Thursday, August 7, 2008

Ron Evans: My Hero



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 CafĂ© 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

Monday, August 4, 2008

Doggy Differences


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).

Sunday, August 3, 2008

UPDATE: Russ Parker: Beyond Salvation?


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).

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Pride


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.


Monday, July 28, 2008

Cease and Desist


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

Friday, July 25, 2008

Oh, Canada!


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

Sunday, July 20, 2008

Poll Results: The Connecticourt has ruled


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

Friday, July 18, 2008

Yajeev for President Campaign Materials





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

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Waiting for Auto


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...