A rose by any other name.

One important part of my research deals with taxonomy, the science of naming things and organizing them into a classification.  A interesting facet of taxonomy is etymology, or the meaning behind a scientific name.  Often these are Latin or Greek roots that have been adapted into English sounding words.  Sometimes the names are based on where the organism was first found, or are based on the name of the person finding them.  You can also name things for other people, a high honor in many circles.

Take for example the genus of snails I did my dissertation on, Lithasia.  Now that genus name actually tells you about the snail.  The root of the word is lithos, meaning rock.  The common name for this group is the rocksnails.  You find them in fast flowing water living on rocks.  Cool.  Now let's look at one of the species in the genus, Lithasia verrucosa.  The root verrucose means warty.  So, if you went looking for this snail, you should look for one that lives on rocks and has a warty shell.  And, surprisingly enough, it does.

I stress this same point with students in class, that if you can break down the roots of words, you can learn things easier, especially if it's a concept or a term you have not encountered before.  Some common pairings of suffix/prefix and meaning are: exo-out; endo-in; cyto-cell; chloro-green; rhodo-red; chryso-gold; rhino-nose; grandi-large; and so on.  It's really a cool study and once you get a few of the easy ones, it becomes a useful tool.

Human baby names have some basis in etymology as well.  Many names are based on these same roots, just in different usages and forms.  Some are translated from older bygone languages where a common root name has evolved into many recent names.  There are familial names, passed on from generation to generation.  There are names that denote some physical feature, like naming a boy with red hair Rusty.  Seasonal name exist too; have a girl in October and name her Autumn.

With that behind us, will someone please explain to me how we came to a point in our existence where the following are real, acceptable names?

* Shabeka

* Arcticia Oshun (yes, like Arctic Ocean)

* Yllanif (finally spelled backwards)

* Donkeydia

* Shoushounova

I embrace diversity in as many things as I can, but honestly people, WTF?  The data says that most of these names are possessed by African Americans.  How did their mothers come up with these combinations?  I attempted to take a Wiki trip and got nowhere fast.  Whatever the cause it can lead to some soured racial dynamic, especially when the "whites" call the "blacks" ignorant for "cursing" their children with unspeakable (if not unpronounceable) names.  Not that the caucasians haven't drummed up their own gems:

* Trigg

* Track

* Bristol

Those three alone get to join their sibs Piper and Willow in the Sarah Palin household (dontcha know).  We know of the Lear daughter Shanda.  And the birth records for every Kandy Kain, Ima Hogg, Sandy Beach, and Paige Turner are the things of (urban?) legend.  And who can forget the Zappa kids, Moon Unit and Dweezil?  Or Soleil Moon Frye?

Honestly, what are we trying to prove with these names?  Uniqueness is one thing, but we really ought to be showing some discretion.  Just because you can name your child Monkeywrench Chimpthrowingcrap Johnson doesn't mean you should.  And if you are going to be the tenth generation of Dikshit (a real last name in town), God bless you.  Here's hoping to see more Marys and Josephs before belong.

Footnote: Media mogul Oprah Winfrey's name is actually a mistake, according to some sources.  She was to be named Orpah, after the saint, but the midwife in Kosciusko, MS transposed the letters.

Wookin' fo' Nub

I blogged earlier about the difficulty of love.  This week my suspicions were confirmed by the following two websites:

1. www.ldsromances.com

2. www.ashleymadison.com

Let's start with the first one.  LDSRomances.com is "the best dating site for LDS singles."  I learned about it because a friend's younger sister met her husband on it, then got married in Salt Lake City three months later.  I am not against meeting people online; I met my partner there over 12 years ago, and some of my best friends met not only online, but were on two different continents and ended up married here.  What I find odd is that Mormons can't drink a Pepsi, have to tithe at 10%, wear the special underwear with things sown in them, walk through curtains getting groped, and a joyous bundle of other delightful religious requirements.  However, they *can* go online and find the love of their latter day lives.  Hey, I find it strange, but not as much as...

AshleyMadison.com.  Let our trained staff help you find other like-minded adulterers in your area!  God how I wish that the voice on my radio had actually said that.  I nearly ran a red light the other night driving home from dinner when the ad for this service played on ESPNRadio.  Their motto is "Life is short.  Have an affair."  The wallpaper on the website is a slightly blurred image of a woman in black dress with her hands on the waistband of a faceless, shirtless man's underwear as they peek out of his black dress pants, her face on his abs looking up lustfully.  Gross.  And as much as they want to be putting the O in orgasm for these busy working people who are probably misunderstood and really love their spouse/partner/significant other, all they are doing is putting the O in Oh my God and offensive.

Or so I thought.  Ok, it's definitely sleazy.  And in a time where relationships end as soon as they start at all levels, from marriages to the playground romance, we certainly don't need a website encouraging us to be unfaithful.  But I'm sadly impressed by their honesty.  No more "Honey, I'm looking up a recipe for pineapple upside-down cake" when you are secretly showing your breasts to your internet romance in Kuala Lumpur.  No more pretending your "soldier at attention" is because your wife made meatloaf instead of because the guy in the next cubicle over emailed you Photoshopped naked pictures of Mark-Paul Gosselaar.  Nope, none of that, just hey, you're on a business trip, let's screw.  Or not, because apparently you can sign up for just phone sex, erotic email, or the whole nine yards.  The website claims they've been on Dr. Phil and Larry King.  Stunned, but not surprised.

It got my thinking in the shower, where I actually have a lot of my not bad ideas.  Many years ago a friend of mine explained his approach to relationships, "Love is love, sex is sex, you get in trouble when you confuse the two."  Now admittedly he was a man whore, but I find there is some truth in his words.  Love and sex are two separate things; when they happen together they enhance one another immensely.  But there are people I love that I never want to have sex with, and there are people I have had sex with that I didn't love.  People may judge, but when did a want for one become a requirement for the other?

I'm not saying I believe in polygamy, I don't.  Nor do I believe in adultery.  I believe that if you are in a relationship with someone, then that's it until you two are no longer together.  But I do wonder why we are so bent on choosing one person for the rest of your life to satisfy both.  I would guess the answer is somewhere in religion, but that's another post.  Humans do not have a good record for choosing something and sticking with it.  We are impulsive beings.  We repaint our walls, we replace our linens, we get new dishes just to spruce things up.  We get a new hairstyle, buy a new car, try a new hobby all to make us feel better.  But we are to pick one person and never change.  Maybe the AshleyMadison crowd just knows more than we do.  Maybe their relationships have hit the time when moving on is to be preferred over stagnation.  Maybe that pairing has run its course.  Maybe some people would be happier with someone new every decade or sooner.  I don't know.  Their site is still sleazy to endorse doing it on the side instead of facing it head on.  But maybe this all casts into doubt how we view our relationships and how honest we are with ourselves.

How to make it rain at a recruitment fair (keep the Benjamins in your pocket and throw room and board).

This week, in a show of bipartisan ignorance and hand-wringing, the U.S. government is settling on a plan to bail the nation out of an insurance and housing crisis to the tune of $700 billion dollars.  That's $700,000,000,000.  At my current salary, it would take me over 1770 lifetimes to earn that much.  And while the numbers and pundits filled every possible nick and cranny in the airwaves, I had to focus on a much smaller number.  Rather, a number that I as of right now can't determine - the cost of recruiting one student to college.

For the second time in my university career, I have been named to my college's recruitment committee.  We met for the first time yesterday, and were charged with coming up with some standardized recruiting materials, working more closely with the university recruitment people, etc.  We've been given no budget, just a standing "ask and ye shall maybe receive" line, and all in attendance looked like they would have preferred to be eating live insects.  As we met, one very interesting question came up: what does it cost to recruit one high school student to our university?  And, to nobody's surprise, no one knew.  This is unfortunate, since recruitment is such a large aspect to our university.

Our campus arguably does a lot of recruiting activities.  We send small groups of people to high school football games to show a presence.  The university hosts career fairs and job fairs and majors fairs to help disseminate information.  We have a large bi-annual recruitment event, along with smaller traveling events that blanket the state.  And all of this undoubtedly adds up, but to what?  Where does or should the university break even?  How much is too much to spend to get that next student?

If you look around town, one might argue we're not spending enough.  We are the only school in our system that is not embraced by its community, nor by its local media.  Land at our airport, and you are immediately impressed by the advertising from a university 45 minutes away.  Open our newspaper in hand or online, and see schools in other cities dominating the bylines.  These problems would take more money than we have to fix, and our poor committee can't attempt to change the local culture at that level, and the funds maybe should come from advertising (but isn't that what recruitment is?).

We know we need to spend something.  The number of eligible incoming freshmen who are qualified to attend our university (along with the majority of schools in the state) is dwindling rapidly.  Our system recently mandated that we increase our enrollment and student credit hours by 2012.  To meet their figures, our campus needs to enroll 8 of every 10 eligible students.  LSU might be able to meet that number, be we certainly can't.  So we need to be more creative in recruiting.  This semester we have focused on non-traditional students and on-line degrees, and the numbers are promising.  But how many of those students came to us because we recruited them?  Common sense would say get your online degree at your local campus no?

When it's all said and done, I would propose slashing all the recruiting budgets to near zero.  Sure, have some recruiting brochures and some nice glossy pamphlets for when you need them, but for most of the efforts, just cancel them.  Funnel all that money into the scholarship program.  Because, ladies and gentlemen, in northeast Louisiana and around the country, students don't want to know about you, they want to know about your wallet.  For a vast majority of students, recruitment is as simple as sitting down with a university representative, and wanting in writing exactly what that student will receive if he or she attends that school.  They'll shop around, and whoever ponies up the best deal, they'll go there.  Many faculty can relay stories of students attending University A over College B for a few hundred dollars.  It's Jerry Maguire education economics, and for these students, it's their best shot.  Our campus serves the poorest of the poor; our region was poorer than Appalachia when last the numbers ran.  If your annual household income was below $10,000, you'd want to be shown the money too.

So what does it cost to bring a student in?  We hope to have our answer at our next meeting when the head of campus recruiting pays us a visit.  A horribly inaccurate estimate could be made by dividing the estimated annual recruiting budget by the number of freshmen, if the university would release such figures.  My guess is it's frighteningly high, a sea of money attempting to bring a handful students in with the tide.  But at some level our jobs depend on it, as does the livelihood of the university.  I find it somewhat off-putting that I'm worrying about the cost-benefit ratios of students trying to get a college degree.

And for one last swipe at $700 billion dollars?  This year it will cost a non-Louisiana resident student $5,000 in tuition to attend our university.  We can add $1,000 in additional fees, plus another $10,000 in room and board and other stuff.  So, $16k for one student for one year.  As the feds bail out the stupid and greedy, almost 11 MILLION Americans could come to our fair state, and earn themselves a four-year undergraduate degree.  Add that to the list of better things to do with 700 billion.

Llueve.

Spanish for "it's raining," and boy is it ever.  It feels like it's been raining forever, although it's only been a few days here in Monroe.  Hurricane Gustav made landfall yesterday near Cocodrie, south of Houma, dealing New Orleans a glancing blow while slowing down a lot and dumping water all over Louisiana and parts of Mississippi and Alabama.  Yesterday morning was met with interest as the storm came in, but the day was gray and breezy with a light drizzle.  At 5:30 pm, with no rain or wind, the power went out.  Entergy, the regional utility, indicated power would be on by 7; no biggie.  I grabbed my friend Anna and headed to dinner at our favorite Chinese restaurant.  As we ate, to quote The Weather Channel's Jim Cantore, conditions deteriorated rapidly.  By the time we left at 7:30 winds were steady at about 25 mph and the rain was coming down.  We ran to CVS and grabbed some toiletries and crayons and such for the evacuees at the coliseum and dropped them off, then returned home to darkness.  A call to Entergy indicated they would not be sending crews out in the weather which, although irritating at the time, made sense since power was going to keep going out all night and why risk people in a tropical storm.  I locked up and headed to my friends Mark and Valerie's for the night.  We watched the weather and were startled by a limb crashing into their backyard that we promptly removed.  Winds were gusting over 40 mph and it was raining like mad.  I conked out on their guest bed at 10 pm hoping the house would be ok.

Valerie woke me up at 7 am to move my car; their power had gone off in the middle of the night and they needed ice for the fridge.  I ran home and found my power on and everything in good shape.  My gardenia bush in the backyard was uprooted and cracked, so I'll have to get another one.  Shane came over at about 8 to take a shower and get ready for work since his power was still out, and Mark came over around 9 to get cool and hang out until their power returned.  Shane came back around 11:30 then both left, Shane to work and Mark home as the lights came back on.  Meanwhile, it rained.  And rained.  And rained.  Rain like I have never seen rain.  Monroe can be a rainy place; in Summer 2004 we had measurable rainfall for 32 straight days, but nothing like this.  The rain bands of Gustav swirled right over us, dumping inches of rain on already saturated ground.  At about 5 pm I got worried.  The back patio was under water, and 4th Street in front of the house was a river.  Trucks driving through left a wake that came up and over the curbline grass and flowed up my driveway.  And it kept raining, finally slacking off a little about 7:30.

It's 10:30 pm right now, and it's coming down pretty hard.  The radar shows that we should be in a light rain area shortly.  The backyard is draining well, and the front looks a lot better than it has.  The house is in no danger of flooding currently; the water would have to come up the front lawn, then three or so inches up to the front door.  The patio seems okay, though I worry that a really heavy burst may cause water to seep into the sunroom.  There's nothing much back there, it's tile, and slopes away from the rest of the house so a little bit likely won't hurt.

More to come in the morning.  They say it will rain through Friday.

Just because we like something, doesn't mean it's a good idea.

An ad for one of those NFL 'best-of' DVD's shows ex-Falcons' coach Jerry Glanville telling a referee that his current bad call just trumped some other ref's previous bad call.  It's a funny moment, and one that plays into the current situation that Louisiana is facing.

It's 8:50 pm CST on the Saturday before Labor Day.  As I type, Hurricane Gustav is churning out in the Atlantic Ocean, having just pounded Cuba and sadly making a beeline toward the Louisiana coast.  All of the models currently have the storm making landfall west of New Orleans, which is bad because it puts NOLA in the worst of it.  As the storm moves north, we here in Ouachita Parish will get a good deal of rain and wind and likely some tornados.  We'll be fine, but let's look at New Orleans.

It's almost three years to the day when Hurricane Katrina brought some of the worst images of damage and despair to our televisions and burned them into our consciousness.  Three years later much has been done, and much progress has been made, but much remains unsettled.  People still live in FEMA trailers, neighborhoods are still decimated, evacuees still have not come home.  And now, here we go again.  A million people hit the roads this afternoon and evening to evacuate.  Mandatory evacuations are soon to be announced, contraflow starts in the morning, and states of emergency have been declared.  We appear to be better prepared, and we pray that even if damage is done, that lives won't be lost, both in actuality and in spirit.

But here's the rub, and let me explain where I'm coming from.  First, I'm not a southerner.  I was born and reared (you raise vegetables, you rear children) in Wisconsin.  Our weather disasters consist of feet of snow over hours of time.  Yes, you may be without power for a day or two, you may not be able to get out of your house, but in a day or two you plow and shovel out and carry on.  This year, historical rains flooded a bunch of the midwest; my parents' house almost got washed away.  But we know nothing like a hurricane.  Second, I was taught to learn from my mistakes.  You touch the stove burner when it's hot once.  You tell a lie once.  Basically, if there is going to be a punishment or something bad is going to happen then second time you do something, don't do it.  Third, much to the occassional chagrin of my family and friends, I am a pragmatist.  I can be an emotional person at times, but I tend to lean toward the practical instead of following my feelings.

This translates into a mild disgust with the whole concept of a rebuilt New Orleans.  NOLA continues to persist based on emotion...

The death of summer

Today at 7:30 am another school year started on the campus of the University of Louisiana at Monroe.  Parking sucked, the bookstore was packed, the new on-line learning system has been down since Saturday, and it's hot out.  And yet, hope springs eternal.  Students donned their cleanest pajamas and Hollister wear as they learned ad nauseum about syllabi, attendance policies, and why cell phones are the devil.

There's something exciting about the first day of school, even for us professors.  Mostly for us it's a return to a schedule, and a return to doing what we love.  To see an urban campus like ours teaming with life and activity is really fun.  Yes, fun.  Of course the days will be long, and the work will pile up, and we'll get grumpy and stodgy come November, but for now, we can look with anticipation to a great academic year.  Reality will rear its ugly head soon enough.

I dedicate this blog to my mom, who is convinced that summer starts ending on July 4th, and is officially over on the first day of school.  Even now, some 30 years since I was walked into my kindergarten class, she gets melancholy about the first day of school.  Well mom, it's not a sad event anymore.  And it's Louisiana, it'll be hot until October.  So here's to the transition from summer to school.  I plan to raise a glass of cold vinho verde and toast new beginnings.

Adaptive plasticity, or why I can't find anyone.

Phenotypic plasticity is a common occurrence in biological systems, and can be defined as a single genetic "type" (population, species) exhibiting an array of phenotypes (physical forms), often in response to their environment.  Examples abound - grow Daphnia (water flea) in the presence of predators, and they develop a pronounced head spike.  Maples turn color in the fall as the colder temperatures trigger them to break down their chlorophyll, leaving other pigments to become visible.  And so on.

I have an interest in phenotypic plasticity, using snails as my model system.  One question that remains unanswered in snails and other mollusks is "why do shells have colors and patterns?"  There are two easily understood explanations.  One is camouflage; the color pattern allows the shell to blend into its environment, thus protecting it from attack or predation.  The other is the breaking of a search pattern.  Predators learn what prey/food looks and acts like.  So, if every individual prey item looks different, the predator can't key in on what is edible and moves on.  Sort of anti-camouflage.

I bring this up because I recently went to the casino in Milwaukee with my parents.  We had been there a few hours, and I went looking for them because I was ready to go and needed to see what they were up to.   My dad wears clothes that accentuate his Japanese eggplant shape, my mom loves her pull-on knits; both of them wobble when they walk after the accident.  I mention this not to criticize my parents, but to point out that they have an obvious phenotype.  When we are walking around the casinos in Vicksburg and Shreveport, they are easy to spot.  However, on their home turf, they blended right in.

 Another form of plasticity is mimicry, where one organism models their appearance after another.  This is meant to confuse predators by tricking them into thinking a harmless individual is actually very dangerous.  As I wandered around the casino, I fell for no fewer than 10 "parent mimics" - similar clothes, similar gaits, etc.  Luckily I didn't actually interact with any of them, but it was a little more than frustrating to wade through a sea of elderly smoking women precariously hooked to oxygen tanks just to find that the person you thought was your mom is actually someone else's mom who looks scornfully at you for potentially breaking their mojo on a slot machine.

This continued for over an hour; at least I got some exercise that day.  Just as I rounded a corner for the last time, I heard my name being paged.  I met my parents at the valet area.  Supposedly they had been sitting in spot X for most of the afternoon, and I of course just walked by them 4 bazillion times.  Adaptation at it's finest - we will only be found when we want to be.  And all other times, we will fade into our surroundings like so many peppered moths.

Next time I will plan ahead, ether by attaching a bell to their waists, or by implanting small GPS antennas in their shoes or something.  I will not again be foiled by two sixty-year old adults confusing me like a robin is fooled by the lovely viceroy.  Well, at least I hope my parents don't want me to think they are trying to poison me.

Being Badgered

I'm in the middle of a 10 day trip back home to Wisconsin, and this weekend I had the joy of driving out to La Crosse to visit a friend who has taken a job at UWLax.  Talk about stranger in strange land: she's originally from west Texas, then went to Alabama, North Carolina, and now to Wisconsin.  She really has no idea what she's in for come winter, and she's only been there for under two weeks, so she has time.  However, I took the opportunity to go out there and teach her the ways of the badger state.  So, if you ever find yourself in La Crosse, here's some things to do and some skills to have.

1. When it's Friday night, drive a little way south of town to Stoddard and visit Rocky's, home of the best fish fry in the area according to the La Crosse Tribune.  For $10.99, you can get all-you-can-eat fried cod, fries or baked potatoes, slaw, and dinner rolls.  It's a little heavy (as fish fries tend to be) but it's really really good.  There's a minimum half-hour wait on Fridays, so sit down at the bar and chat with the locals.  If you find the couple that owns the D&D candy outlet, even better.

2. If you want sausages and smoked meats, cross the river to Minnesota then drive south to New Albin, Iowa and visit the City Meat Market downtown.  All of the meat products are made on-site and smoked right behind the store.  We grabbed some bulk Italian sausage, hot snack sticks (think tasty pepperoni-like thing), and chorizo (pronounced shore-eye-zoh by the lady at the counter).  Apparently the smoked pork chops are fantastic, since we were the only ones not buying any.

3. A pretty trip up highway 35 takes you north along the Mississippi to Nelson, Wisconsin and the Nelson Creamery.  Basically it's an excuse to take a ride and get ice cream, but the store sells local cheese and has wine tasting and other gourmet items.

4. On the way back from Nelson, stop at Buena Vista city park in Alma, Wisconsin.  You'll drive what seems like straight up the bluff and find a beautiful park with an even better view of the town and river.  Keep your eyes out for indigo buntings if it's summertime.

5. On Saturday, walk down 3rd and 4th streets in La Crosse to the farmer's market.  Most of the stalls are manned by Hmong, chinese refugees that were displaced from Laos because we wanted them fight with us against the communists in the Vietnam War.  Seems the communist regimes didn't like that, so once we left, they targeted the Hmong for retribution.  Take a Wiki trip for the Hmong and see their interesting and unfortunate past.  The produce and flowers are wonderful.

6. Once August hits, keep an eye out for bicolor super sweet corn.  It's only in season for a month or so, and it has yellow and white kernels and is almost like eating corn candy.  To pick out good ears, peel back the first inch of the husk and silks and look at the corn.  You want kernels to go up the entire cob; if there is bare cob, move on.  Kernels should be medium-sized and tight-looking.  Small kernels mean the corn was picked too early, large kernels can indicate a starchier ear.  If the kernels look mushy, move on.  No bugs are allowed in the ear either.  Don't worry about offending the merchant by doing this; if you look around, most people will be doing it.  Those that don't risk icky corn, and why waste money?

7. Finally, take a trip east past Westby into Amish country.  Start at the Old Country Dairy on Highway D south of Highway 33.  Pick up some cheese and cashew crunch, and ask for a map of the locals.  You will hopefully get a piece of paper with a hand-drawn map of the area on one side, and a typed list of the families on the other indicating who they are, where they live, and what they sell.  Don't expect stores when you visit them; you will likely do business in a reclaimed barn, in their workshop, or on a wooden stand filled with bakery.  Bring cash; no electricity means no credit card machines.  If you want furniture made, plan on a six month wait, and be ready to put down 20% at the time of the order.

So there you go.  La Crosse is a beautiful town on the Mississippi River, so if you end up there, have a great time.

Sir Mix-a-Lot's saddest days.

Evolutionary biologists propose that as our hominoid ancestors came out of the trees to live on the ground, they adapted a number of traits to make their lives easier.  One necessity was the development of extra padding on the hands and feet; no sense in wandering on hardened soil without some cushioning.  A second pad arose thanks to our gluteus maximus muscles - we developed a butt.  In the monkeys and apes, the butt became a status and reproductive symbol, often turning bright colors and becoming more prominent.  In humans, we're not sure what happened over time.  Some people retain a more "ancestral," if you will, butt that we deem apple-bottomed, ghetto booty, etc.  However, more and more of us are becoming assless "backs with cracks," and it's kind of sad.  Oh toush, where have ye gone?

To my eye, the behind is still an attractive sight.  A tightened, smooth, athletic rear end makes my heart go pitter-patter.  And for those who have had the joy of grabbing a handful of quality cheek, it's wonderful.  The frequency these occurrences is diminishing rapidly, and nowhere as obvious as in the town I now live, and especially on campus.  We actually have reached the condition of anti-ass.

Now there are people who have an ass, people who have less ass, and people I would consider having negative ass.  I define negative ass as those people whose butt not only doesn't stick out, but actually curves inward.  A sad state indeed.  Two semesters ago, though, I actually encountered anti-ass.  Now, please understand that this ass presented itself not because I'm some perv who stares at student backsides, but because this ass was so absent as to draw attention to itself.

The owner of the anti-ass was a short weedy freshman.  Not only did his butt cave in, but his wallet sagged to the point of forming a pouch sitting atop sagging slacks.  It was amazing - this area of ass dark matter with no form or function, no substance, no nothing.  My friends and I deemed it anti-ass, for we were sure that if his backside ever happened to brush against someone with a butt, the universe would be torn apart in a brilliant flash of asstopian energy release killing us all immediately.  Yes, it's that bad.

Obviously, we no longer live on the ground per se.  How many of us go to work, sit on the hardened savannah, and walk on all fours to lunch.  Our need for an ass has essentially vanished, so it's not surprising that it diminishes accordingly.

So, to Anthony Ray, who brilliantly wrote:

"So your girlfriend rolls a Honda
Playin' workout tapes by Fonda
But Fonda ain't got a motor in the back of her Honda
My anaconda don't want none unless you've got buns hon"

it seems that Baby got Nothing.

Kris vs. Snail (Cosmo Says You're Fat remix)

This is in reply to a stream-of-consciousness blog on a friend's site.  Since I don't know the original questions, I'll mimic as best I can.  It's imitation, but I'm not sure it's flattering.

1. Coca-Cola is the best soft drink, and for some reason tastes best out of a fountain machine (like at a McDonald's or a gas station).

2. I read when I can, but I get bored easily doing it.

3. I read whatever my friends tell me to read, provided I trust their opinions on such things.

4. I have no single favorite food, witnessed by my girth.

5. Cheese can make anything taste better.  My homemade pork dry rub is second.

6. Being from the midwest, we prefer the tangy zip of Miracle Whip, but I appreciate mayonnaise.

7. Professional wrestling is fun.  It's genetic for me - my grandfather watched it, my mom and aunts watched it, my friends and I watched it.  Yes it's fake and numbingly ignorant.  However, it's a great distraction for a few hours and some of the athletes are smoking hot.

8. I love seafood and can't cook it worth a damn.

9. I've trained myself to be a morning person, mostly because I don't sleep well at night.

10. I love music in almost all forms.  Even the stuff I 'hate' I can usually appreciate.

11. I have so much time in my life that commercials don't bother me.

12. That said, I work on my computer a lot while watching TV.

13. I can eat a grapefruit like an orange.

14. I used to love comic books.  Real comic books mind you, not the 'graphic novels' and mangas of today.

15. I'm an Aquarius, so if your radiator overheats, I'll apparently bring you water.

16. My favorite fruit is a tie between a Calhoun peach and a golden delicious apple from Doc Stone's orchard.

17. Having the peaches all the time spoils me; I won't get the apple since I can't go home when they are being harvested.

18. I have always wanted a job in science, though I have a burning desire to be a chef.

19. I watch TV and movies to escape, not sort through them for issues.

20. No really.  It has to be a huge leap of faith for me to even notice.

21. I love to be touched, in romantic, perverted, and otherwise platonic ways.  I was raised in a very tactile environment and family.

22. I'm reading The Avatar right now.

23. I learned to play chess in grade school and suck at it.

24. My favorite game is Scrabble.  I use word finder sites when playing on-line shamelessly, but it builds my vocabulary.

25. I normally sleep on my stomach.

26. I love Christmas.

27. I'm apathetic about birthdays.

28. I was voted most likely to succeed in grade school.

29. I have held a gun twice in my life: my father's pellet gun; and my friend's pistol from her glove box.

30. I can find good in most people.

31. Those I can't can feel safe, see #29.

32. I'm right handed.

33. My dad's dad was ambidextrous.

34. My handwriting is excellent, and has gotten better over time.

35. My favorite cake is yellow marble cake with chocolate frosting.

36. I like some dogs.

37. I love cats.

38. My favorite color is blue.

39. But I don't know why nor really think about it.

40. Comics, like other forms of entertainment, are meant to entertain.  Hence, I don't think about them.

41. The Superfriends' Batman was weak.  The live-action Batman of my youth was delightful.  Michael Keaton was good, Val was ok, Clooney was eh, and I haven't done the dark knight thing yet.

42. Most comedic things aren't really funny.

43. I drink a lot of water.

44. Iced water is nice too.

45. I like Starbucks because I like strong coffee, not that it matters because I only drink decaf.

46. I like a balance between alone time and with people time.

47. I was never in a school band.

48. So I don't have any "last summer in band camp stories."

49. Which makes me unique among my faggle (noun: a gay cohort).

50. I love onion rings.

51. My boss's son in high school killed himself.  That's the only person I knew personally to commit suicide.

52. I learn best by doing.

53. Reality TV is crap, and I want to know why I'm not getting paid for someone to follow me with a camera watching me do uninteresting things.

54. Most blogs irritate me.

55. My favorite ice cream is Kopp's Custard on 27th Street in Milwaukee.

56. I was called for jury duty once.

57. I had to get an Alabama drivers license then drive to Wisconsin to prove I didn't live there to get out of it.

58. I'm as punctual as I can be.

59. I can't stand other people making me late.

60. I've never wanted a sibling.

61. If I had one, it would have been a brother.

62. We never had a foreign exchange student live with us.

63. So this slot is not applicable.

64. I use Dial soap and Suave shampoo.

65. Because I don't see the point in using more than that when they leave me clean and I don't smell bad.

66. I love M&M's.

67. I broke my leg in junior high school.

68. I'm 20/LP without my glasses on.

69. X-ray vision would be cool but only if you could control depth of field and focus.

70. Brushing my teeth the penultimate part of my morning routine.

71. I want to learn to SCUBA dive.

72. I have no interest in being an airplane pilot.

73. I want to win the lottery.  Big money.

74. I'm glad I'm an American.

75. I've never smoked crack.

76. I was never on a student council or government body.

77. Some of my dreams have come literally true.

78. Until I met Zoloft.

79. I judge people that can't spell and/or use poor grammar.

80. I intimidate students, and my friends think I'm a trouble maker.

81. I really have a heart of gold, just good luck getting to it by yourself.

82. I need personal space, but don't mind if select people invade it.

83. I've never used drugs of any kind, save for ones prescribed for me, and even then I only take them as directed.

84. I'm afraid I'd like them.

85. I got my first passport when I was a junior in high school.  It's long expired.

86. I like to learn, and didn't mind school too much.

87. I like museums, thought art museums are probably my least favorite.

88. Bookstores bore me to death.

89. I have been to my local library once since moving here.

90. I do crossword puzzles in ink and finish them.

91. I chew gum in other people's cars.

92. Toilet paper should roll from the top.

93. I have no piercings or tattoos but secretly want both.

94. I have never seen every episode of any TV show.  I think I'm close with Law and Order.

95. I like candy.

96. I never feel my age - my body is much older than my mind.

97. I can't read in a car.

98. My favorite 100 Acre Wood character is Pooh.

99. I love broccoli.

100. I hope my life inspires others, or at least has a positive lasting effect.

Love spreads (like a contaminating oil slick)

So apparently this week's lesson is about love.  What is love?  Love is the power that brings us together.  Or in the following three examples, does totally random things with our minds and lives and makes our friends wonder behind our backs.

Case #1.  A student I know from the university, taking a year off before working on his masters.  Queer as a three dollar bill, and as a friend would say, his picker is broken.  That is, in the past, quality mate choices haven't been high priority (the ignorant dyslexic was a gem).  Today, he announces his love of a woman at work, and that they are in a serious relationship.  Claims it was totally unexpected but worth a go.  Had sex with a girl once when drunk years back, and apparently back at it.

Case #2.  Co-worker has a friend in from out of town to help her with some home improvement projects.  Friend used to live in town here, now lives a couple hours away.  She obviously has feelings for him, as witnessed by her gazing longingly up the ladder he was on replacing a lightbulb.  She talk about him 'that way' when he's not around, but won't make the obvious move to pursue things further.  Might have something to do with the overarching feeling by her friends that she needs a woman or new washing machine.

Case #3.  Co-worker who lacks any interest in physical contact with someone.  Claims it's temporary until he warms up to them, and recently has shown a willingness to try with a friend of his.  However, thinks of it more as an "all on, all off" switch.  I blame his formative years, but who knows.

So what of this love thing?  It all seemed so simple and utterly boring to hear my parents talk about their courtship.  My mom liked my dad, my dad liked my mom, and now almost 40 years later they're inseparable.  When did we complicate it so?  Gay men dating straight women, straight women ignoring their feelings and giving off a lesbian vibe, and a pseudo-asexual.

Maybe love is the problem.  Maybe we'd all be better off professing our undying like of someone to save all the stigma that comes with the other l-word.  Maybe it stems from fear of rejection?  Maybe it can't be simplified down to any common denominator other than people are strange.

I recommend NIH puts a lot of money into figuring it out though.  I don't have time to find new friends.

Cover your mouth, you're getting sparkles on me.

I am truly thrilled that gay/lesbian/bi/trans/whatever teenagers are able to express their true selves now more than ever.  Whether it be due to real acceptance or just desensitization, these people can transition into adulthood with a sense of self-realization that we elderly (at 35 I'm near gay death) could only dream of having had.  But with this new awareness comes responsibility, and far too few of them are taking it.

My case study for this point is an incoming freshman we'll call Chuck*.  He is tall, good-looking, with dark hair and a nice smile.  He also swishes, head bobs, holds his wrist in that seemingly uncomfortable bend, lisps, wears all the right clothes, and has a gaggle of girls around him at all times.  Spend 30 seconds with him and even the least sensitive gaydar pegs itself on "uber."  He's here, he's queer, and he's fabulous.

I met him last year as part of a high school science outreach program we do.  He returned this year as a mentor, and will attend the university in the fall.  The students love him and the faculty find him endearing.  He is a great face for our program and what we try to do.

Now, I am computer savvy, and I use Facebook to keep up with friends, colleagues, and my students.  Last year Chuck and a bunch of other high school participants added me to their networks, and I occasionally see what's going on with whom.  So, when I found out Chuck was coming back, I checked his Facebook page and read more about him.

Chuck and his group rotated through to my project in the outreach program, and as the students were working, I overheard Chuck and them discussing dancing.  Someone asked if Chuck could dance.  I replied that he could dance very well.  This was based on two pieces of evidence: 1. that Facebook has videos of Chuck dancing posted on it, and he can move; and 2. boys like Chuck can dance, they just can.  Chuck looked puzzled and asked how I knew.  Kiddingly I replied that as faculty we knew everything about everyone, that it was part of our job.  Chuck got pale, and then got paranoid.  "What do you know about me?  Have you seen me out?  What have you seen?  You know EVERYTHING about me?"  I assured him I was just teasing and he slowly calmed down.

Now here is where the responsibility part kicks in.  One look at Chuck's Facebook page screams 'I am a homosexual.'  Rainbow buttons, openly gay students in his friends list, cliche gay phrases.  Watching Chuck in action screams 'I am a homosexual.'  If Spinal Tap made a gayometer, Chuck would be 11.  Again, I have no problem with any of this.  Good for him.

But I apparently pulled back the curtain on the big gay Oz.  I made his faggotry real because someone outside of his comfort zone KNEW.  And in that realization that his public secret was known, his world spun out of control.  Chuck wants to be a billboard for being gay, but when someone points it out to him, he freaks out.

Hence the need for responsibility.  Be who you are.  Be proud of what you've done, and how you live your life.  Keep your head up.  Rah rah.  But, be willing to maintain your stance when someone asks you about it, or if you are put on the spot.  If you are going to advertise, make sure the product is ready.

_____________________________________

*It could just as easily been Bruce or Dwayne.

Is there a DSM code for life?

My general practitioner recently left private practice to manage a primary care clinic whose clientele includes lower class minorities in the city.  The clinic is a fantastic resource, and it is nice to see quality care being given to those frequently labelled less fortunate.  As a patient of his, I've had to get used to differences in the clinic versus private setting; things are much more general and less patient-personalized, and everyone gets checked for the same suite of symptoms/issues, as well as whatever specific complaint brings them in.  So I was a little surprised when, as I waited to see him regarding the results of my latest cholesterol screening, I was presented with a small electronic box by one of the clinic employees.  She informed me that it was a "psychological screening tool," and that it helps the doctor identify problems that people usually don't like to discuss with their physician.  I happily played along, pressed the answer buttons as I was prompted to, and proceeded to forget all about it.

Fast forward one month, and I am waiting in line to "check out" at the clinic.  As I waited, I decided to flip through my chart; my main interest was to see if my weight had changed any.  I happened across the results of my "psych screen" that the box spat out.  It said I was borderline depressed.  No shock there - we always joked in grad school that the 12 signs of depression were pre-requisites for a Ph.D.  But the next line of the results sent me reeling.  According to the psych box, I suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder.

Wikipedia reports the following regarding PTSD:

The diagnostic criteria for PTSD, per the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders IV (Text Revision) (DSM-IV-TR), may be summarized as:

A. Exposure to a traumatic event

B. Persistent re-experience

C. Persistent avoidance of stimuli associated with the trauma (e.g. inability to talk about things even related to the experience. Avoidance of things and discussions that trigger flashbacks and reexperiencing symptoms. Fear of losing control.)

D. Persistent symptoms of increased arousal (e.g. difficulty falling or staying asleep, anger and hypervigilance )

E. Duration of symptoms more than 1 month

F. Significant impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning (e.g. problems with work and relationships.)

Notably, criterion A (the "stressor") consists of two parts, both of which must apply for a diagnosis of PTSD. The first (A1) requires that "the person experienced, witnessed, or was confronted with an event or events that involved actual or threatened death or serious injury, or a threat to the physical integrity of self or others." The second (A2) requires that "the person’s response involved intense fear, helplessness, or horror." The DSM-IV-TR criterion differs substantially from the previous DSM-III-R stressor criterion, which specified the traumatic event should be of a type that would cause "significant symptoms of distress in almost anyone," and that the event was "outside the range of usual human experience." Since the introduction of DSM-IV, the number of possible PTSD traumas has increased and one study suggests that the increase is around 50%.

Soldiers who witness war and death and people getting blown to a fine dice get PTSD.  Cult survivors have PTSD.  But me?  Academics aren't supposed to have it.  We are the educational illuminati, the professional thinkers who revolutionize the world one brilliant creative spark at a time.  We do not get PTSD.

Now obviously the next thought was the obvious one: what trauma was I exposed to?  My first guess was the violent car accident my parents survived in 2003 as I moved to my first real academic job.  But, my symptoms date back to when I was a teenager - panic attacks, bouts of OCD and depression, and the like.  But as I scanned my life for obvious traumas I was left wondering.  My life has been relatively easy for its entirety: a family that loves and accepts me; a good job; great friends; financial stability - the list goes on and on.  Sure there were rough spots; nobody grows up perfectly.  But PTSD?

My real concern shifted shortly thereafter to the other people in my doctor's clinic, sitting down for whatever condition they present, having to answer the questions in the little dark box.  I have the luxury of a college education in science, of understanding the medical issues that affect me psychologically, of being reasonable well read and self aware, of having worked in a pharmacy for over a decade in high school and college, and of my mom managing a psych clinic.  I understand why I have my panic attacks, the physiological goings-on in my body when they occur, and why my medicine keeps them in check.  I understand it all, and I don't need a box explaining it to me.

But take that patient in the next room over.  The clinic demographics suggest they are dark skinned, of below average income (which here tops out at ~$26k/yr), and have been taught at schools with few to no resources.  Many of them are middle-aged and older.  And they too have been presented with the box.  And many of them will come back with diagnoses of depression, PTSD, or worse.  What in their lives made the box decide?  Have their eyes seen civil rights change, have their souls known oppression that I can't imagine?  The box is silent, only letting the world know what number to assign to their condition, so they can be treated appropriately.  My guess is that they will respond like I did, that these things are just part of life.  But now life has symptoms, and treatments, and codes.  They probably won't understand all the medical terms being thrown at them, telling them why they are suddenly "sick."  They likely won't know what the pill the doctor told them to take does, just that it "helps."  They can't understand serotonin re-uptake inhibition any more than they can describe the workings of the Space Shuttle.  It's not in their experience.  But the box made it their life.

I asked the doctor this week about my PTSD diagnosis.  He laughed.  "Well of course you have PTSD, you went to graduate school."  A normal life gives you PTSD.  What does a real life give you?