-screen print-out to verify that I had already cast my ballot.

"Look, I... I... I touched that screen over there," I stammered, pointing at the voting station I had used.

The man eyed me suspiciously. Meanwhile, a disorganized, murmuring mass of would-be sticker collectors who had finished touching their screens gathered, waiting for their adhesive. Perhaps fearful of the mob turning unruly if they were not given stickers in a timely fashion, the man did what he felt needed to be done to address his problem (me): He reluctantly peeled a sticker from his roll and slowly extended it toward me.

I accepted and proudly pressed the tag to my chest.

Many are those who lived and died bravely so that we could have the right to touch a screen and wear a sticker. If you call the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania home, do your patriotic duty and claim your free sticker today.

Mor chikin!

2008-04-16T21:13:00.020-04:00

Their unending generosity has earned our local Chick-Fil-A the first ever Land of Yajeev Best Free Stuff Award.

As if I haven't already collected enough from the poultry peddlers without paying for it (click here and here for some awesome chickeny adventures that resulted in literally years of free chicken sandwiches), Ron, Rose, and the other kind folks at CFA Unit#01583 are providing a fine, fowl breakfast spread for the members of my lab this Friday. Gratis.

As we prepare to move, our hearts are most saddened by the fact that not a single Chick-Fil-A cow or smiling "my pleasure" robot can be spotted anywhere in our new home state.

Thank you, Chick-Fil-A.

I am pictured here with close, personal friend, Dan Cathy, Chick-Fil-A President and Chief Operating Officer, son of Chick-Fil-A Founder S. Truett Cathy at one of several Grand Openings of regional Chick-Fil-A free-standing units I've attended in the past four years (each resulting in fifty-two free value meals).

Would you or your company like to be considered for the Land of Yajeev Best Free Stuff Award? It's easy! Simply email your request and the proposed free stuff you'd like to send me to landofyajeev@hotmail.com or leave your ideas in the comments section.

Eat Mor Chikin cow image accessed from www.chick-fil-a.com.
Land of Yajeev Best Free Stuff Award image courtesy of Wife of Yajeev.

Land of Yajeev Haiku

2008-04-14T22:58:00.011-04:00

For one day (and perhaps one day only), I will hold my prosaicness to a minimum. I found this site via Geeka (at When do you think you'll be done?) that semi-randomly generates haikus based on the content of your webpage or blog.

For your inspiration, I've included a few automated Land of Yajeev-inspired haiku in this post.

go wrong gifting this
bear to the one you may be
a euphemism though

no longer practice
the art of gliding down snow
covered mountainsides

neighbors would have no
idea what i'm talking
about in this case

no joke fair readers
finally you can purchase
the mishaps happen

oven mitt and all
others looking for wit and
wisdom anecdotes

a professor on
whose desk i deposited
my dissertation

appreciate this
one particular patch of
wood paneled wall

Just Dissert(ation)s

2008-04-12T23:27:00.006-04:00

This post is an expanded version of a comment I left at Unbalanced Reaction’s blog this afternoon. She’s preparing her doctoral dissertation and hoping to turn it in on Monday.

I have just finished writing my dissertation. It’s been five months of dedicated reading, studying, writing, editing, wrestling with EndNote citation software, and coping with Microsoft Word crashes. That’s five months I would have rather been blogging, but, unfortunately, I still have not accumulated enough sponsors to turn the Land of Yajeev into a full-time gig. Until then, I’ll have to keep on keeping on with the science stuff.

So the way this works is essentially as follows. I spent the first two years of my graduate program completing my coursework requirements. For the next two and a half years, I engaged in full-time research in a biochemistry laboratory working on my dissertation project. I came up with a few hypotheses and set out to testing them. Funny, when I write it like that, it sounds so easy. Then came the write-up: my Ph.D. dissertation. Basically a 150-page lab (uber)report to be read and graded by my dissertation committee, a panel of professors with expertise in my field of study.

I have spent the past several weeks editing, revising, tweaking my dissertation. Printing, proofreading, re-printing, re-proofreading, re-re-printing, etc. Printing the final draft, making photocopies, collating, and, finally, preparing for distribution to the members of my committee.

My advisor has told me that there are some professors (perhaps, say, like my advisor?) who, as long as they have a “pretty good feeling” about the doctoral student, won't even read the stinking thing. I'm not sure which would be worse: to have put all this time (and caffeine) into my dissertation only to have the doctoral committee merely flip through the pages (even though some might argue that just turning every page would actually constitute a complete reading)... or having them scrupulously read every page, parsing each sentence, demanding that I re-think, re-edit, or re-write.

Yesterday, I visited the professors on my committee to personally hand each of them their very own copy of my opus. Two professors humored me and greeted me great enthusiasm. The other two were nowhere to be found, so I left their copies on their desks. Which is sort of anticlimactic. I mean, you exhaust so much blood, sweat, and tears on this thing, and you at least want the satisfaction of handing it to the committee members. Maybe a handshake. Or a high five.

I did receive the following email message, though, from a professor on whose desk I deposited my dissertation:

Your dissertation’s here; I just finished it. Couldn't put it down, better than a Grisham. Just kidding; looks impressive and I will read it eventually.

By "impressive", I'm assuming he means "bulky", and I hypothesize that "eventually" just may be a “maybe” euphemism. (though, I do appreciate his humor and recognition of the appearance of impressiveness, if only in heft.)

If my first round of critics (ie, the committee) appreciate it, I think I’ll adapt the dissertation into a screenplay: a science-fiction tragicomedy about an enzyme that finds her purpose in protecting the cell in which she lives from the stressful conditions that threaten its very existence, the proteins which provoke her to action, and the evil villain who would dampen her life-preserving impact on her cellular environs.

Apt comparisons

2008-04-11T08:18:00.011-04:00

The wife is currently en route to Atlanta to visit her sister and mother to take part in my sister-in-law's wedding pre-season (ie, shopping for dresses and doing other sorts of wedding planning stuff).

The little lady, bless her heart, selected the most inexpensive flight leaving today from Pittsburgh for Atlanta. It left at 6:45 am. Which meant she had to be at the airport at 4:45 am. Which meant we had to leave the house at 4:00 am. Which mean we had to get up at 3:00 am. THREE O' CLOCK AM. Which is basically the middle of the night.

The cloud's silver lining came, however, when I received the following brief text message from the wife just after she had boarded her plane (I added the punctuation and capitalization--those are tricky to do in text messages). This single sentence made waking up at 3 am worth it.

One guy got on [the plane and] said, "This is like a Greyhound bus on wheels."

Like the one in this picture?

It reminds me of a family friend, who, after arriving in the quaint Midwestern city of Chicago, Illinois (which is little more than a suburb of Indianapolis, really) remarked, "This city is almost as great as Columbus, Ohio!" Soon after making this comment, unfortunately, this friend, apparently unfamiliar with the operating protocols for revolving doors, became trapped in the circular entrance for one of the many stores along the Magnificent Mile. As if Chicago, recognizing and scorning its own inferiority to Columbus, Ohio, felt the need to exact petty revenge on the soul who dared speak such hurtful things.

If it meant reliably getting comments like these, I would gladly wake up at 3am every day (and then I would probably go back to sleep).

___________________________

Note added in proof: as I'm about to click "publish post", I just received another text message from the little lady. This is what it said (again, punctuation and capitalization contributed by me):

I made it. I love you.

This message is even better than the first.

Birthday Greetings (Courtesy of the Land of Yajeev Megastore)

2008-04-06T08:34:00.019-04:00

You know the dilemma. You've been there a hundred times. Walking up and down the aisle at the card store trying to pick out the perfect birthday card. One that is equal parts funny and heartwarming. You've done this so many times that you can't remember which cards you've sent your loved ones and which ones you've just picked up to read only to return to its slot.

I am here to help.

The Land of Yajeev Megastore is introducing the first in a new line of (to-be) acclaimed greeting cards: the official Land of Yajeev Birthday Card. Can't find just the right way to tell your birthday boy or girl Happy Birthday? Let Yajeev do it for you! Check out for yourself the artsy stylings and clever birthday wishings of your humble blogger. Click the images below for a larger view of the front and inside of the Land of Yajeev Birthday Card.

These cards have been in beta testing, and so far the feedback has been phenomenal, so please do not delay. The price is right, and you get a bargain for buying in bulk (you do have a lot of family and friends with birthdays, don't you?) Tell your loved ones happy birthday. From both of us.

_____________________________________

On the topic of birthdays, I also want to take this opportunity to wish an early happy 29th b'day to one of this blog's oldest friends. Russ, hope your 30th year's even better than your 29th.

(images of russ accessed from his and his mom's myspace)

Paws for concern

2008-04-04T13:23:00.007-04:00

A brief note:

To friends of the blog who took the bait and believed my April 1st email in which I announced my retirement from blogdom, my sincerest apologies for any psychological or medical inconveniences you may have incurred. Also, kind thanks to those of you who wrote me kind notes urging me to continue blogging.

____________________

... and now for the post

Watson and I went for a walk this morning in the heavyish rain. Halfway around the block, he started limping like he does when his paws get too cold in the snow. We stopped, and I saw a big splinter in his toe. I tried to take it out on the spot, but it was too wet and he was too squirmy, so we hobbled home, where I managed to extract the bloody splinter from his ailing paw. He released a few bloodcurdling yelps while I tweezed. Initially, he was angry at me; he believed I was causing him this pain. But we're cool now-- it wasn't long before he was engaging in a pain-free spree 'round the house.

Watson said that as a reward for my heroic rescue effort, I should get a Starbucks coffee and a McDonald's sandwich for breakfast. I protested, but he insisted, said it would be his treat. Turned out that by "his treat", he meant the Starbucks lady would give him a treat. What a sneaky dog. I guess he deserved the biscuit, though, after his paw pain. He thought he might never trot again.

Land of Yajeev Announcement, 4/1/08

2008-04-01T18:57:00.010-04:00

My subscribers and friends of the blog have just received the following disturbing email. The postscript was not included in the original text, but has been appended below for clarification.

Dear Friends of the Land of Yajeev,

It is with bittersweet sentiment that I announce to you that I have posted the final entry to the Land of Yajeev. I'm throwing in the towel. As I've long feared, I have finally exhausted my life's supply of bloggable material. I want to thank you for visiting the site, for leaving your comments, for providing blogworthy inspiration, and for sharing this experience with me. I am hanging up my blogging boots and will be focusing on other writing ventures: my dissertation and the great American novel.

Please visit the Land of Yajeev to read my final post--I think you'll find it quite meaningful. Even though I'll be retiring yajeev's pen, my posts will remain online for you to enjoy in reruns. Consider the Land of Yajeev to be Nick-at-Nite of the blogosphere. Good times, great oldies.

Sincerely,
your humble blogger,
yajeev

P.S. APRIL FOOLS! You didn't actually think my dissertation would take priority over the blog, now did you? It'll take a lot more than a doctoral dissertation committee to keep this voice down.

Speaking of foolery, this morning, my advisor made me the victim of a horrific April Fools Day prank. We recently published an article in the Journal of Biological Chemistry. The paper was the fruit of two years of hard labor/ indentured servitude and is, thus far, the crowning achievement of my scientific career. This morning I received this email from my advisor:

Yajeev,

I just got this intense letter from NIH [our funding source] saying that our last paper had been cited in a fraud investigation and we will have to produce all primary data. Lets talk when I get in.

- Advisor

When I read that, my heart just about stopped beating. My mind, already spread thin across about twelve different things, began to melt. That's it, I thought, my career is over. Even if we were cleared (which we eventually would have been, mind you), I didn't know how long this would take or how far a " fraud investigation" would follow me. I began compiling a mental checklist of where all of our "primary data" could be found. The sweat balls I encountered during last summer's job interview returned, beading at my forehead before gliding down my cheeks.

A few minutes after I read his note, my advisor entered the lab, holding a folded sheet of paper, bearing a grim expression on his face. He handed the paper to me, saying, "Here's the original message."

I unfolded the page. It took several seconds of staring at the words "APRIL FOOLS!!" typed in large print across the middle of the paper before I comprehended the hoax my advisor had perpetrated. Before I could experience a full measure of relief, a wave of anger overcame me, and I heard myself uttering some very unkind, unfiltered words to my advisor-- words of which, once the relief finally set in, I was very much ashamed. Fortunately, my advisor was quite amused with his prank. My response only confirmed to him the greatness of his deception.

Sweet Sixteen

2008-03-30T21:54:00.012-04:00

It was the ultimate Cinderella story.

No one thought it could be done.

Sixteen and oh.

Listen: I'm here to tell you that dreams can and do come true with just a little heart... and four years of obsessive-compulsive repetition.

Perfection. The New England Patriots couldn't do it. The Davidson Wildcats couldn't do it. But, assuming the personae of one effervescent Toad and another unflappable Paratroopa (the cartoon racers that wouldn't (say) die), your humble narrator has conquered the machine and run the perfect Nintendo Game Cube Mario Kart Double Dash 150cc All Cup Tour.* I have fought the good fight. I have run the good race.

Overcoming the onslaught of spiked flying blue shells, wildly careening around banana peels giant and small alike, deftly avoiding the decoy item boxes decorated with upside down question marks, I powerslid my way to sixteen consecutive first place finishes. Wario ("Here I go!") couldn't keep me down. Princess Daisy ("Hi, I'm Daisy!") couldn't stop me. Not even the mustachioed Italian plumbers themselves with all their heat-seeking red shells and pyrotechnic fire balls and incredibly shrinking lightning bolts could prevent me from finally reaching my goal of the perfect 160-point tour.

I skillfully navigated Wario Coliseum, scaled the DK Mountain, conquered the deceivingly treacherous Baby Park, and, finally, flawlessly traversed Rainbow Road (Rainbow Road is where I normally choke, unable to withstand the tremendous pressure of fifteen well-run races).

This was my finest hour. Actually, my finest thirty-five minutes and forty-seven seconds. We'll just round up. And I've got the screen shots to prove it (you didn't think I'd ask you to trust without verification, did you?).

It is finished.

Just in time for the Wii version.

I'm going to Disney Land.

(for the record, this feat of Nintendo greatness was actually accomplished several months ago--before I began to work on my dissertation. it's taken me this long to get the digital camera with the screen shots, the connection cable, a charged battery, and my computer all in the same place at the same time so I could upload the proof.)

* If you have no idea what I'm talking about in this post, do not despair. I promise to return with more readily accessible material soon. I just thought my gaming readers would want to celebrate with me.

(images courtesy of Nintendo)

Election Update

2008-03-28T20:49:00.005-04:00

Land of Yajeev readers voted en masse to give a free wedding to friends of the blog, Regan and Steve.

Thanks to all who rocked the vote--I've just learned that Regan and Steve have won the free (televised) marriage from the Youngstown NBC affiliate.

If there's one thing I've learned from my years of living on the streets of Liberty Township, Grove City, Indianapolis, and Cranberry Township, it is this: Free is Good. Whether it's a t-shirt at the race track, cappuccino for two at Sheetz, the grace of God, a foul ball at an Indians game, or even a wedding, gratis is great. There's just nothing better than getting stuff you didn't pay for or steal.

Now that the winner has been decided, check the WFMJ website weekly to vote for additional wedding details: bridal gown, tux, honeymoon, menu, wedding cake, flowers... at least one friend is determined to vote for the ugly stuff, so do your part to help Regan and Steve by voting each week.

If you believe in free love...

2008-03-26T22:57:00.008-04:00

... then please visit this Youngstown, Ohio NBC affiliate television website and vote for my friends, Regan and Steve, to win a free wedding.

Click here to vote.

Voting ends this Friday, March 28 at 3:00 pm, so click now and exercise your American duty/right/privilege and ROCK THE VOTE! Regan and Steve had The Audacity of Hope for no-cost matrimony, and together we can make their dream come true--Yes We Can. Remember, It Takes a Village to make a marriage, and theirs is a love Worth the Fighting For.

Someday when I make it big, I'll throw a Win-a-Yajeev-Themed-Wedding Contest. Until then, it's t-shirts and pride.

Another happy customer

2008-03-17T21:10:00.005-04:00

Please allow me to distract you from your Shamrock shakes for just a minute to point you in the direction of a fully satisfied Land of Yajeev Megastore customer.

Avery caught the Irish fever and purchased the Land of Yajeev limited edition St. Patrick's Day T-Shirt with the contest-winning design. Please take a moment to click here to see the Yajeev gear in action, read her compelling testimonial, and enjoy the bloggings while you're at it!

Remember Yajeev's Irish-themed merchandise is available for a limited time only, so hurry on over to the Megastore to get yours while supplies last.

Welcome to Puttsburgh!

2008-03-15T00:13:00.004-04:00

The wife and I were browsing the political section of MSNBC.com, and we found a calendar of current political events. Ever astute, the little lady quickly identified a Freudian slip that made clear the opinions of the MSNBC political editors regarding our fair town.

It's a rare pleasure for Pennsylvanians to be the focus of major presidential candidates prior to the primary elections. Today, our fine city welcomed Senator Hillary Clinton. The Burgh of Putts is honored you came.

I'll be sure to check back at MSNBC.com for the rest of her cross-state tour. What's next on the docket? Filthadelphia? Queerie? Errisburg?

Great Wall

2008-03-10T22:30:00.006-04:00

Depending on who you ask, one of the great benefits (ask my wife) or drawbacks (ask me) of home ownership is the opportunity for improvement. I suspect that my occasional reluctance to fully devote myself to home upgrades and renovations stems from unpleasant childhood experiences.

My earliest memory of hammer and nails involves my father nailing something to something else. The identities of the something and something else are not important. They could have been anything: baseboard to a wall, mailbox to a post, hardwood plank to the floor, ninety-five theses to a church door...

I was not in the same room with my dad, but the sounds he created clearly betrayed his advanced degree of home-improvement know-how. As I tinkered with my Muppet Babies Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy Happy Meal toys in my bedroom, I could hear Dear Old Dad's frustration level rising.

BANG! BANG! "Ouch."

BANG! BANG! "OUCH!"

BANG! BANG! "OUCH!"

BANG! BANG! "OUCH!"

His cycle of pounding and pain continued for some time.

A moment's silence was followed by Dad shouting in my general direction, "Yajeev, can you come hold this nail for me?"

I do not remember what happened next. Likely, one of two scenarios unfolded. First, with no one to save me, I might have actually agreed to hold his nail and endure the finger bruising he had just self-inflicted. The trauma may have been severe enough to wipe the events from my awareness, to be forever secured in some cognitive lock box with a cadre of other repressed gems from my childhood (most of which probably involve failed attempts to elude JR, the bully in my second grade class who, according to legend, beat up eighth graders for the challenge that his second grade classmates just couldn't provide).

The second possibility is that my mother, overhearing my father's painful experience and subsequent entreaties for me to assist him in his home-improving task, swooped in to the rescue of my delicate phalanges. I suspect that this is in fact what actually occurred, given the relatively normal present-day morphology of nine of my ten digits (the general misshapenness of my left thumb has historically been attributed to it having been vigorously sucked for so long and/or being slammed and pinned by a heavy car door).

On another occasion, my mother had asked my father to install a pair of louvered doors in front of the washing machine and dryer that had been tucked away in a closet-shaped space with nothing to hide the eyesore they presented.

My dad (who thrives on creativity) decided that he had a better idea than louvered doors. Everyone had louvered doors--they were too commonplace, he thought. He would conceal the washer and dryer with something totally unique: a wall. Somehow, in place of actual doors, Pops managed to create a piece of wall that matched that of the rest of the room. And, instead of swinging open like a secret door, it was built with a pulley system and track and could be raised and lowered like a garage door. The opener had simply to pull rope to lift the wall above the laundry machines.

The major problem with having a piece of wall for a door is the fact that a wall is a wall and not a door. Doors are typically lightweight and designed to swing open and shut with little resistance. Not so for walls. Walls are often quite heavy, and, as a general rule, are not designed for facile movement. Dad's faux wall was no exception. The wallness of his creation was undeniable both in its heft and unwieldiness. In addition to its significant weight, Dad had failed to include some mechanism to keep the wall in the elevated, open position. One needed to continuously hold the rope down to hold the wall-door up.

For my mother, doing laundry now required a monumental team effort. Each time she wanted to put a new load into the washer or move clothing from the washer or dryer, she had to go outside and solicit help from neighbors. It would often require a team of two or three helpers to hoist the door and hold it open (grasping the rope tightly and leaning back with all of their weight) while my mother hurriedly combined sullied clothing, detergent, and fabric softener. She would have to call them back each time a load had to be added to or removed from either machine.

My mother's goal was to have the laundry machines hidden from plain sight. My dad succeeded at that. Visiting neighbors would have no idea that hidden behind this one particular patch of wood-paneled wall were a couple of Maytags (unless, of course, the visiting neighbors had earlier been conscripted into the army of laundry assistants).

The machines were hidden so well that they might as well not have even been there at all. After several weeks of hard laundering, my mother realized that less effort would be required to load the car, drive the family's dirty clothes to the laundromat, wash, dry, and fold clothing there, pack the car again, drive home, and put away the clean garments than to participate in the team sport of behind-the-wall laundry.

These specters of home improvement past still haunt me and may explain my periodic aversion to do-it-yourself projects and involuntary assumption of the fetal position in response to my wife's mention of new house projects.

You'll know how to find me...

2008-03-04T21:51:00.011-05:00

My regular readers have no doubt added the Land of Yajeev to their list of internet bookmarks to save themselves the hassle of having type the entire web address each time they visit. If you haven't done this yet, I recommend you do this now. Because you never know when the urgent need to access the exclusive contents of this blog will arise, it's best to keep me on standby, just a point and click away.

However, should you find yourself at a strange and unfamiliar computer terminal and do not have the web address memorized (shame, shame), below are a few keywords and phrases others have googled to find the Land of Yajeev. These data come straight from Google Analytics, the free web traffic-monitoring tool provided by your favorite online megapower and mine.

If you need to find me in a pinch, here are the search terms utilized by your fellow web surfers. Following most queries, I have included hyperlinks to the blog post or posts to which I suspect Google may have ultimately directed them. For the poor soul who entered "my email is empty like my soul, sad ha ha", your guess of the ultimate Land of Yajeev entry destination is as good as mine. The important thing is that this sad person found me. I hope he/she and the other googlers have found solace and personal fulfillment in these pages.

And now, the abridged (!) list:

the bumpkins (click here)
are black panthers unicellular (click here or here)
thanks for the nuts (click here)
biology nerd gift ideas (click here or here)
prevent sweating during an interview (click here)
dementia imaginary friends (click here or here)
fall possible head injury eventually show up as bruised ankles (click here or here or here or here or here or here or here) (other similar search terms included: "multiple unprovoked fall" and "my failed attempt at skateboarding that kept me falling")
glen davis on michelangelo (click here)
the steps of falling in love (click here or here)
timeline on gary grubbs life (click here)
impress the girlfriend parents and sung to grandma (click here)
perfect western blot (click here or here)
martha messiah (click here)
moo shoo cereal for breakfast with duck sauce (click here)
my email is empty like my soul, sad ha ha
what is the most humiliating thing that could happen to a youth? (click here)
afro puff silhouette (click here)
butter burst into flames (click here)
600 calories model's diet weight loss (click here or here)
will i ever walk straight and not waddle (click here)
bubelah tee shirt (click here or here)
chinese is not blog (click here)
i don't eat vegetables (click here)
funeral director jokes (click here)
alter ego and shoulder angel demonstration (click here or here)
creepy dog picture real? (click here)
how to land a 30 foot jump (click here)
intelligentsia, yorker, atlantic, harper's, republic, nation (click here)
sleeping wife blog (click here)

It's comforting to know that the Land of Yajeev meets the needs of all sorts of googlers... those who want to know if they will ever be free from waddling and able to walk straight (the answer is an emphatic "no"), those who seek to join the elite ranks of the Atlantic Monthly-subscribing intelligentsia (reading this blog is a good first step), those who need love advice (I'm your man for illustrative writing about falling and falling in love), those who want to maintain their model's figure (two words: diet pills), those who need help preparing for job interviews (if you're a perspirer, bring a towel), and those who need to know what to do in the case of an emergency butter fire (do not attempt to extinguish with a rubber oven mitt)... and all others looking for wit and wisdom, anecdotes and insights into the dark worlds of funeral humor, imaginary friends, alter egos, and babysitter messiahs.

Batman had only one alert: the bat signal projected into the clouds above Gotham City. This blog is much more versatile--responsive to a wide range of googlings. The Land of Yajeev is the new Rome: All (online) roads lead here.

Nuptials

2008-03-02T20:06:00.005-05:00

Congratulations to my sister-in-law and future brother-in-law on their recent engagement!

Just wanted to let you know that I'll be there, as long as I'm invited, of course...

...and as long as there'll be free wi-fi. I'll be the guy in the back, live blogging the event.