I should learn to follow my instincts more often. If my gut tells me to avoid a situation, then I should probably just heed the advice of my innards and avoid that situation. Unfortunately I ignored my instincts last night, and I paid the price. I wound up in a very uncomfortable place, just squirming to get out. Next time, I will pay greater heed to my all-powerful, all-seeing, all-knowing gut.
Fortunately today has been much better. Having left work early yesterday because of my back -- yet again -- I was nervous that my back was getting worse instead of improving. However, from the time I got out of bed this morning I have felt as close to well as I've felt in 10 days. I noticed hardly a twinge of pain all day, and walked about 8 blocks going to and from work, which is approximately 1 mile. I think I'll be hitting the gym tomorrow for a light cardio workout. Having been without my comforting workouts for over a week I'm really jonesing for a good sweat session.
Tonight I had a lovely dinner with my choir buddy Brian and his partner Joe. They live on the northwest side of the city, an area I am not altogether familiar with. Unfortunately, because I was gabbing on the phone with my friend Joel, I turned two blocks too early and got completely turned around! I was already running late, which always annoys me, so the extra 10 minutes I spent driving around West Rogers Park just did wonders for my mood.
Brian and Joe were magnanimous hosts and accepted me, despite my tardiness, with grace and charm. They had cooked up a wonderful spinach and cheese soufflé, braised squash and a delectable New York cheesecake for dessert! I picked out a nice Chardonnay -- Maryville Starmont 2004, as recommended in this review. I was quite pleased with the wine, and it complemented the menu beautifully.
Now I'm home; I wasn't sleepy when I started this entry, but I find my eyelids are getting heavier with each passing minute. I think my new 400 thread count sheets are calling me . . .
--------
15.088
Friday, February 17, 2006
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Just Cut the Fat
I turned on my analytical pathways as I was reading the Science Times section of Tuesday's New York Times when I saw this article. In her piece on a recently published set of studies from the Women's Health Initiative, Gina Kolata provides a synopsis of the findings, interviews the investigators and their critics, and gives some historical tidbits about the "you are what you eat," better health through diet movement that started in earnest in the Western world in the 19th century.
In a series of articles published in the Feb. 8 edition of the Journal of the American Medical Association, the investigators of the Women's Health Initiative report a surprising finding that has already drawn extensive criticism. In short, the investigators find that reducing dietary fat intake to currently recommended levels (approximately 30% of daily caloric intake) offers no protection against breast cancer, colorectal cancer or heart disease.
This study looked at a large population of older women and asked whether dietary changes could prevent them from developing specific diseases that in prior studies had been linked to dietary fat intake. To me, the nature of these diseases -- cardiovascular disease and cancer -- makes them somewhat unsuitable for such an analysis. These are diseases that often develop over many years, so even a relatively long-term study (average 8.1 years in the study) may be unable to show any benefit. Instead of looking at these data and concluding that fat intake is unimportant, I would instead hypothesize that changing dietary fat intake at a younger age, or more drastically reducing fat intake in later years, is imperative for improving health.
Colorectal cancer, breast cancer and heart disease have a much higher incidence in Western cultures. This could be explained by environmental factors like diet and sedentary lifestyle. It could also be the result of pollutants. Genetic factors may also be involved. Even in the Western world, certain racial groups are more likely to be afflicted with heart disease. Of course, these racial groups also tend to be disadvantaged and less likely to seek out (or be able to afford) preventative care. There's environment rearing its head again. So what is the right answer? Can we eat ourselves healthy? Or should we just eat what we want and let the chips fall where they may based on our genetic makeup?
It's important to remember that science is an evolutionary process. We chip away at the data, trying to excavate the truth lying underneath. Sometimes we hit veins of pure gold; more often we hit pyrite. Can we stay alive forever by eliminating fat from our diets? Unlikely. Are there centegenarians who have eaten and continue to eat bacon and eggs every morning of their lives? Probably. Not knowing the absolute truth, however, is no excuse to ignore our own common sense. The best any of us can do is eat sensibly, get some exercise a few days a week, and face up to the fact that we're all mortals and will one day face the grim reaper.
But now, if you'll excuse me, I have to run to McDonald's to pick up an Egg McMuffin and some Hash Browns. Oh, and maybe I should grab some Krispy Kremes on the way . . .
In a series of articles published in the Feb. 8 edition of the Journal of the American Medical Association, the investigators of the Women's Health Initiative report a surprising finding that has already drawn extensive criticism. In short, the investigators find that reducing dietary fat intake to currently recommended levels (approximately 30% of daily caloric intake) offers no protection against breast cancer, colorectal cancer or heart disease.
This study looked at a large population of older women and asked whether dietary changes could prevent them from developing specific diseases that in prior studies had been linked to dietary fat intake. To me, the nature of these diseases -- cardiovascular disease and cancer -- makes them somewhat unsuitable for such an analysis. These are diseases that often develop over many years, so even a relatively long-term study (average 8.1 years in the study) may be unable to show any benefit. Instead of looking at these data and concluding that fat intake is unimportant, I would instead hypothesize that changing dietary fat intake at a younger age, or more drastically reducing fat intake in later years, is imperative for improving health.
Colorectal cancer, breast cancer and heart disease have a much higher incidence in Western cultures. This could be explained by environmental factors like diet and sedentary lifestyle. It could also be the result of pollutants. Genetic factors may also be involved. Even in the Western world, certain racial groups are more likely to be afflicted with heart disease. Of course, these racial groups also tend to be disadvantaged and less likely to seek out (or be able to afford) preventative care. There's environment rearing its head again. So what is the right answer? Can we eat ourselves healthy? Or should we just eat what we want and let the chips fall where they may based on our genetic makeup?
It's important to remember that science is an evolutionary process. We chip away at the data, trying to excavate the truth lying underneath. Sometimes we hit veins of pure gold; more often we hit pyrite. Can we stay alive forever by eliminating fat from our diets? Unlikely. Are there centegenarians who have eaten and continue to eat bacon and eggs every morning of their lives? Probably. Not knowing the absolute truth, however, is no excuse to ignore our own common sense. The best any of us can do is eat sensibly, get some exercise a few days a week, and face up to the fact that we're all mortals and will one day face the grim reaper.
But now, if you'll excuse me, I have to run to McDonald's to pick up an Egg McMuffin and some Hash Browns. Oh, and maybe I should grab some Krispy Kremes on the way . . .
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Is My Black Outfit at the Cleaners?
Every year on February 14th I wear black to protest Valentine's Day; that, and, black is slimming. I have found it a difficult proposition to be opposed to Valentine's Day without coming across as bitter or jaded. This is made all the more difficult for me since I am unabashedly both bitter and jaded. But neither my bitterness nor my jadedness explains my absolute disdain for Valentine's Day. Why, then, should I be so opposed to such an innocent little holiday? To find out, let's take a little stroll through the dark catacombs of my mind. Oh, but could you take off your shoes first? I've just mopped in here.
Picture adorable little me as a senior in high school. I have my first real girlfriend (if you just fainted, then I heard you hit the ground, and I will find you and smack you across the face.) I'm in a tizzy because, being new to this whole girlfriend thing, I haven't even given the first thought to buying her a Valentine's Day gift. For one thing, Valentine's Day in 1991 was on a Thursday (I didn't remember that; I looked it up) so it should be close enough to the weekend that I get a bye until Friday night, right? Wrong.
Cut to me going out during lunch period to buy a crappy single rose for my girlfriend, and then interrupting her English class -- which was, coincidentally, taught by my English teacher, who was not thrilled that I interrupted her class -- to give my girlfriend said rose. Awkward hug, "Ahhs" and snickers emanating from classmates, etc., etc. At the end of the day, a fairly humiliating experience.
Is this pitiful but otherwise pedestrian little story from my adolesence the real reason I hate Valentine's Day? No. That would be just pathetic. So what's the skinny on why I hate Valentine's Day? You want the truth, the honest, unabashed truth? Well, here it is.
Valentine's Day is hogwash.
Valentine's Day is yet another stolen holiday, meant to lure the pagans away from their polytheistic roots and into the monotheistic Christian fold. (See also: Christmas, Halloween). In Roman times the feast of Lupercalia was celebrated on the ides of February (February 15th). It was a lottery where the boys would draw the name of a girl who would be their "sexual companion" for the next year. In an attempt to rescue the newly minted Christians from this temptation away from chastity, the powers that be decided to celebrate St. Valentinus by turning this misogynistic expression of Roman paternalism into a joyous romantic festival where good little Christians could draw the name of a saint whom they would emulate for the next year, and perhaps, if there was enough time between self-flagellation sessions, make admissions of romantic yet purely asexual love towards other good little Christians (of the opposite sex, of course).
What a crock.
The only purpose that Valentine's Day serves now is to help greeting card retailers, florists and jewelers get into the black a little earlier in the fiscal year. It's not even a Catholic feast day anymore, so I won't even dignify the day with the title of "St. Valentine's Day."
I have experienced (and hated) Valentine's Days with and without romantic partners, so this is not sour grapes about being alone. That being said, Valentine's Day is yet another holiday that places coupled persons on a pedestal and makes it seem even less socially acceptable to be single, although, in fairness, most major holidays do that. One could argue that, unlike other major holidays, the entire premise of Valentine's Day rests on this notion of the supremacy of couplehood, but that is not the thesis I wish to extoll.
At the end of the day, my major vexation with Valentine's Day is that it is all shine and no substance. It has no intrinsic value, and extols no higher value than lustfulness. Don't get me wrong -- a little lust can be a good thing, but I don't think we need a national holiday for it.
So, for everyone who is rushing around buying flowers and jewelry, and who will be waiting for inordinate lengths of time to eat at restaurants that would be half-empty on any other Tuesday evening, I can only say, be thankful that you have been blessed with someone to share this day with. Be sure that February 14th is not the only day out of the year that you do something to show that person how much you care.
Because Sweetest Day is coming up on October 21st, and you'll want to be getting those romantic plans taken care of as soon as possible.
Picture adorable little me as a senior in high school. I have my first real girlfriend (if you just fainted, then I heard you hit the ground, and I will find you and smack you across the face.) I'm in a tizzy because, being new to this whole girlfriend thing, I haven't even given the first thought to buying her a Valentine's Day gift. For one thing, Valentine's Day in 1991 was on a Thursday (I didn't remember that; I looked it up) so it should be close enough to the weekend that I get a bye until Friday night, right? Wrong.
Cut to me going out during lunch period to buy a crappy single rose for my girlfriend, and then interrupting her English class -- which was, coincidentally, taught by my English teacher, who was not thrilled that I interrupted her class -- to give my girlfriend said rose. Awkward hug, "Ahhs" and snickers emanating from classmates, etc., etc. At the end of the day, a fairly humiliating experience.
Is this pitiful but otherwise pedestrian little story from my adolesence the real reason I hate Valentine's Day? No. That would be just pathetic. So what's the skinny on why I hate Valentine's Day? You want the truth, the honest, unabashed truth? Well, here it is.
Valentine's Day is hogwash.
Valentine's Day is yet another stolen holiday, meant to lure the pagans away from their polytheistic roots and into the monotheistic Christian fold. (See also: Christmas, Halloween). In Roman times the feast of Lupercalia was celebrated on the ides of February (February 15th). It was a lottery where the boys would draw the name of a girl who would be their "sexual companion" for the next year. In an attempt to rescue the newly minted Christians from this temptation away from chastity, the powers that be decided to celebrate St. Valentinus by turning this misogynistic expression of Roman paternalism into a joyous romantic festival where good little Christians could draw the name of a saint whom they would emulate for the next year, and perhaps, if there was enough time between self-flagellation sessions, make admissions of romantic yet purely asexual love towards other good little Christians (of the opposite sex, of course).
What a crock.
The only purpose that Valentine's Day serves now is to help greeting card retailers, florists and jewelers get into the black a little earlier in the fiscal year. It's not even a Catholic feast day anymore, so I won't even dignify the day with the title of "St. Valentine's Day."
I have experienced (and hated) Valentine's Days with and without romantic partners, so this is not sour grapes about being alone. That being said, Valentine's Day is yet another holiday that places coupled persons on a pedestal and makes it seem even less socially acceptable to be single, although, in fairness, most major holidays do that. One could argue that, unlike other major holidays, the entire premise of Valentine's Day rests on this notion of the supremacy of couplehood, but that is not the thesis I wish to extoll.
At the end of the day, my major vexation with Valentine's Day is that it is all shine and no substance. It has no intrinsic value, and extols no higher value than lustfulness. Don't get me wrong -- a little lust can be a good thing, but I don't think we need a national holiday for it.
So, for everyone who is rushing around buying flowers and jewelry, and who will be waiting for inordinate lengths of time to eat at restaurants that would be half-empty on any other Tuesday evening, I can only say, be thankful that you have been blessed with someone to share this day with. Be sure that February 14th is not the only day out of the year that you do something to show that person how much you care.
Because Sweetest Day is coming up on October 21st, and you'll want to be getting those romantic plans taken care of as soon as possible.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Too Twisted for Color TV
SPOILER WARNING: Avert your eyes if you don't want to know information about last night's episode of Grey's Anatomy!
Thank you, Shonda Rhimes and the writers of Grey's Anatomy for causing me nearly to have a heart attack during last night's episode, As We Know It. This was the second of a pair of episodes that first aired last week, the earlier episode appropriately titled It's the End of the World. If you missed either episode, let me direct you to the recaps on the Television Without Pity website.
First off, I find it amazing how good writing can cause us to suspend our disbelief. That mortar round in the guy's chest? We all knew it was gonna go boom. But did anyone seriously think it would go off while Meredith was touching it? Come on! If she (conservatively) only lost her hand, what do you think that would do to her chances of becoming a surgeon? Lose a hand, lose the show. And of course, since the show is named after her character, I doubt she's gonna get offed any time soon. Burke is too important to the story line, so he's not going anywhere. This left only one possibility, and I saw it coming about 20 minutes into the show.
Kyle Chandler had to die.
It was fate. He may as well have put on a red shirt sporting an ensign's insignia and beamed down to a hostile planet with Captain Kirk, Commander Spock and Dr. McCoy. When I saw him walking out of that OR carrying that live round, I thought, Oh, boy, I hope as a responsible member of the bomb squad you have all of your affairs in order. (I also sort of wondered why they didn't have some sort of containment apparatus a little closer to the site of the bomb extraction. I guess for dramatic purposes one must take the mountain to Mohammed.)
I cried so much during last night's episode I don't even remember when I started blubbering. When George confronted Dr. Bailey, nearly shaming her into giving birth to that baby, and then climbed up onto her bed to help her with the birth? Tears. When Meredith was looking at Kyle Chandler and thinking of McDreamy? Tears. When Kyle Chandler became "pink mist"? I got up to get a sandwich and a beer. WHAT, ARE YOU CRAZY?? TEARS LIKE CRAZY, MAN, TEARS LIKE CRAZY!
I missed the previous episode because I was at a dinner party with some friends, and heard about it second-hand from co-workers. I therefore read the recap on Television Without Pity as I was watching last night's episode, and I'm glad I did. I think I would have otherwise missed the significance of the Dr. Burke/Dr. Shepherd exchanges. I can't wait to see the re-broadcast of this episode this summer.
If you're not watching Grey's Anatomy, shame on you. Fortunately, I think there's only 10 people in this country who aren't (It's the End of the World was fourth in the Nielsen ratings). This is the best written show on TV since -- wait for it, wait for it -- Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Oh that's right. I went there.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
A Reminder
There comes a point in all of our lives when we realize that we are mortal, that we are susceptible to the arrow of death and are limited by the fragile nature of our imperfect human bodies. It's a rite of passage, really.
That moment came for me when I was 28-years-old, in early 2002. A pain in my right leg that made my sleep progressively more uncomfortable gave way to such an extreme claudication that I could no longer go to work. In the ensuing nine months I would submit to three epidural steroid injections, weeks of often painful physical therapy and two discectomies. I became one of the millions of individuals in this country who succumb to radiculopathy secondary to lumbar disc herniation. In layman's terms, I had a slipped disc; two, really.
Other than a few isolated incidents, I had led a relatively pain-free life prior to my back surgeries. In 2002 pain became a daily part of my life. It was always with me, like a shadow in daylight. I could sit down to partially alleviate the symptoms of my underlying orthopedic pathology, but even that was uncomfortable. Sleeping in a supine position was practically impossible; walking was torturous.
Since my surgeries I've recovered a lot of my mobility, although I doubt I will ever return to my pre-2002 self. I must always be vigilant against re-injuring my back. I no longer move my own furniture, I limit the amount of time I spend in any one position and I avoid activities that require me to keep my back bent for prolonged periods of time.
On Wednesday I noticed that my back was bothering me as I got ready for work. I laid down for a while, actually falling back asleep (something I rarely do). When I awoke, I found it difficult to get up. I spent all day in bed. The next morning my situation had little changed. By the evening, I could get up and down from the chair in my living room with some difficulty. I was better the next day, but walking and standing were still difficult and painful. Several mega-doses of naproxen later, I have greater mobility and was able to go to church today. I will go to work tomorrow, and hopefully will be able to stay the entire day.
These episodes of debilitating back pain are rare, thankfully, but they serve as a reminder that I am a fragile human being, despite my tall and powerful-looking frame. They are reminders I could -- and would much prefer to -- do without. Wishing away my infirmities is a fool's errand. Instead I am learning to live with pain, the actuality of pain and the constant threat of pain. Unfortunately, no one can live like this without changing, and I know that living under the constant threat of pain has fundamentally changed me.
That moment came for me when I was 28-years-old, in early 2002. A pain in my right leg that made my sleep progressively more uncomfortable gave way to such an extreme claudication that I could no longer go to work. In the ensuing nine months I would submit to three epidural steroid injections, weeks of often painful physical therapy and two discectomies. I became one of the millions of individuals in this country who succumb to radiculopathy secondary to lumbar disc herniation. In layman's terms, I had a slipped disc; two, really.
Other than a few isolated incidents, I had led a relatively pain-free life prior to my back surgeries. In 2002 pain became a daily part of my life. It was always with me, like a shadow in daylight. I could sit down to partially alleviate the symptoms of my underlying orthopedic pathology, but even that was uncomfortable. Sleeping in a supine position was practically impossible; walking was torturous.
Since my surgeries I've recovered a lot of my mobility, although I doubt I will ever return to my pre-2002 self. I must always be vigilant against re-injuring my back. I no longer move my own furniture, I limit the amount of time I spend in any one position and I avoid activities that require me to keep my back bent for prolonged periods of time.
On Wednesday I noticed that my back was bothering me as I got ready for work. I laid down for a while, actually falling back asleep (something I rarely do). When I awoke, I found it difficult to get up. I spent all day in bed. The next morning my situation had little changed. By the evening, I could get up and down from the chair in my living room with some difficulty. I was better the next day, but walking and standing were still difficult and painful. Several mega-doses of naproxen later, I have greater mobility and was able to go to church today. I will go to work tomorrow, and hopefully will be able to stay the entire day.
These episodes of debilitating back pain are rare, thankfully, but they serve as a reminder that I am a fragile human being, despite my tall and powerful-looking frame. They are reminders I could -- and would much prefer to -- do without. Wishing away my infirmities is a fool's errand. Instead I am learning to live with pain, the actuality of pain and the constant threat of pain. Unfortunately, no one can live like this without changing, and I know that living under the constant threat of pain has fundamentally changed me.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
What can one person do?
I was walking from my lab to a dinner and presentation at Brent House, the Episcopal center on the U of C campus. As I strolled through campus I was overwhelmed with a multitude of thoughts, mostly about me and my life. I felt completely disconnected from the world around me. In all honesty, I've felt rather disconnected for a couple of weeks now, this being one reason for the relative paucity of new posts. But tonight it was particularly acute.
The presentation was by the Rev'd. Michael Kinman, the director of an organization called Episcopalians for Global Reconciliation. Their main interest is in alleviating global poverty, and they are very interested in the fulfillment of the Millenium Development Goals. The facts that the Rev'd. Kinman presented were astounding. For instance, for $10 billion we could provide education to every child on the planet. That's half of the amount this nation spent on ice cream last year.
Let me say that again. We could educate every child on earth for half our nation's ice cream budget.
It's really astounding how little it would take to bring people out of poverty. It's even more astounding how unwilling society is to make even the smallest sacrifices to make the dream of alleviating poverty a reality.
Please visit the website for the Millenium Development Goals to see what you can do. Contact your elected representatives and ask them to support the United States' commitment to the Millenium Development Goals. If you want to give money, consider giving 0.7% of your income to Episcopal Relief and Development. For every dollar you give ERD more than 90 cents goes to the beneficiaries. Most importantly, learn about the problem of global poverty. It's a huge problem that's easy to shrug off, but everyone has the power to do something.
The presentation was by the Rev'd. Michael Kinman, the director of an organization called Episcopalians for Global Reconciliation. Their main interest is in alleviating global poverty, and they are very interested in the fulfillment of the Millenium Development Goals. The facts that the Rev'd. Kinman presented were astounding. For instance, for $10 billion we could provide education to every child on the planet. That's half of the amount this nation spent on ice cream last year.
Let me say that again. We could educate every child on earth for half our nation's ice cream budget.
It's really astounding how little it would take to bring people out of poverty. It's even more astounding how unwilling society is to make even the smallest sacrifices to make the dream of alleviating poverty a reality.
Please visit the website for the Millenium Development Goals to see what you can do. Contact your elected representatives and ask them to support the United States' commitment to the Millenium Development Goals. If you want to give money, consider giving 0.7% of your income to Episcopal Relief and Development. For every dollar you give ERD more than 90 cents goes to the beneficiaries. Most importantly, learn about the problem of global poverty. It's a huge problem that's easy to shrug off, but everyone has the power to do something.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Science Sux
After 6 weeks, I finally got a decent DIG-labeled riboprobe yield. Hallelujah!
The quote from my lab notebook page is, "I have soundly pummeled the bitch goddess Science today. . ."
The secret? Keep your reagents at room temperature. Here's the math:
Spermidine + DNA + cold = precipitated DNA = lousy riboprobe = upset postdoc
The quote from my lab notebook page is, "I have soundly pummeled the bitch goddess Science today. . ."
The secret? Keep your reagents at room temperature. Here's the math:
Spermidine + DNA + cold = precipitated DNA = lousy riboprobe = upset postdoc
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Mixed Blessings
Attending church is one of the highlights of my week. I enjoy several aspects of the worship service -- the liturgy, the music, the pageantry -- and I also like socializing with the other parishioners. I'm very fond of the clergy at my parish, so that only adds to the experience of worshiping there.
The majority of people attending services on Sunday morning are families and couples. For single people, church can be a very isolating place. As I am currently (and for a while now) single, I sometimes find myself feeling a little awkward and, frankly, envious on Sunday mornings. Even though I've been in some wonderful relationships, I've never been with anyone who regularly attended worship services with me. In a couple of instances the impasse was sectarian. A boyfriend I had who was raised in the Baptist church went to mass with me once. He was clearly uncomfortable with the Episcopal experience, even going so far as to decline communion. I've also dated agnostic and athiest men, so their obstacles to attending worship with me were even greater.
Several of the couples at my parish have children. This is another area where my inner green monster raises its ugly head. I ache to have children, and despair with each passing year that I never will. Seeing the happy kids at church interacting with their parents, marching to children's chapel and attending formation classes fills me with joy and dread both -- joy at the site of the gleeful youngsters, dread at the thought that I will never know the joy of being a father.
After the service this morning I was talking with a woman from my parish who recently had a baby. When I left her table, I noticed her daughter's stroller and walked over to look in at the baby inside. She was fussy, and I leaned down to see what was wrong with her. As soon as I touched her and talked to her, she stopped fussing and started to smile. I identified the underlying cause of her distress -- her pacifier had slipped out of her mouth -- and placed the offending passy back into her mouth. I was overjoyed at being able to perform this small act to comfort her; however, it was again joy mixed with dread -- joy at helping a small child, dread at the thought of never being able to comfort my own baby.
I fervently believe that God has a plan for my life. I sometimes wonder, however, if that plan includes marriage and fatherhood. That being said, I refuse to concede that I am not the master of my destiny, not the captain of my soul. I think the onus is on me to be cognizant of the opportunities God offers to me. I was blessed with the good sense to end relationships that I know cannot progress towards permanence, and the strength to be alone for the right reasons rather than with someone for the wrong ones. I have to rely on that strength right now, because God knows I'm not getting any younger. The passage of time may be constant, but its coursing grows louder in my ears.
The majority of people attending services on Sunday morning are families and couples. For single people, church can be a very isolating place. As I am currently (and for a while now) single, I sometimes find myself feeling a little awkward and, frankly, envious on Sunday mornings. Even though I've been in some wonderful relationships, I've never been with anyone who regularly attended worship services with me. In a couple of instances the impasse was sectarian. A boyfriend I had who was raised in the Baptist church went to mass with me once. He was clearly uncomfortable with the Episcopal experience, even going so far as to decline communion. I've also dated agnostic and athiest men, so their obstacles to attending worship with me were even greater.
Several of the couples at my parish have children. This is another area where my inner green monster raises its ugly head. I ache to have children, and despair with each passing year that I never will. Seeing the happy kids at church interacting with their parents, marching to children's chapel and attending formation classes fills me with joy and dread both -- joy at the site of the gleeful youngsters, dread at the thought that I will never know the joy of being a father.
After the service this morning I was talking with a woman from my parish who recently had a baby. When I left her table, I noticed her daughter's stroller and walked over to look in at the baby inside. She was fussy, and I leaned down to see what was wrong with her. As soon as I touched her and talked to her, she stopped fussing and started to smile. I identified the underlying cause of her distress -- her pacifier had slipped out of her mouth -- and placed the offending passy back into her mouth. I was overjoyed at being able to perform this small act to comfort her; however, it was again joy mixed with dread -- joy at helping a small child, dread at the thought of never being able to comfort my own baby.
I fervently believe that God has a plan for my life. I sometimes wonder, however, if that plan includes marriage and fatherhood. That being said, I refuse to concede that I am not the master of my destiny, not the captain of my soul. I think the onus is on me to be cognizant of the opportunities God offers to me. I was blessed with the good sense to end relationships that I know cannot progress towards permanence, and the strength to be alone for the right reasons rather than with someone for the wrong ones. I have to rely on that strength right now, because God knows I'm not getting any younger. The passage of time may be constant, but its coursing grows louder in my ears.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
The Science of Desperate Housewives
Okay, this has been bugging me for almost a week. I just have to clear this up.
On Sunday's episode of Desperate Housewives, we found our favorite ladies at the Wisteria Lane Blood Drive. Zack walked up to the registration table and told the nurse that his blood type was AB-. The woman remarked, correctly, that this was a rare blood type. She then said that another man with that same blood type had just donated. The man of whom she spoke was -- you guessed it -- Mike.
What was the purpose of this sanguine exchange? It was supposed to be a clue to Zack that Mike is his biological father. Sadly, the writers really screwed the pooch. Here's why.
There are two different antigens used to type blood for donation and transfusion, the ABO antigen and the Rhesus (Rh) antigen, antigens being proteins recognized by antibodies. The ABO blood antigens are coded for by three different alleles, the Rh antigen by two alleles. Alleles are simply different genetic sequences that encode the same protein. In basic biology, alleles are often referred to as "dominant" or "recessive." For the Rh antigen, Rh+ blood type (expressing the Rh antigen) is "dominant" while Rh- blood type (failure to express the Rh antigen) is "recessive." Therefore, if an individual receives one Rh+ allele from his father and one Rh- allele from his mother, then that individual will be blood type Rh+, even though he only has one Rh+ allele. To be Rh-, one must receive an Rh- allele from both parents.
ABO blood typing is a little different. At any given genetic locus, we all have two alleles, one inherited from our father and the second from our mother. This means several combinations are possible -- two A alleles, two B alleles, two O alleles, or a combination (AB, AO, BO). Because the A and B alleles are co-dominant, if one has both an A and a B allele, then one's blood type is AB (one expresses both the A and B antigens). If an individual's blood type is O, then that person has two O alleles, and must have neither an A nor a B allele (and therefore expresses neither the A nor the B antigen).
So, if I were a writer on DH, and I wanted to use blood typing to show that a character's custodial father was not his biological father, this is what I would do. I'd ignore the Rh antigen completely because it's a simple recessive/dominant situation, so it's not very informative. I would simply make the child's blood type O and I would make his custodial father's blood type AB. An AB father cannot parent a child with blood type O, barring spontaneous mutations. This is because he would pass either the A or B allele to all of his offspring, and since the A and B alleles are always dominant over the O allele, any resulting children would always be either A, B or AB.
Unfortunately, this would have required explanations such as the one I've presented here. Maybe that's why I work in a research lab and don't write for television shows.
But at least I've gotten this off of my chest! Oh, and if anyone really wants to "see the math", then I'll be happy to send you a Punnett square. Or perhaps you could go hide under the bed until the feeling passes.
On Sunday's episode of Desperate Housewives, we found our favorite ladies at the Wisteria Lane Blood Drive. Zack walked up to the registration table and told the nurse that his blood type was AB-. The woman remarked, correctly, that this was a rare blood type. She then said that another man with that same blood type had just donated. The man of whom she spoke was -- you guessed it -- Mike.
What was the purpose of this sanguine exchange? It was supposed to be a clue to Zack that Mike is his biological father. Sadly, the writers really screwed the pooch. Here's why.
There are two different antigens used to type blood for donation and transfusion, the ABO antigen and the Rhesus (Rh) antigen, antigens being proteins recognized by antibodies. The ABO blood antigens are coded for by three different alleles, the Rh antigen by two alleles. Alleles are simply different genetic sequences that encode the same protein. In basic biology, alleles are often referred to as "dominant" or "recessive." For the Rh antigen, Rh+ blood type (expressing the Rh antigen) is "dominant" while Rh- blood type (failure to express the Rh antigen) is "recessive." Therefore, if an individual receives one Rh+ allele from his father and one Rh- allele from his mother, then that individual will be blood type Rh+, even though he only has one Rh+ allele. To be Rh-, one must receive an Rh- allele from both parents.
ABO blood typing is a little different. At any given genetic locus, we all have two alleles, one inherited from our father and the second from our mother. This means several combinations are possible -- two A alleles, two B alleles, two O alleles, or a combination (AB, AO, BO). Because the A and B alleles are co-dominant, if one has both an A and a B allele, then one's blood type is AB (one expresses both the A and B antigens). If an individual's blood type is O, then that person has two O alleles, and must have neither an A nor a B allele (and therefore expresses neither the A nor the B antigen).
So, if I were a writer on DH, and I wanted to use blood typing to show that a character's custodial father was not his biological father, this is what I would do. I'd ignore the Rh antigen completely because it's a simple recessive/dominant situation, so it's not very informative. I would simply make the child's blood type O and I would make his custodial father's blood type AB. An AB father cannot parent a child with blood type O, barring spontaneous mutations. This is because he would pass either the A or B allele to all of his offspring, and since the A and B alleles are always dominant over the O allele, any resulting children would always be either A, B or AB.
Unfortunately, this would have required explanations such as the one I've presented here. Maybe that's why I work in a research lab and don't write for television shows.
But at least I've gotten this off of my chest! Oh, and if anyone really wants to "see the math", then I'll be happy to send you a Punnett square. Or perhaps you could go hide under the bed until the feeling passes.
Monday, January 16, 2006
The Mountaintop
I saw a very interesting episode of The Jeffersons tonight. The episode takes place in the recent past and shows what happens to the main characters -- George, Louise (Weezie) and Lionel -- on the day preceeding and the day of the assasination of the Rev'd. Dr. Martin Luther King. The episode ends with the family listening to a rebroadcast of the last speech Dr. King gave, commonly called the "I've Been to the Mountaintop" speech.
On the day before he was shot, Dr. King gave a speech in Memphis to support striking sanitation workers. At the end of his speech, Dr. King said the following:
And then I got to Memphis. And some began to say the threats, or talk about the threats that were out. What would happen to me from some of our sick white brothers?
Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land.
Dr. King was shot the next day by James Earl Ray. (Note that Mr. Ray recanted his confession late just before dying of liver failure while in the custody of the State of Tennessee.) It seems, in the above concluding remarks to his speech, that Dr. King was prophesying his own death.
In his speech, Dr. King posits himself as Moses in the land of Moab. In Deuteronomy, the time of Moses's death is described thus:
And Moses went up from the plains of Moab to Mount Nebo, to the top of Pisgah, which is opposite Jericho. And the LORD showed him all the land, Gilead as far as Dan, all Naph'tali, the land of E'phraim and Manas'seh, all the land of Judah as far as the Western Sea, the Negeb, and the Plain, that is, the valley of Jericho the city of palm trees, as far as Zo'ar. And the LORD said to him, "This is the land of which I swore to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob, `I will give it to your descendants.' I have let you see it with your eyes, but you shall not go over there." So Moses the servant of the LORD died there in the land of Moab.
Dr. King helped to lead his people out of bondage, just like Moses. He said that he had seen the Promised Land, just as God showed Moses the Promised Land. Like Moses, Dr. King could not live to enter into the Promised Land he had been shown. Sadly, even had he lived to see his 77th birthday, Dr. King would still not have been able to enter into the Promised Land he envisioned, a land where people of color are afforded the same rights, privileges and responsibilities as are caucasians.
The dream has been deferred so long. I pray that it will not be, ultimately, denied.
On the day before he was shot, Dr. King gave a speech in Memphis to support striking sanitation workers. At the end of his speech, Dr. King said the following:
And then I got to Memphis. And some began to say the threats, or talk about the threats that were out. What would happen to me from some of our sick white brothers?
Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land.
Dr. King was shot the next day by James Earl Ray. (Note that Mr. Ray recanted his confession late just before dying of liver failure while in the custody of the State of Tennessee.) It seems, in the above concluding remarks to his speech, that Dr. King was prophesying his own death.
In his speech, Dr. King posits himself as Moses in the land of Moab. In Deuteronomy, the time of Moses's death is described thus:
And Moses went up from the plains of Moab to Mount Nebo, to the top of Pisgah, which is opposite Jericho. And the LORD showed him all the land, Gilead as far as Dan, all Naph'tali, the land of E'phraim and Manas'seh, all the land of Judah as far as the Western Sea, the Negeb, and the Plain, that is, the valley of Jericho the city of palm trees, as far as Zo'ar. And the LORD said to him, "This is the land of which I swore to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob, `I will give it to your descendants.' I have let you see it with your eyes, but you shall not go over there." So Moses the servant of the LORD died there in the land of Moab.
Dr. King helped to lead his people out of bondage, just like Moses. He said that he had seen the Promised Land, just as God showed Moses the Promised Land. Like Moses, Dr. King could not live to enter into the Promised Land he had been shown. Sadly, even had he lived to see his 77th birthday, Dr. King would still not have been able to enter into the Promised Land he envisioned, a land where people of color are afforded the same rights, privileges and responsibilities as are caucasians.
The dream has been deferred so long. I pray that it will not be, ultimately, denied.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Souvenir?
There are some things that just defy good sense. This hat is one of those things.
I adore Louis Vuitton bags. Really, I do. I don't own one because, frankly, I'm not independently wealthy. Vuitton bags are not cheap, which is part of the reason they're status symbols. I've been to Louis Vuitton stores, I've perused their merchandise, I've even considered buying some very small pieces, although my desire to be able to pay my rent has always won out.
But not once in all those times did I think, "Gosh, maybe I could just buy a Louis Vuitton hat." Maybe I thought it would be an unsatisfactory substitute for a satchel or overnight bag. Perhaps I realized that I don't, in general, look good in hats.
Or maybe I realized that a Louis Vuitton hat just looks stupid.
What's next? Tiffany's lapel pins? Prada shoe laces?
I adore Louis Vuitton bags. Really, I do. I don't own one because, frankly, I'm not independently wealthy. Vuitton bags are not cheap, which is part of the reason they're status symbols. I've been to Louis Vuitton stores, I've perused their merchandise, I've even considered buying some very small pieces, although my desire to be able to pay my rent has always won out.
But not once in all those times did I think, "Gosh, maybe I could just buy a Louis Vuitton hat." Maybe I thought it would be an unsatisfactory substitute for a satchel or overnight bag. Perhaps I realized that I don't, in general, look good in hats.
Or maybe I realized that a Louis Vuitton hat just looks stupid.
What's next? Tiffany's lapel pins? Prada shoe laces?
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Isolde Has Left the Stage
In case you missed the New York Times obits page today, let me be the first to tell you that Birgit Nilsson has died at the ripe old age of 87. Truly opera has lost one of its brightest stars, and certainly no one living today can sing Wagner like she can. It may be another generation before such a chanteuse again graces the stage.
Her obit portrays her as an independent and strong woman. According to the Times La Nilsson largely managed her own career, and did not resort to tantrums during negotiations. She also gives no credit to her voice teachers, insisting that if anything they hurt her voice. (Fortunately, I have no such complaints about my voice teachers, who have done nothing but help my voice.)
La Nilsson had a lovely quote from a nine-year-old interview with the Times:
"I've always tried to remember what my mother used to tell me. Stay close to the earth. Then when you fall down, it won't hurt so much."
God be with you, La Nilsson.
Her obit portrays her as an independent and strong woman. According to the Times La Nilsson largely managed her own career, and did not resort to tantrums during negotiations. She also gives no credit to her voice teachers, insisting that if anything they hurt her voice. (Fortunately, I have no such complaints about my voice teachers, who have done nothing but help my voice.)
La Nilsson had a lovely quote from a nine-year-old interview with the Times:
"I've always tried to remember what my mother used to tell me. Stay close to the earth. Then when you fall down, it won't hurt so much."
God be with you, La Nilsson.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Lousy Day
I just should have stayed in bed this morning.
I got to work early this morning because I needed to get some reagents prepared for the day. My hope was to be a little ahead of the game at the end of the day. The reality was that I wound up a day behind, with nothing to show for my efforts.
Sadly this isn't too outside of the norm for science. Sometimes procedures that have worked flawlessly ninety-nine times in a row will fail when you try to perform them the hundredth time. They might fail because a reagent has gone bad, or because a piece of equipment malfunctions, or because of something I like to call G.T.I. (Gross Technical Incompetence), which explains a myriad of experimental failures.
Today, it seems as though every experiment was in its hundredth-round failure cycle. By the end of the day, I was dropping pipet tips on the floor and spilling solutions all over my bench. After ten hours of banging my head against the metaphorical wall, I gave up and went home.
It's days like this that I wonder why I became a scientist. Fortunately there are also good days, when experiments work and I can put another piece into the jigsaw puzzle that is my project. Of course, I think the ratio is about 15:1 in favor of the bad days.
The nice thing about bad days is that, like all other days, they end. Today will be over soon and, in the immortal words of Scarlet O'Hara, tomorrow is another day.
I got to work early this morning because I needed to get some reagents prepared for the day. My hope was to be a little ahead of the game at the end of the day. The reality was that I wound up a day behind, with nothing to show for my efforts.
Sadly this isn't too outside of the norm for science. Sometimes procedures that have worked flawlessly ninety-nine times in a row will fail when you try to perform them the hundredth time. They might fail because a reagent has gone bad, or because a piece of equipment malfunctions, or because of something I like to call G.T.I. (Gross Technical Incompetence), which explains a myriad of experimental failures.
Today, it seems as though every experiment was in its hundredth-round failure cycle. By the end of the day, I was dropping pipet tips on the floor and spilling solutions all over my bench. After ten hours of banging my head against the metaphorical wall, I gave up and went home.
It's days like this that I wonder why I became a scientist. Fortunately there are also good days, when experiments work and I can put another piece into the jigsaw puzzle that is my project. Of course, I think the ratio is about 15:1 in favor of the bad days.
The nice thing about bad days is that, like all other days, they end. Today will be over soon and, in the immortal words of Scarlet O'Hara, tomorrow is another day.
Monday, January 02, 2006
Quintessentially Southern
It was lovely visiting North Carolina last week. The weather was quite pleasant -- it was in the 50s most of the week, and I believe one day even reached 60 degrees, plus there was very little precipitation.
I enjoy visiting North Carolina because the spirit of North Carolina still lives within me, and going home feeds my soul. I go out and hear people speaking, and I recognize their accent because it is my accent. In Chicago, my voice tends to be noticed because it is so very different from the prevailing midwestern/nasal accent endemic to this area of the country. It is often commented upon, rarely with malicious intent, but nonetheless the attention can be annoying.
I don't cringe, though, nor do I slink from my Southern heritage or my lilting Piedmont southern accent. I embrace being Southern. I know the difference between a mint julep and a mojito. I know just how and when to use the phrase, "Bless her heart" to allow me to say anything about anyone without fear of reproach. When I cook I measure ingredients in dollops, dashes, smidges and pinches. I understand how nervous is a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs and comprehend the happiness of a puppy with two peters. I know the correct way to use the word y'all -- I also know the correct way to punctuate it.
Some people will be forever biased against people who pronounce the word "couch" with three syllables. It's their loss.
I am Southern. Hear me roa-ahr.
I enjoy visiting North Carolina because the spirit of North Carolina still lives within me, and going home feeds my soul. I go out and hear people speaking, and I recognize their accent because it is my accent. In Chicago, my voice tends to be noticed because it is so very different from the prevailing midwestern/nasal accent endemic to this area of the country. It is often commented upon, rarely with malicious intent, but nonetheless the attention can be annoying.
I don't cringe, though, nor do I slink from my Southern heritage or my lilting Piedmont southern accent. I embrace being Southern. I know the difference between a mint julep and a mojito. I know just how and when to use the phrase, "Bless her heart" to allow me to say anything about anyone without fear of reproach. When I cook I measure ingredients in dollops, dashes, smidges and pinches. I understand how nervous is a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs and comprehend the happiness of a puppy with two peters. I know the correct way to use the word y'all -- I also know the correct way to punctuate it.
Some people will be forever biased against people who pronounce the word "couch" with three syllables. It's their loss.
I am Southern. Hear me roa-ahr.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Obligatory New Year's Thoughts
As I write this I'm listening to a podcast from the Krebs Cycle blog. The author of that blog, a guy named Adam, is going on about what he did for New Year's. I just stumbled across this blog a couple of weeks back, and I admit I initially clicked on it because of the science theme (I am a scientist, after all), but I check it out because I like Adam's writing style and his topics are somewhat interesting. Right now Adam is talking about why he doesn't particularly like the New Year's holiday. Incidentally, if you think the Krebs Cycle is something Lance Armstrong might ride in the Tour de France, clearly you've forgotten most of your intro bio course from college/high school. Here's a diagram of the Krebs cycle for you to peruse. Without going into too much detail about this biological process, you're doing it right now, or else you're dead.
I'm not an anti-holiday person. I love and enjoy spending time with my family, so Christmas is a great time for me. Thanksgiving is all about cooking, and there's nothing I love to do so much as to cook womploads of really fattening food for people, so I am all about the Turkey Day. Easter is my favorite ecclesiastical holiday, which is good since it's the most important holy day of the church year. I also love Lent, as it forces me to look inward and be contemplative about my life and the choices I make every day for 46 days (I don't believe in "skipping" Sundays, thank you very much!)
That being said, there are two holidays that I just cannot abide. The first and foremost is Valentine's Day. Ick, ick, ick, ick, ick!! I have been single more often on Valentine's than not, which only makes sense since I've been single during most of my adult life. This, however, is not why I abhor Valentine's Day. Since I have about 6 weeks before I have to tackle that holiday, I won't go into all of my various reasons and rationalizations for despising this wretched holiday. Yet.
The other holiday I hate? Well, if you guessed New Year's Day, well, sorry, but you're wrong. The holiday I hate is New Year's Eve. For years as a young adult I felt the need to go out on New Year's Eve and show just how horrifically drunk I could get in the company of good friends. Later, I tried spending New Year's Eve with friends maintaining some semblance of sobriety and participating in absurdly insipid activities and games to stay awake until the new year's arrival at midnight.
I think the year that really cemented my feelings of hostility towards New Year's Eve was 1999. My friends and I organized a trek to Atlanta to usher in the "new millennium" (which really didn't start until 2001) in the big city. I lived in Nashville at the time, and Atlanta seemed a much more cosmopolitan and exciting place to party in the new year.
I spent $20 on the cover charge to get into Backstreet. Inside, there were about 5,000 people on a dance floor the size of my living room. I was asked not to "cross dance" -- don't ask, I don't know what it is, either -- by some very snippy queen and saw my friend Joel nearly kill a group of girls who had made a clear space between them on the dance floor by standing lock-armed around an iron rail along the side of the dance floor. When the countdown was over, and it was officially 2000, we went back upstairs to the main bar. The people there were unfriendly, the drinks were watered down and I saw a girl expurgate the entire contents of her stomach onto the floor next to the bar. No one rushed to clean this up. After about an hour and a half, we decided this was a lousy place to be and headed back to our hotel at the perimeter.
I stayed up until 5:30 in the morning drinking gin and tonics. Actually, that's inaccurate -- we ran out of tonic at about 4:00, so after that we were having gin and gins. I fell asleep, or passed out, I can't really remember which. I puked about 3 times, and was awakened 20 minutes before check-out time by one of my friends staying in another room.
We had a lovely brunch at Einstein's, which still ranks as my favorite restaurant for brunch and makes a trip to Atlanta nearly worth having to drive around Atlanta. Brunch was by far the best part of the trip, but I would rather have saved money on the hotel and the bar and had everyone over to my house for a lovely meal.
Since then, where and how I spend New Year's Eve has largely been based on my mood and work schedule. The past two years I've been in Chicago for New Year's Eve, and both times I spent the evening at home alone. And I'm not complaining. Yesterday I got my apartment nice and clean and even rearranged my kitchen. I toasted the New Year with a very dry martini (I couldn't open the cap on my vermouth) and Dick Clark (bless his heart, that stroke really packed a wallop!). I then took my evening meds and went promptly to bed.
Today I had a lovely time at church and then cooked brunch for a friend. I helped a nice elderly lady from church get upstairs to her apartment, so I feel as though I'm starting the new year off with a good deed, which is nice. I really attach very little significance to the new year vis a vis adopting new habits or making changes in my life. I know what I need to do to improve my personal and professional well-being, new year or no new year. Resolutions are largely a crock that no one expects to live up to. It's wonderful when people do live out their resolutions, but my question is, why did you have to start January 1st? Why not start on November 22nd or wait until February 13th?
Now I'm going to get back to the very important task of watching the Bears lose to the Vikings. Well, at least the Panthers won, and most importantly NC State blanked South Florida to win the Meineke Car Care Bowl (geesh, how pathetic a bowl is that?) yesterday, so overall it's a good football weekend.
For what it's worth, have a great New Year!
I'm not an anti-holiday person. I love and enjoy spending time with my family, so Christmas is a great time for me. Thanksgiving is all about cooking, and there's nothing I love to do so much as to cook womploads of really fattening food for people, so I am all about the Turkey Day. Easter is my favorite ecclesiastical holiday, which is good since it's the most important holy day of the church year. I also love Lent, as it forces me to look inward and be contemplative about my life and the choices I make every day for 46 days (I don't believe in "skipping" Sundays, thank you very much!)
That being said, there are two holidays that I just cannot abide. The first and foremost is Valentine's Day. Ick, ick, ick, ick, ick!! I have been single more often on Valentine's than not, which only makes sense since I've been single during most of my adult life. This, however, is not why I abhor Valentine's Day. Since I have about 6 weeks before I have to tackle that holiday, I won't go into all of my various reasons and rationalizations for despising this wretched holiday. Yet.
The other holiday I hate? Well, if you guessed New Year's Day, well, sorry, but you're wrong. The holiday I hate is New Year's Eve. For years as a young adult I felt the need to go out on New Year's Eve and show just how horrifically drunk I could get in the company of good friends. Later, I tried spending New Year's Eve with friends maintaining some semblance of sobriety and participating in absurdly insipid activities and games to stay awake until the new year's arrival at midnight.
I think the year that really cemented my feelings of hostility towards New Year's Eve was 1999. My friends and I organized a trek to Atlanta to usher in the "new millennium" (which really didn't start until 2001) in the big city. I lived in Nashville at the time, and Atlanta seemed a much more cosmopolitan and exciting place to party in the new year.
I spent $20 on the cover charge to get into Backstreet. Inside, there were about 5,000 people on a dance floor the size of my living room. I was asked not to "cross dance" -- don't ask, I don't know what it is, either -- by some very snippy queen and saw my friend Joel nearly kill a group of girls who had made a clear space between them on the dance floor by standing lock-armed around an iron rail along the side of the dance floor. When the countdown was over, and it was officially 2000, we went back upstairs to the main bar. The people there were unfriendly, the drinks were watered down and I saw a girl expurgate the entire contents of her stomach onto the floor next to the bar. No one rushed to clean this up. After about an hour and a half, we decided this was a lousy place to be and headed back to our hotel at the perimeter.
I stayed up until 5:30 in the morning drinking gin and tonics. Actually, that's inaccurate -- we ran out of tonic at about 4:00, so after that we were having gin and gins. I fell asleep, or passed out, I can't really remember which. I puked about 3 times, and was awakened 20 minutes before check-out time by one of my friends staying in another room.
We had a lovely brunch at Einstein's, which still ranks as my favorite restaurant for brunch and makes a trip to Atlanta nearly worth having to drive around Atlanta. Brunch was by far the best part of the trip, but I would rather have saved money on the hotel and the bar and had everyone over to my house for a lovely meal.
Since then, where and how I spend New Year's Eve has largely been based on my mood and work schedule. The past two years I've been in Chicago for New Year's Eve, and both times I spent the evening at home alone. And I'm not complaining. Yesterday I got my apartment nice and clean and even rearranged my kitchen. I toasted the New Year with a very dry martini (I couldn't open the cap on my vermouth) and Dick Clark (bless his heart, that stroke really packed a wallop!). I then took my evening meds and went promptly to bed.
Today I had a lovely time at church and then cooked brunch for a friend. I helped a nice elderly lady from church get upstairs to her apartment, so I feel as though I'm starting the new year off with a good deed, which is nice. I really attach very little significance to the new year vis a vis adopting new habits or making changes in my life. I know what I need to do to improve my personal and professional well-being, new year or no new year. Resolutions are largely a crock that no one expects to live up to. It's wonderful when people do live out their resolutions, but my question is, why did you have to start January 1st? Why not start on November 22nd or wait until February 13th?
Now I'm going to get back to the very important task of watching the Bears lose to the Vikings. Well, at least the Panthers won, and most importantly NC State blanked South Florida to win the Meineke Car Care Bowl (geesh, how pathetic a bowl is that?) yesterday, so overall it's a good football weekend.
For what it's worth, have a great New Year!
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Television is the Devil
Since moving to the South Side, I have hardly missed having cable television at home. I work so much that it seems hardly worth it to pay $50 a month to be able to watch maybe 3 hours of television a day, and a good chunk of that while eating/going to sleep/getting ready for work. Plus, the idiots at Comcast couldn't tell me whether or not they provided service to my building without receiving blood and urine samples from me, my landlord and at least two neighbors.
Having been at my mother's house for 3 days now, I have watched more television than I've probably seen in the past 3 months. Part of that is due to my increased access. I'm spending lots of time at the house since I'm not working. The allure of watching three straight hours of television in the morning -- Buffy at 7, Designing Women at 8, and Golden Girls at 9 -- is great. I haven't been here to enjoy it, but if I waited 'til 11:00 I could also see an hour of Will & Grace. This combination of increased sloth and caloric intake may conspire to prevent me from fitting into my clothes by the time I return to Chicago!
I have come to the same realization about TV as I have about fattening foods -- if they're around, I will consume them. It's horrible to face up to the fact that you're an addict, but frankly I am. And I don't say that because I want pity or to abdicate responsibility for my actions. It's just something I've come to realize in the past year. The TV addiction is easy to kick -- Chicago only has about 10 channels available over broadcast, and about half of those operate entirely or mostly in Spanish. And the food thing was easy before the holidays. I purposely kept less food in my apartment than I ever have, including staples like pasta and sugar, and this helped me to control my cravings.
When I return to Chicago, my first mission will be to get rid of everything I have that's unhealthy, or at least freeze it. (Most things are less savory when frozen.) Then I need to see just how much weight I've put on since Thanksgiving, have a good cry, and get back on the horse. I'm not feeling much strain in the old waistband or belt (yet) so I doubt I've put on too terribly much weight. Thankfully I'm just incapable of consuming as much food as I used to, so that's been a saving grace.
I have to run now, though. Golden Girls just started, and I have to go heat up breakfast. Now, where did I put that pound of bacon . . .
Having been at my mother's house for 3 days now, I have watched more television than I've probably seen in the past 3 months. Part of that is due to my increased access. I'm spending lots of time at the house since I'm not working. The allure of watching three straight hours of television in the morning -- Buffy at 7, Designing Women at 8, and Golden Girls at 9 -- is great. I haven't been here to enjoy it, but if I waited 'til 11:00 I could also see an hour of Will & Grace. This combination of increased sloth and caloric intake may conspire to prevent me from fitting into my clothes by the time I return to Chicago!
I have come to the same realization about TV as I have about fattening foods -- if they're around, I will consume them. It's horrible to face up to the fact that you're an addict, but frankly I am. And I don't say that because I want pity or to abdicate responsibility for my actions. It's just something I've come to realize in the past year. The TV addiction is easy to kick -- Chicago only has about 10 channels available over broadcast, and about half of those operate entirely or mostly in Spanish. And the food thing was easy before the holidays. I purposely kept less food in my apartment than I ever have, including staples like pasta and sugar, and this helped me to control my cravings.
When I return to Chicago, my first mission will be to get rid of everything I have that's unhealthy, or at least freeze it. (Most things are less savory when frozen.) Then I need to see just how much weight I've put on since Thanksgiving, have a good cry, and get back on the horse. I'm not feeling much strain in the old waistband or belt (yet) so I doubt I've put on too terribly much weight. Thankfully I'm just incapable of consuming as much food as I used to, so that's been a saving grace.
I have to run now, though. Golden Girls just started, and I have to go heat up breakfast. Now, where did I put that pound of bacon . . .
Monday, December 26, 2005
Fun with Traveling
I flew to North Carolina yesterday to spend Christmas week with my family. I enjoy traveling on Christmas day, provided I can get a flight out sufficiently early to allow me to spend most of the day with my family. Generally, Christmas day means deserted airports, nearly empty planes and a leisurely travel pace unrivaled during the mad travel week preceding Christmas Day. (Having flown out of O'Hare on Christmas Eve last year, I was damned sure I wasn't going to repeat that fiasco again.)
My travel day started out at 5:15 am, having gone to bed only 4 hours prior due to the lateness of the hour when I returned from midnight mass at church. This was compounded by the after-effects of the copious amounts of champagne and merlot I had been veritably forced to consume by my friend Derek and my priest's partner, Tom. Certainly I would never overimbibe without the intervention of others. I got the animals fed, packed the last few toiletry items I had to use that morning, and left a check for my colleague who was coming to pet-sit. My goal was to walk out the door at 6:30, and I think my watch said 6:33 when I locked the door. So far, so good.
I walked the block and a half to the bus stop and waited on the 6:45 Archer northbound bus. It was snowing, but because the air and ground temperatures were well above freezing thanks to a "warm snap" we'd experienced in the previous two days the snow was very wet and had no hope of sticking. It was therefore what snow should be, lovely and inconsequential. The bus came a couple of minutes early, and in about 10 minutes had deposited me at the southeast corner of Jackson and Dearborn.
I walked north to the entrance into the Jackson St. Blue Line L station and made my way down the stairs with my ginormous suitcase (packed with wrapped gifts and my carry-on bag that held all of the clothes I'd need for a week), my carry-on overnight bag and my Marshall Field's shopping bag. I approached the turnstile and debated the most efficient way to get my suitcase through. After some thought and much heavy lifting, both my person and my luggage made it across the turnstile. I heard the sounds of what I imagined was the 6:52 O'Hare bound train screaming up through the stairwell. I debated taking the elevator down, but decided it would be quicker (though probably more dangerous) to run down the stairs with my ginormous suitcase, overnight bag and Field's shopping bag.
To my great delight, the train I heard was going the opposite way, to either Forest Park or 54th/Cermak (I didn't see which). I waited patiently and, lo and behold, heard the O'Hare train on Christmas morn at precisely 6:51, and when it stopped it was 6:52. It's a beautiful thing when the CTA runs on time.
The ride to the airport was uneventful as people came on and got off of the train over the next approximately 40 minutes. Some people had suitcases, obviously headed to the airport to catch flights to holiday destinations. One guy wore a uniform that suggested to me that he was a steward for one airline or another. The train pulled into the station at 7:36 on the nose, again exactly as scheduled. I gathered my belongings and made my way up to the terminal.
Having never gone from the train station into O'Hare, and given my relative unfamiliarity with O'Hare, I depended on following other people with suitcases to get into the airport and to go where I needed to be. I assumed I would be flying out of Terminal 1 since that's the United terminal at O'Hare. (For those of you who don't know, United is based out of Chicago and O'Hare is its main hub.) I followed the signs for Terminal 1 and arrived at the check-in counters.
There are approximately 35,936 check-in kiosks at O'Hare for United. They are divided into groups like, "Premier," "International," "Plebian" and "Steerage." I walked most of the way down the atrium in front of the kiosks before I found where I was supposed to be. Fortunately the line was not so terribly bad. There was a woman at the head of the line weighing bags (the weight limit for checked items is 50 lbs.) and mine came in right at 45.4. It had weighed 45 on my scale at home, so I wasn't surprised it was under the weight limit, but relieved nonetheless. I checked in uneventfully, though I was surprised that I didn't have to present my checked bag personally to the TSA. I fly a few times a year, but almost never check bags. Previously when checking baggage, I had to hand it to the TSA agent for screening, so this was a change from the procedure to which I was accustomed.
My flight was departing from gate F12. There were no signs that I could see indicating how to find gates in the F family. I asked a United employee, and she directed me to the far end of the atrium, so I walked down to the security line which seemed blessedly short. However, a seemingly nice TSA agent checked my boarding pass and ID well before the checkpoint and suggested to myself and a woman next to me that we should proceed to an employee checkpoint downstairs.
This is where I encountered the Extended Family Who Obviously Have Never Flown on a Big Airplane Before.
The Extended Family Who Obviously Have Never Flown on a Big Airplane Before (henceforth known as EFWOHNFoaBAB) seemed perplexed by the whole security screening process. Grandma #1 seemed confused that there was some process beyond the check-in with the United people. Grandpa #1 (I believe he was married to Grandma #1, hence his designation) debated with the TSA agent over whether or not to take the one key out of his pocket before going through the metal detector. Tweenage girl #1 and Grandma #2 decided they needed to put their suitcases and closed purses into plastic trays before placing them onto the conveyor belt to enter into the X-ray scanner. Everyone was being oh so gracious in insisting that everyone else in the family should go through the metal detector first, it seemed as though they were doing some sort of security square dance.
EFWOHNFoaBAB easily cost me ten minutes of my life, and I want them back, dammit.
Once through security, I walked the seemingly 5 miles to the ass end of the F corridor. Almost invariably at airports I don't like anyway (like Nashville and O'Hare and RDU) I am forced to fly out of the gate that is furthest away from the security checkpoint, so I'm pretty well used to hauling my stuff all the way through the airport. This is why I eventually learned how not to overpack and why nearly everything I take on an airplane has wheels or comfortable shoulder straps.
I found a seat at Gate F12 at approximately 8:15, one full hour before my flight was to depart. I called my mother to give her an update, received a call from my friend Elizabeth and read my Saturday New York Times (I was running a day behind). As the hour approached 8:55, the boarding time for my flight, I became a bit worried because there was no jet with the word "United" painted on it anywhere to be found. This is never a good omen.
Finally at about 9:10 the gate agent came over the PA system and announced that the plane should be at the gate in a few minutes. This is airline lingo for it's going to be another 30 minutes before we know anything. The departure time kept getting pushed back, first to 9:30, then to 9:34.
At 9:20, the gate agent finally 'fessed up that the plane was coming from the hangar. Now, I don't know if the pilot was stuck in the cue line waiting for all of the other planes taxiing to and fro, or simply got lost and refused to stop and ask for directions. Whatever had happened, the plane finally got to the gate at about 9:30, and we began boarding about 10 minutes hence.
The flight was a bit bumpy and there was no coffee, but otherwise it was uneventful. As we touched down at the Greensboro airport, I surveyed the scene outside my window. Compared to the view on the ground when landing at airports like Midway, O'Hare and LaGuardia, the view out my window of the Greensboro airport made it seem as though we were landing in a farm. No buildings around, more grass than asphalt. It was almost creepy. As a kid, I thought the Greensboro airport was huge. Now I realize it's just one step up from airports in places like New Haven, CT and Charlottesville, VA where I swear they use John Deere tractors to haul planes and luggage around the tarmac.
I arrived home safely, and had a lovely afternoon with family and a nice evening out with friends. It was a fantastic Christmas, and I am so thankful for the gifts I received -- not just the ones in the boxes, but especially gifts like seeing my beautiful nieces who keep getting older and more lovely, and catching up with people I've known and loved since adolescence. Today is Boxing Day, and for the ninth straight year I'll be having lunch with two of my best buds from college. I'll hit the after-Xmas sales and just relax. Ahh, the holidays are grand.
Remember that yesterday was just the beginning of Christmas, we have 11 days to go! I hope that you will celebrate the season every day you can. Merry Christmas!
My travel day started out at 5:15 am, having gone to bed only 4 hours prior due to the lateness of the hour when I returned from midnight mass at church. This was compounded by the after-effects of the copious amounts of champagne and merlot I had been veritably forced to consume by my friend Derek and my priest's partner, Tom. Certainly I would never overimbibe without the intervention of others. I got the animals fed, packed the last few toiletry items I had to use that morning, and left a check for my colleague who was coming to pet-sit. My goal was to walk out the door at 6:30, and I think my watch said 6:33 when I locked the door. So far, so good.
I walked the block and a half to the bus stop and waited on the 6:45 Archer northbound bus. It was snowing, but because the air and ground temperatures were well above freezing thanks to a "warm snap" we'd experienced in the previous two days the snow was very wet and had no hope of sticking. It was therefore what snow should be, lovely and inconsequential. The bus came a couple of minutes early, and in about 10 minutes had deposited me at the southeast corner of Jackson and Dearborn.
I walked north to the entrance into the Jackson St. Blue Line L station and made my way down the stairs with my ginormous suitcase (packed with wrapped gifts and my carry-on bag that held all of the clothes I'd need for a week), my carry-on overnight bag and my Marshall Field's shopping bag. I approached the turnstile and debated the most efficient way to get my suitcase through. After some thought and much heavy lifting, both my person and my luggage made it across the turnstile. I heard the sounds of what I imagined was the 6:52 O'Hare bound train screaming up through the stairwell. I debated taking the elevator down, but decided it would be quicker (though probably more dangerous) to run down the stairs with my ginormous suitcase, overnight bag and Field's shopping bag.
To my great delight, the train I heard was going the opposite way, to either Forest Park or 54th/Cermak (I didn't see which). I waited patiently and, lo and behold, heard the O'Hare train on Christmas morn at precisely 6:51, and when it stopped it was 6:52. It's a beautiful thing when the CTA runs on time.
The ride to the airport was uneventful as people came on and got off of the train over the next approximately 40 minutes. Some people had suitcases, obviously headed to the airport to catch flights to holiday destinations. One guy wore a uniform that suggested to me that he was a steward for one airline or another. The train pulled into the station at 7:36 on the nose, again exactly as scheduled. I gathered my belongings and made my way up to the terminal.
Having never gone from the train station into O'Hare, and given my relative unfamiliarity with O'Hare, I depended on following other people with suitcases to get into the airport and to go where I needed to be. I assumed I would be flying out of Terminal 1 since that's the United terminal at O'Hare. (For those of you who don't know, United is based out of Chicago and O'Hare is its main hub.) I followed the signs for Terminal 1 and arrived at the check-in counters.
There are approximately 35,936 check-in kiosks at O'Hare for United. They are divided into groups like, "Premier," "International," "Plebian" and "Steerage." I walked most of the way down the atrium in front of the kiosks before I found where I was supposed to be. Fortunately the line was not so terribly bad. There was a woman at the head of the line weighing bags (the weight limit for checked items is 50 lbs.) and mine came in right at 45.4. It had weighed 45 on my scale at home, so I wasn't surprised it was under the weight limit, but relieved nonetheless. I checked in uneventfully, though I was surprised that I didn't have to present my checked bag personally to the TSA. I fly a few times a year, but almost never check bags. Previously when checking baggage, I had to hand it to the TSA agent for screening, so this was a change from the procedure to which I was accustomed.
My flight was departing from gate F12. There were no signs that I could see indicating how to find gates in the F family. I asked a United employee, and she directed me to the far end of the atrium, so I walked down to the security line which seemed blessedly short. However, a seemingly nice TSA agent checked my boarding pass and ID well before the checkpoint and suggested to myself and a woman next to me that we should proceed to an employee checkpoint downstairs.
This is where I encountered the Extended Family Who Obviously Have Never Flown on a Big Airplane Before.
The Extended Family Who Obviously Have Never Flown on a Big Airplane Before (henceforth known as EFWOHNFoaBAB) seemed perplexed by the whole security screening process. Grandma #1 seemed confused that there was some process beyond the check-in with the United people. Grandpa #1 (I believe he was married to Grandma #1, hence his designation) debated with the TSA agent over whether or not to take the one key out of his pocket before going through the metal detector. Tweenage girl #1 and Grandma #2 decided they needed to put their suitcases and closed purses into plastic trays before placing them onto the conveyor belt to enter into the X-ray scanner. Everyone was being oh so gracious in insisting that everyone else in the family should go through the metal detector first, it seemed as though they were doing some sort of security square dance.
EFWOHNFoaBAB easily cost me ten minutes of my life, and I want them back, dammit.
Once through security, I walked the seemingly 5 miles to the ass end of the F corridor. Almost invariably at airports I don't like anyway (like Nashville and O'Hare and RDU) I am forced to fly out of the gate that is furthest away from the security checkpoint, so I'm pretty well used to hauling my stuff all the way through the airport. This is why I eventually learned how not to overpack and why nearly everything I take on an airplane has wheels or comfortable shoulder straps.
I found a seat at Gate F12 at approximately 8:15, one full hour before my flight was to depart. I called my mother to give her an update, received a call from my friend Elizabeth and read my Saturday New York Times (I was running a day behind). As the hour approached 8:55, the boarding time for my flight, I became a bit worried because there was no jet with the word "United" painted on it anywhere to be found. This is never a good omen.
Finally at about 9:10 the gate agent came over the PA system and announced that the plane should be at the gate in a few minutes. This is airline lingo for it's going to be another 30 minutes before we know anything. The departure time kept getting pushed back, first to 9:30, then to 9:34.
At 9:20, the gate agent finally 'fessed up that the plane was coming from the hangar. Now, I don't know if the pilot was stuck in the cue line waiting for all of the other planes taxiing to and fro, or simply got lost and refused to stop and ask for directions. Whatever had happened, the plane finally got to the gate at about 9:30, and we began boarding about 10 minutes hence.
The flight was a bit bumpy and there was no coffee, but otherwise it was uneventful. As we touched down at the Greensboro airport, I surveyed the scene outside my window. Compared to the view on the ground when landing at airports like Midway, O'Hare and LaGuardia, the view out my window of the Greensboro airport made it seem as though we were landing in a farm. No buildings around, more grass than asphalt. It was almost creepy. As a kid, I thought the Greensboro airport was huge. Now I realize it's just one step up from airports in places like New Haven, CT and Charlottesville, VA where I swear they use John Deere tractors to haul planes and luggage around the tarmac.
I arrived home safely, and had a lovely afternoon with family and a nice evening out with friends. It was a fantastic Christmas, and I am so thankful for the gifts I received -- not just the ones in the boxes, but especially gifts like seeing my beautiful nieces who keep getting older and more lovely, and catching up with people I've known and loved since adolescence. Today is Boxing Day, and for the ninth straight year I'll be having lunch with two of my best buds from college. I'll hit the after-Xmas sales and just relax. Ahh, the holidays are grand.
Remember that yesterday was just the beginning of Christmas, we have 11 days to go! I hope that you will celebrate the season every day you can. Merry Christmas!
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Oh Great Mystery
It's official: Christmas is here.
Why do I say this? Because the hymn "Once in Royal David's City" has been sung by the King's College Choir of Cambridge University as part of their Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols broadcast worldwide today. This has become, for me, the official start of Christmas.
In liturgical terms, tomorrow is known as the Feast of the Nativity of our Lord. Millions of Christians world-wide tonight will be celebrating Midnight Mass (which occurs earlier and earlier every year) to celebrate the impending birth of Jesus Christ. We'll sing hymns like Joy to the World, O Little Town of Bethlehem and Hark! the Herald Angel Sings. My favorite among these fantastic songs is the O Magnum Mysterium.
O magnum mysterium et admirabile sacramentum
ut animalia viderent Dominum natum
jacentem in praesepio.
Beata virgo cujus viscera
meruent partare Dominum Christum.
Alleluia.
This translates as
O great mystery and admirable sacrament
That animals see the Lord born
Lying in a manger.
Blessed virgin whose viscera
Were worthy to bear Lord Christ.
Alleluia.
Okay, okay, the whole "viscera" thing isn't very pleasant. But it's a lovely text (in Latin) to sing. Perhaps my favorite setting of this text is the Morten Lauridsen arrangement. (A decent, though not great, recording can be found here.) I recorded this song with my church choir in Nashville, and fell in love with it almost instantly. I listened to this recording coming home from work today and cried, as I often do, at the line "Beata virgo." My crying intensified when the song repeated the text, "ut animalia viderent Dominum natum."
That animals see the birth of God.
I so often lose the forest for all the bloody trees that get in my way. I forget that there is suffering in the world beyond my own. How perfect a reminder is the story of the nativity -- a woman, great with child, traveling on a donkey, having to give birth in a stable. Anyone who's ever been in a stable knows how unpleasant that must have been. To me, this is the most absolutely captivating aspect of the nativity story -- that God chose to manifest Himself in such humility; that such an auspicious birth, the start of a life whose end in agony and betrayal would save so many, was witnessed by sheep as much as by angels.
O Great Mystery, we await your coming tonight.
Why do I say this? Because the hymn "Once in Royal David's City" has been sung by the King's College Choir of Cambridge University as part of their Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols broadcast worldwide today. This has become, for me, the official start of Christmas.
In liturgical terms, tomorrow is known as the Feast of the Nativity of our Lord. Millions of Christians world-wide tonight will be celebrating Midnight Mass (which occurs earlier and earlier every year) to celebrate the impending birth of Jesus Christ. We'll sing hymns like Joy to the World, O Little Town of Bethlehem and Hark! the Herald Angel Sings. My favorite among these fantastic songs is the O Magnum Mysterium.
O magnum mysterium et admirabile sacramentum
ut animalia viderent Dominum natum
jacentem in praesepio.
Beata virgo cujus viscera
meruent partare Dominum Christum.
Alleluia.
This translates as
O great mystery and admirable sacrament
That animals see the Lord born
Lying in a manger.
Blessed virgin whose viscera
Were worthy to bear Lord Christ.
Alleluia.
Okay, okay, the whole "viscera" thing isn't very pleasant. But it's a lovely text (in Latin) to sing. Perhaps my favorite setting of this text is the Morten Lauridsen arrangement. (A decent, though not great, recording can be found here.) I recorded this song with my church choir in Nashville, and fell in love with it almost instantly. I listened to this recording coming home from work today and cried, as I often do, at the line "Beata virgo." My crying intensified when the song repeated the text, "ut animalia viderent Dominum natum."
That animals see the birth of God.
I so often lose the forest for all the bloody trees that get in my way. I forget that there is suffering in the world beyond my own. How perfect a reminder is the story of the nativity -- a woman, great with child, traveling on a donkey, having to give birth in a stable. Anyone who's ever been in a stable knows how unpleasant that must have been. To me, this is the most absolutely captivating aspect of the nativity story -- that God chose to manifest Himself in such humility; that such an auspicious birth, the start of a life whose end in agony and betrayal would save so many, was witnessed by sheep as much as by angels.
O Great Mystery, we await your coming tonight.
Friday, December 23, 2005
All Is Forgiven
Heath Ledger is officially forgiven for The Order.
I left work early today and went to the Century Centre Cinema to catch a showing of Brokeback Mountain.. I had become nearly giddy at the thought of seeing this film in the past couple of weeks given the nearly unanimous laudable reviews I'd read. How nice it was that a movie centered around a gay theme was being accepted and praised by the mainstream, and not just because it's about a gay theme or gay characters.
I won't go into the movie, because frankly I'm just not prepared to do so. When the movie ended, I initially thought, "Wow, was it really all that?" The thing is, I haven't stopped thinking about it yet. I'm still turning over events from the film in my mind, from characters' motivations to signs and knowing glances to what is required of the story to create and maintain dramatic tension. It has been a long time since a movie put me in such an emotionally vulnerable place -- Philadelphia comes to mind as the last film to do so.
If you haven't seen it, go. If it's not playing near you, drive or fly to the closest city with a theater that is showing it. If the fact that it's a "gay cowboy" movie is preventing you from going, then just get over it. This movie is as much about being gay as "Terms of Endearment" was about having cancer. (Think about it for a minute.)
On a lighter note, this movie did confirm something I've suspected for a long time -- Mr. Jake Gyllenhaal is fuzzy! And just when I thought he couldn't get any hotter . . .
I left work early today and went to the Century Centre Cinema to catch a showing of Brokeback Mountain.. I had become nearly giddy at the thought of seeing this film in the past couple of weeks given the nearly unanimous laudable reviews I'd read. How nice it was that a movie centered around a gay theme was being accepted and praised by the mainstream, and not just because it's about a gay theme or gay characters.
I won't go into the movie, because frankly I'm just not prepared to do so. When the movie ended, I initially thought, "Wow, was it really all that?" The thing is, I haven't stopped thinking about it yet. I'm still turning over events from the film in my mind, from characters' motivations to signs and knowing glances to what is required of the story to create and maintain dramatic tension. It has been a long time since a movie put me in such an emotionally vulnerable place -- Philadelphia comes to mind as the last film to do so.
If you haven't seen it, go. If it's not playing near you, drive or fly to the closest city with a theater that is showing it. If the fact that it's a "gay cowboy" movie is preventing you from going, then just get over it. This movie is as much about being gay as "Terms of Endearment" was about having cancer. (Think about it for a minute.)
On a lighter note, this movie did confirm something I've suspected for a long time -- Mr. Jake Gyllenhaal is fuzzy! And just when I thought he couldn't get any hotter . . .
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