tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-96026022024-03-07T19:32:20.767-08:00Left Brained LAAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11556728369438866214noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-60735091576019908952012-05-24T18:56:00.001-07:002012-05-24T18:56:47.722-07:00Tools of the tradeIn school I always thought that the diligent fact checking, the piercing critiques, and need to justify all assumptions were intended to prepare us for a world where our facts would be diligently checked, our ideas subject to piercing criticism, and our assumptions thoughtfully questioned. Regularly I realize I had it backwards, and that reality is far more frightening. Back then, with the worry that an omission or flaw would be found came the comfort that someone more knowledgeable could fill in gap, patch up the hole, point the way. For academia, it seems the point of the training was to learn the defensive arts. Elsewhere, specific knowledge is more dilute and rather than a shield a compass is required.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11556728369438866214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-29842407596758135972012-05-17T20:45:00.001-07:002012-05-17T20:45:21.560-07:00Capitol ScentsI love the way DC smells. I know it's not known for its olfactory charm, but there's a drought in LA and here, microparks bloom. Between mall and metro, there's a patch of peaty moist mulch. And a honeysuckle bush reminds me that school's nearly out for the summer.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11556728369438866214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-7373362474642354942012-03-20T18:36:00.001-07:002012-03-20T18:36:37.680-07:00Boogie ManI'm sitting in a Starbucks near Fairfax and Olympic, and I nearly asked an older woman sharing my table to watch my things as I went to restroom. Almost committing that irrationality that I've so often been the object of, except it's usually in airports. In that arena where we have the most paranoid dreams about the abstract -- where we used to always have to tell that un-truth that yes, our suitcase had been within our sight since the moment we closed the latch, and unattended baggage is treated with the same gravity as a b*mb, we retain enormous faith in the specific, as long as it has an understanding smile.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11556728369438866214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-70242766908656404212012-03-16T01:00:00.000-07:002012-03-16T01:00:46.085-07:002012I think it started with Verizon's "Big Red". <i>Ditch your boring job much better</i>. . . <i>You'll watch YouTube on a horse. . .</i><br />
<br />
Catchy? Yes. And maybe I should be applauding this trend since there are some who attribute a certain amount of first world angst to the unattainable aspirational world that occupies those twenty minutes that ensure our favorite procedural fills the hour.<br />
<br />
But this? <i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>It’s a problem as old as gaming itself. Stay home and just keep
playing, or get to work on time so your coffee-breath boss doesn’t ride
you like a rented scooter. Who says you have to choose? Your PS3 stays
home, but the game goes with you. Never stop playing. PlayStation Vita.</i><br />
<br />
I'm all for indulging the impulse to play hookie from work every once in a while, but I'd like to think that the potential payoff for doing so is more than playing Sony all day, and that I'll use the Star Gazer app more often than Angry Birds. <br />
<br />
I'm OK, you're OK, gone too far? Are there people who see this commercial reflection and say, "Yes that's me, and I love what I see?"<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11556728369438866214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-13690366721042025342012-03-12T19:29:00.001-07:002012-03-12T19:29:50.223-07:00TimeIt's been three years, and it doesn't feel that long. Three years since grad school; three with a job. It's too easy to lose your sense of season in LA. Where there's a pattern the rhythm is wrong. Rain in winter, hot winds in the fall. I travel for work to places with a more familiar clock, but it's a disorienting exercise. March. . . in Oklahoma? In like a lion and out like a lamb like my old home?<br />
<br />
Then there's the matter of the lack of school calendar. Freshman. Sophomore. Junior. Senior. New quarter; New quarter; New quarter; Break. New quarter; New quarter; New quarter; Break. No more.<br />
<br />
Only sameness remains. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11556728369438866214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-1141522900160510382006-03-04T17:39:00.000-08:002006-03-04T17:41:40.173-08:00Seth<p class="MsoNormal">Some physicists happily divorce their field. <span style=""> </span>They leave before their heart is broken convinced that they could never really care for the sub-sub atomic, that they could never find such abstraction fulfilling.<span style=""> </span>Biology treats them better anyway.<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But Seth won’t love the one he’s with.<span style=""> </span>This professor of mine loathes my department, our field, and anyone who dares show interest.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My senior year, Seth was sent to meet and recruit applicants from his alma mater; I was one such applicant. <span style=""> </span>He was supposed to be selling the program, but all he could talk about was how nice it was to be back and how much he wished he could stay.</p> <br /><br /> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">He scheduled his elective course for first-years during a required first year course. <span style=""> </span>He protested the time change by not showing up.<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Half an hour later, someone found him. <span style=""> </span>He had been in his office but we hadn’t been persistent with our knocking; the lights were off in his windowless room. <span style=""> </span><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">He entered with creases on his cheek from the papasan chair cushion on his office floor and a chunk of hair sticking horizontally from the side of his head with <i style="">There’s Something About Mary </i>- esque determination.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But at the APS meeting, Seth looked great for his ex.<span style=""> </span>He was in pinstripe pants and really nice shoes, and even in their best plaid flannel, no pure physicist could compete.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In front of the rest of the faculty, he asked me which program it was I visited at UC San Diego. <span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Physics.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Really – and you met with – but you still didn’t. <span style=""> </span>I mean, why wouldn’t you want to. . .”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I just had to let it go.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-1129709270998018282005-10-19T01:02:00.000-07:002005-10-19T01:07:51.006-07:00As I Was Coming From Van Nuys<p class="MsoNormal">Perhaps the most frustrating of hypothetical pursuits is the search for just the right come-back long after the moment has passed.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was on the rapid metro, and he kind of looked like Bill O’Reilly.<span style=""> </span>With a much larger stomach. <span style=""> </span>His sunglasses afforded his eyes a privacy that made his expression obscene.<span style=""> </span>And he was far too well dressed for the way he was sitting.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">He accused me of speaking “woman-eze,” a dialect characterized by indirect responses.<span style=""> </span>He had asked if I had a laptop in my bag.<span style=""> </span>I said, “Not with me, no.”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Fifteen minutes later, more people had boarded, and I had become re-immersed in my mp3s.<span style=""> </span>I received a few comforting but uneasy glances, and I realized that he was talking about me.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“She’s part of the counter-revolution.<span style=""> </span>But it’s genetic.”<span style=""> </span>His wife had a 160 IQ, but that damn second X-chromosome kept her from being a provider.<span style=""> </span>“They can’t do math.<span style=""> </span>They can’t do science.”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“They care too much about how they look.<span style=""> </span>Like you.” He turned.<span style=""> </span>“You color your hair, you’ve got lipstick; you dress well.<span style=""> </span>My <i style="">wife</i> dresses me.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I do nothing to my hair but wash it, and my clothes were all hand-me-downs from friends, and. . . fuck it, yeah.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes I do wear lipstick.<span style=""> </span>And that’s so beside the point.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I tried to summon a laugh but, “You’re so off, it’s amazing,” came out with only a weak snicker.<span style=""> </span>I was full of ammunition, but shooting blanks.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">What else could I do? Spout off my resume?<span style=""> </span>List every female scientist I know?<span style=""> </span>Challenge him to an integration bee?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’ve been replaying all day.<span style=""> </span>Suggestions are welcome. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-1126921911777341272005-10-08T18:31:00.000-07:002005-10-08T14:34:01.150-07:00To You, Richard<p class="MsoNormal">Worries have a way of mating to produce illegitimate offspring, but the genetics of a little success bred with anxiety are much more bizarre.<span style=""> </span><br /> <!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’ve read that even the great Feynman felt like an imposter at times, and thought up the following response to mounting optimism:<span style=""> </span><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">On being offered a job at <st1:place st="on">Princeton</st1:place>’s Institute for Advanced Study:</p> <p class="MsoNormal">"They must have expected me to be wonderful to offer me a job like this and I wasn't wonderful, and therefore I realized a new principle, which was that I'm not responsible for what other people think I'm able to do; I don't have to be good because they think I'm going to be good. And somehow or other I could relax about this, and I thought to myself, I haven't done anything important and I'm never going to do anything important.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So, he let himself once again “enjoy physics and mathematical things. . ."<br /><br />. . . and won the Nobel Prize for what he did while he was there. <span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-1125454286964200942005-08-30T19:10:00.000-07:002005-08-30T19:11:26.976-07:00Bring It On!<p class="MsoNormal">When he quoted the Lord’s Prayer, I didn’t let on that I thought of John Candy imploring gold medals to be won and Godspeed through turn seven.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I nodded that with our increasingly secular government, our country is far from a <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Heavenly</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype st="on">Kingdom</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">But, his real hook was hurricane Katrina.<br />Considering <st1:place st="on">Europe</st1:place>’s floods and last year’s tsunami, don’t I think that this all has to end soon?<br />Jehovah Is Coming.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I thanked him for my copy of <i style="">Watchtower,</i> “Natural Disasters: Are They Getting Worse?”<span style=""> </span>(Yes? And inside I can learn why we should rejoice?)</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Then, he found out that I go to school in LA.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Ohh, that must be exciting!<span style=""> </span>They had a few earthquakes last year didn’t they?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Umm. . . yeah I actually felt a small one during one of my final exams, it was a little scar-”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I’d like to be in one sometime; not a <i style="">really</i> big one but – just to experience it once.<span style=""> </span>And out there, they really know how to deal with it. <span style=""> </span>I heard they’ll fill their bathtubs with water in case the power goes out.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Well, my parents do that here if there’s a thun-”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Because they can lose power for days, and if your bathtub’s filled with water at least you can use the water to flush the toilet.<span style=""> </span>They really think of everything. – Well, nice to meet you!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Witness at my door was just kid from cushy suburbia wanting to be Eminem.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-1119745485104393322005-06-25T17:17:00.000-07:002005-06-25T17:24:45.110-07:00A Good Excuse<p class="MsoNormal">Applied math is one thing:<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“. . . so, I duct-taped cardboard scraps on the fan I bought – for $15 – from e-bay. . . but it kind of just fell apart”<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Well, I had all this static in my experiment, so I bought dryer sheets and rubbed them all over my apparatus.<span style=""> </span>It didn’t help, and now whenever I walk into lab I get a headache from the Downy fresh smell.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Biologists have white coats, pipettes, and million dollar grants.<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As much as Erin (duct-tape) and I (dryer sheets) enjoyed speaking fluid dynamics when our pre-med friends got too excited about proteins – there was a deep sense that we were doing playground science for our senior theses.<span style=""> </span><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We comforted ourselves with the idea that there was far too little time between the due date of our manuscripts and graduation for our department heads to do much more than skim everyone’s abstract.<span style=""> </span>We spent the final Saturday before the thesis deadline at Fenway.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I hoped my advisor didn’t notice my sun-burned nose as he detailed his summer plans for the project.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I described my meeting to <st1:place st="on">Erin</st1:place>:</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“He wants to make it a <i style="">paper</i>, he even said, ‘Heck it’s summer, we’ll send it on over to <i style="">------, </i>see what they say.’<span style=""> </span>I’m quitting science if my thesis gets published in ------.”<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And recently I learned:</p> <p class="MsoNormal">There’s a new satellite journal, <i style="">------- Physics.<span style=""> </span></i>The editors think the paper’s interesting; the reviewers think it’s publishable.<span style=""> </span>It hasn’t been accepted yet, and it’s not ------ herself.<span style=""> </span>But, my conception of science has been sufficiently debased to warrant, at least, some time off.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-1119228892963041722005-06-19T17:46:00.000-07:002005-06-20T20:09:26.803-07:00The Risible Lift<p class="MsoNormal">I try to stifle competitive urges.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And, I’ll think I’ve killed them all – until I get on the elevator.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Here in the med school, the first one on doesn’t ask where the others are going.<span style=""> </span>He selects his floor, steps back, and we can make our move. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">If we get on at one and someone hits two, a sheepish blush says “I fold.”<span style=""> </span>Fifth floor cardiology says “beat that” seventh oncology says, “Oh, I will”.<span style=""> </span>But as the round closes and oncology smirks, the tech from the ER yells “Hold the door!”<span style=""> </span>And her cart full of samples with biohazard labels beat the clipboards any day.<br /> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-1117601245215483632005-05-31T21:45:00.000-07:002005-05-31T21:48:46.840-07:00Record Labels<p class="MsoNormal">Revealing that I’m a physics major from “<st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Boston</st1:city></st1:place>” has never been a good ice-breaker.<span style=""> </span>But I fare far worse when initial impressions are based on musical taste.<span style=""> </span><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I don’t think I’ve ever recovered from the time in 4<sup>th</sup> grade when my best friend asked who I liked to listen to, and I said the name of the only musical artist I could think of – Raffi. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Four years later, I studied before a reunion with that old friend. <span style=""> </span>When the question was posed I answered confidently, “Boyz II Men”<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Ugh, R and B?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m sure she could picture the townies cruising among our blinking traffic lights blaring “Down on Bended Knee” after the snow birds had gone to sleep.<span style=""> </span><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In the era of free Napster, I downloaded indiscriminately and found a band I really liked -- <i style="">HIM</i>.<span style=""> </span>But they play Finnish “Love Metal”.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I roll my eyes at Bryan Adams’ “Baby I’d die for you.” -- It’s a little dramatic.<span style=""> </span>But I’m somehow fine with “Join me in death” -- honey – pentagram, 666.<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But I won’t be known as a romantic, and certainly not one prone to tragic emotional debilitation.<span style=""> </span>So, without a real answer to the question<i style=""> </i>I say <i style="">Weezer, </i>but apologetically, to acknowledge that they’re a little too popular.<span style=""> </span>Or, in a complete cop out I’ll cryptically say I’ve been buying movie soundtracks recently, so that I can smoothly transition to my aversion for Natalie Portman’s acting via the obscene <i style="">Shins</i> advisement in <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on"><i style="">Garden</i></st1:placetype><i style=""> <st1:placetype st="on">State</st1:placetype></i></st1:place>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And I’ll admit, for those of you who have been paying attention, that I sometimes still get <i style="">Baby Beluga</i> stuck in my head.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-1116390129004788622005-05-17T21:31:00.000-07:002005-06-17T13:37:32.920-07:00Maybe Georgia Got It Right<p class="MsoNormal">On the <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Santa Monica</st1:place></st1:city> promenade:<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The air in this parking garage contains automobile engine exhaust. </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Chemicals in automobile exhaust are known to cause cancer.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">At <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Ross</st1:placename> <st1:placename st="on">Department</st1:placename></st1:place> Store:<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Some products sold here may be hazardous to your health.</span><o:p><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The warning on Sweet’N Low no longer gives me pause.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So, I think that the easiest way to eliminate the implication of scientific scandal from the debate over evolution is to not resist.<span style=""></span><o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Allow stickers that declare “Evolution is just a theory,” and require a few others.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“<st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Newton</st1:place></st1:city>’s laws cannot be proven.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“The Central Dogma is not a fact.”<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Science owes its success to the harsh critique of older ideas and the recognition that these ideas need not be wholly accepted or rejected.<span style=""> </span>So, I find it hard to take issue with a warning that ends as I think every class should begin:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“This material should be approached with an open mind, studied carefully and critically considered.” <span style=""> </span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-1115942439126225482005-05-12T17:04:00.000-07:002005-05-12T17:02:23.863-07:00Reason number 853 to dislike the DMV:Creepy fingerprint technician. <p class="MsoNormal">I thought it would be do it yourself: thumb on inkpad, thumb on paper.<span style=""> </span>Instead, there was a little inferred scanner and a man who was a bit too involved in the process.<span style=""> </span>He put his hand over mine and worked my finger over the glass plate.<span style=""> </span>After a few attempts at a scan:<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Wow this really just isn’t working today.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">More rubbing</i>,<i style=""> some sympathetic glances from the guy at the next widow.<o:p> </o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Hmm. . . it’s never given me this much trouble before.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">Now he’s drawing on all his thumb-touching experience . . . and I’m trying to detach my mind from my body. . . <o:p> </o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Nope, it just doesn’t like your thumb – but <i style="">I </i>do.”<o:p> </o:p><br /><i style=""><br />It finally takes, the technician smiles.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You must have a complicated karma.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>On the upside, I didn’t make an appointment and didn’t have to wait at all.<span style=""> </span>We’ll see how the DMV’s new <i style="">One Hour Photo </i>image goes over.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-1114811858026366842005-04-29T14:55:00.000-07:002005-05-29T16:09:13.950-07:00Sunset Boulevard<p class="MsoNormal">I knew that in LA, I’d meet people trying to break into the business.<span style=""> </span>Stupidly, I thought such sightings would be occasional, that meeting F-list celebs would be novelty.<span style=""> </span><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But small talk with any waitress will reveal her desire to be on screen and unless the 20-something at the party is working towards his PhD in something hopelessly un-cool, you’ll find that he’s paying rent by writing, editing, or if he’s really good, directing the next poor substitute for the spin-off of the spin-off of Debbie Does Dallas. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">That academic 20-something plans to spend his days humbly toiling in a laboratory.<span style=""> </span>He knows his role has nothing to do with <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Hollywood</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But the sidewalks are paved in red carpet, stretch H-2’s line the streets and even the road signs reek with fame.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Those who reside in the ivory tower may be notoriously out of touch, but this can make them particularly susceptible to the fantasy of stardom.<span style=""> </span>By the time they are a 40 to 50-something they’re living with a full-blown delusion that their celebrity in the field of sono-luminescence is much more far reaching.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My statistical mechanics professor refuses to distribute e-mail address for fear that “every high school student in the country” would be contacting him for science fair advice were the information readily available.<span style=""> </span><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">He spent a good deal of today’s lecture venting about being hounded for interviews by the paparazzi of physics – the New York Times science editors and the producers at NOVA. <span style=""> </span>In researching ways to maintain his svelte figure, our good professor had been disappointed to find that even talking on the phone burned more calories than sex.<span style=""> </span>But, after spending a grueling day exhausting himself speaking about his discovery (pain endured ‘for the fans’), this world-expert on energy decided that effort spent on the phone just might approach the passion he puts into copulation.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">At least we didn’t have to read his thermodynamic equivalent of <st1:place st="on"><st1:city style="font-style: italic;" st="on">Magical</st1:city><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><st1:state st="on"><span style="font-style: italic;">Me</span>.</st1:state></st1:place><span style=""> </span>He’s probably just waiting for someone to buy the screen play.<span style=""> </span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-1112584721111236742005-04-03T20:16:00.000-07:002005-04-03T20:18:41.113-07:00Netflix ItMost people join Netflix for the convenience and price. I’ve found that it’s also forced me to remove the bull from the <span style="font-style: italic;">list</span>, Let’s see that in a sentence now: “<span style="font-style: italic;">The Seventh Seal</span>? Yeah, I really need to watch that. It’s totally at the top of my list”.<br /><br />The Netflix <span style="font-style: italic;">list</span> is an online catalog of movies you’d like to see. When you send back seven and eight, DVDs nine and ten are sent to you.<br /><br />And so the list evolves. It is born a collection of classics, arty films and foreign flicks. Then, you find yourself returning – <span style="font-style: italic;">without</span> watching all those depressingly honest subtitled must-sees chronicling the lives of the disadvantaged, malnourished and lame.<br /><br />Soon, your list no longer resembles a syllabus from the “Intro to Film” course you never quite found the time to take, and looks more like the HBO lineup you missed when your roommates refused to chip in for cable.<br /><br />If only I could subject to the same polygraph that fanciful collection of things I say I’d like to do <span style="font-style: italic;">sometime</span>. Instead of DVD’s in the mail, it would be a man at my door. He’d be built like a tumbler from Cirque De Sole. On the days when there’s nothing I have to do he’d burst into my apartment at 7am and yell, “Sky diving lessons!”. How quickly that list would become void of adventures and full of dates with my couch, some tea, my pajamas and Netflix.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-1111640373987440652005-03-23T20:26:00.000-08:002005-03-23T20:59:33.986-08:00Absurdity Like an OnionDepartment drama update:<br />Below is an e-mail sent by The Victim (tenured faculty member, crazy) to the head of our department.<br /><blockquote><br />I need to correct a serious misunderstanding that you have of the<br />English language.<br /><br />It is important to correct the record.<br /><br />In your email below you state that one of the boy graduate students has been described as a "tosser" and you then state that the term "tosser" is the U.K. equivalent of "wanker".<br /><br />Thus, you are implying that the word "tosser" is an american word.<br /><br />You are incorrect.<br /><br />This is a gross and serious error on your part.<br /><br />Actually both "tosser" and "wanker" are U.K. expressions.<br /><br />I do not know what the american equivalent is of "tosser" nor "wanker".<br /><br />sincerely The Victim</blockquote><br /><br />And the original, from our dept. head:<br /><blockquote><br />Dear Dr. Administrator:<br /> <br /> I received a copy of the outrageous e-mail below sent by your<br />faculty member, “The Husband” I want to know immediately how you are going to handle this attack as I will be speaking to the student and senior administrators tomorrow (Monday).<br /> <br /> In writing to a 2nd year grad student, The Husband calls<br />him a tosser [U.K. equivalent of "wanker"]<br /></blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-1108103626309437212005-02-17T20:40:00.000-08:002005-02-17T20:42:59.323-08:00Power FailureOn the hottest summer days, air conditioners draw more than their allotment of power and lights dim warning of an immanent blown fuse.<br /><br />Recently, I’ve immersed myself in equations. Developing my mathematical intuition has put a deal of stress on my capacity to speak. As I spend more of my days mentally manipulating geometric objects, mathematical constructs that model physical phenomena, I become more proficient in translating thought into Greek symbols and integral signs.<br /><br />But, I’m finding that this skill and that of expressing ideas in English multiply to a constant. My linguistic skills are approaching zero asymptotically.<br /><br />While working, lapses in concentration shift my consciousness from my left brain to the right. The other day when I was studying, it was providing background music: the Garden state soundtrack. Tapping its foot, lip-syncing, playing the highlights. Fine.<br /><br />I became lost in left brain. A few hours later, something started to irritate me.<br /><br />As my focus shifted, I realized it was the music.<br /><br />Baby Beluga<br /><br />But there are only two stanzas -- barely, so the song was on repeat “Song That Never Ends” style.<br /><br />“Baby Beluga in the deep blue sea,<br />Swim so wild and you swim so free<br />The waves roll in and the waves roll out see the water comin’ out of your spout. . . doot doot doot. . .<br /><br />BAAAAYBEE-BA-LOOOGA<br />BAAAAYBEE-BA-LOOOGA<br /><br />Is the water warm?<br />Is the da da dum. . . with you so happy. . .<br /><br />Baby Beluga in the deep blue sea. . .”<br /><br />For the next three hours, my right brain became an idiot kid I was babysitting, demanding my attention and being as irritating as possible. Regressing.<br /><br />Until all that was left was:<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">BABY BELUGA</span>!! BABY BELUGA!! <span style="font-size:85%;">BABY BELUGA!!</span> <span style="font-size:78%;">BABY BELUGA. . .<br /></span><br />“Oh, hey, Sarah?”<br /><br />Another student startles me out of the trance.<br />Sharp breath. Microwave beeps.<br />Stretch and a fridge fan begins to whir.<br />And, ignorant of the elapsed time, my VCR is flashing 12:00.<br /><br />Reset, I continue my work.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-1108094817332923132005-02-10T19:37:00.000-08:002005-02-11T15:22:17.073-08:00A Brick to the HeadTwenty-five e-mails, no body, same subject -- to one of the nicest professors I've met.<br /><br /><strong>Frank Hall You Are A Sexist Pig</strong><br /><br />And one for the department head too.<br /><br /><strong>Jake Brown You Are A Very Fat Sexist Pig</strong><br /><br />Sent to all faculty and students in my department, the Dean of the school, and a few reporters from the LA Times, by Sally -- "The Victim" -- one of our tenured professors.<br /><br />First Mate Susanne, recently denied tenure by the department of Economics because of her "horrible personality" (<em>and</em> who is filing dismissal charges against all tenured faculty in Econ because of the denial) is an accomplice. The two flood our e-mail server and argue with the cool logic of Ann Coulter, and Bill O’Reilly.<br /><br />Sally claims to have won a medal, and the claim is dubious at best. The foundation that gives the award confirmed that she never received it. She retorts that the Dean conveniently tracked down an alternative institution awarding a prize with the same name as the one she did get. But, she is offering no alternative organization to contact. <em>right</em><br /><br />The Dean tells her that she needs to issue a retraction to her claim. She won't back down, and Susanne demands that the Dean apologize for doubting the success of a brilliant woman. An excerpt, from "How To Apologize" by Susanne:<br /><br /><blockquote>I am a mother of two children, and I spend a lot of time teaching my children how to say sorry when they've hurt someone, you know, like, when they've hit another child over the head with a brick. I have noticed that lots of people teach their children how to say sorry, but then when their children grow up to become academic deans, they (I mean the deans, not the parents) engage in all sorts of indecent acts, and then it turns out they've forgotten how to say sorry. Since I am not merely a mother, but also an educator, I am happy to explain to you how you should say sorry to The Victim.<br /><br />There are three components to saying you're sorry. First, you need to say that you're sorry to the person you've hurt, and you need to do it graciously. You're not allowed to wait until the person has left the room and only then say "sorry," or mumble the apology into a tissue as you blow your nose, or say "solly" instead of "sorry," or say "sorry" in a nasty sneering tone of voice, or say "sor" now and "ry" six hours later. (Believe me, I've seen it all.)<br /><br />Second, you need to specify what it is that you are sorry for, and you need to refer specifically to the hurt you have caused. It doesn't count if you say out loud "I'm sorry ...," and in your mind you add, "... that the grass is brown." Another total no-no is for you to say, "I'm sorry I made you feel bad," or (worse) "I'm sorry you feel bad." This non-apology makes it sound like the problem lies with the other child's feelings rather than with what you did to the other child to cause the feelings. It is also important for you not to wiggle around and apologize for some minor by-product of your action, as in, "I'm sorry I spoiled your hair-do," and meanwhile the blood is spilling out of the other child's head and messing up his or her hair.<br /><br />Third, you need to make good, that is, take corrective action. An exemplary apology would be for you to say, "I am sorry I hit you over the head with a brick. Please can you tell me what I can do to make your head feel better. Here is my t-shirt, and you can use it to tie around your head so the blood stops flowing. How about I ask my mother to drive you to the hospital."<br /></blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-1107080897201555862005-01-30T02:19:00.000-08:002005-02-10T23:25:34.943-08:00The Valley1 – I get on the highway and see I’m a little low on gas, just above the warning zone.<br /><br />2 – I soon have to get off the freeway to close the hood when my latch becomes disengaged.<br /><br />3 – I realize I’m now mid warning zone, and it might be a good time to fill up. And – I forgot my wallet.<br /><br />4 – When getting back on the freeway, I fail to realize that at some point the 101 intersects with itself at ninty degrees. One portion runs N-S, another runs E-W. However, the E-W portion is still labeled N-S, and a direct route to the valley involves traveling on the 101N, and then the 101S. It was 101N when I got on at first, but taking the 101N after my brief turn off actually took me back towards Los Angeles, where taking the 101S at this point, signed “to Los Angeles” would actually continue taking me away from the city. How <em>stupid</em> of me.<br /><br />5 – After another five miles on the freeway, my hood’s once again flapping in the breeze.<br /><br />6 – Off the highway again, I evaluate the cost of my navigational mishap: a half gallon of gas. My gas-o-meter is now hitting the bottom of the orange hazard zone.<br /><br />7 – *pop* exunt the freeway – again<br /><br />8 – Sans wallet, was able to scrape together 23 pennies, 17 dimes, six nickels, and 20 eurocents. In LA, that’ll buy you .92 gallons, or about 45 minutes sitting in traffic. The cashier at Shell clearly thinks I’m an idiot.<br /><br />9 – Arrive, borrow money from friend in the valley, fill up the tank, feel fabulous, like I can go anywhere, do anything “as long as my hood doesn’t. . . crap”.<br /><br />10 – I pull off, again and test the hood this time:<br />shut it, pull up on it – *pop*,<br />shut it, pull up on it – *pop*,<br />shut it, pull up on it – *pop*,<br /><br />*SLAM* the damn thing shut.<br /><br />Ow! The grill falls off the car, onto my foot.<br /><em><br />Fuck </em><br /><br />I examine the grate and decide it’s entirely ornamental.<br /><br />The fact that I live in the land of highway bumper cars and among even the shittiest of shitty automobiles, none I’ve seen lacked grills, almost persuades me to try to put the thing back on.<br /><br />But I try the hood again, and this time it doesn’t budge. So, I throw the grate in the passenger seat and pray that frontal nudity on a car isn’t something that gets the attention of the LAPD, known for its recent crackdown on jaywalking and double parking.<br /><br />And me without my license.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-1105819174884519832005-01-15T11:58:00.000-08:002005-01-15T11:59:34.883-08:00Research and LeatherFear the nerd with an ego.
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<br />The self-perceived importance of a tenured professor manifests itself most vividly in the teacher-graduate student relationship.
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<br />Behold Professor Ackart, a former lecturer of mine. He is in his early 40’s, less than average height. A dark cranberry shirt is neatly tucked into black pants held around a small waist by a stylish belt.
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<br />Steve is tall, dark, and if your aesthetic standards have been shaped by years of studying science, maybe even handsome. Angular features and wire-rimmed glasses make him a Clark Kent.
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<br />Steve is at attention with a stack of slides in his hands. Our professor is standing just out of reach of the projector.
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<br />“Steve – can you put up the NMR slide?”
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<br />“Right, now just move it – no, down Steve. Move the slide down. – Too far.”
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<br />*whip cracks*
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<br />“Now Steve, I’m going to need you to show them the – right, the one on aromatic compounds, and then quickly Steve, switch to the one just below. Perfect.”
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<br />Steve obliges submissively.
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<br />Really, the mantra of all graduate students is, “Thank you sir, may I have another.”
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<br />We seek out advisors will squeeze blood from a stone and who won’t say something is good enough when it doesn’t even meet our self-inflicted standards.
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<br />Listen to a grad student complain about the time they spend in lab and it’ll quickly become clear that there’s nowhere they’d rather spend their Saturday night. But the domineering advisor is the only socially acceptable excuse.
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-1104205181853937012004-12-27T18:22:00.000-08:002005-02-11T00:01:35.970-08:00Forbidden FruitI wouldn’t see it that way. I pressed my palms to my ears, pivoted, and walked away whenever anyone wanted to discuss <em>Women In Science</em>. The NSF essay question about “promoting diversity” begged me to Google the stats on female physicists and mathematicians, but on principle, I refused. Instead, I delivered an argument for improved interdepartmental relationships, a need for diverse labs composed of scientists trained in different fields.<br /><br />I believed that because our mothers burned their bras, there is no longer the need.<br /><br />But enlightenment is not, as I had thought, an irreversible process and in the present culture war, our opponents are a frightening throwback to the 1950’s.<br /><br />I expected that the Waxman report on abstinence-based education would reveal scientific inaccuracies, religious bias, and a notion girls have the responsibility to resist; guys cannot help themselves.<br /><br />I did not expect the following:<br /><br /><blockquote>One book in the “Choosing the Best” series presents a story about a knight who saves a princess from a dragon. The next time the dragon arrives, the princess advises the knight to kill the dragon with a noose, and the following time with poison, both of which work but leave the knight feeling “ashamed.” The knight eventually decides to marry a village maiden, but did so “only after making sure she knew nothing about nooses or poison.”<br /><br />The curriculum concludes:<br /><br />Moral of the story: Occasional suggestions and assistance may be alright, but too much of it will lessen a man’s confidence or even turn him away from his princess.<br /><br /><em>Choosing the Best, Inc., Choosing the Best Soul mate, 51 (2003). This book is the latest in the “Choosing the Best” series and was published since the most recent round of SPRANS grants; it was reviewed because the other Choosing the Best books were all among the most popular programs.</em></blockquote><br /><br />Please, the stereotype of a man with an ego that can be shattered with a few suggestions is ridiculous. I will patronize my little cousin and throw a game a Scrabble, but the idea that it’s <em>necessary</em> to do this for some future husband is – I mean, give that man a little credit.<br /><br /><em>sigh</em><br /><br />I can’t bring myself to argue with the story of an apple to convince you that 2+2 is not 5.<br /><br />I will continue to act like I live in a world that’s as I’d like it to be.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-1103671395987788922004-12-21T14:49:00.000-08:002004-12-21T21:38:30.636-08:00The Comforts of HomeI knew I was going to hate LA, and the professor’s e-mail describing the head of the department as a “fat sexist pig” made me certain I wasn’t going to do my graduate work there.
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<br />But when I met with the faculty, I realized it was the only place in the country with the research I wanted and I had no choice. I went walking through Westwood to try to convince myself that this silicone valley where the handicapped spaces are reserved those with collegian injections could become my intellectual mecca. I soon heard comforting words.
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<br />“Spare some change?”
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<br />Ah, the familiar. Like fickle weather and games at Fenway, interesting encounters with those who live on the street were a fundamental part of the Boston experience.
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<br />A suspecting man would shout: “White woman! I wouldn't sleep with a white woman if she was the last woman on earth!” Friends who were just sober enough to stumble home made out with bums in the street. And there was the time I met our Lord.
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<br />I was waiting for the bus at night. It was misting lightly and I was standing in the light of a mercury lamp. A man stepped onto the sidewalk.
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<br />“Got a light?”
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<br />“Um. . . no, sorry.”
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<br />“See that bar over there? They just kicked me out of that bar. I don’t even drink. . . you believe that? I don’t even drink and they kicked me out of that bar.”
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<br /><em>Well, it is a classy place. Sometimes, I hear gun shots.
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<br />“You know, I’m Jesus Christ. They kicked Jesus Christ out of the bar -- that’s why I don’t drink. Jesus Christ does not drink.”
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<br /><em>Right, no wine, just</em> Camels.
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<br />“Jesus Christ needs a wife."
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<br /><em>Shit.</em>
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<br />"Do you think Jesus Christ needs a wife or a girlfriend?”
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<br /><em>Retreat! Retreat!
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<br />The encounter prevented my trip across the Charles River that night. So, it's strange that I was glad to see that an A-list terminator was no better at dealing with poverty, the mentally ill, and disturbed veterans than the embezzlers and mobsters who ran the east.
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<br />A tripping prom queen, LA had a blemish it couldn't conceal.
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<br /><em></em>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-1103015450640738472004-12-14T01:08:00.000-08:002004-12-21T14:49:31.783-08:00Measure In Cats“What is life? Life is the battle against sodium.”
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<br />Over 70% of the energy we consume is spent by ion pumps working against the passive diffusion of sodium into our cells; which, left unchecked, is lethal.
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<br />For those of us who are scientifically inclined, life is a war on our socially backward nature. We become fluent in <em>Blind Date</em>, in <em>Simpsons</em>, and in <em>Friends;</em> we wait to divulge our <em>Star Trek</em> obsession.
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<br />But we can’t always win and one November a broken heater and frozen pipes took my will to fight. I surrendered at the Dollar a Pound used clothing store. Someone’s blind great aunt surely had spent months crocheting the sweater I bought that day. It’s large, convex, and features a purple and blue pattern that would make your grandma's afghan cringe.
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<br />My friends measured the horror of the sweater in “cats", a scale based on the principle that while a cat per person in a household is fine, more than that quickly becomes. . . not. My purchase weighed in at four -- the equivalent of a cat in my arms, one on each shoulder, and one on my head.
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<br />But, I was completely defeated. I could see my breath in the house and in the interest of warmth and comfort, the sweater was layer number five: T-shirt, long-sleeve shirt, turquoise windbreaker, traffic-cop orange fleece, and IT.
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<br />With the advent of spring, my strength was restored. The sweater was banished to the bottom of my closet and I emerged once again capable of living within the societal norm.
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602602.post-1102999304184462392004-12-04T15:40:00.000-08:002004-12-14T14:23:16.683-08:00On A Witch HuntComing from the east coast, I take a “Guilty until proven innocent” approach to new acquaintances. There are too many wackos, nut jobs, and people in search of someone to doctor their emotional wounds for me to waste my time being <em>nice </em>to strangers.
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<br />To prove your innocence you must demonstrate that you operate under the same assumption of guilt that I do. Only those who know they cannot pass are delinquent in providing the test to others. By smiling politely when I don’t know you, you’re signing a confession.
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<br />But the west coast folks are chill.
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<br />They subscribe to the system of justice that let OJ walk. I have found myself in the land of the eternally cheerful. Who love everyone. Equal opportunity acquaintance collectors.
<br />Here, my judgment seems unnecessarily cruel. So, I repealed my decisions on a few people my roommate liked. People I had already condemned.
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<br />I ended up in a car for twelve hours with a guy who couldn’t make a single decision on his own. Our trip began as follows:
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<br />Him: <em>Should I bring CD’s?
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<br />Me: <em>Sure.
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<br />How many should I bring?
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<br />However many – whatever you think is good driving music.
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<br />But should I just bring a few or the whole case?
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<br />Well – if you want to bring the whole case I certainly have room in the car.
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<br />But how many should I bring?</em>
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<br />(sigh)<em> Five.
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<br />Five? Are you sure? We’re going to be in the car for like -- 12 hours.
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<br />But maybe he should have asked my opinion more often. Later that trip:
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<br />I’m drifting off to sleep, he’s driving in the left lane on the 101.
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<br />Him: <em>My God!
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<br />He signals, shifts to second, jerks the car over a lane, and quickly slows to 50. I’m fully awake, looking ahead to see the accident we just avoided becoming part of. Nothing.
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<br />Hooo. . . I was going 90 there for a second I just needed a TIME OUT.</em>
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<br />So, I’ve started my own collection of people with whom I can freely criticize others. My people are not conventionally pleasant. My fellow judgers detest Ohio, shred my fashion decisions, openly express their hatred of Westwood, and create websites detailing the shortcomings of former friends. Cruel. . . but sane.
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0