Practice makes perfect

Two anecdotes about two beginners in two different fields.

1. A medical doctor recently joined our laboratory. He is a skilled physician but is still cutting his teeth at the lab bench. He recently learned how to perform a western blot, a basic biochemical technique used to detect specific proteins within a cellular extract.

This is an artist's rendition of what a good western blot looks like.


This is what the good doctor's first western blot looked like.



We had gotten off-topic during our most recent lab meeting, somehow discussing the myriad complications and maladies that can arise with human health and during childbirth. My ever-wise advisor (click here or here) commented, "It's a miracle a baby ever comes out normal."

The young doctor replied, "That's how I feel about western blotting. Childbirth is nothing."




2. We had lunch today at CiCi's pizza buffet where a new pizza chef was being trained.

I watched as the novice removed a pizza from the conveyor oven and attempted to divide it into eight proportional slices. He failed at this task, and this is roughly what his pie looked like.

The manager, displeased with his protege's poor sense of symmetry, took a deep breath and explained (as though this wasn't the first time he'd said it), "You need to visualize the center of the pizza." He paused to demonstrate, carefully cutting eight pieces in a sample pizza. Proud of his perfectly divided circle, the manager added, "This is an art form."

The neophyte retorted, under his breath, "Mine is an abstract pizza."

Culture shock

This weekend, the NFL is sending two teams to the United Kingdom for a regular season match-up: the Miami Dolphins and the New York Giants.

In a recent interview about his upcoming trip across the pond, Miami Dolphins linebacker Channing Crowder had this to say:

I couldn't find London on a map if they didn't have the names of the countries. I swear to God. I don't know what nothing is. I know Italy looks like a boot. I learned that. I know London Fletcher. We did a football camp together. So I know him. That's the closest thing I know to London. He's black, so I'm sure he's not from London. I'm sure that's a coincidental name.

When reminded that his teammate, receiver Marvin Allen is from London, Crowder replied,

He's from London? I don't want to say he didn't look the part because that's a stereotype, but he didn't look the part. I heard him talk, and I thought he had a recorder and was just mouthing.

Crowder also reportedly asked for a translator for his trip. It’s clear his partial education at the University of Florida has only gotten him so far. I’m happy that he finally gets this chance to study abroad.

Thank you, Jacoby Ellsbury

I don't know how you arranged such an amazing deal, but thanks to your stolen base in the bottom of the fourth inning during Game 2 of the World Series, all Americans get a free Taco Bell taco on October 30.

You've only been playing in the big leagues since September, and your stolen base tonight, while not ultimately leading to a run, has earned every American a 77-cent value. If each citizen collects their delicious soft or crunchy taco, Taco Bell will have given away over $231 million in lettuce, beef, and cheese.

Brothers and sisters, let us not be ungracious recipients of this gift the Red Sox rookie, in conjunction with Taco Bell Corp., has bestowed upon us. Rather, let us unite with one appetite as we consume our 300,000,000 tacos next Tuesday afternoon.

Open wide

I found myself this morning in an unsettling position: in the dentist’s chair for routine dental work (or at least would-be routine if I visited the dentist with any regularity): a general cleaning and a filling replacement.

Mouth agape, gums numb, I lay there vulnerable, staring up into the eyes of my dentist and his assistant. Alternating between drill and pick, the dentist dug in, maintaining a basal level of small talk with his assistant (I wonder if they have the same rehearsed conversation over every patient) while tinkering with my pearly (or, more accurately, coffee-stained) whites.

Midway through the filling, I detected a hint of frustration from my dentist. To his assistant, as if I were so overpowered by the local injection of novocaine that I was oblivious to his words, he said, “He has a large tongue.”

I had never before heard the size of my tongue (or anyone’s other than Chaim Witz's) so described.

“You have a large tongue,” he repeated, this time to me.

“Mmmm,” I replied, unable to articulate much more than that.

To his assistant: “Please hold his tongue back.”

Fiddle, scrape, drill.

Under his breath: “Man, that tongue is big.”

Fiddle, scrape, drill.

Again, to his assistant, “I said, please hold his tongue back. It’s flopped over onto his tooth.”

I tired to help by keeping my tongue to the left of my mouth, but it was difficult to maintain any control over my numbed oral organ, perhaps due to its sheer magnitude.

I’ve always known I had a big mouth; now I’ve got the tongue to fill it.

The prestigious burrito

I recently visited Yale University. You may have heard of it. It's quite a prestigious school, really, sometimes called "the Grove City College of the Ivy League".

I walked the grounds and was awestruck by the mystique of the campus... the old buildings, the secret societies, the really smart people.... and I was hungry. In front of me, at the edge of campus, outside of what appeared to be a trendy coffee shop was a street burrito vendor. Involuntarily, I shelled out $5.50 for a juicy, drippy, stuffed chicken burrito.

I continued my tour of the elite campus, munching on my burrito as if it were an ice cream cone, chicken juices dripping onto my shoes. It didn't dawn on me until I took my last bite that people had been staring at the wide-eyed open-mouthed guy with the oversized burrito traversing the hallowed Yale walkways. I wiped the last bit of cheese from the corner of my mouth when I realized that Yalies don't walk around chomping on burritos; they sipped lattes.

I was the country mouse visiting the big city for the first time. Yale majors on delicacy and sophistication. I'm a burrito noshing juggernaut.

The cutest con artist ever

I find myself once again blogging live from the Pittsburgh International Airport. I have spent the previous hour waiting patiently at my departure terminal, checking my email and the news over an airport McDonald’s breakfast. As per usual, I took extra care to order breakfast items that are accompanied by Monopoly game pieces. I peeled the game pieces from my food and set them carefully on the chair next to me. (To read about our other adventures in McDonald’s Monopoly, click here or here or here).

As I ate and surfed the web, a little girl, approximately 1-2 years old by my best estimation, began to walk around the boarding area, surveying the crowd for individuals with McDonald’s game pieces. She too had eaten at McDonald’s this morning with her father and had 4 pieces in her little hands.

She found two other McDonald’s Monopoly players and initiated a game of switcharoo, amusing herself to no end by picking up one person’s game pieces and delivering them to another in the boarding area. This went on for 20 minutes or so. I watched in horror as this miniature monster unknowingly tampered with my chances of winning big. On the inside I was piping mad, but on the outside, I participated joyfully, oohing and ahhing at the cute little princess waltzing around the airport. I did not want to be the bitter grown-up who refused to entertain the whimsy of small children for a miniscule chance at a major payday (which I feel is, of course, in all actuality, my birthright).

As the game progressed, the little girl’s father grew impatient with her, and he beckoned her, speaking in a foreign language. The girl was unresponsive to her father and continued to trade the extraordinarily low odds of each Monopoly player with the others.

Finally, when the girl, whose name I finally gathered to be Hannah, would not cease flirting with would-be passengers of US Airways 6651, her father stood up, marched over to her, took her hand in his and circulated around the boarding area, collecting all of the game pieces from the passengers with whom Hannah had cavorted. He then proceeded to slide the game pieces into his pocket, apologizing, in broken English, for the disturbance his daughter had caused.

It was at this moment that I realized I had been conned. This father and daughter duo had just scammed everyone at Gate B38 out of their game pieces! I bet they’re not even on my flight. When my aircraft begins to board, they’ll probably slip over to another gate and repeat the whole charade.

I’m onto them. It is unconscionable for a grown man to employ his own daughter in such an unethical (yet brilliant) scheme.

I wonder if they need a third partner.

Dear Susie...

This blog entry is inspired by a blog entry I inspired at Velvet Sacks.

I thought she was the one.

I really liked the fourth grade. Fourth grade was when I got my first pouch (don’t call it a fanny pack!). Fourth grade was when I met the Eds: Edwin and Edward. And, fourth grade was when I first laid eyes on her. She. Was. Beautiful.

I knew I had to make her my girl. Problem was: I was the kid who thought the pouch around his waist was really cool (I mean, it was cool—where else could I store my hip shades and my pencils and baseball cards). Let me put it mildly: even at the ripe young age of 10, I was undoubtedly of the nerd persuasion… and she most certainly was not.

Day after day, I did all I could to muster the courage to talk to her. Day after day, I would approach her, look into her eyes and chicken out. Day after day, I walked past her without having said a single word, shoulders slumped in defeat.

One night I decided I’d had enough of my cowardice. I would be a man of action. I would write a letter—not just any letter, no—a love letter.

Perhaps most smitten fourth graders moved to draft such an epistle would have gathered some paper and a writing implement (pencil, marker, crayon?). I, however, went straight for my father’s electric typewriter.

I flipped up the paper guide and inserted a blank piece of white paper behind the roller. I rolled the paper into place and, looking both ways to ensure no one was watching, composed what was sure to become my magnum opus. The words poured forth, almost too fast for my then undersized digits. What follows is my best recollection of the content of the composition.

For the sake of maintaining anonymity, let’s call her Susie.

Dear Susie,

You are the most beautiful girl that I have ever seen. Your eyes sparkle like the stars. When you smile, I feel like I am in the clouds. I feel happy whenever I see your face or hear your voice. I like you so much. Would you like to be my girlfriend?

Love,

I got this far, and, for the first time since I had begun typing, was at a loss for words. How should I sign my name? First name only? First and last name? I clammed up and began to sweat. What was I doing? Could I really reveal my innermost sentiments? What if she laughed at me? What if she showed the letter to her friends and they all laughed at me?

I wrestled with how to conclude, when my mother walked into the room and asked me what I was typing. She probably assumed I was writing a story, as I would sometimes do on my father’s typewriter.

I hurriedly concluded:

Love,

Your secret admirer

Yes, I see the inconsistency. In the body of the letter, I asked Susie to be my girlfriend, yet I evaded self-revelation. I know: she couldn’t accept my offer if she wanted to. But, don’t worry—I was never in any danger of having missed my big chance for failing to identify myself.

I flipped up the paper guide and slid the paper out of the machine and promptly folded it into fourths and placed it in my pouch.

The next day at school, I waited for my opportunity. All day, I was a sweaty preadolescent shell of my normal self. Every few minutes, I would discreetly unzip my pouch and feel for the note just to make sure it was still there. At day's end, I still had not given her my letter.

Finally, my opportunity arrived. Our end-of-the-day routine was to put our chairs upside down on top of our desks so that the janitors could sweep the floor; we’d then line up for the bus. At the appropriate time, I promptly flipped my chair onto my desk and loitered a safe distance behind Susie’s desk. As she placed her chair on her desk and began walking for the line by the door, I followed closely behind, slipping the note between her desk and chair. My plan was for her to arrive at school the next day and find the note first thing in the morning.

The package placed, I headed straight for the line, feeling at once emboldened and terrified. My inner self-talk went a little something like this: “I did it! What have I just done?!” How I would wait an entire day to see her reaction I did not know. I hadn’t yet thought of a follow-up plan. I guess I would have to gauge her reaction. If she seemed intrigued, I’d reveal myself. If not, then—

Suddenly, Susie realized she had left something in her desk. She stepped out of line and sprinted to her desk. She reached in to grab her New Kids on the Block jumbo display pin when something caught her eye—a corner of white paper between her chair and desk.

She pulled it out and began to read it. I watched but tried not to look like I was watching, my heart pounding somewhere in the range of 300-400 beats per minute. I felt like I might pass out. She finished the letter. I tried to make out the expression on her face. Was it flattery? Was it excitement? No. It was definitely not flattery or excitement. Her reaction was most surprising. Susie instantly burst into tears, somehow seriously disturbed by the notion that a classmate of hers had a crush on her.

“What’s wrong, Susie?” my teacher asked.

“Th-this,” she said thrusting the note in front of her.

My teacher took the note from her hand. She read it and instantly looked at me. It was not difficult for her to guess who the secret admirer was who had written—nay, typed—this love letter. I had transitioned from subtle observation to outright gawking at the disaster unfolding before my very eyes.

Sweat was pouring down my face (it wasn’t the first or last time in my life I had sweat so profusely in response to stress). I knew that this relationship was over.

I never spoke another word to Susie. To be honest, I’m not sure if I ever did speak a word to her before the incident. This, however, definitely ended things between us. My crush lingered in painful suspended animation for the duration of the school year. It took summer vacation to fully recover.

I knew I had to get tough. This would merely be the first in a long line of rejections and misadventures I would have to endure until I found the one. The real one.

Inquiring minds want to know

Today, Republican Presidential candidate Rudy Giuliani fielded the following question, asked by a child in the audience:

"If (there's) something living on another planet and it's bad and it comes over here, what would you do?"

As is all too common with the would-be Commanders-in-Chief, America's mayor skirted the question.

"We'll be prepared for that, yes we will," Rudy responded. "We'll be prepared for anything that happens," he added, deftly avoiding actually answering the innocently asked question. The young man did not ask "Will we be prepared?" but rather "What would you do?"

After dodging the question, the former New York City chief executive continued to patronize the young man by comparing him to Steven Spielberg. Stuttering and stammering, Rudy changed the subject; he asked the boy whether he wanted to be a scientist or a science-fiction writer. (The boy's response: Neither. He aspires to be a sculptor).

Mr. Giuliani, if you or your advisors are reading my blog (who are we kidding, we know you check the Land of Yajeev daily), I invite you to here respond directly to this concerned citizen's sincere question: "What would you do?" Please, leave your reply in the comments section of this post.

I would also like to present an open invitation to all presidential hopefuls, be they Republican, Democrat, Independent, Third Party, or Fourth Party, to answer this same question. Hopefully my posing this question will spark a lively online debate by the contenders here at the Land of Yajeev. I can think of no better forum for candidates to address this important issue of national and global security.

My fellow Americans, we deserve to know how the leader of the free world would handle this illegal alien crisis.

To see Rudy fail to answer the question, click here.

Another Advisorism

I attended a seminar with my advisor, where he ran into an old friend.

Old Friend: I saw you yesterday, but you ignored me.

Advisor (offended): I didn't ignore you. (Pause) I just didn't say hi.

American Graffiti

I recently represented my graduate program at a career fair sponsored by a private Christian college.

Like any modern public restroom, the interior of the men's room bore the marks of small-time vandals.

However, as with this school's curriculum, the distinction between secular and sacred was hard to discern in this sacrosanct chamber.

On the wall were scrawled a smiley face, a scripture reference ("Psalm 19"), and "PTL" (shorthand for the religious idiom "Praise the Lord") with a cross drawn in place of the "T".

What ever happened to the separation of church and stall?