What To Do With Dummies (for Dummies)

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:

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 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

If you can't take the heat...

They say love begins in the kitchen. Fortunately for my wife and me, the origin of our besottedness long predates any of my adventures 'tween dishwasher, oven, and refrigerator.

Yesterday was Valentine's Day, and the wife and I kept it fairly low-key. The little lady had a dentist appointment after work, and I returned home well before she did. As a V-Day surprise for my sweetie, I decided to have dinner ready for her when she came home.

I chose to make a few of her favorites: Chinese kung pao chicken and chocolate chip cookies. These should have been fairly simple tasks: the Chinese dinner came in a box kit with all the ingredients in little plastic baggies and explicit instructions, and the cookies were of the break-and-bake pre-made cookie dough variety. I've watched the wife prepare these items a million times--how hard could they be?

In a tactical decision my grandfather would have endorsed, I began with dessert. I pre-heated the oven, placed heaping teaspoon-sized dollops of cookie dough spaced two inches apart from each other per the Toll House protocol, and inserted the cookie sheet into the oven. The "recipe" called for an oven incubation time of nine to eleven minutes. When I'm working with a new experimental procedure in the laboratory that prescribes such a range of time, I nearly always choose the average. So, in this case, I set the timer for ten minutes, and shifted my attention to the main course.

Again, mimicking my laboratory habits, I read and re-read the instructions, neatly arranging the ingredients on the counter in the order that they would be required. Dinner preparation proceeded ominously smoothly. I boiled the rice and chopped the chicken breast to 3/4-inch modules. I had just moved all of the chicken breastlets to the frying pan when the intoxicating chocolate-chippity aroma suddenly morphed into the pungent bouquet of charred cookie. Just as I thought to myself, "Strange, the timer hasn't yet beeped," the timer beeped. I oven mitted up and extracted the metal sheet upon which the world's easiest-to-prepare cookies rested, nine shades browner than golden. The cookies were done.

My cookie options were limited. I had exhausted all of our dough (a recurring theme for us, of late), and the only cookies I am prepared to create from scratch are made on my three-in-one sandwich/waffle/pizzelle maker. I was still recovering from the batch I'd baked two months ago, and my time was limited. The wife would be home within twenty minutes. I quickly assembled a Valentine's Day Cookie arrangement (as if it had been the plan from the beginning), combining the freshly seared chocolate chip cookies with the three remaining sugar cookies we'd bought at the store last weekend, a few Oreo knock-offs, some low-fat 'Nilla Wafers, and the last of our frozen supply of Christmas pizzelles.

I was short on time, and had to abandon the cookie project to focus my will on the successful completion of kung pao chicken. Meticulously, I followed each step: frequently mixing the fried chicken until golden brown and no longer pink in the center, then stirring in peanuts, kung pao sauce, and hot water. The final task was to add the dried peppers to the chicken. The cooking instructions advised that, if an "extra kick" was desired, the dried peppers could be squeezed to release their seeds. I pondered this option. The wife and I both appreciate a little zest in our diets, and what was kung pao chicken if not spicy?

I turned the pepper baggie over in my hands and pinched the peppers. I tried to modulate the intensity of pinching such as to liberate an intermediate quantity of seeds. I opened the bag, dumped the peppers into the saucy, peanuty chicken mix. Almost instantly, I began to sneeze. My cell phone rang. I answered, sneezing.

"Hello?"

"Hi, I'm on my way home." It was the wife.

"Oh, great." "Dinner is just about ready. I have to let you go."

"OK, see you soon."

"Okayloveyoubye."

Within two minutes, watery eyes and irritated asthmatic lungs accompanied my sneezes. I looked into the frying pan to see a great multitude of seeds escaping from their former peppery abodes adding that "extra kick" to every bit of meat and each drop of sauce. Before I could throw open a window to release some of the capsaicin-saturated air, the front door opened. The wife was home, and by the time I could greet her at the front door, she was coughing and sneezing, unable to utter anything more than "Hi." The entire first floor was filled with a nose-and-eye-burning smoky haze.

"I made you dinner," I told her, ashamed. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, great, thank you," she replied sweetly, eyes tearing.

"I don't think you want to eat it."

"Sure I do," she assured me.

I took her at her word, prepared dinner plates with kung pao chicken and white rice. I watched nervously as she ate her first bite. She looked pleasantly surprised. She ate another bite. Then a third. As she slowly chewed her third bite, her demeanor transitioned from cautious to panic-stricken. "Milk," she whispered loudly.

"What?" I asked for clarification.

"MILK! NOW!" She clutched her throat with one hand and fanned her face with the other.

I ran upstairs to pour her a glass of milk, but she couldn't wait--she was right behind me and grabbed the glass out of my hand and rapidly chugged its contents.

She looked at me and I at her. I followed her as she returned to our dinner plates, tall glass of milk in hand. We muscled through the rest of our meal, barely speaking, heavily breathing, frequently sipping milk.

After the kung pao chicken inferno, the toasted chocolate chip cookies provided unanticipated sweet relief. Previous adventures in dinner preparation should have prepared me for such a fiery outcome.

The Valentine's Day Taste Bud Massacre of 2008 was an unanticipated testing ground for our relationship. That my wife was still sitting on the couch next to me bodes well for our future together.

For now, however, I will stay out of the kitchen.

Christmas Canoedling

Not since the jelly-candle-artificial-floral-arrangement fire of 1997 (which deserves its own entry) has a Christmas come so close to being ruined (or generated such indelible memories)…

We had just finished opening presents and eating Christmas rolls when my father-in-law remarked that if it were just a few degrees warmer (it was 40°F), we’d be canoeing. I knew exactly what this meant: in a few hours, we’d be canoeing.

It is speculated that Father-in-Law emerged from his mother’s womb in a canoe and has been paddling ever since: it’s in his blood. While canoeing is not exactly how yajeev’s family of origin would celebrate Christmas (we’d be more likely to go to a movie theater/theatre for a double feature than canoe down an ice-cold river on December 25), I’m a modern traditional pluralist: my way is not the only (or best) way—it is just one way. I’m open to all varieties of yuletide observances—even canoeing.

We (by we, I mean Father-in-Law, Sister-in-Law, Sister-in-Law’s [or is it Sister’s-in-Law] Boyfriend) loaded the boats into the truck. Mother-in-Law recommended that we pack life preservers. As there were only two life vests and four boaters, Father-in-Law decided that none should wear them (a good non(anti?)utilitarian ethic: if not the safety of everyone, then let the safety of none be ensured—if it were me, I might’ve drawn straws for the vests or cut them in half and split them evenly among the four of us).

We (here, by we, I mean Father-in-Law, Mother-in-Law, Sister-in-Law, Sister-in-Law’s Boyfriend, my wife, and myself) then piled into the truck and drove to a good launching spot. Sister-in-Law and Sister-in-Law’s Boyfriend carried their boat to water’s edge (theirs was a small, boxy boat with about eight inches of freeboard (height of boat wall not submerged by water). They boarded their watercraft and headed downstream. Father-in-Law and I got into our canoe and followed the others down the river. After their loved ones had safely (or so it seemed) embarked upon their aquatic Christmas pilgrimage, Mother-in-Law and Wife returned to the truck and drove downstream to meet us at the projected endpoint of our voyage.

Given that our canoe had a point at the tip and not a flat edge, it wasn’t long before our boat passed the other vessel. The typical routine quickly became as follows. Father-in-Law and I would naturally drift ahead of Sister-in-Law and her boyfriend, so we’d be the first to encounter each of a small litany of raging rapids. Father-in-law and I would investigate the trouble spots, determine a plan of attack, and navigate the frothy rapids. We’d then veer to the bank and wait just downstream of the turbulence for Sister-in-Law and Sister-in-Law’s Boyfriend to approach the given rapid to advise the duo with respect to the optimal strategy for each rocky, bubbly obstacle.

For the first three rapids, this worked just fine. The same cannot be said for the fourth rapid.

When Father-in-Law and I arrived at this particular juncture along the river, we appreciated that this would be the most challenging paddle in our journey so far. We paddled hard and headed straight into the mighty rushing mini-waterfall. Our canoe took a hard bounce against a crag protruding above the water level, sending Father-in-Law to the bottom of the boat (which, the astute reader will note, is far better than being sent out of the boat into water freshly cooled by melted snow). Our canoe turned and got caught on a rock hidden just below the surface. Ice-cold water ran over the edge of the boat and chilled our hands and feet. Vigorous bouncing and paddle maneuverations finally resulted in our liberation from the stony entrapment. Our canoe popped off of the rock, and we hurtled downstream. We flung ourselves toward the shore to wait patiently for Sister-in-Law and Sister-in-Law’s Boyfriend, whose blunt-fronted boat finally appeared as a pinpoint on the distant horizon. They gradually approached the hazard.

“What should we do!?” Sister-in-Law yelled down to us.

Our canoe was turned around and situated against the bank such that I in the front of our canoe and Father-in-Law behind me in the rear were both facing Sister-in-Law and Sister-in-Law’s-Boyfriend’s boat.

“What should we do!? she repeated.

At first I shrugged my shoulders, hoping that Father-in-Law would offer instruction. He did not, and Sister-in-Law once again reiterated her question: “What should we do!?”

Finally, I pointed with my paddle toward the portion of the waterfall down which we had just previously careered. What I hadn’t considered was perhaps (definitely) the most sensible option: advising them to steer their boat to a stretch of riverbank at which point the twosome could have disembarked, carried their boat on land beyond the treacherous rapids, and then re-embarked. This would have been a wise solution. I did not think of it (I’m no rocket scientist), Father-in-Law (judging by his non-response) also did not think of it, and Sister-in-Law and her boyfriend (who found themselves in the eye of the storm and at the worst vantage point to make such a determination) certainly did not think of it (or else this story would have had a much different, less bloggable ending).

Thus, their rectangular boat tentatively approached the recommended section of torrent and promptly found itself pinned by the rocks.

“Now what?!” Sister-in-Law yelled down to us.

I shrugged my shoulders exaggeratedly; I was out of answers. It was a cruel turn of events for Sister-in-Law and Sister-in-Law’s Boyfriend. They had been led into a tight spot by their trusted co-travelers. The bouncing and paddle maneuverations that had liberated Father-in-Law and me from the same tight spot did not prove similarly effectual for the occupants of the less hydrodyamic tub.

At first, I thought I heard laughter emerging from the square boat as it rattled and twisted, stuck among the rocks. The perceived laughter gradually gave way to screams. I initially believed these screams to be of the variety emitted from the mouths of pleasantly terrified roller-coaster riders. The more I listened and watched (I could barely make out facial expressions from our distance), I began to realize that these were not in fact shrieks of joy, but rather shrieks of dissatisfaction with one’s present situation (a present situation to which my poor guidance had significantly contributed).

After a terribly long period of screaming and failed bouncing, bumping, and grinding, the boat tipped forward and took on a lot of water. Sister-in-Law gracefully slipped out of the boat and found herself in freezing cold water at greater than waist-high depth. She, not sporting any life preservation device, slowly crept through the waterfall, first towards Father-in-Law and me, then turning toward the bank. She looked up at Father-in-Law and me, mostly dry in our canoe; her innocent facial expression revealed a sense of betrayal (how could we have led them into such calamity?). She inched toward the water’s edge, yelling, “Cold! Cold! Cold!”

Terrible visions of holiday tragedy flashed before my eyes as my sister-in-law fought the current. Sister-in-Law's Boyfriend struggled to right the ship, but his efforts were futile, and he too eventually opted to leave the boat to follow the ice-cold water trail blazed by his girlfriend moments earlier. Thanks to a heroic second effort by Sister-in-Law and her boyfriend, the abandoned boat, newly unencumbered by passengers, now easily wiggled free of the rocks that trapped it. The pair waded through the icy stream and clambered safely up the side of the riverbank toward higher ground.

As I watched this entire scene unfold, I fought a most inappropriate impulse: the urge to laugh. The prospect of Sister-in-Law or Sister-in-Law’s Boyfriend suffering hypothermia or lost toes or worse was not then and is not now the remotest bit funny, but in much the same way one might laugh impulsively and inappropriately as an ice-skating friend (or mother-in-law) crashes concussively to the ice, I could not help but laugh aloud. I vainly fought to suppress the chortles, but hysterics could not be contained.

Sister-in-Law shouted (between shivers): “What do we do now?!”

Father-in-Law advised her to walk the “short” distance to where my wife and mother-in-law would be waiting to retrieve us. The “short” distance ended up being about a half-mile of soaking wet misery. “Take off you pants,” Sister-in-Law’s Boyfriend advised her (he had already removed his soaking wet jeans and was marching along the riverside in his long-johns). She did not comply.

Father-in-Law and I paddled upstream to retrieve the vacant boat. Father-in-Law tied a rope to the empty boat, and we dragged it downstream, anticipating the horror of my wife and mother-in-law as only two of four un-life-vested paddlers would have completed the charted voyage. We ultimately reached the predetermined pick-up location, where Wife was waiting patiently for us. Mother-in-Law had already become (correctly) suspicious of our late arrival and commenced a search for her presumed missing family members. The sight of an empty boat was not a welcomed one.

Soaking wet, freezing cold, exhausted, and rightfully unhappy, Sister-in-Law and her boyfriend finally reached the planned reunion spot. We secured the canoes in the truck bed and packed ourselves into the truck. On the ride back to the house, I became acutely aware of the fact that my hands had gotten wet and were extremely cold. I bit my tongue, however, as I was able to appreciate how fortunate I was to have avoided total immersion.

My kinfolk spend holidays doing things like eating food, watching movies, opening presents, and eating food. My in-laws, on the other hand, spend holidays in an active attempt to “create memories.” My experience has been that many (if not most) of these memories created involve (extreme) canoe adventures.

So, thank you, in-laws for introducing new neural folds to my gray matter: this particular Christmas will never fade into the oblivion of merged memories of Christmases past. Like the Christmas influenza pandemic of 2003, Christmas 2007 will forever hold a special place in my heart. It will be perpetually remembered as the holiday that, due to my own failure to communicate effective advice, I nearly lost a sister-in-law and her boyfriend to the raging Indiana rapids and/or associated hypothermia.

(To Sister-in-Law and Sister-in-Law’s Boyfriend, my sincerest apologies for poor advice and for my most inopportune and inappropriate eruption of laughter.)

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."

Top 10 reasons I don’t eat vegetables

10. When I misbehaved as a child, my parents would hang me by my toenails over a boiling vat of pea soup.

9. Gourds are people, too (or are they?).

8. I have a recurring dream where I am being interrogated by a giant water-boarding cucumber.

7. Have you seen the way they treat those veggies in the patch…? the close quarters, living in their own filth, etc. Come on, PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Asparagus).

6. Saving room for desert.

5. My dad told me eating my broccoli would put hair on my chest.

4. El nino.

3. I have long suspected a connection between greens and al Qaida.

2. I have a genetic condition predisposing me to ultrasensitivity to the bitter taste associated with most vegetables.

1. The school bully used to pelt me with brussel sprouts at recess.

We Shall Overcome

It is time that someone broke the silence. I have lived with my condition in shame for far too long, as have, I fear, countless others.

“Give it to me straight, doc.” That was me, trying to be tough.

“I don’t want to alarm you…” These words, these terrible words, “I don’t want to alarm you,” have never, in the history of humanity, been followed by anything other than the most alarming of news. “… but you have it.”

“Are you sure?”

“The symptoms you describe, the observations I’ve made… they point definitively to this diagnosis.”

“Could it be anything else?”

“I’m afraid that would be… highly unlikely.”

Plantar fasciitis.

Painful soles. Flat feet. I’ve got it. For a few days, I did nothing but wallow in self-pity. I didn’t shower. I didn’t shave. I didn’t say much. (I did, of course, eat like normal, if not a little extra in the time I would otherwise have spent showering, shaving, and talking). I feared that what I had come to expect from a normal life would be stolen from me, as my condition declined until I was no longer able to walk without searing, shooting pain.

And then came the epiphany. Here I am, a person of above average celebrity, with this instrument, this portal to the masses. Maybe I have been given this affliction, this thorn in my flesh for a reason.

Yes, I do have plantar fasciitis. And since I have it, I’m going to make the most of whatever time I have left with it. I’ve decided to use the notoriety I’ve achieved with this blog to be a voice in the wilderness, telling the world that you can have plantar fasciitis and lead a relatively normal life. Through this blog and (for-pay) speaking engagements, I will raise awareness of this silent epidemic.

Listen. If you suffer with the symptoms of plantar fasciitis, you need to get tested. If you experience pain while walking, pain while running, pain while sitting, you need to get help. There is no need for you to live with this debilitating condition without professional podiatric assistance. Anonymous podiatrists in anonymous podiatric clinics are available to give help and advice. While a complete cure is not yet commercially available (and may still be years or even decades away—biomedical researchers won’t even touch it until they’ve got the trendier AIDS, cancer, and diabetes figured out), there are treatment options that can help you maintain an acceptable quality of life. Rigid shoe inserts, high-power painkillers administered orally or by injection, electrostimulation, painful foot stretches are all available to make life more livable.

Think not only of yourself. Think of your loved ones, those tireless caregivers who have sacrificed years of their lives, carrying things (like television remotes or video game controllers) to you because you were too pained to walk to get them yourself. They have walked by your side, supported your weight on long walks from the front door to the car in the driveway, listened to your yelps of discomfort. If you don’t get help for your own sake, do it for them.

Look. You are not alone. Plenty of high-profile celebrities suffer with plantar fasciitis. Professional basketball greats Tim Duncan, Larry Hughes, and Kobe Bryant. Jason Giambi of New York Yankee steroid controversy fame. Your humble narrator. Noted stage and screen actor Gary Grubbs (http://www.tv.com/gary-grubbs/person/1220/summary.html). Plantar fasciitis is not a death sentence. Alone, we may limp, but together, fellow sufferers, we will walk proudly.